Hunter, Healer [Sequel to The Society]

by Lilith Saintcrow

  Glass popped and sparked, the reek of spilled liquor mixing with the fuggy lake of cigarette smoke. Nobody in here, thank God. And there, behind the bar, the door that led to a back hall and probably a fire door.

  No time, no time. Instead of staying down and cautious, the Sigs were coming straight for the shattered lounge door. Del caught sight of a baby grand piano sitting on the stage, spotlit against a blue velvet curtain. All we need is an Elvis impersonator singing over the fire alarm. Viva Las Vegas. He shoved her up and over the bar and followed, his boots grinding in broken glass. He squeezed off a couple more rounds to keep them back from the door and ducked down. “You okay?” He wasn't gasping, but he was close.

  "Fine.” Rowan was paper-pale, visibly trembling, her mouth compressed. Her pupils were so wide her eyes looked almost black in the dim light, and she clutched at her leg.

  Hope she's not hit. He had to crouch further as gunfire chattered, broken glass tinkling from overhead. A fine spray of rum drifted down. At the curve of the bar, there were Sterno cans with low blue flames under the chafing dishes for keeping the hors d'oeuvres warm. He pushed Rowan down, grabbed the nearest two and tossed them, burning, over the bar. He almost got shot for his pains as more glass shattered and more booze oozed down.

  Need something more. He found what he wanted—a half-full bottle of Stoli, racked below the bar. He holstered his right-hand gun and pulled down the bottle.

  "Give ‘em a couple of rounds,” he said, digging in his pocket for spare cloth. He found a thin, torn strip of rag, useful for wiping fingerprints or any number of things, and unscrewed the cap.

  Rowan complied, taking a quick glance over the bar and popping two shots off with a short, sharp cry that sounded painful. She rubbed her wrist as she fell back to the floor again, grimacing.

  Of course, her hands are so small she has a hard time with the recoil. Poor girl.

  "In ten minutes this will all seem like a bad dream,” he told her, twisting the end of the rag and forcing it into the bottle's long, thin neck. Have to keep it loose enough or the gas won't ignite. Do it right, Delgado.

  He pulled a stiletto from his sleeve and jammed the rag further in. Then he found a dish of matches. A cigarette lighter would have been better. A fine time to wish I smoked. Say something, keep her focused. “We'll find ourselves a nice quiet place and get acquainted again, what do you say?"

  "Sounds good to me.” Her voice shook with gasping pain. Not a whisper of whatever she was feeling escaped, though. She was holding up under the pressure like a pro.

  He jammed the stiletto back into its sheath, grabbed a bottle of rum, and broke its neck with a swift sharp smack against the counter. After dousing the dry part of the rag liberally, he hefted the rum bottle up and over the counter.

  Shots, again. “Goddammit,” he said, shaking the vodka bottle to get it nice and angry. “Throw a couple more bottles over the counter, sweetheart, while I get this lit."

  "You're so much fun to hang out with,” she shot back, and grabbed a bottle of Kahlua, lofting it over the counter and following it with another bottle of Stoli. The reek of spilled liquor filled the air. There was enough fuming booze out there to make his eyes water. She managed to get a good eight bottles thrown with one hand, her other hand clamped onto her leg as if she had a cramp in the quad muscle, as well as two more Sternos she worked free of the racks with quick deft yanks. While he struggled with the matches, they were getting closer, closer, closer. There was one in the door now, and Del could hear the crackle of another psion's thoughts, a well of bloodlust.

  The rag caught. He waited until the flame had a good purchase and switched the impromptu cocktail to his left hand. “Cover your eyes,” he said, not wanting her to catch any flying glass. Let's hope this works. If I believed in God I might be praying now.

  She did as he said, obviously willing to trust him, and hunched down behind the bar as more glass shattered. Del tossed the cocktail as he rose to his knees, his right hand bringing up his own gun. More glass shattered and the whole world narrowed. He shot twice at the Sigs looming in the shattered door and dropped.

  The explosion was satisfying, to say the least. He hit the floor, taking her with him, as flying glass peppered the bar. The sound was horrendous, alcohol and Sterno fumes igniting and glass whickering through the air. He covered her body with his and caught a stray breath of a clean, pure scent. Her hair touched his face, a slippery satin rasp against his stubble, and her hip pressed into his belt buckle. She was soft and slim, and he remembered what it was like to bury his face in the softness of her throat and hear her sigh as he—

  No time to think about that, they had to move. Not bad for thinking on my feet, but don't congratulate yourself yet, operative. Get her out of here.

  He rolled up to his feet in a swift crouch. His forehead burned, blood dripping into his eyes. He yanked her up, fingers slipping in warm wetness. Was she hit? He hoped not. The thought of her wounded did something funny to his chest.

  "Back door, angel,” he said, and they went, duck-walking just in case anyone out there still had a gun and the presence of mind to use it. She gasped with each footstep, dragging herself along. The fire alarm was for real now, and he could hear sirens. He hit the door open with the palm of his left hand, his right holding a gun again, and pushed her through after checking behind it. And there, above the stacked cases of liquor and other odds and ends, was the Exit sign. It was a fire door. The delivery door was off to the left. But since the alarms were already going, it wouldn't matter, would it?

  Acrid smoke billowed through the door. It was burning merrily in the bar now, tables, chairs and plush carpet fueled by spilled liquor. A wave of heat groaned through the entire bar.

  "I think I'm going to throw up,” Rowan said in a high, thin, breathless voice. She slumped against him, still clutching at her leg. Was she hit? God, he hoped not.

  His chest was on fire, his nerves twisting with the need for Zed. Get her out of her. Get her out and away from them. Get her out now.

  "Wait until we're out in the alley,” Delgado heard himself reply. “Goddammit, woman, I told you to run."

  "Wasn't leaving without you.” Stubborn. Always so stubborn. “Where have you been?"

  "In hell, angel.” He kicked the fire door open, waited a beat, and spun out, covering the likely angles. Nobody there—the alley was clear. The Sig team guarding it was probably pulled in to help deal with the mess inside. He'd known it was clear. His own psychic talent worked overtime to tell him so, spurred by Zed withdrawal and adrenaline, but it was nice to have confirmation. “In hell. It's nice to be back."

  Now, let's get a car and get you out of here.

  * * * *

  Heat shimmered up from the pavement. Rowan clamped her hand over the wound on her left thigh. It was still bleeding. Merciless sunlight beat down. Delgado had wiped the drying blood off his face, and his hair was dark enough that, at a casual glance, the blood crusted in it wouldn't show. He wasn't upset over his own wound, caused by a shard of flying glass he was happy missed his eyes. It was her serious, bloody injury he was worried about.

  His stomach turned over. Later, he promised himself. Feel bad later. Right now, get her somewhere safe.

  Christ, I'm saving up a hell of a lot to think about later. Then he reminded himself not to think about that.

  Until later.

  "It's up here on the left,” she whispered in the same colorless, tiny voice. Her eyes were closed, and she had stopped stealing little glances at him. Her hair stuck to her forehead with sweat. “Poor Cath. I hope she's okay."

  I don't give a damn. He didn't give a good goddamn what happened to anyone as long as Rowan was all right. The whole fucking world could go to hell in a handbasket for all he cared. He had nothing further to lose now; nothing except her.

  I'm just as dangerous to the Society as I am to Sigma right now, he thought, and saw the sign for the Hotel Doze-Inn. “There it is,” he said. “Room 25?"

 
; "That's it.” She'd already handed over the room key. A rendezvous with Cath, and getting all three of them out of here, was just what the doctor ordered. And once he had a few moments he was going to tell Rowan just how good it felt to be near her again. “I'm bleeding all over the seat,” she said. “I'm sorry."

  You're sorry? Jesus Christ, you could have died back there. You got fucking shot! What the hell are you apologizing for? He clamped down on himself. Hysteria was not what he needed now. What he needed was a good stiff drink and a chance to bandage her up. “No worries, angel. Unless we need get you to a doctor."

  "No. No.” She sounded panicked, and he cursed himself. “It'll be fine,” she said. “Look, it's stopped bleeding. Now I just have to wait for it to heal while it hurts."

  He pulled into the parking lot, checking the rearview mirror yet again. Still no sign of pursuit. “We look clean."

  "Is the car...” She gulped down air, and he caught a flash of pain. Oddly enough, that touched a spark of fury deep in his gut, a fury that managed to rise in a sheet of red flame. Hurt her. They had hurt her. “Oh, God. Is the car here?"

  "Blue Subaru, Georgia plates, just the thing for evading Sigs? Yes, it's right there. You've got the keys?"

  "I shouldn't ... I shouldn't...” Her head lolled back against the seat. The delicate traceries of sweat on her face made her look even more pale and delicious. He had to restrain the urge to lean across the seat and kiss her cheek.

  Goddammit, Rowan. I almost lost you. I almost fucking lost you in that bloody mess. Why didn't you run?

  "No need to worry, angel.” He saw a familiar figure leaning against the side of the Subaru, shading her eyes with one hand. Cath had ditched the blue Mohawk for a short black gamine haircut that suited her much better. She'd even taken most of the metal off her face for the Vegas run, and her Catholic-schoolgirl prettiness shone out. She was going to be dangerous in a couple of years. Zeke would have his hands full keeping her out of trouble.

  Not my problem. It was a relief to find something that wasn't his problem. “There's Cath right there. You just rest. She and I will take care of everything else."

  True to form, when he pulled up Cath didn't waste words. She peered in through Rowan's rolled down window—the hot air that came in was like standing in front of an open oven—and examined him for a long moment. “About damn time,” she said crisply. “Holy hell, Ro, what happened to you?"

  "I got shot again,” Rowan whispered, and unceremoniously passed out, her head spilling back and her mouth opening slightly. He tried not to think about that, tried not to feel the flare of frustrated heat that went through him.

  Cath cracked her chewing-gum. “All right, Del. How we gonna do this?"

  You're taking this rather well, considering I've been away for months and might be a Sig mole. Sloppy, Cath. You should be holding a gun on me and looking for signs of pursuit.

  He held up the room key. “Is the room clear?"

  "You bet it is. Knew you'd show up.” She wore a cute pair of heart-shaped sunglasses, very Lolita. He was surprised she wasn't smoking. Cath without a cigarette hanging out of her mouth was strange indeed.

  Del suppressed a flare of irritation. “Then get the keys turned in and let's blow this Popsicle stand. You got a medkit?"

  The telekinetic shrugged. “She won't need it. Already closing up."

  "Get me the goddamn medkit, kid. And then go and turn the room keys in. We've got to get out of here now."

  Chapter Fifteen

  The pain was incredible, spearing through her left leg and twisting with white-hot pincers. Rowan bit her lower lip, feeling flesh yield between her teeth. Her leg hurt so badly she didn't notice the trickle of blood sliding down her chin until Justin wiped it away, his fingers gentle under the rough paper of the McDonald's napkin. They had stopped for lunch, and Rowan had managed a few sips of Sprite before her stomach closed and she couldn't drink any more. She sucked on a chunk of ice Justin slid between her lips, and shook her head when he tried to give her more.

  The desert scrolled by in taupe bumps and sagebrush blurs outside her window. She was in the back seat with Justin. Cath was driving and smoking like a fiend. As the city fell into the distance she felt a great relief, when she could think through the waves of agony rolling up her leg. She'd taken a bad hit—one she was almost sure could have been fatal, if not for her freakish ability to heal. She'd even managed to try to walk through the rocky shoals of tearing pain. She barely remembered Justin dragging her to a car, saying something in a low, fierce voice.

  When the breaker of agony retreated again, she opened her eyes just a crack to find Justin staring at her. His eyes had come alive, instead of the flat darkness she remembered, their depths curtained by a screen of indifference. Now they were terribly present. He stared at her face as if he wanted to peel it off and take it home with him.

  What a gruesome thought, Rowan.

  But the intensity with which he was looking at her was nothing short of frightening. His entire body seemed focused on her, while Cath drove with the windows down and Johnny Cash playing, bright scarves of music and cigarette smoke furling out into the jet stream.

  "Hey” he said quietly. “Still hurting? It's stopped bleeding again, and it's closing up."

  She didn't look down. His hand was clamped over hers. This was not at all how she had expected a possible reunion to go. “Justin,” she whispered. “I knew you were alive."

  "I didn't,” he replied, with such a straight face she wasn't sure if he was joking. His eyelashes were so dark, she had forgotten that. Had forgotten the way his face made her breath catch, the way her skin felt alive with electricity when he touched her. He was sweating, too. She could almost feel his pain as well as her own. “You've been a busy girl, haven't you? You've had their tails tied in knots looking for you. All over the damn country."

  A ghost of a smile touched her lips. The next big jolt of pain was coming. She could feel it gathering like rain on the horizon. “Had a good teacher,” she whispered. “Always keep moving. Do it by the book. Never leave a man behind."

  "You better believe it, angel.” He was smiling now, but it was a pained smile. “Rowan."

  The pain swelled, crested over her. She bit her lip, not wanting to cry out. It would frighten Cath, and if Rowan let her guard down even for a moment she might broadcast and give Sigma something to latch onto.

  "Scream if you need to,” he whispered in her ear. He'd taken his seat belt off to lean closer to her. She wanted to chide him for it, but couldn't find the breath. “I'm here, angel. I'm not going anywhere."

  Oh, but you've said that before, she thought before the pain roiled again and she succumbed, going down into the depths without so much as a murmur. But this time, he was with her, his mind wound in hers. Rowan could feel his own pain and unwilling need.

  Zed. They had addicted him to Zed again.

  Which meant he might still be a Sig after all. They might have broken him. It didn't seem likely, but...

  Rowan fled into unconsciousness.

  * * * *

  Warmth, close and unfamiliar. A feeling of comfort.

  Rowan opened her eyes, slowly. The hotel room blurred around her. She saw the edge of pale curtains keeping the sun out, and a mirror fastened above the dresser where a dark television crouched. There was a small table near the window with two chairs, looking more suited to a hospital waiting room than a hotel room, pushed halfway under it.

  The curiously naked feeling of dampers roared over her skin. How had Cath gotten her into the hotel room?

  Gingerly, she moved her left leg, and she let out a sigh of relief when it was only tender, not screaming with pain.

  Then came the clichéd question.

  Where the hell am I?

  She rolled over gingerly and looked up at the ceiling, her back sinking into the mattress. There didn't seem to be anyone in the room, but the shower was running behind the bathroom door. She heard Cath's tuneless humming, familiar
from spending so much time with the girl in different houses. It sounded now like Cath was trying to sing Cat Scratch Fever and failing miserably but with great relish.

  Rowan blinked. Memory roared in. Justin.

  Where is—

  The door rattled.

  She pushed herself over on her side, reaching for the nightstand and the gun that lay there in its habitual place. Had he put it there?

  Where was he?

  Her fingers closed on empty air. She lunged and caught the gun as the door opened, letting in a blast of hot air and the smell of car exhaust and high plains wind. Justin stepped inside, shaking his head, and closed and locked the door. Cath had apparently found him a new shirt, but he wore the same hip-length jacket and jeans. As usual, he looked maddeningly precise. The haircut helped the image. So did the set, grim expression on his face. Somehow he never looked rumpled, even with the fading bruise over his left eye.

  Rowan lowered the 9mm just as he turned around, his shoulders dropping. He regarded her over the space of empty air between them. The new T-shirt was blue, and it made his eyes seem even darker. Cath's singing continued in the bathroom, underscored by the splashing of hot water.

  "You can put that away,” he said finally, his eyebrow lifting just a little. He was pale, fever-spots standing out on his cheeks. He looked like hell, with dark circles under his eyes and his jacket hanging oddly on his frame. He'd lost weight but still looked deadly, muscle flickering as he crossed his arms over his chest. And his eyes were new, burning and fully alive, hazel coals in his pinched, gaunt face. “I was checking the parking lot. Nothing stirring. I think we might be okay."

  Rowan blinked. She laid the gun back down on the nightstand and then pushed back the covers. Her jeans had been cut away and the bandage was glued to her thigh with dried blood. She peeled it carefully off. Her leg twinged roughly as she looked at the bloody hole and wide stain on the denim.