A Mad Zombie Party

“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.”