Chapter Nine
“Get down!” I shouted.
Murphy hit the dirt and so did I. The thing coming out of the trees stumbled over us and slammed into the ground.
Not a wolf or a bear or a cat but a man. That didn’t mean he wasn’t a beast—or that he hadn’t been one last night.
Why did I think our attacker not quite human? Must have been the growling that continued to emanate from his mouth.
He also moved a helluva lot faster than the average Haitian. By the time Murphy and I regained our feet, and neither of us was slow about it, the guy was already coming back for a second pass.
In his dark face his eyes shone eerily light—gray, green, or a faded blue; it was hard to tell when I was riveted by the way they rolled and twitched, as if he was hopped on something, or perhaps just insane.
Murphy shoved me behind him. If I hadn’t been focused on the strange, snarling Haitian, I might have been impressed with his chivalry.
Considering Murphy had no weapon, having left the machete and his guns by the pond when he decided to kiss me, I was irritated. At least I had a knife.
Lowering my hand to my waist, I cursed. The sheath was empty.
Before I could wonder how or why or where, the man launched himself at Murphy and the two tumbled to the ground. The attacker was big, bulky, but Murphy held his own. Lucky he’d been to bar fight school, because the other guy did not play fair—if there was “fair” in a fistfight.
The two men grappled for dominance, locked in a struggle of will and strength. Then the Haitian began snapping his teeth directly in front of Murphy’s nose, as if he was trying to bite it off.
“What in hell is the matter with you?” Murphy exclaimed.
I had a pretty good idea. Certain zombies of legend had a craving for live human flesh.
I scrambled toward the pond.
Instead of grabbing one of Murphy’s guns, which wouldn’t be loaded with silver or salt or anything that could work on what that man might be, I tore through my backpack until I found a zombie- revealing powder I’d made myself.
Not that it had ever worked before.
“But those were werewolves,” I muttered, yanking open the bag and pouring some into my hand.
“Cassandra!” Murphy shouted. “You mind?”
I ran, lifting my palm, positioning my lips at my wrist, so I could blow the powder into the attacker’s face.
Just as I did, Murphy threw the man off with an impressive heave and got a snoot-full of zombie- revealing powder for his heroics.
Dust coated his skin. He blinked and particles tumbled from his eyelashes. He coughed.
“Oops?” I said sheepishly.
“Duck!” he shouted.
I did, and a fist whooshed through the air above my head. Murphy shoved me aside and leaped to his feet, tackling the man and driving him into the ground once more.
“The gun!” Murphy yelled.
I took one step in that direction and paused as the Haitian flipped Murphy onto his back and started snapping at his nose again. I yanked my silver crucifix over my head and j ammed the end into the Haitian’s neck.
He howled and I thought, Uh-oh. Werewolf .
Except he didn’t explode. He backhanded me, and I flew several feet to land on my ass with a teeth- j arring thud.
“Quit screwing around and get the gun!” Murphy repeated.
I shook my head, wincing as pain shot through my cheek. I was going to have a shiner, but it wouldn’t be the first time.
I crawled to Murphy’s pack, yanked out his pistol. I wasn’t sure it would work, but I didn’t have much choice. Then something sparkly at the water’s edge caught my eye.
My knif e.
I grabbed it, and headed back the way I’d come.
The Haitian was centimeters away from chewing off Murphy’s nose. I wasn’t going to reach them in time.
Without thought, I drew back my arm and threw the knife. The weapon thunked into the attacker’s back, right between the shoulder blades. Once again—no flames, no smoke, no werewolf. Oh well.
The guy made a horrible sound—I couldn’t blame him—and began to claw for the knife. He yanked it out, and I realized my mistake. Now he had the knife and Murphy.
“Cassandra!” Murphy roared as the man rose above him, the blade flashing red with both blood and the setting sun.
The report of the gun was obscenely loud in the stillness of the partially shrouded glade.
The attacker j erked once. The knife fell; so did he. Right on top of Murphy.
“Ooof,” Murphy said, then scrambled frantically out from under the body.
The attacker didn’t move; he wasn’t breathing. Either bullets worked on zombies or maybe he wasn’t a zombie.
Nausea rolled over me. If he wasn’t already dead, then—
I stared at the first person I’d ever killed and felt… not good. I’d had to do it, but that didn’t stop me from shaking as if I’d suddenly caught jungle fever.
“What were you doing?” Murphy stalked toward me, yanking the pistol from my hand and stuffing it into his pants. “He was going to kill me.”
Murphy didn’t notice my near catatonia or my shivering. He was too wound up.
“Guy had to be on something,” he muttered, turning away and throwing his arms up theatrically. “Trying to chew off my nose. What’s with that?”
I thumped to the ground, my legs suddenly too shaky to hold me upright. I couldn’t take my eyes off the dead man.
The thud made Murphy face me; then he fell to his knees at my side. “You OK?”
I started to laugh, and the sound wasn’t quite sane. How could I be OK after this?
“Shit,” Murphy muttered. “You’re shivering. Hold on.”
He crossed to the backpacks, yanked his sleeping bag free, and tossed it around my shoulders.
“I’m, I’m—” I wasn’t sure what, so I stopped talking and sat there—shuddering and staring at the body.
Murphy sat, too, directly in my line of vision. “Hey.” He touched my already sore cheek. “You had to do it.”
Which didn’t make what I’d done any less awful.
My eyes burned, and Murphy cursed again, then pulled me into his arms.
He was as good at giving comfort as he’d been at kissing, and I was surprised, considering the source.
Murmuring nonsense, he rubbed my back, then held me tightly until the shivers faded away. Even when they were gone he didn’t let me go, and I found I didn’t want him to.
Twilight descended as I sat there, feeling unreasonably safe in Murphy’s arms. The scent of rain in his hair, the strength of his hands, the shape of his shoulders, became as familiar as the shadow of the trees above our heads.
Minutes, hours, days later, he started to draw back and I clung. I glanced into his face, appalled at my weakness, and he smiled, then pressed his lips to my brow right where my hair grew white.
He didn’t speak, and for that I was grateful. I wasn’t ready to talk. I wasn’t ready for much except…
Oblivion.
Reaching up, I wrapped my hand around the back of his neck, my knuckles brushing beads and feathers, my thumb striking his earring and making it swing. Murphy frowned, opened his mouth as if to protest, and I kissed him.
He shut up, although I doubted he’d have been able to say much with my tongue down his throat.
I give the man credit; he was certainly adaptable. One moment the embrace was all soft murmurs and comfort, the next pure sex.
Mouth hot, wet, hands hard, roving. He made me forget… everything. Which was the whole idea, wasn’t it?
The sleeping bag slithered from my shoulders. I no longer cared; I wasn’t cold. My fingers crept beneath his shirt, palms grazing the smooth skin, grasping his hips, drawing him near. His fingers were equally clever, finding pressure points that both relaxed and revived me.
His mouth left mine, scoring the line of my j aw, the vein in my neck, teeth scraping my collarbone, then tugging at the collar of my tank top before moving lower. He mouthed my breast through my shirt and I arched, wanting more, wanting everything. I was empty inside—had been for so long. All I wanted was to fill that hollow, aching space.
I tugged at the waistband of his khakis, and the button gave way. With nothing beneath but skin, it was easy for me to cup him, stroke him, make him want the same thing. Judging by what I found there, he already did.
“Wait—,” he muttered.
I drew my fingernail gently up the underside of his erection, then ran my thumb over the tip. Waiting was not an option.
His j aw worked; he seemed to be struggling for control. “Wait,” he repeated, and grabbed my wrist.
Leaning his forehead against mine, he sighed. His hair drifted over my cheek, and I winced at the memory of being hit. Then I winced at the memory of who had done the hitting.
“What is wrong with me?”
Murphy lifted his head; his gaze was still a little unfocused, his mouth wet and swollen from mine.
“What?”
“I can’t do this. Not here. Not now. With… him right mere.”
I couldn’t look in the direction of the dead Haitian. Instead I closed my eyes, gritted my teeth, and hated myself.
Murphy shifted, then stilled. “I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.”
Something in his voice made me open my eyes.
The body was gone.