Hunter, Healer [Sequel to The Society]

by Lilith Saintcrow

  Not while I'm around, Rowan thought fiercely.

  His watery brown eyes blinked behind his glasses. “Rowan,” he said under the sudden chaos of alarms and people starting to move for the exits. “Something's wrong."

  Gee, you think so? “I know,” she soothed, as his eyes found the gun in her hand. “You're with me, Lew. It's gonna be okay. Come on."

  I wonder if Justin ever felt this frightened while he was moving me around.

  They joined the mass of deadheads crowding for the exits. Give me a mark on where they are, Yosh, she said, her stomach suddenly full of bile. They must be moving in. Brass spikes of pain jabbed at her temples, driving into her brain. She took a deep breath, bringing her heartbeat down a little. She didn't need to start exhausting herself with terror.

  Moving in. But the deadheads ... Sudden sharp jolt, like a fist slamming into her solar plexus. She almost doubled over, the shock was so intense—Yoshi's fear becoming hers through the mental link between them for a dizzying moment before she could block it out. Goddammit, Rowan, they've locked on you. They've got a visual! Move!

  A visual meant they were in the building. And then, to cap off the entire damn situation, gunfire popped and zinged. Rowan lunged forward, dragging Lew with her as glass shattered. The Sigs were aiming high to spook the crowd instead of kill. If Lew hadn't been right next to her the Sigs might have been able to scoop him up separately in the confusion. Where are they? Give me some help here, dammit!

  A flood of information in reply. It was too late, because she felt the glow of other psions and saw the long flapping tan trench coats. So they'd changed their fashion sense—the other Sigs she'd seen had worn black. Maybe it's Sig summer wear, she thought privately, squashing the lunatic urge to laugh. The hot new fashion in government weirdoes.

  They were coming down the escalators and stairs, shoving through the crowd, firing from the mezzanine to drive the mass of frightened humanity out through the doors and spill enough terror into the air to slow her down. Rowan could either stay and be caught, or get out on the street and run straight out into the Sig search net.

  Lew made a high whining sound. She didn't blame him—getting shot at had that affect on a person.

  "Come on!” she yelled, shoving aside a blonde with a briefcase and clacking high heels. Lew mercifully obeyed, running with her. They bowled through the crowd at an angle, heading for the other exit. She was going to have to get creative really soon.

  Rowan reached, blurring the other psions’ perceptions of her as well. The number of hands she had free to juggle mental eggs was rapidly decreasing. Her heart pounded. She didn't have any energy left over to regulate her pulse. Her body knew she was being shot at, and her mind couldn't convince her body that it wasn't an emergency that deserved a racing pulse.

  The other stream of people heading for the secondary exit—out onto the street on the other side of the block—swallowed them. Rowan deliberately didn't return fire, though she ached to pick off a few of the Sigs. Her primary objective was to get Lew out, not work a little hurt on them. More gunfire, more glass shattering, they were going to start aiming for real soon. They must be desperate to risk this kind of open attack. Generally Sigs didn't like public shootouts in which the cops could get involved. They could cover up just about anything, but that took time and resources, and the less government agencies involved the more chance everyone could keep their mouth shut.

  Ro, Ro, come on. The net's almost at the building. You don't have a lot of lag. Move out of there, can you? Yoshi's voice held the deep purple shade of tightly controlled excitement, shot through with brittle crystal lattices of professionalism.

  Rowan pushed Lew in front of her and did the single riskiest thing she could—she pointed her gun straight up and fired twice. With screams and gasps, the crowd exploded away from her, people diving for cover or panicking. The swirling flood of emotional energy acted as “static,” blurring her even further to the other psions’ perceptions and giving her a short-term boost in energy. One she'd pay for later, but nothing was perfect. She tapped in and triggered the mood of the crowd, directing the frightened people with deft mental pressure. Some of them found themselves blindly pelting for the stairs, keeping the Sigs back with a crush of bodies, others spilled out irresistibly onto the street, providing her and Lew with cover.

  And for my next trick, she thought with grim amusement, I'm going to disappear. Watch this.

  The sudden crush pushed Lew and Rowan out through the door, the heat like oil bursting against her skin. She shoved Lew in one direction—up the block, where Henderson would be waiting until it got too hot to stay around here with a van full of comm equipment and psions, no matter if they were shielded.

  "Run!" she yelled, and Lew took off, not waiting to argue.

  Thank God. At least he has some sense.

  Then Rowan dropped a few layers of mental defenses, sending out a very public wave of fear and pain. To the Sigs, it would feel like she'd gotten shot and made her first mistake.

  Crystal cold clarity fell over her, the adrenaline freeze Justin had told her about. Everything seemed etched into memory, every fleck of glittering mica in the pavement and the sound of the sirens approaching, the screams and horrified yells of the people behind her, whooping fire alarms and braying sirens. Her own breathing, harsh and desperate as she flashed along the sidewalk.

  I'm drawing them off, she said, and broke the link with Yoshi. She would need all her strength for eluding the net that now turned on itself, pivoting as the Sigma-trained psions moved their flank to encircle her. Now Henderson had a clear field to extricate himself from the critical zone and swing around to pick her up—once she got through the goddamn net, that was.

  Pounding feet on the pavement, her boots flying. She had their locations now—the net was thick and tight, three deep. Rowan strained her memory for the layout of the city block Lew's office building was on. There was an alley—but that was a dead end.

  It was punch through the net or nothing.

  Rowan dashed out into the middle of the street, narrowly avoiding being hit by a silver BMW. Horns began to blare. She was deliberately making a lot of goddamn psychic noise.

  And then ... contact, another mind sliding against hers, through every lock and defense. Brushing past all the walls Rowan had painstakingly built to keep herself sane, keep everyone else out. There was no denying this touch. She catalogued it out of habit, though her entire body knew it, a wave of new strength flooding her bones. She grabbed for him the way a drowning woman would grab for floating debris.

  Who the hell are you? The voice was clear, familiar. Male, with a touch of bitterness over a deep well of reined anger. Rowan gasped and kept running up the yellow line, relief giving her feet fresh speed. The bafflement in the voice was a little worrying, but she didn't have time to think about that right now.

  It's me! She sent a wordless flood of gratitude as she saw two Sigs on the sidewalk. Cars were honking, and the two women in tan trench coats—one with close-cropped stubble, and the other with longer, jet-black hair framing a dead-eyed face—stared at her. Then the dead-eyed one jostled the shaved one, whose eyes swung down Rowan's body.

  Rowan felt the psychic attack like thunderstorm prickles along her upper arms and shunted it aside. She didn't even break stride—but the new voice inside her head suddenly reached, full of furious, frustrated pain. He flooded her like the sea inside a channel, using her as the equivalent of a booster station to increase his range and actually force his own psionic talent through her.

  She had only intended to knock the Sigma psion's attack away from her, spending its energy uselessly. Instead, the girl with the shaved head stiffened, her head thrown back. Blood burst from her nose and she howled, a sound that cut through crowd noise, screams, sirens, and the horns of traffic now snarling from the mess down the block at Lew's building.

  What are you doing? Rowan's mental voice hit a pitch of anguish that drove steel-tipped spikes through h
er brain. Justin, no!

  If you're going to get out of there, was his imperturbable reply, you'd better move. Who the hell are you, and why are you in my head?

  She didn't have time to answer, having run out of mental hands to juggle with. The collective psionic pressure increased, trying to snag her, slow her down. Every step was a physical battle no less than a mental one. Gasping, her side on fire, Rowan ran. Everything now depended on speed.

  She used to love running. Still did, even though she had to run on a treadmill instead of a track.

  It's me, she thought, desperately reaching for understanding, for the reassurance he had never denied her before. Don't you remember me?

  I don't know what the hell you're talking about. Get off the goddamn street. Justin's voice was as cold as a gun barrel pressed against her temple. She smelled cordite, bullets zinged past her. Cut left at the next intersection. Do it!

  She saw the intersection up ahead. Almost lost the battle of keeping the collective pressure of Sigma away. Pain exploded in her chest, in her side. How many other psions was she fighting? Ten? Fifteen? Where did they house them?

  It doesn't matter. Move. He sounded utterly calm, but there was an undercurrent of something else—what was it?

  The voice was familiar, but he sounded like a complete stranger. As if he didn't know her. A complex stew of bafflement, rage, and incomprehension tinted his mental voice, added to a deep wash of disbelief.

  Rowan bolted through cars brought to a standstill by the chaos behind her. She zigged left at the intersection, gasping for breath, car exhaust and heat burning her eyes. The smell of fried food from the teriyaki joint with its doors propped open hit the back of her throat, she bowled into a man in a business suit and sent him flying. More zinging sounds—snipers.

  Great. Her breath tore in her throat, a sudden stitch grabbing her side.

  They were trying to shoot her now, probably just to slow her down. The sound of shattering glass tinkled sweetly, a bright note in the song of exhaustion her body had become. The stitch bloomed in her side, gripping along her ribs almost all the way up to her armpit.

  It didn't matter.

  Justin! Where are you? She reached for him frantically. He was here. She'd heard him, and she knew he was here. Heat simmered up from the pavement, and she was sweating, but goose bumps thrilled across her skin as if she was cold.

  Bam!

  A hammer smashed against her right shoulder, drilling fiery pain. Rowan stumbled and saw blood bloom on the pavement. She kept going, but she tripped over her own feet and almost fell headlong. Heavy gelid warmth flowed down her right arm, slipping against the inside of her coat sleeve, the lining now slicked with blood that dripped off her fingertips. The sense of heaviness fighting every step eased. She had made it through the concentric rings of psychic pressure.

  Like a gift, the black van appeared, its side door open. Boomer leaned out, his face contorted with effort as his limited telepathic ability reached toward her, a fine, thin thread of help Rowan grabbed at, and she fell gratefully into his arms. He yanked her inside and Henderson jammed the accelerator down as Cath dragged the door shut.

  But Rowan didn't care. She closed her eyes, the leftover pressure of the Sigma psions snapping as soon as she was in the van's shielded interior. The vehicle swayed as Henderson took a corner, rocketing toward the freeway on-ramp and zigging at the last second to plunge the van into the shadow of a tree-lined lane. The Sig net was left behind, and there was no pursuit. The cops were too busy trying to sort out the mess at Lew's office building. “Lew?” she whispered in a cracked voice.

  Nine-tenths of her didn't care, was hunting frantically for the contact. It had been familiar, as familiar to her as her own breath. It was him, and she'd felt the dizzying electrical crackling over her skin that told her he was close. Very close.

  "She's bleeding pretty badly,” Boomer said. “Winged her, went right through the meat in the upper arm. Damn lucky there's no bone."

  "We got him, Ro,” Cath said.

  More pain grated against Rowan's shoulder as someone's hand clamped over the bloody wound. There was the rip of a pack of sterile gauze and the hiss of an antiseptic pack. “Just relax. Lew's safe."

  "Justin,” Rowan whispered, and passed out.

  Chapter Four

  Delgado leaned against the alley's wall, his head pounding no less than his heart. What the hell did I just do?

  If he wasn't so sure he was sane, he might have wondered if the Zed had finally cracked him. Andrews was in the van, leaning out the open side door while collating and doing damage control, conferring with two handlers while warily eyeing Agent Breaker. Delgado wasn't needed, so he simply stood with his back against the brick, his only avenue of escape blocked by the van, his arms folded, apparently composed. Inside, his heart labored and his breathing threatened to short out completely.

  What the hell had happened? One moment they'd been tightening the net, ready to bring in Price and the precog—Lewis, whoever the hell he was—and snare the other Society members too.

  The next moment it had all gone to hell in a handbasket. The woman thought quickly on her feet. She had worked the crowd like a pro. She'd also managed to tangle up the collective will of several Society psions set in a circle around the site, all concentrating on bringing her down. It was incredible. He wouldn't have believed it if he hadn't seen it himself.

  But the most incredible thing of all had been the wave of fear and pain rocketing out from Price, as if she'd been shot. Delgado's stomach had flipped, and every psion in sensing range had flinched. Hard on the heels of that psychic cry, Del had realized she was deliberately broadcasting to throw them off, and the knowledge had frozen him in place. That should have been impossible, both for her to do it and for him to know her intent. Andrews had shoved him out of the van, and he'd made it to the ground and moved smoothly and habitually into the prescribed guard position, unwilling to let Andrews suspect he was having any deep philosophical thoughts.

  Bitter copper flooded his mouth, the taste of adrenaline. The heat out here was incredible, simmering even in the alley's shadow. A hot stink of garbage rose, everyone ignored it. The comms inside the van crackled—cleanup taking place, the Sigs coordinating with each other.

  If the van hadn't been there, Delgado might have tried to get the hell out and disappear.

  "Get me a trace,” Andrews said. “Something, anything. Now."

  Delgado filled his lungs and tried to force his heart to stop pounding. She had linked with him, her mind sliding through his apparently with ease and familiarity.

  And she knew his name, the name he'd left behind as dead. Nobody called him that, it was Del, Delgado, or “Breaker,” not Justin. But she'd said it as if it was old habit, as if she'd resurrected that name for him. Hearing it was like waking up in his own grave with a mouth full of dirt and his skin wet with mud.

  Had he known Rowan Price? Was that what he'd pushed himself to forget? How well had he known her? Had they been friends? Teacher and student?

  Justin, no! Her horrified mental scream rang inside his head again.

  Lovers? No, probably not that. He was too damaged.

  It's me. Don't you remember? A lovely contralto husk of a voice that made his body tighten with recognition, a wash of complex feeling boiling through him—desperation, relief, and a deep aching he couldn't name. If she hadn't been so hurried he might have gone a little further, instead of simply reaching through her to strike at the Sig with the close-cropped hair and guiding Price free of the net. The instinct to protect her had been deep, immediate, and full of a terrible fury.

  But the most incredible, absolutely unbelievable part? It hadn't hurt.

  Agent Breaker, whose talent could crack a mind like an eggshell given the proper motivation, had one severe drawback. His Talent killed or drove people mad. He literally couldn't make mental contact without pain for his subject and himself.

  But linking with her hadn't hurt. Suddenly, he
was intensely hungry to do it again—feel the brush of that clean, deep mind against his, feel the strange sense of calm sinking into his skin with a crackling electric glaze.

  "Delgado,” Andrews barked.

  Do I kill him now or later? It was tempting. For a moment Delgado considered unleashing his talent on Andrews. It would be satisfying, if agonizing, to break the Colonel's lapdog. And then he could elude the Sigs and follow the woman who had turned all their careful plans and procedures into a complete clusterfuck.

  Easy as pie, right?

  Only one consideration stopped him. He had to get as much information as he could from Sigma before he made his break for freedom. It was the way he'd done it before.

  A mind I can make contact with, without pain. And she knew something about him, something he had pushed himself to forget. The hypo-marks in his arms burned, reminding him that very soon he'd need another dose of Zed. If he wanted to break the addiction again, could he? It had been hell the first time.

  But now he had an objective to pursue, not just a simple escape to plan. And if there was anything Sigma had trained him for, it was the single-minded pursuit of a target.

  "Delgado!” Andrews repeated. Del stiffened reflexively.

  "What?” She got away from you. Good luck catching her now. I must have trained her; she's too good for anything else.

  Anderson's blue eyes blazed. For a moment Del wondered if he was going to unleash his own talent on Del. That wouldn't be comfortable for either of them.

  Maybe Andrews remembered that, because he only snarled, “You fucking well trained her, what's she going to do now?"

  Yap, yap, little dog. That's the wrong question. The right question is, what is Henderson going to do now? He'll wait for a little less than twenty-four hours and then break camp and move everyone out, after Sigma thinks he's already blown town. If you want to catch them, you'd better start setting up grids now.