In a handful of seconds, four of the soldiers who left the gate have gone zombie.
Viana is feeding from Jess some distance from the gate. Khalil and Atlan stand farther away, talking to Captain Markham—and Sarah hovers near the steps, waiting for Khalil. The soldiers on the wall are beginning to shout, to realize what's happening—
But Sarah—
Sarah is too close to the zombies.
I run toward her, shrieking a warning, as the dozer driver launches himself at her.
Where is that damn gun when I need it?
I can't reach her in time.
A scream bubbles up inside me—I'm going to see Sarah shredded, turning, slavering—
But Ben charges in front of Sarah, gun at the ready, firing, firing—and the bullet-riddled zombie catches his arm with a long fang on its way down.
I scream, decimated, horrified; and Sarah roars with wordless agony.
Ben convulses. I'm close enough now to see his eyes cracking black, the fangs bursting from his gums. He chokes out a guttural roar and flings himself toward me.
No, Ben—sweet Ben—
A blade flashes, and Ben's golden head rolls away across the dirt, trailing blood.
Black spots crash into my vision, and I collapse. I'm dimly aware of Sarah's bellowing sobs, sounds of a grief much too large for her small frame—and of Atlan and the soldiers dispatching those of their fellows who turned.
It's over as quickly as it began. The chain of infection has been stopped.
Too late, because Ben is dead. Brave Ben, with his kindness and his sunshiny smile—gone.
Just gone.
Khalil picks up Sarah, cradling her in his arms, and she buries her face in his chest. I can hear him singing to her as they pass me—he's crooning to her in Arabic, a deep-voiced melody full of beauty and pain.
"Finley." Atlan kneels before me and lifts my chin. The aftertaste of terror is sharp in the wretched twist of his mouth—I know, because I can taste it too. "I thought you were going to turn. I didn't know if I could get there in time."
He killed his friend for me.
"Thank you." I whisper the words, but I can't manage anything else. It takes all my strength to rise without his help, to walk calmly back to the truck that will return us to Deathcastle. I have seen death like this before, hideously swift and irreversible, nightmarish, gory. I have handled it before. I will handle it now.
In the truck, Atlan sits in the back seat with me, gripping my knee with one hand like he's trying to reassure himself that I'm still here. I press my shoulder against his, drinking in the strength and safety of his presence, not even caring about the stench that clings to him. He's a zombie-slayer, a death-god, and this is the scent of his power.
"I want to learn to fight," I say suddenly.
He gazes at me. "Yeah?"
"You saw what happened—I'm weak. I can't protect myself. Hell, I can barely climb the steps to the top of the wall without getting winded."
"We could ask the Captain about letting you train with the newer soldiers, the recent recruits. It'll be tough, though."
"I know. It's going to suck, but it needs to happen."
He nods. "I'll talk to him when we get back."
"I'm sorry," I add. "About Ben. I know you two were good friends."
Atlan looks out the window, and a muscle at his temple pulses. "You'd think it would get easier," he says hoarsely, after a minute. "Losing people."
"You would think." Cautiously, I curl my hand around his and hold it tight.
By the time we reach Deathcastle, I've come to terms with what happened—accepted it, and moved on. In this world, you have to learn how to move on quickly, or you risk going insane. There are precious few therapists left to help anyone work through trauma, so it's kind of a sink or swim situation—everyone for themselves.
On the topic of my training, the Captain takes some convincing. Apparently he thinks I should sit around and eat food all the time, turning myself into a nice, soft, plump blood-bag. I catch scraps of the conversation as Atlan pleads my case with a ferocity I've never seen in him outside the killing fields. The incident at the wall must have really freaked him out.
When Atlan finally strides over to me, his smile is that of a conqueror, triumphant and bold. "You can join the recruits for training anytime, starting tomorrow. The drill instructor won't push you, so you can do the exercises you want, at your own pace. Good enough?"
"Perfect. Thank you."
"No problem. You won't have to come with me to the wall for a few days—any nearby vampires would have been sucked into that horde, so we should get a couple days' break. The other vampires and I will just be escorts for the cleanup crew."
"Be careful." I mean those words more fervently and deeply than he knows, because through the horde incident I've realized that he's precious to me—and not just as my ticket to Deathcastle. I actually care about him. I like him, as a person. It would hurt me if he died—would slice a trench through my heart so deep I'm not sure it would ever heal.
The knowledge makes me nervous and quivery inside. I haven't let myself like anyone romantically since Heath, because that relationship was terribly unhealthy and because apocalypse.
Maybe my liking for Atlan is part of a pattern—maybe I'm just trending to male alpha-holes who want to control me. But even as the thought passes through my mind, I know it's not true. Charon is the controlling, bad-boy alpha here, the one liable to lure me in, steal my willpower, and then leave me broken. Atlan isn't like that—he's tender and considerate, sweet and sincere. His flashes of subtle dominance are tempered, always, with his recognition of my will. My decisions.
Atlan always gives me a choice.
***
Training isn't all fun and montage-y like it is in the movies. It's slow. Boring. Painful. Exhausting. And I hate every minute of it, but I do it anyway, because I need to get stronger. I've learned, in the past two years, that in the post-Gorging world, no safe place is forever. No team is guaranteed to be there for you when you need them. Sure, I've got a few vampires in my corner now, but that could change in a scant second. And if I plan to survive the next change that's coming my way, I need to know how to fight better.
So over the next few weeks, I train in the mornings whenever I can. Between that, and my time at the wall with Atlan, and my usual work shifts, it's a crazy schedule. We're both so busy that Atlan and I barely speak beyond a few necessary words during feedings, but I still feel like I'm inching closer to him—building trust, layer after layer, like the primer and paint I've been applying to the third floor walls.
One night, when I stagger exhausted back to the rooms, I find a note from Atlan—he was assigned to help the police rout a particularly nasty gang from a subsection of Blue City. The news makes me anxious—maybe because even though he's a vampire, and he can heal himself faster than a human, he's not freaking invincible. This is arguably more dangerous than his forays into zombie territory, and I don't understand why the Captain would allow it. It seems stupid, an idiotic risk. What if he gets shot? I should be with him, to give him a blood boost if he needs it. Why didn't they send me along?
After changing into shorts and a tank top, I can't sleep, so I pace the room, getting madder and madder with every turn. I consider stomping downstairs to fuss at the Captain for his decision, but even though he likes me, I don't think he would take it well if I complained openly about the way he hands out assignments to his vampires.
Finally, exhaustion catches up to me and I sit down on the edge of Atlan's bed. He'll be back soon, and he'll need blood. I'll just lie down and breathe for a minute.
Just for a minute...
A hand brushes along my face, pushing back my hair. "Hey, Trouble. What are you doing in my bed?"
Startled and foggy from sleep, I sit up, jerking away from him. "I'm not in your bed, I'm on it." And then I remember why I was here, why I was waiting. "Oh thank god you're back!" I shove his arm as hard as I can. "Bastar
d! Why the hell didn't you take me with you?"
"Too dangerous. These weren't zombies, Finley. They were gangsters with guns. Shardan Collective."
"Oh." My worst nightmare. Probably a good idea I didn't go with him, then; someone might have recognized me. "Well, I'm glad you're all right, and you didn't get shot."
"I wore a vest and a helmet. You were worried about me?"
"Of course."
His eyes narrow. "Right, because without me you don't have a warm bed and hot food and safety."
I stare at him, incensed. "You think that's all it is? Seriously?"
"Am I wrong?"
"Hell yes you're wrong. I care if you die, because you're—you're—" What is he to me? "You're something."
He laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I'm something?"
"Yes, something. A friend."
"Hm. Friend. I like it." He sits on the bed beside me. "Well then, friend, I'm afraid I have to ask for a favor."
"Of course." I lie down again, arms spread, relaxed and ready. "Take what you need."
Something wakes in his eyes—heat and desire so intense that if I didn't know better, I'd think he wanted more than just my blood. It's so easy to mistake his thirst for lust; the symptoms are similar.
"Where do you want it?" His voice is huskier than usual.
When I point to my thigh, to the place where he first drank from me, his lips curve in such a sinful smile that I nearly swoon. Yes, swoon. Full-on hand-to-forehead, forgetting-to-breathe, fainting-from-lust swoon.
The bite pinches, as usual, but I'm too distracted by having his head between my legs to notice the pain very much. His dark hair sweeps soft against my skin, and I'm excruciatingly aware of his long warm fingers cupping my thigh, holding it in place while he drinks. I know he can smell the effect he's having on me, and I don't care. I close my eyes, and I sink into the sensation.
When my bracelet chimes and he slides out his fangs, I wait in shivering anticipation for my favorite part—the licking. He takes his time with it, luxurious strokes that travel a little further up my leg than they technically need to. For a moment his warm breath ghosts through thin cotton of my shorts, right between my legs, enflaming me with hope. My eyes snap open, but he's already across the room, examining the blade of one of his swords. Maybe I imagined that split-second of illicit attention.
Slowly I rise, swinging my legs off the bed. "Guess I'll go to bed."
He doesn't look at me. "You do that."
12
Atlan
I wanted to do it. To tug aside that flimsy material and taste her, lick her until she exploded with pleasure. Watching her reach climax would be oddly satisfying, even if I can't get there myself.
But I didn't give in to the impulse, because doing that would crack open one of the few remaining walls between us, and nothing would ever be the same. Our friendship would shift into something else, and we could never go back.
I'm not sure if that would be a good thing, or a bad one. All I know is that I want more of Finley than I can ever have, and I want her all the time—her face, her voice, her laugh—the quick, confident way her body moves, the way her mouth puckers when she's thinking—the earnest pressure of her eyes on mine when she can tell I'm sad and she's trying to fix it. The way she watches me when I'm in the killing fields, the eager little wave she gives me from the top of the wall, whenever she sees me looking up at her. The way she glares and pushes back whenever I exert a hint of power over her, and the way she melts every time I touch her, her scent suffusing the room and lingering long after she's gone, like now.
Like right now.
I breathe in her fragrance, closing my eyes.
God, I love her.
Wait, what?
Oh hell.
13
Finley
"Who do I belong to exactly? You, or Captain Markham?"
Atlan looks up from the blade he's sharpening and stares at me. "What do you mean?"
"Captain Markham bought me for you. But was I a loan, or a gift?"
A shadow crosses his face. "It's complicated."
I plop on the bed at his side. "Uncomplicate it for me."
"Why does it matter?"
I chew my lip for a second before answering. "I need a few things. And I'm not sure who to ask about it."
"Robbins usually takes care of the basics for you and the other suppliers, right? Cosmetics, clothes—um, feminine products—"
"Yes, but—"
He sets aside the sword and angles his body toward me. "Finley. Just tell me what you need."
"Robbins doesn't pick out the things I prefer." I wince. "I know that sounds very selfish and pre-Gorging mentality—and I'm honestly not super picky, but I would love to choose a few of my own products. Nothing expensive—just different from what she chooses."
"Markham gives her a stipend to buy those things."
"Could I ask for my share, to spend as I like?"
He smiles ruefully. "I doubt she'd give it to you."
Swallowing hard, I stare at my hands. This is one of the worst parts of my position here at Deathcastle—not having autonomy over my possessions—not technically owning anything, or getting a choice in the clothes I wear or the personal items I use.
"I used to love shopping," I say softly, inspecting my ragged fingernails. I could use a nail file, among other things—like more comfortable underwear. Although I don't expect a trip to the mall for a bra fitting. Sure, there are stores in this new reality, but their stock is limited and incredibly expensive now. Usually paper money isn't enough to purchase the more valuable items, although some stores still accept it—they also want value in the form of goods or jewelry or services rendered. Once, just a couple days after the Gorging and not long before he died, Heath was desperate for cigarettes, and the man selling them wouldn't take food or cash or anything else in exchange. "Tell your girl to get on her knees, and if she does her thing well, you can have five packs of cigarettes and two gallons of water," he said, leering at me.
Heath glanced my way. "It's a few minutes of your life, baby. You can wash your mouth out after. Come on."
Bile rises in my throat, swift and sudden, and I leap off Atlan's bed and run for the bathroom in the hallway. I crash to my knees in front of the toilet just in time, hurling my stomach's contents into the porcelain bowl, twisting my hair in one hand.
What sickens me more than the act I performed is the grip Heath had on me. Why, why did I let him control me the way he did? How am I any different now, in this situation? I'm a blood-slave, and if Atlan wasn't libido-less, I'd probably also be his sex slave.
No, that's not fair. I'm sure he would never force me into anything like that. And honestly, if he had a sex drive and wanted me, I'd have jumped into his bed eagerly long before now.
Slowly I rip a long piece of toilet paper, crumple it, and wipe my lips. Deep breaths, deep breaths. Two fingers at the jumping pulse in my throat while I breathe, until finally the frantic thumping slows to a more normal speed.
Atlan is leaning against the bathroom wall when I exit the stall. I wash my hands and mouth without looking at him.
"What was that about?" he asks. "Are you sick? Do you need medicine? Are you—pregnant?"
I glare at him. "No! Why does everyone assume a woman is pregnant if she throws up? There are other reasons for nausea." I press a damp hand to my forehead and close my eyes against the flashback that keeps popping back into my head. "Damn it," I whisper.
"What is it?" He comes forward, laying a gentle hand on my arm.
I flinch away. "Don't touch me. Please. Not right now."
"Okay." He stands still, his hands dangling empty, looking very helpless and anxious. I want to yell at him, to smack him for his ignorance, his concern, his vampire privilege—
"You look like you want to kill me," he says.
"Kill you—no. Punch you—maybe."
He squares his shoulders. "Do it."
I shake my head, turni
ng off the water.
"Do it. You won't hurt me. Little thing like you, probably couldn't punch to save her—ugh!" The breath jerks out of him as my fist jams into his gut. "Ow! That training is paying off, Trouble. Nice one." He straightens. "Listen, I don't have money of my own, not really. But I do have a sort of credit line with the military. And I have a few odds and ends I could barter. Let me take you shopping. We'll go on my next day off—it'll be fun."
"I don't want your money. I want my own."
He sighs. "I wish I could buy you outright and set you free, but it's not that simple. I don't have anything of my own that's worth the amount Markham paid for you. And you're registered as military property. They don't have to sell you to me even I ask them to—in fact, it's unlikely they would. The military likes to maintain control over the vampires' blood supply."
"You mean the blood slaves are another way for the military to keep you in line."
"Sort of. Listen, I'm not some storybook vampire who has amassed great wealth over multiple centuries. Before the Gorging, I had a succession of crappy jobs, and when it all happened I was barely making ends meet thanks to the last bits of my inheritance from my parents. If I had wealth enough to buy you, and to buy everything you need, I'd do it in a heartbeat, trust me."
I grip the edge of the sink and lift my eyes, meeting his in the mirror. So blue, those eyes—bright and fervent.
"I believe you." Drawing a deep, shuddering breath, I stare at the glittering drops in the trough sink. "So I'm yours, but not yours."
"Yes." He inches closer. "Will you let me buy you a few things? Please? You're doing me a great service every time you let me feed from you—I'd like to pay you back."
When he says it like that, my pride heals a little. He makes it sound like I don't have to let him feed—like I'm doing him a favor. Like I have a choice in the matter.
Enslaved To The Vampire Zombie-Hunter (Pandemic Monsters Book 1) Page 9