Free Shadow Touch by Marjorie M. Liu Page B

see into or out of the room. A hard voice said, “Step away so that I can see you. Do it now.”
    Artur did not move. He heard low words behind the door, familiar as the images in his mind, and knew like a memory that this was routine, that these men had practice dealing with recalcitrance. Ruthless, they were allowed to be ruthless… but only up to a point.
    Artur would have smiled had the pain in his head been less severe. These men could not kill him: he felt the truth of that in the layers of vision beneath his skull. They might be permitted to beat him, abuse him, but in the end, life would still be his. Death was a decision left to other people. Other, more frightening individuals.
    Like Ms. Graves.
    The door slammed open, the edge of it a blur, a bare miss as Artur jumped backward and— focus, here and now —pushed off the balls of his feet, launching himself into the three white-coated men who entered the room. The first got slammed in the face with a hard right hook, a— jail time has to be better than this —kick to his kneecap, taking the man down to the floor, howling. The second, thick around the neck and waist, shouted and came at Artur with his fists raised. Artur drove a palm into his nose, savoring the crack, the cries, the fuck, this ain’t worth the money , and the man doubled over, cradling his nose, leaving Artur wide-open to knock him unconscious with a massive blow to the back of his head. Unskilled fighters. Thugs. Not used to resistance. Perfect.
    One man remained. Small and lean, dressed all in black. Brown hair, green eyes. “Hello again,” he said, smiling. “Do you recognize me?”
    “I do,” said Artur, and beneath the shouting in his head, the chaos, he heard a low familiar sob.
    Artur went for the throat and groin. The man blocked his blows—quick, strong. Artur fought for openings, grappling with wiry muscles that refused to yield, refused to be held. His hands slid off air again and again and he was blocked. Denied. In more ways than one.
    “You are a psychometrist,” said the man calmly. “You learn secrets through touch. Have you learned anything from me yet?”
    “No,” Artur said, wondering why that was.
    “Interesting,” said the man. “Let’s try this again.”
    He hit Artur—moved so fast there was no time to dodge. Pain sparked light in Artur’s vision, filling it up with images of darkness, something solitary and quiet and— I am very good at waiting —
    Artur struck back. Landed blows, but they were light, glancing—as though his opponent wanted to be hit, touched. And every time Artur laid his hands on the man it was like watching a nuclear explosion inside his head: a mushroom cloud of singular images riddled together in themes. A boy playing God with a trapped squirrel, peeling it open like a banana; the same boy, older, doing the same to a girl, and then— because it is his turn rum —a man.
    Artur’s body rebelled. Just as in the cellar, he doubled over, vomiting: dry heaves, bile. Pinpricks of throbbing light broke up his vision. The man beside him smiled.
    “So, you like that.” He placed his cold hand on the back of Artur’s neck. “Try this .”
    It was like having a nail gun drive iron into his brain: a precise agony, concentrated in one spot. Images flashed—controlled, sharp snapshots of deliberate cruelty that went beyond anything Artur had ever experienced. The cold human power of a strong mind, bearing down upon his soul, stripping him like that squirrel: inside to out.
    It did not matter how. It did not matter why. Anger sidled hard against pain, and Artur held tight to his fury. No more , he thought, gathering his strength. This is just a picture show, a movie. It is not real .
    Not real. Only the past, only real for another—a man whose hand pressed tight against Artur’s body, still linked, ripe for opportunity. That cold flesh, that cold heart, with secrets still to tell.
    You are mine now , Artur told him, and his mind focused