A Mad Zombie Party (The White Rabbit Chronicles Book 4). Gena Showalter

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.

      And that’s okay. I sowed death, and now I’m reaping a harvest of it.

      I glance at my newest tattoo. Betrayal. A permanent reminder of the worst thing I can do to my loved ones. The price is too high. I sigh and get back to work. By the time I finish ashing Z-parts, the civilians who never realized a war was raging around them are gone and I’m utterly exhausted.

      I trudge to my body and, with a single touch, join my spirit to my body. It’s as easy as slipping a hand into a glove. A few scratches are bleeding on my arms and there are bruises on my legs, but other than that I’m injury-free. All thanks to Frosty, who hates me with the passion of a thousand suns. Without him, I probably would have died tonight.

      Probably, ha! There’d been too many zombies to track on my own.

      I trudge forward, but stop just outside the cemetery. There are piles of ash all around me. Wonderful. Dead zombies. Except, I didn’t kill any undead in this location. So...someone else did it. Frosty, on his way out? Or maybe someone who’d come with him? I spin, but find no footprints other than my own. Not many slayers think to cover their spiritual tracks. Why bother?

      Whatever. I’m too tired to care. I need a shower and a few thousand hours of sleep.

      I’m staying at a run-down motel a few miles down the road. It’s all I can afford. When I was kicked out of the home I shared with River just outside of Birmingham, I had nothing but the clothes on my back, but I’d been socking wads of cash away for years. Just in case. A girl has to be prepared for anything. I have only fourteen hundred and thirty-seven dollars left, and I have to make it last. I can’t stay up all night fighting zombies if I’m grinding away at a nine-to-five.

      As I trudge up and down hills, sticking to main roads, the little hairs on the back of my neck rise again. I bend down as if I need to tie my shoe, and push my spirit out of my body to look at what’s happening behind me without an onlooker knowing. But there’s no sign of a tail. No moving shadows or snapping limbs. No click of a gun being cocked. No grunts or groans.

      Relieved, I return to my body and motor on. Finally I reach the motel. In the parking lot, there’s a guy leaning against a beat-up Nova, puffing on the end of a cancer stick. The night is nothing but a sheet of black, and there are no streetlamps nearby, so I can’t make out his features, but I can tell he’s roughly the same size as my brother.

      My heart skips a beat. “River?”

      “Excuse me?” A voice I don’t recognize.

      Disappointment is overwhelming. “Never mind.” I reach my door and check to make sure the clear tape I placed along the frame is still intact. A split means someone entered my room while I was gone, despite the Do Not Disturb sign on the knob.

      Years of being chased by Anima have made me paranoid.

      But the tape hasn’t been disturbed, and I’m able to enter without fear. After rigging my own special lock on the door, as well as placing bells over the top to wake me if someone manages to bypass my security measures, I shower off the gunk and sweat, clean the scratches on my arms with antiseptic and dress in a white T-shirt and a pair of shorts.

      The place doesn’t have a kitchenette or a microwave, so I slap peanut butter on two pieces of bread and call it good. Quick and easy with a decent amount of protein. Welcome to my breakfast, lunch and dinner. I think I’m single-handedly keeping Peter Pan in business.

      I’ve consumed half the sandwich by the time I make it to the bed and sit. My back and feet ache like freaking crazy.

      “For a villain, your evil lair sure does suck donkey balls.”

      The voice startles me. I’m on my feet in a blink, the precious sandwich on the floor and a 9 mm in my hand. I’ve stashed weapons all over the room to ensure one is near wherever I happen to be.

      A short brunette stands in front of the door. The closed door. Overhead, the bells are silent. I frown. I...know her. She’s the girlfriend. Frosty’s girlfriend, Kat Parker. But she’s...she’s dead. I secretly attended her funeral—glimpsed the body in the casket—and cursed myself for a past I will never be able to change.

      I shouldn’t be seeing her here and now.

      Is she my tail? The reason the hairs on my neck reacted? No, no, she couldn’t be. Otherwise I would’ve had a similar reaction before she spoke. And what the hell am I doing? I can’t afford to be lost in my head right now.

      “How are...what are...?” Wait. Earlier, Frosty mentioned Kat—a witness. I’ve heard of witnesses appearing to loved ones from both slayers I trust and people working for Anima, so I know spirits of the dead do come back to the land of the living to proclaim good news...or issue warnings.

      “I’m not a zombie, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m a witness,” she confirms.

      “I know you’re not a zombie. If you were, I’d have already removed your head.”

      “Well, well. Someone thinks highly of her skill. Too bad for you, I’ll never again be an easy target.”

      “I never wanted to hurt you.” Keeping the gun trained on her, I close the distance. I reach for her with my free hand...and encounter only air. My eyes widen. She is what she says she is. I lower my arm, my heart thudding wildly in my chest. “You weren’t supposed to be harmed.”

      “And that makes everything you did okay? Intentions mean nothing. Actions are everything.”

      She isn’t wrong. “Are you here to punish me?”

      As a witness, does she know what happened behind the scenes? Why I did what I did?

      Does she care?

      Anima had captured my brother weeks before. I broke into the facility, desperate to free him, but within minutes agents had me surrounded. Their leader, Rebecca Smith, had kept tabs on me for years. She knew my habits, knew what I’d do if River was threatened.

      And she wasn’t wrong.

      We were in different rooms, River and I, and while I could see him, he could not see me, a blindfold over his eyes. Rebecca ordered a gun be placed at his head, and I agreed to do whatever was asked of me, on two conditions. River could never know—he would have rather died than let me aid Anima—and none of our people could be hurt.

      To this day, my brother thinks he escaped that facility on his own.

      And yes, I could have backed out of my promise to Anima. I could have warned Ali instead of targeting her. But Anima wasn’t led by an idiot, and I’d already been informed what would happen if I failed my mission. River would be targeted in Ali’s place