“Clean enough?” she asked, bracing herself against the shower wall. The hot water had restored her calm; she felt angry, though too weak to do much about it. Healing Artur had completely wrecked her endurance.
“You’ll do.” Rictor did not move. He watched her, thoughtful. Elena waited, happy to play the silence game.
“Are you ready?” he finally asked, and his voice was so quiet she had to lean forward to hear him. Even then, it took a moment to register his words. The question felt heavy, loaded.
She said, “Does it matter?”
He said, “It always matters.”
“And if my answer is no?”
She felt the great weight of his gaze upon her, measuring and judging, and he said, “Then you won’t survive. You need to be strong in the head, Elena. You need to be ready.”
“Ready for what? How can I trust you? You tell me these things, but then you say I should be afraid. I am not like you, Rictor—I can’t read minds. Why are you doing this?”
He moved close, the warm, rich brown of his skin holding the light, just as his eyes seemed to reflect it, flashing green and bright. Again she felt his power, power edged with some careful, timeless grace, and she remembered that brief presence inside Artur’s mind, surrounding them, sharing strength to fight the worm.
Rictor grabbed her arm and yanked her from the shower stall. She stumbled and caught her balance against him. He did not hurt her, but his strength was inexorable; he dragged her like a doll to the door.
“This is all I can do, Elena.” His voice was hard, quiet. “And when they kill me, you won’t even have that.”
“Rictor,” she breathed. He did not look at her. He refused to say anything more.
Chapter Six
Artur came to consciousness with the sense of cold plastic beneath his back. He did not open his eyes. He felt a low vibration, heard the click and whir of instruments. Typing. He smelled antiseptic.
He listened to the echo of the table he lay on. He sensed the faint presence of another man. Dying—that man had been dying when he lay here, not so long ago. Bleeding internally from some terrible impact. Another victim of some third-world promise: A day of easy work for a lot of money. Just get in the car. We’ll do all the rest.
The pain was gone. Still naked, still unprotected—but that soul-splitting headache had finally disappeared. Even the influx of vision in his head felt improved, as though the memories pouring through him were clean and cold, distant and not a part of him. Artur had not felt that way in a very long time. It was like having his youth restored, the youth he had never been able to have.
Elena gave me this gift. She did more than simply heal me.
Which was utterly remarkable. He had never imagined—even as strange as his life could be—that a person could do such things. Part of him still reached out for her, which disturbed him. It made no sense to feel such aching loss for a stranger.
Not a stranger. Not when he could clearly recall the touch of Elena’s spirit against his own, how it felt to have her so tightly bound against him they risked becoming one creature. It frightened him to be so exposed.
And yet … he could not deny it felt safe and right. To hold and be held—for once, to let the visions in his head sweep into darkness without being carried with them. Elena had anchored him, protected him, and though he looked down into the heart of her soul—looked deep, because he had no choice, never any choice—he was not repulsed by what he found. Elena’s skeletons were clean like her spirit, untainted by the tragedies in her life. She walked tall and lovely inside her heart, a heart that had embraced a stranger, a heart that had almost killed itself to help him.
And it pained him that he was unable to do more for her. Even in the end she had been pulled away from his embrace, stolen from his mind. Yes, she’d had to return to her body, but her disappearance felt like theft. He could not hold her—was too weak from the psychic battle with the strange creature inhabiting his thoughts.
A worm, a shadow, a vein into his head. Any description was meaningless, insofar as its purpose was concerned. Something had been done to him. His mind had been invaded, set upon by a leech.
Such a thing was not unheard of. Roland was an expert at psychic manipulation, as was Max Reese, another of Artur’s friends. According to them, it was close to impossible for a true telepath to hear anything beyond a person’s surface thoughts. It had to do with the low level of electricity every human generated—the kind of thing that allowed brain waves to be measured, or a slight charge registered by touching a field-strength meter. The only way to discover secrets that lay below the surface of a person’s consciousness was to lay down a thread of some kind—build a link between minds—and wait for the underground to surface.
Only, the secrets inside Artur’s head were the kind that should never be shared.
Perhaps the fail-safe was triggered. If so, then Roland will know something is wrong. He will be able to warn the others—perhaps even find me, if Dean has not already.
The fail-safe was Roland’s own creation, his version of a black worm. Years ago he had created a telepathic alarm system, a trick to keep the agency’s true purpose safe from betrayal. When someone was ready to be brought into the fold, Roland—with the individual’s permission—created a mental link, a connection between all the agency’s secret information and the emotional center of the brain. It did not take much to trigger the link. A single discussion with the wrong person—just one word, even—and Roland would know. All threads led back to him.
The black thread of the spider. Charles’s memory drifted cold through his mind. The black thread, holding him like a dog, with a voice in his dreams. Artur remembered his own dreams, his nightmares. A woman whispering, endless and undying.
She was trying to control me. I would have been another killer, leashed. A pet, like Charles Darling. And when she had me, she would have also had my secrets.
He recalled Ms. Graves pressing him for his assent, for just one word: yes. Chills shuddered up Artur’s spine. He had come so close to saying that word, and it would not have mattered if it was a lie in his heart; like Roland, whoever had set the worm upon him—be it Graves or someone else—needed his permission. Some agreement, which would have translated into the spiritual, opening a crack in his mind for the worm to slip through and take control. Of course, it did not matter to Graves if she truly convinced him to join—all she needed was to wear him down until he said something to appease her. The mind was a tricky thing, with natural barriers and natural weaknesses, but the old adage played true: Give an inch and someone would take a mile. Might take your whole life, too.
“You’re awake,” said a smooth voice, startling Artur. “Don’t try to pretend otherwise. Your brain activity has increased significantly since your last scan.”
Artur opened his eyes. Directly above him was the inner wall of a creamy plastic dome—a ring—curving down around him like the center of a smooth doughnut. He tried sitting up and found himself bound to the table, tight bands holding his ankles, wrists, and chest. There was a restraint around his forehead. He tried to look down his body at the man addressing him and heard a low laugh.
“No, dear boy. I am not in the room. I am speaking to you via an intercom.”
“Who are you?” Artur tested his bonds. Waking up completely helpless was growing tiresome.
Another low laugh. “A doctor, of course. Your doctor. And you, Mr. Loginov, are fast becoming one of my favorite patients.”
That was not a comforting thought, considering that Artur had some notion of what this man did to his patients. Still, he was not above taking advantage of a good opening. “Might I ask what is so fascinating?”
“Your brain,” said the doctor, a smile in his voice. “I have never seen anything quite like it. The activity in your anterior cingulate cortex is incredibly intense. You are, to put it mildly, lit up like a Christmas tree. Which is remarkable, considering that is the area of the brain most closely associat
ed with a great number of mental illnesses, including schizophrenia. Your extraordinary ability to process complex information must be the only reason you’re not yet insane.”
“How interesting,” Artur said. “I always wondered.”
“Delightful. I like it when my patients appreciate the process.”
Yes. Not very comforting at all.
Artur gazed down his body again. Outside the machine, past his feet, he saw a blank flatscreen monitor hanging from the ceiling; just below sat another monitor, this one blinking numbers. Artur heard more typing, which he realized was coming through the intercom. “How many patients do you have?” he asked, attempting a subtle examination of his restraints.
“Not so many,” said the doctor. “Although there has been a recent surge in some truly fascinating conditions. None that will surprise you all that much.” His emphasis was disturbing. But before Artur could respond, the doctor said, “Tell me how you feel.”
“How I feel?”
“Yes, dear boy. You suffered a collapse after your arrival. Or don’t you remember?”
“I remember,” Artur said, careful.
“And how do you feel now? Are you in pain?”
“No,” he said. “I feel fine.”
The doctor made a humming sound. “Interesting. What an unexpected reversal.”
Yes, but only if he expected Artur to be dead or incapacitated. Which meant that Elena’s intervention—healing his brain, removing the worm—had completely upset someone’s plans.
A scream cut the air. Artur jumped against his bonds. The cry was sharp, an animal howl, wicked with teeth and fury. It took him a moment to realize it was not originating inside the room with him. Close, though—perhaps just outside the door to where he was being kept. He heard men shout—muffled words over a song of snarls—and then something large slammed once, twice, against a wall.
Silence. Artur remembered his vision: a cheetah, circling. The animal he had just heard certainly sounded like a cat, though he had no idea why the Consortium would be concerning themselves with animals, unless it was for some kind of biological experiment.
Artur forced himself to remember, pushing, prodding, dredging up more of the cheetah—someone’s recollection of the animal—and then, again, a strong memory that had made an impression on more than one individual.
The dolphin. A living dolphin, held within a small tank that was only as wide and long as its body. The water looked dirty. The animal seemed tired, exhausted, it did not struggle in the harness that ran beneath its belly, holding it just above the water’s surface.
Artur peered close. How curious. Why would such a creature be here, in a place that seemed to have nothing at all to do with marine life—
He saw gold. Gold in the dolphin’s eyes. Dolphins did not have golden eyes.
No. Only shape-shifters do.
“Bozhe moy,” Artur murmured, too shocked to be mindful of anyone who might hear him. My God. How did they know? How did they find one? How, when we have searched for months without any luck?
Searching—it was part of Dirk & Steele’s bargain with the dragon woman, Long Nü. So few shape-shifters were left in the world, and they were in danger of dying, of fading into legend. If Dirk & Steele could offer the remaining shape-shifters a resource, a way of reconnecting with others of their kind …
A dolphin. Remarkable. Koni and Hari told me shape-shifters inhabited the oceans, that they flourished there while their landlocked brothers and sisters languished. Yet, to find one here … It is like discovering a unicorn.
And who was to say those did not exist as well? The world was full of vast possibility. Magic, science—all of it working together to create an extraordinary riddle without an answer, where the only response was acceptance. Accept, because the alternative was a small life, a small mind.
It was not so difficult for Artur to imagine the possibilities. Not when his life had been gifted with such highs and lows of pain and miracle. He had learned to accept a great deal from a very young age, and a little magic seemed easier and lovelier than the other truths he had swallowed.
So. A shape-shifter, here.
He thought of the cheetah. The big cat also had golden eyes, but that was typical of its kind. Artur could not say for certain the animal was anything more than what it appeared to be.
But what if? They already have one shape-shifter. Two, though remarkable, is not impossible.
But it was humbling.
I need to help them, Artur decided. He thought of Elena—felt his heart ache, like a little death. And you. I am coming for you, Elena. You are not alone. I am still with you.
Still with her, and tied naked to a table.
Well. He never had expected an easy life.
Muted voices outside the room broke Artur’s concentration. He listened, and a moment later heard the doctor’s high, loud voice over the garbled mess of words and accents.
“Inexcusable,” Artur heard him say. “You should have been more careful.”
More talking, again interrupted by the doctor. “No, I told you his metabolism works faster than a normal animal’s. You simply did not listen. Now take him back and clean up this mess. Fast.”
His metabolism works faster than a normal animal’s.
That clarified things, and considering what Artur remembered from his visions, he had a fairly good idea of who was screaming out in the hall. The Consortium really did have two shape-shifters in its custody—one of whom still had enough strength to fight. Good. That was very good.
Artur heard a loud click. Muffled voices, scuffing noises, followed by a single pair of footsteps. Definitely in the room this time.
An elderly man in a white lab coat appeared beside Artur’s feet. He held a black plastic bag. His smile was faintly unpleasant, his face too narrow and his eyes too sharp to allow the baring of teeth. Artur watched him as best he could. The old man tapped a button on the side of the machine. The table Artur lay upon slid out. Artur blinked as the bright ceiling lights blinded him.
“I apologize,” said the doctor. “I hate interruptions.”
“And yet you manage them so well. That was an animal I heard, yes?”
“Very much so.” The doctor smiled. “Quite difficult to train.”
“Cats usually are. They are so much like people. Minds of their own, as you know.”
The doctor’s smile faltered. Yes. It was quite clear he did know. The hand holding the black plastic bag clenched tighter, knuckles rolling white.
“What a skill you have,” said the doctor softly. “What a knack for learning. Fascinating. They say you are a dangerous man. I quite believe it. And yet, I find myself wondering how it is that a man such as yourself, a man who can see the most hidden secrets of anyone in the world, does not run his own empire, his own kingdom to rival the one you are about to join.”
“I am sorry,” Artur said, “but I have no idea what you are talking about.”
The doctor raised an eyebrow. “I suppose that answers it, then. You really are no better than a thug.”
Which, Artur reasoned, was the same as being called stupid. He could live with that, considering the source.
The doctor said, “I wish I could dissect you.”
Artur fought the urge to laugh. “Forgive me if I do not share that wish.”
“Of course. I’m a patient man.”
“You must be, faced as you are with so much disappointment.”
“I seem to be encountering an overabundance of bad humor.”
“Then you should stop inviting jokes.”
The doctor wanted to hit him: Artur could see that in his eyes, the quick flex of his fingers. He recognized that expression, that—sharp pain, shocking, so unexpected, and why … why—
Elena. Her memories, dredged from his unconscious. He remembered. The doctor had hit her, given her that bruise on her face. He had made her taste blood—blood and pain—and it was terrible. Artur’s anger was terrible, so shocking and unexpecte
d, because he did not know this woman—not truly, not with his heart, and …
Artur wanted to kill him. Perhaps the doctor saw it in his eyes; he swayed backward. Just a fraction, a sliver of weakness. Artur smiled.
“Do it,” he said. “Touch me.”
The doctor’s jaw tightened. “I am afraid you have misjudged my enthusiasm.”
“I think you like giving pain. So I have misjudged nothing.”
“Really.” The doctor drew out the word, low and hard. “You are lucky I am a man of control, Mr. Loginov.”
Artur thought of Elena. “You overestimate yourself.”
“And you are under the mistaken impression that you are entitled to an opinion.”
He could not help himself; Artur laughed. Cold, slipping into the mask of his youth, the hard way of the gun and fist, he said, “If I killed you, it would be a favor.”
The doctor raised his hand.
“Stop.” One word, a familiar voice. The doctor froze. Artur rolled his gaze, trying to find the camera. He did not see it, but over the intercom Graves said, “You should leave the room, Doctor.”
The doctor lowered his hand. Calm entered his gaze, but Artur did not miss the hard set of his mouth, the tension in his slim shoulders. He dropped the black bag on the floor and left. Just outside the door stood Ms. Graves. Artur thought he saw blood on the wall behind her. Clumps of golden hair.
Graves laid her hand on the doctor’s shoulder as he passed. She whispered into his ear. His expression brightened. He left her with a light step, which was no comfort to Artur.
Graves entered the room and closed the door behind her. She looked different than Artur remembered. Without shadows to hide within, to add ghost flesh, her appearance was truly skeletal. She stood straight, but with a hint of concavity to her chest, a hollowness that seemed deeper than flesh.
“You called my bluff,” she said.
“No,” he said. “I thought I was choosing death.” If that surprised her, she did not show it. She swayed close, studying his face with cold detachment.
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