Free The Beautiful Dead by Daryl Banner

one.
    “First rule,”
the Human picks up, taking a step into the room. “No eating me.”
    “Second rule,”
I say, taking back control. “No trying to kill me. Apparently we can’t die
again anyway. I’ve been impaled with a sword and didn’t so much as feel a
pinch.”
    “Good to know.”
    “Third—”
    “Third rule, you
will help get me food. Real food, not just garden throwaways. And—”
    “Hey! These
are my rules, not yours.”
    “Why would you
help me anyway?” he asks, his tone changing. “What’s in this for you?”
    I haven’t
thought on that. Why am I helping him? It’s totally against Trenton law,
as far as I understand. Why don’t I kick this man out onto the street, force
him to run away and fend for himself? Why these random acts of kindness,
putting myself at risk for this vile, crude, disrespectful man-person?
    “Because
maybe,” I say, hesitate, then finish, “maybe you can find a way to make me
alive.”
    He squints at
me, unsure how to respond.
    “This world is
changed,” I go on. “There’s so much I’ve yet to see or learn … Maybe there’s
more to it than either of us realize. Maybe I don’t have to be this way forever.
Maybe I can—Maybe I can live once more.”
    His eyes
survey me from top to bottom, head to toe, before caring to respond. “Maybe.”
    “Maybe,” I
agree.
    “Fourth rule.
Can you get me some meat next time?”
    I lower myself
into a chair, my eyes idly drifting over to the candle flame, the beautiful,
eternal, burning show of lights and colors that the Human cannot see.
    “Better food,”
I agree. “I’ll try for better food.”
    Slowly, he
crosses the room, sits in the chair opposite me at the table. It’s the closest
to me he’s dared to come since we first met.
    “You’re
Winter,” he says. “I remember. You told me your name in the bathroom at the
bar.”
    I nod. “Winter
is the thing they call me, yes.”
    He very
carefully puts a hand on the table, perhaps with the intention of offering me a
handshake, but then retracts it, changing his mind I suppose. His eyes falter,
then he murmurs, “John.”
    “John,” I
repeat. “Not what I would’ve guessed.”
    And this is
how the Human’s long day, in magical candlelight, at last comes to a kind and
timely end.
    My days will
never end.
     
    C H A P T E R – F I V E

T U L I P
     
    Because we
Undead require neither sleep nor comfort, I let John have the bed.
    Whenever I
leave, I tell him to keep the door locked and to never go out under any
circumstance. Should be needless to say, but we make it an official rule
anyway. More than just his life is at stake, should he be found. When I come
back home, in a playful tone I sing, “It’s a fine day to be dead,” as I
approach the door. We came up with this little audio signal which tells him
it’s safe to unlock the door and let me in. This is also to avoid the awkward
circumstance of knocking on my own door to be let in, which would look quite
suspicious in the case of any onlooking neighbors. Should I instead sing
something to the effect of, “Is it summer yet?” then John knows not only to
unlock the door, but also hide because I’m not alone. His assigned (and only
possible) hiding place being, of course, under the bed.
    The routine is
tedious, but necessary.
    “Such a fine
day to be dead,” I halfheartedly sing, approaching my porch. Like clockwork,
there’s a little click at the door and I seemingly let myself into my own
house.
    “The code,” he
tells me irritably as I come in, “is ‘ It’s a fine day’ … not ‘ Such a fine day’…”
    “I’m tired of
singing the same old thing.” I set down the bag I’m carrying on the table. “I
feel dumber every time I sing it.”
    “There’s a
reason we do it the same every time. You can’t get careless. My life’s at
stake.”
    “Yes, daddy,”
I sing mockingly, which very visibly annoys him. “Seeing as you haven’t lit any
candles, I assume it’s still daylight