Shadow Touch (32 page)

Artur approached slowly, gloves off, hands extended at his sides. Two men in black leather stood before a wooden door, arms folded across their chests. Very menacing they were, although such postures would make it difficult to reach the guns presumably holstered in the shoulder rigs beneath their jackets. Nikolai, however, cared about appearances more than practicality. He had probably told those men to stand that way, uncaring that in a firefight they would likely be shot before they could touch their guns. Artur, on such matters, had never listened to Nikolai; common sense had always ruled the day.

He did not recognize the men, which was unsurprising. In this business, hired muscle was promoted quickly, or died just as fast. They smelled strongly of cheap cologne, which drowned out the scent of candle smoke. He heard the murmur of voices, the tread of heavy shoes. Not a good place for a shoot-out—not that such considerations had ever stopped any bullets before.

“I am here to see Nikolai,” Artur said. The men stared at him, silent and expressionless. Typical. Artur had done the same once upon a time. Such treatment was a good way to intimidate someone who did not really mean business.

Unfortunately for these men, Artur was quite serious about wanting to see their boss. He began to walk between them. They placed hands on his chest and Artur touched their shoulders—
just one more job and I can afford to pay for that dress Katya wants, that vacation to the Black Sea
—
and
—
fuck, I do not like the looks of this man; I think he is armed, I think he is dangerous
—and he looked into their eyes, one man to the other, and said, “If you love your Katya, you will find another way to pay for that dress, and to you, yes, I am a very dangerous man. Unless you want to discover just how dangerous, you will open this door right now.”

Their hands flew off his body. He saw the fear in their eyes and savored it as just one more moment of life. The man on his right knocked on the door. Artur heard a familiar voice from within. He did not wait for anyone to give permission. He brushed past the guards, opened the ornate wooden door, and entered the small prayer room.

Nikolai was alone, kneeling before a smaller version of the altar of the archangel. The air was dark, smoky much like the man himself, who had had spent far too many days in his youth on the fishing boats his father ran. He was tough like a leather strap, his eyes like pin-holes, and when he saw Artur he straightened slowly, bones cracking in his knees and back.

“So, you return.” His voice was low, rough from years of cigarettes. “I thought I would see you again, though much sooner. I expected you to come crawling back to me from the street. I am oddly pleased that did not happen.” He looked at the men behind Artur and said, “Search him.”

They took his gun and jacket, leaving him with nothing that might hold a weapon. Nikolai said, “You must have scared my men for them to let you in here armed. You must have scared them more than
I
scare them. How did you do that, Artur?”

“You always did praise my talent.”

“Yes, I did. Have you seen Tatyana lately?”

Artur barely managed to restrain himself. Nikolai sighed. “I must admit I feel some guilt over what I did to the poor girl. I check on her every now and then. From a distance, of course. Trust me, I have no more interest in hurting her. In case you are interested, she is still living with her parents in their lovely flat. Her new boyfriend is quite attentive. Not as exciting as you were, I am sure, but he does not mind that she is in a wheelchair. She’s put on some weight, but that’s to be expected. Our Russian women are always easy to hold. Keeping them for the long term, however, is another matter entirely.” He peered into Artur’s face. “And what of you? I looked, you know. I never discovered what happened, except that I was sure you were not dead. Men like you do not die.”

“I found other work,” Artur said coldly. As he looked at Nikolai, all he could hear was Tatyana screaming. “And now I am here on business. Your business. I know about your meeting tomorrow. The gathered syndicates. The promise made by Beatrix Weave.”

Nikolai’s smile was cold, mirthless. “My, you do get around. And still, you are the most unsubtle man I have ever met. Are you here for a cut of the action?”

“I am here to warn you,” Artur said. “No, do not get the wrong idea. I still hate you, but I hate the woman you are about to do business with even more. She will ruin you, Nikolai. She will take your mind and twist it.”

“All women do that. You remember my ex-wives, yes?” He shook his head. “This one is nothing. Just a poor paralyzed whore with money and power.”

“If she was nothing, you would not be going to see her. You would not be risking yourself in the presence of the other bosses. You would not be opening yourself to the possibility of ruin.”

“Ruin? What heavy words you use, Artur. Curious. Of all the men in the world I would expect to hear a warning from, you are at the bottom of the list.” Nikolai seated himself on a narrow altar bench. His finely tailored suit bunched uncomfortably around his heavy-set body. “If you must know, we have been hearing rumors of this woman’s organization for some time. It promises to rival our own, even as a collective. Most of us view this meeting as a means of studying the enemy.”

“She cannot be studied,” Artur said. “She must be killed first, and
then
studied, if you still like. That is the only safe way to handle Beatrix Weave.”

Nikolai leaned back against the wall, folding his hands over his round stomach. Candlelight softened his face until he looked almost grandfatherly. A patient man. A hushed man.

“What are your motivations in this?” Nikolai asked. “Why do you care what happens to the person who destroyed your life?”

“Because the others respect you. Because if you tell them not to go to the meeting, they will listen.”

“It is just a meeting, Artur. We are not marrying the woman.”

“You might as well. Can you imagine all the syndicates in Russia under one hand?
Her
hand? I can, Nikolai. It scares me.”

“Little boy lost,” Nikolai murmured. “We are grown men now. We cannot be controlled. We cannot be talked into giving up our power to one woman, no matter what she has promised us. Which is quite a lot, I must tell you.”

Artur shook his head. “This is useless. You do not believe me.”

“I believe this is important enough that you have risked your life to speak with me, but will I listen to you and not my own eyes and ears? Especially when you give me so little to go on? No, Artur. That… you ask too much.”

Artur did not know what else to say that would not endanger himself or his friends. He held out his hand. “I will go, then. Thank you for seeing me.”

Nikolai hesitated. “God only knows I owe you that much.”

An odd thing to hear out of Nikolai’s mouth, something he would
never
say. But it was too late: Nikolai touched Artur’s hand and Artur felt the man’s thoughts, slippery and dangerous, like a black worm, writhing—

He could not free himself. Nikolai’s grip felt like iron, implacable, and he heard a voice inside his head, whispering,
I knew you would return, Artur. I knew I would find you here
.

“Mr. Loginov.” Artur glanced over his shoulder. A familiar figure stood outlined in the open doorway: a walking skeleton, pale and tall. Ms. Graves. Nikolai’s bodyguards stared at both her and their boss with pitiful indecision. Clearly, they were just as shocked as Artur. Unfortunately, they were also expendable.

Graves was a fast draw. The silencer on her pistol puffed twice and both men collapsed, dead.

“Uncontrollable witnesses are such a pain,” she said, sauntering into the room. With her gun still pointed at Artur, she reached out and patted Nikolai on the head. “Good boy. What a fine pet you’ve made.”

Anger flashed on Nikolai’s face, but he retained his grip on Artur’s hand. He had no choice. Beneath the presence of the worm Artur saw a story: a private meeting, a great deal of extravagance, seduction, first with money, and then with the promise of taking pleasure in a fragile body that was utterly helpless. Beatrix Weave,
l’araignée
, had sprung her trap with that first kiss. Wrapped Nikolai Petrovona tight in her black cocoon, spinning a thread down into his brain. He was trapped now, like a zombie. Nikolai did not know what Beatrix Weave was, but he wanted her dead—called any man who felt the same his brother, his son, his friend.

Nikolai was the only reason the meeting between the syndicates was taking place. It was Nikolai, caught in the web, who had convinced the others that Beatrix could be trusted, that Beatrix had something to offer. The truth was that she had nothing. All she had promised—preying on dreams of avarice—was a lie. Beatrix would steal away the minds of the bosses just as she had stolen Nikolai, and turn them into nothing more than pets. She’d make them bay at the moon or wear diapers and play with rattlesnakes. She could do it. She would, for her amusement.

Artur pushed deeper into himself, searching for Elena. They were two sides of the same coin now; touching her was the same as thought, breathing. He ripped down the barrier.

Artur
, Elena said, and he felt her anger turn to fear as she sensed the darkness hovering on the very edge of Nikolai’s grip.
Artur what is going on
?

Beatrix Weave has found me. You need to tell the others. You need to prepare an alternative plan. The meeting
—he concentrated, searching—
the meeting is taking place at the Taganka Theatre tomorrow at eight P.M
. You must stop it.

We’ll stop it together. I’m coming for you.

No! Elena
—

I’m coming.

She cut him off. Complete, startling. He’d been unaware she knew how to do such things, unless she had somehow learned from his own mind, instinctively taken the skills and knowledge, much as he did with others. He wondered what else she might learn—and what he could learn from her.

“You may release him now,” Graves said to Nikolai. Artur did not know if Beatrix could hear her, or whether Graves was also allowed some control over the thread. Either way, Nikolai did as he was told. Sweat pouring down his face, shaking with rage, the Mafia boss retreated backward on the bench, clutching his hand. Artur did not feel terribly sorry for him.

“Well, now.” Graves looked Artur up and down. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes? I knew I would see you again, though really not quite this soon. I thought you had more brains than to get involved in something like this.”

“Intelligence,” Artur said. “Or have you forgotten?”

“No,” Graves said softly. “No, I wouldn’t forget that. What a pity, Mr. Loginov. Seeing you again makes me realize that killing you will be so unsatisfactory. And yet I do believe that it is what I will be forced to do before this night is through. You have almost outlived your usefulness. Truly, this time. No bluff.”

“I think I will believe that only when I finally eat the bullet.”

“Always the optimist. I like that about you. But see”—and here she leaned forward, smiling softly, so cruel—”Ms. Weave no longer cares about the secrets in your head. She’ll find her answers another way.”

“She dislikes failure,” Artur said. “So do you. That you have never been able to break me must burn, yes? Better to kill me than to live with that defeat—or suffer it again with another failed attempt at control.” He noticed Nikolai watching him, intense, and wondered if it was simply the man—or the woman, too, learning and judging.

“You must have learned English watching soap operas,” Graves said. “You’re always so melodramatic. Yes, she hates failure, Mr. Loginov. But she hates
you
even more.”

“And yet I still live.”

“Right. Don’t pat yourself on the back too much for that.” Graves snapped her fingers. Two large men appeared in the doorway of the prayer room; they looked at the woman for direction. “Take him home. Keep him from touching you, if at all possible.”

“More secrets?” Artur asked.

“No. You’re just dangerous.”

“Finally, a real compliment.”

“I thought you deserved one. Every man should have something nice done for him on his last night of life.”

“Now who is the optimist?”

Graves smiled. The men took him away, out of the church to a waiting car. One of them jabbed something sharp into his hand.

Darkness.

Elena thought she might eventually appreciate the company of Artur’s friends, but she did not know them. There was a history that she was not part of, and she did not yet feel comfortable mingling or asking questions. To be honest, the three men acted far too busy to be bothered. They were Very Important People with Very Important Jobs, and she… she was just the wannabe. A poor organic farmer from Wisconsin who could perform the occasional miracle.

Which made her lonely, in addition to being angry. That was not her way. She did not get lonely. She said as much to Amiri, as his strong, dark hands mixed together eggs and flour and green onion. Oil spit and crackled in a cast-iron pan.

“What is it John Donne says? ‘No man is an island, entire of itself?”

“I always thought that saying was crap.”

“Oh, Elena. Arguing with the great thinkers…”

“You know what I mean.”

“And I know what I used to tell my students. I would say, ‘No man is an island, but oh, if only.’”

Elena snorted, leaning against the cracked plastic tabletop. Its surface felt sticky beneath her elbows. Amiri poured the batter into the pan, and the air smelled good and hot with grease.

Then, suddenly, Artur was inside her head. She had wondered at his silence, at the absence of his warm presence, and to feel him again came as a shock.

But to hear his words, to hear that name… Oh, oh,
oh
!

“Elena,” Amiri said, as she began to leave the kitchen. He turned off the stove and ran after her, catching her arm just as she entered the living room.

“It’s Artur,” she said, and everyone stopped what they were doing to look at her. “Beatrix has him.”

“What?” Dean shot to his feet. He had been analyzing maps with Koni, while Rik hung back, just watching.

Blue appeared from the alcove. “How do you know this?”

“We have a… a link. I can hear his thoughts.”

“Can you hear him now? Where is he?”

Elena tried to reach for him, but slammed up hard against a barrier. Like being brain-dead—or maybe just a normal human. She could not reach him, and the horrible part was, she had put the block there herself. She had not been able to bear his protests, his denials. Of course she was coming for him. Of course she would find some way to save him.

And, of course, knowing where he was would be a great big help with that.

“I can’t reach him. I… I don’t know.” Elena fought hard to remember. She had felt the impression of darkness—a dark heart, a dark room, with a hand on her hand, and beyond that the statue of a man with wings. She felt bits and pieces of Artur’s memory seep slowly into her consciousness. It was so frustrating, not being able to recall more. “He was in a church, I think. A… a
tower
. The name of it starts with an M.”

“I think I know where you’re talking about,” Koni said, unbuttoning his pants. “I roosted there once.”

“He said to tell you that the meeting between the syndicates is being held tomorrow at eight P.M. in the Tanganka Theatre.”

Dean blew out his breath. “All right, Koni and I will head over to that church. Blue, can you handle the re-con on the theater?”

“I’ll help,” Rik said. Amiri said nothing. He watched Elena. She knew what he wanted to do. She felt the same.

“I’m going with you,” she said to Dean. He was a short man, not much taller than herself, but at that moment he had the authority in the room, and that made him big. She hated that. Dean shook his head.

“Artur will kill me if anything happens to you.”

“Wuss,” she said.

“Hey.”

“Don’t make me hurt you.”

He gave her a look that clearly said he did not think she could hurt a fly. Which was true, but Dean wasn’t a fly.

“We don’t have time for this.” Blue walked between them both, his gaze hard. He tried to stare Elena down, but he was no Charles Darling. Elena didn’t bat an eyelash. Maybe that hard-nosed stubbornness gave her some credibility—or maybe Blue was smarter than Dean, and knew better than to underestimate her. Either way, he backed off, but with the same message as his friends. “You can’t go, Elena. Dean’s right. Besides, if you get hurt, we lose our only potential link to Artur. You need to stay here with me and keep trying to contact him. That’s the best use of your energy.”

Spoken like a politician. Elena did not bother disagreeing with him. She would bet the farm—quite literally—that there was nothing she could say to change this man’s mind. All he saw was an unknown, a woman who had yet to prove herself. Fine. She knew how to play games, too. She was becoming a master at them.

Poor little innocent farm girl, my ass.

“Okay,” she said, and glanced at Amiri. He did not trust her acquiescence—she could see it in his eyes—but he respected her enough not to challenge her motives.

“Perhaps I may go with you,” he said to Dean. “I know Artur’s scent.”

“Yeah.” Dean shrugged on a shoulder rig, arming himself. Over that he put on a lightweight jacket. Koni moved into the bedroom. Elena glimpsed his naked backside as he pushed down his jeans. Light enveloped his body. Elena heard the flapping of wings.

“You need anything?” Dean asked Amiri.

The shape-shifter shook his head and held up one hand. Light shimmered, muscles ripping into fur, the fine lines of claws. And then, quickly, he was all human again.

“God, that still skeeves me.” Dean ran out the door. Amiri gave Elena one last lingering look—of reassurance, maybe, or just compassion—and followed him. Elena turned around. Blue was already tucked away in the alcove, pulling up computer files on the theater. Rik joined him, moving right behind his shoulder to peer at the screen. A little dolphin pup, eager to please.

Don’t be unkind. You understand how he feels.

And she did—she knew what it was like to be adrift, alone, desperate to find some place, some kind of responsibility. A definition of her identity and person-hood. But she was past that now. Elena knew who she was. She knew what she had to do.

She walked to the window, reaching deep within her heart for Artur. Again she hit that barrier. Again and again, she was denied. Elena stared out at the street below her, soaking in the masterful architecture of the inner city, the fine curves and lines of buildings made to last. Stonework that would remain in this world much longer than her.

Elena listened to Blue and Rik. They were wholly absorbed in a discussion of surveillance and electronics. She remembered what Rik had said about his hearing, that it was not anything special outside the water. She thought about Blue, and had to gamble that he faced similar restrictions. Only human, up to a point.

She was quiet. She was lucky. They underestimated her. Elena left the apartment and they never noticed.

She walked down the sidewalk and started moving, just to get away, far away in case they came looking. She limbered up her mind, chanting Artur’s name in her head like a prayer, unable to understand why she could not reach him, why it was so easy sometimes, and then when it mattered: nothing. She tried to watch where she was going, following the ebb and flow of the crowd, but it did not matter that she became hopelessly lost. Elena was free, away, and coming for him. Somehow coming for him. Standing still felt too much like letting him die. Letting him lose his mind to the worm, to pain.

Elena had the first inkling of trouble when a small body ran hard into her legs. A cherubic face peered up at her. Elena glanced around. She had walked herself into a quiet side street, walked herself right past a group of boys idling against a wall. They looked rough, hungry. Elena remembered feeling that kind of hungry desperation, except it was not hers—it was Artur’s—and looking at these boys was like seeing what he once had been. It hurt. It hurt badly.

They began moving when they saw her looking at them. Kicked off the wall in slow motion, like a pack, turning circles in the street with noises in their throats. They said words to her in Russian. Elena did not run. She wanted to—knew it made sense, like all the books said to do—but she could not bring herself to flee from children, no matter how lethal they might be.

The oldest could not have been more than fifteen. He was gaunt, sharp like the knife that flashed in his hands. Dirty skin, dirty hair. Elena did not take her gaze from his face. He said something and looked at her bag, the one Mikhail had given her. Elena slowly pulled it over her head and tossed it to him. She had some money tucked in her pockets, but her papers were in there, however useful they really were. She hated to give them up, but only because she was sentimental.

The boy did not look inside the bag. He kept staring at her face. His gaze dropped to her breasts. Elena did not like the way his expression changed, that hunger changing to a desperate curiosity.

This is how it begins
, she thought.
Things you never think will happen
. She wondered at this boy, living so wild on the street, maybe hungry for some love, a taste of what others had, wondering if it was good, if it was something that would make him a man, wondering if yes, this would add a little sweetness to an otherwise nightmarish life. Never knowing or imagining that to do such a thing would start yet another nightmare.

He steadied the knife and looked into her eyes. The other boys, the older ones, were smiling. The young ones just looked confused. Elena got ready to fight.

And then something small and wicked sprouted from her young mugger’s upper arm, and the boy howled, dropping her bag. Blood stained his clothes, spreading down, down, a fast drip that hit the ground in a rainfall of red spatter. Everyone turned to see who had thrown the knife.

Brown hair, green eyes. That familiar cold smile, like chewing ice. Charles held up another knife, twirling it through his fingers in a complicated dance that was both hypnotic and terrifying. The boys, despite their numbers, knew when to cut their losses. They ran. Elena did not.

She stooped to pick up her bag and slung it over her head. Charles Darling ambled close. The knife was gone, though Elena did not know where he kept it hidden. She wondered if it was the same one that had nearly killed Artur. She felt very calm.

“I enjoy how we keep meeting like this,” he said. “I would have caught up with you earlier, while you were still on the train, but I was unavoidably detained.”

“You’re good at finding me,” she said. “One might think you’ve got a sixth sense.”

“One might.” He smiled. “And very good on healing Mr. Loginov. That was a lethal cut I gave him. A bad way to die.”

“You know where he is?”

“Oh, yes.
L’araignée
has him. I’m supposed to bring you to her.”

“I could always refuse to heal her.”

“That is why she has Mr. Loginov.” He rubbed his chin; his tongue darted out, moistening his lips. “I feel a little jealous.”

“You already belong to her.”

“No,” he said. “I feel jealous because you belong to
him
, and vice versa. This time, Elena, she did not take Mr. Loginov to possess him. She took him to possess you. She knows what he means to you.”

Elena wanted to close her eyes and die. “Don’t you ever get tired of it? Being owned by her?”

“There are benefits.” He held out his hand. “Come with me, Elena. You know you can trust me not to kill you. Yet.”

“But if you get the chance?”

“Oh,” he said. “What a lovely dream.”

Elena took his hand. It was the most difficult thing she had ever done in her life. His skin was cold, like death. Charles Darling looked down at their connection of flesh. Palms rubbed.

“I have never met a woman who can kill me,” he whispered. “I like that about you, Elena. It makes me hot.”

She almost stopped his heart, but then he looked at her—really stared—and she could tell he meant it. Those were not words calculated to make her afraid. He was sincere.

Which meant she was almost as fucked-up as he was.

“Take me to Artur,” she said. “Do it now.”

He did.

They took a cab and drove past beauty: St. Basil’s Cathedral, a chaos of color and shape; bold statues of dead men, defiant and immortal in memory; high spiral towers, wooden needles striking the gray sky; even the wide boulevards—classic in line and design. Elena could appreciate none of it. All she could think of was Artur, and with him, the strange circumstances of fate that had seen her kidnapped and then psychically linked to one man, even as she held hands with a serial killer. She thought snowballs must be freezing in hell. Which might just explain the frigidity of Charles Darling’s skin.

“I’ve read that severe trauma at a young age creates people like me.” He looked at her, a smile haunting his lips. “I prefer to think I was born this way, ready-made.”

“I suppose it only makes sense,” Elena said. “If I could be born with the power to heal, then the world is certainly capable of producing the opposite.”