Night Beyond The Night by Joss Ware Page B

Shadowed by the moonlight from above, the face left only the impression of large eyes, an outline of short, ragged hair, a high, curving cheekbone.
    “You’ll be fine.” The voice, dusky and rough, sounded as if it wasn’t often used. “Now, will you give me back my arrows?”
    Quent tried to look closer at the warm, wiry figure crouched next to him, but his head hurt like a bitch and everything was all shadowy.
    “Thank you,” he said, knowing it was this person—male or female, but he was leaning toward female based on a sort of crackling awareness shooting through him—who’d helped stop the
ganga
. After he’d smashed one of his captors’ brains, the other one had cracked him across the face with a massive, cold hand . . . and that was the last he knew until now.
    “My arrows,” the voice said again, then, as if realizing how rude that sounded, added, “Can you sit up?”
    Quent could and did, though his head pounded like hell. He grasped the figure’s arm. Smooth, muscular, but delicate. Exposed by a sleeveless shirt, skin a shade darker than his own.
    He caught a profile. Definitely a woman. If a boy had such feminine features, it’d be a pity—not to mention a danger for the poor sod.
    And then there were the sleek curves of her torso. The strap from what must be a quiver cut diagonally between two plum-sized breasts.
    Definitely a she.
    And definitely the owner of the arrow he’d been holding earlier, the one that gave him murky images and memories, laced with impatience and anger . . . and determination. Loneliness.
    “You’re alone,” he said, hoping he didn’t sound like a bloody rapist. But he had a feeling she was the kind of woman who could take care of herself.
    She sat back on her haunches, and he saw wide dark eyes in a face darkened by shadows. “I like it that way. My arrows. Please.”
    “You saved me,” he said. “Thank you.”
    She eased back, and he realized she’d closed her fingers around the arrows. “That’s what I do.” The darkness swallowed her.
    “Wait,” he said, scrambling to his feet, embarrassingly unsteady. His head pounded harder now, and he felt more than a bit shaky and nauseated from the close proximity to the
gangas
.
    “It’ll go away,” she said from the shadows in that low, husky voice. “The dizziness and weakness. And you’d best use this.”
    Something whuffed out of the darkness and he had the wherewithal to snatch it out of the air. His bandanna. “Where do you live? In Envy?”
    Silence. Quent peered into the shadows, taking a step toward the place from where his bandanna had come flying as he tied it back into place.
    “Come with us,” he said. “We could use you.”
    “No.”
    He heard a soft trickle-like sound of lapping water and knew she was gone. Quent thought about following her, and even started in the direction where she’d disappeared . . . but then he remembered something. “I still have one of your arrows.” He made sure his voice carried, certain she’d not gone too far. “You can have it whenever you want. Your arrow.”
    He waited, heard nothing but the soft splash of water, and the scamper of small rodent feet. “We’re taking those kids back home. To a place called Envy.”
    “What the hell’re you doing? Giving the
gangas
our fucking itinerary?”
    Quent whirled to see Simon standing there. Despite the edge to his words, there was a glimmer of dark humor in his handsome, chiseled face. “Not that they could follow it, dumb wanks. And where the hell did you come from?”
    Simon shrugged, and Quent saw that he carried a two-by-four-sized branch as a weapon. Something steaming and rank still clumped on the far corner.
    “I saw you were missing. Got one, but not before he swiped at me.” Simon gestured to his arm, which had a deep gash that would match the one on his leg from earlier in the day. “Fucking nails on those bastards are sharp. You okay?”
    “That archer, the one who shot a couple
gangas
when