Shadow Touch

by Marjorie M. Liu

  And yet, with Artur, sharing the innermost part of her felt natural as breathing. Good, sweet. Safe as home. They had known each other only a day, but in that day—a lifetime.

  You know I don’t believe that. Elena studied the line of his throat, the angular bones of his pale face. His dark hair looked rough. He needed to shave.

  I know, he said quietly. But you feel that way because you do not know everything I have done.

  Tell me.

  I cannot.

  You’re afraid.

  Yes. He looked at her. I worked for the Russian Mafia. I was a hired gun. I killed people for money. You see? Pleasant, yes?

  No, it was not pleasant. But it was also not a complete surprise. Do you still kill for money?

  His expression never changed, but she felt his confusion. Did you hear what I said, Elena? I have killed for money.

  Yes, I heard. I’m asking if you still do.

  No. His mind felt quiet. Not for a long time, and only in self-defense.

  Elena closed her eyes. She savored the cool salty air rushing in through the open window. She wondered what Amiri made of all this peculiar silence, or her fingers resting inside his glove. Did the man even know what Artur was capable of?

  I told him. He probably showed more surprise than you just did.

  What? You expected screams? Accusations? Revulsion?

  Yes. At the very least, shock.

  I’ve seen some things, Artur. I already knew you had a violent past. The Mafia makes sense.

  But still—

  No. If I had never been inside you, if we had met like two normal human beings, I would find your past highly disturbing. I would not trust you. I would be afraid. But we did not meet like that, and I have been inside your mind. You can’t lie to a person when they’re sitting in your brain. You can’t pretend to be anything but what you are. And you’re a good guy, Artur Loginov. Really. I like you.

  Silence followed, though it was not a true quiet: Artur’s emotions made their own music, conflicted and lovely.

  You are remarkable, he finally said, so faintly she could barely hear him. Truly, Elena. I never imagined I would meet anyone like you.

  You’re making me blush. Truth. Her face felt hot. Speaking mind-to-mind was also making her hot in other ways. Oh, that was embarrassing. She hoped he did not notice; she hoped—

  I did not notice.

  She almost said something out loud, but remembered at the last moment that they were not alone. Please forget you heard all that.

  I would rather not. His mental voice was soft, teasing.

  Elena stopped touching him. He caught her gently, caressing her palm with his thumb. Brought her hand to his lips and kissed the back of it.

  I like you, too, he said, his mouth still touching her skin. Her breath caught and she snatched her hand away to clutch it in her lap. She continued to feel the weight of his fingers, his lips, the memory as real as flesh. God. He was good.

  Touching him was too dangerous. She said, “So. How did you get out?”

  He gave her an amused look. “I was recruited by an American detective agency called Dirk and Steele.”

  “Sounds like the name of a seventies cop show.”

  Artur shrugged. “They gave me new purpose, a place to go. It was probably one of the best things that ever happened in my life.”

  Elena thought of the woman in Artur’s memories, his soft voice saying, I love you. She wondered where that woman was now, and what had happened between her and Artur. She wondered if Artur still loved her. Had she been one of his best things?

  Elena could not ask. Never ever would she be able to bring herself to ask that question.

  “Tell me about Dirk and Steele,” she said instead.

  “As I said, it is a detective agency. Or at least, that is the face it shows the world. In truth, it is an organization whose purpose is to seek out people like you and me—or like Rik and Amiri—and give us a place where we do not have to be alone, where we can use our gifts to help others and receive support while doing so.”

  “A movie would be easier to believe.”

  “Yes, but this is much better because it is real.”

  Elena shook her head. “I’m having enough trouble wrapping my brain around everything else I’ve seen and experienced. Even before my kidnapping I could barely come to terms with my own abilities. And now—” She stopped, staring out the window at the passing antique facades of Russian buildings, soaking in the air of a foreign land, which suddenly did not feel so foreign—merely different, in the same way an apple was different from tree to tree. Because difference was relative, and when compared to a girl who could heal, or shape-shifters who could turn into animals, the rest of the world felt like fruit, and she was the psychedelically charged mushroom. Like, radical, dude.

  “Elena?” Artur asked, clearly waiting for her to finish.

  “My life is changed,” Elena said simply, and hearing herself say those words made her want to cry. “I can never go home again. I can never be the same person. Not just because the Consortium could find me again, but because … my eyes are bigger now. I know things.”

  “Do you regret that knowledge?”

  “No,” she said, and then hesitated. “Maybe. Sometimes ignorance is bliss.”

  Artur smiled grimly. “I have always wished for some kind of ignorance, but I suppose I should be thankful I was never given any. I would be dead by now, otherwise.”

  Elena did not know how to respond to that, so she said nothing at all. Minutes later Artur parked the truck in front of a seedy little building. A large sign hung over the chipped, gilt-encrusted door. Above a long line of Cyrillic, Elena read: HOTEL EKVATOR: RUSSIAN COMFORT.

  “My old contact owns this place,” Artur said. “The rooms are not so bad, but Mikhail does not like using money for renovation. He thinks it is a waste.”

  “Sure,” Elena said, hearing an ominous cracking sound far above her head from one of the hotel windows. She began to get out of the car, but Artur laid a hand on her arm.

  “No, Elena. You should stay here with the others. I am not certain what kind of reception I will receive.”

  “I’m not staying here,” she said. She glanced back at the shape-shifters; Amiri looked ready to leap out of the truck, and Rik was awake and alert. She wondered how much of their conversation had sunk in. “How about you guys?”

  “No way in hell I’m letting you out of my sight,” Rik said. “You might sell me down the river.”

  “I’m sure they’re big on seafood here,” Elena said, noting the brief—and quickly hidden—smile that passed over Amiri’s face. Rik scowled. So did Artur.

  “It is dangerous,” he said.

  “I thought you liked dangerous women,” Elena replied, and jumped from the truck before he could say another word.

  Amiri and Rik clambered out of the back, and oh, what a sight all four of them made on the city street. Elena could only imagine what she looked like—brutalized hair and face, wearing a sweater and skirt three sizes too big. The men, while all stunningly handsome, carried themselves like soldiers of a long war, and it was strange to see the three of them standing together in broad daylight on a crowded thoroughfare. Elena had grown accustomed to her companions, but in public, among regular people, they looked so different as to be alien. Even Artur, with his normal hair and eyes, still seemed … other. More than human. More than ordinary.

  Magic. I am surrounded by magic.

  “Are you sure about this?” Artur asked them.

  “We are here,” Amiri said. “I believe that is as strong an answer as you will receive.”

  They entered the hotel, Artur taking the lead. Elena wished she were more of a fighter. Those action movies always made it look easy. A good kick, a hard punch, a little guts and glory.

  Reality meant a lot of running, a good dose of exhaustion accompanied by danger and pure gut-wrenching fear—and no way at all to complain, because that would just be childish, and
no one liked a whiner. Which sucked. Elena made no claims to an easy life, but this was ridiculous.

  A young woman sat at the hotel’s front desk. She looked like something out of a fifties beach movie: perky, blond, with a cute button nose and bright red lipstick. She stopped filing her nails when they entered the lobby, her mouth forming a perfect crimson O.

  “We are here to see Mikhail Petrovich,” Artur said. “Please tell him an old friend has come to town.”

  The girl hesitated, her gaze flickering sideways, past Artur. Past all of them.

  Stricken by premonition, Elena turned. A portly man with a bald, pasty head descended a narrow staircase off the lobby. He held a gun in his hand. He aimed it at Artur’s back. The safety clicked off. Elena watched, horrified.

  “Artur Loginov,” he said, in badly accented English. “What an unpleasant surprise.”

  Artur knew who was behind him even before he heard the safety click. The girl’s eyes gave it away. The gun did not surprise him, either. He expected the threat of bullets. It was why he had wanted so badly to come into this place alone. Mikhail might not actually shoot him, but where there was a gun, there was the possibility—and Mikhail was a very good shot.

  What Artur was not prepared for, however, was Elena’s voice whispering, “No,” and the feel of her body sliding against his own, standing in front of him, shielding him, protecting him with her arms outstretched, like she could catch a bullet, deflect that charm of death.

  “Elena!” he snapped, so full of shock—fear—that he forgot to be gentle, forgot that Mikhail was first and foremost a gentleman, and that gentlemen never fired guns at ladies. Because all that mattered to Artur was that there was a bullet aimed at Elena’s heart—his heart, through her body—and that was utterly intolerable. Artur grabbed Elena around the waist, picking her off the ground and spinning her so that she leaned up hard against the lobby counter. Artur surrounded her with his body—close, tight—until all he could see were her eyes, large and startled.

  “I should never have let you come in here,” he said, voice rough, hoarse. “Elena.”

  Elena, why? Elena, how could you? Elena, if you died it •would break my heart. Elena, Elena, Elena. I am not worth it. I am not worth even the gesture of your life.

  He felt Amiri and Rik close ranks around them, and he turned, grabbing Rik’s arm. He pulled the shape-shifter in front of Elena. He did not have to force Amiri; the man glided into Artur’s place and stepped forward to meet Mikhail, who stared at him with the most curious expression on his sagging face. The gun never wavered.

  “Put that away,” Artur said. “Look at me, Mikhail. I am unarmed.”

  “A man like you is never unarmed,” Mikhail said. “A man like you is the weapon.”

  Artur thought he heard Elena say his name. Rik was trying to soothe her. Little chance of that—Artur knew how stubborn she was. He did not dare turn to see if she was actually struggling against the shape-shifters. He was not sure what such a sight would do to his heart. He moved even closer to Mikhail, until he stood at the foot of the stairs with that gun still aimed at his chest. Artur never looked at the weapon; his eyes remained locked on Mikhail’s face.

  “For God’s sake,” he whispered in Russian. “Shoot me if you like, but not here. Not in front of her.”

  Mikhail’s gaze flickered past Artur. “Did you beat her?”

  “Of course not,” Artur snapped.

  “I had to ask.” Mikhail lowered the gun. “I was not going to shoot you, anyway. I just had the floors cleaned.”

  “Really.” Tension still sang through his body. “Then I suppose the bloodstains near my feet are just a figment of my imagination?”

  Mikhail shrugged. “You always were creative.” He descended the stairs with slow ease.

  Artur wanted to see if Elena was all right, but he did not dare turn his back on Mikhail. He no longer thought the man would shoot him, but it would be stupid, and Mikhail would respect him less for it.

  Mikhail reluctantly gave up the last two stairs—he never liked being the shortest man in a room—and said, “Bastard. Why couldn’t you leave me alone?”

  “I need help.”

  “If you are back in Russia after all these years, then that is certainly the case.” Mikhail walked to the front of the lobby. Artur remained at his side.

  Amiri and Rik watched with apprehension. Artur did not blame them. They were putting their lives in his hands—a complete stranger—and had done so on nothing more than brief assurances of good intentions. Artur, if their positions were reversed, would never tolerate that. Not that he completely trusted the shape-shifters, either. Words were not enough. Actions—honorable actions—repeated again and again, were the only truths that mattered.

  Elena, on the other hand, was already too much a part of him. No doubts, no reservations. He trusted her like he trusted himself, which was remarkable, insane. Artur had never felt that way about anyone. It had taken him years to build that same trust with his friends at the agency; with Elena, it had happened over a matter of a day.

  Despite her earlier words in his head, he still remained unconvinced she felt the same about him. Unsettling to be so exposed in his heart, without any promise of reciprocation.

  Although her stepping in front of you when there is a gun pointed at your chest is a good indication.

  Irritation bloomed. How could he possibly spend so much energy trying to divine her feelings? Right now, with so much looming over their heads, could it make any difference in his life whether or not she liked him on some deeper level?

  Yes. It did make a difference.

  Elena leaned against the lobby counter. Her face was ashen, her eyes far too dark. She looked upset and angry—a bad combination.

  “I think you might be in a lot of trouble,” Mikhail said softly. “If you like, I can put you out of your misery.”

  “You would like that,” Artur said.

  “Yes, though I might enjoy seeing you humbled before a woman even better.”

  Artur said nothing. For Elena, he would get down on his knees and crawl.

  Fortunately she did not make him do that. She did not say a word. Just gave him a hard look and then turned to face Mikhail.

  “I think I hate your guts,” she said to him, which surprised a giant whoop of laughter out of the short Russian. Rik made a strangled noise in his throat, while Amiri simply shook his head. Artur closed his eyes.

  “Wonderful!” Mikhail crowed, still smiling. “Your accent is American, yes? What a perfect woman. I like you.”

  “Just so we’re clear,” Elena said. “I don’t appreciate it when people threaten my friends.”

  “Elena,” Artur began, but she held up her hand.

  “Don’t,” she said. “I have had it up to here with people trying to hurt us. This is not a game. This is not fun. And you”—she looked at Mikhail—“should be ashamed of yourself.”

  “I am not ashamed,” Mikhail said, “but I do apologize.”

  “Good enough,” Elena said. “Artur, you have some business to conduct, don’t you?”

  “I do,” he said, somewhat stunned.

  “Then do it, and we’ll get the hell out of here.”

  Mikhail sighed, long and gusty. “If my wife had not already branded her name upon my balls, I swear I would do all in my power to woo you. I love your fire.”

  “I really didn’t need that imagery, but thank you for the compliment,” Elena said.

  Mikhail looked at the girl behind the desk and snapped his fingers. “Anna,” he said in Russian. “Get Artur’s friends a room they can relax in. And for the woman, some new clothes and makeup.”

  The girl leaped to her feet and began rummaging around the desk drawer for keys.

  “If you go with Anna,” Mikhail said, returning to English, “she will make you comfortable.”

  Elena, Rik, and Amiri stared at Artur. He nodded. “Mikhail is a man of his word. You will be safe here while he and I talk.”

/>   “If you say so,” Amiri said. “But I do not like it.”

  “Neither do I,” Elena said. Mikhail surprised Artur by holding out his gun—a spontaneous gesture, utterly out of character. Elena stared at the weapon, and then him.

  “Take it,” Mikhail said. “Truly. If I hurt Artur, you may use it on me.”

  “I don’t trust you,” Elena said.

  “No one trusts me,” Mikhail replied. “Here, take the gun.”

  Elena glanced at Artur. He could say nothing to her, and after a moment she took the gun, held it gingerly in her hands.

  “The safety is still off,” Artur warned. He did not like this at all, but even though leaving them alone while he spoke with Mikhail was not his only option, he could not bring himself to voice the other. It entailed too much risk of an entirely different nature. Elena might have accepted one part of his past, but there was more—much more—and Mikhail could not be trusted not to speak of it.

  “Elena,” Artur said, holding out his hands. She gave him the gun, and he clicked the safety on for her. Breathed a little easier. He gave back the firearm before she could tell him to keep it. Mikhail would never let Artur in the same room with him if he were armed. Survival instincts. Artur could still kill Mikhail in hand-to-hand combat, but a gun was too blatant. It destroyed the illusion. Still, seeing Elena hold the weapon was utterly frightening. It was not something to be handled by the inexperienced.

  “We’ll be all right,” Elena said to him, as though she could read the conflict in his face and wished to soothe him—a far cry from only moments before, when she had been quite open with her doubts. But that was Elena: when she committed to something, she stuck with it. And right now she was committed to trusting Artur’s judgment. He could see it in her eyes; she trusted him.

  Dear God, he prayed. Please do not let me do anything to abuse that trust.

  Rik and Amiri seemed far less convinced, but said nothing. Artur thought he could trust Amiri to watch out for her, if only because it was in the shapeshifter’s best interests. He did not feel the same about Rik, whose spirit still seemed weak, his head planted just a little less firmly on his shoulders. Rik might not be a bad person, but he seemed more boy than man.