The Single Undead Moms(90)

“Thanks, Wade.” I sighed.

“You’re still gonna be my girl,” he said, kissing my forehead.

“There are no other men like you in the world,” I told him.

He scoffed. “’Course not. When he made me, God bronzed the mold and retired it.” He kissed the tip of my nose and, closing his mouth over mine, laid a kiss on me that stole the unneeded breath from my lungs. He pulled me against him, hands roaming to my denim-covered butt and giving it a none-too-gentle squeeze.

“What are you doing?” I asked, grinning up at him.

“Just givin’ that other guy somethin’ to live up to.”

“Nice,” I said, shaking my head.

He shrugged. “Gives me time to plan my next move.”

“OK, master manipulator, you go get your truck to haul away the prizes and stuff, and I’ll run litter patrol.”

“That’s going to take you a while,” he said.

“I’ve got it,” I told him, snagging a rake from a decorative display. (Yes, really.) As Wade disappeared into the darkness, I bolted across the schoolyard at top speed, dragging the rake behind me. I darted back and forth over the grass in tight rows, picking up the litter as I went. Eventually, I had a huge pile of it in the middle of the grass, waiting to be bagged.

“Vampire speed finally pays off!” I exclaimed. “Wade, I beat you! I’m already done! I invite you to marvel at my efficiency.” I did a little victory dance, complete with rake spins.

Unfortunately, these rake spins were witnessed by a man lurking at the edge of the schoolyard—a tall man in dark pants and sweater and a black ski mask, with a squarish head. Someone didn’t get the memo about Pumpkin Patch costumes being a kid thing. Or this was the same chupacabra creep who’d lurked all over me after the PTA meeting weeks before, which was more likely.

El Chupacabra sauntered over to me, and I put my rake on my shoulder like a baseball bat, crouched in a ready stance. Even through the mask, I could tell that he wasn’t breathing. He didn’t have a heartbeat. Which meant he was a vampire, too. There went any advantage I might have had. I had literally never been in a fight before, not even a catfight at the Laundromat, which, I will admit, was unusual given my upbringing.

I worried about Wade. Was he OK? Had El Chupacabra hurt Wade so he could corner me? The man stopped just outside of rake range, waving his hands over my face. I lifted an eyebrow. “Can I help you?”

The man tilted his head, staring at me through the ski mask with baleful black eyes. An odd, acrid smell, like old burnt coffee, hit my nostrils, and I reeled back. He held his hand closer to my face, apparently expecting some reaction, but got nothing. He even shook his hand, all jazzy and fluttery, before trying it again. But I felt nothing. Maybe this was part of my stabilizing gift? He had a power he was trying to use to subdue me but couldn’t because I was shutting him down?

Maybe my power didn’t suck so much after all.

Then it seemed that he had decided to handle things the old-fashioned way, because he produced a stake from behind his back and lunged at me.

I ducked (thank you, vampire reflexes) and yelled, “Who the hell are you, jackass?”

Danny believed I was a superhero. I could do this. I could survive a fistfight . . . in which one of the parties had a stake. Right. Mustering all the upper-body strength I had, I shoved his hands aside and whipped my head forward, smashing my forehead into his.

Ow.

Effective. But ow.

He stumbled back, but I still had to sidestep the stake and, using the rake, shoved the man aside while he was off-balance. A bit more dazed than I would expect, he side-swung again, and I blocked with the rake handle. I swung back, using the rake fan like a giant palm, slapping him back and forth across the face.

He grabbed the fan and shoved it toward me, the rounded end of the handle catching me right in the sternum. I panicked, looking down and expecting to see the handle sticking out of my heart and my body disintegrating to dust. But I was just bruised . . . in a really embarrassing location. Stumbling away and rubbing at my battered chest, I still had the presence of mind to hang on to the rake handle.

Yay for me.

My opponent, who was still a little addled from his rake-slapping, struggled to his feet and limped toward me. When he got within range, I swung the rake over my head and whacked him over the face with the handle. He grunted, swinging his leg forward and planting his foot on my chest, knocking me to the ground. I gasped, rolling out of the way as he lunged, stake down, and got his wooden weapon stuck in the dirt. I scrambled to my feet and kicked the man in the ribs, sending him sprawling across the grass.

Dropping the stake, he ran at me, hands outstretched and curled, as if he was going to strangle me. I took a few steps forward and tripped him with the rake. He’d built up so much momentum that he actually dug a furrow into the lawn, only stopping when he hit the fence near the playground.