The Siren's Touch (22 page)

All at once, she understood everything.

And the teapot—so tenderly placed on the hotel-room table with a view of the twinkling San Francisco skyline—exploded.

Dmitri hailed a cab and slid all the way across the back seat. “Twentieth and Deharo.”

The cab pulled away from the curb.

Makar plucked at his shirt, his ankle bouncing where it rested on his opposite knee.

He was right to be worried. “Showing up unannounced at Elena’s is a bad idea even when you have good news. Maybe we should ca—”

“Kid, if you’d ever been in love, you’d understand.”

Dmitri snorted. If it were Sonya, he’d do anything. But she didn’t have Elena’s temper…except when the rusalka took over. Still, he was pretty sure Boris was taking the wrong approach. “Five minutes ago, you said you didn’t believe in love.”

“No, I said back then I didn’t. But forty-five years later, I know exactly what’s been eating me alive all this time.”

“Fine. But if she throws things, I’m using you as a shield.”

Boris’s proud chin lifted again. And hell if that didn’t prove he was in love with Auntie Elena, her temper and all.

All the street lamps had halos, ringed by the light captured in the fog. As they passed into the residential neighborhood, few pedestrians meandered on the sidewalks. “Tell me about the Truss family.”

“After I’ve seen Elena.”

“No. You’ll be lost—to kisses or a beating—either way, you won’t be talking to me, and I’m running out of time.”

Makar craned his neck. “Time? Why the hell is it suddenly so urgent?”

“It’s a matter of justice. You wouldn’t understand.”

He turned his shoulders Dmitri. “The statute of limitations ran out on those murders ages ago. And I didn’t think Liskos believed in justice anyway.”

Dmitri snorted. “Like love, it has a way of proving its own existence.”

“Kid, I have no idea what the hell that means.”

“You wouldn’t believe it anyway.” Dmitri covered his eyes. Had it only been that morning that he’d doubted Sonya’s existence?

“What do you want to know about the Trusses?”

“I know about the scam, but I need to know who killed them. Who pulled the trigger?”

The old man fingered his jaw again, rubbing over his jowls. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“No!” Dmitri ran his sweaty palm over his head, the urge to strangle Makar returning.

The old man stared out the taxi’s window. “Sad story. Senseless. I was just a crook, never liked that side of things.”

Dmitri waited for more, but nothing came.

Finally, the old man spoke. “Only one of us ever did.”

Dmitri’s stomach soured and then clenched up, ready to hurl vodka. He gritted his teeth, just barely keeping the bile back. “But it has to be Gregor.”

Boris shook his head. “You ever seen Gregor kill someone? Your dad was the trigger man, always had been.”

No. No. No. Dmitri shook his head too. “But he’s dead.”

“That doesn’t make him innocent.”

Dmitri gripped the edge of the seat. “In this case, it does.”

“Kid, all that boxing knock a screw loose?”

He didn’t have time to wonder that Makar knew he’d boxed. He had all the answers. Sonya had to avenge herself on someone, and if Ivan was dead—

The taxi came to a sudden stop, sending Dmitri colliding into the passenger seat. He opened the door, shouting over his shoulder. “Pay him.”

He banged on Elena’s door, his mind racing to make sense of it. Who on earth could pay the blood debt if Sonya’s murderer was dead? By the time lights came on inside, Boris was next to him. She opened the door, bleary-eyed.

The words spewed from Dmitri’s mouth. “It was Ivan. Fuck. It was Ivan.”

She screamed. Yeah. He felt like screaming too. But his aunt was pointing an accusing finger at Boris, which was Dmitri’s cue to get out of the way.

“Get out. You are not welcome here. Get the hell out.” Instant tears welled in her eyes, streaking down her face.

Not once had Dmitri ever seen her cry. Hell, he’d never seen her with a hair out of place. Now, her face twisted in pain, and her head shook in rapid denial of the presence of her former lover.

Boris, on the other hand, remained stiff at the threshold. If Dmitri hadn’t spent the last hour with him, he wouldn’t have seen the emotions rippling in the man’s light eyes.

“Elena. Please.” Dmitri shook her. “I need your help. For Sonya. Then you can do whatever you want to him.”

Slowly, she lowered her hand and nodded. “This was your mission? To kill Boris?”

“Yeah, but now I know about you two, and the baby. I wouldn’t—”

“If you knew he left me alone and pregnant, why on earth would you bring him here?”

“But, I didn’t…” Boris sagged, resting his weight on one arm pressed into the doorframe. “They said…” A series of pained expressions cycled over his face, drawing his light brows closer and closer together. His final words were pitifully hollow with regret. “Your letter…”

Dmitri trembled with bitter, nervous energy. He wanted to rush this shit and get down to Sonya’s business, but Elena would be useless now. House or no house, auntie or no auntie, he needed a cigarette. He strode toward the kitchen sink and lit up a smoke right then and there. Tapping it on the sink’s edge, the whole stainless steel basin his ashtray.

Staring at Boris, Elena’s jaw tensed and, behind her blue eyes, gears turned. Finally, she spoke. “Are you saying I broke it off with the letter?”

“You refused to see me, and then—”

“I what? You were the one who—”

Dmitri cleared his throat, but Elena pushed toward Boris stiff like a robot, her finger pointing up at his chest. Her mouth hung open and ready to speak, though no words came out. Dmitri coughed more loudly. “Sounds to me like Gregor and Ivan played you both.”

It was terrible to watch—the way two dignified people deflated, their anger at one another escaping breath by breath. Elena squeezed her arms around her ribs, suddenly fragile. A lifetime of avoidable loneliness reflected in the sheen on her eyes. Then something changed, her brows lifting with the slightest hopeful surprise. Dmitri darted his gaze to Boris, who was crossing to her. He lifted the little woman in a smothering embrace.

Dmitri took a long burning drag from his smoke. Too bad that was all the time he could give them. He smothered the cigarette and tossed it into the garbage, slamming the cabinet closed to give them fair warning. “Okay, lovebirds. Time to help Sonya.”

Elena broke from Boris and turned her full attention to Dmitri—a small miracle.

“Auntie, Boris says Ivan killed Sonya. Who does Sonya have to avenge herself against now? Who can pay the blood debt?”

“Ivan?” Her black eyebrows pulled together, and she backed into the couch and dropped to sitting. Her fingertips pressed into the cushions.

“Blood debt? What the hell are you talking about?” Boris pulled off his hat and sat just as abruptly. “Goddamn, you Liskos never let anything go.”

No one replied. Elena wrung her hands in her lap. Dmitri crouched in front of her, calming the anxious twisting with his palm.

She lifted her Lisko-blue eyes to him and swallowed. “It has to be you then. You are the one who can pay his debt.”

The knowledge settled into him like an inevitability. He wasn’t the least bit surprised. How long had he known—from the moment she’d tried to rip his heart out, or when she’d turned to flesh and blood in his arms, or even earlier, when she’d first spoken and her sex-laced voice had turned him to putty?

Elena squeezed his hand. “I’m so sorry, Dmitri. I know you care for her. Where is she now?”

“The Hotel Omnus.”

“Who is Sonya, and what does this have to do with the murders?”

Dmitri ignored them both, rocking on his heels and closing his eyes to formulate his plan.

Elena’s voice took on her softest tone—not very gentle, but she was obviously trying. “I will go get the teapot and take it somewhere nice. Just give me your room key. And where do you think she’d like to go? A secluded stretch of coastline, maybe?” She stood and knotted her bathrobe.

Boris stood too. “Okay. Dmitri believing in ghosts, I get that. He’s got brain damage from his fighting days. But Elena, please, explain.”

Dmitri didn’t give a damn if Boris understood. He scanned Elena’s living room for what he needed.

“Dmitri took responsibility for a rusalka. And now it turns out she is the ghost of a girl Ivan murdered.”

“Sonya Truss is a rusalka?” Makar whistled. “Bloodthirsty creatures.”

“You know about them?”

“My friend at church does exorcisms. He…”

Their conversation was all white noise in Dmitri’s ears until he spotted Elena’s keys on the counter. He sprinted for them and was halfway downstairs to the garage when Elena called out.

“Where are you going?”

She’d only try to talk him out of it. No way could he tell her he was going to give Sonya exactly what she needed. His life for her afterlife. It was a fair trade after everything she’d given him.

It took Dmitri forever to get there. One-way streets and no-left-turn signs leaped in front of him, over and over. And then, finally, he pulled up to the curb of the hotel and threw Elena’s keys at the valet.

“Room number, sir?”

Dmitri ignored him. He had to save Sonya before she lost herself to bloodlust, or was exorcised by some fat, bearded, chess-playing priest. He would be damn sure to deliver her into the arms of her family first.

Under his feet, the marble floor of the lobby shook. Hotel patrons and staff looked at each other. He called out to the bellhop. “Not the first tremor tonight?”

“Nope. Had a few little shakes, but they keep getting stronger. Maybe the big one’s coming.”

Dmitri sure hoped he could prevent that.

The same peppy smooth jazz played in the elevator lobby. If he could have reached the speaker in the twelve-foot ceiling, he’d have yanked it out. Instead, he took the stairs. Racing up fourteen flights left him sweaty and winded. The hallway was too dark outside their room—emergency lights revealed shards of glass scattered on the carpet beneath the evenly spaced sconces. A strip of green light shone under the door. He slid his key card into the lock and it clicked.

She shrieked. “No. Don’t come in.”

He turned the handle and swung the door open. Her eyes were all green, her pearly ghost skin tinted gray from the eerie glow.

Still, she was everything he could ever want.

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. The last thing they needed was company. The dim glow from the clock radio, the ambient city lights, and Sonya’s own emerald gaze lit the room.

“Dmitri. Please go. I can’t control myself anymore.”

“Sweetheart, let me touch you. It will get better.”

“You don’t understand. I saw everything. Inside the teapot, I saw—” Her sobs interrupted her words.

He wanted to hold her and comfort her. No more crying—soon she would go to a place without tears. But if she knew the truth, it would not be easy to trick her into doing what had to be done. Unless her rusalka instincts took over.

“My parents are hissing and shrieking in my ears. I don’t like it. I don’t want to go to them if it means…”

Extending his hand, he stepped toward her. “Come here, ghost. I’ll make it better. I have a plan.”

She thrashed her head. “You don’t understand.”

“Sonya. I do. I know.”

In the depths of those unnaturally green eyes, awareness flashed. Hope bounced his heart into his throat. She was still in there, and it wasn’t too late.

“Give me your hand, and I will explain everything.”

“Only if you promise not to let me hurt you.”

He had to lie. “I promise.”

And even as the deception crossed his lips, the yoke of his past lifted from his shoulders. She believed he was good, that he was capable of this sacrifice, or she wouldn’t have made him promise—that was all he needed.

She gave him her hand. Her flesh took shape, warm and supple in his grasp. Yeah, there was one last thing he had to do—let her know how he felt about her. And Makar had been right. He was a man of few words.

The green of her eyes shrank down to her irises. It was strangely beautiful, although he preferred their warm-brown color. Her skin flushed, all rose and cream again, no hint of ghost pallor.

“Hi there.” He grinned like the besotted idiot he was.

Her lower lip trembled, but she managed a timid smile. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I know.”

She seemed to be studying his face, and so he stood still. “You look different.”

It was right that she could see the change, and he stood taller with pride. “I feel different. Thanks to you.”

She put her dripping-wet hand on his heart and shook her head. “I didn’t do anything but help you see who you really are.”

He pulled her close and whispered in her ear. “I’m going to make love to you.”

“But, what if I—?” She shivered, pushing against his chest.

“You won’t. Just keep your eyes on me.”

Pressing her fingertip to his lips, she said, “I saw your father.”

“I know,” he mumbled.

“You look like him, but you’re not at all.” She touched his nose, and a tear spilled from each eye. “It’s not fair. These rules aren’t fair. It shouldn’t be like this.”

“
Shh
.” He couldn’t explain to her all the ways it really, really was. So he opted for distraction, fingering the soggy ruffles of lace at her neck. “Sweetheart, I hope you don’t mind me saying I’m getting sick of this nightgown.”

An automatic and pained laugh burst from her throat. “Me too. Would you mind taking it off?”

“Happy to help.”

He made sure to brush against her nipples as he undid the top button and then ripped, popping half a dozen more off the nightgown. The rest of the fabric tore in one clean line, baring her gorgeous body to him. Full breasts tipped with the deepest rose, slim waist, full hips and thighs.

Regret stung, burning in his throat. He should have unbuttoned each one of those loops and slid the gown off carefully, so this could last a long, long time.