Shadow Touch

by Marjorie M. Liu

  He drank down a can of mixed fruit, the taste of which had disappeared with the preparation, and then went outside to check the truck. He felt someone leave the cabin with him; it was Amiri, eyes glowing golden, twin fires in the night shadows.

  The truck door was unlocked. Amiri watched him climb inside, and Artur said, “You want to ask me something, yes?”

  Silence: a contemplative quiet. “We are all strangers here. Our only connection to each other is our circumstances—this kidnapping and imprisonment. I am not comfortable with only that as a bond between men.”

  “You do not know me, so you do not trust me. That is fine.”

  Amiri shrugged. “It is not an insult, simply the truth. I have stayed with you this long only because my brother is weak and I will not abandon him.” He hesitated. “That, and because you said you know of us. The shifting kind. You were not surprised in the slightest by our existence. I would like to know why.”

  Ah, his strange life. “I know several shape-shifters. A good friend married one. His name is Hari. He runs as a tiger.”

  Artur might have named something truly fantastic: a pegasus, a Medusa. Amiri looked stunned. “A tiger? I did not know there were any tigers left in the world.”

  “He and his wife just had a son. So no, not the last. But close.”

  Amiri closed his eyes. “What about the others?”

  “Koni, who works with me. He flies as crow. There is a dragon, too, who calls herself Long Nü. She has asked my employers to help find your kind. She fears for your survival as a race.”

  “She has good reason to fear.” Amiri opened his eyes. His gaze was different—not exactly trusting, but filled with grudging acceptance. Perhaps respect. “There are so few of us left. Just pockets here and there, telling tales of all the others who used to roam. There were many of us once.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “When I saw Rik for the first time, when I felt the call between us, it was a revelation. A miracle. I was not alone. And now, to hear you say there are even more, and that they are searching for us all …” He stopped, swallowing hard.

  Artur said, “How were you captured?”

  “Bad luck.” Amiri’s hands balled into fists; his skin shimmered golden, fur rippling against his arms before subsiding into flesh. “I am a teacher back in Kenya. I live in the capital city. It is a good job, and I like helping my students. But sometimes I need to run. Sometimes I need to hunt. And so on my day off I took my car and went to a place where I thought no one would see me, and I shifted.”

  “But someone did see you.”

  His smile was bitter. “I was stupid. A naturalist was nearby in a blind, and the wind favored her. As did technology. She had a long-range scope on her camera, and I am sure she captured the entire thing on film. When I realized what had happened, I fled.”

  “She did not publish the photographs,” Artur said, quite certain a woman claiming to have proof of shape-shifters would have attracted the attention of Dirk and Steele’s agents.

  Amiri shrugged. “I never saw the pictures, never heard anything about them. I admit, I thought I was safe. And then one night, several weeks ago, I was taken from my home. Drugged and shackled. The rest, you know.”

  “I, too, was taken from my home.” Artur thought of Charles Darling, alive and free, and probably still obsessed with Elena. He climbed into the truck. He searched for its keys but found nothing. “I am able to read the histories of people and objects by touching them. The Consortium thought that would be useful. They are no better than a criminal organization. They want to use us as experiments or slaves, all in the name of furthering their agenda.”

  “Which is?”

  Artur pried off the panel beneath the steering wheel. “It is more than just wealth and power, though I cannot say what, exactly. Only that their leader, Beatrix Weave, has plans. Large, long-ranging plans.”

  “And you?” Amiri stepped close. “What is your plan for escaping this nightmare?”

  Artur stopped working. He looked Amiri in the eye and said, “If you like, my plan can be our plan. We will find a way to contact my friends and then stay hidden until they can come for us. And if they cannot come for us, then we will find a way to go to them. Either way, we will not return to the Consortium.”

  “I would rather die first,” Amiri said, and there was something in his voice that felt quite literal, and very serious. Artur was not the kind of man who often preferred death over hardship, but even he agreed. Losing control over his mind to Beatrix Weave was a far worse punishment than the endless sleep.

  “I will remember that,” Artur told him, and then, quieter: “Perhaps you could do the same for me.”

  Because there was no greater act of trust than to give your life into another’s keeping, and Artur knew that would mean something to the shape-shifter.

  “Of course,” Amiri said softly, after a moment’s hesitation. He bowed his head and said nothing else as Artur hot-wired the truck. The engine roared to life, a loud rumble that sounded more animal than mechanical. Elena and Rik appeared in the cabin’s doorway.

  “Are you ready?” Artur called out to them.

  Elena did not hesitate. She ran to the passenger side and climbed in. Rik tried his best to close the cabin’s broken door, and then joined Amiri as he leaped into the bed.

  “Will we ever be able to pay them back?” Elena frowned at the little cabin. Her fingers plucked at the gray wool.

  “We will try,” Artur promised, though he was not optimistic. He did not like stealing, but it was a necessity—and in this situation, worrying about the loss of clothing and some food was not his priority.

  He turned on the headlights and they drove away. The gravel track leading from the cabin was rough, and the main road—once they hit it after a long, bone-jarring, nausea-inducing drive—was little better. Potholes were everywhere, one minute the road was reasonably smooth, and in the next, nothing more than an irregular track.

  After driving for more than an hour, Artur saw signs pointing the way to Vladivostok. The sky brightened.

  “That was a short night,” Elena commented.

  “We are very far north and it is summer. The days are long.” Artur would have preferred more darkness. Anyone driving past them would be able to see quite clearly into their vehicle.

  The road improved. Alongside it in regular intervals were small rest stops crowded with tiny restaurants the size of closets. Artur tried to remember if there were any police checkpoints outside the city. If they were stopped, there would be no hiding the fact that some them were foreigners. Foreigners without passports, money, or hotel registration stamps, driving a stolen car. Lovely.

  Elena leaned close and peered at the dials beneath the wheel. “We don’t need gas, do we?”

  Artur looked down at the gauge and swore. Stupid. He was losing his mind, his touch. Common sense flying out the window. He had forgotten to check the gas before leaving, and the arrow was aimed at a dishearteningly low part of the gauge.

  “Are there any stations around here?” Rik asked.

  “Better you ask how we will pay for it,” Artur said. There was a full gallon left in the tank, but that was not nearly enough to get them to Vladivostok.

  “I don’t suppose people here barter?” Elena turned to peer at the back of the truck. “Is there anything in there we could trade?”

  “It is empty,” Amiri said.

  “We will manage.” Artur was already working on a story, on anything that would get them the fuel. Fuel was the same as food, as shelter, and he had talked and thieved his way into those necessities more times than he could count. He could do it again. He was simply out of practice.

  Your mistakes might get you or the others killed. You cannot afford to make a wrong move now—even driving on this road is a risk.

  But he was banking on Rictor leading the Consortium away from them—depending, too, on Beatrix Weave underestimating his boldness. After all, Artur was nothing more than a thug to them, a former
criminal. Ultimately a survivor and a coward. She and Graves no doubt expected him to hole up in a cave along with his fellow escapees, or travel on alone while everyone else scattered to fend for themselves.

  At least, he hoped that was what she thought. It was a risk—but then, risk had always kept him alive while the meek died behind him, starved and abused.

  Artur drove until he saw a familiar shape jutting from the side of the road. “There is our benzene station.” He felt Elena’s questioning glance and said, “Gas.”

  They were the only customers there, which was good. In the center of the fueling station, between the pumps, stood a very tiny building with metal bars over the window. Artur glimpsed big hair.

  “Everyone out,” he said. “Look upset.”

  “Oh, that’s going to be difficult,” Rik muttered. They clambered from the truck: ill-dressed refugees, exhausted and afraid. Artur was very proud of them. He drew Elena close as he inserted the pump nozzle into the tank and whispered, “You have been brutally attacked, you understand?”

  “Yes,” she said without hesitation, and he took her with him to the little window where a middle-aged woman sat, long nails clicking the plastic counter, a cigarette hanging from her mouth. She looked at Elena’s face and neck, and in Russian said, “You beat her like that?”

  “No,” said Artur, noting with some admiration Elena’s too-bright eyes, the fine edge of a sob working at her throat. “She and her friends were visiting our country when they were attacked by thieves. Juveniles, to hear her talk about it. They did their business with her, then took everything. Passport, money, clothes. I happened upon them. We are going to Vladivostok. The city has a U.S. consulate.”

  “Bah,” spit the woman, gazing with sympathy at Elena. “These young people nowadays have no respect. Most of them are from the orphanages, you know. Little abandoned nothings, being raised like animals in there. No wonder they are becoming a social crisis.”

  “Yes,” Artur said, “I understand what you mean.”

  The woman peered out her window at Rik and Amiri, who were doing an admirable job of looking like shattered men. “God, more foreigners. So sad what happened to them.” She sniffed. “How much benzene?”

  Artur hesitated, affecting an air of deep consternation. “It is embarrassing to say this, but … well, you can see I am not a rich man. I used all the money in my pockets just to clothe and feed these people. Americans, you know … they require so much more than we do. And the woman … I wanted to make sure she was well taken care of, especially after what happened. She was in such a state.”

  The attendant scowled; her cigarette drooped. “You have no money?”

  Artur held out his hands. Elena shivered and hugged herself. She was so convincing he wanted to hug her, too.

  “Bah,” said the woman again, shaking her head. “You are such a fuckup.”

  “I know,” Artur said, meek. “But what can a man do?”

  Her long fingernails tapped furiously on the plastic counter. Smoke curled around her big red hair. “Fine. I cannot punish a fuckup who does good. But I am only giving you enough gas to reach Vladivostock. You will have to purchase your own when you get there, and then”—she leaned forward, pursing her red lips—“you can come back here and repay me.”

  There was little doubt as to what she expected that repayment to be.

  “Ah,” Artur said. “Of course.”

  The woman sat back with an even deeper scowl. “I hope you are better in bed than you are at giving out lines. Now go! Fill up your tank.” She looked at Elena, and in rough English said, “I am sorry you see country in bad way. I wish you good.”

  Elena, swallowing down a sob, gave the woman a weak smile.

  “Heartbreaking,” said the attendant, and waved Artur and Elena away from the window. Artur pumped the gas, while everyone else climbed quietly into the truck. He waved to the woman one last time.

  And then they left, fast.

  Artur said, “Thank you. You were all very convincing.” Especially Elena, though he did not know how to tell her that. Was it polite to tell a good woman that she had the potential to become a master con artist? Or had that really been all an act?

  “You were very convincing, too,” Amiri said. “So convincing, I would say you have had considerable practice.”

  Artur had no response. He glanced at Elena, and found her watching him with a sad, knowing smile.

  “Maybe just a little,” he confessed, unable to stop himself. Her gaze, so compassionate and sweet, compelled the truth.

  And it was not such a bad thing, telling the truth to Elena. He liked it.

  Chapter Ten

  Elena’s first impression of Vladivostok was one of beauty. The city lay sprinkled over a series of peaks, peninsulas, and islands, with the sea glittering serenely just beyond the shore.

  “Does it look that good close-up?” Elena asked, as Artur drove down the winding mountain path.

  “Distance is fine on the eyes,” Artur said, “but yes, parts of the city are quite beautiful. Odd, considering that it has always been used as nothing more than a glorified naval base.” He gestured toward the bay. “Do you see all the shipyards? The Russian Pacific fleet is stationed in those waters. Very strategic. It has been only ten years since foreigners were allowed in this city.”

  Elena smiled. “You’ve got a secret crush on boats and submarines, don’t you?”

  Artur glanced at her, surprised. A smile crept onto his face. He looked almost boyish. “I like them, yes. When I was very young I think I wanted to be a pirate. With a parrot, yes? And the sword and pistol.”

  “Peg leg, too?”

  “No, no.” He shook his head, laughing quietly. “No, I wanted to climb the rigging. I wanted to run. I wanted the freedom. The open sea, with nothing between me and the sun and the wind.” He hesitated. “You have seen pictures of old Soviet apartment blocks? Big and gray? They are monstrous buildings, very poorly constructed. My matushka—mother—did her best to make our home happy, but in a place like that it was difficult. So much controls you. In Moscow, especially. Money, your neighbors, politics.”

  “And pirates don’t care about any of those things, do they?”

  “Maybe the money,” Artur said, still smiling. “A little gold never hurt.”

  Elena grinned. She glanced over her shoulder to see if the others were listening, but Rik looked fast asleep. He lay on the floor of the covered truck bed, curled into a ball. Amiri lay beside him. He was not asleep, but he made no move to acknowledge Elena. She did not take offense. She thought it quite possible that both men did not trust her or Artur—and to be honest, she had similar feelings toward them as well. Thrown together like beads in a bag, clanking up against one another. Who could say if they were showing their true selves?

  Rictor could.

  Well, yes, but Rictor was not here. And that, probably, was a good thing. She had mixed feelings about him, as well.

  “Speaking of money—” Elena said, and then stopped because it was quite clear Artur was thinking about the same thing. A slight furrow appeared in his brow; his jaw tightened.

  “I know someone in this city. He owes me, but he will not be happy to pay off his debt.”

  “Typical,” Elena said. “What did you do for him?”

  “Oh …” He hesitated. “Well, I suppose I saved his life. Perhaps the lives of his family, too. I was never quite sure about that.”

  Elena stared. “You saved his life? And you don’t think he’ll be happy to repay you for that?”

  Artur looked extremely uncomfortable, which was odd. He had acted so cool under pressure, Elena had suspected he lacked some crucial wires in his brain.

  “Hey,” she said.

  “The way in which I saved him was not … ideal,” Artur said, and he refused to tell her anything more.

  They entered the city. Elena rolled down her mud-stained window, savoring the breeze. Raised anchors covered the iron railings that lined the streets, a
nd on almost every rooftop Elena saw statues of men gazing out at the sea. Small carved waves lapped across building facades, and in the middle of several intersections sat the hulking, rusting remains of ship cannons, which no doubt had some historical significance, and which were decorated by pots of small flowers. Everywhere was a nautical decor—though some touches were more kitschy than others.

  The cool air felt good on Elena’s face. She smelled the ocean and the docks, mingling with the exhaust of the Japanese sedans zipping past their monstrous truck.

  “I think I like this place,” Elena said, as they passed a giant cardboard Poseidon, its trident flapping in the breeze.

  “It is more pleasant than most cities in Russia,” Artur said. “Vladivostok is poor, but thanks to the sea the people here never go hungry. There is always some work to be found because of the tourists and shipyards.”

  “Did you ever live here?”

  “No. Just … a trip. Every now and then.”

  Elena thought of her brief foray into his mind, the violence she had seen. It was not a good time to ask, but she wanted to know. Artur was a fighter. To say he was not would be foolish. But he was not just a fighter. She wanted more. Everything.

  “What did you do in Moscow?” she asked quietly. She hesitated, and then reached out to touch his hand. His gloves were back on. She slid her fingers beneath the leather. His skin was warm. She felt bone, sinew. She watched him swallow hard and fought not to do the same. Her heart beat faster.

  I was not a good man. Artur watched the road, but Elena felt his focus inside her head, strong like his spirit as it wrapped around her own. The idea of sharing her mind and body with another, a stranger, should have been torture, and if Elena had been told that such a thing was possible—had it proven to her—she would have feared it. Privacy was critical.