by Joss Ware
The first time he’d met Zoë, she’d saved his life, appearing from nowhere to skewer the ganga that had attacked him. She’d shot an arrow that lodged in the skull of the zombie-like monster, which scrambled its brains and dropped it dead.
No sooner had the creature collapsed than she demanded that Quent return her arrow.
He hadn’t even been certain she was a woman or a slender young man . . . until she came close enough to touch his face.
And that first time she touched him, just a faint brush of fingertips over his cheek, as if she wasn’t used to doing such a thing, it had seeped into his skin, warm and gentle. Hesitant, and yet . . . solid.
Now, Quent leaned against the ivy-covered wall, sending an additional shower of droplets scattering from the leaves. And he looked up again into the unrelieved darkness. Still fucking searching.
Rain blinded him once more, and he turned away, frustrated.
After their first meeting, she’d disappeared, slipping into the shadows, without her precious arrow. He’d taken it with him here to Envy, but before he turned to go, he called after her, into the dark, and invited her to come and retrieve it any time.
A few days later, she had found him in Envy, walking beneath a clear moon, and once again demanded her arrow to be returned. Despite her belligerence and god-awful haircut, Quent was compelled to kiss her.
And that had been all either of them needed. The moment felt as if something had been released, unleashed . . . snapped.
The sex that night, and the few other times they’d gotten busy since, had been hot and fast and urgent. It had left him with curled toes, breathless—and, despite its ferocity, it had left him feeling . . . comfortable. Settled.
Until she sneaked off into the night without a word. Taking her precious arrows with her.
After that first night, it had become sort of a game. From up on a rooftop, or a high window, she’d shoot an arrow where he’d be sure to find it, then disappear into the night. A day or so later, Zoë would show up unexpectedly, all self-righteous and annoyed and demanding it back, as if he’d stolen it right from her quiver . . . and then they’d get to it. On the bed. In the stairwell. Against the backside of the hotel. Wherever they managed to tear each other’s clothes off. This had been going on for perhaps two weeks, but he was unable to keep her out of his mind for long.
He spun suddenly, his foot squishing into mud and then jolting against a wedge of sidewalk, nearly tripping himself. Bloody buggering hell.
What the fuck was he doing wandering in the rain looking for a rude, anti-social, female Robin Hood when there were plenty of other willing partners inside?
Galvanized, he started back.
But once he got inside, rain dripping audibly from his hair and shirt and rolling off the hems of his jeans, Quent knew he had too much of a bag on to go to the Pub. Though the pints were plenty and the waitresses friendly, and Elliott’s lover, Jade, often sang onstage in a definite foreplay sort of way, Quent walked past. His leather sandals squished softly.
Maybe after he changed into dry clothing—the suede jeans were already shrinking from the rain—and did something with his hair, he’d change his mind. But unlikely.
What he really should do . . . what he suddenly wanted to do . . . was to go back to the computer lab and touch that crystal again.
The idea sparked in him, and he nodded to himself. If Elliott hadn’t interrupted him earlier and pulled the stone away, Quent might have been able to get more from the gem. The blur of faces might have eased from the fast-forward of a video to a slower parade, and he might have learned something. Identified someone. Seen his father.
He might be able to discover where the Strangers lived or came from. And then he could leave this fucking place and do what he had to do.
After that . . . Quent had no thought. He’d probably die in the process, for surely he couldn’t simply kill a leader of the Strangers and walk away unscathed.
Inside his room, Quent moved directly to the closet and felt up behind the lip of its shelf. Force of habit, first thing he always did when he came back into his space. And when he realized he’d been checking to see if the latest of Zoë’s precious arrows was still there—it was—he felt yet another blast of fury that he was still playing this game.
That he still cared to play it.
“So that’s where you’re hiding them now.”
Quent froze. A rush of heat and anger, a sudden weakness in his knees, and the tug of a smile, conflicting and paralyzing, caught him for a moment. He collected himself, emptied his expression, and turned.
“What the hell were you doing out in the rain for so long?” Zoë said in her low, rusty voice. She looked like a Bollywood actress with a rubbish haircut—exotic features, cinnamon-skinned, and her ink black hair cropped and falling every which way around her high cheekbones and jaw. A wide mouth, pointed chin, high, plum-sized breasts and long, lanky limbs completed the package.
She leaned nonchalantly against the wall across the room, behind the door through which he’d just come. The quiver and bow she normally wore over her shoulder rested on the floor. Her entire being shouted condescension and belligerence—but for her dark, almond-shaped eyes. Even in the dim room, lit only by a small lamp in the corner, Quent felt the weight of their gaze. Hot.
His belly dropped and blood surged through his body. “Were you waiting for me?” he asked, his arrogance matching his haughty gaze. “Or was it just that you hadn’t discovered my latest hiding place?”
Acknowledgments
I have so many people to thank for their support and feedback regarding this book.
First and foremost, a big thanks to Erika Tsang and everyone at Avon for their enthusiasm for my vision of a post-apocalyptic world and the heroes—and heroines—who inhabit it. It’s been a delight working with all of you!
Also to Marcy Posner, as always, for her savvy support and encouragement of my work.
A big hug to Tim Gleason for all of his computer expertise—Lou and Theo wouldn’t be the computer geniuses they are if it weren’t for you. (And, yes, any mistakes are mine, not yours.)
To Dennis Galloway and Scott Turner in particular for their feedback and brainstorming on post-apocalyptic worlds during those Thursday-night sessions, and for letting me bounce ideas off them out of the blue.
And a happy fist bump to Zach Winchell for giving me a fun escape plan one afternoon from his hammock.
Thanks to Tammy Kearly and Holli Bertram, who’ve read so many iterations of Elliott’s story that their eyes are probably permanently crossed, yet who continue to give thoughtful and welcome feedback. And especially to Tammy, who said early on, “Why don’t you write a post-apocalyptic story?”
Also to Jana DeLeon for always keeping me on the straight and narrow, and to my mentor, Robyn Carr, for her unfailing support and advice. Thank you too to Kathryn Smith and Jeaniene Frost for their support and enthusiasm, as well as to Jackie Kessler and Trish Milburn.
Hugs to my mom and Gary March, D.O., for their medical knowledge and suggestions.
And, finally, much love and many big, squishy hugs to my husband and children—thank you for understanding when the deadlines loom, and for all those plot discussions around the dinner table. I couldn’t do it without you!
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2010 by Joss Ware
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retriev
al system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
ISBN 978-0-06-173401-4
EPub Edition © 2009 ISBN: 9780061968198
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