A Mad Zombie Party

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.