Shadow Touch

by Marjorie M. Liu

  The man kicked Artur away, but not before he shared his bitter, quiet rage at being bound to such a woman, tied to her body and soul—the black thread of the spider—holding him like a dog, like a—soldier, her first guard—with her voice in his dreams—endless and undying.

  The man touched his head, a slow, deliberate gesture. “You should not have done that.”

  Artur struggled to stand, to focus past the fire in his head. “You are a pitiful man. Not even your own man, are you? A joke. You showed me your worst because you thought it would be more than I could endure, but your worst is nothing. You are nothing, Charles Darling.”

  The name slipped off his tongue, a gift from his unconscious. Artur knew instantly it was not a true birth name, but a name this man had used for so long it had become part of his identity. The only identity that mattered to him.

  Charles went very still. Quietly, in a voice scaled with venom, he said, “How unfortunate. There are not many people who know that name.” He looked at his two companions, only one of whom was still conscious. It was the man with the broken kneecap. He had stopped howling, but sweat rolled down his white face. He rocked back and forth. Artur did not think he had heard anything of their conversation; he seemed completely absorbed by his own pain.

  Charles took two quick steps and grabbed the man’s head. He twisted hard to the right. Artur heard a crack. The man slumped, dead. Fast, merciless, breathtakingly efficient.

  Charles gazed down at the second man, who still lay unconscious. He said, “What do you think?”

  Artur thought he was in a lot of trouble. “That man is already dead to the world. No need to make it permanent.”

  The corner of Charles’s mouth tugged upward. “Permanent is my specialty. But you know that.”

  “Yes,” Artur said, but memory filled him and he remembered rules—rules and something else. Someone else. A dark face, green eyes. And that other, the woman. Sweet Beatrix. L’araignée. The spider.

  “Interesting,” Charles said. He backed away from the unconscious man like a snake with a mouse in its belly, full on death. Maybe later Charles would kill this colleague—when he got the itch, when he got hungry—but he was satisfied for now. Good enough to move on. The rules that bound Charles did not protect the people he worked with, which was significant and familiar. As with the mob, certain people were expendable: disposable resources, thrown away when broken or inconvenient. It did not speak very highly of the Consortium.

  That, and they employed serial killers. Serial killers, leashed. If the Consortium could do such a thing with this man, they could do it with others.

  It is what they plan to do with me.

  “Come on,” Charles said to Artur, and it was unsettling being spoken to by this man, this murderer, remembering him through Marilyn’s eyes, the eyes of a dying woman.

  Charles pointed to the open door. Artur’s gaze flickered to the remains of his underwear. Impossible. He would have to cope. Take advantage of the situation no matter how much it pained his mind. Hold out as long as he could until Dean and the others from the agency found him. Or until he found a way to escape on his own.

  Artur walked from the room into a stark corridor lined with white pipes. His feet touched the concrete floor, and … a bombardment, a fresh stream of new impressions: excitement, concern, fear. The orderly intentions of men and women who moved with clinical detachment and purpose.

  Not so many people, though; Artur encountered the same minds again and again, filling up on white coats, black monitors, glass windows … the sensation of a great expanse. Soft rooms, steel tables. A dark hallway filled with curtains. Every step opened a door into a separate world of memory, spreading warm like the pain radiating from the base of his skull into his eyes and ears. Artur swallowed every vision, pushing it back, away, deep into his unconscious where later it might prove useful, where until that moment of recollection he could try to forget all those lives stolen from the echoes of his passing.

  The halls began to look familiar, seen again and again through other eyes. He knew that fifty yards to his left would be the mess hall, that down another nearby corridor were men’s locker rooms. And down lower, lower … images rolled: a dolphin in a large tank, slick gray flesh covered with sensors, men and women staring, waiting, staring—oh, my God, oh, my God—a cheetah, circling, golden eyes bright with intelligence—so fucking stubborn we’ll use the electric prods next—and a room where no one was ever allowed, no one ever, a chamber—the Black Hole—of secrets known only to a handful, the bosses, the—women in suits, with hands like guns ‘cause when they point at you it’s like bang-bang, you’re dead—

  One level down. All of those things he had seen were one level down. Artur knew it as well as the individuals who walked these floors, stepping where Artur now stepped. A code filtered into his mind. Access to that level. Access to even more than that.

  Surely there had to be a trick. Ms. Graves was not so stupid.

  But she is arrogant. Sometimes that is one and the same.

  The base of his skull pulsed, like fingers digging into his brain stem, tearing the fibers of his mind bit by bit. The embarrassment of being naked faded in comparison to Artur’s struggle to stay upright. He glanced at Charles, who walked beside him, relaxed, quiet. Marilyn still begged for her life. Artur wanted to kill the man.

  “Most guards bind their prisoners. You are not concerned I will try to escape?”

  Charles did not look at him. “You are too weak to fight. Too weak to run. And even if you were not weak, no one escapes this place. Not ever.”

  “You were able to leave.”

  Charles smiled. “I’m not a prisoner.”

  Not true, Artur thought, recalling his vision. You are even more a prisoner than I am.

  He heard footsteps: the heavy tread of boots, accompanied by something light, the brush of cloth. The corridor forked; from the left passage appeared two figures: a tall, muscular man with dark brown skin, and a small, pale woman dressed in blood-soaked scrubs. Her hands were red, glistening and wet. A bruise masked one cheek.

  Charles missed a step. The man and woman stopped.

  The man, whose face held a familiar place in Artur’s new memories, wore an intense expression of displeasure that seemed solely directed at Charles. Artur did not miss the way he touched the woman’s elbow, slowing her. Perhaps even cautioning her.

  “Rictor,” Charles said, though he looked at the woman when he spoke. She met his gaze, unblinking.

  Rictor said nothing. His fingers still grazed the woman’s elbow. He stared at Charles, slow, steady, and unafraid. It was not an act; Artur sensed no fear from the man, not a trace of unease. Whoever Rictor was, he knew Charles Darling well enough to be wary—but wary only for the woman.

  Just as Charles was wary of Rictor.

  Rictor looked at Artur. He had far-seeing eyes, too old for his face. Artur felt something tickle his brain, soft, a whisper beneath the swarm of memories filling his head. Rictor’s frown deepened.

  “The Russian should be wearing something,” he said, still studying Artur. “A straitjacket, maybe. Socks and gloves at the very least. For fuck’s sake, you brought him in. You were briefed on his abilities.”

  “Those were not my orders,” Charles replied.

  “Convenient,” Rictor said. “Where are the others?”

  Charles smiled. Rictor’s jaw tightened. He looked at Artur again, and then turned to the woman.

  “Give me your socks,” he said.

  “Or what?” she asked. Her voice was different than Artur expected: deeper, richer. It struck his heart—that wry strength, effortless as breathing.

  “Give me the socks,” Rictor said again. The woman bent, slow, unbalanced. She seemed exhausted. Artur watched her—all the men watched her—and he found himself wishing that were not the case, that she not be the focus of such predatory scrutiny. Artur glanced at Charles, found the man wholly absorbed, staring with the fascination of a scientist, a cold,
analytical scrutiny that missed nothing, that tallied and calculated and planned, moments to be played like music in his head—

  Artur could not take it, could not allow it. He turned and stepped in front of Charles, blocking his view of the blood-covered woman. Charles’s head snapped up, like an animal: quick, nostrils flaring.

  “What are you doing?” he asked quietly.

  Artur felt the woman watching. There was nothing he could say that would not alarm her, so he remained silent, unmoving. Charles narrowed his eyes. Artur prepared himself.

  “Don’t.” Rictor appeared beside them—fast, silent. He and Artur were the same height, but up close Rictor felt like the bigger man. “Don’t even think about it.”

  Will you know if we do? Artur asked silently, gambling on instinct, that odd, feathering sensation in his aching brain. Rictor’s gaze flickered in his direction. He took that as a yes.

  “Step back,” Rictor said to Charles. Charles did not move. His defiance did not surprise Artur, though he sensed it was unusual. The hint of a memory—something about Rictor, a particular power Charles was wary of, that kept him playing by the rules. Those singular rules …

  Artur blinked. It was getting harder to think, to focus.

  Rictor edged sideways, close. Artur gave him room, slipping backward toward the woman. It surprised him: Rictor, exposing himself, allowing Artur an opportunity to strike from behind. Even if he was a telepath, able to sense Artur’s intentions, it was a risky move.

  But what surprised Artur more—what stole his breath—was that he did not want to take the opportunity. There were some things worse than death, worse than postponing a dash to freedom. Charles Darling was one of them.

  Artur stood close to the woman. He felt the heat of her body on his skin, and it shamed him to be so exposed to her. She did not deserve the indignity. She held a pair of large white socks; her small, pale toes wriggled against the concrete. Her touch stained the cotton red, though he no longer believed the blood was hers. She refused to look at him, and so he openly studied the bruise on her cheek. Artur wondered if Rictor had hit her.

  “Are you deaf?” Rictor said to Charles—so deadly, so quiet. “I said to get the fuck back.”

  “I heard you,” Charles said. “I’m just very slow.”

  The woman moved. Artur turned, and for a moment—the first, it seemed—their gazes met. It was different, looking into her eyes—as though the distance between them were nothing, less than a thought, and it stunned him to feel the intensity of her dark gaze, which was everything he had imagined and more—sharp, inquisitive, defiant. It was so defiant that Artur felt himself begin to smile, because here was another fighter, another captive, and he was not alone.

  She has a clean spirit. Clean and bright and strong.

  Overwhelmed as he was, Artur still wanted to touch her—the first time he had ever felt that way about anyone, including Tatyana. He had to touch her, to be sure, to be proven right or wrong, but even as his fingers flexed she tore her gaze from his face and looked past him at Charles. The fierce light in her eyes faltered, but she collected herself enough to lift her chin and stare unblinking into his cold green eyes.

  Artur wanted to say, No, do not, have a care with your life, but he said nothing, because it would have been an insult, and he could see the pride that kept her straight, her gaze keen. He wondered if she did not realize how dangerous Charles Darling was to her—how lethal his touch would be.

  But then Artur looked deeper, noted the white knuckles and utter stillness of her body. Tension, singing.

  She knows. My God, she knows.

  Charles smiled: slow, chilling. “You must be new. I don’t know your face.”

  The woman’s eyes darkened. Rictor shoved Charles back.

  “You overstep your bounds,” Rictor murmured, though there was nothing soft about his voice. “You forget your place.”

  “No,” Charles said. “You forget my place. Or don’t you recall why I am here, the things I am supposed to do?”

  “Supposed to do, or want to do?” Rictor raised an eyebrow; his lips twisted with contempt. “You’re in love with your monster.”

  “It takes a monster to train a monster.” Charles glanced over Rictor’s shoulder at Artur, past him to the woman. “Or have you forgotten that? Have l’araignée’s lessons faded so quickly?”

  No one trained you, Artur thought, shifting sideways so that Charles could not look at the woman. A moment later he felt her move so that once again she stood in plain sight. Artur did not understand her quiet insistence; it troubled him.

  Troubles you because it is familiar. You would do the same. Too much pride.

  The woman locked gazes with Charles: a staring contest with a serial killer. Artur could not imagine anything more horrible—or admirable. He felt Rictor watching him. Artur met his gaze. Staring contests all around. Captor, captive—the lines were blurring inside his head, warping around pain.

  “I like the blood,” Charles said to the woman.

  “Funny,” she said.

  Charles’s expression did not change, but Rictor gave him a sharp look, began to step in front—

  Charles struck at his throat. Rictor twisted sideways so that the man’s hooked fingers slid harmlessly through the air. Rictor grabbed his wrist, twisting down hard. Artur heard a joint pop; Charles’s shoulder suddenly protruded at an unnatural angle from the rest of his body. Fast, fast, fast.

  “I thought you were a patient man,” Rictor said softly, as though they were alone, holding a gentle conversation.

  “But I am a man,” Charles replied, not a hint of strain in his voice. “Temptation, you know.”

  The woman made a sound, low in her throat. “Who are you people?”

  “They call themselves the Consortium,” Artur answered. He turned to face the woman. Urgency moved him, the need to give her something to protect herself with—fast now, quick, before anyone could stop him. “They are nothing more than criminals.”

  “They’re doing experiments on people like us,” she whispered. “But you’re the first—”

  She stopped. Artur wondered why she stared at him with such rapt concern.

  Something dribbled from his nose. Artur touched his face. His fingertips came away red. He felt warmth in his ears, liquid pushing through the soft canal, rolling down his neck. He smelled blood, and this time it was not from the woman.

  The pain had become so much a part of him he had forgotten it, partitioned it like he partitioned memory so that he could focus on the present, on what needed to be done. Too long, too much—the breaking point had come and gone and now … I am going to pay—

  An ax lodged in his head would have been kinder. Artur felt as though giants were cracking the shell of his skull for meat, chewing on his brain. He staggered. The woman reached out to touch him even as Rictor said, “No.”

  Her hands were soft. He noticed that first, even as her shadow rolled through him, settling light within his aching mind. Her skin felt good, sweet.

  Images flickered, but they were warped, impossible to sort through his dying brain. All he could make sense of was her voice, whispering—I can fix him, oh, God, what have they done to this man, why are we here, why are they so cruel, please hang on, please don’t die, listen to me, listen—

  He listened, falling to the ground. The woman—Elena—moved with him, her hands sliding from his shoulders to his chest. He tried to look at her face but all he saw was the man looming behind her. Rictor, a dark blur, who began to pull Elena away, but stopped at the last moment. Stopped and stepped back. Artur imagined his eyes glowed.

  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.

  Chapter Five

  It was good that Elena had some practice maintaining her composure under stressful circumstances
. Trying to heal lethal diseases in the middle of crowded hospitals had taught her a certain level of self-possession, the desperate I-have-a-secret-identity kind that now served her well. Sort of, if she did not count her sole panic attack. Which she did not.

  Still, it was a shock coming face-to-face with another prisoner. Not a ghost town any longer, running the edge of abandonment and solitude. It wasn’t just her, the lonely freak—accompanied by another freak who seemed to be acting as both jailer and adviser.

  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.