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I nod. “Want help?”

“Um. Maybe.” The words drag unwillingly from her.

I walk over slowly, hand extended. “How?”

“Can’t move my shoulder,” she mumbles.

“Oh. Okay.” I find the clothes clutched in her arm, the arm holding the towel around her body. They’re damp and soft, just like her. I’ve grabbed one of Rhea’s shirts, something red and warm.

With careful effort, I slide it over Victoria’s head, instinctively pulling the mane of long dark hair out of the neck of the shirt as I settle it around her shoulders.

She keeps looking at me, and this time, oh, this time, there’s a tiny glimmer of a smile. Her eyes are still watchful, wary even, but that little jerk of her mouth sends an electrifying bolt right through me, almost like a second reanimation.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

I nod and back up as if my hands are singed. She’s the real fire—and I’m burning.

“I got it from here,” she says, voice a little louder, a little sharper.

I take another step away, but distance has no effect on me. I can still feel her skin against mine, a phantom sensation that won’t leave me.

I’m on fire—and there’s no way to put out these kinds of flames.

Chapter Five: Camouflage

Bocella’s wife was a loud, curvaceous, materialistic blonde with hobbies that kept their family on the respectable side of the media. She liked to host charity fashion shows, and her Bag Bingo to support the local hospital was filled with dozens of purses donated by rich mob wives and attended by rich mob wives and respectable socialites alike. She was a trophy wife with clear expectations.

Why am I thinking about this?

Because my being a quiet, slender, dare I say “demure” brunette was very appealing to him, because I wasn’t “his usual type.” “A man likes to eat out instead of having the same leftover every night,” he said once. But before long, that wasn’t enough. He wanted to play games.

Be my good little girl, Tori. Sit on Daddy’s knee. Or how about I bend you over it?

It was fortunate and unfortunate that morning sickness and business collided with his increased comfort level and the new demands for “playtime.” Unfortunate because being sick sucked and made him angry and led to the loss of my baby. Fortunate because I could refuse him without going into my personal boundaries, as he didn’t respect anyone’s boundaries but his own.

You can play a part, Victoria. Vicky, Tori, Victoria. You can camouflage. Watch. Wait. Learn the weaknesses. Learn how this particular monster works, because it doesn’t look or act like the videos.

If I didn’t know how hard it was to make a revenant, I’d say there were two copies. The thing that tore Pazcuso’s boys apart and ripped its way out of their crappy torture cell—I mean, training room—and the guy who is now wearing a loud Hawaiian shirt while scraping extinguisher foam out of a blackened oven and cursing with a creative mix of the foulest language and 1950s slang I’ve ever heard.

“Gosh-darn-golly-gee-whiz fucking bastard of a blackened heart of darkness butternut squash!” he roars as he and a pan of oily black disaster go flying backward.

“Oh! God, I’m so sorry. I’m no help,” I simper. That’s another reason to pretend to be something I’m not. I’m no match for Lazarus in my injured state.

Pretty soon, that should mean I turn to prey. Predators love to eat the weak ones.

And no one with eyes could miss Lazarus’s teeth. Sharp. Filed to points. Carnivore teeth.

“It’s fine. I’m sorry I dug you out of a hole only to almost burn you alive. Frying pan. Fire.” He shakes himself off, rises, and keeps scrubbing away.

Okay. Determined. And yeah, maybe there’s a hint of predator and prey there. Playing with his food. Frying pan, fire, he said.

Although that’s actually kind of accurate. He did save me, then promptly endangered me. I’m still endangered.

“Oh, well. I’m not much of a cook,” I say, trying to make small talk.

“Me, either. I don’t need to eat. I mean, I do, but... dead. Not getting any deader. Good night, nurse, will you look at this mess? Rhea’s going to kill me. I mean... No, she wouldn’t. Won’t. They’re in a good mood. That’s a good thing.”

“Good news?” I hope I sound sort of air-headed, maybe the kind of person you’d underestimate. Every word he says, I store up.