The Society

by Lilith Saintcrow

  "No,” she said, “But you can help. Then I think I'll go lie down."

  He was silent as she carried the groceries in and helped her put everything away. He was also quiet when she finished folding the paper bags and stacked them in the pantry. He said nothing when she climbed the stairs and flung herself facedown on her bed, dropping her coat on the floor.

  Dry-eyed, she hugged a pillow and started to shake. Her arm ached—the kidnapper's fingers had been like iron claws. But that wasn't quite why she was shaking now. She was shaking because she couldn't get the mental image to go away.

  He was tall, taller than her, and had stubborn dark hair cut like her father's, military-short. His eyes were hazel, and very flat, under charcoal lashes. He had a nice face, even cheekbones and a firm mouth—and her heart hammered even now to think of the electric jolt that had gone through her at his nearness.

  His voice sounded familiar, and she didn't know why. He didn't look familiar.

  She couldn't even remember what he'd been wearing, beyond a dark coat and a messenger-style bag. He looked like a student, maybe, or one of the young IT professionals who wore casual-classy to work.

  She'd been stunned, hadn't even realized what was happening. Not until the van had screeched away and the man—Delgado—had looked down at her, dropping her arm as if it burned him. Are you okay? Her heart had threatened to burst out through her ribs. Electricity had smashed through her veins. Her entire body had started to sing.

  And Dad had made her give him their phone number. He might call. He might even come for dinner. Oh, my God. Oh, my God. I never ... NEVER ... act this way. I almost got kidnapped. God, I almost got kidnapped. Why? Why me?

  It took a long time, but she was finally able to produce a few tears. The crying brought no relief, only made her feel even more terrified and foolish. What was he going to do to me? I could have gotten raped and killed. I would have never seen Dad again, or Hilary, or any of my patients. Never gone running again, never done anything again. Thank God that man was there. Thank God.

  She lay there, staring at the sunlight slanting through her bedroom window. I could have died, she thought, over and over again. I could have died. Could have died. Could have died.

  The most disturbing thing wasn't that someone had tried to kidnap her. The most disturbing thing was that Rowan hadn't sensed him. He'd been almost invisible to her, no betraying blast of thought, no wash of emotion, just a blank wall, only Rowan's nausea and headache alerting her that something bad was about to happen. Delgado. She'd felt him, something electric, not a feeling she'd ever had before, but it could have been his adrenaline. The kidnapper had been completely “silent” to her freakish senses.

  Rowan lost track of how long she laid there, falling into a kind of trance. Oddly enough, she felt ... well, almost safe here in her bedroom, lying on her bed. Nothing could possibly happen to her here.

  Yeah, right.

  She lay curled on the bed, watching dust dance through the bar of sunlight from her window, her head revolving miserably, her stomach revolving just as quickly. I must be finally going crazy, she thought. I didn't hear him at all. I didn't hear a single thing. He might as well have been invisible. Is he like me? Did I almost get kidnapped by some freak like me? Is that what I have to look forward to?

  Yet she'd felt her rescuer. All the way down to her bones.

  Rowan groaned, buried her face in the pillow and took long, deep breaths until she fell into an uneasy, twilit sleep.

  * * * *

  "Ro?” Familiar voice. Someone shaking her shoulder. Smell of fresh-baked bread. “Ro?"

  Rowan struggled up to consciousness. Hilary sat on the bed, stroking her shoulder, occasionally jiggling her a bit. Hilary's soft hip pressed into Rowan's side. “Wake up, sleepyhead. It's time for dinner."

  "Mmmargh,” Rowan managed. “Jeez. I fell asleep."

  "Obviously. Your dad called me. He said you almost got snatched in the Shop'N'Save parking lot. You okay?"

  Trust Hilary to go straight to the point.

  Hilary's short black bob swung as she moved, standing so Rowan could sit up. Hil put her hands on her hips and glared down through the dimness—the short winter twilight had fallen, and Rowan's room was now dark. Hil's eyes glittered, gold hoops swung against her pale cheeks. “Well?” she demanded, impatiently. She was six months younger than Rowan, but somehow always managed to look like the older sister.

  "I'm fine,” Rowan said, yawning and rubbing at her eyes. “Just a bit shaken up. Some guy tried to grab me and stuff me in a van. Another guy frightened him off. It was really scary."

  "Why didn't you call the cops? Or store security?” Hilary's heels tapped against the floorboards as she stalked up to Rowan's nightstand and turned on the light with one efficient click. Rowan yawned again, blinking in the sudden light.

  Hil's black eyes snapped with furious fire. “Rowan? Do you hear me?"

  "Dad said no cops. We didn't get the license number of the van.” Rowan stretched. She pushed up the sleeve of her white dress shirt and examined her arm.

  Four fat bands of bruising, the mark of his thumb too, ground deep into her upper arm. The bruises were red-purple, just beginning to get some good color.

  "Jesus Christ,” Hil breathed. “The guy that grabbed you did that?"

  Rowan nodded. “He meant business. It was like something out of a movie, Hil. I could have ended up dead."

  "This is serious,” Hilary stated. “My God, you need to call the police."

  Rowan shrugged. She couldn't tell Hilary why she wouldn't call the cops—they might find out what she was. She'd avoided trouble all her life, flown under the radar, and wasn't about to break cover now. “I doubt they'll be able to help."

  "But what if this guy snatches someone else?” Hilary persisted. “You could have valuable information."

  "I didn't see anything, Hil. One minute I was getting in the car, the next minute he had me halfway across the parking lot. It happened so fast. If that other guy hadn't come along...” Rowan shivered.

  Hil must have just come from work. Her gray wool skirt hit just above the knee, and her jacket was unbuttoned. Her usually sleek hair was mussed as if she'd run her fingers back through it once too often. “I guess so,” she said darkly, “but what if the guy that rescued you was in on it?"

  "Oh, not another conspiracy,” Rowan moaned. “For God's sake, Hilary, talk about something else! What happened at work today?"

  "Oh, two murders and an ongoing arson investigation. Hot copy all the way around,” Hilary chirped, throwing herself down on the bed again, narrowly missing Rowan's feet. She kicked her heels off and stretched her feet, sighing a little. It was a familiar gesture, they'd spent half their teenage years sitting on each other's beds, gossiping and giggling. “I came over as soon as your dad called me. I was really worried about you."

  "I'm fine. I just won't go to the Shop'N'Save alone anytime soon.” Rowan combed her fingers back through her hair, wincing as she found tangles. Her mouth tasted like foul copper—all that adrenaline, sleeping during the day, and bile. Her stomach flipped and settled again. “Really, I'm okay."

  "I don't think so.” Hil's square-jawed face was too striking to be called pretty. The shadow of crimson lipstick still hung on her full lips, and her tastefully-arched eyebrows raised a little as she examined Rowan's face. “You've got that pale starey look. You been hearing things again?"

  "I'm not crazy, Hil.” Rowan slid her feet off the bed. Making it to her feet, she decided she wasn't going to fall over. She made it across the room and started digging for a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. The only thing worse than sleeping in jeans was running in jeans.

  "I never said you were. You might want to comb your hair,” Hil said laconically. “You've got a guest, you know."

  Rowan froze.

  "Nice-looking guy. I don't go for the clean-cut ones, but he's very polite. Showed up at seven sharp with a handful of flowers and a bottle of very unpretentious d
omestic wine. He's even now making small talk in the kitchen with Henry.” It sounded like she was restraining laughter only by sheer force of will. “Trust you to meet a hero in a parking lot, sweets."

  Rowan cursed. Not very inventively, but it got the job done. She rested her forehead against her top dresser drawer, leaning over and taking deep breaths all the way down to her stomach. “Christ,” she whispered. “Why now? And what happened to being suspicious?"

  "Oh, for God's sake, you haven't had a date in aeons. Loosen up a little, will ya?” Hilary swung her legs easily, holding her arms up and admiring her red-lacquered fingernails.

  "You just finished reminding me that I was attacked in a parking lot, asked me if this guy was perhaps a part of it, and now you want me to loosen up?"

  "Well,” Hilary remarked practically, “you said you were feeling fine.” When Rowan glared at her, she said, “There, there's the Ro I remember. Welcome back, sweetie. You were looking kind of dazed there for a minute."

  "I wonder why.” Rowan rescued another pair of jeans and a black sweater from the dresser's depths. “I'm being interrogated by the Herald's star crime reporter."

  "You're not going to wear that, are you?"

  "Yes, I am."

  "At least comb your hair."

  "Shut up."

  "A little bit of lip gloss wouldn't hurt either."

  "Hilary, I'm warning you—"

  Hilary bounced up to her feet. Rowan was in the process of struggling into the sweater, her back turned to the bed, but she heard the bedsprings creak. “You really scared me, Ro. Henry sounded dire. I'm glad you're okay."

  "Me too.” Rowan finished pulling the sweater down and turned, freeing her hair from the collar with a few practiced yanks. Hilary stood, her hands on her hips, and shook her head.

  "I don't know what I'm going to do with you,” she said mournfully. “There's a hunk downstairs, and you won't even put on any lip gloss."

  "I'm not on the market. Why are you and Dad so determined to marry me off?"

  "Oh, so we can shack up as secret lovers,” Hilary said breezily, as Rowan slid into clean jeans and tossed her old ones in the laundry basket. “You know he's the only man I've ever really loved. Tragic, isn't it."

  As usual, Hil only sounded halfway teasing. “Soap-opera tragic.” Rowan gave her hair a few swipes with the brush before grabbing a scrunchie and tossing the whole damn mess into a ponytail. “I'll pay you five bucks to get rid of this guy,” she added.

  "And miss all the fun and your inevitable discomfort? No way. You're stuck with this one, honey. Now, come on, before your dad gets out the shotgun and scares him off.” But Hil's eyes were a little too bright. The crackling acerbic wash of worry spread out from her in waves. Rowan stopped and held out her arms.

  The two of them stood, hugging each other, for a long time. “I was really worried about you, kiddo,” Hilary said finally, her voice suspiciously thick.

  Rowan's throat was tight. “Thanks. I'm fine, but ... thanks."

  "Don't you dare leave me, Ro."

  "I won't.” Rowan took a deep breath. Her stomach settled and her head cleared. “I promise."

  "Good,” Hilary sniffed, untangling herself firmly and decisively. She stepped back and ran a critical eye down Rowan's outfit, wiping at the tear-tracks on her pale cheeks. “Now do something with your hair, for the love of God, and hurry up. I'll delay him as long as I can."

  That made Rowan laugh. “Not interested. Why don't you see if you can find out what branch of the military he served in?"

  "Absolutely,” Hil said over her shoulder as she exited. “Don't take too long, Rowan. I'm hungry, and supper's almost ready."

  Chapter Ten

  Things were going well.

  The Major was deep in a rendition of Dieppe, German troop movements and casualties, while Delgado nodded and made small remarks. It was standard interrogation technique, listening, making the subject feel important. Most people loved to talk, either about themselves or about their obsessions.

  The other woman—Hilary Baum, a reporter and Rowan's friend—had gone upstairs to wake Rowan up after fixing Delgado with a piercing, dark gaze. Delgado, aware he was being measured, suffered it. He'd expected that Rowan would retreat after the morning's events. He'd even expected the Major's war stories and casual measuring questions—where had Delgado served, what branch of the military, commanding officers, what type of discharge?

  He answered carefully, sticking to the truths that wouldn't raise any more questions. The Major didn't need to know he'd been tipped straight into Sigma because of his scores. They exchanged stories about basic training, and the Major finally gave him a bottle of beer and settled into a lecture on military history.

  Hilary came back, barefoot, her smooth dark hair shining as she pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and helped herself to a cracker from the platter the Major had set out. “She'll be down in a sec. I made her comb her hair."

  "Miracles do happen,” the Major said with a sly glance at Delgado.

  Christ, he thought. He thinks I'm eligible. So does this other woman, apparently. I'm passing their tests, but when she comes downstairs, how am I going to handle it? He took a sip of beer. “I suppose she was pretty upset,” he offered.

  Hilary actually giggled. She was a very pretty woman, a smooth façade of professionalism over a type of boiling sensuality he would have found pleasant if he hadn't been waiting for ... what? What was he waiting for, exactly? “She seems to have recovered. So, why didn't anyone call the police? That guy could be abducting someone else by now."

  Delgado almost choked on his beer. She's smart, he thought, and set the bottle down. “Well,” he said, “I didn't get the license plate number, so I didn't have anything useful to tell them.” Not that I'd go anywhere near a police station, he thought, and his eyes met the Major's.

  The older man was studying him closely. “Well,” he said, “we didn't get a license plate number, and we didn't really see anything important. I'm just glad Rowan's okay.” There was some other message in the man's green eyes, but Delgado couldn't decipher it. Maybe it was the residue of the push, making the Major feel chummy with him.

  "That's the truth,” Hilary said, taking another cracker. “If anything happened to Rowan, I'd be really upset.” She gave him a meaningful glance, then bounced up to her feet, crossing to the fridge. “Do you have any white wine, Henry?"

  "Bottom shelf,” the Major replied. He was still trying to signal something to Delgado, who didn't have a clue. His cell phone buzzed in his breast pocket.

  He extracted it and glanced at the number.

  Shit. “Excuse me a second,” he said, rising smoothly from the chair. “I have to take this."

  "No problem,” the Major said politely, still trying to telegraph something with wiggling eyebrows. What the hell is going on now?

  He walked into the living room and flipped the phone open. “Delgado,” he said cautiously.

  "Move it up, Del,” Henderson said. The old man sounded exhausted. “They found the haunted house. Cath and Zeke barely made it out. They're doing sweeps. What are you doing in there?"

  "Haven't made secondary contact yet,” Delgado said quietly. “How much time do I have?"

  A short pause, sound of fingers on a keyboard. That would be Yoshi. Then Henderson's tone changed. “None. They're moving in. Christ, Delgado, get out of there."

  Not without her, he thought. “We'll see,” he said.

  "Don't go funky on me, Del. I need you. Get the fuck out of there."

  "Not without my subject."

  "Del—"

  His entire skin tightened with electricity. There she is. She's coming downstairs. How can I sense her today, when I couldn't last night? “Got to go,” he said. “I'll call you back."

  Then he hung up on the old man. Sorry about that, General, he thought. But no Sig's going to get his filthy hands on her again. He turned the phone off and looked down at the sleek black plastic. How the hell
am I going to do this?

  "Hi,” Rowan said. “Dad said you were in here ... oh.” She saw the cell phone in his hand. “I'm sorry, I—"

  "No, I'm done,” he said, slipping it back into his pocket. “How are you feeling?"

  She looked ... well, unearthly. The circles under her eyes were still there, but her eyes were clear and unshadowed now. Her pale hair, pulled back into a ponytail, begged to be touched. The flush of sleep was still on her cheeks, and she wore a black V-neck sweater that only served to make her skin look even more translucent, her collarbones more fragile. Jeans and pretty bare feet completed the picture, and Delgado almost forgot the Sigma net closing around them. His entire body felt dipped in electric sugar, his nerves resounding with her nearness. What is wrong with me? I just went against orders and hung up on Henderson. And what am I going to do? How am I going to get her out of here and to a clean house?

  She yawned. “Good,” she said. “I wanted to say thanks, you know. For ... for saving my life. I didn't realize until later that ... well, anything could have happened.” Evidently nervous, she shifted from foot to foot, her cheeks even more flushed. Why? Am I having some sort of effect on her? I hope so.

  He realized he was staring into her eyes, fascinated. “Anytime,” he said. “I'm just glad I was there.” God, am I ever glad I was there. If they'd taken you—

  "Are you...” She trailed off, glanced around the room, nervously. “I mean, my dad said ... He didn't call the police. He said you were military."

  Several things about Henry's signaling fell into place. Damn. He's more observant than I thought, or I bled through with the push. Delgado realized he was moving forward, his hands buzzing and tingling with the need to touch her. He stopped himself just in time, six feet away from her. “Oh,” he said. “I had no idea he noticed.” Then he could have slapped himself, because something crossed her face.

  "You seem really familiar. Are you sure I haven't—” She trailed off again, comprehension flooding her face.

  Oh, no. His hands actually physically hurt, itching and throbbing.

  "You were at the Taylor house last night,” she said, and her cheeks drained of all color. “Why are you following me?"