Night Forbidden (9 page)

She thought he might sit down on the dusty chair whose upholstery had long been chewed or rotted away—but he didn’t. Instead, he took the tuna, wrapped in a pieced of flat, floppy bread she offered, and wandered around the space, checking out each window. What was he looking for?

Or who?

They were just finishing up the meal when Fence made an urgent sound and turned from the window. “Put the fire out. Now.”

Before she could react, he was hurrying across the room to put down the rickety ladderlike steps they’d climbed then pulled up after them. “Stay here,” he said. “And out of sight of the window. I’ve got to hide the horses.”

Ana had already thrown a blanket over the small fire, and now she gaped at him. “What—”

But he was gone, smooth and silent and quick—leaving her prickly and nervous. She exchanged glances with George, who’d looked up from his ever-present notebook.

“Probably a wolf or something,” her father muttered, then returned to his notes.

But she didn’t think so. She eased to the side of the window where Fence had stood and peered into the darkness.

At first she saw nothing out of the ordinary. But then she heard an unfamiliar rumbling in the distance, and at the same moment noticed a pair of lights, low to the ground, just beyond a low rising hill.

At first she didn’t believe her eyes . . . but as it continued to roll along, and she heard the sound of a motor coming closer, she agreed with her first assessment.

It was a vehicle.

F
ence slipped out onto the grass and edged along the ivy-covered brick wall. There wasn’t much he could do to keep the horses from whuffling and snorting, but leading them deep inside an old storage room in what had been a small office building was the best he could do to muffle any noise they might make.

There was no reason to think that the Strangers or their bounty hunters—for no one else had access to motorized vehicles—would stop at this particular building out of all of the overgrown ones in this former suburban town, but Fence was of the mind that a guy couldn’t ever be too careful. Ana had reacted quickly to douse the flames, and it was unlikely that the golden flicker or smoke had been seen by whoever was driving the car.

Fence took off in the direction he’d seen the headlights, cat-footed and quick through bristling trees, over rises and down falls and around lumps of debris. His senses were attuned not only to the brief flashes of light in the distance, but also to the environment: for everything from approaching predatory animals to zombies . . . to the scent or sounds of water. The last thing he was about to do was take a dive into some sort of pool or river.

He knew it was a long shot that he might catch up to the vehicle, or even that it would continue in the direction it had been going, but he figured he’d take the chance. He wasn’t about to miss the opportunity to eavesdrop or spy on them.

It was difficult enough to drive on rough terrain and over nonexistent roads during the daylight, but nearly impossible to do so without breaking an axle or blowing out a tire in the dark. Therefore, he reasoned, they’d likely have to stop soon.

The low rumble of what was most likely a Humvee broke the silence of the night, and from the revving sounds and the ebb and flow of the noise, Fence could tell which direction it was going. He adjusted and his heart began to thump as he realized the truck was slowing . . . perhaps stopping.

That could be good, if he could get close enough to hear what was going on.

Fence picked up his pace and then halted, pressing up against the prickling bark of a tree when he saw a sleek feline shadow sauntering through the overgrowth. Among other things, he always carried a knife—but never liked to use it . . . and when the panther didn’t do more than skim over him with its yellow-green eyes and then go on her way, he breathed a sigh of relief. He’d tangled with a wolf once, handheld blade to teeth and claw, and walked away the winner . . . but he hadn’t enjoyed the victory in the least. He was a lover, not a fighter.

He grinned to himself in the dark.

Fence heard the rumbling louder now, and then a little creak, and then silence. The sound of a door slamming, then another. Low voices.

Yes.

Fence cast a quick glance to make sure the panther hadn’t circled back around, then eased forward, moving like a shadow himself from tree to collapsed house to overgrown car.

The sound of water streaming onto the ground made him halt for a moment, and turning clammy, until he realized one of the men was taking a piss . . . about twenty feet away, on the other side of a fallen tree. From the sounds of it, dude had either been drinking heavily or it had been a long time since they’d made a pit stop. A really long time.

“Ready?” came a distant voice.

“Just a minute,” the one closest to Fence called back, still in the throes of his evacuation.

Crashing in the bushes heralded the approach of the one farther away, and Fence crouched deeper in the shadows when he saw a silhouette shift in the distance.

Meanwhile, the first guy was
still
pissing.

“You almost done?” said the new arrival.

“Yeah,” he replied.

“Christ on a crutch, what’s taking you so damn long, Graves?”

“Takin’ a piss,” Graves replied, and the sounds of streaming water trailed off . . . only to start up again. Fence couldn’t help chuckle silently. Dude could water the world if he kept going like that.

“Roofey’s gonna
be
pissed if we ain’t at the meeting place on time. He’s all whacked out about finding this Quent guy before he figures things out. My bet’s on him being in Envy.”

“What’re we gonna do—just walk in there and ask for him?”

“I told you—we don’t even need to see him, Graves. Just make sure he’s there—ask around, whatever, and then let nature take its course. That’ll make things a lot more convenient—take care of both at the same time.”

At last the streaming trailed off, gave a few spurts, then there was the rustling of clothing and the metal clink of a belt being rebuckled. “What if he’s not there?”

“We’ll keep looking. We’ll find him,” the second guy said. “But it really doesn’t matter.” His voice was lower, as if he’d turned around, and there was a whole lot of crashing in the brush as they walked away.

Fence strained to hear over the noise, easing out after them slowly and oh-so-silently.

“Why not?” Graves said, his words muffled a bit.

“Roofey told me that Kaddick said in a few weeks there won’t be an Envy for that Quent bastard to hide inside anyway.”

Chapter 6

Seventy miles away. . .

R
emington Truth looked down at her bright-eyed, hundred-pound German shepherd dog and said, “Sit, Dantès.”

His butt plopped to the ground, of course, and he looked up at her as if she were a goddess—which, Remy supposed, she was, at least in his eyes—and she bent down to hug him.

He was her best friend. Her only friend. Her guardian and savior and the only creature on this mangled earth that she could trust.

They were safely behind the walls of what had been the large estate of a computer and electronics genius before the Change, and deep in the privacy of small clusters of trees and bushes that littered the ten-acre grounds. Remy had taken Dantès far from the house, where too many people (four) lived for her own safety and comfort—although Selena and Theo and the others had been nothing but kind to her.

Perhaps even more than kind, particularly since she wasn’t being completely honest or forthcoming with them. Things had been more than a little complicated since she’d come to Yellow Mountain, a settlement about three miles from the old estate that was Selena’s home, and the place she used as a hospice. Selena was known as the Death Lady, for she had a gift for assisting people through their last days of pain and into the afterlife, and she had met Theo Waxnicki when he showed up, nearly dead himself.

Now, what began as a brief show of approval for Dantès’s perfect obedience became a longer, more desperate embrace as she crouched in the grass. Remy’s eyes stung a bit at the corners and she tried to thrust away the memories.

But they came, fast and hard and dark, as they often did: the strong hands, the sneer of Seattle’s mouth, his lips flat and curled back in a feral show of power, the harsh jolting of her body as her clothing was torn away. Cool air on her bare skin.

And the pain.

She squeezed her eyes shut, swallowed back the burning nausea. Dantès seemed to sense that his mistress was in distress, for he gave a soft, sad whine and twisted his head away to lick her nose and chin. Then he found the salty trail down her cheek and kissed it thoroughly away.

“Thank you, good boy,” she whispered into his comforting fur. “Thank you for finding me.”

She could hardly imagine what she would be doing now, what would be happening to her, if Dantès hadn’t found her scent and come after her.

She’d been chained to the front axle of Seattle’s vehicle, bruised, bloody, stunned and aching from his most recent assault. Her captor had been about to drive off with her beneath, dragging her over the rough terrain, when Dantès burst into the clearing. The dog had gone through the open truck window, grabbed Seattle by the throat with his lethal fangs, and ripped.

The bounty hunter named Seattle was no longer a threat to Remy . . . or to anyone.

If only it had just been Dantès who’d found her.

But, no. He’d had to bring those men from Envy. The ones who’d discovered her identity after Remy had successfully hidden for almost twenty years.

Now she was in a predicament.

Still recovering from the assault and beatings from Seattle, Remy wasn’t quite ready to take her leave from this small settlement. She might be stubborn, but she wasn’t stupid: she knew she had to heal, to get her bearings, and then to figure out what she was going to do and how she would survive on her own again.

And now that Ian—the bounty hunter who’d been her reluctant partner and sometimes lover—was presumably dead, no one other than the men from Envy knew that she was the granddaughter of the infamous Remington Truth.

The man whom the Strangers had been seeking since the Change.

The man who’d given her the small crystal she wore at her navel to keep it hidden and safe, who told her to guard it with her life.

Thank God neither Ian nor Seattle had recognized it for what it was.

Not that Remy herself had any idea what it was. She just knew her grandfather had told her it was important, and to keep it safe.
You’ll know what to do with it when the time comes.

Yeah, right.

“Dantès!”

The masculine voice had the dog’s ears snapping up into full triangular attention, and to her annoyance, and—let’s face it—hurt feelings, Dantès pulled to his feet even as Remy’s arms remained around his neck.

She could feel him battling inside: wanting to stay with his adored mistress, with whom he’d lived and traveled for more than five years, and desiring to answer the siren call of another master.

“Dantès!” the voice called again, much closer now.

Remy tightened her grip in a brief, last bid to keep her only comfort to herself, then let him go. She’d decided it was a better balm to her hurt if she released him before he actually broke free.

Dantès nearly trampled her in his haste to go, and just then the man appeared from behind a cluster of bushes.

“Oh, Remy,” Wyatt said. He stopped short, as if he’d slammed into a wall.

Why would he be surprised to see her,
with her own dog?

Whatever else he might have said, or meant to say, was lost as he crouched down to receive his personal greeting from the fickle canine, who wriggled and whined and kiss-licked the new arrival.

Crouched there on the ground, they were all about eye-level with each other: man, woman, and dog.

The man, Remy had noticed more than once, was tall, well-built, and sturdy. He had dark hair in dire need of a cut, for it dipped and waved around his face and neck, nearly in his eyes and well past his collar. His dark brown eyes were most always flat and cold. The only time she’d ever seen them soften was when he was with Dantès, and, very occasionally, when he and the Waxnicki brothers were laughing about something.

He was good-looking enough in a rugged sort of way, though not nearly as handsome as Ian or Elliott. He might be more attractive if he smiled once in awhile, instead of always looking as if he were coldly disappointed with the world.

But, hell. She probably appeared the same way.

Smiles were inviting.

Remy pulled to her feet, standing over her traitorous companion and the man he was worshipping. She supposed she shouldn’t begrudge Dantès his affection for Wyatt, nor the man’s never-ending attention to her dog.

Because, after all, if they hadn’t bonded so closely when she fled after being discovered by Wyatt and his friends, Dantès wouldn’t have been around to scent and save her from Seattle.

Even though she’d had to throw a snake at the man when he was trying to keep her from running away from Envy, the fact was, he’d taken good care of Dantès during her absence.

By now Wyatt had located a fat stick and was showing it to the eager dog. Dantès looked so beautiful, standing there, his fur practically quivering with excitement, his eyes steady and his tongue completely contained as he waited for his favorite activity to begin. Remy was suddenly overwhelmed with love for him, and annoyed anew that his affection seemed divided.

The stick whipped through the air and the dog was off, leaving the two humans alone.

“Nice night,” he said.

Remy looked around and realized it was, indeed, heading toward night. The sun had dipped below the walls of the estate. “It is,” she agreed.

“How are you doing?” Wyatt asked. He’d stood to throw the stick and now looked down at her.

“I’m fine,” she replied. As she always did when he asked.

“Any bad dreams lately?”

Remy’s shoulders stiffened. “Not any more than usual,” she replied, just as Dantès crashed back through the brush.

He dropped the stick and his tail wagged furiously as he waited for someone to throw it.

Remy and Wyatt both crouched at the same time, and narrowly missed clunking heads as they reached for it in tandem. He snatched his hand back immediately, allowing her the honor of picking up the stick. Dantès went rigid with expectancy.

“Theo and Lou got a message from Quent over the computer network,” Wyatt said. “Elliott made it back to Envy all right.”

Why you didn’t go with him, I wish I knew.
She winged the stick into the sparse woods with far less velocity and distance than Wyatt had.

“Thanks for letting me know.” She was, nevertheless, sincere.

Since this whole debacle had started almost six months ago when her calm, simple life in RedLo had been disrupted by the arrival of Wyatt, Theo Waxnicki, and another man named Quent, she’d found herself most appreciative of Elliott’s kind and easy demeanor.

Of course, she had needed his doctoring more than once. And he’d been so gentle and caring after Wyatt pulled her out from under Seattle’s truck.

Dantès returned and Remy allowed Wyatt to toss the stick this time. The dog took off like a shot.

“You never did say what you were doing with Ian Marck,” Wyatt said abruptly. His eyes settled on her, and he didn’t even try to hide his suspicion.

“No, I never did.” Remy was aware of her heart thumping madly. She wished she had another reptile—or something worse—to throw at him.

“So.”

“So what?”

“What were you doing with a guy like him? A bounty hunter?”

Because being in the center of the snake pit was safer than being hunted by the snakes.
Remy’s fingers settled over the crystal beneath her shirt before she realized it, and she forced herself to ease them casually away.

“I was fully aware of his reputation,” she said. “He and his father were so ruthless, the other bounty hunters would have been happy to have them out of the way. That’s how I ended up with Seattle: he ambushed us and tossed Ian over a mountain to die.”

“You’ve already told us how you ended up with Seattle. But what I don’t understand is the allegiance to Ian Marck. Why were you acting as his bounty hunting partner, going around with him and terrorizing innocent people in settlements?” Wyatt hadn’t moved, but something in his demeanor had become almost intimidating, and suddenly Remy felt uneasy.

Dantès bounded back into the clearing at that moment and dropped the stick at her feet. Apparently he’d figured out the pattern and knew it was his mistress’s turn.

She flung it away with less skill than she had previously. Damn it. He was making her jittery. “That’s what bounty hunters do.”

“But you aren’t a bounty hunter.”

Remy shrugged. “You don’t know anything about me.” Then she turned away. “I’m going inside,” she said over her shoulder as she strode into the tall grass.

“I know a few things. I know you throw a stick a lot better than you do a snake.”

He didn’t sound as if he was joking.

“W
ell at least now we have something to go on,” Vaughn said grimly. “They’re going to destroy Envy, but before they do, those two assholes are going to come here looking for Quent. They won’t find him,” he added. “I’ve already taken precautions there—given your descriptions of Graves and the other guy to the patrols. But . . . Christ. What exactly are they going to do?”

“You’re quite certain that’s what he said?” Quent interrupted. “ ‘There won’t be an Envy for him to hide inside anyway?’ ”

They were sitting, as members of the Resistance often did, in their subterranean computer stronghold two stories below New York-New York. Only members of the group even knew of its existence—let alone how to use an old elevator shaft and the right code to access the space.

Fence nodded grimly. “By the time the words sank in, the bastards were already back in the Humvee and driving away. But I’m sure that’s what he said—I was close enough to make out their entire conversation.”

“So what are they going to do? Bomb the city?” Vaughn said, rubbing his temples with a widespread hand. “Jesus. We won’t let anyone within a five mile radius of the wall until they’re screened.”

Fence shook his head, reminded of the pre-Change world and its exhaustive security measures post-9/11. Despite this being a much wilder and woolier environment, he never would have thought such precautions would be necessary.

“What do you think?” he asked, turning to look at Marley. “Any ideas from what you know about them?”

Marley Huvane had been a friend of Quent’s from before the Change. She’d not only lived through the disaster but was assured of immortality due to the crystal her billionaire father embedded in her skin—without telling her what it was. Now, she was an Elite who’d escaped from their stronghold of Mecca, living secretly among the mortals in Envy. If anyone had an inside perspective on the Strangers, it was her.

She was hot in a high society sort of way, without being brittle and overdone, and Fence was pretty sure Quent had tapped that more than once—at least before the Change. Now, of course, Quent only had eyes for Zoë, and had rebuffed Marley’s recent overtures at hooking up—or so she’d confessed to Fence.

Marley shook her head. “They’ve got to be beside themselves knowing that you”—she looked at Quent—“got away with that crystal they use to communicate with Atlantis. So now they either have no way to communicate with them or they’re afraid you’re going to figure out how to do it yourself—or both.”

The four of them glanced toward the old metal file cabinet where the crystal had been wrapped in cloth and hidden away. So far, Quent hadn’t had a lot of luck with the fist-sized translucent-blue stone, for he couldn’t hold it long without getting sucked into a comalike vortex of memories and images. While he could easily read the history of everyday objects merely by touching them, he was less able to control the immense flood of power behind the Atlantis crystal.

“But,” Marley continued, “I don’t remember hearing anything that could be construed as a threat to Envy. Not that I was in the Inner Circle or anything. In fact, they knew I wasn’t happy about being there, being one of them, and that I’d been trying to escape. But as far as Envy goes . . . certainly, the Elite are aware of the size of the city, and they monitor it to make sure nothing they disapprove of is happening there—”

“Yeah. Like the use of computers,” Fence added with a wry glance around the chamber. The space was lined with tables and desks, and each one held any number of computers, monitors, printers, and a variety of electronics—all of which had been either scavenged or rebuilt by the Waxnicki brothers. Here was the heart of the new communications infrastructure they were trying to build—all out of sight of the Strangers. “Or any sort of mass communication, or infrastructure. The way things are now, every settlement—large or small—is isolated from the next. It’s like the motherfucking Wild West.”