"I should.” She watched his broad back as he leaned against the wall, the sunlight bringing out chestnut highlights in his dark hair. She couldn't see any weapons, but she knew he was probably armed. Was it wrong to find that so comforting?
The hardwood floor was cool under her feet as she approached him cautiously. When she was close enough, she touched his shoulder. “I'm sorry,” she repeated. “I know it ... it affects you.” Her fingers seemed to burn where they touched him, and her stomach fluttered.
He glanced at her, sunlight turning his skin coppery. Rowan was suddenly aware that she had just rolled out of bed. Her hair was tangled, and she was probably crusty from sleeping. She had morning breath, and she was wearing a ratty old sweatshirt and a pair of too-short shorts. Justin might look tired, but he never looked rumpled or imprecise.
"It does affect me,” he said, looking back out at the garden. “I combat trained four or five of Shelton's kids. I keep thinking that if I'd trained them a little harder they'd still be alive."
"It's not your fault,” she said, her hand moving almost of its own volition. She was rubbing his shoulder with her palm, trying to comfort him. “Really, it's not."
He shrugged. “I know it's not. But I just ... I feel responsible."
Why do I want to hug him? she thought, and took her hand away. It was completely inappropriate, and he didn't know about the way her entire body seemed dipped in electric crackles when she touched him. She had noticed that he avoided touching anyone else, and they avoided touching him. Something to do with his talent, with something he could do.
Something Sigma had trained him to do.
He's lonely, she thought, and bit at her lower lip. “Justin—"
"I'll go get coffee,” he said abruptly, turning away and brushing past her. There it was again—that sense of a wall going up, a door slamming shut. “You want breakfast here or in the caf? We're due at class at 0800."
"The cafeteria, probably, I want to stop by the infirmary and ... Justin, will you look at me? What did I do?"
He stopped, his shoulders coming up again. “You didn't do anything, Rowan. I'm just ... upset, that's all."
"Justin—"
"It's not you,” he said again, taking another step toward the door.
"Justin.” Rowan used the same tone she would have on a balking patient refusing to take his medication—firm and clear. “What's wrong? You can tell me."
"I've just made a decision,” he said, not turning to look at her.
What does that mean? she thought, and folded her arms. “Will you look at me, please?"
He turned, reluctantly. His eyes were dark and haunted, and Rowan's heart leapt into her throat. This was the most emotion she'd ever seen from him—except for when she'd touched him.
She took three quick steps, raising her hand, but he caught her wrist. Goose bumps slid down her back. “No."
"I want to help you,” she said.
"I'm not injured.” His eyes were, though—raw and open. Wells of pain. His mouth was drawn down too tightly, betraying nothing. He was taller than her, and muscle moved under his skin. She'd seen just how lethally quick he could be.
I should be afraid of him, she thought. They're all afraid of him. But I just can't be.
"Please,” she said, softly. “Let me."
Something crossed his face swiftly, like a snarl. Rowan didn't move, didn't flinch—she was used to this. He wasn't going to hurt her. “It's okay, Rowan. Save it for the patients, I'll be fine."
"But—"
He looked at her hand, her wrist caught in his fingers, as if he was trying to figure out how it got there. “I'll be fine. Don't worry about me. I just decided what I'm going to do, that's all."
Rowan's heart began to pound. “What does that mean?"
"Just relax, okay?” He let go of her wrist, and her hand dropped uselessly down to her side. “I'll be back in a minute with some coffee. If you want to go to class, you should get ready. There's a trip into town scheduled for tomorrow, too, if you want to go with Cath."
"I have to get—"
He was gone out the door before she could finish the sentence.
Well, that was weird. No weirder than anything else, lately, I suppose ... but still. Why did he touch me like that? Like he was trying not to hurt me. She rubbed at her wrist, even though he hadn't hurt her. He'd been exquisitely gentle, the way he always was whenever he touched her.
Rowan's hand flew to her mouth.
No. It wasn't possible. But...
You just stop that silliness, she told herself. Go take a shower and get ready for these classes. You've got work to do, and the sooner the better.
But all through her morning ritual, even though she scolded herself, dropped the shampoo and nearly killed herself slipping on some soap, she felt his fingers on her wrist and smelled his after-shave. And oddly enough, that made her heart race every time. Even when she started yanking the tangles free of her hair and banged her hip into the sink when she heard a slight noise and thought perhaps he'd come back.
Chapter Twenty-Five
"Headquarters” was a complex of brownstone buildings, and the cafeteria was in another building. Rowan could have used the underground transport system to get there, but she liked being out in the open. It was a sunny day, even if the wind was knife-edged with the promise of snow. So she walked across the landscaped quad and into the east building, shivering and carrying the folder Justin had suggested she bring. In it were blank pieces of paper, two pens, and a sharpened No. 2 pencil.
Rowan still didn't know a quarter of the huge place. On the surface it looked just like a college campus—brownstone buildings, gardens, paths going here or there. The real bulk of the place was underground. She'd seen at least two hangers big enough for aircraft, then there was Four East, where Henderson had his command center. She still wasn't sure exactly what Henderson did, but he seemed to be a leader here, and Justin was his second in command.
Justin had even taken her into the great nerve center of Central Op. Banks of computers and funny things that looked right out of futuristic movies. They had technology here that wouldn't be available to the general public for at least a decade.
The cafeteria was underground, and Rowan was hungry. She had no choice. Justin hadn't come back with coffee, and that was unusual. He was usually so punctual. The cafeteria's fluorescent lights shone on a linoleum floor, and the place looked like every other communal eating place she'd ever seen—a sort of orderly chaos, groups of people clustered at their regular tables. Every “neophyte” had a “mentor,” someone to show them the ropes and steer them around the complex.
"Rowan! Hey, Rowan!” Catherine waved her arm frantically, silver bracelets flashing. She was at their usual table. Beside her, Zeke hunched over his tray, shoveling in a small mountain of grits loaded with cheese.
Rowan made it to the table, tucking wet hair behind her ears. She should have dried it; she was still chilled. “Hey, guys,” she greeted.
"'Bout time,” was Catherine's idea of a pleasant hello. She seemed incapable of being polite, sometimes going out of her way to be abrasive.
Yoshi looked up from a thick technical manual. Light glinted off his wire-framed glasses. “Miss Rowan,” he said, and smiled. “You look magnificent."
Rowan had to laugh. Yoshi was calm, and cool, and professional without being dry. He also had a wickedly ironic sense of humor.
"I got you a tray,” Brewster said. “No bacon, right?"
Rowan made a face, laughing. “You know I like bacon. Justin was supposed to bring some coffee, but I guess he got hung up. I start class today.” She eased herself down next to Brewster, glancing at her tray. “How did you know I like grapefruit?"
"I'm bloody well psychic, remember?” He grinned, his white teeth shining. “So you're taking operative classes? How'd you talk Del into that?"
"Good morning, everyone,” Henderson said, and there was a general scramble. Zeke and Brewster would have made it to
their feet to salute, but Henderson waved them back down.
"Hey, General,” Catherine greeted him. “Our star girl's going to class today. Looks like she'll be a full op before long, whaddaya say?"
"I say that's her business and not yours, young lady. Good morning to you, by the way.” Henderson lowered himself into the seat opposite Rowan's. “Good morning, Rowan."
"Morning, sir,” she said, taking a sip of orange juice. Brew had loaded her plate with extra bacon, and she was hungry. She set to it with a will.
Someone across the room laughed, the sound sharp and clear above the crowd-noise. Rowan glanced around. Until now, she had always felt uneasy in crowds, a soft press of emotion choking her on every side. Here it was different, a blessed relief. Everyone knew how to keep their emotions from drowning her. Justin called it shielding and had taught her how to do it, but Rowan couldn't quite remember how or when the lesson had taken place.
Justin's arm came over her shoulder, and he set a cup of coffee down on the table. A brief silence wrapped around the group. “Sorry I'm late,” he said, his voice slicing the crowd-noise effortlessly. He lowered himself into the seat on Rowan's other side.
Sitting between Brewster and Justin meant that Rowan was effectively closed in from either side. She normally didn't like that feeling, but here it was comforting.
Justin settled himself, and then he looked at her as the conversation started again. Henderson asked about something called a flux-phase and Yoshi set his book aside.
"I got hung up, called to Central,” Justin said quietly. “I'm sorry, Rowan."
"It's okay,” she said around a mouthful of grapefruit. “I knew you'd be along."
He seemed pleased by that, smiling, and took a drink from his own coffee cup. “Nice to see you're getting along here."
"I like it,” she said. “Everyone seems so ... well, nice.” It was still hard to believe they were all people who had freakish abilities like hers, but it was also kind of comforting. “Are you going with me this morning?"
"Of course. Hey, Brewster, did you finish that mock-up?"
"I did,” Brew said. “I wondered when you'd ask. Listen, I'm not sure about the third sequence. It's too hard to tell."
"I can guess at it, I think. I just needed the second to figure out what the beginning of the third looked like. Any news from Blake's team yet?"
"None yet. It's beginning to look grim. Soren's wearing his red bandanna again.” Brew took a long drink of apple juice and grimaced as if it was bitter.
"Any luck with dowsers?” Justin looked quiet and calm, as usual, but Rowan could feel tension vibrating from him.
"Nope, they were operating standard-silent. If we had another 5RV we could probably track them down, but as it is we have to wait until they break cover."
Rowan wondered if she'd ever been discussed at this table. Had she been a “subject under watch?"
And what had Sigma been saying about her? Had she been measured, plans drawn up, risk assessments done?
It was an uncomfortable line of thought. Rowan finished half her breakfast and stared into her coffee cup. Her stomach had closed itself, as it did so frequently nowadays.
"You should eat,” Justin said quietly.
She looked up to find him watching her. How long had he been watching her?
"I can't.” She finished the rest of her coffee in one scalding gulp. “Is it time?"
"We've got a little while. I'd like to show you something."
"All right.” She eased herself to her feet, chair scraping on the linoleum. Henderson glanced at her, Brewster nodded, and Cath gifted her with a rare, beneficent smile. “See ya round, Price,” the blue-Mohawked girl said. “Glad you're signing on."
What choice do I have? Rowan thought. “Thank you, Cath. Thanks for getting my tray, Brew."
"Just leave it, love. I'll carry it up,” he replied, wearing his trademark wide white grin. “See you this afternoon!"
Now what does he mean by that? Rowan settled for nodding and letting Justin draw her away.
"He'll have basic meditation with you this afternoon,” he said in her ear as they negotiated the maze of tables. “I'm sorry I was late, Rowan."
"It's all right.” She slid her arm through his and felt his surprise. It was odd. He was usually so closed-off she couldn't tell what he was feeling.
He led her through a faceless white hall with fluorescents and a stone floor, and then into a transport. “Second Level, Excel.” His voice didn't change, but Rowan's cheeks suddenly felt hot. The coffee rose uneasily in her throat. “Are you all right?” he asked
"I just hate being underground. Justin?"
"Hm?"
"Did you mean it? About ... about helping me?"
He went so still she wanted to check to see if he was breathing. “Of course,” he said. “I wish it wasn't like this, Rowan. I wish I could have stopped them from hurting you."
I wish you could have too. “Why didn't you tell me?"
"Would you have believed me?"
She knew he was right, but it didn't stop the nausea or the lump in her throat. Or the sudden tears filling her eyes. He did everything he could, she told herself. Don't blame him.
But there was nobody else, was there? She had nobody else left in the world. Dad was dead, and Hilary was dead, and Rowan was alone.
Except for Justin Delgado.
The transport slowed. Rowan, without meaning to, tightened her grip on Justin's arm. He said nothing.
When the doors finally opened, he led her out, and she gasped.
"It's a track,” he said. “Quarter mile. In the middle there's free weights and a practice ground."
The track was covered in rubberized black stuff, perfect for runners. The lighting was as close to sunlight as you could get, and cool air raised goose bumps on her arms. It was as close to perfect as possible. How did they fit all this stuff underground? They lived like moles, barely surfacing, only the most claustrophobic living aboveground. Rowan was suddenly, intensely glad Justin had an aboveground room.
Ruin your knees, running like that, her father's voice floated up through her memory. A lump filled Rowan's throat.
In the middle, a group of people were doing t'ai chi—slow, even dancing movements. Rowan swallowed, hard. “Thank you,” she said, right before something occurred to her. “How did you know I—"
"I would hate to be cooped up, and here you can feel safe. And you're in good shape, Rowan. It's obvious you exercise. You told me you liked to run."
Had she? She didn't remember telling him.
"Thank you,” Rowan said, and impulsively went up on tiptoe. She kissed his cheek, pressing her lips against his shaven skin. He froze again, and she caught a flash of another feeling from him, gone too quickly to identify. That's twice in a row. It's odd, he's normally so closed off. “I mean it. Thank you. This is ... it's wonderful."
"We'd better go,” he said. “We'll be late."
Chapter Twenty-Six
The classes were not what she expected.
The room was bright and sunny, aboveground. Sheer curtains made the thin winter sunlight mellow; there were comfortable blue-upholstered couches scattered around. A merry fire crackled in a stone fireplace, a reproduction of van Gogh's “Starry Night” hung on one wall, and a watercolor of poppies in a wheat field hung on another. The room was full of plants—philodendrons trailing green, orchids in small terra-cotta pots, a small orange tree set in the sunlight near the window.
A woman stood in front of the window, her golden hair catching fire. Four other women were on the couches, one of them huddling next to a taller red-haired woman. Three teenage boys and one dark-haired man took some of the other seats.
"It's Rowan, isn't it?” Dr. Jilssen said, pumping her hand. His sticklike paw trembled with excitement, his soggy eyes behind their horn-rimmed glasses devouring her. “Come in, come in."
Rowan's stomach turned over and rose, choking her. She tried to free her hand from the doctor's
but couldn't. Justin tensed next to her.
"Dr. Jilssen,” the golden-haired woman said crisply, pushing her glasses up her sharp nose. Jilssen finally let go of Rowan's hand, leaving her pulse to thunder in her ears. Sick, I'm going to be sick. But the feeling passed away as soon as she thought it. “Leave the girl alone. You're an observer. Mr. Delgado, will you be participating today?"
"Of course,” Justin said. “I'm her mentor."
"Good enough.” She wasn't tall, but her posture made her seem that way. Her hair was pulled back in a chignon, a few stray strands escaping, but even those strands looked planned, intentional. She wore a blue peasant shirt and a pair of jeans, but the jeans were ironed, sharp creases standing out. Her eyes blazed green in the sunlight behind the lenses of her glasses, and a pair of long silver hoops glittered in her ears. “Will you please take a seat, then, and we'll begin. Edward, why don't you go first?"
Rowan lowered herself onto a blue velvet couch. Justin settled right next to her.
A teenage boy with faint ghosts of acne on his face stood up. “I, ah, I'm Eddie,” he said to Rowan. “I'm borderline telepathic. I can make people go to sleep."
Rowan blinked. “Really?” She tried not to flinch. The boy was obviously painfully shy. Do they just say it out loud like that?
"Who wants to?” he said, and Dr. Jilssen raised one dry hand.
"You might as well try it on me, boy,” he said, shifting his thin frame inside his lab coat. “Anything for research, you know."
The boy's dark, moist gaze swiveled around and met the doctor's. “Noctis,” he mumbled, and his eyes seemed to swell for a moment.
The doctor, who had been perched on a straight-backed chair, suddenly slumped.
"Edward,” the woman said.
Rowan was suddenly fascinated. The teenage boy managed to catch the doctor as he almost fell off the chair. But what excited Rowan was that she could see, somehow, what Edward was doing, just like when she walked into the ward she could tell who was having trouble on a particular day, nurses as well as patients. She could see exactly where the boy had pressed to put the doctor to sleep. She could see how she could do it quicker and easier.
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