The Society

by Lilith Saintcrow

  Which was a good thing, because she was severely distracted. It wasn't often that she wandered while driving, or had trouble choosing brownie mix, for God's sake. But her former good mood had fled, and her head seemed stuffed with cotton. She was also shivering, even though the supermarket wasn't cold, and her father, who felt chills far more than she did, was comfortable enough in his sport jacket. Goose flesh ran in waves down her back.

  They managed to get through the rest of the store without mishap, and Rowan paid with her debit card. Between her job and her dad's Social Security and pension, they were both supported and could even save a little, which meant that maybe they could afford a new car. Tuna was an old trooper, but Rowan was getting tired of the frequent breakdowns. A hundred and sixty thousand miles was a good enough lifespan for a car, anyway, but Tuna had been her mom's car.

  The thought of her mother sent a spear through Rowan's heart. Outwardly, she was holding her father's elbow as a pimpled young clerk pushed their cart out to the car for them. She made small talk, kissing her father's cheek and patting his arm after she unlocked his door. Inside, she was thinking of how her mom had just fallen over, tumbled to the ground between one word and the next, dead of a massive stroke. It had been painless, Rowan supposed. But still, the thought of her mother made Rowan's chest ache and her eyes fill with tears.

  Why didn't I know, if I know all these other useless things? The thought still tortured her. If she could help her patients, why hadn't she been able to help her mother?

  She helped the clerk load the paper bags into the trunk and thanked him, and tried to ignore the feverish worry cascading out of the boy.

  Fucking Dee stiffed me for a dime, got to get the money, how'm I gonna get the money—The blast of thought caught her off-guard, and she leaned against Tuna's battered silver side for a moment, taking a deep breath. Dad slammed his door and locked it, so she had to hurry. It was cold and she wanted the—

  "Come with me, miss,” a man said, his hand closing around her elbow. Her head began to pound, horrible twisting needles pushing through her temples.

  She was so stunned by the pain that he had dragged her a whole three steps away from the car before she started to struggle.

  Chapter Eight

  Christ, Delgado thought, they must really be desperate to try that.

  He had ditched the bike in a convenient street side space and entered the supermarket parking lot on foot, his cheeks and eyes stinging from riding without a helmet. His hair was probably a mess. None of that mattered. The only thing that mattered was that a tall, balding Sig had grabbed Rowan Price's arm and was dragging her toward a low black van with two antennae, the standard-issue Sigma workhorse vehicle. This was messy, even for them.

  How many of them in there? he thought, before his brain started clicking over alternatives.

  The most efficient alternative—putting a bullet in the Sig's head—was immediately discarded. Too noisy, too messy, and above all, it would frighten her. Escalating this to a firefight would possibly involve the civilian authorities, something neither the Sig nor Delgado wanted. Waiting and watching to mark where the Sigs took her would give him valuable information, but it wasn't an option. The thought of her being bundled into that van was suddenly unbearable. That left calling down the civilian authorities—already a no-no—and injecting himself into the situation as a wildcard, which was what he was planning to do.

  His cell phone buzzed. Delgado ignored it.

  "Let go of me!” Rowan's voice was clearly audible, and clearly panicked. The parking lot was oddly clear, just a scattering of parked cars. Of course, it was late on a weekday morning, and not many people did their shopping in this time frame, which was probably why she'd chosen to come now. She could get through the store quickly and not tire out dear old dad. “Hey! Stop it! Leggo—"

  Blond hair tumbled around her face. She wore jeans, a camel coat, and a white dress shirt. Delgado's stride lengthened into a run. He marked one Sig, but the van was running, so there had to be at least one more. Unless the Sig was planning on getting her into the van, downing her, and then driving away.

  Just one dragging her. Could he be alone? What do you think, God, am I lucky today? It's against regs for a Sig to go out alone.

  The buzzing in his breast pocket stopped. Good, he thought, clinically, before the switch flipped inside his head and he started operating purely on cold, trained reflex.

  He reached them just as Rowan inhaled to scream and her father opened up the passenger door of the old battered Volvo. The Sig hadn't gotten her more than ten steps away from her car and had his other hand in his pocket, probably searching for a hypo. The black van was parked across the aisle, lights off but engine running. Was someone else in there? He needed to know, but he had no way to check quickly. He could scan, but that would take too much time and distract him.

  "Hey,” Rowan yelled. “Help! Help!"

  Hang in there, angel, Delgado thought. Help's on the way. “Hey!” he shouted, his voice cracking through the chill air. “Hey, what're you doing? Hey!"

  The Sig—balding, gray-black trench coat, big, bulbous blue eyes and red cheeks—literally jumped, as if someone had smacked him. The guilty start gave Rowan the chance to thrash her arm out of his grasp. She stumbled back and Delgado, without thinking about it, caught her arm as he drew level with them. One quick movement and the Sig stumbled, his knee giving under the force of Delgado's kick. Rowan, staring up at Delgado, gasped.

  This close, she wasn't just pretty.

  She was stunning.

  Her eyes, clear green, had a darker ring around the iris. Her pupils, dilated with fear, made them seem unnaturally dark. There were high fever-spot blotches of color on her flawless cheeks, and her pale hair tangled over her forehead, catching the winter sunlight and throwing it back with a vengeance.

  Delgado didn't have time to look. He pulled her away from the Sig, who was limping back for the van. “Are you okay?” he asked pitching his voice with just the right note of worry. I'm a concerned citizen. I just saw a guy trying to drag a woman off. I'm just a normal guy doing a good deed. “Hey, what was that? What's going on? Are you all right?” His other hand curled around the Glock in its hidden holster. If the Sigs made any trouble he would have to escalate the situation. His weight shifted, ready to shove her down into cover if necessary.

  The Sig made it to the van, bundled in, and the engine roared. Delgado pulled her back as the van screeched by, almost tearing off a few bumpers. He noted the plate number out of habit, though it wouldn't help. He watched as the van leaned around the corner and rocketed out into the street, cutting off a cab and a maroon minivan. Jesus Christ, I'm lucky. They could have taken both of us. Good thing they don't know who I am. He looked down at her.

  She only reached his collarbone and was staring after the black van. Her face was printed with a priceless mixture of shock, anger, and dazed incomprehension. “Are you all right?” he repeated, hearing the genuine concern in his voice. Oh, shit, he thought, I'm actually emotionally involved with this. Christ, what's happening to me?

  His pulse pounded, and his breath came in short gasps. He felt like he'd just run a marathon. It wasn't combat—he was in good shape. It was her. The thought of her dragged into that van and pumped full of sedation to keep her quiet until they could get her to an installation and start to break her made his heart feel like it was trying to break out through his ribs and do a cancan.

  "I—I think so,” she answered, in a stunned, breathless voice. “What the hell—"

  "Rowan? Rowan!” Her father shuffled up. Delgado dropped her arm, scanning the parking lot. The blue van sat on the other end, silent and apparently deserted. Good. Zeke knew better than to interfere.

  What a golden fucking opportunity, he thought. Play it careful, Delgado. Please. Play it very fucking careful here. “That was weird,” he said. “That guy was trying to drag you off or something. Are you okay?"

  "My arm,” she said, rubbing wher
e the Sig had grabbed her. “He really had a grip on me. God. I ... I..."

  "Who the hell are you?” Major Price barked at Delgado, who stepped back, raising his hands in a classic Hey man, I'm harmless stance.

  It was too risky. Forgive me, he thought, and used just a little push.

  Major Price took a step back, his eyes blinking. That small of a push wouldn't cause much pain—just a slight headache, nothing severe. Dear old dad was vulnerable to psychic assault, it seemed. The intelligent normals usually were.

  Great.

  "I saw him dragging her,” Delgado answered smoothly, deftly snapping free from the push. Dad was on his side now. “She didn't look like it was consensual, so I—"

  "Dad,” Rowan interrupted, “he probably saved my life.” And then her eyes were on him, looking straight through him, and every hair on Delgado's body threatened to stand straight up. “Thanks."

  "No problem,” he managed. His entire body felt as if it was dipped in electricity. Had she felt him pushing her father? No. Delgado was experienced enough to avoid that. Jesus, what's she doing?

  "What were they doing?” her father asked. “What happened?"

  "Some guy told me to come with him,” she said. “I think he bruised my arm. He was dragging me toward a van.” Rowan laughed, a breathless, brittle sound. “And this man came out and scared him off."

  Major Price regarded Delgado for a long moment. He's not psychic, barely on the scale. Where did she get it from? he wondered, and let his eyes shift over to Rowan, as if helpless. It was only half an act. Being this close to her was like standing in the path of a lightning bolt. His fingers itched to touch her cheek, he wanted to curl his hands into fists to stop the persistent aching itch. He had never in his life wanted to touch a woman this badly.

  Finally, the old man extended his hand, the push reverberating inside Delgado's skull. If he'd used any more power, the old man might have had a real headache instead of just a sick, faint feeling and a slight twinge around his temples. “Thank you, Mr.—"

  "Delgado,” Delgado said, quietly. No reason not to give his name. He was going to recruit Rowan anyway.

  Rowan stared at him, her eyebrows drawing together. Do I sound familiar? No, I don't. And she didn't see me last night. It was too dark. “You look familiar,” she said. “Have I met you before?"

  "I don't think so. I'd certainly remember that,” he answered, shaking her father's hand. If she touches me, it'll spook her. Got to avoid that.

  "Price,” the old man said. His eyes were very sharp, a lighter green than Rowan's, but piercing. His grip was firm, professional, no-nonsense. “Henry Price. This is my daughter Rowan."

  Delgado nodded. “You look cold,” he said to her. She was still staring at him, her mouth tilting down at the corners. “Both of you. You'll catch cold out here.” He gently extricated himself from Price's handshake. It wouldn't do to break Daddy's wrist.

  "The police—” Rowan began.

  "I don't know if they can do anything,” Delgado said. “Did you get the license plate?” I doubt you did, angel. You were too busy screaming.

  "I—” She was staring at him. “No, I didn't,” she finished abruptly. “But—"

  Delgado nodded. Wondered what her skin would feel like. “Well, glad to help. Look, I'm in a hurry, I've got to go."

  "But the police,” Rowan protested, just like a good little Girl Scout.

  "No police,” the old man said suddenly, giving her a warning look. Delgado almost sighed, relieved. The push had worked. “Thank you, sir. Rowan, give the nice man our phone number. What can we do to thank you, Mr. Delgado?"

  "Okay, Dad,” she said, obediently, finally looking down to dig in her brown canvas purse. She was obviously stunned.

  "Well...” Delgado weighed the situation, found it precarious. “I'd like to take Miss Price out to dinner.” He managed a light tone. “This hardly seems like a good way to introduce myself, though."

  "We're having dinner tonight,” the old man said. “Can we invite you over to thank you for saving Rowan's life?"

  "Dad,” Rowan protested weakly. Was she blushing? Delgado forced himself not to look. Can it really be that easy? What did I do to deserve this kind of luck?

  "Give him our address too, Rowan. Dinner's at seven tonight. Can we invite you, Mr. Delgado?"

  "I'll reshuffle my schedule,” he answered. “I'd love to. I'm just glad I was here to help. That guy looked like he meant business.” You have no idea how close you were to losing your daughter, Major. No idea. And I'm the luckiest sonuvabitch on Earth. This was a godsend. Jesus God, I wish I could touch her—her arm, maybe, or just her hand.

  Rowan handed him a slip of paper with her familiar clear, firm writing on it. “Can we at least exchange numbers?” she asked shyly, shaking her long hair back. “I just feel so—I'm sorry. It's not every day I get grabbed in a parking lot."

  "If I give you my number, will you promise to call?” He was already digging in his own messenger bag for a piece of paper and a pen. Metal shifted inside the bag. What would she do if I pulled out a grenade or a scanner? I can't believe I'm trying to flirt with her. This is so fucking wrong.

  "Dad.” She appealed to the Major, but his eyes were twinkling. He looked proud.

  "Take the man's number, Rowan.” He folded his arms, and Rowan sighed. The sigh made her mouth turn down and turned her into a pensively pretty woman.

  Delgado wrote his cell phone number down on a handy slip of blank white paper, using the pen that had a tiny digital camera concealed in the shaft. “Call me if you need anything,” he said. “Anything at all. I'm sorry it had to be this way, but I'm glad to meet you, Miss Price."

  She nodded, accepting the paper and rubbing at her arm as if it ached. Did he bruise her? This was sloppy, even for a Sigma, he thought, vaguely uneasy. He scanned the parking lot—nothing but Zeke in the blue van. Zeke would be jamming signals, taping, and erasing the store's security footage, if it was possible. If it wasn't, Del would go in and take care of it. Later.

  "Likewise,” she said, with a polite smile. “Thank you.” Now she looked directly into his eyes, and his entire body tingled again. What the hell is going on? I just gave a civilian a private Society drop-number. Jesus Christ, what am I DOING? “I think you might have saved my life. Who knows what that guy wanted?"

  Delgado found himself nodding. “I'm glad I was here to help,” he repeated, and watched as she took her father's arm.

  "Come on, Dad,” she said. “Let's get you into the car before you freeze to death. Nice to meet you, Justin."

  Delgado froze. I didn't tell her. I couldn't have told her. Oh, my God.

  Neither of them noticed. He took a deep breath. Goddamn, he thought. Goddamn, she's dangerous. “Nice to meet you too, Rowan,” he said, and watched her help her father into the car. He watched until she was safely in the silver station wagon and had backed out. She waved through her window before she pulled away.

  As soon as she was out of sight, he crossed the parking lot and clambered into the blue van. “What the hell—” Zeke started.

  "I've got an invitation to dinner at the Price residence tonight,” Delgado answered shortly. “Get Henderson on the wire, Zeke. Sigma just tried to grab our girl. And since I just blew my cover, they're going to be back in droves soon. We need a workable plan, and I need some strategy help.” He looked out the front window at the parking lot, still eerily calm. “And we've got another problem, too. I think I really like her."

  Chapter Nine

  Rowan's hands shook. She pulled into the garage, almost clipping the mirror off the driver's side. Sudden darkness filled the car, startling after the winter sunlight outside. “I'm glad we got the shopping done,” she said unsteadily. It was the first either of them had spoken.

  "Rowan?” Her father sounded worried. “Sweetheart, are you okay?"

  "I'm not okay, Dad. I just got attacked in the parking lot, and I can't even go to the police because I didn't get the license number and
someone might find out what kind of a freak I am and—"

  Her father reached over and laid his fingers on her wrist. Rowan shut her eyes. His familiar mental aura wrapped around her like a cloud of after-shave and boot polish, an astringent smell she remembered from childhood. Her head hurt; she drowned in the wash of her father's worry and attention.

  "I didn't say not to call the police because of you, Rowan.” Her father sighed. “Sweetheart, you're shaking."

  "I can't believe you invited him over for dinner,” she mumbled, taking a deep breath. Of course her father didn't think she was a freak. He was supportive of and enchanted by her freakish talents. She'd always been his little princess.

  But he wasn't acting like himself. And that man—Delgado...

  "Well, he's military,” he said, as if that explained everything.

  That wasn't like her practical, suspicious Daddy.

  "How do you know?” She finally opened her eyes and looked at him. “And why should that matter? We should have called the police. If that man tries to kidnap someone else—"

  "They won't come back to the Shop'N'Save,” her father replied, with maddening illogic. “And we military brats can always tell each other. He was almost in parade rest, Ro."

  I think I'm going to throw up, she thought, distantly. I'm in shock. “I don't feel so good, Dad,” she said. “I think I want to go lie down. Let's get the groceries inside."

  "I invited him to dinner because he stopped that man from dragging you off,” he said. “I couldn't get there in time. I'm an old man, princess, and I couldn't help you. He could—and did. He looks like a very nice man."

  "Fine,” she said. “I'm sorry, Dad. I just want to lie down. My arm hurts and I think I'm going to throw up."

  "I'll get the groceries inside,” he said promptly. Rowan cut the engine and pressed a button on the garage-door opener. Darkness fell inch by inch, until the glow of the garage lamp was the only light.