Intertwined. Gena Showalter

the property, like today, and something dead would awaken, hungry for human flesh.

      All he’d wanted was a private spot to relax. Well, as private as a guy with four people living in his head could get.

      Speaking of heads, one peeked through the now-gaping hole, swinging left, right. One eye was rolled back, the white branched with red, while the other was gone, revealing the muscle underneath. Large patches of hair were missing. Its cheeks were sunken, its nose hanging by a few threads.

      Bile burned Aden’s stomach, threatening to double him over. His fingers tightened around the hilts of his blades, and he finally quickened his step. Almost … there … That haggard face sniffed the air, obviously liking what it smelled. Toxic black saliva began dripping from its mouth and its struggle for freedom increased. Shoulders appeared. A torso quickly followed.

      A jacket and shirt bagged around it, torn and dirty. A male, then. That made what he had to do easier. Sometimes.

      One knee shot onto the grass, two.

      Closer … closer still … Again, he increased his pace.

      Aden reached it just as it stood to full height, a little over six feet, which put them at eye level. His heart slammed in his chest, a frantic drum. Breath blistered his lungs, scalded his throat. More than a year had passed since he’d had to do this, and the last time had been the worst of all. He’d needed eighteen stitches in his side, had worn a cast on his leg for a month, spent a week in detox, and had made an involuntary blood donation to every corpse at Rose Hill Burial Park.

      Not this time, he told himself.

      A hungry growl burst from the creature’s ruined lips.

      “Lookie what I have.” Aden held up the blade, and the silver glinted in the light. “Pretty, isn’t it? How ‘bout a closer look, hmm?” Arm surprisingly steady, he reached back and struck, going for the neck. To kill a corpse—permanently—the head had to be removed. But just before contact, the corpse gained its bearings, as Eve had feared it would, and ducked. Survival instincts were something that never died, apparently. Aden’s knife whizzed through empty air, his momentum spinning him around.

      A bony fist pushed him face-first to the ground, and he soon found himself eating dirt. A hard weight immediately pounced on him, crushing his lungs. Fingers encircled his wrists and squeezed, and he lost his hold on the blades. Thankfully—or not—those fingers were disgustingly wet and couldn’t maintain a strong enough grip to keep him still.

      No, it was the teeth in his neck that subdued him, chomping toward his artery, wet tongue sucking. For one pained second, he was too dazed to move, burning up, dying, awakening, burning some more. Then he snapped into focus—win, had to win—and used his elbow to crack the fiend’s ribs.

      It didn’t budge.

      Of course, his companions just had to comment.

      Wow. Are you out of practice or what? Caleb said.

      Laid low by a toe tag, Julian scoffed. You should be embarrassed.

      Do you want to be dinner? Elijah added.

      “Guys,” he gritted out, his struggles increasing. He managed to roll to his back. “Please. I’m fighting here.”

      I wouldn’t exactly call this fighting, Caleb replied. More like being spanked like a girl.

      Hey! I take exception to that.

      Sorry, Eve.

      “Don’t worry. I’ve got this.”

      Guess we’ll see about that, Elijah said grimly.

      Aden tried to squeeze the creature’s neck but it kept moving, kept pulling from his grip. “Be still,” he commanded as he punched it in the cheek with so much force that what was left of its brains rattled—but that didn’t weaken it. Actually, the action might have strengthened it. Aden had to anchor both of his hands against its jaw to prevent it from swooping in for another bite.

      “You, more than anyone, know this isn’t the way I’m going to die.” The words were broken with the force of his panting breaths.

      About six months ago, Elijah had predicted his death. They didn’t know when it would happen, only that it would. And it wouldn’t be in a cemetery and his killer wouldn’t be a corpse. No, he would die on a deserted street, a knife in his heart, the tip cutting the organ every time it beat, until life slipped from him completely.

      The dire prediction had come the same day he was told he was being sent to the D and M Ranch just as soon as there was an opening. Maybe that should have deterred him from moving here. But …

      At the same time, he’d begun having visions of a dark-haired girl. Of talking and laughing with her … of kissing her. Never before had Elijah foretold anything other than a death, so Aden had been shocked to know—or rather, hope—the girl would one day enter his life. Shocked but excited. He wanted to meet her for real. Was desperate to meet her, actually. Even if that meant coming to the city of his death.

      A death that would happen all too soon, he knew. In the vision, he hadn’t looked much older than he was now. He’d had time to mourn his own passing, though, and had even had time to accept his fate. Sometimes, like now, part of him even looked forward to it. That didn’t mean he’d roll over and take whatever the undead wanted to dish.

      Something stung his cheek and he blinked into focus. Unable to get its yellowed teeth within range, the corpse was now clawing at him, nails cutting deep. That’s what he got for allowing another distraction.

      You’ve got this? Really? Well, prove it, Julian said, the challenge probably meant to strengthen him.

      Roaring, Aden reached for one of his fallen blades. Just as the corpse broke free from his hold, he slashed forward. The blade slid through bone … and caught. Useless.

      There was no time to panic. Hungry and oblivious to pain, his opponent made another play for his throat.

      Aden threw another punch. There was a growl, another baring of teeth, and a stream of that thick, black saliva seeped from the corpse’s mouth onto his cheek, causing his skin to sizzle. He struggled, gagging at the fetid smell.

      When a long, wet tongue emerged, inching toward Aden’s face, he once again grabbed the corpse by the jaw, fending it off while reaching for his other knife. Mere seconds after his fingers curled around the hilt, he began sawing at its neck.

      Crack.

      Finally, the head detached from the body and fell to the ground with a thud. The bones and tattered clothing, however, collapsed on top of him. Grimacing, he swiped them off and scrambled to a clean patch of grass.

      “There. Proven.” He, too, crumpled.

      That’s our boy, Caleb said proudly.

      Yes, but now isn’t the time for rest, Eve added, and she was right.

      “I know.” He had to clean up the mess or someone would stumble upon the desecrated remains. News stations would swarm the place like flies, begging the entire town to help locate the evil, twisted person responsible. Plus, others were going to rise whether he stayed here or not. He needed to be ready for them. But as he lay there, squinting up at the sky, hurting, the sun glared down at him, draining what little energy he had left.

      By the end of the day, the saliva’s poison would have worked through his system and he’d be hunched over a toilet, his cornflakes nothing but a fond memory. He’d sweat profusely from fever, shake uncontrollably and pray for death. Here, now, though, he had a moment’s respite. It was what he’d been searching for all day.

      Up and at ‘em, sweetheart, Eve urged.

      “I will, I promise. In a minute.” Aden didn’t know his real mother, his parents having signed him over to the state at the age of three, so he liked—sometimes—that Eve tried to fill the role. Actually, he loved