Sing for the Dead (London Undead) by PJ Schnyder Page A

fell to his claw-tipped fingers as he slashed back and forth. His guilt and rage ripped free with every corpse he put to rest. He leaped free of the mob as it threatened to surround him, landed in another open spot and began to rend and tear anew. No matter how many he took apart, he couldn’t sate the need to kill more. Two of the monsters managed to lay their hands on him, forced him to use tooth and claw to fight his way free. He coughed at the disgusting taste of rotting flesh in his mouth.
    He glanced in Sorcha’s direction to see how the lass faired.
    “Bloody hell.”
    He needn’t have worried about the fae woman.
    Enough of the shambling dead had come through the tunnels to press her back, but only far enough for her to take the high ground on the station platform. Bodies littered the tracks and ground around her, some twitching and others limp with the finality of death. Still she wielded her short swords in fatal arcs, the moonlight catching the blades in flashes of silver as she parted limbs from torsos and heads from shoulders.
    Someone had trained the lass to kill, and they’d had an eye for beauty when they’d done it.
    Sorcha made combat a killing dance. She kept to her own center and dealt damage in all directions, rarely leaving her back open to attack as she constantly pivoted and moved. Her peripheral awareness must have been exceptional. He’d never seen such carnage and considered it...elegant. Aye, Sorcha gave each of those poor wankers a final rest with elegance and a cold sort of mercy.
    He made his way toward her in between his own batches of action, careful to stay out of her range but close enough to come to her aid if need be. The zombies were arriving at a slow trickle now, a few each moment, rather than the steady stream he and Sorcha had attracted initially. The rage he’d come to burn off faded to a bearable smolder. Killing zombies brought him no joy, no satisfaction.
    They charged him. He tore them apart. Over and over again, the cycle.
    This was a hunt, but no meat and no feeding at the end. His inner cat derived scant satisfaction. Such battles resulted in scarce triumph. When every corpse lay still, there was only a weary surcease.
    He was empty.
    Changing from his phase-form to his human, he retained only his clawed hands. And the guilt whispering through the back of his mind fell silent. For now.
    He paused as the fae woman took down her last opponent. No match, really—a single straggling zombie against a cold killing beauty like her. And when she stood victorious, she was so alive .
    “What are you about?” She could growl as well as any female shape-shifter. And if her eyes’d remained red, he’d have kept his distance, remained cautious.
    But they were clear and dark, pools of calm after the fighting had drained the rage from her. Her chest rose and fell as she regained her breath. A fine sheen of sweat shone on the creamy skin that peeked from between her shrug and the snug tank top she wore.
    He stepped closer, noted her hands tightened on her swords, but she didn’t raise them. Nor did she give ground.
    Oh, he liked that.
    He caught her gaze in his, delighted in the stubborn challenge he saw there mixed with confusion. “Are you afraid?”
    She lifted her chin. “Of course not. Look around us, cat, we stand amidst...”
    He kissed her. Tasted her words of victory. Her lips were the sweeter for them. When she gasped in surprise, he settled his mouth over hers and teased her tongue until she tangled with him, returned his kiss. She was the one to grab at his belt and pull him closer. He took hold of her upper arms, crushed her to his chest.
    Heat rushed through him, desire. He wanted. It’d been a long time and he didn’t just want, he needed this woman. And to all accounts, she hungered for him at least as much.
    She arched against him and he released one of her arms to slide his own across the small of her back.
    Teeth sunk into his forearm.
    “Argh!” He flung