Hunter, Healer

by Lilith Saintcrow

  "Give yourself a little time,” he said into her hair. “Don't worry so much. Even if it is a losing goddamn fight, at least we're on the right side of it. That's worth something, don't you think? Look.” He shifted a little, as if his legs had started to go to sleep, but his arms turned to iron when she tried to slide away.

  “One day, sometime, somewhere, they're going to lose. They can't keep it up forever."

  She let out a choked half-sob. “You know what Jilssen said? He wanted to breed us. He said if he could breed out the stubbornness, it would make a good soldier."

  Her lips moved against the bare skin of his shoulder, and she felt him take in a soft, deep breath. She shifted her weight a little, feeling a familiar insistent hardness pressing against the outside of her hip, and a wild panicked laugh rose behind her teeth. Well, at least I know he's still interested. Guilt slammed through her again. How could she even think about sex at a time like this?

  "He's probably right.” He paused. “Of course, I can't see any child of yours lacking for stubbornness.”

  He stroked her hair, untangling it with infinite gentleness.

  The laugh jolted its way free. “I'm sorry,” she whispered.

  "Don't be,” he whispered back. “Take your time, angel. I'm not going anywhere."

  "I want to forget.” She somehow, somewhere, found the courage to lift her head from his shoulder, felt the heavy weight of her hair slide against her back. She was going to have to cut it, dye it somehow. It was too distinctive, even for a psion practiced at blending in. Thinking of expending the energy to redirect attention away from her hair made her feel even more tired. “I wish I could forget everything."

  "Everything.” His face was closed, but his eyes were dark and finally alive again. He watched her face, his lips gone soft and somehow amused, the arches of his cheekbones perfect in their severity, one eyebrow slightly lifted in unconscious imitation of Henderson.

  I wonder if he knows how much he copies the old man? she thought, and tried to hide a smile. It felt odd to smile, odd but also a relief.

  "Everything except you. I missed you."

  That made the faint shadow of amusement leave his expression. His face turned solemn. “I missed you too.” He let go of her, sliding his hands down her arms, callused palms gentle against her skin. “And here we are."

  "Alone. Nobody chasing us."

  "Yet.” Now he reached up and skated his fingertips over her cheekbone. The touch was so gentle it made the tears rise again. The fading echo of Anton's voice— Go ahead, Price. Pull the trigger—finally receded into the place nightmares went when faced by daylight. He tensed slowly, muscle by muscle, as she memorized his face over and over again. “Don't ever do that to me again. You hear me?"

  Relief made her slump backward a little. It was the closest to a statement of need she'd ever heard from him. “I love you too."

  "Christ.” Was he actually sweating ? He was trying to stay still as she moved in his lap again, deliberately teasing him. It had been a long, long time for both of them. “Rowan..."

  "Turn the light out,” she told him, and he reached out slowly as she found the hem of her tank top with trembling fingers and pulled it off over her head. His hand never found the lamp, because he traced the lowest curve of her ribs with shaking fingers. Their mouths met, and from there it was easy. He pulled her down into the tangled covers, his mouth on her throat and breasts until she made a soft pleading sound, his fingers hooking in the waistband of her panties. She had to lift her hips to get them off, for once not worrying about getting dressed if there was an emergency, only wanting to get the confining material out from between them. He tossed them over the side of the bed, and she kissed along his jaw as he struggled with his boxers, muttering a curse she laughed at before he finally kicked the offending material away and slid his knee between hers. She felt the sensations spilling through his nerves as acutely as if they were her own; the rougher silk of his skin against hers was exquisite torture magnified by the link between them.

  Rowan. Christ, Rowan ... The words faded under the onslaught of pleasure echoing inside her head, cleaning away the fear and pain and hatred. The edges of his hipbones dug into the soft flesh of her inner thighs, he shoved the pillow away from under her head and wound his fingers in her hair.

  He didn't want to hurt her, struggled to retain his control, but she pulled his head up to hers and kissed him, tasted the faint fading echo of toothpaste and the spice of him. She arched her back and rocked her hips up, pleading, her fingers tangling in his hair and his mouth exploring hers. Still, he tried to hold back, fear and caution warring with need. He was being so damn careful she almost exploded with frustration before he gave up, bracing himself on his elbows and easing himself slowly, so slowly, into her. She closed her eyes, linking her ankles at the small of his back, and sighed as he moved, settling in, the hard length of him pulsing as she shifted, a small sound of satisfaction caught deep in her throat.

  Finally, the moment of connection . Her mind sank into his like water. He shuddered in her arms, on the fine edge of losing control, one thought beating through the red haze of pleasure his mind had become.

  Home. I'm home.

  So am I, she thought before all words were lost in sensation. He moved and she rose to meet him, relief and arousal and sheer heat blurring the borders between them. No longer two separate beings, she felt her own hand sliding down his back, tasted her own mouth through his. Two short, hard thrusts settled into a longer one. Faint stubble on his chin rasped against her cheek, and she kissed under his jaw, catching the hollow of this throat where the pulse beat and fastening on, wanting to leave a mark on him.

  She felt the sharp point of almost-pain in her own throat, and when he moved again, thrusting into her, she felt her fingers driving into his shoulders, hard ridges of muscle tensing in his back, sweat stinging someone's eyes, hers or his? She no longer knew.

  Rhythm caught her. Her body knew what to do, and it shifted instinctively to catch the feedback of pleasure from his. He whispered something broken in her ear as Rowan gasped, tilting her head back, curiously calm in the middle of her body's frenzied need to prove that yes, she was still alive.

  More, she thought, the word becoming his, the need becoming shared. More, for God's sake, don't slow down—

  Speeding up, he was no longer so careful, plunging into her as if he was a drowning man. A cry caught in her throat, and he took her mouth and swallowed it. His voice, echoing hers, was lost in the connection between their hungry tongues. Volcanic heat spilled through her, tightening every muscle and nerve. She let it happen, wanting the release.

  Then came the brief moment when their psyches overlapped, white-hot silence exploding through both of them. He stiffened in her arms, a low, hoarse sound of agonizing pleasure spilling from his throat as her release tore through his nervous system and his crisis slammed through her in concentric rings of scarlet spurring flame. And if he used his talent gently, very gently, a featherlight brush of pressure against the surface of her mind to help her forget some of the horror and shock and guilt, it was no less an act of love. One she welcomed even as she forgot for a brief moment why it was necessary.

  He never did get around to turning the lamp off that night, and when Rowan finally fell asleep there were no more nightmares.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Six months later

  Delgado set the gun against the man's temple. “How many with you?” He sounded bored even to himself, but his pulse slammed inside his wrists and throat even as he shoved his knee more firmly into the man's back. Outside rain swept restlessly down. The winter storms had started. Soon the whole city would freeze, making Montreal looking like a gigantic sugar cake from above. Light would glimmer on the snow, but if they'd been found, neither he nor Rowan would see this city in another twenty-four hours.

  Just when I was starting to like it here. Just when Ro was starting to relax.

  Rowan, the book bag dangling f
rom her slim fingers, closed the door quietly. They'd taken this small, light-filled apartment not for economy's sake, but because a house wasn't safe. He'd been feeling a little antsy for a while now, and Rowan had started to look pale and drawn again, no matter how many bookstores or lectures they visited. Her nightmares had gotten progressively worse, too. He hadn't had a good night's sleep in two months.

  Of course, the fact that he liked to calm her down the old-fashioned way probably had something to do with that. Oh, well. Anything for the cause.

  He pulled the hammer back, knowing the click would resonate through the man's skull. Tall, dark-haired, reasonably fit and experienced, the intruder still had no chance against him. Sigma had simply trained Del too well.

  Besides, the agent on the floor, whoever he was, was a normal. He couldn't sneak up on two psions.

  Here in the entryway, a small table lay on its side, the day's mail scattered over the floor from the quick, vicious fight. The man gasped, probably winded from the shot to the solar plexus. Justin wondered how their visitor had gotten in. Probably the kitchen window.

  He better not have knocked over the African violet, Del thought. Rowan loves that plant.

  "Unarmed! I'm unarmed!” The man almost squealed with fear. A quick, thorough search proved this to be true, and five minutes later their new visitor was trussed with duct tape to a solid kitchen chair. Dark hair, leather bomber jacket, jeans, and a pair of good boots—he looked like miserably out of place here.

  Nobody in Montreal wore a bomber jacket, for Christ's sake. Not at this season.

  Del saw with relief that the African violet was still on the windowsill, but the window had been jimmied.

  The kitchen lay under a gloom of gray light, the blue dishtowels set just so, the breakfast dishes drip-drying in the rack. Rowan hugged herself near the door, staring at the man with wide luminous eyes under a short, chic cap of sleek dark hair. She was still fragile and jumpy. If this sonuvabitch had set her back Del was going to have to see if he could get a little creative.

  Del tossed her the man's wallet. She caught it with a sweet, natural grace and flipped it open. “Barry Holgrave, NSA. Looks real.” She tossed her head slightly, still not used to short hair. I look completely different , she'd said mournfully, staring into the mirror.

  That's the point, he'd replied, and kissed her. A good memory, one he liked. “What's the NSA doing here?” He looked down at the man, aching to wrap his fingers in the intruder's hair and pistol-whip him a little. “You've got thirty seconds to convince me I shouldn't kill you."

  Barry was old enough to have been in the spy game awhile. His eyes widened, fine fans of wrinkles spreading out from the corners. His haircut was too butch. He was making a shoddy job of undercover.

  His Adam's apple bounced as he swallowed, wincing when Del tightened his hold on his hair.

  Rowan's hand dropped, weighted with the wallet. “It's about Sigma,” she said softly, and shook her head, her hair swinging to touch her cheeks. The green wool sweater she wore made her skin seem even paler, and the blue scarf loose around her pretty throat heightened the contrast. Water still clung to her hair and shoulders, little jewels of rain. She had largely lost the circles under her eyes and the nervous small tremble in her expressive hands. Sometimes she even laughed. “Loosen up on him a little, sweetie."

  You make a great good cop, you know, he told her privately, and watched the gleam of amusement touch her eyes, but not her solemn, beautiful mouth. She'd put on a little weight, but not nearly enough. “I think we should kill him.” He used the soft pleasant tone he knew was the most terrifying.

  Mmh. And you make a good bad cop. The amusement in her tone was tight and thin, a veneer over adrenaline and the sudden plunging of her heart.

  Easy, sweetheart. We didn't mark anyone on the street outside. We've got plenty of room to jump if we have to. He felt her take a deep breath and reach for reassurance, answered her silently with all the comfort he could.

  "They've shut it down.” Holgrave almost choked in his eagerness to talk. “Sigma's shut down. There were closed Congressional hearings, and Anton's at a maximum security prison for the criminally insane.

  He's totally fucking nuts. All sorts of shit about what he was doing with the agency started to come out and everyone clamped down, from the top down to the lower echelons. It was a goddamn mess, still not sorted out.” He took a deep, racking breath. “In the living room there's a briefcase. It's got documents.

  Proof."

  "What does this have to do with us?” Del eased up a little on the man's hair.

  Rowan tilted her head. No activity outside, nothing I can feel. Want me to go check?

  Her heart was pounding; he could feel it in his own chest. No, I want you to stay right where I can see you, angel. Not letting you out of my sight, remember?

  Oh yeah. This time she did smile. He had to swallow dryly, though his attention didn't waver. Damn, the woman was dangerous to his self-control.

  "Rehabilitated,” Holgrave swallowed so hard his throat actually clicked. “You're rehabilitated, your identities wiped clean. We want you to work for us, legitimately. No Zed, no electroshock, no torture."

  "And if we don't want to?” Del felt his entire body go cold. It had to be a trick. Had to be.

  "Then you're free. As long as you don't make waves or work for a foreign power, you're free as birds.

  That's the deal. It's all in the briefcase."

  Barry's eyes were as round as plates. He wasn't trying to struggle, but he did crane his neck to look at Rowan, pleading. He thinks she might stop me if I get crazy and decide to kill him.

  "It's true,” Barry said suddenly, shifting in the chair. Del hadn't been gentle in taping him down.

  Del uncocked the hammer. “Ro?"

  He's telling the truth, and I don't think he's been tampered with. A faint line was etched between her eyebrows.

  "What's the catch?” And don't lie to me, he thought privately, keeping it from her with an effort. He paced back to Rowan at the door, took the wallet, and glanced through it. If it was a fake, it was better than any other fake he'd seen. Lie to me and not even your own mother will recognize you.

  "Some of the Sigma infrastructure is still operating, lots of the operatives were taken by the private sector. We want you to hunt down whoever bought them. We're recruiting Daniel Henderson, too. We want you to work with us."

  I doubt Henderson would give these guys the time of day, Del thought, not bothering to shield the thought from her. He dropped the wallet on the floor, dispelling the urge to strip the cash from it. They weren't hard-up yet. And if they ever were, a few nights in the underside of any city, a few drug dealers relieved of their bankrolls, and they could move on to the next town. Rowan didn't like it ... but she wasn't the naïve idealist she used to be either. Get what you want, angel. We're leaving.

  Her shoulders slumped. I'm so tired of this. “So now everything's supposed to be all right?” she asked, softly. “Now that you need us, that is. Where were you when Sigma was killing innocent people and turning others into animals?"

  Holgrave didn't even have the grace to look ashamed. He simply blinked at her as if she was speaking a foreign language. “I wasn't a part of it, ma'am. I didn't know."

  I'll deal with this, Del reminded her. Go on, sweetheart. He crossed the black-and-white squares of the kitchen linoleum, eyed the man, and heard Rowan padding away behind him. She would get the bags they'd packed for emergencies, but probably not the briefcase. The risk was just too high. She moved very quietly, and he reminded himself she was armed and well-trained—as well-trained as he could make her in such a short time. Besides, her mind was linked to his. If she ran across anything he would know.

  "We'll see if what you're saying is true,” he said finally, tearing off another strip of duct tape. Holgrave's eyes widened. “We'll even call the cops to come rescue you from your little throne there. You can tell them whatever you want, but you take this messa
ge back to whoever you run for, dog. If I even sense another one of you behind us there won't be any warning. Clear?"

  "What are you going to—"

  Del smoothed the duct tape over the man's mouth. “You can breathe?"

  Holgrave nodded frantically. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and the rank smell of fear was suddenly overwhelming. Fear, and a sweet chemical scent he recognized. Idiot deadhead, thinking he could sneak up on them. Just as idiotic to wear Aramis on a job like this.

  "Now, do you fucking understand what I told you? Don't send anyone else unless you intend to lose ‘em.

  Clear?” Delgado smiled into the man's face, a hard delighted smile that didn't reach his eyes. “'Cause I want it clear as crystal ."

  More frantic nodding. Delgado nodded back reflectively, studying the man. Holman obviously thought he was contemplating murder, because the agent shook his head, sweat rolling down his face. The pale gray light from the window fell over the entire kitchen, the dishes Rowan had bought, and a copy of Leaves of Grass lying open on the table where she had been reading before leaving the apartment this morning.

  Justin? Let's go. She sounded sad.

  He took the time to pick up the African violet from the windowsill. It might not survive the trip, but he wanted Rowan to have it. And if anyone could keep it alive, she could. When he got to the entry hall, stepping around the knocked-over table, he saw the two duffels. Rowan ducked through the strap of her kitbag and settled it on her hip, then pulled on her gloves. Set near the door was a neat leather briefcase with gold clasps.

  Dammit, Rowan, there could be something in there. There was no heat to the words, since she wouldn't have picked it up without scanning it.

  She shrugged. Curiosity, my besetting sin. Come on, let's go. It's a shame. I really liked this place.

  Del privately agreed. He, too, was getting a little tired of running. Oh, well, at least we won't hear the neighbors anymore. I'd rather have you safe, angel.