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“I hear Mathias has been converting humans to swell his ranks. He abducts capable men, often military, then rips out their souls. After that, he can command their thoughts and actions. Nothing can break the link but demise of the body.”
Another of the corpse-like Anarki reaches the door. Then another. Marrok kicks them back. But they keep coming.
One reaches inside and swipes at me with a rotting hand, eyes ruthless in its sagging face. It misses my shirt by a mere breath. Cold oozes from his fingertips, like a walking freezer.
Oh, my god. That…thing nearly touched me with its rotting flesh. My flight instinct kicks in, and I jump away with a gasp, whirling to find an escape, maybe out the back door. But more zombies pile up against the glass, like a writhing wall of undead.
I shake with terror.
Marrok shoves the book into my hands and lifts his broadsword. With a mighty growl, he wields the blade, skewering the trio of zombies trying to breach the front door. Black blood oozes from their wounds and drips from their mouths before they finally crumple to the earth.
What the hell?
Clutching the book in horror, I watch Marrok yank his massive arm to free his sword before he lops off the head of another soulless demon. Nothing fazes him, but I stifle a scream when I find undead piling up against the windows all around the cottage, threatening to break the glass. Trembling, I spin around. There must be some way out. We can’t just die.
But I see nothing.
Marrok charges another pair of undead Anarki and emerges victorious. Relief edges through me. Worrying about him isn’t logical; he’s immortal and heals instantly, but…what if something happens to him? Marrok and I have problems. I don’t know if I can trust him with my heart, but life would be painfully empty without him.
We’ll have to work that out later. Now, I need to help the fight.
I whirl on one foot and sprint down the hall, tying the book inside my shirt along the way.
“Olivia!” Marrok’s shout rings above the din of his sword.
“Be right back!” I snatch up a pair of handguns, ignoring the creepy zombies slithering in front of the bedroom window, and rush back to the fray. I’m grateful I took a gun safety class when I moved out of my mother’s house and lived on my own. I might not be able to identify this weapon, but I know how to unlock it, aim, and shoot.
When I reach the main room, Marrok looks relieved to see me. He’d kill anyone who tries to harm me.
“I’m fine,” I promise. “Look out!”
Marrok whirls and fends off two approaching undead creatures, one on his left, the other on his right. He backs up a step. Foolishly, they follow. He crouches and swings the sword in a wide arc, severing their torsos in half. I try not to gag when the black liquid spurts from their bodies and puddles on the porch, running over the stones and into the dirt below.
Marrok charges forward, then. More of the awful creatures fall.
“I can help.” I approach behind him and try to squeeze through the door.
He shoves me back inside. “Stay where ’tis safe!”
“But—”
“Nay,” he snarls, then demolishes more corpses.
He’s not letting me help because I’m female? I would point out that’s sexist and old-fashioned, but given the century he was raised in, I’m pretty sure he would laugh.
Bram, Lucan, and Duke flick their wands furiously while Richard perches himself on the half wall at the edge of the porch and zaps more Anarki who don’t look as if they’re rotting on their bones.
Soon, a pile of Anarki wizards lay bound and stacked at Lucan’s feet. Bram curses as he tucks away his wand.
Is he insane? There are hundreds of creatures left. Does he expect Marrok to slay them all? The odds are overwhelming, even for someone with his amazing prowess.
A moment later, Bram curls his hand into a fist and does his best to punch one of the undead. The first time, he misses completely, nearly knocking himself off balance. The second, the crack of knuckles on flesh resounds sickeningly through the house. Bram grimaces as he shakes his hand, uttering a few choice words—which he repeats when the Anarki continue toward the cottage. Toward me.
Marrok has been waylaid far from the door. More zombies approach. Bram tries to punch another. The thing shoves him on his ass with a hearty push, then continues toward me.
“Olivia!” Marrok calls across the porch, trying to hurtle the zombies.
I don’t want to die, and I’ll be damned if Mathias is getting his hands on the Doomsday Diary. Anyone who can create these soulless zombies isn’t someone who needs a book with such power.
