Night Resurrected (6 page)

Another bark. “Not fucking soon

enough.” He drew in a deep breath.

“Never fucking soon enough.”

The light was flickering, so she

turned it off. But not before she caught a

brief look at him as she picked up the

flash, accidentally—or maybe not—

directing it his way. His head was tilted

back against the wall, his too-long dark

hair a wavy mess around his face and

unshaven jaw. His eyes appeared to be

closed, and she could see the outline of

his cheekbones and strong nose.

He’d be handsome enough if he

didn’t have that dark, angry brood

strapped to him all the time. He was

built nicely, that was for sure. He wore

his battered jeans well, and his

shirtsleeves were rolled up to show

firm, muscular forearms. And he even

had attractive feet, solid, strong, and

elegant. They matched his hands.

She put the flash away and settled

down to sleep, her world muzzy.

Hopeful she wouldn’t dream.

The last thing she heard was the soft

clink of the whiskey bottle.

W
yatt opened his eyes to bright, warm

sunshine. He was still tilted back against

the wall, the bottle of Jameson’s still

wedged between his legs. Damned if it

wasn’t even half empty.

Maybe that was a good thing. He’d

have some for tonight.

He stretched, capped and put the

whiskey aside, and glanced over at

Remy. Wrapped in the blanket, she was

curled up in a ball, and appeared to still

be sleeping, tucked next to Dantès,

who’d lifted his head in query.

His mouth tightened. He didn’t

remember dreaming. He hoped like hell

he hadn’t.

Wyatt gestured for the dog to come

with him, and moments later he was

lifting Dantès down from the high door

of the truck rig so they could both do

their business. To his dismay, the injured

canine wasn’t as confident on his feet as

he’d hoped.

“You’re not going to be able to travel

today, are you bud?” Wyatt asked,

kneeling next to him to examine the

jaguar’s claw marks and bites.

In the daylight, his diagnosis of a full

recovery was borne out, but not without

a day or two of rest first. There was no

way Dantès should be hiking twenty,

thirty miles a day for a while. Wyatt

glanced at the truck. He hoped Remy

wasn’t in a hurry to get to Envy. Not

only were they going to be delayed, but

she’d been heading in the wrong

direction for the last day and they would

have to backtrack about twenty miles.

He shook his head. How the hell had

she managed to evade the zombies, the

Strangers, and the bounty hunters—who

were all looking for Remington Truth—

for so long without getting herself

killed?

Of course, there was one bounty

hunter she hadn’t avoided. Ian Marck.

They’d been partners for a while before

Ian was tossed over a cliff after having

the shit beat out of him by Seattle, a rival

bounty hunter, who’d then abducted

Remy.

He’d seen a lot of horror in his day,

but Wyatt’s stomach still pitched when

he remembered the condition in which

he’d found her. Chained beneath

Seattle’s Humvee, ready to be dragged

off when he drove away, she’d been half

dressed, beaten and raped, and God

knew what else. It was a wonder she

was even half sane.

If she had nightmares last night, he

hadn’t heard it from her. But back at

Yellow Mountain, when their bedrooms

were only a short distance down the hall

from each other, he had.
Fucking

bastard.

“Good boy,” he said, giving the dog a

good, loving scrub at the neck. Dantès

had been the one to pick up Remy’s

scent and track her down. He’d launched

himself through the window of Seattle’s

truck and torn the man’s throat out before

the bounty hunter knew what happened.

“Good boy,” he said again. “I wouldn’t

have been nearly as quick and merciful

about it.”

“About what?”

He turned to see Remy climbing out

of the cab. Her long black hair, tousled

from sleep, shone in the sunlight, and he

saw she’d lost the blanket around her

waist and pulled on a pair of jeans

instead. Damn, she had long legs. He

wondered if she’d sewn up her cargo

pants yet.

“Giving that fucker Seattle what he

deserved,” he replied.

Her steps hitched, but she recovered

quickly and kept walking. “Oh. Uh,

nature calls,” she said, and headed for a

thicker part of the woods. Dantès

followed her, hobbling off at a labored

pace.

When she returned, he said, “How’s

your leg?”

“Fine,” she said.

“I hope you put a bandage on it,

otherwise your jeans will rub it and get

lint in—”

“Yes, I have a bandage on it.” She

was speaking from behind a clenched

jaw.

“The other thing is . . . Dantès can’t

travel yet. We’re going to be staying

here for a day or two.”

She relaxed, her shoulders literally

sagging. “I’m glad you think so. I was

afraid . . .” She shrugged, then said in

that prim tone, “You don’t have to stay.”

Wyatt didn’t even bother to respond.

He merely shook his head and went back

into the truck. He could spend his time

cleaning out the place a little better since

they were going to be here at least

another day. Plus, the Jameson’s had

sidetracked him and he hadn’t finished

his exploration last night. Maybe he’d

find another bottle.

Or, better yet, more duct tape.

R
emy debated about whether to take

Dantès with her. She wanted to find a

place to wash herself and her clothes,

and while she preferred to have him

stand guard, she could see that every

step he took was painful. He needed

rest.

So, she asked Wyatt to hand down

her pack and help her get Dantès into the

truck. There weren’t nearly as many

threats during the daylight as at night.

She’d be fine as long as she didn’t go

too far and had the gun in her waistband.

After all, she’d been alone since she

left Yellow Mountain, and many times

before. She knew how to take care of

herself.

To her surprise, Wyatt didn’t have

one smart-ass comment about her going

off alone. Nor did he give her a list of

commonsense instructions she didn’t

need. Instead, he obliged her request for

help with Dantès, then disappeared back

into the truck. Moments later a wad of

garbage
thwumped
out of the window

and onto the ground.

Well, he was going to be busy for a

while.

With all her cross-terrain travel,

Remy had become adept at finding water

while not losing track of where her camp

was. There were plenty of landmarks to

help guide her, and less than two miles

from the truck cab she found a small

lake.

After a quick look around, she

stripped and waded in. She couldn’t

help one last glance toward the direction

of the truck. If she were in a DVD or a

novel, her bath would be interrupted—

accidentally or purposely—by her

handsome companion, spying on her.

She snorted. By all indication, Wyatt

would rather have his hands cut off than

come upon her or any female bathing.

Maybe he was gay.

Then, with a rush of heat, she

remembered the one time a few weeks

ago when he’d looked at her without that

cold, angry expression. It was right after

he’d helped her remove the burning

crystal from her skin.

If it were up to me, I could think of a

few things to do with you,
he’d said.

No. The man was not gay. Angry,

rude, arrogant . . . but not gay.

The water was cool but refreshing,

and it took only a moment for her to get

used to it. She washed her clothes and

laid them out on a bush to dry, then

ducked underwater to wash her hair.

When she finished with her ablutions,

Remy floated around on her back. As

often happened, her fingers settled over

the slight curve of her belly, covering the

crystal as if to assure herself it was safe

—the small gemstone her grandfather,

the first Remington Truth, had given her

on his deathbed, making her promise to

guard with her life.

It’s the key. You’ll know what to do

with it when the time comes.

The crystal itself was a rosy orange

color and hardly bigger than her

thumbnail. After he first gave it to her,

she carried it in a zippered pants pocket.

But then, after almost losing it when

those pants were carried away down a

river while she washed them, Remy

realized she had to do something else

with the crystal. If it was that important,

she had to hide and protect it.

For a while, then, she wore it around

her neck on a chain, having fashioned a

setting for it. But then there was a chance

it would get caught, and the chain snap

and break. Or someone might see it, and

ask about it or yank it off her neck.

And so, nearly fifteen years ago, she

thought

of

a

better

way.

She

painstakingly wrought an intricate silver

and gold setting for the crystal, which

not only obscured most of the stone itself

but also had four small wires. She had

help from an old jeweler, who thought

she simply meant to have an unusual

belly ring, and pierced her navel in four

places to hold the crystal firmly in place.

It was thus hidden, protected, and

always with her. She hadn’t had

occasion to remove the complicated

ornament for years—simply flushing

water behind and around it and bathing

the piercings with alcohol on occasion

—until a few days ago, when it started

to glow and burn and she was forced to

ask Wyatt to help her remove it.

His touch had been efficient and

impersonal, but the memory of those

long, confident fingers skating over her

belly made Remy feel unsettled and

warm even now. She chalked it up to the

awkwardness of intimacy with a stranger

and turned her thoughts firmly away,

giving a powerful frog-kick in the lake.

The water surged over her as she shot

through the waves, still floating on her

back, looking up at the blue sky from

behind the filter of tree branches. Still

remembering.

Hide yourself, Remy. Don’t let them

find you. Don’t . . . let . . . them . . . find

you
.

She’d done what her grandfather bid,

hiding from everyone, getting to know no

one, disdaining long-term relationships

and friendships. A lonely existence. And

in the beginning it had been a frightening

one. She had no idea when or if someone

would be searching for her, hunting her

down . . . and what they would do to her

if they found her.

But

after

years

of

nomadlike

behavior, Remy found herself relaxing a

little. She stayed in one place for months

at a time, then moved and resettled. The

closest she’d come to having a

permanent home was her three years in

Redlo, where she’d had a small business

making pottery. She’d begun to feel safe.

She had Dantès. She had friends. She

had a pleasant life. For a time she’d

even had a boyfriend.

But that idyll had been interrupted by

the arrival of Wyatt and his friends.

They’d been searching for Remington

Truth, and for some reason she’d never

know, the words had popped from her

mouth:
I’m Remington Truth
.

How many times since then had she

berated herself for being so stupid? How

could that have just spilled from her lips