Broken Angel: A Zombie Love Story

by Joely Sue Burkhart

  Gathering all my strength, I launched at Robert. His arm jerked toward me, his eyes rolling in his sweaty face. I was already dead, so what did it matter if he shot me? Would I roam the city with a bullet hole in me and that macabre doll smile plastered to my shattered face?

  Kade slammed into me just as the gun fired. He fell to the stone walkway, his face slack with shock. Red bloomed on his shirt, his chest a fountain of blood. Clenching my hands into fists, I screamed with rage, agony, love. Such senseless love. It didn’t matter if Robert shot me, so why had Kade stopped the bullet himself?

  I couldn’t save him. I didn’t know how.

  I clamped my mouth shut to silence the feral moans coming out of my throat. Slowly, I turned to my husband. His gaze darted left and right, seeking escape, but I had my quarry in sight. Murderous fury gave me even more strength. When he turned to run, I jumped on him. My fingers slid into his flesh effortlessly. I rode him to the ground, not numb this time but viciously alive.

  “You’ve taken everything away from me that I ever cared about. You took away my love. You took away my life, turning me into a mindless, shattered doll. Never again, Robert. I will never be your doll again!”

  I grabbed a handful of hair on either side of his ear and slammed his face down into the stone. I banged his head repeatedly, shattering him like he’d shattered me. Until his skull fell apart in my hands, a mass of gray brains and bits of bone splattered with blood.

  Crawling aside, I retched bitter acid onto the stones. My heart pounded, my pulse a jackhammer in my head. Why was I still alive? I could feel the breeze in my hair even while my hands oozed brains and sticky blood. I could smell the stench of Robert’s bodily fluids, yet lilacs also perfumed the air.

  I don’t deserve to live.

  Standing, I gripped the stone railing of the bridge and looked down into the dark waters. No moon tonight. I’d let the waters close over my head and suck me away. Terror rattled inside my mind, though. Would I rise and walk again? Like the doll, drooling water from my mouth and useless lungs, my skin pasty white and stone-cold dead…

  What would become of my body that didn’t seem to know its life was over?

  Hands closed about my shoulders. A scream of terror built in my throat. I stiffened, until I recognized Kade’s spicy scent that soothed the panic ravaging my mind. “I thought you were dead.”

  “I was.” He slipped his arms around me and drew me back against the shelter of his chest. His heart beat steady against my back. “Rather, I would have died nearly a decade ago from an inoperable brain tumor. I used proof of my experiments to gain Robert’s initial investment, but then he threatened to expose me to his Upper peers if I didn’t give him a considerable ownership in my research facilities. I would have lost everything without his funding, so I went along with him. Then I met you. You were never my first human trial, Angel.”

  “Of course.” I let out a harsh laugh but tears spilled from my eyes. “I always wondered how he’d come to own such a large percentage of your research.”

  Silently, he waited for it all to add up in my head. I’d fallen in love with someone who was technically dead. Without my consent, he’d given me the same drugs. Yet without him…

  “I killed Robert.” Guilt choked me and I whirled in his arms to bury my face against his chest. “I’m a monster, Kade.”

  “How can you be a monster when you’re my Angel?” He tilted my face up to his and smiled with such love that even my drug-enhanced heart skipped a beat. “You’re a little out of control right now because of withdrawal symptoms and the mini-death your body went through again. Some of your cells died because you didn’t get my drugs, but those cells are regenerating even as we speak. You’re alive, Angel, and Robert deserved to die. He had you killed, remember? He shot me, too. It’s over, and we’re together. That’s all that matters.”

  “What will happen to us?”

  “As long as we take regular shots, our lives will continue as normal. The people down here know what he did to you. They still talk about the broken angel found in the water, so perfect and beautiful she could only come from Upper City. Robert failed to eliminate his hired killer before the man bragged of his newfound wealth at every bar in Cheapside.”

  The grim slash of Kade’s mouth and the dangerous gleam of his narrowed eyes told me he’d eliminated the man who’d beaten me to death. I couldn’t find it in myself to be sorry or to accuse him of murder, not when my hands were covered with my husband’s blood.

  “They’ll find Robert’s body and the aristocracy will roar at the injustice, but nobody will ever think to question his beautiful Upper wife. We can continue our lives as we wish.” Leaning down, Kade brushed his lips tenderly against mine, his breath sweet on my face. “But if you don’t want to go on living like this, then we’ll sit right here on this bridge and wait for the drugs to wear off. Our cells will die, our hearts will cease beating, and we’ll be as dead as Robert. We’ll go together, Angel, I promise. I won’t leave your side until our last breath.”

  The night was alive with the music of crickets. A nightingale sang in the willow trailing over the water.

  Alive. We’re alive.

  I pulled gently out of his arms and forced myself back to Robert’s body. Bending down, I searched for the gold watch he’d worn so proudly. They don’t make watches like this any longer, he’d bragged to his business acquaintances. Then he’d looked over at me and winked, as though to say they don’t make women like me, either.

  Not unless you have a few million to spare for the drugs that can remake genetics and regenerate life.

  He clutched the watch in his hand, exactly like they’d found it on my dead body when they pulled me from the water. I tore it free of his grasp and returned to Kade’s side. Gold glinted in the starlight as I tossed the watch over the railing. It sank into the water with a gentle plop to gleam faintly in the darkness.

  “Let’s go home.”

  “They’ll never accept me in Upper City, even though my bank account rivals our deceased Governor’s.”

  The Upper aristocrats had barely claimed me because my great-grandmother had a cousin who’d made his living in Cheapside. If they’d found out about my illness, they would have reviled me no matter how rich and powerful my husband. “I don’t care.”

  “As long as you don’t mind living in Cheapside, we’ll give away shots to anybody who wants them.”

  A faint throb outlined the cracks in my skull and the web of knitted fractures across my cheekbones. Turning to Kade, I smiled. “As long as you don’t mind a porcelain doll with a broken face.”

  He took my bloody hand in his. “I love my broken Angel.”

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  EXCERPT

  Yiorgos Michelopoulos strode into the steamy kitchen of his most recently acquired restaurant and everyone began disappearing. Wait staff scurried out the swinging doors, presumably to attend to Remy’s guests, but since the dining room was empty—and had been every night for months—they had no cause for haste.

  Other than escape.

  The sous-chef backed away, finding a hiding place in the large refrigerator. Yiorgos hoped the man froze to death.

  The only employees brave enough to remain in his presence were Paul, the acclaimed executive chef he’d sent here two weeks ago to turn things around, and Dmitri, the manager of the restaurant and one of his closest friends. Dmitri had left his prestigious job at a premiere New York hotel and moved his wife and kids to Missouri in order to help him.

  Despite its remote location, Remy’s was proving to be the most formidable nightmare they’d ever faced.

  Without saying a word to either of them, Yiorgos picked up a spoon and sampled the sauce bubbling on the grimy stove—which had been immaculate this morning when the staff had
arrived. The rich béchamel curdled on his tongue like spoiled cream.

  Furious, he threw the spoon into the stainless steel sink. “Disgusting.”

  “I know.” Paul moaned, wringing his hands in his stained apron. “I don’t understand it, Mr. Michelopoulos. I cook my most treasured dishes and everything turns out bad, very bad. This whole place is cursed.”

  Grimly, Yiorgos twisted the signet ring digging into the pinky finger on his right hand. The restaurant isn’t the only thing cursed.

  If only he hadn’t put the ring on his finger. He’d forgotten the damned thing even existed after winning it from Emile Remy nearly two years ago, along with his restaurant he’d stubbornly refused to sell. Yiorgos had possessed everything he could possibly want, including the five-star status he and Remy had battled over for years. When his luxury hotel casino in Kansas City had won again last year, he’d put the ring on for spite, to celebrate his ultimate victory.

  Which had triggered a curse the likes of which he’d never known possible.

  “We have to shut it down.”

  Dmitri’s words made him whirl around, his face twisted with a snarl. “I’ve never closed a restaurant in my entire life, let alone this…this…”

  Frustrated, Yiorgos waved his hand at the small kitchen. On the surface, Remy’s wasn’t worth his time and effort. Even at full capacity, the dining room would barely seat one hundred guests. At the height of its success, the restaurant had been lucky to pull in a few grand a night. A drop in the bucket to a man with enough money to buy every restaurant in this entire one-horse Midwestern town.

  Yet for nearly a decade, Remy’s had claimed exclusive five-star status, despite Yiorgos’s efforts to wrest the prize for his own hotel’s restaurant. Only after he’d put on this accursed ring had Yiorgos learned the secret to Remy’s seemingly impossible success.

  Yiorgos owned hundreds of hotels and restaurants across the globe, yet he couldn’t keep one lousy ma-and-pa diner open. Fury made him grate his teeth. Barely holding his curses in check, he stalked into the manager’s office.

  Dmitri followed him and quietly shut the door. “How are you holding up?”

  In the privacy of the small office, Yiorgos allowed his shoulders to slump. Weary of hiding and worrying and plotting to save his life and this pitiful restaurant, he ran a hand through his hair. “Nothing’s fallen off yet, if that’s what you mean.”

  His friend winced, which made a small twinge of regret tighten his chest.

  “It’s that bad?” Dmitri asked in a choked voice.

  Without turning completely around, Yiorgos slipped the signet ring off his pinky. He looked back over his shoulder, allowing Dmitri to see the decay eating away his face. It might only be an illusion, a spell the late Emile Remy had managed to throw upon him before the man lost everything, but without the ring, he would soon look like a walking corpse. “Zombie or mummy?”

  “Zombie,” Dmitri answered automatically, well used to his word games. “Dear God. What are you going to do?”

  Slipping the ring back on, Yiorgos allowed a small smile to curve his lips, but neither his face nor his resolved softened. “The Wizard Council claims only someone of Remy’s blood can lift the curse. Since he’s dead, the only person left of use to me is his daughter.”

  “Wizard Council.” Dmitri let out an uneasy laugh. “I never knew such a thing existed. If you hadn’t shown me what happens when you take the ring off, then I never would have believed you. Do you think Remy’s daughter can help you?”

  “She will.” Yiorgos promised in the silky menace voice he used for the hardest negotiations. “Regardless of what I must do to learn the witch’s secrets, she can and will help me.”

  Stirring the simmering lentil soup, Clare Remy tried to ignore her mother’s constant harping. The familiar warm tingle in her fingertips promised her magic was working, despite whatever Selma had to say about her cooking.

  “There’s still something missing.” Although that didn’t keep her from eating the whole bowl Clare had ladled out for her. “It’s not as good as what your father used to make.”

  No. She smiled sadly down at the rich soup that had always been his favorite. It’s better.

  He’d be busting at the seams with pride if he were still alive. Instead of cooking at home, she’d be sweating in Remy’s bustling kitchen, exhausted but elated by their customers’ glowing praise. Instead, her only customer was her mother who couldn’t ever be pleased.

  “At this rate you’re never going to pass your trials next month,” Selma continued, her voice sharpening with every word. “You won’t be accepted into the Wizard Council’s teaching program. Whatever will we do then?”

  Clare could only sigh. She understood the worry, because the daily stress of carrying the entire family’s success on her shoulders was getting to her, too. “We’ll get by like we’ve been doing the past two years.” She fought for an even tone of voice. “We’ll have jobs like normal people. The house is paid for. If I can’t cook for some reason, then I’ll…”

  “We’re not normal people!” Selma tossed the bowl into the sink with a clatter. “We’re wizards, descended from generations of extremely powerful wizards. We can’t be reduced to menial labor!”

  Clare preferred to think of herself as a witch, a kitchen witch to be exact. Wizardry sounded so…Arthurian. As though she ought to be slaying dragons and stirring up storm clouds instead of cooking supper in her modest kitchen.

  She ladled out a bowl for herself and began slicing off a nice thick piece of homemade bread.

  “Don’t cut yourself,” Selma said automatically, for the millionth time if Clare was counting.

  She didn’t even try to explain yet again that it’d be impossible for a kitchen witch to cut herself with her own knife. It would be like burning a cake or bread dough that failed to rise. Her magic wouldn’t allow such cooking disasters. Too bad her magic didn’t cover general clumsiness and awkwardness too. Or how about fantastic hair and a killer sense of style? Maybe all those gorgeous runway models were witches too, wielding a type of magic she hadn’t heard of yet.

  One sip of her soup smoothed away all those silly thoughts. She’d take plumpness, clumsiness, and a supreme lack of fashion in order to cook like this.

  “If only we had your father’s ring. Then we wouldn’t have to trust you to stay a virgin.”

  Clare winced. Oh, boy, had she heard this lecture a thousand times. Never mind that she was far from a teenager anymore in need of sex education. Since her cousin had lost her virginity—and her magic—just last month, her mother’s lectures had redoubled.

  Her mother’s healing talent had disappeared as soon as she married. Since Selma wasn’t the head of her family, she had no magic left at all, and now her husband was gone too. The loss of her special ability had always stung.

  Wizards didn’t often marry each other for that very reason. Someone always had to give up their power, unless they were both heads of their own families. With families dwindling day by day… Naturally, she worried that her daughter would suffer the same magic-less fate.

  Although as a twenty-seven-year-old virgin, Clare already felt like a dried up—extremely lonely—crone.

  A tinkling sound announced a magical visitor requesting entry to the Remy home.

  “Come in.” At Clare’s invitation, her mentor, Helga Kettlewich, popped into the kitchen.

  Where Clare thought of herself as curvaceous, the other witch’s full-figured shape loudly and proudly proclaimed her love of fine dining. Although Clare often bemoaned her apparently frumpy taste in clothing, she could only be thankful that at least she wasn’t completely colorblind like her teacher.

  A blazing orange shirt, green polka dot—extremely short for her matronly figure—skirt and blood-red tights completed Helga’s ensemble. With springy gray curls popping up all over her head, she looked like a kooky Halloween-costumed witch, not the supreme head of the North American Wizard Council and quite possibly the mo
st powerful witch in the world both in and out of the kitchen.

  Clare immediately leapt to her feet, but Helga waved her back to her chair.

  “I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t mean to interrupt your lunch. May I have a taste?”

  “But of course,” Selma gushed, running about the kitchen to fetch a bowl for their guest as though she had prepared the food herself.

  Biting her lip, Clare didn’t say anything and instead, sat down to continue eating. Her mother had little interaction with the Wizard Council and would relish having a part, no matter how small, in the magical world. Even serving another witch’s brew.

  Helga sat beside her and said in a low voice, “I have an important message for you.”

  Slamming open cupboards looking for their best bowls, Selma didn’t hear or notice the paper Helga slipped to her.

  Clare unfolded the thick parchment and a pit of hell yawned wide and terrifying beneath her feet.

  Yiorgos Michelopoulos.

  The devil himself. The man who’d stolen her father’s restaurant and their family power in one fell swoop, leaving him to die of a broken, mundane heart.

  Which makes my stupid fantasies about the man all the more unforgivable.

  She dropped the letter onto the table as if a hot pan had scorched her bare fingers.

  “It’s urgent,” Helga whispered. “Or I wouldn’t have interrupted your practice for the trials.”

  Gingerly, Clare picked up the paper and scanned the words he’d slashed on the page in a bold, heavy hand. Each word ramped up the furious heat boiling inside her until she nearly screeched as shrilly as a boiling kettle. The audacity of the man! He actually expected, no, ordered, her to come to her own family restaurant that he’d stolen from her poor father. And work for him?