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

thing is so flaky, so scattered, I can’t be confident she’ll keep it a secret at all. I wouldn’t put it past her to accidentally spill the gossip in some bubbly wave of excitement, blabbering on at her next Upkeep appointment, cheerily pouring her every thought into someone’s wide-open paunch full of cake and pastry.
    “Say it aloud, please.”
    “Hmm?” Marigold’s mouth is full. She shoves another forkful of colors through her lips. I think in her stupor, she’s forgotten how to chew and swallow.
    “Mari, please. Say it out loud. Assure us that you’ll keep this a secret.”
    She says it out loud, though through all the wax in her mouth, every word is a guess.
    Benjamin hasn’t moved an inch since dropping his slice on the ground, literally; he’s turned to stone. I make a very brave and important gesture, bringing my hands over his, covering the steam and clasping them. “We’re going to be okay. We’ll figure out what’s happened.”
    “Okay.” He nods finally.
    “Yes, okay, good.” I pat his cheek reassuringly. “Let’s go inside, alright? Marigold, can you take him in?”
    “Yes!” she exclaims suddenly, reviving. “Come, Ben! They’ve started dancing! Do you know how to dance?”
    The two of them vanish into the house. I don’t follow.
    The night swallows me up, though it’s just like day. I move through the yard, careful not to tread over any precious vegetables. When I come around the house, I’m met by a sight for which I was not prepared: Ann and the boy Jim leaning against the wall making out. It’s at this queer moment that I decipher what Ann was trying to mouth to me earlier, and it had nothing to do with wanting kittens’ toe bags. She was saying: I want to kiss him so bad. Clearly, mission accomplished.
    Not wanting to disturb them and invite a fresh serving of embarrassment onto myself (and sweet Headless Ann), I move back into the house, cut through the party, and emerge out of the front door. The crazed old man who was hollering about fire earlier is collapsed on the porch, snoring. I delicately step over him, then descend the steps and saunter into town. No, I’m not ready for the dread silence of my home just yet. Neither do I care about relocating John at the party, wherever he’s gone; he can manage on his own now.
    Feeling strangely unneeded and horribly burdened by too many things on my mind, I take advantage of the late hour by strolling down the empty, lifeless streets of Trenton. The Humans are all housed up or sleeping, and not a soul’s in sight to disturb me.
    I start humming to myself, singing a little tune. My soft voice echoes off the walls of buildings, returning to me like little ghosts in the night. Maybe I can calm myself.
    Even for the late hour, the swirling silver above me betrays the peace that a starry night sky ought to be supplying, so I just pretend there’s a hundred countless constellations watching me as I pass closed-for-the-night bakeries and marketplaces and trade shops.
    I come to a stop in the Square, right at the foot of a great wooden stage. Sitting on its edge, I dangle my legs and stare at my imaginary constellations high above. In the morning, we depart for After’s Hold, but for now, I’m just Winter on a winter eve, fake-breathing in the night air and not recalling the horrors that occurred here. This is the stage on which I murdered the last Mayor. I beheaded him with a steel sword, the way you cut off the bruised end of a carrot stick. Whack.
    I remember too well the sight of his neck steaming like a chimney. It haunts me, like Ben’s palm haunts me.
    Only earlier today my Raise had said she could feel him … and I was certain she meant Grim. But what if she was feeling Benjamin?
    Frustrated with the view, I hop off the stage and run across the empty Square. I climb atop a dumpster, then swing my legs over the low-hanging roof of a tool shop. Rushing across the loud, metal surface, I find a ladder leading even higher up.