The Siren's Dance Page 14

  “Can’t you just break in or something?” Anya asked.

  “No. I could get suspended for that. Or, hell, lose my job.” His lower lip jutted, and for a split second, he was Inspector Putz again, but his mother depended on him, and there was nothing puppyish about taking care of one’s own. He was as honorable as her parents, and an annoying do-gooder too.

  They ventured next door and learned no one in Plotkin’s shop knew how to get a hold of the couple who ran the studio. From the exchange, Anya got the impression they weren’t on especially friendly terms with their neighbors.

  And then she and Sergey found themselves out on Pidzemnyy Street again--butting their head against a locked door instead of a dead end. As her hope drained away, an unbidden wind whipped up, causing awnings to flutter and stirring the leaves.

  “Hey.” He brushed a stray lock of hair out of her face without comment, didn’t even seem to notice he’d done it. Oh, but she had, and the wind calmed instantly.

  “Hold on,” he said, and pulled out his phone. “Hey. It’s Yuchenko. I’m working a case here--unofficial, for Gregor Lisko…yeah, right… Listen, I need to get inside a building. Can you get me authorization?” He rattled off the address. “Thanks, man. If they ask, say it’s a follow-up on the Belov case. An accomplice on the lam. Great. That’ll have to do.” He slid the phone back into his pocket and smiled his effortless grin. “When you were here before, did you ride the funicular?”

  She whacked him on the shoulder. “What on earth was that phone call, Yuchenko?” Which was a dumb question, because she knew exactly what it was. And the real mystery was what the funicular railway had to do with it.

  “I might get clearance from the local politsiya, but it’s going to take a while. They’re spread thin with the investigation of those three brothers who were found at the lighthouse.”

  Anya shivered again. She couldn’t help but imagine them tugging against the chains that bound them as their lungs filled with water. She couldn’t help but relive her own panic.

  Sergey pulled her close and stroked her hair. “I thought we might go for a ride to pass the time. Have you already been on it?”

  She inhaled deeply and got hold of her fear. “That rickety old thing? I didn’t have a death wish.” Not at the time, at least. “Also, Stas didn’t exactly encourage me to stroll along the harbor or sunbathe at the beach.”

  He winced, the sweet puppy. “Of course. I should have realized. The good news is it’s not rickety anymore. They shut it down while you were dead, but it’s been rebuilt. We can go, if you’d like.”

  During her stay in Odessa, she’d wanted to go desperately, no matter how many times she’d heard stories of people getting stuck on it. Stas had made her run the immense Potemkin stairs, leading from the water level of the harbor all the way up to the plateau where the city perched. The funicular railway’s cars had moved parallel to her workout and to each other, one gliding upward while the other sailed downward on its rails.

  “Yes. I’d love to go,” she said.

  They began to walk in the direction of the water. When she turned her back on the studio, her skin tensed like she was leaving herself defenseless, open to attack from Stas himself. But then Sergey drew her closer by pressing their arms together lengthwise, and she relaxed. She may as well have a little fun. She might never have the chance again.

  Chapter 18

  Sergey felt so light he could have believed he was a vila, swooshing around without gravity to trouble him. Over the course of the morning, Anya had toppled over some tipping point, as if she’d decided to toss away the chip on her shoulder and enjoy herself for a little while. It had shifted her mood into a joyful, exuberant one, and her company was such a pleasure that he could put last night’s unsettling phone call from his mind.

  He’d get authorization from the local politsiya, and they’d get inside, and maybe something in there would lead them to Demyan. Maybe this very minute, the old man was sitting in a rocking chair watching football and drooling from ill-fitting dentures.

  Lisko called nearly every hour, but Sergey ignored him. He didn’t want Anya frozen up again.

  On the way to the funicular, they stopped for a treat. It was slightly worrisome what erotic pleasure he took in watching her devour an ice cream cone lick by lick. Then they stopped again, her stomach still growling. And, hell, even her dainty bites of a steaming piroshki stuffed with beef and potatoes reminded him of her kiss, and had his cock straining against his fly. She was so hungry for food, but also for life, even if she said she’d made peace with death. Watching at least one appetite be satisfied was both a pleasure and temptation.

  All day, she remained the wry, quick witted, and deadly sarcastic Anya he’d come to enjoy, but the barbs were never aimed at him, or anyone, really.

  “Do your feet hurt?” The ankle boots she wore had a two-inch heel and a pointy toe. They’d have killed him.

  “Ever worn point shoes?”

  “Fair enough.”

  He’d found himself having to resist the instinct to place his hand on her lower back in that gesture of possession he’d never once before felt the urge to demonstrate. But they had to maintain skin-to-skin contact, which thankfully kept him from even a little subtle, non-verbal claiming. Hand in hand, they walked down the vast Potemkin Stairs lined with trees in their autumn splendor.

  The illusion of the landmark’s construction had always fascinated him. To an observer looking downward, the stairway appeared to be only landings, the individual steps invisible. But when that same observer gazed upward from below, the landings were invisible and only the segments of stairs could be seen, appearing continuous and unbroken by deep landings. As always, the sight of the colossal escalade stirred up the pride in his city, rising up out of the Black Sea as it did, wordlessly declaring the importance and majesty of Odessa.

  He stood there with her, at sea level, admiring the stairs. “I love these.”

  “They’re impressive, but hell to run.”

  He worked hard to keep the easy expression on his face as her meaning sunk in. Demyan must have brought her there. The hairs of his neck stood up, like her preternatural vila sense had rubbed off on him, alerting him his father was near. He’d waited his whole life to find this man, to measure him against fantasies and judgments, to shake him and ask him why he’d left behind Oksana and their son. Sergey should be glad the moment was finally at hand.

  And yet, the moment would end this time with Anya. She wasn’t his, never could be. She might get to join the other vilas. But if by chance she did get to live again, like Sonya, she wouldn’t want Demyan’s son in her new life.

  “Sergey? What’s wrong?”

  His gut felt hollow. Why her? Why was this off-limits ghost the one who got to him? It sure as hell wasn’t because she was a siren. She saw through his don’t-worry-about-me grins and his I’ve-got-this-under-control smiles. She accepted his no-sex rule and was actually fun to be around anyway. She seemed to like him as much as he liked her.

  He was beginning to agree with Anya’s bleak assessment. The universe was a real bitch.

  “Nothing’s wrong. I was just remembering how my cross-country coach bussed us here from the suburbs to run these once a week.”

  Her mouth quirked. “Shall we race?”

  “With you in those shoes and me trying to keep you safe? No way. I’d be the one who trips and breaks my neck, while you float off all shimmery and beautiful.”

  He thought he saw a trace of a blush before she turned to look at the water. “Tell me about Polina.”

  Who? Oh, right. Her. He’d barely managed to remember her name when he’d dreamed up that excuse, and now the woman was even further from his mind.

  Though he couldn’t blame Anya for asking. If their roles were reversed, he’d be badgering her to tell him about a guy who could make her deny the connection between them. Under different circumstances, this day could easily be labeled the bes
t date he’d ever been on. But those circumstances didn’t exist.

  He pushed the thought aside and pictured the receptionist at Sunrise Villa. “She’s blond, with straight, shoulder-length hair. She has a round face. Her eyes are slightly closer together than normal, but it’s not weird looking. Her nose is strai--”

  “Geez, Yuchenko. You sound like you’re giving a description of a suspect to the sketch artist. What makes you serious about her?”

  Since he’d never once managed to feel truly serious about a woman in his life, the only thing he could do was tell the truth about the one who was turning him upside down. “She’s brave and smart and funny. She’s also kind, but she doesn’t want anyone to know it, so she acts tough. She’s like a pearl in a very hard oyster shell. She’s hard to crack, but it’s worth it every time you get a glimpse.”

  He grinned down at his vila, pleased with the metaphor.

  But she drew her chin toward her neck, her smile slightly mocking. “So she’s pretty on the inside, and a gnarly shell on the out? Better not tell her that.”

  “No.” He laughed, conceding the flaw in his imagery. “I’m a cop, not a poet. Trust me, she’s gorgeous. Everyone who sees her thinks so.” At that very moment, a middle-aged man pointed out Anya to the man at his side, and Sergey’s palm itched to slide against her lower back. “But she doesn’t notice. Doesn’t care.”

  “Only eyes for you?”

  Nope. For my dear old dad. “Something like that.”

  “Oh.” She glanced out over the harbor, past the cruise ships, to where the giant yellow gantry cranes unloaded shipping containers. The sea breeze blew a lock of her silky dark hair over her face, and she brushed it away, tucking it behind her ear.

  Her simple gesture of staring out to sea somehow sharpened his imagination, made it easy to see her loneliness. All those years of isolation, like solitary confinement, with only her anger to keep her sane.

  “Maybe she’s more like a diamond. Formed under pressure. She sparkles, glinting and beautiful. But she has sharp edges. It’s not easy to get close to her.”

  “But you want to?” Her brows had lifted, and he wasn’t sure if he saw hope there, or simple curiosity.

  “Very much. But we’ll see--”

  She blew out a breath from her nose. “We’ll see how everything turns out. I used to think we had control over our future, but now it seems more like we’re just catapulted into it. You know the old saying about not being able to escape your fate, even with a horse?”

  He’d always hated Ukrainian fatalism. It was like a national pastime. Hell, even those fiercely ambitious ballerinas from his favorite TV show would use the saying, even though they worked their tiny tutu-ed asses off to attempt the very thing.

  “Maybe not with a horse. But I’m pretty fast on my own two feet. And so are you.”

  “True.” She rewarded him with a smile.

  “Do you think it will change your fate to find Demyan?”

  She tucked herself into Sergey’s side, the way she’d been doing all day. “Sometimes, I dare to hope. Other times, I persist in trying because I must, even if I believe it futile.”

  He held her there, in a salty wind off the Black Sea that she had not caused, silently hoping they were both going to come out on top of this mess.

  They took the funicular back up to Center City. She pressed her nose to the glass and watched an ocean liner inch into the port. He checked his phone and deleted a dozen urgent messages from Lisko before sending one to his buddy.

  “Any news on the entry authorization?”

  The lack of a reply was an answer unto itself. It was beginning to look like Sergey would have to play the bad cop for once. He hated vigilantes. They were a dangerous element in a society that struggled against corruption and civil unrest to cling to the rule of law. But this bone to pick with Demyan was personal.

  Hell. With the hand that didn’t hold Anya, he raked his fingers through his hair. Vigilantes probably always thought things were personal.

  Back at city level, they kept walking, wandering for hours, quiet for long stretches or telling stories from school. Grateful for the frequent distraction of her every smile, he recounted every episode of his beloved ballerina show, earning plenty of belly laughs at the way those dancers had refused to cater to the director’s attempt to create drama.

  They visited all the other places she associated with Demyan. A grocer, a tailor, a cigarette stand where he’d been able to purchase luxury goods smuggled in from the western side of the Iron Curtain. No one had heard of Demyan, and nothing jogged her memory of where else they might find him.

  From there, the wandering turned aimless. Sergey let some unconscious part of him steer the way. They’d both grown quiet, her inner thoughts probably the Anya-version of his bleak ones. What did they do now?

  “One second.” He tugged her hand to keep her from crossing a street and sent another message to his cop friend. “Not gonna happen?”

  This time, a reply came instantly. “50/50. Sit tight.”

  Right. Sit tight. Where the hell were they?

  Something about the street corner looked familiar and forbidden. A sign jutted from the building, shaped like a round, red-and-white peppermint. Candy Shop, it read. Yeah, forbidden was right. He chuckled to remember it. When he and Mama had first moved back to Odessa, all his friends had frequented the place. He’d begged her to take him there, or to give him pocket money for a handful of jellybeans. But she’d stood on the corner and trembled, made the sign of the cross, and forced him to promise to stay far, far away from that place. There was evil there.

  He hadn’t stayed away, though. He’d found himself back there a few years later, and not for candy. As a teenager, with some of the very same friends, he’d loved to go exploring in the catacombs beneath the city. Hundreds of miles of tunnel had been cut to mine limestone, beginning in the nineteenth century. They crisscrossed under Odessa and the surroundings. When Germany had occupied Ukraine during the Second World War, resistance fighters had lived in the tunnels and waged their rebellion. And Sergey’s sojourns always ended inside that behemoth building across from the candy shop.

  Even now, a tremor of thrill shook him. It had been pure exhilaration to go ranging through the mostly unmapped labyrinthine catacombs, joking with his pals and stumbling across bits of history. His longing to explore those tunnels had been almost compulsive--as addictive as that second cigarette would have been. He’d even cut school a few times, marring his perfect-attendance record.

  If it weren’t for the fresh coat of ivory paint on the enormous building, he might never have noticed. “This block is the back side of Pidzemnyy Street.”

  And that meant the elephantine old building that had been his egress from the catacombs also housed Plotkin’s Timepieces, and was adjacent to the Académie de Ballet and across from the forbidden sweet shop.

  Something pulled at him, trying to draw him down the street. As fiercely as he’d ever wanted to suck on a candy or to reconnoiter in the tunnels, the force tugged at his gut. Curiosity maybe?

  Whatever it was, the power of it promised they hadn’t wandered here by accident.

  Anya shivered, even though the low autumn sun had turned the afternoon warm. She wore an intent frown, as if something were plucking at her attention. “Let’s walk down this street.”

  But the force that had drawn him here now repelled him, a bit of his mother’s hesitation surfacing from where it slumbered deep in his DNA.

  “Please, Sergey,” Anya said, tugging him, her eyes bright and focused down the street.

  God, she was beautiful. Like a china doll, but made of iron under the fine porcelain finish. He ached with want for her--another kiss, a palm splayed on her lower back, and so much more. He wanted to take what she’d offered--her body, her desire, all that sensual longing. He wanted to please her, possess her, devour her.

  Want. Want. Want.

  A gust of
wind tore down the street, shaking him from that sudden, intense craving.

  “I feel Stas.” Anya’s voice had turned all siren.

  He sucked in a breath and tried to find his footing, but his brain swam in his head, leaving him dizzy and nauseous.

  Inside him, a dark hunger rumbled. Why be good? Take what she offers. She wants you.

  Fuck. He leaned against a nearby streetlamp, let his head fall heavily against the post, hoping to knock some sense into himself. Where the hell was that voice coming from? It wasn’t him. But it sure as hell felt as if something had drawn him here. And he’d unknowingly marched them right to this place in answer. Was it a trap?

  No. Of course not. He slapped his palm to his forehead. Shit like this did not happen. It was not real.

  “Let’s go find him,” Anya said. At his side, she trembled, snapping him out of his self-absorbed fears. Holy hell. Her hair had come loose, blowing all around as her vila powers built momentum. The pedestrians had begun to huddle in doorways.

  But he couldn’t look away from the giant ivory building. Was it merely a coincidence? His mother’s dread and those enthralling tunnels and the Adcadémie de Ballet all in one place? The frightening hunger inside him answered.

  “Sergey?” Anya shook his shoulder.

  He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anything, wanted things he had no business wanting.

  You can’t escape your fate, even with a horse.

  “What’s wrong?” Her voice had returned to normal. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  He snorted, tried to laugh at her joke.

  But…God… She was magnificent, her skin dusted with sparkles, and all that power pulsing off her. He was desire itself. Want throbbed in his veins, turned his mouth dry. He wanted to strip her down, press her against the side of the building, and make her his.

  She slapped him. “Hey. Snap out of it. I need you to be that guy Dmitri says you are. Yuchenko who can handle anything.”

  He focused on the sting along his cheekbone, let it sober him. “Yeah. Okay.” He was that guy. He gripped her tight, but the trees, the facades, her face, everything still twirled around him.