Dead Of Winter (The Beautiful Dead Book 2) by Daryl Banner

the fact that it is wholly because of you that she lives.” He clears his throat. “But you are not the kind of person with which she should be keeping company. There are other children. There are other girls. There are other, well …” Living, breathing, heart-beating Humans, I get it. “Anyway, I think you can understand the problem with our daughter spending so much time with a dead person,” he finishes, the most polite reminder he’s given me yet.
    The smile has broken off my face completely. It’s in pieces at my feet, and so’s my politeness, and so’s my everything-pretty. I don’t feel anger because, well, he’s explained it plain enough: I’m dead. I feel and know nothing. I’m reckless and irresponsible and whatever.
    “Message received,” I murmur.
    “Good.” The dad flinches, making a strange move. I think he was about to offer a handshake, then suddenly changed his mind. Yes, better not to do that. You might catch my death, Mister Dad. I’m so contagious. Cough.
    “Have a good evening, Ken,” I force myself to say, because I’m going to prove to him what a nice and mature person I am. I turn away to leave.
    My foot catches and I trip myself. I plummet hands-first into the little flowerbed. Pushing myself up quickly, soil stuck to my palms and under my nails, I’m back on my feet in less than a second. But that’s all it takes for the damage to be done. The flowers I fell onto twist and writhe, turning brown and grey and wormy before our eyes. Even the soil seems to die where I touched it.
    I spin my face to meet the dad’s, white hair flipping, but he’s already walking away. Whether he saw me fall or not, I can’t say. Maybe his very hasty departure is yet another polite gesture of his; he’s simply sparing me the embarrassment, that’s all.
    “I kill everything I touch,” I murmur to no one, my own polite reminder to the world.
     
     
     

C H A P T E R – F O U R
    B U R N
     
    By the time I get back home, the party’s already starting at Jasmine’s, that much is clear. She’s hired the resident band of Trenton from the sound of it, as there’s drumming and guitar-playing and what I take to be “singing” coming from within the house. A number of Undead are spread across the porch and on the gravel in front, chatting and screaming and acting like drunken fools.
    The ridiculous frivolity is not my destination, not yet. Forgive me for not being in the mood to party .
    I scratch on the door of my house. A sudden memory hits me, and with a wistful smile I sing, “It’s a good day to be dead.” There’s no response, but really, I’d figured John may still be asleep.
    When I push open the door, I find him on the couch.
    “It’s a fine day to be dead,” he corrects me sleepily.
    “So you remember.” I can’t help but smile.
    “How could I forget? And, I regret to say, it is not summer yet. Rather, much the opposite. Alcohol helps. Warm, now. Nearly sweaty.” He’s holding a half-empty bottle on his thigh, I notice. “I hear it’s Jazz’s birthday.”
    “So-called,” I say, nodding. “You’re drinking?”
    “They managed enough fruit and sugar last month. I was taught all this stuff about fermentation and … and dead yeast or something by a dead guy named Ben. It’s nice to see some of us working with Undead to keep the brewery alive. Lucky me.” He toasts, winks, then swigs.
    “Lucky you,” I agree. “Bottling beer … or wine, or whatever that is.”
    He swallows, rests the bottle back on his thigh. “I’m not sure what it is either. Tastes horrible. You want to go over to Jazz’s? I kinda waited for you.”
    I feel a genuine rush of surprise within me. I didn’t realize John was feeling so social. Or that he’d care enough to wait for me. “Sure.” I smile. “Let me just … Let me freshen up.”
    “Looks like you had an accident.”
    “Oh.” I make a careless swipe of my hands on my soil-stained dress. “Just took a little fall. No one