Can’t go there right now. Depression will set in, and I’ll want zombies to feed on me.
So. Rephrase. For years, my brother protected me from our abusive father, hiding me even though he would be punished for it, forced to take my beating as well as his own. I owe him. More than that, I adore him. There’s nothing I won’t do for him.
Steal, kill and destroy? Check, check and mate.
“Come on, come on, meat bags,” I mutter. “Consider this your official invitation to my boot party.” For my own entertainment and okay, okay, to let off a little steam, I plan to kick the rot right out of their brains.
I have everything I need. Earlier I pushed my spirit out of my body, leaving the latter perched at the edge of Shady Elms cemetery, concealed by thick foliage, waning moonlight and eerie shadows. (What the body wears the spirit wears, which means I’m still armed for war.)
I have to be careful, though; I can’t allow even the smallest scratch. Any injury a spirit sustains manifests on the body, the two connected through invisible tethers no matter the distance between them. That’s usually not a big deal, but I’m on my own and I’ll have to patch myself up. Basically, I’m the world’s worst patient.
Around me, locusts buzz and crickets sing, but the insects aren’t my only companions. A few headstones away, a group of underage kids are drinking beer and playing truth or dare. Definitely in the wrong place. Could be the wrong time. Zombies prefer to chow on slayers—we’re their catnip, I guess—but any human will do.
Play with fire, get burned. A truth as old as time.
The little hairs on the back of my neck stand at full attention, and I go still. Sometimes my spirit senses something that hasn’t yet clicked in my mind.
Zombies on the rise?
I search, but find no sign there’s an undead nearby. Another civilian intruder? Again, there’s no sign. Not that it would matter. I can dance, sing and shout, but to civilians, I’m nothing more than a ghost.
Another slayer, perhaps, come to help me?
Yeah, in my dreams. As an exile of River’s crew, I’m as good as dead to all our kind. And I get it. I do. In my single-minded bid to save my brother, I made terrible life-and-death mistakes.
Commit the crime, serve your time.
My nails dig into the headstone beneath me, the entire thing doused with Blood Lines, the chemical needed to make the living world tangible to the spirit world. My brother keeps stashes of Blood Lines all over the state as a just-in-case. Used to be, I would have called him to ask for what I need, and he would have ensured I had more than enough. Now I have to raid his stashes.
Part of me wants to curl up and sob for all I’ve lost. Friends, a home. Acceptance, safety and security. A family. The other part of me, the stronger part, tells me to suck it up and deal. What’s done is done.
Besides, I have a purpose, and that’s more than most.
Laughter erupts from the kids. I call them kids and yet they’re only a year or two younger than me. While they’ve probably spent the bulk of their lives having fun, I’ve spent the bulk of mine fighting to save the world. I’m nineteen, but my experiences have aged me.
“You gonna back out now?” one of the boys asks the only dark-haired girl. “You chicken?”
“I know what you’re doing, Mr. Manipulator,” she says with a smirk. “You can’t goad me into doing something I don’t want to do.”
“Stop talking and show him your tits.” Another boy throws a handful of leaves at her. “A dare is a dare.”
The others chortle.
“Thankfully, I want to do it.” She stands in the middle of the group and, while Chicken Boy uses the flashlight app on his phone to illuminate her, she lifts her top to expose her boobs.
The other boys high-five and whistle. The other girls catcall and fist-pump the sky.
I want to shout, Stop living in the dark and open your eyes to the light. A whole other world exists around you.
A shadow rises from the freshly packed grave site in front of me. I reach over my shoulders to palm the handles of my short swords, the kids forgotten. Metal slides against leather, whistling a beautiful tune, and I start drooling at the thought of a new kill.
Pavlov nailed it.
Another finger pokes through the dirt...soon an entire hand. There’s a dull gray tint to the skin, and my heart leaps with excitement.
The creature sits up and shakes her head, clumps of dirt falling from her tangled salt-and-pepper hair. I smile with anticipation, until I note the open wounds on her forehead and cheeks, each revealing the rotted muscle and splintered bone underneath. First-time risers usually appear human, their only visual tells red eyes and graying skin. Why the change?
She locks on me, her lips curling up, showcasing yellowed teeth and thick black saliva.
Kill now, ask questions later.