Embrace The Night (21 page)

A distant howl broke the silence, and Sage’s gaze wandered over the dark blobs that were trees, bushes, and distant buildings. Where was Simon? Surely he’d been gone for more than fifteen minutes. Twenty? Thirty?

And then suddenly, he was there, appearing as if from nowhere, silent and sudden. She nearly gasped when he stepped toward her, melding into her insulating shadow from seemingly nothing.

“All clear,” he said, and reached for her hand, tugging her gently from the cover of darkness along the edge of the house toward its rear. She noticed right away that he no longer had the packs on his back. Following his footsteps, trying to remain as noiseless as Simon, she paid careful attention to anything she might trip over or bump into. They made their way to a side door that opened easily under Simon’s clever fingers.

Inside, Sage hung back as he paused, listening, and then started up again, pointing to a staircase that rose in a grand sweeping curve. It reminded her of the one in that movie with Scarlett and Rhett, where he caught her up in that dark red dress and carried her up the stairs.

And for a moment, Sage remembered that catlike smile on Scarlett’s face the morning after what had surely been a most passionate night.

Sage paused when she heard the low rumble of voices from below, looking up into Simon’s face. He nodded and pointed for her to go up. “They won’t hear us,” he said, breathing warmly into her ear.

She started up the steps. The little brush of a rodent scampered over her foot, but she barely hesitated. Two, three, five, eight steps up…and then it happened. She stepped on something that moved, lost her balance when she tried to compensate, and fell against the wooden railing. Managing to muffle a scream, Sage felt Simon move quickly to yank her back, but the aged railing had splintered under the force of her fall.

As he pulled her away, a whole portion of the rail tumbled over to the floor below, landing with the loud clatter of wooden pieces against old tile.

“Oh my God,” Sage mouthed at Simon, her eyes wide. “I’m sorry!”

But he’d already moved, grabbing her by the hand and hurrying up to the top of the flight of stairs. The sounds of urgent voices came from below, along with the pounding of feet from the basement.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit
.

Simon squeezed her hand and pulled her silently into a shadowy room. Sage saw a large desk against one wall and bookshelves lining another, and the next thing she knew, Simon was pushing her toward a dark corner. He followed her and, as the voices and foot pounding drew closer, they huddled into the shadows.

“Don’t move,” he said in her ear.

Sage’s heart pounded with fear and apprehension. She heard the shouts as the men got to the top of the stairs; of course they’d seen the broken railing in a pile in the middle of the foyer. They’d have to know someone was there!

Simon sat, warm and solid next to her, but they were in plain sight of the half-open door! Even though they were in shadow, they were in plain sight if the door opened. All they had to do—

Oh, God, they have a light!

Sage’s breath caught when she saw the beam of lights flashing around. She grabbed Simon’s arm, knowing her eyes were wide and fearful. He looked at her steadily, then said into her ear, “It’s all right. Don’t move. Okay?”

And then, as the light came closer, he shifted nearer, gathering her onto on his lap. His bare arms came around her, his skin strong and warm, and Sage gaped at the ajar door where the light shone around. Shouts followed. The door began to open.

She felt Simon draw in a deep breath, felt a sort of warmth rush over her, followed by that same odd shimmery feeling she’d felt before…and all of a sudden, he…
disappeared
.

And so did she.

Quent had been over and over and over the list of contact names found in Remington Truth’s flash drive.

The more he looked at them, this list of A-listers—politicians, movers and shakers, big-money, horribly powerful men and women, the more he felt sick to his stomach. Like bludgeoning something.

The list contained a variety of the privileged elite of the twenty-first century, many of whom Quent himself had met. Everyone from Tatiana, the famous rags-to-riches actress who’d brought Hollywood and the rest of the world to its feet, to the U.S. ambassador to France, to Liam Hegelsen, Danish
CEO
of the hottest electronics and computer company since Apple…even to Brandon Huvane, the British publishing mogul.

Of course, there was no proof that everyone on Truth’s contact list were members of the Cult of Atlantis. But by the looks of the names and the amount of money, knowledge, and power these people had, each in their own right—but together, it would have been formidable—they were all candidates for the Cult.

The group of people who had brought down the world. For what?

For
what
?

For the one thing they couldn’t buy or create. Immortality.

Quent had known, and loathed, his father. He understood the man’s ego and desire for power. What greater power than to live forever?

Who gave a flying cock if he had to destroy the world to do it.

The very thoughts haunted him, nauseated him. Kept him from sleeping. Eating. The only thing he did much of was drink.

And now that Zoë had stolen back her arrows, and, other than the brief appearance two nights ago, had made herself scarce, Quent felt as though he were on the verge of exploding.

Why she, this woman of shadow and night, should make a difference was moot. He didn’t spend any time analyzing it. He knew she was a hot, hard, fast fuck. That was what he needed.

That was the only thing that might ease some of his tension. Clear his mind.

So he could figure out how to find his father. And kill him.

Something Quent should have done—he’d had the chance to do—long ago.

If he’d done it then, when he’d had the chance, the reason, if he’d fought back then, harder, instead of just taking the beating, the pummeling that nearly killed him…would it have stopped the Change?

Quent tipped back the last of his pint and slammed the glass onto the table. The Pub’s noise drowned out the sound, and when he stood, a bit unsteadily, Wyatt looked up at him. “You all right, man?”

Quent nodded. “As right as I can be. Which isn’t to say much.”

“You heading up? Want company?”

He shook his head. “Naw.” He glanced at the petite brunette sitting next to Wyatt. Good for him. “See you later.”

He’d leave the Pub and, despite the fact that it made him feel like a bloody wanker, Quent would slip outside into the fresh, night air. He’d walk along what passed for a street, but was really little more than a glorified pathway, heading to the darker areas of the city. Not too far, but away from the people, because he knew if there was any chance…

Quent resisted the sudden urge to slam his fist into the wall. Maybe his father’s violent tendencies had taken a hold on him, because for fuck’s sake, that’s all he’d felt like doing for the last few weeks.

He walked out of the bar and felt a stir of new air, coming in from the open skylights above in what had once been the ceiling of the New York–New York lobby. Even that bit of freshness was welcome. At least there wasn’t any smoking anymore either. Apparently the need and desire for cigarettes had gone away with the rest of the world. Or maybe tobacco had simply become extinct.

Walking along as he was, his head in his ass as he stewed over his failures and loathing, he nearly bloody missed her.

“Hey.”

Quent stopped, his mouth bone dry. He looked over and saw her, standing there. Not where he’d expected her—not outside, hovering on a rooftop. Nor sneaking into his room.

But…here. Beside one of the ridiculous trees that somehow grew in this parody of a New York street.

At first, he couldn’t find the words. A rush of heat and pleasure and, yes, he’d be lying if he didn’t admit to a blast of anger—at himself, at her, at whatever—washed over him.

“Took you long enough,” he said at last, calming his racing heart. And then he ruined it by saying her name. Softly. As if he cared. “Zoë.”

“Long enough for what?” she said, in her flat, sharp way.

“To come back.” His own words surprised him. Then, to cover it up, he added in a stronger voice, “I don’t have anymore of your arrows.” The unspoken words laced his voice:
So you must be here for something else.

Zoë lifted her chin at that, but not before he saw a flash of…something in her eyes. Something…soft?
Nah, you wank.
A trick of the low light.

“What makes you think I’m here for you?” she countered.

“You know you are.” Now he’d regained control of himself, and moved toward her.

She put out a hand as if to stop him from coming closer, and he stepped into it. The feel of her fingers and palm against him made his chest tighten. “You look ill,” she said. But she made no move to shift her hand, to push him away…or allow him to come closer.

“I’m not.”
Not with anything you can’t cure, baby.
At least for a while. “Not anymore.”

Her fingers pressed into him and Quent lifted his hand to close it around her wrist. Slender. Warm. “Zoë. Do you want to come upstairs with me?” She drew herself up to reply—probably obstinately—but he continued, “Or do you want me to drag you outside, slam you against the wall, and do you under the moon?”

That did it. He felt her breath catch, shimmering all through her arm, and their eyes met, clashed, burned.

“That is why you came, isn’t it?” he whispered. And moved in.

Her fingers curled into his shirt, tugging him, and she lifted her face to meet his. Despite the heated words between them, the kiss was…it was hot, but slow and deep and long. She tasted like cinnamon, and sex, her full lips soft and lush beneath his.

Quent pressed himself up against her, driving her into the wall behind, shadowing them with the tree and its trunk. His hands curved around her waist, pulling her close, the whole, long, lean length of her, up against him. And kissed her as though he didn’t need to breathe.

When he pulled away at last, to look down at her tousled mess of a haircut and into her heavy-lidded eyes, she was breathing just as heavily as he.

“If that’s your follow-through on that eye-fuck from the party,” she murmured, low and dusky and out of breath, “it’s a damn good start.”

“Trust me,” he replied, sliding his arm around her waist. There was no fucking way he was letting her slip away again. “That was only the beginning.”

December 25

About six and a half months after

This was not how I’d imagined spending Christmas 2010, after marrying Drew.

A difficult day for many of us.

[_ I helped cook a special meal with turkey, goose, duck and a variety of other wild fowl to feed the 800+ of us. _]

We’re doing pretty well with food. Surprisingly well. As the canned and preserved items begin to wear out, we’re replacing it with freshly grown or raised vegetables.

This is Vegas, or, as it’s been renamed, New Vegas, but the weather seems to have changed with everything else. It’s not like a desert anymore, but almost tropical. That’s probably because the ocean is now where the Venetian and Bellagio used to be. Very surreal.

We’re having elections for a mayor in a few weeks, and Thad Marck, a good friend of Kevin’s and his twin brother, is running against a guy named Greg Rowe. Thad’s a bit of a live wire, pretty intense, but he’s funny as heck. And I sure could use a laugh or two. Kevin likes him and I trust Kevin. He’s been good to me.

But there’s no replacement for Drew, with his funny smile and warped sense of humor. Oh, that man could make me laugh.

God, I miss him.

—from Adventures in Juliedom, the

blog of Julie Davis Beecher

It was one of the hardest…and yet, easiest…things Simon had ever had to do: gathering that lovely, soft bundle of Sage into his arms.

But he did, and forced himself to concentrate not on the curve of her waist and the fresh, sun-kissed smell of her hair, but the danger they would be in if he couldn’t hold himself invisible. And so he focused on the shimmery feeling, the ebb and flow of his person, even as the blast of light shone in the room, shone
through
them…instead of on the woman in his arms.

He knew the moment she realized what had happened, because, although of course he couldn’t see her any longer, she had been looking up at him, fear and remorse in her eyes as they both sidled into nothingness. And he could still feel her, dammit. Felt the tension of disbelief in her arms and shoulders and the catch of her breath.

Breathe. Concentrate.

He waited as the beam of light shone over and through the room, as three men pounded in, examining every corner. Brushing close enough to them that he could feel the shift in the air, even the touch of a pant leg. Sage felt it, too, and she tightened even closer in his arms. But she didn’t make a sound. He breathed, focused, kept his mind steady.

And then the searchers were gone, moving on to the other rooms, other possible hiding places. Their light faded and the only illumination was the cast of that fickle moon, twining in the clouds beyond as it filtered through a northerly window.

But the light was enough that Simon could see the expression on Sage’s face as he released his hold and they shimmered back into opacity. Her eyes were circles of astonishment, and her lips parted in shock and wordlessness.

He shook his head to keep her from speaking, for it wasn’t yet safe. The men were still searching the upper floors of the house, and might yet return. Simon hoped that they would come to the conclusion that the railing had splintered and fallen simply due to age, but even if they didn’t, they wouldn’t find him and Sage. He’d make sure of that.

But now, the worst of the moment yawned darkly before him. He dare not release her in case they came back, and he had nowhere to look…or to concentrate…except on the face, the heart-stopping face, the lips he’d tried so hard to avoid.