She’s the bitch responsible for Kat’s death.
I understand the need to protect your family, but I will never be okay with putting innocents at risk to do it. And okay, yeah, that’s a lie. I would have done anything, betrayed anyone, to save Kat. That doesn’t mean I’ll ever forgive this girl.
There’s no way in hell Kat would have sent me to save Camilla Marks. My kitten must not have known who needed aid. She made a mistake. One I can rectify.
“Thank you.” Camilla wipes at the sweat on her brow, and I notice the word Betrayal scripted in bold black letters across her wrist. “You saved my life.”
“Keep your thanks. I don’t want it.” My tone is pure grit and menace. I’m close to snapping, and there’s no telling what I’ll do if that happens. I’ve never hated anyone more than I hate her—not even myself. “And why are you wearing pink camo? You’re not trying to hide in Candy Land.”
She blinks at me, though she doesn’t appear surprised by my malevolence. “I guess you remember me.”
“I’m fighting a killing rage right now, so, yeah, I remember.” I want to shout, You’re a traitor and the scum of the earth, but I know whatever is spoken in this spirit realm comes true in the natural realm, always and forever, as long as it’s believed when it’s said. I believe she’s a traitor and scum, but actually voicing the accusations will give power to them, perhaps making her evil side even stronger.
Sometimes it’s best to keep an opinion to myself.
She flinches but says, “I’m not taking back my thanks.”
The metallic twang of copper coats my tongue, and I realize I’ve bitten it. I spit blood at her feet. “Have you spoken to a witness? Kat Parker? You remember Kat, don’t you? My Kat.” What I really want to know: did Camilla lie to her? Convince my girl to aid the enemy? “The innocent you helped murder in cold blood.”
Another flinch before she lifts her chin. “Of course I remember her, but no, I haven’t spoken to her.”
“You’re lying,” I snarl. She has to be lying.
A zombie head rolls toward me, teeth snapping, and I punt the thing in the nose, sending it soaring like a soccer ball over a hill littered with tombstones. One point, Frosty.
“I’m not.” Camilla shakes her head for emphasis and rubs at her wrist. The one with the tattoo. “Trust me, I’ve learned my lesson about betraying other slayers.”
I don’t believe her, but I know I’m not doing this. I’m not having a conversation with her. I turn away and stride out of the cemetery, saying to the sky, “I’ve done my good deed for the day. I let Camilla Marks live. I expect to see you tomorrow, Kat. Or else.”
I’m not a crier. When you’ve watched multiple friends die in the most horrendous ways, your ability to hurt is often desensitized and your emotions numbed. And when you’ve had to stitch your own wounds and set your own broken bones, your threshold for pain skyrockets. But tonight, as I go through the sea of zombie parts, using dynamis to ash the evil—light always chases darkness away—a single tear slicks down my cheek.
That boy... Frosty. I remember every interaction I’ve ever had with him. How could I not? He’s one of the most beautiful males on the planet. He steps into a room and all eyes gravitate to him, mine included. Girls want to bang him, and boys want to be him.
He’s deliciously tall with the muscle mass of a professional football player, and the bad-boy attitude to match—snarky, maddening, yet somehow charming. He’s strength personified and as lethal as the guns he carries.
So many slayers climb into a boxing ring to learn new tricks or even to play with their friends. He climbs in, and it’s clear there’s only one thing on his mind: delivering pain.
Why did he walk away from me, when he craves vengeance?
The way he stood before me, proud and furious, covered in battle grime, his hair pale but several shades darker than mine, the strands plastered to his cheeks, his hands twitching as he considered reaching for his weapons...yeah, he wanted to take me down. His eyes, navy blue, piercing and ice-cold—the kind of eyes you’d see on a serial killer as he explains how he’s going to hack up your body and store the parts in his fridge—had stared at my heart, as if willing it to stop beating. And yet, I couldn’t help remembering other times, when he looked at his girlfriend, Kat, the ice melting, his irises burning hotter than flames.
No one has ever looked at me that way. As if I’m worth something. Worth everything. As if I’m more precious than the sun, moon and stars. As if I’m a prize beyond value. I can’t imagine anyone doing so now. Or ever. Not after the things I’ve done.