by Joss Ware
Quent chafed and finally had the opportunity to turn Marley over to Fence, with Elliott acting as chaperone and promising to get her to Jade for some appropriate clothing. He wanted everyone the hell out of his room in case Zoë showed up.
And if she didn’t, he was leaving at the first light of dawn to go back and check on her.
He rested poorly that night, despite the fact that he’d not slept since yesterday morning in the church with Zoë. Dreams wound through his mind, of crystals and flames, of Fielding and the riding crop, of Zoë and the burning forge.
And when he woke, and it was morning, he found himself alone, tangled in the sheets and the remnants of his nocturnal thoughts.
A short time later, he and Jade left the walls of Envy. The sun was still near the horizon, just about half of its sphere had risen.
“Thank you for your help,” he told Jade as she whistled for one of the wild mustangs. She had a way with horses, and Quent had gone to her for help getting a mount, and to ask if she’d take care of his friend while he was gone. “Marley’s all right?”
“She’s got new clothes and slept in a comfortable bed at Flo’s last night. We left the water running a bit in the bathroom so that she could continue to build up her strength,” Jade replied. She smiled as a buff-colored mustang with a black mane and tail cantered up. “You okay with bareback?”
“I’m going to have to be,” Quent said. He’d played polo growing up in England—another convenient excuse for cuts and bruises, so it had been encouraged by his father—and of course had ridden through jungles and up mountains in his other travels, but that was with saddles and bridles. “I’ll make better time than by truck.”
She nodded. “That you will. And you’re going where again? Elliott’s going to ask.”
Dred had been called to the infirmary, so he wasn’t there when Quent knocked on their door and awakened Jade. “I’m going back to where Marley and I were yesterday.”
“With Zoë?”
He clamped his lips. Marley, the rotter, couldn’t keep her bloody mouth shut. “I want to make sure she’s all right.”
“I don’t think you should go alone, Quent. With your…ability. What happens if you touch something and get lost?” Jade’s dark red hair glistened brighter than usual in the new day’s sun. “We’ll never find you.”
What, did every fucking woman think he was incompetent? First Zoë, then Marley, and now Jade? This never would have happened back when he was known as Quentin Brummell Fielding, III—this second-guessing, this mothering. Of course, all they wanted from him then were expensive gifts and prestige.
He gritted his teeth. “I’ve got these.” He pulled the gloves out of his pocket. “I won’t take them off.” He yanked them on a bit more roughly than he needed to.
“Wyatt would go with you, or Fence.”
“I’ll be fine. I’ll be back by tomorrow night, latest. And by then, I hope Marley’s been able to work with Lou and Theo to figure out where Mecca is.” He’d been patting the horse, and after offering him an apple and a handful of carrots, he gathered up a fistful of mane. “Thank you for your help, Jade.”
“Be safe, Quent.” She looked up at him with worried green eyes. “Elliott’s not going to be happy that I let you go alone.”
He smiled down at her. “I’m sure you’ll find a way to make it up to him.” And he kicked the horse into a light canter, kicking up a little tuft of grass as they started off.
Thirty hours later, Quent slid off the same mustang in the same place he’d first mounted him. Exhausted, heartsick, tight with anger that battled with fear to be the most consuming of his emotions.
He gave his horse the last bit of carrots—harvested from Zoë’s little garden—and swatted him gently on the flank. As the mustang cantered off to join his pack, Quent turned and walked back to Envy.
Reentering through the city gates, he went immediately to his room. Heart pounding with the last remnant of hope, he opened the door and walked in. Held his breath.
And felt nothing but solitude.
The room was empty.
He slung the pack from his shoulders and switched on the lamp, then stripped off his gloves.
And then he saw it. On the bed.
Skin prickling, he walked over. It wasn’t an arrow, as he’d first thought. It was longer, and thicker. Perhaps ten meters long, the metal rod was about as thick as an old man’s cane, maybe a bit more. But the end was…different.
Curious, hopeful, he picked it up. And immediately, he felt Zoë.
The sensation blasted over him, the familiarity swamped his mind and he felt himself sink onto the bed. But he didn’t give himself over. Much as he wanted to sink in, he tested himself, forced his mind away.
If he could control it here, where he really wanted to go…he believed he could do it anywhere. He struggled for a moment, the desire was so deep. Zoë sifted around the edges of his consciousness, her hands, her strong arms. Her mouth, pinched in concentration. Heat. And when he was confident he could manage it, Quent lifted his hand from the weapon. His mind cleared. Then, once more, he gathered up the weapon and looked at it.
Without allowing himself to tumble in—he’d save that for when he was finished with the examination, figured out how it worked—he scrutinized the metal object. One end had clawlike petals and there were two smaller rods smaller than a woman’s little finger that extended along the large one. Quent looked at it, moved it around, all the while conscious of the tickling at the periphery of his mind—and then he figured it out.
He’d seen a device like this before, years and years ago. When he was young, living on the Brummell estate. One of the gardeners had had a tool like this. He stabbed it into the ground, pulled on a lever, and the claws closed around a weed and its roots, allowing it to be plucked quickly and efficiently from the earth. Dandelions. Crabgrass or chicory.
Or a crystal.
Quent hefted the weapon in his hand. Solid, but not too heavy. Holding it like a spear, he thrust it experimentally into a pillow. The force of the movement caused the claws to close with a metal snap, and he pulled it back. A jagged circle of cushion came with it, neat and tidy.
Oh, Zoë.
He settled back onto the bed, holding the weapon, smiling. Knowing she was safe. Knowing she’d been thinking of him. And he allowed himself to sink into the place he wanted to be…into the deftness of her hands, the orange heat of the forge, the knowledge that, though she might deny it, she cared.
For it emanated from the cold metal, mixed with the blast of the forge, the pinch of the pliers: affection, desire, love. Loneliness and fear.
With the iron bolt in his hands, he slept. Still smiling.
Ian raised his finger in a gesture the bartender recognized quite readily. Moments later, another small glass of whiskey appeared in front of him on the scarred counter, and the empty one was whisked away. Ian placed a ten-dollar chip labeled with an ornate B on the counter.
He didn’t particularly care for the scruffy, grimy joint called Madonna’s, but when a guy needed a pick-me-up—or a wind me down, or simply needed to blow everything out of his mind temporarily—convenience mattered. Since there weren’t many options outside of Envy, a place he refused to set foot in unless he had to, Ian had to settle. Besides, he figured the alcohol would kill any germs that might linger. And he certainly wasn’t hungry.
The bar’s patrons consisted of transients like himself: bounty hunters, traveling scavengers, and an occasional farmer or rancher who dared stop into the dark, dank place. Settled in the middle of nowhere, the former boxcar, still situated on a rusted track, was well known to those who ventured beyond the safe walls of the small, scattered settlements. It was also a place used by the Elite to meet up with their bounty hunters, and Ian suspected that was why the establishment was still in business.
At least they didn’t have to worry about deadly germs in their drinks, he thought sourly. Nothing that simple would kill those bastards.
&nb
sp; The lone female in the place was always behind the counter. It was she for whom Ian had originally assumed the place was named—although, with the prickling bitch hairs on her chin and the faded red turban, she looked as far from a Madonna as a bulldog. Today, she wore a strapless leather thing, laced up on the sides and back, and jeans. Whoever had done the lacing had had their work cut out for them, for massive amounts of white flesh bulged through the diamond-shaped openings.
As it turned out, the bar was not named for its proprietress, but after the singer, and it had taken him a few visits to realize that all of those pictures on the wall were of the same person, and that all the music played there was by the same artist.
The whiskey tasted just as good the second time around, and Ian closed his eyes, savoring the warmth as it rolled down into his belly. He was just beginning to relax when the door opened and his day hit a shit-hole.
There was no sense in trying to melt into the shadows, though Ian figured if he was going to remain unnoticed, he was sitting in the right place, here at the darkest end of the bar. But, no.
Her eyes found him immediately and she sauntered over, taking her time so that every man in the place could admire the tall, slender figure she cut on skinny heels. Jeans sat so low they exposed her hipbones and the slight curve of her belly, sagging a bit in the back where her gun rested, its barrel purposely positioned down along her ass crack. At least on Lacey, the laced-up, strapless top looked like it belonged there. It also clearly displayed the small, glowing crystal set into her skin. Lacey’s white-blond hair was twisted into a number of bumps all over her head, with spiky strands fanning out from each one.
“Ian,” she said, sitting on the stool next to him, bringing a waft of musk. “Where the hell have you been?”
He took another sip of his whiskey, savoring the taste before he swallowed. He responded with a curl of his lip.
“Where the hell is Marley Huvane?” Lacey demanded. “Raul messaged that you had her, and then I hear nothing. Fielding’s going to send that bastard Seattle out after her when he gets back—he’s after that damn ganga hunter, with the weird arrows—so if you don’t get Marley by then, we’re out of the running. And that’s a cock-honking big bounty.”
“I don’t have her.”
“What about Raul?” Lacey leaned closer, bumping her leg into his. Purposely. “Does he still have her? She’s worth—”
“Raul’s dead,” he drawled.
Lacey jolted a bit in surprise, but it wasn’t her way to give up any weakness, so it was quickly masked. “Dead. How?” He could fairly hear her mind calculating, working, conniving.
Ian shrugged, gestured for another whiskey. And lied. “I killed him.” Now go the fuck away.
“You’re openly admitting that?” Lacey said, her voice dropping for the first time. “What the cock is wrong with you? Fielding’s just waiting for a chance to—”
“Fielding isn’t going to care because I’ve discovered something much more valuable to him.” The whiskey arrived and he finished off the second one with a gulp, noting that, so far, it had done nothing to dull his senses. Especially now that Lacey had arrived. Now she’d planted her hand on his thigh, like she owned him.
Unfortunately, she practically did. Thanks to Raul.
“What?”
“His son.”
Lacey’s face displayed absolute shock. Then she broke into a greedy smile, which didn’t do much to soften her foxlike features. “Well, son of a bastard, Ian. You’re smart and pretty. I love that you always seem to have a surprise up your sleeve.” She squeezed him through his jeans. “I never believed it possible. You’re certain it’s him?”
He concentrated on the whiskey and its trickle of warmth as he sipped from the third. That was the bad part about Raul being dead. There was no buffer between him and Lacey. “I’ve seen his damn photo often enough,” Ian replied. “Right on Fielding’s desk.”
“Where is he?” she prodded.
“I’m tracking him. It won’t be long. And since no one else knows about him, I don’t expect any problems.”
Lacey smiled, her lips wide and red. Men found her attractive until they got to know what was beneath the surface, hidden inside along with the crystal’s tentacles. Ian had made that mistake. Once.
“I’ll pass the news along. Fielding wouldn’t be any happier if you’d said you found Remington Truth. This’s about the only thing that would save your ass from his wrath for killing Raul.”
“I was certain he’d feel that way.” Ian bared his teeth in a humorless smile and took another sip of the drink. Fielding had no idea what kind of compensation he was going to demand.
“Whatever you do, keep ahead of Seattle,” she ordered. “You get Fielding before that cock-sucker even figures out he’s alive.”
Meaning, Ian knew, that she didn’t want the bounty hunter getting powerful enough to convince Fielding to have him crystaled. That would mean she and Seattle would be on equal footing, and it would make her fucking crazy.
Just then, the door opened.
At first he didn’t recognize her. But the simple fact that it was a woman who stood in the entrance caught his—and everyone else’s—attention, and then when he got a closer look, he felt his world tip. He was pretty damn sure it wasn’t because of the whiskey.
Impossible.
Ian checked again as she stood in the sunny doorway. Tall, curvy. Yes. Long, dark hair. Pulled back and up, but yes. Startling blue eyes. Mmmhmm. The haughty face of a princess—the type that got caught in a guy’s dreams. Yep.
“Who the hell is that?” Lacey said, her voice pitching high and tight.
“That,” said Ian, standing and slipping smoothly from her grip, “is my new partner.”
CHAPTER 13
Remy knew the minute she opened the door she’d made a mistake.
But she was too slow, sluggish from lack of food and sleep, to react. Ian Marck. At first she couldn’t believe her eyes that it was him—had seen her. Their eyes met across the dark space and he was on his feet in an instant.
How could this happen? What were the chances?
Before she could fully assimilate the situation and back out, Ian was there, grabbing the door she would have closed. Behind him, Remy saw the woman he’d left, sitting at the bar, staring after him with a pissed-off expression. And then she noticed the glow of the woman’s crystal, proud and bright.
Unbelievable. Into the fricking fire.
“Don’t say anything,” Ian ordered in a low voice, standing in the doorway between her and the rest of the occupants. “Just play along with me or you’re toast.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said, her heart thumping, her palms slick. As if she’d trust Ian Marck to have her interests at heart. “I’m leaving.” Dantès sat beneath a tree, where she’d ordered him, and she glanced over at the dog, whose ears perked up.
“If you leave, you’ll be followed.” His stormy blue eyes held that same cold look they always did. Except that time he’d kissed her. Then they’d been flat and furious when he pulled away.
Remy felt the weight of too much attention from too many eyes. “I’m not worried about that. Dantès will take care of them,” she replied.
Ian shook his head. “He can’t compete with a bullet.”
“Just leave me alone.” Remy turned and would have walked away if he hadn’t reached for her arm.
He didn’t hurt her, but his grip was firm. “I can protect you better if you come in and act as if nothing is wrong.”
She would have laughed in his face if she hadn’t been so exhausted and hungry. Instead, she asked, “And who’s going to protect me from you?”
His mouth thinned. “You’ve done a fine job of that yourself in the recent past.”
Which made her frown, because she hadn’t hurt him badly enough that night she escaped. She knew she hadn’t disarmed him with that single elbow thrust and instep-stomp, but he’d fallen to the ground as if in pain. Allowed h
er to get away.
That knowledge made her uneasy. Ian Marck had secrets, and he was even more ruthless than his father.
Ian glanced behind him and then turned back to her. “The opportunity is going to pass by in about ten seconds. Either come in and play along with me or you’re going to be in over your damned head.”
“Is the food any good here?” she asked, caving in to basic needs.
“No, but it’ll do, and she pours a good whiskey.”
She had to eat, at least, or she was going to be a worthless puddle anyway. No one knew her secret. She had nothing to fear.
Except from Ian Marck.
Who was now volunteering to be her protector.
What the hell did he want in return?
Quent expected Zoë to make an appearance within the next day after leaving the weapon, but after three nights of no sign of her, he began to wonder.
He debated riding back to her hideaway, but what if he missed her again? Without any form of communication, they could do that for weeks. And when he’d visited her home last, he’d left no sign of his presence, which, in retrospect, had been foolish.
She wouldn’t even know he’d been there.
Nevertheless, despite the nights of half-sleep as he waited for his nocturnal visitor, Quent’s days were busy. Filled with plotting and planning, practicing with his Elite-Killer, or the Eeker, as Fence had dubbed it one night after several too many pints, Quent grew more and more determined to walk away from Fielding alive, and carrying the man’s crystal.
Theo, Lou, and Jade had worked with Marley to help determine where Mecca was, using landmarks and Quent’s assistance in regard to where he’d driven. He wished for Zoë at that time as well, for she was as well traveled as any of them.
At last, they felt confident the proper location was determined, and with Marley’s description of the compound, its guards, and her own strategy for escape, Quent had his plan in place.
