“It’s not an insult when it’s the truth, but believe me, I don’t know that we would do any better than you do. You’ve gotten us this far with flying colors. This is your home territory. It’s just … we’re sitting ducks, Artur.”
“Quack,” Rik said, breaking into the conversation. Artur glared at him. The shape-shifter held up his hands and backed off. He pretended to hold a significant conversation about the weather with Amiri, who was studiously ignoring the discussion between Elena and Artur. Funny how privacy could be reached through nothing more than an illusion. Though considering that this discussion also affected them, she hoped the two shape-shifters were more interested in it than they acted. Artur leaned close.
“I am sorry,” he said quietly. “Truly, I am. There are people who will help us, but they will never be able to reach us in time for the meeting in Moscow.”
“Your, um, Dirk and Steele,” Elena said.
“Yes. There is an excellent chance they are already searching for me, but until I contact them there is no way to be certain.” He touched her shoulders, peering down into her face. “This has already been ugly and messy. It is only going to get worse.”
“Thanks,” she said, only mildly sarcastic. A small smile touched Artur’s mouth; she thought he would kiss her, plant something soft on her forehead, but instead he brushed a gloved hand over her lips, and Elena suddenly knew why Amiri and Rik were giving them space, what she and Artur must look like together when they spoke. Warmth spread; her cheeks were burning.
“You could leave,” he said gently. “There is still time to find another way for you, Elena.” He would do it, too. She knew that much about him. He wanted on that train worse than anything, but he would step away from it to help her if she decided not to go. He would still find a way to Moscow—eventually—but he would take care of her first.
“No,” she said. “I’m going.” Going because she did not have a choice. Yes, she had some money and fake papers—enough, perhaps, to get her a ticket on one of the long-distance ferries to Japan that Artur had mentioned earlier. But that would mean leaving him—leaving, too, Rik and Amiri—and while sticking close meant danger, she could not bring herself to break loose and separate. She had found people who were different like her. Different in all the best possible ways. She could not abandon that. Not for anything.
And, if she were being honest with herself, the way she felt toward Artur went beyond friendship. Went far beyond anything she had ever imagined she could feel. Tenuous, thrilling—more magic than the magic she had already encountered—and the wonder of it was that she suspected he might feel the same. That was worth a little danger.
They waited in line behind the Americans and Europeans. Artur looked utterly calm, unconcerned, but every now and then Elena caught the movement of his gaze, flickering about like a Geiger counter, measuring trouble. She tried to do the same. Everything looked normal, with crowds of people hauling luggage and small children, bawling and shouting and laughing with boisterous and—to measure by some of the flasks in hand—drunk conviction. Rik hunkered down in his light jacket. He fussed with his cap. Elena wanted to tell him to leave it alone, but that would have sounded too much like a mother hen, and Rik—while younger than her—certainly did not need that. At least, she did not think he did. He seemed so very young sometimes.
Amiri, on the other hand, looked like he did not need anything or anyone. Elena knew he was with them only because he was intrigued. Perhaps he even felt a sense of duty, obligation because Artur had helped free him—but that was it. Elena respected that. She liked Amiri, and thought he liked her, too. But she knew what it was like to stand so long alone that to be with others felt odd, like clothing that might be comfortable, but with enough of an unfamiliar fit that she kept questioning, worrying at it. Much like Amiri was worrying at it; she felt his tension like the whipping of a great invisible tail. It was in his eyes, the flare of his nostrils. He was an unhappy cat.
The doors opened. Artur said a few words to their driver, who nodded his good-byes and melted backward into the crowd. Elena turned around just before she boarded the train; she did not see the Quiet Man, but she still felt the target written upon her back, could still feel that first sting between her shoulder blades. Always, for the rest of her life, she would feel that pain. Memory lingered strong in the body.
The train interior was dark and stuffy. Elena smelled cigarette smoke and fried food. The combination made her slightly nauseous. She dug her nails into the palms of her hands. No vomiting allowed. Not now.
They shuffled single-file down the narrow hall, accompanied by the sounds of slamming doors and grinding metal gears. The floor vibrated just slightly. The people ahead of them, the American couple from the hotel, stopped and walked, stopped and walked, looking for an open cabin. They finally found one, and Artur pushed ahead, quick. Elena sensed Amiri at her back, his own urgency. She, too, felt pressure to hide, to find—like a little mouse—some hole to cower in for warmth and protection. Beware the owl, beware the spider: the long reach of danger, hungry and searching with a black, swimming eye.
Each cabin contained only two beds. They took the last two rooms in the hall, right by the emergency exit—which, when Elena poked her head out to look, was merely an open-air platform that would require a potentially lethal leap from the train if there were an actual emergency. Still, it was an exit. Better than nothing.
When she turned around, Amiri and Rik had already disappeared into one cabin. Artur stood in the doorway of the other. He held the door open for her.
“I hope you do not mind,” he said.
“No,” Elena replied, though she did. It was not that she wanted to be alone in this place; simply, her feelings for Artur ran so deep and were so confusing, she did not entirely trust herself in his presence.
Their cabin was tiny, with plastic faux-wood walls and a hard metal floor. Directly across from Elena was a small window with a yellow lace curtain. Its delicate edges wavered as hot air rose from the electric heater set near the floor. Just below the window jutted a tiny plastic table. There was a bed on each side of the cabin.
“It looks comfortable,” Elena said, to fill the silence.
“It is the best the Rossiya offers,” Artur said. “We were lucky that Mikhail was in a generous mood.”
Elena tried not to laugh. “I think the credit goes mostly to you. I’ve never seen a man talk so suave.”
Artur shrugged. “It is a skill, like any other. You do what you must to survive.”
“Then I suppose words have kept you alive for quite some time, huh?”
“More than just words,” Artur said, and there was a heaviness to his voice that made the hairs on her body rise.
Rik knocked on the door and peered into the room. He studied the beds. “You don’t have sheets either.”
“An attendant provides those,” Artur said. “Give me a moment.”
He slid past Elena, touching her hand for one brief moment in passing. The feel of his leather glove on her skin—warm from his skin—made her stomach tighten. Oh, this was a bad idea. Sharing a room with him was not going to work. Or rather, it might work too well.
Elena stepped into the hall with Rik. She watched Artur walk away from them, a tall, lean figure in black. His shoulders were almost too broad for the stolen weathered shirt, the jeans almost too small.
Perfect. Elena glanced at Rik and found him watching her with a knowing smile.
“What?” she asked, blushing.
“Nothing,” he said. “I just hope Amiri and I can get some sleep at night.”
“Pig,” she said.
“Not unless they have fins.”
“They most certainly do now,” Amiri said, joining them. He gave Rik a stern look. Elena smiled. At the end of the corridor Artur had stopped to speak with an old woman in an olive-green uniform. Her face resembled that of an aged bulldog, her mouth smeared red with lipstick. She looked quite stern.
And yet, mere mom
ents after Artur began talking, her expression softened into something almost beautiful. She nodded, smiling. Artur passed her some money. Her smile widened and she walked away down the hall.
“Oh, you’re good,” Elena said, when he was near enough to hear.
“I am merely polite,” Artur said, with a small smile that told Elena he knew exactly what he was doing. “Attendants like Ms. Gogunov are very important women on this train. It is good to be friendly with them.”
Indeed, Attendant Gogunov soon returned, this time bearing a tall pile of sheets and towels, all of which were folded with military precision. She bypassed the men entirely and handed everything to Elena, who staggered under the surprising weight of so much linen.
She gave Elena a disparaging look, said several sharp words to her in Russian that could not have been polite, and then said several more words—in a much softer tone—to Artur. She smiled at him. He smiled back. She chuckled and tweaked his collar and he caught up her hand to kiss the back of it. Elena rolled her eyes.
The old woman noticed. Again, more sharp words. Elena smiled apishly and said nothing at all. Which was answer enough in any language. Attendant Gogunov grunted, whipped around on her hard-soled heels, and clipped back down the corridor. The floor vibrated with her every step.
“You know,” Amiri said rather cautiously, “I do not think she liked you very much, Elena.”
“The feeling was mutual,” Elena said, glaring up into Artur’s amused face. “Oh, yeah. Laugh it up.”
He did not laugh. He pinched the corner of a creamy sheet.
“No,” she said. “I’m not making your beds.”
“Alas, feminism.” Rik grinned and plucked away a sheet and towel before Elena could throw them at him. Amiri made a clucking sound with his tongue and did the same. They disappeared back into their cabin and shut the door behind them.
Which left only Artur. He stood very close, very warm, with his dark eyes watching her face—so kind, so gentle—and really, Elena would make the damn bed for him if only he promised to keep looking at her like that for the rest of her life.
He took a sheet and towel, and said, “We should get out of this hall.”
“Oh. Oh, yeah.” Elena stumbled backward into the cabin. The backs of her legs hit the bed. She sat down hard, which hurt more than it should have; her mattress looked soft, but felt like rock. Artur looked away quickly. Elena thought he might be laughing.
They made their beds in silence. The cabin was so tiny it was impossible not to brush up against each other. Every touch, no matter how innocent, made fire in her belly. She could not help herself. It was sickness, a disease, and even if she could have cured herself she would not have, because it felt too good. It was exciting, to be so near a man who was worthy of warmth. So many were not. Just illusions, parading themselves like cheap facades. Not worth keeping over the long, hard years.
Artur was no illusion. His heart was beautiful.
Their hips bumped, the tips of their elbows rubbing. A hand was placed just so at her waist as he moved past. Her own palm brushed his hip. Fire, fire, fire—she felt it as their backs met, hot, sidling sideways. Elena bent down to fix the far corner of her bed and felt him watching her, silent and powerful. She wanted him to touch her again, with purpose this time, with more, and her body ached.
Anger destroyed the moment. Somewhere outside the train a man began shouting in Russian. Artur peered from the window. Elena joined him. A lanky figure with thinning hair and a long nose stood just below, loudly berating a young blonde who held a child in her arms. She looked desperate, poor. Her face was red. The man threw up his arms and turned away. The woman made no move to follow, but screamed something at him, words that made several bystanders stop and shake their heads. The man kept walking. The woman stared, hunching in on herself, swaying.
“What happened?” Elena asked softly. She could not stop staring. The baby slept. It had a beautiful face.
“He does not want them anymore.” Artur’s voice sounded dull, tired. “He already has a wife in Moscow, another child. That woman down there is his mistress.”
“What did she say to him?”
Artur’s jaw flexed. “That she would give up the baby. That if he did not want her, she would give his daughter to the street.”
“Oh,” Elena breathed. “Oh, no.”
Artur stepped away from the window. He sat down on the bed. Elena watched just a moment more—long enough to see the woman straighten up and walk away from the train. Elena stared at her swaying back, the tip of the baby’s head. She wished them a good life. She prayed for it.
Artur stared at his gloved hands. Elena could not see his face. She sat down beside him, thigh pressed against thigh, shoulder rubbing shoulder—close, making him close with touch—and laid her hand in his. A moment later his fingers closed, holding her tight. His hand felt good—better than almost anything Elena had felt in her entire life. Holding his hand was like being anchored safely to the world, solid and strong and warm.
“This is still a poor country,” he said, and his fingers gently squeezed. “In poor countries people give up their children so they can have a better life.”
Elena thought of her mother. “People give up their children for all kinds of reasons. It happens in rich countries, too.”
He nodded, still staring at their joined hands. “How did you cope, Elena? What did you do when you were left behind?”
She jerked back, surprised, but Artur refused to let her go. She began to ask him how he knew, but it was simple, really. He had touched her. She had touched him. And there was the link between them to consider. A man like Artur could see everything, if you gave him the chance.
“How much do you know?” she asked. It hurt to talk about her mother.
“Only that she left you. Much like my mother left me, I think.”
Elena licked her lips. Her mouth felt dry. “She tried to kill me. Or at least, that’s what it looked like. There was an ax. An ax by the old shed. She picked it up. Aimed for my hands.”
“Because of your gift?” His eyes were soft, dark with knowing.
“Because of my gift. She couldn’t handle it. My grandfather … my grandfather later said that she could do things, too. That she could … hear people in her head, and that it always made her crazy. She hated what she was. I think she thought I would hate it once I got older. Maybe she was afraid, too, of what would happen if people found out. Like, I would get hurt. Or she would get hurt. Either way, my mother wanted it gone. She thought it was unnatural.”
“You heal,” he said. “You are a miracle.”
“Maybe.” Elena turned away. “But miracles hurt, Artur. Miracles make people want to lock you up or kill you.” She couldn’t keep the bitterness from her voice.
“Elena,” he murmured. “Do not dwell in bitterness.”
“Bitterness?” She forced herself to look into his eyes. It was difficult; his gaze was too far-seeing, as were his hands. “What do you expect, Artur? Yes, I do good. Yes, I am proud of that. I wouldn’t change a thing. But has my … my gift brought me happiness? Real happiness?” She shook her head. “No. Only … isolation. Loneliness. I don’t call that a prize.”
“You are not alone now,” he said, his grip tightening around her hand.
“You can’t promise that will last,” she said, forcing out the words even though they hurt, even though she wanted so badly the fantasy of yes, forever.
“Elena,” he said, but she tore her hand away and stood up. Her mother had left her, her grandfather had died, and for a long time it had been just her, an army of one.
Artur touched her again. His glove was off. He said, “No. It does not have to be that way. Some things last, Elena. Not all, but some. All you need is faith, and I know you have that. I have felt it inside you. In your feelings toward me.”
“Artur,” she whispered. I am afraid.
“Do not be afraid,” he said. “Please. Do not think of past or future. Only now. Mo
ments after moments to come, all sliding into one.”
Moments. Elena sighed. She loved Artur’s voice; it was becoming a weakness to her, much like his touch. She savored the strong warmth of his words, his hand, which suddenly felt like enough, sweeter and stronger than any promise.
Some things last, she thought. Miracles happen.
“Yes,” Artur said softly, drawing her back to him. As she moved a bell rang; the train lurched and stopped. Elena staggered and Artur placed both his hands around her waist to hold her steady. She stood between his legs with her hands outstretched, careful not to touch his flesh. It was the only distance she could give herself, and even that much was difficult. She wanted to touch him so badly. She missed the warmth of his skin, though his palms felt hot through her clothing.
“Elena.” Artur’s lips barely moved; her name was part of his breath. His eyes were liquid with warmth, liquid like Elena’s body, which she fought with all her might to control. Maybe this was wrong, a bad idea, some temporary delusion. Artur’s life looked like a flash movie of pain and violence. Men like him had crippling hang-ups that never went away. Like abused dogs, always flinching at the outstretched hand. Reflex.
Elena stretched out her hand. Artur did not flinch. She touched his shoulder, fingers trailing up, up, up to his hair. She skimmed the fine dark strands. Artur closed his eyes.
“Can you sense me?” she whispered. He shook his head. Elena slipped her fingers a little deeper. “And now?”
He shook his head again. Trembling just a little, Elena buried her fingers in his hair, fingertips floating just above his scalp. She kneaded, tugged, a light massage of ethereal proportions, and Artur let out a sigh that sounded like the low last breath of a dying man. The hands at her waist tightened. Elena stepped close. She kissed the warm crown of his head, inhaling the light scent of leather and sweat. Warm, impossibly large, his palms drifted up, slow, and Elena found it so difficult not to touch his skin, to bring her lips down upon his brow, his closed eyes, his mouth.
You’ve touched each other before. He didn’t seem to mind then.
Shadow Touch Page 22
