SA-7 is standing in the bathroom doorway in a cloud of steam, his hair damp and sticking out at odd angles, his eyebrows lifted in faint surprise.
Naked.
Before she can stop herself, she looks.
Then she realizes what she's doing and claps her hand over her eyes. "Oh my GOD!"
She hears him snort. "Oh, for fuck's sake, Sara. What are you doing here?"
The fact that he isn't echoing her shock and embarrassment, and is basically just a little annoyed, makes her feel that much more ridiculous. She's sure she's blushing bright enough to look boiled.
Sara peeks around her fingers, trying to keep her eyes on his face. "I...I came to leave Rowan a message. Where is he?"
"Here," comes a sleepy voice, and Rowan pokes his head out of the bedroom, looking tousled and sexy and only about half awake. "What's all the noise?"
He takes in the scene and laughs hard enough that he has to lean on the doorframe.
"Jason, put on a robe or something before her head explodes," Rowan insists, wheezing.
The vampire rolls his eyes and returns to the bathroom, shaking his head, affording Sara a splendid view of his spectacular, muscular ass.
"You were saying?" Rowan asks once he's caught his breath.
Sara looks from the bathroom to the Elf. "Wow."
He gives her a rather smug grin. "I know."
"God, you guys really need to have less sex--you're starting to feel like each other!" She strides back into the living room and plucks the note from the monitor, handing it to the Elf, who has followed her, rubbing his eyes and yawning. Rowan naked, she could handle, and has, dozens of times. Despite her initial crush on Jason, she'd never expected to see more than his bare shoulders. The whole enchilada is a lot to take in.
Literally. Good lord.
"Eight o'clock tomorrow," Rowan says with a glance at the Post-It. "Fine by me. Shall we have dinner first at seven? I have the whole evening free."
"Fine," she replies, backing toward the door. "I'll let you two get back to whatever it was you were doing."
"Getting ready for work," Jason says, emerging once again, this time in a pair of jeans and a snug black "Keep Austin Weird" t-shirt, a towel still in his hand. "I'm on shift in half an hour, thank you very much."
"Sorry. I'll go. Nice singing, by the way."
Jason blinked at her, and was it her imagination, or were the tips of his ears turning the slightest bit pink? "Um...what singing?"
"In the shower. It couldn't have been the radio. You don't sound anything like Rihanna."
Rowan gives his lover an amused look. "Oh, really? I must have slept through that. What were you singing? Come on, tell me."
Jason grabs Sara by the arm and ushers her out into the hallway. "See you later, trainee Larson," he says firmly.
"Sure," Sara laughs, loving his sudden discomfort--he doesn’t mind her seeing him in the altogether, but hearing him sing in the shower, well, now, that's just embarrassing. "Oh, but if you're going on patrol be careful, it's supposed to rain--or you could always stand under my umbrella...ella...ella..."
A wet towel hits her squarely in the face, and she's giggling uncontrollably as the door slams shut.
More Than Kin, Less Than Kind
Part One
Winter that year was wet and dark and bitterly cold. At first it was a welcome relief from the blistering summer, but by mid-December after the first ice storm had crippled the city for two days, people were already longing for the weeklong Texas spring.
Inside the Agency base, however, the climate was always perfectly controlled. Thick walls and mammoth air units kept the temperature even, and each employee’s quarters could be transformed into a microclimate depending on the person’s race—cool and dry for vampires and warm and humid for Naiads, for example. Even in subfreezing outdoor temperatures the staff wore the same wardrobe as it did in summer. It was one of a hundred ways the Agency was its own world apart, and while that could be maddening for one whose race was meant to be connected to the seasons, it also had its benefits.
In the sleepy warmth of his apartment, Rowan dozed on the couch, his face turned into his lover’s chest. Across the room he could hear the muffled sounds of the TV, still tuned to the Food Network, and he smiled to himself.
"I don't get it," he had said an hour earlier. "You don't eat. And even if you did, nobody here cooks his own food. Why do you watch this show?"
Jason had tried to brush the question off, saying something about the subject being fascinating no matter if he ate or not, but Rowan's disbelieving look made him sigh and drop the pretense.
"It's him," he finally said.
Rowan had sat back and stifled a laugh at the seriousness on the vampire's face. "You're hot for Alton Brown? Seriously?"
Jason sighed. "Not exactly. He's...well, if you picture him with more hair, and red, he'd look…remarkably like Fox."
Rowan stared at the TV, then back at Jason. "Your sire looked like Alton Brown."
"Yes."
"That's…well, I mean, it's…I just would have expected someone more…I don't know…"
A smile played at the corners of Jason's mouth as he watched Rowan stumble about for a comment that wouldn't sound horrible. "You mean, you thought he'd be hotter, maybe look more like a vampire."
"You said it, I didn't."
He was afraid he'd offended Jason, but all he got was an amused sort of look. "Not every vampire is as gorgeous as I am, lover. Besides, look at that lower lip. And those hands. I wouldn't mind being that lump of cookie dough right now."
Rowan couldn't help but laugh, shifting onto his lap for a kiss. “You, culisen, are wonderful.”
“Do you really have to call me that?” Jason asked with aggravation that was mostly feigned.
“It could be worse. It could be in English.”
“Just as long as you don’t let anyone else hear it. I’d never live it down.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Rowan affirmed, then slid his tongue into the vampire’s mouth, successfully changing the subject for a while.
It was one of those rare weeknights when they were both off-duty and could simply do nothing if they chose, and oddly enough, given a whole night to spend together, they ended up falling asleep on the couch like an old married couple. It had been such a long week for them both, any sort of relaxation was a hedonistic luxury.
He heard a faint unintelligible murmur, and smiled, eyes still closed. Vampires apparently didn’t snore, but they did talk in their sleep occasionally. He’d noticed that Jason did so with 100-year-old New York Irish lilt, though his wakeful diction had no accent at all.
On the coffee table were two mostly-empty glasses of red wine and the remains of their dinner: a plate with a single abandoned pizza crust for Rowan, and an opaque blue tumbler for Jason. It had taken nearly four months to get Jason over his reluctance to feed in front of the Elf, but finally Rowan had convinced him; and, truthfully, he didn’t mind now that he was used to the smell. He had found, to their mutual surprise, that the faint taste of blood on Jason’s lips was, rather than disgusting, a distinct turn-on.
Oh, if the clan council could see him now.
He smiled again, but then winced, and his stomach clenched—he'd been fighting off pain all day, and had really hoped that a few hours of calm would banish it, but it was getting worse. He closed his eyes, frustrated; he'd gone nearly two weeks without having to take anything, and his episodes had been few and far between since he and Jason had become lovers, but the thing he feared most right now was a full-blown attack like he'd had with Sara those first weeks. He had been so surprised and pleased that nothing had gone wrong so far…he'd had a few unpleasant dreams, and some aches here and there, but nothing serious…but tonight…he could feel it building, his joints already on slow burn, his mind starting to fog.
He carefully extricated himself from the vampire's arms and slid off the couch, forcing himself to his feet and to the bathroom to fetch a pill
. He nearly slammed the cabinet door shut in his helpless anger at his stupid wreck of a body and its refusal to leave him in peace. Damn it all.
Rowan poured himself a glass of water and swallowed the pill, but as he lowered the glass his mind's eye shifted for a second, and a single frame of the past intruded that made him gasp and fall back against the counter.
"Not now," he murmured. "Not this. Not now."
Reality skipped again, and again he saw it: fire. He felt rope around his neck and wrists, being dragged…toward a truck…screams…hands searching him for weapons, the stench of burning flesh…hands…he had fought back, struggling, his mind full of his loved ones, some of whom he had already seen thrown on the pyre…
Miles away he heard the glass strike the tile floor and shatter, and felt pain in his hands, pain spreading through his body.
The images pushed into him hard, sensations tearing through him, forcing him back in time. Before the slaughter was even over, the men had already stripped several of the clan women naked and raped them behind the truck. He could hear them laughing, hear the cries of fear and agony and humiliation, and they were taking him toward it, away from the beauty of his own world, into the world that would systematically brutalize him to the edge of death and insanity over the next two decades. He fought, tried to wrest himself from their grasp, but there were so many, all so strong, armed, and his fear only aroused them more…
Hands seized his arms, shook him lightly, and he lashed out, struggling fiercely but getting nowhere. His whole body burned, but not as brightly as his mind, pried open and violated, over and over and over…
A pinprick in his arm. Dark, liquid heat trickled down from the top of his head, and suddenly he stopped fighting. His body went limp, but he was panting, breath coming in hoarse gasps, even as the pain melted away and let him become aware again, image by image, frame by frame of the memory exposed to light and reduced to a chemical scar in his imagination.
"Easy there," came a voice, low and gentle, and the hands on his body made sense again. Something solid was propping him up, lifting him off the ground. The voice spoke to him again, words that made no sense but still soothed him, and he clung to the sound desperately.
He opened his eyes again, and saw a familiar ceiling: his bedroom. He turned his head slightly and met brilliant blue eyes full of concern.
"Tell me your name."
He answered, earning a frown. "Tell me your name," the command came again.
Memory. His bedroom, his quarters, the Agency. "Rowan."
"Now tell me mine."
He managed a wan smile. "Jason Adams, Shadow Agent 7. You're on my hair."
A shift of weight. Jason brushed the strands back away from Rowan's face. "How do you feel?"
"My hands hurt."
"They're bleeding," Jason explained. "You broke a glass and then fell to the ground, and braced yourself on your hands. Don't move, I'll get something to clean you up."
Moments later Jason was gingerly picking shards of glass out of Rowan's palms, and swabbing the wounds with water and peroxide; they'd heal in an hour or two, and in fact had already stopped bleeding.
"You drugged me," Rowan said. "How did you know where to find the morphine?"
"Sara told me," he replied. "I wanted to be sure I could find it, just in case. I have some at my place too."
Rowan felt tears burning his eyes. "I really hoped I was done with all of this," he said, and wept into Jason's shoulder, hanging on for dear life. "I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize," Jason said to him, holding him close. "I just wish I could resurrect those bastards who did this to you and kill them all over again."
Rowan pressed as much of himself into Jason’s body as he could, wishing he could disappear. The arms around him tightened protectively, and he sighed, realizing that episodes or no episodes, pain or none, he nonetheless felt safe…completely safe. It was such a rare and beautiful feeling he nearly wept again.
Finally, they both started to doze off again, and Rowan drifted back into the dream of peace he had almost achieved earlier, this time without anything to interrupt…
…until a loud beeping noise jolted them both awake. Jason nearly smacked Rowan in the head trying to hit the snooze button, but it wasn’t the alarm clock going off, it was the computer in the other room, signaling an incoming video chat over the network.
“Damn it,” Jason muttered irritably, pulling a pillow over his face, “it’s our night off.”
“I’ll get it,” Rowan said with a yawn, and half-staggered back into the living room, careful as he passed through the kitchen not to step on the broken glass.
He plopped down in the desk chair and hit “receive.” A video window popped up, and Ness blinked at him, momentarily at a loss for words.
Rowan realized he was shirtless and looked like he’d been doing exactly what he wished he had been doing when she called. “How can I help you, Ness?”
She recovered quickly. “I’m sorry to interrupt whatever it was you were doing—and please feel free to give me details later—but we have a bit of a situation. I’m assuming SA-7 is there with you?”
“Here,” Jason said, stepping into view, looking the same as Rowan except with the addition of a ribbed tank he called a “wife beater.” Rowan still couldn’t decide whether to be amused or deeply offended by that. “What sort of situation?”
“Eyes have located the base of operations of the slave ring you’ve been tracking, outside of Pasadena.”
“Shit. I’ll be in your office in five minutes.”
“Good. Ness, out.”
The window closed, and Jason went back over to the couch to dig his shirt out of the cushions. “Where did I leave my belt?” he asked.
“Hanging off the bathroom door.” Rowan glared at him, accusingly, until he stopped and looked back. “What slave ring?”
Jason paused, shirt halfway on, and took a breath before replying. “It’s a new case,” he told the Elf. “We found evidence of a group trafficking slaves in the Houston area, selling all over the state and as far away as Louisiana.”
“What kind of slaves?”
“Mostly human. Children. But there was proof of at least one Naiad, possibly a siren, and…”
Rowan swallowed hard, suddenly cold. “Elves?”
“There may be. We haven’t seen any evidence of them, but it’s possible.”
“When were you planning to tell me?”
Jason pulled on his coat, guilt written on his face. “Not until I had to. I didn’t want to upset you so early in the case. I wasn’t expecting it to break so soon. We won’t be sure what we’re dealing with until we get inside.”
Rowan looked down at the floor, then back up at him, jaw set. Then he rose and grabbed his shoes. “I’m coming with you.”
Part Two
"Here are the satellite and infrared images we have of the building," Ness said, bringing them up on the screen. "As you can see it's a simple layout—a front office with a false back wall concealing a large interior chamber where most of the prisoners are being held. Behind another false wall are two smaller rooms, one empty. The other has a single life sign, and temperature readings suggest human, preteen or teenaged. Here in the main room—" She hit a button, and another image lay over the first, this one of red shapes around the wall. "—we have ten more, plus one with a lower body temperature we're assuming is the Naiad."
"Do we have any info on their condition?" Jason asked.
"No. I'm going to send in two medical units in addition to the team you assemble, and the local cowboys will cordon off the block once you're in. We alerted CPS that there may be several human children in need of pretty serious care."
Beck narrowed her eyes at the screen. "Why would they keep that one isolated?"
Ness didn't seem to have an answer, but Rowan spoke up from his seat at the end of the table, where he'd been sitting in silence, the darkness on his face almost frightening. "She's probably a virgin," he said quietly
. "They would keep her locked away and accessible only to the person in charge. The guards have probably been molesting the others at will, but if she's pure she'd be worth three times as much, even more if they sold her to a black magician."
There was a moment of silence, all of them horrified at the thought, but finally Ness continued. "Tell me what you need, SA-7."
"I want a small strike team, a quick in and out—if we make too much of a fuss they might start using the prisoners as humanoid shields. Four Agents max, plus two on standby at the vans. I'll take SAs 8, 13, and 21 for the team. I'd also like to bring Dr. Cunningham; her experience with trauma victims may be useful."
The Agency, Volume II Page 7
