The Siren's Touch (8 page)

Gregor sidled up to the bed, glancing at the beeping equipment alongside it before he rested a hand on the rail of the gurney. “What are you going to do now?”

Dmitri laughed—a strange sound that echoed around in his swollen head and found no resonance or escape in his nasal passages. “Cut the bullshit, Gregor. We both know why you’re here. I’d suspect you of tripping me up somehow, if I wasn’t certain it was my own damn fault.”

Where Gregor’s knuckles wrapped around the rail, they turned white. “Jesus, Dmitri, that’s what you think of me? I don’t want to see you fail.”

True, because it would be his failure too, by association.

“Right. All you care about is your own success.”

“I care about our family. Your success is my success. So come work for me, and we can succeed together.”

“No.” The business and Gregor could go fuck themselves. Dmitri had a life to drink away in a gutter somewhere, just like his dear old dad.

“I thought you should know that this morning I got an email from Boris Makar.”

Dmitri sat up so fast his battered head throbbed with a giant wave of pressure that nearly toppled him forward and off the hospital bed.

“Easy, son.” Gregor placed a hand on his shoulder.

Dmitri shrugged it off. “What did it say?”

“Knight to C six.”

“He wants to play chess?”

“Apparently so. And the head of my technology department says that if we continue to exchange emails, it is only a matter of time before we can locate him.”

“You’re saying that if I come work for you, you’ll give me Makar?”

“Dima, why do you insist on making everything into a negotiation? We’re family. We both want Makar to pay for what he did to your father.”

Dmitri tried to snort, but the breath caught behind his mangled face, where it turned into a dull ache. “What do you want me to do?”

“I want you by my side. You’re the only one I trust to succeed me. But I need you to learn every angle of the business.”

“And by that you mean…”

“You know damn well what it means. But rest assured, my people follow rules—violence is a tool, it is not to be enjoyed or employed gratuitously. We don’t go after people’s families or use innocents as leverage.”

Dmitri tried not to resent the insinuation. Uncle Gregor had to spell it out, with apples falling close to trees and all that, he would need to be certain Dmitri didn’t share his father’s cruelty.

“Uncle, I like to fight, but I don’t get off on hurting people.”

“Good.” Gregor’s eyes relaxed. “I wish it were not necessary, but this is the cost of doing business in our beloved country. When the rule of law does not prevail, we must be our own law. And when the rules are broken, someone must pay in order to deter others.”

“Yep.” Or, in other words, save your rationalizations for someone who gives a crap.

“Then we are in agreement.” Gregor took a business card from his pocket and handed it to him. “They are going to release you today. You’ll start Monday. Go see my tailor.”

Dmitri couldn’t suppress a smile. “I do like suits.”

Gregor laughed and proffered his hand. “Son, no matter what you may think of me, I am truly relieved you are all right. When I saw you fall, when I saw the blood…”

His manicured hand was soft. But he had a firm grip that bypassed Dmitri’s brain and spoke heartfelt concern right to his gut. Gregor cared, in his own self-serving way. And it was as much as anybody cared about Dmitri, except for Auntie Elena all the way in California.

Suddenly, he felt the need to reassure the older man. “I know, Uncle. I know.”

For nine years, Dmitri hadn’t regretted the decision, had actually enjoyed somebody looking out for him, treating him like a son. His father never had. Dmitri hadn’t even minded enforcing the rules since only fools broke them in pursuit of selfish or cruel goals. Slowly, perhaps naively, he’d come to trust his uncle.

Maybe the whole damn arrangement had been a mistake, but he could sort that out later, once he’d taken care of Makar. And to do that, he needed a good night’s sleep. Rubbing his eyes, he levered his tired ass off the couch only to find Sonya directly in front of him. He almost grazed her, and everything in him recoiled, some part of his lizard brain warning that touching her would be very, very wrong.

Catching his balance, he barely avoided her and skipped across the room, where he came to a stop, his heart thudding in his chest.

Damn. He’d crushed the rest of his ham sandwich in his fist

He reached back his other hand to rub his knotted neck. On some basic level, he was afraid of the ghost. Probably logical. And Elena had said it was unpleasant to touch her—something about itchy bones.

With her still-wet nightgown twisting around her, she twirled like the music-box ballerina again—graceful and beautiful. “Why are you squishing that sandwich?”

“Uh. I just got…spooked.”

She crossed her arms at her waist, her mouth falling open.

Crap. Had he offended her?

Then she laughed, the siren tones and her less-potent, human voice blending together into a deep chuckle.

He couldn’t help it. He simply had to join in. His laughter seemed to trigger another fit of giggles on her part. That set him off again. Yep, he’d gone nuts, sharing a belly laugh with a ghost in Auntie Elena’s living room. When the last chuckle subsided, they remained still, studying one another. An unexpected intimacy sizzled in the space between them.

She lifted her chin a scant millimeter. “What happened to your nose?”

“A fight.”

“It makes you look harder than you really are.”

“No. I am this hard. And I’m tired. See you in the morning.” Balled-up sandwich in hand, he stormed toward the hallway.

“Dmitri?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you for helping me.”

The words flooded him with pride—a long-forgotten sentiment. She needed him, and he’d done the right thing by agreeing to help. “No problem.”

Feeling like an honest-to-goodness hero, he gnawed on the sandwich and flipped off the light switches so that only the television lit the room. “Good night.”

With the electric-blue glow shining through her, she cast him a weak smile.

He closed himself in Elena’s guest room, flipping on the light. Earlier, he’d kept the room dark for the sake of his throbbing head. Now, he saw what he’d missed before. The room was a shrine, a mausoleum of sepia portraits dating back generations. They hung in a collage over the bed, a wall of Liskos staring down at him, their characteristic blue eyes evident even in images without color. The assorted frames were artfully, if irregularly, arranged. Their asymmetry was almost appealing, but an empty spot to the right of center set them off-balance.

He turned his back on the creepy forbearers and peeled off his clothes one-handed, continuing to munch on the wad of bread and ham. He’d packed a single clean shirt and a pair of pajama bottoms. At home, he didn’t bother with sweat pants, but he’d figured Elena might appreciate them. He crammed the last bit of bread into his mouth and pulled them on, their soft flannel rasping over the hair on his legs.

He grabbed his toothbrush and went into the hallway in search of the bathroom, but a strange tapping noise in the living room beckoned. It didn’t sound dangerous, but the last thing he needed was another ghost explosion.

The light from the television flickered. Sonya was nowhere to be seen.

“Sonya?” No answer. Just the blabbing of some British announcer on the fashion network. “Where are you?”

That time he heard some whimpering, the quietest of sounds. “What’s the matter?”

The tapping grew louder. All the cupboard doors flapped—
rat tat tat
—against their frames. He crossed to the kitchen and found her balled up behind the counter. “Damn it. Sonya, are you going to blow again?”

She flinched. “I’m sorry.”

“No, no. I’m not mad. Just tell me, what happened?”

“It got worse. When you left. I can hear them. They’re calling my name, and it makes me desperate and angry.” She shuddered. “So angry. I don’t want to be angry.”

The tapping turned to bangs and the dishes behind them rattled.

“I just want it to stop. We have to make it stop. We have to find him so I’m not angry anymore.”

He squatted down next to her. “
Sshh
. I promise we’ll find him.”

He had no business making promises like that. But still, the rattling stopped.

“Good ghost. See, it’s getting better.”

Her gaze sunk to the tile floor. “I feel better when you’re here.”

He blew out a slow breath.

“Sweetheart. I’m about to collapse. I haven’t slept in two days.”

“I understand. I’ll try to keep it under control.” From her resigned tone, she didn’t believe it would work anymore than he did.

“Do you think it would help if you stayed with me? You can watch T.V. in my room.”

Her black eyes grew huge and travelled over his bare chest. “Alone? In your room?”

He coughed. “Uh, Sonya, we could hardly…”

Again, there was that ghost of a blush on her pearlescent face. “Of course. Under the circumstances, who could fault me?” Then a cynical laugh burst from her. “And I have to actually make it to the afterlife for my parents to chastise me.”

“How old are—were you?”

She frowned, and he was certain she couldn’t answer. But then she did. “Twenty-five. How old are you?”

“Twenty-nine.”

She blinked. “Oh.”

Her surprise didn’t sting. He felt older too. He yawned. “Come on. I need to hit the sheets.”

When he flipped the lights on in his room, that wall of Liskos loomed impossibly tall—his dad, his uncle, his grandparents. He switched the lights right back off, drew down the blankets, and climbed into the bed. The television control sat on the nightstand and he turned the fashion network on for her, setting the volume low. She floated in the corner at an awkward angle to view the models strolling down the catwalk.

He sighed. “Sonya, just come over here to the bed. Nothing can happen, and it’s silly to stay all the way over there.”

“You’re sure? I won’t spook you again?”

In spite of his fatigue, his mouth spread into a smile. “No, sweetheart. You’re the least scary ghost I’ve ever met.”

She grinned back and glided over to the bed, folding her legs up into a sitting position so she could hover over the mattress. He flopped onto his stomach, buried his face in the pillow and didn’t think another thought.

Sonya lay alongside Dmitri, stretched out and floating inches over the bed. He’d gone from wide awake to thunderous snores in about two seconds, but his pillow dampened the sonorous sounds. His presence soothed her, but the righteous anger still caused all her ghost particles to wriggle and shake, warning her she was wasting time. Someone had to pay, and all she could do was watch something called the Fashion Network.

She watched program after program—runway shows, interviews with designers. The one about a group of young people trying to succeed in fashion school fascinated her most. It was scandalous the way they gossiped, stole one another’s boyfriends, girlfriends and designs, tattled to the teachers and badmouthed each other on camera. There was even one young woman with pink hair who stitched up clothes Sonya positively adored. A new emotion bubbled up in her—longing.

So much life never lived.

Dmitri rolled over, his snores suddenly louder. He moaned and frowned in his sleep but soon settled again into rest. The blankets bunched around his legs, exposing him to the waist. Vaguely, she knew she’d never seen a man’s bare body up close like this. His shoulders were rolling mountains of muscle, his chest a broad plain of hard flesh, and his abdomen chiseled marble. Remembered desire echoed through her ghost body.

To be pressed beneath a body like that. To be touched and kissed and stroked and made love to. Things she would never feel, never know…

“Sonya. Sonya. Finish it, and come to us.”
The voices started again, familiar, and yet unknown.

The mysterious atoms that formed her ghost body jerked as if a leash pulled her elsewhere. She wanted to go. Oh, how she wanted to go.

But she couldn’t.

The tremors began next, severing the pull. Lost to the need for vengeance, the anger became so fierce it would have choked her, if she’d needed to breathe. She rolled and the sight of Dmitri’s imperfect face calmed her. Someone had hurt her, but he was helping. He was good and noble and strangely beautiful even with that beat-up nose and battered brow.

He whinnied like a horse, blowing out air that would have brushed her face, if she had actual skin. Pressure built behind her eyes from imaginary tears. She’d give anything to feel his breath. He grunted again and rolled, his arm coming down on top of her before she could escape it.

Thwack
.

Heavy with muscle, his forearm crashed into her ribcage.

Ow!

Wait. Ow?

She weighed a million pounds, all at once, pressed into the bed under his arm. And she needed air.

Oh, God. Oh, God.

She couldn’t breathe. Her lungs didn’t work. She was dead.

Then suddenly, her airway relaxed, and her lungs flooded with cool air.

Goosebumps formed on her skin, newly cold under the wet nightgown. Her hair drenched the bed. Having a body was a lot more uncomfortable than she remembered. She tried to squirm away from Dmitri.

He grumbled, pulling her against the warm length of him, exactly the way she’d imagined. “Don’t leave, baby. Stay. There’s always the morning.”

For what?

Oh, he thought she was—

“What the hell?” His voice was louder and clearer. “Why is it wet?” He pushed himself up on one arm, rubbing his hand across his eyes. When he saw her, he squinted and rubbed his eyes again. Finally, his mouth fell open. “Sonya?”

She swallowed, nodding. “It’s me,” she said, reassured by the normal sound of her voice.

He shook his head. “How the hell—?”

“You touched me.”

A deep furrow appeared between his eyebrows.

“Don’t frown. It’s wonderful. I feel…”