The Siren's Touch (4 page)

He tried to remember.

“I came from the teapot,” the ghost said.

“Huh.” He hadn’t actually seen her fly out of the pot, but it was the only thing that made sense. “The teapot, Auntie.”

At the same time, the ghost continued. “I know this teapot. It belongs to me.”

Elena began to pace around the large, open room, click-click-clicking over the tiles of the kitchen, to the spacious living area, to the table where they’d had tea. “Is she wet?”

Dmitri’s face heated, his mind going to the…obvious—but also obviously not what his aunt meant. “What?”

“This is important. If she came from the teapot, I may know what she is, but only if she is wet.”

The ghost, who apparently recognized no double meaning, held up a dripping, lock of hair.

“Yeah. She’s wet.” He crossed his leg, resting one ankle on the opposite knee, and leaned forward over the tent in his pants.

“Hmm. Maybe she’s a rusalka then.”

“A what?”

“A water spirit.” Elena’s focus aimed at the general area where Dmitri looked, but she wasn’t quite focusing on the ghost.

“Like a mermaid?”

“Sort of, or a siren. And if I remember correctly, they come equipped with a deadly need for vengeance.”

Some kind of spiritual leash tried to keep her at his side, but she broke loose from it and floated behind the pacing woman. A rusalka? Impossible. Those only existed in fairytales…

Just like ghosts.

Oh, phooey.

It was as good an explanation as any. She rifled through her spotty memories, trying to drag up whatever she could recall about the watery female spirits. Nothing came. Her brain didn’t feel right. It was sluggish. Thoughts swirled and floated in the same way she moved through the air, rather than racing and snapping into place the way they were supposed to.

Then one surfaced—a nugget of self-knowledge—she’d never liked scary stories. She would bury her head under the pillow and hum when Mama read Anya fairytales about witches or monsters. Next, a wisp of melody floated by, the memory of a whistled tune. That’s right. Of all the operas she’d seen, tucked deep in the velvet folds of the side stage, Dvorak’s
Rusalka
had been her least favorite. Sure, all operas were tragic, but that water princess’s longing for a love that could never be—she needed a smart smack in the face and something to keep her busy, a meaningful job, or a hobby.

All of a sudden, the memories popped like sudsy bubbles in a kitchen sink, vanishing from her ghost brain. All that was left for her to do was simply hover along, trailing after Dmitri’s aunt, hoping for guidance and for crumbs that might spark more memories. The older woman circled the airy room, which was crowded with plenty of keepsakes that had made her certain she was in Ukraine if they hadn’t told her otherwise.

The woman passed near the wide window where Dmitri loomed, his broad shoulders obscuring the scenic view. Even though he sat slumped in the chair, his little aunt barely matched his height, and she wore heels.

Her shocking outfit appeared to be a man’s suit, tailored for her miniature frame. Slacks of black wool crepe with a hint of pin striping grazed the top of patent-leather shoes. The matching jacket of the masculine ensemble was so well cut it flattered the woman’s figure in surprisingly feminine angles. Her black bob was sleek, framing her jaw and softening its lines.

She could appreciate the care put into the older woman’s dress and appearance. It was an odd style, one she’d never seen in Kiev, to be sure. But perhaps it was the latest fashion from Paris. She found herself curious to know what others were wearing outside the little house on the strange street.

Elena’s circuit took her back to Dmitri, whose eyes seemed to be sinking deeper and deeper into his head. Dark charcoal circles now swept arcs underneath them and his crystal-blue irises popped with unnerving intensity. If she had nerves, they would have been undone by his gaze. Without them, it was rather mesmerizing.

“Auntie, tell me about rusalki.” He gripped the little woman’s arm.

His aunt came to a halt, shaking her head as if to clear it. “I’m trying to recall. Dmitri, understand, they are obscure mythological creatures. They only appear in a few stories, the oldest fairytales. Hmm. I believe they are said to have green eyes with no irises or pupils.”

“No. Her eyes are brown. Normal eyes, just very dark, almost black. Maybe she’s not—”

“I don’t see what else she can be, if she came from the teapot.”

His gaze followed the ghost, and the prickle of it heated her not-real skin. She gave him a reassuring nod.

With her permission, he pressed on. “Tell us about rusalki then.”

“According to the legends, they are the spirits of women who drowned themselves after being jilted by a lover. Suicides, often women pregnant outside of marriage. Or their deaths were grave injustices and they linger in the world to avenge them.”

Her translucent hand went to her belly. With mysterious certainty, she knew there had been no child there. But an injustice—that notion sent ghostly energy sizzling through her.

“Does she have powers?” he asked.

Elena snapped her fingers. “Pay attention, Dmitri. I said she is a siren.”

Through the slow burn of vengeful fury, she tried to make sense of the older woman’s words. Sirens. They were from Homer’s tale of Odysseus, luring the sailors onto the rocks with their beautiful songs. The memory of a blush came over her in one hot flash. That’s what her voice did to Dmitri—some kind of supernatural seduction.

He must have come to the same conclusion, because he narrowed his eyes, fixing her to the spot where she hovered beside Elena, who had bent to retrieve the silver bases of the teacups—all that remained of her lovely
stekans
.

“She’s using magic to control me?” Angry, his voice had even more gravel in it.

“What?” Elena straightened, each centimeter of her little frame erect, clasping the silver handles in one hand and brushing the other off on her trousers. “Oh, I see. You’ve experienced her powers?”

He shifted in his chair, his gaze darting away, and he coughed something that sounded like a yes.

Guilt pooled in her ghostly shell.

Poor man.

He’d only offered to help her because she had some kind of supernatural sex appeal. If he’d met her alive, dressed in her woolen skirts and hand-knit sweaters, he’d have thought she was the plainest Jane. Not a seductive bone in her body.

“From my limited understanding, I’d guess she doesn’t want to destroy you, but only to ensure your help achieving her revenge.”

Dmitri ran his hand over his shaved head, and the shadow of stubble there promised hair as thick and glossy as Elena’s.

Why did he shave it all off?

With one big paw, he crammed an entire teacake into his mouth.

Her ghost stomach gurgled with remembered hunger. She would never eat a teacake again. How she’d loved them, with her mother’s homemade blackberry jam—

“How can I help her? She doesn’t even recall her own name.”

“Sonya.” The round word rolled off her tongue without the memory returning. Suddenly, she simply knew.

He scratched his head, eyeing her intently. “I thought you said—”

“It just came back all of a sudden.” She offered him a half-hearted smile.

“Anything else?”

“Nothing important.” She hovered, weightless, yet she still wished she could sit down. She wasn’t tired exactly. But floating required a certain amount of mental energy, and she longed for the psychological comfort of resting on a soft cushion somewhere.

Dmitri leaned forward. With his elbow on his knee, he rested his chin in one of his big, knotty hands. “Why can I see her if you can’t?”

“Yes, that’s my question too.” Elena’s gaze traced the pattern of her previous pacing, but instead, she returned to the closet and raised a dustpan triumphantly. “It seems to me that she recognizes something about you.” The petite woman paused, retrieving her broom from where it rested against the back of a chair. “I’d like to think, Dmitri, that she sees something good in you, something honorable. Perhaps she is your crossroads.”

Dmitri’s handsome lips pressed into a thin line, no doubt a sign he didn’t much like his aunt’s words, and Sonya was curious to understand what they meant. She swished over to the air between them. It was different—thicker and full of tension. Their meaning wasn’t clear to her, but the current of what—accusation, resentment? She couldn’t miss the ripples it sent through her spectral body, threatening to loosen whatever bound her together. It was enough to make her panic, and she couldn’t take her eyes of his face.

His nostrils flared, but he nodded. Not quite an agreement, that was obvious, more like an acknowledgement Elena might be right. The emotional current dissipated, and Sonya’s sense of ghostly self stabilized. She took one of those habitual, relieved not-breaths.

He cleared his throat. “I already promised I’ll try to help her. Not for the reasons you said, but because she needs me, and I want to help.”

Sonya couldn’t help it. She was drawn by his reassuring solidarity, the pull of it tugging her to his side at a rate much slower than a swish. Why on earth would his aunt question his honor? He’d only been gentle and kind, and even respected her modesty as much as any man could, her being a mostly nude siren. Perhaps he looked dangerous and disreputable, but he certainly didn’t act that way.

“Good. Do you have a plan to assist her yet?” Elena’s clipped tone matched the efficiency with which she swept up shards of glass.

She reminded Sonya of her mother. But then the memory was gone, without even a face to go with it. In its place came another wave of fury—someone had taken that mother and that memory from her, and he had to pay. The spiritual particles that made up Sonya’s ghost self began to boil, colliding with one another and sending waves of spectral energy into the room. The vibrations shook the house more violently than any of her earlier fits of fury.

“Under the table, Dmitri. It’s an earthquake.”

“Nah. It’s the ghost, and she’s pissed.” His whisper could barely be heard over the rattling objects on shelves and hanging on the wall, but it still soothed Sonya. “Calm down, girl. What happened?”

“I remembered, no…I tried, but couldn’t remember…” Her gaze volleyed between them.

Elena politely turned toward Sonya without focus.

“I have to find who did this to me, who took me away from my family.”

His voice fell flat when he repeated her words to his aunt.

Elena lifted her chin and sighed. “It’s as I thought. A blood debt.”

A ghostly tremor rippled through Sonya.

He leaned forward in his chair. “Blood?”

Yes.
She could practically taste the iron of it in her mouth. She floated to the ceiling in thrilling ecstasy. Oh, how she wanted blood. Wanted it to pour from the veins of her killer, wanted to spill entrails and flay skin off muscle, then muscle off bone.

The spell broke with a snap, and the lingering desires shocked her. She sank again, shaking her head. To want some stranger to suffer a gory death, even if he had killed her? Her mind rejected the longing, and where her heart used to be, she tightened, recoiling from the frightening force of the need.

But on the most basic level of her ghostly being, she wanted blood.

Elena strode toward the seat next to Dmitri, apparently forgetting that Sonya hovered in the path. When the woman passed through her ghostly body, the connections between her ethereal particles loosened again, and panic roiled up in her that she might dissolve before she’d had her vengeance. She trembled, hating the need, yet unable to control it.

“Oh, pardon me, dear. I forgot you were there.” Elena hugged her arms across her chest, shuddering. “What an odd sensation. Clearly, I’ve never passed through a ghost before. I would surely have remembered that prickly, bone-itching sensation. It’s repulsively cold.”

Sonya cringed, the words pulling her back into her surroundings. Her touch was cold and repulsive? That was mortifying in a different way than discovering her vengeful bloodlust. She would never feel human contact again. Never feel the warmth of a handshake, or an embrace.

The thick bridge of Dmitri’s nose wrinkled in concentration. “How long have you been in Elena’s house, Sonya?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, how long have you been liv—um, I mean, been in the teapot? “

Sonya’s mind searched for the memories and came up blank. She shook her head. “I’ve never been out of the teapot before. I was running, and I was at the river, and there was the bang, and the cold, and the water, and then…I was here.”

“And that’s all you remember?”

“Yes.” She raised her chin and steeled herself, trying to disguise her fear. Not only was her mission terrifying, it was hopeless. She needed vengeance, but she couldn’t even remember why.

Dmitri tapped his fingers on the table, from little finger to big, three times. “When?”

“What do you mean?”

He let out a breath, not bothering to hide that he thought she was dim-witted. “What year do you last remember being alive?

Year? Was he implying…?

For the very first time, she took in her surroundings. The furnishings were odd, yes. But so much was familiar—the food on the table, the tea service.

Now the unfamiliar leapt out—

A large, shiny rectangle hung from the wall like an empty black picture frame. Similarly glossy black boxes with glowing lights and buttons were stacked beneath it. Futuristic bubble-shaped autos passed by outside. And then there was Elena’s suit…

She finished her survey and turned back to Dmitri, who reached into his pocket and pulled out another small box, the size of a cigarette case. He pressed a button and its surface illuminated with some stunning futuristic technology. He showed her its face.

She gasped. The twenty-first century. So much time had passed. How on earth would they find whoever had killed her?

“1968. October. That is the date I last remember.”

“Damn.” Dmitri cleared his throat. “How do we know the person who killed her is even alive?”