The Society

by Lilith Saintcrow

  It wouldn't be a problem if he wasn't so goddamn fascinated with her. He'd be able to keep a corner of himself reserved, evaluating, watching, moving from square to square in the game. The trouble was, he wanted her—badly. He didn't want to hide anything. If she turned those huge eyes on him and bit her lower lip in that absolutely charming way, he had the uncomfortable feeling he would be ... well, helpless. And if she ever let him into her life, really into her life, he would never want to leave. What would happen once they reached Headquarters and she found out he was a monster?

  Cross that bridge when we come to it, he thought. For right now, get some goddamn sleep, Delgado. Quit second-guessing yourself. Play it by the book and keep her right next to you for as long as you can.

  It was another ten minutes or so before he could tear himself away. He dropped down gratefully onto the other bed. Hearing her breathe quietly in the silence of a motel room, he fell into deep sleep, one corner of his mind monitoring the security perimeter. But right before he fell asleep it occurred to him that he was actually happy she was with him, and that she had nobody else to turn to.

  And that proved he was not a very nice guy.

  Chapter Twenty

  "Rowan,” he said, shaking her again. “Get up, angel. We've got to go."

  She made a sleepy sound of inquiry, then her eyes flew open. “What?” Her voice was a harsh croak.

  "It's okay. They haven't found us yet. But we have to go now. Here—” He gave her a fistful of cloth. “Clean clothes. Get dressed, use the bathroom. We've got to hurry."

  She was about to protest, but the back of her neck prickled. The instinctive feeling of danger approaching hit her, and she bolted out of the bed so quickly he actually stepped back. “Something's wrong,” she whispered, and grabbed the clothes. Her throat was on fire.

  "I know,” he whispered back. “Get dressed, angel. If anything happens, hit the ground and stay there. I'll come get you."

  She didn't bother to say anything, just ran for the bathroom. The room was dark, and she almost tripped over something laying on the floor. As soon as she reached the bathroom, sour heat rose in her throat, and she had to fight down nausea.

  She dressed quickly, splashed some water on her face, and wished she had a toothbrush. A moment's quick thought made her use the toilet too.

  When she finally came out, carrying the red sweater she'd been wearing, feeling a little bit more like herself with new clothes and underwear on, Delgado was standing by the window, watching the parking lot through the curtains. A single suitcase lay at his feet. “All ready?” he said.

  "I think so,” she replied, and the unreality of the situation walloped her. Her nape prickled, just as it had right before the men in black—he called them Sigs—had burst into her house and killed her father.

  I'm taking all this as a matter of course, aren't I? she thought, and nausea rose again.

  "Stay close to me,” Delgado said quietly. “And, Rowan, no matter what happens, I will find you and take care of you. All right?"

  She found her dry throat would barely work. “All right,” she husked. “But what if—"

  "But nothing,” he said. “If Sigma manages to get their hands on you, you just hold tight and wait for me. I'll come for you. Okay?"

  "Let's go,” she said. The tingling, prickling feeling of danger now ran down her back in waves. “I don't feel so good."

  "I'm not surprised. Here, your purse."

  She took it with numb fingers. He took the red sweater, bending down to stuff it in the suitcase at his feet. “Justin?"

  "Hmm?” He took one last look out into the parking lot and then picked up the suitcase, straightening. “Just stay close to me, that's all.” He sounded as if he was reminding himself, not her.

  Why are you doing this? she wanted to ask, but she knew why. She was valuable to their Society because of the freakish things she could do. Valuable to these other people too. Sigma. The people who shot and kidnapped and killed.

  What does Sigma stand for? she wondered. “What does Sigma stand for?"

  "Standard Integrative Intelligence Growth and Management Agency,” he said. “Go figure, right? You ready? Let's go."

  She followed him out the door and down an indifferently-carpeted hall. The elevators were to the right, but he chose the stairs instead. “Harder to get caught,” he murmured, as if reading her mind. “Stairs you can get off at any floor. An elevator—well, they can just pull a wire and have you trapped between floors."

  Rowan's mouth was desert-dry. “How can you think of all these things?"

  "Training. Wait a second.” He stopped short, and Rowan froze.

  Prickles ran up and down her back. She felt a headache beginning at the base of her skull, tightness turning into pain. “It hurts,” she said.

  "You're getting more sensitive. It happens. Just take a deep breath."

  Rowan reached out and grabbed his free hand. The electric prickles of his touch raced through her, up her back, chasing away the nausea and pain and replacing both with a strange light sensation—her heart hammering and her head spinning instead of hurting.

  He started again, pulling her down the stairs, his feet soundless. She tried to stumble along quietly behind him, failing miserably. The electric feel of his skin against hers intensified. She could tell he was concentrating on something.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Trying to keep us hidden,” he whispered back. “You're like a magnet, Rowan. A big one."

  "I'm sorry."

  "Don't worry. It's okay.” He squeezed her fingers slightly, ran his thumb over the inside of her wrist. “It's easier with you touching me. Just be calm, angel."

  Irritation rasped at her. “You keep calling me that,” she accused him.

  "I do,” he confirmed, as they reached the ground floor. “Hang on."

  She waited, looking at his broad back as he peered out the small window set in the metal door between the stairwell and the lobby.

  He cursed in a whisper, his fingers tightening on hers again. “Stay still. Breathe deep. Pretend you're invisible. Can you do that?"

  Rowan shut her eyes. I've been doing that since I was four years old, she thought, and concentrated.

  She dimly heard him let out a sharp breath.

  I'm not here, she thought. Ignore me. Your eyes slide right by me.

  There was a subliminal snap, as if something had broken under her temples, in the very center of her brain.

  Rowan?

  I'm here, she answered Justin's silent whisper.

  Good work. Let's go. He tugged on her hand again. She's so powerful. God, how did she learn how to—

  The blast of thought made her whimper, driving her teeth into her lower lip. She had gone too far, inadvertently touching him, sliding below the surface of his psyche to where the dark things in every human brain lived. In him it was something hard, cold, and fierce as an animal, but without an animal's unconscious harmlessness.

  The car door opened. “Let go,” he whispered. “You have to let go of my hand, angel. We can't stay here all night."

  Rowan blinked. Cold air touched her cheeks. She was perched in the passenger side of the car, Justin's fingers still tangled with hers. She made her hand uncurl, sliding free of the borders of his mind. Her head pounded.

  What did I just do? she thought.

  "You linked with me,” he said softly, and brushed a strand of hair back from her face. “Get your legs in the car. We've got to go. They're sweeping the hotel. We just missed them."

  Was that disbelief in his voice? Rowan numbly pulled her legs inside the car, and he shut the door, managing not to make much noise. In short order he was in the driver's seat, and she wondered what he'd done with the suitcase.

  The car's engine roused with a swift soft purr. He pulled out of the parking space, and within fifteen minutes they were cruising smoothly on the freeway. Rowan rested her head against the seatback and wondered why her hands were shaking.

 
"What was that?” she whispered, and he gave her a single dark-eyed glance.

  "That was two full Sigma teams,” he said. “They've got a tracker or something. Damn."

  "I'm sorry,” Rowan offered, inadequately.

  "Don't,” he said shortly, his eyes on the road, flicking up to the rearview mirror. “It's all right."

  Oddly enough, that made her feel better. If he said it was all right, she had no choice but to believe him.

  Something dropped on her hand. Rowan looked down. It was a tear.

  She scrubbed at her cheek with the back of her left hand. Stop it, she thought. Stop crying.

  He handed her the tissues again. “It's normal to cry, angel,” he said quietly. “Sometimes I wish I still could."

  "It felt horrible,” she whispered. “Whatever it was, it felt horrible. Something awful."

  "Definitely a tracker,” he replied. “They take remote-viewers and locators, and brainwipe them with Zed. Then they—"

  "I don't want to know.” Rowan's breath hitched on a sob. “Please. I don't want to know any more."

  "Sorry.” He watched the road, the rearview mirror. “I'm sorry, Rowan."

  "It's n-n-not your f-f-fault,” she whispered. “It's mine."

  "I already told you—” he began, but broke as lurid light drenched the inside of the car. “Oh, fuck. Rowan, I have to pull over. There's a cop behind us. Stay calm, okay?"

  "Oh, God.” Rowan balled the tissue up in her fist. “What if he recognizes me?"

  "I can handle this, Rowan,” he said, “but I need you to be calm, all right?"

  "All right.” Her throat ached with unshed tears and her ruined voice.

  He pulled over, slowing, and the cop whizzed past them in the left lane. Delgado let out a long, harsh breath. “Isn't that a piece of luck,” he said. “Good job back there, angel."

  "I didn't do anything,” Rowan said. “I'm useless."

  "Hardly. You threw them off the scent with that little invisible trick. You're a pro."

  A thread of pride bloomed in Rowan's chest. “You think so?"

  "I think so,” he replied. “Try to get some sleep, angel. I'm going to get us out of range. You did good work. I think we'll get out of this yet."

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I told her that to comfort her, Delgado thought grimly. They're tracking us. I don't know how, and I've got to figure out how to lock her down.

  She was like a beacon, apparently, especially without the dampers. If he hadn't set up countermeasures they would have been caught in the hotel room, and he didn't like the idea of fighting free of two full teams and a net. He wouldn't get out of that without shedding blood—his and theirs.

  Don't think about that, he thought as he drove. Dawn had broken, and Rowan had finally fallen asleep. What was he supposed to do? He'd never run an extraction with a psionic who couldn't be dampered before.

  I've either got to teach her something, or drug her until we get to Headquarters, he thought.

  He saw a blue Rest Area sign and decided to chance it. They had made good time.

  Rowan woke with a violent start as soon as he slowed down and took the exit. “What is it?” she gasped.

  "Easy there.” He applied the brakes, and they were soon neatly pulled into a parking spot. “Need a break. You should probably stretch your legs too."

  "I guess so.” She looked out the window at the trees and green grass, pulling at the collar of the white dress shirt. He'd given her a pair of jeans and the dress boots too. “I always wanted to come out this way. North."

  "We're actually northwest, but it's the same thing,” he said. “We'll double back east for a while after we get far enough north, and then hook down."

  She shook her head. “It might be best if you don't tell me,” she said dully. “If they catch us—"

  "Don't even worry about that.” She shouldn't be thinking about that; it was his job. “If they catch you, you tell them whatever they want to know. They might hold off on the Zed if you're compliant. You just wait for me to come get you."

  "What if you can't?” Her green eyes were dull. She tucked a strand of pale hair behind her ear and regarded him steadily.

  She definitely shouldn't be thinking about that, either. “Unless you see them decapitate me,” he told her evenly, “you can be sure I'll come and get you, Rowan. They trained me well. Maybe too well."

  "What did they do to you?” The colorless tone in her voice hurt even more than the dull lifelessness in her eyes.

  "Nothing I couldn't handle,” he lied, and unlocked his door. “Let me worry about Sigma, Rowan. That's my job. I promised Henderson I'd bring you in safely, and I promised you I'd take care of you. I don't promise things I don't do.” He raked stiff fingers back through his short hair.

  "I'm tired,” she said. “I don't want to do this."

  "Neither do I,” he replied. “I want to be back at Headquarters, with you safe and sound and learning whatever you want to learn to keep that talent of yours in check. That's what I want. Don't worry, Rowan. I'll take care of it."

  "I don't even know you,” she whispered, and that cut him all the way down to the bone.

  "You don't,” he agreed. “But you have to trust me, Rowan. I'll keep you safe, I promise."

  That earned him a bitter little laugh. “Oh, yes,” she said, “but safe from who?"

  Oh, shit, he thought. I've said the wrong thing. He decided to play a get-out-of-jail card. “I didn't tell anyone about your talent, Rowan, even though you used it on me. So you can probably trust me. And who gives you the willies more, me or Sigma?"

  She shrugged slightly, her breasts moving underneath the white cotton. He tried not to think about that, or about the dress boots and how they would make her legs look even longer. Or about the fact that he'd handled the bra she was probably wearing.

  That was the wrong thought to have, too, but her face eased a little as he studied her.

  "I suppose them,” she said. “Every time they get near, my head starts to hurt."

  Understanding hit him, right between the eyes. They might be using a scanlock on a migmeter. Of course. She's high enough on the scale that they can do it. Christ, why didn't I think of that?

  "Oh,” he said. “I might be able to fix the problem, then. Come on, let's take a break and then figure out where to find some decent coffee, all right?"

  She nodded, a little color coming back into her cheeks. “I'm sorry,” she said abruptly. “I know you're not like them. I'm just tired."

  That made him smile, unfamiliar amusement tilting up the corners of his mouth. “It's okay, Rowan. We're both tired. I'd be surprised if you didn't distrust me."

  She reached for her door handle, and he grabbed her wrist without thinking. Electricity poured down his spine. “Wait for me,” he said softly. “Okay?"

  She shrugged, pulling her wrist free of his fingers. He let her go reluctantly, then opened his own door. Crisp, cold morning air poured into the car.

  She did wait for him to come around and open her door. But when she got out, she didn't look up at him. Instead, she set off for the low stone building that served as the rest area.

  Delgado let her go.

  He followed her up the slight hill and used the men's room, then came out and waited for her, leaning against the hood of the car. Metal popped and pinged, cooling. He would have to get gas soon, and coffee, and figure out how to extract himself from the mess of things he'd made with her.

  When she finally came out of the women's restroom, she picked her way down the walkway on the hill with deerlike grace. He'd been right—the dress boots suited her very well. Her pale hair caught fire in the morning light, and she swept it back over her shoulder as she scanned the deserted parking lot, looking worried and exhausted—and incredibly lovely. Delgado's heart bolted inside his ribs. She saw him, and the sigh of relief she gave was audible even to him

  Oh, man. I am in so much trouble.

  He was involved. It was the one thing
that should have never happened to him—he was too damaged once Sigma finished with him. He shouldn't have been able to feel a goddamn thing. But there it was.

  "Ready to go?” he asked. “I need to look at the map and figure a few things out."

  She nodded. “I want something to tie my hair back with.” But she smiled at him, too, and that weary smile made something funny happen inside his chest. Not to mention his head.

  "I put everything in the trunk,” was his lame reply. “Standard procedure, you know—just carry one bag with you. Makes it easier."

  She nodded, then looked at him expectantly. After a moment, he realized she was patiently waiting for him to open up the trunk so she could find a rubber band or something. “Oh,” he managed. “Sorry. Here.” He peeled himself up from leaning on the hood, and she followed him around to the back. “We'll be okay, Rowan. I figured out how they're tracking us, and a few minutes with my kit and some copper wire will fix it.” Shut up, you fool.

  "Copper wire?"

  "You get a headache when they get close, right? Means they're probably using a migmeter—a Matheson electronic signature reader linked to a computer chip. It doesn't work outside of a certain radius, but inside that radius it's pretty effective—and untraceable unless the subject has telepathic ability."

  She looked down at the suitcases. “Which one has an elastic?"

  "Try the blue duffel, it's got bathroom stuff in it. Anyway, a little copper wire and a little concentration will throw off the—"

  "I don't want to know,” she said, digging in the blue duffel. “Please."

  He took a deep breath. “I've got to teach you something, Rowan. Either we have to get you buttoned down or—"

  "Or what?” She reached up, gathering her hair behind her head. He had to look down at the pavement.

  "Or if you wanted, we could sedate you until we get to Headquarters. I don't want to do that."

  "Sedate me with what?"

  "A form of Demerol usually works."

  "Do you have any?"

  "Some."

  "Fine.” She made a ponytail with a few quick, efficient movements. “I think I need it. I don't want to do this, Justin. I think I'm in shock."