Night Resurrected (33 page)

Sleek.

Muscular.

Sprinkled with dark hair.
Unblemished.

“You healed me,” Wyatt said,

looking at his friend. He shifted and felt

the ache rush through him, knew it would

be a day or two before the lingering

discomfort finally dissipated. But, hell.

He was alive.

For the first time, that thought wasn’t

a disappointment.

But Elliott was shaking his head,

wonderment and understanding in his

eyes. “No. I didn’t do anything.”

Wyatt frowned and felt the tightness

of his face. He reached up to massage

his brows and more dark flakes fluttered

down. His jaw, his cheeks, his mouth . . .

they were tight and hard and shiny . . .

and they shed.

“What happened?” he asked, and

experimentally got to his feet. Simon

was there, and so was Fence. They were

both looking at him as if they’d never

seen him before.

“Take it easy Wyatt,” Elliott said

again—but he made no move to stop

him. Instead, he positioned himself as if

to catch his friend should his legs give

way while watching in awe.

Wyatt stood there, on his own two

legs, in the middle of smoking rubble.

Charred wood and other debris littered

the area. Early morning sun blasted

down, bright and new. The smell of

smoke was everywhere.

“What happened?” he asked again.

“I think,” Elliott said, a ghost of a

smile

touching

his

lips,

“you’ve

discovered your special ability.”

“Yeah?” Wyatt replied, letting that

sink in as he looked down at himself.

More burned skin had fallen away, and

bigger patches of fresh, undamaged skin

were showing.

“You came out of that fire covered in

ashes, your skin just peeling away,”

Simon said, kicking away a smoldering

piece of wood. “And now look at you.”

“Holy shit,” Fence said. “You’re a

motherfucking phoenix.” He looked

down. “And, bro . . . you need a new

pair of pants.”

Chapter 16

O
nce someone brought him a new set of

clothing, Wyatt found he was perfectly

capable of participating in the recovery

work Simon, Fence, and other residents

of Envy had been doing, even as he

continued to “shed” the last bit of his old

skin. He joined in the work immediately,

knowing how important it was to locate

any survivors as soon as possible. His

body was achy and his eyes gritty, but

those were minor discomforts. Other

than that and the fact that his mind was a

little muddled, the rest of him seemed to

function just as well—or even better—

than before. He actually felt quite . . .

new
.

“Can’t decide whether you’re a

phoenix or a freaking snake,” Fence said

as his buddy brushed away more burned

skin from behind his knees. It seemed to

cling more stubbornly there than

elsewhere. “Either way, it’s fixin’ to be

a helluva mess every time you do . . .

whatever you do.”

“I could use a shower or a swim,

that’s for damned sure,” Wyatt replied.

“But there’s time for that later. Most of

it’s gone.”

“Yeah. And, you know how the Hulk

is when he changes, he busts out of all

his clothes, so he always wears his pants

way too big? Well, man, you better find

some fireproof shorts for yourself, bro.

Or you’re gonna be making a stir with

the ladies, showing your junk around

like that.” Fence rumbled a chuckle,

showing his brilliant white teeth.

They were clearing the remnants of

debris from the two tents and the one

building that had gone up in smoke.

Wyatt wasn’t surprised to learn that he

could pick up and move smoldering

pieces of wood with his bare hands. He

felt the heat but it didn’t burn.

“Any casualties?” he asked Simon as

they tossed the burned-out remains onto

a pile that would later be burned to the

ground.

“Other than you?” His smile was

wry. “Only the poor dog you tried to

save. Some burns and other injuries, but

that’s it. As far as we know, anyway.

But we’re still looking to make sure.”

Wyatt heaved a large piece of door

onto the pile. “Me?”

“Yeah, mo-fo. When that roof came

down on your head, we knew that was

all she wrote. The damn fat lady had

sung,” Fence said, swiping an arm over

his soot-streaked face. But his eyes

danced with humor as only his could

during such an unpleasant topic. “No one

could get to you either, brother—you

were buried in flames. Not till we got

the fire out and it cooled off this morning

enough for us to dig your ass out.”

Hell. Wyatt tossed an unidentifiable

piece of furniture onto the pile. “Thanks

for pulling me out.” He wondered what

would have happened if they hadn’t dug

him out. Would he have died? Or had it

been only the heavy ceiling that kept him

from being able to walk out under his

own steam? Because it sure as hell

wasn’t the fire that did it. Neither the

fire, nor the smoke—either of which

should have finished him off.

It didn’t really matter: he was alive.

And he wasn’t sure he wanted to go

through it again to find out how or what

happened.

“Elliott’s up to his balls in work in

the infirmary, but he came out to find you

first thing,” Simon told him. He didn’t

need to add that the doctor would have

done whatever he could to save him, and

knowing what a double-edged blessing

that skill was, Wyatt was relieved

Elliott hadn’t had to try. “And once this

is cleaned up and the injured are taken

care of, Vaughn wants all of us—”

“You know,
us
us,” Fence added

meaningfully. “We bad-ass dudes. And

our bad-ass women, too, of course.” He

looked around as if to make sure no one

had heard him tacking on that last bit.

Heaven forbid if Zoë thought she was an

afterthought.

“He wants all of us to meet and

strategize about what to do next,” Simon

continued. “We’ve only got forty hours

to figure out what to do.”

Wyatt stopped what he was doing. In

the craziness of his reawakening and the

blur of urgent work that needed to be

done searching for survivors, he’d

forgotten about all of that. The memory

of all that happened before the explosion

and fire came rushing back in a cold,

shocking wave.

David. A surge of hope and optimism

fluttered inside. As soon as they were

finished here, he’d locate the man and

find out if the miraculous had happened.

If—

He froze. The Strangers. The

helicopter. How could he have forgotten

that
?

Remy
.

“Where’s Remy?” he asked sharply.

No one immediately answered, and

he said it again as an unpleasant feeling

curdled in his belly. “Where the hell is

Remy?”

“I don’t know for sure,” Fence said.

“But I’m betting she’s with Ana and the

others. She and Jade have been helping

Elliott in the infirmary, and I think Sage

and Zoë were fixing to do some other

cleanup inside.”

Fence’s words were easy, and they

should have put Wyatt at ease . . . but,

hell, he knew better. And his gut told

him it might not be that simple. He

glared around at the mess that had

changed an area of celebration into a

place of fear and pain. Tendrils of

smoke still curled up from one pile of

rubble, and soot and ash danced in the

breeze. People were talking quietly as

they worked, and much had already been

accomplished. The damaged area was a

relatively small space and cleanup was

under control.

“I’m going to look for her,” Wyatt

told Simon. Their eyes met and the other

man gave him a sober look of

understanding.

“No one knows who she is, man,”

Simon told him in a low voice. “That

she’s Remington Truth. Just us. And

Vaughn.”

“And Ian Marck,” Wyatt snapped.

And wondered if he could really trust

Vaughn Rogan—especially when his city

was at stake.

“Pinche,”
Simon muttered. “You go.

I’ll take a look around too.”

Wyatt’s long legs took him off

quickly and efficiently. He went to the

infirmary first, where he found Elliott

well in control of the ill and injured.

And just about ready to deliver a brand

new baby as well. That might have been

a spark of optimism after a night of

darkness, but since no one there had seen

Remy or Dantès, Wyatt found little

reason to smile.

His next stop was inside the pub,

where he’d left Dantès in the care of a

couple of teenage boys last night.

Neither of them were there, but one of

their moms was and she told Wyatt that

Dantès was safely with her son.

But that meant Dantès
wasn’t
with

Remy.

“Zoë,” Wyatt snapped when he saw

her rushing off somewhere. She was still

wearing the clothes from last night, and

her white slacks were streaked black

with soot, and were gray everywhere

else. She was wearing hiking boots and

her face was haggard.

“Holy fucking shit.” She nearly

dropped the tray of food she was

carrying. Her eyes bugged out. “Are you

alive or a damned ghost? There’s no

damned way—”

“I’m alive,” he said shortly. “Long

story. Have you seen Remy?”

She stared at him, blinked, and then

refocused. “No. Not since last night,

right after you went up to the stage.” Her

face went grim. “Now that I think of it

. . . I haven’t seen her at all.”

Wyatt tried to quell the icy feeling

creeping over him, but he couldn’t.

Remy wasn’t the type of person to hide

away when there was work to be done,

people to be helped. The Remy he knew

would have been out in the middle of

everything, giving orders and telling

everyone what they were doing wrong—

even if they were right.

Which

meant

something

had

happened to keep her from being there.

“What

about

Ian

Marck?”

he

demanded.

Zoë shook her head.

The cold sharp claws of fear gripped

him tightly now. Not good. This was not

good.

He had to get Dantès. If Remy was

still in Envy, Dantès would find her.

R
emy paced the room. It was a well-

appointed, comfortable space; she

should be able to relax, calm herself and

think clearly. But her stomach was in

knots, tightening and loosening in turn.

I shouldn’t be here.

But Vaughn had convinced her it was

the best, the only, option, for now. Until

they figured out what to do.

Forty-eight hours.
It had been ten

o’clock last night when the helicopter

appeared and it was eight o’clock now.

That meant the timeline was down to

thirty-eight hours. Hardly more than a

day and a half.

She swallowed, pacing faster.
I

could just turn myself over to them.

They wouldn’t do anything to me if I

hide the crystal. They’d need me to get

it back. To tell them where it was.

Of course, there was always torture.

She shuddered. She didn’t think she’d do

well with torture.

Maybe there was a way she could

bargain her way out of the situation.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad for them to

have the crystal. After all, she’d had it

for twenty years and it didn’t seem to do

anything.

But she knew in her heart that wasn’t

the case. They wanted and needed the

stone for something important enough to

be searching for it for half a century.

One woman—or even a whole city—

standing between the crystal and the