Abandon the Night

by Joss Ware

  “It was you I was looking for,” Quent said before he could think. Fuck. Knobhead. Then, to try to salvage the moment, he gave her a burning smile. “I figured you’d be hot to retrieve your arrow again.”

  Zoë looked at him and for a moment, he couldn’t read her expression. Then she smiled in a way that set his blood to boiling and surging, and reached down between them…to where he was already tightening and lifting in response. “Damn straight.”

  And the next thing he knew, the low light blotted out as she moved toward him, pushing him back onto the bed, her slender, calloused hands very busy.

  When he woke, she was gone.

  And so was the arrow.

  “I want to go back to Redlow,” Quent said, looking around at his companions: Wyatt, Elliott, Jade, Fence, Lou, Simon, and Sage—the usual suspects. The only person missing from their cartel was Theo Waxnicki, who’d declined to join them because he was in the throes of a computer project…and most likely because he didn’t particularly like to see Simon and Sage together. “Remington Truth might be gone, but she left in a hurry. We might be able to find something helpful she left behind.”

  Half-filled cups of coffee and tea littered the table, along with empty breakfast plates. The group sat in Lou’s favorite quiet corner of one of Envy’s communal restaurants—which was more like a cafeteria with one or two entrees each meal—that served most of the population. Since most of the living spaces or homes taken over by Envyites were simply hotel rooms, none of them had access to full kitchens. So through community service and coordinated scheduling, meals were provided in the restaurants to any resident of the city who regularly contributed to the community.

  Despite the fact that Quent’s body felt loose and sated from a very busy night, something ugly and heavy had settled in the pit of his belly along with the omelet he’d just eaten. He didn’t know what it was, and he had no intention of spending time trying to sort it out. There were other things to attend to.

  Like finding Remington Truth, and, more importantly, Fielding.

  Maybe after he hacked the crystal from his father’s body Quent would feel normal again. Although what the fuck normal would be for him now was a mystery.

  He’d been raised with limitless resources and the ability to fall back on anything from his name to his billions of inheritance. Now he was simply Quent. No skills, no resources, nothing to offer this stark, simple world where money and celebrity status meant nothing.

  Wyatt was nodding in agreement with Quent’s conclusion. He set his coffee cup down with a little clink. “I’m with you. I need something to do besides sit around here. We can take Dantès back with us. Maybe he’ll lead us to her.”

  Dantès was Remington Truth’s ferocious-looking dog, who had become attached to Wyatt when he figured out how to release him from the guard position she’d left him in.

  Lou was also nodding in agreement. “Excellent idea. You can search the things she left behind—see if there’s anything there that might help us.”

  “And Quent’ll be able to tell if any of it belonged to Truth—the old mofo, not the hot piece of ass who pulled the gun on you,” Fence said. He was, of course, trying to hold back a chuckle, his impossibly straight and white teeth wide in his face and dark eyes dancing. “Wish’t I’d been there to see you all walking into that frying pan,” he added, his suppressed chuckle squeaking a little bit.

  “Yeah, it was a real party. Crazy woman fucking took a shot at me,” Wyatt said flatly.

  “You sayin’ she was a little quick on the trigger?” Fence replied jovially. “Better her than you, eh, brother?”

  Wyatt snorted, and probably would have responded if they hadn’t been interrupted.

  “Good morning,” said the tall, rangy man who approached the table.

  Quent put him in his late thirties, with a handsome, rugged face that looked like it would belong on a cowboy. However, instead of a buckskin shirt and ten gallon hat covering his messy, sun-streaked hair, he wore something more along the lines of Quent’s personal assistant: a pale blue button-down shirt and worn chinos. The guy needed a haircut like mad, and could use a shave, but his eyes were sharp and intelligent and his demeanor professional.

  “Hey, Vaughn,” Jade said with a smile. “Want to join us?”

  Quent glanced at Elliott, but his friend had risen from his chair to offer Vaughn Rogan, mayor of Envy, his hand in greeting. “Have a seat,” he offered. “We’re just about finished, but could stick around for a bit so you don’t have to eat alone.”

  “A chick magnet like Marlboro Man never eats alone,” Fence muttered in Quent’s ear.

  Although Rogan had once had an eye for Jade, whatever that had been seemed to have passed and settled into pure friendship and sincere regard. Elliott had saved the mayor’s life a few weeks ago at the risk of his own, and since Jade and Elliott had gotten together, the two men had moved beyond any undercurrent of competition to become more than simple acquaintances.

  “I’m obliged,” Rogan said, and snagged a nearby chair, dragging it to the end of theirs. “It’s good to see all of you here, because I had a few things I wanted to talk to you about.”

  He did a brief glance behind him, as if to ensure that no other table was within hearing distance. A woman lingered nearby, and he waved her over for a moment to answer a question regarding a broken wind turbine—“send Jackson out there”—then turned back to the rest of them. “Coffee would be good,” he said, sounding weary.

  But Jade had already poured him a cup and settled it in front of him. “What’s wrong?”

  Rogan took a slurping sip and closed his eyes as if savoring the taste. Then he set the cup down. “Nothing’s really wrong,” he said. “I just have a lot of things that need to be attended to. Which is why I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Aren’t you worried about your chances for reelection if you’re seen hanging out with crazy Lou Waxnicki?” asked the old man with a wry smile. “You know most of the town thinks I lost my mind during the Change.”

  Rogan nodded, his lips in a grim smile. “Their loss,” he said. Then the corners of his eyes crinkled with real humor. “Though I think you do your fair share of promoting that fallacy by talking about your nonexistent granddaughter all the time.”

  Lou laughed, his eyes gleaming behind their glasses. “Can’t be too careful.” Then he sobered. “If the Strangers knew we were on to them, we’d be fucked before we even had a chance to do anything. And since most people haven’t experienced the horrors Jade has seen and lived through, they simply can’t and won’t believe that the Strangers are interested only in controlling and suppressing us. Among other things.”

  It still threw Quent when he heard a man of seventy-seven use the f-word, even though he knew that he’d actually been born before Lou and Theo Waxnicki. He guessed he’d be using the word when he was that old himself.

  Rogan had taken another loud sip of coffee, and was nodding. “You don’t have to tell me. And that’s part of why I wanted to talk to you.” He spanned his gaze around the table. “Here’s the deal,” he said, leaning forward, his voice low and rumbling. “I don’t really know where you men came from or what makes you so…different…but I know that Envy needs you.

  “I’ve been mayor here for four years. But the people of Envy have spent the last fifty trying to survive and to build a civilization that resembles, as much as it can, the one that existed before the Change. But there are areas that we’ve neglected. Lou, Theo, and I have talked long and hard about what can be done to protect and grow our race now that we’ve reestablished the—what do you call it?” He looked at Lou.

  “Infrastructure.” Lou removed his glasses and wiped off one of the frames. “We’re doing pretty well here—electricity, food, clothing, shelter—using things we’ve scavenged or grown or made. But beyond the walls of the city, it’s pretty much every man for himself. It’s the fucking Wild West out there sometimes. And we’ve lost a lot of medical and pharmaceutical knowle
dge, and of course, there’s no communication to speak of. I told Vaughn that you’d probably be willing to help, considering your familiarity with twenty-ten and the years before.”

  Quent slid a look at the older man. Had he really told Rogan everything about them? Obviously the mayor knew of Elliott’s healing powers, for he’d been a recipient of that ability himself.

  Lou gave him a slow, deliberate nod as if to say that the mayor could be trusted to know the truth about them. But Quent wondered if that also included telling Rogan that Fielding was Quent’s father.

  Rogan set his coffee cup down. “It comes down to this. Elliott, we need your medical skills, and Jade tells me you’ve been planning on doing house calls when she goes on her missions to the other settlements. That’s good, but I’m here to ask you if you’ll make Envy your home base and work with us to better develop our infirmary.”

  “Already been planning on it,” Elliott interrupted. “But I didn’t want to step on any toes.”

  “No worries there. Your expertise will be welcomed.”

  Elliott nodded. “I’ve been talking to Flo Gradinski, and she wants to help too. Nursing and other stuff.”

  “When she’s not making up hair dyes and cosmetics,” Jade added with a smile.

  “Flo? That’s good,” Rogan nodded. “She’ll be an asset. And there are others who want to learn what you can teach them.” Then he looked at Simon. “I understand that you have some experience in security and law enforcement?”

  Quent smothered a smile at Simon’s expression—it went dead blank. From what he knew about the guy, his experience wasn’t precisely in law enforcement…but quite the opposite. Which would explain his reticence.

  “Not sure where you got that impression,” Simon responded. But then Sage shifted beneath the table and Simon jolted slightly, a pained expression flitting across his face. “But…eh…why do you ask?”

  “We need to organize a more extensive—security, I guess—system here. I understand that there was an incident with Sage recently. She was assaulted and you—er—took care of the attacker.”

  “He won’t be a problem again,” Simon assured him.

  Rogan gave a wry smile. “I got that impression.”

  “He didn’t kill him or anything,” Sage interrupted earnestly.

  “I know,” Rogan said. “But that just indicates how much we need to establish a better way to deal with this sort of thing. For the most part, crime is minimal here in Envy. But outside the city, and even sometimes within, there are problems.”

  “And as the society continues to develop, it’ll only grow,” Lou added. “We don’t have formal jails or even a real legal system. It’s very simple: if someone does something wrong, he’s exiled from the city walls on the decision of a sort of jury.”

  Rogan nodded once more. “So I want Simon to advise our minimal security and law enforcement team. I have a feeling you’d have some suggestions.”

  “Uh. Sure,” Simon responded, but only after another kick from Sage, who beamed a smile that lit up her beautiful face.

  Quent listened as Rogan went on to discuss other projects he had in mind, asking for advice from Wyatt because of his experience as a firefighter, paramedic, and former Marine. And Fence, who volunteered to work with a group of men to teach them survival and navigational skills in the wilderness. Fence had been their guide through the caves in Sedona, and even he had something to offer in this new environment.

  Perhaps it wasn’t as clear to anyone as it was to Quent that the mayor had no specific request to make of him. That simply drove home the point that he had little to recommend himself—except for the fact that he was going to find Fielding, and was going to rid the world of another Stranger.

  And if he survived that, maybe he’d go on and simply hunt Strangers. For the rest of his life.

  Because no one was going to find useful a man who knew how to pick an excellent bottle of cabernet.

  Or to fill out an Italian suit, or invest in real estate.

  Or to headline a charity event.

  Especially a bloke who fell into a coma of black dreams whenever he touched something.

  Ruuuth…ruuuth…

  Zoë woke to the low moans of gangas. Distant, but coming closer. The moon beamed through a hole in the roof above her, right in her face. Crap. She’d over-slept.

  Her own damn fault, though, for wasting time in Envy all night last night. And then hanging out much too long in the town, observing from high on the rooftops instead of resting. It had been near evening, still rainy and dark, when she finally sneaked out of Envy.

  Normally, she slept during the day when it was safe—relatively safe—and hunted when the moon and the gangas were out. And so that when she dragged herself out of the nightmares, it was into sunlight.

  Not darkness.

  But last night she’d given in to her base urges, to her curiosity—and that curious need—and slipped into Envy.

  And she’d waited for Quent…and waited for him…and waited. She’d nearly given up when he finally came to his room, dripping wet.

  What the hell had he been doing walking around in the rain?

  And why the fuck had she waited for him?

  The little shiver deep in her belly told her the answer, and she didn’t like it one damned bit. Zoë flung off her light blanket and glared at the three filthy windows. The moon tried valiantly to shine through, but it was fighting a losing battle with the years of soil encrusted there.

  It really nuked her that she kept thinking about the guy. The first time she’d seen him, up close, after she’d drilled an arrow into the skull of the ganga who was carrying him off…she’d been…well, hell. Attracted.

  But not in an amorous way. More like a night fly to a candle or lamp. With curiosity. Desirous of warmth. Even companionship?

  His cheek had been warm, and smooth. And there was something about his reaction when she laid her hand on his face. He stilled, arrested as if touched in some deep way, instead of simply finger pads to skin. It was ass-crap weird the connection she felt.

  Even though it had been three weeks since that first time, she still remembered the feel of his cheek under her fingers. The first time, in how long, that she’d felt real, warm, solid human flesh?…And damn if the sensation didn’t still resonate, even though they’d gone at it many ways since.

  And now here she was, oversleeping because she’d been crazy stalking him.

  This guy. This Quent, who talked like the guy in those old DVD movies about the spy. There was something unusual about him.

  She was curious. That was all.

  She could be curious.

  But, really. She was too damn busy to be wasting her time hanging around Envy for a little nookie from the man with honey-colored hair. He didn’t cover it with his bandanna during the day, but wore the cloth tied around his forehead. When the sun burned down on him, his skin glowed mellow and golden next to a blinding white shirt. He appeared as warm in the daylight as his cheek had felt that first time.

  Yeah, well. Fuck. She’d watched him—and his friends, but mostly him—during the day, after she’d sneaked out of his room. She’d had to pull away from the fingers that had closed around her wrist even in sleep.

  Now…the dull grating of ganga moans dragged the last vestiges of sleep from her eyes and mind. As she sat up, something scuttled in the corner—probably the mouse family she’d disturbed earlier. They’d dug their way into what had once been an upholstered sofa and turned it into little more than a pile of dirty stuffing, nibbled brocade, and a gnawed wooden frame.

  Zoë listened, crawling carefully through the remnants of someone’s abandoned living room to a grimy window. She was safe up here, on the fourth floor of an old apartment building—for the boulderheaded gangas couldn’t climb unless they had easily accessible, shallow stairs, and the only stairwell was buried beneath half a wall and a pile of rubbish.

  She rubbed a peephole in the dirty glass, taking care not to pres
s too hard in case it was ready to shatter or fall away. Mold and mildew contributed to its opacity, and as the spores were disturbed, the dull, earthy scent became stronger. Some sort of trailing vine or other tenacious growth sprawled from the edge of the window’s frame, clustering over the glass. But she could see through the hole down to the overgrown street and rusted-out automobiles below.

  There they were—gangas clustered on the ground, milling about aimlessly, calling for “Ru-uuthhhh”—which was apparently a nuked-up version of “Remington Truth.” She couldn’t tell for certain how many there were through the trees and jagged walls that obstructed her view. At least five or six, she judged. Too far away, and too many trees to get a good enough shot with her bow.

  But that was only a momentary setback. Get her closer and there’d be mashed ganga brains galore. She reached for her hunting shirt.

  The shirt reeked, but Zoë had long become accustomed to the rank smell. Regularly dredging her hunting clothes through boggy, mucky water and allowing the dirt, algae, and whatever else rotted in the swamp to dry on it had created a shield of sorts. The gangas couldn’t scent her human flesh when she wore it.

  Probably because she smelled just like them. Maybe even worse.

  But that was what had saved her before.

  Climbing down on her knotted rope, a small pack on her back and the quiver of arrows over her shoulder, Zoë grimaced. She wondered if Quent would have let her get near him if she’d been wearing this shirt that first night they met.

  It probably would have been better if she had been. Then she wouldn’t be wasting so damned much time looking for him, waiting for him, rolling around in the sheets with him.

  But hot damn and whoa, it was fantastic sheet-rolling.

  And why the fuck was she reliving those moments, over and over?

  She had work to do. For Naanaa and the others. She had to find the man responsible for taking them away from her.