Night Beyond The Night (27 page)

But perhaps Ben realized he was out of his league, and that stitches and bandages would be futile when the man—the leader of this city, the closest thing they had to a president or king—needed so much more. And aside from that, a matronly woman named Flo seemed to be on Elliott’s side, and the others listened to her when she ordered them to leave, explaining that she knew he was a healer.

“I need a dog. Or a cat. Something,” he ordered as he sent the man from the room. “Bring it here.”

But the man was shaking his head. “I don’t know—”

“Find one, dammit,” Elliott ordered, suddenly feeling desperation crawling over him. “A mouse, a rat.
Something
.”

Lou was the only one who remained in the room as Elliott scanned the man, first ascertaining the extent of his injuries.
Fuck
. Punctured liver. Smashed ribs. Blood pressure in the toilet. Breath rattling ominously.

He was a bloody mess.

Elliott stared down at the man. His rival. But that didn’t matter, of course.

The mayor of Envy—equivalent, in this hellacious place, to the leader of the free world.

Elliott could heal him. But then what would happen to him?

How did one determine whose life was more important? He stared down at Rogan, watching as the life literally eased from his body.

Was this the reason he was here? Was this why he’d been spared, been given this ability? To save
this
man’s life? At the risk of his own?

Elliott drew in a deep breath. He thought of Jade, he watched the way the blood pumped out of the man before him. A good man, by all accounts.

And he rested his hands on him. Felt the sizzle of power as he concentrated, letting it flow into him as he moved his palms over Vaughn Rogan’s battered body. Taking on his pain and injury.

When he finished, he looked at Lou. “You’ll stay with him?” The older man nodded, and Elliott continued, “No one is to come in here until morning, at least, while we wait to see if this works. Lock the door if you have to.” Elliott stood. “No one. Even Jade.”

“You’re leaving?” Lou said in surprise.

Elliott nodded. “I can do nothing else. Now we wait to see if it worked.”

But the pain radiating through his body told him everything he needed to know.

Elliott felt the blood seeping from his side, warm, sticky, onto the sheets beneath him.

The moon had begun to wane, and shone through the window not nearly as brightly as it had only three nights ago, when he watched Jade tear into an army of
gangas
on her horse.

Pain gouged him, growing slowly but steadily, dragging him into murkiness and confusion. He’d hurried, tottering back to his room after healing the mayor, careful not to brush against anyone, not to see or speak to anyone.

He’d barely made it before his knees trembled weakly, threatening collapse. He crumpled onto his bed.

The decision had been made—there’d been no other choice. But he’d hoped . . . well, that some solution would have presented itself. That someone would have brought a goddamned rat or something. That he wouldn’t have to die to save Vaughn Rogan.

But there was no solution. He’d made the choice, he’d offered the sacrifice, knowing there might be no one to whom he could pass it on to.

Knowing there was nothing that could be done for him—no one could care for him, touch him, comfort him—he’d retreated to solitude. He wanted to take no chances. No one would know until the morning, when they found Vaughn Rogan awake, completely healed. And Elliott Drake was found, drowned in his own blood.

There’d been one dark moment, one flash of thought when he wished, wryly and only half jokingly, that he could shake Luke of the mega-crystal’s hand. That thought had terrified him, too . . . because it was a possibility. An evil one. One he rejected as soon as he thought it . . . but it sat there. Like an ugly toad, a horrific demon, in the back of his battered mind.

This gift . . . and he used the term in his own mind loosely . . . could be a murder weapon. One he would never contemplate . . . but one that he wielded, nevertheless.

He sank into oblivion, the moonlight wavering around him.
Anytime now
.

He wouldn’t miss this world. And he felt no guilt, leaving it this way. It had been his gift to use as he saw fit. And he had.

Elliott thought he was hallucinating when a crack of light spilled into the room. He closed his eyes, opened them again, and the light was gone. Or maybe it was the light, pulling him into the afterlife. Where had it gone?

Something moved. A shadow. He was sure of it. He tried to focus, to pinpoint it, but he couldn’t clear his vision. He couldn’t move. His own breath caught and clogged.

It was a dream. Jade. Her long, thick hair, shining in the moonlight.

He closed his eyes, her face printed on his mind as he drifted into nothing.

Then he had the impression of a presence near him . . . my God, it wasn’t a dream . . . and he gasped a warning as the silhouette came close. As she bent to him, he tried to shake his head, to speak . . . he lifted a hand, weak, wordless, trying to warn her away . . . yet certain it was a dream . . . but she took his hand before he could stop her, and he felt the press of warm, slender fingers in his palm, the smooth caress as she slid them along his arm. . . .

He gasped again, trying to comb through the pain and fog to shout at her, to cry out. But it was too late.

“Lou forgot the Stranger’s book,” Quent said, noticing the little black tome on the table as he stood. It was late, and it didn’t seem that Elliott and Lou would be returning to The Pub. Everyone else seemed to be about finished for the night—himself included.

He wanted to return to his room, on the off chance that it wasn’t empty, that Zoë had returned, and was waiting for him. Now that she knew where to find him.

Bloody idiot. Of course the room would be empty, just as it had been when he’d awakened from the glorious afterglow of a much-needed, tear-your-clothes-off bonking. Not only had the room been bereft of Zoë, except for the faint residual of cinnamon, but her arrow was gone too.

The message had been clear.
See ya later, chump. Thanks for the good times
.

And Quent hadn’t really cared. It was obviously nothing but bloody fabulous sex for either of them.

Though next time . . . he wouldn’t fucking fall asleep.

Now, he reached for the Stranger’s book, then hesitated, drawing his hand back.

What secrets did the journal hold? What horrific memories would drown him if he touched it? What would he learn if he touched it?

He was curious about these Strangers, these men who wore crystals embedded in their skin. Were they humans? Or aliens that simply looked like humans?

Was it possible they really were Atlanteans?

Despite everything he knew about the Strangers and their frightening actions, Quent was fascinated. Fascinated, and yet sickened. Frightened too.

If indeed these . . . beings . . . had thrust their continent up from the bottom of the Pacific Ocean—a scientific impossibility, he knew that—but what if somehow the impossible had happened?

In doing so, in reinstating their continent, they had destroyed the world, changed its entire makeup, its climate . . . and annihilated the human population. That was reason enough to despise the Strangers, to work to eradicate them without hesitation. Or mercy. Just as Lou and his brother intended to do.

And also to fear them, and their capabilities.

But . . . was it possible that they didn’t know what they’d done? They didn’t realize what the results were of their return to earth—either from the depths of the ocean or from somewhere outside of this planet?

Was it possible that they had innocently perpetuated the event? It wouldn’t make the result any less horrific, but at least it wouldn’t have been premeditated. At least it wouldn’t have been so evil.

Before he could make the decision to pick up the book, Lou walked up to the table.

“How’s the mayor?” asked Wyatt. “Where’s Elliott?”

“I was wondering the same thing myself,” Lou said. “He asked me to watch over Vaughn until the morning, but I realized I’d left the book in my haste. Didn’t want anyone else to find it, and I wasn’t sure if you were still here. It’s getting late.”

“Did Elliott work his magic?” asked Fence, finishing the last of his beer.

Lou rubbed his goatee. “He said he did what he could, and that we’d know in the morning. I left Flo there, watching over him. Anyone seen Jade? She’s close to Vaughn . . . I’m sure she’d want to know about him.”

“Haven’t seen her since she finished singing,” Wyatt replied.

“I have the book here,” Quent said. “I was just about to take a look at it myself.”

Using a napkin for protection, aware that the others were working on settling their bill with Trixie—which turned out to be covered under Mayor Rogan’s carte blanche—Quent flipped open the book.

Drawings. Numbers . . . upon closer observation, he thought they were navigational points. Longitude and latitude. Locations, that maybe went with the drawings—maps of what looked like areas surrounding Envy, and along the new West Coast.

Rows of names, listed. Ages, genders, what looked like height and weight. They were listed in groups. He tried to read the cramped writing in the dim light of The Pub, his mind puzzling through the categories. What connected these people?

They were all about the same age. Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen . . . something creaked in his brain, shivered down his spine. All about the same ages as the blokes in the van.
The map
.

He reached for the wrinkled piece of paper Zoë had left him, his shoulders prickling like they did when he was on the trail of some fascinating antiquity. Sometimes he was right, sometimes he was wrong . . . but he felt sure he was right this time.

He yanked up the book, using the napkin to grab a corner of it so he could compare the map to the images inside. There had to be a connection . . . he felt it. The book opened, the pages fanning upside down, and some folded papers fell out, scattering on the table.

Then he remembered what Zoë had said about crystal dust. As Lou began to scuffle up the papers, Quent explained about the map. “She said there was crystal dust all over.”

“Crystal dust?” Lou looked up from his task. Even in the sketchy light of the votive on the table, Quent could see the shock in his face. “In the kids’ van? No fucking way.”

“What’s crystal dust?” asked Wyatt.

“Crystal dust, also called pixie dust or grit . . . the post-apocalyptic version of crack,” Lou explained. He removed his glasses, setting them on top of the papers that had fallen from the book and rubbed his eyes. “It’s rare, impossible to come by unless you’re getting it from the Strangers. You say it was in the van that Geoff had? This woman who told you . . . who is she?”

Quent had to shrug. He wished to hell he knew more than her first name. Even when he held her arrow and tried to take in the images and memories, things were blurred and swampy. “She shot these ingenious arrows at the
gangas
and helped us chase them off. She brought the map here to me in Envy, and told me about the crystal dust. It’s a drug?”

Lou nodded and scratched his gray goatee roughly. “The worst kind. They grind up certain kinds of crystals—this is according to Jade, who would know—and rub it into their skin. It sort of grinds in—they do it on their arms, for example, on the inner part of the wrist, where the skin is thin and the blood vessels are close to the surface. The dust or grit from the granules enter the bloodstream, and you get a great high—you feel no pain, get very aroused, can go on for hours. Or so they say.” The description could have been said jokingly, as if it were amusing . . . but there wasn’t a hint of anything but deathly seriousness in his face.

Even Fence resisted the urge to make a comment.

He picked up his glasses. “There’s no grit in Envy. We don’t have the types of crystals that could be ground up here. How the hell the kids ever found out about it, let alone got it, is frightening.” As if needing the distraction, he began to shuffle through the papers, unfolding them. “I didn’t get a chance to look closely at these earlier,” he said. “These are photos.”

“Hm. I don’t know who this is,” he said, offering one to Quent. “Must be someone important to the Strangers.”

Quent eyed the picture but didn’t take it. “I’ve seen this man before,” he said. The image was of a distinguished-looking man with white hair, combed back from his forehead. He was in his late fifties, maybe, and he wore a suit. Strong features, charisma exuding from him, he was shaking the hand of some other unexceptional companion.

Patting the rest of them into a pile, Lou picked up a smaller photo. “Oh, God. Jade. There’s a picture of Jade here.”

“Why would they have her picture?” Wyatt asked, reaching for it. “What happened to her hair? She shave it off?”

“Preston would do anything to get her back, and although they believe she’s dead, I’d guess that they’re not taking any chances.” Lou’s eyes had grown sober behind his glasses. “It’s a damn good thing this Stranger didn’t get a good look at her, and is probably dead. If word got back to Preston that she was still alive, they’d be looking for her. She wouldn’t be safe here.”

Pursing his lips, rubbing his forehead as if it pained him, Lou looked back down at the last photo; a large one that had been folded in quarters. “This is the triumvirate of the Strangers, the most powerful of the leaders. Preston, Fielding, and Liam. I don’t know who the fourth man is—the same one who you said looked familiar in that other picture.”

Quent, who could only see the vague details of the photo from where he sat, felt his breathing clog. “Let me see that.”

Lou flipped up the picture and showed it to Quent. “Preston, with the bleached hair. The one in the middle is Fielding. He’s a real son of a bitch. Liam. . . .”

Quent felt as though someone had punched him in the stomach, and he didn’t hear anything else Lou was saying. He grabbed at the photo, heedless of his cursed ability to read its secrets, pulling it toward the small circle of light on the table so he could look at it. Dizzy. Lightheaded and nauseated. “That’s. . . .” But he couldn’t form the words. No fucking way. He dropped the photo onto the table, staring down at it.