A sigh, and he murmured, "Good night, anama."
I smiled into his hair. We hadn't exactly been having Elvish lessons, but I had picked up a few phrases from him, and that particular term was one I loved: it was one of their seven words for "friend," and the one that held the connotation of two people connected at the spirit, something between "friend" and "soul mate." The other word he used for me, fedela, was more like “friend with benefits.”
No matter how bad things got and no matter how drained I was by my weird new life, that made it all worthwhile…for now.
*****
Of course, it was hard to remember the contentment of wandering off into dreams with one’s lover when standing up for the third hour in a row, gigantic headphones covering my ears and shatterproof goggles over my eyes, with my foot throbbing dully and my arms practically shrieking in pain, trying yet again to get a small lead projectile to actually hit a target and not the wall.
On weekends the shooting range was open to anyone who wanted to practice, or to special sessions above and beyond the schedule. That Sunday I'd gotten a mad whim to come see what I could do without a vampire breathing down my neck, and so far, the answer was "absolute dick."
I was getting angry, which even I knew was a sign I shouldn't be in here anymore.
Beck had tried me out on a variety of guns, but the one I really needed to learn on was the standard-issue SA handgun, a 9-millimeter semiautomatic something-or-other. I knew I was supposed to remember the specifics, as there were at least a dozen different varieties of firearm I'd have to at least practice on, but Beck had been mildly comforting when she had told me that when I got out in the field, being a psychic Agent I'd most likely only have to carry this one, and even then I probably wouldn't have to use it except in a dire emergency. Psychics didn't go out alone, and it was considered the responsibility of their team to protect them.
"Think of it this way," she'd said. "You've actually already shot more people than most Agents ever do."
Very funny. I still, however, had to pass the course and the test.
That wasn't looking terribly likely at this point.
I looked at the gun in my hand, still baffled that I was holding a piece of equipment that could, with one squeeze of the trigger, end a life. I'd heard a lot of people talk about how powerful they felt using one of these, and in movies whoever had the guns was the one in charge. Was it having power over life and death? Was it having an extension of the penis metaphor, all very Freudian? Was it the societal-encoded sense of authority and danger given to anyone who could kill so easily, so thoughtlessly? It always looked so effortless on film. Hell, it even looked effortless when Beck pumped bullets into a target.
But it wasn't like that, not for me. I felt wrong, like an impostor. And the truth was, Jason was right—if I couldn't pull the trigger I had no business in the field. This was law enforcement, not a video game. These were real bullets, and chances were one of these days that human-shaped target at the far end of the range was going to be a living, breathing person, or at least a demon.
My eyes moved from the gun down to my bandaged foot. Real blood, real pain. I'd barely even hit myself, too—a bad graze, with the bullet ricocheting off the wall and lodging itself in the door. Beck had been livid, but had also laughed her ass off at me hopping around crying, as she hit the emergency button and summoned the medical staff. Even something as ridiculous as shooting oneself in the foot got full attention down here. There were incident reports filed by Beck, Dr. Nava, and me and signed off on by my counselor. Every round fired from every weapon registered to the SA had to be accounted for.
Real blood. And next time it might not be a graze, or my foot, or even me.
I set the gun down on the bar in front of me and pulled off the protective gear, suddenly fighting back tears. It was all too much. Any semblance of a normal life had been sucked out of me, but I wasn't fit for anything extraordinary—the best I could hope for was to end up in dispatch instead of Admin. A couple of months ago that would have been enough for me, but now, I was as confused about myself as Rowan was.
Add to that, the night before had been bad, worse than I was ready to deal with after the calm of Friday night. I'd had to give him a double dose of morphine to fight off the pain, and even then he'd shaken and cried out, not recognizing me or anything around us, lost in flashbacks and searing agony. I hadn't slept. It had been a stupid idea to come here, but I was restless and unhappy and needed something to do, and unless it was an emergency there was a 12-hour waiting period on off-base passes.
The last couple of people in the range had left, and I was alone, just me and a gun in a long narrow lane with a still-untouched target at the end. I leaned back against the wall, wiping sweat off my forehead with a trembling hand, and before I knew it I was sinking, sliding down to the cold concrete floor, crying into my arms, leaning on my knees.
I don't know how long I was there before I heard the door open, but I started and looked up through my tears, feeling my heart sink even lower.
SA-7, still in full uniform complete with coat and weaponry, stood in the doorway, watching me impassively, as if he stumbled across weeping women every day.
We stared at each other for a long moment, and I expected him to reprimand me or at least tell me smugly to get up and go cry in my quarters, but instead, he walked up to the bar and picked up the gun I'd been shooting, looking it over.
I saw him smile, and he looked over at me, holding up the gun in one hand and the clip in the other. "You unloaded it."
I nodded, confused. "So?"
"So, you're learning."
I shrugged. "Not enough. I'm sorry. I just don't think I can do this."
"Come here."
I forced myself to my feet, and over to his side, where he took the ear protectors and put them back on my head, then the goggles. He lay the gun back down where it was, then moved to stand behind me; I felt his hands on my shoulders, light but strong.
There was a sort of tap at the back of my mind, and I realized he had opened a telepathic channel to me; I was too astonished not to reciprocate, and his voice, commanding but somehow soothing, filled my mind.
[Pick it up.]
I frowned. "Don't you need protective stuff too?"
[You can't damage a vampire's hearing. Now pick it up.]
I obeyed, and loaded it, not sure where he was going with this but frankly amazed that he was a) touching me, b) allowing me close enough to even hear him mind-to-mind, and c) being nice to me, sort of.
[Now. When you raise energy and move it, how does it work?]
I didn't put it into words, but the images were easy enough to show him. Raising energy was as natural to me as grounding, but worked in the opposite direction—grounding, I anchored myself to the Earth, whereas what he wanted me to show him was how I brought energy out of myself and into the universe to work magic.
[But it still starts with grounding,] he pointed out, displaying a familiarity with energy work that I wouldn't have expected. [So ground, Witch.]
Easier said than done with a vampire less than a foot from my throat, but I wasn't an amateur at this; I brought my awareness back to my breath, and let it calm me, following it in and out. Within moments my tears and anger had dropped to a manageable level. It was a bit embarrassing that I'd let it get so out of hand.
[Good. Now follow my lead, and breathe.]
Images and sensations flowed into me, implanting knowledge the same way Rowan did, but this wasn't some rarefied psychic discipline taught through my body, it was a purely physical lesson taught through the mind. I'd had no idea Jason was so powerful.
I let his mind wrap around mine, and partially surrendered control of my body. My stance changed, relaxed; I breathed slowly and deeply, and on the outbreath squeezed the trigger; and before I could even spare a single concrete thought, a half-dozen tiny explosions erupted through my arm, and I was staring at a human shape with six holes in it.
"Oh my god."
; [Again. Seek your ground, and from there, breathe and release.]
I did it again.
And again.
And again, this time without him prompting me.
They weren't excellent shots, by any means, but they all hit the target. My heart was in my throat, and I was sweating buckets from maintaining the contact, but I was fighting off tears again, this time of relief.
"I'm not hopeless," I panted. "I don't believe it."
He took the gun from me, and without even looking at the target, held out his arm sideways and fired a single shot through the center of its forehead.
I gulped.
He smiled. "Eventually you'll be able to do that. But for now, work with what you've learned today. You had a mental block against this and it should have been addressed. Hopefully now that the basics are in your mind you'll be able to come to terms with this part of the job. You’re focusing too much on the negative aspects and not on what you’re really doing: protecting innocent people from those who would harm or exploit them. Believe me, Sara, if there’s a way to avoid shooting someone, we find it. Well, most of us do."
"Why didn't Beck teach me that way?"
"Beck is not a powerful telepath. She can receive, as from the Ears, but her projection is weak without technological backup. She wasn't trying to make life hard for you—if I'd known you were having this kind of trouble I would have stepped in earlier."
"Would you have?"
Again, our eyes met, and I sensed a challenge, one I wasn't stupid enough to rise to. I looked away first.
"What you do in your private time is not my business," he said flatly.
"But it's not like that," I insisted. "I swear."
"I'll leave you to sign out; I'm sure you know the procedure by now."
He turned to walk away, and I grabbed his arm, not thinking until it was too late that that might not be the brightest idea in the world.
He looked down at his arm and my hand, then up at my face, and his blue eyes were ringed with silver. Oh, that had to be a bad, bad sign. "Let go," he said, and though he was perfectly calm, there was frost in his voice.
"Please, just listen to me. Please."
I dropped his wrist and stepped back, and he glared at me for a moment before crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow. "All right."
I found that, with him standing there, waiting for an explanation, I had no idea what to say. The brief moment of shared purpose between us had vanished, and the wall had slammed back down. I was facing an alien creature, a stranger.
"It's not what you think. It's not love. I mean, it is, but not that kind. I don't even really know what to call it, but…god, I'm saying this wrong." I sounded like an idiot, and worst of all, my eyes were burning again. A hot tear, and another, ran down my cheek, and I knew I was turning red—it was even more humiliating than shooting myself in the fucking foot. Here I was, a grown woman, trying to defend my sex life to an armed man old enough to be my great-grandparent.
I broke down again, turning away, balling up my fists and pressing them into my closed eyes. "You don't understand," I managed. "It hurts. It hurts so much and I'm so tired, and everyone hates me, and there's nobody I can tell. And you're probably going to fire me now anyway and you know, I'm starting to think that's a good idea, because I'm just fucking it all up, and…and I don't even know if I'm really helping him. It's so awful. I'm so tired. I'm sorry."
All of that came out in halting gasps between sobs, and I waited for derisive laughter or impatience, wishing the ground would swallow me. How long had I wanted a place to belong? And now that I’d found something to be a part of, it turned out I wasn’t good enough. It was the same story I’d written for myself half a dozen times since I ran away from home, and I knew how it was going to end.
I wish I could describe how shocked I was when I felt his arms around me, but there really aren't words. The smell of sweat and smoke and wool, along with something beneath it that was impossible to define but very old, hit me with the force of a brick wall, and I clung, desperate, burying my face in the cool skin of his neck and bawling like an abandoned toddler. I felt something cold and hard jab into my hip, and my brain vaguely assured me it was in fact a pistol and not a penis, which would have been funny if I could have laughed.
I cried, and cried, and he simply stood there holding me, arms and coat both wrapped around me like protective wings. I hadn't known what to say, but as it turned out I didn't need to—I only had to let him see.
Understanding dawned, and the arms tightened almost fiercely.
Finally, finally, I caught my breath, but I simply didn't have the strength to drag myself back to calm. Again, I felt the mental touch, and something else unexpected happened: warm, liquid relaxation poured into me, the same as that first night I'd been brought here, but with a different flavor. Rowan's energy was vibrant and gentle, touched with water and the taste of fresh-turned earth; Jason's was dark and sweet, like old wine kissed with fire. I felt myself tumbling from consciousness, and I might have fought it, but the relief was so intense that I surrendered, my body going limp, caught and lifted up and carried into the welcoming dark.
*****
I woke in my own bed, and the first thing I saw was Jason, sitting in the chair in the corner with Pywacket curled up and purring loudly in his lap. There were candles burning, as well as a stick of incense on my dresser. The Agent was still in uniform and even as odd as the juxtaposition was between him and the scene, he was almost unbearably attractive, at home in his body in a way I could never be.
"I owe you an apology," he said.
I sat up, pulling the comforter around me. I was in a pair of sweats and a tank top—he'd changed me at some point. That thought was far less disturbing than it would have been if I’d thought for a minute he cared one way or the other. I shrugged.
"I didn't think I was the jealous type," he went on, "but apparently I am. It was unprofessional of me."
My eyes hurt. In fact I hurt pretty much all over, and my foot was killing me. Dr. Nava had prescribed some Vicodin but I had avoided them for the most part since they made me groggy. Right now a bit of grog might be just what the doctor ordered.
Jason inclined his head toward the bedside table, and I saw he'd found my prescription bottle and set it there along with a glass of water. I cast him a grateful look and fumbled the bottle open.
He watched, and I sensed he was fighting with himself about what to say or not to say to me, but after a pause he said, "I'm in love with Rowan. You know that."
I smiled a little. "I know."
"Then you probably figured out that he was the Elf I told you about that evening in my office."
"Yeah."
"So I'm well aware of what he's been through. I've seen it. I'm not a strong empath, but I felt it. And I know that I can't help him, not the way you can."
I nodded. "Not yet. He's so afraid. Right now, I don't think he could handle being with a man, even if it was someone he loved, like you."
Jason stared at me, eyes widening, and I realized what I'd said.
"Shit," I sighed. "I can't seem to do anything right, can I." Seeing the absolute and utter shock on his face, I couldn't help but giggle. It wasn't really an expression that one would anticipate ever seeing in an immortal. On Jason it was nothing short of hysterically funny—he looked like someone had hit him in the back of the head with a fencepost.
"Well, it's just dumb for you two not to know anyway. It's so cliché, kind of soap-opera with a bit of Shakespearean comedy-of-errors thrown in. But you're both already hurting enough over each other. I'm not going to make it worse. He loves you. Completely. But the problem is…okay, one problem is…his kind aren't supposed to get involved one on one; they're supposed to love everyone equally and serve everyone equally."
"His…his kind?" Jason could barely speak, but the need to know the truth was far too pressing.
"Yes. Among his people he's some sort of courtesan/healer type thing, a—"
"You know what rethla are?"
"After the SA sent Rowan here to Austin with Dr. Nava, I did some research on the Elven race. I'd heard of them but never seen a real one before, so I was curious. The archives didn't have much, but they did mention the rethla."
"So did you get transferred here on purpose because of Rowan?"
"No, I got transferred here because they lost their top two Agents and needed someone of my level to take over. Plus I'd been wanting to work here for years; Austin has a reputation as the best branch of the entire Agency." A slightly sheepish smile flickered on his lips. "The fact that he was here just made it that much more attractive."
The Agency, Volume I Page 16