“Are you going down to see Jason?” she asked. “Where’s he been since they got back?”
“Debriefing with Ness. He sent me a message through Sage that he’d be back in quarters as soon as he was done with the conference. I thought I’d go wait for him, if you don’t mind my vanishing on you.”
“Not at all,” she said, hugging him. “I have a feeling he’s going to need you tonight—even if you didn’t need him. I’ve got Policy and Procedure homework to do anyway. Test tomorrow. Tell your culisen I said hi.”
Rowan knew he was turning red—he’d accidentally let the pet name slip to Sara a while back during a night with too many margaritas, and so far she hadn’t let on to Jason that she had heard it, much less that she knew what it meant, but because she thought it was so nauseatingly cute she liked to drop it once in a while just to see Rowan blush.
“Good night, anama,” he told her, and took the elevator down to the subsurface levels, where the vampires’ quarters were located.
Jason and his team had been gone for almost a full day; they’d waited until sunset to leave Houston, and he and Beck had no doubt been shut up in the back of a windowless van for three hours after whatever they had been forced to deal with in Pasadena. They were safe enough that way, but with only an inch or less of metal between them and death, they were under considerable distress and would no doubt both have raging headaches at the very least by now.
Rowan had reached across the base and tentatively touched Jason’s mind after they’d arrived, and found him exhausted and heartsick; Rowan could only imagine what they’d seen.
Rowan let himself into Jason’s apartment. The Agent wasn’t back yet, so he set about fixing things to help Jason unwind when he did return; he turned on the stereo, put a few things away, lit candles in lieu of the electric lights. Rowan made the bed, made sure there were clean towels in the bathroom, and otherwise busied himself, trying not to worry.
After that he got himself some wine and curled up on the couch to wait. He’d just started to doze off when he heard the door lock beep, and Jason entered looking absolutely awful--he was more worn out than Rowan had ever seen him, and had a haunted expression on his face that made him look nearly as old as he actually was.
“Thank God you’re here,” he said bleakly, shedding his jacket.
Rowan immediately sprang up and took the garment from him, hung it on its hook, and pulled the vampire into his arms.
Jason held onto him almost too tightly, periodically moving his hands over Rowan’s back, as if assuring himself that the Elf was really there. “Are you still angry?” he asked, voice muffled by Rowan’s shoulder.
“No,” Rowan responded. “You and Ness were right, and I'm sorry. Come on, let’s get you cleaned up and fed. You go take a shower, I’ll cook.”
Jason nodded vaguely and headed for the bathroom. After a moment Rowan heard water running.
Rowan went to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and removed a plastic pint jug of blood. Food Service delivered a three- or four-day supply at a time, as any longer than that and the blood would lose the life energy that nourished the vampires. It was taken from donors at a perfectly average-seeming blood bank, according to a list of biological and physical specifications that ensured it was as strong and healthy as possible. The whole process was disturbingly civilized.
This part, he knew, should sicken him, but it had become mostly normal to take out a glass, unscrew the cap on the container, and pour half its contents, then put it in the microwave long enough to warm it slightly. He put the rest back in the fridge with the two other still-sealed bottles. Aside from the blood, a six pack of beer, a couple of limes, and a pint of strawberries, there was nothing else in the fridge.
Rowan left the blood on the counter and returned to his wine; he heard Jason emerge from the bathroom a few minutes later and called, “Dinner’s ready.”
He could sense the change in Jason’s energy immediately: feeding got them high, and produced a sense of well-being and relaxation almost as good as sex. It was, in fact, sometimes better, if the blood was taken from a live human. Being domesticated had its drawbacks.
Jason was still weary, though, and after rinsing out the glass he came to join Rowan on the couch, stopping by the liquor cabinet to pour himself a rather large whiskey. He knocked the drink back in a single swallow, left the glass on the bar, sank onto the sofa, and laid his head on Rowan’s lap with a sigh.
His hand curved around Rowan’s thigh, holding on, and Rowan twined his fingers in Jason’s hair, stroking his head and neck, just listening. “We thought there were only ten captives, but there were twenty-one. There were so many bodies…Only ten, plus the baby, were still alive. Three more died either at the scene or en route to the hospital. They starved them to death, Rowan. They just locked them up in there, chained to the wall, and let them die one by one. They came in and sprayed them with water once or twice a day. And while they were lying there, begging for food, surrounded by the stink of rotting bodies and their own shit, the guards…they…”
Rowan opened himself to his lover, feeding him strength and love, and Jason drank it in as if he, too, were starving to death. After a moment, Jason said softly, “All I could think of was you. That night I found you. Every face was your face. And those people…women and children…to have been born and walked this earth only to leave it like that...and all of them have families out there who may never know what happened, what they suffered…”
“I know,” Rowan said. “But you saved me. And you saved as many as you could.”
“Not enough,” he whispered. “Not enough.”
This was what no one ever saw—the aftermath. They saw guns and the swirl of a black coat, and they saw calculated dispassion as justice was meted out and perpetrators were either detained or shot. The other Agents saw strength and power, a man who could outrun and out-fight anyone, who was unmoved by pleas for mercy. They saw immortal beauty contained in flashing blue eyes. A leader, perhaps even a hero, to some.
Only Rowan saw what happened after the blood had been washed away and the reports were made. Jason turned his face into Rowan's lap, visibly shaking, dying over and over again—once for every life he'd been too late to save. He didn't weep; even Rowan had not yet seen him do that, but he knew well that there were some kinds of anguish too raw for tears.
After a while, Rowan coaxed Jason into the bedroom and undressed him, guiding him to lie down on his stomach on the bed; Rowan dug in the nightstand drawer for a bottle he'd left there a few weeks back, an oil scented in the same blend he used in the shower. He knew that aside from enflaming Jason's libido under the right circumstances, it also had the effect of relaxing him after an unduly stressful shift. Rowan poured some into his palms and straddled his lover's middle, opening the link between them to read and interpret what Jason needed.
Soon he was kneading the tension out of the vampire's shoulders and back, expert hands knowing just where to press, and how hard, to bring the deepest release. Rowan let himself slip into a healing trance, energy flowing between them, Rowan lifting the pain from Jason's body and heart and washing them away with energy like a sun-warmed stream. It was an elementary part of his training, but he'd found over the centuries that the easiest methods were often the most effective. Despite the basic function and reputation of the rethla, more often than not, people needed touch and comfort more than sex.
His fingers worked into the muscles of Jason's back, the heels of his hands dug in beneath his shoulder blades, and as he worked his way down Jason's body he felt him drifting off to sleep, peace returning to him long enough to carry him into dreams that Rowan hoped would be kind, or at least forgettable.
Nights like this didn't happen often. The strength was not a façade…but even the strongest heart had its breaking point. Rowan knew there were things that Jason had seen and done that he couldn't even conceive of, and didn't want to, but sometimes past and present would meet and something inside him would crack. Ro
wan wondered how he'd coped before, when he had to face it alone, in the dark, in the echoing silence.
Rowan pulled off his own clothes and lay down alongside the vampire, touching as much skin to skin as possible. Jason stirred and kissed his ear, murmuring something appreciative.
"Sleep," Rowan said softly. "It's safe to sleep."
"I know," came the equally soft reply. "You're with me."
Part Five
Sara crouched behind the stack of crates, ignoring the ache in her thighs from maintaining the same position for so long, and listened hard for footsteps. She could barely see in the darkness but that was all right—in the mostly-empty warehouse every noise echoed, and she followed the clomp of heavy boots as it moved toward her and away, clockwork, letting her memorize the pattern of the guard’s steps.
There. At the apogee of his circuit, she shoved herself away from the crates, running silently for the next stack.
Once behind the shield she reached into her belt and pulled out her gun, sliding the clip in carefully, timing the click to the guard’s step. She tried not to pant; it was amazing how much easier it was to move that fast after months of working her ass off with Carlos.
The headset she was wearing wasn’t an Ear, so it was a little cumbersome, but she adjusted the mic and said quietly, “Target in twenty yards.”
The voice on the other end replied, “Access code 4478983.”
“4478983,” she confirmed, committing it to memory and hoping to god she wouldn’t forget it between here and the door. “Going in.”
Sara listened one final time for the guard’s retreating tread, then crept out from behind her shield and made for the locked door at the far end of the warehouse, arms pumping, sprinting as if her life depended on it.
“FREEZE!” she heard the guard yell, and suddenly there was light everywhere. Temporarily blinded, she hit the ground in a roll and came up shooting.
The first guard went down with a grunt, but there were three more; two up on the catwalk, another on the far end of the room that she’d snuck past on her way in. They were all running toward her, taking aim, and she had seconds—there was no cover, no way out.
Sara rose up on her knee and lifted her gun again, taking out the far end guard, then dove across to the first she’d shot, who lay with his rifle falling out of his hands. She seized the weapon and ran backwards toward the door, aiming up on the catwalk—two shots, and both men fell over, weapons clattering awkwardly to the metal floor.
She slung the rifle around to her back and flattened herself up against the door, opening the keypad’s outer casing. Behind her she could hear the rush of feet as more guards—at least ten—came thundering in to stop her, but she concentrated, and entered the code: 4478983.
The lock opened with a loud chunk, and she ducked inside.
The door swung shut behind her, and silence fell, Sara’s breath coming hard as she let the rifle slide down her shoulder to the ground.
She lifted her head to regard the row of people sitting at the table opposite her.
They were all smiling.
A beat, and they began to applaud.
*****
There were a handful of children living in the Agency base. For the most part they went unnoticed; their parents had a social network of their own, and the children themselves spent their time in day care aboveground, or out in the garden or the playground behind the main building. They had classes, they went on outings, and behaved themselves so well that Sara might never even have known they existed, if not for Elora’s sudden appearance in their lives and the question of what to do with her.
Sara and Rowan stood at the edge of the yard, hidden among the shrubbery, watching the children at play. The kids ran up the steps to the slide and shrieked gleefully as they shot down it, and they pumped their legs on the swings, and they jumped rope. Sara counted seven total.
Seven total, plus Elora. The Elfling, however, wasn’t really playing; she was sitting in the grass nearby, holding the stuffed elephant they’d found her with in Pasadena, and she was watching the others with a bemused sort of expression as if she were an anthropologist studying pantsless tribesmen in the outback.
The other children seemed a bit unsure as to how to relate to her; it was obvious she was different, even aside from her appearance. She was too quiet, too self-possessed for her age, and the fact that she could walk and run and move as well as the ten-year-olds—and was far more articulate than many adults—made them uneasy. But for all her maturity, she still held onto her elephant, and she still looked a little lost, torn away from her family and all she knew, confronted with these strange mortal creatures.
“She looks so sad,” Sara commented. “Do Elflings play like human kids?”
“Yes,” Rowan replied. “If there were others here she’d be laughing and singing, probably dancing. She looks interested in the swings, too. But she’s a fish out of water here.”
“Poor thing. I know it was hard for you, and you were an adult. I can’t imagine what she must be feeling.”
“She feels like an orphan,” Rowan said. “And as far as we know, that’s what she is.”
“Is she going to stay with you now that they’ve released her from the infirmary?”
“Probably. I’m hoping we can turn up a better home for her, though. There are a few other Elves working for the Agency—I’ve put the word out to all branches that we’re looking for anyone from Clan Birch, especially Ardeth.”
“At least she’s not a human baby. She’d be in diapers and maybe even still breast-feeding. Still, it’s hard to imagine you with a kid.”
“Tell me about it. But I’d rather her be with me than in a human’s custody—she’s already been through enough, at least she can have someone nearby who doesn’t think she’s a freak.”
“They’re young,” Sara said. “They’ll get used to each other.”
As Sara spoke, one of the little girls approached Elora cautiously and said something to her Sara couldn’t hear. The Elfling looked up at her, considering, then replied.
The little girl, who had curly brown hair pulled up in springy pigtails and looked about seven or eight, held out a hand, and after a moment Elora took it and stood up. The human child pulled her along to the swings, and in a few minutes was pushing the Elfling, who seemed confused at first as to what to do, but caught on quickly and even cracked a smile.
“There,” Sara said. “She’ll be okay. Don’t worry.”
They walked together back into the building, Rowan brooding—he was doing that a lot these days, she’d noticed, and it saddened her. He’d been doing so well until that attack a few nights ago; being with Jason had done so much to heal his remaining wounds. Now he seemed vulnerable again, even fragile, and she knew he was dwelling on the past and it wasn’t good for him.
“Come on,” she told him. “Let’s go have a massive ass ice cream. I feel like celebrating.”
Now he smiled. “Yes, congratulations are in order—I hear you passed your six-month practical with flying colors.”
“Looks like. I think they were just glad I didn’t shoot myself in the foot.”
He made a face. “Don’t start that, Sara. You’ve made excellent progress since then—everyone’s pleased with your work. Otherwise they wouldn’t be sending you out in the field.”
“Yeah…I don’t know. The test was a simulation. Holographs. It’s different.”
“You’ll do fine. The other SAs will take care of you. Whom did they team you up with?”
“Jason,” Sara said with an inward groan. “I’m not sure who’d be worse, him or Beck, but she’s not on patrol this month, so he and I are stuck with each other. So I’ll be tagging along with him twice a week and starting on the hard stuff in the meantime—like the Ears, only the Agent end rather than the console. My third eye’s going to be crispy fried.”
They entered the cafeteria, which was buzzing with the dinner crowd, and Sara rewarded herself for a job well done, or at l
east done and over with, with a bowl of macaroni and cheese. There was also some sort of curried vegetable mess that Rowan looked positively gleeful over, so they retired to a table in the corner.
A moment or two in and she noticed that the Elf’s cheeks were a little pink. “Is it that spicy?” she asked between bites.
He looked up, surprised, and then bit his lip sheepishly. “No…Indian food is sort of…well, if you remember that first date…”
She laughed, hard, nearly choking on her macaroni. “So what you’re saying is, curry turns you on? That’s awesome.” She gave him a mischievous, if rueful, grin. “Too bad I have a review session with Policy and Procedures in an hour, or I’d take care of that for you.”
“I appreciate the offer.” He glanced up at the clock. “Four more hours before he’s off shift, damn it.”
“You’re going to ambush him in his office again, aren’t you.”
The Agency, Volume II Page 10
