Shadow Touch (8 page)

And then the woman filled his vision, her lips moving, and in his head—his breaking, shattering head—he heard her say,
Rest a little, sleep a little, just take a little of my heart
.

He did, and for the first time in his life, it was good.

Elena wondered how long the Russian had been kept in the facility, if he was the man she had heard screaming. He certainly seemed unwell, though she could not say how except that it was instinct, her gift. He was a tall man, lean and well built with the pale skin of the sun-shy. Dark hair framed his face, the sparse angles of his cheeks, and the hard line of his mouth, lovely and haunting.

Elena had difficulty looking at the Russian. His nudity was part of her discomfort, but there was also something fascinating about his face—so intense, so pained that it instantly repelled her, as though her mind and heart simply could not take the force of his gaze. Stupid, stupid; it was the most inappropriate case of shyness she had ever felt. Ill-timed, as well; Elena knew she was missing the perfect opportunity to make contact—contact of any kind—with a fellow captive.

But the Russian was not alone, and inside her head Elena heard a voice whispering,
Quiet, it is always the quiet ones that kill you
, and she had no idea why she felt such visceral revulsion to the man with brown hair and green eyes, the quiet man with that cold, detached gaze that seemed to swallow down her spirit into a dark place, empty and frightening. The Quiet Man raised within her the same phobia one might hold for a snake or spider. Inexplicable, mysterious fear.

And his voice—that voice—did not match his appearance in the slightest. When he spoke—
You must be new… I like the blood
—it was like hearing an orator, an educated storyteller, an expert of rolling vowels.

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 aware 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.