Midnight (13 page)
TWELVE
Chris couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so satisfied. Tired. Fucking exhausted, actually. But satisfied. The chill shiver of dread that had walked up his spine disappeared as soon as he’d first set eyes on Peltz’s dust pirates. They were intruders. He had no claim to Valle, no place here with these people, but they had stepped onto his turf.
That was how it had felt, anyway. He strolled to the tavern, enjoying the sweet soreness in his muscles. Stronger than he’d ever been, he was also more attuned to the nuances around him. Maybe it was because he’d spent so long on his own, just him and the wilderness. How else could he explain being able to hear silent footsteps across a desert valley, or the rumble of engines out of Rosa’s earshot?
But it was either believe his senses or in the odd déjà vu of his dream. He didn’t know which was the least disturbing. A thought jabbed like lightning into his brain.
Jenna’s senses had been remarkable after her first shift.
He caught the toe of one boot against the heel of the other, then stopped in the middle of the dark, dusty street. Could the Change be affecting him too? Not once, ever, had he come close to feeling like some wolf was ready to bust out of him, not even in those furious few minutes after Ange had been slaughtered. His mind was always there. His body stayed human.
With a soft chuckle, he continued his walk. For all his familiarity with the possibilities, he still couldn’t fathom what it was to shift from a person into an animal. The mechanics, the internal wiring—none of it was quantifiable, and he’d thought himself long past trying to measure anything. That was for the best, or else he’d have to face the sort of man he was now—the kind who did murder and walked away content.
“Hey, Doc,” Brick called.
He sat on the porch outside the
taberna
with his striking young sister, Singer. They shared a cigar—one puff each, passing it back and forth, probably a rare treasure savored in honor of defending their homes. “Nice work today,
mano
.”
taberna
with his striking young sister, Singer. They shared a cigar—one puff each, passing it back and forth, probably a rare treasure savored in honor of defending their homes. “Nice work today,
mano
.”
“Tú también.”
“You want a drag?” Singer asked.
She flashed a brilliant smile, which Chris took as a dare rather than a come-on. Let the hazing begin. He might be game if he thought he would stay past the birth of Tilly’s child.
He wiped a hand across his brow. God, he felt like a butcher after a twelve-hour shift. “No, thanks. I need sleep. Soon.”
“Hey,
güero
, that’s a nasty cut.” Singer pushed away from the post toward him. They met halfway on the steps of the cantina. She was the loveliest blend of Hispanic and African American, with a smile that had turned decidedly more inviting than challenging. But she was also sixteen. Although Chris was hard up, he wasn’t a bastard. “Want me to stitch it up for you?”
güero
, that’s a nasty cut.” Singer pushed away from the post toward him. They met halfway on the steps of the cantina. She was the loveliest blend of Hispanic and African American, with a smile that had turned decidedly more inviting than challenging. But she was also sixteen. Although Chris was hard up, he wasn’t a bastard. “Want me to stitch it up for you?”
“I’ve got it, Singer,” came Rosa’s sleek voice. “Get some sleep.”
She didn’t stop as she passed them on the steps. Chris watched her go. Shit, he was already getting used to that privilege.
He shrugged to Singer and tipped an imaginary hat. “Maybe next time I’m wounded.”
“Next week, then.” She winked and rejoined her brother.
The two of them snickered about something. Chris didn’t want to know what. The muscles and skin around that slice on his back were really beginning to burn. And he felt so fatigued, he was damn close to punch-drunk.
He’d thought the tavern would be full of bravos celebrating their victory, but perhaps the exhaustion of Burning Night and the raid had used up their stores. The place was dark and deserted. They were probably all in bed. Sensible people.
Across the room, Rosa lit a match from behind the bar. Soon an oil lamp filled the open room with gold. She had a let’s-get-this-over-with attitude about her. He had the perverse need to know if it was genuine.
“Singer offered. You should go back to bed.”
“No good,” she said, shaking her head. “If Singer starts making a play for you and you accept, then I’ll have hell to pay with Brick and Rio.”
“You’re not making the prospect of staying all that appealing.”
“I didn’t intend to.” She patted the bar. “C’mon, then.”
“This won’t hold,
Jefa
. If you don’t get more women in here soon, this place will eat itself up.”
Jefa
. If you don’t get more women in here soon, this place will eat itself up.”
Rosa stilled. A leather tie tried to hold all her hair back, but the battle had left her fierce, wild, ragged around the edges. Dark silken strands slipped down to frame her face. She looked younger, suddenly, and even more petite. Maybe it was because, regardless of the responsibilities she shouldered, she was a mortal who had limits.
“I know,” she said tightly. “But haven’t you noticed that fewer women survived?”
“Are you asking for my wisdom and input?”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
He stripped off his shirt. He used the material to rub the grime from his face, then tossed it aside. Hardly a few days in his care and it already needed mending. Typical.
Rosa stared at him. Holy hell, she lit him on fire.
Self-conscious, aroused, he rubbed the back of his neck. Her gaze followed the movement, then slid down the length of his torso. She actually took a step back from the bar as he approached.
“It’s hard for you to ask for help, isn’t it?” he asked. “You only ask because you’d die before missing the chance to help your town.”
“Shut up.”
“Nope.” He reached the end of the bar and turned his back. Rosa was either going to do this or she’d back down. Both possibilities had his fatigued mind alert once more—almost as alert as his body. “I knew a man once who acted like you do. Mason was a hard-ass. Held the whole world on his shoulders. He didn’t imagine anyone else was up to the task.”
She dipped a cloth in a basin of water and touched it to his skin. Chris hissed softly, then eased into the pain. He forced his muscles to relax as she cleaned his wound.
“What happened to him?”
“He fell for a woman who gave as good as she got. Now they have each other’s backs.”
“Good for them.”
Silently he agreed with her. He liked testing Rosa, but he knew his own limits. Chris had let Ange down when she needed him—the last in a long line of injuries he’d done to the women who loved him.
“Ow,” he snapped.
“Poor baby.” She worked in silence as he soaked up the stinging pain. An antiseptic of some kind. “I don’t think you’ll need stitches. Just try not to aggravate it.”
Rosa’s fingers were nimble and surprisingly cool. He closed his eyes and absorbed the simple, miraculous pleasure of being touched. She didn’t hurry. Neither did she linger. Every brush of skin against skin fired up Chris from the inside out. Starved for attention, his body interpreted efficient care as downright primal.
She bandaged him, and already he was crumbling. Soon it would be over. He’d cram back into himself and seal it up tight. But with Rosa’s hands on him, he couldn’t remember why.
The lightest brush of her fingertips trailed down the right side of his spine—nowhere near the slice. She brushed up his side and laid her hand on his shoulder. Palm flat. Nails curling slightly, testing. Teasing.
Chris made fists at his sides. Blood boiled all the way down to his capillaries, screaming for more. Whatever breath he’d been ready to exhale stayed trapped in his lungs.
She swallowed so loudly that he heard it. Two quick steps back and she was herself once more. He could practically feel an icy wall shoot up between them.
“All right, then. You’re good.”
“Shit,” he muttered.
Fun’s over.
He was a sorry-ass mofo if that had become his definition of a good time. But no one had touched him voluntarily—nothing to gain by it—since Ange. No guilt would follow these moments. No shame. Only a pounding greed for more.
Intent on accepting the touch for what it was and moving on, he rolled his shoulder. The dressing tugged, but the pain was a triviality compared to the ache in his cock. A quick glance toward Rosa revealed her head bent low as she boxed up the first-aid kit.
“That has been my experience,” he said into the thick silence. His throat was as dry as the desert outside the tavern door. “About the women, I mean. For most of the clumps of people I’ve come across, the ratio was about two to one in favor of men. I don’t know why. Maybe something with the Change, or just how piss hard it’s been to survive the aftermath.”
“You got that right.”
She shoved a wad of bandages back in the kit, but they were a fat tangle. Ends popped out as she closed the lid. With a huff, she started again. Her fingertips were trembling.
“Rosa?”
“Leave it.”
Yet speaking Russian would’ve been easier than turning away from her. He edged around the bar and took her hands. She slapped him away, but he tried again.
“So my turn to ask you again,” he said. “And maybe you’ll give me a better answer than, ‘I’m too stubborn to die.’ How did you survive the Change?”
“By fighting.”
“Hellhounds?” He remembered that was her name for them—and a fitting one, it was.
“People.”
He held still, facing her, willing her to continue. Something told him this was important—a key part of her character. Why she intrigued him so greatly was a mystery. Maybe because she was the first person who felt like a
person
since he’d left the Northwest. She had depth and flaws and strength. Grit. Most of what he’d seen between here and there was cowering. It got old, downright suicidal, to think that was all humanity had left to give.
person
since he’d left the Northwest. She had depth and flaws and strength. Grit. Most of what he’d seen between here and there was cowering. It got old, downright suicidal, to think that was all humanity had left to give.
“Will you tell me?”
“By fighting,” she repeated, her face gone distant with dark memories. “You fight and fight—with rocks, sticks, your bare hands if you have to. And you never stop. Never. You never lie down. If they keep coming, so do you. That’s the only way you survive this.” She studied him then, dark eyes intense. “As you already know. See, everybody who makes it to Valle has passed his or her own trial by fire. Isn’t that right, Doc?”
“Yeah. It is.”
“You have so many questions, like you’ve earned my secrets. Why don’t you tell me about yours?” She stepped closer in challenge, and his body responded to her proximity on a wholly different scale.
“What makes you think I have any?”
“Everyone does. So tell me about her.”
“Who?”
“The woman who broke your heart.”
The lance-accurate assessment stabbed him in a sore spot. Okay, maybe he wasn’t ready to have this conversation. He cleared his throat and turned away. “I’ll make the rounds again tomorrow and check up on everyone who needs medical attention. I patched up what I could of the injured bravos, but their wounds will need attention as they heal.”
“Good.” Her smile said she knew he was backing off.
“Thank you. For trusting me tonight.”
“
De nada.
It was a good call. And you fought like a bravo.”
De nada.
It was a good call. And you fought like a bravo.”
“Don’t get any ideas,” Chris said with a quiet laugh. “I’m not staying long enough for some swearing-in ceremony.”
“You’re probably just scared of needles.”
He had seen the town’s distinctive tattoo that evening during the Burning Night celebrations, when bravos had stripped their shirts near the bonfire’s searing flames. Hector had inadvertently provided a close-up view. The young man had taken a bullet to the meat of his upper arm. He’d been relieved that the tattoo remained intact.
“I’m surprised you didn’t name the town after yourself.”
Rosa’s expression sobered. “I’m nothing without my bravos.”
Something in the way she said it made Chris want to be a part of her society. To belong. More than that, he wanted to claim part of that possessive pride in her voice.
Only then did he realize he was still bare chested. If she moved forward, Rosa wouldn’t even reach his chin with the top of her head. She was much shorter than she appeared among her people. Her mouth would brush his chest. He’d only just managed to calm his erection, but that mental image had it jerking back to life.
“Rest now,” she said.
“Sure. You too.”
She dimmed the lamp until darkness swallowed the tavern. Her footsteps echoed across the empty room, toward the door. Chris closed the distance between them with a few quick strides. “Those books,” he said, feeling as green as a junior high kid at his first dance.
Idiot.
Idiot.
“Yeah?”
“What kind are they?”
Rosa leaned in, her face a mere breath from his chest. His skin felt stretched tight. She inhaled—
oh, God, she’s breathing me in.
The primitive heat nearly incinerated him. Full-on fellatio wouldn’t have been as erotic.
oh, God, she’s breathing me in.
The primitive heat nearly incinerated him. Full-on fellatio wouldn’t have been as erotic.
She straightened and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
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