"I think you are too.” He closed the trunk with a sharp sound. “Are you sure, Rowan?"
"Can we get in the car and get this over with?” The dull listless tone was back in her voice. His chest ached. She was hurting too badly to feel any fresh pain. It was a defense mechanism—one he understood and had suffered himself—but it made his guts twist to think of her going through this.
"Rowan—"
"Please.” Now she looked up at him, her eyes brimming with tears, and he found himself swallowing roughly.
"Okay,” he said, and privately cursed himself. He should have listened to the voice of efficiency instead of his fucking conscience. If he'd done what he wanted to do she would have been emotionally attached to him by now, instead of deep in listless shock. “Whatever you need, angel. Let's go."
Chapter Twenty-Two
Rowan took the pill he gave her, and twenty minutes later reality retreated into dim fuzz. She curled into herself and watched the world slip by, uninterested.
She didn't know where he got the pills from. She didn't care. She only cared that he gave them to her without demur. He stopped for food at restaurants and supermarkets, told her when to go to the bathroom and stood guard outside the door while she did. She didn't know or care how he was taking care of himself during that time. All she cared about was the warm blanket of chemical numbness wrapping around her.
She didn't know how long it was, that zigzagging cross-country journey. She only remembered dim fragments—leaning against Justin's shoulder while he talked to her in a low voice, telling her something important that she couldn't quite remember. His fingers laced through hers, leading her up a flight of stairs. A warm touch on her forehead while she lay, her eyes firmly shut, in yet another hotel bed.
There were other flashes—him swearing as the car bucked and shuddered, her own thin breathless scream. A dim intimation of danger as they slipped out the back of a Chinese restaurant, Justin saying something over his shoulder as they vanished into the night.
Then there was a long time of nothing, not even flashes.
A single image etched itself into Rowan's memory. Justin, blood sliding down his face, holding the knife. Don't move, Rowan. Justin whirling, his hand coming up, a roaring sound—and the constriction on her arm eased. She didn't look, just closed her eyes, and heard him swearing. Goddamn it, Rowan, talk to me.
Another long time of no flashes. She simply abdicated control.
"What the hell happened to you?” A vaguely familiar voice, sharp and crisply authoritative.
"I just ran a goddamn Sig gauntlet.” Justin sounded exhausted. Rowan leaned against his shoulder, her eyes drifting closed, and the world turned into meaningless colored blurs. “They had the whole damn western half of the country in an uproar. I saw Andrews. He says hello."
"Jesus. What's wrong with her?” Now the voice held an edge. “Delgado?"
"Nothing, she's just sedated. Asked for it. Look, General, I've got to tell you—"
"Save it. Get her in a room and get your ass up to Four East. I need you. You're late."
"I told you, I just dragged through every fucking Sig you've ever heard of. They want her bad."
"How well trained is she by now?"
"Just some basic shit. You know you can't do much when they're sedated. What crawled up your ass and died?"
"I just had to live for three weeks without my right hand, that's all. What the hell's wrong with you?"
"Don't push me, General. I'm in a mood. I've got news for you. Give me a few minutes and you can have my full attention."
Slight pause. Sound of a hand meeting shoulder, a male greeting. “Good to have you back."
Darkness closed over Rowan. She felt Justin catch her as she swayed.
Rowan came back to herself slowly, lying in a bed. She stared up at a plain white ceiling for a long time before realizing she wasn't alone in the room, and also realizing that the strange naked sensation was back, but oddly muted this time.
Dampers. He'd said something about dampers. And his voice inside her head, teaching her. Showing her things. How to shield herself, how to keep herself separate from the world around her—and also how to keep them from seeing her, how to redirect people's attention away from her more efficiently than pretending to be invisible.
Rowan blinked, pushing her hair back from her forehead with a limp hand. She was bone-tired. “Justin?” she whispered.
"I'm here,” he said, softly. The room was dark, the ceiling softly glowing in the dimness. He was a shadow with a glimmering pair of eyes. “Just take it easy. You're groggy from the sedation. It'll wear off. I gave you a system flush to get it out of you, so you probably feel tired."
"Are we safe?” she asked, trying to clear her head. He was wearing dark clothing. She could see a paleness glimmering on his left arm.
"Of course,” he said. “We're at Headquarters. They're working on the dampers now, but it's no problem. You're safe, angel."
"Why is it so dark?"
"It's three in the morning. Close your eyes, and I'll turn on the light."
She obediently closed her eyes, wondering if she would fall asleep again. Light bloomed painfully against her eyelids, she was glad he'd warned her. She felt emptied, swept out. Strangely clean.
Finally, blinking her watering eyes, she managed to prop herself up on her elbows and look at him.
He had a white bandage tied around his left arm, and a row of stitches along his forehead. “God,” she said. “What happened to you?"
"Just a little mix-up with an old friend.” One corner of his mouth quirked up. His face looked oddly familiar—of course, she thought. How long have I been with him?
"How long—"
"Two and a half weeks. It took a little time.” He shrugged, leaning against the wall.
Is he using the wall to hold himself up? “Are you all right?"
The question seemed to surprise him. At least, he seemed to consider it carefully before his flat eyes returned to hers. “I think I'll make it,” he said quietly. “It was a bit touchy there for a while. I almost thought they'd manage to get us both."
That piece of news made Rowan's heart thunder against her ribs. Her mouth went dry. “Sigma?"
"Sigma.” He shrugged again and winced slightly as if the movement hurt him.
"You look like hell,” she informed him.
"I probably do. I think I should get some rest."
"I'm sorry,” she began, but he shook his head.
"You kept me on my feet, Rowan. I'm sorry, for not taking better care of you. But it's over, and we're at Headquarters, and we're safe for now. So I'm going to catch some sleep."
Rowan sighed, forcing herself to sit up all the way. She was wearing a T-shirt and sweats, her hair was tangled, and she felt crusty-eyed and dry-mouthed. “What should I do?” she asked, and hated the way that sounded—as if she was too stupid to figure it out.
"You can just roam around, however you like,” was his reply. “I've keyed the door to you, so it'll open for either of us. Anyone you meet will be able to help you if you get lost. I'm sorry, Rowan, but I've got to get some sleep."
Shame gnawed at her. “Oh. Okay.” Abruptly she wished for more pills to make all this uncertainty go away. “Justin?"
He dropped into a big, shabby orange armchair set next to a rickety round table holding a dark-blue glass lamp. “Hm?"
"Thank you,” she said quietly. She didn't really have the words to thank him for what he'd done.
"No problem, angel. Anytime.” And just like that, he tipped his head back against the back of the plush chair and seemed to fall instantly asleep. He was freshly-shaved, but he looked gaunt, and there were huge dark circles under his eyes.
I wonder if he slept at all during that entire time, Rowan thought. Two and a half weeks? Did I hear that right? She glanced around, taking in the room.
Long heavy drapes were closed over what could have been a French door. There was also a draped window. The floo
r was hardwood. Other than the bed she was occupying and the armchair and table, the room was bare except for a steel bookshelf in one corner and their suitcases piled near the door. I don't think much of their decorating, she thought, and stretched, yawning. She felt tired, true, but also clear-headed for the first time since the attack in the parking lot.
Her father had still been alive then.
Rowan's heart clenched inside her chest. She studied Justin's weary face in the light from the lamp.
What am I going to do now? she thought. What would Daddy do?
She shivered. The room was just slightly chilly, and the naked feeling from what they called dampers was pressing against her skin. And the electric prickles that told her she was near him.
Justin. He was either asleep or faking it so well she couldn't tell.
Rowan slid her feet out of the bed. First things first, she thought. I've got to take a shower. Then I should find something to eat.
PART TWO
Chapter Twenty-Three
Delgado woke all at once, snapping painfully into full consciousness. The chair squeaked as he bolted to his feet, the knife hilt in his hand.
The long, trailing psychic scream came again, loaded with despair and pain. Someone in the infirmary was having another nightmare.
Rowan was already up out of bed, and by the look on her face, still half asleep but moving. She hit the door at a run, bare feet shushing over the hardwood; he was right behind her. He was so close that a long strand of her hair brushed his cheek before he matched his pace to hers. She ran down the hall and took a sharp right, having been here long enough to find her way even in her sleep. He had time to admire the clean economy of her stride before she took another sharp right and bolted into the infirmary, slowing only slightly.
The young boy sitting on the bed was blank-eyed and white-faced, his mouth open. He inhaled to scream again, and Rowan skidded to a stop right next to his bedside. Two other patients were beginning to sit up and reach for their bedside tables, and another two lay sedated and sleeping soundly.
Rowan grabbed the boy's hand. His inhale stopped, and for one long breathless second Delgado waited, ready to move if the boy exploded into motion. The kid was only eleven, but he was wiry and terror would give him strength. Last time he'd had a nightmare like this he'd almost clocked Rowan a good one; would have, if Del hadn't grabbed his arm.
Then the child exhaled, his eyelids drooping. “Rowan?” he slurred.
"It's me,” she replied. There was no trace of sleep or impatience in her voice. There never was, when she was working with the wounded. “Just relax, Bobby. I'm here."
"It's so dark,” the boy whimpered, his face crumpling. Delgado scanned the infirmary. He was glad his room was so close to this ward, used for the most critical cases. It was the only place Rowan actually seemed content.
"It's Rowan,” a thin woman with a bandaged head whispered to the other conscious patient, a stocky man with incredible sideburns who was hooked up to an IV. “Go back to sleep."
"Hard to sleep with all the ruckus,” the man growled back. “Hey, Del."
"How's it going, Boomer?” Delgado answered. Boomer had been shot in the gut by a Sigma team in Las Vegas.
"Shitty,” Boomer replied promptly.
"Watch your language,” Eleanor said sharply. “There're kids here."
"It's all right,” Rowan said softly, almost crooning. “I'm here, Bobby. Tell me about it. What happened?” As usual, she showed no trace of impatience. Del supposed she'd had a lot of practice dealing with terror at the mental hospital.
"They've heard worse,” Boomer said.
"Let her work, Boomer,” Eleanor chided him.
"It's so d-dark,” Bobby said. “There's a spider hanging from a helicopter. The helicopter looks funny. Then they're inside the house, and it's dark."
The tension in Delgado's shoulders eased slightly. He scanned the infirmary one more time and decided nobody was lurking between the beds. He was dragging up a chair for Rowan when the night nurse Emily arrived, holding a mug of coffee. She saw them and stopped, her mouth rounding into a soft “O” of surprise.
"We heard him,” Del told her. “It's all right. Everyone's okay.” Where the hell were you, you dilettante? You're always off doing something else when you should be paying attention on your shift. Wish we had more medical personnel so we could put you on the kitchen roster. You deserve it.
"I just went for coffee,” she whispered. “Everyone was sleeping."
"It's okay,” Del said again. Coffee my ass. Were you playing grabsies with that lanky guy from Eric's team again? You should have been in here at your post.
"Christ, I'd need coffee too,” Boomer growled. Eleanor shushed him. The Sigs had captured her team and had almost washed her with Zed before another team could get to her. Following a short, vicious firefight, Eleanor had been the only one of her team left alive.
"Bobby,” Rowan said, “I'd like to help you, the way I did before. Can I?"
The little boy, shivering, gazed up at Rowan's face with open adoration.
Delgado knew the feeling. You wouldn't know that he saw his family murdered right in front of him, barely escaped the Sigs, got caught again, and then got scooped up by us during transport. It's a wonder he doesn't have more nightmares, he thought, and a cool finger touched his nape. Rowan didn't take the chair he dragged up to the bedside, but she might later.
"Oh, sure,” Bobby said. “Like you did when I got here?"
"Just like that, kiddo. Feels like it was years ago, doesn't it?” Rowan eased herself down so she was sitting on the bed, still holding Bobby's hand. The boy curled down against his pillows, nestling into the covers. The IV taped to the back of his other hand would dispense another shot of antibiotic in twenty minutes or so, dealing with the infection from his weeks of wandering through city streets. His broken arm was still sealed in a cast. “I'll tell you a story, too, if you're awake afterward."
"Okay, Rowan.” Bobby grinned at her. He didn't even look at Delgado.
Del watched Rowan's profile as she smoothed the boy's fingers, then held his small hand in both of hers. Kids and adults alike, anyone in pain welcomed her attention. “Let's see,” she said, and a slight smile touched her lips. “Did you like the horse?"
"The red one? Oh, yeah. That was neat."
"Neat, huh? How about we turn it into a rocket ship this time?"
Delgado's skin began to prickle faintly. Rowan's eyes seemed luminous in the dim light. Eleanor and Boomer watched, and Emily took a sip of her coffee, her own eyes round as plates.
Bobby's eyes closed. Delgado's entire body tightened. He knew what it felt like—all the pain and the guilt washed away, leaving calmness behind.
And there was another thing about Rowan's talent that nobody had expected: she could heal.
Bobby's broken arm was mending much faster than it should, and so was Boomer's bullet wound. Delgado himself had felt the effects of hanging around Rowan while she learned to use her talent—his stitches had come out early, and the knife wound in his left arm had healed completely in a matter of days. Jilssen called it a sort of focused bioenergetic field and went around muttering about “cell mutations” and “frequencies."
Ten minutes later, Bobby was breathing deeply. Rowan looked back over her shoulder and her eyes met Delgado's. He felt a sharp spike of pride that she would look to him for reassurance, and wondered what would happen when she didn't need to.
"He'll be all right,” she said quietly. “Another nightmare."
"I'm not surprised,” Delgado replied, just as quietly. “You okay?"
"I don't even remember getting out of bed,” she said, gently freeing her fingers from the boy's and easing off the bed. Delgado stepped up to her side and took her elbow, steadying her. “Maybe I should just sleep in here."
"If you want,” he said automatically. I wouldn't bet on it, angel, he thought. You need your privacy. You've got your nightmares, too.
"You're a godsend, Rowan,” Emily said, her cooling coffee still held in one hand. “I'm so sorry."
"Oh, patients always call just when you get a cup of coffee,” Rowan replied, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I know that. How's he doing, Emily?"
"Better than me,” Boomer snorted. “Can I go back to sleep?"
"You're a crotchety old man,” Eleanor told him, settling back in her bed and closing her eyes. “Shut up. Good work, Rowan. The boy's much easier now. He even laughed yesterday."
"Old witch,” Boomer said, just softly enough.
"Shut up,” Eleanor returned.
Emily was trying in vain not to grin.
Rowan smiled, shaking her head. “I suppose I should inquire about my other patients,” she said. “Including a rather crotchety old man."
"Just fine,” Boomer muttered. “Can't a man get any sleep around here?"
Rowan cast an amused glance at Delgado. His mouth went dry. She brushed her tangled hair back and crossed to Boomer's bedside. When she reached down and took his wrist to check his pulse, the stocky man peeked out from under his eyelashes at her. Then his face eased, and in a few moments, he was asleep too. “There,” Rowan said softly. “Don't dream. Just sleep until morning."
"Good riddance,” Eleanor said. When Rowan took a step toward her, she added, “No, none for me, Miss Price. I'm fine. Thanks anyway."
Rowan nodded, then looked to Delgado again, tucking her pale hair back behind her ear. “I'm sorry,” she said, but Delgado shook his head and offered his hand. She took it, the electric jolt of her skin against his making him glad the lighting was so dim. How could a woman in a torn sweatshirt and shorts make his pulse race?
"Thank you, Rowan,” Emily said seriously. “I don't know how we got along without you."
"I'm just glad to be useful,” Rowan replied, and Delgado ushered her through the infirmary's swinging doors, his arm carefully over her shoulder.
Out in the hall she sighed, her shoulders sagging. “God,” she said quietly. “Does it ever end?"
"Not really,” he answered. “They want psionics, and they'll do what they have to do to get them."
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