“But you,” she continued, looking Cole over. “You’re a big slice of sexy, aren’t you?”

I pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth. It didn’t matter where we were, or what we were doing, Cole always garnered female appreciation. He was honey, and women were flies.

I guess that made me the flyswatter.

“I’d stop if I were you.” I smiled a little too sweetly, my grip on the gun never wavering. “My trigger finger is developing a twitch.”

Cole cocked the hammer on his and pressed the barrel more firmly against Stocky’s head. “Enough. Tell us who you are.”

I loved watching him in action. He was fearless. Steady. A rock that wouldn’t be moved. “Admit you’re with Anima.”

Stocky spit on the ground. “Hell, no, we aren’t with Anima. We heard about what they did to your crew and how they’re trying to blame us for their work.”

Plausible.

“Who are you?” I asked.

His chest puffed up. “River’s best.”

Maybe. But that didn’t make him an ally. Cole never lowered his weapon.

On a roll, Stocky said, “Anima’s pitting us against each other, probably hoping we’ll destroy each other and save them the hassle.”

“If I don’t like your next few answers,” I said, “they’ll get their wish. Why were you following us? And what about the other two? If our friends are hurt...”

“Our orders weren’t to hurt,” Tattoos retorted. “Just to detain. Lookit, we saw the news. We know we’re being blamed for the death of some of your people. We thought you were here to seek revenge, but I’m guessing that’s not the case because you haven’t blown our faces off. You know Anima’s at fault, right?”

Cole finally removed his finger from the trigger and sheathed the gun at the waist of his pants. Here’s the amazing thing. He was still just as menacing.

I wasn’t quite so trusting, though, and while I put the gun back in my purse, I also palmed a dagger.

“Did you see Anima in action the night my friends were killed?” Cole helped Stocky to his feet. “They still have one of our boys.”

“We didn’t see anything.” Tattoos stood on her own. “But River did.”

“Well, then, I want to talk to River.” If the edge in Cole’s tone hadn’t scared her, the determination in his eyes should have done the trick.

“He wants to speak with you, too. Maybe even join forces. You do good work.” Her predatory gaze gave him another once-over, and she licked her lips. “Real good work.”

I stepped toward her, ready to charge. Cole held out his arm, stopping me. Tattoos grinned, and then she and Stocky gathered their weapons from the ground.

“This way.” Stocky motioned for us to follow.

We didn’t, not right away. I pretended to enjoy the beauty around me. The moon, high though it was, was nothing more than a hook. Stars glowed like diamonds scattered across a sea of black velvet. The perfect backdrop for betrayal.

Okay. Enough of that.

With the pair far enough ahead, I whispered to Cole, “This could be a trap.”

He traced his knuckles over my cheek. “Trust me, love. It’s not. I know a little about River. He’s not the most moral slayer out there, because he follows no rules but his own—and sometimes even breaks those—but he hates zombies as much as we do. He won’t want to stop us from doing our job.”

I leaned into his touch, savored the endearment he’d used. “Okay. But if he threatens you, I can’t be held responsible for my actions.”

“You coming or not?” Tattoos snapped from across the distance.

Cole pressed a soft kiss against my lips. “If he threatens you, he’ll be dead before the night’s over.”

I had to be a bloodthirsty wench, because I smiled.

We kicked into motion, sticking to the shadows and alleys, constantly glancing over our shoulders. I expected another tail. Or a nest of zombies. It was just one of those nights.

Along the way, I received a text from Frosty, and then a text from Bronx, each telling me they’d lost their tails and all was well. I let them know our situation and that we would contact them as soon as we could.

Finally, we reached a tall, crumbling building of red brick—an apartment complex. The lobby’s best feature was the threadbare carpet; to the side, a girl with tic-tac-toe games etched all over her forearms manned a counter teetering on unsteady legs.

As we passed, Stocky and Tattoos threw their jackets at her. She caught them without a word of complaint, as if she deserved to be treated like a coatrack. My reaction might have been a wee bit different. I wouldn’t have complained, either, but I would have set those jackets on fire.

We turned a corner, and the interior experienced an immediate change. From shabby to chic. The walls were freshly painted and decorated with professional portraits. There was Stocky, and Tattoos, and at least twenty others I didn’t recognize. The carpets were plush, the furniture obviously antique, with cherubs and birds carved into the wood.

We marched through a state-of-the-art kitchen, with stainless-steel appliances and at least ten kids bustling around stoves and steaming pots. The scent of spicy chicken filled the air, soon joined by the fragrance of cherry cream. My mouth watered. I was tempted to grab a handful of pastries in the five-foot-tall warmer by the back door; they were just sitting there, practically begging me to do it.