Shadow Touch (17 page)

“I can’t stay,” Rictor said when the others were gone. “
L’araignée
found me once and she can do it again. Doesn’t mean she can recapture me, but if I travel with you, I might as well put a neon sign over your heads that says, ‘Shoot me.’”

“Where will you go?” Elena asked.

“I’ll play decoy,” Rictor said. “Follow the kind of path you might take. Which, of course, will be the opposite direction of your actual route.”

“Beatrix Weave is not a foolish woman,” Artur said. “Why might she think you would stay with us?”

Rictor smiled. “I tasted Graves’s thoughts before you shot her. She had just been in contact with
l’araignée
, who most certainly felt her spell decay. Graves told her I’m in love with Elena. Or at least, that’s what the doctor suggested before Amiri killed him. It was the only explanation any of them could understand that would explain my radical behavior.”

Elena stared. Artur carefully brushed up against her.

“Is it true?” Elena asked. He felt her think,
Impossible
.

“Nothing is impossible,” Rictor said. “But in this case, highly improbable.”

“Oh.” Artur shared her confusion, her
I don’t know whether to be insulted or relieved
.

“Neither.” Rictor touched her chin. “I owe you one, Elena Baxter. You, too, Artur Loginov. I owe you both a debt of life, and I am a man who repays.”

“So we will be seeing you again.” Artur was not happy about that.

Rictor smiled. He moved backward, spreading out his hands as though to embrace the wind. His eyes glowed.

“What are you?” Artur asked. “Another kind of shape-shifter?”

“No,” Rictor said. “I’m something older.”

And he vanished.

Despite his recent feelings that nothing in the world would ever,
ever
surprise him again, Artur was rather taken aback by Rictor’s abrupt disappearance.

Elena, apparently, was a little more so.

“Holy shit,” she said, swaying. Hands pressed over her mouth, she walked to the spot where Rictor had just stood and stared at the ground. “Oh, shit. Am I losing my mind?”

“No,” he said. “But if we don’t leave this place, you might just lose your life.”

“Drama queen,” she said, but without much heat. She looked dazed. Artur grabbed her hand and pulled her deeper into the woods. He found Rik and Amiri waiting for them beside a fallen tree.

“Where’s the turncoat?” Rik asked. He was still breathing hard. Living in a tank the size of a large aquarium apparently hadn’t given him much exercise.

“He’s leading the bad guys away from us.” Elena gave the shape-shifter a sharp look. Her composure seemed to be returning. Artur was glad, though a part of him hoped it was not due solely to her desire to defend Rictor.

And when did you become a petty, jealous man? Even with Tatyana you were not so bold.

But Tatyana was not Elena.

Artur led them east, keeping the glimmer of sunlight in his face. He hoped Rictor did his part, that the wild-goose chase he promised would keep Beatrix Weave and her people off their somewhat literal tails. Though, based on the power he had just seen, Artur felt rather confused as to why Rictor could not simply make a stand and fight for all their lives. Fight—and win.

Another mystery. Nothing ever is as it seems.

As the day wore on, they all began stumbling more, dragging their feet against the ground. Stomachs rumbled. Only Amiri retained his grace and power; he slid through the forest like a spotted ghost, silent and deadly. Artur wondered if the cheetah would be able to hunt for them, should the need arise. He hoped it did not.

Their strength was not the only thing that ebbed. The weather changed as well. Dark clouds pushed in, crowding out the taste of blue sky. Sunlight died. Artur heard thunder.

“Oh, no,” Elena said. She looked at her hands, and a big fat raindrop splattered on her palm. Another followed, and more… more…

The sky opened. The forest gave little protection against the wind and rain, which conspired to blind. It was sharp, biting into his unprotected face and body. Mixed with hail, perhaps. Either way, this was no time to be without proper clothing and shelter. Artur hugged Elena close against his side, trying to protect her. A fruitless gesture, but her arm snaked warm around his waist, holding him just as tight.

Fur brushed his legs. Amiri pushed past, quickly disappearing into the torrential gloom. Rik was a shadow on Artur’s left, hunched over, fighting to keep his footing.

Artur listened hard, but the pounding rain—its strike on leaves, ground, flesh—drowned out the rest of the world. Just water, just breath, the thrum of his heart. That was all he could hear. If they were being pursued, it was likely they would not have any warning until the last instant.

Speed
, he thought, quickening his pace. Elena struggled for a moment, but he continued to hold her close, and she managed to keep up. Not that he would leave her behind. If the moment came when she could no longer travel with him, he would carry her or stop. Make his final stand. He would not leave her behind, not for anything.

No one talked. It was difficult enough just walking, standing upright against the sheet of water and hail striking them. Artur glanced down at Elena. Her skin was white, the bruises on her neck and cheek purple, almost glowing. After this night she would probably have more injuries.

“I am sorry,” he murmured. Elena brushed water out of her face—a useless effort; she looked soaked through to the bone. She scowled, but he did not think it was meant for him.

“What are you sorry for?” she asked.

“All of this,” Artur said. “I do not know. Just that I am.”

“It’s not your fault,” she said.

He did not disagree with her even though he wanted to. If he spoke he would say something idiotic; like,
I wish I could protect you. I wish I could take you in my arms and cover you with my body so that the sharp wind might not ait yours. I wish I could take you from this place, Elena. I wish I could make you safe
.

In the distance, wolves howled.

“Is that what I think it is?” Elena asked.

“Yes,” he said, still listening. Elena stared into the trees. The wolves howled again, closer this time. Very close, if Artur could hear them so clearly over the storm.

“Where are we, Artur? Can’t you… I don’t know… touch one of these trees and find out?”

Artur shook his head. “There would be no point. Trees know nothing of geography, and I doubt anyone human has been through here recently. Searching for the echo of a person in this forest would be impossible. Walking will probably find us answers faster.”

“Right,” Rik said, drawing near. “We could be doing that for a very long time.”

“Don’t worry,” Elena said, pushing forward. “If it rains much longer, you can swim your way out of here.”

“Very funny,” he muttered.

The rain finally stopped, but they were still wet, and Elena began to shiver. Rik, despite his nudity, did not seem affected by the cold, and Artur wondered if his inhuman abilities contributed to his ability to cope with the falling temperature.

The sky darkened without a hint of stars, still hidden by low-lying clouds. Artur contemplated stopping for the night when Amiri appeared among them. The shape-shifter had been gone scouting for quite some time. Slowly, without the ease of his earlier transformations, he became a man. He looked haggard.

“There is a house up ahead,” he said. “I did not move close enough to examine it, but if it is empty…” He held out his hands, shrugging.

Food, shelter, rest. At least for a short time. Perhaps they could finally discover where in the world they had been taken.

They hurried, and minutes later peered into a small clearing. A small cabin rested at its center. There were no electrical lines. An old truck was parked nearby, but it looked as though it had not been used in quite some time.

“Is anyone there?” Elena asked.

“Wait,” Amiri said, golden light spinning in his eyes. It flowed downward, enveloping his body in a golden caress, until nothing was left but a cheetah. Artur found himself watching Elena instead. He studied her wonder-struck eyes, listened to her sudden intake of breath as she remembered to use her lungs again. The miracle had not gone dull for her.

Amiri slid through the underbrush, clinging to shadow. Within moments he reached the cabin. He disappeared out of sight; Artur waited, hopeful.

Amiri was gone for a long time, but when he finally reappeared he walked as a man and waved his arms in their direction. Everyone stumbled out of the underbrush. The hairs on the back of Artur’s neck tingled immediately; he hated exposure. No matter how careful they tried to be, there was always the chance of being found.

“I scented humans,” Amiri said, when they drew close, “but the trace is old. No one has been here in at least a week.”

“Which does not mean the owners will fail to return, but we should be safe for at least several hours.” Artur went to the front door and examined the lock. It was very old. Feeling a twinge of guilt, he stepped back and kicked. It took several tries, but he finally broke the lock. The sound of his foot connecting with the wood echoed loudly; he did not miss how everyone winced. He hoped no one else was close enough to hear.

Inside the air smelled musty. Artur fumbled against the wall. He felt Amiri slide past him like a warm ghost. “There are shutters,” Amiri whispered. “I believe they are thick enough to keep in any light, should there be searchers in the woods.”

Rik and Elena pushed into the cabin behind Artur and he quietly shut the door after them. Waiting in the darkness, Artur listened to Amiri prowl around the cabin’s small interior. Less than a minute later he heard something rattle and then hiss into bright flame. Matches.

“There are candles,” Amiri said, and then lit one. The light felt like a balm to Artur’s tired eyes.

The cabin had only one room. A large bed sat close up against the farthest wall, a narrow wardrobe beside it. In the opposite corner stood a small stove and some cabinets. Their feet made squelching sounds on the wood floor.

“Check the closet,” Artur told Elena. “See if you can find some dry clothes.”

Rik and Amiri were already in the cabinets, rummaging for food. Their hands emerged full with tinned meat and fruit, as well as several bottles of water.

“Hey,” Rik said, holding one up to Artur. “This is foreign.”

Artur took the bottle. Foreign to Rik, perhaps, but to Artur the writing was pure home. Cyrillic. Russian.

They were in Russia. Stunned, Artur spun on his heels, looking for more. There was a bookshelf by the front door, and Artur rummaged through its contents. He found old magazines, most of them national publications. Several, though, were distinctly nautical in content, and the mailing addresses were in Vladivostok, a large port city that rested on the edge of the Pacific.

“
Bozhe moy
,” Artur said.

“What was that?” Elena said, still rummaging through the wardrobe, pulling out clothes and tossing them on the bed.

“We are in Russia,” he told them, still trying to cope with his shock. “I believe we are close to the coast, the Pacific.”

Rik dropped a can. “Are you serious?”

“It is an educated guess,” Artur said, and there was no mistaking the hunger that swept through the young man’s face: a desperate longing mixed with heartbreak. It was horrible to gaze upon. Horrible, because one brief touch had shown Artur all that Rik had endured. Locked in a tank for three months, restrained and unable to move, experimented upon, tortured in attempts to force a shift. Rik was no older than eighteen. He had stayed strong for a very long time, but in recent weeks had succumbed to despair. No one was coming for him. He would die in that tank, sitting in his own waste. He would die.

“Rik. Amiri.” Elena’s voice was quiet. “You must both be cold. Check out these clothes.”

Artur doubted the cold affected them as it did Elena and himself, but the shape-shifters nonetheless grabbed up the pants and sweaters. Rik said, “This is stealing,” but Artur was too weary to care about morality.

Everyone changed. The men turned their backs while Elena stripped off her wet scrubs. Artur tried not to think about Elena’s body, the feel of it against him in her dream, or against his side in the forest. It was difficult. For every rustle of cloth he imagined skin, soft and warm and pale, and he wanted so badly to turn and stare like an adolescent. He could not believe himself. Since leaving Russia, he thought—foolishly now, it seemed that he had somehow trained himself out of wanting women, forced desire out of his body.

Those days were done. If he and Elena had been alone, he might have gathered enough courage to test their bond—with a touch; perhaps the brush of hands, lips. Simple and exquisite. But maybe it was better they were not alone; Artur suspected that one taste of Elena would end his life as he knew it, transform him into something new and unfamiliar. He did not know if he was ready for that.

When Artur did finally turn, Elena was swaddled in a heavy gray sweater and a long green skirt that hung down to her ankles. She had traded her socks for sandals. The outfit was far too large on her; with her dark eyes and shorn hair she looked more waif than woman.