The Society

  "But he's just a little boy.” Rowan didn't shake away from his arm. If he was careful and casual, helping her through the halls when she was too tired to notice, she let him stay near her.

  "A little boy who can start fires just by staring at things,” Delgado reminded her. “They can use that."

  Rowan shuddered. He gently stroked her shoulder with his thumb, a soothing touch.

  The first few weeks of her stay at Society Headquarters had been touch-and-go. She hadn't eaten much and had almost invariably refused to leave Delgado's room. She had slept eighteen hours out of twenty-four, and then she'd spent the rest of the time staring blankly at the ceiling, no matter how Delgado cajoled or pleaded with her.

  It had been Henderson who had found the solution. On one of his frequent visits, he had mentioned Boomer's nightmares and sighed heavily. He needs help, Henderson had said, but nobody knows what to do for him. And he had left soon after that, winking at a mystified Delgado.

  That day, Rowan had prowled his room restlessly, and finally—hallelujah—asked where the infirmary was.

  Since then, things had been much easier. For two months now she had slowly been exploring Headquarters and learning about the new place she found herself in. And if she didn't seem to notice that Delgado was sleeping in an armchair, if she didn't notice that he was building on the foundation he'd laid while she was sedated, teaching her how to control her gifts, if she didn't notice that he was always there when she woke shuddering and sweat-soaked from another nightmare—well, he was happy. What she didn't notice, she couldn't tell him to stop doing.

  Henderson had begun to spend an hour a day with her, too, teaching her some basic psionic theory. It was excruciatingly slow, but Delgado had time. As long as she let him stay close to her, he had time.

  "Why doesn't someone stop them?” she asked.

  He felt a quick swell of pride in her. It usually took most new recruits, especially the shell-shocked ones, at least eight months to ask that question. “They're government, Rowan. They believe they're fighting the good fight. Each psionic they get hooked on Zed and obedient is one more psionic to make America strong. And since they're black sector, they have the funding they need as long with no Congressional oversight as long as they produce results. And they've been producing results for a good forty-seven years now."

  Rowan sighed as they turned the corner. “It just seems so wrong,” she said.

  You have no idea, angel, he thought. “It's making certain people very rich,” he pointed out. “Very powerful people."

  "But the newspapers.... the media...” She sighed again.

  "Some of the media magnates are the ones getting rich,” he pointed out. His door slid open as they approached. “It's a dirty thing, Rowan. A really dirty thing. We do what we can."

  He scanned the room before letting go of her shoulders and locking the door with a touch on the handpad set in the wall. Nobody here, of course. He paused, struck by a novel thought. It looks different in here.

  Books were piled on a new nightstand of pale blond wood, and two new bookshelves of the same unfinished type flanked his old metal shelving. Rowan had found a length of green chiffon somewhere and draped it over the top of the curtain rod. She sometimes remarked that she wanted to sleep with the French door ajar when it wasn't so chilly anymore. A rubber tree in a terra cotta pot stood on a wrought-iron plant rack by the window, and he'd put up ceiling hooks so she could hang airplane plants and one plant with pretty, trailing purplish leaves. A fern she'd rescued from a neglected corner was now green and healthy, perched atop one of the bookshelves, and she'd thrown a blue and green shawl over the plain white bedspread. Rowan dropped down on the bed and yawned, her shoulders slumping. She would probably sleep in tomorrow.

  Well, she's moved in and made herself at home, he thought, and the flush of heat that went through him wasn't unpleasant at all. She'd made a wistful remark about a CD player yesterday, and he reminded himself to requisition one for her. Nobody said anything directly to Delgado, of course, and nobody asked her why she was staying in his room instead of requesting a suite of her own.

  She stopped yawning and looked up at him. “Justin,” she said quietly, “is this your room?"

  He shrugged. How could he explain to her that no place was home? He just slept wherever he could find a moment to close his eyes. He hadn't had a place to call his own since Sigma had trained him. “I like what you've done with it,” he said cautiously.

  "You mean I've kicked you out of your own bed for months and you haven't said a word about it?"

  He shrugged again. “It's not a big deal, Rowan."

  "I thought you were just worried about them coming after me again,” she said, and shivered slightly.

  "They would have to spend a lot of money and man-hours to crack Headquarters,” he said immediately. “That is, if they could find it, which they can't. We have defenses in place, Rowan. They can't attack us any more than we can attack them."

  She looked down into her lap, her fingers twisting together. “This is really happening, isn't it,” she said, dully.

  Christ, just when we were doing so well, he thought, and crossed to the window and peered out. It was habit, and he barely paid attention, only noting the frozen garden below and the field beyond lying under a scrim of moonlight. “I wish you'd talk to one of the counselors. They're qualified; I'm not. I'm just an operative."

  "They're all frightened of you,” she observed, mildly enough.

  He let it go. He knew her well enough not to push. “Are you?"

  "I don't think so. Should I be?"

  "Maybe. Probably not.” His neck was beginning to hurt.

  "You're trying to teach me, aren't you?"

  "Just what you want to know, that's all."

  "I've been wondering if there are ... classes. Psychic classes."

  "There are. You can attend if you want.” They're required classes if you want to be an operative, angel. But you need time. They won't push you. The thought of anyone trying to force her into something as simple as a meditation seminar made a bubble of anger rise inside his spine.

  "If I do...” She worried at her lower lip with her pearly teeth.

  God, please don't let her say what I think she's going to say.

  "...what will you do?"

  Relief welled up inside him. “I'm officially your mentor. I'll be with you."

  She nodded and her hands relaxed. I doubt she even knows how tense she is, he thought. I should have forced the issue with her when I had the chance. It would give me an excuse to try some old-fashioned therapy on us both right now. “Okay,” she said. “Can I talk to you about something?"

  He leaned against the closed door. “Sure."

  She pulled her legs up on the bed, sitting Indian-style, fully awake. “About ... about my father."

  Delgado sighed inwardly and stuck his hands in his pockets. He'd been sleeping in his clothes for months now, not that he minded. “Your father."

  "Did they cover it up? How did they explain it? How can I ... I mean..."

  We just keep going from one dangerous subject to the next, he thought, and winced. One question leading to another and another, and before he knew it, he'd be telling her everything. “There's been total media silence, but there's a warrant out for your arrest as a material witness. Your father was buried at the VA. Hilary had insurance, and her boss—some guy named Vernon—made the arrangements for the memorial service. She's buried at Mount Hope."

  Hope sprang up on her face, but it was swiftly smothered. “I can't even go to their graves, can I."

  Christ, she's too smart. “Rowan...” What can I tell her? “Look, it's dangerous. But if you have to go, tell me. We can find some way to get you there."

  She stared at him, an expression of such patent surprise on her face that he was tempted to laugh. Did she think he would tell her she couldn't visit her own father's grave after seeing him die violently right in front of her? You haven't even gotten out o
f the numb stage of grieving yet, angel. And when you do ... “You'd really do that?” she asked.

  "Of course.” I want you happy, Rowan. I want you safe, and I want you happy. You won't ever understand.

  "Justin?"

  He surfaced from mulling over the dilemma to find her examining him. Her eyebrows were drawn together, and her lovely eyes were shadowed with something he was uncomfortably familiar with.

  Anger.

  "These ... these Sigma people.” She took a deep breath. “I want to stop them."

  Delgado blinked, shoving his hands even further into his pockets.

  "Are you listening to me? I want them stopped. They killed my father. I want them in court. I want them to go to prison."

  Delgado stared at her. Whatever he'd expected, it hadn't been this.

  She was waiting for him to reply, something suspiciously like trust shining in her luminous eyes, and faint color brushing her cheeks. Why hadn't he pushed her when he'd had the chance? He could be on the bed next to her right now, and he could distract her from this conversation.

  He cleared his throat. “Ah, Rowan.” How am I going to tell you this? “The justice system won't help us. Believe me, we've tried. Witnesses disappear, papers get destroyed, all of a sudden people get alibis or can't be found, and the whole thing's swept under the rug. They have carte blanche to do what they like. The cops and the judges and the media won't stop them. Hell, in some cases they are the cops and the judges and the media. We've tried taking them down before, and all we've accomplished is losing a lot of good people."

  She stared at him like he was speaking a foreign language. He tried again. “Look, Rowan. Sigma's government. They have the weight of the government behind them, and the work they do for the intelligence agencies makes them golden. FBI, CIA, ATF, NSA—nobody can touch them. If we gave proof of their activities to media outlets, all we'd have would be a bunch of dead journalists and missing pieces of proof. And it would be heart attacks and car accidents instead of surgical seek-and-capture teams, angel."

  "There's got to be something—” she started.

  "There is,” he interrupted. “We recruit who we can, and we save kids like Bobby and train them. We fight where we can, we stay alive, and we wait. Someday we'll have the odds in our favor, Ro. When we do, we'll erase the motherfu ... ah, we'll strike where it hurts ‘em most. Sooner or later they won't have enough psionics to do any work, if we just quietly keep stealing them. That way we don't have a lot of dead bodies."

  "Except my father,” she said, her eyes glittering. “And Hilary."

  "What do you want me to do? We've tried before. We can't do it. They have too much help from the big boys in politics, angel. It goes all the way to the top."

  "Why doesn't anyone talk about this?” she almost yelled.

  That's a good question, angel. “Sometimes they do,” he said quietly. “They end up in mental wards. Or with their lives destroyed, branded as nutcases. Or they have a heart attack or a car accident or they vanish and the cops say, ‘Maybe they just went to Reno, people vanish all the time.’ People do vanish all the time, Rowan, and if it isn't reported on the six o'clock spot, who will ever put the pieces together? And most people don't want to know...” He trailed off, seeing the fury on her face. Her hands were back to scrubbing at each other.

  "You told me I'm a thirteen,” she said suddenly. “On this Morris scale."

  "Matheson,” he corrected automatically.

  "Matheson. You told me I could incite riots.” Her eyes glittered, deadly sharp.

  Oh, Christ. Don't, Rowan. Don't do this. “You could,” he agreed cautiously. “You've got the talent."

  "All right,” she said. “I want to take classes. I want to know how to ... how to use whatever this thing is. This psychic thing."

  That's a relief. Whatever it takes to drive her through getting some control. I can always talk her out of it later, can't I? But Delgado wasn't sure he could talk Rowan Price out of anything, especially when all he could think of was how soft the fragile curve of her throat looked; how her eyes were full of depth and shading even now, when she was furious. “Of course,” he said. “We'll teach you everything we can. I'll teach you everything I can."

  "And then I'm going to do whatever I have to,” she said. “Will you help me?"

  Oh, Jesus. “Rowan—"

  "Will you?” She was merciless. Those eyes bored into his, and the prickling intensity of her ran over his skin. He was almost used to it now, the way his body responded. This wasn't reasonable or rational or logical. He was in deep trouble. “Please? I can't trust anyone else, Justin. You know I can't."

  That was exactly where he was most vulnerable, whether she knew it or not. He knew she didn't think of him as anything other than a defense against the violent turn her life had taken.

  "All right,” he said, his heart sinking. “But if you want to take on Sigma, you'll need some hard training. You probably won't like it."

  His last-ditch attempt failed. “I don't mind hard work.” Her hands turned into fists. Delgado couldn't help himself. He crossed the room, dropping onto the bed next to her with a weary sigh. He reached over, took one of her hands, and pried at her fingers until they uncurled.

  "You've got to relax,” he said quietly. “If you go working yourself up, you'll affect the patients. There are a lot of sensitives in here, Rowan, and you're powerful. You could make them very nervous. I've already told you I'll help you. Just take a deep breath, okay?"

  She stared at him for a few moments, her face unreadable. Then she shut her eyes and inhaled deeply.

  Delgado watched her face. She took another deep breath, and another. The angry flush in her cheeks faded.

  The prickling heat that ran through him from the touch of her skin did not.

  No wonder they think I'm crazy, he thought, examining the curve of her cheekbone, the soft vulnerable space beneath her lower lip.

  "Sorry,” she said finally, without opening her eyes. “You're right. I shouldn't get carried away.” A long pause, silence ticking through the room. “Should I get a room of my own, Justin?"

  "Only if you want to,” he answered unthinkingly.

  Hey eyes opened, caught him unawares. “You're a nice guy,” she said, as if surprised.

  No, I'm not, he thought. You just haven't seen me yet, angel. He had to concentrate before he could open his hand and let her fingers slide out of his. “I like having you around,” he admitted. “It's ... soothing."

  That's probably the best way to approach her, he realized cynically. Use that soft heart of hers, Del. If you're determined, that is. If you've got the guts to try it.

  He knew what he didn't want. He didn't want to manipulate her, didn't want to move her through the game until he was where he wanted to be.

  Too bad he was going to have to. If she planned on taking down Sigma, she would need him.

  I'm insane, he thought. I've gone mad.

  She grinned, the shadows in her eyes easing for a moment, and Delgado's heart made a funny twisting movement. “Nobody's ever called me soothing before,” she said, and patted his shoulder. “Why don't you take the bed tonight, and I'll sleep in the chair?"

  He shrugged, standing slowly. If I don't get out of here I'm going to push her, and she'll retreat again. “No, I should go check in at Central anyway. You go ahead and get some sleep. I'll be back in a little while."

  "All work and no play,” she said, but shook her head and motioned him away. “Go on, I'll be fine. Thank you, Justin."

  What the hell is she thanking me for? Doesn't she know why I'm doing this?

  "No problem, angel. Anytime."

  The trouble isn't that I say that, he thought grimly, shutting her in his room after making sure the hall was clear. The trouble is I mean it. I've gone domestic. God, what a mess.

  He sighed, squared his shoulders, and set off down the hall.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Rowan turned over, pulling the sheet up. Then she
yawned and opened her eyes.

  Delgado sat on that awful, battered orange armchair, his head in his hands and his elbows on his knees. He looked tired, and he was wearing the same clothes he'd worn yesterday—jeans, a black T-shirt, and a pair of boots. Does he always sleep in his clothes? Rowan wondered.

  She pushed herself up on her elbows, watching him, sudden guilt biting sharply under her breastbone. She hadn't even thought to inquire whose room this was; she'd thought it was a spare bedroom even though his clothes were in the closet and the chair was obviously his. She hadn't been thinking clearly at all.

  Sunlight poured in through the French door leading to the balcony, poured in through the window as well. Rowan yawned again and ran her fingers back through her hair, wincing as she encountered tangles. “Morning,” she said, and his shoulders hunched.

  When he looked up, he didn't look any different. Same flat hazel eyes, same straight serious mouth. He was a little pale, that was all. “What's wrong?” Rowan asked immediately. “Did something happen?"

  He shrugged, sitting up and stretching, the movement bringing him to his feet in one fluid motion. “How are you? Sleep well?"

  "Don't put me off.” She slid her legs out of bed. “What's wrong, Justin?"

  Nobody else calls him that, she realized suddenly. It's Delgado, or sir, or Del if they're feeling friendly. Nobody else calls him by his real name. That made her frown, thinking about it. Had he told her his name, or had she picked it out of the air? She sometimes did that, and most people assumed they had just told her their names. She tried not to do that. Mom had always said it was rude to use someone's name without permission.

  "We lost another operative,” he said quietly. “One of Shelton's gang. It's just depressing, that's all. I hate losing good people.” He watched her closely, she realized, without seeming to. Why does he do that?

  "I'm sorry,” she said immediately. It seemed like being one of the “operatives” was dangerous. This was the eighth one she'd heard about dying. “Why do they ... I mean, what..."

  "Sigma,” he said, turning away. He crossed to the window and looked out. “Fucking Sigma. You want some coffee?"