Good.
She carried her bag up to the front door and tried to hand him the change, but he shook his head, only taking the cell phone back. “Come on. One last stop."
He'd taken a spin through the luggage store and got a few pieces to store her clothes and toiletries in, but he took her back there. “They don't have much,” he said, “but I think you need a new purse."
She nodded and randomly picked out a small black number. He paid for it, and then shepherded her out to the car. “We can stop by a supermarket for anything else.” He took her elbow as they crossed into the parking lot. “But we need food first. What do you want for lunch?"
"I don't think I could eat.” She looked stunned, far too pale, her eyes far too dark. “Justin—” She caught herself. “Delgado."
"You can call me Justin.” The name felt strange on his lips. Nobody had called him that in years. “It's okay."
"All right,” she said. “Justin, where does all the money come from?"
"We have a couple psions who are really good with investments, and another couple that are really good with software,” he said. “We own a couple companies."
That was a vast oversimplification, but he didn't want to discuss the funding. Especially some of the less than legal aspects of the funding—the initial capital for the Society investments had to have come from somewhere, right?
"Oh,” she said.
"And every once in a while, someone goes to Vegas. Usually one of the telekinetics, but never the same one twice. There're all sorts of things.” He checked the surroundings again. Nothing. Why was he nervous? “I think we should get out of here. Is fast food okay?"
She grimaced before she could stop herself, and then blinked at him. “I suppose. Look, I feel sick. I can't eat."
"You have to,” he said gently, “or you'll get dizzy. You're in a kind of shock, Rowan. Eating will help. Will you at least try?"
She gave him one extraordinary green-eyed look. He'd seen the look before on interrogation subjects—the look that told him the subject was identifying with him, looking to him for guidance. “All right,” she said quietly. “I'll try."
"Good,” he said softly, and guided her to the car. He got the trunk open and dumped his few purchases in, ripped the tag off the purse with one efficient jerk, and emptied the paper padding from its insides. “There you go, ready to be filled up,” he said. “Let's go."
She carried the purse and her bag from the bookstore around to her side, and he closed her in the car and scanned the mall again. He wasn't just uneasy—the back of his neck was prickling, and he knew what that meant. Danger.
He went around the car, got into his side, and twisted the key in the ignition. “Let's drive a bit and then do lunch,” he said. “I'm a little nervous."
That made her eyes get even bigger. She stared at him, holding her seat belt in one slender hand. “Do you think they've followed us?” she whispered, and he regretted saying anything. She was fragile right now. Too fragile.
"Nah,” he said. “Just better to be safe than sorry, you know. Look, don't worry, Rowan. I'll take care of you."
"You walked around that whole place with guns on,” she said, buckling herself in. “Maybe they called the police."
"Nobody saw the guns, Rowan. They only saw a guy waiting for his girlfriend.” He backed out of the parking space, dropped the car in drive, and started negotiating the maze that would get them back on the freeway. His neck was crawling and her nearness—and obvious trust in him—made his entire body prickle with electricity.
She blushed and looked down at the purse. “I keep thinking this is a nightmare,” she said. “I'll wake up soon. And then I figure out it's not, and I won't."
"I'm sorry,” he said again. Get her talking about something else, you idiot. Another question occurred to him—how had she showed up at the abandoned house, appearing out of nowhere? It wasn't the type of place he'd expect to find a psion. “Why were you at that house? I never asked."
"I thought a bunch of teenagers were playing in there. Then I saw a candle and wondered if someone was going to get hurt—a fire, or something. I was curious. I was going to call the police if it looked like some kids drinking."
That was close, he thought. If she hadn't stopped, he might not have marked her, and Sigma would have scooped her up in a heartbeat. He would never have known.
His entire body went cold for a moment. Thinking about what could have happened to her made him feel suddenly, terribly glad she had been curious. And who knew? Her curiosity might have been a kind of precognition. “I'm glad you were curious,” he muttered, pulling out in front of a white Cutlass waiting at a stop sign. “If you weren't, they would have you by now."
She tucked the money he'd pressed in her hand into the wallet that came with the purse. Got to give her more, he thought, maybe a third of what's left, just so she knows she can use it if she wants. Then she stuffed the history book into the purse, the journal as well, and two of the pens. She left the Whitman and the rest of the pens in the plastic bag and reached back over the seat to put it in the back. She had to lean close to him to do so, and he took a deep breath, smelling her, the prickles of her talent running over his skin.
No wonder she feels like a lightning bolt, he thought. Over a thirteen. God.
She blows the equipment down without even realizing it, Henderson had told him. She's over a thirteen, we can't even measure her. I think she didn't blow the dampers completely because of the sedation. We were goddamn lucky, Del. It was close.
"Too close for comfort,” he murmured.
"What?"
"Just thinking.” He checked traffic and pulled onto the freeway on-ramp. “Look, Rowan—” It was a trick to extract his wallet while he was driving, but he did it. “Take what's in there and put it in your purse. Just in case."
"But what about—"
"I've got plenty, Rowan. That's for you.” Give her something to hold onto, he thought, even out the power pattern here.
In a regular extraction, he wouldn't be evening out the power pattern. He would keep her dependant for another couple of days, just to make sure the relationship took. And for something like this, when he was playing not just for safety but for keeps, he should maneuver her into a bed to force the bonding.
What the hell am I thinking? I still might. But what would she do if she realized he was maneuvering her, even if it was to keep her safe?
She was just unpredictable enough, right now, to make him nervous when he thought about it.
He couldn't call Henderson to check in—they were radio silent, just in case. The next time he spoke to Henderson, it would be at Headquarters. Not like he needed advice on how to run an extraction, but he was beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, he and Rowan were being pursued.
And there was another problem. If he kept playing aboveboard with her, she might decide to try to escape him.
He had no choice.
I hate having no choice, he thought, and watched the traffic around them. It was light, easy to spot a tail in, but Delgado kept checking and rechecking. Something didn't smell right. His instincts were in a frazzle.
He glanced over and saw that Rowan had leaned back, her head tipped against the headrest and her eyes half-closed. She looked sleepy.
He didn't blame her.
"Go ahead and sleep,” he said, quietly. “If you want, I'll wake you up for lunch."
She gave him a startled glance, and then her eyes drifted closed. After a long ten minutes, her breathing evened out, and the flush of sleep rose in her cheeks. The tingling along Delgado's skin intensified.
Are they tracking her? They couldn't be—nothing to get a pattern from. They never had a chance to scan her in a chair, so they couldn't ... ah, shit.
He was assuming their technology was still the same, he realized. Even if Sigma wasn't scanning for her, he needed to trust his instincts. Maybe he was just afraid of fucking this one up.
He settled himself into d
riving. He had some thinking to do.
Chapter Eighteen
Rowan crawled. It took forever, the kitchen floor spreading away in all directions like a desert plain. Her hands smacked against linoleum, the copper smell of blood filled her nose, and she heard the awful chilling little gurgle—
"Rowan. Wake up."
She crawled on the kitchen floor. Daddy was bleeding, and Hilary screamed.
"Wake up, angel. Wake up."
Rowan leapt into full consciousness, her heart pounding. His hand was on her shoulder. The car had stopped.
She must have fallen asleep again after lunch, because it was dark now. Streetlights bathed a parking lot with a yellowing glare. She blinked, and looked up at Delgado. “Hotel,” he explained. “I'll go get us a room. Stay in the car, okay? I'll be right back."
Rowan nodded. He looked like he might say more, but he just nodded and opened his door. She watched him walk across the parking lot and into the huge white hotel.
This looked like a city. The sky was orange with reflected light, and she'd smelled winter air and car exhaust when he'd opened his door. Rowan found she was clutching the purse he'd bought her, and she made her fingers loosen by the simple expedient of taking a deep breath.
How had this happened?
She could open up the car door and bolt, she supposed. There was a street with a bus shelter, and beyond that, another well-lit street where she could see cars going past, even at this hour. A 7-11 sign was just visible, not far away. She could call the police. She probably should call the police.
She unlocked the car door. He'd told her that the police were on their side, but of course he would tell her that.
He hasn't lied about anything yet, she thought, and her fingers played with the doorhandle. He'd left her alone out here—and left her alone in the bookstore, too. She could have asked to make a phone call. She could have dialed 911, faked an epileptic fit, done anything.
But the touch had told her he was serious. He wanted to keep her safe. He obviously thought the other people were a threat, and unless he was a sociopath or delusional, he wouldn't be able to fool her. He honestly believed she was in danger, and his actions made sense to her. Or at least, most of them did.
She sighed, frustrated, and moved in the car seat. I want to run, she thought longingly. She would never be able to go to the track again, never feel the weightlessness of an hour without worry ever again.
She wondered if anyone had found her father's body yet. Had the neighbors called the police? What about Hilary?
Another more awful thought struck her. Suppose the police thought Rowan had killed them?
That's ridiculous. The evidence wouldn't hold up in court.
But logic dictated that one of the simplest ways to catch her would be to have the police look for her, wouldn't it? And the easiest way to get the police to look for her would be to accuse her of murder.
Murdering her father and best friend.
Rowan flinched. Sometimes her brain worked too well. She settled back into the car seat, biting at a fingernail, trying to find a hole in her logic. A flaw in her reasoning.
None came to mind.
I'll bet he knows how to avoid police, she thought, and a warm flush of embarrassment crept to her cheeks. He seemed so competent, so endlessly efficient.
She was still brooding when Delgado came back and opened her car door. “I had to get us one room,” he said, and offered his hand. “There's two beds, though."
She nodded, sliding her feet out of the car. It felt good to stretch, good to get out of the blasted car. Chill night air washed over her, and she suddenly wished for a coat. “It'll be warmer inside,” he said. “Let's get you under cover, you can take a shower or something. Hot bath. We'll get room service. There's a Laundromat attached—see, over there—so we can get your clothes washed. How about that?"
"I just want to sleep,” she murmured. Her throat hurt. The soda she'd had at lunchtime had stung as it went down.
"Okay.” He guided her to the rear of the car and opened the trunk. She started to shiver. Halloween's coming, she thought, and it made tears rise to her eyes again. Dad had loved to feed trick-or-treaters. He stocked candy all year and gave it out by the double handful.
She blinked back the tears and swallowed them. Denied them.
When Delgado opened the hotel room door, she saw deep maroon carpeting and a mirror. An awful tasteless painting of a mallard hung over the small table between the beds. “A security nightmare,” he said. “But it's okay for now. Look, do you want to take a shower or something? A bath?"
She went to the bed farthest from the door, stripped back the covers and kicked off the sandals she was wearing. She dropped into the bed's embrace, then yanked the covers up and spent a few moments wriggling out of the borrowed jeans. Then she turned over, kicking the jeans out from under the covers, and picked up a pillow, jamming it over her head as she curled away from the light.
Delgado moved around for a while. “I'm turning the dampers on, Rowan. It'll feel a little strange.” Something electric hummed into life, and Rowan felt the same awful feeling of nakedness that she'd felt at the Victorian house. He retreated into the bathroom and came out after a brief time. Plastic rustled—he was getting the new clothes out.
After another while of hearing him move, he sighed. “I'm going to put this stuff in the washer. It feels awful to wear clothes when they haven't been washed."
She didn't say anything.
He left the room, and Rowan curled even tighter around the hard knot of misery in her chest. Before she fell asleep, she had one more logical, terrifying thought.
If they're chasing us and they corner us, it might not be a bad idea for him to leave me on my own so he can escape. Or if there's a chance of them catching me, what's to say he won't kill me to keep me out of their hands? He could convince himself that's the best thing to do for me, and he's efficient enough to do it.
Ridiculous. They'd come this far, hadn't they?
Rowan fell into a thin troubled sleep before he came back.
Chapter Nineteen
The dampers were almost overloaded, even when she slept. Until she learned how to keep herself shielded, a tracker would have no problem latching onto her. Even a dowser might be able to find her.
How had she survived with no training, no shielding? And how had she escaped notice for this long?
Delgado crouched beside the bed, watching her face as she breathed deeply, her lips slightly parted, and her cheeks flushed. She still wore his sweater, one arm tucked underneath her pillow, the other flung out, her hand resting on the white sheet.
He rested his own fingers on the sheet, wondering if he dared to touch her. Would she wake up?
If she did...
His fingers hovered so close to hers that he could feel the heat of her skin.
She was exhausted. Shocked, numb. He didn't blame her. It must have been a kick to the gut to have her entire world yanked away in the space of twelve hours. Delgado was just lucky she hadn't decided he was the enemy. She might have tried to escape and been scooped up by the cops—and Sigma would extradite her, pretty as you please. She wouldn't even know she'd been caught until it was too late. And then he'd have to go into an installation and find her, probably, and that might kill him.
Just a little push, he thought. Just to keep her here. What do you say, Del? Just a little push.
If he did, and she realized...
No. He couldn't.
But the temptation was well-nigh irresistible.
He touched her.
Her skin was soft, and her breathing didn't alter. But the electric feel of her raced up his arm, down his chest, and wrapped his body in soft heat. His pulse pounded in his ears.
His callused fingertips rested against the back of her hand. He stroked her wrist once, marveling at the satiny texture of her skin. She was so fucking perfect, it made his entire chest go tight with something he had never even thought possible. She wa
s beautiful.
"I'll take care of you,” he promised, whispering so he didn't wake her. “Just trust me, Rowan. Okay?"
Of course she couldn't reply. She was asleep.
Think about something else, anything else.
The motel was a risk, but she needed sleep and comfort, and he needed a few hours of rest himself. Their clothes were washed and dry and folded, packed in the suitcases. He was hoping she'd wear the jeans and the pretty black boots tomorrow. He was betting her legs would look even longer.
That was the wrong thing to think. He took a deep breath. Rest. He needed rest, and it was late already. He'd set up a perimeter. If anyone from Sig came close, he'd know. It had taken concentration and energy, two things he would have less of if he didn't get some sleep.
In a few minutes, maybe. Once he got enough of the feel of her skin under his.
He crouched there, watching her sleep for another half-hour. Then her eyelids fluttered in REM, and she made a soft sound of distress. She moved, and Delgado froze.
She turned away from him onto her back, her chin tipped up, her pale hair unraveling over the pillow. He had a sudden flash of wrapping his fingers in that hair and had to close his eyes.
I'm not doing this right, he thought. Who the hell do I think I am, some kind of nice guy? They'll kill her if they take her—leave her a Zed-shattered hulk of psion with a handler who might ... might...
He didn't want to think about the handlers. He didn't ever want to think about the handlers again.
So what am I going to do?
He didn't have a choice. He kept turning the problem over and over inside his head, but the answer was always the same. He didn't have a fucking choice.
The good thing was, the situation was perfect. She'd just been traumatized, and she would cling to him before long. He would have plenty of time afterward to help her heal. But for right now, the closer he could get to Rowan Price, the safer she would be from Sigma.
But the closer he got to Rowan, the higher the risk she would find out he was manipulating her. And he didn't think she'd take kindly to that.
Not kindly at all.