With the pair far enough ahead, I whispered to Cole, “This could be a trap.”
He traced his knuckles over my cheek. “Trust me, love. It’s not. I know a little about River. He’s not the most moral slayer out there, because he follows no rules but his own—and sometimes even breaks those—but he hates zombies as much as we do. He won’t want to stop us from doing our job.”
I leaned into his touch, savored the endearment he’d used. “Okay. But if he threatens you, I can’t be held responsible for my actions.”
“You coming or not?” Tattoos snapped from across the distance.
Cole pressed a soft kiss against my lips. “If he threatens you, he’ll be dead before the night’s over.”
I had to be a bloodthirsty wench, because I smiled.
We kicked into motion, sticking to the shadows and alleys, constantly glancing over our shoulders. I expected another tail. Or a nest of zombies. It was just one of those nights.
Along the way, I received a text from Frosty, and then a text from Bronx, each telling me they’d lost their tails and all was well. I let them know our situation and that we would contact them as soon as we could.
Finally, we reached a tall, crumbling building of red brick—an apartment complex. The lobby’s best feature was the threadbare carpet; to the side, a girl with tic-tac-toe games etched all over her forearms manned a counter teetering on unsteady legs.
As we passed, Stocky and Tattoos threw their jackets at her. She caught them without a word of complaint, as if she deserved to be treated like a coatrack. My reaction might have been a wee bit different. I wouldn’t have complained, either, but I would have set those jackets on fire.
We turned a corner, and the interior experienced an immediate change. From shabby to chic. The walls were freshly painted and decorated with professional portraits. There was Stocky, and Tattoos, and at least twenty others I didn’t recognize. The carpets were plush, the furniture obviously antique, with cherubs and birds carved into the wood.
We marched through a state-of-the-art kitchen, with stainless-steel appliances and at least ten kids bustling around stoves and steaming pots. The scent of spicy chicken filled the air, soon joined by the fragrance of cherry cream. My mouth watered. I was tempted to grab a handful of pastries in the five-foot-tall warmer by the back door; they were just sitting there, practically begging me to do it.
But I didn’t...take more than one.
I devoured the treat as we stepped into a courtyard. Frenzied cheers, loud and boisterous, assailed my ears. On a sudden sugar high, I scanned the crowd. Another fifty kids were here, male and female, ranging in age from twelve to twenty-five.
What had we walked into?
Silence descended the moment we were noticed. The throng parted down the center, and I felt like Moses at the Red Sea. More than one guy looked me up and down, and to be honest, it kind of gave me the creeps. I was all for being admired—who didn’t like to feel wanted?—but these guys weren’t sizing me up as a potential girlfriend; they were sizing me up as a potential dinner buffet.
One guy actually made an obscene gesture with his tongue and two fingers.
I guess Cole noticed, because he switched gears and performed a sweet little chest-bump I’d call “your only warning.”
“If you want to keep your tongue, you won’t do that again,” he said quietly. Menacingly.
The guy fronted, squaring his shoulders, trying to stare down a brick wall, but Cole wasn’t one to back down—ever—and soon the guy lost his nerve and moved his gaze to his feet.
Cole, vibrating with challenge, took a moment to glare at the other guys. “Anyone else want to insult my girl?”
I know the situation was heated and it was all kinds of wrong to focus on this, but...testosterone overload was magically delicious.
“Well, well,” a male voice called, all amusement and snark. “For once the rumors are true. Cole Holland actually is an animal in human skin.”
I pivoted just in time to watch a Greek god saunter down the part in the sea. Wow. He was as tall as Cole, with hair so pale it was as pure as newly fallen snow. His eyes were dark, almost black, and he was shirtless, his skin inked as heavily as Tattoos, all black and white.
He couldn’t have been much older than us. Nineteen. Maybe twenty.
A boy I recognized kept pace at his side. Knuckle Scars, from Choco Loco. Should have known.
Greek spread his arms and grinned. “Welcome to my home.”
Cole didn’t say a word.
Awkward.
“Thanks for the invite,” I said. “Maybe next time rethink sending the four horsemen of the apocalypse as escorts. They aren’t exactly a welcoming first act.”
He looked me over and carefully blanked his expression. “I’m told you’re Ali Bell, but...” He frowned. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Pop-Tart, but you aren’t even close to what I expected.”