Twenty-eight
She was in enough of
a hurry to drive, and parked her car on a slant in the driveway.
She hurried up the driveway and, to her relief, didn’t even have to
ring the doorbell or knock on the door. The dead man had opened it
for her.
She slowed. She
stared.
The man was not a
vampire, and he sure as shit wasn’t Pack. He was dead. Newly dead.
Newly dead and walking around. But not a vampire. She . . . she
didn’t understand it.
“I don’t understand
this.”
“Ah, you’re back.
Tina told me you’d be coming by. I’ve got Antonia’s things right in
here, if you’ll—”
“Someone is murdering
humans to make your friends fight with my family, I
think.”
The zombie blinked.
He was quite handsome for a corpse, with black hair and eyes the
color of wet leaves. He was wearing surgical scrubs, which added
just the right surreal note to their odd meeting.
“Oh. Well. In that
case”—holding the door wide for her—“you’d better come in and talk
to Betsy and Sinclair.”
And in she
went.