CHAPTER FOUR

 

 

Quent opened the door to his room and rushed in. Where the hell did I pu—

He stilled, and, the hair lifting on the back of his arms, his belly tightening…he closed the door deliberately. 

But no. She’d only just left yesterday morning, and her presence simply lingered. Wishful thinking.

But now he recognized the soft shhhhh of spraying water from beyond the bathroom door. And filtering through, along with the faint warmth of shower humidity, he smelled…orange. And spice. Female spice. Cardamom, cinnamon, whatever it was….

When he saw the bow and quiver, her shoes, and a small pack settled on the floor, his belly pitched and dropped with a heavy thud. And then he let that smile come. And the heat blossomed through him.

Thank God I hadn’t left for Redlow.

He owed Theo Waxnicki a big, bloody thank you, too, for insisting they wait one more day to leave, so he could prepare a device for them to take and expand the communications network they were building.

Quent started for the door of the bathroom, kicking off his sandals and already starting to unbutton his shirt. A nice burst of heat and steam got him in the face, and he stepped in quickly and shut the door. Orange and spice filled the air, not cloying, but subtle.

He caught a glimpse of her behind the translucent shower door—long, curvy, shadowy—and he swallowed hard. His heart was simply pounding, and he couldn’t move.

At that moment, one of the double shower doors opened a crack, and she poked her head out. Ink-black hair slicked back from her breathtaking features, droplets of water glistening on her skin, her mouth curved in a very welcoming smile.

“Well, what the fuck are you waiting for?” she said, her eyes hot. She stepped one long leg out, putting a slender foot on a thin white towel and grabbed him by the arm. And tugged.

He went.

The next thing he knew, Quent was in the steamy shower, his hands full of warm, sleek woman, his clothes plastered to him in places—and stone dry in others—as the shower beat on them. She was tall and warm and strong, pulling him up against her, twining a leg between his, and he let himself go.

Hot, wet mouths, tongues dancing and tangling—there was nothing of the coy here, nothing of the restrained. They starved, they wanted and took from each other, hands battling to have the right of way, hers tearing at the buttons of his shirt then sliding under it, over his chest…his filling with her breasts, her ass, her hips and the low, sweet curve of her back, all so hot and sleek against him.

Zoë felt the cool tile against her skin, the strength of Quent as he pushed her up against it, his mouth taking…and taking…from hers. She settled her hands over the smooth, muscular planes of his chest, her fingers dipping into the spread of hair that grew there, golden and brown, and tight, and she tipped her head back against the wall as he moved to maul sensuously the strong cord of her neck, the sensitive skin beneath her ear and along her throat.

She shivered beneath his hands and mouth, and felt her body gather up tighter, her nipples hard and ready, the warm rush of pleasure superseding the blast of water in her face and over her shoulders. He groaned something into her neck, and the low, guttural sound almost like desperation sent a sharp pleasure-pain shooting down low, deep and hard and promising.

“Oh, yes,” she whispered against his hair, thick and dripping and warm against her face. 

“Zoë,” he muttered. “I….”

“Don’t talk,” she ordered, busy at his waist, pulling at the soaking denim taut around the top button.

He laughed against her shoulder, husky and warm, then surged forward to capture her mouth with a long, deep, probing kiss that had her hands dropping away and clutching his shoulders to keep herself upright. Oh God. She couldn’t breathe, she didn’t want to breathe…she wanted this to never stop. Never end.

His broad, square shoulders, strong and solid, moved fluidly under her fingers as he fumbled with the fly of his jeans down between them. Muscles shifted, flexing beneath her fingers, and at last Zoë had to pull her mouth away to gasp in a breath. Then she went back to taste him, his jaw and cheek, wet and lightly stubbled, then his full, hungry lips again.

He shifted against her, and suddenly he was there, hands on her hips, lifting her, mouth crushed to hers, breaths mingling with the steady beat of rain…he settled her against the tile wall, spine flat and stable, and then…oh.

Zoë cried out against his mouth just as he groaned. Yes, yes, oh, Quent. He filled her, perfectly, fully, and then, hands on her hips, her legs around his shower-slicked body, he moved. He didn’t wait, he went on. Hard, fast, desperately.

One hand curled into his thick hair, her head tipped back again so she could breathe, could cry out and pant with the coming, Zoë closed her eyes for the gathering of pleasure. Her body tightened around him, she felt his heart pounding beneath her other palm, she levered her body, shifting crazily against him, with him, battling in that timeless rhythm…reaching for what she needed. She felt him readying, tensing…and her own peak just…there. Just…there.

She might have screamed his name as she caught it, she might have cried out, but she didn’t care because the world burst, hot and strong, and she was with him, against that warm, solid body, shuddering and groaning against hers. Sagging with her, bracing them both up with one powerful hand and the opposite knee against the slick wall.

After a moment of pounding satiation deep within, and water over and around, she dragged open her eyes to find his staring down at her. The first time she’d really seen them, in full light. Blue-flecked brown, glazed with heat, laced with what could only be called chagrin. His lashes spiked together from the water, and his jaw shifted as if he struggled with speech.

“Ah, Quent,” she managed to breathe. Oh God. Oh my God. They were still joined, and she gave him the smile…the smile that told him how she felt, how deep and lovely and finished she felt.

“Zoë,” he whispered, the water pounding down over the back of his shoulders and neck. “My God…I’m…sorry.” He looked stricken. 

“Sorry?” she repeated, although she suspected she knew what he meant. “How could you be sorry for that?” 

His lips moved in what might have become a smile—a very satisfied one, she suspected —if he hadn’t caught himself first. “Zoë, I lost it. I—”

“You lost what? Your mind? That’s a fucking compliment, in case you didn’t know,” she said tartly, but she tried a slanted look along with it as he helped her disengage and her feet slide to the floor. “Don’t apologize, or you’re going to piss me off.”

“Zoë,” he said, his voice stronger. “We can’t just igno—”

She stood away from him, her hand once again flat against his chest, but this time, the heat had ebbed. “Just forget about it, all right? Now you’re just damned ruining the moment.”

His face tightened. “Right, then, you think I’m just going to blow this off? The chance that you might get pregnant? Are you out of your bloody fucking mind?”

Zoë drew in a deep breath, fear trammeling through her. How had such a lush, lovely feeling changed into panic so quickly? She gathered her composure, stepping back, fighting to appear cool and removed instead of terrified that she was going to…lose…this. 

This, too.

Hot tears gathered at the corners of her eyes. She hoped like hell he thought it was remnants of the shower. For a moment, they were at a stalemate. The water blasted around them, and she reached over to whip the knob off, her movement sharp and jerky.

He did the same with the other valve, and suddenly, there was silence in the steamy space except for the last bit of water dripping off. The rasp of their breaths as they dragged in hot, watery air. Zoë stepped out of the shower, reaching for a towel as her heartbeat filled her ears.

Wrapping the terrycloth around her, she turned to look at Quent. He still stood, braced against the wall with one arm, flexed, head bent, face turned sidewise to look at her.

“I know you don’t like to talk,” he said, his words clipped and precise. Very accented. Then, they got sharper. “You don’t like to do much of anything but f—” He snapped off the words before he completed the sentence, but she knew where it was going.

A wave of hot anger rushed over her…then subsided. Sure. What the hell else was he going to think?

If nothing else, Zoë was brutally honest with herself. She knew nothing about being with people. Interacting with them. And it didn’t matter, because she had a mission. A life-long mission, and she wasn’t about to abandon it for anything. Or anyone. Even…this.

“Yeah,” she said. “You nailed it. Or should I say, me?” Her laugh was rustier than she would have liked, and she lifted her chin to make sure she looked him in the eye. So he could see that she thought it was rude and funny. “And you’re right. I don’t like to talk. So can’t we just roll around in the sheets a bit, then get back to whatever else we need to do? It seems to work out just fine.”

He moved then, pushing himself away from the tile and coming toward her. Tall, graceful, tawny-skinned and sleek…more than a little pissed off. His large hands settled on her shoulders, and though she was a tall woman, she felt small and delicate beneath them.

“Right, Zoë. I’m all for the rolling in the sheets, or the quick bang in the shower,” he said. His words slapped. “But if something else comes of this, I’m not going to be so bloody blasé about it. I don’t know about your fucking ‘other times’ or your other lovers, but this isn’t a bloody joke to me.”

“All right,” she said more calmly, resisting the need to bite her lip, to keep back the horrible sting at the corner of her eyes. What the hell is wrong with me? “That’s…fair, I guess.”

“And if you’re fucking around with Ian Marck, or anyone else, how’re you going to know whose it is?”

“Ian Marck?” Zoë could hardly control her shock. Is that what he thought? “I wouldn’t go near that bastard with anything but a good, sharp arrow, for fuck’s sake, Quent. His father—” She stopped, swallowing. “I don’t know where you got that ridiculous, boulderheaded idea, but there’s not a chance in hell I’d let him come close enough to breathe on me.”

“No?” he asked, his voice suddenly quiet. “Right. I confess, I’m relieved to hear that, at least. And how about…the others? Zoë.”

“How the hell do you think I can sustain this and still…do the other things I need to do…and be getting busy with someone else? You have lost your fucking mind. Don’t you think you keep me busy enough?” There. That was all she was going to give him. All she dared. And even that borderline confession cut deep, left her feeling ill and pasty-mouthed.

He looked at her for a moment, searching. “Right. There’s that, then.” His mouth, full in just the right places, not so pretty as to be feminine, relaxed a bit. Then his eyes caught at hers, bluer than brown now—or maybe it was just the light—and suddenly she couldn’t breathe. 

Zoë broke away and bent to gather up her clothes. As she turned to leave the bathroom, her knees felt weak—but she wasn’t sure if it was lingering pleasure or apprehension.

“Zoë,” he said behind her.

She was back in the cooler bedroom, her clothing gathered against her towel-wrapped, damp body. “Yeah?” she said without turning. Her hair dripped crazily over her shoulders, trickling down in every direction.

“Are you…leaving?”

She sat on the bed and the towel tucked under her arms came loose. Yes. No. I don’t want to. I need to get the hell out of here. What the fuck with all the talk? Can’t we just let things be?

Zoë tucked the terrycloth corner back in place, noting absently that it was much thicker than the ones she had. He’d come from the bathroom, wrapped in a low-slung towel of his own. And now he stood there, his long, bare feet settling on the floor in front of her. 

She looked up slowly, along his muscular calves, covered with golden-brown hair, to the towel, clean but dingy with age, over the flat belly that curved in at the sides into masculine hipbones that set her mouth to watering. She admired the broad expanse of his chest and the smooth bulk of his arms, not too ripped, but more than solid and capable.

“Are you finished?” he asked, his voice low and rough. “Because I think I’ve sorted out the answer.”

A glance down told her that he’d already begun to fill out under the towel again, and that familiar stab of pleasure-pain bolted down through her middle. She looked up, her heart thudding…yet emptiness curled inside her.

Just then, a loud knock at the door broke into the tension, startling her so that she jolted. 

“Quent!” came a male voice. “You in there?”

“Bugger,” Quent muttered, glancing at the door. He hurried over to the dresser, opening drawers rapidly. “Where the hell did I stow it?” he said under his breath.

“Quent! What the fuck? You all right in there?”

“Yeah,” Quent called back, still pulling drawers open, rummaging through them, occasionally pausing to shove a hand through his unruly hair. 

“Well, hell, you had us worried something had happened. What’s taking so long? We’ve been waiting. You gonna open the fucking door?” This last sounded more than a little annoyed.

“Not a chance,” he muttered. Then, with a triumphant noise, he went to the closet and moments later retrieved a thick book. Zoë saw part of the title—something about Monte Cristo—briefly before he went to the door.

He pulled it just wide enough to stand in, holding the door so as to block any view of Zoë or the bed. “Found it,” he said, giving the book to whoever was there.

“You sure you’re all right?”

“Yeah, Wyatt. I’m fine. Just got a little distracted.”

Zoë heard Wyatt’s snort from behind the door, and she pictured the hard-faced man rolling his eyes. She’d seen all of Quent’s friends at one time or another, although she’d never met any of them.

“Yeah, I see that. We’re all fucking waiting for you downstairs, and you decide to take a damned shower? For all we knew, you’d fallen into the dark pit again, for chrissake.”

“Right, sorry ’bout that,” Quent said—but even Zoë could hear that he wasn’t. “Look, I’ll be down later.” He shut the door and turned back to look at her.

“What the hell was that all about?” she asked. “The dark pit?”

“So now you want to bloody talk,” he muttered, readjusting his towel.

“Well, we could find something else to do,” she said, allowing her lips to curve into a naughty smile. 

Quent came over and took the bundle of clothes from her arms, setting it on the table. Then he sat next to her, the mattress shifting with his weight. But, to her surprise, he didn’t reach for her. “What did Raul Marck do to you?”

Whoa. Nothing like being blindsided. She moistened her lips, retucked her towel “He’s a bounty hunter.”

Quent nodded. “I know. What did he do to you?” His eyes were so close, serious. Determined. The glaze of lust was gone, the heat and desire…replaced by something else. Compassion?

Zoë’s throat burned. “He…they’re after a new bounty now. Someone overheard them, talking.” 

“Someone overheard them?”

Shit. She hadn’t planned to tell him about her connection with Remy. But why? Why does it matter? They’ve been looking for Truth. You could help him.

But she’s beautiful. So beautiful. And smart. And brave. 

She’d be able to stay. Here.

Zoë swallowed and realized her belly felt ugly and heavy. Why do you care if she stayed? She couldn’t burn away the image of Quent, his hands all over that blond woman on the dance floor. 

“Zoë,” he persisted. 

“They were talking about another bounty. A woman, someone who left the Elite. She ran away. That’s what they called them—the Elite.”

“The Elite?” Quent said, as if turning the word over in his mind. “Fuck. I never knew what he meant.” He looked stricken, his face suddenly drawn and serious. “The bastard.”

Zoë frowned. “Who?”

When Quent looked back at her again, she was struck by the loathing in his eyes. Not directed at her; she recognized that immediately. Loathing, despair…and pain.

Something she’d seen in the mirror, once or twice.

“My father,” he said, his voice grim. Dull and grim. “He’s one of the Strangers, or, apparently, in their nomenclature…the Elite. He’d used that word to talk about some of his friends and colleagues.” Then he seemed to shake it off, his mouth quirking in annoyance, and the expression in his eyes became determined. “Tell me what Raul Marck did to you.”

Zoë opened her mouth to evade, but before she realized it, the words came tumbling out. “He set the gangas on my family. Everyone. Killed them all, destroyed everything.” Damn. She blinked hard, harder, the tears burning and shaming her. “It was more than ten years ago,” she added in defiance of the tears and grief. “I was almost sixteen.”

“I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice rough. “Ah, Zoë, I’m so sorry.” He moved then, gathering her, towel and all, against his warm chest. His arms curled around her, holding her so that her face, now damp with tears, buried in his shoulder.

She closed her eyes, feeling her lashes brush briefly against his skin like the butterfly kisses her mother used to give her. But she kept her arms curled in front of her, cuddled between them. Distance was good.

Yet…at that moment, she couldn’t keep the distance. She’d never told anyone what happened—even that simple sentence. 

There’d been no one to tell.

“I was the only survivor,” she heard herself say. When was the last time she’d been held? Simply held?

Simply curled up next to a living, breathing person, with no other demands. It was much nicer than curling up next to Fang, her sometimes pet. A wolf-like dog that came and went as he pleased, just as she did, from the little abode she’d created. She gave a short little laugh, more damp than was polite, into his shoulder. Wipe your nose, she could hear Naanaa say.

“Something funny?” he asked, gently lifting her face.

She nodded, looking at him through eyes glassy with tears. “This is much nicer than curling up next to my dog.”

His mouth moved, but compassion still showed in his blue-brown eyes. “I think so too. Their long noses tend to get in the way.” He thumbed away a trickle of her tears, his fingerpad gentle beneath her eye. “Will you tell me more of what happened?”

“That evening, I’d sneaked away to meet someone. A guy. We weren’t supposed to be out at night, but we were close to home. Close enough to see the lights, and besides, no one had seen zombies around for years. There were trees to climb, if we had to escape anyway. It wasn’t like we were stupid,” she added. “There was an awful swampy bog, and I slipped and fell into it. All the mud and everything—it was mucky and it reeked like a bitch, and I didn’t just stumble, I fell all the way in.” Even now, she couldn’t laugh, couldn’t even find the humor in the image of her dripping in swamp mess.

With the telling, she’d pulled away from Quent’s moist skin and now she rested her forehead against his shoulder, talking down into the space between their bodies. Her fingers still curled up between them like a child’s, the wiry hair on his chest brushing against the back of her hand.

He breathed easily, regularly, and seemed in no hurry to urge her on, so she took a moment to swallow and smooth out her voice, which had become frighteningly unsteady. “Rick pulled me out, but I was such a nuked mess that I didn’t have the balls to go back looking—and smelling—like I did. Even though everyone should be asleep, I knew I couldn’t take the chance because we weren’t supposed to go by the bog. Which is of course why we did…because it was private. So Rick went back to get me something to change into, and some water to clean me up with.”

Now her voice broke and the next few words were hardly audible. “I never saw him again. Or anyone.” She pushed on in harsher tones. “He didn’t return and he didn’t return, and I just knew the idiot’d gotten caught, so I finally sneaked back. When I got close enough, I heard them. The moans. The grunts. And the cries. The horrible cries.”

Quent tightened his arms around her, making a sort of shushing sound she vaguely remembered from childhood. From Naanaa.

“I’m so sorry, Zoë. So sorry.” He rocked her a little, and she sniffled, aware that her nose was dripping something ugly down into the cavity between them. She swiped at it, swallowed hard and angrily, and tried to get control.

It was ten years ago.

“Raul Marck was there. I didn’t know who he was at the time, but I’ll never forget him. Or that big black thing he drives. He or the gangas set fire to the five houses in our little settlement, which must have driven everyone out of them. Down into the waiting arms of the gangas. By the time I got back, there was hardly anything left.” She shook her head. “I still don’t know why.”

“And if you hadn’t fallen in the bog, you’d have been one of them,” Quent said, holding her close. So tightly she could hardly breathe. His hand settled warm and flat over her skin, and began to smooth up and down her spine, bumping onto the terrycloth towel, and up again.

“I figured that’s what saved me in the end. The zombies couldn’t smell me, you know, with the ass-crap mess I was wearing. I smelled as bad as they did.”

“I’m glad you fell in the bog, Zoë,” he said after awhile. “I’m sorry about what happened to your family, but I’m glad you fell in the bog.”

That makes one of us. “There are times when I wish I’d been home when it happened.” Most of the time.

She half-expected recriminations, but he just hugged her closer. “If you had, we wouldn’t be here now.”

She began to feel the deep, low-down stirring in her belly, the sweet warmth funneling through her as she became re-aware of him. The scent of him, more real than what lingered on the pillow, the solidness of his body, the very masculine curve of his arms and shoulders…the strong pulse in his throat. 

Zoë kissed him, lightly, gently. Just brushed her lips over that tender curve above his collarbone. So soft. He shuddered and she felt his chest expand against hers, then settle. Closing her eyes, inhaling him and the gentle orange-cinnamon from her Naanaa’s soap recipe, she parted her lips and brushed them over him again. A soft groan came from deep in his chest and this time, his arms tightened reflexively around her. Her tongue slipped out, gentle, yet probing down against his skin, teasing and tasting.

“Zoë,” he whispered. “What are you doing to me?”

She knew the answer to that. Smiling against him, suddenly flooded with something light and real, she kissed him just beneath his earlobe…then gently sucked it into her mouth, all the while feeling him lift and grow down against her. He shuddered and arched closer when she probed her tongue deep into his ear, his fingers curling into her back.

Then he pulled away, looked down at her with those blue-flecked eyes, and covered her mouth with his. She lifted against him, her arms around his neck, and they shifted together, sliding prone onto the bed, towels loose and falling away.

His hand moved, whipping away the terrycloth and then reaching for her. The next thing she knew, he was holding himself over her, kissing gently along the curve of her own collarbone, his mouth light and gentle…so different. Sweet along the sensitive skin of her neck, sending blasts of shivers down and over her, tightening her nipples so that they almost hurt, shooting down to her core, where she felt heat and damp and throbbing.

“Quent,” she murmured, reaching for him, closing her fingers around his cock, lifting her hips. “Please….”

She hardly knew where she was, what she was doing, just that this was Quent, and that he made her forget it all. He made her slide into something so hot and warm and familiar that she never wanted to leave.

“Zoë,” he said, and she felt the tremor in his mouth as he bent to brush hers, “stay with me.”

She closed her eyes against the temptation, kissing him fiercely, smothering whatever he was about to say, and guiding him into her.

They both sighed and groaned when he slid deep. She arched up against his belly, rough with hair…and then they moved together, knowing each other’s rhythm, skin sliding against skin, soft sighs and gasps and rasping breathing.

Zoë looked at him once, saw the deep pleasure, something compelling and desperate there, so intense that she felt that stab in her belly…and then she closed her eyes.

For she dared not let him read what was in hers.

~*~

Some time later, Quent felt Zoë shift away from him. The sheet tugged gently. He tensed, keeping his eyes closed. His heart began to beat harder when she eased away, slowly and stealthily.

Then the sheet collapsed next to him, and the mattress released.

Quent watched from between slitted lids as she walked toward the bathroom. The stripe of daylight that emerged from between the curtains had dulled to little more than a late-afternoon glow. How long had they been up here? Three, four hours.

Not nearly long enough.

She came back out, her hair falling in wild spears around her face, her naked body smooth and graceful, that orangey spicy scent back in the air. She looked over at the bed. He felt her eyes settle on him, her hesitation and the hitch in her step.

But it was just that—a hitch. She kept on going, toward her clothes on the table next to the bed. He had a moment of temptation, to reach out and grab her arm, pull her back down next to him…but he’d done that before. And she’d still left.

The knowledge filled him with emptiness.

As he watched, she stuffed the clothes in her small pack and pulled out new ones. Silently, swiftly, she tugged on a dark red tank, as snug around her tight breasts as a bra. Then the rest of her clothes—panties of boring white cotton, and the same dark cargo pants loaded with pockets. All with no sound but the soft swish of fabric, and the faint click of a snap connecting. 

Quent spied as she gripped the arrows to keep them from clunking together when she lifted the quiver and her bow, slung her pack over her back. Then she stopped and looked toward the bed.

He opened his eyes then, and, Zoë froze. 

“I guess if I offered to go get us something to eat, it wouldn’t change your mind,” he said. “Pizza?” Once before, she’d mentioned a fondness for pizza, and he’d brought one up from the Pub.

She shook her head.

“Where do you go when you leave? What do you do?”

Zoë spread her hands, one of them awkward, laden with her weaponry. “I hunt.”

“Gangas. And Raul Marck.”

She nodded, reaching for the lever-like knob. “I have to go.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“No.” The word cracked like a whip.

He hadn’t expected anything different, but neither had he expected such a vehement response. Bruised a guy’s ego a bit, it did. More than a bit. He opened his mouth, then closed it. Not going to beg or plead. Not becoming to a Fielding.

 “Be safe,” he said instead. Though it cost him to keep the words steady. 

Zoë’s stance eased, as if she’d been expecting more of an argument. “Quent,” she said, pushing down the lever, then hesitated. She drew in her breath and continued, “Thank you for listening to me—my story.”

Don’t leave. “I’m glad you told me.”

“I never told anyone about it.”

“Ever?”

She shook her head. “Ever.” The door lever clunked as it opened.

“What would you have done if I hadn’t been here? When you came?” He sat up, feeling like a wank, desperation written all over him.

She shrugged and pulled on the door. “Been fucking disappointed.”

Then she walked through. The door closed heavily behind her, the metal latch clunking loud and with finality.

Quent snatched up the closest movable object—a pillow—and whipped it through the air. It spun, knocked into a lamp and sent it crashing to the ground. 

Fuck. Fuck.

A loud knock came at the door, setting his heart racing and his body shooting up from the bed. Then he mentally shook sense into himself. She wouldn’t knock. She’d fucking swagger right in. 

“Quent?” 

He recognized Elliott’s voice. For chrissakes, can’t they just fucking leave me alone?

Knowing that it was futile to ignore his friend—nor would it be kind, because there was the very real chance that he could slip into that dark coma of memories at any given moment, if he touched the wrong thing—he stalked to the door and flung it open.

“Well,” Elliott said, eyebrows high as he swept his gaze over Quent—who had forgotten that he was stark naked. “I guess you’re okay.” 

Without waiting for an invitation, he pushed his way into the room. Quent swore under his breath and shut the door with a dull metallic clunk and turned just as Elliott noticed the broken lamp.

“Everything all right?”

“Yeah, doc, can’t you see? Everything’s fucking fine—I was just taking a nap.”

“I see.” Elliott spoke in that physician’s voice he had: calm, easy-going, without a hint of condescension…yet anyone with a brain could sense the underlying skepticism. And compassion. Bugger him.

 “So, uh…are you sure everything’s all right?”

“What, did Wyatt send you up here to psychoanalyze me?”

“You look upset.”

“Congratulations on your diagnosis, Dred. I am upset. Wouldn’t you be a little fucked up if your father had destroyed the goddamned world?”

Elliott sighed, but compassion still warmed his eyes. “I saw her, Quent.”

Quent shrugged noncommittally and bent to pick up the shattered lamp. His balls swayed back beneath his arse, reminding him that he really should put on some shorts. 

“I was coming up to talk to you about a patient that showed up today, not to check on you,” Elliott said. But when Quent shot him a skeptical look, he smiled. “Well, and to see what you were up to. You sort of disappeared, and the last time you did that, Jade and I found you passed out in an overgrown alley.”

“Tell me about the patient.”

“She had a bad laceration, through tendons and muscle. If she was lucky enough not to bleed to death, the wound would probably have gotten infected and she wouldn’t have made it. Someone was smart enough to bring her here—she seemed to know about me.”

“Your reputation is rampant,” Quent said dryly, dumping the remnants of the lamp into a rusty garbage can.  He dug in his drawer and pulled out a pair of briefs—tighty-whiteys, but one couldn’t be picky in a post-apocalyptic world. You took what you could find that was uneaten or unmildewed after fifty years. “Could you help her?”

“Don’t tell Jade,” Elliott said with a funny smile, “but I healed her.” He shrugged. “She doesn’t like it when I do too much of that, because…well, you know…it’s not just a simple matter of healing.”

The expression on Elliott’s face provoked another wave of bitterness. Quent recognized a bit of chagrin there, but laced with affection. And beneath it, comfort and assurance that, no matter what, someone would be there. Someone cared. 

Someone wouldn’t go running off as soon as the afterglow ebbed.

Quent turned away as he grabbed a pair of cargo shorts. Then, before he could catch himself, the words tumbled out. “Her name is Zoë. She’s the archer with the special arrows—remember?”

Elliott nodded, but didn’t speak.

“She visits me…occasionally. A booty call sort of thing. It’s mutual,” he added, trying to make it sound casual and even a little base. “Her parents were killed by gangas, courtesy of Raul Marck.”

Because Raul Marck had abducted Jade and turned her over to the Strangers—the Elite—Elliott’s mouth tightened into a white line. But, again, he remained silent. Which left Quent with nothing but the compulsion to continue talking.

“She comes and goes. Sometimes she leaves while I’m sleeping. Most of the time.”

Elliott had settled himself against the door, arms folded over his middle. “I can see how that might bother you.”

Normally, that sort of generic shrink talk would set Quent’s hackles to rising, but not today. Not now. “That’s the pisser of it all. It bothers the hell out of me that she can’t be arsed to say good-bye. That she won’t stay for more than a few hours.”

“You want her to stay.”

“I’m usually the one who leaves. Or who makes light of it, keep it cazh, you know.”

“Or who arrives at a function with one woman, and sneaks off with another during the course of the evening. Then takes the first one home after.”

Quent chuckled uncomfortably. Put like that…. “So you heard about that? With Marley Huvane?”

“I think that you…uh…mentioned it once.”

“Right.” Quent shook his head. Great. That was discreet. “I must have been pissed drunk.”

“That would be correct. You’ve had occasion to mention your other conquests…Bonia Telluscride, Lissa Mackley, and the others. No details, though.”

Elliott didn’t need to say anything further; Quent was already starkly aware of the trail of women—celebrities, models, socialites—that littered his past. Not that he’d trampled on their hearts, led them on and left them hanging. No, he simply didn’t get close enough for that to happen. You had to be with a woman for more than a night or two for her to get ideas about permanency.

Fuck.

Here he was, panting after a woman he’d been with occasionally over a couple weeks? Yet his mouth didn’t want to stop. “There’s something about her.”

“It’s not because you’re not in control? That you’re not calling the shots?” Elliott asked. It was an obvious question and one that Quent had to turn over in his mind. “An ego thing?”

“I don’t know,” he replied honestly. “Could be. Doesn’t feel like it.” Then he refocused, shifted his thoughts. “This patient…what did you want to tell me about her?”

Elliott seemed to accept that it was time to change the subject. “I scanned her.”

Quent nodded. While he’d acquired a psychometric ability that seemed to turn around and bite him in the ass every time he used it, Elliott had come out of the Sedona cave with a more practical skill: not only the capability to heal, but also of scanning his hands over a body and being able to see inside. Like a human MRI, in high-resolution color. 

“Let me guess,” Quent said, “she’s wearing a crystal. She’s a Stranger?” That would be the first time they had a Stranger—or an Elite—in a situation where they might have the opportunity to learn more about them, or Remington Truth.

“No. Well, she’s got a crystal, but she’s not wearing it like the Strangers. It’s not embedded in her skin.” 

Elliott’s face had a look of distaste on it, and Quent imagined it had to do with a recent event in which Ian Marck had forced Elliott to attend to a very sick Elite member, whose embedded crystal had become infected.

His friend continued. “It’s a different kind of crystal. This one is smaller. About the size of a dime, and it’s faceted. And it’s brilliant orange.”

“Does it glow? And how did you find it?”

“It doesn’t glow that I can tell, and it’s not set into her skin like the immortalizing crystals. She wears it like a belly button ring.” He shook his head. “It’s as big as her navel and from what I can tell, it’s in a setting so it dangles—it’s not set in her navel like a belly dancer. I didn’t get a really good look though.”

“Right, then. You’re thinking it’s not just a piece of jewelry.”

Elliott shook his head. “I scanned her through her clothes; she wouldn’t take them off or let me do anything but roll up her pant leg. So she doesn’t know that I know, but that’s what I saw during the scan. I felt a real snap of energy when I got near the crystal, so I’m thinking it’s definitely more than just a gaudy piece of jewelry.”

“You want me to touch the crystal and see what I can tell?”

“Well, I don’t think she’s going to let anyone close enough to do that. She was pretty annoyed that I even had my hands over her, let alone on her. But I was thinking…if you came down with me to the infirmary, I might be able to get something of hers for you to touch. A shoe even. Maybe you could get some information…because she’s not a Stranger, but she’s definitely something. Or someone.”

“You didn’t get a name?”

Elliott shook his head. “Your pal Zoë—is that her name?—actually brought her here to Envy, but she left as soon as I arrived.” He flashed a quick grin. “And now I know why she was in a hurry to get out of there.”

“Bugger you.”

“And the patient. She wasn’t saying anything. Pretended not to understand when I asked  her name or where she came from.”

“She was pretending?”

“Definitely pretending.”

“So if she’s on to you, and you healed her, she might already have gotten the hell out of there.”

Elliott grinned again. “I thought of that. She’s all bandaged up right now, and I told her she had to stay still for two hours or the healing process would stall. We’ve got another ninety minutes.”

“Well, I’m all for something to do other than sit here with my bag on,” Quent said, gesturing to leave. “I’ll go down with you.”

Elliott turned to the door and wrapped his fingers around the knob. “I’ve known you for ten years—not counting the fifty we were sleeping—and I’ve not seen you this worked up about a woman. So it’s either an ego thing, or she’s the one.”

Quent gave a sharp, short chuckle. “Kind of a leap from ego to soulmate, don’t you think? Can’t it just be that she’s awesome in bed?”

But Elliott was shaking his head. “Nope, I don’t think so. Not the way you’re looking.”