Night Resurrected (32 page)

—acting on instinct more than anything.

He was hardly able to see through the

billowing smoke caught up like a black

tornado. It was a small building away

from the collapsed tent. Some ash or

flaming piece of rubble must have

popped over and set it on fire. The roof

was blazing, yellow flames licked up the

wall. Black smoke, outlined by the very

blaze from which it came, roiled from

the sagging door.

“She’s in there! Patty! She’s in

there!” An older woman stood with

black streaks on her face, wringing her

hands, tears making shiny paths through

the soot. Her hair was thin and gray and

her face stretched in a shiny mask of

shock and terror. She reached an

ineffectual hand toward the fiery

building that was hardly bigger than a

garage.

“Who is it?” Wyatt demanded,

already dumping a bucket of water over

him. Soaking his clothing and hair in an

effort to keep from going up in flames

himself. Because he knew he was going

inside. “How old? How big?”

“My dog. My Patty!”

He snatched another pail and poured

it over himself again, hardly noticing the

frigid water. “Kind of dog? Where?”

The

woman

stammered

out

information—enough that he knew he

was looking for a mid-sized brown dog

. . . but she was so terrified and upset he

could hardly get details.

Wyatt started toward the smoking

black door, the cascade of water already

drying from the immense heat. A strong

hand yanked him back and he nearly

stumbled into Fence.

“You aren’t fixing to go in there,”

Fence said. “Over my motherfucking

dead body.”

“Gotta try,” Wyatt said, shaking off

the large hand.

“You’re bloody crocked.” Quent was

there, panting. His face was black and

his hair stuck up in tufts. “Nothing in

there’s still alive. If you go in, you aren’t

coming back out.”

“Gotta try,” Wyatt said again. And he

started toward the black doorway.

“It’s

a

damned
dog
!” someone

shouted. “You’re risking your life for a

dog
!”

And that was precisely why he kept

going. Because if it were Dantès . . .

Calm stole over him. Clamping a

mass of sodden shirt over his nose and

mouth, offering up a prayer, Wyatt

charged inside.

The minute he breached the wall of

ugly smoke, he felt the searing heat. It

pressed

in

on

him,

heavy

and

suffocating, instantly turning his cold wet

clothes steamy.

Pitch-dark. He took two steps and

stumbled over something. As he crashed

to the floor, he knew he’d found Patty.

And as a flaming wall collapsed,

tumbling over him in a rage of flames, he

figured this was it. He wasn’t coming

out.

C
arrying a sloshing pail, Remy pushed

her way through the crowd just in time to

see Wyatt dash into a flaming building.

“Wyatt!” she screamed, flinging her

supply of water wildly onto a patch of

flame as she ran. Someone yanked her

back and she found herself face-to-face

with Quent. “Did he just go
in
there?”

she panted.

He didn’t need to reply; his face was

set with fear, streaked with ash. He

merely shook his head, pursing his lips

as if in an effort to stave off some other

emotion.
“Bloody sodding fool
.
”
It was

a

whisper,

but

Remy

heard

it

nevertheless. “Went after a dog trapped

inside.”

She stared. There was no way any

living creature was still alive in that

building. There was no way anyone

could survive stepping even a foot

inside.

Did you really want to end it that

badly, Wyatt?

Then Quent’s words registered.
A

dog.

Oh, God, now she understood. If it

were Dantès . . .

And she knew Wyatt. He’d at least

have to try, the damned idiot.

“Keep working!” shouted someone.

The order spurred her into action—

there was nothing else she could do

other than stand there and wait. And

pray. And try to put the rest of the

damned fire out.

And try not to be terrified that it was

because of her that this fire had even

started in the first place. They’d found

her. The Strangers knew who she was.

And now the only person she really

trusted had run himself into a flaming

building. It would be a miracle—beyond

a miracle—if he ever came back out.

Numbly, Remy turned to fill her

bucket from the ineffectual hose. Just as

she spun back, taking three short steps to

hand it off to someone, there was a loud

crash followed by a rolling wave of

heat.

“Motherfucker,” someone breathed.

Her heart in her throat, already

knowing what she was going to see,

Remy looked over. The building into

which Wyatt had dashed was now

nothing more than a vee-shaped,

collapsed pile of rubble.

She dropped the bucket, running

automatically toward the renewed blaze,

into where she’d last seen him.
Wyatt.

No, please, no!
But something—

some
one
—hooked her arm, yanking her

away so hard her head snapped and the

crystal whipped sharply on its chain,

slamming against her back.

She looked up into Ian’s face. His

cold expression sent a bolt of fear

through her. She tried to pull away,

stomping down hard on him with her

bare foot, and wished she was still

wearing her silver shoes. The spiky heel

would have done some damage. “Let me

go, Ian.”

“Not a chance,” he said, edging her

away from the activity. “You heard what

they said. Turn you in or Envy’s toast.”

In the eerie light of the leaping flames,

his smile was frightening.

She opened her mouth to shout, but it

was lost in the roar of the fire battle.

W
yatt closed his eyes. The unbearable

heat from the flames seeped into him . . .

through fabric onto skin and then muscle

and bone, finally settling deep in his

organs. He felt it with every pump of his

heart, every pulse of blood in his veins.

Eating into his liver and lungs. Searing

into his very marrow.

The weight of the ceiling or whatever

it was that crashed onto him pinned

Wyatt in place. He couldn’t move even

as the fire dug into flesh and bone. He

could see the blaze dancing along his

arm, felt it nibbling on his hair and

searing into his nostrils, eyelids, and

ears.

Finally
.

He closed his eyes and the world

behind his lids was just the same: bright,

blazing light, heat, shadows. As he slid

into a final sleep, pieces of his life

filtered through his mind in a gentle

lullaby.

Cathy at the altar, sparkling in white,

glowing with love . . . the dark black

heat of a Middle East night, a heavy

weapon resting on his shoulder . . . The

weight of his fire gear, hose in hand,

boots clumping on his feet . . .

Loki as a pup, with his mischievous

eyes and too-big ears . . . holding Abby

in his arms for the first time, her soft,

fuzzy head hardly bigger than his palm

. . . watching David toddle his first steps

before falling into a soft blue sofa . . .

snatching Abby out of a fast-rushing

stream . . . holding hands with Cath by

the fire . . . flipping burgers on the

backyard grill . . .

The grateful, sad smile of a Haitian

woman when he opened her repaired

door . . . angry tears in his wife’s eyes

. . . bright pink flowers on Mom’s grave

. . . Dantès’s intelligent, amber eyes and

upright ears . . . his first glimpse of Envy

. . . Remy and her shotgun, blasting at the

rabid coon . . . Dantès and Remy asleep

on the floor . . . Brilliant blue-violet

eyes and full pink lips and comfort . . .

And then . . . nothing.

He was floating. Darkness came and

went and then there was a brilliant white

light.

Wyatt
.

Someone was calling his name.

A heavy weight was lifted from his

chest. He could move. He could breathe.

He did.

Someone shouted. Someone touched

him.

He gave a great shudder and felt the

exhaustion and ache rushing through his

body. It was like waking from a dead

sleep after the longest, hardest day of his

life. Worse than the first day of basic

training. Worse than the end of a week in

Haiti after the hurricane. His muscles

protested. His lungs hurt. His eyes

wanted to stay closed but he forced them

open.

The light was strong and bright,

bringing tears to his eyes. He had to look

away, reaching up to shield his face.

Something tickled his skin like the flutter

of fingers or something delicate falling

on his cheeks and he opened his eyes

again, still blinded by the light.

“Holy Mother of God, he
is
alive!”

Who?
Wyatt pulled himself upright,

even as something—some
one—
pushed

him back down.

“Easy now, Earp,” said a familiar

voice.

Wyatt knocked Elliott’s hands away

and sat up.
What the hell?

“My God,” someone said in a hushed

voice.

“What the hell is going on?” Wyatt

managed to say aloud this time. He

squeezed his eyes closed, still seeing the

dancing flames bright behind his lids,

and then opened them again. It was

daylight.

He happened to be looking down,

and the first thing he saw was his hands.

Jesus Christ
. They were shiny, coal-

black. The skin was peeling, curling up

in large pieces.

Beyond his hands . . . below . . . was

his torso, his legs. What was left of his

clothing was charred beyond recognition

and his skin was the same . . . soot

black. Ashy. Flaking and peeling away.

He looked up, still squinting in the

sunlight, and found Elliott. Wyatt licked

his lips—God, he was
dry
—and tasted

. . . burned skin. Charcoal. Grit. Salt.

Elliott was looking at him with an

expression he’d never seen before. A

combination of horror and wonder and

question. “Wyatt. Are you . . . how do

you feel?
Do
you feel, um . . . anything?”

Wyatt shook his head, shifted, and

felt the groan of his muscles, an achy

sort of heat trundle through his body.

And he noticed more black skin flaking

away. He drew in an experimental

breath, feeling his lungs expand, and

drew in deeply, more and more and

more. He felt as if he could inhale

forever . . . Cool, fresh oxygen surged

through his body like a lake breeze.

Energy and life tingled through him. He

felt it rush to the very ends of his

capillaries, to every neuron in every

nerve ending . . . to the well of every

hair follicle through to the tip of its

hair . . .

“Yeah,” he replied carefully. An odd

prickly comprehension was sliding over

him, like a shade being dragged away

and allowing the sun to shine through.

This was . . . wrong. He’d seen burned

bodies. They didn’t look like this.

Then he looked back at Elliott,

understanding. Yes. His friend had

healed him. Saved him from death.

“You should be . . . dead,” Elliott

said. He was crouching next to Wyatt,

and they both watched as he reached out

and gingerly brushed a fingertip over

Wyatt’s forearm. Black skin fluttered

away . . . and beneath it was . . .

“Holy crap.”

Beneath it was clean, smooth,

unmarred

skin.