Night Resurrected Read online

  “A guide who’s traveling with me.” Remy kept her answer simple, and for the sake of privacy, edged closer to Ian. It was almost dark, and the fire was the only source of light.

  “That it?” he asked, spearing her with hard blue eyes. His were icy cold, so different from her blue-violet ones.

  “Are you asking if we’re sleeping together?” she replied. “It wouldn’t matter to you even if we were.”

  “I know you’re not sleeping together—it’s obvious. I want to know if you’re here willingly. With him.”

  Remy looked at him, trying in vain to read his expression and intent. “Do you mean, more willingly than I was when I was with you?” she retorted. “As I recall, you gave me the choice of handcuffs or . . . well, sleeping with you.”

  Ian’s face grew dark, appearing almost frightening in the orange-red glow of the fire. “I never forced you. I never would have, and, by God, I hope you know that. You were a willing partner—”

  “In our sexual relationship, yes. I was willing. I was lonely and . . . well, you’re a good lover,” she told him, and was startled when his awful expression shattered into bleakness and grief . . . then returned to the cold mask it usually was. The change was so quick, she nearly missed it. “But I would have left you for many other reasons if you hadn’t forced me to stay.”

  “It was for your protection. If I knew who you were, then it was possible someone else would too.”

  “Like Seattle?”

  Once again his face altered. “I’m sorry,” he said in a voice she hardly recognized. Soft and broken. “So sorry.” He reached for her hand and closed his fingers around it. Probably the only time he’d ever touched her with authentic gentleness and affection. “I can only imagine how bad it was.”

  Remy’s throat was tight and she could only shake her head, battling back the dark images. She wasn’t going to talk about it. With the help of her friend Selena, who also had terrible grief of her own to live through, she’d managed to lock away those memories, or at least control them. She couldn’t allow them out or they’d consume her.

  Ian seemed to understand and he squeezed her hand again, then released it. Never too much intimacy for him, she thought wryly—glad to refocus her thoughts. “Nice boots,” she said. “Did you have to kill the man to get them?”

  His eyes snapped to hers, and she saw surprise and even a rare flash of humor. “No. He was already dead when I got there. So that’s why you weren’t surprised to see me.”

  “I was surprised to see you, but not surprised that you were alive. What are you doing here, really, Ian? I know it’s not for me.”

  He looked away, back at the fire, staring into the hypnotic flames. “It is for you.”

  She watched him for a minute, considering. No. That wasn’t right at all. He didn’t love her. He might mean to protect her, but there was another reason for him doing so, for coming here. She wasn’t naive. “I asked you once why you always looked so angry when you kiss me. And you said, ‘Because I’d rather be kissing someone else.’ But did you mean you’d rather be kissing anyone else but me, or someone else—someone in particular?”

  His face didn’t move, but his fingers did. Almost like a spasm. “Someone else. In particular.”

  Remy nodded to herself. That explained a lot. But it also opened up more questions. “The girl Elliott helped to save?”

  “He couldn’t. She died.” His mouth flattened, his lips twisting, turning them ugly. “That was my sister, Allie.”

  “I’m sorry. I know Elliott has a gift for healing. He . . . helped me after . . . Seattle.” She swallowed and forced herself to continue. “If he couldn’t save her, then no one could.”

  “He was her only hope.”

  “I’m really sorry,” Remy said again. She moved close enough to put her arm around his shoulders. To her surprise, some of the tension eased from him. “I’m sure he did everything he could.”

  Ian nodded, his head moving against hers. “He did. He nearly died too.”

  “But Allie wasn’t the woman you’d rather be kissing.”

  The tension returned to his body. “No.”

  “Where is she?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Of course, Ian was going to share their quarters for the night. Remy saw no reason for him not to, especially with incensed zombies and furious leopards roaming about and him still not completely recovered.

  She could tell he still had many questions—where she was going, why Wyatt was with her—but she wasn’t certain whether or how to answer them, so she announced she was ready to turn in for the night.

  The sounds of ruuuthhh ruuu-uuuuthhhhh filtered eerily through the darkness as Ian kicked over the fire and turned to follow Remy and Dantès up into the truck.

  It was practical and safe to ask Ian to stay, but Remy hadn’t considered how awkward it would be, sharing a small space with two attractive—if not irritating—men, plus her wolf-sized dog. Especially since one had been her lover, and the other was most definitely not going to be her lover.

  When she came back into the sleeping area, she saw that not only was Wyatt awake and sitting up, reading a book he’d scavenged . . . but he was bare-chested. His gun rested on one jeans-clad thigh and he looked up as she came in.

  His attention went from her to the man climbing in behind her, and she actually felt the impact as the two of them made eye contact.

  There must be some sort of underlying male communication going on here, she thought as Wyatt gave Ian a brief nod and stood abruptly.

  As he made his way past her, though, he stopped in that close quarters. She would have moved out of the way, but there wasn’t enough room, and before she could do so, Wyatt slid an arm around her shoulders. Her breath caught in surprise as he pulled her up against a warm, solid, broad male chest. It was a shock to feel his skin against hers, and her hand got trapped between herself and the rough dark hair covering the solid muscles of his chest. Remy was so stunned, she hardly registered it when Wyatt muttered into her ear: “Did you tell him where we’re going?”

  She managed a squeaky sort of negative sound, and he must have gotten the message, for he said, “Don’t.” Then, just as smoothly, he brushed a kiss over the sensitive skin of her neck, released her and continued on his way through and out of the truck. Ian turned and followed him.

  What the hell was that?

  Remy sank onto the floor, glad to have the space to herself for a moment. She needed it.

  Wyatt brushed past Marck and out into the cooling night air. It felt like heaven on his suddenly burning skin. He probably hadn’t needed to pull her quite so close. And the quick kiss . . . well, that was for Marck’s benefit. Keep the prick off-guard.

  He only had to wait a moment before the other man joined him. Their mutual desire to talk privately had been unspoken but understood when their eyes met in the truck.

  Dantès whined briefly at the open window, but Wyatt made a dismissive hand gesture and turned away. The dog needed to stay with his mistress for a variety of reasons, including whether only one of them made it back into the truck.

  Ruuu-uuuuthhhhh . . . ruuuuthhhh. The zombies were close; if they scented the humans, they’d be here within minutes. But they were downwind, and there were things that needed to be said away from Remy’s ears. And Wyatt wanted the other man to speak first. He didn’t have to wait long.

  “Is she doing all right?”

  More than mildly surprised at this topic, Wyatt replied, “She hides it well. Elliott healed her. And another friend, Selena, has a gift for . . . helping. But she dreams.” He found himself inexplicably irritated that Marck’s first question was about Remy’s well-being. But perhaps that was guilt in the other man’s eyes, mixed with desperation and anger. Oh, the anger was so deeply embedded it could never be extracted. Wyatt recognized it because he’d seen it in his own eyes.

  “Do you know what happened? How long?”

  “We found her chained beneath Seattle’s tru
ck. And that was after she’d been assaulted over several days.” Wyatt forced the words out, trying to forget the battered Remy he’d pulled from under the truck. Even then, in the midst of her horror and pain, she hadn’t been glad to see him. You, she’d said. Dick.

  That was before she knew his name, but still. The sentiment was clear.

  Marck’s shocked and sickened expression mirrored his own feelings. Wyatt felt an unexpected twinge of connection with him, so he elaborated, “She fought back as well as she could. Pulled a gun on him. Nailed him with a rock. Cut him with a rusty piece of metal. That only made him angrier. He was getting ready to drive off with her chained beneath when we got there.”

  “Fucking tell me the bastard’s not dead,” Marck said, his jaw visibly tight.

  “Oh, he’s dead. Dantès tore his throat out.”

  “Lucky motherfucking bastard. I’d have killed him myself. Taken a week to do it. Or longer.”

  Wyatt felt another unexpected nudge of solidarity with Ian Marck and gave him a nod of agreement. “Dantès was a little too neat and quick for my taste,” he admitted.

  Marck gave him a humorless smile. “At least we agree on something.”

  Wyatt didn’t respond. This wasn’t football. He didn’t need to be friendly to the opposing team.

  “You’re a friend of Elliott’s, which also makes you a friend of Quent Fielding,” Marck said, surprising Wyatt once again. His eyes were sharp even in the darkness, and they focused on him steadily. “Were you in the Sedona cave with him?”

  Wyatt couldn’t have been more taken off-guard if Marck had dropped on one knee and asked to marry him. How the hell did he know about that? But no sooner had he registered the question than his mind began to work, and he surmised some of the answers. “You knew that Quent was Parris Fielding’s son,” he said, referring to a member of the Strangers’ Triumvirate.

  There were three men who had been known as the triad of power: Prescott, the Stranger who’d held Jade captive for years; Parris Fielding, who was Quent’s father and one of the masterminds behind the Change; and the third was the original Remington Truth. All three of them were now dead, but according to Quent, the ruling power had been passed on to others, including a man named Liam Hegelson.

  Marck nodded. “Parris Fielding was filled with glee and jubilation when he learned his secret experiment had worked. That his son had lived through the Change—or, as they call it, the Evolution—and hadn’t aged at all. He even brought Quent into the fold at Mecca, introducing him as his heir apparent—and then his son betrayed him and stole the Jarrid stone.”

  “You are remarkably well-informed.”

  “I’ve worked hard to be in that position,” Marck replied coolly.

  “I’ll bet you have. How wide is the trail of blood you’ve left behind?”

  Marck’s jaw shifted. “My real question relates to you. Elliott was with Quent in the caves, and I expect you were too. Which makes you about fifty years older than me.”

  “That’s one hell of an assumption,” Wyatt replied.

  “It’s not an assumption. It’s a fact.”

  “What does it matter to you?”

  “I like to know who I’m dealing with.”

  Wyatt smiled, allowing every bit of unpleasantness he felt to show in the curl of his lips. “And why would I do anything to give you an advantage?” He tilted his head to listen. “The zombies are coming closer. I’m finished with this. Stay or go, your choice.” He turned on his heel and walked unhurriedly to the truck.

  “What’s your gift, Wyatt? What power did you gain in the caves?”

  Marck’s question followed him, snagging Wyatt in his smooth climb up into the truck. But he recovered immediately and kept going, yet with more force and jerkiness in his movements than before.

  Holy shit. How could Ian Marck know about that? How each of the men who’d been trapped in the caves for fifty years had acquired a special superhuman ability?

  It was inexplicable but true. Elliott had discovered the unnatural ability to heal with his hands. Quent could read an object’s history merely by touching it. Fence and Simon, the other two men who’d been trapped with them, also had superhuman abilities.

  All of them, with the exception of Wyatt, had noticed a special alteration in their bodies. He wasn’t certain whether he simply hadn’t discovered his yet or whether he didn’t have one. He didn’t really give a shit, figured it would be just one more thing to have to deal with in this new horror of a world. He’d seen Quent and Elliott, and especially Fence, try to learn how to handle these changes and their powerful abilities, and it hadn’t been pretty. It had been downright dangerous and frightening in many ways.

  It wasn’t bad enough that they had been thrust into this world—losing everything they’d loved—but to deal with extranormal abilities? That just made things worse.

  Still unpleasantly surprised by Marck’s question, and irritated by the interrogation overall, Wyatt stumbled into the dim interior of the truck. There was a small light in the back. Remy was up, reading or doing something. Good God, she’d probably have questions and demand answers and generally work hard to piss him off. If she asked him why he kissed her—

  He almost turned around to go back out, but decided he would give neither her nor Marck the satisfaction. He’d faced down gun- and bomb-toting terrorists in the Middle East, days and nights without rest, and blazing fires that went on for days. He sure as hell could handle a woman.

  And damned if his eyes didn’t go right to her as he came into the back. She was watching him and the entrance behind him expectantly. No longer wearing that skintight tank top, she’d changed into something more modest—a loose dark shirt. But there was enough light to see the elegant curve of her neck and shoulder, precisely the place he’d buried his face only a few minutes ago. Her soft dark hair was tousled and free of its braid, falling in shadowy waves against her fair skin. And those damn blue eyes.

  Guilt, guilt, guilt. He thrust it away, turning it into anger and impatience.

  “What the hell did you expect?” he drawled. “Blood? Broken bones?”

  Her expression remained cool. “I heard the zombies.”

  “They’re coming closer,” said Marck, his voice coming from the front of the truck. “Might make sense to keep watch tonight. They’re on a tear. I’ll take the first watch. Sit in the front seat here.”

  Wyatt grunted his assent, then crawled back into the darkest corner he could find. “I’ll spell you. Wake me at two.”

  “I’ll take the next shift,” Remy said firmly. But no one responded, and Wyatt knew Marck wouldn’t be waking her up.

  He settled in and closed off his mind. Sometime during college, he’d picked up the valuable habit of forcing himself to go to sleep instantly, regardless of what else was going on around him and in his head. Most of the time, it worked.

  It must have worked tonight, too, despite the whirlwind of thoughts that plagued him, for Wyatt suddenly came awake, feeling movement. Earthquake?

  His first thought was instantly banished as he noticed the rhythm. The truck was rocking from side to side. But he was already on his feet, banging his head on the ceiling as he scrambled over a slower-moving Remy on his way to the front. The cries and groans of the zombies were loud, and even from inside he could smell the stench.

  “Why didn’t you wake me?” Wyatt demanded, shoving into the front of the truck next to Marck. The violent rocking jolted him into the other man, but he stayed on his feet. He heard Remy shouting something behind him but ignored her. Dantès was barking frantically, leaping around, trying to get out. “Quiet, Dantès!” he commanded. “Sit.”

  “Goddammit, I was trying to keep them from tearing the door off,” Marck snapped. “What the hell took you so long to get here?”

  Wyatt bit back a retort as he looked out. Zombies everywhere. Christ. Thirty of them, maybe more. He didn’t think he’d ever seen so many in one place. They could easily tip the truck over if th
ey all figured out how to work together. Or got mad enough.

  Remy pushed her way between them. “Oh my God,” she whispered as another violent jolt sent her falling into Marck. “They found me.”

  Wyatt couldn’t help but glance at their new companion. He showed up tonight and all of a sudden a whole band of frenzied gangas appeared. Coincidence?

  His jaw tightened as the truck tipped sharply, then slammed back upright. He’d deal with Marck later. Right now they had to get out of this mess.

  “Get me a torch,” he shouted. “At least we can try and hold some of them—” The truck jolted again, cutting him off, but by the time he’d righted himself, Remy was there with a rolled up piece of cloth that was trying to burn on one end. A pair of jeans? Christ, wasn’t there anything else? Denim burned like shit.

  Marck was doing something under the steering well of the truck, and Wyatt realized he was trying to see if there was a way to get it started. “Not gonna work,” he shouted, brandishing the torch out the glassless window. “Gas tank’s bone dry.”

  There was a curse and then Marck’s face reappeared. “Trying to see if I can get some wires to spark,” he said, then disappeared back under.

  Wyatt shook his head, wondering what the hell sparking wires would do to help. The only way he knew of to kill a zombie was to smash his brains. Not a pleasant task, nor an efficient one.

  Remy shrieked when the truck jolted violently, and this time it nearly went over.

  Sonofabitch. Wyatt lunged back to the window and hung out of it, waving the soft, sagging torch at the monsters. It did little to deter them; they merely moved to Marck’s side of the truck and began to push at it.

  The group was surprisingly coordinated; zombies didn’t usually comprehend teamwork. Especially when there was a potential meal involved. Wyatt shoved that thought away. According to Marck’s information, he and Remy would be safe—if one could call being abducted by zombies safe—while Ian Marck would be the one in danger. And Dantès.

  The poor dog was whining and shoving his head against Wyatt’s arm, and then Remy, and then back again. He was just as frightened as the rest of them.