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?
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