Night Resurrected (14 page)

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

R
emy 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 dark-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
.

R
emy 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.

“A guide who’s traveling with me.”

Remy kept her answer simple, and for

the sake of privacy, edged closer to Ian.

It was almost dark, and the fire was the