Shadow Touch

by Marjorie M. Liu

  Images and sensations flashed in her head as he told his story: a biting cold, the smell of cardboard and trash, piss; a pair of sharp brown eyes, peering down, and a voice saying, “Fuck.” Then, warmth, a hospital room with a familiar face looking up at him with hatred, disgust, and oh, that breaking heart, that grief, that You are such a freak, Artur. A freak, a monster, running away to another country, another world, and … and …

  Safety, fulfillment. Such a shock. Years spent thinking it was all a mistake, an illusion, that he would be betrayed by Roland and the others. Until one day trust became natural. He knew there was no illusion. It was all truth.

  “Yes,” he said. “As incredible as it may seem, there is no ulterior motive. The agency is what it is.”

  “And you really like them? The people there?”

  “I do.”

  “Then yes.”

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, I’ll go back with you. I’ll join that agency of yours, if they’ll have me.” It was another start, and better than nothing.

  His arms tightened around her. “You still have doubts. Your old home.”

  “My farm. My grandfather’s farm. His father’s farm. It’s in my blood, Artur. I love that patch of earth. It’s my paradise.”

  “We will find a way,” he promised. “We will find a way for you to have both.”

  “I don’t know how.”

  “We have come this far. I think we can manage some more miracles. You know all about that, do you not?”

  Elena smiled, sad. Artur kissed her. It was more awkward than before. She could not relax enough to enjoy his fingers on her shoulders, his lips at her throat. Artur stopped kissing her.

  “I am sorry,” he said. “You are not comfortable.”

  “No, I’m not,” she said. “But that’s not your fault.”

  She was afraid he would disagree, that he would beat his chest and bemoan his lack of manly skills—either that or bemoan hers—but instead he nodded and turned her around, pulled her tight against his chest so that she spooned between his legs, cocooned in warmth and the scent of skin and smoke and iron. Artur had very strong arms, a hard chest. Long legs that wrapped around her legs, folding her up like some small, dainty thing. Which was nice, because Elena did not think of herself as especially small or dainty. He tucked his chin in the crook of her neck, rasping her with stubble, rubbing her with warmth that spread, delicious and sweet. Her heart ached.

  “I like this,” she whispered, unable to speak louder. Her voice felt weak. She was still uncomfortable, but now for an entirely different reason.

  Artur said nothing. His arms, which crisscrossed her stomach, tightened. His fingers softly outlined the shape of her ribs. Elena’s breathing quickened.

  “You like this better,” he murmured. “Slow.”

  “Slow,” she breathed, leaning back against him, tilting her head so that he had better access to her neck. He pressed his lips behind her jaw. His fingers stroked upward to the sides of her breasts. Elena shivered, pushing against him. She heard, through their thin walls, a bed creak, the hard click of dice. Bottles clinking. Amiri and Rik, still awake. Farther away doors rattled, and she heard the hard plod of thick boots that could only belong to Attendant Gogunov. The walls were thin.

  Artur’s fingers grazed the tips of her breasts. Elena sighed, forgetting all about the other inhabitants of the train. What did she have to be ashamed of? It was not possible that she was the only woman enjoying a man’s caress on this long trip. Let everyone listen. Let them watch, if they wanted. She was through being afraid, of living a life ruled by caution and fear and concealment. All that mattered was Artur, that space in her heart where he lived—the space in his heart where she wanted to be.

  Elena arched upward, twining her fingers around him as he touched her clothed body. Exquisite torture. He traced a path around her breasts, down her stomach to the hard band of her jeans. A breathless pause, and then he turned them so she lay on top of his body, her back still against his chest, and his hands traveled up her clothed thighs, resting inside the heat between her legs. Elena sucked in her breath, and then, fast, he unbuckled her, pushing down, down, until her lower body lay exposed in the cool air, the jeans nothing but a pile on the floor.

  Her legs were dry and coarse from mistreatment. Artur did not seem to mind. His touch was reverent. His touch was slow and sure and gentle. His touch made Elena writhe in silent despair as his fingers deepened and curled into her body: stroking, stroking, stroking.

  She gasped, unable to swallow all her cries, and held one of his hands as it traveled up her body underneath her sweater. He touched her breasts.

  “I have condoms,” he said. “They were in the bag Mikhail gave me.”

  “Okay,” she breathed, and it was okay. It was more than okay. She wanted him badly.

  They both sat up and undressed. It was surreal, knowing what was going to happen. Ready for it, and scared, too. It had been many years, and not very memorable, but this … this was going to be different. She knew this man on a profound level, and to be with him, to have him inside her—

  “Slow,” he said, and she realized that he was nervous, too. Elena planted a quick kiss on his cheek. He looked at her, startled, and then smiled. Cupped her face in one hand. Elena could only imagine what he saw when he looked at her, and he said, “Home.”

  Which was about all the foreplay she needed. Artur pressed her down on the bed, touching her, kissing her body, and when she was more than ready, he put on the condom and lay between her thighs, shaking with the effort as he nudged himself inside her body, inch by inch. It had been a long time for both of them; Elena thought she had the better part of the bargain. Her control was close to fraying, tearing, ripping away, and that was all right—okay—because Artur wanted it that way, was trying so hard to be the one with control so that she could make love to him without any.

  Elena grabbed his backside and pulled him tight against her, thrusting upward. They both cried out—sharp, hard—as hard as the struggle to keep him deep within her as she ground against his hips.

  “I’m tired of slow,” she told him through gritted teeth. “Artur—”

  He cut her off with a kiss, thrusting hard, again and again. Less than a minute later his body jerked, shuddering against her.

  “Oh,” he gasped, even as he continued to move, unable to stop. “Oh, I am sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” Elena said breathlessly, meaning it. Even that short time had been better than anything else she had ever had.

  “No,” he said, holding her tight. “No, give me some time.”

  And she did, and when he was ready—which was sooner than Elena thought possible—they began again. Slow. Learning each other. They somehow ended up on the floor, with blankets and pillows spread beneath them, experimenting with different positions, trying—oh, that’s nice—and—bozhe moy, kakoy ty vkusniy—and—oh, God, oh—and—voz’mi v rote, Elena—and she did, and he liked it, and—wow—and—yes—and—stan’ na koleni. She braced herself against the cot as Artur grabbed her hips and thrust hard from behind.

  Braced on one knee with a foot planted hard on the ground, he moved against her, swiveling his hips. Elena cried out, biting down on her pillow to keep from screaming. Artur grunted, louder, louder, reaching under her body to touch her breast—reaching with his other hand for her head, burying his hand in her hair, pushing and pulling until it felt like he was trying to climb into her body, right through her skin, and this time he lasted; this time she felt herself rising, rising with that subtle ache that made her buck and twist and writhe, fighting for the culmination of terrible pleasure, fighting—

  She thought she would die from the pleasure as it broke her body, cresting again and again because Artur did not stop, did not slow his frantic pace in the slightest, and Elena felt his sweat drip on her back as he leaned even closer, riding her hard like an animal until at the very last he buried himself right up to the hilt, releasing it all up to th
e last seed, the last drop, jerking against her with enough strength to make her come one more time.

  Artur gathered Elena against his stomach, holding her tight in the aftershocks of their pleasure. Sound slowly trickled past the roaring in her ears: the train, once again coming to life. He said, “Better?” and all Elena could do was nod weakly, gasping for breath.

  They collapsed together on the floor. Elena could not move. If a gun had been pointed at her head, all she would have managed was a “meep,” and then a snore. Making love to Artur was like running the race of a lifetime, wonderfully exhausting.

  “Ya tebya lyublyu, Elena,” Artur whispered. “I am sorry. I forgot all my English.”

  “The Russian is a turn-on,” she said. “What did you just say to me?”

  “I love you,” he said, and then, before she could respond, he added, “I think I broke my kneecap.” Elena began laughing.

  Because they were being pursued by very powerful and highly psychotic individuals, Elena found it difficult to enjoy what could have been—by any standards—the journey of a lifetime on the Trans-Siberian railroad. In just one night they crossed vast swathes of taiga, steppe, and desert, mountains rising like knives to cut the sky, bleeding clouds across the high horizon. It was beautiful and sharp—much like the man who stood behind her, naked, his strong arms wrapped her body as they watched the world speed by.

  “You love your country,” she said.

  “Sometimes,” he agreed. “But I love America more. I think perhaps my memories there are better.”

  “You had a good childhood,” she said. “At least, what little of it I’ve seen looked good. And yes, the white ducks were from you.”

  “I remember now. My mother and grandmother had them on their aprons. Those were good times.”

  “Have you ever thought about trying to find them again?”

  Artur sighed. “My grandmother is dead. I lost her when I was ten. As far as my mother … I do not know what I would say to her. I do not even know if she is still alive. And if she is, what if she had another family? What if she abandoned me, only to go out and have more children? Children she raised herself? I am not sure I could take that, knowing she gave others what she could not give to me.”

  Elena did not have much of an answer to that. She thought about her own mother, and how it would feel to discover she had moved on, made a new family. Twenty years was a long time.

  “Yes,” Artur whispered. “It is.”

  They got dressed and went to meet Amiri and Rik for a breakfast of hard bread and strong coffee. Not one of them said a word to Artur and Elena about the previous night’s activities. Elena was certain they knew. Amiri’s hearing was supposedly as good as that of the animal he transformed into, but he was a gentleman through and through, and gave no sly glance, no smile. Elena appreciated that. It had been interesting enough waking up beside Artur. Wonderful and weird.

  Elena opened the window above their table. The wind smelled clean and sharp. Its scent reminded her of Rictor’s prison when she’d cut the circle: full of life, eternal in its beauty. She wondered where he was, although her curiosity at what he was burned far brighter.

  “What do you think?” she asked the men, after telling them what was on her mind.

  “I do not know Rictor as well as both of you, but after what little I have seen and heard, I do not believe he is human.” Amiri sipped his coffee. The bread on his plate remained untouched.

  “Well, okay.” Elena frowned. “If he’s not human, and he’s not a shape-shifter, then what is he?”

  “Does it matter?” Rik asked. He had pulled his blue-streaked hair into a tight ponytail. Elena reminded herself to ask him where he was from; he looked very Hawaiian this morning. “In case you’ve forgotten, he was a member of the Consortium. You know, participated in kidnapping and experimentation? I’m not sure I buy this whole magic-mind-control thing.”

  “Cynic,” Elena said.

  “Realist,” he argued. “Face it, he may have helped us escape, but that still doesn’t make him good. I remember him coming down to watch me. Just staring with those eyes of his. He didn’t lift a finger. Not once.”

  “I’m not saying he wasn’t a bastard, but that’s not the point of this conversation. I want to know what he is. I mean, what else is out there besides shape-shifters and humans? What kind of world are we living in?”

  “A strange one,” Artur said. His leg brushed up against hers and stayed there.

  “That doesn’t help,” she said, twining her ankle around his. “Does magic exist? I mean, real magic? Because that’s the only way I can explain the circle binding Rictor—and the fact that he vanished right before my eyes.”

  Rik laughed. Artur and Amiri did not.

  “Oh, God,” Elena said, watching their faces. Rik’s mirth died. “What do you know that I don’t?”

  “Not enough,” Artur said. “Only that there are people born with the power to … twist reality. I have seen it done, but only once before. That was more than enough, I can assure you.”

  “I have also seen the gift,” Amiri said, “but those who wield it remind me more of Beatrix Weave than Rictor. She visited me only once, and that was enough. But Rictor? I still say he is something else.”

  Elena frowned, momentarily distracted. “Beatrix came to you?” She looked from Amiri to Rik. The young man nodded.

  “I remember her. She visited me several times.”

  Elena sat back. How could she have been so stupid? “You were there for three months. How did you and Amiri avoid succumbing to her control?”

  “She touched me,” Amiri said. “But I felt nothing. And she … she was clearly unhappy about that.”

  “Maybe your physiology makes you immune,” Artur said.

  Rik closed his eyes. “I’m going to pretend I’m not hearing this. What I went through was enough. I don’t want to think about mind control or magic or disappearing non-human bad guys. As far as I’m concerned, they don’t exist.”

  “You’re a shape-shifter,” Elena said. “Shouldn’t you be open to all the possibilities?”

  “Hey.” He held up his hands. “Don’t hold my heritage against me. Just because I change shape doesn’t mean I have to believe in all this hokum.”

  “Wow,” Elena said. “And here I thought dolphins were supposed to be all cheerful. Where do you get Prozac when you live in the ocean?”

  “Fuck you. Oh, wait. I forgot. You already got nail—”

  Amiri clamped a hard hand on the back of Rik’s neck. His expression was cold, unforgiving. Rik shut his mouth.

  “You will remember your manners,” Amiri said quietly. “And if you do not, I will teach you to remember.”

  “As will I,” Artur said in a hard voice. His hands pressed flat against the white tablecloth.

  A whistle blew; the train began to slow.

  “Khabarovsk!” called the waitress.

  “Saved by the bell,” Elena said. “But don’t worry, Rik. I wouldn’t have let them hurt you.”

  “Oh, wow. Comforting.” Sweat covered his forehead. Amiri still held the back of his neck.

  “You’d better believe it,” Elena said. A brief smile flickered over Amiri’s face. Rik did not see it. She almost felt sorry for the young man.

  The train stopped in front of a small station surrounded by rolling green hills and small, plain homes. Makeshift shops leaned against a low wall, with cheap trinkets and clothing for sale. Nearer the train stood a large group of women who displayed—with a quite a bit of pride and bluster—large shopping carts that overflowed with food. Elena smelled hot grease. Her stomach rumbled. She had not eaten much of the bread.

  “Are you hungry?” Artur asked. He held her hand. His gloves were on. His gaze did not linger on her face, but swept across the small crowd. Danger, Will Robinson. Danger.

  It was difficult getting close enough to the women to see what they were selling. It seemed that everyone on the train wanted a taste of their food, which El
ena thought was a good sign. Artur, though, was a master at getting to the head of the line, and managed to push and prod them right up to one of the carts.

  “Here,” he said, after a moment spent talking to the small woman hawking her wares. “Have some piroshki. It is very good.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “Cottage cheese, meat, and vegetables.”

  Artur paid for two large, steaming cakes wrapped in thick wax paper and handed one to Elena. She took a bite. It was indeed very good. As she ate, she watched Amiri and Rik wander through the station platform. Several old women made a special effort to talk to them in broken English, and the two men obliged with quiet responses—although Rik was the more hesitant of the two. He still seemed rattled by Amiri’s anger. Elena thought it was good that there was someone around whom he respected, a strong personality who could keep him in line. She liked Rik. She thought he was a good kid. And yes, being in that facility had damaged him. She could give him some leeway on that. But she sensed that more had happened to him even before the Consortium, and that his occasional outbursts—that hardness—were continuing symptoms of something more than just his captivity.

  “I’m worried about Rik,” Elena said. Artur followed her gaze. “There are times when he just seems …”

  “Broken.”

  “Or bent. He’s hurting.”

  “Everyone hurts.” His tone surprised her; it was devoid of emotion, almost cool. “Some have been hurt far more than Rik. I think, however, that he was taken from an easy life, and that his experience was more painful because of that.”

  “Start out young with the pain and you toughen up? This isn’t Sparta, Artur.”

  “No? Tell that to the children I grew up with. Tell that, even, to yourself. You have not had an easy life either, Elena.”

  “Do I deserve a medal for that? I don’t think so. Life is what it is, and some people are better equipped than others to handle it. The ones who fall behind shouldn’t be punished.”