Night Beyond The Night (26 page)

Quent closed the door and, now that they were separated by half a room’s length, gave her a quick look as if to judge whether she was about to cut and run.
As if
.

His chest, covered by a shirt that she’d stretched out of shape, moved rapidly as if he’d run miles . . . maybe that was how they got up those steps so quickly. He’d half-carried her, using those wide shoulders and sleek, muscled arms. She couldn’t wait to touch them.

But first . . . she had to take care of this. “Wait.”

He stopped, freezing there across the room. The tension flashing between them plummeted and the expression on his face—suddenly blank and rigid—would have been comical if she wasn’t cursing herself for smashing the mood.
Business before pleasure
. “I have something to show you.” She dug in her pocket, pulled out the paper. “Here,” she said, when he didn’t move.

“What is it?” He spoke in such precise tones, with an accent she’d only heard in the movies. His voice was low, careful, emotionless.

“I found this in the van that the kids were driving. Before you came up to try and fix it. They were going somewhere, meeting someone. It looks like a map.” When he didn’t move, she shoved the paper at him. “And there was crystal dust all over inside.”

“Crystal dust?”

“Take it,” she said, rattling the paper loudly, impatient.

“That is not what I want, Zoë.” The blankness left his expression.

Holy crap.
Her belly tanked and her breath caught. She nearly fucking swooned.

She dropped the paper. It wafted silently to the floor.

Shit. Oh shit
, she needed to touch him, feel that hair-roughened skin, warm and solid and real. Sliding her fingers under the shirt hadn’t been enough . . . not nearly enough.

His dangerous blond hair, the color of fresh honey in the sunlight, rose in little licks at the back of his head, and she remembered shoving her fingers into the heavy waves. And his eyes . . . zeroing on her as if he were a feral wolf. She couldn’t see their color, but the way they gleamed, and
wanted
, made her belly quiver and her breathing rise.

Come and get me
.

The next thing Zoë knew, she was plastering her body over his, or maybe he’d moved first, their lips smashing together as two pairs of hands tore frantically at her shirt. She wasn’t sure if he grabbed it up first, or if she did, but suddenly the tee came up and over her torso, snagging on her chin and ear because they were fused together at the mouth, desperate and fierce . . . and then he ripped it up and over and away.

And,
oh shit, crap, fuck
. . . those elegant hands found her skin instantly, covering her breasts, sliding under her bra to tip them out of the lacy cups. She pulled recklessly at him, at his clothes, her nails slipping over him, scoring, in her haste. Skin to skin, warmth to warmth. It was a craving, a need.

Then, in the flurry of tearing, pulling, slipping, they were suddenly chest to breast, melding together hot and damp. The bed was behind her, and she collapsed back onto it. He tumbled with her, one heavy thigh wedging between her legs, jolting the mattress as he caught himself over her.

She pushed her hands up onto his bare chest, feeling the muscles, taut and firm as he held himself up. He bent his head to kiss along her chin to the place just in front of her ear, at its juncture with her cheek, where even the most feathery of touch sent a blast of shivers over her body.

Oh, she was most definitely ready for this. Her body felt alive, and ready. Needy.

Zoë arched and sighed against him, sliding her hands up to feel the planes of muscle over his back and around to the smooth bulge of muscle in his arms. She had little time to explore, for his jeans were in the way, and so were her cargo pants. They clung together, torsos hot, as he grasped her hair and held her head in place, nuzzling roughly along her neck as she twisted and sighed beneath him.

Then he rolled to the side, taking her with him—a flurry of hands pulling at zippers, buttons, shucking and kicking them off, whipping them to the floor. Their bodies bare against each other, long, hair-roughened legs smoothing against hers, his mouth sucking hard enough on a nipple that she gave a little scream that made him smile while he was doing so. Hands drawing over her, her shoulders, hips, back, everywhere . . . as if he too needed to feel.

He cupped his hand between her legs, his thumb twitching around her ready clit, then slipping in and out and around. She was ready, pulsing and slick, her world centered there where he touched . . . and she reached for him, guiding him to her.

“God, no . . .” he gasped, pulling at her hand, easing back. “Wait.” He sat back, chest heaving, face darkened by shadow, skin glistening. “I don’t have anything. Protection.”

“Wh—?” It was impossible to make her mouth form words, her brain capture coherent thoughts. Protection from what?

“Condom. I don’t have a condom.”

“A what?” she managed to gasp. “Whatever. We don’t need that. Quent. I want you inside me.”

She reached for him again, her fingers around the hot velvety skin, gave a good stroke. He groaned deep and low, the muscles in his arms trembling on either side of her. “Zoë,” he said.

But she pulled him down, smashing her mouth to his. Whatever the fuck a condom was, they didn’t need it to do what she wanted.

Once more she guided him to her hot, wet, ready place. “Quent. Now.”

She lifted her hips and he slid inside with a deep groan, paused . . . and held.

“Move,” she ordered, lifting her hips. “Dammit.”

His surprised puff of humor warmed her neck, and the next thing, they were thrashing together, wild and desperate, looking for their rhythm . . . and, oh, yes, finding it.

And, oh. Sweat and salt, deep loose pleasure winding tighter, coiling, faster and harder . . . then she cried out, grabbing at him, her nails digging, her mouth free from his, as the orgasm rocked her.

His muscles bunched, she felt them, vaguely aware, as he stroked once . . . twice . . . tighter, then suddenly, shockingly . . . he pulled out, twisting away . . . then gasped a deep, pleasured groan that caused another luscious twinge in her belly.

Oh, holy hot damn indeed.

Quent walked into The Pub, looking a combination of dazed and like the cat who’d taken a bath in the proverbial cream. Elliott recognized that look right away, and settled into his seat, feeling acutely pissed off.

At least one of them hadn’t made an utter fool out of himself. What the hell had possessed him to go all Neanderthal on Jade? Especially knowing her history.
Christ
.

You’re insane
.

That about covered it. He still felt that deep itchiness inside him, the gnawing anger and unsettled, volcanic feelings. He wanted to rage at everyone. He wanted to lock himself away and brood. But the antagonism, the murkiness, had faded into stark reality. Bleak, dark, unending, terrible.

He hated this world.

“I need a drink,” Quent said, pulling up a chair next to Elliott.

“Where you been?” Fence asked Quent. “We were talking about you and suddenly you were gone.”

“I went for a walk.”

Fence gestured to Quent’s misaligned shirt, buttoned awkwardly—a travesty for a man who’d kept himself neat and groomed even in survivalist mode. His hair was mussed and fell in his eyes. “Looks like you did more than walking, man.” His infectious grin flashed bright and bold, and even in his morbid state, Elliott felt it. “So, tell . . . does it still work? It’s been fifty damned years.”

“Piss off.” But it was clear that Quent wasn’t really angry. “Zoë found me and wanted her arrow back.”

“From the looks of things, she got more than her arrow back,” Fence pressed, obviously living vicariously through Quent.

“She also gave me this,” Quent said, pulling a wrinkled paper from his pocket. “Don’t know why she thought it was important. She said she found it in the kids’ van, with crystal dust all over it. Whatever that is.”

Elliott reached for the paper, glad to have something else to think about. He should have just gone upstairs instead of coming back down here. He was ridiculously unfit for company.

As he glanced at the sheet, which was a precise drawing of a location—a map—Lou approached the group.

The older man sat down in a chair Fence snagged and pulled over, and Elliott noticed he was holding the small book he and Jade had found in the Stranger’s pack today.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said without preamble, as if he’d been sitting in on their conversation for the last twenty minutes. His voice was loud enough for them to hear if they leaned forward, but thanks to blasting Nickelback, anything he said would be indistinguishable to anyone else. “I have a theory about what happened to you when you were in Sedona. I suspect that you must have been in a cave that was at the juncture of many ley lines—powerful linear centers of energy—that put you into the . . . coma . . . I guess I’d call it. And that imbued you with the powers you’ve awakened with.”

“Only Quent and Elliott have special capabilities,” Wyatt commented. “Simon and Fence and I seem not to have changed at all.”

“Except that we don’t have to shave,” Simon added blandly.

Lou smiled. “I don’t know that that’s something to complain about,” he said, deliberately stroking his own stubbled cheek.

Elliott nodded, drawn into the conversation in spite of his foul mood. “Well, it appears that Fence is starting to sprout stubble up top, so maybe Lou’s right. Maybe our bodies were . . . well, the only term I can think of is cryogenically frozen . . . for fifty years, and now that we’re conscious, it’s taking some time for them to learn to work properly again.”

Fence began to chuckle. “That fucking figures. Why do I get the stubble while Quent gets to take his junk for a test drive?”

A rumble of laughter rippled around the table, giving Elliott another tease of normalcy. Guys laughing at a shared joke in the bar.

Elliott explained, “Once we figured out what had happened—and your theory, Lou, makes sense, and is similar to the one that we’ve all come to accept, although I don’t think the term ley line crossed anyone’s lips. Even Fence’s.”

“Would have if I’d thought of it, mo-fo,” retorted Fence. “Now I have this image of some crazy-hot girls laying down in a long line, just waiting to be—”

“Laid, yeah, we get it,” Wyatt said with a short roll of the eyes. “Anyway, once we figured out what happened, and we realized we weren’t growing beards or hair or nails, we started thinking we might have gained some sort of immortality.”

He had to stop speaking when Trixie sauntered over. She rested her hand on Elliott’s shoulder when she leaned forward to take their orders . . . and to flirt briefly with Fence, who was still chuckling about the ley lines. Or, in his mind, lay lines.

Elliott glanced up at her and their eyes met.

And that’s when it hit home that he really, truly wasn’t interested in Trixie—or anyone else. Not in the way he was interested in Jade. Yeah, he could take Trixie upstairs, make sure all his parts still worked, and probably have a damn good time doing it. But that was it. And if they did, he wouldn’t care if she came down and made cow eyes at Fence or any of the other guys the next night.

And that was also, unfuckingfortunately, why Andrea of the large blue eyes hadn’t gotten any rise out of him in Greenside. Or his parts.

He was completely fucked. Or not. As the case might be. Jade was his.

Couldn’t she see it? Feel it? Christ, the minute he touched her—even looked at her—he felt as if they were sewn together.

“Right, Dred?”

He looked up and realized that Trixie had gone, and the others were looking at him.

“Man, brother’s already on that test drive,” Fence said, lifting his beer mug and brushing a hand over a not-so-smooth head anymore. “Damn, I’ve got to get me shaved.”

“When Lenny died, that pretty much put the lid on any possibility that we were immortal,” Wyatt said, answering the question for Elliott. “And Dred, our resident physician, confirmed that there was nothing unusual about him or his body.”

“He died from a tetanus infection,” Elliott said. Which was true. He just wasn’t ready to give all the details of why yet. He hadn’t told anyone about the double-edged sword of his new-found power, except for Jade. “Just like any of us would have.”

Just then, a rise of voices near the bar caught their attention. “Oh no,” said someone, in shock or horror. Everyone turned to look and the buzz grew louder. “My God,” someone else exclaimed.

Elliott got to his feet, and the others as well. “What is it?” he asked Trixie as she approached. Her eyes were round and filled with horror.

“It’s the mayor. He’s hurt real bad . . .” She seemed hardly able to form the words. “He’s. . . .” She shook her head. “They think he’s going to die.”

Elliott didn’t need to hear anymore. “Where is he?”

“I’ll take you,” said Lou.

Elliott never got the full story, but he didn’t need to scan Vaughn Rogan to know the guy was going to die.

The mayor had been found just outside the walls of Envy, a lion’s corpse next to him. It had been shot by an arrow, through the skull.

Elliott looked at Lou, who’d receded into the background after their entrance into what passed for a hospital in Envy. It was more of an infirmary, but Elliott wasn’t here to critique the medical facilities. He was here to do what he could.

Which was everything.

And he had little time to waste. Rogan was going fast.

“I can help him,” he said, speaking to a wiry man named Ben who appeared to be as close to a physician as they came nowadays. “But I want everyone to leave.”

He swept the room with his hand, encompassing the dozen people who’d crowded into the small place. The mayor was well loved, it appeared. Well loved, respected. Important to these people.

If there was a life to be saved, at such a risk, it was this one.

At first it looked as if Ben would argue. Elliott would have—after all, they didn’t know him from Adam. And Lou, who was considered the town’s crackpot, wouldn’t be much help when it came to vouching for him.