“Sometimes they should,” he said grimly. “After enough time, that’s all they understand.”
Elena raised an eyebrow. “Why do I get the feeling you’re talking about something more than Rik’s lapse in verbal judgment?”
Artur shrugged. He ate his piroshki. Elena wanted to kick him. She was getting tired of the silent treatment from the men around her. She did not want Artur to get any bad habits.
“Artur,” she said. She gave him ten seconds to respond to the warning in her voice. If he did not, she was never sleeping with him again. Elena touched his cheek with her fingertips.
You got that?
“I do not like bullies,” he said immediately, scowling. “And no, I do not mean you. Although threatening to deny me your body almost makes you cruel enough to qualify.”
“Desperate times,” she said. “So you think Rik is a bully?”
“I see the potential. He is young and angry, and sometimes has poor restraint. Lashing out as he did at you can become a habit.”
“I did goad him,” Elena said. “He’s actually very sweet sometimes.”
“If he is so sweet, he should have chosen a different way to respond.”
“You’re just mad because he insulted me.”
“Yes.”
“All right,” she said. “Just don’t let it turn you into a bully.”
“And you?”
“I have carte blanche to act any way I want,” Elena said. “For I am both lovely and cruel, and you like me just the way I am.”
He tried not to smile.
They went to gather up Amiri and Rik. According to Artur, the train stayed at each station for only ten or twenty minutes at a time, and the conductor would give no warning before leaving. Love ‘em and lose ‘em, that was the way the Rossiya ran. Elena saw Attendant Gogunov peeking out one of the windows, giving her the dirty eye. Elena waved cheerfully.
There was a line to get back on their section of the train. The American couple from Vladivostok stood in front of Elena. The woman turned to look at her. She was small and nondescript: unremarkable brown hair on an unremarkable face. Nice enough, though—at least from Elena’s limited observations.
“I’ve seen you around,” said the woman. Her voice was smooth, soft. She seemed less bubbly than before. “Is this your first trip to Russia? You must be having a wonderful time.”
“Um, yes,” Elena said, well aware of her male companions watching with some amusement. First time to Russia, thank you very much. Oh, how did you get here? I •was kidnapped by a major criminal organization and forced to undergo human experimentation under the threat of torture and lifelong imprisonment. How about you? Gee, United Airlines? How horrible!
“This is my third time,” said the woman. “Fred and I never get tired of the scenery.”
“Oh,” Elena said. “That’s nice.”
“Yes,” agreed the woman without a hint of arrogance. The people in front of her shuffled forward. The man at her side—Fred, presumably—tugged on her sleeve. He barely touched her, but that brief contact might as well have been a baseball bat. She tripped and collided hard against Elena. Both women went down to the ground just as something small and fast rasped the air where Elena had been standing.
It was not her imagination; out of the corner of her eye Elena saw a small iron dart bloom from the duffel bag of a soldier in uniform, one of many who had disembarked from the cheaper cabin of the Rossiya. If the young man felt the impact, he did not show it. He kept moving, doggedly trying to get back to the train.
Artur grabbed Elena under her arms, hauling her off the ground. The American woman, who was being helped up by her husband, kept apologizing for her clumsiness. Elena did not hear a word of it. She was too busy looking through the crowd at the Quiet Man.
Whatever it was with which he had shot at her was now tucked away, out of sight. He stood less than thirty feet away, one man among a hundred, his gaze sharp and keen upon Elena’s face. Elena, in a burst of madness, held up her hand, palm out, and wiggled her fingers.
Remember this? she mouthed, counting on him to read her lips. He smiled and placed his hand over his heart, like a benediction. Apparently he had gotten over his near-death experience. Elena was willing to go another round, to put him back in his place. Or underground, if she could go that far. No fear. She was an army of one. Her own heart pounded—loud, a thunderous drum—and she thought, I can do this. I can finish it. Just give me a chance.
Ugly thoughts, murderous. But this was survival, and the one thing she had learned since being taken from that hospital room was that sometimes if you wanted to survive, a little ugliness was needed. A little craziness. That she could heal the sickness from a person’s body was a beautiful thing—and if she wanted to keep doing it, if she wanted to stay free and alive long enough to reclaim a life where she could once again help others, she would have to fight, and fight to win.
Don’t be ruthless, a part of her whispered, still staring into that face of death. Don’t be so hard or cold. What’s the price of that, Elena?
She did not know, only that right now she was willing to pay it.
“Get on the train,” Artur said. “Elena, right now.”
“Not without you or the others,” she said.
“Elena.” Amiri wrapped his hand around her wrist. Rik looked torn between running and fighting. The American couple was gone, presumably already on board.
The Quiet Man walked toward them.
Charles Darling, she corrected herself. You give him too much power when you call him the Quiet Man.
Artur began to step in front of Elena, but she grabbed his arm and held him still. She felt as though they were back inside the facility, in that first moment of their meeting, except now Elena knew what she was capable of and that made all the difference.
“Hello again,” said Charles, stopping less than five feet away from Elena and the others. “It is good to see your face, Elena.”
“I can’t say the same for you,” she said.
He smiled, and it was eerie the way he never looked at the others. It was as though they did not exist—as if the only person in the world who mattered was her. His focus still terrified her, but Elena swallowed down the fear with the memory of his heart, so fragile beneath her will. She wondered if she could kill him without even a touch. She did not try. She was not that far gone yet. But soon, maybe.
“Are you alone?” Elena asked.
“I had companions,” he said. “They lasted until Vladivostok, and then I got an itch.” He finally looked at Artur. “You remember what that’s like for me, don’t you?”
“I hope you made it quick,” he said.
“Quick was all I had time for. You’re good, Mr. Loginov. Surprisingly so. It’s rare for people to give me the slip.”
“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 gru
nted, 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.
Chapter Fourteen
Artur dreamed. In his dream he sat beneath a tree, its branches sagging beneath the weight of plums. The grass was green, the sky blue, and he felt good. Safe. Warm.
“It’s because of Elena, you know.”
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. I am 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.”
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