Chapter 38 Trouble is in Trouble
THIRTY-EIGHT
TROUBLE IS IN TROUBLE
LYLA
Heat lashes my skin, sweat running into the burning cuts striping my arms. Each movement pulls at them, skin splitting, fire under my flesh. Smoke clogs the air, acrid and heavy, coating my tongue with ash. Breathing’s a luxury I don’t have time for.
My focus is a blade—razor sharp.
The last ghost of my past still walking.
Franklin’s face twists with rage, his mouth curled in a snarl that pulls tight over his teeth. It’s almost funny—if I didn’t know exactly how many people those teeth have smiled at before he gutted them. If I hadn’t been one breath away from being one of them.
His blade flashes in the firelight—quick, deliberate, a predator’s promise.
Blood runs hot and sticky down my arms, each slice a screaming reminder of the price I’m paying for this. My chest saws for air.
Something whistles past my head—
THUNK.
An undead old woman in a cat sweater drops behind me, Leon’s arrow buried deep in her eye socket. She folds in on herself, jaw snapping once before going slack. One step closer and she’d have had my throat.
I flip Sweetness in my hand, feeling the weight settle into my grip. Dangerous. Ready.
“What’s the matter, Frankie?” My tone drips mockery. “Feeling a little off your game?”
His eyes spark with fury, teeth bared. “I’m going to shut that mouth of yours for good,” he spits. Hate radiates off him like heat. “You’ll be the final piece in my collection.”
Try it, asshole.
He lunges.
I meet him head-on.
Steel smashes steel, the ring of our blades cutting through the chaos. The vibration stings my palms, jolting up my forearms. We move fast, too fast for fear to keep up.
He slashes high—I duck under the arc, the wind of it grazing my scalp. He twists low, trying to take my legs, but I pivot, the tip of his blade skimming the fabric at my thigh.
A sudden sting at my ribs—warmth spills fast under my shirt.
I grit my teeth, take the pain, and sharpen it into something lethal.
Sweetness flashes upward, catching him across the chest. The blade bites deep, parting fabric and flesh.
His hiss is drowned by my boot slamming into his gut.
He staggers, heels skidding on the dirt before tumbling backward into three undead cheerleaders.
Their chipped sparkly nails claw for his flesh, teeth snapping inches from his face.
I take the opening. Step in. Drive Sweetness into the skull of a woman with smeared black eyeliner, her jaw dropping with a wet crunch before she slides to the ground.
Every muscle screams, but stopping isn’t an option.
The world is a blur—blood misting the air, shadows lurching in and out of firelight. Franklin’s blade carves brutal arcs, slicing through the arms of anything that gets close.
Leon’s still firing until his last arrow punches into the throat of a mullet-wearing corpse. The body collapses in a gurgle of black blood.
Shit.
Leon draws his hatchet as the dead surge toward him.
Franklin bursts from the tangle of cheerleaders, face twisted, chest heaving. He’s not looking at the horde—he’s looking at me.
He barrels into me like a freight train. Sweetness rakes his right leg as we slam into the dirt, the blade sinking in enough to draw a snarl.
He lands on top, his own knife raised high, eyes wide and shining with mania.
I catch his wrists. Our muscles lock in a vicious stalemate, tendons straining, skin slick with sweat and blood. The knife hovers inches from my throat, vibrating with the force between us.
His breath is hot and sour in my face, his weight crushing the air from my lungs.
My arms shake, every tendon screaming, strength bleeding out fast.
He drives harder, the point edging closer, cool steel brushing the hollow of my throat.
I grit my teeth, lock eyes with him—
And feel my arms start to give.