The Siren's Dance (15 page)

As he listened, his face twisted with the strain of a strong emotion. “Shit. I’m sorry man.”

Her stomach sank. “Is it Sonya?”

Sergey shook his head. “Gregor. He’s in the hospital. Couldn’t breathe last night. The cancer’s moved to his lungs.”

An unexpected grief twisted through her. The man had chased her into the river, caused her death, yet somehow, his imminent demise unsettled Sergey, and Dmitri, and Sonya too. Even Anya wasn’t immune.

Sergey’s mouth tightened as he returned his attention to the phone. Then he nodded. “All right. Yeah. She’s right here.”

Anya took the phone, and she squeezed his hand instinctively. She had an inkling of what was coming, just not what she wanted to say in response.

“Anya?” Dmitri asked.

“I’m here.”

“My uncle is running out of time. He…” The brutish boxer’s voice hitched. “He’s desperate, Anushka. He would do anything for your forgiveness.”

They’d found her. Put her up in this extravagant room, bought her more food than she could possibly have eaten. And now Dmitri spoke to her like family, which she was. And she’d pretended to be a
rusalka
, agreed to their scheme without knowing if it would even work. But Gregor didn’t need her to magically become human again--that was only the carrot he’d offered to ensure a harpy’s help. All he wanted was to go to his grave forgiven.

“Sergey was right when he told you I’m not a
rusalka
. I don’t know what will happen if I do this. But--”

Inside her living body, the
vila’s
power stirred. It chilled her skin like she was coated in a dusting of ice and tried to bend her will with a freezing pressure against her mind.

Not Lisko. Stas Demyan. Kill Stas Demyan.

Sergey cocked his head and raised his brows like he could hear the battle raging in her mind. “All right?”

She shook her head, giving his hand a squeeze. He shivered.

“I don’t--” The word came as a crackle of frozen air, like vapor of an icy Kiev morning. And then her mouth refused to work, her tongue felt useless as a lump of ice.

“Oh, shit. Give me the phone--” He yanked it from her, not waiting for her to concede. “Listen, Lisko, I don’t like this. She’s…cold.”

And she was getting colder, her internal temperature dropping fast. In the flesh or not, she wasn’t going to lose this fight with her
vila
nature.

“She’s a ghost.” Dmitri shouted back loud enough for her to hear.

“Not at the moment. But her lips are blue and she’s trembling.”

Anya opened her mouth to tell him exactly how cold she was, but all that came out was a howling wind. She clapped her hands over her mouth, trying to contain the power of it. It battered her insides, a glacial gale trapped inside her.

Sergey cradled her, wrapping her in his warmth, but it didn’t penetrate the frigid air roiling inside her. The tips of her fingers tingled, then went numb. She raised her free hand to examine it--icy claws had formed there.

Staring at the crystal talons, she finally understood. She hadn’t been strong enough in life to stand up to Demyan. Being a
vila
was her strength. With the power of the wind at her command, she could resist his charms, the lure of his promise of love. She could have her revenge.

Sergey stared at her hand. “Fuck. The answer’s no, Lisko. The ghost wants Demyan and nothing else.” He slammed the phone down and hugged her tight.

The tumult inside her calmed, and her body went limp.

“Hot bath?” Sergey asked.

“God, yes.”

He carried her into the bathroom and held her on his lap while the tub filled. Sadly, she was too damn cold to enjoy being so close to him and all the erotic potential of being situated on such a fine pair of thighs. Warding off the vila’s icy fury required all her attention.

When the water level was high enough, the steam pouring into the room, he lowered her in, nightgown and all. He leaned against the wall, holding her ankle beneath the water, just as he had at dinner the night before. Inch by glorious inch, the chill began to recede from her body.

“Thank you,” she said, and didn’t sound at all like a wind tunnel.

“You were considering it, weren’t you?” he asked. “Before you started to freeze from the inside, you were going to agree to forgive Lisko?”

“Yeah.” The word sounded lazy, but she couldn’t even manage to open her eyes.

“Maybe the
vila
thinks if you forgive Lisko, you might decide to forgive Demyan too.”

She blew out a raspberry. “That’s not going to happen.”

“Then maybe she thinks you’ll lose your chance to get Demyan if you become human again.”

“She doesn’t think that, or think anything for that matter. She is me. And I know becoming human again is not possible.”

“Oh.”

Still, she closed her eyes and gave his theory some consideration. Could Jerisavlja have been wrong? For so long, joining the other
vilas
had been her best and only option. Considering the possibility of living again felt a little bit like watching a couple eat forbidden ice cream cones. She could barely stand to let herself imagine, let alone know if she wanted the chance.

She cracked an eyelid and saw him staring at the ceiling, so that mostly she could only see the underside of his chin.

He scratched the stubble there. “Then it was generous of you. An act of mercy for your murderer with no benefit to yourself.”

The water grew warmer, or maybe she blushed under his kind gaze.

“I guess that makes more sense, though. Because if you could live again, of course you would choose that over revenge.”

It would be hard for a golden guy like him to understand. She didn’t reply and closed her eyes, hoping he would get the hint she didn’t want to talk about it.

“Right, Anya?”

She cracked one leaden eyelid to peak at her wrists. The scars were still there, but very faint. Even an extremely observant investigator wasn’t likely to notice them, traces of the real moment she’d given up on life, weeks before she’d actually died. She’d rushed home from the theater, after Stas had announced his marriage. Her mother had found her just as she begun to slice at her skin, had stopped her bleeding, taken her to the hospital.

Anya had been locked in the psych ward, drugged halfway into a coma, just alert enough to be angry she wasn’t dead, and to say the cruelest things to her parents, who dutifully visited her every day. They’d only checked her out of the mental hospital when they’d had to go into hiding, fleeing the Liskos, who’d wanted to silence her papa, because he knew they’d stolen a priceless necklace from a powerful communist party official.

“For all those years at the river, I had no hope of living. Lisko suddenly appearing didn’t make it the most important thing.”

“Isn’t life always the most important thing?”

“No.”

When the icy water had swallowed Anya, there’d been a moment when she might have made it, might have darted for shore and been lucky enough to escape the insane gunman, Ivan Lisko. But if she’d survived, she would have had to live without Demyan’s love, and grieve her entire family, who had died before she could ever apologize for what she’d put them through. It had been so much easier to go with them, to let the river drag her down into its swirling depths.

By the time her lungs had rebelled against the choice, it was too late. She’d thrashed and flailed against her sodden coat, not knowing which way was up in the water as dark and inky as the night sky above.

When she’d awoken as a ghost, it had seemed a fitting punishment for a stubborn suicide like her. And the anger at Demyan for driving her to it had begun to burn.

“The most important thing is to make him pay. I’ll never be free without revenge.”

Sergey stroked the length of her leg between her ankle and calf. “And I’m sure you will, Anushka. Just remember you promised to let me talk to him first.”

At the use of the intimate form of her name, she opened her eyes to see if he was mocking her despite the tender touch and tone. His lids were closed, his head against the wall, his jaw set in determination, or resignation.

Without his intense hazel stare setting off bursts of mixed emotions inside her, it was easier to look at him. So handsome, a firm mouth as tempting as Demyan’s had been, but kinder and quicker to smile. A squarer jaw, which left his cheekbones more prominent. But their straight noses were quite similar, each slightly dimpled on the tip.

Why the hell was she comparing them? Surely, they didn’t look any more alike than two handsome men ever did. It was only that a meager two had ever paid attention to her, and of the pair, only this one was worth a damn.

A telephone rang and Sergey jumped. Could it be another call from the stranger who might be his father? But the peal was the old-fashioned ring of an actual bell--it must be the antique phone on the desk. Possibly the mysterious caller, but more likely someone from the hotel.

It was a pity to move Anya. She looked so peaceful, submerged in the warm water, the nightgown now perfectly see-through, revealing the slight and palm-sized curve of her breasts, the dusky color of her nipples, the angular bones of her hips, the shadow of a dark triangle at the V of her legs. Her animated features had settled into restful beauty, with only the slightest crease between her brows.

“Who the hell is calling now?” she muttered, shattering the illusion she was at peace.

He chuckled. “Front desk probably. Want to come or go, ghost?”

“That’s no kind of choice. Either way, bath time is over. Pass me a towel.” She rose up, droplets sluicing down her slim form like a water nymph instead of the windy variety she happened to be.

He averted his eyes, cuffed her ankle with one hand, and handed her the white towel with another. It was a fluffy, luxurious thing, and he was probably in need of a good scrub himself. But he would have to convince Anya to let him shower solo, and he wasn’t in the mood for a fight right now, especially when losing meant being wet and naked with her. Under those circumstances, he would probably manage to convince himself sex with a ghost his estranged father had exploited fifty years ago wasn’t so taboo.

Then he remembered that fantasy of Demyan using her against the wall of a ballet studio, the tragic, pained expression his imagination had given her. When she learned Sergey was her abuser’s son, would she forgive him for keeping the secret?

Her wet nightie slapped loudly on the marble tiles where she tossed it across the bathroom.

He grit his teeth.
Will. Not. Look.
Not even a peek.

Back in the bedroom, with Anya wrapped in the towel at his side, he called down to the front desk.

“This is Sergey Yuchenko in room 314. Were you trying to reach me?”

“Yes. There’s a woman here who says a Mrs. Sonya Lisko sent her. She has a rack of clothing in tow.”

He blew out a puff of air, impressed they’d made clothes happen so quickly.

“What is it?” Anya whispered.

“Your wardrobe has arrived.”

Her smile crinkled the corners of her eyes. “You know, one thing Sonya and I always had in common was our love of clothes. Unfortunately, she got all the curves, and we couldn’t share.”

With a graceful sweep, Anya used her hand to illustrate her sister’s shape, as if a few inches in those places would add to her appeal. He loved her lithe, disciplined body, the way she moved with a musical beauty just as much in her flesh as she did as a ghost.

She’d grown wistful, staring at the floor. “Still, Sonya made me lovely things, and she always shared when she had special fabric. Like the nightgown.” She tilted her head to indicate the puddle of pink satin she’d left in the bathroom.

Her eyes had grown soft and shiny, but not with grief and certainly not with self-pity. If he’d had to venture a label, he might have named love or gratitude that once again her sister was caring for her.

He chucked her gently on the chin. “Once we get you something to wear, I’ll take you to breakfast. My buddy owns a little cafe. Not
filet mignon
, but he makes a mean cheese omelet.”

“Cheese! That sounds divine. Have I mentioned I like cheese as much as I do fluffy towels?”

In reply, he only laughed and shook his head.

Soon, a rack of clothing arrived at their room. An elegant woman pushed it from behind. She presented a business card from one of the city’s luxury department stores.

At first, she tried to shoo Sergey away, but she slowly seemed to accept his need to hold on to Anya as some sort of eccentricity. Clearly, she wasn’t often called in for early morning emergency wardrobe consultations. So she’d taken to looking at him as if he were a celebrity she was on the brink of recognizing from TV or a movie but couldn’t quite place.

Every garment fit Anya perfectly and flattered her captivating figure. Her sister had sent smart slacks, heels, sleek sweaters--nothing casual, which meant he’d be ill-suited to escort her wherever they went, and that she would surely be overdressed for breakfast at Vadim’s cafe. Still, the sophisticated clothing suited her. He couldn’t imagine her in a pair of baggy jeans and a tattered sweater. She was a diva and made to dress like one.

“Am I supposed to choose something?” she asked, wearing a beautiful low-backed crimson gown unsuitable for any occasion less formal than the National Arts Awards Gala. Where the hell did Sonya think her sister was going?

Oh, right. Perhaps nowhere good, and soon. Were these clothes a final gift, a last chance to spoil her? The thought left his hollow stomach sick.

Oblivious to his concerns, the stylist stood at the ghost’s hip, helping with a side zipper. She shook her head at Anya’s question. “No need to choose. They’re all paid for. But I do want to make sure everything is the right size, or I’ll send for another one.”

Oh, the perks of working for a Lisko. If Anya did get to live again, perhaps this rack of clothes would become a favor owed, or maybe as Sonya’s sister, she’d be enveloped in all this privilege--room service and wardrobe delivery at a luxury hotel--with no strings attached.