Chapter 15
The pain was incredible, spearing her left leg, twisting with white-hot pincers.
Rowan bit her lower lip, flesh yielding between her teeth.
Her leg hurt so badly she didn’t notice the trickle of blood sliding down her chin until Justin wiped it away, fingers gentle under the rough paper of a McDonald’s napkin.
They’d stopped for lunch, and Rowan had managed a few sips of Sprite before her stomach closed. She sucked on a chunk of ice Justin slid between her lips, shook her head when he tried to give her more.
The desert scrolled by in pale brown bumps and sagebrush blurs outside her window. She was in the back seat with Justin, Cath driving and smoking like a fiend. As the city fell into the distance she felt a great relief, when she could think through the waves of agony.
A bad hit—one she was almost sure could have been fatal, if not for her freakish ability to heal. She’d even managed to try to walk. She barely remembered Justin dragging her to a car, saying something in a low, fierce voice.
When the breaker of agony retreated, she opened her eyes just a crack to find Justin staring at her.
His gaze had come alive, instead of the flat darkness she remembered, depths curtained by a screen of indifference.
Now his eyes were terribly present. He stared at her face as if he wanted to peel it off and take it home with him.
What a gruesome thought, Rowan.
But the intensity was nothing short of frightening. His entire body was focused on her, while Cath drove with the windows down, Johnny Cash blaring, bright scarves of music and cigarette smoke furling into the jetstream.
“Hey” he said quietly. “Still hurting? It’s stopped bleeding again, and it’s closing up.”
She didn’t look down. His hand was clamped over hers. This was not at all how she had expected a possible reunion to go. “Justin,” she whispered. “I knew you were alive.”
“I didn’t.” With such a straight face she wasn’t sure if he was joking.
His eyelashes were so dark, she had forgotten that.
Had forgotten the way he made her breath catch, the way her skin felt alive with electricity.
He was sweating, too. “You’ve been a busy girl, haven’t you?
Had their tails tied in knots looking for you. All over the damn country.”
A ghost of a smile. The next big jolt was coming. She could feel it gathering like rain on the horizon. “Had a good teacher.” Her mouth wouldn’t quite work right. “Always keep moving. Do it by the book. Never leave a man behind.”
“You better believe it, angel.” He was smiling now, but it was a pained expression. “Rowan.”
The pain swelled, crested over her. She bit her lip harder not wanting to cry out. It would frighten Cath, and if Rowan let her guard down even for a moment she might broadcast, give Sigma something to latch onto.
“Scream if you need to,” he whispered in her ear. He’d taken his seatbelt off to lean closer to her. She wanted to chide him for it, but couldn’t find the breath. “I’m here, angel. Not going anywhere.”
Oh, but you’ve said that before. Agony roiled again and she succumbed, down into the depths without so much as a murmur. But this time, he was with her, his mind wound in hers. Rowan could feel his own pain and unwilling need.
Ah. They had addicted him to Zed again.
Which meant he might still be a Sig after all. They might have broken him. It didn’t seem likely, but…
Rowan fled into unconsciousness.
Warmth, close and unfamiliar. A deep sense of comfort.
The hotel room blurred around her. The edge of pale curtains keeping sunshine out, a mirror fastened above the dresser where the dark eye of a television crouched. A small table near the window, two chairs looking more suited to a hospital waiting room than a hotel.
The curiously naked feeling of dampers roared over her skin. How had Cath gotten her inside?
Gingerly, she moved her left leg, and let out a sigh of relief when it was only tender, not screaming.
Then came the clichéd question.
Where the hell am I?
She rolled over in stages to stare at the ceiling, her back sinking into the mattress.
The shower was running, behind a bathroom door.
She heard Cath’s tuneless humming, familiar from spending so much time with the girl in different houses.
It sounded like she was trying to sing Cat Scratch Fever and failing miserably, but with great relish.
Rowan blinked. Memory roared in. Justin.
Where is—
The door rattled.
She pushed herself onto her side, reaching for the nightstand and the gun in its habitual place. Had he put it there?
Her fingers closed on empty air; she couldn’t reach far enough. Rowan lunged, caught the 9mm as the door let in a blast of hot air redolent of car exhaust and high plains wind. Justin stepped inside.
Cath had apparently found him a new shirt, but he wore the same hip-length jacket and jeans. As usual, he looked maddeningly precise. The haircut helped; so did the set, grim expression. Somehow he never looked rumpled, even with the fading bruise over his left eye.
Rowan lowered the gun just as he turned, broad shoulders softening. The new T-shirt was blue, and made his eyes seem even darker. Cath’s singing continued, underscored by splashing.
“You can put that away,” he said finally, one eyebrow lifting.
He was pale, fever-spots standing out on his cheeks.
The jacket hung oddly on his frame; he’d lost weight but still looked deadly, muscle flickering as he crossed his arms. The eyes were new, burning and fully alive, hazel coals in his pinched, gaunt face.
“I was checking the parking lot. Nothing stirring. I think we might be okay.”
Rowan laid the gun back on the nightstand, pushed back the covers. Her jeans had been cut away and a bandage was glued to her thigh with dried blood. She peeled it carefully free. Her leg twinged as she gazed at the bloody hole in—and wide dark stain on—heavy denim.
“God,” The material had been soaked all the way to her ankle. She’d bled a lot and felt pale just thinking about it, didn’t want to imagine the scar the wound would leave.
It’ll close up and fade like all the rest. It was a chilling thought.
“Why didn’t you tell me you’d been hit?” He yanked one of the chairs from under the spindly table and dropped into it, gracefully. Then he went absolutely still, his gaze sweeping the hotel room.
She found her voice. “You had enough to worry about.”
This wasn’t like any reunion she’d envisioned either.
She’d imagined… what? Falling into his arms and everything going back to the way it was before—her father still alive, Hilary still working for the newspaper and calling or dropping by almost every day to visit?
Or had she imagined waking up at Headquarters, finding out that it had all been a dream, her normal life and Justin’s capture?
Instead, this gaunt man stared at her like an alley cat, all nerves and dark eyes, every muscle taut and ready.
The sudden mental image—Justin as a stray prowling in dark corners, disdainful of any food, reminding you he could leave at any moment, that he was just visiting—would have made her smile if it wasn’t so sad.
“I’m sorry.” His mouth pulled down, his eyes turning even darker.
“Why?” The shower shut off; she heard Cath switch to I Will Survive and her mouth wanted to twitch again. “You didn’t shoot me.” She took a deep breath. “I’ve missed you.”
Three inadequate words, completely unable to convey the longing and frustrated guilt. Rowan hunched, dropped her gaze to her knees, one pale and streaked with dried blood, the other still covered with sweat-soaked jeans. She reeked of sweat, coppery blood, and spilled alcohol.
“I pushed myself.” Slow and careless, almost as if it was inconsequential. “To forget. Forget everything about you. I had to—Sigma had me. Then when I got loose, I pushed myself to remember. You’re in trouble, angel. They’re sending Carson to hunt you.”
A cold finger slid down her spine. Who was this Carson character? The General hadn’t said much, just that he was bad news and for Rowan to be very careful.
“Henderson told me.” I need a shower. And I need to get dressed. Why is he looking at me like that? Why won’t he touch me, talk to me? Really talk to me? He sounds like he’s giving a report back at Headquarters. Nice and impersonal. “Justin?”
He shook his head, as if shaking away a sudden bath of icy water. “Never figured out why you called me that.” Eyebrows pulled together, he actually scowled, an expression light-years away from the calm, precise man she remembered.
What had they done to him? “It’s your name.” It’s what I’ve always called you. “Don’t you… don’t you remember?”
“Just Delgado. Or Agent Breaker.” He shrugged. “Makes no difference. Look, how soon can you be ready to move? I’ve got to get you out of here.”
Rowan’s heart gave one wounded, incredible leap before back into her chest with a plop, like a stone tossed into a pond. She’d been so sure he would return—maybe wounded, maybe bloody but relatively unbowed. She had also assumed that he would want to pick up where they’d left off.
But that presented another problem, didn’t it?
I hate you! she’d screamed at him in the training room, after he’d pushed her too far. I wish I’d never seen you!
It had only been frustration and agonized grief speaking. But what if he’d thought she meant it?
Of course, if it wasn’t for me the Society would still have Headquarters.
Sigma was after me, and they killed everyone they could find at Headquarters because Justin brought me in.
He’s had time to think this over and remember what a jerk I was.
Guilt flashed through her, bloomed into hideous certainty.
And I didn’t go after him. I left him to suffer.
“I can be ready in fifteen, the moment Cath gets out of the bathroom,” she answered tonelessly, sliding her legs off the bed, rocking to her feet—and swaying, her knees weak.
Blood loss will do that, even if you are the Super-Healing Freak.
She scooped the gun off the nightstand, checked it habitually, and winced, testing her left leg. The cut leg of her jeans flopped. She tasted bile, feeling crusted denim against her skin.
“Henderson’s going to be happy to see you,” she tossed over her shoulder, hobbling toward the dresser. She recognized her duffel bag sitting next to Cath’s, let out a sigh of relief. Fresh clothes sounded heavenly right about now.
“Rowan.” Justin’s voice was harsh. “They hooked me on Zed again.”
She nodded, her lips compressing, as unzipped her bag.
Oh, thank you, God. Clean clothes. “I know. Don’t worry, I’ve got detox down to a fine art.
We’ll have you fixed up in no time.” The fake cheerfulness in her voice hurt.
It was the same tone she’d heard other nurses use at the mental hospital.
She had always hated the teeth-gritting falsity of trying to jolly the patients along for their own good.
“Rowan—”
The bathroom door opened; Cath banged out in a puff of steam.
“Christ,” she said cheerfully, “you’d think a place in the desert would have more hot water.”
Great. A cold shower. Thanks. Rowan made her escape to the bathroom’s sanctuary, thankful that at least the younger woman had left her a few towels.
She tried not to wonder why tears welled up, tracing down her cheeks the moment she closed the door.