Shadow Touch (28 page)

“Close your eyes,” she said. “Rest a little. I’ll keep the bad dreams away.”

“Elena,” he said, but she covered his mouth with her fingers. His lips moved against them, soft: a kiss to build a dream on.

“For me,” she whispered. “Let me do this for you, Artur.”

“I cannot,” he said, but his eyes were already drifting shut. She could see now what she had missed before, that she had mistaken his quiet coolness, his stoicism as something natural. And maybe it was, but right now it seemed like nothing more than a soul-deep weariness years old—rocking down upon his shoulders like the nightmares he feared. Artur, whom she’d thought feared nothing.

“I fear losing you,” he said, and then: “That makes you uncomfortable to hear.”

“Because I know you mean it. And no one except my grandfather has ever felt that way about me.”

“I suspect you’re wrong about that.”

“No. People can’t fear losing what they don’t know. And I’ve… kept to myself. You know why.”

Artur sighed. “It is difficult to have secrets. They are so much like breathing—like heartbeats, because everyone has them. Inescapable, yes? Some are less harmful than others, but for each individual it is the same: he or she believes their secrets will destroy them. For some that is true. Usually, though, the fear is an illusion. One more waste of time.”

“Not for us.”

“No. Nor can we hide from what we do.”

Elena buried her head under Artur’s chin. “Rictor gave me the statistics. There may be a lot of us out there, keeping our kinds of secrets.”

“But there is one less now.” Artur kissed her. “And your secrets are safe with me.”

“And yours?” she asked. “Are you ever going to trust me to see the things you’re scared of?”

He hesitated. “I have not always been a good man. Even now I am not good, but I was worse before. I am afraid of how you will feel toward me when you see the things I have done.”

“You sound resigned to rejection.”

“How can I not? It is always a possibility.”

“Then you don’t know me as well as you think.” Elena closed her eyes. “Get some sleep, Artur.”

She felt his silence weigh upon her, but she refused to look at him. She was not angry—she was not even hurt—but she did feel stubborn. Stubborn to prove him wrong. Determined to face down her own prejudices and see this man for who he was. She knew the gentle side. She needed to see the violence, too. Not to judge, but to understand.

Artur’s arms tightened around her body, but he remained silent. After a time his breathing deepened. His body relaxed. Elena, comforted by his warmth, joined him in sleep.

“The phone Mikhail gave me does not work. No service. I will have to wait until we reach a town before I can try again.”

“Were you trying to call your friends?”

“Yes. They need to know that the agency has been compromised. They can also help us when we reach Moscow.”

“Must be nice having friends like that. How did all of you meet?”

Artur placed the cell phone on the small table beneath the window and crawled back into bed with her. Elena ran her hands over his smooth, hard chest. Touching him felt so good.

“Dirk and Steele is currently run by two individuals, Roland Dirk and Yancy Steele. They are distantly related to the original founders, who are also powerful psychics. Over the years both of them have cultivated a vast network of contacts around the world, people who are paid to tell them when they hear rumors of anything… unusual. Individuals who can do remarkable things. It is not easy finding people this way—luck, more than anything—but it does pay off. And sometimes the precogs in the organization, the men and women who catch glimpses of the future, also see those we are meant to find. As they did with me.”

“They had a vision?”

“Nancy Dirk, the founder of the agency, knew where to find me and how. It was not easy. Tatyana was in the hospital and I was living on the streets again. Roland Dirk found me sleeping in an alley in the middle of a Moscow winter. He did not know quite what to make of me.”

“I bet you didn’t take much convincing.”

“You would be surprised. I thought it was a trick. Roland, however, is almost as stubborn as you. He refused to give up. It took a week of discussion, with me still living in that alley, before he convinced me of his honesty. That, and I finally became too desperate and hungry to care. Lucky, yes? He brought me to America, found me a home, paid me well—and all to do the kind of work I never dreamed was a possibility.”

Images and sensations flashed in her head as he told his story: a biting cold, the smell of cardboard and trash, piss; a pair of sharp brown eyes, peering down, and a voice saying, “
Fuck
.” Then, warmth, a hospital room with a familiar face looking up at him with hatred, disgust, and oh, that breaking heart, that grief, that
You are such a freak, Artur
. A freak, a monster, running away to another country, another world, and… and…

Safety, fulfillment. Such a shock. Years spent thinking it was all a mistake, an illusion, that he would be betrayed by Roland and the others. Until one day trust became natural. He knew there was no illusion. It was all truth.

“Yes,” he said. “As incredible as it may seem, there is no ulterior motive. The agency is what it is.”

“And you really like them? The people there?”

“I do.”

“Then yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I’ll go back with you. I’ll join that
agency
of yours, if they’ll have me.” It was another start, and better than nothing.

His arms tightened around her. “You still have doubts. Your old home.”

“My farm. My grandfather’s farm.
His
father’s farm. It’s in my blood, Artur. I love that patch of earth. It’s my paradise.”

“We will find a way,” he promised. “We will find a way for you to have both.”

“I don’t know how.”

“We have come this far. I think we can manage some more miracles. You know all about that, do you not?”

Elena smiled, sad. Artur kissed her. It was more awkward than before. She could not relax enough to enjoy his fingers on her shoulders, his lips at her throat. Artur stopped kissing her.

“I am sorry,” he said. “You are not comfortable.”

“No, I’m not,” she said. “But that’s not your fault.”

She was afraid he would disagree, that he would beat his chest and bemoan his lack of manly skills—either that or bemoan hers—but instead he nodded and turned her around, pulled her tight against his chest so that she spooned between his legs, cocooned in warmth and the scent of skin and smoke and iron. Artur had very strong arms, a hard chest. Long legs that wrapped around her legs, folding her up like some small, dainty thing. Which was nice, because Elena did not think of herself as especially small or dainty. He tucked his chin in the crook of her neck, rasping her with stubble, rubbing her with warmth that spread, delicious and sweet. Her heart ached.

“I like this,” she whispered, unable to speak louder. Her voice felt weak. She was still uncomfortable, but now for an entirely different reason.

Artur said nothing. His arms, which crisscrossed her stomach, tightened. His fingers softly outlined the shape of her ribs. Elena’s breathing quickened.

“You like this better,” he murmured. “Slow.”

“Slow,” she breathed, leaning back against him, tilting her head so that he had better access to her neck. He pressed his lips behind her jaw. His fingers stroked upward to the sides of her breasts. Elena shivered, pushing against him. She heard, through their thin walls, a bed creak, the hard click of dice. Bottles clinking. Amiri and Rik, still awake. Farther away doors rattled, and she heard the hard plod of thick boots that could only belong to Attendant Gogunov. The walls were thin.

Artur’s fingers grazed the tips of her breasts. Elena sighed, forgetting all about the other inhabitants of the train. What did she have to be ashamed of? It was not possible that she was the only woman enjoying a man’s caress on this long trip. Let everyone listen. Let them watch, if they wanted. She was through being afraid, of living a life ruled by caution and fear and concealment. All that mattered was Artur, that space in her heart where he lived—the space in his heart where she wanted to be.

Elena arched upward, twining her fingers around him as he touched her clothed body. Exquisite torture. He traced a path around her breasts, down her stomach to the hard band of her jeans. A breathless pause, and then he turned them so she lay on top of his body, her back still against his chest, and his hands traveled up her clothed thighs, resting inside the heat between her legs. Elena sucked in her breath, and then, fast, he unbuckled her, pushing down, down, until her lower body lay exposed in the cool air, the jeans nothing but a pile on the floor.

Her legs were dry and coarse from mistreatment. Artur did not seem to mind. His touch was reverent. His touch was slow and sure and gentle. His touch made Elena writhe in silent despair as his fingers deepened and curled into her body: stroking, stroking, stroking.

She gasped, unable to swallow all her cries, and held one of his hands as it traveled up her body underneath her sweater. He touched her breasts.

“I have condoms,” he said. “They were in the bag Mikhail gave me.”

“Okay,” she breathed, and it was okay. It was more than okay. She wanted him badly.

They both sat up and undressed. It was surreal, knowing what was going to happen. Ready for it, and scared, too. It had been many years, and not very memorable, but this… this was going to be different. She
knew
this man on a profound level, and to be with him, to have him inside her—

“Slow,” he said, and she realized that he was nervous, too. Elena planted a quick kiss on his cheek. He looked at her, startled, and then smiled. Cupped her face in one hand. Elena could only imagine what he saw when he looked at her, and he said, “Home.”

Which was about all the foreplay she needed. Artur pressed her down on the bed, touching her, kissing her body, and when she was more than ready, he put on the condom and lay between her thighs, shaking with the effort as he nudged himself inside her body, inch by inch. It had been a long time for both of them; Elena thought she had the better part of the bargain. Her control was close to fraying, tearing, ripping away, and that was all right—okay—because Artur wanted it that way, was trying so hard to be the one with control so that she could make love to him without any.

Elena grabbed his backside and pulled him tight against her, thrusting upward. They both cried out sharp, hard—as hard as the struggle to keep him deep within her as she ground against his hips.

“I’m tired of slow,” she told him through gritted teeth. “Artur—”

He cut her off with a kiss, thrusting hard, again and again. Less than a minute later his body jerked, shuddering against her.

“Oh,” he gasped, even as he continued to move, unable to stop. “Oh, I am sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Elena said breathlessly, meaning it. Even that short time had been better than anything else she had ever had.

“No,” he said, holding her tight. “No, give me some time.”

And she did, and when he was ready which was sooner than Elena thought possible they began again. Slow. Learning each other. They somehow ended up on the floor, with blankets and pillows spread beneath them, experimenting with different positions, trying
oh, that’s nice
—and—
bozhe moy, kakoy ty vkusniy
and
oh, God, oh
—and—
voz’nti v rote
, Elena—and she did, and he liked it, and—wow—and—yes—and—
stan’ na koleni
. She braced herself against the cot as Artur grabbed her hips and thrust hard from behind.

Braced on one knee with a foot planted hard on the ground, he moved against her, swiveling his hips. Elena cried out, biting down on her pillow to keep from screaming. Artur grunted, louder, louder, reaching under her body to touch her breast—reaching with his other hand for her head, burying his hand in her hair, pushing and pulling until it felt like he was trying to climb into her body, right through her skin, and this time he lasted; this time she felt herself rising, rising with that subtle ache that made her buck and twist and writhe, fighting for the culmination of terrible pleasure, fighting. She thought she would die from the pleasure as it broke her body, cresting again and again because Artur did not stop, did not slow his frantic pace in the slightest, and Elena felt his sweat drip on her back as he leaned even closer, riding her hard like an animal until at the very last he buried himself right up to the hilt, releasing it all up to the last seed, the last drop, jerking against her with enough strength to make her come one more time.

Artur gathered Elena against his stomach, holding her tight in the aftershocks of their pleasure. Sound slowly trickled past the roaring in her ears: the train, once again coming to life. He said, “Better?” and all Elena could do was nod weakly, gasping for breath.

They collapsed together on the floor. Elena could not move. If a gun had been pointed at her head, all she would have managed was a “meep,” and then a snore. Making love to Artur was like running the race of a lifetime, wonderfully exhausting.

“
Ya tebya lyublyu
, Elena,” Artur whispered. “I am sorry. I forgot all my English.”

“The Russian is a turn-on,” she said. “What did you just say to me?”

“I love you,” he said, and then, before she could respond, he added, “I think I broke my kneecap.” Elena began laughing.

Because they were being pursued by very powerful and highly psychotic individuals, Elena found it difficult to enjoy what could have been—by any standards—the journey of a lifetime on the Trans-Siberian railroad. In just one night they crossed vast swathes of taiga, steppe, and desert, mountains rising like knives to cut the sky, bleeding clouds across the high horizon. It was beautiful and sharp—much like the man who stood behind her, naked, his strong arms wrapped her body as they watched the world speed by.

“You love your country,” she said.

“Sometimes,” he agreed. “But I love America more. I think perhaps my memories there are better.”

“You had a good childhood,” she said. “At least, what little of it I’ve seen looked good. And yes, the white ducks were from you.”

“I remember now. My mother and grandmother had them on their aprons. Those were good times.”

“Have you ever thought about trying to find them again?”

Artur sighed. “My grandmother is dead. I lost her when I was ten. As far as my mother… I do not know what I would say to her. I do not even know if she is still alive. And if she is, what if she had another family? What if she abandoned me, only to go out and have more children? Children she raised herself? I am not sure I could take that, knowing she gave others what she could not give to me.”

Elena did not have much of an answer to that. She thought about her own mother, and how it would feel to discover she had moved on, made a new family. Twenty years was a long time.

“Yes,” Artur whispered. “It is.”

They got dressed and went to meet Amiri and Rik for a breakfast of hard bread and strong coffee. Not one of them said a word to Artur and Elena about the previous night’s activities. Elena was certain they knew. Amiri’s hearing was supposedly as good as that of the animal he transformed into, but he was a gentleman through and through, and gave no sly glance, no smile. Elena appreciated that. It had been interesting enough waking up beside Artur. Wonderful and weird.

Elena opened the window above their table. The wind smelled clean and sharp. Its scent reminded her of Rictor’s prison when she’d cut the circle: full of life, eternal in its beauty. She wondered where he was, although her curiosity at
what
he was burned far brighter.

“What do you think?” she asked the men, after telling them what was on her mind.

“I do not know Rictor as well as both of you, but after what little I have seen and heard, I do not believe he is human.” Amiri sipped his coffee. The bread on his plate remained untouched.