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

screwing together. “What do you mean?”
    Oops. “She just means … most of the Raises we’ve had didn’t need much Upkeep, surprisingly. We haven’t even been taking most of them to the Refinery. So they’ve had a lot less work to do, poor Roxie, poor Marigold.” I study her face, hoping the explanation seems sound.
    “Interesting,” murmurs Jasmine, and I realize with mounting worry that she, unlike Marigold, is not easily fooled. Guilt floods my body in an instant. For all the times that she assisted me when I was in need, it feels so wrong to repay her in lies. But it’s for her own good.
    I think.
    John nudges my back, then puts his mouth at my ear. “Winter, we got problems.”
    I turn. “What?” He points, and I follow his finger to the corner of the room. One of the first Undead I ever befriended, the teenager by the name of Ann who makes a hobby of pulling off her own head, is chatting with a Living teenage boy. Or flirting, judging by the close proximity of their bodies. The boy isn’t even that handsome—gangly and pale and awkward, a flat cap of dark hair atop his odd-shaped head.
    “Please,” I mutter to John. “Please don’t make me separate them like creepy chaperone mommy. Don’t turn me into creepy chaperone mommy.” Does everything in my Second Life have to remind me of prom?
    “I won’t,” he promises, his voice tickling my ear. At least I like to think it tickles my ear. “Just … the problem won’t fix itself. Also, I think I’m drunk.”
    “You’re so helpful.” Regardless of how much I don’t want to interfere, I realize that Ann, no matter what her fake hormones tell her, is not helping the city’s Human-Undead cohabitation problem. “What do we do?”
    “We drink until it doesn’t bother us anymore,” he slurs into my ear, then is gone.
    I turn, discover John’s disappeared into the house somewhere—or out of the house, I was too slow in turning around to catch him. When I bring my gaze back to Jasmine, she’s in conversation with Marigold.
    “So, tell me.” I decide to play into their conversation, smiling tightly. “How old do you reckon you are now?”
    Jasmine ponders for a moment, then says, “You know, I haven’t decided how old I want to turn. Let me get back to you on that.” She winks, then returns to discussing forehead-fingers with Marigold.
    The rest of the room is full of conversation and clinking glasses and laughter. I’m lost among it for a while until I catch sight of an Undead couple in the kitchen. With surprise, I realize the one leaning against the sink is Benjamin, a young Undead I met in the confines of the Necropolis. He’d tried to escape and had his legs taken from him. The details were lost on me, but somehow he was brought by the Deathless to storm Trenton, then ended up fighting for the wrong side: our side. I wonder if he’s the same Ben that helped John at the brewery.
    Now he’s met a lady-friend. How sweet. He laughs loudly at something she says, then kisses her cheek. She says something back, and he laughs twice as loud.
    It’s very sweet and everything, but I realize I’m not watching it with fondness; a tension has crossed my face.
    I had daydreamed once or twice what a life with John might be like, were I a Human. Even now, I try to picture entering a fancy restaurant with him, hooked to his arm. We’d take our seat at the table. “You look lovely today, Claire,” he’d say. Claire, that was my name when I was alive. “Thanks,” I’d tell him, blushing lightly, then I’d ask a question or two about the menu to the server. The candles at our table would appear like totally-regular, boring flames … as opposed to the wild, hyper-colored rainbow that my Undead eyes interpret when they see fire. For this one candlelit dinner, I’d be normal. I would feel the ache of hunger in my belly, and when the food at last arrived, I would smell it, salivating, and bask in the steam that issued off my plate.
    And I