He jumped towards it, wrapping an arm around its throat and squeezing tight. The zombie roared—a sound that came out strangled and harsh. It reached back, grabbing Doyle by the back of the neck and wrenching him over its head. He hit the wall with enough force to see stars and dropped in a heap to the floor, only to feel the boards quiver as the zombie ran at him. He scrambled away on all fours, resisting the sudden urge to shapeshift. A panther wouldn't have a hope against the superior strength of this zombie. And in that form, he certainly couldn't snap the creature's neck—the only surefire way of killing it.
Fingers raked his side, seeking purchase. He rolled to his feet and grabbed the zombie's arm, twisting around and pulling hard. The creature sailed past him and landed with a crash on its back. Doyle stiffened his fingers and knifed them toward the creature's eyes. It moved, and he hit cheek instead, felt flesh and bone give as its cheek caved in. Teeth gleamed at him in the brightening light of day.
Shuddering, he twisted, sweeping the creature off its feet again as it struggled to rise. It roared in frustration and lashed out. The blow caught the side of his face and sent him staggering. The creature was up almost instantly, arms outstretched as it sought to corner him.
He faked a blow to the creature's head, then spun and lashed out at a bony-looking knee instead. The force of the blow shuddered up his leg, and in the silence, the crack of the creature's knee shattering was audible. It didn't seem to matter to the zombie, though. It staggered toward him, arms milling quicker than a high speed fan and twice as deadly.
He couldn't duck every blow. He was fast, but even the wind would have had trouble in this situation.
The zombie's fists hit him in the ribs. Red heat flashed through him. He hissed and spun, lashing out again at the zombie's knee. This time, the whole knee bent backward and the creature howled, a sound loud enough to wake the dead—and the neighbors.
Downstairs, there was a crash, and magic burned across his skin. Someone had sprung the spell on the front door. Not Camille. She would have deactivated it first. Maybe it was the neighbor they'd seen earlier, coming to see what all the noise was. He hoped he wasn't too hurt.
He aimed another kick at the creature's leg, but it sidestepped and caught his foot, thrusting him back against the wall. He hit with a grunt, then ducked another blow. The creature's fist hit the wall instead, and dust flew. It was so damn close its reek was almost overwhelming. Gut churning, he threw another punch, mashing the creature's already bulbous nose. The creature howled. He spun, kicking the zombie in the gut, forcing it away, desperate to gain some room to move—and breathe.
Lightning bit through the room, encasing the zombie in a web of blue-white light. It howled and thrashed but could not escape. The smell of burning flesh added depth to the already horrendous stench in the room.
Soon there was nothing left but a pile of ash on the floor. Kirby walked in, her gaze sweeping the room until she found him. "Are you all right?"
Though she was pale, the left side of her face was red, as if burned, and bits of dust and wood were caught in her hair.
"Are you?" he countered abruptly. "Did the spell on the door hurt you too much?"
She shook her head, but her gaze skated from his. Tears shimmered in her green eyes, and her mind was filled with pain. He winced as he stood and walked toward her. She didn't retreat, didn't move in any way. It was almost as if she was frozen by what she'd done.
I've never used my lightning to kill before now.
The thought whispered through him, filled with such horror it nearly took his breath away. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders. She tensed, her gaze searching his briefly before she relaxed in his embrace and rested her cheek against his shoulder.
He held her close, listening to the wild beat of her heart—a rhythm that matched his own. Her body fitted his like a glove. She felt so warm against him, so right, somehow. Like he'd found the other half of himself. He closed his eyes at the thought. His father had once told him he would know when he found his mate. That it would hit him like a fist to the gut—suddenly, painfully. He had a horrible feeling the old man was right.
"You had no choice but to kill it," he said. "I certainly don't think I would have survived another round with it."
He breathed deep the scent of her. She reminded him of spring—fresh and warm and rich with the scent of flowers.
She pulled back slightly, and he instantly regretted speaking.
"What was it?" Her breath washed warmth across his neck and stirred the already flaring embers of desire.
"Zombie," he said, gently picking a sliver of wood from her hair. "And dead long before you got to it."
Tears gleamed briefly. She blinked them away and touched his cheek, her hand cool against his flesh.
She must have taken his gloves off to use her magic.
"You look like shit." A smile touched her lips. Lips that looked all too warm and inviting.
"Strange," he murmured. "It's just what I feel like."
God, he wanted to kiss her so bad it hurt, but she'd run the minute he tried. She was just starting to trust him, and he didn't dare do anything that might shatter that trust. Especially when her living or dying might well depend on his ability to keep close to her.
He stepped back. Sirens were wailing in the distance, anyway. They might not be headed here, but with the noise the zombie had made, they couldn't risk staying any longer. Not with Rachel Grant lying dead downstairs. "We'd better get going."
She nodded. "With the noise I made getting in the door, the neighbors are all probably awake and standing out front, wondering what's going on."
"Then we'll go out the way I came in. Though the window."
She raised an eyebrow. "The windows are boarded up."
"Only the ones on the ground floor." He caught her hand, entwining his fingers in hers. "Let's go."
He stopped in the hall long enough to put on his shoes and pick up his coat then continued on into the other room. Pain twinged down his side at every movement, but it wasn't the sharp, excruciating pain of broken ribs. He was lucky, that was for sure.
A quick peek out the window showed lots of lights but as yet, no cops. There were no neighbors standing on the sidewalk, either, but that didn't mean they weren't around. It was going to be a little tricky getting out, but he'd certainly been caught in worse situations during his time as a thief.
He raised the window. "Keep close to the wall," he said. "And squat down, so you present less of a silhouette."
She studied him. "You've done this before, haven't you?"
She was either very intuitive, or she was reading his mind as easily as he was hers. "Done what? Been rescued by a pretty young woman from the hands of a zombie?" He gave her an easy grin. "It doesn't happen as often as I'd like, I'm afraid."
A smile touched her lips, but annoyance flickered in her eyes. "You really won't give me a straight answer about yourself, will you?"
He hesitated. If he was going to be honest about himself, then it would be with her, for all sorts of reasons—not the least being the attraction he felt. But right now, they simply didn't have the time.
"Force of habit, I'm afraid." He motioned toward the window. "Go, before the cops get here."
She eyed him a second longer, then climbed out the window and hunched down in the shadows. He followed then carefully closed the window and nudged the latch closed again.