Night Resurrected Read online

Remy shook her head, her throat tight and dry. “I don’t remember ever hearing him mention the Cult of Atlantis, or even Atlantis. But I did know about the NSA.”

  “Yes, it was your grandfather’s old identification card from the NSA that eventually led us to find you,” Sage put in.

  “But why would a group of people cause the Change? What was the benefit? How could they live with themselves after being part of such destruction?” Something plunged in her stomach, sharp and low. “My grandfather . . . you said he was one of them. He was one of the ones who planned and caused the Change.” An ugly nausea bubbled inside her. She’d always suspected he’d done something awful . . . but this was inconceivable. “That’s why he lived such a life of remorse afterward. And why he didn’t want to die.”

  Wyatt nodded, his face grave. “It’s likely. Or else he had the knowledge of what was going to happen, but wasn’t able to stop it. Or didn’t try. We’ll never know.”

  “But we might,” Quent said, eyeing the crystal Sage had returned to the table. “I—”

  “No fucking way are you touching that thing,” Zoë exclaimed. “I’ll smash the damned thing myself before I let you place one pinky nail on it.” Her dark, almond-shaped eyes snapped with ferocity . . . and fear.

  “You can’t destroy it,” Ana said. “I mean, it’s possible . . . but it’s the Mother crystal, the source of life for the Atlanteans and the Strangers. If it’s destroyed, they’ll all die.”

  There was a shocked, taut silence. Then Wyatt said, “Are you certain? If the crystal is destroyed, they all die? Do you mean we have here the power to destroy all of the Strangers and the Atlanteans—at one time?” His voice was low and careful, filled with tension.

  “Lacey told me the same thing,” Remy said. “If the crystal dies, everyone dies.”

  They stared at the small orange crystal.

  Chapter 20

  Twenty-four hours

  They’d left the crystal safely in the computer room with Sage, George, David, and Cat—and Dantès—while everyone else scattered to see to other business and get any updates on the situation in the city at large. Meanwhile, the Waxnickis were working remotely to see if they could hack into the Strangers’ communications system, which was just as secure as their own and, fortunately, less complicated. If they could learn what the Strangers had planned for retaliation, it would be easier to circumvent if necessary.

  Wyatt was taking Remy to find something to eat when they ran into Simon, Elliott, and Jade.

  “They’ve blocked the gates. The evacuees can’t get through.” Simon’s features were tight and his eyes weary.

  “How?” Elliott asked, sliding a comforting arm around Jade as he exchanged glances with Wyatt.

  “Four Humvees. Sitting out there about a thousand feet beyond the gates. Chavalas opened fire on a family—with children—as they came out, carrying their belongings.”

  “They fired at children?” Rage punched through him and Wyatt curled his fingers tightly. “Tell me no one was hurt.”

  “Thank God, no,” Simon replied. “But the threat is clear, and so they’ve stopped the stream of people leaving. Now people have to stay. And now the situation is even worse.” He passed a hand over his face and glanced at Elliott. “Tell him.”

  “Someone has revealed that Remington Truth is a woman, and given a basic description of her. That means the likes of Susan Proudy and her gang are getting even more riled up. Louder, more violent.”

  “Who would have done that?” Wyatt said, feeling Remy tense next to him. “Ian Marck.” That rage bubbled up sharply again.

  “Ian wouldn’t do that.”

  Why the hell was Remy always defending the bastard?

  “Marck’s still in custody,” Simon said with a thin smile. “Vaughn’s got him under house arrest. He hasn’t had communication with anyone.”

  “How the hell did they find out, then? Besides us, the only other person who knew was Lacey and her—”

  He stopped and looked down at Remy just as she said, “Goldwyn. Her partner.”

  “Had to be him.”

  “And he knows what I look like,” she said, furtively glancing around, even though it was dark out here. “He could draw a good picture, or tell someone how.” She edged closer to Wyatt, and he resisted the urge to slip an arm around her.

  Instead, he scanned the area. They were standing outside in front of a worn-out New York–New York. The area was lit by streetlamps, but it was still shadowy from the night. A smattering of people were moving about, talking in groups or rushing from place to place. Inside, more people were in the pub or the common areas. An albino wouldn’t be hard to find even in the dim light. He could take care of him in about thirty seconds . . .

  His gaze panned back and clashed with Simon’s. The very same deathly look was in his dark eyes, but he gave Wyatt a subtle shake of the head. Not the way, brother.

  Fuck that, Wyatt flashed back.

  “It’s too late,” Elliott spoke up. He may or may not have read the unspoken dialogue between his friends. “Goldwyn’s probably safely out there with his friends in the Humvees. Waiting for the countdown, twenty-four hours from now.”

  “Vaughn wants to meet in his office at midnight,” Simon said. “Go over all the options. The city council is meeting now and he’ll have their recommendation by then.”

  “That’s nice,” Wyatt sneered. “I’m sure we’ll be kissing their collective ass and going along with whatever they decide is the best move.”

  Elliott’s mouth twitched. “Vaughn’s playing the game. He has to. This might be the last bastion of civilization, but it’s still a democracy. Er . . . to some extent,” he added when he saw Wyatt’s expression.

  “Let’s go,” Wyatt said abruptly, looking down at Remy. “We’ll be back at midnight,” he added to the others as he drew her away.

  Remy found herself walking quickly to keep up with Wyatt’s long, purposeful strides. She supposed it was best to be moving, for it was less likely someone would catch sight of her beneath a streetlight or the flashes of neon.

  She wasn’t really worried about being easily recognized. After all, it wasn’t as if Goldwyn had a photograph of her that he would be showing around. Nevertheless, as Wyatt went into the community kitchen to scrounge up some food, she stayed off in a corner, pretending to be examining an old painting on the wall. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten, and when he handed her a sandwich, she realized she was ravenous. They ate and drank quickly, still lingering in the corner, Remy with her back to the room at large, then he said, “Come on.”

  A few minutes and several flights of stairs later, Wyatt opened the door to his room (or so she assumed; true to form, he hadn’t actually given her any explanation as to where they were going) and she stepped inside. Closing the door, he flipped a switch and the soft glow from a series of wall sconces and lamps filled the space.

  The room was simple, sparse and neat. Moonlight shone through the open curtains and large windows on one wall. A row of books lined the windowsill; too far away for her to see the titles. The bed was made, its sheets and coverlet tight and sharply creased, the pillows positioned at right angles, their cases smooth and wrinkle-free. A few items sat on one dresser and in a small square pile on the floor. She could see a hint of the bathroom through an ajar door, smell the faint, pleasant scent of man clinging to the space, and noticed a small rectangular object on the table next to the bed.

  “Your stuff’s over there,” Wyatt said, jerking his head toward a bundle on the dresser.

  “My stuff?”

  “Your things from the truck.”

  “Really?” She was over to the bureau in a flash. Her pack—which she’d had to leave behind during the craziness of the zombie attack and her slim chance to slip away—was there, and filled with her stuff. “How did—you must have gone back the next morning,” she said, answering her own question before she could even ask it.

  It was all there: her new tank to
ps, the bras and panties, the cute blue sundress, and the other treasures she’d found. “Oh, thank you for going back to get my things, Wyatt. You have no idea—thank you.” Then, a little embarrassed by the naked emotion in her tones, she glanced over to see his reaction.

  She caught him by surprise; she must have, for he whipped his attention away from her. But not before she saw the look in his glittering eyes. Heat, raw and dark.

  Her belly dropped, her mouth went dry, and she faltered, her attention skittering away as if she’d seen something she shouldn’t have. Something so private and personal that she had to pretend it didn’t exist. Her insides were a tangle, fluttering and hot and confused, and she didn’t know what to say, how to react—of course she couldn’t react. His now stony expression, bordering on angry, discouraged any sort of response. His stiff posture, his fists, tight at his sides, his flat, cool eyes.

  “No problem,” he said, turning away to dig through what appeared to be his own pack.

  And then, as she tried to find a way out of the awkward moment, Remy noticed the other item on the dresser. A thick, heavy, hard-covered book. Completely intact. “The Count of Monte Cristo,” she said, picking it up. Her heart thumped, hard.

  “I thought you might want to finish it,” he said, still busy with his back to her. His voice sounded strange. “Since you never did.”

  Something shimmered through her, warm and tingly, swelling inside her like a warm flower blossoming large. “Thank you.” Her reply, she realized, was hardly more than a whisper. “This is your copy?” She glanced toward the makeshift bookshelf.

  He stilled for a moment, then went over to draw the curtains closed, hiding the books on the sill. “I . . . uh . . . came across an old library on the way back here and scavenged around to see if I could find it.”

  “You just came across an old library?” Remy’s heart was thumping harder now, and that warm rush continued to bloom through her insides. “Just by accident? Really.” And just happened to find a copy of this book? She turned to face him. His expression had eased into chagrin and impatience layered with chill.

  A man at war with himself.

  “It was only a little out of the way,” he said. Defensively.

  Remy put the book down. Before she realized it, she’d walked across the room toward him. Stark panic flared in his eyes when he realized she’d positioned herself so he was trapped in the corner by the curtain pull, or he’d have to actually walk past her—possibly brush against her—to move away.

  “You could have just told me how it ended,” she said, looking up at him. Whoa. He was so close, so solid, so dark and forbidding . . . and yet at the same time, he looked like little more than a trapped animal. Her chest swelled and she found it hard to breathe. “Instead of taking the chance of being found by the zombies. While carrying my crystal.” She let her voice drop low, let the huskiness slide into it.

  “What the hell are you doing, Remy?” His voice was sharp and hard, and she saw the defenses shoot up like a shield. His lips went taut and he actually held up a hand, as if to ward her off.

  “Thanking you.”

  “Great, you’ve thanked me. Now could you—”

  But she’d taken his upheld hand and raised it so she could see better in the light. His skin was warm, his wrist solid and strong. But something else had her attention. “What’s all this black stuff?” she said, looking at the delicate skin on the underside of his wrist. There was black in the creases there, which wasn’t so unusual in itself . . . but a patch of it was flaking off . . . almost like a burn. “Is this from the fire? You did get burned, didn’t you?”

  Wyatt snatched his arm away and pushed past her. He strode across the room, and when he turned, he was grinding his thumb and forefinger into his eyes and the bridge of his nose. “I’ll tell you about it. But first, I’m going to shower. Get the rest of it off.”

  Remy blinked. “Get the rest of what—”

  But he was already stalking toward the front door, throwing the bolt lock into place with a loud clank, clicking the chain lock into its slot. “Do not open the door to anyone,” he said, his eyes boring into her. “Anyone. I don’t care who they are.”

  “What if Elliott or Que—”

  “No one, Remy,” he said, already on his way to the other room. He paused on the threshold to the bathroom. “If someone comes to the door, you let me know.”

  “Right. I’m going to walk in on you in the shower?” she said, just to see what his reaction would be.

  “Knock,” he said, then slammed the door shut.

  Remy stared after him, shaking her head as she heard the spray of water start in the shower. And then she couldn’t help but picture what was happening on the other side of that door: Wyatt peeling off his shirt, sliding out of those long jeans and whatever he wore beneath. She felt hot and breathless, unable to keep her imagination from running rampant. With a chest like his, arms and shoulders as sleek and muscular as they were, legs so long and lean . . . she knew the rest of him had to be worth going breathless and fluttery over.

  But . . . jeez . . . Wyatt. He was an angry jerk of a man who couldn’t seem to let himself feel.

  A man at war with himself.

  Jade was right; there was no better way to describe him.

  Despite that, Remy still found herself wanting to be with him. Attracted to him, yes—who the hell wouldn’t be?—but despite his prickly nature, his moods, and that underlying rage, she was drawn to him. She trusted him. Cared about him. Sometimes even liked him.

  Am I crazy?

  Her attention went back to the book. To the pile of her things on the dresser. To the fact that he’d stolen her crystal and kept it in order to protect her from the zombies. And that, while carrying it, he’d taken a detour to an old library . . . and then that moment in Cat’s room, when he’d realized she was there. An instant of naked emotion.

  That burst of heat swelled inside her once more, making her a little light-headed. He did care. He didn’t want to, but he did. In some way, some small way, he cared about her.

  But was it worth it to try and find out how much?

  Especially . . .

  The rush of cold fear swept away her soft, bubbly, warm feelings. Reality returned, gouging out the heat and leaving her empty and cold in the pit of her stomach.

  Less than a day. What am I going to do?

  The options were pretty limited. And although she’d tried not to think about it too much, Remy knew what she would have to do. After all, there was no way to keep the city safe from an attack by the Strangers—especially since they seemed to have helicopters, and who knew what other weapons. How did one protect people from dropped bombs and mechanical vehicles in this day and age?

  And now that there was no way to evacuate the city . . .

  Her insides twisted, sharp and hard. There wasn’t much choice. There wasn’t any choice, really. She’d have to go to them. Find out what they wanted . . . even though she pretty much knew.

  At least she could leave the crystal here . . . maybe as a bargaining chip. That might keep her alive.

  But she sure as hell didn’t want the crystal getting into the hands of the Strangers. One life wasn’t worth the havoc they’d be sure to wreak once they had the Mother crystal.

  A sharp knock on the door startled her out of her thoughts, and Remy froze, her breath catching. She glanced at the bathroom, heard the sounds of spraying water, then back at the door. Someone knocked again, harder and more loudly.

  Heart thumping, she tiptoed over and looked through the peephole. David and Cat stood there and she reached for the chain lock, then hesitated.

  No one.

  What put Wyatt in control of her life? Why did she have to listen to him? This was Cat and David . . . they’d already helped her. Both of them. She trusted them—just as much as she trusted Wyatt.

  But her hand fell away and Remy stepped back from the door, not altogether certain why she didn’t open it. Was it because she tru
sted Wyatt’s judgment over her own? Or because she knew that any interruption would disrupt their time together?

  Moments later she heard David and Cat move away, their voices low as they went off down the hall. And only then did she go to the bathroom door and knock.

  The water stopped immediately, and before she could consider whether she should peek in, the door cracked open. She expected warmth and steam to come rolling out, but there was only Wyatt.

  “What happened?” He poked his face around, his hair dripping in crazy dark wings, his eyes sharp and alert. She could see only a glimpse of tanned neck and a sliver of water-dappled shoulder before she jerked her attention away.

  “David and Cat just came to the door and knocked. I didn’t answer,” she added before he could respond. “They went away.”

  “Good. Be out in a sec.” He shut the door.

  Oh God, I hope he doesn’t come out in a towel. Or maybe I do. Remy bit her lip, looking at the closed bathroom door. She felt flushed and warm again.

  If he did, she didn’t know where she’d look. Or what she’d do.

  In an effort to distract herself, she walked around the room, looking at his things. The neat pile of clothing on the other dresser. His pack on the floor, with a variety of other things she recognized from the semi-truck: the first aid kit, duct tape, the box with Trojan on it, a pair of boots. Then she wandered over to the table next to the bed. Earlier, she’d noticed the small rectangular item, a hand-sized, sleek electronic device. A cord ran from it down behind the table, and when she picked it up, the surface lit to show a picture. Remy’s breath caught and she went still, something sharp and sad twisting inside her.

  The picture was of a woman and two children, all smiling and beautiful. Heartbreaking in their beauty.

  This is why.

  She nodded to herself, still looking at the picture, seeing the bright, laughing eyes of the red-haired girl whose face was an explosion of freckles, the mischievous grin on the towheaded boy’s face—he looked like a devilish one—and, the wide, white smile of the woman, whose blond-brown hair curled in a riot around her face, held back at the top by a sparkly barrette. She had a sweet, happy face that wouldn’t be called striking so much as pretty or perky. Intelligence and warmth shone in her eyes, even in this picture.