Pretty When She Kills (Pretty When She Dies #2)(4)

“I am fast,” Amaliya protested. “I just don’t want to be-”

The blade glinted for a second in the moonlight and she flung her hand up before her. The ground around her gave way as a corpse exploded out of the unmarked grave on which she was crouched. The dagger slammed into its chest and the very old, decayed body shuddered.

Amaliya reached out and touched the zombie with her bloodied fingers. The mildewed fabric and desiccated form beneath her fingers didn’t disgust her as it once would have. She felt an affinity to the dead now. She felt a kinship with them, compassion, almost a sense of belonging. As her blood touched its flesh, the corpse took on a more human appearance. It was an elderly black man. Inclining his head toward her, the zombie awaited her next command.

Standing, Amaliya gripped the dagger and yanked it out of the zombie’s chest. “Sorry. Instinct. Didn’t mean to awaken you.”

The dried orbs that were once eyes, were slowly taking on color. The longer she touched the zombie, the more he would resemble the living. Her blood was life to a zombie. It was the basis of her necromantic power. The Summoner hadn’t needed to shed blood to raise the dead, but she did.

“Sleep,” she whispered.

The zombie closed its eyes and the grave swallowed him.

Staring at the dagger in her hand, Amaliya felt both sickened and enthralled with her power.

“You could raise the graveyard,” Cian said stepping next to her.

“I don’t want to pull a Night of the Living Dead,” Amaliya said in a sad voice.

Tangling his fingers in her long black hair, Cian lifted his chin and pressed a kiss to her forehead. He was an old vampire and at five foot seven they were almost the same height. In heels, she loomed over him.

“You can control them. Don’t ever fear you’ll end up making flesh-eating zombies. Those only live in movies,” Cian assured her.

“But they’ll rip someone apart if I command them.” Amaliya distinctly remembered commanding the dead to do that several times before.

“You can control the dead. It’s your power. No other vampire has such an ability,” Cian reminded her. “You must learn to harness it.”

Amaliya frowned at his words, the old urge to run away playing havoc with her nerves. When things got too rough in the past, she had always run. That’s how she had found Cian after she was made into a vampire. She had fled to Austin and accidentally found him. In many ways, it was the smartest and best thing she had ever done in her life. Yet, at times, she still felt the urge to bolt when reminded of the enormity of her new position in the world of the vampires. She was the inheritor of The Summoner’s terrible necromantic power and the right-hand to the Master of Austin.

Like in Bram Stoker’s Dracula, the vampires in the Americas tended to call themselves Masters if they were old enough and powerful enough to carve out some territory of their own. In Europe, Cian said they called themselves king, queen, regent, and even emperor. Amaliya supposed being a ‘vampire president’ sounded dull. Cian wasn’t particularly enthralled with the title of Master of Austin, and he wore it grudgingly.

Years before, in the Seventies, when The Summoner had been playing games in Cian’s life, the creator and fledgling agreed to a pact. If Cian became the master over a city, The Summoner would let him be. Cian had usurped the Austin cabal, sold them out to the vampire hunters, and took over the small college town when the hunters had wiped out the resident vampires. He wasn’t even particularly ashamed of his actions and had even friended the head vampire hunter, Professor Summerfield.

Amaliya was swiftly learning that Cian was ruthless and didn’t really live with any regrets. He did what had to be done and didn’t really worry in the aftermath. She lived with constant regrets and envied him. Her biggest regret was ever going on a date with her professor in college, who ended up being The Summoner in disguise. If she hadn’t gone on that coffee date chances are she’d still be in college and would have eventually ended up marrying sweet Pete back home in East Texas. At times like these she was haunted by a life she would never have.

“I don’t like being the big bad scary necromancer,” Amaliya said at last.

Cian brushed his lips over hers. “I know. But you are.”

Leaning against him, her fingers settled on his waist. She loved the way his body felt against hers. He had been a slave in the West Indies in the 1600’s when he had been made into a vampire. A sparse diet and hard labor had chiseled his body into lean muscle. She, meanwhile, should have lost a few pounds before becoming a vampire. She hated her long waist, wider hips, and short legs. Cian, though, seemed to love every inch of her.

The thought made her blush.

He chuckled in her ear, most likely sensing the flush of her skin and her arousal. The mist drifted around them in big clumps as it slowly dissipated.

Licking his ear, she pressed herself against his body, her fingers sliding under his shirt to glide up over his back.

“We’re here to practice,” Cian reminded her.

“Fuck practice,” Amaliya whispered.

Cian’s lips caught hers in a passionate kiss, his hands cradling her face. He made her crazy for him and it scared and thrilled her at the same time. The caress of his hands, the touch of his lips, the teasing of his tongue, all made her want to throw him down on the ground and ride him until they were both screaming.