Gena Showalter - The Queen Of Zombie Hearts

My dad had been able to see zombies, though he hadn’t known what they were. As a boy, he’d watched one murder his mother. Over the years, his fear of them had only grown...and grown...until he’d later turned to alcohol and locked my little sister and me away.

But then, that’s what fear did. That’s the destructive power it wielded, and that’s why I was so determined to resist it, no matter what was going on.

Sometimes, though, my determination wavered—and it usually revolved around one person.

“Can I ask you a question?” I said.

“Isn’t that what you’ve been doing?”

Har har. “Kat’s kidney disease.”

A beat of taut silence. “Waiting for the question.”

“Is there anything we can do?”

“You think I haven’t researched? Made appointments just to talk to specialists about her?”

“And there’s nothing?”

“Nothing,” he repeated hollowly.

I peered out the window, silent. Basically, Kat’s death was just a waiting game. A ticking clock that would soon zero out.

“Let’s talk about something else,” he said, taking a corner faster than I liked. “Like the current sitch. Anima has had multiple opportunities to come after us like this, but they never have. I mean, the time they had you, Kat and Reeve locked up we wouldn’t have fought to kill, because we would have been afraid they’d hurt you girls in retaliation. So, I have to ask myself. Why now?”

Good question. “Let’s take a look at what we know. They’ve been working on ways to control the zombies, to steer the creatures to attack anyone standing in the way of their research. And they hope to use the zombie toxin to create a serum for eternal life, without consequences, and supposedly save mankind from disease and death, but in the meantime, they don’t mind experimenting on and killing innocent people.”

Frosty thought for a moment. “What if they’ve succeeded?”

“You suspect...what? That they want us out of the picture, so that there will be no one able to stop what they’re doing, because no one will know about it.”

“Exactly.”

Then the situation did not bode well for us. Because Anima would strike again. And soon, while we were injured and weakened.

I could almost hear a countdown in my head. The tick tock, tick tock I could never escape.

My hands curled into fists. Calm. Steady.

No fear, remember?

Frosty stopped in the school parking lot. Asher High. Home of the Tigers. (Go Tigers!) I frowned. There were several other vehicles there, so ours didn’t stand out. But...

“You think Bronx came here?” I asked.

“Maybe.”

Well, okay, then. That was good enough for me.

We entered the building—the doors were unlocked, saving us from committing another crime. We stuck to the shadows as we wandered down the halls. I kept a hand on the inside of my purse, my fingers curled around the hilt of one of my daggers. Just in case. No one jumped out at us and we were able to enter room 213 without incident.

But...dang it! There was no sign of Bronx. I wanted to stomp my foot.

“You contemplating throwing a hissy?” Frosty closed in on the chalkboard. “There’s no need. I was right. He’s been here.”

I looked left, right. Saw nothing. “How do you know?”

Frosty motioned to the chalkboard. “He left me a message.”

I read the words scribbled across it. Love me. Hurt me. At midnight. Party like rock stars.

O-kay. “What does it mean?”

“Take the first word of each sentence. Love hurt. At party. Meaning, Mackenzie Love is hurt and he’s got her...where?”

Crap. How bad were her injuries?

“They’re at...a party-supply warehouse? Doubtful.” He was mumbling now, clearly talking to himself, trying to reason things out. “A place we partied? More likely. But he wouldn’t have picked just any place. He would have... Someplace I’d remember... The last place? Yes, yes, yes. I know where he is!”

My heart drummed with excitement. “Then let’s go.”

* * *

We ended up in a run-down neighborhood about fifteen miles out of Birmingham. After wiping our prints, we ditched the car—maybe someone else would decide to do a little freelance valeting, moving it out of the area entirely—and hiked to the worst house of the lot.

It had peeling paint, broken shutters and cracked windows. Pieces of shingle hung from the side of the roof. The planks of wood on the porch released a death rattle as we walked to the door.

Frosty knocked. A shadow soon crept over the bottom of the door, and I knew someone was looking out the peephole.

“About time,” an unfamiliar voice said. Hinges released a high-pitched whine as the dilapidated entrance swung open. A petite brunette with a patchwork of pink scars on one side of her face moved out of the way, allowing Frosty to sail past her.

“Where are they?” he demanded.

“Back room.”

I started to follow after him, but the girl stepped into my path, blocking me. I had to look down...down...down.... She barely topped five feet. She was young, no more than fourteen. And she was spunky cute, with dark green eyes gleaming with fierce protectiveness.

“Who the hell’s your friend?” she called to Frosty. Her narrowed gaze never left me.

“That’s Ali. Let her in.”

Her features pinched with distaste. “So you’re the infamous Ali Bell, are you?”

Great. What had she been told about me? Her sneering tone suggested I was so evil, the devil had actually sold his soul to me.

I nodded. “I am. And you are?”

“Juliana, Veronica’s younger sister. What of it?” All attitude, no finesse.

My chest clenched with nearly unbearable longing to see my own little sister. Emma hadn’t visited me in weeks. Where was she?

The last time we’d spoken, she’d told me our connection was thinning and we would be seeing each other less often. I’d taken that to mean once, maybe twice, a week. I wish I’d known “less often” could actually mean “never again.” I would have hugged her harder, longer. Perhaps never let go.

“May I come in?” I asked softly.

“Whatever.” Juliana stiffly angled to the side. I entered the house and took stock.

No pictures hung on the walls. The furniture was well used, but patched and polished. There wasn’t a TV or computer, but a vase containing fresh flowers sat on the coffee table. A sweet, floral scent perfumed air that would have been musty otherwise.

I’d had no idea Veronica, my greatest frenemy, had a younger sister. Or that they were, apparently, living in abject poverty. Poverty, and yet, Bronx had felt it was safe to come here, even though it wasn’t safe to be at any other slayer’s house. So, this house must have escaped Anima’s notice. But how?

And what about the party Frosty had mentioned? It had been held here? Why? And when? Had Cole attended?

Why hadn’t I been invited?

Ugh. The last was asked in a disgusting whine. As if any of that crap mattered in the wake of such devastation.

“Where are your parents?” I asked. Voices seeped from the hall. I would give Juliana a few more minutes to invite me back, and then I was going on my own, rude or not.

“Dead,” she said in a snippy tone.

“I’m sorry.”

“Sure you are. For an encore, why don’t you ask me how I got the scars?”

Okay. “How’d you get the scars?”

She blinked in astonishment, her mouth hanging open. Clearly, she hadn’t expected me to do it. “I was burned.” Her words lashed like a whip. “Not that it’s any of your businesses.”

“Hey,” I said, palms up in a gesture of innocence, “you offered.” And wow, I suddenly felt guilty for treating Veronica so craptastically when I’d first met her. She hadn’t exactly had an easy life.