Night Resurrected (43 page)

the options. The city council is meeting

now

and

he’ll

have

their

recommendation by then.”

“That’s nice,” Wyatt sneered. “I’m

sure we’ll be kissing their collective ass

and going along with whatever they

decide is the best move.”

Elliott’s mouth twitched. “Vaughn’s

playing the game. He has to. This might

be the last bastion of civilization, but it’s

still a democracy. Er . . . to some

extent,” he added when he saw Wyatt’s

expression.

“Let’s go,” Wyatt said abruptly,

looking down at Remy. “We’ll be back

at midnight,” he added to the others as he

drew her away.

Remy found herself walking quickly

to keep up with Wyatt’s long, purposeful

strides. She supposed it was best to be

moving, for it was less likely someone

would catch sight of her beneath a

streetlight or the flashes of neon.

She wasn’t really worried about

being easily recognized. After all, it

wasn’t as if Goldwyn had a photograph

of her that he would be showing around.

Nevertheless, as Wyatt went into the

community kitchen to scrounge up some

food, she stayed off in a corner,

pretending to be examining an old

painting on the wall. She couldn’t

remember the last time she’d eaten, and

when he handed her a sandwich, she

realized she was ravenous. They ate and

drank quickly, still lingering in the

corner, Remy with her back to the room

at large, then he said, “Come on.”

A few minutes and several flights of

stairs later, Wyatt opened the door to his

room (or so she assumed; true to form,

he hadn’t actually given her any

explanation as to where they were

going) and she stepped inside. Closing

the door, he flipped a switch and the soft

glow from a series of wall sconces and

lamps filled the space.

The room was simple, sparse and

neat. Moonlight shone through the open

curtains and large windows on one wall.

A row of books lined the windowsill;

too far away for her to see the titles. The

bed was made, its sheets and coverlet

tight and sharply creased, the pillows

positioned at right angles, their cases

smooth and wrinkle-free. A few items

sat on one dresser and in a small square

pile on the floor. She could see a hint of

the bathroom through an ajar door, smell

the faint, pleasant scent of man clinging

to the space, and noticed a small

rectangular object on the table next to the

bed.

“Your stuff’s over there,” Wyatt said,

jerking his head toward a bundle on the

dresser.

“My stuff?”

“Your things from the truck.”

“Really?” She was over to the bureau

in a flash. Her pack—which she’d had to

leave behind during the craziness of the

zombie attack and her slim chance to

slip away—was there, and filled with

her stuff. “How did—you must have

gone back the next morning,” she said,

answering her own question before she

could even ask it.

It was all there: her new tank tops,

the bras and panties, the cute blue

sundress, and the other treasures she’d

found. “Oh, thank you for going back to

get my things, Wyatt. You have no idea

—
thank you.
” Then, a little embarrassed

by the naked emotion in her tones, she

glanced over to see his reaction.

She caught him by surprise; she must

have, for he whipped his attention away

from her. But not before she saw the

look in his glittering eyes. Heat, raw and

dark.

Her belly dropped, her mouth went

dry, and she faltered, her attention

skittering away as if she’d seen

something she shouldn’t have. Something

so private and personal that she had to

pretend it didn’t exist. Her insides were

a tangle, fluttering and hot and confused,

and she didn’t know what to say, how to

react—of course she couldn’t react. His

now stony expression, bordering on

angry, discouraged any sort of response.

His stiff posture, his fists, tight at his

sides, his flat, cool eyes.

“No problem,” he said, turning away

to dig through what appeared to be his

own pack.

And then, as she tried to find a way

out of the awkward moment, Remy

noticed the other item on the dresser. A

thick,

heavy,

hard-covered

book.

Completely intact. “
The Count of Monte

Cristo
,” she said, picking it up. Her

heart thumped, hard.

“I thought you might want to finish

it,” he said, still busy with his back to

her. His voice sounded strange. “Since

you never did.”

Something shimmered through her,

warm and tingly, swelling inside her like

a warm flower blossoming large.

“Thank you.” Her reply, she realized,

was hardly more than a whisper. “This

is your copy?” She glanced toward the

makeshift bookshelf.

He stilled for a moment, then went

over to draw the curtains closed, hiding

the books on the sill. “I . . . uh . . . came

across an old library on the way back

here and scavenged around to see if I

could find it.”

“You just came across an old

library?” Remy’s heart was thumping

harder now, and that warm rush

continued to bloom through her insides.

“Just by accident? Really.”
And just

happened to find a copy of this book?

She turned to face him. His expression

had eased into chagrin and impatience

layered with chill.

A man at war with himself.

“It was only a little out of the way,”

he said. Defensively.

Remy put the book down. Before she

realized it, she’d walked across the

room toward him. Stark panic flared in

his eyes when he realized she’d

positioned herself so he was trapped in

the corner by the curtain pull, or he’d

have to actually walk past her—possibly

brush against her—to move away.

“You could have just told me how it

ended,” she said, looking up at him.

Whoa.
He was so close, so solid, so

dark and forbidding . . . and yet at the

same time, he looked like little more

than a trapped animal. Her chest swelled

and she found it hard to breathe. “Instead

of taking the chance of being found by

the zombies. While carrying my crystal.”

She let her voice drop low, let the

huskiness slide into it.

“What the hell are you doing,

Remy?” His voice was sharp and hard,

and she saw the defenses shoot up like a

shield. His lips went taut and he actually

held up a hand, as if to ward her off.

“Thanking you.”

“Great, you’ve thanked me. Now

could you—”

But she’d taken his upheld hand and

raised it so she could see better in the

light. His skin was warm, his wrist solid

and strong. But something else had her

attention. “What’s all this black stuff?”

she said, looking at the delicate skin on

the underside of his wrist. There was

black in the creases there, which wasn’t

so unusual in itself . . . but a patch of it

was flaking off . . . almost like a burn.

“Is this from the fire? You
did
get

burned, didn’t you?”

Wyatt snatched his arm away and

pushed past her. He strode across the

room, and when he turned, he was

grinding his thumb and forefinger into

his eyes and the bridge of his nose. “I’ll

tell you about it. But first, I’m going to

shower. Get the rest of it off.”

Remy blinked. “Get the rest of what

—”

But he was already stalking toward

the front door, throwing the bolt lock

into place with a loud clank, clicking the

chain lock into its slot. “Do not open the

door to anyone,” he said, his eyes boring

into her. “Anyone. I don’t care who they

are.”

“What if Elliott or Que—”

“
No one
, Remy,” he said, already on

his way to the other room. He paused on

the threshold to the bathroom. “If

someone comes to the door, you let me

know.”

“Right. I’m going to walk in on you in

the shower?” she said, just to see what

his reaction would be.

“Knock,”
he said, then slammed the

door shut.

Remy stared after him, shaking her

head as she heard the spray of water

start in the shower. And then she

couldn’t help but picture what was

happening on the other side of that door:

Wyatt peeling off his shirt, sliding out of

those long jeans and whatever he wore

beneath. She felt hot and breathless,

unable to keep her imagination from

running rampant. With a chest like his,

arms and shoulders as sleek and

muscular as they were, legs so long and

lean . . . she knew the rest of him had to

be worth going breathless and fluttery

over.

But . . . jeez . . . Wyatt. He was an

angry jerk of a man who couldn’t seem

to let himself feel.

A man at war with himself.

Jade was right; there was no better

way to describe him.

Despite that, Remy still found herself

wanting to be with him. Attracted to him,

yes—who the hell wouldn’t be?—but

despite his prickly nature, his moods,

and that underlying rage, she was drawn

to him. She trusted him. Cared about

him. Sometimes even liked him.

Am I crazy?

Her attention went back to the book.

To the pile of her things on the dresser.

To the fact that he’d stolen her crystal

and kept it in order to protect her from

the zombies. And that, while carrying it,

he’d taken a detour to an old library . . .

and then that moment in Cat’s room,

when he’d realized she was there. An

instant of naked emotion.

That burst of heat swelled inside her

once more, making her a little light-

headed. He did care. He didn’t want to,

but he did. In some way, some small

way, he cared about her.

But was it worth it to try and find out

how much?

Especially . . .

The rush of cold fear swept away her

soft, bubbly, warm feelings. Reality

returned, gouging out the heat and

leaving her empty and cold in the pit of

her stomach.

Less than a day. What am I going to

do?

The options were pretty limited. And

although she’d tried not to think about it

too much, Remy knew what she would

have to do. After all, there was no way

to keep the city safe from an attack by

the Strangers—especially since they

seemed to have helicopters, and who

knew what other weapons. How did one

protect people from dropped bombs and

mechanical vehicles in this day and age?

And now that there was no way to

evacuate the city . . .

Her insides twisted, sharp and hard.

There wasn’t much choice. There wasn’t

any choice, really. She’d have to go to

them. Find out what they wanted . . .

even though she pretty much knew.

At least she could leave the crystal

here . . . maybe as a bargaining chip.

That might keep her alive.

But she sure as hell didn’t want the

crystal getting into the hands of the

Strangers. One life wasn’t worth the

havoc they’d be sure to wreak once they

had the Mother crystal.

A sharp knock on the door startled

her out of her thoughts, and Remy froze,

her breath catching. She glanced at the

bathroom, heard the sounds of spraying

water, then back at the door. Someone

knocked again, harder and more loudly.

Heart thumping, she tiptoed over and

looked through the peephole. David and

Cat stood there and she reached for the

chain lock, then hesitated.

No one.

What put Wyatt in control of her life?

Why did she have to listen to him? This

was Cat and David . . . they’d already

helped her. Both of them. She trusted