Abandon The Night (9 page)

He did the same with the other valve, and suddenly, there was silence in the steamy space except for the last bit of water dripping off. The rasp of their breaths as they dragged in hot, watery air. Zoë stepped out of the shower, reaching for a towel as her heartbeat filled her ears.

Wrapping the terrycloth around her, she turned to look at Quent. He still stood, braced against the wall with one arm flexed, head bent, face turned sidewise to look at her.

“I know you don’t like to talk,” he said, his words clipped and precise. Very accented. Then, they got sharper. “You don’t like to do much of anything but f—” He snapped off the words before he completed the sentence, but she knew where it was going.

A wave of hot anger rushed over her…then subsided. Sure. What the hell else was he going to think?

If nothing else, Zoë was brutally honest with herself. She knew nothing about being with people. Interacting with them. And it didn’t matter, because she had a mission. A lifelong mission, and she wasn’t about to abandon it for anything. Or anyone. Even…
this.

“Yeah,” she said. “You nailed it. Or should I say,
me
?” Her laugh was rustier than she would have liked, and she lifted her chin to make sure she looked him in the eye. So he could see that she thought it was rude and funny. “And you’re right. I don’t like to talk. So can’t we just roll around in the sheets a bit, then get back to whatever else we need to do? It seems to work out just fine.”

He moved then, pushing himself away from the tile and coming toward her. Tall, graceful, tawny-skinned and sleek…more than a little pissed off. His large hands settled on her shoulders, and though she was a tall woman, she felt small and delicate beneath them.

“Right, Zoë. I’m all for the rolling in the sheets, or the quick bang in the shower,” he said. His words slapped. “But if something else comes of this, I’m not going to be so bloody blasé about it. I don’t know about your fucking ‘other times’ or your other lovers, but this isn’t a bloody joke to me.”

“All right,” she said more calmly, resisting the need to bite her lip, to keep back the horrible sting at the corner of her eyes.
What the hell is wrong with me?
“That’s…fair, I guess.”

“And if you’re fucking around with Ian Marck, or anyone else, how’re you going to know whose it is?”

“Ian Marck?” Zoë could hardly control her shock. Is that what he thought? “I wouldn’t go near that bastard with anything but a good, sharp arrow, for fuck’s sake, Quent. His father—” She stopped, swallowing. “I don’t know where you got that ridiculous, boulderheaded idea, but there’s not a chance in hell I’d let him come close enough to breathe on me.”

“No?” he asked, his voice suddenly quiet. “Right. I confess, I’m relieved to hear that, at least. And how about…the others? Zoë.”

“How the hell do you think I can sustain
this
and still…do the other things I need to do…
and
be getting busy with someone else? You
have
lost your fucking mind. Don’t you think you keep me busy enough?” There. That was all she was going to give him. All she dared. And even that borderline confession cut deep, left her feeling ill and pasty-mouthed.

He looked at her for a moment, searching. “Right. There’s that, then.” His mouth, full in just the right places, not so pretty as to be feminine, relaxed a bit. Then his eyes caught at hers, bluer than brown now—or maybe it was just the light—and suddenly she couldn’t breathe.

Zoë broke away and bent to gather up her clothes. As she turned to leave the bathroom, her knees felt weak—but she wasn’t sure if it was lingering pleasure or apprehension.

“Zoë,” he said behind her.

She was back in the cooler bedroom, her clothing gathered against her towel-wrapped, damp body. “Yeah?” she said without turning. Her hair dripped crazily over her shoulders, trickling down in every direction.

“Are you…leaving?”

She sat on the bed and the towel tucked under her arms came loose.
Yes. No. I don’t want to. I need to get the hell out of here. What the fuck with all the talk? Can’t we just let things
be?

Zoë tucked the terrycloth corner back in place, noting absently that it was much thicker than the ones she had. He’d come from the bathroom, wrapped in a low-slung towel of his own. And now he stood there, his long, bare feet settling on the floor in front of her.

She looked up slowly, along his muscular calves, covered with golden brown hair, to the towel, clean but dingy with age, over the flat belly that curved in at the sides into masculine hipbones that set her mouth to watering. She admired the broad expanse of his chest and the smooth bulk of his arms, not too ripped, but more than solid and capable.

“Are you finished?” he asked, his voice low and rough. “Because I think I’ve sorted out the answer.”

A glance down told her that he’d already begun to fill out under the towel again, and that familiar stab of pleasure-pain bolted down through her middle. She looked up, her heart thudding…yet emptiness curled inside her.

Just then, a loud knock at the door broke into the tension, startling her so that she jolted.

“Quent!” came a male voice. “You in there?”

“Bugger,” Quent muttered, glancing at the door. He hurried over to the dresser, opening drawers rapidly. “Where the hell did I stow it?” he said under his breath.

“Quent! What the fuck? You all right in there?”

“Yeah,” Quent called back, still pulling drawers open, rummaging through them, occasionally pausing to shove a hand through his unruly hair.

“Well, hell, you had us worried something had happened. What’s taking so long? We’ve been waiting. You gonna open the fucking door?” This last sounded more than a little annoyed.

“Not a chance,” he muttered. Then, with a triumphant noise, he went to the closet and moments later retrieved a thick book. Zoë saw part of the title—something about
Monte Cristo
—briefly before he went to the door.

He pulled it just wide enough to stand in, holding the door so as to block any view of Zoë or the bed. “Found it,” he said, giving the book to whoever was there.

“You sure you’re all right?”

“Yeah, Wyatt. I’m fine. Just got a little distracted.”

Zoë heard Wyatt’s snort from behind the door, and she pictured the hard-faced man rolling his eyes. She’d seen all of Quent’s friends at one time or another, although she’d never met any of them.

“Yeah, I see that. We’re all fucking waiting for you downstairs, and you decide to take a damned shower? For all we knew, you’d fallen into the dark pit again, for chrissake.”

“Right, sorry ’bout that,” Quent said—but even Zoë could hear that he wasn’t. “Look, I’ll be down later.” He shut the door and turned back to look at her.

“What the hell was that all about?” she asked. “The dark pit?”

“So now you want to bloody talk,” he muttered, readjusting his towel.

“Well, we could find something else to do,” she said, allowing her lips to curve into a naughty smile.

Quent came over and took the bundle of clothes from her arms, setting it on the table. Then he sat next to her, the mattress shifting with his weight. But, to her surprise, he didn’t reach for her. “What did Raul Marck do to you?”

Whoa
. Nothing like being blindsided. She moistened her lips, retucked her towel “He’s a bounty hunter.”

Quent nodded. “I know.
What
did he do to you?” His eyes were so close, serious. Determined. The glaze of lust was gone, the heat and desire…replaced by something else. Compassion?

Zoë’s throat burned. “He…they’re after a new bounty now. Someone overheard them, talking.”

“Someone overheard them?”

Shit.
She hadn’t planned to tell him about her connection with Remy.
But why? Why does it matter? They’ve been looking for Truth. You could help him.

But she’s beautiful. So beautiful. And smart. And brave.

She’d
be able to stay. Here.

Zoë swallowed and realized her belly felt ugly and heavy.
Why do you care if she stayed?
She couldn’t burn away the image of Quent, his hands all over that blond woman on the dance floor.

“Zoë,” he persisted.

“They were talking about another bounty. A woman, someone who left the Elite. She ran away. That’s what they called them—the Elite.”

“The Elite?” Quent said, as if turning the word over in his mind. “Fuck. I never knew what he meant.” He looked stricken, his face suddenly drawn and serious. “The bastard.”

Zoë frowned. “Who?”

When Quent looked back at her again, she was struck by the loathing in his eyes. Not directed at her; she recognized that immediately. Loathing, despair…and pain.

Something she’d seen in the mirror, once or twice.

“My father,” he said, his voice grim. Dull and grim. “He’s one of the Strangers, or, apparently, in their nomenclature…the Elite. He’d used that word to talk about some of his friends and colleagues.” Then he seemed to shake it off, his mouth quirking in annoyance, and the expression in his eyes became determined. “Tell me what Raul Marck did to you.”

Zoë opened her mouth to evade, but before she realized it, the words came tumbling out. “He set the
gangas
on my family. Everyone. Killed them all, destroyed everything.”
Damn.
She blinked hard,
harder
, the tears burning and shaming her. “It was more than ten years ago,” she added in defiance of the tears and grief. “I was almost sixteen.”

“I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice rough. “Ah, Zoë, I’m so sorry.” He moved then, gathering her, towel and all, against his warm chest. His arms curled around her, holding her so that her face, now damp with tears, buried in his shoulder.

She closed her eyes, feeling her lashes brush briefly against his skin like the butterfly kisses her mother used to give her. But she kept her arms curled in front of her, cuddled between them. Distance was good.

Yet…at that moment, she couldn’t keep the distance. She’d never told anyone what happened—even that simple sentence.

There’d been no one to tell.

“I was the only survivor,” she heard herself say. When was the last time she’d been held? Simply held?

Simply curled up next to a living, breathing person, with no other demands. It was much nicer than curling up next to Fang, her sometimes pet. A wolflike dog that came and went as he pleased, just as she did, from the little abode she’d created. She gave a short little laugh, more damp than was polite, into his shoulder.
Wipe your nose
, she could hear Naanaa say.

“Something funny?” he asked, gently lifting her face.

She nodded, looking at him through eyes glassy with tears. “This is much nicer than curling up next to my dog.”

His mouth moved, but compassion still showed in his blue-brown eyes. “I think so too. Their long noses tend to get in the way.” He thumbed away a trickle of her tears, his fingerpad gentle beneath her eye. “Will you tell me more of what happened?”

“That evening, I’d sneaked away to meet someone. A guy. We weren’t supposed to be out at night, but we were close to home. Close enough to see the lights, and besides, no one had seen zombies around for years. There were trees to climb, if we had to escape anyway. It wasn’t like we were stupid,” she added. “There was an awful swampy bog, and I slipped and fell into it. All the mud and everything—it was mucky and it reeked like a bitch, and I didn’t just stumble, I fell all the way in.” Even now, she couldn’t laugh, couldn’t even find the humor in the image of her dripping in swamp mess.

With the telling, she’d pulled away from Quent’s moist skin and now she rested her forehead against his shoulder, talking down into the space between their bodies. Her fingers still curled up between them like a child’s, the wiry hair on his chest brushing against the back of her hand.

He breathed easily, regularly, and seemed in no hurry to urge her on, so she took a moment to swallow and smooth out her voice, which had become frighteningly unsteady. “Rick pulled me out, but I was such a nuked mess that I didn’t have the balls to go back looking—and smelling—like I did. Even though everyone should be asleep, I knew I couldn’t take the chance because we weren’t supposed to go by the bog. Which is of course why we did…because it was private. So Rick went back to get me something to change into, and some water to clean me up with.”

Now her voice broke and the next few words were hardly audible. “I never saw him again. Or anyone.” She pushed on in harsher tones. “He didn’t return and he didn’t return, and I just knew the idiot’d gotten caught, so I finally sneaked back. When I got close enough, I heard them. The moans. The grunts. And the cries. The horrible cries.”

Quent tightened his arms around her, making a sort of shushing sound she vaguely remembered from childhood. From Naanaa.

“I’m so sorry, Zoë. So sorry.” He rocked her a little, and she sniffled, aware that her nose was dripping something ugly down into the cavity between them. She swiped at it, swallowed hard and angrily, and tried to get control.

It was ten years ago.

“Raul Marck was there. I didn’t know who he was at the time, but I’ll never forget him. Or that big black thing he drives. He or the
gangas
set fire to the five houses in our little settlement, which must have driven everyone out of them. Down into the waiting arms of the
gangas
. By the time I got back, there was hardly anything left.” She shook her head. “I still don’t know why.”

“And if you hadn’t fallen in the bog, you’d have been one of them,” Quent said, holding her close. So tightly she could hardly breathe. His hand settled warm and flat over her skin, and began to smooth up and down her spine, bumping onto the terrycloth towel, and up again.

“I figured that’s what saved me in the end. The zombies couldn’t smell me, you know, with the ass-crap mess I was wearing. I smelled as bad as they did.”

“I’m glad you fell in the bog, Zoë,” he said after a while. “I’m sorry about what happened to your family, but I’m glad you fell in the bog.”

That makes one of us.
“There are times when I wish I’d been home when it happened.” Most of the time.