Free Abandon The Night by Joss Ware Page A

and walls were meant to protect those within, not to keep people out. Although she was usually asked for her name and plans (whether she was planning to stay on or travel through), this time the sight of Remy’s gray face and the bandage made from Zoë’s blanket precluded any delay.
    So Zoë’d attended to her…well,
friend
was too damn strong of a word for the bitch who’d nuked up her chance to skewer Raul. Whatever. Zoë’d gotten Remy through the gates of Envy and, with the help of the guards, to a place called Flo’s.
    Once the man who was Quent’s friend, the doctor named Elliott, had arrived to attend to Remy, Zoë slipped away. She sure as hell saw no reason to stay, and she didn’t want to draw any attention to herself.
    She’d check back later and figure out what to do then.
    Last night, Zoë had removed her hunting shirt and tied it up in an old plastic bag so that the stench wouldn’t dissipate…and so that Remy’s precious nose didn’t have to smell it.
    But if she had to be honest with herself, Zoë figured some of the stink still clung to her. She eyed the door to Quent’s bathroom.
    It had been a long time since she’d had a hot shower.
    ca. 11 June 2010
    Time uncertain
    I write “circa” because I am not certain if a full 24 hours have passed or if it is still the same day of the events. Everything has become a very dark and ugly blur. I am paralyzed and terrified and I cannot sort it out.
    For the first time, I realize why I write in longhand in a paper journal. So that when all of Nature has taken over, and the machinations of man—the very ones which I have helped to create and improve and that now seem so inconsequential—have been destroyed, there is still this, my private diary.
    Perhaps I sound calm in my written words, but I am not. Perhaps writing is the only way in which I can keep from screaming in terror and disbelief. At times, I can barely keep my hand steady to write.
    Devi is here with me, thank God.
    I cannot describe what is happening. It’s simply too terrifying. But I believe the world has ended.
    Or if it has not, it has knocked upon the door of its demise.
    —from the diary of Mangala Kapoor

CHAPTER 4
    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