Dead Beautiful

  As if called, a cat jumped in the headmistress’s lap, and in long, languid strokes, she caressed its back until it began to purr.

  “It was also fortunate that both of you have a knack for getting into trouble. Our meetings together allowed me to observe you.”

  “Observe what?” Dante asked.

  Once again, the headmistress brushed off the question. “I wasn’t sure of it at first, but now there’s no longer even a shadow of a doubt in my mind.”

  My mind raced through all the times I had been called into the headmistress’s office, trying to figure out what she was referring to.

  “What is it that you’re so interested in?” Dante asked. His voice was calm, which comforted me. If Dante wasn’t worried yet, then I didn’t have reason to be either.

  “Are you familiar with Descartes’ Seventh Meditation?”

  Neither of us said anything.

  “A seminal work,” Von Laark said, almost to herself. “It was banned, you know. Do you know why?”

  “Because it was about the Undead,” I blurted out. “And it was supposed to be kept a secret.”

  The headmistress raised a long, sinewy finger. “Yes. And no.

  “In that work, Descartes not only discussed his discovery of the Undead, but the process through which they regain their mortality, a process we have since considered a myth, because in the history of history, no Undead has ever found his rightful soul.”

  Beneath the folds of my coat, Dante laced his fingers through mine.

  “It is the question of a lifetime,” the headmistress went on. “What would happen if an Undead finds his soul and reclaims it? Would he become human again? Would he cheat death?”

  Dante tightened his grip around my fingers as my heart began to race.

  “But before I continue, a few questions.”

  I looked at Dante, confused, but his attention was set on the headmistress.

  “Mr. Berlin, when did you die?”

  At first Dante didn’t say anything. The headmistress stood up and took a step toward him.

  “Your year of death? Surely you remember it.”

  “Sixteen years ago.”

  “Be precise.”

  “August twentieth, 1994.”

  I was concentrating more on the headmistress than on what Dante was saying, but when I heard the date, I went rigid.

  The headmistress turned to me. “Do you recognize the date, Miss Winters?”

  Of course I did. August twentieth. It was the day I found my parents dead. The same day that I turned sixteen.

  Dante died on the day I was born.

  I didn’t have to say anything. From the look on my face, Dante knew. Finally I understood the strange connection between us. I thought about how Dante always seemed to have a craving inside him when he was around me, as if he were barely able to control himself. Why we always spoke at the same time and said the same things. Why Dante couldn’t touch me without making me numb. Why I felt drained and tired after being with him. Why he could only smell things, feel things, taste things when I was close to him. It was why we had been drawn to one another in the first place, and why, I now realized, it was impossible for us to ever be together.

  I had Dante’s soul.

  “How do you feel when you’re around her?” the headmistress asked, her eyes dark fixed intensely on Dante with curiosity. “Do you feel sensation? Do you feel alive?”

  But Dante wasn’t looking at her; he was looking at me, hoping I would say something that would prove her wrong.

  “What I’m about to ask you to do should be painless. Perhaps even enjoyable. For one of you.”

  She approached me and spoke in a voice that was dark and commanding. “Now, what I want you to do is to give him your soul.”

  “And why would she do that?” Dante said.

  “Because she’s in love with you.” She turned to me. “Think about your situation,” the headmistress said. “He only has a few years left. You alone are in control of his fate.”

  Nausea curled through my body as I began to realize that she was right. But before I could say anything, Dante’s voice cut through the air.

  “No. She won’t. I won’t let her.”

  I watched his body tighten as he readied to approach the headmistress. She took a step back.

  “You can do whatever you want to me,” she said quietly, “but it won’t make this go away. Renée will always know what she has to do. I’m not forcing her to do anything.” She glanced toward the door. “It’s unlocked,” she said.

  Dante gave her a suspicious look, and then took my arm. “Renée, let’s go.”

  But I didn’t move.

  “Renée, come on.”

  “No,” I said. “Wait. I want to hear what she has to say.”

  The headmistress smiled. “See? There are things worse than being Undead. Such as watching the person you love die when you knew you could have helped them.”

  My stomach felt hollow as I imagined my life without Dante.

  He pulled my face in his direction. “Renée, no. If you give me your soul, you’ll die.”

  “She won’t die,” the headmistress said. “She’ll become Undead. Haven’t you ever wondered what it was like? To never feel pain? The pain of your parents’ deaths?”

  I had wondered what that would be like. I gazed at Dante. His eyes pleaded with me.

  The headmistress continued. “The desire to stay alive, regardless of the consequences, is a value of modern society. In the ancient world, the only thing men aspired to was dying an honorable death. Just think of what you could accomplish in death. Not only would you be giving your love his life back, but you would be shedding light on one of the greatest mysteries of all time. The mystery behind death. If you, Renée, can give life to another, what could that mean for the world? The possibilities are endless.”

  “Renée, you don’t have to do this. There are other ways.”

  The headmistress laughed. “No—no there are not. You will die of decay in five years, and Renée will live a long, lonely life knowing that she could have saved you but didn’t.”

  “What good is saving me? We would only switch roles,” Dante argued.

  I turned to him. “We would have more time,” I said. “Don’t you want that?”

  Dante looked at his feet, shaking his head. “I want you. Right now. The way you are.”

  “Don’t you understand? You can’t have me. We are the end of each other’s lives. One of us has to die, and I’d rather face death than live without you.”

  Dante turned to me and grasped my face in his hands. “Renée, look at me.” His voice was pleading. “I had my chance. I lived my life. And now I have you, and that’s enough.”

  The headmistress strode toward me, resting her hand on my shoulder. When she spoke, her voice was lower, deeper, darker. “It’s either your life or his,” she said.

  Dante’s eyes searched mine, begging me not to do it. “Let it go.”

  “I’m not afraid of death,” I said, looking at Dante. And this time I knew it was true. “I’m afraid of life without you.”

  Before he could respond, there were two knocks on the door. I froze and stared at it as it opened. Mrs. Lynch stepped inside, pulling Gideon by the arm. “Headmistress? I found this one lurking around the girls’ dormitory again.”

  “You!” I shouted, pointing at Gideon. “It was him. He killed Eleanor! He stole the files and Eleanor’s diary, and then he trapped her in the basement and broke the pipes.”

  Confused, Mrs. Lynch pulled out her yardstick, but before she could do anything, Gideon pushed her out of the room and slammed the door. I could hear her protests from the hallway as Gideon bolted it shut.

  “Gideon,” the headmistress said, her voice wavering. “Unlock that door immediately.”

  Ignoring her, Gideon took off his dinner jacket and slung it over the doorknob, his eyes set on me.

  “Gideon?” the headmistress repeated. “Did you not hear my request?
”

  He rolled up his sleeves.

  “If Renée’s claims are true, we can still help you,” she said, taking a tenuous step toward him. “You still have options. But you must do as I say.”

  Dante pushed me behind him as Gideon walked toward us, his eyes dark and wild.

  “I warn you: if you touch anyone in this room, you will regret it,” Von Laark continued.

  Suddenly Gideon turned to her, his voice silencing the room. “Shut up.”

  Her face ablaze, she snatched a roll of gauze from her desk and approached him. “How dare you,” she said. “This is my school and I demand that you follow my orders.”

  Dante shielded me with his arms as we watched them collide in the middle of the office, the headmistress trying to restrain Gideon as he pushed her back toward the wall. Even though she was a Monitor, she was no match for his strength. Pinning her against the ground, Gideon pressed his lips to hers.

  Color began to flow through his pale skin, like blood pooling beneath the surface. The headmistress struggled, her arms flailing against his back. Muffled cries floated through the room. “No!” I said. “Wait!” But Gideon didn’t stop.

  Slowly, her arms grew paler, weaker, until they fell limply to her sides. I watched in horror as her legs began to convulse against the floor, relaxing to a twitch until all was still.

  Heaving, I covered my mouth with my hands, unable to take my eyes off her feet. I let my shoulders slump, unable to hold them up any longer.

  When I looked up, Gideon was approaching me. I backed away from him, pushing myself against the wall. His face was flushed and pulsing as he loosened his tie, the veins in his arms flowing with life.

  With a swift movement he lifted me up and lowered his mouth to mine.

  “No!” I heard Dante scream as he ran to us and pushed Gideon off of me.

  With a gasp, I fell back and watched as they struggled, Gideon’s strength growing with the soul of the headmistress streaming through him. The Siamese cats crouched and yowled in the corner as Gideon and Dante struggled, knocking over books and papers, breaking the glass of the hutch behind the headmistress’s desk, the shovels, which I now realized were Monitor burial tools, clattering to the ground around them. I watched in horror as Dante pushed Gideon onto the desk, breaking the hourglass, the sand and glass spilling across the floor around me.

  I screamed, the glass cutting through my skin.

  Upon hearing my voice, Dante turned to me. Taking advantage of the lapse, Gideon slipped out of his grasp, picked up his tortoiseshell glasses from the floor, and unbolted the door, disappearing into the hall.

  “Are you okay?” Dante asked, kneeling by my side.

  I nodded, barely able to speak. “I’m fine.”

  “Stay here,” he said, touching my cheek. “So I know you’ll be safe.” And with that, he grabbed a loose shovel that had fallen from the shattered hutch and ran out the door in pursuit of Gideon.

  Picking myself up, I followed him.

  I caught up to them on the green. They were in front of the great oak, teetering around the gaping hole that Nathaniel had been buried in. Maintenance hadn’t filled it in yet, but had sequestered it with caution tape, leaving only one thin rope ladder dangling into the pit. Gideon stepped around the hole and Dante followed, thrusting the shovel at him. Every time Dante swung at Gideon, Gideon seemed to move out of the way at just the right moment—a hop, a swish, an arabesque, in an elaborate gentleman’s ballet.

  I circled them as Dante raised the shovel over Gideon’s head. I closed my eyes, not wanting to see the outcome, even though I knew they were both already dead. But just as Dante brought the shovel down over Gideon’s skull, Gideon ducked away and grabbed the shovel from him, splitting it into shards.

  The rest happened quickly. Gideon tackled Dante, thrusting him into the dirt by his neck, pushing him dangerously close to the edge of the hole. If Dante fell in, that would be the end. He couldn’t go underground, and the hole was at least fifteen feet deep. I wouldn’t be able to get him out by myself before Gideon took my soul. In horror, I watched as Gideon stood over Dante, one hand around his neck. I had to do something. I was a Monitor. I was supposed be able to handle this.

  Without thinking, I picked up a broken shard of Dante’s shovel and ran up behind them. With all the force I could muster, I thrust it into Gideon’s back.

  Surprised, he spun around and threw me off, pulling the shard from his back and stalking toward me, his shirt bloodied and ripped. I inched back on the grass as he loomed over me, holding the jagged shovel. Just before I closed my eyes, Dante took him from behind, and Gideon fell on top of me, pushing the wooden shard into my skin. I winced as I tried to pull the handle out of my side while they grappled around me, their bodies nudging the wood shard deeper into my stomach.

  Slowly, their grunts seemed to fade as my eyes fluttered. And as I let them close, I heard Dante calling my name, clutching my hand as we both fell through the caution tape into the deep, dusty hole.

  With a cry, I pulled the handle of the shovel from my side and opened my eyes. I was lying in a mound of soil and rock in the catacomb beneath the great oak. Across the cavern, I could see Gideon’s grass-stained pants and loafers, limp.

  “Dante?” My voice echoed through the darkness as I dug through the dirt and felt his arm beside me. “Dante!” Brushing the soil off him, I took him in my arms and tried to wake him. “We’re underground,” I whispered. “What do I do?” He was barely conscious.

  Mustering up courage, I wiped the dirt from my face and stood. “Don’t worry,” I said, trying to pick him up. “I’m going to get us out of here.” But as much as I tried, I couldn’t lift him. Sinking to the ground, I wrapped my hands around his neck and buried my face in his shirt.

  “Dante, please wake up,” I pleaded. “I’m not strong enough. I can’t carry you out.”

  As if I had willed it, his lips moved. I watched as they parted slightly, taking in a faint breath. And sitting there beside him, watching him die, I knew what I had to do.

  Why is it that you enjoy life the most when you’re about to lose it? The only way I could save Dante was to give him my soul. I was going to die. Strangely enough, the realization only made me feel more alive. I took one last look at the world. Somewhere far away, Annie was sitting down for dinner with her family; my grandfather was sipping tea and watching the evening news; and the girls on my floor were finishing up their homework and getting ready to crawl into bed. I felt as if I were worlds away from them. They had time to take it all for granted—all the small pleasures in life that I was already beginning to miss—the first cool breath of fall, the empty silence you hear just after turning off the television, the smell of chicken roasting in an oven. These things only existed in my mind now, and soon, even that would be gone.

  I let my eyes travel across Dante one last time—his nose, his lips, his eyes, now closed. It all seemed familiar yet somehow still unexplored. This is what it meant to feel: realizing that part of the value in life is knowing that everything around you could be taken away. I loved him, I thought, already thinking in past tense. I love him. This would be my good-bye.

  I lifted my hand to his cheek, touching his skin for the last time, and I pulled him toward me, until my lips grazed his.

  “I love you,” I said.

  And I gave him a kiss. A real kiss. Because if I had anything left to give, I wanted to give it.

  Suddenly I felt his hand on the back of my neck, pulling me toward him with a force I had never experienced before. Unable to help myself, I succumbed to his embrace. The air escaped my lungs. I gasped and grabbed at the grass. And the world as I knew it faded away.

  CHAPTER 19

  The Untimely Death of Dante Berlin

  I COLLAPSED ON THE GRASS. SLOWLY, I FELT ALL OF the warmth in my body leave me, as if it were being pulled from my mouth like a thin thread of air. And as it left me, all of my memories began to unravel. Scenes from a previous life flashed through
my mind and then vanished, the people and places distorted and dreamlike. Annie, my parents, California, Wes—I could barely recognize them before they disappeared; their figures fleeting and unreal, as if my entire life before Gottfried had been imagined. I grew weak. My breathing became thin. And then suddenly I woke up.

  I was outside the girls’ dormitory, lying on the grass by the stoop. It was nighttime. Was I dead? I wasn’t sure. I stretched and stood up, but I didn’t feel the same. It felt like I had been lying there for hours. I was wearing clothing that was strangely familiar, yet not mine—an oxford shirt and a pair of pants that were worn at the knees. I was about to lean over and examine them when I heard movement around the side of the building, the soft padding of footsteps against the ground. Quickly, I ducked into the shadows and waited.

  But the person who emerged wasn’t the headmistress or Mrs. Lynch. It was me. I was in my coat, my brown hair dangling freely over my shoulders. I looked pretty, I thought.

  Unable to control my mouth, I uttered one word. “Renée.”

  She turned to me, her look of surprise fading into relief as she put a finger to her lips and pulled me behind the building.

  “I looked for you in the nurses’ wing, but you weren’t there. Are you okay?” The words came out of my mouth before I realized what I was saying. They were the same phrases Dante had said to me earlier that night, before Mrs. Lynch escorted us to the headmistress’s office. I tried to stop speaking, but my body was out of my control.

  My past self was standing in front of me, saying something about the Board of Monitors and the headmistress, but I wasn’t listening; I already knew what she was going to say. Instead, I stared at her with an affection and longing that I could never have felt toward myself. I wasn’t reliving my life; I was reliving Dante’s.