Night Resurrected by Joss Ware Page B

cool, crooked smile. “I
    told you. I smelled your cooking.” His
    attention went to Wyatt, who’d taken his
    time rising to his feet. “Who’s this?”
    “Ian Marck,” Wyatt said, ignoring the
    question as he examined the lanky dark
    blond man. “I’ve heard so much about
    you.”
    “Then you have the advantage over
    me.” Ian’s blue eyes were the cold ones
    of a man who’d seen and committed
    great violence—and didn’t care.
    “I intend to keep it that way.” Wyatt
    gave him a cool smile of his own, then
    sank back into his place and continued
    eating. He’d never actually met Marck
    before, but he’d seen him once back in
    Envy, albeit from a distance and in a
    dimly lit bar. His friend Elliott had
    pointed him out as the son of the man
    who’d abducted his girlfriend Jade.
    Wyatt hadn’t been there, but he knew
    all the details of how Ian and his father
    Raul had tracked down Jade in order to
    bring her back to the Stranger who’d
    kept her captive for three years—all for
    the bounty, of course.
    But when Elliott and Theo showed up
    to free her, Ian had secretly helped them
    in exchange for Elliott’s assistance in
    treating an ill young woman named
    Allie.
    Then,
    weeks
    later,
    Ian
    inexplicably showed up at the bar in
    Envy and gave them a message meant to
    help them find Remington Truth. How he
    knew Wyatt and Elliott and their friends
    were searching for the old man, they
    didn’t know. Why he wanted to help
    them was even more of a mystery,
    especially since no one at the time was
    aware that the original Remington Truth
    was dead.
    Ian’s clue had eventually led them to
    Remy, but not directly due to his
    information—which left Wyatt and the
    others wondering if Marck had been
    sending them on a false trail or not.
    In other words: Wyatt didn’t trust the
    bastard one whit.
    The man looked about his age—
    pushing forty—with short dark blond

hair and high cheekbones. He had a look
    about the forehead and eyes that
    reminded Wyatt of a Russian guy he’d
    gone to college with. From the pallor of
    his skin, the hollows in his cheeks, and
    the fact that he was unshaven, it was
    obvious he’d been ill—or injured.
    “You look like hell,” Remy said,
    handing him what was left of her plate.
    “Nearly dying will do that to you,”
    Marck said, and fairly dove into the
    food. “Thanks.”
    “How did you survive?”
    Wyatt settled back, making himself
    appear relaxed as he observed the two
    conversing. He noticed Remy hadn’t
    greeted her presumed-dead lover with
    an embrace, or even great warmth, and
    wondered if that was due to his presence
    or for some other reason. Had she
    known Marck was still alive? How? Her
    body language was a combination of
    surprise and tension, but not fear or
    apprehension. Nor great joy. Hell, he
    hoped that if he suddenly showed up in
    front of Cathy after being presumed
    dead, she’d be a lot happier to see him.
    Despite Remy’s lukewarm reaction
    to his appearance, Marck settled in as if
    he’d been with them on this journey all
    along.
    And Dantès . . . he was the most
    interesting of all. He greeted Marck
    briefly when he first came on the scene,
    but now settled down in a pile of dog
    between Remy and Marck. He lay down
    but didn’t sleep, watching and listening
    just as Wyatt did.
    “I got lucky is how I survived,”
    Marck said, finishing the last bite of fish.
    “I don’t know. I don’t remember—much
    of it was a blur. I just managed to take
    care of myself enough until I healed.”
    His look became intense as he focused it
    on her. “What happened?”
    Even in the fading light, Wyatt saw
    Remy’s hands curl into themselves and
    he gritted his teeth. If the bastard who
    was traveling with her had been on his
    guard, paying attention, protecting her,
    she
    wouldn’t
    have
    the
    terrifying
    memories of her abduction by Seattle.
    “What you’d expect,” she replied in a
    tone that discouraged further questions.
    Marck’s