He scoffs. "Uh, yes, you are." But he hands me the shorter of the two swords. "Watch it, okay?"
"Afraid I'll cut off something important?" I simper, with a significant look at the bulge in his pants.
His eyes widen, letting me know that this particular joke is not amusing. Without answering, he spins away, slicing through the first zombie to approach. I hang back a little, scanning everywhere, wary in case any of the zombies slip through Atlan's guard.
That's when I notice that one of the zombies is also hanging back and gazing keenly around—well, as keenly as she can with one eye hanging partly out of the socket. If I didn't know better, I'd swear the thing was mirroring me. Cautiously I raise my sword above my head and wave it, and the zombie lifts her right hand and waves back.
A sickening jolt passes through me. I feel more like screaming now than I did when the horde passed over us. There's a nightmarish unreality to what's happening, a creepy wrongness.
Of course she's not copying me. I must have imagined it.
I walk five paces to the left.
So does the zombie.
Atlan's done with the other zombies, swooping in to slash the last one—
"Wait!" I cry.
He halts, crooking an eyebrow. "What?"
"Watch this."
I wave at the zombie, and the zombie waves back. I do a little twirl, an echo of my middle grade ballet classes, and the zombie ambles in a jerky circle in response.
Atlan gapes at us. "What. The. Hell."
"I don't know. This one is different. And she's not attacking."
"But it's a zombie," he says flatly. "I kill zombies."
"Those scientists, the researchers—they'd be interested in this one's brain. She's synced to me somehow. Maybe we should bring her with us."
Other than the droopy-eye problem, this zombie looks fresher than some of the others. She's tall and slim, with a long pale neck and matted shoulder-length hair. She wears a pale blue and yellow sundress, tied halter-style at the back of her neck. One flip-flop remains on her right foot, but the toe-strap has split her foot apart, eating its way deep between the bones of her big toe and the toe beside it. Her other foot is bare, the flesh of her leg torn in places. She wears a wedding ring, and on her purple-blotched chest is one of those birthstone necklaces some women get after they have babies, with three tiny jeweled pendants.
Atlan approaches her, setting the edge of his sword against her neck. "I don't know, Finley. She's a risk to you. One bite—"
"I know what could happen. But Atlan, have you ever seen any of them behave like this?"
"Never."
"And she's new. Freshly made, it looks like. What if the zombies are—changing? Like the virus that made them is mutating somehow?"
"Making them play weird games of 'Simon Says'? What's the point in that?"
"I'm not sure." I take two cautious steps toward the zombie—and her head jerks suddenly, her mouth quivering, jaws wrenching open to reveal bluish fangs. She roars, lunging toward me—and Atlan cuts off her head with a smooth thwack. She crumples, the birthstone necklace slipping into the dirt where it's soon coated in the black blood pulsing from the stump of her neck.
"Hmm." He prods the zombie's head with the tip of his sword. "What was that you were saying, about her being different?"
"She was, and you know it." Why do I feel like crying all of a sudden? "We should bring along her brain for the doctors to study. Not the whole head though, because of the venom pockets behind the fangs. I don't want to risk any leakage from those."
Atlan stares at me as if I've gone insane. "Are you serious? Bring her brain? What are we going to carry it in?"
"Your shirt?" I smile brightly at him.
After a few seconds of more staring, he strips off his coat and shirt, grumbling. "I'm already way over my wardrobe allowance for this quarter."
"You could always walk around shirtless," I murmur. "I wouldn't mind that at all. Not at all." I enjoy the eyeful of his rippling abs and biceps as he hacks open the zombie's skull, scoops out the brain, and wraps it up in his shirt. Gore immediately begins to seep through the cloth in ugly splotches.
"Hold this for a second." Atlan hands me the bundle, and I hold it gingerly by the knotted shirtsleeves while he shrugs the coat back into place. The coat hangs parted over his bare chest—a look I could get very used to.
"You owe me big for this, Trouble," he growls as we continue our trek. "Who knows how long I'll have to carry this thing, now that we've lost our ride and have to walk all the damn way to the meetup—"
"Um, I know for a fact that the average human brain weighs about three pounds. Three freaking pounds." I wrap my fingers around his bicep and squeeze lightly. "I think you can handle it."
27
Finley
If there's one thing the apocalypse teaches you, it's how to be grateful for transportation of any kind—trains, planes, buses, cars, bicycles—hell, even a skateboard would be faster than walking. As the sun sets in streaks of ravishing orange and lush purple and just-bitten pink, it becomes clear that we're not going to make it to the rendezvous before dark. In fact, without wheeled transportation, we won't make it there for days. And since zombies tend to be more active after dark, we need shelter soon.
I'm trudging along behind Atlan, focusing on my feet and the lumpy dirt, trying not to think about the chafed, bleeding spots on the backs of my heels, when he stops suddenly and I crash right into him.
"Seriously?" I poke his back. "What's up? Zombies?"
"Nope. That."
Ahead, maybe a fifteen minute walk away, looms a hotel. Fifteen stories, maybe, all alone in the sweep of zombie-trodden wilderness.
"There's an airport near here," Atlan says. "I'll bet this served the travelers passing through. We can stay there tonight."
"Are you insane? No way. That place is probably crawling with zombies—probably stinks to high heaven."
He gestures to the nothing all around us. "Got any better ideas?"
"No," I growl.
"The hotel it is, then. I'll lock you in a closet and do a sweep—"
"You'll lock me in a closet?"
"For your protection."
"Atlan, you're exhausted. You can't take out an entire hotel full of zombies by yourself—you'll run out of energy and collapse. And if I'm locked in a closet, I can't help you."
He releases a groan of frustration. "Just—come on. We'll figure it out."
When we reach the hotel, Atlan points triumphantly to a sign. "Check that out. This place hadn't even opened yet. I'll bet it's completely empty."
"You're certainly lucky today," I mutter, because I tend to be suspicious of luck, especially when it comes in multiples. A big smelly blob of very bad stuff is sure to be crawling close behind the bits of good fortune.
After forcing the hotel doors open, Atlan kills a few zombies on the first floor—tile workers and contractors who must have been putting the finishing touches on the lobby, by the look of it. Unhooking his small flashlight from his belt, Atlan roots around the bodies and closets until he finds a stash of bottled water and packaged crackers under the big desk in the lobby. Carrying our loot and lights, we trudge up an interminable amount of stairs, until my legs are wobbling with exhaustion. "Far enough, Atlan," I gasp.
He nods, leading the way down a dark, empty hallway. The door locks on the rooms hadn't been activated yet, so he shoulders one open at random.
It's inky black inside, and I hesitate in the doorway until he checks out every crevice.
"Come on in, Trouble."
"Did you check under the bed?"
"Zombies don't hide under beds."
"Check anyway."
Sighing, he obliges me, then pushes back the thick drapes to let in the last golden light of day.
Once I'm inside, Atlan blocks the door with the heavy dresser and tosses the zombie's brain into the mini fridge so we won't have to smell it all night. We take turns using the toilet, although
there's no running water to the building, and no way to flush. When you're out in the middle of the Hordelands, you tend to not care so much about that sort of thing.
The room itself is lovely, with soothing landscapes on the walls and a king-sized bed swathed in pure white sheets and a downy duvet. After tugging off my boots, I fling myself facedown onto the bed, reveling in the pure blissful softness. My rib twinges, but it's not bad. Maybe the area is just bruised, after all.
A finger trails up my spine, sending a spiraling thrill through my body.
"You need blood," I say, without turning over.
"Yeah. Is that okay?"
"My pleasure," I tell him softly.
The rustle and clank of his weapons and gear coming off fills the silence—and then he lies down beside me, picks up my wrist, and slides in the tips of his teeth. It barely hurts at all, and when he's done, his tongue glides over the thin skin. Then he kisses each spot that his fangs made.
Slowly I turn over, drinking in the sight of him, his hair and skin touched with the fading golden light. His lips are flushed and swollen, the dark scruff along his jaw more pronounced. He shifts on his elbow, and winces.
I frown. "Are you hurt?"
"A horde walked over me. My back hurts, but I'll be okay. I'll heal in a day or two."
"Let me see. Please."
"Finley, it's fine—"
"Please."
Sighing, he sits up on the edge of the bed, eases out of the coat, and turns his back to me. He's got several dark bruises, purple and greenish, blossoming across his shoulder blades and his lower back. I didn't notice them earlier, when he had his shirt off, probably because I was too busy ogling his abs.
"Poor baby," I whisper, touching one of them lightly. He shivers, his skin stippling with goosebumps. I sweep my hand over his broad back, then trace his spine from his neck all the way down to his belt. My hands are both on him now, slipping around his waist, caressing the planes of his abs, moving up to his ribs. I splay my hands over those massive pectorals of his, marveling at the power of him. He's been tense and motionless until now, but as my nails lightly graze his nipples, he sucks in a sharp breath. Delight fizzes through me, sparkly and dizzying, and I scoot around him and climb off the bed, moving to stand between his legs.
"I think I'll get comfortable," I say quietly, unbuttoning my jeans and easing them off. It's not as sexy as I hoped—I would not make a good stripper, but Atlan doesn't seem to care. He watches me, and in his eyes burns a longing so deep and fierce that I am compelled, pulled to him like the tide to the shore, aching to satisfy that yearning in his soul.
My shirt follows the pants. I'm in the underwear he bought for me, bare as I was on that slave market platform. Only this time I'm not bared to the greedy eyes of buyers. This is a private revelation for one man, one darling vampire warrior who has made himself inexpressibly dear to me.
I shimmy out of the panties. Unhook the bra, and let it fall.
His hands are fisted on his thighs, as if he's holding himself back, so I sway nearer. "Please," I whisper, with a secret smile. "Please, master—touch me."
"Oh, Trouble," he groans, reaching for me, drawing me in. "Don't you understand yet? I'm not your master. You are mine."
Holding his beautiful face in my hands, I kiss him, and my hair falls around both of us, catching the last rays of sun and enfolding us in a gleaming golden curtain.
His mouth.
I kissed it once before, after he saved my life in the killing fields. That was a kiss of affection and acceptance.
And he kissed me once in the truck, swift and passionate.
This is different. This is magic melting into glittering heat, soft warm lips pressing to mine, waking lines of golden light along my nerves. His tongue traces the seam of my lips, probing, and I part them for him. It's sweet wet desire, gentle at first, growing more urgent with every press of our mouths.
His hands travel, slow and tentative, from my waist to my breasts, cupping the weight of them, squeezing ever so gently. Then he dips his head, his mouth caressing a nipple and stoking my desire to unbearable heights.
I have waited for this—for him—long enough.
"I want you," I hiss ragged into his ear. "Can you—are you able to—"
"Move," he growls, setting me aside, off his lap. Anxiety flares through me, but he peels off his pants along with his underwear, and my doubts dissipate at the sight of him, undeniably, miraculously erect. I throw myself against him, his length pressing hard and hot against my thigh. When I curl my fingers around it—smooth, almost silky—he gasps, hiding his face in my shoulder. For a second I stroke him, but then he picks me up and lays me out on the bed, climbing over me and dipping his fingers into places that make me arch and moan. His gorgeous body hovers above mine, his skin warm with my blood. He plays with me, delicately flicking and circling and swirling with those fingers—those incredible fingers—
"I haven't done this for a very long time," he says. "Tell me if I'm not doing it right."
Honestly at this point, with as long as I've waited for this, he can't really go wrong. I'm a trembling mess, slick with desire, enduring the most exquisite kind of torture.
"Come here," I tell him, seizing those big muscled shoulders and pulling him down on top of me.
I can feel him, poised at the place where I want him.
"You can't get me pregnant, right?" I whisper, because I'm a responsible modern woman.
He shakes his head. "Nope. If they can get it up, male vampires can ejaculate, but there's no live semen in there."
I quirk my eyebrow at him. "Ejaculate? That is not sexy talk."
"Yeah? Okay then, how about this." He lowers himself further, until all of his warm body is skimming mine. His lips press to my mouth softly. "Your face is my favorite thing to see," he says—and even now, as his voice deepens, ragged with restrained desire, he's careful of my body, of my injured rib. "Your breasts—they're adorably perfect. Every part of you is so precious to me it hurts." He kisses me again. "How am I doing so far?"
"Really good." I wriggle and hook my legs over his hips, trying to draw him inside, but he keeps teasing me with little nudges at my entrance.
"You know what else?" he says. "I am so stupidly, crazily in love with you I can hardly stand it."
He slides in, deep, deep—my head tips back as I gasp, and he kisses my throat, moaning more words that I can barely grasp because he's moving in and out with each new phrase— "I love the way you get scared—and then find your strength. The way you move—that damn smile of yours—your eyes—they say whatever you're feeling—I love you, Finley. I love you. I love you—
Everything inside me tightens and then bursts, flooding the furthest crevices of my soul with glittering ecstasy. I'm gasping, squealing, whimpering—and then Atlan yells, a raw cry of release, and warmth from him washes through me with every pulse of his pleasure.
He shudders, his lips pulled back, fangs elongating—but he doesn't bite me. He rests his forehead against mine until the pleasure ebbs, and then he moves out of me, shifts his body to rest beside mine. He cups his hand between my legs, pressing gently, and it's so warm and comforting that I sigh, closing my eyes.
After a few seconds he begins to move his fingers, tracing lazy circles over my sensitive parts. A flicker of desire wakes in me again, one that he nurtures and inflames until my body surges with another explosion of pleasure and I quiver and jerk against him, so dazed with sensation that I can't even feel embarrassed at my body's reaction.
It's dark in the room now, the only light the faint silvery blue of the night sky and its stars. I tuck myself against Atlan and stroke his cheek.
"Is this real?" he says quietly.
Softly I kiss him. "Yes."
"It seems too good to be real."
"I know."
I wish we could stay here, just the two of us—no one else to worry about, or feel guilty over. But there's an itch in my mind, the knowledge that our team needs us.
Without Atlan, they might not be able to completion the extraction of the doctors—or survive at all.
"You should look at the radio," I whisper. "See if you can figure out what's wrong with it."
He groans and buries his face in my hair. "No. No, see, I'm pretending that nothing else exists. Just you and me."
"That's exactly what I was thinking—wishing—but we have responsibilities, Atlan. Honestly we probably should have tried to fix the radio as soon as we found shelter—before—before doing that."
"That?" He raises his eyebrows. "What, you can't say it out loud?"
"I can say it." Of course I can. Just because I've only ever slept with one guy besides Atlan doesn't mean I'm a prude. "We should have fixed the radio before having sex. And you should definitely work on it now."
"Well if you're going to be an adult about it." He gathers me close, kissing me hungrily, before disentangling himself and digging the radio out of my pack. "And by the way, that wasn't sex. I've had sex. That was more like a supernova."
I tug the sheet over my face to hide my huge stupid grin. "Whatever. You just haven't had any in a really, really, really long time."
"True. But still—I'm pretty sure that was special."
I peek out from under the sheet and meet his eyes, warm and serious and sweet. My smile fades and my heart swells.
I love him.
By the gleam of the flashlight he takes apart the radio, probing at its internal parts. "I'm no technician, but I think this wire is the problem. If I just reseat it—there. Let's see if that works."
Within minutes, he's contacted Sergeant Perez. Her voice over the crackling connection is terse, hard with tension. After Atlan debriefs her, she's quiet for so long I start to wonder if we lost the connection.
"Sergeant?" Atlan says.
"You lost your entire team. Except for your blood-bag."
Atlan's face wrenches with pain. "They entered a basement to shelter from the twister. There were zombies—they didn't wait for me to clear it."
"I understand. But next time you have a spooked human on your hands, one who's ready to disobey orders and put everyone in danger, I expect you to take more decisive action to correct or control that person."
Enslaved To The Vampire Zombie-Hunter (Pandemic Monsters Book 1) Page 18