Night Resurrected

by Joss Ware

  Her mouth, her hands, were suddenly everywhere, her soft, insanely sexy body pressing against him, rubbing, sliding. She had his cock in her hands before he realized it, and that alone nearly sent him spinning . . . but Wyatt caught himself in time. Just in time. And impossible as it was, he slid from her grasp, twisting away just enough to keep his brain clear.

  But he couldn’t keep his hands off her, nor from licking and sucking on her glorious breasts and raspberry nipples, his face from burying into her long, sweet-smelling hair. His fingers carried her essence, musky and rich from pleasure, and the scent filled his nostrils as the rest of him raged and wanted. His belly trembled when she kissed along his chest, down, down to where his cock throbbed, ready to explode.

  He had to close his eyes, count, think of the furiously cold shower he’d taken today, remind himself he had to be easy, slow, tender . . . but it was damned hard when she was sliding all over him, nipping at his shoulder and making all sorts of sexy noises.

  It was when she began to straddle him, sliding her damp, slick, musky self over his thigh and hip that he lost his mind and flipped her over smartly onto her back. The air whooshed from her and her eyes went wide and shocked, and Wyatt froze, cursing himself for stupidity, bracing himself for whatever was to follow.

  But instead of fear in her eyes, he saw desire and heat, temptation and welcome, and at that point he let go and dove in. He devoured soft lips, tasted salty skin, slid his tongue long and slowly around a hard, nubbly nipple . . . then drew it into his mouth, dancing his tongue around the tight pink areola, catching his breath when she sighed and trembled with pleasure. His fingers found her sleek, swollen heat, making her twitch with tantalizing little shivers and deep, throaty moans that made him crazy. He made her come again—watched her face go tight, then joyous, and knew she’d won another small battle. The surge of delight and pleasure that gave him made his cock throb sharply with impatience.

  Now.

  Somehow he remembered the condom on the table, somehow he managed to use his unsteady fingers to tear its packet open and slide it on, praying in the back of his mind that it was still good fifty-some years later. But at that point it would have been too late even if it wasn’t.

  Her eager hands were in the way, helping him roll the thing on, her fingers unfamiliar and distracting and wonderful, and he finally had to push them away so he could regain control of himself.

  She breathed a laugh, said something about him being a dick—or maybe it was something about his dick—and then took him by the hips and began to maneuver.

  “Easy,” he told her, rolling her on top of him, still taking care not to startle her, but giving her control. Just . . . oh. God. His mind went blank as she rose over him, breasts swaying just beyond his face, her eyes soft and bedroomy, her hair in tousled, inky waves against her cheeks, the pale skin of her throat . . . and he helped position her, fitting them together.

  She slid down, long and slow. A rush of blinding pleasure had him groaning aloud, his eyes, suddenly damp, closing in relief and hope. “Please,” he heard himself saying. “Please.”

  She moved, and he moved, too, working rhythmically beneath her, holding her hips as she leaned over him, taking his mouth with hers. Their kiss was almost vicious, nearly too rough, but hard and arousing, and all the while he kept moving, up and down, up and down, feeling her close around him, her shudders and vibrations as his need built and built . . .

  Wyatt tensed, holding his breath—yes—and grasped the peak as tears rolled from his eyes . . . Yes. White, fiery, incredible pleasure blasted through him and he felt his body release. Pain, pleasure, need, grief . . . pouring from him in a long, rolling, undulating fury.

  White. Clean. New.

  It was a long while before Wyatt became aware of anything but the draining, soul-threatening gratification that still sizzled through him. Like the last bit of electricity left in a downed wire. The sides of his face were still wet, and he roughly wiped the tears away, mildly chagrined at the display of emotion.

  Someone—Remy, because he sure as hell hadn’t moved—had turned off the light, and the only illumination was a glow from a triangular gap in the curtains he’d drawn. He guessed it was dawn, or near it. Hard to tell.

  He felt the weight of her head on his shoulder, the warmth of her body pressed against his, a piece of her hair tickling him on the cheek. He smelled their mingled scents clinging faintly to the sheets and pillow. Her even breathing suggested she was either sleeping, very relaxed, or an excellent actress.

  In the event it was the latter, he remained silent, unwilling to disturb her. He wanted only to bask in the feeling of . . . new.

  Odd. An odd feeling, but not an unwelcome one. Repletion, satisfaction, pleasure. And . . . new.

  That word came to mind once more and he frowned over it a little, turning it around in his lust-loosened mind as he smiled in abject happiness.

  His body felt languorous and sated. Weak, in a good way. God, that was amazing. Beyond amazing. Spiritual.

  I need a fucking cigarette—even though he didn’t smoke. He started to smile, to close his eyes and sink back into the basking when he remembered. His eyes sprang open and his indulgence evaporated, turning cold.

  Last night . . . he’d had sex—no, hell, he’d gone all the way and made love. To another woman. Who was not his wife.

  No comparisons, no guilt, no grief, no anger. No superimposed image of his wife on her face. Just . . . fuck. His heart was thudding hard now and Wyatt felt his calm and joy slip away. Not good.

  The iciness grew, chilling him from the inside and he closed his eyes, struggling with himself. This wasn’t the first time he’d been with someone since coming out of the caves. No—and he wasn’t proud of the fact that he’d spread himself around a little. Trying to exorcise the anger and guilt, trying to forget. Trying to find something to keep from going insane. Those nights—or days, or hours . . . they’d been dark and difficult and bitter.

  They still were.

  But, oh, God . . . not this. He remembered suddenly what he’d said to Remy—his blunt, honest, It’s too damn easy with you.

  But why is it so hard too?

  Yeah, that about covered it. His gritty eyes prickled with wetness and he pursed his lips to hold back whatever emotion was causing it.

  But he knew what it was. Fear. Cold, frigid fear.

  Remy stirred, pulling away, and all at once she was looking at him with those shocking blue eyes, clear and steady. Good actress, he decided ruefully. She’d been awake all along.

  “How are you?” she asked.

  He could drown in them. The rich blue-almost-violet hue was flecked with black and ringed with more inky color, and the whites of her eyes were pure and bright, even after a busy night. “I’m good,” he said. “What about you?”

  Her expression turned wary and she flattened her lips. “Good. And . . . a little scared.” She looked away suddenly and he felt a tremor through her that had nothing to do with pleasure.

  Hell. What was wrong with him? She’d probably lain awake all night, thinking about what was going to happen today . . . while he snored his way past dawn and worried about his flimsy guilt, mentally bellyaching about why he’d shed tears. Dickhead.

  “Remy, come here,” he said, gathering her to his chest. She felt so good there, dammit . . . and guilt pinged in his belly. “I’m not going to let you do it. We’ll tell them you ran away, that you escaped. I’ll get you out of here—there are secret tunnels and—”

  “Wyatt, stop,” she said. “You’re making it worse. You know it’s not possible. I have some ideas—”

  “There is another option,” he said flatly, looking at her with determination. “You know there is.”

  Her eyes shuttered and she bit her lip. It wasn’t a coy pose, but she did it often enough that he noticed and found it extremely sexy. Except at this moment. Now, he saw a confused but brave-faced woman, and something inside him moved sharply, deeply. He was breathles
s.

  “We could destroy the crystal,” he said, pressing on.

  She looked at him with unreadable eyes. “We could.”

  Wyatt was aware of a hollow, odd feeling in his chest. He didn’t know what it meant, but it was unpleasant and frightening. “If we destroyed the crystal, they wouldn’t be after you any longer,” he said.

  “Because they’d all die.”

  Their eyes met.

  “Yes. All of them.”

  “They destroyed the earth, Remy. They killed millions.”

  She nodded, her expressive eyes now dull. “I know.” She tugged out of his grip, rolling away. “Do you think I haven’t thought about it? How easy it would be? How free I’d be?”

  “They took my life,” he said, his voice broken. “Mine and everyone else’s. I hate them.”

  Remy’s back, bare and fair and sleek, was facing him, but she nodded.

  A sharp knock startled them both, and Wyatt surged from the bed as she dashed for the bathroom with a flash of pale flank and bouncing breast. He looked through the peephole and saw David and Cat, then heard the whine of Dantès as he scratched at the door.

  Wyatt darted a look at the bed, the mussed sheets, the used condom, and the clothing strewn around the room. Not precisely the information he wanted to announce to his son and granddaughter, for Christ’s sake. They knocked again, more insistently, and he called, “Just a sec.”

  Scooping up Remy’s clothes, he shoved them in a drawer then attacked the bed as she poked her head, shoulder, and one breast out of the bathroom. “Give me my pack,” she said. “Who is it?”

  “David and Cat. They brought Dantès.”

  Her face lit up, and he tossed over the satchel of her clothing, then yanked on his shorts—accomplishing all of this preparation in less than a minute.

  But when he opened the door, he swore there was a knowing glint in David’s eyes—a reality that set his teeth on edge and made his insides feel even more unsettled. He took the opportunity to crouch down for a reunion with Dantès, glad to not have to look at his son’s expression.

  At least it wasn’t Fence darkening his door this time. The jerkoff would probably be checking the box of Trojans to see how many were gone—and nagging him about the lack of usage. Just one, brother? What the fuck’re you thinking, with a crazy-hot piece like that in your arms?

  Wyatt closed his eyes briefly, thanking God Fence wasn’t here, and wishing—

  “Remy in the shower?” said David, glancing toward the closed door.

  “Yes.” Wyatt released Dantès and rose, noticing with discomfort that Cat was studiously not looking at him. She seemed very interested in gazing out the window and examining the row of books on the sill. Great. Now his granddaughter thought he was a pig.

  Christ. He rubbed the spot between his eyebrows and tried to think about what to say.

  “Sorry for being so early,” David was saying. “Vaughn wants us to meet at eight, and I thought Remy might want to see Dantès first.”

  “I don’t give a shit what Vaughn wants,” Wyatt replied coolly. “Remy is not going to spend the day at his beck and call.” But at the same time, the knowledge that they had a mere fourteen hours until the deadline made his veins turn to ice.

  “I’m not what?” The bathroom door opened and Remy came out in a waft of steam. Her face was flushed, her lips full and red, and wet hair clung to her neck and throat. She was wearing a short blue dress that made her eyes look more brilliant—if that was even possible. It also showed off more cleavage than Wyatt thought necessary. His knees felt weak.

  Any response would have been drowned out by Dantès, who, finally seeing his mistress, barked, whined, and bounded across the room to her. Wyatt swore he saw something damp glinting in her eyes as she knelt to hug the writhing mass of happy dog. She buried her face in his copper and brown fur, and even from his position Wyatt could see her clinging to the dog with every bit of strength she had.

  I’ve got to fix this. She can’t go.

  Remy stood up a few minutes later and greeted David with more warmth than Wyatt would have been able to expect her to muster, given the circumstances. Cat turned from the window and seemed glad to see her as well, but she still hardly said a word to Wyatt.

  “How about putting on a shirt,” Remy said, picking up the one he’d tossed on the dresser last night. She gave a meaningful look toward Cat, and then understanding dawned.

  Oh, yeah. Awkward to have one’s granddaughter checking you out. As he pulled on the shirt, he realized it was probably even more awkward for the granddaughter . . .

  “Vaughn has asked for everyone to meet at eight,” David said.

  “You don’t have to—”

  “It’s fine,” Remy said. “He might have news.” But the light that had been in her eyes when she hugged Dantès, and the glint of humor when she gave him his shirt, was gone. Although she tried to hide it, he could see the fear and pain in her face. He recognized it from his own reflection, and he wanted nothing more than to get rid of it.

  I have to destroy that damned crystal.

  On the way to Vaughn’s office Remy caught Cat for a moment alone and said, “I need you to help me.”

  “How?”

  “You need to find a way to distract Wyatt—get him out of the way. I’ve got something I have to do.”

  Cat looked at her searchingly, and seemed about to say something but stopped. “I’ll try. You don’t want to tell me why, or what?”

  Remy shook her head. “Just get him away. He’s stubborn. So make it good. Okay? And . . . you can take Dantès back to the computer lab.”

  “You’re not taking him with . . .” Cat’s voice trailed off, as if she didn’t want to say the words: with you to the Strangers.

  “No. They’d just hurt him. He’ll be happier here, with Wyatt. But don’t say anything to him yet—he’ll just argue.”

  To Remy’s surprise, Marley Huvane was in the mayor’s office. She, too, looked weary, and less put-together than the other times Remy had seen her. Her thick dark hair was pulled in a loose ponytail and she was talking quietly to Quent and Zoë when Vaughn walked in.

  “Marley’s here because she has . . . news.” The mayor’s voice was formal, and he took his seat behind the desk after a brief glance at the newcomer.

  “My crystal has changed,” Marley said. “It’s cracked.” She pulled the neckline of her shirt away to reveal the small blue stone, set in her skin just beneath the collarbone.

  Remy leaned forward to take a good look. It was the size of a pinkie fingernail or an old pencil eraser—and looked like one too. Smooth and round, it rose like a large translucent beauty mark from the delicate skin surrounding it. “It’s not the same as Lacey’s,” she said. “Hers went gray and opaque. Yours is still blue. But I can see the crack running through the inside of it.” And you’re still alive.

  “It doesn’t glow anymore,” Quent said. He was looking at Marley as if trying to read her mind. “How do you feel?”

  She shrugged. “A little tired. But that’s most likely related to everything else that’s going on. Haven’t gotten much sleep the last two nights.”

  “Ana, do you have any idea what this means?” Vaughn asked. “This alteration of her crystal?” He didn’t come right out and ask if it was a death sentence for Marley, but he might as well have.

  Ana had leaned forward, and Marley allowed her to touch the small crystal. “Usually when a crystal goes dark—loses its glow—that means it’s lost its life. It’s dead. Eventually, it goes gray and opaque.” Her voice trailed off and she glanced at Fence as he rubbed her back. “I’ve not seen one cracked like this before.”

  “Does this mean she’s going to die?” Quent demanded. He turned to look at Elliott. “What happened with that woman you tried to save for Ian Marck—the one whose crystal died. What happened then? Is this the same?”

  “Her situation was completely different.” Elliott, too, had taken a turn to examine the crystal. �
��Allie—that was her name—her skin presented brittle and black around the stone, and the infection, or whatever it was, grew from there and eventually took over her whole body. From what Ian told me, the crystal had been introduced and it wasn’t accepted. Like a transplanted organ might be rejected from a body. And the stone itself was a sick, yellow color. I don’t see any resemblance here to what happened then.”

  Remy was watching Vaughn, and his fingers, curled on the desk, relaxed slightly at this pronouncement. Still, he said nothing.

  “How long do you think I have?” Marley asked. She was looking at Ana, and, to Remy’s surprise, at her.

  “Lacey came in close contact with the crystal,” she told Marley. “And the effect was immediate. She . . . expired within five minutes. It’s been well over twenty-four hours since you were near the crystal.”

  Marley nodded, her face grim but accepting. “Well, I guess after living more than eighty years, I should be ready to go at any time.”

  “We should all be ready to go at any time,” Sage said quietly. She patted Marley on the arm, then drew her close in an embrace. “None of us ever know which day will be our last.”

  “On that happy note . . .” Fence said, looking around. But he, too, was sober.

  “Zoë had a thought,” Quent said. “If we went out through the Waxnickis’ secret tunnel, we could come up behind the Strangers and their Humvees—ambush them while they’re distracted from the front. It would at least give us the chance to evacuate.”

  “The entrance to the secret tunnel by the Wendy’s sign is within view of them,” Elliott said. “I checked. But using one of the old city sewage tunnels, where Jade’s favorite snakes live, we can come out far enough out of sight, like the evacuees are doing. It should work if we can figure out how to ambush them. Nice thinking, Zoë.”

  “It’s worth a try,” Vaughn said. But he didn’t seem optimistic.

  Remy felt for him. When they first met, she found him very attractive with his rugged looks and easy flirtation. But in the last thirty hours, he’d seemed to age before her eyes. She knew he was torn up inside about the decision facing him and the city . . . and that was part of the reason she’d made the choice she had.