Agent Gemini

by Lilith Saintcrow

  She took two deep breaths. Cal’s gaze was fixed on her, a swipe of his blood simmering on her cheek. Her hands fell, limp white birds.

  “I have to get away from you,” she whispered.

  “What?” He was staring at her mouth, as if trying to decode a foreign tongue. According to his file, he could speak at least four languages other than English, but—

  “I’m sorry,” Trinity said. Strangely enough, she meant it. She hadn’t wanted to hurt him. Her knees loosened, a fraction of a second before she could drop and roll, grabbing her backpack and bolting past him.

  At least, that was her plan. Cal leaned forward, his hand blurring out and closing around her upper arm. “Look, let’s just—”

  Training took over. Snap. She struck again, quick as a snake, driving her fist for his throat. His reflexes were agent-swift; he bent back, dropping his weight, and caught her wrist, deflecting the blow just enough. Trinity went loose, expecting his next move to be a kick, her knee coming up to deflect as well and her balance thrown off when he didn’t take the chance.

  Instead, he stepped sideways, a swift dancer-graceful movement, pivoting her. He lifted her again, as if she weighed nothing, her back to his chest, and Trinity kicked fruitlessly. Stop. Conserve your energy.

  “Is this really what you want to do?” Hot breath on her ear. “I’m here to help you, honey. We can do this the easy way or the hard way.”

  “I. Have. To. Get. Away. From. You.” She enunciated clearly, so he could not possibly misunderstand. “I am dangerous, Eight.”

  “Don’t call me that.” Soft and reasonable. “You really think you’re dangerous?”

  You have no idea. How many are dead because of me?

  Then again, a better word might be toxic. It was certainly more precise.

  She tested his grip, struggling. His scent had changed again. Darker, a little aggression, healthy effort on a very healthy male. Judging by the insistent nudging against her lower back, there was a certain amount of excess blood flow. Perhaps it was diverted from his brain.

  That might give her an advantage. “I have a mission.” Analyses and percentages raced through her head. None of them added up correctly. How far had mental degradation progressed?

  “So do I, honey.” A little husky now. “And it involves keeping you out of their hands.”

  “Why? There is no profit to be—” The differences shading through his scent were making it difficult for her to think.

  “It’s not about profit. Jesus, what did they do to you?”

  What is that? She tried to quantify the change in his tone. It took a moment, but she found the proper word.

  Disgust.

  Trinity closed her eyes against a brief lance of pain spearing her chest. Perhaps she’d pulled a muscle.

  He was disgusted by her lack of control. It is to be expected, she told herself coldly. “I am deconstructing, Agent Eight.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Does it disturb you?”

  “Disturb’s not the word, Three.”

  It was perhaps only fair. Still, the word set off a cascade inside Trinity, and he had no warning, not even a breath of change in her own scent. She pitched sideways, bending farther than a normal human could and using his grasp on her as a fulcrum, her sock foot kissing the wall and giving her even more leverage as the unexpected angle twisted her free. The bed shuddered as she dropped, rolling, her hand flashing out to grab her backpack. Lunging up, her feet kissing the wall again—it was so simple when you could calculate force and trajectory. She leaped, bouncing off the bed again and bolting for the door, the window was too risky. She would heal quickly, yes, but—

  Crunch.

  They went down in a tangle of arms and legs, and Trinity brought her knee up sharply. Usually such a maneuver dissuaded a man, but it hit him in the stomach instead of its intended target. A short huff of breath was her only reward, and they rolled, ending with Trinity wedged between the wall and a male body much heavier than her own. Her mouth crushed against his shoulder, his T-shirt ripped away, and Trinity bit, worrying at fever-warm flesh. How undignified. Now, there was another appropriate word.

  Cal hissed in a breath. More blood, a splash of copper filling her mouth. The treacherous lassitude from his scent swamped her again, and Cal made another soft, inarticulate sound. After a moment, Trinity recognized it as a laugh.

  “Oh, man,” he said, almost crushing the breath out of her. “Man oh man. You’re feisty.”

  She clamped down once more, her jaw aching. He laughed again.

  Pain can be controlled.

  “We can tango until you get tired, honey.” Still nice and soft, but with a hiss behind the words. “It might even help work off some of that stress.”

  Red heat bloomed inside Trinity. She thrashed wildly, until the idiocy of exhausting herself in this fashion occurred to her. She went limp, working her teeth free, and it wasn’t just Cal’s scent that held a darker edge of arousal now.

  That’s not supposed to happen. I’m supposed to be immune to anything like this. Everything inside her was whirling, breaking apart. “Stop...stop it...”

  “It’s just getting interesting.” He didn’t move. “I am not letting you get yourself caught.”

  “I...deconstructing...” Her throat turned to a pinhole. She couldn’t breathe.

  “You’re wound too tight, that’s all.” His respiration dropped, his pulse slowing, too. “Seriously, woman, you have got to calm down.”

  Black feathers beat at the outer edges of her vision. Trinity’s eyes rolled back in her head, and she did the only thing she could.

  She shut down.

  Part Two: On the Run

  Cal finally realized she’d passed out, limp and quiescent against him. He lay there for a few moments, smelling her and the tang of his own blood. She’d bitten him a good one and struggled desperately. Flexible and snake-quick, he had a hard time keeping ahead of her, but he’d managed this once. Those big eyes of hers, soft wells of pain, just about drowned him.

  I am deconstructing, she’d said in that throaty, choked tone. Great. Well, what the hell did that mean to her? Or to him?

  He had no clue. Unless it meant scrawny-thin, jumpy and looking so lost and lonely it was enough to turn a man inside out? What other clues did she give?

  Induction. I don’t feel.

  Didn’t look like it from here, though. Looked like she was struggling to cope with emotional noise and not having much luck. He moved slightly, peering at his shoulder. She’d gotten a mouthful. If he was normal, he might scar, but the wound had already stopped bleeding. He didn’t have to worry about infecting her with the Gibraltar virus, either. Any idiot with half a nose could tell they were complementary, just like Reese and Holly, their scents overlapping in a pleasant haze.

  Great. He had blood all over him and was lying on the floor with an unconscious woman. All it needed was the police busting the door down to make it a comedy.

  Nah, let’s avoid that, okay? It was nice to imagine she was lying asleep in his arms, safe at last and willing, as well. He forced himself to move, very slowly, getting untangled. Getting his feet under him wasn’t difficult. Lifting her wasn’t that bad, either; even though she was deadweight she was oddly frail. What had she been eating?

  Christ, she hadn’t even known what a milk shake was. Of all the things Cal hoped Bronson was burning in hell for, it probably wasn’t high on the list—but he could put it on, just because.

  She’d slept on top of the covers, had barely dented the pillows. He laid her down, arranging her hair—this close, he could see the fine feathering of blond at her temples, the thick streaks of honey and paler highlighting, a natural sun-bleach job someone would pay a great deal for in a salon. The strands were silken-slippery against his fingert
ips, and he had to outright make himself back away.

  Cal carried one of the chairs to the bedside, dropped into it and studied her while he could.

  Those beautiful cheekbones. And without her stiff conscious watchfulness, he could see what she’d look like when she relaxed. She was a lot smaller than she looked while awake, and so fragile it made his chest hurt.

  I have to get away from you. I’m dangerous.

  Did she think she was going to hurt him? Good Lord. She had to know what he was trained for, had to have seen some of the reports from his missions. And she thought she could—what?

  Damage him? That was a laugh. It was kind of... well, strange, to have someone worried about him that way.

  It didn’t take long. Ten minutes at most, before she stirred, respiration and pulse rising. He tried not to imagine she was waking up after a completely different series of events.

  She flexed her fingers, then her toes.

  “They’re all still there,” he said as gently as possible. “Do you often have panic attacks?”

  Her eyes flew open. She curled up to sit, and Cal tensed, but she didn’t bolt again. Instead, she hugged herself, palms cupping her sharp elbows, and regarded him steadily. “Shutdown.” That sharply pretty face was blank now, and her voice just as emotionless. Only the shadows in her eyes remained. “Necessary to protect against deconstruction.”

  “You keep using that word.” Cal kept himself on the edge of the chair, ready. “I’m, uh, not sure what it means to you.”

  “Full-blown cognitive degrade. Irreversible damage.” Her breath caught. “A risk with induction. Any emotional noise is a symptom to be reported immediately. I did not.”

  Now, that was interesting. His own respiration was trying to match hers, breathing with her, trying to force her to calm down. “Why not?”

  She shook her head fractionally. Hadn’t anyone noticed how she curled around herself? How fragile she looked? “I am unsafe. Deconstruction is fatal. I have very little time before I die or am recaptured, and I wish to spend it in my own fashion.”

  “Huh.” He scratched at his hairline, blood crackling on his face. His shoulder burned pleasantly. “Interesting.”

  “So, you agree this is the best course of action.”

  What? “Nope. I didn’t say that at all.”

  She bounced to her feet, a clean, economical movement, and Cal found himself standing as well, his booted toes right in front of her sock-clad ones. His arms tingled still, remembering cradling her. She didn’t back down, though it was probably uncomfortable to crane her neck like that, looking up at him. Her chin jutted a little, and he almost lost his breath again. She was goddamn gorgeous with that defiance humming through her like electricity through a high-tension wire.

  This close, he could see fine threads of color in her irises, the thick masses of gold in her hair. She was too pale to tan well.

  Imagining her in a bikini was something else, though.

  “You are far more intelligent than you like to appear,” she said finally, almost primly. A slight pinkness blooming in her cheeks. Even prettier.

  You think? “Maybe that’s just my charm.”

  Another flicker across that lovely face. He was getting good at seeing them. They were small and quick, but they were definitely there.

  “Consequently I am forced to the conclusion that you understand perfectly well I am a danger to you.”

  Maybe just to my pulse. Jesus. “Are you, now.” He didn’t bother sounding impressed.

  “Please.” So softly it threatened to send a shiver down his spine. “Agent—Cal. Please.”

  His nose was full of thick bloodsmell. It was probably a blessing, because if he was this close and breathing her in while she said his name and looked up at him like that, he might agree to anything she wanted. The moss green of her irises, so close to his own, and then there was the tank top clinging to her as if it wanted to distract him.

  It was doing a damn good job, too.

  “Your chances are better with me.” Why did he sound breathless? And Jesus, but his clothes were too tight, and bloody besides. He needed a shower. Hell, he needed an ice bath. “Right? A trained agent. One they couldn’t catch.”

  “You were caught.”

  “I let them get me.” With Tracy gone I didn’t care. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to let them get their hands on you, too.

  A slight movement, her shoulders raising and dropping briefly. A shrug. She probably didn’t believe him. “I have a question.”

  “Shoot.” He almost winced at using that expression. The way the day was going, someone might end up squeezing off a round or two at them.

  Those big eyes of hers, wounded and vulnerable. “Why are you doing this?”

  Oh, dammit. “You, ah. You rescued Holly.”

  “Out of self-interest.” An immediate whipcrack of an answer. This close, though, and with an agent’s acuity, he could see the small changes in her expression.

  Immune to emotional noise, hell. She was soaking in it. No wonder she was confused. Her mouth was tempting him, too. He kept glancing at it, at the exact shape of her lips.

  Slow and easy here, Cal. “You were thinking they’d get around to tying you off, too, right? You could have just walked, you didn’t have to help Holly. But you did. You even saved Reese and me. Bronson had us cold.” He would have shot both of us in the back, put Holly down, then put a round through my skull and Reese’s just to be sure. Can’t heal from that.

  Immediate denial, her hair swinging heavily as she shook her head. “The odds of your survival were high, given the situation.”

  He shook his head, too, then wished he hadn’t, because his nose ached and a final, warm, thin trickle of blood eased down his upper lip. He didn’t move to brush it away. “He knew enough to put us down, then put a round in our heads. You went out of your way to help us.”

  “After I helped hunt you.” Two bright spots of color in her cheeks now, not just pink. He was getting through.

  Maybe. So he decided to throw out a question of his own. “I kind of wondered why you only winged me, at the cabin. You deliberately warned us.”

  With the flush, he could see, again, a little of what she’d look like without that pale severity all the time. He was going to die of heart failure once she really relaxed around him, if she ever looked at him that way and said his name and—

  She raised her chin a little more. “I didn’t mean to hit you.”

  So that was her. Neither he nor Reese had been able to figure that one out. “See?” His hands itched, wanting to cup her shoulders and pull her close. The smear of blood on her cheek, drying rapidly, bothered him, too. “It was a ricochet. You shot wide, and we weren’t caught in the hole.”

  “But you were caught!” The flush deepened still further.

  “Emotional noise,” he said and tried not to grin like an idiot. “They try to get rid of it, but they can’t.”

  That was the wrong thing to say. All the color and animation faded, doors he could almost hear slamming behind her eyes. “They did with me.”

  “You only think they did.” He stopped, considering this. Something nagged at him, and a moment later, she stiffened, too. The little tingle of trouble coming crawled up and down his back, digging in its tiny cold fingernails. Silence stretched taut between them. Just when he was getting somewhere, too. “Get cleaned up.”

  “Do you think...” Her tongue darted out, wet her lips, and Cal lost every battle he’d ever thought of fighting with himself. He leaned down, his hands closing around her shoulders, and kissed her.

  * * *

  Confusion. The taste of copper, his mouth on hers, then his tongue was there, probing for entrance. She had a brief flash of...something, perhaps revulsion? How unsanitary.

  Th
en a different feeling. A warmth, a softness, all through her. It was fascinating, the overlapping textures, and there it was again. The cessation of the scrabble, scrabble, scrabble of calculation and planning. His skin somehow muted the frantic motion, and even the coppertang of blood was no deterrent.

  Stop it, some faint, fading rational part of her called, but Trinity barely listened. It was, instead, the sure consciousness of danger that dragged her out of the wide, deep, fascinating peace. As soon as she moved, Cal broke away, and Trinity found out he was breathing just as heavily as she was, and for the first time in a long while her head didn’t hurt.

  How odd.

  “Get cleaned up.” Cal’s hands at her shoulders, not bruising or gripping hard, but definitely tense. He stepped back, knocking the chair over, and straightened his arms, holding her at a distance. “Make it quick. I, uh. There’s something wrong.”

  What? It was difficult to orient herself. The room was full of that simmering smell the two of them made, with its deep blue tint, saturating her pores. She blinked several times. This close, she could see the faint line on his cheek where she’d raked him, already looking thin, white and healed. His lashes were sandy, too. He was more than handsome, from this angle.

  “Yes.” Her throat was dry. “I... We should separate.”

  “What?” A pained, quizzical expression, and it made him look...what was the proper word? She couldn’t think of it.

  It didn’t matter. Perhaps he had not heard her clearly, so Trinity decided to recap. “This reduces our percentage of efficient cooperation. It is a distraction and lapse in safety protocols.” She rid herself of his hands on her shoulders simply by turning, and cast around for her backpack. “Thank you for the milk shake.”

  “What the hell?” As if he still didn’t understand.

  Trinity stepped into her boots, lacing them with quick jerks, tying swiftly. Her backpack was by the door, and a lick of flame lit itself in her core when she thought of how it had arrived there. “Should I be captured, I will do my best not to disclose your location or implicate you in any—”