Hunter, Healer

by Lilith Saintcrow

  "Destroy who? Sigma?” Cath took a slurp from her water glass, and then inhaled another lungful of smoke. Her pack of Dunhills was placed ceremonially on the table, a battered Hello Kitty lighter on top of the rich red glitter. “Me too. But they're too big."

  "They are big,” Rowan agreed. “But I'm serious. I want them to go to jail. I want them to be accountable

  ."

  "Good luck. They own the courts.” Cath blinked through a veil of cigarette smoke. She looked far older than her nineteen years. “Don't go all Caped Crusader. You'll burn out."

  They both fell silent as the shuffling, tired-eyed waitress returned. “Hey I'm Blair. What canna getcha?"

  A little bit of hope, Rowan thought, and a plan to take down a secret government agency. You got one in your back pocket?

  "Club sandwich, please, on sourdough if you have it. And french fries.” I might as well. I probably won't live long enough to get clogged arteries.

  "Chicken fried steak and baked potato, with the clam chowder,” Cath said cheerfully, collecting Ro's menu and handing it to the waitress. “Can I have a side of Ranch dressing too? You're a doll. Thanks a million."

  She lit another cigarette with the burning stub of her first as the waitress trundled away. “I mean it,” she continued. “You're going to burn out. And if that happens we're dead in the water. I don't know what we'll do if we lose you. I thought we were goners after Headquarters bit it. But you managed to keep Henderson from going nuts and organized us, and we're actually fighting back . Stop thinking you have to go save Del. He's tough enough. He can save himself.” She blew twin jets of smoke out her nose, the sheaf of earrings on each ear and her nose ring glittering.

  She'd actually be quite pretty without all the metal, Rowan thought again. “I've done my duty,” she said quietly. “If it was up to me we never would have left him behind."

  Cath made a short disgusted sound. “You know your problem, Price? You're too goddamn serious.

  Now get out the map. I want to look at our next day of fun and games."

  Chapter Ten

  He lay sprawled on the cheap bed, the thin blanket rasping against his bare left arm; his right was flung over his eyes. The hypo sat on the bedside table, but he hadn't used it yet.

  Not while he had this to do.

  Outside, Lubbock pulsed with light under an endless star-scarred Texas sky. Del had managed to get this far by hitching rides with truckers, but he needed a car of his own. That meant he would need all his talents, which meant he had to use one of the precious hypos of Zed so he could think clearly for a few hours.

  But first, there was something he had to do.

  The smooth, blank wall inside his head taunted him. The wall had remained firm under the sodium pentothal mixed with Zed and the beatings. They hadn't dared to use electroshock. That might have destroyed vital pieces of information. And the telepaths had been unable to read him without excruciating pain and possible death, Del's own talent extinguishing the mind that sought to probe it.

  Every mind—except hers.

  He felt along the wall again. Smooth and sheer, he had locked something in the deepest recesses of his mind. Something precious.

  The image of that half-remembered room, with scarves tossed over the bed, plants growing lush in every corner, and sunlight spilling along shelves of books, returned. The room looked familiar and unfamiliar at the same time, his only refuge while they tortured his body. The room held a faint, beautiful perfume he'd never smelled before. He kept his eyes closed and imagined himself there, standing on the mellow-glowing wood floor, the edge of his hand warmed with sun pouring through the French doors, and the smells of paper and bindings and wet earth— she just watered the plants, he thought—rising to his nostrils. The thought was gone as soon as it appeared.

  Nothing else in the room but the faint, almost imperceptible odor of a woman's skin, clean and fresh.

  He was in three places at once—his body, lying on a cheap hotel bed in Lubbock, another part of him in that room full of sunlight and clean peace, and a third part crouched in front of the blank, smooth wall and scraping at it with fingers turned to bloody claws.

  Let me in. Let me IN!

  The answer, when it came, struck as hard as a fist to the gut.

  You pushed yourself to forget. Now push yourself to remember. Then you'll know where she's going, and who she is.

  It was risky. He might end up a crippled, mind-shattered hulk if the push ricocheted. And if Sigma caught him again, he doubted he could force another push through his memory in time. They wouldn't just beat him up and fill him full of Zed. They wouldn't stop until he was dead. He'd outwitted them twice now, and was too dangerous for any profit his talent could bring them.

  So this time was for keeps.

  Del lay in the dark with his arm over his eyes and gathered himself, feeling the need for Zed burning in the subtle traceries of his veins. If he took the hypo now, he wouldn't have the concentration necessary for the push , and he'd foul something up. No, this would be painful anyway, best to just get it over with.

  He reexamined the wall, searching the smoothness for any weak spot. Looking at it like someone else's mind, shielded and shut tight, but still vulnerable. Very few minds were completely impenetrable—only Zeke's. That was why they called Zeke “the Tank,” because he was curiously inoculated against psychic attack. Even Del couldn't crack him.

  Delgado thought of the woman's voice, her husky contralto. Justin! No! The flood of feeling from her, underlaid with something too pure to be described, a feeling like—

  He pushed , gathering all his talent in one single, undeniable thrust. Battered the wall with the sound of her voice, pain striking and curving into his brain's map, black explosions against his eyelids as his back arched and his arms twisted uselessly, his heels drumming the mattress.

  And the wall ... broke.

  But Delgado was finally, mercifully, unconscious.

  * * * *

  He came to hours later, dried blood crusting his nose. His head throbbed, every nerve twisting with excruciating pain. He fumbled for the hypo, pressed it against the inside of his elbow and heard more than felt the airpac discharge. Numbness, blessed relief, crawled chill up his arm, spilled past his shoulder.

  Crawled through his chest and reached his legs, headed for his brain to short him out.

  Oh, God, was his first thought. Oh, my God. No.

  Echoes inside his head. Echoes of a woman with long ash-blond hair, her green eyes dark with pain, and her mouth clamped in a thin line. Memories flooding him, of running halfway across the country to escape Sigma, of training her to be an operative, of her voice crackling through a comm-link as the rest of the world turned to gray fuzz because he'd been shot in a raid on a Sigma installation. She had literally pulled him back from death.

  Her voice, the exact color of her eyes, the taste of her skin where the fragile pulse beat just above her collarbone. Rowan .

  He remembered now, remembered why he had pushed himself to forget. He'd sacrificed himself to get her out and away from the ruin of Headquarters, wiped his own head so he couldn't be used against her, because she was the only thing he cared about. The only thing in the world that mattered to him.

  And Sigma was now frantically trying to find her while Delgado, his mind almost shattered by agony, Zed, and his own talent, lay on a hotel bed and began to laugh out loud, a keening unhealthy laughter.

  He was going to find her first.

  Chapter Eleven

  Vegas rose, shimmering spikes of light bristling into the desert night under small, flinty stars. Outside the window, the city thrummed with an electric bath of greed and light, but it was, for all its desperation, a relaxed town—probably due to the amount of alcohol being consumed, fuzzing all the deadheads out.

  This far away, the city looked like a carpet of colored bonbons. Radioactive bonbons. Cancerous little sweets.

  Rowan set her bag gingerly down on the burgundy bedsp
read. “My entire body hurts,” she said mournfully. “My ass most of all."

  "Stretch out.” Cath was unsympathetic. She flung herself down on the bed on her back, her short black hair puffing out like thistledown. “I'm gonna check the room."

  Rowan nodded, her fists against her lower back. She bent back like the old painting of the Lady of Shallott, shaking her hair out and stretching. There were probably cameras everywhere. She'd kept the baseball cap on the entire time to cover her hair. She probably looked like the world's worst case of hat-head by now.

  Cath closed her eyes. Breathless silence filled the room as a faint psychic crackling, like faraway crickets, swept from one corner to the next. Rowan, her mental defenses still absurdly sensitive, shivered and crossed to the windows, looking out on the carpet of light in the distance.

  It's beautiful, she thought. Hilary would have loved this.

  Thinking of Hilary, with her sleek cap of dark hair and her charcoal suits, still hurt. It was probably a blessing she couldn't remember seeing her childhood friend dead. That was one memory Justin had refused to share with her, even though she'd asked. Don't, Rowan. He had stroked her back, his fingers gentle, kissed her temple and hugged her tighter. You don't want to see that. You don't need to see that.

  The old pain rose, and the old rage with it. She stared out at the lights, then reached up and spread her hand against the chill glass. Mist outlined her fingers, living warmth meeting cold hardness.

  Justin was alive. She had hoped, prayed, thought ... but not known . Now she knew. And if he was alive, was he following her? Had he already made contact with Henderson?

  The strangeness nagged at her. Who the hell are you?

  As if he didn't know, or didn't remember. Had Sigma done something to him, made him forget? It was ridiculous, but ... perhaps. If she could touch him without hurting them both, someone else might be able to. If that someone was a Sigma operative, they might well try to strip him of every memory he had of her, both to try to catch her and to break any emotional attachment he might have to her. It was standard in Sigma to break up relationships that didn't serve the purposes of the handlers and higher-ups, psions moved around like human chess pieces, manipulated like puppets.

  Spears of night-burning light pierced the desert sky. Cath sighed from the bed. “Room's clear,” she said, in the heavy slurred voice of exhaustion. “Get some shut-eye. Tomorrow's a busy day."

  Yeah, we have to score a few hundred thousand and get out of the city without anyone noticing.

  Her eyes burned with fatigue. At least her shoulder wasn't hurting. No, the only thing hurting was her chest. Or to be more specific, her heart. It was a fresh pain, a pain she thought she'd left behind months ago when she had finally accepted Justin wasn't coming back. That Sigma had stolen him too.

  "Go to sleep,” she told Cath. “I'll turn in, in a few."

  But the girl was already asleep. Her even breathing filled the room. Rowan didn't mind. She had learned not to like sleeping alone. It was nice to have the sense of another psion near. If she pretended hard enough, she might be able to believe it was Justin for a few moments.

  Rowan sighed, eased out of her jacket and unbuckled the shoulder holster. Tomorrow she'd wear a full rig. It would cost her in energy to keep it hidden from the crowd of deadheads and security cameras, but it would be worth it if trouble occurred. And the way her nape and upper arms were prickling, trouble was a definite possibility.

  This trip should fund them through the next critical period as well as finishing the remodeling of the new Headquarters. By the time that was accomplished, the rest of Henderson's preparations should be in place to tap into the reserves the Society had left. It was slow going, because they had to make sure that Sigma hadn't trapped or frozen the financials from the records they'd acquired at the wreck of the old Headquarters. The safeguards had probably protected most of it, but Henderson wanted to be sure before he drew on the funds and brought a whole house of cards down on them.

  Rowan rubbed at the back of her neck, sighing. She should be sleeping. If anything untoward happened tomorrow, she was going to need every scrap of energy she possessed.

  She couldn't help it. She gathered herself and sent a thread-thin call through the city, subtle as a single gold thread buried under wool carpet. There was only one other mind that could find that call, one other mind that would possibly answer her. Are you there?

  Nothing. Her hook slid through dark waters, not a nibble. No bite.

  Please, if you're there, if you've followed me, please talk to me. I miss you.

  She waited, the call blurring as her concentration faded. Nothing. If he was there, he wasn't answering.

  Why? If he had been there while she was running for her life, where was he now?

  She sent out one more wistful call. Please. I miss you.

  Nothing.

  She sighed, laid the shoulder holster on the bed, and slipped the gun free. It was loaded, a baby Glock with a full clip and one in the chamber, functioning perfectly. She set it on the nightstand and stripped down to her T-shirt and panties, breathing a sigh of relief when she unsnapped and struggled out of her bra under the shirt. Given Cath's habit of stripping down, she shouldn't worry about being modest, but old habits died hard, if at all.

  The sheets were clean, smelling of bleach and industrial fabric softener. Rowan lay still, feeling the strain of exhaustion weigh on her, muscles unwilling to let go of wakefulness. There was a certain point of nervous endurance past which it was almost impossible to fall asleep. She closed her eyes and began to breathe long, deep breaths, just like meditation. Just like sitting with her back against Justin's, feeling his brain shift into the smoothness of alpha waves and doing her best to follow. Finding that magic space, sinking into a timeless eternity. It was like meditating with Yoshi, only with the absolute safety of Justin's attention closed around her. Even while he slept he never lost track of her, his mind never quite slipping free of the borders of hers.

  Rowan exhaled, peace loosening her muscles. She drifted closer to sleep, closer, closer.

  Just before she went over the edge, she seemed to feel a brush against her cheek. Gentle fingers, callused from practice, skating over her cheekbone.

  Just rest, angel. Comfort wrapping around her, a familiar touch. She would have tried to wake up, but she was tipped into the black well of unconsciousness before she could protest.

  * * * *

  Rowan looked at the laptop's blue screen. “We're going to hit the Venetian first. I feel a little bad about this."

  Cath shrugged, leaning back on the bed. She checked the automatic's slide and racked a clip in, the sound loud in the room's hush. “Why? They have more than enough."

  You don't get it, do you? Cath was not overly given to deep analysis. Maybe it was her age. Was I ever this oblivious? “It's not our money. We're basically stealing."

  Cath chambered a round and slid the gun into the holster under her left armpit. Next went a pair of stilettos up her sleeves. Her fair, round face was serious, set in its childish lines, her soft mouth drawn tight. She'd taken out her nose piercings, her tongue stud, her eyebrow ring, and most of her earrings as well. “You're right. We are. But people come here to throw their money away. We need some of it to fight Sigma. What the hell's wrong with you?” Her hair, damp and slick from the shower, lay seal-sleek against her head.

  "I just feel bad, that's all.” Rowan finished the last string and looked at the results. Code flashed; she barely saw it anymore. The message was clear. “Looks like Yoshi's worked his magic, as usual. They're all fine.” And Henderson's getting ready for a run on a Sigma installation. Wonderful. If I didn't know him better, I'd say the man was suicidal.

  "Good. Now worry about us.” Cath sounded uncharacteristically nervous. When Rowan glanced over, she saw pale cheeks and tasted a shimmer of acid yellow fear.

  Rowan wondered if this was what having children was like. She was just as nervous as Cath but hiding it better.
If she went off the rails Catherine would go nuts. “I am worrying about us, porcupine girl. Relax.

  This is going to go like clockwork. All you have to do is tickle the little roulette ball and let me worry about the rest. We'll hit a couple of casinos and make up the rest at the track this afternoon and tomorrow."

  "I hate horse races.” Cath's mouth pulled tighter. Muscle moved under the goth-pale skin of her arms as she rolled her shoulders back. Her holster would chafe if she insisted on wearing just a tank top and the light overjacket. Then again, this was a desert town. It was going to be a scorcher. “You sure you're okay, Ro? I got a bad feeling about all this."

  "Just nervousness. Everything's going to go fine.” Rowan closed the laptop and looked around the room.

  If all went well, she would never have to see this room again. They would find another hotel for tonight and be well out of town tomorrow night, after they finished at the track. Moving around was the best way to avoid unwanted attention.

  The curtains were pulled tight, but the desert morning outside was already beginning to send spears of light through the cracks. There was a narrow strip of light under the door, too. Just the thing for scorpions to scuttle through , she thought, and shivered a little. She set the sleek black deck aside and unplugged the telephone cord, wrapping it deftly and stowing it in the larger kitbag. Then she busied herself getting her own gear on. She was going to sweat today; there was no way around it.

  The clicking sound of clips checked and slid in, rounds chambered, and the soft sliding sound of each knife's action tested were all familiar, comforting. She was getting better at throwing knives due to Brew's patient tutelage. Still, she would have felt better if Justin had been here. He was an acknowledged master of making a blade do things it shouldn't theoretically be able to do. A slight side-effect of Sigma training, he'd once remarked wryly to her, working a knife out of a block of wood. When you want quiet, quick, and dirty, it's knife work. Sometimes the poor bastards even forget they have guns.