Night Resurrected

by Joss Ware

  He ended the kiss abruptly, stepping back and looking down at her. She was panting, her legs felt like noodles, and for a moment she wasn’t certain she remembered her own name. Oh my God.

  “I had to shut you up somehow,” he said, stepping back farther. His expression was inscrutable, his eyes dark and glittering. He didn’t seem to be out of breath at all, damn him with his full, sensual lips glistening with her kiss. “Now. I’m going to get that raccoon out of there—hopefully he hasn’t bled all over the pile of clothes I found—and I’m going to dispose of it so Dantès or any other animal won’t be infected.” Without another word, he turned and stalked back to the trailer, pausing to pet Dantès on the way.

  Outraged, confused, and still stunned from the pleasurable assault, she opened her mouth to shout at him . . . then closed it. Her fingers were trembling, for God’s sake. Her lips pulsed, and other areas of her body throbbed. That had been one hell of a kiss.

  And it hadn’t affected him at all?

  Remy glared after Wyatt. No way. There was no way he felt nothing. Not after that.

  At least . . . God, she hoped not. That would be mortifying.

  She walked toward the trailer, her breath steady, her lips settling back to normal, just as Wyatt came out. He was carrying a bundle, presumably the raccoon, and he barely gave her a glance as he walked past.

  “Should be safe in there now,” he said.

  “Should be?” she asked, lifting an eyebrow as Dantès ran over to sniff at the bundle. “How do we know there isn’t a nest of them in there?”

  “I think we would know by now,” he said very, very patiently. “And they don’t have nests. They have dens. And they’re nocturnal—”

  She flounced past him, irritated beyond belief and trying very hard not to give him the satisfaction of showing it.

  “Remy,” he called, just as she began to climb into the trailer. He stood several yards away, ready to disappear into the woods to bury the body. “You might want to, uh—” He tugged at his shirt.

  She looked down and saw that her tank top had somehow gotten pulled down and out of place, and pretty much half of one pink-and-lace-covered breast was exposed.

  Dickhead.

  Apparently, he’d succeeded in shutting her up. Although, he felt more than a twinge of guilt about how he’d gone about doing it. Christ, the woman was the survivor of a horrific sexual assault. What the hell had he been thinking, manhandling her like that?

  That was it. He hadn’t been thinking. This dark, desolate world had finally gotten to him. He’d never laid a rough hand on a woman in his life—unless he was trying to save hers.

  Yet, surprisingly, she hadn’t seemed traumatized, and he wasn’t certain whether he should be relieved or terrified that Remy actually responded to the kiss. He decided to settle on relieved that he hadn’t damaged her even more—though the last thing he needed was her wanting something more from him.

  He had no business even thinking about that.

  Thus, he was glad to work in silence as they dug through more old and rotting packages in the trailer. Maybe he was distracted, but he didn’t have much good luck today. The only thing he found worth keeping was a leather belt and a shrink-wrapped iPod. Why the hell hadn’t anyone shipped a case of wine or liquor? This olive oil isn’t going to do us much good, old as it is.

  “Veronica Mars?” Remy said, breaking the silence.

  “Who’s that?” Wyatt looked over and saw her holding a DVD package. He shrugged. “Never heard of her. Are you ready to wrap it up? I want to do some fishing.” After two days cooped up in one place with a crazy, gun-toting female, he needed some quiet solitude. Some sober quiet solitude; yesterday didn’t count.

  “Sure. I’m ready to go back,” she said, and began to gather up her things.

  The trip back to their camp was uneventful except for the discovery of wild scallions and some raspberries, and once back at the rig, Wyatt didn’t delay in taking off again.

  Less than two hours later he and Dantès once more returned to the truck rig, to find Remy crouched by a small fire in the clearing. She was still wearing that damned white tank top that fit like a second skin and showed a ridiculous amount of cleavage. Thanks to this afternoon’s incident, Wyatt now knew she wore a lacy pink bra that belonged in a Victoria’s Secret catalog—not in a gritty, dangerous postapocalyptic world. He knew from firsthand experience that the women here generally wore simple white sports bras out of necessity and practicality.

  Dantès rushed over to greet his mistress, who looked up at his approach. Her eyes lit with pleasure and she lifted her chin as her pet swiped it with loving kisses. She had a long neck that looked pale and delicate next to the loose black braid. Too bad he wanted to wrap his hands around it more often than not.

  And that, he told himself, was a good thought to focus on. Not what had happened this afternoon.

  “I have two fish, more potatoes and asparagus, plus some wild tomatoes I found,” he said, laying the offerings on the cloth-covered stump she indicated. Her makeshift kitchen. He noted with interest that she had the basics—a skillet and a few metal utensils—as well as some things he hadn’t expected: salt, dried garlic, oil of some sort, green onions, and . . . flour? For frying the fish?

  This could be the best meal he’d had in a while.

  And so he set about trying to ruin it.

  “About this saving my ass twice,” he said, sitting down across from her. He picked up a tomato and began to slice it with his knife. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  She looked up at him from dredging the fish in flour, lifting an eyebrow. Her eyes were such a brilliant blue they startled him every time she fixed them on him. “Who thought of the torch? Who gave it to you? I do believe that was me. And without the torch . . .”

  “Right. I remember you screeching my name the whole time, distracting the hell out of me so I couldn’t think clearly. If I hadn’t been distracted—”

  “Right,” she said. “That’s just about as bad an excuse as the one you gave me today.”

  Wyatt suddenly had an unpleasant feeling in the pit of his stomach. He knew better than to ask what she meant so he kept slicing tomatoes.

  But of course she was going to tell him anyway. “Your so-called excuse for kissing me.”

  He picked up another tomato, his hand very steady, and said, “I’m not Ian Marck. I’m here to get you safely to Envy. That’s all.” He kept his voice perfectly casual, with just a hint of disdain. But there’s a box of Trojans in the damn truck, Earp.

  She bristled, as he expected she would. So predictable! “I don’t see how what I did with Ian has any bearing on your conduct this afternoon.”

  She sounded like the principal at his middle school, prim and outraged at the same time. And she had neatly confirmed what he suspected: she and Ian Marck had been lovers. He wasn’t certain why he wanted to know, but now he did.

  “That was a sorry excuse,” she continued in that prim, princessy voice. “I hope your curiosity was assuaged.”

  “It certainly was,” he said, his voice emotionless. “And you can be assured it won’t happen again.”

  If they had been in a real kitchen, she probably would have thrown a frying pan at him—or a knife. Instead, her face went blank with shock and then rosy with fury and she pressed her full, pink lips together so hard they became little more than a white line.

  Then they softened enough for her to mutter something that sounded like “Dickhead.”

  Yes, indeed. That, he could be, when he felt there was cause for it. Cathy hadn’t ever used that word in particular, but there had been times she probably wanted to. But at least with her, he’d always made it up to her later. The stab of grief laced with guilt left him breathless, and he forced his thoughts away from the funny, bright-eyed woman he’d loved deeply.

  The important thing now was that he’d reset the boundaries, reinstated the barrier between him and Remy. He began to cut the tough ends off the
asparagus, idly tossing a piece to Dantès just to see whether he’d eat it. He didn’t.

  By the time the meal was ready, it was twilight and Wyatt’s mouth was watering. It smelled unbelievably good for such a rudimentary setting. He wondered at the last minute if she was angry enough to feed his portion to Dantès, but Remy didn’t. She merely handed him a laden plate and settled back into her spot to eat.

  “This is really good,” he said after the first bite of flaky trout. Nothing like fresh-caught fish over the fire, and she’d done a great job. “Thanks.”

  Remy shrugged. “You caught ’em and cleaned them.”

  He took another bite. “We can leave tomorrow. Dantès seems ready to go.”

  This time she nodded. “I agree.”

  “It’ll take about two more days to get there,” he said, spearing a potato. These wild ones were smaller and sweeter than the large brown ones he’d grown up on. Cooked directly in the coals, their skins were crispy and the insides creamy.

  “I know.”

  He swallowed, took a drink of water, then manned up. “Look, Remy, I’m sorry about today. I was a little . . . uh . . . rough when I grabbed you, and after what happened—”

  She looked up at him, her brilliant blue eyes calm and steady. “You were being a jerk, but you don’t need to worry that you upset me. It was a kiss, not an attack. Seattle . . . uh—” Her voice cracked, but she forged on, swallowing visibly. Her eyes went hard. “There was no kissing . . . then.” The words sat there, cold and stark.

  Christ. Now he really felt like shit. “Hell, Remy, I—”

  He stopped as Dantès sprang to his feet. They both turned and Wyatt saw Remy reach behind her for her gun. He tensed, peering into the darkening forest, listening.

  The dog’s ears were up but his mouth was closed. He was neither panting nor growling; just at attention. Watching and waiting.

  Wyatt was about to duck into the truck to get his gun when the shape of a man emerged from the trees. Dantès gave a short bark of recognition and ran over to him.

  The intruder looked around, patted the dog on the head and said, “I thought I smelled your cooking, Remy.”

  Jesus. Wasn’t Ian Marck supposed to be dead?

  Chapter 7

  Remy bolted to her feet the moment Marck came into view. “Holy crap, Ian, what are you doing here?”

  He gave her a cool, crooked smile. “I told you. I smelled your cooking.” His attention went to Wyatt, who’d taken his time rising to his feet. “Who’s this?”

  “Ian Marck,” Wyatt said, ignoring the question as he examined the lanky dark blond man. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

  “Then you have the advantage over me.” Ian’s blue eyes were the cold ones of a man who’d seen and committed great violence—and didn’t care.

  “I intend to keep it that way.” Wyatt gave him a cool smile of his own, then sank back into his place and continued eating. He’d never actually met Marck before, but he’d seen him once back in Envy, albeit from a distance and in a dimly lit bar. His friend Elliott had pointed him out as the son of the man who’d abducted his girlfriend Jade.

  Wyatt hadn’t been there, but he knew all the details of how Ian and his father Raul had tracked down Jade in order to bring her back to the Stranger who’d kept her captive for three years—all for the bounty, of course.

  But when Elliott and Theo showed up to free her, Ian had secretly helped them in exchange for Elliott’s assistance in treating an ill young woman named Allie. Then, weeks later, Ian inexplicably showed up at the bar in Envy and gave them a message meant to help them find Remington Truth. How he knew Wyatt and Elliott and their friends were searching for the old man, they didn’t know. Why he wanted to help them was even more of a mystery, especially since no one at the time was aware that the original Remington Truth was dead.

  Ian’s clue had eventually led them to Remy, but not directly due to his information—which left Wyatt and the others wondering if Marck had been sending them on a false trail or not.

  In other words: Wyatt didn’t trust the bastard one whit.

  The man looked about his age—pushing forty—with short dark blond hair and high cheekbones. He had a look about the forehead and eyes that reminded Wyatt of a Russian guy he’d gone to college with. From the pallor of his skin, the hollows in his cheeks, and the fact that he was unshaven, it was obvious he’d been ill—or injured.

  “You look like hell,” Remy said, handing him what was left of her plate.

  “Nearly dying will do that to you,” Marck said, and fairly dove into the food. “Thanks.”

  “How did you survive?”

  Wyatt settled back, making himself appear relaxed as he observed the two conversing. He noticed Remy hadn’t greeted her presumed-dead lover with an embrace, or even great warmth, and wondered if that was due to his presence or for some other reason. Had she known Marck was still alive? How? Her body language was a combination of surprise and tension, but not fear or apprehension. Nor great joy. Hell, he hoped that if he suddenly showed up in front of Cathy after being presumed dead, she’d be a lot happier to see him.

  Despite Remy’s lukewarm reaction to his appearance, Marck settled in as if he’d been with them on this journey all along.

  And Dantès . . . he was the most interesting of all. He greeted Marck briefly when he first came on the scene, but now settled down in a pile of dog between Remy and Marck. He lay down but didn’t sleep, watching and listening just as Wyatt did.

  “I got lucky is how I survived,” Marck said, finishing the last bite of fish. “I don’t know. I don’t remember—much of it was a blur. I just managed to take care of myself enough until I healed.” His look became intense as he focused it on her. “What happened?”

  Even in the fading light, Wyatt saw Remy’s hands curl into themselves and he gritted his teeth. If the bastard who was traveling with her had been on his guard, paying attention, protecting her, she wouldn’t have the terrifying memories of her abduction by Seattle.

  “What you’d expect,” she replied in a tone that discouraged further questions.

  Marck’s expression tightened and his jaw moved, but he said nothing more. He turned his attention to Wyatt. “You got a name?”

  He told him, partly because he didn’t want Remy volunteering her old nickname for him: Dick. As in Head. Crazy woman. One thing about her: he always knew what she was thinking. “I’m a friend of Elliott’s.” He gave Marck a meaningful look. I know exactly who you are.

  Recognition flashed in the man’s eyes, followed by something that might have been grief. “The doctor.” His expression eased slightly and he nodded. “I did him a favor.”

  “The way I heard it, he did you one back,” Wyatt replied evenly.

  “We’re square.”

  “What are you talking about?” Remy asked, her attention ping-ponging between them.

  “It’s complicated,” Marck replied. “What I’m really here for is to tell you the Strangers are out for blood.”

  “And that’s news?” Wyatt said dryly.

  “They’re looking for you, Remy, and they’re desperate. I can’t believe I found you first.”

  Wyatt couldn’t believe it either. In fact, he suspected it was less of a wild coincidence and more of . . . something else. Marck didn’t strike him as relying on happenstance as opposed to executing his own plans.

  “Haven’t you noticed the zombies being even more crazy than usual? Something’s happened. Something happened and now they’re looking for you,” Ian was saying. “They have an idea of where you are—or at least, they know you exist.”

  Wyatt noticed Remy’s hand jerk toward her navel, to the crystal, before she caught it and stilled. So Marck had noticed it too: the increased frenzy of the zombies. But did he know about the crystal?

  They’d slept together. Of course he knew about the crystal.

  “How do you know they’re looking for me?” Remy asked.

  “They’re taking da
rk-haired people now. Not blondes anymore. They leave the blondes behind.” Marck’s words were flat and tense, and Wyatt understood the implication. The zombies had spent fifty years looking for an old man—Remington Truth—with white hair. The monsters couldn’t recognize pictures, but they understood hair color and so would capture anyone blond. The dark-haired ones, they’d maul and feast upon.

  “They’re taking brunettes now? How? How do they know about me?” Remy asked, and for the first time he could remember, Wyatt heard a note of fear in her voice. “Did you tell them?”

  “No, I didn’t fucking tell them. Remy, I didn’t spend three months traveling around with you, keeping you close, so I could tell anyone who you were.”

  “Then why did you?”

  That was precisely what Wyatt wanted to know. Ian Marck wasn’t the kind of guy to do anything unless it benefited him. So why had he spent so much time with Remy, and why was he here now?

  He didn’t like it.

  Marck looked at Remy but didn’t respond to her question. Some message that Wyatt wasn’t privy to passed between them—a message between lovers.

  Well, three was a crowd. He got up and excused himself.

  He’d leave them alone, but he sure as hell wasn’t leaving.

  Remy watched as Wyatt stalked toward the truck rig, clearly glad to be away from them. However, his choice to go there instead of anywhere else wasn’t lost on her: he was staking his claim—to the shelter at least.

  Most definitely not to her.

  The tension in the air was thicker than dried pea soup, and Remy wasn’t certain she understood all of the layers. There was definitely an alpha dog thing going on between the two of the males, but that was no surprise. They were both intelligent, dangerous men who didn’t know each other—and clearly didn’t trust each other.

  “Who’s the guy?” Ian asked, not even waiting till Wyatt was out of earshot. Surely he heard. Surely he was meant to hear.