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

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.

      She swipes a hand at me and snaps her teeth.

      “Sorry, honey, but I’m not on the menu.” I leap off the tombstone and end up where I want to be—in the circle of her arms. Mindless with hunger, she latches on to my waist to yank me closer, but I’m already swinging my swords. The blades crisscross at her neck before I’m in any danger, and her head falls backward, black goo spraying from her severed artery.

      The civilians continue playing their silly game.

      Despite the decapitation, both the zombie head and body remain animated, arms clawing at me, teeth snapping at me. Time to finish her off for good. I’ve been fighting the undead for so long, summoning my fire—my dýnamis—is as easy as breathing. By the time I sheath one of my swords and flatten my hand over her chest, flames are crackling all the way to my wrist. One minute passes, two... Dýnamis sinks past her skin, into her veins, traveling through her entire body. Then, suddenly, she explodes, dark ash floating through the air.

      I move on to her head, making sure her teeth are firmly planted in the ground before I perform the same “fire up and wait” routine. When a second round of ash floats away on a cool spring breeze, I sheath my other sword and slap my hands together in a job well done.

      I have to walk through the circle of civilians to get to the next name on my list of AS victims. Each boy has paired off with a girl, the couples making out on top of blankets, uncaring about the potential audience. Longing mixes with envy, cutting at me. I haven’t had a “boyfriend” in forever. River is so protective—was so protective, I correct with a twist in my gut. Anyone interested in me quickly decided I wasn’t worth the hassle...but usually only after I’d given up the goods. At least, I like to tell myself River is the reason I’ve been rejected so many times, and not my mountain of personality flaws.

      Now River wouldn’t care if I decided to screw anything breathing. Or hey, anything not breathing.

      I never should have betrayed his trust in me, never should have tried to save his life by signing the death warrant of Ali Bell, the girlfriend of a rival crew’s leader. But trading one life for another had seemed acceptable at the time. If only that’s how things had gone down. Ali survived, but two innocents had not. Kat Parker and Dr. Richard Ankh. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to forgive myself for the part I played in their deaths.

      Scratch that. I will never forgive myself.

      A grunt sounds at my left, and I whip around to discover two other zombies have risen. Two zombies not from graves/names on my list. Well, hell. As I once again unsheathe my short swords, my heart slamming against my ribs, I study my newest opponents. Two males. One is morbidly obese, while the other is short and squat. Both have a grayish tint, like the female, the same advanced stage of rot.

      They race toward me without stumbling, their bones not yet brittle enough to break.

      I dart to the right, their gazes alert enough to follow me. Good. I keep going, drawing the two farther away from the civilians...but I don’t realize until too late that there’s a small headstone in my path. I trip, land on my ass and lose my breath. I’m laid flat for only a second, maybe two, but it’s enough. The pair dive for me. I somersault backward, coming up with my swords extended, ripping through each creature’s torso. Multiple organs plop to the ground, but neither Z seems to notice or care that they’ve been disemboweled. They just keep advancing.

      I kick one in the groin, sending him stumbling to the side, at the same time removing the head of the other with a single swipe of my sword. The headless wonder, now behind me, manages to clench his fingers in my hair and yank me closer. Idiot! All he can do is paw at me. I elbow his chest and kick back. As he, too, stumbles to the side, I hack at his left arm, spin and hack at his right. Both limbs hit the ground with a thud.

      Pressure on my boot draws my gaze. The severed head is attempting to chew through my leather soles. I jerk my leg away and slam my sword into his ear canal, and if we were in an episode of The Walking Dead, my favorite