cheers.
Mike sighed and followed Abby as she shepherded the undead parade out of the house. She was right in her element, joking and laughing with the zombie horde, but he felt acutely out of place. They seemed to be trading Dawn of the Dead quotes and he wasn't a horror movie fan. The Buffy clone's words still rang in his ears: "Be my rebound, Riley."
Was the attic interlude with Abby only that? A rebound fling? That was a very real possibility. Was it enough? He saw something on the floor and bent down to pick it up. It was a severed arm, with realistically rendered blood and bone. Someone had spent a lot of time getting the fingernails right.
He stared at the ersatz appendage, confused. He didn't know exactly how he'd ended up here, in Banshee Creek, rounding up a pack of rogue zombies and falling in love with a folk-musician-slash-British-spy. But he knew one thing.
He didn't belong here.
And, yet, part of him wanted to.
C HAPTER E IGHT
"W ELL , AREN ' T you the lucky girl."
Abby frowned and turned toward her friend, Cassie, who was sporting a...Margaret Mead costume? Did the famed scientist have blue-tinged hair? She peered at the nametag, which said "anthropologist, ethnologist and all-around badass."
Yep, only Cassie would come up with a Punk Margaret Mead costume.
Cassie glanced meaningfully at Abby's military wardrobe and Abby gave a resigned sigh. Her messy hair and half-open cat suit left little to the imagination, and she was sure that news about her—how did Mike put it?— recreational activities would get around.
Cassie smiled at her broadly, but Abby did not return the favor. She saw little to smile about. She was stuck outside shivering in the cold October air, surrounded by a segmented Horta and other costumed partygoers who were all waiting for Fire & Rescue to let them go home. She was frozen stiff, tipsy and sexually frustrated.
And, she had to admit, the Horta acid fumes were a lot less attractive up close.
"Do you know why they're keeping us here?" she asked. "And for how long?"
"Pressure tactics," her friend replied, her shrug making the stuffed gorilla on her shoulder bounce dramatically. "The Fire Chief wants to make this as painful as possible to make sure that we don't do it again. It will probably be another couple of minutes."
Great. Banshee Creek Fire & Rescue occupied its own little rift of time and space where a "couple of minutes" could mean "right now" or "within the next couple of hours." Could this night get any worse?
At least Mike's jacket hid her bound hands. She was spared that final humiliation.
"Here." Cassie put a pair of small, foil-wrapped packets in the front pocket of Mike's jacket. "In case you need them. I know you probably don't have any around. And remember to use zinc cream for the wrist abrasions. It works really well."
Okay, so maybe the jacket didn't hide that much.
Cassie patted her on the back and walked away before Abby could respond.
Which was actually a good thing. What could Abby say? "Don't worry. Mike's a wiz with the plastic ties and they don't hurt a bit"? Or, maybe, "Thanks, this not-having-sex-in-two-years thing means I'm a little light on the birth control front"?
She shivered inside Mike's jacket and the cold night air had nothing to do with it. Those three thoughts—plastic ties, birth control, and Mike—were a combustible combination. She couldn't stop thinking about the plastic ties, the attic...and the kiss.
But Mike didn't seem as affected as she was. He was right next to her, but was busy arguing with Caine about the biker's upcoming expedition.
"They saw it last year, up near the mountains," Caine was saying. "It fit the description perfectly—red eyes, huge wings, enormous size."
"And it came all the way from West Virginia?" Mike asked, his skepticism clear. "Why would it do that?"
"They all come," Caine said, arms spread as if encompassing all paranormal creatures. "It's the geomagnetic
Mike sighed and followed Abby as she shepherded the undead parade out of the house. She was right in her element, joking and laughing with the zombie horde, but he felt acutely out of place. They seemed to be trading Dawn of the Dead quotes and he wasn't a horror movie fan. The Buffy clone's words still rang in his ears: "Be my rebound, Riley."
Was the attic interlude with Abby only that? A rebound fling? That was a very real possibility. Was it enough? He saw something on the floor and bent down to pick it up. It was a severed arm, with realistically rendered blood and bone. Someone had spent a lot of time getting the fingernails right.
He stared at the ersatz appendage, confused. He didn't know exactly how he'd ended up here, in Banshee Creek, rounding up a pack of rogue zombies and falling in love with a folk-musician-slash-British-spy. But he knew one thing.
He didn't belong here.
And, yet, part of him wanted to.
C HAPTER E IGHT
"W ELL , AREN ' T you the lucky girl."
Abby frowned and turned toward her friend, Cassie, who was sporting a...Margaret Mead costume? Did the famed scientist have blue-tinged hair? She peered at the nametag, which said "anthropologist, ethnologist and all-around badass."
Yep, only Cassie would come up with a Punk Margaret Mead costume.
Cassie glanced meaningfully at Abby's military wardrobe and Abby gave a resigned sigh. Her messy hair and half-open cat suit left little to the imagination, and she was sure that news about her—how did Mike put it?— recreational activities would get around.
Cassie smiled at her broadly, but Abby did not return the favor. She saw little to smile about. She was stuck outside shivering in the cold October air, surrounded by a segmented Horta and other costumed partygoers who were all waiting for Fire & Rescue to let them go home. She was frozen stiff, tipsy and sexually frustrated.
And, she had to admit, the Horta acid fumes were a lot less attractive up close.
"Do you know why they're keeping us here?" she asked. "And for how long?"
"Pressure tactics," her friend replied, her shrug making the stuffed gorilla on her shoulder bounce dramatically. "The Fire Chief wants to make this as painful as possible to make sure that we don't do it again. It will probably be another couple of minutes."
Great. Banshee Creek Fire & Rescue occupied its own little rift of time and space where a "couple of minutes" could mean "right now" or "within the next couple of hours." Could this night get any worse?
At least Mike's jacket hid her bound hands. She was spared that final humiliation.
"Here." Cassie put a pair of small, foil-wrapped packets in the front pocket of Mike's jacket. "In case you need them. I know you probably don't have any around. And remember to use zinc cream for the wrist abrasions. It works really well."
Okay, so maybe the jacket didn't hide that much.
Cassie patted her on the back and walked away before Abby could respond.
Which was actually a good thing. What could Abby say? "Don't worry. Mike's a wiz with the plastic ties and they don't hurt a bit"? Or, maybe, "Thanks, this not-having-sex-in-two-years thing means I'm a little light on the birth control front"?
She shivered inside Mike's jacket and the cold night air had nothing to do with it. Those three thoughts—plastic ties, birth control, and Mike—were a combustible combination. She couldn't stop thinking about the plastic ties, the attic...and the kiss.
But Mike didn't seem as affected as she was. He was right next to her, but was busy arguing with Caine about the biker's upcoming expedition.
"They saw it last year, up near the mountains," Caine was saying. "It fit the description perfectly—red eyes, huge wings, enormous size."
"And it came all the way from West Virginia?" Mike asked, his skepticism clear. "Why would it do that?"
"They all come," Caine said, arms spread as if encompassing all paranormal creatures. "It's the geomagnetic
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