“Wait in the living room,” Frankie said. Her voice was steady, but her pulse was already hammering a double-time rhythm against her ribs.

  Damon blinked, surprised. He was still standing by the kitchen counter, looking like a lost soldier without a war to fight. “Wait? For what? I thought we were watching a movie.”

  “Just wait,” Frankie said. She offered him a small smile—one she hadn’t worn in a long time. “And don’t come looking for me until I call you.”

  She turned and walked down the hallway, feeling his eyes on her back. Once she was inside her bedroom, she moved. A streak of motion across the room, locking the door before the click could even register.

  She stripped off her school clothes, kicking them into the corner. She stepped into the ensuite shower, turning the water as hot as she could stand. She didn’t stay long—just enough to scrub away the scent of bleach, fear, and high school hallway. She washed away the monster hunter.

  She stepped out, drying off quickly. She didn’t reach for the red dress. It was in the trash anyway, stiff with dried mud and slime from the bridge. She didn’t look for a backup. She didn’t want a costume. She grabbed a simple black tank top and slid it on. It was thin, frayed at the hem, and honest.

  The room was dark, save for the moon cutting through the window. No rose petals. No candles. No music. Just the cold of the trauma and the need for the heat of another person to chase it away.

  Frankie checked her reflection. Her green eyes were bright, the pupils blown wide. She didn’t look like a victim. She looked dangerous.

  She sat on the edge of the bed and took a breath.

  “Damon,” she called out. “Get in here.”

  Footsteps immediately. Heavy.

  The doorknob turned. The door creaked open.

  “Frankie, is everything o—”

  Damon stopped in the doorway. The light from the hall caught the edges of his frame, highlighting the tension in his shoulders. He was still wearing his jeans and black t-shirt. His eyes found her in the dark. He gripped the doorframe as if the floor had suddenly tilted.

  “Come inside,” Frankie said. “Close the door.”

  Damon swallowed hard. He stepped in, shutting the door behind him and plunging them into the shadows.

  “I thought…” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “I thought we were strategizing.”

  “We are,” Frankie said. She reached out, her hand finding his in the dark. “My strategy involves you, this bed, and forgetting the rest of the world exists.”

  Damon stared at her, his dark eyes widening. “Frankie. You…”

  “I’m tired of waiting,” she interrupted. She stood up, closing the distance between them until she could feel the radiator-heat coming off him. She took the hem of his shirt. “Take it off.”

  Damon pulled the shirt over his head in one fluid motion, tossing it aside. His chest was rising and dropping. He didn’t look like he was afraid to touch her—he looked like he was afraid she was an illusion that might shatter if he breathed too hard.

  “I need this,” Frankie whispered. “I need you.”

  He reached out, pulling her onto the mattress. The sheets were cool against her back, contrasting with the searing heat of his skin as he settled over her.

  “Are you sure?” Damon whispered, bracing his weight on his elbows. He searched her face. “With everything going on?”

  Frankie wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him down. “Don’t talk.”

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  He groaned, a low sound in his throat, and closed the distance.

  It wasn’t a performance. It was an answering of prayers. It was desperate and demanding. Frankie melted into him, her hands tangling in his dreadlocks. The thrum of the anxiety in her head faded. The image of the blue-eyed zombie faded.

  There was only this. The heat. The friction. The solid, grounding weight of him.

  Later.

  The music of the night was just the hum of the heater. Frankie lay with her head on Damon’s chest. He draped his arm over her, heavy and relaxed. His breathing was slow, deep.

  She traced circles on his skin with her fingertip. The room was cooling down. Frankie stared at the ceiling shadows.

  “Hawaii,” Damon murmured, half-asleep.

  “Yeah?”

  “We get a place with a lanai. Isn’t that what they call it? A porch?”

  “A lanai,” Frankie agreed softly.

  “And a dog,” Damon said. “Something useless. Like a pug.”

  Frankie smiled. “A pug. Good for guarding us against… squeaky toys.”

  Damon chuckled. The sound vibrated through his chest, into her ear. “It’s a plan. May. We leave in May.”

  “May,” Frankie whispered.

  She closed her eyes, letting herself drift. Maybe he was right. Maybe the National Guard would handle it. Maybe the worms were just hallucinations from the stress.

  Then, the night broke.

  SCREEEEEEEEE!

  The sound ripped through the air, vibrating the window glass. Frankie went rigid. Not a siren. Not a car crash.

  Not human. Wet. Guttural. A frequency that scraped against the bone. It sounded like a throat tearing open.

  Damon jolted awake. “What was that?”

  Frankie sat up. The sheet fell away. Her pupils dilated instantly, swallowing the green irises.

  The sound came from the street. Close. Three houses down.

  “Help me! Oh god, someone help!”

  Sarah Miller. The neighbor with the hydrangeas.

  Then, another sound. A low, chittering hiss. Click-click-click.

  Frankie’s heart stopped. She knew that sound. She had heard it on the bridge of the Borealis.

  “No,” she whispered.

  She swung her legs out of bed.

  “Frankie?” Damon sat up, rubbing his eyes. “It sounds like a wolf or something.”

  Frankie turned to him. Damon flinched. He scrambled back against the headboard.

  “Your eyes,” he gasped.

  Frankie blinked. She felt the heat in them. The burn. The red ring bleeding into her vision.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. Her voice had dropped an octave. Rough.

  She grabbed the closest thing available—Damon’s heavy canvas jacket from the hallway. She pulled it on, zipping it to her chin. It hung to her mid-thighs.

  “Frankie, wait,” Damon said. “What is it?”

  “It’s here,” Frankie said. “The thing from the ship.”

  She jammed her feet into sneakers.

  “Stay here,” she ordered.

  “Like hell,” Damon said.

  He jumped out of bed. He grabbed his jeans from the floor, hopping on one leg as he pulled them on.

  “Damon, don’t,” Frankie said. She threw the window sash up. “It’s dangerous. It’s not a vampire.”

  “I don’t care what it is.” He grabbed his sneakers. “You’re not going out there alone.”

  Another scream from the street. This one was cut short. A wet gurgle.

  Adrenaline hit. Teeth ached. Frankie vaulted over the sill.

  She hit the grass running. The cold ground was hard. The fog was waiting. She sprinted around the side of the house. Behind her, the thud of feet hitting the floorboards. Damon was coming.

  Frankie reached the front yard and stopped.

  Streetlights flickering. Fog turning the suburban street into a ghostly tunnel. Sarah Miller’s house was dark. But on the front lawn, two figures tangled together.

  Frankie walked forward. “Sarah?”

  One figure looked up.

  It was Sarah. She was wearing a bathrobe, her face buried in the neck of a man lying on the grass. Sarah lifted her head. Her mouth was red. Smeared. Not with blood, but with a thick, gray sludge.

  She looked at Frankie. Her eyes were gone. Blue light. Burning where eyes should be.

  Sarah hissed. Her jaw unhinged, dropping three inches too low. She stood up, moving with a jerky, popping motion. Joints snapping into the wrong places.

  Frankie stood her ground. Strength rippled through her. Behind her, the front door slammed open.

  Damon ran out. Shirtless, shivering, gripping an aluminum baseball bat in both hands. He saw Sarah. He saw the blue light. The jaw.

  “What…” Damon whispered.

  Sarah groaned and lunged.

  “Run!” Frankie shoved him.

  Damon didn’t run. He swung the bat.