Night Resurrected (15 page)

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
s o me o n e
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.”

O
f 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.

W
yatt 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 truck. 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