Night Resurrected (37 page)

scuttling nervously out of the building,

carrying their belongings.

“I’m going to demand a meeting,”

cried another voice. This one was a

woman as well, and her pronouncement

was greeted with shouts of agreement

and urging. “Rogan’s got to answer to

us! He’s got to tell us what he’s going to

do!”

“We can’t wait for the mayor and the

city council,” someone said. “They’ll

argue about it for hours. We have to

act!”

“Start a search for Remington Truth.

Someone’s got to know what it is. I’m

going to
demand
that Rogan step up to

this!”

The voices were growing louder and

more strident, and Cat edged away as the

rowdy group, propelled by fear and

ignorance, surged by.

This could get ugly.

She shook her head, wishing she

could do something. Wishing she knew

some way to help.

Wishing Dad would
let
her.

As she turned to go back outside—at

least she could help there, although much

of the cleanup was done—she noticed

the huge dog.

He seemed lost and distraught, and

although he was frighteningly large, she

couldn’t bear to see an animal in

distress. Since he was inside the

building and didn’t appear to have any

concern with or from the people walking

by, she suspected he belonged to

someone living in the place. Hopefully

he was just separated from his master.

“Hey buddy,” she said, crouching

next to the auburn, brown and black

wolflike animal. Even when on her

knees, she found her face at eye level

with him, so she didn’t approach too

quickly. Carefully and slowly she held

out a hand for him to smell. “Are you

lost? What’s wrong?”

He had intelligent amber eyes that

seemed to understand exactly what she

was saying. His ears perked up into

sharp triangles and he allowed her to pet

him, then butted at her with a whine.

“What is it?” she asked. “Who are

you looking for? Do you want me to help

you find your daddy? Or your mama?”

He went to attention at that and bumped

her harder . . . then turned and started

off.

Although she didn’t have a dog of her

own, Cat understood.
Follow me
.

“Okay then,” she said. “I’ll bite.”

She followed him as he trotted

rapidly down a long corridor that ended

at a door. “Ah, so that’s it,” she said

when he scratched at the door.

She opened it and followed the dog

inside. They were in a . . . what was it

called? . . . a staircase that went up and

up and up . . . a stairwell. The dog

bounded up the steps, then paused on the

landing to look down at her.

He gave a short, peremptory yip as if

to say “Come on!”

Cat shrugged and followed him up,

and when she reached the next floor, she

understood why. He was waiting for her

to open the door to the hallway. The

expression on his face was one of
Duh!

Laughing at the dog’s attitude—plus

the fact that he was so damn smart—she

opened the door to the corridor. He took

off, his nose to the ground, sniffing as he

went along. Cat waited to see what he’d

do next, and was mildly surprised when

he went to the end of the hall and turned

around to come dashing back. He pushed

past her into the stairwell and bounded

up the next flight.

She followed, opened the door to the

corridor, and watched while he did the

same thing. Obviously, he was searching

for someone.

“Okay, I’ll play,” she said, ruffling

his fur. And so they went on and on, up

each floor in turn.

The dog became more efficient as

they went on . . . he merely walked a few

feet past the door, sniffed around, then

came back and bolted up to the next

level. Cat couldn’t help but wonder how

many more stairwells he was going to

lead her to once they got to the top of

this one, but she found the process so

fascinating and intriguing she stayed

with him.

“Look buddy,” she finally said,

almost an hour later, “this is the last

floor. If he’s not here, I don’t know

where he’s going to be.”

But unlike the others, this top door

didn’t open. It was locked. It was also a

different type of door: a nicer one, but

without the small rectangular window

that allowed a view into the corridor. It

was new, and the fittings were shiny,

and there was a peephole . . . but for the

person on the other side. “Damn,” she

said, jiggling the knob again. “Looks like

you’re out of luck, pup.”

The dog did
not
like that. He whined

and bumped the door. Then he gave a

sharp, high-pitched yip. Then sniffed at

the bottom of the door again and barked

another time.

“Hush, buddy,” Cat said, wondering

if she should get out of there. Whatever

place this was, it seemed forbidden . . .

as if she shouldn’t be here. But the dog

was insistent and he barked again,

louder and more urgently.

When Cat heard someone on the other

side of the door, she got nervous and

edged away. Was she going to get in

trouble for trespassing? The dog was

barking louder and more excitedly, and

she stepped back, trying coax him away

with her. “Come on, buddy,” she

crooned in a soft voice. “Let’s go.

You’re disturbing people.”

But he would have none of it, and she

heard the clinking of a lock on the other

side of the door. She bit her lip and

stood in front of the door. Maybe this

was
his master’s—or mistress’s—place.

The door swung open.

“Dantès!” The dark-haired woman

crouched and the dog charged into her

arms, nearly knocking her over in the

process. In the midst of a good face-

washing, she looked up and they

immediately recognized each other.

“Cat! What are you doing here?”

“Hi Remy,” she replied. Then her

brain stopped. Remy.
Remington?
No.

That was absurd. “Is this your dog? He

was distraught, looking for you.”

“Thank you for bringing him to me.

Do you . . . uh, do you want to come in?”

She stepped back from the door.

Cat could see past her into a

spacious, well-lit room. “Wow. Is this

where you live?” She stepped in. That

little
pop
she’d felt earlier . . . it was

back. Her heart pounded and curiosity

sizzled through her.

“No. I’m . . .” Remy looked

uncomfortable and wasted. “I’m glad

you’re here. I’m glad you brought

Dantès. I was thinking about leaving

. . .”

She looked at the other woman,

noticing her amazing blue eyes. And all

the inky-black hair she had, which,

unlike her own, seemed to stay under

control. Instead of curling up all over the

place like Cat’s, it hung in long, sleek

waves that shone almost blue-black. She

was tall for a woman, but not overly so,

and older than her—but she wasn’t sure

how much. Maybe ten years? But it was

her demeanor that she found compelling:

not intimidating so much as in control,

self-assured. Even yesterday, when they

were at Flo’s place, Cat had noticed

Remy’s confidence and strength. But

today

she

looked

exhausted

and

stressed-out, with dark circles under her

eyes and a cut by her eyebrow, but she

still exuded determination.

“Dantès? That’s his name?” Cat said,

petting the dog. When she stood, she

realized that Remy was looking at her,

as if assessing her.

“Do you believe in signs?” Remy

asked, closing the door behind them.

“Sort of like a cosmic nudge, in the right

direction?”

Cat stood and faced her. “Maybe,”

she said, remembering that funny little

pop
. Something was going to happen.

“My dad does. I know that.”

Remy looked around the room, and

Cat’s gaze followed hers. She’d never

seen a place so open and new and bright,

so much like the pictures of the world

her father had known, before the Change.

It reminded her of the houses rich people

lived in on the DVDs she watched with

Dad.

She realized Remy was looking at

her again, in that measuring sort of way,

as she spoke. “I was just sitting here a

while ago, wondering how I was going

to figure out whom to trust . . .

wondering if I should leave here and

take matters into my own hands . . . and

here you are. And you brought Dantès—

that’s sort of the clincher. I’m choosing

to think of it as cosmic guidance. My

friend Selena would approve, I think.”

Remy gave her a crooked smile, then

tipped her head, still looking closely at

Cat. “Do you know who I am?”

Cat blinked, unsure whether she

should verbalize her suspicions. This

had to be Remington Truth—apparently

someone the Strangers felt strongly

enough about that they wanted her back.

Back . . .
was she a hostage here in

Envy? Was that why she was tucked

away up here? But she hadn’t been

acting like a hostage yesterday.

Or did the Strangers want her . . . for

other reasons? As a prisoner.

Yet, Cat didn’t feel uncomfortable or

apprehensive. It was as if she’d walked

into a riddle—or a story—and hadn’t

quite figured out where she was or what

she was doing yet . . . but that her

instinct was guiding her. A cosmic

nudge, if you will. “You’re . . . Remy.”

She shrugged. “Friends with Zoë and

Sage and all of them.”

“My name is Remington Truth.”

Well. That was easy. “I . . .” Cat

said, then decided to be honest. “I just

now figured that out.”

Remy didn’t move. She just looked at

Cat, still assessing, as if waiting for

something.

Then Cat realized . . . the other

woman was waiting for her to react. To

shout an alarm, to do something. “I can

understand why you’ve been hiding,”

was all she could think of to say.

“Unless . . . unless you’re a prisoner

here.”

“I’m not a prisoner . . . and I don’t

like to think of it as hiding,” Remy

replied. Her stance relaxed a little.

“Vaughn—Mayor Rogan—thought it was

best if I was out of sight, especially

since there’s the chance that more than

one person would be willing to turn me

over to the Strangers if they knew who I

was.” Again that hesitant, pregnant

pause. Waiting.

“
I’m
not going to turn you over, if

that’s what you’re worried about,” Cat

said.
As if.
“My dad—”
Better not say

anything about his work.
“Well, I’m not

a fan of the Strangers. I don’t trust them,

and neither does my dad. And to be

honest, yeah, you’re right. There are

people below—I’ve heard them talking

—who are pretty much ready to get

pitchforks and find you and turn you

over. Why do the Strangers want you

anyway?”

“It’s a long story,” Remy replied.

“Which I will tell you . . . if you’ll help

me.”

Cat felt a spike of adrenaline and

determination. Just the opportunity she’d

been waiting for. Anything to mess with

the Strangers and keep them from getting

what they wanted. “Yes. I’ll help you.”

A small smile curved Remy’s lips.

“Thanks.” She seemed about to say

something else, but cut herself off. “Let’s

get out of here.”

“What is this place anyway?” Cat

asked as Remy gathered up a bundle of

things.

“It’s the mayor’s private apartments.

I think I’d better leave before he gets

back. He might try to talk me into

staying.”

“What can I do to help?” asked Cat,

following her new friend and Dantès out