Chapter 17
Rowan tried to roll over, dislodging a softness, and bumped against something a little less soft, something her leg was thrown over.
It felt comforting and cuddly, even though she’d slept in her clothes again.
Her left leg wasn’t throbbing nearly so much, and the sense of peace enfolding her was so novel it shook her out of warm, fuzzy sleep entirely.
Did I sleep next to the wall? The theory was immediately proven as she tried to roll back and found her shoulder hitting cold hard verticality that was definitely the wall. Wherever she was, she was sandwiched very effectively.
She heard low, soft breathing, and the crackling electricity sliding over her skin felt so very familiar.
As she did every morning, she kept her eyes closed, counting to ten and imagining Justin was right next to her. Then, reluctantly, she opened them to find that she’d passed out on one of the the living room mattresses.
Her left leg was thrown over both of Justin’s. He lay on his back, deeply asleep.
Rowan blinked, propping herself on her elbow.
The room looked like any space after an enthusiastic party.
Cath and Zeke had disappeared early on—probably to a back bedroom to celebrate in their own way.
Henderson slept propped up by the fireplace, his hand curled protectively around a half-empty bottle of good Scotch.
Brew had cleared off the loveseat and was curled up with his back presented to the rest of the world, the polo shirt riding up to expose a slice of well-muscled back.
Yoshi sat by the front window, meditating, his awareness spreading in concentric rings.
He had an assault rifle in his lap, fingers resting on stock and barrel as the gun balanced across his knees.
Boomer was sprawled on the other mattress, breathing heavily and regularly but not quite snoring. She had a vague memory of him refilling her wine glass a few times, then persuading her to try something called “Yeager”—which burned foully on the way down, but only the first few times.
Justin was completely still, chest rising and falling so shallowly she wondered if he’d drank himself to sleep, avoiding Zed withdrawal.
The dark patches under his eyes had shrunk, but the harsh lines of his cheekbones still stood out.
He’d lost more weight than she’d thought, not an ounce of spare flesh on him anymore.
The vulnerable notch between his collarbones was exposed since his T-shirt was pulled down.
A sheathed knife in his left hand, lying across his chest.
As she watched, his eyelids fluttered in dreaming sleep.
The yellowing bruise over his left eye was almost gone.
He was still as warm as ever. His right arm squeezed between them, hand resting on her hip.
His forearm against her bare midriff where her tank top rode up, a patch of feverish skin pressed against hers.
The fans of his eyelashes, perfect charcoal, lay against his cheekbones and made him look strangely young.
She let out a soft, wondering sigh, watching as his eyelids stopped fluttering and he sank into non-REM sleep. It was true.
He was here.
It was rare for anyone suffering withdrawal to get even a little rest. So she stayed as still as she could, ignoring the persistent throbbing in her head and the equally loud insistence from her bladder. Justin’s chin tipped back, and she watched the pulse beat in his throat.
Stop. You’re just making it worse.
The aching in her chest wouldn’t go away. She’d done it—brought him home. So what if he’d changed his mind? She’d still accomplished what she promised.
She’d saved him, though she had been unable to save her father or Hilary.
Well, not precisely. It’s more like he saved himself and I just happened to be there. If you want to get technical, that’s what really happened.
She told that nasty little voice to take a hike just as her bladder declared fresh mutiny.
Don’t compound an already impossible situation by doing a cocker-spaniel on the mattress. It was going to take a bit of work to shimmy free of this one, especially since the soft warm thing draped over her was Justin’s coat.
Tears pricked at her eyes. She smelled leather and a healthy male, the indefinable mix of pheromones that shouted Justin.
She had to stop calling him that. From now on it was Delgado, Del if she felt particularly chummy, and she had to stop hoping. She would only embarrass herself, and after the last few months she didn’t need any more embarrassment.
Besides, she had another problem now that he was out of Sigma’s clutches. She’d promised herself she would make Sigma pay for her father’s death—and for Hilary’s. It was high time she made good on that particular oath.
Rowan made it to the end of the mattress and gave a sigh of relief as she picked her way cautiously toward where there had to be bathroom.
I hope this house has two, and a good water heater.
I want a decent shower for once. Traveling with Cath was like having a younger sister you couldn’t blackmail.
Rowan found her duffel stowed with the others. Some thoughtful soul—probably Brew—had cleared out the dirty clothes and done a load of laundry. She found a T-shirt and jeans, fresh underwear, her very last pair of clean socks, then carried the pile and her rig into the bathroom, locking the door.
If anyone else wants in, too bad.
Her head throbbed a little less once she’d used the toilet, as if poison had been leached from her system. Given what she’d done to her liver and kidneys last night, it probably wasn’t far from the truth.
Twenty luxurious minutes later, scrubbed and fresh, she stepped into the hall, carrying her dirty clothes. The smell of coffee trickled through the air; she took a deep breath, smiling.
She came around the corner into the kitchen to find Yoshi standing before the two coffeemakers.
Which brightened her mood considerably as she neatly stowed her dirty clothes.
Wordlessly, he handed her a cup of thick black coffee with two sugars, then set a plastic water glass and three aspirin on the counter.
Rowan nodded her thanks, downed the pills, and drank off the water. She was vaguely surprised she didn’t have more of a hangover, considering the amount she’d put away.
Yoshi refilled the water glass from the pitcher, tugged at the hem to settle his blue linen shirt.
“So,” he said finally, pouring himself a cup of coffee with soymilk, no sugar—Rowan shuddered at the thought—and returning the soymilk carton to the bare white fridge. “Cath said you had some trouble.”
Rowan shrugged. “We got out of there with only three-quarters of what I’d hoped. But if it hadn’t been for Jus—ah, Del, we wouldn’t have gotten out at all.”
“Ah.” He blew across the top of his coffee to cool it. “Henderson will be pleased.”
Yeah, you can all go back to normal and I can maybe have some time to plan my grand revenge on a secret government agency. Sounds like a bestseller to me. Wonder if I should start thinking about the movie rights? Rowan Price, martyr to the Psionic Rights movement.
“I hope so.” And considering that he didn’t want me to go to Vegas in the first place, Henderson should be pretty damn pleased.
Yoshi’s dark gaze was eloquently noncommittal. He was willing to talk if Rowan wanted to, equally willing to let it go if she didn’t. Even she couldn’t decide.
She far preferred Cath’s blithe unconcern. “He’s different,” she said finally, staring into her coffee. The house was absolutely silent, the feel of dampers crawling all over her.
It felt so naked to be under the protective shield. She’d always had trouble with them. Had to be taught how not to blow them down and send out invisible signals that would draw the enemy, but nothing had ever taught her to be comfortable under the sensation.
“You can’t have expected him to return unscathed from the darkness.
” Yoshi leaned against the kitchen counter, cocking his sleek dark head.
The new almost-punk haircut looked good on him.
He was barefoot as usual, sandals properly placed outside the kitchen, ready for him to step in if necessary.
You could always tell when Cath was around by the smell of strawberry incense, cigarettes, and hairspray, and Yoshi when you tripped over shoes.
Rowan wondered if she left her own marks on the houses they stayed in.
“The battle marks the warrior, as the warrior marks the battle,” he added.
Thank you for that. It’s ever so helpful.
Rowan sighed. The coffee was strong enough to eat away a silver spoon, very sweet, just the way she’d learned to like it in the past year. “I just… I thought…”
“Thought what?” Yoshi cocked his head, listening. A faintly surprised expression crossed his face. “I think perhaps we’d best wake everyone,” he continued. “I have a rather remarkable feeling of uneasiness.”
Rowan closed her eyes, feeling around in that nonphysical manner which seemed the most reliable way of scouting out danger. “I don’t feel any Sigs.”
“Perhaps it isn’t them we should be worried about.” Yoshi set his mug down with a precise click. “I’ll get Cath and Zeke. I think it best if you wake Del and the others.”
She knew better than to question him or waste precious time on arguing. Instead, she carried her own mug—no use wasting a good cuppa joe—around the corner and into the other hall that led past the front door to the living room.
Where, surprisingly, she saw Justin leaning against the wall, apparently studying the locked front door with great interest. He had his rig buckled on—less graceful than the ones the Society used but still familiar, a piece of Sigma gear.
He ran a palm over his short dark hair, as if he’d forgotten it was shorter now and he was trying to strip the flow back with his fingers.