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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.”
