Shadow Touch

by Marjorie M. Liu

  “So very,” he agreed. “But then, the same could be said of everyone inside this facility—except for you four. Which is a very big problem. Once l’araignée realizes you are trying to escape, she can force everyone in this building to kamikaze you. Most of them don’t even realize she’s fucked their heads. They still think they own themselves. They have no idea.”

  “How is this a problem?” Rik swung the bar, his expression cool. He looked tired, but dangerous. Pent-up. Explosive. A young man ready for trouble. “They are just scientists. They have no training as fighters.”

  “That’s just it. They are noncombatants.”

  “No,” Rik said, hard. “They are just bodies.”

  Artur moved. Shoved his weapon hard up under the shape-shifter’s chin and leaned close. Softly he said, “We have risked our lives for you. An act of faith, because I believed you worthy of that risk.” His voice dropped even lower, into a hush. “Do not make me regret that act.”

  “You do not understand what they did to me,” Rik whispered. “What they are.”

  Artur touched the shape-shifter’s shoulder; tension rippled through them both. “I understand. Right now, I simply do not care. Kill if you must protect yourself, but do not seek death out for pleasure.”

  Rik’s expression darkened. Elena said, “Rictor, how are we going to get out of here?”

  “Move fast,” he said, also watching the shape-shifter. “L’araignée is arrogant. She doesn’t believe anyone can escape her.”

  Artur stepped away from Rik. “Charles Darling told me the only way to escape is if they let you go.”

  Rictor smiled, humorless. “Charles Darling has a thread in his head. Wearing a leash will do that to a man.”

  “And what is to keep her from turning you against us?”

  “The nature of her hold on me. I have to be within hearing range for her commands to take effect.” He glanced at Elena. “Look meek, will you?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “And you.” He pointed at Rik. “Get over there, behind the door.”

  Rik did not argue, though Elena suspected it was a struggle. Amiri joined him, crouching low to the ground. Artur stood directly behind Elena. The metal bar in his hands pressed against her back.

  “Using me as a shield?” she murmured. He touched her neck, a brief grazing of fingertips against flesh, and she shivered.

  “Camouflage,” he said. “Besides, I do not want you standing here alone when they enter the room.”

  Elena’s palm felt sweaty around the scalpel; she pressed it tight against her thigh. “I’ll be fine.”

  “I know,” he said, gentle. “Humor me.”

  Rictor looked at all of them, his gaze resting finally on Elena. “Remember,” he said, and it seemed he was speaking only to her, “I can act only if Elena is threatened.”

  Small comfort. Rictor opened the door.

  There was no mad rush, as Elena expected. She had underestimated what Rictor’s presence meant to these people. They both feared and trusted him, searching his hard face for some tentative assurance that everything was okay.

  Elena almost felt sorry for them. Almost, but not quite.

  Several men in white nurse uniforms pushed their way to the front of the gathered scientists. Elena recognized them from her first encounter with the doctor. She wondered how long it had taken to get rid of the vomit smell.

  “Ms. Weave sent us down for the girl,” said the tallest, thick around the neck and shoulders. He spoke with a Russian accent. He glanced past Rictor at Elena and Artur. A deep furrow formed in his forehead. “What is he doing here?”

  Rictor stepped aside to let the man pass; his companions followed close behind. The scientists tried to enter, but he held them back with nothing more than a hard look and an outstretched arm.

  It happened fast. The moment the nurses entered the room, Amiri lunged. Quiet, deadly, a golden blur; Elena heard a tearing sound and then Artur yanked her backward, lifting her off the ground and setting her down a safe distance from the fight. Screaming—the man beneath Amiri screamed—and Elena watched as the cheetah clamped down around the man’s leg, ripping—ripping—and then Rik was there, leaping over Amiri at the other two men, swinging the metal bar with a fury. Bone cracked; the second nurse fell. Artur spun back into the fight; the last nurse standing saw him come. He shouted something in Russian, but Artur did not respond. His face was hard, his movement inexorable. Two sharp blows and the man collapsed.

  Elena did not have time to react to the violence. Artur stepped back, grabbed her hand, and pulled her to the door. Rictor was already there, plowing through the scientists, who scattered back with their mouths hanging open, expressions of utter shock and disbelief in their eyes. And then Amiri unlocked his jaws from the bleeding leg, stepped off the writhing body, and faced the door.

  Screams. Chaos. The scientists ran.

  “This won’t last!” Rictor shouted at the others. “Come on!”

  They took off down the hall, Rictor at the lead. They were racing hard, feet and paws pounding the concrete floor, and at any moment Elena expected to come face-to-face with zombies, an army of the living, the mind-controlled dead, which was ridiculous—but after seeing animals turn into men, utterly believable. Anything was possible in this place. Terrifying.

  A siren blasted the air. Amiri’s ears flattened.

  “Step one,” Rictor said, running straight through a three-way intersection of halls.

  “We’re going in the wrong direction,” Artur said. “We haven’t freed you yet.”

  “No time.” Rictor glanced over his shoulder at Elena.

  “All for one and one for all,” she said, and looked at Artur. “Where is it?”

  “Back and to the left.”

  “No,” Rictor said, but Elena was already turning with Artur. Rik stared, confused. She heard him swear, and then follow. Amiri stayed by their sides, alert.

  The door looked like any other. A keypad jutted from the wall.

  “Forget this,” Rictor hissed. “It’s a waste of time. There’s no way in there without the code. L’araignée is the only one who knows it, and I can’t read her mind.”

  Artur raised one dark brow. He touched the keypad. His gaze went distant. His fingers danced, punching numbers. A green light blinked. They all heard a click. Rictor stared.

  “I am very talented,” Artur said, a cold smile haunting his lips. “You may thank me now.”

  Elena opened the door. It was heavy. She looked inside and all she saw was blackness. No floor, no walls, just a sheet of dark that seemed to swallow light.

  “That’s unnatural,” she said.

  “Yes,” Rictor said. Sweat rolled down his face. He appeared unwell. Artur looked at the shape-shifters.

  “Stand guard, please.”

  Rik began to argue, but Amiri slapped a hard paw on his leg. He looked at the cheetah, startled.

  Artur grabbed Rictor’s arm and hauled him into the room. They disappeared behind the veil—swallowed, hidden behind a tongue of darkness. Taking a deep breath, Elena followed.

  The moment she stepped into the room, the wail of the siren stopped. Pure silence hit her, and it was not enough to call it quiet—even her raging heartbeat felt dulled, sluggish. The ground beneath her soggy-socked feet yielded softly, like sand.

  The darkness was not absolute. A ring of white light cut it, a halo set in black that streamed upward, pure and still. Elena’s heart faltered. She had never seen anything so terrible or beautiful. Never an eerier sight.

  “Cut the sand,” Rictor said, desperate. Elena could not see him or Artur. “Cut the light, the lines, drive them flat. Hurry. Hurry.”

  Silence, and then Artur said, “I cannot. My foot bounces off the light.”

  More silence. Rictor said, “That’s it, then. Damn it. I should have known she—”

  Elena stopped listening. She took two fast steps and drove her foot through the circle of light. Nothing bounced. She cut the circle w
ith just one step, freeing the emptiness gathered inside that large, dark space. She felt movement against her face, like the wind, but richer—deeper—filled with the scent of spring rain, new sweetgrass, the bud of a first bloom. Like youth, bottled into one glorious breath, the exhalation of wonder. The light went out.

  “Oh, my God,” she breathed. “Oh, God. What was that?”

  She heard weeping and turned. She could see; the room was still dark, but light streamed in from the open doorway, hitting sand, the outline of bodies. Just a room now. No halos or impenetrable, bottled night.

  Rictor was on his knees beside Artur, his fists bunched up against his eyes. His shoulders shook; he was crying. Crying. Racked with sobs.

  “Rictor,” Elena said. “Oh, Rictor. What did she do to you?”

  Rictor made no effort to wipe his face. He stood, and there was something new in his movement: an ageless quality, full of a timeless grace powerful in its beauty. He set his tearstained gaze upon Artur and Elena. His eyes glowed green.

  “Let’s get out of here,” he said.

  Chapter Nine

  They ran from the room and down the hall. As they ran, Artur thought of magic, the inexplicable quality of altering reality to suit one’s desires. He knew it existed—had seen the product of its use in more than one form—but still, always, it was a shock. It seemed more unnatural than shape-shifters, more unpredictable than anger. The metaphysical could be so startling.

  The same could be said of your life.

  True. Because how could he have predicted this moment, running for his life and freedom in the company of shape-shifters and psychics, and a man who most certainly might not be human?

  Never. But then again, he preferred an extraordinary life.

  Men and women whose faces he had seen only as echoes passed before him in reality, pressed up against the corridor walls, watching their quick passage with expressions of true terror. Artur’s heart hurt to look at their faces; he was nothing but a monster to them. All of them, monsters.

  “No one is attacking us yet,” Elena said, falling back to run at his side. She had to shout to be heard over the alarm. Her face was flushed, her throat and cheek mottled with bruises, but her eyes—those dark eyes—were filled with perfect stubborn hope. Looking at her gave him hope, though for what, he could not say. Moment by moment—that was all he could live for until they escaped this place.

  “Just wait,” Rictor said. His eyes still glowed, which was somewhat disturbing. Artur still did not entirely trust the man—and the way he behaved toward Elena had not gone unnoticed. It bothered Artur. Ridiculous, of course. He had no claim on Elena, no matter what had passed between them. Which was not all that much, unless one counted the astonishing existence of their spirit link, or the merging of their souls.

  Well, yes. Perhaps that did count for quite a lot. As long as she felt the same way about the experience.

  Now is not the time, he told himself, resisting the urge to catch her hand. He needed to be free to move, to fight—his head clear of vision. He glanced down; sometime during the run she had lost her weapon, that tiny scalpel.

  Artur succumbed to weakness. He grabbed her hand. The visions he saw did not affect him as they had earlier; instead they felt comfortable, like a warm blanket. He was growing accustomed to her touch. Elena smiled.

  “We’ve got company coming,” Rictor said.

  “I don’t suppose this would include people I am morally permitted to hit?” Rik asked. Artur thought he must feeling better. It took energy to be that sarcastic.

  “Maybe a couple.” Rictor glanced at him. “But they’re mine.”

  Artur did not bother suggesting they hide. This part of the facility lacked any doors; it was just a network of tunnels, like a warren for those who feared the sun. The layout and design felt so very military, Artur wondered if the Consortium did not have ties to some government agency.

  Rictor held out his hand; everyone slowed, including Amiri. His tail wound briefly around Rik’s deeply tanned legs. Artur heard boots pound concrete, hard, and he tugged Elena behind him. She resisted—of course—but Artur refused to leave her exposed.

  Men appeared. Artur thought he would never look at white uniforms in the same way.

  Though admit it: they remind you of childhood, the doctors and their so-called nurses. You have always hated the color white.

  Five big men. Two of them carried guns. Artur was almost certain they were loaded with tranquilizers.

  “Rictor,” said one of them. “What you doin’, man?”

  “Being myself,” he said, and threw out his hands. The nurses flew back with such force they had no time to cry out. Like dolls they slammed against the concrete walls, crushing bones. The guns clattered to the ground alongside their bodies.

  Silence. Rictor still had his hands outstretched. He stared at the men, his hands, and Artur remembered what it felt like to watch him break down and cry. He had met Rictor only once before—had never taken the measure of the man—but his instincts rarely lied. Tears were as surrealon him as magic, rings of light, seeing a shape-shifter for the first time. Unnatural and strange.

  He waited a moment, but when Rictor gave no sign of madness, or that he would continue punishing the fallen, Artur let go of Elena’s hand and ran forward to collect the guns. He checked them. As he thought, both had tranquilizers loaded. It felt good to hold the guns in his hands. Knowledge seeped like water, trickling through his brain. He heard more movement from down the corridor.

  “Run or fight?” Rik asked, twirling his metal bar with agile fingers.

  “Run,” Artur said, without giving anyone else a chance to respond. He knew this game—had lived it on the streets and in the orphanage. Running was not always the coward’s route; it was a matter of survival. The fewer violent encounters one invited, the longer the life. And right now Artur wanted to live a very long time. He wanted Elena to live, too—and to do so without another nightmare. He had spent most of his adult life in violence; he did not wish the same for her. Not for that bright, clean spirit.

  He found Rictor staring at him. It was a measuring gaze—there was no doubt he had heard every single one of Artur’s thoughts. He looked at Elena, who stood watching the corridor, listening to the sounds of approach with stubborn, frightened defiance. Rictor’s outstretched hands dropped to his sides, clenched tight into fists. He wanted to fight; Artur could see it in his eyes. But for Elena … for her …

  She is mine, Artur thought at him, and was shocked at how freely and vehemently those words came to him. She is mine felt like a war cry, the declaration of some mighty prayer: a promise and a threat.

  Rictor’s eyes flashed bright and hot. Elena said, “The two of you, get a room. I want out of here.”

  She backed down the hall, staring at them expectantly. Amiri moved with her; Rik did the same.

  “Go,” said Rictor. “You know the way. I’ll catch up with you.”

  He turned around to face the sounds of approach. Lifted his arms. Artur glimpsed a parade of bodies. The scientists now. They no longer looked afraid. They had very little expression on their faces at all.

  Artur turned and ran. He held a tranquilizer gun in each hand. Elena kept close to his side, Rik bringing up the rear. Amiri sprang ahead, loping with easy grace over the dull concrete.

  From behind, Artur heard screams. Elena missed a step. He said, “No. Keep going.”

  Try not to think about it. Try not to imagine.

  Artur remembered the way; all those echoes and stolen visions made him as much an expert of these halls as Rictor. There were two elevators on this level, but neither of them was safe. Stairs, then. Also unsafe, but at least they would not be trapped in a box.

  The first stairwell they found was locked by a digital keypad. Artur touched the pad, soaking in the memory of the last man who had used the stairs—with a woman—one of the scientists—for sex, because it was private and little-used—and found the code. He punched it in and the doo
r unlocked.

  “You don’t have a plan, do you?” Rik said, as he filed past Artur. Amiri was already halfway up the stairs, slinking low, careful.

  “The will to survive,” Artur said, giving him a hard look. “That is the only plan I need.”

  Up the stairs, up and up and up, pausing only on the second level—their home for such a short time—before following the stairs past that floor, higher and higher. Such strange design. Artur’s subconscious recalled these stairs as he traversed them, but they seemed an odd choice to include in this place. Easy access to the surface?

  Easy, if you are like us, and uncontrolled. The others, even the employees, might never make it this far. And maybe this facility was not always used for this purpose. It could have been converted from something else.

  Amiri growled, fur rising high on his back. Artur pushed Elena against the wall as Graves appeared on the landing above. She held a tranquilizer gun, as did the two men in white who appeared behind her. The doctor stood with them, unarmed. He was the only person who looked upset. Graves might have been manicuring her nails, for all the emotion she showed.

  “I thought so,” she said, though it was difficult to hear her over the continued wail of the alarms. “I have no idea how you made it this far, but I suspected you might know how to access the stairs. Remarkable, Mr. Loginov. I am so impressed by you. Here for less than a day and you’ve already defied my employer, broken your bonds, and made a very good attempt at freeing the rest of our guests. That, I can assure you, is a record.”

  “You will always underestimate me,” he said. “Poor woman.”

  Her mouth thinned. “Never fear. More are coming to help return you to your proper place. Which, I can assure you, will soon be a very deep grave.”

  Again Amiri growled. Artur said, “The interesting thing about those guns, Ms. Graves, is that they have only one shot in them.”

  “Yes,” Graves said, and aimed it right at him. “I also know this circus won’t last long without your participation.”

  Amiri moved fast. He blew past Graves before she could react, knocking her off balance. She squeezed the trigger, but her shot went high. Artur’s did not. He caught her in the chest and she went down hard.