Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Delgado woke all at once, snapping painfully into full consciousness. The chair squeaked as he bolted upright, the knifehilt in his hand.
The long, trailing psychic scream came again, loaded with despair and pain. Someone in the infirmary was having another nightmare.
Rowan was already out of bed, and by the look on her face, still half asleep.
She hit the door at a run, bare feet shushing over hardwood; he was right behind her—so close a long strand of her hair brushed his cheek before he matched his pace to hers.
She ran down the hall and took a sharp right.
He had time to admire the clean economy of her stride before she took another right and bolted into the infirmary, slowing only slightly.
The young boy sitting on the bed was blank-eyed and white-faced, his mouth open. He inhaled to scream again; Rowan skidded to a stop right next to him. Two other patients were beginning to sit up and reach for their bedside tables, and another two lay sedated and sleeping soundly.
Rowan grabbed the boy’s hand. His inhale stopped, and for one long breathless second Delgado waited, ready to move if the boy exploded into motion.
The kid was only eleven, but he was wiry and terror would give him strength. Last time he’d had a nightmare like this he’d almost clocked Rowan a good one; would have, if Del hadn’t grabbed his arm.
Then the child exhaled, his eyelids drooping. “Rowan?” he slurred.
“It’s me.” There was no trace of sleep or impatience in her voice. There never was, when she was working with the wounded. “Just relax, Bobby. I’m here.”
“It’s so dark,” the boy whimpered, his face crumpling. Delgado scanned the infirmary. He was glad his room was so close to this ward, used for the most critical cases. It was the only place Rowan actually seemed content.
“It’s Rowan,” a thin woman with a bandaged head whispered to the other conscious patient, a stocky man with incredible sideburns who was hooked up to an IV. “Go back to sleep.”
“Hard to sleep with all the ruckus,” the man growled back. “Hey, Del.”
“How’s it going, Boomer?” Delgado answered. Boom had been shot in the gut by a Sigma team in Las Vegas.
“Shitty,” Boomer replied, prompt and decisive.
“Watch your language.” Eleanor, sharply. “There’re kids here.”
“It’s all right,” Rowan said softly, almost crooning. “I’m here, Bobby. Tell me about it. What happened?”
Del supposed she’d had a lot of practice dealing with terror at the mental hospital.
“They’ve heard worse,” Boomer said.
“Let her work, Boomer,” Eleanor chided him.
“It’s so d-dark,” Bobby said. “There’s a spider hanging from a helicopter. The helicopter looks funny. Then they’re inside the house, and it’s dark.”
The tension in Delgado’s shoulders eased. He scanned the infirmary one more time and decided nobody was lurking between the beds. He was dragging up a chair for Rowan when the night nurse Emily arrived, holding a mug of coffee. She saw them and stopped, her mouth rounding into a soft O of surprise.
“We heard him,” Del told her. “It’s all right. Everyone’s okay.” Where the hell were you, dilettante? You’re always off doing something else when you should be paying attention on your shift. Wish we had more medical personnel so we could put you on the kitchen roster. You deserve it.
“I just went for coffee,” she whispered. “Everyone was sleeping.”
“It’s okay.” Coffee my ass. Were you playing grabsies with that lanky guy from Eric’s team again? You should have been at your post.
“Christ, I’d need coffee too,” Boomer growled. Eleanor shushed him again. The Sigs had captured her team and almost washed her with Zed before another team could get to her. Following a short, vicious firefight, Eleanor had been the only one of her squad left alive.
“Bobby,” Rowan said, “I’d like to help you, the way I did before. May I?”
The little boy, shivering, gazed up at her with open adoration.
Delgado knew the feeling. You wouldn’t know that he saw his family murdered right in front of him, barely escaped the Sigs, got caught again, and then got scooped up by us during transport.
It’s a wonder he doesn’t have more nightmares.
A cool finger touched his nape. Rowan didn’t take the chair he dragged up to the bedside, but she might later.
“Oh, sure.” Bobby perked up a little, a tentative gaptooth smile showing. “Like you did when I got here?”
“Just like that, kiddo. Feels like it was years ago, doesn’t it?
” Rowan eased herself down so she was sitting on the bed, still holding Bobby’s hand.
The boy curled down against his pillows, nestling into the covers.
The IV taped to the back of his other hand would dispense another shot of antibiotic in twenty minutes or so, dealing with the infection from his weeks of wandering through city streets.
His broken arm was still sealed in a cast. “I’ll tell you a story, too, if you’re awake afterward. ”
“Okay.” Bobby grinned at her. He didn’t even look at Delgado.
Del watched Rowan’s profile as she smoothed the boy’s fingers, then held his small hand in both of hers. Kids and adults alike, anyone in pain welcomed her attention. “Let’s see.” A slight smile touched her lips. “Did you like the horse?”
“The red one? Oh, yeah. That was neat.”
“Neat, huh? How about we turn it into a rocket ship this time?”
Delgado’s skin began to prickle faintly. Rowan’s eyes seemed luminous in the dim light. Eleanor and Boomer watched, and Emily took a sip of her coffee, her own eyes round as plates.
Bobby’s eyes closed. Delgado’s entire body tightened. He knew what it felt like—all the pain and the guilt washed away, leaving calmness behind.
And there was another thing about Rowan’s talent that nobody had expected: she could heal.
Bobby’s broken arm was mending much faster than it should, and so was Boomer’s bullet wound.
Delgado himself had felt the effects of hanging around Rowan while she learned to use her talent—his stitches had come out early, and the knife wound in his left arm had healed completely in a matter of days.
Jilssen called it a sort of focused bioenergetic field and went around muttering about “cell mutations” and “frequencies.”
Ten minutes later, Bobby was breathing deeply. Rowan looked over her shoulder, her gaze met Delgado’s. He felt a sharp spike of pride that she would look to him for reassurance, and wondered what would happen when she didn’t need to.
“He’ll be all right,” she said quietly. “Just a bad dream.”
“I’m not surprised,” Delgado replied, just as quietly. “You okay?”
“I don’t even remember getting out of bed.” She moved, gently freeing her fingers and easing off the bed. Delgado stepped close and took her elbow, steadying her. “Maybe I should just sleep in here.”
“If you want,” he said automatically. I wouldn’t bet on it, angel. You need your privacy. You’ve got your nightmares, too.
“You’re a godsend, Ro,” Emily piped up, her cooling coffee still held in one hand. “I’m so sorry.”
“Oh, patients always call just when you get a cup of coffee or head to the restroom.” Rowan tucked her hair back behind her ear, a habitual motion. “I know that. How’s he doing, Emily?”
“Better than me,” Boomer snorted. “Can I go back to sleep?”
“You’re a crotchety old man.” Eleanor settled back in her bed, closing her eyes. “Shut up. Good work, Rowan. The boy’s much easier now. He even laughed yesterday.”
“Old witch,” Boomer said, just softly enough.
“Shut up,” Eleanor returned.
Emily was trying in vain not to grin.
Rowan smiled, shaking her head. “I suppose I should inquire about my other patients. Including a rather crotchety old man.”
“Just fine,” Boomer muttered. “Can’t a man get any sleep around here?”
Rowan cast an amused glance at Delgado. His mouth went dry.
She brushed her tangled hair back and crossed to Boomer’s bedside.
When she reached down and took his wrist to check his pulse, the stocky man peeked out from under his eyelashes at her.
Then his face eased, and in a few moments, he was asleep too.
“There,” Rowan said softly. “Don’t dream. Just sleep until morning.”
“Good riddance,” Eleanor said. When Rowan took a step toward her, she added, “No, none for me, Miss Price. I’m fine. Thanks anyway.”
Rowan nodded, then looked to Delgado again, tucking her pale hair back again. Delgado shook his head and offered his hand. She took it, the electric jolt of her skin against his making him glad the lighting was so dim. How could a woman in a torn sweatshirt and shorts make his pulse race?
“Thank you, Rowan,” Emily said seriously. “I don’t know how we got along without you.”
“I’m just glad to be useful,” Rowan replied, and Delgado ushered her through the infirmary’s swinging doors, his arm carefully over her shoulder.
Out in the hall she sighed, her shoulders sagging. “God. Does it ever end?”
I wish it could. “Not really. They want psionics, and they’ll do what they have to do to get them.”
“But he’s just a little boy.” Rowan didn’t shake away from his arm. If he was careful and casual, helping her through the halls when she was too tired to notice, she let him stay near her.
“A little boy who can start fires just by staring at things,” Delgado reminded her. “They can use that.”
Rowan shuddered. He stroked her shoulder with his thumb, a soothing touch.
The first few weeks of her stay at Society Headquarters had been touch-and-go.
She hadn’t eaten much and had almost invariably refused to leave Delgado’s room.
She had slept eighteen hours out of twenty-four, and then she’d spent the rest of the time staring blankly at the ceiling, no matter how Delgado cajoled or pleaded with her.
It had been Henderson who had found the solution. On one of his frequent visits, he had mentioned Boomer’s nightmares and sighed heavily. He needs help, but nobody knows what to do for him. And he had left soon after that, winking at a mystified Delgado.