A Mad Zombie Party - Showalter Gena - Страница 39
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“I don’t know, I don’t know,” Ali says, sounding worried. “I lift zombies with my energy. No one has ever lifted slayers.”
“I’ll get Cole,” Bronx says.
“Gavin,” Jaclyn gasps. “You’re bleeding from your eyes, ears and nose!”
“This is bad,” Ali says. “This is beyond bad.”
I did hurt them. And I did it while I was exhausted. What would have happened if I’d been at full strength? Would they have ended up in bits and pieces? Would I have made them explode the way Ali has made zombies explode?
I can’t stay here, I realize. I can’t stay with Frosty. He’ll be safer without me. They all will.
Something I learned last night: another name for stakeout is torture in a hot box.
We don’t have Tiffany’s GPS coordinates, but we have her home address, so River and I parked our car down the street to watch the house...and watch and watch as nothing happened.
Tiffany is still MIA. But the would-be murderer is only seventeen with a worried mother who’s placed missing-person posters throughout town. If the girl hasn’t left town—hell, even if she has—she’ll return sooner or later. Or, at the very least, call.
One call. That’s all we need.
River slams his fist into the steering wheel of the old beater that blends in well with the rusty death traps parked in front of the dilapidated houses along the pothole-infested street. Graffiti decorates many of the curbs, and most of the streetlamps have been busted.
“The longer this girl makes me wait,” he says, “the worse it’s going to be for her.”
I agree. “For someone who disowned his sister, you sure do seem upset that someone hurt her.”
“Back to this?” He flicks me a narrowed glance. “I love her. I’ve never stopped loving her, never will.”
“And yet you abandoned her.”
“Did I?” His eyes narrow. “I’ve kept tabs on her this entire time. I’ve seen her trailing you. At first I thought the two of you were dating, but the way you treated her... I’ve wanted to kill you a thousand times over. So don’t try to tell me you give a shit about her.”
“What I give or don’t give is my business. She’s under my protection.” I say the words, and I mean them. I’ll protect her with my life, if necessary. Because it’s the right thing to do.
He turns in his seat to face me head-on. “Since when?”
“Since Ali’s vision.”
“A vision no one will talk about with any kind of detail. When is Milla supposed to save your miserable hide?”
“Visions never come with a ‘save the date’ card.” I should know. Before Kat’s death, I’d begun having visions with Bronx. Visions of battles and blood and pain. After Kat’s death, I couldn’t stand the thought of seeing a future without her. Thankfully Ali and Cole had learned how to control their visions by that point; they taught me. Mind over matter. I haven’t had a vision since.
River runs his tongue over his teeth. “My sister’s actions led to your girlfriend’s death. You’re not the kind of guy who forgives and forgets, even to save his own skin. You’re the type who will go down with a ship if it means you can hold your enemy’s head under water.”
He’s right. “Milla isn’t my enemy. Not anymore.”
“What is she then?”
“A friend.” On a trial basis. At least, that’s what I told her. But I think we’re already past that. I trust her to have my back.
“A friend. Please.” River grabs my collar and yanks me nose-to-nose with him. “She’s had a shit life, and the few times she’s lowered her guard and allowed someone in, they’ve cut and run. She doesn’t need you to make everything worse.”
I wrap my fingers around his wrist and shove him back. “I won’t touch her. I don’t think of her that way.”
That’s a lie. I know it the moment the words leave me. I’ve thought about her that way plenty of times.
A growl rises from low in River’s chest. He knows it, too.
“I won’t touch her,” I repeat. Trying for more than friendship...a romantic relationship, or even just sleeping together...no. Not gonna happen. No matter how many times I picture her naked.
The briiing-briiing of a phone drifts through the speakers of one of the many devices River has stored in the car, a welcome distraction. The dude is no newbie to hunting humans and somehow hacked into the mother’s phone, allowing him to listen to every ingoing and outgoing call from a distance. This is the eighth call of the day, and I’m losing hope.
“Hello,” the mother says.
“Missing-person posters, Mom? Really?”
“Tiffany?” A whimper of relief crackles over the line. “You’re alive!”
River and I go still. Finally!
He works his fingers over a small keyboard connected to the device.
“Where are you?” the mother demands. “Where have you been?”
“That doesn’t matter. All you need to know is that I’m fine, and you can call off the pigs.”
“Must you be so disrespectful? And you’re fine? Really? You’re fine? That’s what you have to say to me, after all this time? Well, I’m sorry, but that’s just not good enough. I’ve been worried sick about you. My ulcer has flared up.”
“Your ulcer always flares up. Don’t pretend you care about me,” Tiffany snaps. “You think I’m crazy. Well, guess what? I’m not. Zombies are real, and I’m not the only one who sees them.”
The two argue about truth versus fantasy—mental instability—about Tiffany going to see her shrink, about the bag of money the mom found in the girl’s room, before the mother finally begs her to come home.
“She’s not even trying to jack her signal,” River says. “I’ll have her location in three...two....bingo.” He tosses the little machine on the floor and starts the car. We’re flying down the road a few seconds later.
“Where is she?” I ask.
“A Taco Bell about five minutes away.”
A public place. We’ll have to be careful. Nowadays everyone has a camera on their phone. If we’re filmed grabbing a teenage girl, we’ll be sent to prison on kidnapping charges.
Or maybe not. There’s a detective who might step up and help us. She’s a civilian and she can’t see zombies, but when she investigated the deaths of six of my friends, including Kat, she had to accept the fact that there’s an unseen evil out there and slayers protect the rest of the world from it.
Our tires squeal as River parks like a stunt man in an action movie, the car spinning into an open corner slot in front of Taco Bell. I’m racing inside the building before he’s even opened his door. I’ve seen Tiffany’s picture. Black hair, brown eyes. Freckles. I’ve read her stats. Five foot six. One hundred and sixteen pounds. I scan the faces before me. An older couple. A teenage girl—a blonde with too much makeup, zero freckles and a red, angry gash across her jawline. A group of construction workers.
My gaze flips back to the blonde. I compare her face to the picture of Tiffany stored inside my mind. The two have the same bone structure.
Makeup can hide freckles. Bleach can lighten hair.
It’s her. Has to be.
Rage takes a few swings at me. This girl callously and coldly sliced open Milla’s neck and left her to die.
This girl will pay.
Tiffany spots me and gasps. As she jumps to her feet, her chair skids behind her, its legs scraping over the tile like fingers over a chalkboard. The rest of the diners grimace and either glare or frown at her.
If she was smart, she’d tell everyone the boyfriend who hurt her is back to finish the job. In seconds, she’d have a roomful of rescuers. And maybe that’s exactly what she plans as she opens her mouth. But a slight whistle of wind passes me, and she snaps her mouth closed. Her eyes go wide, and she pats at her neck.
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