She raised her eyebrows. “I didn’t know you were a musician.”
“Not many people do. It’s not something I share.”
“But you shared it with Rowan.”
He met her gaze evenly. “Yes.”
Nava smiled. “I see.” She slid the needle into Rowan’s skin, an act that made Jason’s stomach turn—he hated needles. Her deft hands replaced it with the IV, and she snapped in a bag of saline then switched the pump on. “I don’t suppose you could try it again?”
“I’m not sure it would help if he’s that drained.”
“Well, then, just talk to him. You might try feeding him energy if you have any to spare. You’re one of the few people here who knows how.”
“All right.” He scooted the chair up closer to the bed, and after a few more minutes of fussing over the monitors, Nava left them alone, reaching up to draw a curtain around the bed as she did so.
Jason watched the Elf breathe for a long moment before he said anything. Even pale and drawn, he was so beautiful, like Snow White in her glass coffin.
“Well, here we are,” he finally said. “Of all the times I’ve wished I could get you in bed, this isn’t really what I had in mind.”
He leaned closer, touching Rowan’s face, brushing his fingers over the Elf’s lips. “I don’t have any magical prayers or incantations to offer you, even if it would help. I don’t believe in much of anything…and I’m not a hundred percent sure what your people believe, either. Good god, I’m babbling. You've turned me into a babbling idiot.”
Jason touched his mouth to Rowan’s, then to his forehead, then to each closed eye, feeling lashes tickle his lower lip. “Just…believe this, if you can. I love you.”
He didn’t expect Rowan to simply wake up—whatever it looked like, this wasn’t a fairy tale. Jason shifted the chair so that he could lay his head against the Elf’s; he was too exhausted to try and do any sort of energy work, but perhaps if he had just a few moments’ rest, he could help. He wrapped his hand around Rowan’s wrist where he could feel the faint pulse beneath the skin, and relaxed for the first time that night, or as much as he could in a hard plastic chair.
“Don’t you dare die on me,” he murmured as he began to drift off. “If you do I might just stake myself and come after you so I can kick your ass.”
He would never be sure if he imagined the chuckle or not, but regardless, he was already too far gone to react, and merely smiled as he tumbled headlong into oblivion.
*****
Jason woke with an aching back and a numb left arm, and groaned—a sudden intrusion of bright fluorescent light signaled someone pulling the curtain back, and pain shot through his head. “Son of a bitch.”
Dr. Nava winced apologetically. “I didn’t realize you were asleep. You know, leaning like that is bad for your spine.”
He blinked at her, trying to clear his head. “I’ll take that under advisement.”
She checked the monitors again, and switched out the empty bag of saline for a new one. “Anything?”
“No.” Jason sat up straighter, twisting left and right to work the kinks out of his back; it would be fine in moments, but old habits died hard. He'd had back problems as a human, from lifting and hauling a variety of heavy loads, taking what jobs he could in a world that was hostile toward him for a variety of reasons. If he had stayed human he would probably have been crippled long before his hair went gray. “Anything on your end?”
“His temperature is holding steady, so I think we’re out of the woods for infection. That’s good. I think by morning I’ll be comfortable sending him to his own quarters for the duration.”
Relieved, Jason let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “And everyone else?”
“They vary,” she said heavily. “We’ve had four come out of it so far, and they’re stable. One woman has drifted in and out for a while but each time she’s lucid a little longer. That leaves eleven, and at least two I think we’ve lost for good.”
“Damn.”
“We knew the plan was iffy to begin with, but there was no time for anything else. The good news is that Frog found some encouraging information on Rosenberg’s recorder that he thinks he can use to synthesize a sort of vaccine. Rosenberg also left behind a lot of notes in his quarters—he didn’t anticipate being caught, so he hadn’t finished covering his tracks. Not much of a spy, in the end.”
“No,” Jason said with a sigh, “he was a doctor. Doctors make lousy spies. Have we heard anything about the warehouse where Doyle tracked his dealer?”
“You’ll have to ask Ness about that one. I’m out of the loop as far as that goes.”
“Have you slept at all?”
“Not yet. I’m the only senior doctor now—I’m probably going to recommend Dr. Lajavardi for a promotion, but I haven’t exactly had time to fill out the paperwork.”
He stood up, putting his hands on her shoulders, and stopped her frantic running about. “Dr. Nava, code off and go to bed.”
“I have to keep an eye on these people,” she returned impatiently. “When they wake up they need immediate care, and—“
“All right, then, go take a nap in one of the isolation rooms and have a junior doctor on guard with instructions to wake you the second a patient regains consciousness.” He gave her a stern look. “Do I need to call Ness?”
Nava ran her hands through her hair, clearly torn, but gave in. “I’ll call in Dr. Lyons. She’s good. I suppose you’re right—we’re mostly past the crisis point and it’s just a waiting game. Okay.”
Once he’d heard her on the phone summoning Dr. Lyons, Jason returned to his chair, yanking the curtain back around the bed to banish the painful light in his eyes.
She poked her head in long enough to say, “You should go to bed too, SA-7. You’ve been up just as long as the rest of us and under just as much duress.”
“I’m staying here until he wakes up. I’ll be fine.”
She started to say more, but he cut her off with, “Don’t order me, Dr. Nava. Please.”
The doctor pursed her lips, but said nothing, and disappeared again.
Jason was aware that, in addition to being worn out himself, he had to be a fright—he was still wearing the same uniform he’d had on when he and Rowan had left the base over 24 hours ago. Most of the lockdown had been during daylight—he’d scarcely been aware of the passage of time. He was pretty sure it was night again; if he wanted to be a responsible Agent he would turn his Ear back on, call Ness, and make himself useful.
He was not inclined to be responsible right now, and he couldn’t help but wonder at himself. It was not in his character to blow off the aftermath of an epidemic that had killed five people. His whole life had been devoted to the Agency. He should have been on his feet, coordinating the Agents, doing damage control. It was extremely disturbing that he didn’t want to even open the bed curtain until he could be sure Rowan was all right.
He took the Ear from his pocket and put it on in spite of his desire to throw it across the room. [Tanya, are you up?]
No answer, so he switched to broadcast to see if any of the Ears were on duty. Still no answer—the staff must still be confined to quarters. That was something of a relief, as it meant he hadn’t missed that much. He called the emergency channel and had it patch him through to the Situation Room.
[Ness?]
“SA-7, there you are. Still in the infirmary?” Ness didn’t sound like she had slept either.
[Yes. What’s our status?]
“Improving. I’ve got everyone on 12 more hours’ lockdown—we’ve got a lot of people going through withdrawals now that the Pentecost has worn off, and I want to be sure nobody does anything stupid to try and get more. Medics are making rounds of the halls."
[How’s the situation outside the base?]
“Quiet, thank God. We’ve only had two calls, and we managed to boot one back to the FBI for now. The other was a routine possession—Beck’s handling it.
I would recommend you code off and get some sleep; I sent Frog to bed an hour ago because he could barely keep his eyes open. He nearly blew something up.”
[I’ll do that soon. You’ll call if anything else goes wrong, won’t you?]
“Absolutely. How’s Rowan?”
[No change.]
“He’ll be all right, Jason.” Ness’s voice took on an almost maternal tone that sounded completely wrong coming from her—he’d heard her use it perhaps twice in all the time he’d known her. “He’s stronger than anyone here, even you.”
[I know. SA-7, out.]
He stripped off the Ear and dropped it on the table nearby—there, duty done with. No matter where he was in the base, if they needed him there were always ways to track him down. Surely they could get along without him for a little while. Ness had said as much.
He was also badly in need of blood. His jaw and teeth itched and burned, and his veins felt like they were coated in sawdust; the hunger could be ignored up to a certain point, after which it became nearly unbearable.
He heard footsteps, and stuck his hand through the curtain to grab the arm of whoever was walking by; it was a woman, who squealed and dropped something that sounded like a clipboard before opening the curtain.
“Yes?” the nurse asked, flustered and out of breath.
“I’m sorry to frighten you,” he said. “I need you to look in the cold room for a pint of blood, immediately.”
She eyed the Elf in the bed. “I should get a doctor to approve—“
“It’s not for him,” he interrupted. “Maybe I should introduce myself.” He extended his hand. “Shadow Agent 7.”
“Oh!” She looked at his hand like it was a snake, but shook it anyway, swallowing her initial reaction. “I’ll get it for you right away, sir. Um…does the type matter?”
“No. Whatever you have the most of will be fine.”
He closed his eyes; they, too, felt coated in dust, his lids heavy with weariness. He thought longingly of his bed, of the cool darkness and warm comforter, of a hot shower and clean clothes.
His thoughts wandered back to what seemed like a year ago—Rowan's quarters, that moment on the sofa, that kiss…the warmth of the Elf in his arms…his soft, sweet mouth…to hell with a shower, with sleep, with anything. Anything, to have a chance to feel that again, to see the light in Rowan's eyes. So close…after so much time, they were so close…
Jason barely had the energy to stay awake, but what little he had, he extended to the Elf, hoping against hope to reach him. There was no elegant way to do it in the state he was in—he held out his strength, offering, and if he could be heard in the darkness, he was calling, praying as much as he could pray, for an answer.
Something changed.
He lifted his head, staring, as the heart rate monitor beside the bed began to speed up, and the temperature indicator rose a tenth of a degree, then another, and another. His eyes darted to Rowan's hand—had it moved? Had he imagined it?
The fingers twitched, then flexed; there was a quiet groan, and Jason looked up in time to see Rowan's eyes flutter halfway open. They were glazed with weakness and confusion, peering up at the infirmary ceiling, but they were open, and after a few breaths their sun-kissed light focused on Jason.
"Welcome back," Jason said, his voice sounding harsh and disused in the silence.
"Idiot," Rowan whispered. "What…were you doing, giving me…all your energy…like that? Could've…killed you."
Jason smiled. "Sorry. I won't do it again."
"You should be in bed."
Jason couldn’t help it; he was laughing, as much from relief as humor. "What, you don't think it's terribly romantic, me waiting at your bedside for hours and hours as you convalesce?"
"Not…romantic…kind of rank. When was the last time you bathed?"
"Are you always this bitchy when you wake up?"
A smile, faint but genuine. "If you're lucky…you'll find out."
Jason leaned over and kissed his forehead, still chuckling. "I hope so."
He felt a light touch, and Rowan's hand, the one without the IV, traced the line of Jason's jaw.
Their eyes met, and Rowan said very softly, "I love you, too."
Jason caught the hand and kissed it, first each finger, then the palm. He laid Rowan's hand on his chest, then kissed the Elf's lips.
"Do something for me," Rowan whispered into his ear.
"Anything."
The Elf's tongue flicked against his earlobe, and Jason had the entertaining twin sensations of desire and hilarity as Rowan said, "For my sake, I beg you…go take a shower…and for the love of all that's holy, brush your damned teeth before you kiss me again."
Jason laughed all the way to the showers, and continued to smile for hours after that.
Part Fourteen
Life at the Agency stumbled back into its usual march within a week, and Sara had no real outlet for her bewildered sense that the world had changed profoundly and nobody seemed to have noticed.
She wanted a climax; she wanted some kind of grand finale. A big standoff, a shootout, a raid, something. Anything but life just…going on.
In the end there were eight deaths. Three people were taken away to a psychiatric facility, unlikely to return. The rest recovered, though the four Agency employee counselors were booked for months working with many of the victims. About sixty percent of the non-psychic victims had reported heavenly visions of angels, eternal joy, and bliss; the rest had nightmares and flashbacks, and some were on mood stabilizers, or at least antidepressants. Only time would tell how much of the damage was permanent.
Sara sat on the end of Rowan’s couch, curled up in a ball with her chin on her knees, while the Elf made use of one of his many skills—making excellent margaritas. He came back into the living room and handed her a glass, sitting down in his armchair carefully; he was still moving slowly, but had been cleared for active duty. He’d be working with some of the Pentecost victims, helping them with their shielding and any changes to their abilities. The drug had blown open a few people, leaving them more powerful in ways they weren’t prepared for.
Among those he would be helping was Sage. She had come back from her ordeal, but she wasn’t the same. Her telepathy had spiked to a level 5, beyond what she could handle so suddenly and painfully, and if she hadn’t been such a stable person she might have gone insane like the others. As it was, she couldn’t bake without bursting into tears, and blamed herself even despite everyone’s—including Ness’s—insistence to the contrary. She’d been given a week’s medical leave to regroup pending a meeting with SA-7, Dru, and the director of Food Service to discuss her career.
Needless to say, the Pagan Alliance’s Lammas ritual had been indefinitely postponed, both due to Sage, and to the fact that two other members were dead, one of them Dawn, the group’s leader.
“Gods, what a day,” Rowan said, licking salt from the rim of his glass before taking a drink. “I feel like I haven’t stopped running since noon.”
Sara sipped hers, wincing a bit at its strength but pleased nonetheless. “Did you hear about number 8?”
“Yes. I saw the body.”
Sara put a hand over her mouth. “God,” she said between her fingers. “Was it as bad as they said?”
“He was diabetic, and he hadn’t quit drinking since the Pentecost wore off. His blood alcohol level was so high he basically pickled himself from the inside out. After a bottle of vodka he decided he was going to get more of the drug at all cost. Kitchen staff found him on the floor dead; he’d eaten over a cup of sugar before going into shock.”
“Why did you have to see him?”
“They wanted me to be sure there weren’t any psychic traces of the drug still on him, just for safety’s sake. But they’ve switched suppliers for the bakery and Imperial issued a voluntary recall, so it was safe enough.”
“Imperial told the public it had a load of cursed sugar?”
He smiled. “No, they said
something about salmonella contamination. How you would get salmonella in a sugar plant, I have no idea, but it means that restaurants, stores, and bakeries all over town are dumping their sugar supplies and reordering. From here on out the Pentecost syndicate will probably stick to dosing pills. The dosage is too unreliable the other way.”
“Did Jason find anything at the warehouse?”
“Nothing. There was no evidence the place even had an underground room, let alone one that had been used as a drug lab. The place was clean, even psychically. Whatever his dealer was doing there, it wasn’t related.”
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