"I'm sorry." But he doesn't look sorry. He's smirking—actually smirking—and I want to smack his perfect face.
"I am so paying Charon a visit later," I groan, not necessarily because I really plan to do so, but because the idea seems to irk Atlan a bit. I'm not sure why. Maybe the two of them have some rivalry that I'm not aware of.
"If you want to be used mindlessly, like a toy, than by all means do that," he says stiffly.
"Sounds perfect."
Atlan glares. "Have you no pride?"
"Not much left intact, no." The truth of the words gives them a weight I didn't intend, and silence falls over both of us.
"I don't know you very well," says Atlan quietly. "And I don't know what you've had to do to survive. But from what I can tell, you're worth a lot more than Charon will care to see."
I know that. Of course I do. It's why I refused Charon's advances last night. Still, having someone say it out loud to me sparks tears in my eyes. I bite my lip, willing the tears to go away, but they fill my eyes, overflowing in two fat drops down my cheeks.
"I didn't mean—it was meant as a compliment," stammers Atlan. "Are you all right?"
I nod fiercely, not trusting my voice.
"Would you like some breakfast?"
Again I nod.
"Good. I could use some food myself."
We enter by the back door of the building, but even here in the rear hallway I can hear the tromp of many feet reverberating through the floors. The soldiers must have finished their inspection or whatever and come inside to the mess hall for breakfast. My steps lag as I anticipate facing all those eyes again.
Atlan senses my reluctance. "What is it?"
"I've been eating in my room up until now. I guess I'm just nervous."
"They're good men and women. Trust me."
"Okay, but—I don't like large groups of people." All it takes is one to go zombie, and the entire crowd could turn within minutes. The virus doesn't crawl—it leaps from victim to victim, injected into each victim's flesh through a zombie's fangs, transforming people into ravaging rage monsters within seconds.
No one knows for sure how the zombie virus started two years ago. Many believe—and I tend to agree—that someone was trying to replicate the cancer serum and create more vampires. And of course it went terribly wrong, as such things do. I mean, do scientists not watch horror movies? Who thought that developing a virus to create fanged, undead, super-strong monsters was a good idea? Geez.
Of course, the original vampire serum's effects were unintentional. Researchers developed it from the DNA of some frozen saber-toothed cat from millions of years ago—an animal that apparently had a cancer-resistant gene. Who knows where the scraps of that cat went—probably destroyed along with the original batches of serum. And whoever tried to replicate the serum ended up with a super-contagious zombie virus that kills the victim, reanimates them, adds a dose of extra strength, and morphs regular teeth into injection fangs, all within a few minutes or less. If it weren't so horrible, it would be truly amazing.
I've seen the virus take over a crowd. Hell, I've been in the crowd when it happened, and I only survived by my own luck and the intervention of the six people who became my team after Heath died.
My team—
I say their names in my mind, like a prayer. Lucy, Cyrus, Homily, Jake, Zabor, Everett.
If I let those memories grow, if I let that hollow space inside of me expand, it will swallow me whole. And then I won't care if the zombies eat me, or if Charon takes my body without respect for the soul inside—because my soul will be gone. Untouchable.
I will be the living dead.
My brain snaps back to reality. Atlan is talking, saying something urgently. "Hey, Trouble. You all right? Where did you go?"
"Sorry." I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Just—thoughts. Memories. I don't like crowds."
"So you said. If you want, we can wait until the soldiers are through eating. The other vampires and their suppliers usually eat later anyway. We can eat with them."
"Are you sure?"
He spreads a hand over his stomach. "I'm hungry, but I can wait. Besides, the soldiers tend to empty out the breakfast meats first. I prefer second shift, where I can have all the bacon and sausage I want."
"That's right—you guys need extra protein, right? For your super-strength?"
His lip curls. "It's not super-strength. We're not super-heroes."
"You kind of are."
He scoffs, leaning against the wall opposite me.
"No, check it—you protect humanity, fight the bad guys with your special powers, save lives—you're totally a superhero."
His face hardens, his tone turning bitter. "Would a superhero enslave a human woman and drink from her until her blood pressure drops?"
"You make it sound awful. It's not that bad, and you know it. Don't be the sparkly, broody, self-hating kind of vampire, okay? It's not a good look on you."
"Sparkly?" He stares at me as if I'm crazy.
"There were sparkly vampires in this old novel I read, from like a century before the Gorging. It was already loaded onto the tablet Robbins gave me. Never mind."
He shrugs. "While we're waiting for the next breakfast shift, you could shower. A cold shower, with lots of scented soap."
I roll my eyes. "Fine."
No one is in the showers when I enter the humans' bathroom. After I finish shampooing my hair, shaving, and washing my body, I stand under the warm water, indulging myself for a minute—until a light scraping sound attracts my attention. Fingernails, running across the outside of my shower curtain.
My skin erupts in goosebumps, and an image of Atlan leaps into my mind. "Who's there?"
"Finley," croons a voice I recognize. Charon. "Finley, Finley, Finley. Such a pretty little name."
"Go away."
"Why?" His voice is mesmerizing, an intangible caress.
"Be a decent person and just leave me alone, okay?"
"A decent person?" He chuckles. "It's the apocalypse, darling. We're none of us very decent anymore. Not that humans were ever renowned for their decency. What about you, little Finley? Are you decent?" His fingers curl around the shower curtain, and he starts to draw it aside.
Crap. My towel is just outside on the hook. Maybe I can make a grab for it—
"This is sexual harassment, you know," I tell him. "And I'm pretty sure the Captain wouldn't approve."
"The Captain has his morals, but they're grayish when it comes to us vampires," says Charon softly. "He has to keep us happy. I won't hurt you, love—unless you ask me to."
He jerks the curtain aside. I stand, chin up, dripping, my face enflamed and my fists clenched, while his eyes rove my bare body.
"Oh, you're such a little treat." He smiles. "What I wouldn't give to eat you up."
I hold out my hand with the most regal expression I can muster. "My towel, please."
His tongue traces his lips, lingering over the ring in the lower corner. "I don't think so."
I dart for the hook where my towel hangs, but he intercepts me with his body and tucks a fingertip under my chin. "One kiss first. Come on. I'll show you all the things my tongue can do."
Footfalls from the bathroom entrance, and then Atlan's voice— "Finley? Are you done yet?"
Charon lays a finger over his lips, but I ignore him and say, "Can you come in here please, Atlan?" I stick my tongue out defiantly at Charon, and he waggles his own tongue at me suggestively.
Atlan rounds the corner. "What the hell?"
"Care to join us for a little fun?" says Charon.
"He won't let me get my towel," I explain.
Atlan's mouth tightens, and he pushes his way past Charon, snatches my towel, and hands it to me. "Get out," he tells Charon. "If she comes to you, fine, but don't keep pestering her."
"Pestering? I think you mean 'charming.' "
"Whatever you call it. She's mine. Deal with it."
"Yours?" Charon laughs, his
fangs glinting. "You don't know what to do with a girl like this. You can't enjoy her the way she was meant to be enjoyed."
"Ew! What century are you from?" I secure my towel under my armpits and shove his chest so hard he stumbles back a step. I don't dare smack him across the face, even though I want to, because technically, as Robbins reminded me, I'm a slave and a blood-bag, and my rights here are limited. I'm not sure how far the Captain's leniency would go if I started hitting his warriors, even if this one deserves it.
Atlan snatches my hand. "Come on." He drags me out of the bathroom and back to our rooms. "From now on, when you need to shower, you should ask someone to stand guard. Me, or one of the humans—maybe Jess. She's spunky, she'll stand up to Charon if he tries to bother you again."
I groan. "So I have to have a bodyguard when I'm showering now? Forget it. It's fine—I don't think he'd actually hurt me. And I don't really care that he saw me naked—although I do care that it wasn't on my terms."
Atlan clears his throat, running a hand through his thick sweep of black hair. "Get dressed. I'm starving."
"Sure. Okay." I saunter into my room, leaving the door open, and I drop my towel.
"What are you doing?" Atlan croaks.
"What? Nudity doesn't affect you, right? So what's the point of being prudish about it?"
"Common decency," he growls. "Just because it doesn't affect me doesn't mean I want to see all of—that." His lip curls disdainfully as he scans my body.
"At least Charon seemed to like what he saw," I snap. Then I slam my door shut as hard as I can.
7
Atlan
Sure, maybe my body doesn't react sexually in the normal way. But I can still appreciate a beautiful woman as much as Charon does.
While Finley is shut in her room getting dressed, I mentally replay the towel slipping from her skin, her head angled toward me, with that teasing light in her eyes.
She has lost a little of the skeletal look she had when she first got here, but her ribs are still visible. She's got this slim tapered waist, a sassy tilt to her hips, and her breasts—I can't explain why they're so damn charming but they are. She's doesn't have porn-star proportions, or Barbie-length legs—she's just Finley. And she's absolutely perfect.
The sight of her stirred something inside me, a ticklish sensation in parts of my body that I thought were dormant forever.
When I drank from her behind Deathcastle, when she had her head tipped back and she was all flushed and flustered, that's when I first felt it—a kind of buzzing and tingling in my groin, like the feeling you get with a foot that's fallen asleep. I felt it again when I saw her with Charon in the shower, and it hadn't quite subsided when she dropped her towel in front of me. Seeing her naked again only made it stronger.
So of course I freaked out, like an idiot. And I snapped at her, sneered at her body. I wish I hadn't, but I can't handle this—whatever this is. There's still no obvious reaction from my dick, but I can feel something there. It scares the hell out of me and it's damn awesome at the same time.
But I can't get my hopes up. It's probably nothing—it won't last. Best thing I can do is stop thinking about it and just focus on getting to know her, being her friend. She's gotten us both into a situation, telling on me to the Captain—and I should be mad about it, but I'm not. When I'm around her, I feel weirdly lighter, like somebody pumped me full of helium and if I don't anchor myself I'm going to float away.
When was the last time I felt like this? Really happy, just because someone was nearby?
It's dumb. She shouldn't affect me this way. I have friends here, friends I care about deeply, like Khalil and Viana and Ben, and yeah, even Markham. In just a few days, Finley has somehow managed to insert herself into that list of people I really like; and with her, there's a whole other layer of possibility, of maybes, of things I can't bear to hope for in case I lose them before they become tangible.
How long have I been standing in front of her bedroom door like this? I need to be doing something when she comes out.
Quickly I take down a sword, snatch a sharpening block, and start working away.
Be normal, Atlan. Don't be weird.
I'm technically seventy-five years old, for god's sake. Why do I feel like I'm seventeen again?
8
Finley
Breakfast isn't as awkward as I feared it might be. As long as I ignore the vampires and focus on the humans, it's actually kind of fun. Harry is just plain delightful, Sarah is her usual sweet self, and Jess is the spice of the conversation. We chat about TV shows we miss from the old days, favorite fast foods we don't get to eat anymore, places we'd have liked to visit, like Paris and Tokyo, that are now overrun by zombies.
The two other vampires I haven't met sit at one end of the table with Charon and Atlan. Viana is a thirty-something redhead, her hair shaved and braided up one side of her head and cascading free down the other. She looks like some kind of Celtic warrior princess. The other vampire, Khalil, looks to be in his fifties, with heavy features and a dark beard. He's quiet and sad-looking, but his eyes are kind.
When we're nearly finished the meal, Captain Markham walks into the mess hall and approaches our table. "Bad news. A fresh wave of zombies just moved into the south quarter, and they're pounding on the wall. Not a problem for now, but it could become one over time. I need someone to go clear them out."
Atlan lifts his hand immediately, but the captain shakes his head. "You nearly died yesterday, boy. You need to rest."
"I'm good." Atlan half-rises. "I feel amazing, actually. Better than I have in a long time."
"That's the value of a high-quality blood bag," says the Captain, with an approving glance at me.
"I'd volunteer, but Viana and I are due at the north quarter in a couple of hours," said Khalil.
All eyes turn to Charon, but he only drops another piece of bacon into his mouth and says, through the food, "It's my day off. Jess and Harry and I have—things to do."
The Captain grimaces, but he says, "Well, Atlan, if you're feeling up to it—"
"I am."
"Be at the truck in twenty minutes. Bring Finley along."
My heart jerks. I'm going with Atlan to the wall. I'm going to be a few yards away from a horde of zombies, separated from them by a single barricade of concrete and stone.
After the Captain stalks away, Jess leans over to me. "Wait, why are they making you go with Atlan?"
"He almost died last night. Waited too long to feed. So from now on, the Captain wants me nearby, so Atlan doesn't have an excuse to put off feeding when he needs it."
"Ah. Makes sense. Yeah, he's always been one to wait too long before feeding. He gets too involved in the killing, forgets about his own needs."
Something inside me shrivels. "Involved in the killing?"
"Why do you think he volunteered so fast?" She smirks. "He lives for this zombie-slaying shit."
I think about her words during the entire ride to the wall. I'm in the center of the back seat, clad in my jeans and a plain loose T-shirt with a deeply scooped neck, while Atlan sits up front beside Kevin, who's driving us. Atlan wears his glossy black vinyl coat, and across his knees lies a cluster of weapons all hooked onto a broad leather belt. I assume he'll strap it on once we reach the wall.
"Why not wear a leather coat?" I ask suddenly. The vinyl is a little tacky.
Atlan half-turns. "Have you ever tried to clean blood and guts off leather?"
"Oh." Of course. As cool as leather might look on him, I guess it's just not practical. "But it's not cold. Won't you be too hot in the coat?"
"Again, it's all about the blood and guts. The coat keeps me from ruining all my clothes every time I do this. Okay? Believe or not, we've thought all this through."
"Of course. Sorry."
He sighs. "It's fine."
The truck rattles sharply as Kevin hits a ridge of dirt without slowing down. Atlan's weapons fly out of his lap, and I'm thrown forward so fast my foreh
ead strikes Atlan's shoulder.
"Oops!" Kevin yelps, readjusting his pudgy freckled fingers on the steering wheel. "Sorry, sir, Lord Vampire, sir! So sorry."
Atlan stares at him. "Lord Vampire? If you ever call me that again, I'll bite your throat."
"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."
I hide a smile, remembering the Captain's comments about Kevin, how he's terrible at everything. Apparently that also includes driving.
Eventually the truck grinds to a stop, and two other trucks roll up on either side of us. We're here, at the southernmost section of the stretch of wall that Deathcastle's vampires are responsible for defending.
When I climb out of the vehicle, my mouth gapes. I can't help it. Sure, I've seen images of the Blue City wall on news channels, and I've seen it from a distance—but I've never been this close to it in person. The wall is about three stories high, towering above us. A set of narrow steps zigzags up to the walkway along its broad edge, and further down to my right there's a rugged sort of elevator, mega-sized for hauling equipment or soldiers, and worked by a series of massive chains and pulleys.
There's a clear area between the wall and the surrounding buildings, a corridor of cautionary space. Behind me sprawl semi-habitable apartment buildings, liquor stores with broken windows, and multistory office complexes, their windows dulled with grime.
Atlan is already striding toward a line of soldiers. The soldiers from the two trucks that accompanied us will swap places with the current guards, taking on the day shift. I hesitate near the truck, unsure what to do or where to go. The sprawl of concrete pavers and invading bits of grass is sun-warmed and bright, but the smell—the smell in the air is horrific. It's the rancid sweet-sour stink of death, rising from the zombies rotting on their feet as they stumble along the other side of the wall. I can hear them, too—a persistent guttural rumbling, an incessant growl of unsatisfied hunger, rising now and then to a single chattering whine or a raw shriek.
"Here." Kevin leans out of the truck and hands me a white mask. "It's scented, to help with the—" He makes a face, indicating the foul-smelling air around us.
Enslaved To The Vampire Zombie-Hunter (Pandemic Monsters Book 1) Page 5
