Free Dead Sexy by Aleah Barley

matter. 
    He struck first. Shimmying forward. A few quick steps and he hit me with a sharp jab that feinted to my left and left me open to an uppercut from the right. The Biter hit hard, connecting solidly with my face.
    I was boxing out of my weight class, and it didn’t feel good. At all . I licked my lip, tasting blood.
    No more playing games. I lunged forward. The knife went up. I delivered a left hook that would have made the guys at the gym proud and brought my knife into play. Blood coated my hand as I slashed at his body. Not that he seemed to care. Biters didn’t feel pain. No, I corrected myself. He’d given up the right to polite names when he’d attacked me with a horde of other dead men at his back.
    The thing was a zombie. A monster. The kind of terror that went bump in the night.
    Freak. I got him solidly in the face, slicing open his cheek, but he just kept coming. The monster hit hard.
    Like a California earthquake only without the delightful aftershocks.
    It was just one solid slam after another. His fists connected with my shoulders. My gut. My face. I got a few good slashes in, but mostly I was being beaten. Soundly.
    My body faltered, and I stumbled back against D.S.
    “Hell,” the federally issued Biter growled. There was a solid thwacking sound. I couldn’t tell whether it was a foot from the crowd connecting with my bruised and broken body or something D.S. had done, but then he turned and stepped carefully over my prone body. He gave my attacker a long, hard look. “You’re pretty good—picking on a bantam-weight girl with a pulse—want to try me on for size?”
    The fighting zombie grinned. “Hell, yeah.” He gave D.S. a nod. “Bring it on. I’ve been itching for a real fight.”
    “Good.” D.S. drew his gun and shot in one-smooth motion.
    Bang. The gunshot echoed through the brick alley, so loud it made my head ring. The world was spinning. I struggled to flip myself over onto my belly, doubling over to clutch my battered body.
    Nausea slammed through me in waves. I felt like vomiting.
    I felt like dying.
    “Gemma!” D.S.’s hand was cool against my shoulder. “Damn it, Gemma! Talk to me. Tell me… did he bite you?” He was shaking me now, like a dog with a favorite toy. His hands were rough against my skin. His face was so damn pretty; all cheekbones and golden skin.
    He was so pretty.
    Had he really kissed me? I laughed at the thought. The man was dead. Really, truly dead. Like a doorknob. Or a doornail. I couldn’t remember.
    I felt light headed from loss of blood and internal bruising.
    Maybe I really was dying.
    “Answer me, damn it!” D.S. growled. “Are you going to turn?”
    “It’s not possible.”
    The world flickered and went dark.
     
     
     

11.
    Bright flickering lights battered against me. I could hear singing in the background. The man’s voice sounded out over the otherworldly hum. The notes were beautiful strung together like a pearl necklace of sound. The words were all Greek to me… or Italian… or Yiddish… I’m not exactly a whiz at foreign languages.
    It had finally happened. I’d died and gone to Heaven. Why not? I might be a foul-mouthed troublemaker with a tendency to violence, but I treat my mother nice—most of the time—and I’m a virgin. Throw on some fluffy white robes and I’m a freaking angel.
    My eyes popped open, and I stared up at the mortuary’s familiar vaulted ceiling with its intricate golden molding. I was laid out flat on one of the cold metal tables that we use to prepare dead bodies before a viewing. It wasn’t exactly reassuring.
    I levered myself into an upright position. My body was sore all over. My head was pounding.
    I wasn’t dead.
    I couldn’t be dead.
    I hurt too much to be dead.
    “I was going to take you back to my hotel room, but why risk getting blood on the sheets when I could just bring you here?” D.S. asked. “Your Biter let me in. Donny. He wasn’t happy.” The federal agent was lying on a