The Siren's Dance (24 page)

“No. I…really, I just want--”

“Look at this.” She passed him back his phone. “The message I sent Dmitri.”

“Why?” Ever cautious, he glanced at the road before risking a look at the screen.

On his first glance, his jaw bulged and he scowled, but then he handed her the phone, shaking his head and grinning. “You know, my history with women sucks.” He drew in a breath through his nose, his nostrils flaring. “But now, it seems like all along, I was waiting for you.”

“Maybe I’m your fate.”

“Then I’d be an ass if I tried to run away.” He squeezed her hand so hard all the joints ached.

She squeezed right back.

“I think this proves we should go together,” he said.

“And I think you’re right. But first, I’ll give Gregor Lisko what he needs.”

“What about the
vila
? She no longer objects?”

Anya closed her eyes and searched inside herself, probing at that strange power that was and wasn’t her. It was there, like a brewing storm, its black clouds roiling. A strength that made her more than just Anya and promised she could defeat Stas.

“I’m not sure, but I want to try.”

In only a few minutes, Sergey pulled up to the curb and tossed the valet the keys. “Don’t park it far. We’ll be leaving again soon.”

“Yes, sir.”

Inside that opulent peacock-blue lobby, someone called out, “Anya.”

She glanced up to see Dmitri pushing Gregor in a wheel chair. The old man was slumped, and he held his silver-tipped cane across his knee so fiercely she imagined he might whack his nephew with it if he didn’t like the way he steered. The sight brought an unexpected smile to her lips.

Sonya left Dmitri’s side to embrace her. “You look wonderful.” Her gaze traveled to Anya’s hand in Sergey’s and her brow creased when she finally reached his face. “Thank you for taking good care of my sister.”

He shook his head. “She can take care of herself. Let’s go up to the room. There’s a lot we need to tell you.”

“So I gathered,” Dmitri said.

As soon as they were in the privacy of their suite, the perfume of the fern blossom hit her, a musky spice that reminded her of Sergey’s scent. It must also have been Demyan’s. She shuddered to think that she had cuddled into Sergey’s chest and relished the way he smelled when it was something he shared with his father.

And yet Sergey in no way deserved her revulsion. She shoved it aside and attended to the matter at hand, bending so she was face-to-face with Gregor. A waxy sheen shone on his face, drawn with pain and effort. His eyes had dulled, and yet his shrewdness still pierced the haze. A man who’d secured so much wealth and power, hanging his last hope on Anya.

He offered her his hand, large and strong, in contrast to the rest of him. Sergey pressed her palm into the old man’s and then let go. Some subtle shift passed through her, a more mellow vibration of energy flowing between her and the ailing Lisko than what she’d shared with Sergey.

“I’m so sorry,” Lisko said.

In the days since Gregor had come to her riverbank, Anya’s heart had opened under Sergey’s tender attention. This time there was room for the old man’s words to slide inside and resound there, clear and true. The room fell away, and she was thrown back to the riverbank, face-to-face with a young man just barely older than her, his mouth spread with the cry, “Stop.” His eyes wide with all the panic of a situation that had gone beyond his control.

Mercy flooded her, and the
vila
did not object. She could only hope this was the right decision.

“I forgive you, Gregor Lisko, for the part you played in my death and in the murder of my family.”

Tears shone in his clouded eyes, and he smiled at her before a laugh burst from him. “Thank God, and thank you, Anya.”

She blinked, the memory fading, and the hotel room coming back into focus.

The weight of his gratitude settled onto her shoulders, pressed her feet into the floor. She’d done something important, something that mattered to a dying man. It hadn’t even been hard, hadn’t cost her a thing.

His laugh turned into a hacking cough. He doubled over and jerked his hand away to cover his mouth.

The moment slowed down as Anya waited to go ghost.

And waited.

But still she stood there, still occupying her skin, boots planted firmly on the rug.

Crap.
She looked at her hands, empty of Sergey’s and Lisko’s. She was all alone. Were her
vila
powers gone, leaving her plain old powerless Anya, who had never been good enough at anything?

No one spoke.

She watched Gregor struggle to catch his breath. When he did, and the room fell silent, she turned to face Sergey. He was frowning in his confused-puppy way.

Then Sonya started clapping. “You did it! You’re free!”

Was she? Anya eyed the purse with her slipper in it.

“Now you can stop all this nonsense with Demyan.”

A big hand enfolded Anya’s. Sergey’s. “It’s not nonsense,” he said.

She dropped onto the sofa, her mind a flurry of questions.

His voice sounded distant as he explained everything to Sonya and the Liskos, starting with the real reason he’d been searching for Stas in the first place.

Was this the end? She looked inward again for the brewing storm of her
vila
power, but all she could feel was exhaustion dragging at her.

She drew her legs up under herself, wrapped her arms around her knees, the weight of everything on her made gravity a burden instead of a pleasure. Her ghostly powers had been her only chance of defeating a demon. If they were gone, her mission was hopeless.

Sergey sat close at Anya’s side, but she’d curled herself up like a hedgehog, and her mind seemed to be elsewhere.

Sonya knelt at her feet. “I knew it would work.
Vilas
and
rusalkas
are essentially the same.”

So they’d been right all along, but tenacious Anya hadn’t believed she could simply live again.

“Please,” Sonya said, “just let Stas go. Be free. Start over. Oh, for God’s sake, look at me.”

Sergey heard himself speaking, even though he knew better than to weigh in on other people’s family business. “This isn’t just a case of Anya being jilted. Demyan is a demon. He abused her, he purposely eroded her sense of worth, and then he dumped her, all so that he could come back to a broken woman, impregnate her and then”--he clenched his teeth, hating the words he had to say next--“slowly suck the life out of her.”

He had no appetite for a woman’s life, only for Anya’s raw passion and secret kindness. But would that change when he met Demyan?

Sonya’s intent expression drew him out of his thoughts, spurred him to continue.

“It’s not just a grudge. She came back as a
vila
to exact justice. It’s like the universe’s way to avenge all the women my father hurt.”

Sonya stood up and crossed her arms. “But she’s not a
vila
anymore.”

Next to him, Anya flinched.

Were her powers really gone? That would explain her retreat into silence. All she’d wanted was to be free and join the
vilas
. Even if for a moment, when she’d joked that maybe she was his fate, he’d hoped they could have some kind of future together. As what--a ghost and a demon?

Fuck. He needed to focus on finding Demyan. If he survived that, he could worry about what came next.

He turned to face her and gently twisted her shoulders. For the briefest moment, he considered begging her to let the whole thing go, to let him face his father alone. But she wouldn’t, anymore than he’d consider abandoning their search.

“Is the
vila
gone?”

“I don’t know.” Her dark eyes swam with uncertainty.

He leaned forward to kiss her, needing to offer her all the assurance he had. After a moment’s hesitation, her mouth softened to him, opening to accept a quick lick of his tongue. She hugged him to her tightly, like he was her strength, not a soul-sucking monster. The kiss infused him with some buzzing, warm energy that might have been hope.

A deep throat clearing sounded. “Hey, Yuchenko, stop making out with my sister-in-law so we can form a plan.”

Reluctantly, Sergey broke the kiss, relieved both by Dmitri’s words and the smile forming on Anya’s face.

“We?” he asked.

“She just did me a significant favor,” Gregor said. “We’d hardly send her off on a dangerous task alone. That is not the Lisko way.”

Sergey bristled. “She wouldn’t be alone.”

“Look,” Dmitri said. “I appreciate there are certain tasks that call for a precise response, but from what you said, I think overwhelming force might work best here.”

“Indeed,” Gregor agreed. “Between you and me, Yuchenko, I think we could mobilize the local
politsiya
. Shall we report a terrorist threat? Or perhaps a human-trafficking ring?”

Anya shook her head. “We don’t really know what he’s capable of. Or if he has an army of sons living down there with him. I don’t want to risk you all, or to send police into a situation like that, unknowing. This is my job, and mine alone.”

“She’s right about all of that except one thing,” Sergey said. “It’s our job. Just the two of us. But if anything happens to me, promise you’ll protect my mother from him.”

Dmitri nodded. “Of course.”

“Anya.” Sonya said her sister’s name as a plea.

Anya rose and pulled away from him to give her a hug. Inside Sergey, that possessive hunger stirred for her touch. Something deep in his gut didn’t like her far from him, wanted her skin-to-skin all the time. If that was his inner demon, it would have to get used to it. He refused to be the jealous type.

“Let’s go.” She turned to Sergey, her smile brimming with trust and something more, an emotion he could imagine might be love.

His heart pounded under the weight of her feelings. “Okay. But first you’ve got to change--no demon hunting in fancy shoes.”

She nodded and made her way to the bedroom, no longer hitched to him. His whole body ached from the separation.

Dmitri came to his side and slapped him on the back. “I know how you feel, man.”

In less than a minute, she came back in slacks and boots. When she took his hand again, the aching hunger subsided.

They accepted Dmitri’s offer of a ride and left Sonya in the hotel room to tend to Gregor.

Several yards down the hall, at a spot emblazoned in Sergey’s mind, Anya froze.

“Really?” he asked.

Her grin was blinding. “I’m stuck here. Can’t go another inch.”

Sergey slumped against the wall, a slow smile taking hold of his own face.

“What’s the hold up?” Dmitri asked.

“Slipper,” Sergey said, then jogged to the room to get her purse. When he returned, Anya blew him a kiss. It reached him like a sultry breeze--the
vila’s
very own. Thank God.

They sat together in the back seat, chauffeured to their fate instead of attempting to flee it. If she was still a
vila
, maybe this wasn’t entirely a suicide mission, but still, he had no plan of attack except to protect Anya with everything he had.

And if his mother was right, he might falter on even that task.

Outside the ballet studio, Sergey took her hand. “Listen, if I turn demon in there, don’t bring me out again. I don’t want to live like him.”

“You won’t--”

“But if I do. Please, Anya.”

She nodded, then knocked on the studio door. No one answered.

Sergey tried the handle, and it opened with a shrill squeak. So much for
politsiya
authorization. But perhaps the Liskos could produce an authorization through some of their shady backchannels.

Quietly, they stole inside and stood in the center of the large room. A warm, homey place where he could practically still hear the bustle and laughter of the young dancers who’d come for their class on his previous visit.

And then, the darkness seized Sergey, calculating, hungry, and savage, like the mind of a panther trying to possess his own mind.

“Should we look for a way into the tunnels?” she asked.

The panther still prowled through Sergey’s consciousness, searching for purchase somewhere, a way in.

“No,” he rasped. “He’s coming this way.”

Sergey held still, battening down his every thought against his father’s grasping mind. He could sense every inch of the demon’s progress, but Anya grew restless, crossing the floor, stroking the bar, studying the posters illustrating dance positions, all the while clutching her purse to her side.

Then, without the sound of a footfall or the squeal of a hinge, Demyan was in the room. She turned at the exact moment Sergey set sight on his father.

Dark hair, wavy and short, crowned the demon’s handsome face, wide at the cheekbones, but with a thin, cruel mouth. He looked nothing like Sergey, but for the hazel eyes, identical down to the shape and thickness of lashes, and they narrowed at him.

“Oksana’s boy.” He crossed his arms, clothed in a loose shirt that bared much of his chest--a garment for dancing, as were the snug trousers. Demyan circled Sergey, all the while probing at his son’s mind. “I thought you dead.”

Sergey knew well how to play the good cop; now he would try out the role of good son. “She hid me from you, but she was wrong to do it.”

“Indeed.” Demyan smiled, a cruel grin, but the kind that would sway people with its power. “Two dear ones I thought dead have returned to me.”

“I’ve been searching for you,” Sergey said. “I felt a…need.” He let the truth of it flow into the word, and it came out sounding harsh and hungry.

Anya’s breath caught with a gasp, but Sergey forced himself not to look at her. “Then I found this one, and…” He shook his head, as if it were inexplicable. “I recognized something in her. I knew she could lead me to you, that she belonged to you.”

Demyan slapped Sergey on the back. “My son, you have done very well. Do you desire her? She’s very beautiful.”

Sergey risked a glance at her. Anger and hate and confusion poured off Anya, and she was indeed very beautiful. He kept his mind singular, resisting the panther prowling through it, and spoke another frightening truth. “I don’t understand this desire. It is not only for sex.”