Night Resurrected (9 page)

held these treasures. And what was her

secret? So far, that package was her best

find, but she had hardly touched the

surface of the truck.

She realized Wyatt had been quiet for

a long while. No noise, no rustling, no

sounds at all.

Remy looked over, toward the

darkest part of the enclosure. He was

still there but he wasn’t moving. He just

sat there, with something in his lap, head

bowed, his hand raised to his eyes as if

pinching the bridge of his nose.

She watched for a moment, but he

still didn’t move. Had he been bitten by

a hidden spider or scorpion? Frowning,

her heart thudding harder in her chest,

she rose to her feet. Her legs were sore

and prickly from being in the same

position for too long, and she was a little

unsteady picking her way back toward

him.

“Wyatt?”

she

asked

as

she

approached, careful not to take another

awkward spill. Especially on top of him.

Or where there could be lethal spiders

lurking.

He didn’t move at first. He was so

still and stiff, he could have been frozen.

But when she got closer, he seemed to

sense her presence. All at once he

erupted to his feet and the books on his

lap tumbled to the ground.

“I’m going back,” he said, his voice

low and rough. “I’ll leave Dantès here

with you.”

Remy gaped at him as he navigated

past her with stiff, abrupt movements.

She only caught a glimpse of his face,

but what she saw was frightening. Stark

and taut, like a horrible mask. His eyes

were like dull, angry stones, his mouth

compressed into a flat line.

A moment later he was gone—

outside the trailer and into the daylight.

Remy heard him speaking to Dantès, and

she stared after his exit, uncertain how to

react. What the hell?

She turned from the empty rectangle

of daylight that was the doorway and

looked at the books that had been in his

lap. She picked them up.
Good Night,

Moon
.
I Love You, Stinky Face. Make

Way for Ducklings.

Children’s

picture

books?

She

looked down at them, thoughtful and

unsettled. Had these bright-colored

stories upset him, or was it something

unrelated? How long should she wait

before returning to the truck?

He’d looked furious. No, actually, it

wasn’t anger she’d seen in that

momentary flash of his expression.

It was hatred. Pure, unadulterated

loathing.

Chapter 4

R
emy had her hands full, carrying back

her loot from the truck trailer. She could

hardly believe her good fortune, with

new socks, bras, panties, tank tops, and

her favorite: a short blue sundress and a

pair

of
sandals
, both in the same

package.

Before falling into his mood, Wyatt

had obviously found some things too.

They were stacked neatly next to where

he’d been sitting: various articles of

clothing, a few pristine books, tools, and

some DVDs. She gathered them up and

brought them back as well, leaving the

children’s books behind for now.

When she and Dantès headed back to

the truck rig, the sun was below the tree

line. She must have been in the trailer

for hours, and although it would be

another hour or two until dark, she was

glad she’d left when she did. She

wondered if Wyatt had come out of his

funk yet.

As she emerged from the thicker part

of the jungle and the truck came into

view, she saw Dantès standing at the

base of their temporary home. He was

up on his hind legs, front paws

scrabbling at the metal door, yipping and

barking for attention. When Wyatt didn’t

appear, Remy’s heart began to thud

nervously. How long had it been since

he left her at the truck trailer? Two,

three hours?

She hurried over, putting all of their

treasures on a nearby tree stump, then

flung the door open. She winced when

Dantès leapt up by himself. He wouldn’t

have made it except she gave him a last

second boost, then followed.

Her pounding heart slowed when she

saw the figure sitting in the dark, leaning

back against the wall. He was being

greeted by a whining Dantès. The smell

of whiskey hung thick in the air.

“Back already?” Wyatt said. His

voice was rough and sandpapery.

Remy turned away, half disgusted,

half unsettled. She’d come to know

Wyatt during her stay at Yellow

Mountain—more than a month. She’d

never seen him drunk.

Actually, she’d never seen him

anything but coldly competent and

completely in control, albeit distant and

reserved.

“I’m going to make something to eat,”

she mumbled, and edged back out of the

dark toward the waning daylight. She

wasn’t certain whether Dantès would

follow her, but she didn’t summon him.

In the faulty light, she’d seen Wyatt’s

arms lock around the dog’s neck as he

rested his forehead in the thick fur.

Holding on as if for dear life.

That image made something squeeze

deep inside her. He was the very picture

of desolation.

She made a small fire and used her

pan to cook the potatoes and asparagus

he’d brought back earlier. Then she went

back into the truck and found the can of

tuna, opened it, and offered a plate to

Wyatt.

To her surprise, he took the meal and

ate. He drank some water, too, but didn’t

speak one word other than a short “thank

you” for the food. In the dim light, his

face appeared as if it had aged and gone

gaunt in a matter of hours. His eyes still

looked like dark, glittering pits of anger.

Remy cleaned up, brought their loot

into the truck, fed Dantès, then took him

into the woods to do his business as

well as her own. By then the sun was

setting, but the last thing she wanted to

do was climb back into that truck.

Instead, she helped Dantès up inside,

closed the heavy metal door with a

groan, and sat on the ground. The fire

had settled into a small, gentle blaze and

she stared at it, hypnotized by the

dancing flames.

Only twenty-four hours ago she’d

been sitting in front of a similar fire.

Alone, except for Dantès.

And now, here she was, with an

uninvited, would-be guide in a drunken

stupor. At least he’d helped her acquire

a whole new wardrobe. He might be

obnoxious and rude, but she didn’t have

to worry about Wyatt assaulting her with

anything

but

scornful,

impatient

comments.

Remy squeezed her eyes closed in an

immediate, desperate attempt to hold

back the memory of horror. But images

of her captivity by Seattle surged to the

edges of her mind. Pain and terror and

violation.

Think of something else. Quick—

think of something else.

Ian. Think of Ian.

He’s alive. How could he have

survived?

She settled on that puzzle, wary

because it was too close to the very

thoughts Selena had helped her learn to

block away, but it was a safe topic

nevertheless. She and Ian had been

traveling together for almost three

months when Seattle ambushed them and

kidnapped her.

Ian knew she was the granddaughter

of Remington Truth. He was a bounty

hunter, and he knew her secret identity.

The very thought should have turned her

to ice, but he’d never threatened her,

never tried to bring her to the Strangers.

And despite the fact that they were

lovers, he never even seemed to have

noticed her crystal, swathed as it was in

silver and gold. Except . . . he did tell

her point-blank he intended to keep her

close at hand—whether she liked it or

not. And it wasn’t because he was in

love with her. It was obvious he wasn’t.

She never learned how he found out

about her identity; Ian hadn’t been any

more forthcoming than Wyatt, as a matter

of fact. Not that she, of anyone, should

be throwing stones. Even after Wyatt had

helped her remove the blazing hot

crystal and then demanded answers,

she’d been stubbornly reticent . . .

What’s going on, Remy? Haven’t

you figured out by now that we don’t

mean you any harm? That we might be

able to help you?

I don’t have any reason to think that

—

We know you’re Remington Truth’s

granddaughter. And you’re still here,

safe, with us. We haven’t turned you

over to the Strangers or the zombies.

Doesn’t that tell you anything?

It tells me that you haven’t figured

out what to do with me yet.

If it were up to me, I could think of a

few things to do with you.

An image of the bare male chest

belonging to that very man popped into

her mind. Remy opened her eyes. Well,

that
certainly pushed away the hovering

memories of Seattle.

She glanced back at the truck, then

returned her attention to the fire. She

supposed she’d better climb back into

the rig and see about getting some sleep.

She was beginning to get too warm,

sitting here in front of it. Especially the

part of her facing the fire.

In particular, her torso
was getting

hot.

Remy looked down automatically and

gasped, bolting to her feet. Sure enough,

the glow shone through the thin material

of her T-shirt.

Not again!

She was already pulling at the tiny

silver wires, trying to extricate the

crystal. As before, it burned her skin,

singeing her fingers as if a tiny fire

blazed inside it. Gasping with pain,

furious with herself for not changing the

way the crystal attached to her, Remy

stumbled toward the truck, still trying to

pry the jewel free.

The heat had flamed quickly, going

from mere warmth to searing pain. She

could hardly catch her breath to call out

for help, hoping Wyatt wasn’t passed out

or that Dantès would waken him. The

pain was so intense she didn’t have the

indulgence to be mortified for having to

ask for assistance from him.

What would happen if he didn’t

come? If she didn’t get the stone away

from her skin? Between stinging tears

and gasping breaths, Remy realized she

was on the ground, writhing and twisting

away from agony that wouldn’t leave.

Her awareness sapped, she dimly

heard a canine bark and whine, then a

shadow loomed over her. It came closer

and she smelled whiskey as cool, quick

fingers brushed over her skin. She felt

the pinch-tug-twists at her belly . . . and

at last the pain stopped.

Remy collapsed flat onto her back,

the balmy night air brushing over her

bare skin, tears trickling down over her

temples into her hair. Her eyes were

closed; she didn’t have the strength—or

maybe it was the courage—to look up at

Wyatt. For she knew what she’d see:

fury, irritation, loathing, greed . . .

something like that.

She couldn’t even demand he give

her the crystal back.

Because surely by now he realized it

was something priceless. Surely by now

he knew this was why the zombies and

the bounty hunters and the Strangers had

been searching for Remington Truth for

fifty years.

Something thunked onto the ground

next to her.

“Son of a bitch.”

Then she heard a soft, gritty crunch as

he spun away, followed by the creak of

the truck door. It didn’t slam shut, but it

might as well have. Dantès whined once