A Mad Zombie Party

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.

I am not her friend.

She is River’s sister, and she was once second-in-command to a group of slayers who haven’t always seen eye-to-eye with Cole and me. She’s the one who betrayed her own crew, and mine, destroying an entire security system so that Anima could get to Ali, all in the name of saving her brother— offering Ali’s life in exchange for River’s.

She’s the bitch responsible for Kat’s death.