Free Shadow Touch by Marjorie M. Liu Page A

untouched.
    Nothing. Everywhere he stepped, the memory of souls—so much was swimming through his head, it was difficult to tell where he stopped and strangers began. A scream bubbled up in his throat but he swallowed it down, forced it away and quiet. If he began screaming he would not stop, would not stop; he could not stop screaming when he was a boy, and his mother, his poor mother—
    Do not lose yourself . Be in the now, this moment. Nothing else matters. Nothing else.
    Artur forced himself to stop moving. He planted his feet firmly on the ground, forced his chest to expand for air. Every breath invited a vision, a piece of another soul. He felt the taste of a stranger’s fear inside his head—endless, undying in its certainty of doom: I am never going to leave here alive .
    It was an emotion Artur recognized. He had felt it before, more than twenty years ago—been swamped in a similar manner, cast out to lose his mind among strangers squatting in darkness. He’d been twelve years of age and untested in his gift. Exposed. Helpless.
    I thought I had grown stronger . He was older now, more practiced. Had become, over the years, slightly desensitized to the shocking flood of memory and emotion, the schizophrenic invasion of minds so different from his own.
    None of that mattered now. Not in the slightest.
    It was difficult to breathe. His chest hurt. Artur looked down. A large purple bruise covered his skin. He saw a puncture wound above his heart. A tranquilizer dart, not a bullet after all.
    It was all a lie. She still wants you. Still needs you.
    Artur gazed around the cold room. White tile everywhere. No furniture or restraints. One door. Artur did not want to go to the door. Walking meant more, new everything that might conspire to strike the final blow against his weakening brain. He touched his nose. No blood yet.
    Stand here and die, or do something and die. It is your choice.
    Artur walked to the door. It took every ounce of his strength not to run on his toes like some overgrown cartoon character. He was certain there were cameras, that someone was observing him. He kept his pace dignified, as though he did not care that his brain was on fire or that at any moment it might burst.
    Memories not his own flashed by: rough men, strong men, grappling with the half-dazed, the stripped and feebly fighting. The men thinking, Why the bloody fuck go to all this trouble , and Jesus Christ, she tried to bite me , and Fuck this all, fuck this freak, fuck you —
    Artur stopped in front of the door and pulled off his underwear. He tore it down the seam and wrapped his feet, trying desperately to knot the edges around his ankles. His hands shook; his fingers felt stiff, clumsy. The cloth kept slipping. Artur finally gave up; standing on his underwear would have to be enough.
    It was. Relief sang through his head, the cool emptiness of perfect silence. Artur pressed his palms against his eyes. His skull hurt, still felt nails bursting from its base, but the quiet was a balm. He was perched on two islands of cloth, naked as the day he was born.
    Artur opened his eyes. The door waited for him like a monster. He touched the knob…
    New memories surged: the same people—captor and captive—from different angles, different moments, imprinting themselves until his mind cried out with the echoes of their souls, the echoes of hard fear and confusion. His scalp felt as if it were peeling back from his skull. Too full, too much fire, and—
    — it is time for me to lose my mind —
    A sound filtered through the chaos. Real sound, not from his head. Artur’s hand flew off the knob. Blessed silence returned, but only for a moment; he heard the shuffle of feet, the low rasp of voices. A loud click. The knob turned.
    Artur stumbled sideways, leaving the protection of his cloth shields. Chaos returned, but the visions were familiar; Artur could partition them, summon up strength to focus. The door opened just a fraction, not enough to