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

that’s the least of our concerns,” the Chief goes on. “Gill’s been thrown in a cell. You might’ve noticed his absence at the … party , if that’s what you’re calling it.”
    I blink two totally what-are-you-talking-about eyes at him. “Not that I would have expected his attendance, considering how vile he thinks our kind is, but why was he imprisoned?”
    “Two neighbors of his, Murphy and Theresa—Murphy the Undead, Theresa the Living—got it in their minds that what Gill’s dead wife needed was a proper burial. But Gill won’t allow that. Got into a pretty bad tiff, and now Murphy’s decapitated and Theresa lost an ear.”
    “Well. At least Murphy’s fixable.” I sit down on the couch next to John, who’s making half a snoring sound. I nudge him unkindly with my elbow, inspiring a snort and a grunt from him. “So why doesn’t he want her buried?”
    “Well, isn’t that how you folk do it?” The Chief lifts an eye at me, like I have any idea. “Gill thinks they’re trying to raise his wife up as an Undead. Is that even possible?”
    “I …” His question strikes me. “I … don’t know.”
    “Gill prefers to do it the old way. Back at camp, when superstition taught us that our own dead could rise up against us, we would burn the deceased. He wants to burn his dead wife.” The Chief’s eyes hang heavy and he leans against the back of a chair, pensive, furrowing his brow. “I don’t know how to help the man. He’s lost it.”
    “It’s understandable,” I admit. “I don’t really know the mechanics of … how Raising works.”
    “Listen, I was going to save this for the morning, but seeing as you’re here …” His eyes harden. I already know I’m not going to like what he’s about to say. “I’m sending Helena to After’s Hold in place of you.”
    Oh.
    “Before you protest,” he goes on—and I’m totally not protesting—“I’m sending her because of her knowledge of them. She knows who they are and can work with them.”
    Then it occurs to me what else this means. “You’re still sending John?”
    “Yes. John will be accompanied by Gunner.”
    Yes, he said that. “And who the hell is this ‘Gunner?’ ”
    “He is our watchman and hunter. You might not have known him by name at the time, but he is the one who landed an arrow into you when you first happened on our camp long ago. The day you and I first met.”
    Yes. I remember that fondly. The arrow plunged into me and, after a moment of confusion, I yanked it right out, thereby confirming what I really was to the whole of the camp: a Crypter, a Dead Thing, an Abomination …
    “He is quick,” the Chief goes on, “nimble, and never misses. He will protect John and the others.”
    Such a person must have had practice. I’m suspicious instantly. “And how many of us has he killed?”
    “Sorry?”
    “I asked how many— Crypters —he’s slain.”
    The Chief narrows his eyes. “Helena will be safe .”
    “And what of John? What of Jasmine? You know as well as I do how highly some of your camp people think of us. That is, not very . And now you’re sending—let’s get this straight—a trained assassin ninja archer-dude named Gunner into a city ripe with Undead to ask for help. Not the kindest impression to be making.”
    “They are safer in his care. I assure you, he knows and respects the difference between Undead and Crypters. And though we may have wiped out the Deathless, we can’t be sure what else lies out there. If it were up to John, he’d likely pick the same companion.”
    “John shouldn’t even go,” I protest. “He’s—well, look at him … drunk.”
    On cue, John groans the words: “I can hear you.”
    “And,” I go on anyway, incensed, “Helena is in charge of civic peace and decision-making among the Undead. Who’s going to run all of that?”
    “You.”
    For a wild instant, I want to pull off both my arms and my legs and pitch them at the Chief’s face, screaming. I