“I’m not sure there’s anything I can hide from you,” she said, but did not pull away from him again. The idea of this man being able to see into her life was unsettling, but no more so than anything else she had encountered in the past few days. At the very least, Artur did not want to kill her.
“I would never hurt you,” he said.
Elena briefly shut her eyes. “I would really appreciate it if people stopped reading my mind.”
“I am sorry. We are still … touching.”
Elena frowned. “We’re not really touching. I mean, I can accept that the two of us are communicating via our unconscious minds—however impossible that feels—but that’s not the same as being physical.” Even if it felt like it.
Artur shrugged. “I also do not understand it, but I think the link must begin in our spirits. We connected on a very … deep level when you healed me. Very deep.”
“Groovy.” Elena glanced around the kitchen. The ducks had moved on to Huey Lewis and were flashing their feathers at each other. “We need to escape this place, Artur. And I’m not talking about the dream.”
“It will not be easy. I have learned some things about the facility, but not enough.”
“Well, when you figure it out, let me know.”
“Of course.” Artur wrapped both arms around Elena, his touch sliding up, up, past her waist, over her shoulder blades, until again he cradled her face in his hands. Elena’s breath caught. Really, she should tell him to stop touching her. Really, there was no reason in the world he should think to get away with that kind of behavior, but …
“Are you sure this is not real?” he murmured, close. “Truly? Maybe our bodies are together. Maybe we slipped away.”
“The mind plays tricks,” she whispered, and touched his mouth lightly, with her fingertips. Artur closed his eyes. The ducks stopped singing. The radio switched off. Perfect silence.
He kissed her fingers. Elena swallowed hard. This was a really good dream. Or not-dream. Whatever. It was good.
The ducks suddenly quacked—an ugly, flat sound that was definitely not eighties rock—and then scattered in a feathered flurry. The sunlight pouring through the kitchen window faded to gray. Elena heard footsteps, echoing hard and ominous.
“Elena,” said Artur. He looked concerned.
“Someone’s coming,” she whispered. “Don’t let go.”
He tried. Even though it was just a dream, a shared fantasy between two minds, she felt his strong, hard arms press around her body, holding her close. It was not enough. Elena woke up, breathing hard, terrified. She lay still for one long moment, trying to calm herself. White walls, cold and sterile, glared at her. Elena tried to remember sunlight and color and music. She tried to hold on to Artur, to find him again. Her heart did not ache, which meant something to her, though she did not know exactly what.
The door to Elena’s cell opened. The Quiet Man entered.
Holy shit. I am in deep trouble.
The Quiet Man appeared normal enough; he was a standard white male, with an easygoing face. His cold green eyes marked him as something else: a nut, a dangerous man. It did not matter to Elena either way. Her soul screamed when she looked at him. He could resemble Gandhi and she would still feel the same.
“Hello,” said the Quiet Man. He shut the door. Never took his gaze from her.
“Hello.” Elena stood up. “This is a surprise.”
“I had some time to spare. I’ve been thinking of you.”
“Oh?” Her heart slammed against her ribs; she felt breathless.
Calm down. If he lays one hand on you, kill him. Eat his face off. Flush his balls.
The Quiet Man said, “You remind me of someone.”
“Who would that be?” No panic. Fight mode. Fight.
“A woman, of course.” So still, so quiet, his gaze so disturbing. “Until I saw you in the hall, I had not thought of her in a very long time. I needed the reminder. Better days, you know. Free days.” He tilted his head. “I bet you’re hungry for some freedom right about now. Some word of the outside. I could sit here for a while and keep you company. You must be very lonely.”
“No.” Sweat trickled down her ribs. “I am quite fine, thank you.”
“Such manners. Remarkable. I noticed your beauty first, that singular resemblance, but I must admit that it is your composure I am most impressed with. Truly. You do not know how rare it is for me to encounter someone in this place who behaves so well.”
“Do you encounter many?” Elena asked, forcing herself to engage him. It was difficult to think straight with the Quiet Man standing so near, in such a confined space; she had not realized how the presence of Rictor and the Russian had softened her terrible fear of him. What an inexcusable time to discover weakness.
“No one like you.” The Quiet Man did not move; his perfect stillness was eerie, unnatural. Much like the silence that followed. Elena expected him to talk, but instead he stared—stared with the same intensity that had marked their previous, albeit short-lived encounter. Elena refused to turn from his gaze, swallowing down her discomfort, the horrible sense of oppression that accompanied his quiet eyes.
“Taken your fill yet?” Elena asked, when still he did not speak. She could not stand much more of his inaction, his deadly silence.
He smiled. “Not yet, Elena. It will take some time to understand you. To learn what makes you tick. But time, thankfully, is something we both have.”
“I’m really not that complicated.”
“Oh, no. You are so strong, Elena. You know what I am. I can see it in your face. You know what I am, and yet you do not look away.”
Elena did not know how to respond. He said, “Good. That is good, Elena. Strength is its own currency in this place. Power, too. You have both. The only thing left to measure is your resolve.”
“My resolve is fine,” she said.
“We’ll see,” said the Quiet Man. He moved.
It was not a surprise—Elena had some warning—but he was fast and strong and he grabbed her by the ear, wrenching it so hard she lost her balance. Even as Elena fell, she lashed out with her hands. A blind strike, but true: She caught an eye, his bottom lip. Dug her jagged nails into wet flesh and yanked hard. The Quiet Man grunted; he slammed his fist into her shoulder. Elena refused to let go. He put his hands around her neck. She saw her reflection in his eyes, her face so bright and pale she could not see the color of his gaze, and then she could not breathe—could not draw air to live—and there was nothing in his face but calculation, measurement, and she knew he could choke her until the brink of death and then bring her back, again and again, like a necromancer playing a game of life—so sure, so confident, looking at her as though he had already won and that the strength he bragged upon for her sake was nothing, just a toy with words, just another weak woman—pliant in his deadly hands—and she refused to be that woman. She refused to die.
She entered his body. It was not difficult. He had barriers, but she had strength and anger and desperate desire, and his resistance lasted only seconds. She entered his body and it was like breathing to her, like the breathing she was not capable of, and she thought, I could heal you; I could kill you—the two are so very much alike, and she went looking for his heart, for that precious muscle. She found it. Wrapped her spirit tight around the pulse, the beat, and squeezed.
The Quiet Man’s eyes widened. He gasped. Let go of Elena’s neck and kicked her away. The link between them died. Elena hit the floor hard, gasping for breath, gagging on air. The Quiet Man clutched his chest.
“You tried to kill me,” he whispered. “I felt you try to kill me.”
“All’s fair,” Elena spit, still on her hands and knees. “Touch me again and I’ll finish the job.”
She heard something outside the hall: the hard pounding of feet. The door slammed open. Rictor. A sheen of sweat covered his dark forehead.
“Boo,” said the Quiet Man, still holding his chest. His face was pale, his lips almos
t ashen. Elena wanted to laugh, but felt too sick. She could not sit up. Her throat ached.
Rictor stepped into the room. There was nothing different about his appearance, but Elena sensed a change, some subtle charge within his eyes, the slant of his hard mouth. He glanced at Elena. His jaw flexed.
“This is the second time you’ve broken the rules, Charles.” Rictor’s eyes glinted bright. “You did not fucking learn your lesson.”
The Quiet Man straightened, his hand falling to rest against his side. His body quaked. Elena would bet he needed to lie down, too. “I’m not myself, Rictor. She does things to me.”
“I can see that,” Rictor said. “She almost killed you. Maybe you should have let her. When l’araignée finds out”
“L’araignée will do nothing, Rictor. She needs me.”
“She does not need you more than Elena.” Rictor bared his teeth. “Temptation. I always knew you wouldn’t stay leashed. The black thread grows tiresome, doesn’t it?”
The Quiet Man looked at Elena. Rictor stepped in front of him.
“Don’t look at her,” he said, low. “Don’t think of her.”
The Quiet Man bared his teeth. “You cannot control a man’s thoughts, Rictor. That is the last realm of his dignity, his sole and most perfect possession. Even you cannot touch that.”
“Are you sure?” Rictor whispered. Elena thought his eyes glowed. “Be careful, Charles. You don’t know all my tricks.”
The Quiet Man hesitated. “You are still caught in the same web. L’araignée’s black thread may not hold you, but it is the same for us both. She has our souls.”
Rictor said nothing. A moment later the Quiet Man winced. He touched his temple.
“Get out of here,” Rictor said. “Stay out.”
The Quiet Man said nothing. Elena did not think he looked especially cowed, but he did avert his eyes as he stood. Elena watched his face, the terrible nature of its ordinariness, and felt more afraid than she had before.
I’ll be a challenge to him now. This isn’t a man who gives up.
The Quiet Man left. When the door closed behind him, Elena waited a moment and said, “Is he really gone?” She glanced at the two-way mirror. Rictor nodded. Elena lay down on the floor and sprawled out on her back. She stared at the ceiling. Weakness be damned. It did not mean jack shit to pretend courage, not after that. Her heart pounded; her head and throat hurt. She felt sick to her stomach. It was the end of the adrenaline rush.
Rictor crouched beside her. “Maybe you should put your head between your knees.”
Elena squeezed her eyes shut. She was going to vomit, she was going vomit, she was—
Rictor dragged her to the toilet just in time. She hurled. Nothing but bile came up, but that was ugly enough. Face red, eyes watery, Elena slumped back down on the floor.
“I hate this,” she said. “I hate this.”
“Tell me what happened.”
Elena tapped her head. “Don’t you already know?”
His mouth tightened. “This is for your benefit, Elena. It will help you.”
“What would really help me is getting out of here, Rictor. Think you can do something about that?”
He said nothing. Elena sighed. “I almost killed him. Committed murder. I never, ever thought about using my gift in that way, but for just one moment—one—it seemed like the most natural thing in the world.”
“Of course it did.” His voice was quiet, calm. “You can’t get much more natural than the desire to live.”
“It shouldn’t have happened,” Elena said. “What kind of zoo are you running here?”
“The kind that keeps men like Charles Darling as pets.” Rictor stood. He held out his hand to Elena, but she did not take it. She stood on her own. It was not easy or pretty. She gingerly touched her neck.
“Who is he? And how could anyone keep that man as a pet?”
“Charles is a serial killer,” Rictor said—simple, easy, like the name of a recipe for fancy breads: homicide wheat supreme or psycho banana walnut. Nice and warm. “He likes women, but he’ll do either gender if the timing and circumstances are right. You look exactly like his first kill.”
Elena stared at him. “And you’re telling me this now?”
“I didn’t want to alarm you. I knew Charles was interested, but I thought he would have enough sense to stay away.”
“Because of that … that l’arawhat’s-her-name?”
“Yes.” One word, tense. Elena waited. He said nothing more. Stood there as though silence were the only friend he had.
Unacceptable. Elena was through with the scraps, riddles. She wanted answers. After what she had just experienced—the line she had almost crossed—she wanted them so badly she was ready to get down and fight all over again.
She stepped near. “Rictor. Who is she?”
He moved away, but Elena stayed close, pushing him with nothing more than her gaze. “No,” she said. “You tell me. Who is this woman, and why am I more important to her than the Quiet Man?”
“She is coming here today to meet you,” he said. “Soon, in fact. You’ll see for yourself why she wants you.”
He sounded like a man proclaiming a death sentence. Elena could not read his expression; he was trying to pull off “bored,” but he was not quite detached enough to do it. She saw the fear in his gaze, the sliver of anger—at her or this l’araignée, she could not tell.
“Wait,” she said. “L’araignée … what does that mean?”
“Spider,” Rictor said, and his voice was dull. “It means spider. The spider with her black thread. Her black worm.”
Elena stared at him. “The woman who put that thing into Artur’s psyche is coming here to see me?”
Rictor’s jaw flexed. “Do you remember what I said about being strong in the head, Elena? Do you remember what I told you?”
She nodded, unable to speak. The expression on his face terrified her.
“Good,” he said. “Because she is almost ready for you.”
Artur opened his eyes in the real world, the hard white world of the facility. Graves was the first person he saw. The rag was gone. Sweat rolled off his scalp, his body, soaking his clothing. His throat ached. Screaming—he had been screaming.
And not just because of the rag and the death it held.
Elena, he thought, reaching out to her. He could still feel her presence inside his heart—not just the thought of her, but an actual presence. It did not matter; he could not find her. He could not see the outcome of her terrible battle with Charles Darling.
The connection between them had been so strong that when Elena was pulled away, a piece of Artur went with her: the seeing part of his mind, a sliver of consciousness. A vision without the physical, which should have been impossible, but his powers were of the mind, were they not? And there were so many different kinds of touch. Touch of skin, touch of thought, touch of spirit.
He saw. He saw Charles enter her room. Saw and heard and could do nothing to help her. Screaming as if it were the end of his life, raging, fighting in his ghost prison as Charles wrapped his hands around her throat and squeezed.
And then … nothing. Here, now, Graves gazing down at his face with a puzzled frown.
“Your mind went somewhere,” she said.
Artur could not speak. He fought to control his breathing. Graves traced the air just above the crown of his sweat-plastered hair.
“What secrets sleep?” she murmured. “Such complex emotions, Mr. Loginov. Your heart just spins on a dime, from calm to anxiety to fear to courage. It is all I can do just to keep up with the emotions you throw at me.”
“It is his brain,” said the doctor, who stood on the far side of the room with a clipboard and pen in his hands. “Every time Mr. Loginov has a vision, he toes the line of madness. It’s no wonder he has mood swings.”
Graves quirked her lips. “I think you’re falling into oversimplification, Doctor, but that’s all right. Sometimes complex men need a lit
tle simplicity in their lives.” She leaned close to Artur, her gray eyes as cold as her name. “But you and I need to talk now.”
Artur ignored her. Marilyn sobbed. Poor dead Marilyn. If the same happened to Elena …
“Mr. Loginov.”
“No,” he spit. He remembered the mold-slick basement that smelled of blood; the woman who had died there still lived with him, begging for peace. And now her killer had his hands wrapped around another woman’s throat and he could do nothing. Nothing but hope and pray. “No, Ms. Graves. I will not divulge the secrets of my agency. Keep hurting me if you like, but you have lost me.”
Her mouth turned down; an ugly mouth, gray and hard. “There goes that mood swing. You certainly are fickle.” She glanced over her shoulder at the doctor, who watched them both with undisguised interest. “I think you have another appointment to go to, Doctor. You don’t want to be late.”
Disappointment flickered over the old man’s face, but he nodded and left the room. When he was gone, Graves found a chair and pulled it close to the table, sat down, and crossed her legs. Artur did not see a gun, but he was sure she was armed.
Graves said, “I should have killed you.”
“You still could.”
“No,” she said. “It’s too late. You’re a challenge now. I don’t need a challenge, but with you, I cannot seem to help myself.”
“You must live a very sad life if torturing me is the only thing that brings you excitement.”
She laughed. “Oh, Mr. Loginov. The things we have in store for you. You are telling yourself it cannot get worse. You are thinking there is nothing more terrible than what I just made you endure. You are thinking you can buy enough time, learn enough secrets, to help you escape. Poor man. You are so very wrong.”
“Why are you doing this?” he asked. “It will not make me join your Consortium or betray my friends. You will not learn anything of great scientific value from these … tests. You are merely acting as a sadist.”
Shadow Touch Page 11
