Night Resurrected (5 page)

Remy glanced at him, then back at the

tube. All right. She set about doing just

that, using the scissors to cut away some

of Dantès’s fur. Then she squirted out the

tube’s contents and gently rubbed it on

her pet’s leg, his shoulder, and the worst

bite mark, which was on the left flank.

He whined softly and licked at her in

gratitude as she ministered to him.

“Christ. I meant on
you
,” Wyatt said,

suddenly looming over her. That anger

bristled all over him again.

She looked up. “What?”

“Put the ointment on
your
cuts,” he

said impatiently. “Especially the one on

your leg. Dantès doesn’t need it as much

as you do. He’ll clean his own wounds.

Dogs are built that way to heal

themselves. You, on the other hand . . .

you don’t want to get an infection from

that filthy glass.” Shaking his head, he

turned away, pushing past her in the

small space to move to the front of the

truck.

Remy looked down at her hands, at

the gash oozing along the side of her

right wrist and the blood seeping around

the tear of her pant leg. Then she glared

at the back of Wyatt’s head as he knelt

next to the driver’s seat, doing something

under it. Why did he always have to be

so angry?

Having attended to Dantès, she

cranked the dimming flashlight back to

full brightness, then turned her attention

to herself. She knew the dangers of

infection, but hopefully she’d bled freely

enough to wash away any serious germs.

And she did have a small bottle of

alcohol in her pack for just such an

emergency, but there wasn’t that much of

it. This ointment could help, if it didn’t

kill her from being so old.

She glared at Wyatt again, ignoring

the fact that his shoulders were so broad

they hardly fit between the two bucket

seats in the front. He was still scrabbling

around in there at the base of them,

grunting and muttering under his breath

with effort. She refused to ask what he

was doing, even when there was an

ominous thud. She hoped he’d dropped

something on his foot.

“Don’t turn around,” she said, aiming

her words to the front of the truck. “I

have to take off my pants.”

Wyatt didn’t deign to respond, but

she knew he heard her. Turning so her

back was to him, she stood and undid

her cargo pants. The blood had dried,

plastering the lightweight material to her

leg and its wound, and it stuck as she

tried to pull them off. Gritting her teeth

against the pain, she peeled them down,

dragging away the newly formed scab.

“Sweet . . .
Jesus . . . Christ
,” Wyatt

breathed in a worshipful voice.

Enraged—and yet, oddly delighted

by his reaction—Remy whirled so fast

that, still tangled in her pants, she nearly

lost her balance. But he wasn’t looking

at her. The driver’s seat was flipped up

toward the steering wheel, revealing a

storage space beneath it, and he was

gazing down at something he held in his

hands.

“Jameson’s. A whole damned bottle,

unopened. The paper’s still on the cap.”

He sounded as if he were about to cry.

“What is it?” she was compelled to

ask as she wrapped the small blanket

around her waist and tucked it in tightly.

No need to flash him, especially since

her panties had seen better days. Good

underwear was hard to come by.

Wyatt looked over, holding up a dark

glass bottle. “Irish whiskey.
Good
Irish

whiskey. Sonofabitch, I can’t hardly

believe it.”

“Alcohol? That’s great for cleaning

wounds,” she said, understanding his

delight. “It’ll sting, but—”

“Are you crazy? I’m not pouring this

stuff anywhere but down my throat.

There are alcohol pads in the first aid

kit. Use them.
I
,” he said, clambering

back toward her, “am going to open this

right about now.” He barely glanced at

her as he settled onto the floor next to

Dantès. “It’s been a hell of a long day.”

Remy considered pointing out that it

was his own fault for being here—and

thus creating his “long day”—but

decided her best course was not to

engage. There was hardly enough room

in the small space for both of them plus

the massive chip on his shoulder, so she

pointedly ignored him as she finished

tending to her cuts. She kept the blanket

close around her waist, opening it just

enough to see to the slice on her thigh.

The cut was ugly and crusting over, and,

with a twinge of concern, she slathered

it with a good amount of the antibacterial

ointment. She also used some of the

alcohol pads—little cloths wrapped up

in foil packets, still damp and smelling

of astringent even after half a century—

and cleaned the cut.

“Does it need stitches?”

She was startled when he broke the

silence. Sitting against the wall as far

from her as possible, he was little more

than a shadowy silhouette. As she

watched, he lifted the bottle and drank,

then settled it back between his long,

jeans-clad legs. They were extended into

the small room, and she could see his

bare feet nearly brushing the opposite

wall.

“No,” she replied immediately.

There was no way she was letting him

near her to stitch anything up, especially

after the last time he had to help her. She

reached beneath her shirt to touch the

crystal, back in its place at her navel.

Only days ago, at Yellow Mountain, it

had started to glow and heat, burning her

skin unbearably. Wyatt had been the only

one around, and he’d had to use those

long, elegant fingers to help her unfasten

it from its piercings.

And how had he seen the cut on her

leg anyway? He hadn’t given her the

barest of glances since climbing into the

truck. She frowned and shifted subtly so

her back was to him.

Silence reigned again, broken only by

an occasional
whuffle
from the sleeping

Dantès or Remy’s own rustling through

her pack. If she were alone, she’d

change and try to wash up a little. But

with Wyatt here . . . After a while there

was the soft glug of whiskey, then the

dull clink as he set the bottle back down.

“You going to tell me where we’re

going?” he asked. His voice was quiet,

and a little smoky from the drink.

Remy’s mouth flattened. She’d like to

tell him where to go, that was sure. Yet,

she was a realist. And, most of the time,

honest with herself. She supposed it

might not be a bad idea to let him tag

along; it would be hard to get rid of him

anyway. God knew, he kept showing up

whether she wanted him around or not.

She could find plenty for him to do—

like deboning any fish she caught or

skinning a rabbit. Not her favorite tasks,

but necessary when on the run.

And he’d been handy tonight, fighting

off the jaguar and zombies. Not that she

wouldn’t have been fine on her own.

But.

“I’m going to Envy,” she said finally.

“So the woman who runs away from

everyone is heading for the largest

settlement, the last bastion of human

civilization. Interesting.”

Silence again. She listened for the

sound of him lifting the bottle to drink,

but he didn’t. She began to clear away a

place to sleep, eyeing the large blanket

he’d pulled from the plastic box. Hers

was around her waist and it was a little

too chilly to sleep without a covering.

“You still having nightmares?” he

asked.

She tensed. “Don’t worry,” she

replied. “I’m sure at the rate you’re

slugging that whiskey down, you’ll be

too passed out to hear me, even if I do.”

He gave a short chuckle that sounded

more bitter than amused. “You got that

right, sweetheart. Nothing better than a

good drunk to keep the nightmares away.

Want some?”

“No. Someone’s got to stay awake

and aware.”
Oh, God, please don’t let

me have nightmares tonight.

She drew in a long, slow breath,

remembering the mantra Selena had

taught her to help clear her mind and to

keep the ugly memories at bay.

Another sharp laugh from Wyatt. “I

hate to disappoint you, but I’m a long

way from drunk, and an even longer way

from not being awake and aware. If it

were that easy to block it away, I’d be

smashed all the time.”

“You ought to try meditating,” she

said. “It helps.”

He made a sound that could have

been one of derision, or simply interest

. . . it was hard to tell with Wyatt.

“So does this.” He lifted the bottle in

a sharp, jerky motion. In the wavering

light, she caught a glimpse of his throat

as he tipped his head back to drink, long

and slow. Then, to her surprise, he

leaned forward and offered it to her.

“It’ll warm you up too.”

The bottle was warm from where

he’d tucked it between his legs. That and

the fact that he’d just had his lips around

the opening gave it an uncomfortably

intimate feel, but she took it anyway.

Maybe she should get a little drunk. It

might help her sleep . . . and she really

didn’t want to have a nightmare with

Wyatt around.

The first sip burned down her throat

and immediately rushed through her in a

soft wave. She took another swallow,

careful not to suck down too much and

cause a coughing fit. This one didn’t

burn as sharply, but it was warm and

rich. The heat pooled in her belly then

rolled through her limbs, and Remy

immediately felt more loose.

She handed the bottle back to Wyatt,

noticing he’d inched a little closer to

make it easier for them to reach. He was

tall and solid and took up a lot of space

. . . but despite what Seattle had done to

her, even in this small area, being with

Wyatt

didn’t

make

her

nervous.

Annoyed, maybe. But, surprisingly, not

nervous.

“Take the big blanket,” he said.

“Might as well be comfortable.”

She didn’t have to be asked twice,

but she couldn’t resist a sharp retort.

“Wow, aren’t you nice. The next thing I

know, you’ll be offering up your very

own body heat just to keep me warm.”

Just as Ian Marck the bounty hunter had

done when she was traveling with him.

And that had, of course, led to other

things.

“Body heat? Hell, no. That’s what

you’ve got Dantès for.” Wyatt slugged

back another drink, then set the bottle

between them.

She gritted her teeth at the disdain in

his voice. Then she snatched up the large

blanket. It wasn’t musty at all and it was

made of a light material that was very

warm. Once wrapped up, she reached

for the bottle again. He was right, it

made her warm and easy. Hopefully it

would help her sleep. And keep her from

wanting to strangle him.

“Why is it so damn important for you

to get to Envy that you took off on your

own? I figure I ought to know why the

hell I’m risking my ass to get you there.”

“I didn’t ask you to risk your ass.”

“Jesus, Remy. Don’t you ever say

anything unpredictable?” Now his words

were darker, more gravelly, and slurred

a bit. “That’s what I do. I risk my ass.

For people.”

“I’ll tell you when you tell me why

the hell you’re so damn angry all the

time,” she said, setting the whiskey

down a lot harder than necessary.

That drew a laugh from him, a short,

uncivil bark. “All right, I take it back.

You aren’t predictable. By the way, now

I’m getting drunk.”

“Great. How soon till you pass out?”