Shadow Touch (30 page)

“You should not have let yourself be seen.”

“I couldn’t help myself.” His smile widened. “Elena is a wonderful temptation. She makes a man want to shine.”

Rik made a strangled sound low in his throat. Elena wished he would get back on the train. Down the line she heard the engine rumble to life. The station platform had almost cleared of the disembarked passengers; the few remaining scrambled to board. Elena heard some woman yell from an open window. Attendant Gogunov, shouting at Artur.

“You’d better go,” Charles said to the men. “You all wouldn’t want to miss your train.”

Elena glimpsed a golden glow from the corner of her eyes; Amiri’s hands, rippling light into spotted fur. Claws sprouted through his nails. Charles saw, too.

“Oh, meow,” he said.

Amiri attacked. He was fast—faster than anyone Elena had ever seen in her life—a cheetah moving as a man, all wiry, lean strength running through his muscles like sunlight. And yet, despite his speed, he got in only one good blow. Amiri’s hands raked a trail of bloody lines across Charles’s chest. Charles ducked the next strike, lashing out with an underhand strike into Amiri’s side. The shape-shifter grunted, but did not stop.

“Run!” he shouted at them. “Get back on the train!”

No one listened. Rik launched himself off the steps. Charles clipped him hard in the face, sending him down to the ground. Artur moved—and got slammed in the gut for his efforts.

Charles Darling turned back to face Amiri. Elena darted forward, slapping her hand against his neck. She shot her power into his body, punching through his barriers, searching for his heart. She did not find it. Instead she faced a worm.

He is mine
, Elena heard inside her head.
Just like you will be
.

No
. And then she was ripped away from Charles from his mind and his body—as Artur picked her up and threw her on the train. Attendant Gogunov still shouted. She sounded frantic. Rik was barely on his feet; Artur grabbed the back of his shirt and pants, also throwing him up the train steps. The Rossiya began to move. Amiri still fought Charles Darling, who now had steel glittering in his hand. Elena saw blood running down the shape-shifter’s face.

“Amiri!” Artur shouted. He threw himself at Charles Darling, who lashed out with one long arm. Elena heard clothing rip, flesh tear. Artur grabbed his belly, dropping down to one knee. Elena cried out, trying to jump from the train. Rik stopped her and she fought him. Fought…

Men in police uniforms began running from the station. The train picked up speed.

“Elena!” Charles shouted, holding up the knife. The blade was red.

Amiri took the opportunity to grab Artur. He slung the bigger man over his shoulder and ran—ran so fast Elena would have known he was not human even if she had never seen him shift his shape. Humans did not run themselves into blurs, into streaks of pumping muscle and swinging limbs. They did not race the wind.

At the last possible moment Amiri grabbed the handlebar on the edge of the train door and swung himself and Artur up the stairs into the Rossiya. Artur fell off the shape-shifter’s shoulder and collapsed on top of Elena. His face was too pale; cold sweat covered his forehead. His hands were bloody.

Amiri did not waste time. Light covered his hands, fur retreating into flesh. He slung one of Artur’s arms over his narrow shoulders and dragged him down the hall toward their cabin. Attendant Gogunov met them, babbling in Russian.

“Get me some towels,” Elena snapped at her. “Towels, water. Please.”

The old woman apparently understood some English after all. She ran to get what Elena needed. Amiri lay Artur down on the bed. He ripped open his shirt, buttons scattering. Elena elbowed him aside, crouching to lay her hands on Artur’s stomach. The injury was very bad. Charles Darling knew how to cut a man to kill. Artur did not speak. His eyes were closed.

Elena poured herself into his body, laying the groundwork for his healing, binding her strength into his. She was not kind. She was not gentle. She slammed his wound with power, her skin burning with a charge, burning so hot she felt the men back away from her. She had never used her gift in such a way; it had been always gentle, always coaxing—not this rape of another, raping to heal, overwhelming the body’s own natural abilities to force it faster, faster, faster. Yes, with Rik she had done something similar, but she’d had help then. Nor were his injuries as severe. Artur was dying. Again, dying.

I am sorry
, she heard inside his fading mind.

Shut up
, she said.
Save your strength
.

Elena.

No
. She refused to hear any more. She refused to waste his precious life on words, on meaningless words, when all that mattered was that he breathe and stop bleeding. Breathe and stop bleeding.

She gave herself up to him.

He looked up. Rictor sat beside him. His eyes glowed.

“What are you doing here?” Artur did not like seeing Rictor in his dreams. He would much prefer Elena’s presence.

“She’s busy now,” Rictor said. “Saving your life.”

Artur remembered: Charles Darling, the knife slicing deep into his gut, Elena inside of him, Elena healing him—

He stood up, afraid. Rictor said, “That’s right. You should be afraid. She’s killing herself for you.”

“So why are you here?” Artur asked him, angry. “Why are you not helping her?”

“Because the only thing I can give Elena is power, and she doesn’t need that. She’s got enough all on her own. What she really requires is for you wake the fuck up. She’s running so high she doesn’t know you’re out of the woods. You need to stop her, Artur.
You need to make her stop
.”

“If she stops touching me—”

“Amiri already pulled her off your body. This runs deeper than that.”

Artur tried to will himself back into consciousness. He fought against himself, scrabbling for some way out of the dream.

“You are keeping me here,” he accused Rictor.

“No,” the man argued. “You build your own prisons, Artur. This is just another symptom of that.”

“I do not understand.”

“You’re not waking up because a part of you knows what will happen if you do. She’s so deep inside you that this is the only place left where you can hide. You break these walls and she’ll see everything.
Everything
.”

“Rictor—”

“Fuck you, Artur. I know what you’re going to say, and it’s shit. You need to give as much of yourself to Elena as she’s giving to you. You need to stop holding back, or else you’ll never be able to handle what’s going to happen next.”

“I hold nothing back,” Artur protested.

“Then why won’t you let her see it all?” Rictor leaned forward. “You take and take and take. You take the memories of others, but you won’t share your own. What are you afraid of? What’s worth more to you your pride, or saving Elena?” He backed off, his body fading like mist, a fine shadow. “Fuck your fears, Artur. Jump, like she’s jumping.”

“I am not afraid,” Artur said, but Rictor was gone and his words sounded hollow. He was afraid. He had said as much to Elena. He was scared to death to show her everything of his life, terrified she would reject him for all he had done in the name of survival. Artur was not even sure she needed to see any of that; it certainly had not affected their coming together.

But if they remained close—longer than a day or a week, longer than a year—what then? What of being honest with the one he loved? And how did that have anything to do with keeping Elena alive?

Instead he heard Rictor’s voice once again saying,
What’s worth more to you
—
your pride, or saving Elena
?

“Elena,” he said, and for the first time in his life, he took that leap of faith. He said yes—yes to it all, to the truth, to letting her see all of his darkest secrets—and the dream shattered around him, the prison walls disappearing; the core of him, hidden and safe from Elena’s eyes, now exposed.

He woke up. His stomach felt tender, but he touched the spot where the wound had been and found nothing. His skin tingled. He looked, and found Elena curled up on her own bed, eyes open, staring blindly. Inside him—she was still working inside him. He could feel her presence.

“Artur,” Amiri said, but Artur held up his hand to silence him. As he had done before, Artur wrapped his spirit around Elena, holding her tight, this time soothing and whispering, trying to stave off the immense energy pouring from her.
lam well. You have done it; you can stop now
.

At first he did not know if she would respond, but he watched her eyes—saw the flicker of her lashes, the deeper stir of her chest—and the power ebbed to a trickle. He still held her spirit, though. It was difficult for him to let go. His fear of losing her was overwhelming, made him weak. Or strong. Both, perhaps. Like a man from a fairy tale: Artur thought no quest would be too large or too dangerous if it meant her safety.

“No,” she murmured from the other bed, finally closing her eyes. At first Artur thought she was disagreeing with him, but then he reached out with one long arm to touch her hand and felt the surge of memory pouring through her.
His
memories, filling her up. He had opened up everything, too fast. He saw—
the first night in the orphanage, lost without protection, without his family, sleeping in a cold corner smelling of piss and then waking to find his clothes being stolen, stolen, beaten for his pants and shirt
—or—
that first night on the street after running away, the nights that followed, desperate and hungry, being shown a wad of cash and hearing, “If you touch a man just so, it can be yours, yours
,” and—
oh, God, oh no
—

“No,” he gasped, but it was too late. He could not stop her from seeing—he had taken Rictor’s advice and broken the walls, left his prison to save her—but if this lost her, if she turned away from him…

He watched with her, reliving his life, and felt her shock, her fear, her horror, spinning her down into the nightmare; and just when Artur thought that he had done it again, that once more he had harmed the one he loved, he felt the stir of her compassion, and he was done. Done with the world, because all he needed was her, and she still wanted him.

I love you
, she said.
You never needed to hide all this from me
.

I did not know
, he said.

Now you do
, she replied, and her spirit retreated all the way back into her body.

Artur tried to sit up. Hands touched him, holding him down: Attendant Gogunov, her eyes large as river stones, round and soft with wonder. Amiri checked Elena, feeling her neck.

“Her heart is strong,” he said. “But we were worried. Even after your wound was healed, it seemed she would not stop.”

“I had to wake up,” Artur said quietly, still watching her. And he had, in more ways than one.

Attendant Gogunov picked up some towels from the end of the bed and pushed them at Artur. In Russian, she said, “You were dying.”

“Yes,” he said.

“She saved you. I saw it.”

“Yes.” He did not bother denying it. “Will you tell?”

She shook her head, marking herself with the sign of the cross. “It is a miracle. She performs miracles.”

“You have no idea,” Artur said, and lay back down to watch Elena sleep.

Elena slept for a very long time. During her sleep she was invaded by memories not her own, but even unconscious she realized she was seeing the past. Artur’s past. She let it flow through her, taking what good she could and letting the bad die where it should: in shadow, an insubstantial state of harmlessness. Artur, she knew, feared her reaction. And he had good reason to, but not because Elena saw anything worthy of rejection. Merely, it hurt to see him hurt. It hurt a great deal, because Artur’s life—while laced with good moments, even in the orphanage and on the streets, or with the mob—had been tragically difficult. If not for his strength, the inborn compassion and character cultivated before he turned twelve, Elena thought the man she loved might have turned into a gentler version of Charles Darling: out for blood, ruthless and powerful and cold.

When she finally opened her eyes, she did not see Artur. Rik sat on the bed across from her, staring out the window. His golden eyes spun light, his blue hair matching shades of the sky. He looked very young.

“Hey,” Elena croaked. Her throat hurt. “You have water over there?”

He did, and fetched it quickly, stumbling over himself. Elena drank clumsily, water dribbling down the side of her mouth into her pillow. She wiped it away, not caring how she looked.

“How do you feel?” Rik asked.

“Lousy. What happened? Where are the others?”

“You’ve been out for almost four days,” Rik said. Elena closed her eyes. Four days? How was that possible?

You gave too much. You almost gave away your life
. Not her voice, speaking inside her head. Artur. She did not know how it was possible, but she was grateful to hear him.

Are you better
? she asked him, shaky with relief. The door to their cabin opened and Artur entered, tall and strong, as healthy as any man had a right to be. It was a beautiful sight.

Rik left, silent. Artur sat down on the bed beside Elena.

“If you ever do that again…” he said, and there was no laughter, not a trace of humor in his voice.
If you ever do that again, Elena, I think you will just kill me instead of save me
.

“You’re not touching me,” Elena said. “Why can I hear your voice?”

“Something happened,” Artur said. “I think we are closer now. Again.”

Elena reached out for Artur, skimming across the link in her heart, and for the first time there was no barrier. It was like flying—right into his skin, into his soul. She felt his weariness, his lonely aching fear, and she said, “I’m not gone yet.”

“It was close,” Artur said. “Or maybe that is an exaggeration.”

“No,” Elena said, testing the way her body felt. “No, I think that’s right.”

She caught the flicker of a green memory and said, “Rictor.”

Artur hesitated, but it was no use. Not that Elena thought he would lie to her, but hedging the truth was impossible now; they were both open books. “He saved your life. He forced me to wake up so I could save you.”

“That was nice of him,” Elena said, sounding far more sarcastic than she intended. “I don’t suppose he gave any indication as to where he is, or why his great diversion didn’t work?”

“Of course not.”

Elena smiled, burying her face in the pillow. “Any other news? Serial killers on board the train? Evil psychics ready to control my mind?”

“No,” he said, and Elena felt the image of a cell phone tickle her, along with a deep voice saying,
Artie, you lucky fuck, what the hell happened
?

“Roland,” Artur answered for her. “My boss. I finally was able to reach him.”

Elena frowned. “This mind-reading thing is going to take some getting used to.” She noted the pained look that passed over his face, and added, “It’s only fair, you know. You’ve always been able to see what goes on in my mind.”

“So I’ve been reminded.” He did not sound happy.

“Hypocrite,” she said affectionately.

“Martyr,” he replied. He kissed her. Elena wondered what her breath tasted like. She knew it couldn’t be good. It wasn’t. She saw that in Artur’s head, much to her own personal horror. Artur kept kissing her, though.

I have tasted worse
, he said, laughing inside her mind. Elena pushed him away.

“How are the others?”

“We have been taking turns watching over you. The rest of the time we spend patrolling this particular section of the train. We have made several other stops since you fell asleep, but Charles was not at any of them. Not that we could see, anyway.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Elena said. “He wouldn’t give up so easily. Especially not if Beatrix is ordering him to find me.”

“Then we can only hope he got caught up somewhere or that the police in Khabarovsk were able to detain him.”

“Maybe shoot him?” she asked hopefully.

“Even better.”

Someone knocked on the door. Artur stood quickly, but it was only Attendant Gogunov. She bore a plate of fruit and bread, along with several bottles of water. Her eyes widened when she saw Elena awake, and it was quite odd, seeing reverence where before there had only been contempt.

She thinks you are a saint from God
, Artur told her.
She saw you heal me
.

Elena felt a moment of consternation, but as the woman crouched before her, pale and shaking, she realized she had nothing to fear. Attendant Gogunov was not going to tell anyone, and if she did, it would not be to relate the story of a monster, but only of a woman who had helped another.

She said something in Russian, and through Artur, Elena understood her words.

“I’m feeling better, thank you,” Elena said, and Artur translated.

“Good,” said the old woman in English, setting down the plate. “I have been worried about you.” She rubbed her hands on her thighs, clearly nervous. Clearly with a question in her.

Elena said, “What do you want to ask me?”

The old woman looked at her as though she thought Elena had read her mind instead of just her body language. That was how legends were created, she realized. Do just one crazy thing, and then everything else got blown up to magical proportions.

Well, you are a mind reader now
, Artur said, sounding amused.
Only it is just my mind
.

Trust me, yours is enough.

The old woman said, “I am sick. It is in my breasts.” She spoke in Russian, but through Artur, Elena understood every word.

“Sit down,” she said.

“Elena,” Artur warned, not bothering to hide the sharpness in his voice. Attendant Gogunov gave him a fearful look, but Elena reached out to touch her hand. The woman flinched, but did not pull away.