Hunter, Healer

by Lilith Saintcrow

  So she sat and listened through the mission gone critical, barely tasting the food as Deborah reported being pinned under heavy fire with Sigs everywhere and half her team wounded. She didn't sound happy, but neither did she sound panicked.

  "Just sit tight, Deb,” Yoshi murmured. “They're on the way.” Then, he said, “Cath, you read me? They're pinned."

  Cath's out there? Oh, God. Rowan listened, mechanically eating and marking off the intervals as Yoshi spoke calmly, only his almost-blurring fingers showing the strain he was under. Rowan kept taking deep, even breaths, the tender places inside her head twinging a little as she fought the urge to help. There was nothing she could do . Yosh was perfectly calm and Henderson didn't need her. She could help best by staying out of the way. Cath's out there. Be careful, honey. I hope Zeke's with her. And Brew.

  "Steady, steady ... Here they come. Stay down . They're coming in fast. There.” Yosh sounded relieved.

  “Get everyone aboard. Don't worry about the Sigs, Deb, that's Brew's job. Yessir, I'm working on it.”

  His fingers danced. “Nasty little buggers, aren't they."

  He glanced up at Henderson and nodded. The older man straightened, light glinting off his steel-rimmed glasses.

  "Thank God.” Henderson's mouth shaped the words. He rubbed briefly at the back of his neck and glanced at Rowan and Justin.

  Rowan found, much to her surprise, that she'd eaten three-quarters of her food. Her coffee had cooled down, too. She finished it in two long swallows. Welcome caffeine began to make its way through her bloodstream. “Hey,” she said as Henderson approached, his boots clicking on the floor. “What can I do?"

  "Not a damn thing.” Henderson stretched and rolled his shoulders. The long-sleeved shirt he wore clung to him, and his Glock rode in a shoulder holster over it. He wore jeans, but he was barefoot. His dark hair with the white streak was rumpled and ruffled. “They'll be fine. Cath and Brew will bring ‘em all in.

  Yoshi will be glad to see Deb again."

  For some reason, Henderson glanced at Justin, who had finished his food and was staring into his coffee cup. “A Sig net in Cincinnati and some heavy fire. They just snatched a new telepath right from under Sigma's nose. How you doing, Del?"

  "Better than I've been in a long while,” Justin replied. “Hear you've drained the resource net. Any complications?"

  "Nope. Goddamn good to have you back. Rowan, I have some printouts I want you to look over, and I wanted to ask you something.” Henderson pulled out the third chair at the table and glanced over his shoulder at Yoshi, whose tension had begun to stain the air now that the crisis was over. Yoshi stretched and went back to tapping at his keyboard.

  "Sure.” What on earth would you want to ask me? Justin's back. Rowan smiled at the thought. He's back, we're at Headquarters, and we're safe. I never thought I'd see that again. Her head twinged, the bursts of pain getting less frequent. This one wasn't so bad. She sighed in relief. “How are you feeling, General?"

  He granted her a tight smile. “Screwed six ways from Sunday, girl. Glad we didn't lose you."

  Give in. Give in. Give in to me, let me IN. Memory rose, a vise clamping around her temples, something working in, burrowing. The pain tore at her. She was still tender inside her head, bruised from the blind man's attack. Rowan shuddered, came back to herself with a jolt. “I'm glad too."

  "Was it Carson? What's his status?” He looked at Justin, his steely eyes glinting, and Rowan was suddenly, utterly, relieved that Justin was back. Being Henderson's second was more stress than she needed, mostly because she was always afraid of screwing up and costing someone their life. Thankfully, it hadn't happened yet—unless she counted everyone at the old Headquarters.

  And Justin.

  "I hope he's dead.” Justin leaned back in his chair. He looked better, his eyes bright and his mouth curling up in a familiar half-smile. He moved easily inside his rig, as if glad to have its familiar weight on his shoulders. He hadn't looked right this morning without a couple of guns hanging on him. Rowan supposed it was habit. She touched the butt of her own Glock, a familiar weight under her left arm.

  Henderson reached over for a carafe almost buried under the topos and poured them both fresh coffee.

  “You need sugar, Ro?” She shook her head no, and he turned his attention to Justin. “You hope he's dead?"

  "I hit him with everything I had and sank a knife in his throat, boss. If he's still breathing it's not for lack of effort on my part."

  Oh, God, I hope he's dead, too. Rowan wrapped her fingers around the coffee cup. “Should I go and—"

  "No, I need you here. What's your estimation of Carson's status?"

  Give in. Give in. Give in to me, let me IN. She shuddered again. Why did it have to sound as if he was still whispering in her head, the squirming maggot-voice tender and waxen-white?

  "Creepy.” Her voice threatened to break. Tears rose behind her eyes. “Filthy. Very, very bad."

  Justin made a small sound, his knee bumping hers under the table. Henderson ran his hands back through his hair. She blinked. Why was it so hard to concentrate? She must be more tired than she'd thought.

  “What?"

  "Do you think he survived?” Henderson persisted.

  "I wish I'd had time to shoot him once or twice more,” Justin muttered. His knee bumped hers again. He was trying to comfort her, she realized, and was oddly grateful for it.

  "I don't know.” She shivered again, her coffee splashing inside the cup. It was hot and strong, and she wanted another jolt, anything to clear her head of the persistent, soft, maggoty voice. Gooseflesh spilled down her back, her hackles rising as if she was in danger. “I hope not. Justin pushed him. He also had a knife in his throat. If he survives..."

  "He's survived worse, the old bastard.” Henderson stared at the table. “Goddamn it."

  It was so unlike him Rowan's eyebrows threatened to nest in her hairline. “General?"

  "He was my handler.” He spread his hands on the table. “Back in the old days of MK Ultra.” He shrugged. “He was a bastard even then. Anyway, let's hope he's at least out of commission for a good long while. How far did he get inside your head, Ro?"

  Give in. Give in. Give in to me, let me IN.

  "Not very far,” she whispered, staring at the table and her almost empty bowl. “Far enough to hurt."

  "He didn't get anything of value,” Justin interrupted. “I made sure of that ."

  "You know how dangerous he is. We have to be sure.” The older man glanced at Rowan. “Are you absolutely sure?"

  "Absolutely.” Justin's certainty felt warm and reassuring, a flood of sunshine in the middle of her head, cleaning away the remaining filth. But something skittered away, burrowing under the surface of her conscious mind, and she found it suddenly difficult to think. One realization swam slowly to the top, as if swimming through molasses.

  "You think he can track me if he's still alive,” Rowan said, slowly. “I'm putting everyone in danger."

  Justin's fingers tightened on her bruised wrist. “Stop it. You're clean. If you weren't, I wouldn't have brought you in. I'd have holed up somewhere with you until you were all right. Trust me, Rowan. Yoshi scanned us both, and we're both clear."

  She nodded, biting her lower lip and looking down at the table. But if it hadn't been for me, none of this would have happened.

  A sudden wave of self-loathing swept over her. She took a deep breath, blinked back tears, and pushed up to her feet. “Excuse me,” she said politely. “I'm very tired. I'm going to take the dishes back down and go get some more sleep. Unless you have something you need me to do."

  Henderson and Justin exchanged a long look. What it meant she couldn't decipher. Was Henderson asking if she was truly safe? And Justin making that small gesture—a tiny shrug, his face expressionless, eyes dark—was defending her to the General. But how could he be sure she was clean? What if the slime-drenched mindbreaker had inserted some flaw into her, something Sig
s could use to track her down like they had last time?

  I don't feel clean, she realized. I feel dirty. I don't think I'm ever going to feel clean again.

  She wished with sudden vengeance that she could take a scrub brush, not to mention bleach and hot water, to the inner corridors of her mind, cleaning out the contamination. It wasn't just the blind man. It was the whole fantastic chain of events, from meeting Justin outside the abandoned house to the fall of Headquarters to this latest debacle. The Society would get along so much better without her.

  "Ro?” He touched her hand, his fingertips gentle. “I'll go with you. I could use a little more sleep myself."

  Tears threatened to spill out of her eyes. She tore away, shutting her mind to him with a clenching physical effort, stacked the bowls, and took her coffee cup.

  "No. Stay with Henderson, he needs you.” Boy, does he ever. And if I'm infected with something that will draw Sigs...

  The sharp upswell of guilt stopped her in her tracks. They hadn't had a moment's peace since she'd joined the Society. Things had rapidly gone downhill. Justin had practically had to twist her arm to get her to snap out of it and start training to be an operative. Although, to be perfectly fair, he hadn't. He'd left it up to her.

  "Don't care.” Justin's fingers loosely braceleted her wrist. “You okay?"

  No, I'm not. I won't be okay for a long, long time. “Fine. Look, catch up with Henderson.” I'm talking about him as if he isn't sitting right here. “I just need to rest. That was a hard hit, and I think I'm still a little woozy."

  "Sounds good. It can wait.” Henderson's eyes were on her, kind and utterly ruthless. “Rest, Rowan. I'll need you soon."

  Need me? Like you need a hole in the head, maybe. “Sure,” she mumbled, twisting her wrist free of Justin's grip. “I'll see you later."

  She carried the bowls away and heard Henderson murmur a question. A worried one, to judge by the tone. I'd be worried too, General. If I'm dangerous to the Society, you should just tell me outright.

  It'd be a lot easier than all this pussyfooting around.

  Justin apparently decided to let her go. She walked slowly through the new Headquarters back toward the kitchen. When she reached it, Tamara wasn't there, so she put the bowls in the large industrial sink set aside for dirty dishes and leaned against the counter. She held up her hands.

  They were shaking. Her fingers trembled, and so did her palms. She watched them distantly, as if they belonged to someone else. The pain vanished as her mind latched onto the single undeniable conclusion, the only course of action she could possibly take.

  "Calm down,” she told herself. “You know what you have to do."

  She might never have another chance. They called Justin Rowan's shadow for a reason.

  Kitbag, she thought, suddenly glad to have something to focus on. And I'll need my duffel. And a car.

  Can I get out without anyone seeing me? I can do that. This is the Society, after all. They trust me.

  Which is exactly why I have to get away from them. I'm the danger. I'm the bad-luck charm, the reason nothing's going right. God, how could I have been so stupid?

  Enough. Time to get going, before Justin decided she wasn't better off alone right now. It wasn't like him to leave her alone, but maybe he was having second thoughts about her now. She had, after all, brought him nothing but trouble. She peeled herself away from the counter and set her shoulders, walking quickly out of the kitchen to get her kitbag. She needed a map, too. Fortunately, she could access the Headquarters intranet with her clearance and get any of Henderson's maps that Yoshi had loaded. She was sure one of them would show Sig Zero-Fifteen.

  Forty-five minutes later, her duffel and bag safely stowed in the passenger seat, Rowan crossed the state line and pressed the accelerator. She knew where she had to go next.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  "Is she all right?” Henderson asked, his tone low and worried. “She looks dazed."

  "He hit her hard. And you know how dangerous he is to telepaths.” Del shrugged, rolling his shoulders back in their sockets. As soon as she left the room, the prickling of Zed withdrawal settled deep in his bones, twisting. The leftover wounds from his run-in with Carson also twinged, a mounting song of discomfort. He set his jaw and ignored the feeling. She needed a little alone time now, time for her violated psyche to put itself back together. He would only make the situation unbearable by nagging at her. The mental walls between them had slammed up, tinted a deep, dark red with pain and guilt, and he'd noted the shaking in her hands. She needed rest and maybe a little good, old-fashioned therapy as soon as they had both recovered a bit. “She'll be okay as soon as she gets some more sleep, I think."

  "What if she's not?” The old man's steely eyes met Del's.

  "Then I'll take care of it.” He didn't bother disguising the possessiveness in his tone. “Take her up to Calgary, maybe, or go start causing trouble in Europe. Get her out of the country, somewhere nice and isolated where she won't worry so much. She's been scared half to death, old man, and withdrawing from everyone as well.” He heard his voice rising and took a firmer grip on himself. He didn't need to start shouting at Henderson.

  It was just that she had gotten so damn good at hiding what she felt, keeping that brave face pointed outward. It was frustrating, thinking about the pain that lay behind serene façade. It was even more frustrating to think of how other people must have taken it for granted. She was so powerful and outwardly calm it was easy to assume she was all right.

  "I know.” Henderson took his glasses off and rubbed at his eagle eyes. “I'm sorry, Del. She's so fucking talented it's hard to know how to approach her. She can do things no other psion I've seen can do. And if I try to tell her to back down, to take a break, she just stares at me with those big eyes of hers. It's like she feels personally responsible for every goddamn thing."

  "What, like you feel responsible for every damn thing?” The attempt at humor was met with a wan smile.

  Let's leave it alone, General. If I think about this much more I'm going to get angry, and I don't want to do that right now. “What's the situation like here?"

  Henderson took the change of subject gracefully. “Good as it can be. We have plenty of liquid assets and are three-quarters done with the infrastructure. Yoshi's been working around the clock with Cath and the new guy, Lewis. Rowan got him out of a dicey situation, and he's been one hell of an asset. Anyway, we've pulled everyone back in to consolidate. The next few weeks are critical, but we've got every fail-safe I can think of—and a few that were Rowan's ideas—in place. We're as safe as we can be. The newbies are flooding in and undergoing intensive training. Most of them have come through wonderfully.

  The teams are concentrating, shaking free of Sig nets, and coming in one at a time. There are a few out causing trouble, which is good for us. They'll come in once they've finished a shift and we'll send a few more out."

  "Nice.” It was hard not to sound openly admiring. “You've been busy."

  The old man shrugged, his rig creaking slightly. Henderson was the only person Del knew of—other than himself—who carried his knives everywhere. “Well, it's not like cooling my heels in an Italian villa, but it's good enough. Listen, I want you to take a look at these—"

  From that point on it was natural. He'd worked with Henderson for so long it was easy to catch the man's train of thought, and Del was suddenly grateful to be back where he belonged. Funny, but before Rowan he'd never considered that he belonged with the Society. But wherever she was felt like home, and this felt more like home than ever, poring over maps, coming up with scenarios, crosschecking protocols and procedures. He didn't notice darkness had fallen until he heard a faint sound and looked up from a stack of printouts, seeing Yoshi slumped over his keyboard, asleep.

  Henderson, slumped in a captain's chair behind a folding table that served as a desk, rubbed at his eyes.

  The sound came again, a tentative knock at the door.

 
Eleanor cleared her throat. She stood framed in the door, a thin beanpole of a woman with messy dark hair. Her rig was supple and well-oiled, she favored Sig Sauers instead of Glocks. Del was relieved to see she'd escaped the ruin of the old Headquarters too.

  "Hey, Del.” She seemed unsurprised to see him. “Henderson, is Rowan around? I heard she'd come in, and Bobby has a new trick he wants to show her. He'd love to see her."

  Del blinked. He reached automatically for Rowan, meeting only the same hard mental walls, curiously thinned and brittle.

  "She came in with Del.” Henderson rubbed his eyes and yawned again. “She hasn't checked in with you yet? She was pretty hashed."

  Delgado pushed himself up. He touched the mental walls, probed them delicately. Ro? Angel, I need to talk to you.

  No answer. Just a strange sensation, as if his chest was suddenly yawningly empty. An empty room.

  Adrenaline spiked through his blood and laid copper against his tongue. Stark, uncomprehending fear smashed through him. Rowan?

  Rowan! He sent the call out along the private path between her mind and his, the deepest level of their shared bodies. The link reverberated with emptiness. Henderson glanced at him. Eleanor had gone suddenly pale under her dark curly hair. Delgado had no idea what was on his face in that moment, but he was sure it wasn't kind or pretty.

  "Oh, God,” he heard himself say. His eyes burned with something too deep and hot to be tears. It suddenly clicked into place: her seeming distraction, the waves of pain and guilt, the dazed look on her face.

  A fucking compulsion. How could I be so goddamn blind?

  "What?” Henderson's capable hands curled around the edge of the table, as if he needed to anchor himself. Yoshi stirred, his cheek pressed against the edge of his keyboard. The monitors flashed.

  "Delgado?” The sharp bite of command was in the General's old, gruff voice, but Del was past caring. He half-whirled, as if Rowan might be standing behind him, closed his eyes, and fought for control. The old man's chair squeaked as he rose, slowly.