Текст книги "A Mad Zombie Party"

Автор книги: Gena Showalter

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I crouch on top of a tombstone gargoyle-style, waiting for the spirits of the recently dead to rise. I don’t have to worry they’ll be witnesses, the good guys. Witnesses leave the body at the moment of death and ascend. Zombies tend to linger for several hours, or even a day or two, and on rare occasions an entire week. Don’t ask me why there’s a difference. Zombie physiology isn’t my forte. All I know is that the creatures need time to gather enough strength to crawl out.

They are always starved for what they’ve lost, for the most precious thing on this earth. Life.

I’ve been listening to police scanners, sneaking into hospitals to examine death records and patrolling cemeteries for people who have died of Antiputrefactive Syndrome. The past few days, there have been six, and all six will result in brand-spanking-new zombies.

AS is what doctors call death by zombie bite. Not that anyone in the medical field actually knows an injection of straight-up evil is the reason portions of a victim’s skin turn black and ooze pus as their organs rot...until an excruciating death finally ends the torment. Well, until the real torture begins. Eternity as one of the undead.

No one would believe me if I explained the truth. Hell, I might even end up in a padded room, medicated to the max. It’s happened to a couple of my friends.

Former friends.

Anyway.

Fingers crossed I get to kill all six zombies tonight.

Killing is my business, and like anyone else, I’m happiest when business is good.

And I need a little good in life. I’m the most hated slayer in the state. With excellent reason. But even though my friends hate me, I haven’t stopped loving them, which is why I’m here. The more Zs I kill, the less they have to fight. I want to make their lives better, easier—to make River’s life easier.

For years, my brother protected me and my—

Can’t go there right now. Depression will set in, and I’ll want zombies to feed on me.

So. Rephrase. For years, my brother protected me from our abusive father, hiding me even though he would be punished for it, forced to take my beating as well as his own. I owe him. More than that, I adore him. There’s nothing I won’t do for him.

Steal, kill and destroy? Check, check and mate.

“Come on, come on, meat bags,” I mutter. “Consider this your official invitation to my boot party.” For my own entertainment and okay, okay, to let off a little steam, I plan to kick the rot right out of their brains.

I have everything I need. Earlier I pushed my spirit out of my body, leaving the latter perched at the edge of Shady Elms cemetery, concealed by thick foliage, waning moonlight and eerie shadows. (What the body wears the spirit wears, which means I’m still armed for war.)

I have to be careful, though; I can’t allow even the smallest scratch. Any injury a spirit sustains manifests on the body, the two connected through invisible tethers no matter the distance between them. That’s usually not a big deal, but I’m on my own and I’ll have to patch myself up. Basically, I’m the world’s worst patient.

Around me, locusts buzz and crickets sing, but the insects aren’t my only companions. A few headstones away, a group of underage kids are drinking beer and playing truth or dare. Definitely in the wrong place. Could be the wrong time. Zombies prefer to chow on slayers—we’re their catnip, I guess—but any human will do.

Play with fire, get burned. A truth as old as time.

The little hairs on the back of my neck stand at full attention, and I go still. Sometimes my spirit senses something that hasn’t yet clicked in my mind.

Zombies on the rise?

I search, but find no sign there’s an undead nearby. Another civilian intruder? Again, there’s no sign. Not that it would matter. I can dance, sing and shout, but to civilians, I’m nothing more than a ghost.

Another slayer, perhaps, come to help me?

Yeah, in my dreams. As an exile of River’s crew, I’m as good as dead to all our kind. And I get it. I do. In my single-minded bid to save my brother, I made terrible life-and-death mistakes.

Commit the crime, serve your time.

My nails dig into the headstone beneath me, the entire thing doused with Blood Lines, the chemical needed to make the living world tangible to the spirit world. My brother keeps stashes of Blood Lines all over the state as a just-in-case. Used to be, I would have called him to ask for what I need, and he would have ensured I had more than enough. Now I have to raid his stashes.

Part of me wants to curl up and sob for all I’ve lost. Friends, a home. Acceptance, safety and security. A family. The other part of me, the stronger part, tells me to suck it up and deal. What’s done is done.

Besides, I have a purpose, and that’s more than most.

Laughter erupts from the kids. I call them kids and yet they’re only a year or two younger than me. While they’ve probably spent the bulk of their lives having fun, I’ve spent the bulk of mine fighting to save the world. I’m nineteen, but my experiences have aged me.

“You gonna back out now?” one of the boys asks the only dark-haired girl. “You chicken?”

“I know what you’re doing, Mr. Manipulator,” she says with a smirk. “You can’t goad me into doing something I don’t want to do.”

“Stop talking and show him your tits.” Another boy throws a handful of leaves at her. “A dare is a dare.”

The others chortle.

“Thankfully, I want to do it.” She stands in the middle of the group and, while Chicken Boy uses the flashlight app on his phone to illuminate her, she lifts her top to expose her boobs.

The other boys high-five and whistle. The other girls catcall and fist-pump the sky.

I want to shout, Stop living in the dark and open your eyes to the light. A whole other world exists around you.

A shadow rises from the freshly packed grave site in front of me. I reach over my shoulders to palm the handles of my short swords, the kids forgotten. Metal slides against leather, whistling a beautiful tune, and I start drooling at the thought of a new kill.

Pavlov nailed it.

Another finger pokes through the dirt...soon an entire hand. There’s a dull gray tint to the skin, and my heart leaps with excitement.

The creature sits up and shakes her head, clumps of dirt falling from her tangled salt-and-pepper hair. I smile with anticipation, until I note the open wounds on her forehead and cheeks, each revealing the rotted muscle and splintered bone underneath. First-time risers usually appear human, their only visual tells red eyes and graying skin. Why the change?

She locks on me, her lips curling up, showcasing yellowed teeth and thick black saliva.

Kill now, ask questions later.

She swipes a hand at me and snaps her teeth.

“Sorry, honey, but I’m not on the menu.” I leap off the tombstone and end up where I want to be—in the circle of her arms. Mindless with hunger, she latches on to my waist to yank me closer, but I’m already swinging my swords. The blades crisscross at her neck before I’m in any danger, and her head falls backward, black goo spraying from her severed artery.

The civilians continue playing their silly game.

Despite the decapitation, both the zombie head and body remain animated, arms clawing at me, teeth snapping at me. Time to finish her off for good. I’ve been fighting the undead for so long, summoning my fire—my dýnamis—is as easy as breathing. By the time I sheath one of my swords and flatten my hand over her chest, flames are crackling all the way to my wrist. One minute passes, two... Dýnamis sinks past her skin, into her veins, traveling through her entire body. Then, suddenly, she explodes, dark ash floating through the air.

I move on to her head, making sure her teeth are firmly planted in the ground before I perform the same “fire up and wait” routine. When a second round of ash floats away on a cool spring breeze, I sheath my other sword and slap my hands together in a job well done.

I have to walk through the circle of civilians to get to the next name on my list of AS victims. Each boy has paired off with a girl, the couples making out on top of blankets, uncaring about the potential audience. Longing mixes with envy, cutting at me. I haven’t had a “boyfriend” in forever. River is so protective—was so protective, I correct with a twist in my gut. Anyone interested in me quickly decided I wasn’t worth the hassle...but usually only after I’d given up the goods. At least, I like to tell myself River is the reason I’ve been rejected so many times, and not my mountain of personality flaws.

Now River wouldn’t care if I decided to screw anything breathing. Or hey, anything not breathing.

I never should have betrayed his trust in me, never should have tried to save his life by signing the death warrant of Ali Bell, the girlfriend of a rival crew’s leader. But trading one life for another had seemed acceptable at the time. If only that’s how things had gone down. Ali survived, but two innocents had not. Kat Parker and Dr. Richard Ankh. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to forgive myself for the part I played in their deaths.

Scratch that. I will never forgive myself.

A grunt sounds at my left, and I whip around to discover two other zombies have risen. Two zombies not from graves/names on my list. Well, hell. As I once again unsheathe my short swords, my heart slamming against my ribs, I study my newest opponents. Two males. One is morbidly obese, while the other is short and squat. Both have a grayish tint, like the female, the same advanced stage of rot.

They race toward me without stumbling, their bones not yet brittle enough to break.

I dart to the right, their gazes alert enough to follow me. Good. I keep going, drawing the two farther away from the civilians...but I don’t realize until too late that there’s a small headstone in my path. I trip, land on my ass and lose my breath. I’m laid flat for only a second, maybe two, but it’s enough. The pair dive for me. I somersault backward, coming up with my swords extended, ripping through each creature’s torso. Multiple organs plop to the ground, but neither Z seems to notice or care that they’ve been disemboweled. They just keep advancing.

I kick one in the groin, sending him stumbling to the side, at the same time removing the head of the other with a single swipe of my sword. The headless wonder, now behind me, manages to clench his fingers in my hair and yank me closer. Idiot! All he can do is paw at me. I elbow his chest and kick back. As he, too, stumbles to the side, I hack at his left arm, spin and hack at his right. Both limbs hit the ground with a thud.

Pressure on my boot draws my gaze. The severed head is attempting to chew through my leather soles. I jerk my leg away and slam my sword into his ear canal, and if we were in an episode of The Walking Dead, my favorite show despite the inaccuracies, he would be dead. Again. But we aren’t, and he isn’t; he just keeps chomping at me. Now, at least, he’s trapped in place. He can do no real damage while I fight the other—

A stone wall knocks me to the ground. The other zombie, back for more. I lose my grip on my swords, air exploding from my lungs and stars winking in front of my eyes. But I manage to hold him off, the heel of my palm planted firmly on his forehead. His legs move between mine, both of his hands wrapping around my neck, which he clearly hopes to use as a snack pack.

If he were human, all I’d have to do is clasp my hands together at my midsection and shoot them up, between his arms, at the same time placing my feet behind his ankles and applying enough pressure to spread his legs. He would struggle for purchase and lose his grip on me. I would then place one of my hands behind his head and smash the other underneath his chin to close his mouth, pushing with one and pulling with the other to create a counterforce, turning his body and allowing me to roll on top of him. I would balance my weight on one knee, slam the heel of a hand into his nose, breaking the cartilage and, while he writhed in pain, I would stand and stomp on his stupid face. Game over. But he isn’t human, so I can do none of those things; his teeth would be too close to my vulnerable skin, and he would feel no pain.

All I can do is wiggle my free hand between our bodies. There’s a dagger sheathed at my waist...there! Once the weapon is free, I wrench it up and jab it into his neck, again and again. Black goo sprays my flesh, burning me, blistering. Steam curls through the air. When his spine is the only thing holding his head in place, I drop the blade and rearrange my hands, placing one behind his head while smashing the other under his chin, careful to avoid his teeth—looks like I can use one of my moves, after all. With a push and a pull, the counterforce snaps his stupid head from his stupid body.

Panting, I toss the brand-new boxing bag several yards away and fight my way from beneath his heavy weight. Dizziness sweeps over me, but this is not the time for a break. I summon dýnamis and place my palm over the zombie’s back. In my weakened state, my fire is not as potent and the zombie’s metamorphosis from rot to ash takes longer than usual, but it does happen.

I push up onto shaky legs and stumble forward, relieved, searching for the head I threw. Gotta rinse and repeat. Only, I come face-to-face with more than a dozen pairs of red, glowing eyes—and every single set is locked on me.

Surprise surprise, I’m back at Hearts, looking for my next hit and run.

Out of habit, I scan my surroundings. Four months ago, just days before Kat—

Yeah. Anyway. A section of the club was destroyed by Anima. Their agents bombed a wall, swooped in and attacked. We fought back hard and dirty, but damage was done. Thankfully, it took us only a month to rebuild. Out with the old, in with the new. There are now black light halogens in the ceiling, making glow-in-the-dark paint come to life around the stage, where a live band plays. The walls are covered with murals of a magical woodland, a floating Cheshire cat with a toothy grin, and a rabbit with a pocket watch. Ali’s suggestion. A tribute to Kat as well as Ali’s younger sister, Emma.

Once, Reeve’s dad owned the club. When he died, he left most of his possessions and wealth to his daughter—his only living relative—and a million dollars each to the rest of us. The club, though, he gave to Tyler Holland, Cole’s dad. I’m on the VIP list, even though I’m only eighteen years old. My ID says I’m twenty-four.

My phone vibrates, and I check the screen to find a text from Cole.

The club again? Really? Why don’t U be a good boy & use UR spank bank? Yeah. I went there. Stop screwing around & come home. UR real home.

One of the employees must have called him. Friends who care are great—until they suck.

There are other texts, too.

Ali: Thought of a title 4 a zombie dating book. Ready... DYING TO MEET YOU. Thoughts???

My boy Gavin, a slayer as irreverent as I used to be: I hear UR plowing UR way through brunettes. Dude! That’s my game. Play w/blondes—they R better 4 UR health. (meaning I will kill U if U don’t make the switch)

Bronx: A new recruit just asked—what’s the #1 thing an average person does when fighting a zombie? I told him—taste delicious. He almost soiled his pants. U should be here.

Ali again: Question. If the zombie apocalypse happens in Vegas, will it stay in Vegas???

Ali yet again: If Chuck Norris gets bitten by a zombie, will he turn in2 a zombie—or will the zombie turns in2 Chuck Norris??

There’s even a text from Derek, who moved to Oklahoma to train and lead another crew.

Consider this an eternal invite 2 come C me. Miss U, man

They want to help me because they love me. When will they accept it’s already too late? I’m far too damaged to be repaired.

I ignore the texts and glance at the time. It’s a few minutes past midnight, and I’ve already had one shot of whiskey too many. If one is the new word for four. Whatever. I don’t want to be here anymore. I want to be in bed, pretending.

Who’s the unlucky girl tonight? I spot a possibility on the dance floor. She’s twentysomething with long dark hair. Are her eyes green? Doesn’t matter, I suppose. When I close my eyes, they’ll be any color I want them to be.

I finish off my newest shot and stand, already drowning in a tidal wave of guilt and shame. I shouldn’t be doing this. I’ll regret it tomorrow. But I’m in desperate need of blackout bliss, and this is the only way to get it.

I move toward the random only to stop halfway, my heart shuddering inside my chest. I think I see... Kat? My Kat? Her gaze meets mine, and she offers me a tremulous smile. I know that smile. I know all her smiles. The good, the bad and the oh, so sad.

I’m paralyzed as I drink in every detail. The sable shine of her hair. The beauty of her hazel eyes. The delicacy of her features. The wonder of her curves. The pale skin I’ve caressed and kissed so many times, the texture and heat are imprinted on my soul.

It’s really her.

I’m drunker than I realized and confusing a memory with reality, or maybe I’m straight-up hallucinating. I don’t care which. I’ll take her however I can get her. I’m across the room in seconds. Just before I reach her, she turns and glides away. I give chase. There’s no way I’ll allow her to escape me, whatever she is. I’ll die first.

She pauses at the back exit and glances my way, even waves me over. I’ll go anywhere she leads, but—she’s gone a second later, vanished in a puff of light.

In a panic, I shoulder my way outside. A cool night breeze greets me, tinged with unsavory odors: old food, urine and vomit. A streetlamp illuminates the alley, revealing a row of Dumpsters and a mouse scurrying between them. Bits of shredded paper float through the air like snow.

Kat died soon after a snowstorm.

Can’t lose her again. “Kat,” I shout, desperate now. A few feet away, a black bird takes flight. “Kat!”

“Dude. I prefer your indoor voice. Let’s tone it down a notch—or twelve.”

Her voice is soft and comes from directly behind me. I swing around, every muscle in my body knotting with anticipation...but there she is. The love of my life.

Suddenly I feel as though an elephant is sitting on top of my chest. I’m struggling to breathe. I’m trembling. I want her to be real. I want her to tell me she faked her death, just to see how many people would show up at her funeral—I put the “fun” in funeral, Frosty. But she remains quiet, and I reach out.

She’s stoic as she awaits contact. Then—

My fingers ghost through the tendrils of her hair, and I unleash a stream of profanity.

“Wow,” she says with a grin. “I’m not sure some of those things are anatomically possible.”

Her burst of humor calms me.

She’s wearing what she died in, a white shirt and a pair of my boxers, looking adorable and beautiful at once. She’s no longer littered with wounds caused by falling debris as the Ankhs’ house crumbled on top of her, or the gunshots she took to the chest; she’s injury-free and radiant with health.

She’s everything my life has been missing.

“You’re here,” I say, awed to the core. “You’re really here.”

“Yep. But you, Frosty, are an idiot.”

I smile. My first since her death. “Even your hallucination is mouthy. I like it.”

“I’m not a hallucination, dummy. I’m a witness, and—get ready to be humbled by my greatness—I’ve come to help you.” She fist-pumps the sky. “Super Kat to the rescue!”

Now I frown. My millionth since her death. I’ve never seen a witness, but Ali and Cole have, so I know it’s possible. But my Kat has been gone for four months, and she never would have stayed away from me so long if she could get to me. Not on purpose, at least. So...maybe she is a witness, but maybe she isn’t. Even my fractured mind would demand a logical explanation for the presence of a hallucination.

I still don’t care. She’s here, she’s with me and that’s all that matters.

“You want to help me,” I say, the words nothing but gravel. “You stay with me. Don’t leave my side.”

“Tsk-tsk. Thinking only about yourself.” She walks around me, just as she used to do, pretending to be a predator who has selected the evening’s prey. An action she learned from me. “I know you’ve had trouble parting with me. Who wouldn’t? I’m amazing! But du-u-ude. I didn’t expect a total meltdown. You used to dine on prime filet and now you’re nomming on old cuts of mystery meat.”

A very Kat way of mentioning my parade of girls. I bow my head, shamed by my behavior. A thousand apologies will not be enough. “I’m sorry, kitten. I’m so sorry. You were gone... I think I tried to punish us both. But I hate what I’ve—”

She holds up her hand to silence me. “Enough. I don’t want to hear your excuses. You’re ruining your life, and that is not acceptable to me.”

“Are you kidding? Ruining my life? Kitten, without you I have no life.” The words explode from me with more force than I intend. “I would rather cut off my left nut than yell at you. I’m sorry,” I repeat. “I shouldn’t have raised my voice.”

“Well, you are not forgiven!” She anchors her hands on her hips. “Since I’ve been living up there—” she hikes her thumb toward the sky “—I’ve had the opportunity to watch you behind the scenes. And guess what? You’ve turned Beefcake TV into Bama’s Crappiest Videos. Starting today, you’re going out there and doing good deeds.”

For her? Anything. “What do you consider a good deed?”

“To begin, you’re going to help your friends by participating in the zombie-human war. And you’re going to do it with a smile!” She stomps her foot. “Do you hear me?”

“Yes. Help friends. Fight. Smile. If I do these things, you’ll stay with me?”

She closes her eyes for a moment, sighs. “And I told the council I had this in the bag. Bad Kat. Bad!”

“Council?” If she’s a figment of my shattered imagination, shouldn’t I have some sort of control over her? Shouldn’t her logic match my own, considering it’s, well, mine? Clearly, I have no control over this girl, and I definitely have no idea what she’s talking about.

It suddenly hits me with the force of a baseball bat. She is a witness, real though not corporeal, and she is here.

Joy floods me. “Never mind.” I stalk forward.

She backs into the brick wall. A wall I help douse in Blood Lines once every week, making it solid to spirits. That way, zombies can’t ghost inside the building.

When she’s almost within reach, I push my spirit out of my body, an action that requires faith—the spiritual power source for all slayers, just like food is a power source for our outer shell—believing I can do it before I actually do it.

Now, without my flesh to act as insulation, the air seems a thousand degrees colder. I endure because spirits can be touched only by other spirits, and I want to touch Kat with every fiber of my being. But the second I stretch out my arm, she jumps to the side to avoid contact.

“Hold on there, grabby.” She gives a shake of her head, dark hair dancing over her shoulders. “I haven’t always followed the rules—or ever followed the rules—but all that’s behind me. You have no idea what I had to do to get here, or what will happen if I mess up, and there’s no time to explain. Not during this visit. Just know that one touch of your spirit to mine will ensure I’m never allowed back.”

My fists clench and unclench as I return to my body. We can’t touch, fine. We won’t touch.

However I can get her, I remind myself.

Her expression gentles. “I’m your past, Frosty, and for now, I’m your present. But you need to come to grips with the fact that I will never be part of your future.”

“You are my past, present and future, kitten.” I’ll never come to grips with anything else.

“Frosty—”

“Kat.” I flatten my hands at her temples. “Why am I just now seeing you? Why did you stay away so long?”

Her gaze remains on me, but for several heartbeats of time, I’m certain she’s no longer seeing me. Her attention is far away, somewhere I’ve never been. Somewhere I can’t go. “Like I said, there’s no time to get into the nuts and bolts during this visit.”

“But you will visit me again?”

She gives a sharp incline of her head. “For the next few months, you’ll be the lucky recipient of one visit a day, every day.”

That’s not good enough. “I won’t be satisfied until you’re surgically attached to my side.”

She rolls her eyes. “This isn’t a negotiation, and you didn’t let me finish. I will visit you once every day...as long as you’ve done something productive for our cause.”

I arch a brow. “You’re bribing me?”

“Oh, good. You understand.” She beams at me, making my chest ache. “And no, tonight wasn’t a bonus. You still have to earn the privilege.”

That’s my Kat, always determined to get her way. It’s one of the thousand things I love about her. She takes what she wants when she wants it, damn the consequences.

I wish I could kiss her, but if touching her means losing her, I’ll keep my hands—and my mouth—to myself. “Get ready to see a whole lot more of me, kitten. I’ll do anything to spend time with you.”

“Duh. I’m so cake I’m the cake.” Her image begins to fade, and I shake my head violently.

“Kat!”

“Listen, Frosty, I’m almost out of time and I haven’t told you what you need to do. It’s imperative—”

“No. You stay with me. Do you hear me? We’re not done.”

Her head whips to the side as if she hears a noise I do not, and her eyes widen. I follow the line of her gaze...and see a ghostly image of Ali’s younger sister, Emma, whose mouth is moving. Still I hear nothing.

“Crappity crap crap. It’s worse than we thought,” Kat says as she faces me again. “She’s alone, and they’re surrounding her. She desperately needs your help, Frosty. You have to go to her.”

“Who? Emma?”

“No, just—”

“Who?” I demand again.

“It shouldn’t matter who she is,” Kat says, and she’s peering up at me with a wealth of concern and dread. “She’s a human being and she needs help, so strap on your big-girl panties, get to Shady Elms and freaking help her! It’s almost too late.” A moment later, Kat is gone.

Cursing, I slam my fist into the wall. My knuckles scream in protest, but okay. All right. My girl is gone, but she won’t stay gone. Not this time. She’ll be back. I just have to help the mysterious “her.”

Shady Elms is roughly ten minutes away. Five if I break speed records. I race to my truck, only to stop once I’m behind the wheel. I’ve been drinking. There’s no way in hell driving will end well. Fine. I arm up with the weapons stored in the vehicle and shed my body, leaving it in the driver’s seat.

As I run at a speed no human can ever achieve, pedestrians amble along the sidewalk and unwittingly move into my path. I’m forced to plow through them or spin around them. I spin, otherwise my spirit would pass through their bodies and hit their spirits, and that wouldn’t do anyone any good. Dizziness plays chicken with my mind and nausea knocks on the door of my stomach, but I refuse to slow. The row of buildings eventually gives way to a long stretch of road, paved and smooth. I’m on constant alert for the telltale signs of the undead—grunts carried on the wind, the fetid stench of rot and the crimson glow of hunger in eyes that are windows to evil.

When the edge of the cemetery comes into view, I veer off into a patch of trees. As I pass a towering oak, a chorus of grunts assaults my ears. Then a feminine shout of frustration sounds and I pick up the pace. I leap over tombstones and shoot around a mausoleum...until finally I spot the horde. At least twenty zombies have zeroed in on a single meal while countless others writhe on the ground, cut up like pieces of old lunch meat.

The mysterious “her” is a slayer. Good. She can help me help her.

I palm my semiautomatics and push through the masses, putting a bullet in every rotting brain that moves into my way. Not a fix-all, but at least the enemy will be slowed down, impact sending the bodies to the ground.

As the creatures catch my scent, they face me. I whirl the guns in my hands to grip the barrels. With a press of my thumb against a hidden button, serrated axes pop out at the end of each handle. I start hacking, my arms remaining in a constant sate of motion. Rotting flesh tears and limbs detach.

Because spirits are not bound to the same physical laws as bodies, I’m able to fight at a speed the hunger-fogged zombies cannot track. By the time a creature reaches for me, I’ve already removed its hand...followed by its head. As more and more walking corpses are cut into parts, a sea of goo and gore spreads over the ground. But at least a path opens up, granting me a good look at the slayer’s backside. She’s a blonde.

She’s fluidly graceful, fighting with a ferocity and viciousness I admire, her short swords extensions of her arms as she slices and dices with perfect precision. Her body is lithe, displayed to perfection in pink camo, and I smile despite the situation. Kat might have worn something similar, had she been a slayer.

For once, I can think about my girl without praying I die, too.

The blonde takes down three Zs with a single swing but doesn’t see the last two getting to their feet...now sneaking up behind her. I whirl my guns and squeeze off two quick shots, the boom of gunfire echoing through the night, the creatures flying backward. I race forward, there when the two hit the ground, slamming my axes into their mouths to separate their jaws. They won’t be biting me or anyone else ever again.

Panting, covered in sweat and goo, I turn toward the girl. Our gazes meet—and suddenly I’m struck dumb. She must be, too. Her mouth drops open.

A shoulder-length cap of white-blond hair frames a face more delicate than a cameo, despite the silver hoops in her jet-black eyebrows. Her eyes are a dark golden brown, like honey, her bronzed skin tattooed heavily in black and white. She’s beautiful in a punk-rock Barbie kind of way. I’ve always thought so.

When we lived in the same twenty-thousand-square-foot mansion for several months, we never had a conversation; I never had time for her, never paid her more than a passing, admiring glance, my sights always on Kat or a mission, very little else worthy of my time. But there’s no doubt I’m standing before Camilla Marks. Milla to her friends.