"Welcome home,” Rowan murmured, then looked back over her shoulder. The full force of her smile hit him like a baseball bat, drove every shred of good sense from his head. “Glad to be back?"
"Pretty much,” he mumbled, opening his door.
Yoshi barely waited before he was at Rowan's door, opening it for her. She accepted his hand, and the slim Japanese man nodded as his eyes flicked over Delgado. Rowan's lips moved slightly. They were communicating again.
Oh, Christ, Del thought. Please. Not Yoshi.
It was unfair. Yosh was clinically cool and calm, preternaturally skilled with hardware, a master on the computer decks, and good enough in the practice room to earn grudging approval even from Henderson and Del himself. He was also a nice guy. A friend, if Del could be said to have any friends.
Rowan laughed. She reached up, her slender fingers working, and pulled the ponytail holder free, letting her pale hair cascade around her shoulders.
"I'm on my way,” she said, and touched Yoshi's shoulder. No hug, no kiss—that was good. That was very good.
But then again, Del had never tried to be affectionate with her in public, either. He had hung in the background, watching over her, not daring to touch her when anyone else could see for fear of betraying what she meant to him.
That thought wasn't comforting at all.
"Henderson wants us both,” she said. “Yoshi, you think you can take care of the gear? At least, until Zeke can manage?"
"What's wrong with Zeke?” Cath stretched, pulling herself out of the driver's seat. “Goddammit, my ass feels numb. I hurt. You better have some vodka lying around, Yosh."
As usual, Yosh was unperturbed. “No vodka, but I believe Zeke has beer. And Henderson has been saving a bottle of most excellent whiskey for Del's return. Hello, Del. Took your time, didn't you?"
Del's fingers tightened. It was a good thing the car was between them, because he could see Yoshi's brown hand on Rowan's shoulder, squeezing a little. As if offering support. Goddamn it, he's my friend. And she doesn't belong to me.
"I got trussed up, beaten, and shot full of Zed. Not to mention dragged to the high-security part of Sig Zero-Fifteen.” He forced himself to shrug. “It took a while before I could ask them nicely to let me play patty-cake with my real friends again."
Cath snorted. “There's our old Del. Come on, I'm bushed. Let's get this crap out of the car, Yosh. Don't want to miss the celebration."
Yoshi murmured something to Rowan, who shook her head, her lips pursing. She slid past Yoshi without further ado.
Also very good. He couldn't help it. Hope was an even better drug than Zed. What if she'd been lonely, or had needed a shoulder to cry on? Besides, he'd made the biggest mistake of his life in the practice room, pushed her too hard. If Sigma hadn't attacked, he might have been able to explain, to repair the damage, to use the subtle psychological pressure he was so famous for in nonlethal interrogation to get her to at least give him another chance.
As it was ... it was too late. Or was it?
She looked back over her shoulder. “Del? Are you coming?"
Yoshi's dark, liquid eyes widened. He glanced at Cath. Delgado didn't miss Cath's slight shrug. Loosely translated: I don't know, so don't ask me.
"Right behind you,” he said, wishing his hands would stop shaking. It took all his concentration to walk in a straight line.
It helped that he could look up and see her. She reached out, using the doorframe for steadiness, and hauled herself wearily up the two steps into the house. Her limp wasn't very noticeable now, but her shoulders were tight as bridge cables. It hurt him, suddenly, to see that small betraying hitch in each step. Her left boot dragged a little each time.
Inside the door was a small utility room with a washer and dryer, both busily running. Cheerful yellow linoleum glared up, and Del reached, automatically identifying the people in the house. Familiar presences, all of them—Boomer, Henderson, Zeke, Brew. He heaved a mental sigh of relief. He'd worried about how many of them had gotten away.
Beyond the utility room was a kitchen with pale wood cupboards, also drenched with electric light. Two laptops were on the counter, both closed and silent, the smell of Brewster's beef stew bubbling in a Crock-Pot—set with prissy exactitude on the counter—made his mouth water. There were two packages of soft dinner rolls set on the counter too. It was as different from a Sig installation as day from night. The small things—two pieces of gear left on the counter, the smell of homemade food, and the poster of Jim Belushi tacked to the pantry door—probably Boomer's—brought home the magnitude of what he'd done with walloping force.
I've escaped them. Again. Stole her out from underneath Sigma again. They won't try to capture me again—no, it'll be pure neutralization this time. No decency, no tranquilizers, just a straight-out choice: me or them.
He caught up to her, moving silently, and offered his arm. “Looks like your leg still hurts,” he said noncommittally.
Amazingly, Rowan accepted his arm, leaning on it. Tented together like a pair of absurdly unsteady drunks, they walked through the kitchen and into a short hall leading to the living room. That was probably the nerve center. He would have to debrief with Henderson to find out what the critical gaps and safety shorts were, and get a full layout on how bad the damage to the infrastructure was. If he worked hard enough, he might be able to forget the uncertainty gnawing at his chest.
They rounded the corner into dimness and the sense of movement. Del was a hairsbreadth away from pushing Rowan behind him and pulling a knife when the lights flicked on, and the shout of “Welcome back!” shook the air.
Del glanced down at Rowan, who was smiling again, a beautiful open smile that made his gut clench and his mouth go dry. Then all four of them—Zeke the Tank, his massive hairy chest only barely covered by a white tank top; Brewster in a red polo shirt, his white teeth gleaming against his ebony skin; Boomer, his muttonchops brushed to bushy perfection; and Henderson, broad-shouldered and looking older but still moving with the same dry precision that bespoke readiness—descended on Rowan and Del, and the babble only increased when Cath whooped and leapt past them to jump into Zeke's arms. Yoshi pressed a cold beer into Del's free hand, and Boomer picked up Rowan, swung her around in a circle, and did it again.
The living room was decorated with a banner that said, Welcome Home Del! There was a cooler jammed full of ice and beer and a platter of cocktail weenies, probably Zeke's contribution. Rowan accepted a glass of wine while Cath and Zeke unabashedly liplocked in the corner, Cath's white fingers tangling in Zeke's dark curly hair. The only furniture in the room was two mattresses and a purple-velvet loveseat holding three liquor-store boxes and a pile of kitbags. The fireplace was brick, and the hearth in front of it held a large bouquet of flowers as well as plates of cold cuts, cheese, and crackers.
Jesus Christ, he thought, how are we supposed to get any work done with this going on?
But then Rowan looked over her shoulder at him and grinned. It was the same open sunshine smile she'd bestowed on Yoshi.
"I told you he was still alive!” she announced, and the statement provoked fresh hilarity. Brew clapped Del on the shoulder, Boomer gave him a gruff hug, and Delgado was surprised to find out that it did, indeed, feel like coming home.
Chapter Seventeen
Rowan rubbed at her eyes, yawning. She tried to roll over, dislodging something soft over her, and bumped against something a little less soft, something her leg was thrown over. It felt comforting and cuddly, even though she'd slept in her clothes again. Her left leg wasn't throbbing nearly as much as it had been, and the sense of peace that enfolded her was so novel it shook her out of warm, fuzzy sleep entirely.
Did I sleep next to the wall? The theory was immediately proven as she tried to roll back and found her shoulder hitting something cold and hard that was definitely the wall. Wherever she was, she was sandwiched very effectively.
She heard low, soft breathing, and the crackling electricit
y sliding over her skin felt familiar.
As she did every morning, she kept her eyes closed, counting to ten and imagining Justin was right next to her. Then, reluctantly, she opened them to find that she'd passed out in the living room, on one of the mattresses. Her left leg was thrown over both of Justin's. He lay on his back, apparently deeply asleep.
Rowan blinked, propping herself up on her elbow. The room looked like any room after an enthusiastic party. Cath and Zeke had disappeared—probably to a back bedroom to celebrate in their own way. Henderson slept propped up by the fireplace, his hand curled protectively around a bottle of Scotch. Brew had cleared off the loveseat and was curled up with his back presented to the rest of the world, the polo shirt riding up to expose a slice of his well-muscled ebony back. Yoshi sat by the front window, meditating. She could almost feel the concentration spreading out from him. He had an assault rifle in his lap, his slim fingers resting on the stock and the barrel as the gun balanced on his knees. Boomer was sprawled on the other mattress, breathing heavily and regularly but not quite snoring. She had a vague memory of him refilling her wine glass a few times, then persuading her to try something called “Yeager” with him—something that burned foully on the way down, but only the first few times.
Justin was completely still, his chest rising and falling so shallowly she wondered if he'd drank himself to sleep to avoid Zed withdrawal. The dark patches under his eyes had shrunk a little, but the harsh lines of his cheekbones still stood out. He'd lost more weight than she'd thought, not an ounce of spare flesh on him anymore. The vulnerable notch between his collarbones was exposed since his T-shirt had been pulled down. He had a sheathed knife in his left hand, which was lying on his chest. As she watched, his eyelids fluttered in dreaming sleep.
The yellowing bruise over his left eye was almost gone. He was still as warm as he had ever been. His right arm was squeezed between them, his hand resting on her hip. She could feel his forearm against her bare midriff where her tank top had been pulled up, a patch of feverish skin pressed against hers. The fans of his eyelashes, perfect charcoal, lay against his cheekbones and made him look strangely young.
She let out a soft, wondering sigh, watching as his eyelids stopped fluttering and he sank into non-REM sleep. It was true.
He was here.
He was so deeply asleep she didn't want to wake him. It was rare for anyone suffering withdrawal to get even a little rest. So she stayed as still as she could, ignoring the persistent throbbing in her head and the equally loud insistence from her bladder. Justin's chin was tipped back, and she watched the pulse beat in his throat.
Stop it, she told herself. You're just making it worse.
The aching in her chest wouldn't go away. She'd done it—brought him home. So what if he'd changed his mind? She'd still done what she promised.
She'd saved him, like she had been unable to save her father or Hilary.
Well, not precisely. It's more like he saved himself and I just happened to be there. If you want to get technical, that's what really happened.
She told that nasty little voice inside her head to take a hike just as her bladder declared fresh mutiny.
Don't compound an already impossible situation by doing a cocker-spaniel on the mattress, she told herself, and pushed up slowly. It was going to take a bit of work to shimmy free of this one, especially since the soft warm thing draped over her was Justin's coat.
Tears pricked at her eyes. She smelled leather and a healthy male, and the indefinable mix of pheromones that shouted Justin. Her heart began to pound. She had to stop calling him that. From now on it was Delgado, Del if she felt particularly chummy, and she had to stop hoping. She would only embarrass herself, and after the last few months she didn't need any more embarrassment.
Besides, she had another problem, a bigger problem, now that he was out of Sigma's clutches. She had promised herself she would make Sigma pay for her father's death—and for Hilary's. It was high time she made good on that promise.
Rowan made it to the end of the mattress and gave a sigh of relief as she picked her way cautiously out of the living room and to the bathroom. I hope this house has two bathrooms and a good water heater. I want a decent shower for once. Traveling with Cath was like having a younger sister you couldn't blackmail.
Rowan found her duffel stowed with the others. Some thoughtful soul—probably Brew—had cleared out the dirty clothes and done a load of laundry. She found a T-shirt and jeans, fresh underwear, and her last pair of clean socks, then carried it and her rig into the bathroom and locked the door. If anyone else wants in, too bad.
Her head throbbed a little less once she'd used the toilet, as if some poison had been leached out of her system. Given what she'd done to her liver and kidneys last night, it probably wasn't far from the truth.
Twenty luxurious minutes later, scrubbed and fresh, she stepped out of the bathroom and into the hall, carrying her dirty clothes. The smell of coffee trickled through the air, and she took a deep breath, smiling.
She came around the corner into the kitchen to find Yoshi standing in front of two coffeemakers. That brightened her mood considerably as she neatly stowed her dirty clothes in the duffel and approached the kitchen again. Wordlessly, he handed her a cup of thick black coffee with two sugars, then set a plastic water glass and three ibuprofen on the counter.
Rowan nodded her thanks, downed the ibuprofen, and drank off the water. She was vaguely surprised she didn't have more of a hangover, considering the amount she'd put away.
Yoshi refilled the water glass from the pitcher. He pulled down the hem of his blue linen shirt. “So,” he said finally, pouring himself a cup of coffee, with soymilk, no sugar—Rowan shuddered at the thought—and putting the soymilk carton back in the bare white fridge. “Cath said you had some trouble."
Rowan shrugged. “We got out of there with only three-quarters of what I'd hoped. But if it hadn't been for Jus—ah, Del, we wouldn't have gotten out at all."
"Ah.” He blew across the top of his coffee to cool it. “Henderson will be pleased."
Yeah, with Justin back you can all go back to normal and I can maybe have some time to plan my grand revenge on a secret government agency. Sounds like a best-seller to me. Wonder if I should start thinking about the movie rights? Rowan Price, martyr to the Psionic Rights movement.
"I hope so,” she murmured. And considering that he didn't want me to go to Vegas in the first place, Henderson should be pretty damn pleased.
Yoshi studied her. His dark eyes were eloquently noncommittal. He was willing to talk if Rowan wanted to, equally willing to let it go if she didn't. Even she couldn't decide.
She far preferred Cath's blithe unconcern. “He's different,” she said finally, staring into her coffee. The house was absolutely silent, the feel of dampers crawling over her skin. It felt so naked to be under the protective shield. She'd always had trouble with them. Had to be taught how not to blow them down and send out invisible signals that would draw the enemy, but nothing had ever taught her to be comfortable with them.
"You can't have expected him to return unscathed from the darkness,” Yoshi pointed out. He leaned back against the kitchen counter, cocking his sleek dark head. The new almost-punk haircut looked good on him. He was barefoot as usual, his sandals left properly placed outside the kitchen, ready for him to step into if necessary. You could always tell when Cath was around by the smell of strawberry incense, cigarettes, and hairspray, and Yoshi when you tripped over shoes on the floor. Rowan wondered if she left her own marks on the houses they stayed in. “The battle marks the warrior, as the warrior marks the battle,” he added.
Thank you for that fortune-cookie wisdom. It's ever so helpful.
Rowan sighed and took a sip of coffee. It was strong enough to eat away a silver spoon, very sweet, just the way she'd learned to like it in the past year. “I just ... I thought..."
"Thought what?” Yoshi cocked his head, listening. A faintly surprised expr
ession crossed his face. “I think perhaps we'd best wake everyone,” he continued, with no discernible emotion. “I have a rather remarkable feeling of uneasiness."
Rowan closed her eyes, feeling around in that nonphysical manner that seemed the most reliable way of scouting out danger. “I don't feel any Sigs,” she said.
"Perhaps it isn't them we should be worried about.” Yoshi set his coffee cup down with a precise click. “I'll get Cath and Zeke. I think it best if you wake Del and the others."
She knew better than to question him or waste precious time on arguing. Instead, she carried her coffee—no use wasting a good cuppa joe—around the corner and into the other hall that led past the front door to the living room.
Where, surprisingly, she saw Justin leaning against the wall, apparently studying the locked front door with great interest. He had his rig buckled on—less graceful than the ones the Society used but still familiar, a piece of Sigma gear. He ran his palm back over his short dark hair, as if he'd forgotten it was shorter now and he was trying to strip it back with his fingers.
Rowan's heart leapt into her mouth. “Good morning,” she said quietly. “Yoshi said to wake everyone up. There's coffee, if you want it.” Her eyes slid down his shoulder—he wasn't wearing his coat—and to the inner surface of his left elbow, exposed by the short sleeve of his blue T-shirt, the same one he'd been wearing since Vegas.
There, scored into his skin, were track marks. They were ugly, raised and red, and Rowan sucked in a breath. She reached out, her coffee cup almost burning her left hand, and trailed her fingers down his bicep, avoiding touching the nasty hypo-marks. She'd seen enough of them by now on psions caught by Sigma.
The flesh at the hollow of his elbow was bruised as well as scored, the sign of rough handling. Had he been strapped down? There was a bracelet of raw, red flesh around his wrist she hadn't noticed before. From restraints, probably. Cold fingers trailed down her spine, and the skin on her upper arms prickled with gooseflesh.
"My God,” she whispered. “What did they do to you?"
Hunter, Healer [Sequel to The Society] Page 11