The Queen Of Zombie Hearts. Gena Showalter
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eighteen. You’re sixteen.”
“Almost seventeen.”
“I’m a legal adult. You’re not.”
“Cole—”
“Let me finish.” His tone was now as hard as his features, intractable. “I think we should wait.”
I peered up at him. At five-ten, I was tall. At six-four, he was taller. He was wider than me, heavier, and anytime I was near him I felt utterly consumed by him. Usually I adored it. Today, not so much. “Two years is—”
“One year, three months.”
“—a long time,” I finished.
“Not when we’ve got a lifetime together.”
I opened my mouth to protest. Finally his lips crashed into mine.
Instant inferno. I kissed him with everything I had. We’d discuss the year-and-three-months wait at another time—maybe after I’d taken the edge off. Right now, I was simply going to enjoy him...and whatever he’d give me.
As my nails scraped against his back, and his hands anchored on my bottom, yanking me even closer, a thousand little fires ignited in my belly, spreading through the rest of me. What I’d thought was an inferno before? Not even close.
The flames must have spread through him, too, because he hoisted me up, rubbing himself against me. I wound my legs around his waist, practically melding our bodies together. He walked to the bed and laid me down, half of me hanging over the edge. All the while, the kiss continued. Hotter. Faster.
“We can do other things,” he rasped. “Like before.”
“Yes. Like before.” The things he’d made me feel...
He planted his hands at my temples and raised his head. Panting, he said, “But maybe we’ll go a little further this time.”
I licked my kiss-swollen lips and uttered a trembling “Why are you still talking?”
His grin was slow and wicked as he played with the clasp of my bra through my tank.
Beyond the bedroom door, glass tinkled.
Cole paused, frowned. “What—”
Multiple footsteps thumped against a wood floor.
Pop.
Pop.
Shocked, we bolted upright together. I knew that sound. Gunshot muffled by a silencer. But...but...
“Someone’s here,” Cole said, rushing to the nightstand to palm one of the weapons perched on top.
Who would attack the Hollands? And why? Doesn’t make any sense...no sense...
Cole gave me a sharp look.
Right. Arm up. I shook my head to disperse the fog of stupidity and pulled two daggers from my boots. I never went anywhere without them. But daggers were for up-close-and-personal grab-and-stabs with zombies. Shots had been fired. I wouldn’t be dealing with zombies.
I dropped the daggers and grabbed the pistol I had stashed in my coat.
“Cole! Run!” his father shouted—just as the bedroom window shattered.
Cole didn’t have a chance to run.
More glass shattered. Something launched him across the room like a rocket-propelled grenade. He smashed into the wall, slid to the floor, leaving a thick, bright red smear of blood behind him.
NO SPILLED GUTS,
NO GLORY
What the heck was going on?
Gasping, I dropped to my knees. “Cole?” I whispered, frantically crawling toward him. The pistol clinked against the floorboards, reminding me of a ticking clock.
I hated ticking clocks. An entire life could be altered in a single second.
I released the weapon and pressed two fingers into his neck, feeling for a pulse. Don’t be dead, don’t be dead, please, please, don’t be dead. And yeah, okay, I knew death wasn’t the end for us. Look at my sister. But I wasn’t ready to lose any part of Cole.
Thump...thump. Thump...
Thank God! Slow, but strong. He was alive.
His eyes fluttered open. “Ali?”
“It’s okay,” I said. “You’re okay. You’re going to be okay.”
“What happened?”
I surveyed the damage. There was a hole in the shoulder. Blood soaked him.
“Someone just shot you, I think. Right in front of me. That someone could still be out there. We could still be targets.” The two halves of my brain were at war—hope versus dread—screwing with my focus. “What should I do?”
“Bind.” He spoke softly, the word little more than air. “Shoulder.”
Of course. Yes. I knew that. But...binding his shoulder wouldn’t do much good. Blood was gushing out of him. He needed fire; it would cauterize.
Slayers could produce fire; it was necessary to kill zombies. I could produce fire. When summoned, the flames crackled at the ends of our fingers. We pressed them into zombies, and the heat spread, purified, burning away evil and darkness. Eventually, zombies exploded. For some reason, I could flame from head to toe and only a moment of contact was needed to end a zombie.
When used on humans, the fire healed...sometimes. Sometimes it caused final death, just like with zombies.
It had healed me, and it would heal Cole. We were both slayers, and that was the key distinguishing factor between healing and exploding.
Right?
I had to try. He wouldn’t make it otherwise. He was hemorrhaging strength, his head lolling to the side. His lips were starting to turn blue, his skin chalk-white.
Frantic, I closed my eyes. Humans were made of three parts. The spirit, the source of life, was bound to the soul, which consisted of the mind, will and emotions. Both were housed inside the body, the outer shell. With a deep breath in...out...I forced my spirit and body to separate; it was like removing a hand from a glove. Because zombies were spirits, they could only fight other spirits. I’d learned to divide like this at a moment’s notice.
Cold air enveloped me. Without the insulation of skin and muscle, my spirit felt the temperature drop what seemed like a thousand degrees.
“What are...you doing?” As a slayer, Cole could see into the spirit realm. Could see me.
Couldn’t pause to explain. When it came to stuff like this, I was so new I had trouble multitasking.
Light, I thought, and the ends of my fingers heated. I peeked...flames crackled all the way to my wrist. Good, good. I reached inside Cole’s shoulder.
His breath hitched. That was it, his only reaction. Even still, I knew his pain was off the charts. Been here, done this. He’d basically just received third-degree burns on his soul. But he hadn’t turned to ash, so I would consider this a win.
I dismissed the flames and returned my spirit to its proper place with a simple touch, then studied Cole. His color was back to normal. That quickly. I grabbed the shirt he’d discarded and wrapped the material around the still-bleeding, but now-charring wound.
What next? I didn’t know if there were bad guys with guns trained on the open window that was allowing flurries to bluster inside the room. I didn’t know how many bad guys were in the house, shooting at Mr. Holland—or if Mr. Holland was still alive.
My insides twisted into a maze of painful knots.
No matter