“Frosty,” she says through the door.

I put my earbuds in my ears and jack up the volume of my iPod, drowning out her voice.

* * *

As morning sunlight seeps through the center crack in my curtains, I finish my exercises. One hundred push-ups. One hundred sit-ups. One hundred lunges, and a thousand other things. I go and go until I’ve expelled so much energy I could pass for the undead. But at least I’ve got myself under better control.

Camilla Marks is a means to an end. A way to see Kat. I can endure her presence in my inner sanctum without killing her. Without wanting to kill myself. Surely.

I shower, dress and at last emerge. She’s sitting at the kitchen table with tubes of ink and bandages spread around her and a tattoo gun in hand. Her hair is piled into some sort of sloppy bun at the crown of her head, revealing the layer of jet-black hair usually hidden by all that snow white. Her face is free of makeup, making her look younger. So damn pretty it should be a crime.

Hate her.

She wipes blood from the image she just etched into her wrist. A compass next to the word Betrayal.

I won’t ask. I don’t care.

I make a bowl of cereal and shovel in one spoonful after another while standing at the sink. I don’t say a word or glance in her direction.

“Oh, no,” she says, her tone dry. “The mean boy is ignoring me. Whatever shall I do?”

“Say thank-you,” I mutter.

“You can’t ignore me and make implied threats.” She wraps a bandage around the new image, gathers up the equipment. “You have to pick one.”

I drain the milk from the bowl and wash my dishes, silent.

“Sweet,” she says. “You picked my favorite.”

Does nothing faze her?

Usually at this time of day, I run a million errands to keep my mind off Kat. Today, I park my ass in front of the TV and turn on the sports channel, hoping to annoy Camilla. When I realize she’s watching and actually engaged in the game, I flip to a “who’s your baby daddy” talk show. But she watches that, too, and even yells at the screen.

“You’re too good for him. Leave him!”

Next I try a soap opera, and she finally turns away, uninterested.

I smirk—until I realize I’m stuck watching a guy’s evil twin seduce his wife.

After fifteen minutes of praying for the world to end, I head into my room to do a little schoolwork. I’m a senior, though I left public school in favor of a homeschool program a few weeks before Kat died. Considering how many days I’d have missed as I was hunted and attacked by Anima, I’d had no other choice. Flunking out wasn’t—isn’t—in my life plan. What is? Graduation in a little over a month. College. Becoming a detective. According to Kat, I’ll be the youngest and hottest ever. One day I’ll hunt human bad guys rather than zombies. Not because I don’t like what I do now, but because I also plan to eradicate spirit-evil once and for all.

Somehow.

When I finish solving X, Y and Z, I return to the kitchen to make a sandwich. She’s still in front of the TV, watching a new game, eating a granola bar.

I walk over and snatch the bar out of her hand. “What’s mine is mine.”

Her cheeks flush. “We could be together for a few days or a few years. From what I gather, there’s no time stamp on Ali’s vision. Why don’t you pretend to be a mature adult and—”

I flip her off without glancing in her direction. I throw the bar in the trash, fix my sandwich and take an exaggerated bite as she peers at me.

“Wow. So mature,” she mutters. “Can you at least try to be civil?”

“You’re still alive. That’s all the civil you’re going to get from me.”

She looks away, her shoulders rolling in. “Fair enough.”

The sandwich settles like lead in my stomach. I return to my room, where I stay for several hours, just lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, hoping Kat will visit me. But she doesn’t, even when I call her name.

Where the hell is she? She owes me a visit. I’ve done everything she—

No, I realize. I haven’t. Help friends. Fight. Smile.

I arm up before returning to the living room. Camilla is still on the couch, but this time she’s cleaning a semiautomatic.

“We’re going out to hunt zombies,” I announce.

Her relief is palpable as she puts the gun back together. “I want to return to Shady Elms.”

The cemetery. “Why? Hordes take weeks and months to form, and we left nothing of the last one. At least, I’m assuming you weren’t dumb enough to leave the parts behind.”

“I ashed them, but...there was something odd about these zombies. They were more rotted than usual for first-timers.”

“Here’s an idea. They weren’t first-timers.”

“But they rose from graves. Why would zombies return to their bodies, just to rise again?”

“How would I know? I’m not a zombie.” But fine, whatever. “We’ll go to Shady Elms.” I grab my keys and head to my truck.

The moon is full, the sky completely black. No clouds, no stars. Just a sense of gloom and doom.

Nothing new.

Wait. A rabbit cloud whisks overhead, and I stiffen. Rabbit clouds—Emma’s way of warning Ali. Zombies are stirring tonight.

Adrenaline jacks me up. “There will be a battle tonight.” All I have to do is find the nest.

“How do you know?”

“I just do.”

Camilla jumps into the passenger seat rather than the back bed and casts me a mutinous glare, daring me to comment. I don’t. What good will it do?

We maintain terse silence the entire drive. I continually scan for any sign of zombies. Nothing...nothing...for a moment the scent of roses and pecans distracts me. A scent that clings to Camilla no matter where she is or what she’s doing.

When we reach the cemetery, I park between two towering oaks, surprised to find Cole’s Jeep there. Camilla and I exit, and I use my phone to shine light inside the vehicle. Cole, Ali and Gavin are sitting inside, as still as death, their spirits obviously elsewhere.

“Great,” Camilla says. “Now I have to fight the living and the undead.”

I know the words aren’t a threat, but I react as if they are. “Go after my friends, and I’ll end you.”

She sucks in a breath. “I’m not going to hurt them. I just—”

“Save it. Don’t want to hear it.” I stalk forward, listening for an indication a battle is waging. Searching...searching...

The sky is even more ominous out here, the sense of doom and gloom stronger.

A twig snaps about ten yards away. I palm two .44’s just as Bronx steps from behind a statue of an angel, .44’s of his own extended. The second our identities click, we lower our weapons.

“Frosty the Ice Man. You don’t call, you don’t write. You just show up to the battlefield unannounced.” His gaze flicks to Camilla and narrows. “At least you’ve spoken with Kat.”

He knows what’s going on? “What are you doing here?”

“Guarding the Jeep and the bodies inside it.” Bronx isn’t stupid. He knows I asked why he’s in the cemetery; he simply chose not to answer. “I’ll guard you and yours, if you want to join the others. But don’t be surprised if you have a few cuts and bruises when you return.”

He’s pissed at me. I get it. “If using me as a punching bag will untwist your panties, go for it.”

He flips me off, but he can’t hide the amused glitter in his eyes.

“Any zombies?” I ask.

“A few.”

I step out of my body as easily as breathing. As I wind through the cemetery, Camilla’s spirit catches up to me. We come across Cole first. He’s leaning against a gnarled tree, the limbs seeming to embrace him and push him away at the same time. His arms are folded over his chest.

“What the hell is going on out here?” I ask.

Just like Bronx, he flicks a glance in Camilla’s direction. I know he’s debating what to say in front of someone so untrustworthy.

Camilla notices, lifts her chin and squares her shoulders.