Part 10 (1/2)

Rowan nodded her thanks, downed the ibuprofen, and drank off the water. She was vaguely surprised she didn't have more of a hangover, considering the amount she'd put away.

Yos.h.i.+ refilled the water gla.s.s from the pitcher. He pulled down the hem of his blue linen s.h.i.+rt. ”So,” he said finally, pouring himself a cup of coffee, with soymilk, no sugar-Rowan shuddered at the thought-and putting the soymilk carton back in 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, with Justin back 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 best-seller to me. Wonder if I should start thinking about the movie rights? Rowan Price, martyr to the Psionic Rights movement.

”I hope so,” she murmured. And considering that he didn't want me to go to Vegas in the first place, Henderson should be pretty d.a.m.n pleased.

Yos.h.i.+ studied her. His dark eyes were 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 over her skin. It felt so naked to be under the protective s.h.i.+eld. 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 with them.

”You can't have expected him to return unscathed from the darkness,” Yos.h.i.+ pointed out. He leaned back against the kitchen counter, c.o.c.king his sleek dark head. The new almost-punk haircut looked good on him. He was barefoot as usual, his sandals left properly placed outside the kitchen, ready for him to step into if necessary. You could always tell when Cath was around by the smell of strawberry incense, cigarettes, and hairspray, and Yos.h.i.+ when you tripped over shoes on the floor. 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 fortune-cookie wisdom. It's ever so helpful.

Rowan sighed and took a sip of coffee. It 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?” Yos.h.i.+ c.o.c.ked his head, listening. A faintly surprised expression crossed his face. ”I think perhaps we'd best wake everyone,” he continued, with no discernible emotion. ”I have a rather remarkable feeling of uneasiness.”

Rowan closed her eyes, feeling around in that nonphysical manner that seemed the most reliable way of scouting out danger. ”I don't feel any Sigs,” she said.

”Perhaps it isn't them we should be worried about.” Yos.h.i.+ set his coffee cup 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 coffee-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 his palm back over his short dark hair, as if he'd forgotten it was shorter now and he was trying to strip it back with his fingers.

Rowan's heart leapt into her mouth. ”Good morning,” she said quietly. ”Yos.h.i.+ said to wake everyone up.

There's coffee, if you want it.” Her eyes slid down his shoulder-he wasn't wearing his coat-and to the inner surface of his left elbow, exposed by the short sleeve of his blue T-s.h.i.+rt, the same one he'd beenwearing since Vegas.

There, scored into his skin, were track marks. They were ugly, raised and red, and Rowan sucked in a breath. She reached out, her coffee cup almost burning her left hand, and trailed her fingers down his bicep, avoiding touching the nasty hypo-marks. She'd seen enough of them by now on psions caught by Sigma.

The flesh at the hollow of his elbow was bruised as well as scored, the sign of rough handling. Had he been strapped down? There was a bracelet of raw, red flesh around his wrist she hadn't noticed before.

From restraints, probably. Cold fingers trailed down her spine, and the skin on her upper arms p.r.i.c.kled with gooseflesh.

”My G.o.d,” she whispered. ”What did they do to you?”

He shrugged, an easy fluid movement. ”Nothing I couldn't handle.” His voice was low, too-early-morning gravel. ”Slapped me around a little, got me on some Zed. Seen it before.” But his arm was hard and tense under her fingertips. Was he shaking? Or was it some high voltage of rage going through him?

I left him there. Guilt rose acid in her throat.

Rowan flattened her hand against the rough track marks. She had to step closer to him to do so, and she was suddenly aware that she'd spent the entire night sleeping next to him. It hadn't been planned-she barely remembered collapsing on the mattress and listening to others talking, the bursts of laughter, feeling the world whirl under her as the alcohol disorientation released her tension.

”I can help with this,” she managed around the lump in her throat. ”You must be ... G.o.d, I'm sorry. I should have done something last night, instead of-”

His fingers closed around her wrist. The contact was just as electric as the heat of his abused skin under her palm. Gently, very gently, he pulled her hand away from his arm. She knew how strong he was, guessed he was trying not to hurt her. The touch did something strange, filled her head with heat and robbed her legs of strength.

Keeping my distance is going to be a little harder than I thought, she admitted wryly to herself.

”A little later,” he said, his fingers still around her wrist. ”When we've found out what Yos.h.i.+'s nervous about, and when you've had some breakfast. You look a little pale.”

I'm not pale, she wanted to say. My hair's a mess, I haven't worn makeup in what seems like years, and I'm thin and nervous because people with guns keep chasing me. Nothing that fleeing the country won't cure.

”I'm fine,” she said, a little more curtly than she wanted to. ”It's been hard, we've all missed you.”

”Did you miss me?” He sounded like he wasn't even interested. She had managed to tear her eyes away from the damage done to his arm by the simple expedient of looking at the plain white painted wall.

A brief struggle-she pulled fruitlessly against his hold on her, his fingers clamped just enough to keep her from breaking his grip. Another brief struggle with caution, which she lost just as badly.

”Of course I missed you.” Heat rose up to her cheeks. It felt like she was standing over a hot burner.

”Justin, I'm so sorry-I mean, Delgado-””You can call me what you like.” Did he sound, for the first time, amused? ”I like the way you say it.

Anyway, you'd better wake them up. I'm going to get clean and find some coffee.” His fingers loosened and he slowly let go of her wrist.

I am such a miserable coward, Rowan thought. I can't even look at him. ”Fine.” Her voice wouldn't work above a whisper.

He edged past her, moving a little closer than absolutely necessary, crowding her toward the wall. Coffee slopped against the sides of Rowan's mug, and she finally looked up.

He was staring at her again, with that oddly present look making his eyes dark and deep instead of flat.

”I missed you too.” His whisper was different from hers, less squeak and more harsh depth. ”I didn't even know what I was forgetting, and I missed you.”

Rowan's heart banged against her ribs. Her cheeks felt as if she was having one mother of a hot flash.

And I'm only thirty-one, nowhere near menopause. Dammit, Rowan, keep your mind on business!

But it was very hard to remain businesslike while Justin leaned down a little and inhaled as if smelling her hair, still wet from the shower. He used to do that a lot. What am I doing? What's he doing? I thought he didn't want anything to do with me!

”Try to stay out of trouble while I'm getting my coffee.” He was gone around the corner before she could protest. Rowan blinked. Her knees felt watery. Would the old Justin have done that? Or was it just his sense of humor, sarcastic and difficult at the best of times?

The thought of the track marks made her stomach flip uneasily. I did that. I may not have held him down and pressed the hypo b.u.t.ton, but if it wasn't for me Headquarters would never have been broken and he wouldn't have had to suffer. Maybe he's angry and just trying to work through it on his own.

In the living room, Henderson still sat with his back propped against the wall. But she thought she heard a smothered chuckle, and she would have bet he was awake. Embarra.s.sment flooded her, and she took a deep breath and a scalding gulp of coffee, promptly burning her mouth.

Get a grip on yourself, Rowan, she told herself firmly.

”All right, I can hear you giggling,” she said, hoping her voice didn't quiver. ”Get up, General. Yos.h.i.+'s got one of his feelings again.”

Chapter Eighteen.