Abandon The Night (25 page)

“I feel exposed,” she said, looking around, then down at her very tight tank top. “Especially looking like this.”

He raised his brows, leering appreciatively. “I’m not complaining.”

“Another obligatory response,” Marley said, settling back in her seat. She looked out the windshield. “You’re really into her, aren’t you?”

He nodded briefly, his attention focused on the terrain ahead. Marley opened her mouth to speak again, likely to belabor the subject, and he swerved rather harder than he needed to in order to avoid a large metal lump that might once have been a wagon. She squealed in surprise and shot him a dark look, but seemed to accept that the topic was closed to discussion.

An hour later, he pointed to the ragged skyline of Envy. “There it is. All that’s left of Vegas.”

He hid the humvee back in the old garage and took Marley in through the hidden passage marked by an old Wendy’s sign. Crawling through an old boxcar and up through rusted cars and other junk, he led the way, one hand safely ensconced in a glove, and the other free to touch. Another of his experiments, testing the boundaries of his control and the strength of the memories.

Quent found himself gritting his teeth when the flush of a dark image threatened to bulldoze him, but by focusing his mind, he kept it at bay.
Yes.
He might be able to beat this curse after all.

The first thing he did once they got into Envy was to bring Marley to his room. The second thing was to find Lou and get him up there to meet her.

“The first Stranger I’ve ever met,” Lou said. He adjusted his glasses as he looked at her, his eyes lingering perhaps a bit longer than necessary on her very tight tank top.

“They generally use the term Elite,” Marley told him. “Just
FYI
.”

“You look familiar,” Lou replied, dragging his gaze up to look at her. “Sorry.” He smiled a little abashedly. “It’s been a while since I’ve—er—”

“I think the first order of business is to get me some clothes that fit,” Marley told him.

“Oh, I was staring at the crystal, not your very—er—”

She laughed and sank onto the bed. “You were saying I look familiar? I’m the daughter of Brandon Huvane. If you ever happened to read the gossip columns or Page Six, you probably saw at least one photo opp.”

“There was that time they caught you topless in Costa Rica,” Quent offered. “Everyone saw that one. Right after you got that tattoo on your left—”

“Okay,” Marley interrupted. “How about we talk about something other than my breasts, hey? I know they’re nice and perky for being eighty years old, but still.”

“Sorry,” Lou said again. “So you’re going to help Quent get into Mecca to find his father?”

She curled her lips into themselves. “If he really wants to risk his life, I’ll tell him what I know. But I don’t think it’s a good idea. You can’t kill Fielding.” This last was directed at Quent. “It’s nearly impossible to kill an Elite, let alone get close enough to try. Aren’t there other ways to get your revenge?”

“It’s not impossible to kill an Elite. Simon killed one, and so did Lou’s friend Jade. Get me in there, get me close enough, and I’ll take care of Fielding. I’ll have the element of surprise on my side. Okay?”

“They killed two Elites?” Marley seemed suitably shocked. “How?”

“Hacked out their crystals. There’s probably a prettier way to do it, but I haven’t found it.” It wasn’t lost on Quent that she had curled her fingers around her own crystal. “Good idea to find you some clothes that will hide that too.”

“What happened when the crystal was cut out?” she asked in a low voice.

Quent realized what he was saying and softened it a bit. “They did a Dorian Gray—just kind of shriveled up.”

“And died.”

He nodded. Then added, “You’ll be safe with us here, Marley. Elliott’s not going anywhere, and neither is Lou.”

“I’m looking forward to the chance to talk with you, too, Marley,” Lou interrupted. “I’m sure you have information that will help us in our efforts.”

Just then there was a knock on the door. Quent opened it to admit Fence, Elliott, and Theo. They were, understandably, intrigued by the presence of a nonthreatening Stranger who could be questioned, not to mention appreciative of the package she came in. Fence’s enthusiastic grin said it all.

Quent chafed and finally had the opportunity to turn Marley over to Fence, with Elliott acting as chaperone and promising to get her to Jade for some appropriate clothing. He wanted everyone the hell out of his room in case Zoë showed up.

And if she didn’t, he was leaving at the first light of dawn to go back and check on her.

He rested poorly that night, despite the fact that he’d not slept since yesterday morning in the church with Zoë. Dreams wound through his mind, of crystals and flames, of Fielding and the riding crop, of Zoë and the burning forge.

And when he woke, and it was morning, he found himself alone, tangled in the sheets and the remnants of his nocturnal thoughts.

A short time later, he and Jade left the walls of Envy. The sun was still near the horizon, just about half of its sphere had risen.

“Thank you for your help,” he told Jade as she whistled for one of the wild mustangs. She had a way with horses, and Quent had gone to her for help getting a mount, and to ask if she’d take care of his friend while he was gone. “Marley’s all right?”

“She’s got new clothes and slept in a comfortable bed at Flo’s last night. We left the water running a bit in the bathroom so that she could continue to build up her strength,” Jade replied. She smiled as a buff-colored mustang with a black mane and tail cantered up. “You okay with bareback?”

“I’m going to have to be,” Quent said. He’d played polo growing up in England—another convenient excuse for cuts and bruises, so it had been encouraged by his father—and of course had ridden through jungles and up mountains in his other travels, but that was with saddles and bridles. “I’ll make better time than by truck.”

She nodded. “That you will. And you’re going where again? Elliott’s going to ask.”

Dred had been called to the infirmary, so he wasn’t there when Quent knocked on their door and awakened Jade. “I’m going back to where Marley and I were yesterday.”

“With Zoë?”

He clamped his lips. Marley, the rotter, couldn’t keep her bloody mouth shut. “I want to make sure she’s all right.”

“I don’t think you should go alone, Quent. With your…ability. What happens if you touch something and get lost?” Jade’s dark red hair glistened brighter than usual in the new day’s sun. “We’ll never find you.”

What, did every fucking woman think he was incompetent? First Zoë, then Marley, and now Jade? This never would have happened back when he was known as Quentin Brummell Fielding, III—this second-guessing, this mothering. Of course, all they wanted from him then were expensive gifts and prestige.

He gritted his teeth. “I’ve got these.” He pulled the gloves out of his pocket. “I won’t take them off.” He yanked them on a bit more roughly than he needed to.

“Wyatt would go with you, or Fence.”

“I’ll be fine. I’ll be back by tomorrow night, latest. And by then, I hope Marley’s been able to work with Lou and Theo to figure out where Mecca is.” He’d been patting the horse, and after offering him an apple and a handful of carrots, he gathered up a fistful of mane. “Thank you for your help, Jade.”

“Be safe, Quent.” She looked up at him with worried green eyes. “Elliott’s not going to be happy that I let you go alone.”

He smiled down at her. “I’m sure you’ll find a way to make it up to him.” And he kicked the horse into a light canter, kicking up a little tuft of grass as they started off.

Thirty hours later, Quent slid off the same mustang in the same place he’d first mounted him. Exhausted, heartsick, tight with anger that battled with fear to be the most consuming of his emotions.

He gave his horse the last bit of carrots—harvested from Zoë’s little garden—and swatted him gently on the flank. As the mustang cantered off to join his pack, Quent turned and walked back to Envy.

Reentering through the city gates, he went immediately to his room. Heart pounding with the last remnant of hope, he opened the door and walked in. Held his breath.

And felt nothing but solitude.

The room was empty.

He slung the pack from his shoulders and switched on the lamp, then stripped off his gloves.

And then he saw it. On the bed.

Skin prickling, he walked over. It wasn’t an arrow, as he’d first thought. It was longer, and thicker. Perhaps ten meters long, the metal rod was about as thick as an old man’s cane, maybe a bit more. But the end was…different.

Curious, hopeful, he picked it up. And immediately, he felt Zoë.

The sensation blasted over him, the familiarity swamped his mind and he felt himself sink onto the bed. But he didn’t give himself over. Much as he wanted to sink in, he tested himself, forced his mind away.

If he could control it here, where he really wanted to go…he believed he could do it anywhere. He struggled for a moment, the desire was so deep. Zoë sifted around the edges of his consciousness, her hands, her strong arms. Her mouth, pinched in concentration. Heat. And when he was confident he could manage it, Quent lifted his hand from the weapon. His mind cleared. Then, once more, he gathered up the weapon and looked at it.

Without allowing himself to tumble in—he’d save that for when he was finished with the examination, figured out how it worked—he scrutinized the metal object. One end had clawlike petals and there were two smaller rods smaller than a woman’s little finger that extended along the large one. Quent looked at it, moved it around, all the while conscious of the tickling at the periphery of his mind—and then he figured it out.

He’d seen a device like this before, years and years ago. When he was young, living on the Brummell estate. One of the gardeners had had a tool like this. He stabbed it into the ground, pulled on a lever, and the claws closed around a weed and its roots, allowing it to be plucked quickly and efficiently from the earth. Dandelions. Crabgrass or chicory.

Or a crystal.

Quent hefted the weapon in his hand. Solid, but not too heavy. Holding it like a spear, he thrust it experimentally into a pillow. The force of the movement caused the claws to close with a metal snap, and he pulled it back. A jagged circle of cushion came with it, neat and tidy.

Oh, Zoë.

He settled back onto the bed, holding the weapon, smiling. Knowing she was safe. Knowing she’d been thinking of him. And he allowed himself to sink into the place he wanted to be…into the deftness of her hands, the orange heat of the forge, the knowledge that, though she might deny it, she cared.

For it emanated from the cold metal, mixed with the blast of the forge, the pinch of the pliers: affection, desire, love. Loneliness and fear.

With the iron bolt in his hands, he slept. Still smiling.

Ian raised his finger in a gesture the bartender recognized quite readily. Moments later, another small glass of whiskey appeared in front of him on the scarred counter, and the empty one was whisked away. Ian placed a ten-dollar chip labeled with an ornate
B
on the counter.

He didn’t particularly care for the scruffy, grimy joint called Madonna’s, but when a guy needed a pick-me-up—or a wind me down, or simply needed to blow everything out of his mind temporarily—convenience mattered. Since there weren’t many options outside of Envy, a place he refused to set foot in unless he had to, Ian had to settle. Besides, he figured the alcohol would kill any germs that might linger. And he certainly wasn’t hungry.

The bar’s patrons consisted of transients like himself: bounty hunters, traveling scavengers, and an occasional farmer or rancher who dared stop into the dark, dank place. Settled in the middle of nowhere, the former boxcar, still situated on a rusted track, was well known to those who ventured beyond the safe walls of the small, scattered settlements. It was also a place used by the Elite to meet up with their bounty hunters, and Ian suspected that was why the establishment was still in business.

At least they didn’t have to worry about deadly germs in their drinks, he thought sourly. Nothing that simple would kill those bastards.

The lone female in the place was always behind the counter. It was she for whom Ian had originally assumed the place was named—although, with the prickling bitch hairs on her chin and the faded red turban, she looked as far from a Madonna as a bulldog. Today, she wore a strapless leather thing, laced up on the sides and back, and jeans. Whoever had done the lacing had had their work cut out for them, for massive amounts of white flesh bulged through the diamond-shaped openings.

As it turned out, the bar was not named for its proprietress, but after the singer, and it had taken him a few visits to realize that all of those pictures on the wall were of the same person, and that all the music played there was by the same artist.

The whiskey tasted just as good the second time around, and Ian closed his eyes, savoring the warmth as it rolled down into his belly. He was just beginning to relax when the door opened and his day hit a shit-hole.

There was no sense in trying to melt into the shadows, though Ian figured if he was going to remain unnoticed, he was sitting in the right place, here at the darkest end of the bar. But, no.

Her eyes found him immediately and she sauntered over, taking her time so that every man in the place could admire the tall, slender figure she cut on skinny heels. Jeans sat so low they exposed her hipbones and the slight curve of her belly, sagging a bit in the back where her gun rested, its barrel purposely positioned down along her ass crack. At least on Lacey, the laced-up, strapless top looked like it belonged there. It also clearly displayed the small, glowing crystal set into her skin. Lacey’s white-blond hair was twisted into a number of bumps all over her head, with spiky strands fanning out from each one.

“Ian,” she said, sitting on the stool next to him, bringing a waft of musk. “Where the hell have you been?”

He took another sip of his whiskey, savoring the taste before he swallowed. He responded with a curl of his lip.