Night Resurrected (7 page)

so readily, after so many years of

secrecy?

Maybe it was because no one had

actually said the name Remington Truth

for so long? Caught off-guard, had her

response been automatic?

Or maybe her grandfather was right

. . . She’d know what to do when the

time came. Maybe the time
had
come.

Maybe somehow she sensed it. Had she

somehow known she could trust Wyatt

and his group of friends? That they were

the ones who could help her?

Remy happened to glance over the

trees lining the edge of the pond at that

moment, and stopped paddling. Flipping

into an upright position in the water, she

shielded her eyes against the sun,

squinting as she looked at the circle of

birds. Large birds, like vultures.

Circling. Diving.

Definitely

something

worth

investigating—it could be someone or

some animal, injured.

She splashed out of the water and

dressed quickly. Her clothes were still

damp, but she had clean underthings and

they were dry. Stuffing everything into

her pack, she put her shoes on and

started off to where the birds of prey

were gathered.

As she walked, she reoriented

herself. The truck cab was to her right,

to the south—near an old highway

signpost that still thrust up above the

trees; an excellent landmark—and the

birds were ahead, to the east. By the

time Remy found her way, she estimated

she was no more than three miles from

her camp.

When she came upon it, as she

expected, the sight wasn’t a pretty one.

Whoever it was had been dead long

enough for maggots to hatch and other

insects to find their way to fresh meat.

But not more than a day or two.

She chased the birds away, her

stomach roiling a little as she came

close enough to see the corpse. A man.

What was left of his skin was pale and

bloated, but his hair was dark. His feet

were bare, his clothing half picked away

by creatures trying to get to flesh.

Remy looked around the area. It

wasn’t a clearing so much as a space

beneath three trees. It didn’t appear to be

a campsite, per se. But a pair of decrepit

hiking boots sitting to the side caught her

attention, and, setting her pack down, she

went over to them.

As she knelt to pick them up, her

breath caught. She knew these boots.

One of the laces was twine, the other

had no laces at all but were held closed

at the top by a piece of wire. They were

easy to recognize because they’d been

slit over the toes on the left foot and the

soles were trashed, hardly wearable

anymore. He’d been complaining about

them for a while.

Ian Marck’s boots.

In her haste to examine the body

again, Remy tripped, nearly tumbling

back to the ground when she launched

herself to her feet. But she righted

herself and went back over, slowing a

few steps away—just as hesitant to

approach this time. Her heart thudded in

her chest.

She knew it wasn’t her former

lover’s body lying there, picked away

like carrion. No, but she had to assure

herself of it anyway.

Because if it wasn’t Ian’s body, but

his boots were here . . . that meant Ian

was still alive. He’d somehow survived

the beating from Seattle’s friends, and

the fall over a cliff.

He’d been here. He’d probably

exchanged boots with the dead man.
He

could have killed the dead man.

He could still be around.

As if she conjured him up, there was

a sharp crackle in the woods behind her.

Remy whirled, grabbing for her gun.

Chapter 3

“T
his is the third time you’ve pointed a

weapon at me,” Wyatt said, stepping into

view. “It’s starting to get old.”

Remy lowered the gun. “Then don’t

keep sneaking up on me.”

“I didn’t sneak up on you the first

time. When you
shot
at me.” He walked

over to the dead body. “What do we

have here?”

“I warned you not to move, and you

did. And for the last time, I didn’t shoot

at
you. I shot
above your shoulder.
Just

where I aimed.”

“Someday,” he said, crouching next

to the body, “I’m going to have you

prove what a sharpshooter you claim to

be.”

“I’m not going to waste my

ammunition in order to soothe your

ruffled man feathers,” she replied,

tucking the gun back into her jeans.

“If you’re as good as you claim, it

would only be a single bullet. Right?”

Remy rolled her eyes and gestured to

the body. “Any idea what killed him?” If

it had been Ian, it would be something

quick and efficient: a neat twist of the

neck, a single bullet to the head, a well-

placed slit at the neck.”

“Could be that cut at the neck, but the

body’s too wrecked to tell for sure. And

. . .” Wyatt picked up a stick and used it

to move away the tatters of the man’s

shirt at the throat and shoulders. “No

sign of a crystal.”

Not a Stranger, then. Remy hadn’t

thought to look to see whether there was

—or had been—a crystal embedded in

the man’s flesh. The Strangers had once

been mortal humans just like her, but

they’d implanted special, living crystals

in their skin, just below the collarbone.

The

bluish

gems

grew,

rooting

themselves

by

spreading

delicate

tentacles throughout the body. Once

implanted with a crystal, a Stranger

would die if it was removed. But with it,

he or she would live forever, never

aging or growing ill. The only way to

kill a Stranger, as far as she knew, was

to remove the crystal. Hack it out of the

flesh of which it had become a living

part.

Still staring down, Remy asked,

“Anyone you know?”

“No.” Wyatt stood and scanned the

clearing, appearing to notice the

discarded boots. Then he settled his

attention back on her. “You?”

“No.” Remy didn’t look at the boots

or at Wyatt. She wasn’t certain whether

she wanted to tell him Ian Marck was

still alive.

After all, Ian was a bounty hunter

who worked for the Strangers—the

people who were, according to Wyatt

and his friends Theo and Elliott, the

cause of the Change that had destroyed

the world. Aside from that, Ian and his

father, Raul, had a reputation of terror,

violence, and greed. The Marcks were

dangerous and hovered on the fringe

between the Strangers and the rest of

human civilization. But she knew another

side of Ian . . . one that wasn’t quite so

harsh or violent. And she also knew

there had been a sort of truce in the past

between Ian and Wyatt’s friend Elliott.

Raul was dead, but Ian had continued

the family tradition, so to speak, as a

ruthless bounty hunter. Working for the

Strangers, he raided settlements, looking

for and taking into custody anyone or

anything that could be considered a

threat to the control and repression they

had over the mortal humans: electronic

devices, communication equipment, gas-

powered vehicles, or anything that could

help build infrastructure.

Remy knew about the work of the

bounty

hunters

firsthand.

She’d

participated in more than one raid. She

wasn’t proud of it. But she hadn’t had a

choice. And she’d never hurt anyone.

And her relationship with Ian . . .

well, complicated didn’t begin to

describe it. Yes, they’d been lovers. But

they hadn’t been intimate. She’d never

understood the difference until she

hooked up with Ian.

She realized Wyatt was looking at

her as she stared down at the body.

“Let’s go back,” she said. “Unless you

want to—uh—wash up. There’s a lake

that way.”

“I’ll meet you back at the truck rig,”

he said, still looking at her with

speculation. “Dantès is resting. Keep

him quiet.”

So ready to escape his serious, sharp

eyes, she took off without comment. As

if she needed to be told how to take care

of her own dog.

Back at the truck Remy did a little

organizing of her own and made

something for Dantès to eat. She had an

apple and one of the last pieces of bread

she’d taken from Yellow Mountain.

Then she considered ideas for dinner as

she sat next to him, alternately scratching

her pet behind the ears and patching up

the tear in her pants. Thanks to Wyatt’s

earlier attention, the small homelike

space was clean and comfortable. She

had to give him credit for that, at least,

and so she figured she’d make dinner.

She wasn’t bad at trapping rabbits, and

she knew how to find wild potatoes and

strawberries . . .

Dantès sensed Wyatt’s approach

before Remy did, his ears snapping

upright. He leapt to his paws faster than

was probably healthy, too excited to see

his secondary master to let pain affect

him. Before she could stop him, he

bounded up onto one of the bucket seats

in the front of the truck and stuck his

head out the window, giving a short

bark.

Remy

wouldn’t

have

even

acknowledged the man’s return if she

hadn’t been worried Dantès would try

and launch himself down through the

window to greet him—and Wyatt would

probably blame her for not keeping him

quiet—so she moved to the front to hold

him back just as the man appeared.

Whoa.

Wyatt came into view with long,

loping strides that seemed easy but

covered ground rapidly. His black hair

was wet, winging every which way

around his temples, ears, and jaw. It

looked like he’d even shaved. As she’d

noticed before, he wore the hell out of

his dark blue jeans: beltless, they rode

low on his hips, loose in all the right

places, showing off the shape of his long

legs without being too tight, bunching up

a little over his sturdy boots at the ankle.

But what had her mouth going dry was

that he wasn’t wearing a shirt. And . . .

yeah.

She’d suspected he was nicely built,

but seeing it in the flesh, so to speak,

was a shock. A pleasant shock. Yet,

knowing she had to share such a small

space with him, it was a little

disconcerting. He looked so very
male
.

His shoulders were broad and square,

his arms well-defined with large, sleek

biceps and sturdy forearms. The sunlight

gleamed off the droplets of water that

fell from his wet head and trickled down

through the expanse of dark hair on his

chest and over flat, slightly ridged abs.

His skin was a rich golden-bronze, and

she could see the hint of a tan line as his

jeans slipped with the rhythm of his

steps.

Remy realized she’d gone hot and

completely breathless. She ducked

away, into the back of the truck, before

he could look up and see her gawking.
I

hope to hell he puts a shirt on before he

climbs up in here.

She heard Dantès’s enthusiastic

greetings, then Wyatt’s reply as he

helped the dog clamber down safely.

Amazing how he always spoke to Dantès

in such a pleasant tone, so friendly and

warm . . . but to her and everyone else, it

seemed as if he could hardly bear to be

civil.

Remy shook her head, tying off the

thread on her mended pants. It was just

as well he was a jerk. With a body like

that . . . She put the trousers aside—they

still needed to have the blood washed

out of them—and was just about to take