Abandon the Night Read online

  One of the three doors led to a bathroom with running water, apparently, for a busy, motherly woman named Flo had been in and out with warm water. Two other doors offered potential exits—one that seemed to lead to a corridor and another that probably led to the room next door.

  Remy’s leg didn’t hurt any longer, though it was wrapped in a rather bulky bandage beneath her loose pants. Still fully dressed in the buttoned shirt she’d been wearing yesterday, she’d washed up in the small bathroom and brushed the tangles out of her long hair, thanks to Flo. The woman had brought her some shampoo that smelled like roses and a thick, creamy conditioner to use afterward. Now she wore it in a thick braid down her back.

  Yet Remy felt like a prisoner. She wasn’t certain why, but something about this place made her uncomfortable.

  Zoë had certainly made herself scarce. Not that Remy needed her any longer—and yeah, the woman had probably saved her life, she had to give her that credit—but the way she disappeared as soon as the man who called himself a doctor came in was almost creepy.

  And the self-proclaimed doctor was much too young to be a real one. Unless he was a member of the Elite, which she was certain he wasn’t. Although there was something…different about him.

  The quasi-doctor had told her not to move around for at least two hours, but she’d sensed that for the load of bullshit it was. Either he was overly cautious about the healing process or he didn’t want her to get any ideas about leaving, which of course she had had even before arriving. She figured she’d play it easy and have a good meal, get some rest, and then sneak out in the night. Hide somewhere in Envy until it was safe to leave in the morning, and then be on her way.

  Noise from below drifted up through the vented window, and Remy heard voices and the normal sounds of people interacting. And then the sound of a dog barking.

  The deep bark reminded her of Dantès. It sounded just like him, and for a moment, sorrow swept over her. She and Dantès had been through a lot together in the last seven years, and she missed him. She’d expected him to have found her by now too.

  Only six days had elapsed since she’d escaped from Redlow and those four men and one woman who’d caught her by surprise when they said they were looking for Remington Truth. That had been a narrow escape, simply because she hadn’t expected anyone to ever find her in Redlow. Did she regret pulling a gun on her visitors and setting Dantès to guard them? It might have been a little impulsive, but, no, she didn’t. She’d learned never to be too careful. Of course, if she hadn’t slipped and told them her real name, she wouldn’t have this problem anyway.

  Anyone seeking Remington Truth was an automatic adversary. Elites, bounty hunters, gangas…even these people, because only the Elites and those close to them knew about her grandfather and how important he was. And how detrimental he could be.

  Could have been.

  Now it was up to Remy. She reached for the small crystal beneath her shirt, allowing its inherent warmth to filter through the thin cotton. She’d have bled to death before taking off her clothes and letting that doctor—or whoever he was—see this.

  Restless and nervous, Remy looked around the room again. She thought Dantès would have tracked her down by now. He had such an uncanny ability to do so, and the little fragment of crystal she’d embedded inside his leather collar had never failed them before.

  Outside, the dog was barking louder now, and its bark had shifted into a desperate pitch. Right near her window.

  A strange sense of foreboding…and wonder…flushed over her, and she bolted up from the bed. Screw the doctor and his orders, that was Dantès. She was sure of it.

  Remy looked down from the window. It was him, and he was down there, whining and prancing in small circles below the window as he looked up and bark-whined. He’d found her. Tears stung the corner of her eyes. Her warm, stalwart friend. The only one she could trust in this whole world.

  And then Remy recognized the man who walked up to stand next to Dantès and her belly dropped to her knees. No freaking way.

  It was the man from Redlow—one of the four who’d found her. The one over whose shoulder she’d fired her gun and shattered a vase, in order to make a point. What the hell is he doing with Dantès?

  And the dark-haired man was looking right up at her. She dodged back from the window, but it was too late. He’d seen and recognized her and was already rushing into the building.

  Shit. Shit.

  She had to get out of here.

  Heart pounding, she scrabbled for her bag, grabbed up her shoes and yanked on the door—not the one that led to the corridor, but the one that led to the adjoining room. Fortunately, it opened, and she found herself in another infirmary room. A woman sat in bed and gaped at her as Remy dashed in, and then to the next adjoining door. It opened and she found herself in yet another occupied room.

  Damn. Why couldn’t they be empty?

  Her bag banging against her back, Remy slipped into a third room, also occupied, but when she got to the adjoining door, she found it locked.

  “What are you—?”

  She ignored the outraged demand of the man who struggled to sit up in bed, and went for the door to the corridor. So much for escaping unnoticed. Now everyone could tell where she’d gone.

  Remy stepped into the hall, just as she saw the dark-haired man reaching for the door of her room. Stifling a gasp, she turned away and began to walk as casually as she could away from him. Surely he wouldn’t recognize her from behind.

  Holding her breath, heart pounding, she found a door leading to stairs and realized, belatedly, that her leg seemed to be working just fine—no pain, no blood seeping through the bandage or her cargo pants—she started down the stairs.

  Bump, bump, bump…down she went, listening for the sounds of pursuit as she went down not one, but two flights. Taking a lesson from Zoë, instead of going to the ground floor as her opponent would expect, she continued down until she was two levels below, into what was labeled B2 in faded, peeling red paint. Then: No Ex t Th s F oor.

  Crap.

  Out of the stairwell, she found herself in a dimly lit corridor that clearly wasn’t often used. Bare lightbulbs burned and she wondered fleetingly how often they had to be replaced, and if they were rewired when they burned out or whether new ones had to be found to replace them. She had her own source of light, thanks to Grandpa, whenever she needed it, but most everyone else had more limited options.

  The hallway had once been painted white—floor, ceiling, walls—but now was dingy with age and grime. It was also cooler down here, almost chill with the damp and subterranean location.

  Remy rushed through the corridor, avoiding random piles of debris and hanging cobwebs, splashing through an occasional puddle. The usual rodents skittered out of her way, and she even saw the wide eyes of some other, larger nocturnal animal—a possum?—staring at her from one dark corner. The rough walls and uneven floor sprouted occasional black spots of mildew and trickles of water or shallow pools, but nothing green grew down here. She saw rooms that appeared to once have been storage or laundry rooms as she hurried along, and guessed they might still be used to wash. Remy picked up her pace, now looking for another stairwell that might take her up.

  Then she heard a familiar sound that filled her with both delight and dismay. Dantès!

  He barked as he ran, and she could hear the clicking of nails on the concrete floor.

  She turned to meet him, and the large black-and-tan animal barreled down the hall toward her. Crouching, she opened her arms, and the next thing she knew, she was on her butt on the damp floor, and he was mauling her with his long pink tongue, whining with delight and wriggling with pleasure as she hugged and kissed him back.

  Dantès looked more wolf than dog, which she assumed was from the inbreeding over the last half-century of domesticated canines and the wolves and coyotes who roamed. A motley collection of brown, copper, black and white fur, he had intelligent, compassionate eyes, tall triangu
lar ears, a long, sweeping tail—and absolutely terrifying canine teeth. He probably weighed almost as much as she did and his shoulders were as high as her hips, his ears brushing her breasts. He was a huge dog, a formidable protector, and her best friend.

  “Good boy,” she said, murmuring into his face, petting the softest part of his skin—the backs of his ears. “I’ve missed you, Danty-boy. Good boy to find me.”

  When she sensed another presence, Remy looked up with a combination of annoyance and acquiescence.

  The dark-haired man stood there watching, hands on his hips as if he had somewhere else he’d rather be and she was making him late. She recognized the same impatient, arrogant air that had caused her to fire—albeit impulsively—at him back in Redlow. The man had a chip on his shoulder a mile wide, and although he might be considered handsome if he ever smiled, at this moment, he simply looked annoyed as hell.

  It made her want to pull out a gun and do it again. Unfortunately, she no longer had her firearm, thanks to Ian Marck.

  “You’ve been taking care of Dantès?” she asked, pulling to her feet, a loose strand of braid swinging into her face, her bare arm brushing against the damp, rough wall. No sense in making a move until she fully assessed the situation. He might be arrogant and rude, but he wasn’t dumb. Nor was he mean and vicious—for she’d noticed the way her dog glanced at the man, as if he were comfortable with him and not a threat.

  Which he was, dammit—at least to her.

  “He’s a great dog.” The man’s features softened a bit, but he still looked as though he had a stick very far up his butt. “Very smart.” Somehow the tone of his words implied that the canine was much smarter than his mistress.

  As if knowing he was being talked about, Dantès looked back at the man and then up at Remy. She saw curiosity and uncertainty in those amber-brown eyes, and wished there was a way to explain. Instead, she petted his head and made the gesture for him to sit next to her. He did so.

  “Thank you for taking care of him,” she said, watching the man closely. “I’m Remy.”

  “I know that,” he said impatiently. “Are you going to admit defeat and stop running away now?”

  “Sure,” she said with as much authenticity as she could muster. Over my dead body, you arrogant ass. “Though, it sure would be nice to know the name of the guy who outsmarted me.”

  He scanned her with cold, dark eyes. “Yeah, I believe you.”

  Remy shrugged. “If you don’t want to tell me your name, I’ll have to make one up.”

  “Let’s go.”

  “Okay…Dick.” She gave him a very cold, tight smile. “Where are you going to take me, Mr. Head?”

  A flash of something—appreciation? annoyance?—lit his eyes, but was gone in an instant. “No one’s going to hurt you. We just want to talk to you.”

  Remy snorted and Dantès looked up at her, then back at Dick, then back at her. He whined briefly, as if sensing the tumult in the air, but kept his attention focused on his mistress. She patted the side of her thigh and Dantès fell into step with her as they walked along the hall, continuing in the direction she’d been going.

  She walked with a limp, grimacing in pain as she looked away, to make herself look weak and slow. He’d be less likely to expect her to take off if he thought she was injured.

  She needed a distraction; something that would take him by surprise so she could run. But so far, there was nothing. Just piles of debris that made homes for the rats, snakes, and other creatures that made their living in the dark and cool.

  At last, they came to the stairwell. This one was dirtier and danker than the one down which she’d come, although it was still lit with grimy yellowish lights.

  Up the first flight of stairs, slowly, heavily, she groaned softly as she stepped with her right leg, playing up her injury. Dantès, as was his habit when she allowed him, edged just a bit ahead of her—three or four stairs—then eased back to meet up with her. When they were approaching the landing of B1, the first level below the ground, the dog got there first and began to bark furiously. A sharp, high-pitched yip that echoed in the stairwell.

  Remy knew that bark and what its nuance meant, and suddenly she smiled.

  She called Dantès back and he obeyed, changing from a bark to a brief whine of reluctance. But he obeyed. He always did.

  Dick didn’t ask what had bothered the dog, and Remy wasn’t about to offer. She reached the landing first, and just as she got there, she managed to “dump” her bag off her shoulder as she lurched to the side, as if losing her balance. The bag opened, and something—she hoped it wasn’t anything important, but, oh, well—fell a few steps down behind Dick, and, as she’d expected, he turned back to retrieve it. At least the guy had manners.

  This gave her time to get to the landing and find the source of Dantès’s annoyance. She ordered the wary dog up past the landing, and quickly kicked up the pile of leaves and debris in the corner. The bright green reptile with its black markings tried to slink away, but she was too fast.

  Remy picked up the snake—it was at least three meters long, as thick as her wrist, and quite harmless—and, holding it behind its head and one end of the tail, kept her back to the stairwell as she heard Dick approaching. Huddling the snake against her, she waited till he was almost there

  Just as she heard his shoe grind softly on the nearest stair, she turned and flung the snake into his chest. Dick reacted just as she’d expected—he shouted, flailed, and then fell back as he lost his balance.

  But by the time she heard his furious swearing echoing up from the stairwell, she had bolted through an external door and out in to the sunlight.

  Quent and Elliott were walking across what had once been the divided six-lane Las Vegas Boulevard toward the infirmary when a shout drew their attention.

  Wyatt had come dashing around the corner of the building and obviously seen them. “She’s gone,” he called, coming toward them. Even from a distance, Quent could see that Wyatt looked bloody pissed off. “She got away.”

  “Who?” Elliott asked as their friend drew near.

  “The woman. Remington Truth,” Wyatt told them when he was close enough not to have to shout.

  “Remington Truth was here?” Quent repeated. “And she got away?”

  Elliott was shaking his head, his eyes full of reluctant comprehension. “Shit. Don’t tell me she was the patient with the leg injury.”

  “I don’t know what injury she had, but she came from the infirmary. She was limping a bit…I saw her—Dantès found her, tracked her somehow. When she recognized me, she took the hell off.”

  “Didn’t you go after her?” Quent asked, then realized what a rubbish question. And that was before Wyatt slammed him with a dagger look. “Right. But she got away anyway.” He was careful to keep any hint of disbelief from his voice. “What’d she do? Sic the dog on you again?”

  “She threw a fucking snake at me. On the stairs. Damn lucky I didn’t break my fucking neck, falling down.”

  “A snake? Bloody hell. What’d you do to her?” he said with a grin.

  “Fuck you.”

  Always lots of brotherly love between the three of them.

  “So that was Remington Truth,” Elliott said, looking at the building ahead of them as if searching for Remington’s room window. It had been one of the smaller casino resorts, and now part of it had been turned into the infirmary. “Damn. I shouldn’t have left her alone, but I didn’t know.” For Wyatt’s benefit, he described the crystal he’d seen during his scan. “I knew there was something unusual about her.”

  “Did you check with the guards to see if she got through the gates?” Quent asked.

  “Was just on my way there when I saw you,” Wyatt said. “She had Dantès with her, so she’ll be easy to spot.”

  “You go check the gates,” Quent said. “I’ll go look around, see if she’s hiding somewhere up that way.” He gestured toward the southwest end of the enclosed city that remained mostly
uninhabited and where Lou and Theo Waxnicki had created a secret entrance. Not that there was any chance Zoë would know about it if the rest of the Envy population didn’t, but there was still a chance.

  Remington. He reminded himself. Not Zoë. He was looking for Remington.

  Right.

  Of course, if he found Zoë, he could try and talk some sense back into her. Or at least lure her back upstairs. He didn’t have his gloves with him, but he’d be careful and quick. And if the worst happened, they’d know where to look for him.

  Quent walked behind New York–New York, away from the neat and landscaped Strip, toward those older buildings that were still safely inside the enclosure, but hadn’t been maintained as residences. The protective walls had been made early on, after the Change. Instead of stone or brick, the enclosure had been cobbled of whatever large masses the survivors could find—billboards, cars, semi-truck trailers, airplane wings, and filled in with smaller debris from the ruined buildings. They stretched more than fifty feet high, and were impossible to climb—for gangas, animals, and humans.

  As he moved along, Quent couldn’t hold back a snicker at the image of Wyatt having a snake thrown at him. It was lucky he hadn’t been hurt badly in his stumble down the stairs, although Wyatt was well used to having to defend himself in a variety of unexpected situations. A former Marine who’d seen action in the First Gulf War, and who’d come home and made his way up to fire chief in a suburb of Denver, Wyatt had gone on the same humanitarian mission to Haiti in 2004 that Quent and Elliott had.

  All three of them had met there for the first time, helping to rebuild a hospital after Hurricane Jeanne. Quent had gone because he knew it would wank off his father if he actually got his hands dirty as well as donated a six-figure stipend, and also because his celebrity status would give the mission more media attention. Elliott had finished med school at Michigan, and Wyatt was just returning from the Middle East.