“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.
It was an easy thing to do, despite her weakness. Cancer needed just a whisper, a nudge in the right direction. The lump was large and malignant; Elena pushed, hard, and finally felt that subtle twist, the assent. The path to healing. The old woman also had heart disease, but Elena could do only so much, feeling as she did. This, at least, would keep her going for a while longer, and with a decent quality of life right up until the end. That was all anyone could ask for. It was what her grandfather had gotten. Walking as strong as a man in his twenties, and then boom! Dropped dead beneath a tree while Elena was out buying groceries.
There was nothing you could have done, Artur said, sensing her lingering pain over the loss.
I know. Elena did, truly. He was too old, and had always refused Elena’s help.
No natural extensions of his existence, he had said. Let a man go when it’s time. Let a man go into that place he sees coming. Let a man rest.
It was just that she had never gotten the chance to say good-bye, to tell him how much he had shaped her life for the better. To say, “I love you, Grandpa. I love you, I love you, I
love you.” To have him hear those words, instead of speaking them to the air above his grave. He was buried on the farm in the family plot, next to his father and mother and brothers. Elena expected she would be buried there one day, too.
But not for a while yet, Artur said. And when it is time, I will be there beside you.
Her breath caught, and he smiled. The old woman saw, and thought it was for something else. She looked at Elena—so hopeful it made the eyes ache—and Elena said, “Your cancer will be gone in a week. I can’t guarantee that another tumor won’t appear somewhere else, but for now you’re safe.” Until your heart gives out, until your time runs from the glass.
As Artur translated, Attendant Gogunov began to cry. She pressed her palms to her face, knuckling her eyes, rocking back and forth like a small child. “Oh,” she gasped. “Oh, I was so afraid. Thank you, thank you.”
She got down on her knees and began kissing Elena’s hand, so reverent, so in awe that it turned Elena’s stomach. She did not deserve such gratitude. She never would.
Let the woman have her miracle, Artur told her quietly. Let her feel that presence of the God that she holds so hear. Give her that much.
Elena felt shame—just a little. I should be more gracious, huh?
You are always gracious, Elena. The word I was looking for was patient.
Patience, appreciation. Taking heart in the miracles she could give others, all the Olivias and Gogunovs and John Burkleses.
And the Arturs of the world, he thought.
I swear, you’re getting hurt on purpose.
I am a man of danger, Elena. There was some humor in his voice. I expect you will always be healing my wounds.
“God,” Elena groaned. Attendant Gogunov stopped kissing her hand and gave her an odd look. Artur assured her that Elena was fine, just simply in a mood to pray.
The old woman smiled. “May I tell others of your gift?”
“No,” Elena said. “There is only one of me and too many of you. It would kill me.”
She nodded. “Thank you, then. For choosing me. I hope there are others who feel the gift of your touch.”
“I also hope so,” Elena said. Her head was beginning to hurt. She wanted to sleep again. Her eyes drifted shut, and she heard the woman say something to Artur, something quiet, and his response: “Yes, she is mine and I love her.”
Love you back, she said to him, and then promptly fell asleep.
Chapter Fifteen
Home.
The old home, the first home, with those endless gray skies that in summer made Artur feel cold—where winter dragged on like a coma, settling thickly into his bones until even his dreams felt numb, and flesh refused to part with sensation, where sensation was reserved for normal little boys, not the ones locked in rooms without beds, alone and alone and alone, where bodies were taught not to feel or think, where the lost were tolerated only in a fit of brazen government-funded pity.
Moscow. Artur hated it.
Mikhail would probably call that a symptom of Artur’s continuing inability to cope with his childhood, and he would be right—Artur had hang-ups and he was not afraid to admit it. Nor would he deny that there had been good times. His life until puberty had been good. His life with Tatyana had been enjoyable as well. Everything else he could have done without.
Time always helped. Time living another life, with better people than he deserved. It gave him perspective. Just not enough ever to compel him to come back and live. Moscow was, as some said, the most beautiful mistress a man could ever want, but never cross her: like any good woman, she might just cut off your balls for the hell of it.
“This is a beautiful place,” Elena said. It had just rained and the pavement was slick, silver with shine. The air smelled clean and there was a hint of rainbow in the sky. He had to admit it was a good day to see the city for the first time. It looked the same, except for a few more high-rises cutting the sky.
Elena wore a fresh set of clothes that Attendant Gogunov had scrounged and laundered for her. She still looked far too pale and weak, and though her bruises were beginning to fade, the ghost of injuries lingered on her face. The doctor’s mark and Charles Darling’s fingers haunted the flesh.
Despite that—though not because of it—she fit in perfectly with every other woman on the street, all of whom looked as though the hard life had begun aging them from six years old. There were glimpses of girls who still carried youth in their step, but life was hard in Russia. It wore down the heels of your soul as fast as you could breathe, and the burden rarely eased.
Even now, just outside the train station, Artur caught sight of a pack of young boys, ragged and tough, leaning against a distant wall. Pickpockets, scammers, whores; Artur had been one of them once. He felt compassion, but not enough to do anything foolish, like actually try to help. He knew the game, and so did they. If he walked up to them, all they would see was a threat and an opportunity. They would never trust him enough to take the help he could offer. Not that he was in any great position to help the helpless. They probably had a better chance of living to the end of the week than he did.
Amiri and Rik stood out, but that could not be helped. They also had new clothes, courtesy of Attendant Gogunov, who had made it her special mission to take what she could from the old lost-and-found bins to make them comfortable. Artur had left her a far more generous wad of money than he originally intended. He appreciated kindness.
No one asked where they were going. The plan had been discussed again and again, and while Artur had tried to argue with the others, deterring them from participating was impossible. Elena refused to leave his side, and for whatever reason Amiri and Rik did, too. Curiosity, perhaps—honor, even. Rik certainly seemed to have matured. Or maybe it was just that they had nowhere else to go, and some camaraderie, companionship—even in the face of danger—was better than none at all. Artur understood that all too well.
Which was why, when he saw a crow swoop down to land on the cobblestones before him, golden eyes winking, he was not entirely surprised by the surge of happiness that swept through him. Elena gave him an amused look. Amiri and Rik both crouched, staring with intense concentration at Koni’s much smaller form.
“Greetings,” they both said, and the crow bowed his head, fluttering black wings.
When Koni again took to the air, the group followed his meandering path, walking the gray city streets with a lazy air that belied the urgency they felt.
It was Elena who saw Koni enter an open window on the third floor of a ramshackle apartment building. Artur, who had been surreptitiously trying to see if they were being followed, led them up the wide staircase lined by cracked walls stained with graffiti and porno-graphic drawings—something Dean no doubt admired, or had participated in creating. Artur smelled urine, alcohol, the lingering miasma of unwashed bodies, and then above him a door creaked open, and a familiar face peered over the stair railings. Teeth flashed, as did the dark steel of a gun.
“Yo,” Dean said. “When I said you needed a vacation, I wasn’t talking about an all-expense-paid kidnapping to the mother country.”
“Did you miss me?” Artur asked.
“Nah. Your place is nicer than mine. I moved in after you disappeared. My hands have been all over your underwear drawer.” Which was probably less of a joke than Dean made it sound. Artur could very well see Dean living in his home, attuning himself until he could track Artur’s every movement. He was only surprised it had taken his friend so long to find him. He said as much.
Dean shrugged, holstering his weapon. “For some reason, I could never pinpoint your exact location, though I knew you were in Russia. And then there was that message your old girlfriend left. We went to visit her to see if she could tell us anything about those people who paid her off. She, uh, wasn’t very helpful.”
“Tatyana?” Elena asked Artur. “She sold you out? Bitch.”
“Yeah.” Dean smiled and shook Elena’s hand. “That’s just what I said.”
<
br /> Suddenly Artur remembered Dean’s preference for short, dark-haired women, and he watched, frowning, as his friend held on to Elena’s hand far too long. Artur knew he should expect nothing less; Dean was the only sex addict he knew who never actually got any. It impaired his judgment, sometimes.
Elena’s smile widened, and Artur knew it was for his benefit. Dean, of course, thought it was for him. He edged closer.
Artur said, “Do not think about it, Dean. She is mine.”
Dean froze. Everyone stared at Artur. He stared back, shameless.
Elena’s lips twitched. In his head, she teased, Me big man. Me have woman. Me kill man who touch woman. Grrr.
Dean said, “Fuck. You’ve only been gone a week and you already got a girlfriend? You were kidnapped, man! How does this shit happen?”
“Sheer talent,” Elena said. “He’s a sex machine.”
Dean made a choking sound. Rik complained, “How come everyone else can talk trash without getting threatened?”
“Because,” Amiri said, and left it at that.
Dean, once he recovered, led them into a small apartment just off the staircase. Artur watched the halls; no nosy neighbors peered from their homes to watch and gossip. He wondered if Dirk & Steele owned the entire building, or at least this floor.
There was very little furniture inside: a wide table covered in maps and other loose paper, several chairs, and a tall metal cabinet that Artur suspected was filled with illegal weapons. Several computers were set into a hidden alcove off the main room. Blue, the agency’s resident electrokinetic, rolled away from them and stood up. Koni came out of the back bedroom, buttoning his jeans. The tattoos on his arms and chest rippled against his lean muscles.
“Good to see you,” Blue said, looking immaculate and pressed, and ready to get down to business. His dark hair was slicked back into a tight ponytail. “I would hug you, but you smell.”
“Oh, my heart,” Artur said dryly. He turned and gestured for his companions to move closer. “You got my message to Roland, yes? This is Amiri and Rik. They are shape-shifters whom the Consortium kidnapped. And this”—he tugged Elena close, well aware that his friends watched his bare hand on her hand—“is Elena Baxter. She is also like us.”
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