Shadow Touch Page 8

  Dangerous. This is the most dangerous man you have ever met in your life. She felt like the gazelle to the lion. What a cracktastic way to live.

  Elena was thankful she was not the only person who felt the threat; the Russian’s playing hero only confirmed it. Understated, simple: a step and turn. What relief—what painful, wonderful relief, to be freed for even one moment from the Quiet Man’s cold gaze. She could not pray enough thanks.

  But it was wrong. She could not accept it. She had to fight her own battles, because depending on anyone in this place invited punishment, failure, and there was too much at stake. She needed to start out strong. No weakness. Be an army of one.

  Still, the Russian’s gesture made her feel good. It gave her hope. More than hope, even, when she finally chanced a look and found him staring at her.

  Old-soul eyes, she thought, captured by the suffering in his face, the edge of bitter sweetness. What gives a man those eyes?

  There was no escaping his nudity. Elena did not let her gaze falter from his eyes. He held himself with too much dignity to give him such rough insult. Her own embarrassment still burned—her introduction to forced nudity ranking high with the blackmail of her gift. Violation after violation. Elena could not accept it, that theft of her most personal privacy and control. She did not think this man would accept it, either. She did not know him, but she sensed his stubborn pride, the hard edge of resolve. A fighter.

  Fighting right up until the very end.

  What have they done to you? Oh, God. What have they done? Blood trickled from his nose and ears. Realization poured through his haunted gaze, the certain knowledge of death knocking at his heart. The Russian collapsed. Elena fell with him, sending her strength into his body, following the course of his suffering with the inner knowledge that directed her gift. It is his brain. His brain is dying.

  “Hold on,” Elena whispered, kneeling over the Russian’s pale, prone body, which was fast becoming a corpse, that great vitality slipping away. His dark eyes with their old-soul gaze fluttered shut. Elena hoped she could make them open again.

  Her body prickled. She heard a song in her fingertips as she traveled from her body into his, seeking the flow of his spirit. Instinct guided her; the vigor of her will, forcing him to listen as she delivered a simple plea to do what should come so naturally. The Russian did not resist her. She felt embraced by warmth.

  The metaphysical representation of the Russian’s brain was a curious thing; it filled her vision like a white ghost bleeding shadow, losing form in darkness. Elena trapped the lost light, holding it against her as she pressed close, gathering the Russian’s mind into her heart. She fed him pieces of herself—her compassion, her will—goading him to knit, to heal, to dream again without pain. Blind, unable to sit straight, she leaned down to rest her head on the Russian’s warm chest.

  Heal, she begged, peering into the white light of his mind. She saw cracks, hairline fissures, tiny earthquakes in his brain. She could not imagine what had caused such injuries, which looked old, ingrained. Tentative, running on instinct, Elena reached into the light, touching wounds, stroking them, knitting—

  —filth, he hates the filth of that room, how they must shit in the bowl and how the bowl is too full and that corner of the room reeks of piss and worse, worse, because the little ones are starving and they think it might taste good—

  No. Elena retreated from the memory, seeking another fissure—a sunny room with blue walls, a soft bed, a soft body cradled around pale flesh, whispering, “I love you, Tatyana, I love”—and she healed the breach, folding it off.

  Beside it, another—a wet alley with a body on the ground and a gun pressed to his temple, the nozzle cold and hard with a price for disloyalty and bodies on top, fighting, a lightbulb swinging, swinging like a pendulum, and somewhere someone whispering, “It is time, I am going to kill you—”

  Elena felt someone touch her physical body, her cheek. At first she thought it was Rictor, but a deep voice whispered, “No, do not. Please.”

  The Russian. His accent was thicker than she remembered. Elena could not respond to him; she hurt too much. If she opened her mouth it would be to cry out, and she would not give the Quiet Man—or even Rictor—that satisfaction.

  “You are hurting yourself,” said the man. “Stop. I am better now.”

  No, he was not better. He was conscious, he could speak, but only because the swelling had gone down, the bleeding stopped. What Elena could do defied science—she accepted this, had long ago given up trying to find an explanation—but it also meant she was keenly aware of every physical flaw, every weakness. His brain still suffered. Until she encouraged the healing of every fissure, anything she did for him now would only be temporary. He might die in his sleep tonight. He might live another twenty years and collapse from a stroke.

  I can’t stop, she told him, pretending he could hear. If I do you’ll die.

  The white light within his mind flickered. You are in such discomfort. I can feel it. Do not hurt yourself for me.

  The sound of his voice in her thoughts was so startling she almost broke the connection. You heard me. I … Is this for real? How?

  I do not know. He sounded weary. Please, stop.

  I won’t let you die. Elena reached for another fissure, shadows spilling out from the wound.

  There is too much. No one should see this. I do not know you.

  Strangers in paradise, she whispered. Please, we have to hurry.

  He said nothing, but she felt his assent like a sigh in her heart, and she touched the fissure. Images flickered through her mind, a picture show of pain split with brief happiness—an older woman, arms extended for a hug; a cheerfully battered kitchen filled with the scent of hot bread, sweets—and then all of it swept away into a grim institution where the only colors were brown and gray and the white, sun-starved faces of gaunt boys huddled in cold rooms, living on nothing but emptiness.

  What is this place? Elena tried not to look too deep into his memories as she worked.

  An orphanage outside Moscow. I was sent there when I was twelve.

  Sent there to die. The thought came to her, unbidden. Shame filled her heart.

  No, he said quietly. There is no shame in the truth. My mother left me.

  How could she? Elena thought of her own mother, that last conversation, the ax, and her grandfather running, running….

  I was a burden and she was alone with no money. His voice was flat, without emotion. Elena did not press him for more. It was none of her business.

  She closed the fissure, and after that three more. Old wounds, places where his mind had been weakened by stress. It occurred to her as she worked that these places, while linked to his physical illness, were metaphysical in nature, and that now she was doing more than just healing his body. This was new, strange territory. She hoped she did not change his personality.

  Low laughter filled her mind. No. But I do feel different.

  Different good or different bad?

  I do not know. Good, I think. The pain is not gone, but I … feel stronger inside my head.

  I’m almost done. Hold on.

  She closed the last fissure—caught the image of men sitting around a table, laughing and joking, a feeling of deep comfort and camaraderie—and then began to pull away. At the last moment, though, she felt something tickle her senses. A deep chill. Unnatural. She cast herself wide, searching for the source. When she found it, wiggling and black like a worm, she swore.

  What is “wrong?

  You have something sticking out of your brain. And it’s alive. Kind of.

  Silence, and then, That is unusual, yes?

  I’ve never performed psychic surgery before, but … yes, this doesn’t look normal.

  Can you remove it?

  Elena did not answer. She was too busy examining its root. She touched it.

  Pain exploded through her body, a fine, hard rain of nails, tearing her like she was cloth. Elena cried out, dimly awar
e of the Russian arching his back, echoing her. She heard Rictor say her name but she could not respond, could only cling to the man beneath her, shuddering from that terrible agony. The Russian touched her back, holding her against him. It was difficult to tell if his touch was real or illusion, so entrenched was she becoming in the world of his mind.

  No, she said, answering his unspoken question. I have to get rid of it.

  It will kill you.

  No, she said again, and wrapped herself around the worm. Again, pain, but Elena refused to let go, refused to succumb to the awful darkness bucking within her grasp. She heard a woman’s voice whisper—stop, let go—

  Elena refused. She yanked hard, ripping … tearing …

  It was almost enough. Almost. Elena was not strong enough to pull the worm completely free. A tendril remained, stuck fast within the Russian’s memories. The pain intensified; her heart felt like it was on fire. She could not breathe.

  And then the Russian was there, a large, warm presence, wrapping himself around her spirit, gathering up his strength with her own. The pain diminished, and she realized he was stealing the burden from her, draining all that agony into himself.

  Try it again, he said, his voice tight with strain.

  They pulled together and the worm stretched like a scream, long and wicked. Elena thought her spirit would tear, but the Russian refused to release her. He held her so tight she felt their spirits merge.

  An odd emerald light flickered on the edge of her spiritual vision. With it came strength. The worm snapped free. Elena tried to capture it, but the creature dissolved into shadow the moment it lost its hold on the Russian’s mind. The pain vanished. Elena felt a momentary disconnect, as though she no longer had anything left to measure her existence by. The pain had been everything, all-consuming. Without it, her reality felt lessened, depleted, and for the first time in her life she found her spirit adrift within another body, too exhausted to pull herself fully home. She could feel her physical self resting heavily on the Russian, but it was a distant sensation. The Russian’s mind felt more real than flesh, more comfortable than skin.

  You must go, he said. Your body cannot live without you.

  Just give me a minute. I’m tired.

  No. She felt him nudge her, but they were so tightly bound, a nudge was not enough. He tugged again, harder this time.

  Slowly, she told him, and then, with weary humor, Be gentle.

  Always. And he was gentle, and he was slow, and still it hurt. Not the same kind of pain they had just suffered, but a pain nonetheless. Heartache, perhaps; as they untangled themselves, Elena felt as though a piece of her soul were being left behind. She wondered if the Russian felt the same.

  Your name, she asked him. What is it?

  Artur. Artur Loginov.

  Artur. She liked that. My name is Elena Baxter.

  Greetings, he whispered. An odd light flickered through his mind, tinted green as emerald. Elena recognized it. Before she could say anything, she felt herself pulled away from Artur’s grasp, weightless as air, insubstantial as a lost dream. She reached out to him—instinctively—but he could not hold her.

  She landed back in her body with a rude thud, but darkness—always darkness—crept close against her vision and she could not lift her head from the Russian’s chest.

  She lost herself again.

  When Elena healed people, the journey back into her body was almost always instantaneous, never accompanied by unconsciousness or periods of confusion. Which was why, when Elena next opened her eyes and found herself back in the locker room—the Russian nowhere in sight—she knew something bad had happened.

  Namely, Rictor.

  “What did you do?” Elena asked, trying to stand. Her body would not obey; she felt weak, dehydrated. Rictor, impassive, stood less than a yard away. It took her a moment to realize she sat inside one of the shower stalls. Her clothes were still on, her body dry.

  Rictor ignored the question. “You need to shower before I return you to the cell. Doctor’s orders.”

  “What did you do to me?” Elena asked again, furious. “Where is Artur?”

  Rictor crouched. He looked bored. Gently he said, “You should not have interfered.”

  Elena stared at him, trying to read his face. It was impossible. “He would have died, Rictor. I had to do something.”

  “You complicated matters.”

  “How could I possibly have complicated anything around here? You guys are so in control you might as well brand your names on our asses and make us moo.”

  Rictor briefly closed his eyes. “If you really felt that way, you wouldn’t be thinking so hard about all the ways you can escape. Now stand up. You need to shower.”

  “Where’s Artur?” she asked again, unmoving. Her heart ached—a physical pain, as though a piece of her were missing.

  “The Russian is where he should be. Alive, thanks to you.” Rictor did not sound terribly happy about that. His green eyes flickered to a deep emerald, catching light, an impossible amount of light—

  Elena’s breath caught, remembering that same light inside Artur’s head. “You were there with us. You … helped.” You helped pull out the worm. You stole me away from Artur.

  “I would be a fool to do that,” he said.

  “Bullshit.”

  Rictor grabbed Elena’s arm and hauled her up. She barely had strength to stand on her own, so he had to hold her. She hated that, pushed feebly at his chest until he let her lean against the tile wall.

  “Swearing doesn’t become you,” he said quietly. “You don’t do it naturally.”

  “I don’t think you’re in any position to lecture me about good language. Or did I imagine all those times you said ‘fuck’?”

  Rictor’s mouth tightened. He reached out and turned the shower knob. Cold water blasted over Elena’s body. She gasped, trying to jerk away. Rictor held her still, getting sloshed with the same cold water. After a minute—the longest of her life—the water turned warm. Her scrubs hung heavy against her body.

  “What’s the point of this?” she spluttered, feebly wiping water from her eyes. “Or is this just another kind of torture?”

  “Cleanliness promotes health,” Rictor said, in a dry monotone that sounded as if he were reciting from a manual. “And the doctor wants you in perfect health.”

  “Your doctor is crazy,” she said, and then, quieter, “Why did you do it, Rictor? Why did you get involved? If I wasn’t supposed to help Artur, you could have stopped me. It wouldn’t have been hard for you to do.”

  Rictor said nothing. He did not look at her. Elena wondered if there were cameras watching them, but Rictor had started this, hadn’t he? Surely it was safe.

  “Is he still alive?” she asked, insistent. “At least you can tell me that. Did I heal him just so he could just get shot in the head?” The possibility made her sick.

  More silence. Maddening, horrible—

  “Rictor.”

  “No. Like I said, you complicated matters. Maybe we both did.” He stepped away before she could respond, peering at her body with a clinical detachment that rivaled that of most doctors. “Can you undress yourself?”

  Elena stared at him. “I sincerely hope you don’t expect me to take a shower—a real shower—right in front of you.”

  His silence was answer enough. Elena felt pure heat spread across her face. Her fingers curled against the slick tile.

  “No,” she said, low. “No. I don’t care what kind of sick place this is, I’m not taking any more. You turn around, Rictor. You turn around or leave this bathroom or do something the hell different, but I am not stripping naked in front of you.”

  “It’s the rules,” he said. “I have to follow them.”

  “Why? Is there someone watching us to make sure you do?”

  “No,” Rictor said. “It’s just something I have to do.”

  He bit out the words, and Elena could not tell what made him angrier: her resistance, or his own ina
bility to bend the rules for her benefit. She did not care, either way.

  “I won’t do it,” she said.

  “I can make you,” he replied.

  “Then you deserve to be here. You deserve this life, and worse.”

  Rictor’s expression darkened. “You should not talk to me like that.”

  “Why not? You already know what I’m thinking. Why shouldn’t I speak my mind?”

  He went very still. Stared at her, thoughtful. It made Elena uneasy when he looked at her like that.

  “I made a mistake,” he finally said, slowly. “I should have made you afraid of me.”

  “You call that a mistake? Holy crap.” Elena briefly closed her eyes, weary. She needed to lie down. “You’re no better than the rest of them … whoever they are.”

  Elena felt a large, warm hand on her neck. It was not a friendly touch. Rictor stood so close she could see herself in his eyes. “You’d better hope that’s not the case,” he whispered. “You’d better pray I’m better than that.”

  Elena said nothing. Her voice would not work. His terrible anger shot into her spine like a thunderbolt, jarring her security, her tentative trust. There was power inside him, immense and tightly reined. Like Niagara, dammed.

  Elena swallowed hard. “You’ve proven your point. Now let me go.”

  Rictor’s hand dropped away. He stepped back and turned sideways so that he faced the locker room door. “This is the best I can do, Elena. Take your shower.”

  He stared at the wall. If he wanted to, he could watch her from the corner of his eye—but Elena had lost all desire to argue. Her heart pounded so hard she felt dizzy.

  Why, Rictor? Why should I be afraid of you?

  He said nothing. Of course.

  Face hot, pride taking a nosedive into the drain beneath her feet, Elena shucked off her filthy clothes and kicked them away from her. There was soap in the stall. She scrubbed her skin raw, turning so she did not have to look at Rictor. Despite her humiliation, it felt good to be clean again.

  “You have five minutes,” he finally said.

  Elena turned off the water. She glanced around for a towel and found one folded on the floor by the shower. Next to it were some fresh scrubs and a pair of white socks. Rictor waited until she was dressed before tilting his head to look her over.