Part 1 (1/2)

HUNTER, HEALER.

By Lilith Saintcrow.

Chapter One.

Amor animi arbitrio sumitur, non ponitur.

-Syrus.

Kick. Another kick. Knee. Solid contact. Move in. Move in, get going, do it faster, faster, precise, put your weight behind it, sweetheart! Do it. Punch. Ouch, don't flex your wrist, throw an elbow, keep going, st.i.tch in side. Move. Move. MOVE!

Rowan Price, Society operative and psion, stood shaking and sweating, her head hanging. Her hair fell on both sides of her face, curtaining her off from the outside world. The punching bag swayed, its chain creaking. Her hands burned. The CD player set on the chair by the door gave out a throbbing ba.s.s beat.

She threw another punch, unwinding all the way from the hip, then moved in. Her fists almost seemed to blur. Good solid strikes thudding into the heavy bag, hands numb, arms on fire, shoulders jolting with pain.

He'd be proud.

”Ro?” Cath called over the music.

Rowan dropped her head even further, hunched her shoulders, and drove another punch into the bag.

Another. Another. Low and dirty, the way Justin had taught her.

Don't. Don't think about it.

Another flurry of punches. Elbows smacking the bag as if it had personally offended her.

”Jump-off in thirty,” Cath finally called. ”Henderson needs you in fifteen.”

Rowan turned away from the bag and met Cath's eyes. Her cheeks were wet, her shoulders dotted with beads of sweat. The sports bra was d.a.m.n near soaked through, and the waistband of her shorts chafed a thin line into her back and belly.

”Ro?” Catherine, her hair cut short in an inky black pixie instead of a punked-out blue Mohawk, reached down and turned the CD player off. The silence was instant and shocking. Cath was plump-cheeked and pretty, or would have been if not for the sheer amount of metal on her face. Nose rings, earrings marching up the curve of each ear, pierced lip, and pierced eyebrow. Rowan didn't want to know about any of the other piercings. And of course, she wore a shoulder holster, the b.u.t.t of a Glock snug under her left arm. Cath also usually wore a boot knife and a stiletto up her sleeve. For a Society operative, that was d.a.m.n close to lightly armed.

Especially considering current events.

Rowan's ribs heaved with deep controlled breaths. A thin trickle of sweat slid chill and tickling down her back. She swiped a few damp tendrils of hair back from her forehead. ”I'll be there. Thanks, Cath.” It was an effort to be polite, to keep her voice toneless.

”You're being a real b.i.t.c.h lately,” Cath informed her tightly, crossing her arms as if in self-defense.

Sometimes she really did appear very young, despite her sh.e.l.l of p.r.i.c.kly confidence.Pot calling the kettle black, anyone? Rowan sighed, blew the tension out between pursed lips.

”Sorry.” I don't sound sorry at all. ”Really, Cath. I am.”

The short, muscled girl shrugged, the chain at her belt jingling. Her violet eyes turned cool. ”You're worrying about him again, aren't you?”

Well, you get the grand prize for stating the obvious. But guilt p.r.i.c.ked at her. Cath didn't deserve her ire. ”Shouldn't I? It's been three months.” Rowan stripped her gloves off, tossed them down on the CD player. ”He's trapped somewhere, Cath. Sigma's got him.”

”He'll come back for you.” The girl sounded certain. ”I mean, he said he would, didn't he?”

Don't remind me, Rowan thought, and set her jaw. ”I'm sorry,” she repeated. ”I'd better get cleaned up if Henderson wants me. Thanks for telling me.”

”There, that's the Ro I know.” Cath grinned. The change was startling, a flash of how she would look without all the metal. ”I'll meet you for jump-off. Cool?”

I'm not cool at all, Cath. I'm about two steps away from very, very uncool. ”Chilly cool.”

The girl bounced out of the small room. Rowan looked down at the futon folded in the corner. No books and no plants, because they had to move every few weeks. Nothing but her kitbag and some clothes, and the never-ending tension. And Sigma always yapping at their heels.

Rowan sighed, shutting her eyes. Her hands hurt inside the padded gloves, her shoulders twinged, her legs and lungs burned both from the side kicks she'd been practicing and her morning bout on the treadmill. The place where Justin should be inside her head was empty and aching, and her mind kept circling it like a tongue poking at a toothache. A phantom limb, phantom pain. If he was able to come back, he would have by now.

She tossed the gloves over on the futon and worked the ponytail holder free of her wet, clinging hair. I'd better get cleaned up, Henderson wants me. Probably to try and talk me out of it. She headed for the bathroom, rubbing under her sweat-soaked hair and grimacing. She should have dyed it. The ash-blond mane was too distinctive by far. Even Cath had gotten rid of her trademark Mohawk, but Rowan couldn't bring herself to dye her hair.

That would be like admitting Justin was really gone. Like admitting she was on her own. As if I'm some idiot of a fainting maiden who keeps waiting for her man to come back. He cometh not, she said wearily, as she looked from her tower window.

Her mood was getting worse and worse; she was even irritating herself. She kept breathing, deep down into her stomach, trying for calm.

The shower warmed up quickly, and she ducked under the water and started scrubbing. She only had a few minutes before the General wanted her. No time to luxuriate in the hot water.

Ten minutes later, she pulled the white cotton tank top down and zipped up her jeans, tossing her wet hair back over her shoulder. She'd braid it in the comm room. She attached her shoulder holster, checked her Glock, and shrugged on her hip-length leather coat. The knife went in her boot, and she scooped up her kitbag, the canvas messenger bag that held an operative's toys and tricks, settling it so the strap ran diagonally across her body. She turned the CD player off and paused, looking around the bare white room.

If Justin was here, he'd stop by the door and smile at me, ask if I was ready. She s.h.i.+vered,gooseflesh rising on her skin. Maybe Cath's right. Or maybe he's dead. Maybe they killed him and I'm going to waste my life on a wild goose chase.

But it just didn't feel right. She would know if he was dead. Wouldn't she? Sigma hadn't killed him. They needed to use him against the Society. He was alive, and if he was alive he would come back to her.

He'd promised.

And of course I believe him, don't I?

Rowan swore, threw one last punch at the heavy bag, and left as it creaked back and forth on its hook sunk into a stud in the ceiling. This house was nice, and they'd been able to stay here for a little while. But soon enough Sigma would close in with uncanny accuracy, and they'd be on the run again. It was as if the Sigma psions had suddenly gotten better...

...or as if someone was helping them.

She didn't want to think about that, either.

Henderson pushed his wire-rimmed gla.s.ses up, his sharp nose wrinkling slightly. ”Morning, Rowan.” he said. ”You ready?” The patch of white hair at his temple had grown in the last three months, but his steel-colored eyes were still bright and interested, and he moved with the same fluid precision as always.

She understood why they called him ”the General.” His air of command and cool confidence was almost archetypical in its depth.

”Ready as I'll ever be,” she replied, glancing down at the table and collating the maps with a swift glance.

He was going over the layouts of the building again, each exit, the city in a few blocks in either direction, and routes out of the metropolis. She knew he probably had everything memorized, but Henderson's innate precision wouldn't take ”already memorized” for an answer. Not when it had to be perfect, and an operative's life was on the line.

Her life, today. She might have cause to thank him for being a.n.a.l-retentive before sundown.