A Mad Zombie Party

A zombie who is lying on the ground, camouflaged by leaves, suddenly sits up and clasps Frosty’s ankle, reaching past flesh just as I feared. Frosty trips, falls...lands on his knees.
Teeth...about to sink into his jean-covered calf. I act on instinct, pushing my spirit out of my body and diving on the zombie, stopping the bite from happening. I release a stream of energy, just like I’ve practiced, tossing every slayer into the air as the zombie and I crash into the ground.
Even as impact knocks the air from my lungs, I punch the bastard again and again.
“Milla!” Frosty calls in warning. “Behind you!”
I hear the approaching grunts and groans too late. A zombie has snuck up and now clasps my arm. He gnaws through my shirt, and a thousand pinpricks of pain spear me, each of my nerve endings suddenly scraped raw. Red fire erupts from my hands unbidden, quickly traveling up my arms...down my chest, and I can’t stop it.
I might as well have rung a dinner bell.
Zombie after zombie falls on me, the next several seconds nothing but a feeding frenzy. I writhe and I scream, but it does no good.
“Milla!” Frosty and River shout in unison. “Milla!”
They’re stuck in the air, and as my emotions go haywire, they’re probably being suffocated. I have to release them. And I can. I can! I’m not helpless. I’ve practiced this, too. I simply have to take control.
I force myself to look past the pain, to look past the fear...to look past everything...and finally reach a place deep, deep, the center of hope, where I’m in Frosty’s arms, and he’s worshipping me. His hands and mouth go everywhere, no part of me taboo. And when he looks at me, he sees me, not a substitute for Kat.
“I’ll be here in the morning,” he says, “and every morning after.” Because he can’t get enough of me. I’m the most important part of his life.
As the heat plaguing my skin fades from my awareness, I hear a whoosh and multiple thuds. Thank God! It worked! The slayers are falling from the sky.
I gather what strength remains, which isn’t much, to punch and kick away my tormentors. Dose after dose of toxin pours through my system. More than I’ve ever endured. More than anyone has survived, I’d guess.
“I’ve got her,” Frosty says. “Clear the path.”
“On it,” River answers.
Tremors rock me so forcefully I have to be causing some sort of earthquake. Hungry... Mmm, something smells good, so good, and I want a bite of it now, now, now!
“This is the antidote, Milla,” Frosty says. “The concentrated one. Don’t fight it.” A sharp sting in my neck, a cool rush of liquid flows through my veins.
The hunger fades until the only things I can smell are musk and sweat.
Frosty sticks me a second time, and the pain fades, too.
“Come on.” He forces me to my feet and wraps an arm around me to hold me upright. He drags me forward. “Come on, come on, just a littler farther...”
We pass the Blood Lines.
“Now!” River shouts. “Now!”
The other slayers lob grenades into the cemetery. Boom! Boom! Boom! One explosion after another lights up the night. Flames lick at the sky, smoke rising like a giant black mushroom. Lights, flames and smoke only slayers and other spiritual beings can see. And feel.
I choke and cough as wave after wave of fetid heat washes over me. Soot burns my nostrils, coats my throat.
My knees give out, but Frosty still has his arm around me and makes sure I ease to the ground. He whips off his shirt and holds the material over my face; the cotton acts as an air filter. I’m too weak to fight him, to tell him to take care of himself not me—and then I’m too unconscious.
I wake up however long later in bed. I’m alone, the sun streaming bright golden rays through the crack in the drapes, highlighting the small mural of flowers I painted beside the bathroom door. The bowl of fruit resting on the dresser. The array of makeup scattered across the vanity. The faux fur throw cascading over the edge of the bed.
A stack of clean clothes rests beside me, a note waiting on top.
Sweet pea,
Everyone made it home safely. The collared Zs are in a cage in the basement, hungry for a Tiffany dinner, which is probably why she’s ready to sign over rights to her soul if only we’ll let her go. (Guess what my answer is.) Oh, and just so you know, I was tempted to give you a shower while you were out—wait till you see yourself. But then I remembered the way you de-nutted that zombie. I decided I wanted to keep mine (they’re bigger) and let you do the washing yourself. You’re welcome.
 Frosty 
I can’t look that bad.
I march into the bathroom, catch a glimpse of my reflection—and a small scream escapes. I’m not that bad. I’m worse. Mascara coats the underside of my red-rimmed eyes. There are black streaks at the end of my nose and around my mouth. My hair sticks out in tangled spikes, and several bites are scabbed over on my neck and arms.
Dude. I might not ever get clean.
I linger in the shower, giving the hot water and scented soap a chance to soothe me, at the very least. Rather than allowing my hair to dry naturally, I actually break out the blow-dryer and curling iron. Goodbye hideous hag. Hello femme fatale.
I do the makeup thing and dress. Of course, the clothes Frosty picked for me are, in a word, minuscule. A scrap of a tank. The world’s smallest pair of Daisy Dukes. For once, at least, he included a bra and a pair of panties.
I exit the bathroom to find Frosty leaning against the door, his arms crossed, his biceps a thing of beauty. My heart nearly drops into my feet, and I’m suddenly wracked by tremors. He’s taken a shower, too, his hair damp and darker than usual. His navy blue irises burn with savage masculinity, and they are pinned on me, devouring me.
He’s so beautiful, and...still off-limits?
He looks me over slowly. “You are too damn perfect to be real.”
This is a dream. This has to be a dream. “My boobs are too small.” I realize what I’ve said and groan. I did not go there.
He smiles. “They aren’t. Trust me.”
Right. If my body isn’t good enough for a boy, his brain isn’t good enough for me. I know this. And yet I return his smile as if he’s just revealed the secret to world peace.
“How do you feel?” he asks.
Pleasantries. Those, I can handle. “I feel surprisingly healthy.”
“Good. I can yell at you without guilt.”
“Yell at me?” I splay my arms wide. “But why?”
Eyes narrowing, he advances on me, a predator stalking prey. “I told you what would happen if you got hurt. Well, you got hurt.”
Yes. He told me he’d be pissed. And clearly, he is. Far from cowed, I shiver. “You should make an exception. I got hurt saving you.”
“Don’t fool yourself. That zombie got the drop on me, yes, but I had an antidote in one hand and a dagger in the other. I would have been back on my feet in seconds, and he would have been in pieces.”
“Oh.”
“Oh, she says.” He stops directly in front of me, pinches a lock of my hair between his fingers and sifts the strands. “You owe me an apology.”
“Why? Why are you even upset about this?”
“Because—” His lips press together, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “Just because.”
“Why?” I insist, and oh, good glory—to borrow a phrase from Ali—I’m breathless. He’s so close to me. He’s touching me. And he’s so freaking intense. “Tell me.”
“I’m upset because—” Again he goes quiet. His inhalations are as fast and shallow as my own. His gaze lingers on my lips, and when my tongue comes out to lick—desperate for a taste of him—his pupils dilate and like spilling ink, the black spreads over the blue. His grip on my hair tightens. “I hate what you make me feel.” His voice lashes out only to crack at the end.
I fist the collar of his shirt. “What do I make you feel?”