Shadow Touch (5 page)
Authors: Erin Kellison
It was the between world—the place where the mortal world met the Hereafter. On every level of his being, he desired this place.
He gave a soft, breathless groan of want, but no . . . the sound his heart made came from a female throat. At his side, composed and controlled Eleanor was weeping again. She wept for Shadow. Fierce longing pulled at her features, as she too, looked on forever. She seemed in the midst of both devastation and epiphany. He knew exactly how she felt.
And below him, kneeling, her shadow’s arms tried to embrace magic. The slight break and stress of her wrists emphasized how empty her hands were. She reached toward the forest, the stretch of her body anguished with need.
Eleanor had been weeping for at least a half hour before they’d found her shadow. She must have been feeling this—he knew she had. But how?
We are the same,
Eleanor had said.
I am her and she is me.
Eleanor had said.
I am her and she is me.
Something clicked in his mind.
He was an idiot. Worse, she knew he was an idiot. Her shadow was not a reflection or ghost twin or doppelganger.
Her shadow was herself. Therefore, only one woman was in the hallway with him. One woman, split into two, elemental and reasoning, in respective bodies, but
one.
one.
Further, the sweet Ms. Eleanor Russo was not so controlled, not so compliant, certainly not cooperative. Part of her was intensely curious, wanted sex and wanted it bad, sought attention at every turn, acted on pure instinct. The other part was deliberate, enduring, brave, and desperate in her cause.
Separate, she had a big problem, one she’d hoped he would solve. Altogether, she made one hell of an intriguing woman.
Huh.
Been a while since he’d had a crush on anyone. It was as good a reason as any to do the right thing.
Been a while since he’d had a crush on anyone. It was as good a reason as any to do the right thing.
He sighed, blowing out his decision slowly. He would not be turning Eleanor over to any aide tomorrow, not unless all of his questions were satisfied. And he had a bundle. Asking hard questions was what he’d been trained to do.
His gaze slid toward magic again and his heart leaped.
Still no. He would not be tempted.
He’d see the Shadowlands again, would pour his mind and guts into the effort, but most likely not at Segue. As of tomorrow, he’d probably be out of a job.
Ellie couldn’t stop the tears. They came from her dark half, her deep self, who was rapt with awe at a painting. The painting was lovely, a life-sized vantage of a forest. Great skill had been exercised to render the depth of perception and the layered mixtures of colors, especially in those mysterious patches that seemed almost black, but not quite. Anyone could see that a talented artist had painted this. In the past, her shadow had occasionally responded to art with emotion, though never to this degree. The last time Ellie had hurt this much was when Gran passed away. The tears hadn’t stopped falling then, either. Even now, every once in a while . . .
Now Ellie knew why. For once Ellie saw what her shadow did.
A dreamland of trees, steeped in seductive fantasy. This was passion dark and rich, with a power that she had never imagined. It made her body scream for touch, her mind fragment with the throb of magic. She wanted this, needed to feel this, but it belonged to her other half. Her shadow got the best of everything.
“Can you cover it up?” Ellie asked.
Please.
Please.
Dr. Kalamos reached over and squeezed her hand, as if he could possibly understand how she felt. “You’re not alone.”
Ellie snorted through her tears. “I’m
never
alone.”
never
alone.”
Kalamos lifted his chin to one of the soldiers. “Can you see if there’s a tarp somewhere back there?”
The soldier departed and Ellie closed her eyes against the feelings that still surged within. A sudden sense of loss and disconnect had her stumbling, but that was just her shadow’s reaction, foundering after the painting was covered.
“Don’t . . . please . . .” her shadow begged.
Ellie turned her back on herself and strode down the corridor. She could find her way on her own if she had to. Stupid shadow, making her feel like that. It wasn’t fair.
“Wait, Eleanor!” Kalamos called.
She didn’t want to stop, but a soldier impeded her progress. She wouldn’t look back.
“I understand,” Kalamos was saying, but not to her. He had to be talking to her other half. “It’s pure magic.” He was talking about the painting again. “That’s Shadow.”
“Yes,” her dark self breathed.
Ellie braced against a pang of longing. It hit harder than she’d been prepared for. Shadow, the element he’d said he studied. He should have just said magic. The potency of it made her little shadow problem seem trivial.
“I want it badly, too,” he continued. “But it’s always there. You know that, right?”
“Yes.” Again, spoken with longing.
More sweet pain jolted Ellie. Damn them both.
“But not tonight,” he said.
“I want to see it now,” her shadow insisted.
“Now.”
“Now.”
“It can’t be now,” he explained.
Was he actually trying to reason with her again? Did he actually think he could placate her with a promise of later? For her shadow, there was no later.
Ellie didn’t turn at the sound of Dr. Kalamos’s approach. He stopped just behind her.
“If
you
walk away,” he said, “will she eventually lose interest in the painting?”
you
walk away,” he said, “will she eventually lose interest in the painting?”
Surprise forced Ellie to pivot and meet his gaze. It almost seemed that—? Had he finally—?
“No,” Ellie answered carefully. “I’m pretty sure her interest is caught.”
The feeling was as strong as when Gran died, though not nearly as hopeless in tone. The grief following her death had been so ragged and cold, the future so unbearable, that Ellie had wanted to die herself. Similarly, her shadow had crouched by the grave for weeks, unmoving, raw in sorrow. But when she finally returned to the house, she returned more bold and powerful than she had ever been in Ellie’s life. Ellie didn’t want to think about what had happened next.
“What does her interest in the painting mean for you?” he asked.
Ellie shrugged. “That she’s predictable for a little while.”
“That
you’re
predictable,” he corrected.
you’re
predictable,” he corrected.
Ellie held her breath. Yes, he finally understood. He’d be putting it all together now, associating her shadow’s actions with Ellie. All that writhing and strutting. Heat flew to Ellie’s face. She was exposed. She wrapped her arms around herself to cover what she could (nothing) and nodded, unable to deny it.
Concern and humor filled his gaze. “Until you, I thought I was pretty smart. Took me all day, didn’t it?”
She nodded again, wary and miserable.
He held out his hand. “So let’s start over. I’m Cameron Kalamos. I’ll leave off the
Dr.
until I think I’ve earned it again. Why don’t you call me Cam?”
Dr.
until I think I’ve earned it again. Why don’t you call me Cam?”
“Cam,” she repeated, shaking a hand for the third time in her life. This time it felt right. Like she was really meeting someone. And someone who had witnessed the worst in her, yet seemed okay with it. “I’m Ellie.”
“Ellie,” he said, his green eyes going to crescents. “How do you do?”
Ellie felt her blush heat, and looked away from those penetrating eyes or her shadow would take notice. She might have already, and would bring her naked self over. But her shadow was still looking at the covered painting, distress on her face.
Yes, it was
that
beautiful. That wrenching. But Ellie would take the interest in Cam’s eyes any day.
that
beautiful. That wrenching. But Ellie would take the interest in Cam’s eyes any day.
A commotion had them all turning. There was overlapping movement as others joined them in the hallway, Mr. Black Pants in the lead. “Cameron, what’s going on here?”
Cam’s arm went around Ellie’s waist as he brought her forward. “Ellie, this is Marshall Grouper. He manages things around here.”
Marshall nodded her way, but kept his attention on Cam. “The shadow?”
“We found her,” he said. “She’s formed an emotional connection to the painting at the end of the hallway. Actually, I have too. I’d sure as hell like more information about it.”
Ellie wondered about the artist, and what he or she must have seen to have painted such an evocative setting. The artist had to have been looking with his shadow, too.
“It’s Mr. Thorne’s property and none of your business,” Marshall was saying. “What was she doing to it?”
“Just looking,” Cam answered. “She can’t actually touch anything. We’ve covered it now, but Ms. Russo thinks that her shadow will remain preoccupied regardless.”
Marshall gave Ellie his full attention. “She can’t stay here.”
Ellie tensed at being put on the spot. Ummm . . . “Then move the painting?”
Cam laughed, but mostly at Marshall Grouper, which made her warm inside. Her reaction was dangerous.
“Brilliant idea,” Cam said. “Problem solved. Now I’m going to escort Ms. Russo back to her room so she can get some rest. I’ll meet you in security and explain in greater detail.”
Ellie kept very quiet on the way back. This felt too good, too glowy. Any happier and her shadow might just break from the painting and crawl all over Cam, and she’d have to hate herself all over again. The soldiers followed, solemn, an ever-present reminder of her strangeness, yet the walk through the big hotel gave her the even stranger feeling of belonging. Hallways and connecting rooms, the elevator. The only sound was a soft whir pulling them upward.
She’d never said good night to a man at her door. Had only seen the interaction on TV and read about it in books. Cam stuffed his hands in his pockets, and kind of looked nervous himself. The sight made her grin.
“You’ve got a gorgeous smile,” he said, stepping back. “You should use it more often.”
The glow within went brighter, scary bright, so she could only give a lame shrug. The door closed, a lock snicking into place.
And Ellie felt a break within, coinciding with another strong surge of delicious emotion. Twice in one night, the painting, now this, each so different. Her shadow’s power was definitely growing.
It was her own fault, really, because she liked Cam so much. She’d bet anything now that her dark half’s interest had shifted. And that her shadow was once again on the move.
Cam checked his watch—2:54
A.M.
—as he got into the elevator with Jose. By now, everyone had to realize that Ellie’s shadow was safe, that the extra protection was unnecessary, but it was too late to argue.
A.M.
—as he got into the elevator with Jose. By now, everyone had to realize that Ellie’s shadow was safe, that the extra protection was unnecessary, but it was too late to argue.
Adrenaline falling, Cam wanted some coffee. Strong and black. And a sandwich. And a bathroom.
At least the rest of the watch tonight would be uneventful, now that the shadow’s attention had settled on the painting. That predictability might go a long way to help Ellie’s case tomorrow. What harm could the shadow do? None. He was certain of it. Ellie had come to him for help. He’d give what he could.
He glanced over at Jose, who had his head cocked slightly, an eyeball trained on him, eyebrow lifted.
“What?” Cam asked.
Jose’s mouth twitched, mocking, in answer. It was the same kind of derision Cam was used to in martial arts training, minus the pummeling.
“Shut up,” Cam answered. He was only being friendly to a nice girl. That’s all.
“It’s your funeral,” Jose returned.
Cam ignored him the rest of the walk back to the security room. He’d barely entered when Marshall nodded toward a monitor. “I thought you said the painting would hold her interest.”
Cam moved quickly to see for himself. “She’s gone?”
“Not two minutes ago,” Marshall said. “Streaked from the room. Literally. Right after I updated the . . . uh,
aide
on her supposed enduring interest. Thanks a lot, Kalamos.”
aide
on her supposed enduring interest. Thanks a lot, Kalamos.”
“I don’t understand.” Cam peered closer at the monitor, as though the shadow would materialize for his effort. The painting had been moved from the hallway to what appeared to be one of the larger rooms on the first floor, from what he could tell of the oversized windows and the gleam of the wood floor. This room’s renovation was completed, though it lacked furniture. The painting leaned against a wall, still covered.
It didn’t make sense. He’d seen the shadow’s reaction to the painting. He was still feeling the effects of it himself, a kind of soul ache that intensified with the memory of the trees. Ellie had felt it too; she’d been touched the same way he had. Her tears were not feigned, nor was the longing in her expression. And her shadow was the conduit. There was nothing within Segue more powerful than that painting. Why it had been stored in that unsecured hallway was beyond him. Somebody had to have made a grave mistake.
“She’ll be back,” Cam said. “Has she been spotted anywhere else?”
He glanced at the monitor that viewed Ellie’s apartment. The flesh and blood version was curled up on the couch, her face hidden. Dozing? He couldn’t tell.
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