Shadow Touch (31 page)

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.

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 pornographic 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.”

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 Rile. 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.”

“Hey,” she said. “I, uh, heal things.”

“Cool. I see shit. Sometimes literally. Maybe we should go around in a circle, like in an AA meeting, and introduce ourselves,” Dean said. “I think that might be fun. A little more bonding before we start shooting people.”

“Maybe later,” Blue said. “After we shoot the people. And then when it’s just you and the mirror.”

Elena struggled not to smile, but Artur could hear her laughter in his head.

I think I like them
, she said.

I hoped you would. They are good friends.

Koni had already pulled aside Amiri and Rik. The three shape-shifters huddled together by the window, not speaking, just staring at one another. Elena thought it was eerie. Artur was not as surprised, having seen Koni react to Hari before.

“You guys aren’t going to start kissing, are you?” Dean called out. “ ‘Cause, you know, we got rooms for that.”

Koni gave him the finger, as did Rik. Amiri simply rolled his eyes.

“Dean,” Blue warned, but he was trying hard not to laugh. He gestured for Artur to join him at the computer and tapped the screen. “Okay, I took all the information you gave Roland and cross-referenced it with what we’ve got on the crime syndicates here in this country. There are twenty major groups, all of whom are deeply embedded in drugs, prostitution, and weapons sales. If what you’re saying is correct, and this Beatrix Weave can really control their minds, then the world is in a shitload of trouble.”

“She has to touch them to control them,” Artur said.

“Which is where I come in,” Elena remarked, coming up behind him. “Beatrix is paralyzed from the shoulders down. Which doesn’t mean that someone won’t shake her hand, but she presumably wants me to heal her before that meeting.”

“Which is tomorrow, right?” Blue shook his head. “We need more intel, man. Roland’s got our sources running ragged, but this one is going to need some footwork. You know anyone who would talk to you?”

“Yes,” Artur said. “If he does not shoot me first.”

“You willing to take that risk?”

“Hell, no.” Elena stared at them both. “Or are you forgetting that spot in your gut I just had to heal? Now you want me to tackle bullets? Man of danger, my ass.”

“He may not try to kill me,” Artur said mildly, trying to ignore the fact that all of his friends were watching their exchange with the intense interest of greedy old women starved for gossip.

“Oh, he’ll try,” Elena said. “
I’m
ready to try.”

Artur wondered if she knew who he was thinking of seeing, and she said,
Of course. You can’t hide anything from me now
.

I am beginning to regret that.

Keep talking.

He was smart enough not to, except only to say, “I need to do this.”

“How about a vest?” Blue asked. “Backup?”

Artur shook his head. “They will search me and see I am wearing it. That would be considered… weak. They would probably shoot me in the head as a matter of principle. They will also not trust anyone who comes with me.”

“
I’m
coming with you,” Elena said.

“Dean.” Artur took the gun Blue handed him and checked the ammunition. “Keep Elena here.”

“Sure,” he said, but he looked unhappy.

Elena shook her head. Artur glanced at Amiri and Rik; the two men silently positioned themselves behind her. Elena turned. “No. I know what he wants you to do. Don’t.”

“I’m sorry,” Rik said. “But I’m way more scared of him than I am of you.”

Artur reached out with one long arm and kissed Elena hard on the mouth. She kissed him back fiercely, and then bit his lower lip. Artur tasted blood.

“I assume that is because you love me,” he said, running his tongue over the sting from her teeth.

“You know how I feel,” she said, and he did. He could feel her love running through him like a river, strong like her anger and fear. She was terrified he would die, and that she would not be able to save him. It scared her to death.

He could not take that kind of emotion. He could not look into her eyes and not beg for forgiveness. So he left. Fast. As he did, instinct overcame him and he threw up a barrier, a shield against his mind. He did not know he could still do that. His soul felt lessened without Elena there inside of him.

He tried not to think of what would happen to her if he died.

Nikolai Petronova kept his offices in Chistye Prudy, but only because he had a view of the Kremlin from his northeast window. The area had once been known for its butchers and its ponds—the latter of which, centuries ago, had run filthy with the blood of slaughtered animals. The waters were clean now. Relatively so. Artur saw bits of trash floating alongside the paddleboats, which were being rowed by sweaty young men trying to impress their bored girlfriends.

The area also boasted the first Moscow post office, which was little more than a house with only a sign to make it official. Behind that old building was the white spire of Menshikov Tower. Trouble had always plagued its owners—lightning strikes, exile, death—but it was, first and foremost, a church, and Artur knew that, every evening before going home, Nikolai liked to pray before the altar of the archangel Gabriel.

Artur passed through the large double doors, following the church’s main aisle as it led left, toward the rear antechambers. Nikolai, after his initial benedictions, always retreated into the private prayer rooms so as to better contemplate his somewhat dubious existence. It was not difficult to find his location; Artur simply watched for his bodyguards, whom he found without any trouble at all.