The Society

  It was a relief to finally move back into his own room, a relief to shut out the rest of the world. Rowan set his black bag down on the bed and started fussing at him to lie down. Instead, he sank down in the huge armchair and let out a sigh of relief. More plants had shown up—a miniature rosebush blooming red, some leafy green thing Delgado thought was maybe a datura, and another wrought-iron plant stand held four African violets, three of which were blooming vigorously. More books were scattered everywhere, and there was a pile of clothes by the bathroom door.

  She descended on the clothes, scooping them up and stuffing them into the already overloaded laundry hamper. “I haven't had time,” she said defensively, sweeping her hair back.

  "I didn't say anything,” he said. “You've been busy in the infirmary. Can I talk to you?"

  Her green eyes widened, and he felt his heart skip a beat. “Of course,” she said, stooping to scoop up two books from the floor. She started shelving the books, the crackling tension in the air following her like smoke. “Just let me do this."

  "Calm down, Rowan.” He knew what tone to use on her now, soothing and authoritative at the same time. “Calm down, sit down, and take a deep breath."

  She dropped down on the bed, setting the books primly to one side, and glared at him.

  He couldn't help himself. He began to laugh.

  He laughed so hard tears blurred his eyes. His chest hurt, and curling his hands into fists, he sank into the chair's embrace and chuckled until he thought he would never catch his breath.

  Rowan stared at him, perplexed at first, but then seeming to relax. A slight smile crept over her face. She relaxed and waited patiently for him to stop laughing.

  When he finally did, she sighed and folded her arms. “Finished?” Her eyebrows rose slightly.

  Good God, I don't think she knows how beautiful she is. “I guess,” he answered, wiping his eyes. “God, Rowan. Don't look at me like that. You're dangerous."

  "Dangerous?” She was back to perplexed. “What are you—"

  "Why don't you like Jilssen?"

  It was a little too abrupt. She paused, her eyes dropping. Weak icy-morning sunlight flooded in through the window, making her glow. She pushed up the sleeves of her blue sweater and kept staring at the floor.

  "I don't know,” she said finally. “I ... I just don't want him to touch me."

  Delgado felt his eyes narrow. “He tried to touch you?” His tone abruptly dropped, became serious.

  "When you left. I don't know. I just ... He always seemed to be watching. I'm just nervous.” Her shoulders eased.

  "Don't worry about Jilssen. I'll keep him away from you.” He'd better not try to touch you, Rowan. Del had to take a deep breath, invoking control.

  "He wants me in a telem rig,” she whispered. “You know about those?"

  "Oh, yeah. We've been working on those for a while. They just amplify a psi's talents, Rowan, but some of the telepaths don't like them very much. It's hard to shield.” He settled himself more comfortably. He shouldn't have been so tired after just a weak workout and the walk back to his room, but he was. It was damn near a miracle that he was still alive, even if Rowan had performed the impossible and healed him. That's not the only miracle she's worked, he thought, watching her tuck a strand of pale hair behind her ear. If Sigma ever gets wind of the fact she can cure Zed addictions, we'll have a lot more trouble on our hands than even I can handle.

  "I don't like the way he looks when he asks me, Justin. I'd prefer it if you were there if I ever use one of those things."

  That warmed him clear through. “No problem. Nobody here is going to hurt you, Rowan."

  She shrugged, looking down again. “I've got a bad feeling,” she said, as if she expected him to laugh again.

  "What kind of bad feeling?” His attention sharpened.

  "Just ... I'm uneasy. Really uneasy. The nightmares. When I can sleep, that is, and—” She bit her lip, stopping as suddenly as she'd started. “What if Sigma can still track me?"

  "They would have scooped you up before now.” While I was bringing you in. And that was bloody well close, as Brew would say. Andrews nearly had us both.

  "But this is the Society's Headquarters,” she pointed out. “They can't just walk in and try to grab me. They have to go a little more carefully, don't they?"

  Justin shrugged. Her face fell, and he cursed himself. “I'll take a look, Rowan. I know most, if not all, of Sigma's procedures. I'll ask a few questions. And if anything seems off, we'll go to Henderson. All right?"

  "You believe me?"

  "Of course I believe you.” He made his tone flat and matter-of-fact. “If you told me the moon was made of green cheese, I'd get out crackers, angel."

  The smile that broke over her face made his chest ache with an entirely unphysical pain. “I'm glad you're here,” she said. “Really glad."

  "Good. I promise I'll keep Jilssen away from you.” Delgado felt something prick at him uneasily. “Anything else?"

  She shrugged, her fingers playing with the bedspread. “Nothing, I suppose.” But her eyes were dark. Something else, then.

  "Are you sure?” He didn't want to press—it wasn't the time. But she looked so uneasy.

  "Nothing. Just ... before you left."

  Ah. He had to squelch a flare of comprehension—and satisfaction. That's right, angel. You and I have unfinished business. “Before I left,” he echoed, finding enough energy to lean forward from the chair's embrace.

  "You ... um, I ... I mean, I...” It was such a novel experience to watch her flounder that Delgado allowed himself a few more moments of it, watching as she picked at the white bedspread.

  "About that,” Delgado said, and her gaze flew to his face, the color draining from her cheeks. He didn't have the heart to play with her, not when he wanted her this badly. “I meant every word, Rowan."

  The color rushed back into her cheeks, she dropped her eyes again. What do you know? he thought. I have an effect on her.

  It was unexpectedly sweet. He wanted to savor it.

  "It's just ... I ... I mean, I...” She coughed, uneasily. “You just ... I mean..."

  What exactly do you mean? He searched through every scenario he'd planned for and couldn't quite figure out where this one fit. “It's all right,” he said, trying not to look as if he was enjoying himself. “If it makes you uncomfortable, I'll—"

  "You said we had to talk."

  "We do."

  "What about?” Her hands twisted together.

  "Us,” he said, and watched her eyes fly up to meet his.

  "Why are you doing this?” she asked. “Everything?"

  "I want to,” he said. Wait a minute, what are we talking about?

  "I really like you,” she said, her eyes fixed on the floor, her cheeks crimson. “I really do."

  "I'm sorry this happened,” he said finally. “If I could have stopped it, I would have. I'd give anything to have your father back, and Hilary. For your sake."

  I should be talking to her about how dangerous it is to have everyone know what kind of magic she worked on Sheila, he thought, and then the thought went clean out of his head when she looked up, a tear-track showing on her pale cheek.

  "Thank you."

  It was one of the few times in his life Delgado was speechless. Silence stretched between them, a not-quite-uncomfortable silence. Finally, Rowan sighed and pushed herself up from the bed. “Henderson wants you for a briefing after lunch. And I want to check on—"

  "Screw him.” Delgado sighed, raking his fingers back through his hair. “Look, Rowan, I—"

  She smiled at him. It literally took his breath away, made his chest feel tight. Outside the window, winter sunlight bounced off a hard frost and the light blanket of snow covering the fields, the sky a depthless gray promising the storm the weather-sensitives had been muttering about. The light was good for her. Hell, any light's good for her. She'd even look good dipped in mud. “He's been tearing his hair out without you.??
? She swept a long tendril of her hair back. “How about I bring you some lunch?"

  "Hey.” He caught her wrist as she moved past him. Immediately, his skin prickled with an even sharper awareness of her. “I don't want to talk to Henderson. I want to talk to you."

  She went still, her extraordinary eyes wide and fixed on him. “Justin.” Just the one word. Then she blinked. “Did you tell me your name?"

  He shrugged. I don't care, angel. “Call me what you like.” He made sure his fingers were gentle, controlled the impulse to pull on her arm and tumble her onto his lap. I've been a fucking saint. I deserve it. What do you say, God? I deserve something, don't I?

  The instant he thought it, he wanted to curse. He didn't deserve a goddamn thing.

  Rowan sank down slowly until she was crouched next to his chair, her wrist in his hand. “What's wrong?” she asked, the shiny tear-track on her cheek mocking him.

  "Nothing.” He lifted her hand and used his other fingers to trace a line in her palm. His calluses scraped against her softer skin. He touched her sensitive fingertips, the hollow of her palm. Her eyes half-lidded, she took a deep shuddering breath. “Forgive me?” he asked.

  She looked stunned. “For what?"

  "I didn't guess the Sigs would move so fast,” he said. “I should have guessed.” He let out a long breath. I didn't even know I was going to say that.

  "It's all right,” she said, but her mouth drew down bitterly at the corners. “I forgive you."

  Slowly, deliberately, he slid his fingers through hers. Let go of her wrist and held her hand. “Okay."

  It wasn't exactly what he wanted, but she stayed with him, holding his hand for a few moments before glancing at the clock and announcing, “I'm hungry. We need some lunch before you meet Henderson."

  Minx. I didn't agree to that. “All right, sweetheart. Whatever you say."

  "Henderson's the boss.” Now Rowan smiled slightly. That weak, tremulous smile made Delgado's heart start to pound. “When he's done with you, I'll bring you back and tuck you into bed. We'll have a nice long chat."

  "I'm a wounded man, missy."

  The smile turned into a full-fledged grin. “I'm a medical professional, sir. Are you objecting to my diagnosis?"

  "Of course not,” he said, his own mouth curling up to echo her smile. “I'd love to have a nice long talk with you. As long as you like.” How does she do that, make me feel human again? He knew that when Henderson finished with him he'd be exhausted, and Rowan would too. She was spreading herself too thin in the infirmary. They wouldn't talk tonight.

  But soon. Very soon.

  "Great.” She took her hand back, but slowly, her fingers sliding against his. The intensity of her talent had become a warm blanket wrapping around him. Her pulse had quickened. He could feel it even across the space separating them. “Thank you, Justin."

  What is she thanking me for? I destroyed her life. “What did you say Henderson wanted me for?"

  "Paperwork,” she said, rising slowly. How does she do that? How does she move like that, like silk?

  "Oh, Christ,” he moaned. “No."

  "You'd better believe it,” she said. “We've got just enough time to get something to eat. And the sooner you finish it, the sooner we can come back here."

  "You've got a way of putting these things,” he admitted. “All right. Point me at the papers. Where do I sign?"

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Three weeks later, she looked up from the files she was sorting as Henderson said her name.

  "Can you run these to Central for me?” he asked, handing Rowan a sheaf of folders. He wore a pair of steel-rimmed glasses, darts of light striking off the frames; the gun he wore had become normal. Guns made Rowan nervous, but the people around here were starting to look strange if they were unarmed. “Catherine's crunching some numbers, and Brew—"

  "It's all right.” Rowan laughed, taking the armful. “Tell Justin I'll be back in a few moments, all right?"

  He nodded absently, shoving his hand through his hair and turning back to the computer screen. Holding the folders, Rowan watched him for a moment. His back was iron-straight and his sharp, kindly gaze reminded her of her father's. The white patch at his temple glared in fluorescent light.

  Four East was an underground room, a huge circular dome like Central Op. Only here, Henderson's Brigade had hung Halloween decorations—Catherine's—and a huge print of Monet's water lilies—Brewster's—and a poster of a wet cat clinging to a branch with the caption Just Hold On—Zeke's. Rowan's contribution was a salvaged airplane plant, sending out long tendrils with balls of whippy green leaves at the end.

  "I don't know what you did to get Del on his feet so quickly,” Henderson said suddenly, still staring at the computer screen, his fingers flicking over a keyboard. A perpetual-motion thingie—four steel balls hung from thin filaments, clicking back and forth—stood next to his computer. Henderson's command chair was an ergonomically correct black-mesh-and-cushion deal, and he leaned back and took a swallow from a silver hip flask while she stood there, the files balanced in her arms. “But it's a miracle, and I'm grateful. He's working the best he has since he got here. I've never seen him so happy."

  Happy? I don't think I've ever seen him looking really happy. “I'm glad.” She took a deep breath. “Sir?” she asked carefully, gathering her courage.

  "What?” He didn't sound angry or even impatient, he hit the “enter” key twice, reached over and grabbed another manila folder and flipped it open.

  "When will I be able to ... do what the rest of you do?” Her heart hammered, coppery dryness in her throat. I know I'm practically useless, but I don't ever want to be here alone again and listening to Justin get shot at.

  "You mean be an operative? You've been here for months, but you've been missing classes and Del hasn't cleared you through combat training. Brew will need you in weapons, too. We can't take you on operations until we're sure you won't get yourself or one of us killed. I really need those files run down to Control, Miss Price."

  "Yes sir.” Rowan turned sharply and strode for the door. Well, that went as well as could be expected, didn't it?

  The passageway outside was lit by yet more fluorescents, and Rowan hummed to herself as she stopped in front of the transport door. The files were heavy. She was lucky to be allowed into Central, especially after being here for so short a time.

  Short? It feels like forever ... Justin's back to normal; he's been putting in fourteen-hour days and we haven't talked about anything. She sighed. Those nightmarish days of holding him to life, willing him to survive, were like a sore spot inside her head. She didn't want to speculate what sort of emotional muscles she'd pulled. The thought of losing Justin—of him dying like her father—made her entire body go cold.

  And the thought of her father made the familiar black ball of grief and anger rise up in her throat, like a lump of tears with sharp spikes.

  I should check in at the infirmary. Annika's team came back all beat up. Rowan shifted her weight from side to side, feeling her calves protest from the punishing run she'd taken that morning. Annika, a short, gymnast-muscled woman with long dark hair and empty flat blue eyes, had brought everyone back safely, but she'd lost half her spleen and now boasted a long scar down the side of her face. It was yet another thing to hate Sigma for, and Rowan found that hating the faceless monolith didn't make her uncomfortable at all.

  And yet sometimes, she wondered.

  The transport door opened, and Dr. Jilssen's blue eyes peered out from behind their thick lenses.

  Rowan's stomach did its best to rise in revolt. She tasted bile, and her skin prickled.

  "Rowan!” As usual, the old man sounded delighted. He jammed the button that kept the transport door open, his rumpled lab coat rustling. “Just the person I wanted to see! Where are you going?"

  She clutched the files to her chest like a schoolgirl, hitching in a breath. “Central,” she said, unable to lie. Why do I feel so sick every tim
e I'm around him? she wondered, and the prickling intensified right on her nape.

  Danger.

  He's not dangerous, she told herself, and moved forward as if to step into the transport. She stopped.

  Her body literally wouldn't step onto the transport. She struggled with herself, not wanting to be impolite.

  "Good! I'll go with you.” He was beaming, his hands trembling slightly, like usual. But today there seemed something predatory about his face, lean and leathery instead of just old and fragile. His tie was blue, stained with something darker, and his right loafer was untied.

  "I ... I left something,” she stammered, backing away. This wasn't like her. Rowan Price didn't lie, and she didn't give into irrational fear.

  What if it's not irrational? I felt this way before that man tried to drag me off in the parking lot. But that was because they were Sigma, wasn't it?

  "Rowan?” Now Jilssen stepped out of the transport, his face the picture of concern. But was there something else beneath that concern? Something ... almost hungry?

  "I have to go,” she began breathlessly, backing up two steps, then whirling—and almost running into Justin, the breath slamming out of her chest as she halted. He seemed to just appear sometimes without the benefit of moving through space like a normal human, and since starting his regular workouts again, his shoulders seemed impossibly broad.

  He caught her, one hand curling around her shoulder, and the other catching her upper arm and setting her back on her feet. “There you are.” His dark eyes, flat and ironic, flicked over her, probably taking in her scarlet cheeks and set jaw. Then he turned to Jilssen, who had retreated back into the transport. “Henderson says he needs one of those back. Afternoon, Doctor."