The Society Page 9

  She came to a halt near a low dresser and looked down at the white cloth on its top. Four guns, six knives, and various other implements lay in a neat range across the surface. “Are all these..."

  "I was trained that way.” His black messenger bag lay on the bed, a dimple of darkness. He left it there, slung a duffel bag down next to it. A few pairs of clothes, his kill book, a few toiletries. His practice of keeping a bag mostly-packed for emergencies had always stood him in good stead. “What size shoes do you wear?"

  "Six,” she said. “You really carry all these around?"

  "Necessary sometimes. You know, be prepared and all that.” Is she going to be frightened now? Please, don't. “I don't ever hurt anyone who doesn't deserve it, Rowan. Like those Sigs. Look, Cath's shoes are going to be too big for you—she wears a nine. Do you mind wearing a pair of Yoshi's sandals until we can get you some clothes and some shoes that fit?"

  "N-no.” When he looked back, she was touching the hilt of a knife with one finger.

  It was uncomfortably like her fingers touching him, and he froze, staring at her. She touched another knife's sheath, trailing her fingers down the supple leather. Delgado waited, his breath hitching.

  "Do you use all of these?” she asked, haltingly.

  "Yeah,” he answered.

  Her eyes swung over to him. “Why?” Then she grimaced and rubbed at her throat. It must hurt her to talk.

  "Because the other side has worse,” he said. “Much worse. And I like to be prepared."

  She nodded, crossing her arms and cupping her elbows in her hands. It was a defensive gesture, he realized, closing herself off from the world. She retreated a few steps from the dresser, then glanced at him. Reassurance, again. She was looking to him for reassurance.

  Why? All I've done is destroy her life. He stared at her. Against the velvet and burnished wood, she seemed to glow.

  Then he shook it off. He had to get her out of here. Sigma was infiltrating the city, setting up search grids. Focus, Delgado, he reminded himself, with a sharp mental slap. Focus.

  His hands hadn't even paused in packing the bag. He carried it to the dresser, extracting a leather harness from the drawer underneath it. He shrugged the harness on, then started holstering his guns. His hands moved smoothly, automatically. The knives came next, including the little hidden stilettos. She watched all this, her eyes growing wider and wider.

  When he had the ammo cartridges locked into place on the harness and more ammo in the bag, he slid the bag over his head, the strap diagonally across his chest. “Next stop, Yoshi's room, then the petty cash,” he said quietly. “Then we'll blow this joint and get you to safety. Just keep taking deep breaths, Rowan. I won't let anything happen to you."

  "Don't people notice you're wearing that?” she blurted, as if unable to contain herself.

  "It's part of shielding,” he said before he could stop himself. “Deadheads can't see it—and if a psionic looks, I know."

  She stared at him, her eyes huge as dinner plates. Delgado froze. Don't let her be scared of me, please, please.

  "I want to do something,” she said. “Please."

  "Okay,” he said, without thinking about it. “Sure."

  Jesus Christ. Did I just do that? What is wrong with me?

  She blinked, apparently as shocked by his quick acquiescence as he was.

  Silence bloomed between them, a new and painful silence. “I can do things,” she said quietly. Her ruined voice made the admission hoarse and painful. “It doesn't hurt, but it ... I need to..."

  She's just tacitly admitted to being a psion, he thought, and wondered why the thought should make him so uneasy. “Go ahead,” he said, and put his hands behind his back, standing almost in parade rest. “Do what you have to do, but we don't have much time."

  She nodded, strands of pale hair falling into her face. “I ... I've never told anyone,” she said. “Ever. Well, except my parents."

  A number of things suddenly fell into place. “Oh,” he said.

  She took a step closer to him, her eyes going dark. The prickles of electricity running over his skin intensified. “So you can't tell anyone,” she said. “Please."

  "Silent as the grave,” he promised.

  She took another step forward and looked up into his face. Delgado discovered that he was shaking—and she looked as if she was trembling too.

  "I won't hurt you,” she repeated, softly.

  "It's all right,” he told her. Hurt me if you want to, he thought, and then shivered. I don't care.

  She waited for a few excruciating seconds, then lifted her hand and pressed her fingertips to his unshaven cheek.

  Fire roared through his veins, coated his skin. He felt her, slipping through the surface of his mind, but the feeling wasn't like the agony of his own gift. Instead, it was as if every thought, every sin, every bloodstained moment of his life was washed clean. As if she had taken all the pain away, replacing it with something suspiciously like calm.

  When she pulled back, her fingers sliding from his skin, it took every ounce of his control not to catch her wrist and clamp her fingers back down on his face. She slipped out of his mind like water slipping under sand, gone, but leaving something changed and smooth, unruffled.

  "You're not like any of them,” she said, as if dazed. “And you're telling the truth."

  He found himself unable to speak. Tried twice and failed, his throat closed. Then he took a deep breath. “I wouldn't lie to you,” he managed.

  "Everyone else, but not me?” Now one corner of her mouth quirked up slightly. He couldn't believe what was happening.

  "I suppose so.” He shook himself. Got to get her out of here.

  Her eyes were still dark and depthless, her pupils dilated, the dark circles underneath them seeming almost bruised. “All right,” she said. “I trust you. I'll go with you."

  Chapter Sixteen

  Delgado took the freeway going north. Rowan sank into the leather bucket seat and watched the miles slip by. He drove carefully, obeying the speed limit, and a sudden sense of absurdity swam over her. Here I am, she thought, in a car with a man I don't even know, who has five thousand dollars in cash and a bunch of guns, being pursued by a government conspiracy. Because I'm a freak—only he calls it psionic. And Dad ... and Hilary. How did I get here?

  She'd never used the touch on a normal person before. But then, he wasn't exactly ... well, normal, was he? His mind was ordered, clean, not like the scattered wash of sensation and impression regular people gave off into the air or the screaming chaos of her patients’ minds. Is it because he's ... like me? she wondered, blinking in the late-morning sunlight. Two lattes stood steaming gently between them, in the cup holders. The car was new, a dark-blue Ford Taurus, without even an air-freshener. It was as bare and new as everything else these people seemed to have.

  He glanced at her, checking. “You all right?"

  The lunacy of the question taunted her. “No. I'm not. My family's dead and gone and all this ... I'm not all right. I'm not."

  "I'm sorry,” he said. “If I could have done this quietly—made contact with you, told you about the Society—I would have. I didn't want this."

  That made a sharp acrid bite of guilt chew at her breastbone. She believed him. “I know."

  "We need to get you some clothes,” he said. “We'll probably stay in a hotel tonight, if that's all right with you. Just keep focusing on the next thing for right now, Rowan."

  There it was again. He kept saying her name.

  "Why do you keep saying my name?” she asked. “Are you trying to calm me down?"

  "It's a pretty name,” he said, and she stole another glance at him. He watched the road. She picked up her latte—nonfat, double hazelnut—and took a sip. It had cooled down considerably.

  "My mother named me,” she said, and her eyes filled with tears. She put the latte back in the cup holder and stared out the windshield.

  His cell phone rang. Rowan almost flinched.<
br />
  He fished in his jacket pocket and brought the phone out, flipped it open, glancing at the Caller ID. “Delgado."

  Silence. Two tears tracked down Rowan's cheeks.

  "Fuck,” he said, and then glanced at her. “You're kidding. That's going to make it difficult."

  Another long pause. He sounds so calm, she thought, and wiped away more tears. She'd promised herself she wouldn't cry again.

  "No,” he said. “I haven't yet. What do you suggest?"

  Rowan could hear the faint sound of a male voice from the phone. Delgado laughed, but it was a short, bitter sound. “I'll get her there, General. Go ahead, don't worry about me. I think I can handle one extraction, even with—what?” There was a note of worry in his voice now, and that alarmed Rowan more than she would have thought possible. “Good Christ,” he finally said. “Okay."

  Then he shrugged, even though the person on the other end couldn't see him. “Okay. Be careful. Of course I'll get her there. I've been outwitting Sigs for years. I won't let them have her.” Another bitter little laugh. “Okay. Be safe, old man."

  Then he hung up.

  "Henderson and the crew were surprised by a squad of Sigs at the house,” he said, with no preamble.

  Rowan gasped.

  "Don't worry,” he said, reaching into the back seat and snagging a box of tissues. “Here. Anyway, everything was already packed, they dealt with it and got out of there. Everyone's safe. They'll meet us at Headquarters, but it might take awhile for us to get there. We'll have to go a lot further and faster than I thought, because the Sigs have put out an APB on both of us through civilian channels. Someone must have identified me in the Shop'N'Save parking lot."

  Rowan took the box and pulled out two tissues with numb fingers. She mopped at her cheeks and blew her nose. “What does that mean?” she whispered, stuffing the wadded tissue in the litter bag.

  "It means they're really serious about acquiring you,” he replied. “It also means they'll use anything—up to deadly force—to do so. And it means that they're kicking themselves for killing your father and friend and getting rid of valuable leverage. Last of all, it means we can't take a plane, so we'll have to drive. That'll take some time."

  Leverage, she thought. To do what? “Leverage?"

  "Leverage,” he said grimly. “We'll drive for a few hours to get out of immediate danger and get you some lunch, and then we'll shop for some clothes."

  Rowan felt her stomach somersault. “I don't think I can eat,” she whispered.

  "I need you to eat, Rowan. I need you strong. You're going to have to watch my back.” He still watched the road ahead of them, but she had the strange idea that he was paying attention to her instead of his driving.

  Rowan felt all the breath leave her. She actually gasped. “You don't need me,” she said, sounding shocked even to herself.

  "I do,” he said. “Do you know what Henderson just told me? You're over thirteen on the Matheson scale. That means your talent's so huge we don't have the means to quantify it. I need you to look out for me. I'll teach you a couple of things while we're running, so—"

  "I don't want to,” she said immediately. “I don't want to. I'm a ... a freak. You're telling me I'm too freakish even for your Society. And I did it—I brought those awful people—it was because of me."

  He hit the turn signal, and before Rowan could protest, he had cut across two lanes and onto the shoulder. Gravel crunched and spun under the tires. A plume of dust went up, and he brought the car to a sudden halt.

  Rowan's fingers curled around the handle on the door, hanging on. “What are you—"

  "Who did it?” he asked, looking straight out the windshield. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. “Huh? Who did that to you, Rowan?"

  "What?” She could barely whisper, shocked.

  "Who told you that you were a freak?” He stared straight ahead, his dark eyes fixed on some far-off point. “Who did it?"

  "Nobody,” she whispered. “I just know. Nobody else ... nobody else knew what I knew. Saw what I saw."

  "So you decided to keep it a secret,” he said quietly. “You don't have to keep it from me. You're not a freak, Rowan. You're a normal person with some rare talents, that's all. Don't call yourself a freak. If you're a freak, I am too. You get it?"

  "But—"

  "No buts. You're not a freak, and you're not responsible for Sigma. They've been around since before you were born, Rowan. You're not responsible. Okay?"

  Tears spilled down her cheeks again. “If I wasn't a freak my father would still be alive."

  "That's my fault,” he said. “I should have figured Sigma would try to acquire you without witnesses. Blame me, Rowan. Not yourself. Blame me."

  If he squeezes the steering wheel any harder, he's going to break something, she thought, and reached out before she could stop herself. She touched the back of his hand with her fingertips. The prickling electricity slammed into her, submerging her in what he was feeling.

  Rage. Red rage. Agony—a wounded animal, crouched low, blood on its muzzle, panting as it prepared to defend itself again.

  She peeled her fingertips away, her stomach turning. Protective fury. And something else, something she couldn't decipher. It hurt him to think of her pain—hurt him viscerally. Why?

  "Why?” she asked.

  "Because I can take it,” he said, turning to look at her again. His dark eyes were hot with something Rowan didn't want to name. “I can take it, Rowan. You shouldn't have to. Okay? You are not a freak. You're a psion. It's normal. Not freakish. End of story."

  Rowan shrugged helplessly. He was her only way out of this situation, so she probably shouldn't make him angry.

  But how do I know this Society isn't just using me? she thought. If they think I'm so valuable?

  "I don't want to go to the Society,” she said. “I want to go away. Far away where nobody can find me."

  He stared at her, his mouth thinning. “You're sure?” he asked. “It'll mean that I have to get more hard cash to start us out, and some fake IDs. And—"

  "No,” she interrupted. “No, that's okay. It's fine. I might as well. I have no choice, do I?"

  "You do,” he said. “I'm trained for it. I could help you disappear, Rowan. Just ... I don't want you hurt. Or scooped up by Sigma."

  "What if I told you to fuck off?” Her voice broke instead of sounding bold, like Hilary's.

  Oh, God. Hilary...

  He shrugged. “I suppose I'd try to change your mind. I'm going to protect you, Rowan. It'll be easier with the Society behind us."

  "Why?” Fresh tears trickled down her cheeks. “Why? Why are you doing this?” Her hands twisted, scrubbing at each other. Just like one of the patients, she realized. Now she knew why they did that.

  "Because,” he said, and then did something strange.

  He reached over. His fingers closed around her left wrist. Her hands stopped scrubbing each other, and the prickles raced up her arm again, jolted her stomach. She hadn't touched very many people in her life, hating the overwhelming welter of sensations; none of them had felt like him. “Please,” he said. “Trust me, okay? Just a little. Just a very little. I'll keep you alive, Rowan, and I won't let anyone force you to do anything you don't want to do. I promise."

  He's serious, she thought, and heard Hilary's deep laughing voice. Trust you to find a hero in a parking lot.

  Oh but it hurt to think of Hilary.

  "All right,” she whispered. “All right."

  "Now I've got to get us out of here,” he said quietly, his fingers shackling her wrist. “Okay?"

  "Okay,” she whispered.

  "I promise,” he repeated. Then he let go of her, checked over his shoulder, and eased the car forward again.

  Rowan wiped at her cheeks with a fresh tissue. “Why?” she asked again as he cut the car to the left a little and pulled onto the freeway. Traffic was light, so he had no trouble.

  He didn't answer.

  Chapte
r Seventeen

  Delgado stopped at an outlet mall a hundred miles from the city. Then he had the exotic experience of suggesting clothes to a mostly-silent woman who nodded and tried on whatever he suggested. He sent her into the lingerie store alone with a couple hundred, however. His heart wouldn't have been able to take it. Instead, he stood outside and waited, scanning the parking lot and holding three plastic bags full of clothes and assorted sundries. He had no idea what a woman would want beyond the usual extraction list, and did his best to guess.

  The last stop was the shoe store. She chose a pair of boots and a pair of black sneakers, and he got a second pair of boots for her—stylish black ones, less functional than the combat boots but pretty.

  Christ, he thought, seeing her scrub at her forehead with the heel of her hand, I'm really playing house, aren't I?

  She took one longing look at a bookstore and then looked quickly down at the ground. He pressed a hundred-dollar bill into her palm. “I'm going to get a couple things. You get what you want from there. Stay in the store. I'll come get you in a bit, okay?"

  She nodded. He slid his cell phone out of his pocket and slipped it into her hands. “There. Now you're ready for anything. Just get what you want, okay?"

  She nodded again, a tendril of pale hair falling across her face. He had to forcibly repress the urge to brush it away. “Thanks,” she said, and the rough honey of her voice reminded him of her screaming. “Are you sure?"

  "We have time,” he said firmly. “Go on."

  She went, and he watched her hips move for a few moments as she walked away. I am in so much trouble, he thought.

  He waited half an hour, putting the bags in the car and then drifting through the mall, buying a few odds and ends, a sharp eye out for anything out of the ordinary. Then he ducked into the bookstore and found her standing by the cash register, paying for an abridged copy of The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, a copy of Leaves of Grass, and a blank journal as well as a packet of pens. He waited by the door, his eyes moving over the entire store, marking two employees and a couple of other customers. No government presence.