And yet, this woman was not all-powerful. She had limits. She needed help. All the damage she had done could not have been possible without the people around her, without money. That part, anyway, was still human.
“I never dreamed you would cause so much trouble,” Beatrix said.
“Thank you,” Elena replied.
“I suppose that was a compliment.” Beatrix looked at Graves, who reached out and grabbed Elena’s other arm. Her grip hurt. She and Charles forced Elena to her knees. On the couch, Artur’s eyelids fluttered. Beatrix said, “He is insurance. I’ve run out of time for anything else.”
Graves reached out and picked up Beatrix’s hand. Elena struggled, but it was like fighting bands of steel. Graves tugged her cousin close and laid her palm upon Elena’s head.
It was as though all the darkness of night coalesced inside her mind, coating her thoughts with a sheer, tight web, binding down the heart of her soul. Elena struggled, fighting with all her might, and she felt something tickle the back of her brain. Like a mouth, seeking.
Elena could not send her own power into Beatrix. Even as she fought, her resistance continued to slip, and that mouth, that horrible mouth inside her head, got closer and tighter, until she felt the scrape of teeth.
The barrier between herself and Artur trembled, and she screamed his name with both her voice and his mind. His eyes opened. The barrier shattered. Strength poured into her—strength enough to match her own—and Elena flung away the worm, piercing the shadow in her mind, scratching and clawing with nails of light. Beatrix shouted; her hand dropped away as Graves scrambled to the couch, the butt of her gun raised over her head. Elena heard a meaty thud and then Artur dropped away from her mind. The barrier was still gone, but she sensed only an ambient quiet; stillness, pierced by vibration, a low hum along their link.
It was enough, though. Beatrix leaned her head against the wheelchair’s neck support. She looked very pale.
“Remarkable,” she breathed. “Too bad the shape-shifter killed the doctor. I would like to have learned more about this phenomenon.”
“You could just ask,” Elena said.
“And have you say no?” Beatrix smiled. “I prefer hearing yes, always. I like my perfect guarantees.”
“You’re spoiled.”
“Yes, very.” Beatrix pushed a switch on her wheelchair and rolled backward. To Graves, she said, “Go and prepare my things. Greta has already been transferred, correct? Good. Charles will handle this.”
Graves hesitated. “I don’t think you should be left alone with her. You know what she’s capable of.”
“We’ll be fine,” she murmured, looking at Charles. He let go of Elena’s hand and walked to Artur. A knife appeared, twirling between his fingers. He stood above the unconscious Russian and looked back at Beatrix, waiting. Elena’s heart pounded.
“Go,” Beatrix said again, and this time Graves did not argue. She shut the door behind her. Silence fell heavily, punctuated by breath, the faint tick of an antique clock.
“You know why you’re here,” Beatrix said.
“Yes,” Elena replied.
“And you know what will happen if you do not obey, or if you try to kill me. No, do not bother denying your feelings for him. I could sense it in his heart that one time I touched him. Even then he loved you. You must love him. Love makes beautiful leverage.”
“I suppose it does,” Elena said, looking from Artur to Charles. He now watched her instead of Beatrix. Elena wondered if his mistress noticed his attention, could feel her pet’s thoughts, but all she said was, “Charles will cut Mr. Loginov’s throat if you hurt me. And then I will let him begin cutting you.”
“Really.” Elena stared at Charles. “Just cuts? How sad for him that you won’t let him do more.”
Beatrix frowned. Elena sensed her uncertainty, but still she did not suspect, and still she said, “Sometimes you must control your pets. Charles can become overly enthusiastic without his leash.”
Elena smiled. “I like enthusiasm. I like the thrill. Charles knows that about me. I think he likes it, too.”
Beatrix’s frown deepened. She looked between Elena and Charles, and whatever she saw—the thoughts she now heard from her pet—cast her face in confusion … and then jealousy. “You seem like an ill-matched pair.” Her voice was hard, cold.
“Oh, no,” Charles said softly. “We are perfect.”
“Perfect,” Elena echoed. “Let me ask you, Ms. Weave. What would happen to your link with Charles if I killed you? Would it set him immediately free?”
“It would,” Charles said, before his mistress had a chance to answer. He smiled, flexing his wrist just so, light sliding along his knife like a long kiss. “Oh, yes. It would.”
“Good,” Elena said, and she took one long step and slammed her hand down on top of Beatrix’s head, ramming power into her brain. Beatrix tried to fight back, to push, but Elena had momentum and surprise on her side and she knew the human body well. Beatrix’s eyes flickered in Charles’s direction; Elena felt him move and knew she had only seconds before he was forced to kill her. She dug her mental fingers into Beatrix’s head, into the root of the cortex, and—The power was always with me, all I needed was a teacher, and I looked for him, I looked for my great-grandfather, the immortal, and I could not find him but I found another, another, and—
“I am just one,” Beatrix hissed, blood bubbling past her lips. Charles took another step, but he seemed to be fighting the control now—able to fight, taking advantage of it to shrug off the worm. “But I am just the beginning. I opened the gates. I woke them up.”
Her teeth flashed and they were sharp. Incisors, wicked to a point. Elena stared into those black eyes and that yawning hole of a cutting mouth, and she cried out in fear, disgust, and struck the final blow. Elena felt all the blood vessels in Beatrix’s brain explode—felt her heart stop—and the woman sagged forward in her wheelchair, dead.
Charles knelt before Beatrix. He smelled her hair and caressed her face. When he stood, he continued staring at the dead woman. He rubbed his neck with the flat of his knife. “Startling. I did not think she could be killed so easily. I like her better this way.”
“I thought you would,” Elena said, and grabbed his hand. He looked at her, startled, but even Charles could not move as fast as thought. Elena squeezed his heart, closed his lungs. He tried to cut her, but he staggered, falling to the ground. The knife slipped from his fingers.
Elena crouched beside him, still holding his hand, still killing him slowly, with a soft touch. He stared at her in wonderment.
“You surprised me again.” Charles wheezed. “How … lovely. Thank you for the chase.”
“You’re welcome,” Elena said. “Now, please. Go to hell.”
“Of course,” he said. He closed his eyes and died.
Chapter Seventeen
Elena could not move Artur by herself; he was too heavy. She resorted to slapping him around and then sending herself into his head to jump-start his consciousness. It worked better than she thought it would. Artur opened his eyes, and there was nothing fuzzy or confused about his gaze. He turned his head and stared at the bodies of Beatrix Weave and Charles Darling. He touched her hand.
“You have been busy,” he said, and she was grateful—more thankful than she imagined she could be—that she felt no recrimination, no disappointment in his heart.
“How could you ever imagine I would be disappointed in you?” He sat up, swaying slightly.
“I know you didn’t want me to use my gift to kill.” But kill she had, and right now she did not feel an ounce of guilt. Elena did not know if that was good or bad—or whether, in the future, if the memory of this day would haunt her with a fury. She suspected it might.
Artur grabbed her face and held it tight between his hands. He looked haggard, worn out, but there was a song in his heart that sounded like pride. Warm, fierce, loving pride. He still loved her, no matter what, and he was desperately relieved tha
t she was still alive.
“I should not have to say the words,” he said. “You know what I am feeling.”
“Yes,” she whispered, drawing in a shaky breath. “And I doubt you could express yourself any better.”
He kissed her. The door to the room slammed open. Graves entered, accompanied by the two thugs from the hall. She stared at the bodies on the floor and a low, horrified cry emerged from her throat, hoarse and strangled.
“No!” she screamed, beating her fist against the back of her head. “No, no!” Her entire body shook with each awkward punch; sweat rolled down her face, which contorted into something lost and wild. It reminded Elena of the one time she’d witnessed a drug addict at the hospital suffer a psychotic episode during withdrawal.
She pulled out a gun from within her jacket and aimed it at them. Her hand shook. Artur shoved Elena behind him.
“Why?” she screamed, spittle flying from her mouth. The men behind her looked terrified. “Why did you do it?”
Because they both deserved it, Elena thought, and she felt Artur’s acquiescence. Despite his earlier reservations, when it was time to act he was practical to a fault. She felt his love pour over her like light, warming the inside of her soul, until it seemed to her that Graves could send out that bullet and nothing would touch them, nothing ever, because together they were just too strong.
Guns fired. Elena and Artur flinched, but felt no impact. The men behind Graves fell down, and a moment later Graves joined them; screaming, still crazy with grief. And then silence. The gun slipped from her fingers.
A man and woman appeared in the doorway before Artur could pick up the gun. Elena recognized them, but she thought so much violence must be warping her brain. This had to be her imagination.
“You,” she said, stunned. “The American couple. You were both on the train.”
The American couple no longer looked so sweet or bubbly. They both held guns, handling them with the ease of long-term use. Their clothes were simple, loose, and dark.
“What is going on here?” Artur stood poised above the gun, and the man—Fred, if that was really his name—gestured for him to pick it up. Artur did, and Elena felt his relief, his comfort at having a weapon in his hands. His confusion, too, at being allowed to do so.
“We’re not here to hurt you,” said the woman. She slowly lowered her weapon. Fred did the same. “If you are both all right, we’ll be going. Everyone else in the house has been neutralized. You should be safe.”
Elena did not trust herself to speak. Artur felt similarly. Their thoughts mingled, flashing questions, possibilities, interlinking theories, and still, nothing. Just bafflement. It was too much to handle. How many people were involved in their lives, anyway?
“Not so many,” said Fred. “I believe it is more a question of how many lives you are involved in.”
“Oh, no.” Elena closed her eyes. “Not another mind reader.”
The woman gave Fred a sharp look and he shrugged. A short conversation seemed to pass between them, probably in much the same manner as the one dancing between Artur and Elena, which consisted mainly of wonderment that once again they were being slapped in the face with the fact that far more of “their kind” existed than either one of them—especially Elena—had ever believed possible.
“Why are you doing this?” Artur asked. “Who sent you?”
Fred, who looked like he had just gotten a severe talk-down, deferred to the woman. She gave him another hard look and said, “We were asked to investigate your disappearances and, when we found you, to shadow and protect your lives. Little angels, ever since we found you in Vladivostok. We used our resources to distract Charles Darling and keep him from catching up to you again after the incident in Khabarovsk. Once we reached Moscow, however, it became more difficult to track your movements. We both split up. Fred followed you, Mr. Loginov, while I was responsible for Elena.”
Elena thought of the alley and her mugging by the street gang, and knew Artur shared the memory. He said, “You did not do a very good job at keeping her safe.”
“We had other considerations,” she said. “But I would have intervened had it become necessary.”
Artur shook his head. “You do not work for Dirk and Steele and, I would guess, not for the Consortium, either. Who else would go to so much trouble for us?”
The woman said nothing. Fred shrugged, clearly uncomfortable answering that question. He looked at Elena. “We were given an apology to pass on to you. The Consortium found you only because our organization located you first. There was an … unfortunate leak of information. The Consortium knew we were going to approach you, and took measures to take you away before that could happen. I can assure you we would have handled our first meeting with you much differently. Um, you could still come with us even, if you’re interested. Which … I can tell you’re not.”
Elena barely heard him. All she could think about was the impossibility of … of …
“Another organization?” Elena stared at them. “Another? I must be high. This has to be some kind of drug-induced dream, because I have reached the limits of my belief. There is no fucking way so many of us are out there, organized like psychic scout troops. I’m sorry. It’s just not possible.”
“I agree,” Artur said. “Which is highly ironic.”
“The world is a big place,” said the woman. “And there are many players, all of whom are living and working in secrecy. Some of them have been around for a long time. You think they’re going to hold some parade or juggle their balls in public? You know better than that.”
“But why hide from one another?” Artur asked. “Why hold secrets when we are all the same?”
“Because we’re not all the same,” she said. “Not in the slightest.”
She and Fred backed out of the room. Elena could not move to follow them; she felt numb, dumb. Every time she thought she had her life figured out, something new destroyed all her carefully constructed truths. How could she live like this?
Together, one step at a time, Artur said, and then: “Wait.”
The woman said, “Not a chance. But I’ll tell you this much. The stage is set for something big. If you want to know why, you should ask one of the directors. I think you know who she is. I think she’s the reason you were kidnapped. She is, as they say, the dagger in the steel.”
And with that cryptic remark, she and Fred disappeared down the hall. Artur ran after them, Elena close on his heels. She saw the couple slip out through the front door, but by the time she ran outside, they had vanished. Not a trace remained.
Artur made a phone call. Elena listened to his conversation in her head, and it was brief, to the point. Yes, he was fine. Yes, he knew Elena was gone because she was here with him. No, she was the one who had saved the day—and listen, in case you did not know, there was yet another group of psychics running amok in the world.
Ha. Ha. Ha.
Artur hung up the phone and looked at Elena. “They’ll be here in five minutes.”
“Can we get out of here that fast?” It was a joke—albeit a halfhearted one—but Artur grabbed her hand and pulled her down the hall. They left through the front door, hit the sidewalk, took a left, and just kept moving. Elena could not hide her surprise. She thought his priorities would be different.
“My priorities have changed since I met you,” he said.
“Oh,” she replied, liking the sound of that, but not wanting him to get into trouble. The air felt good on her face. Everything felt good, after what she had just endured.
“There will be no trouble.”
“They might need to talk with you. What happened back there was significant, and not just for us. All of your friends are going to be affected.”
“They can wait,” he said firmly. “Besides, with our luck, we might have only hours before the next catastrophe strikes.” His arm snaked around her waist, holding her close against his side as they strolled down the wide boulevard. She felt his desire, his
fierce need to protect her, and it was breathtaking to be loved by such a man—this strong, streetwise, gentle man.
“What if they get worried?” She had trouble speaking.
“Let them worry,” he said, and his voice was just as husky. His fingers curled against her sweater, stroking her ribs. “We are alive, Elena. Somehow, we are alive. Nothing is more important than that. Let us enjoy the moment for just a little bit.”
Because moments of happiness are so fleeting, he continued silently. And I am tired of being surrounded by death.
“So am I,” she said, leaning against him, stealing his warmth into herself. She felt his concern, his question, and she said, I just killed two people. I don’t know how I feel about that. Strange, maybe frightened. But yes, I think I’ll be all right.
I have killed more than two, he said. And for far less than you. If you ever need to talk—
You are here, she said, and her throat was thick with love. Will you always be here, Artur?
He stopped walking. Elena thought he would kiss her—his hands curled so warm and fine against her face—but then he looked past her, and she turned. Behind them was a church. It seemed to Elena that everywhere in Moscow there was a church, but this one was small and plain, and there was a man in robes brushing the front steps with a broom.
She knew what he was thinking. She said yes.
It was surprisingly easy. They did not want anything special. The church interior was small, the walls dark with centuries of candle smoke. Artur, his hands gentle upon her own, spoke his vows before the priest. He said them in Russian, and then once more in English. In his heart he gave her a ring.
Elena repeated after him.
And then they were married.
Epilogue
Three days after returning from Moscow, Artur went to visit Nancy Dirk. He wore his gloves. William, her husband, met him at the door. Well into his eighties, his spine was still straight, his blue eyes sharp, clear. He did not look happy to see Artur, which was fine, because Artur did not want to be there.
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