Читать книгу A Mad Zombie Party (The White Rabbit Chronicles Book 4) - Gena Showalter - Страница 16

I blink open tired, gritty eyes as bright light streams through the crack in my bedroom curtains. My temples pound, a memory knocking on the door of my mind.

I reach for Kat, intending to cuddle her close, but her side of the bed is cold.

Makes sense. She’s dead.

The thought hits me, a reminder of all I’ve lost, and agony nearly splits open my chest. But as bad as it is, it’s not as bad as usual. Another memory surfaces, and I grin. Yesterday, she came to visit me; she asked me to fight zombies for another slayer, not realizing she was sending me to Camilla Marks. She promised to visit me again.

I jolt upright and scan my bedroom, hoping she’s already here. Beige walls. A small bed with blue sheets and brown covers, a large dresser, the drawers hanging open. My clean clothes are piled in one corner and my dirty clothes piled in another. I’ve been meaning to do laundry for, oh, about four months.

There’s no sign of Kat.

Still, I jump up and race into the bathroom, a small space with only a sink, toilet and shower stall. I brush my teeth and hair, but I don’t bother to change my clothes. I’m shirtless, but wearing a pair of running shorts. I’ve worn worse.

“Kat,” I call, not even trying to hide the desperation in my tone. “Kat.”

She appears in a blink, as if she’s been waiting for my summons, and my knees almost buckle. I step toward her out of habit, only to stop myself as yesterday’s warning plays through my mind. Touch her, lose her.

No touching. Ever.

“Congrats! Today’s your lucky day.” She’s dressed in the same T-shirt and boxers as before, but it doesn’t matter. She’s beautiful in a way no other girl can ever hope to be. “You call, I answer.”

“I missed you,” I say.

“You’d be crazy if you didn’t.”

I try for a scolding expression but only manage to smile at her. “When you aren’t with me, where are you?” I want to know every detail about her new life.

She points to the ceiling...and then she waves her arm and whips her body into the most hideous dance of all time.

I laugh—really laugh—and say, “Stop. Before I have to bleach my eyes.”

“Because your moves and grooves don’t compare to mine, and watching me only reminds you of your failure?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

Smiling, she wraps a lock of hair around her finger. “I had no idea how much pain my failing kidneys were causing until I was dead. Now I can walk and run and dance without a single twinge. It’s... Frosty, there are no words.”

“Not even cake?”

“Not even.”

It’s clear she’s happy with her situation, and I love that she’s happy. I do. I crave her happiness above my own. But I also...don’t love it. She’s happy without me. I’m miserable without her.

More tales from a grade A douche-purse.

“Are you treated well up there?” I ask.

“Dude! The best! You seriously have no idea.” She saunters to the bed, which is covered in Blood Lines, and plops onto the edge. As usual, she’s pure energy and excitement. A force of nature. “It’s like a perfected version of here. Earth 2.0. And guess what? Contrary to popular opinion, it’s not the end.”

“Not the end?” My brow furrows as confusion overtakes me. “You can die again?”

“No, no, nothing like that. We’re in a holding zone where we’re allowed to watch over our loved ones.” She taps her chin with two well-manicured fingers. “We even get to help, but only by taking opposing parties to court and winning.”

“Actual court?”

“Yep. Only on a much larger scale, because it’s the final authority. We have to petition for answers and ceasefires and all kinds of other things. That’s where I’ve been all this time. In court. That’s where Helen is now. In fact, she rarely leaves the courtroom.”

Helen, Ali’s biological mom. “Why go through so much trouble for us?” What do they actually accomplish?

Kat kicks her feet, causing the mattress to bounce. “I know you won’t understand this, but sometimes to have victory down here, you first need to have victory up there. Helen, Emma and I do our best to ensure you guys have everything you need.”

Realization strikes me. “You petitioned to appear to me.”

“Uh, you mean I petitioned the crap out of the court to appear to you. Which is why I got a yes. But—boo, hiss—there are rules. More than you know.”

“Such as?”

“Such as what I’m allowed to tell you...and what I’m not.” She blows me a kiss. “Finally I know things you don’t, and for the same reasons you couldn’t tell me about the zombies once upon a time—I couldn’t handle the truth—I can’t tell you everything.”

I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all. “What happens if you break the rules?”

“I can be forced to leave the holding zone. Some witnesses opt not to stay when they first arrive, like Miranda, Ali’s adopted mom. Others, the troublemakers, can be booted out before their time.” Resignation glints in eyes I want filled only with happiness. “I don’t want to be booted.”

Do I detect an unsaid yet?

“I’m helping you guys for the first time ever,” she adds, “and I’m not ready to stop.”

“Why would anyone opt to leave?” I cross my arms and lean against the bathroom door. “And where are the booted ones sent?”

“To the highest heaven...the True Rest. Trust me, everyone in the holding zone wants to enter into the True Rest. Peace beyond your understanding. Joy. And there’s no such thing as heartache or pain. Only love and light exist there.” She smiles wide...then frowns deeply. “But in the Rest, I will no longer have any influence over your situation, no longer be allowed to petition, so, I’ll do whatever it takes to remain in the holding zone.”

My mind whirls with possibilities. “Do people in the holding zone date?”

“And marry. And have babies.”

Excitement blooms. If I’m in the holding zone, I can be with her again. We’ll be a couple. With a future.

But she knows me well, knows the direction of my thoughts, and shakes her head. “Don’t you dare. It’s not yet your time, Frosty.”

“It wasn’t yours, either.”

“I know. I went too early and you are now living with the consequences. And it sucks, doesn’t it? So don’t make your friends live with the consequences of your early death. They need you too badly.”

“I want to be with you.” Whatever the cost.

Her eyes narrow, her temper clearly pricked. “Well, I want a pony, but we don’t always get what we want, do we?”

“Kat—”

“Frosty.” She sighs. “I want you to date other people.”

I blink. Surely I misheard her. “There’s no way you just said—”

“Zip your pie hole, okay? Kitty is still talking. You knew I would die before you—”

“I didn’t! I expected to die in battle long before your kidneys shut down.”

“Please,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “Like anyone could defeat you in a fight. But no matter how you slice it, you knew you wouldn’t get a happily-ever-after with me.”

“I’m not dating other girls, kitten.” I’m pissed that she even suggested it.

“What about the legions you’ve banged since my death, huh?”

I flinch as though I’ve been punched by a five-hundred-pound, steroid-addicted hulk. “They were mistakes I will forever regret.”

“Screw your regrets.” Remaining on the mattress, she rises to her knees, her gaze heartbreakingly earnest. “You have to open your heart to love again.”

“No, I—”

“You’re a somewhat attractive guy,” she interjects. “A good, solid five. And now that you’ve got money, you can probably bag a six...maybe a seven.”

“Thanks,” I reply drily, even as I crumble inside. She can’t want me with someone else. Not really. She just can’t.

Her smile is all about sadness, no hint of amusement. “All I’m saying is, there’s someone out there just for you. The one who’s meant to be. She won’t be as good as me, of course. I’m a rare ten. Practically a unicorn. But she’ll give you a reason to keep fighting in the war.”

“I’ll fight in the war for you.” My tone is as rough as sandpaper. “Don’t you want me anymore?”

She exhales a heavy breath. “I’m not saying that.”

“Then I don’t need to—”

“But,” she interjects forcefully, shutting me up and erasing every bit of my relief, “I can see what you can’t. The bigger picture. The endgame. The only thing that matters.”

My hands fist. “We are what matters.”

She looks away from me, as if she can no longer bear to hold my gaze. “I love you, and I’ll always love you, but the moment, the very second my spirit left my body, I became part of... Well, I don’t know how else to say it—I became part of one mind. A collective consciousness. I saw that you and I...we were never meant to be, Frosty. Not in a romantic sense.”

Are you kidding me? She’s just given me the afterlife version of the “It’s not you, it’s me” speech. Clearly, despite her “I’m not saying that,” she no longer wants me the way I want her. It’s a blow I wasn’t prepared to take.

Acid drips through my chest, burning an already broken heart, but not by word or deed do I reveal the destruction taking place inside me.

This is another crime to place at Anima’s door. A crime to place at Camilla’s feet.

“Do you still want to see me?” Kat asks quietly.

“Yes.” I don’t have to think about my answer. I need time to change her mind and win her back, that’s all.

“Good. That’s good.” She crawls from the bed to stand. “Now, sadly, I’ve got to go. The longer I’m with you, the less I know what’s happening around you.”

Stay, I almost roar. Steady. Calm. Aggression and neediness will do me no favors. “When can I see you again?”

“Tonight. You’ve been such a good boy, I’ll gift you with another visit. But not here. Get out. Go do something. Introduce yourself to a group of cute girls. I’ll find you.”

* * *

I return to Hearts. Kat said she’d find me, and I want her to find me here. I want to replace the last memory she has of me in this location—going after a brunette I intended to use and lose.

Urgency is like a whip inside me, striking at me, keeping me going when all I want to do is find my girl. I’ve been here an hour already, but I haven’t touched a single drop of whiskey, and I won’t. Ginger ale is my new drink of choice.

Where is she?

A female sinks into the chair next to me. I look past her, scanning the club. The same black-light strobes flash. The same people writhe on the dance floor. The same crowd of onlookers appears a little too turned on for anyone’s good. No sign of Kat, and while patience has always been one of my stronger virtues—I waited three years for Kat to say yes to a date, then another year to get her into bed—I’m hanging at the end of a very frayed rope.

“Logan?” The woman beside me nudges my shoulder. “Hi.”

Logan isn’t my real name. Nor is Frosty, for that matter. To be honest, I hate my real name almost as much as I love it. It’s been a source of teasing most of my life, but also of envy. Tonight, however, I am who my ID says I am. Logan. The name I’ve been using with the girls I’ve bedded.

And despite a foggy memory, I know I’ve bedded this one. She has straight dark hair and green eyes, the reasons I would have picked her.

“How are you?” I ask, going for the polite approach. I’m still a douche-purse, I know this, but with Kat back in my life, I’m determined to be a nice douche-purse.

“I’m good. I was hoping I’d run into you again.” Smiling coyly, batting her lashes at me, she traces her fingernails along my arm. “Want to go back to my place? We never got to finish that bottle of Macallan.”

“No thanks.” I pull away and her cheeks heat with embarrassment. Rejection stings, no getting around that, but I won’t flirt to be nice. I just won’t.

Over the years, Kat and I had many conversations about the different nuances of sex. About the expectations of the guy versus the expectations of the girl. What was physical for me was probably emotional for this girl. Despite all her protests to the contrary.

Like so many others, she probably hoped I would enjoy being with her so much, I would want another night...hell, a few weeks...maybe several months with her, forgetting my “I only want one night” claim. Kat called that particular mindset “the exception fantasy.”

It’s a fantasy with a low rate of success.

“Are you sure?” She runs a finger between her breasts. “You’ll have fun.”

“Sorry, but I’m here to meet someone.” The love of my life.

“That would be me. Get lost.”

The newcomer leans in to my other side and waves at Macallan. I stiffen, a very dark curse exploding from me. Camilla Marks.

Her platinum hair is a wild fall of curls, the sides clipped back from her face, revealing locks of jet-black at her temples. Her ebony lashes are a mile long and spiked, a complete contrast to the glitter sparkling around her honey-colored eyes. Her cheeks are flushed to a deep rose, her lips painted bloodred.

Guys are staring at her as if she’s the last piece of candy in the candy store.

I can understand why. She’s wearing a black leather vest, the center veeing between small but perfect breasts, revealing more of her tattoos than it conceals. Haunting 3-D images come to startling life. My favorite is the one over her heart. The face of a little girl. Perhaps even Camilla herself, only much younger. The bone structure is similar, though the etching has jet-black ringlets.

Like the vest, her pants are black leather, and they look like they’ve been painted on her. Silver zippers cover both articles of clothing, and I know a blade is hidden underneath each one. Just as I know every piece of jewelry she’s wearing doubles as some kind of weapon. The pendant hanging from the silver chain around her neck can be turned into a small dagger. Her bracelets have two hooks in the center. Pull them, and create a garrote.

“Who are you?” Macallan asks her. “Because he doesn’t look happy to see you.”

Camilla ignores her, turning to snipe at the guy behind her. She reveals a back completely bared, the vest held on by a prayer and a tie at her nape and waist. There are more tattoos, and the designs enthrall me. A tree of life growing from the center of a river, every branch sprouting a different type of bloom. A frying pan, of all things. A fist. A key, star and dagger. Birds are perched on several of the branches, and a flock flies above the tallest branch.

I want to trace the images with my fingers. Then she’s facing me again, and I remember she’s a traitor. My hatred overshadows every bit of my admiration.

“What are you doing here?” I demand.

She signals for a drink. “Ask your girlfriend.”

She’s spoken to Kat?

“Wait. You have a girlfriend?” Macallan asks. She’s clutching her glass of froufrou whatever, clearly planning to toss the contents in my face.

Camilla acts fast, reaching over to knock the glass out of the girl’s hand. “Looks like someone needs to learn her manners. I’m happy to—”

“Excuse us,” I say to Macallan. I grab Camilla by the arm and yank her toward the stairs that lead to the VIP lounge.

Halfway up she wrenches from my hold. “There’s no need to be so rough. I don’t plan to run away. If you haven’t noticed, I’m not resisting.”

“Do you seriously expect me to trust you?” I say, but I don’t reach for her again. The less contact we have, the better.

I march the rest of the way up. If she doesn’t follow, I’ll go hunting for her and she won’t like what happens when I catch her.

And I will catch her.

The lounge has a bar of its own with waitstaff paid to ensure a glass never goes dry and a smile never fades. I’m recognized immediately, a waitress rushing over to greet me. I step around her and head toward the office in back. An office Ankh—Reeve’s dad—once kept just for us, in case we had zombie business to discuss.

Even with the club’s remodel, the pass code on the door is the same. I put my back in front of Camilla to punch in the numbers, then motion her inside. With her head high, she sweeps past me. I’m hot on her heels, shutting the door with a hard kick of my leg. When the lock engages on its own, a wave of satisfaction hits me. Now she’s stuck. She can’t escape without the code. Not that the office would make a good prison. There are plush leather couches and oversized chairs. Another wet bar. A desk with multiple computers and a three-line phone system.

Camilla faces me, her dark eyes throwing venom. “Before you start hurling demands for information, yes, Kat appeared to me last night and again about an hour ago. She told me to come here and stick by your side.”

“You’re lying.” Kat would never torture me like that.

“That’s the second time you’ve accused me of deceit.” She takes a step toward me, the menace she’s throwing a match to mine. “Do it a third time, and you’ll find your balls in your throat.”

“I’m sure I’ll love the taste of them,” I retort.

“Children, please. She’s not lying, Frosty.” Kat appears beside Camilla, and my knees go weak with relief. She has returned, as promised. “I want Camilla at your side every minute of every day. Starting now.”

What the hell? “Is this a joke? A game of ‘would you rather’? Well, I’d rather play tonsil hockey with a zombie than spend another minute with your killer.”

Camilla flinches, but I refuse to feel bad for speaking the truth.

“Unfortunately for you,” Kat says, “this is a game of ‘what the dead girl wants, the dead girl gets.’” Her gaze pleads with me. “You’re doing it, and that’s final.”

Damn it. She’s serious about this. “Why? You know who Camilla is, right?”

“I do. Though you’re wrong about one thing. She’s not my killer. Not exactly.” The starch drains from her. “You just have to trust me. This arrangement is necessary.”

I shake my head, adamant. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Frosty.”

“Kitten.” How can I make her understand? “I’ll do anything for you. Cut out my own heart? Where’s a knife? Set myself on fire? Give me a match. But I won’t hang out with your murderer.”

“I didn’t set those bombs,” Camilla rasps. “I knew nothing about them. I’m also not the one who shot her.”

I spare her the briefest glance, and there’s nothing nice about it. “You destroyed the security system that allowed Anima to do those things. In my eyes, you carry the most guilt.”

The starch leaves her, too, and she withers. Good. Let her hurt for what she did. Let her stew in her shame. It’s what she deserves.

Kat steps toward me, claiming my attention. “I’m about to drop some knowledge, big boy, so listen up. I told you I would appear on the days you performed a good deed. Well, guess what? Those good deeds begin and end with Camilla Marks. From now on, you will have breakfast with her. You will fight zombies with her. You will...” Her teeth grind together. “Sleep in the same room with her.”

I give another violent shake my head. No way, no how.

“I’ve never asked you for anything,” Kat says, and I gape at her.

“You asked me for something every day since we met. Teddy bears. Roses. Apologies. My dessert. My lunch money. My car. Hell, even my soul. Nothing was off-limits.”

“I didn’t ask for anything important,” she amends, then clasps her hands together to form a steeple. “Do this for me. Please. It’s the only way we’ll get to see each other.”

The rules, I realize. Those stupid rules.

I have more questions for her, but I blink, and she’s gone. A roar of denial leaves me, echoing from the walls.

“I’ll do it,” I shout. I’ve been backed into a corner, and I know it. I feel like the mangy mutt the good people at animal control want to capture to test for rabies, but I’ll still do it. “I agree to your terms. You can come back now.”

But she doesn’t return, and desolation begins to weigh me down.

“Why would you agree to this?” I demand of the traitor.

Camilla strides to the wet bar to pour herself a shot of Grey Goose. “I owe her. I owe you.”

“Or you’re planning to spy on me.” Yeah. I bet that’s it.

“Your thought process needs retooling. Who, exactly, am I supposed to report to?” She drains the glass. “Anima is nothing but rubble.”

“Or so we think.” I run both hands through my hair, yank at the strands. What the hell am I going to do with this girl? I don’t want her in my apartment. I’ve had the place only a few months and it still doesn’t feel like home, but it’s mine and she’s not welcome to anything that belongs to me. But I don’t want her in Reeve’s new place, either. I don’t want her around my friends.

“Kat showed me where you live,” she says. “I’ve already dropped my backpack there.”

“The door was locked.”

“Yes, and I picked it.”

Rage sparks, and I punch the wall.

“Temper, temper.” She doesn’t look the least bit afraid of me as she strides to the exit. I’m a little surprised and a lot pissed when she plugs in the proper code and the door opens for her. “Let’s go home and talk logistics.”

“My home, not yours.” I race to her side to keep pace, barely stopping myself from grabbing and shaking her. “The code.”

She doesn’t pretend to misunderstand my meaning. “I memorized the numbers when you punched them in.”

“I had my back to you, blocking your view.”

“Was I not supposed to peek over your shoulder? Oops. My bad.”

I open my mouth to blast her.

“I didn’t know what you planned to do to me and devised an evil plan of escape,” she interjects. “I know, I know. How dare I take measures to protect myself. I should be ashamed.”

I’ll have to be more careful around her. Noted. She’s the enemy, and she’ll always be the enemy. Hostility and suspicion are all she’ll ever get from me.

“By the way,” she adds, “I’m not sorry.”

“I gathered. But hang around me long enough and you will be.” I’ll make sure of it.

The color drains from her cheeks, but she raises her chin. A defense mechanism. Good. Words can be weapons. Mine are arrows, and they just struck their intended target.

Downstairs, we push through the ever-growing crowd. Multiple perfumes and body sprays clash with the pungent odors of sweat and alcohol. I shift my head, getting a stronger whiff of Camilla...the roses and pecans embedded in her skin. I hiss. Talk about a prime example of false advertising. To fit her personality, she should smell like brimstone and sulfur.

We exit the building and enter the coolness of the night. I suck in the fresh air as if I’ve been drowning.

“If Kat wants you to stay with me, fine, you can stay with me.” I’ll just have to deal. “But you’ll have to walk there.” I climb behind the wheel of my truck.

She jumps into the bed in back, and I grit my teeth. Getting her out will be a major fight. If we weren’t in public, yeah, I’d go for it. But we are, so I’ll just have to deal—and make sure I hit every pothole between the club and my apartment complex. Which I do. With relish.

She doesn’t speak as we take the stairs to the second floor, and neither do I. I open the door and purposely step in front of her, ensuring I enter first. One, it’s rude. Two, I’ve watched Dog Whisperer, so I know the pack leader always enters first. Three, she can suck it. I don’t want her here, and I’m not going to pretend like I do.

When the front door closes, she says, “We should talk about—”

But I head into my bedroom and lock her out. Footsteps register. I’m pretty sure she’s pacing.

“Frosty,” she says through the door.

I put my earbuds in my ears and jack up the volume of my iPod, drowning out her voice.

* * *

As morning sunlight seeps through the center crack in my curtains, I finish my exercises. One hundred push-ups. One hundred sit-ups. One hundred lunges, and a thousand other things. I go and go until I’ve expelled so much energy I could pass for the undead. But at least I’ve got myself under better control.

Camilla Marks is a means to an end. A way to see Kat. I can endure her presence in my inner sanctum without killing her. Without wanting to kill myself. Surely.

I shower, dress and at last emerge. She’s sitting at the kitchen table with tubes of ink and bandages spread around her and a tattoo gun in hand. Her hair is piled into some sort of sloppy bun at the crown of her head, revealing the layer of jet-black hair usually hidden by all that snow white. Her face is free of makeup, making her look younger. So damn pretty it should be a crime.

Hate her.

She wipes blood from the image she just etched into her wrist. A compass next to the word Betrayal.

I won’t ask. I don’t care.

I make a bowl of cereal and shovel in one spoonful after another while standing at the sink. I don’t say a word or glance in her direction.

“Oh, no,” she says, her tone dry. “The mean boy is ignoring me. Whatever shall I do?”

“Say thank-you,” I mutter.

“You can’t ignore me and make implied threats.” She wraps a bandage around the new image, gathers up the equipment. “You have to pick one.”

I drain the milk from the bowl and wash my dishes, silent.

“Sweet,” she says. “You picked my favorite.”

Does nothing faze her?

Usually at this time of day, I run a million errands to keep my mind off Kat. Today, I park my ass in front of the TV and turn on the sports channel, hoping to annoy Camilla. When I realize she’s watching and actually engaged in the game, I flip to a “who’s your baby daddy” talk show. But she watches that, too, and even yells at the screen.

“You’re too good for him. Leave him!”

Next I try a soap opera, and she finally turns away, uninterested.

I smirk—until I realize I’m stuck watching a guy’s evil twin seduce his wife.

After fifteen minutes of praying for the world to end, I head into my room to do a little schoolwork. I’m a senior, though I left public school in favor of a homeschool program a few weeks before Kat died. Considering how many days I’d have missed as I was hunted and attacked by Anima, I’d had no other choice. Flunking out wasn’t—isn’t—in my life plan. What is? Graduation in a little over a month. College. Becoming a detective. According to Kat, I’ll be the youngest and hottest ever. One day I’ll hunt human bad guys rather than zombies. Not because I don’t like what I do now, but because I also plan to eradicate spirit-evil once and for all.

Somehow.

When I finish solving X, Y and Z, I return to the kitchen to make a sandwich. She’s still in front of the TV, watching a new game, eating a granola bar.

I walk over and snatch the bar out of her hand. “What’s mine is mine.”

Her cheeks flush. “We could be together for a few days or a few years. From what I gather, there’s no time stamp on Ali’s vision. Why don’t you pretend to be a mature adult and—”

I flip her off without glancing in her direction. I throw the bar in the trash, fix my sandwich and take an exaggerated bite as she peers at me.

“Wow. So mature,” she mutters. “Can you at least try to be civil?”

“You’re still alive. That’s all the civil you’re going to get from me.”

She looks away, her shoulders rolling in. “Fair enough.”

The sandwich settles like lead in my stomach. I return to my room, where I stay for several hours, just lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, hoping Kat will visit me. But she doesn’t, even when I call her name.

Where the hell is she? She owes me a visit. I’ve done everything she—

No, I realize. I haven’t. Help friends. Fight. Smile.

I arm up before returning to the living room. Camilla is still on the couch, but this time she’s cleaning a semiautomatic.

“We’re going out to hunt zombies,” I announce.

Her relief is palpable as she puts the gun back together. “I want to return to Shady Elms.”

The cemetery. “Why? Hordes take weeks and months to form, and we left nothing of the last one. At least, I’m assuming you weren’t dumb enough to leave the parts behind.”

“I ashed them, but...there was something odd about these zombies. They were more rotted than usual for first-timers.”

“Here’s an idea. They weren’t first-timers.”

“But they rose from graves. Why would zombies return to their bodies, just to rise again?”

“How would I know? I’m not a zombie.” But fine, whatever. “We’ll go to Shady Elms.” I grab my keys and head to my truck.

The moon is full, the sky completely black. No clouds, no stars. Just a sense of gloom and doom.

Nothing new.

Wait. A rabbit cloud whisks overhead, and I stiffen. Rabbit clouds—Emma’s way of warning Ali. Zombies are stirring tonight.

Adrenaline jacks me up. “There will be a battle tonight.” All I have to do is find the nest.

“How do you know?”

“I just do.”

Camilla jumps into the passenger seat rather than the back bed and casts me a mutinous glare, daring me to comment. I don’t. What good will it do?

We maintain terse silence the entire drive. I continually scan for any sign of zombies. Nothing...nothing...for a moment the scent of roses and pecans distracts me. A scent that clings to Camilla no matter where she is or what she’s doing.

When we reach the cemetery, I park between two towering oaks, surprised to find Cole’s Jeep there. Camilla and I exit, and I use my phone to shine light inside the vehicle. Cole, Ali and Gavin are sitting inside, as still as death, their spirits obviously elsewhere.

“Great,” Camilla says. “Now I have to fight the living and the undead.”

I know the words aren’t a threat, but I react as if they are. “Go after my friends, and I’ll end you.”

She sucks in a breath. “I’m not going to hurt them. I just—”

“Save it. Don’t want to hear it.” I stalk forward, listening for an indication a battle is waging. Searching...searching...

The sky is even more ominous out here, the sense of doom and gloom stronger.

A twig snaps about ten yards away. I palm two .44’s just as Bronx steps from behind a statue of an angel, .44’s of his own extended. The second our identities click, we lower our weapons.

“Frosty the Ice Man. You don’t call, you don’t write. You just show up to the battlefield unannounced.” His gaze flicks to Camilla and narrows. “At least you’ve spoken with Kat.”

He knows what’s going on? “What are you doing here?”

“Guarding the Jeep and the bodies inside it.” Bronx isn’t stupid. He knows I asked why he’s in the cemetery; he simply chose not to answer. “I’ll guard you and yours, if you want to join the others. But don’t be surprised if you have a few cuts and bruises when you return.”

He’s pissed at me. I get it. “If using me as a punching bag will untwist your panties, go for it.”

He flips me off, but he can’t hide the amused glitter in his eyes.

“Any zombies?” I ask.

“A few.”

I step out of my body as easily as breathing. As I wind through the cemetery, Camilla’s spirit catches up to me. We come across Cole first. He’s leaning against a gnarled tree, the limbs seeming to embrace him and push him away at the same time. His arms are folded over his chest.

“What the hell is going on out here?” I ask.

Just like Bronx, he flicks a glance in Camilla’s direction. I know he’s debating what to say in front of someone so untrustworthy.

Camilla notices, lifts her chin and squares her shoulders.

“We were on patrol and spread out all over the place,” Cole says. “Bronx found and cleansed three zombies, but more and more began to rise from the graves so he texted the rest of us and we rushed over.”

“You cleansed the rest.” Otherwise he wouldn’t be standing here. He’d be at Ali’s side. “So where are the other slayers?”

“Walking through the graveyard, watching for other zombies. Ali and I had a vision and we think at least a dozen more will rise tonight.”

“They shouldn’t. We obliterated a couple hordes just last night.”

“If we’re lucky,” Camilla says, “we’ll get to obliterate another one.” She withdraws two daggers from the zips in her pants. “Why don’t I start with the one sneaking up on Cole?”