"Bite it, soldier. Burned him, Rowan?” Henderson cocked his head.
Dammit, leave her alone. She's just been through the wringer. But he shut up. Henderson needed this information, needed it desperately, or he wouldn't be pushing her.
"He's not a psion anymore.” Her breath hitched in. “I burned his talent out. Then I p-pistol whipped him. Maybe I killed him. I don't know. I didn't stick around to find out."
Silence rang through the car. Then Cath whistled out through her teeth. “Good fucking deal,” she summed up. “Hope you did kill him. Brew, how we doing?"
"No pursuit that I can see. Yosh?"
"None here, either. Their tails are still tied in a knot back there. Hope you used enough C4."
"Of course I did,” Boomer replied irritably. “I used enough to knock out the whole fucking grid. All the lights were fucking out."
"Rowan.” Del shut out the sound of the others. Acceleration pulled against his body as Cath took a curve. He cupped Rowan's face in his hands. “You all right?” His voice almost broke under the sheer inadequacy of the question. “Goddammit, talk to me. Talk to me."
"I'm not all right.” A sob cracked under her words. “I killed him. I used my talent to kill him."
She bent forward, curving into his arms. She cried against him as if her heart was breaking, and he closed his eyes, stroking her tangled hair and tasting bitterness. She should never have had to do that, face that, alone. He should have gotten to her before the Sigs did.
The full horror of what she'd experienced soaked into him. His arms tightened around her, and he held her as tightly as he could. Fortunately, Henderson didn't ask any more questions, just submitted to Boomer's ministrations and started organizing the finer points of their escape.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Rowan fell into a thin, restless doze, barely paying attention when the van stopped and everyone leapt out. Justin took care of everything, ushering her out of the van and into the clean chill of a desert dawn. Wind touched her hair and mouthed her cheek. Her head throbbed, and she knew someone was hurt—probably more than one someone—but she couldn't bring herself to care or offer help.
The empty Sig van, wiped free of fingerprints and cleared of all Society gear, went over the side of the road, down a long sheer fall into a ravine. The crunches, crashes and tinkling broken glass were very loud in the predawn hush. On the other side of the road, parked far over on the shoulder against the mountainside, were three cars, waiting patiently to spirit the Society team into the distance.
"I'll take care of it,” Justin said. “I won't let her out of my sight."
"Good.” Henderson sounded tired. “I'd hate to have to do this again."
She winced. It was all her fault, the suffering, the death. Her fault. She was a plague. She tainted everything she touched. All because of her freakish talents.
If I could burn out Anton's talent, maybe I could burn out my own.
But if she did, she would be helpless. Once Sigma regrouped, they would be after her. Who knew who would be in control now that she'd destroyed Anton? Or if she hadn't killed him, would he still be in charge?
Maybe it would be best for everyone if I disappeared. Just ... disappeared.
Her head was heavy. She leaned against Justin, feeling his exhaustion close around her. Exhaustion and grim determination. His arm was around her, solid and warm, accepting her weight.
Someone grasped her shoulder firmly. “Rowan?"
She raised her eyelids with an effort and stared at Henderson. “General.” Her voice wouldn't work quite properly. “I'm sorry.” Two words, pale and utterly unable to carry the full burden of her guilt. “If I hadn't—"
His steely eyes were softer than she had ever seen them, and his mouth pulled tight, as if he tasted something bitter. He squeezed her shoulder. “We didn't spot the compulsion, Rowan. It's my fault, not yours. I should have known Carson would pull something like that. Listen, Del's going to take you north until everything calms down. Stay with him, all right?” His tone was gentle, gentler than his usual briskness by far. “Don't torture yourself. Do you know why we came to get you?"
She shook her head numbly. Two fat tears brimmed up and spilled hotly down her cheeks.
"We never leave one of our own behind, Ro. You're one of us.” He leaned in, and she saw the glint off his wire-rimmed glasses in the pale gray of false dawn. There was a stain of orange light on the horizon, some desert city. Which one? She didn't know. Justin would know. “You hear me? You've proved yourself time and time again. You're one of us. Understood?"
She gathered herself. “It's my fault,” she said dully. “My fault."
Henderson squeezed her shoulder again, his fingers turning to iron. “Sigma isn't your goddamn fault. They started before you were born, little girl. The only thing you're guilty of is being a good person, and that's no crime.” He let go of her. “Stay with Del. Listen to him."
She nodded. Henderson limped away, leaning on a silent Boomer.
Cath stepped in and kissed her cheek. The smell of Juicy Fruit, cordite, and strawberry incense clung to the younger girl. “Be safe,” she whispered, with no trace of impatience. “I'm glad we got you out. Don't do anything stupid, okay?"
Yoshi merely bowed slightly, his almond-shaped eyes glittering. Brew and Zeke had already walked away, Cath following them to the second car. Yoshi drifted after Boomer and Henderson. Before he was out of sight, though, his mind brushed Rowan's briefly, a warm friendly touch, as if they were in the middle of an operation again.
You are my very dear friend, Yoshi said. Be gentle with yourself for a while, Rowan.
Gentle? Her breath hitched in an unsteady laugh. She didn't feel like being gentle. All she wanted to do was find somewhere dark to curl up and pass out.
She was left with Justin, standing on the side of the wide paved road. He pulled her back from the edge of the ravine as two car engines roused and their headlights cut a wide swath through the gray. No traffic, but he looked both ways before guiding her across the street and to a cream-colored Volvo.
He unlocked the passenger door with a sigh. “We'll stop to get some sleep as soon as we cross the state line. Afraid you'll have to wait a little while for a change of clothes. Cath packed some for you and you can change when we stop for breakfast, is that okay? I've got a kitbag for you, so at least you won't be helpless. We can get coffee in Taos and—"
Her shoulders shook. She couldn't seem to stop crying.
"Hey.” Now he sounded alarmed. “Christ, Ro. Please. We've got to get out of here, sweetheart. You're safe now. I promise you're safe.” He stuffed the keys back in his pocket and stroked her hair, hugged her, kissed her forehead and might have tried to kiss her mouth if she hadn't buried her face against his chest, smelling the clean healthy scent of a male who had just undergone a hard workout. She wasn't sure if he was wounded, couldn't bear to look up. He also smelled like night wind, of cordite like Catherine—of course, there had been a lot of gunfire—and like the only safety she had now. “Shhh, angel. It's all right. I'm here."
Of course you're here. How can you forgive me? I left you there in that horrible place. With Jilssen, and with that ... that filth. Anton. Shudders racked her. She didn't resist when he opened the car door and pushed her down inside to sit, buckling her seat belt. The smell of a new car filled her acid-tasting mouth. Of course, they drained the old resource net, plenty of funding. Newer cars, nice and clean. We can use them for a while before they get hot.
He dropped in on the driver's side with a sigh, settling his kitbag on the console between them. He was pale, his mouth a hard line and his eyes glittering darkly. He slid the key into the ignition and twisted it. The car started. His hands curled around the wheel, and she saw through the tears that blurred her vision that his knuckles were white.
"I am never going to forgive myself,” he said, harshly. “I'm taking you north. Eleanor's cleared out the house in Calgary, but we'll stay somewhere different. Sigma
will never find you, Ro, not in a hundred years. I'll make sure they don't. If you still want to come back and run operations for the Society we can do that too. But I am never, ever, letting you out of my sight again. You decide to go on an operation, I'm going with you. You decide to go civilian and disappear, I'm going with you. And if you decide to get out of this car and throw yourself over that cliff, guess who's going to be right behind you."
Her entire body hurt. She closed her eyes, her head moaning and rippling with pain. “I killed him.” Her voice was dry as a bleached skeleton. “My mother always said I should use my talent for good."
"It was good.” Though there was no traffic, he checked over his shoulder as he pulled out. His leather jacket made a slight creaking sound as he shifted his weight, and he passed his hand back over his hair again as if forgetting it was cut short. He looked, as usual, impossibly calm and precise. “You got rid of a fucking plague upon the earth, angel. Believe me, I know how you feel. I can't touch anyone's mind without killing them or driving them fucking mad. Anton trained me by hooking me on Zed. I couldn't get my hit until I broke some poor bastard's mind to some appropriate degree. More often than not, they were used for target practice afterward.” The car moved smoothly over the road, tires whispering. “I hope you killed Anton too. I just wish I would have been there to do it so you didn't have to. I am never going to forgive myself, Rowan."
"Forgive yourself?" She couldn't stop the bitter little laugh that boiled out past her lips. “I left you there, Justin! And I ... I..."
I betrayed the Society, she realized. I could have been tortured into betraying Headquarters. Especially if I was strapped into that chair and Anton touched me. I don't think I could have stood it if he'd gone to work on me.
Her hands shook as she lifted them blindly, and her right hand smacked against the window.
Justin reached over and caught her left hand, gently. The touch sent another wash of crackling soothing energy over her skin, sinking in. “Calm down, Ro. It isn't as if you had any goddamn choice. Now just get some rest. We got you out of the heaviest Sig installation in the country, and you may have killed their head of Operations right after I took out that blind bastard. They're in for a major bureaucratic shakeup. Only good thing about the goddamn government is that they need paperwork to go to the bathroom."
You don't understand. It soothed her to speak to him without words. Regular speech didn't have the tones, the shades of meaning, nuance blending into nuance. She wanted to slide into his mind and stay there, secure in his certainty. His mental house was clean, not like the diseased pit of Jilssen's brain or the squirming, twisted parasite that was Anton. And also, the fishhook maggot-squirm that was the blind man twisting in her head. She was never going to feel clean again.
"Revenge. I wanted revenge.” Her voice broke again. “I still do. I thought I was better than that."
"You are. Just rest, angel.” He sounded so goddamn sure. He slid his fingers through hers, holding her hand as he drove. “Take it easy for a little while. Breathe."
She stared out the windshield while dawn came up. Despite herself, her terrified grasp on consciousness began to fade. The wheels of the car made a low soothing sound against the pavement, and she began to believe that she might almost be alive. And safe. Not that it mattered.
Her breathing hitched on a last broken little sob, and she passed out gratefully, sliding into darkness.
* * * *
The first night they stopped she thrashed into full terrified consciousness in the darkness, a sleeping weight on the mattress right next to her in the dark. For one vertiginous moment she thought she was strapped back in the chair, Jilssen tightening the restraints as he leered and cupped his crotch. Anton leaned on his cane in the background, the lab stretching and distorting like a funhouse mirror behind him. A scream tore at her throat, and when Justin lunged into wakefulness and grabbed her wrists she struggled, thinking he was someone else. But his hands were gentle, and he held her while she sobbed, the borders of her mind clean and intact. Even so, he reached through the link to her, calming her, his steadiness reassuring and the last fading burn of Zed withdrawal skittering over his skin with insect feet that she felt against her own flesh. He reached to the bedside table and flipped the cheap green-glass lamp on before he pulled her into his lap and rocked her while she shuddered and sobbed.
She finally quieted, his fingers stroking her back through her tank top. She sighed and began to relax a little, though the shivers coming through her in waves didn't stop. The naked feeling of dampers soaked through her skin, familiar, helping to dispel the nightmare.
"Better?” he asked finally, his mouth against her temple. He didn't sound sleepy at all.
No, I'm not. This isn't going to get better. How can it get better? “Better,” she whispered, and took in a deep hitching breath. “My God. I could have given away Headquarters. If they'd tortured me—"
"You wouldn't have. You're stronger than you think.” The headboard, bolted to the wall, creaked as he leaned back against it. If he was uncomfortable with her in his lap, he gave no sign. As a matter of fact, when she tried to wriggle away he tightened his hold on her, and an almost-contest ensued, her trying to squirm free and Justin almost negligently keeping her still. They were both breathing hard by the time she stopped, and she leaned her head against his shoulder, cuddled against his chest. His heartbeat thudded under her ear.
"It's not ever going to stop,” she whispered. “What are we going to do? When we get old, or if...” Stop it, Rowan. Just stop it.
"Old age and treachery will always win out over youth and inexperience,” he quoted solemnly. He actually sounded amused.
"That's not what I meant.” Her head hurt, but the tearing, ripping pain of a compulsion buried below the surface of her conscious mind had ceased. He touched her shoulder and lifted a slippery strand of pale hair. “I can't do this.” It was a soft, despairing moan.
The volcanic anger had extinguished itself, leaving only a howling emptiness. The rage that had possessed her in Zero-Fifteen was gone, replaced by ashes and smoke drifting through her mental landscape—burning, wrecked pieces of trauma.
"Give yourself a little time,” he said into her hair. “Don't worry so much. Even if it is a losing goddamn fight, at least we're on the right side of it. That's worth something, don't you think? Look.” He shifted a little, as if his legs had started to go to sleep, but his arms turned to iron when she tried to slide away. “One day, sometime, somewhere, they're going to lose. They can't keep it up forever."
She let out a choked half-sob. “You know what Jilssen said? He wanted to breed us. He said if he could breed out the stubbornness, it would make a good soldier."
Her lips moved against the bare skin of his shoulder, and she felt him take in a soft, deep breath. She shifted her weight a little, feeling a familiar insistent hardness pressing against the outside of her hip, and a wild panicked laugh rose behind her teeth. Well, at least I know he's still interested. Guilt slammed through her again. How could she even think about sex at a time like this?
"He's probably right.” He paused. “Of course, I can't see any child of yours lacking for stubbornness.” He stroked her hair, untangling it with infinite gentleness.
The laugh jolted its way free. “I'm sorry,” she whispered.
"Don't be,” he whispered back. “Take your time, angel. I'm not going anywhere."
"I want to forget.” She somehow, somewhere, found the courage to lift her head from his shoulder, felt the heavy weight of her hair slide against her back. She was going to have to cut it, dye it somehow. It was too distinctive, even for a psion practiced at blending in. Thinking of expending the energy to redirect attention away from her hair made her feel even more tired. “I wish I could forget everything."
"Everything.” His face was closed, but his eyes were dark and finally alive again. He watched her face, his lips gone soft and somehow amused, the arches of his cheekbones perfect in their sever
ity, one eyebrow slightly lifted in unconscious imitation of Henderson.
I wonder if he knows how much he copies the old man? she thought, and tried to hide a smile. It felt odd to smile, odd but also a relief.
"Everything except you. I missed you."
That made the faint shadow of amusement leave his expression. His face turned solemn. “I missed you too.” He let go of her, sliding his hands down her arms, callused palms gentle against her skin. “And here we are."
"Alone. Nobody chasing us."
"Yet.” Now he reached up and skated his fingertips over her cheekbone. The touch was so gentle it made the tears rise again. The fading echo of Anton's voice—Go ahead, Price. Pull the trigger—finally receded into the place nightmares went when faced by daylight. He tensed slowly, muscle by muscle, as she memorized his face over and over again. “Don't ever do that to me again. You hear me?"
Relief made her slump backward a little. It was the closest to a statement of need she'd ever heard from him. “I love you too."
"Christ.” Was he actually sweating? He was trying to stay still as she moved in his lap again, deliberately teasing him. It had been a long, long time for both of them. “Rowan..."
"Turn the light out,” she told him, and he reached out slowly as she found the hem of her tank top with trembling fingers and pulled it off over her head. His hand never found the lamp, because he traced the lowest curve of her ribs with shaking fingers. Their mouths met, and from there it was easy. He pulled her down into the tangled covers, his mouth on her throat and breasts until she made a soft pleading sound, his fingers hooking in the waistband of her panties. She had to lift her hips to get them off, for once not worrying about getting dressed if there was an emergency, only wanting to get the confining material out from between them. He tossed them over the side of the bed, and she kissed along his jaw as he struggled with his boxers, muttering a curse she laughed at before he finally kicked the offending material away and slid his knee between hers. She felt the sensations spilling through his nerves as acutely as if they were her own; the rougher silk of his skin against hers was exquisite torture magnified by the link between them.
Hunter, Healer [Sequel to The Society] Page 21