Logan stopped suddenly and let out a triumphant howl. Apparently that was werewolf for “Found it” because everyone scrambled into the center of the vegetation he’d cleared. Griff grabbed her hand and led her into the fray. Sure enough, a weathered stone statue of a goat sat nestled in a hidden cubbyhole surrounded on three sides by a thick curtain of bamboo. As far as goat depictions went, it wasn’t your typical bearded barnyard friend. Yes, the beard was there, but that was pretty much where the similarity ended. The face more resembled a frightening nightmare, with sharp fangs and slitted eyes. And then there were the extremely long and pointy horns that were topped with cobra coils.
Jemma shuddered. “Oh man, that’s just plain freaky.”
Clarissa took the shovel from Griff. “Could you help Logan move the statue?”
“What do I look like, a goddamn wimp?” After flexing his impressive biceps, Logan squatted behind the goat and grabbed it by the horns. He strained to lift the statue, but it didn’t budge. Making a sound like he was dangerously close to busting a nut—or the vein popping out in his forehead—he attempted the maneuver again. And again. On the third try Logan threw in a handful of colorful swear words for good measure.
“Oh for goddess’s sake.” Sighing, Clarissa jutted her chin at Griff. “Would you put Mr. Universe out of his misery before I’m forced to call the paramedics?”
Looking none too pleased, Logan relinquished one of the horns to Griff. After several more minutes of huffing and puffing and the occasional F bomb, it became clear that the statue was going nowhere.
Clarissa tapped her bottom lip. “Nettie must have secured it with a locking spell to stave off looters.”
Logan swatted a fat mosquito that was feasting on his cheek before baring his teeth. “Might have been nice mentionin’ that sooner.”
Shrugging, Clarissa approached the statue. “We’ll just have to work around it.” Planting the heel of her boot on the shovel for leverage, she sank the blade into the ground, loosening up the dirt. After several minutes spent wrestling with the bamboo’s invasive roots, she allowed Griff to take over the chore. Dropping the shotgun, he worked like a madman and quickly tore up a five-foot-deep-square perimeter around the statue.
Hope withering inside her, Jemma peered down into the massive hole. Unless the answer to defeating Nettie happened to be a bunch of hard-packed clay and wiggling earthworms, the spirit that’d spoken to her had been blowing smoke up her ass. “So much for that.”
“It’s okay. This doesn’t change anything.” Clarissa’s tone rang with a false perkiness that a deaf person would be able to pick up on. “We’ll just go back to plan A.”
Plan A? Oh yeah, having sex with Griff and Logan and maybe—maybe—unlocking the dormant mother lode of magic that might or might not be buried inside her.
Sweet Jesus, they were all doomed.
Logan suddenly lifted his head and cocked it to the side. “Does anyone else hear that?”
All conversation ceased as they listened for whatever had captured Logan’s interest. Jemma strained to detect anything beyond the pair of annoying mosquitoes buzzing near her face. Finally she heard it. The unmistakable gunning of a—
“Motherfucker.” Logan shot to his feet.
They all pivoted when the sound grew louder. Jemma didn’t know whether to be terrified or bemused by the weird spectacle racing toward them. Logan, however, had no problem determining the proper emotion for the occasion. Blistering fury. His ferocious howl renting the air, he leapt effortlessly over the hole Griff had dug. Judging from the werewolf’s expression, he looked ready to commit murder. Or in the case of the zombie whooping it up on Logan’s motorcycle—dismemberment. The corpse veered off path, and the Harley’s front tire clipped the corner of a boulder, sending the bike in an airborne collision course with the slave shacks.
The motorcycle crashed through the wall of the nearest cabin, and Logan staggered, almost falling to his knees. An anguished wail ripped from his throat, competing with the screech and splinter of flying metal and wood. Shaken from their stupor, Griff and Clarissa each grabbed one of Jemma’s arms just as four zombies shambled from the concealment of the tall snake grass.
“Son of a bitch.” Growling low in his throat, Griff checked the safety on the shotgun. “Ready or not, we’ve got to make a run for it.”
Jemma swallowed the panic congealing in her windpipe. “I’m good with that plan.”
“Then let’s do it.” Clarissa squeezed Jemma’s elbow before shooting a glance over her shoulder. “Peach, Gloria…time to haul ass.”
The other two women shuffled close behind them. Some of Jemma’s anxiety ebbed. Nothing like a wall of witches to give one a false sense of security.
“Go!”
Heeding Clarissa’s shout, they beelined for the open path. The two corpses on the right sprang forward. Logan snapped out of his period of mourning and dove at the pair of dead men, knocking them to the ground. From the sound of the scuffle going on, he was really enjoying taking his rage out on the zombies.
The two corpses left standing hurtled across the field. Unprepared for their speed, Jemma yelped. Behind her, Ms. Peach grunted. “What the hell have they been drinking? Zombie Powerade?”
Griff broke from their quintet and charged toward the oncoming zombies. The shotgun boomed, nailing one of the corpses.
“They’re on Nettie’s home turf. Her powers are magnified.” Clutching Jemma’s wrist in a death grip, Clarissa zigzagged them through the obstacle course of snake grass and bamboo. Trying not to trip over the damn vegetation was a challenge in itself. Trying not to jump every time the shotgun roared? Impossible. They rounded an enormous clump of grass and a female zombie pounced at them. Bellowing a warrior’s cry, Clarissa pummeled the corpse with a fierce kick in the thigh. The dead woman went flying. Sparing the bewildered corpse the barest glance, Jemma stumbled after Clarissa.
The next several minutes were an insane blur. It seemed the closer they got to the plantation house—to possible escape—more zombies showed up. Seriously, it was like the field was a damn zombie incubator or something. A corpse sporting a buzz cut and overalls—who the hell got buried in overalls?—lunged on top of Clarissa. Dead farm boy might have been scrawnier than a scarecrow, but he still managed to pin the coven mistress beneath him. Despite Clarissa’s frantic screams to make a run for it, Jemma kicked at the zombie. With Ms. Peach and Gloria’s help, she managed to antagonize the creature enough that he rolled off Clarissa. She scrambled to her feet and grabbed Jemma’s arm again. “Come on!”
Not about to dally in a field full of dead hicks ramped up on zombie Powerade, Jemma raced along the path. Heart lodged in her throat, she scanned for a glimpse of Griffin. The shotgun’s thundering rebound had long since fallen silent, its ammunition a puny deterrent against the multiplying corpses. If one of these dead bastards got to Griff…
A familiar head of sable hair bobbed past a thicket of bamboo, and her breath gusted free in a relieved rush. Now if they all could just reach the Pathfinder without ending up the main entree in a zombie buffet. She spotted Griff’s vehicle in the distance. Miraculously they had a straight shot to it. Her lungs burning, she ran toward the only beacon of escape.