The Siren's Touch. Amber Belldene

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СКАЧАТЬ ghost’s eyebrows were pulled together in concentration, but she stuck out her tongue at his unintentional pun. It was a very cute tongue, and he mourned the idea that he would never taste it, lick it, feel it on his—

      “So she appeared here. Interesting. I’ve never had the faintest glimmer of a haunting, although the house is—”

      “Elena, she speaks Ukrainian. She understands your every word.”

      “A Ukrainian ghost? Here in San Francisco?”

      The ghost yelped again, like a stepped-on puppy. He wanted to cradle her to his chest, pet her, and murmur reassuring nonsense.

      She swooped over to him. “Where exactly is this San Fran Sisco?” The whisper in his ear wasn’t carried on a warm breath, had no damp heat to it, but it still sent tingles down his spine.

      “California. In the United States.”

      “America?” The word easily counted as a third yelp.

      “Dmitri, focus,” Elena snapped.

      “You’re both talking to me at the same time. How can I focus?”

      “Where did she appear?”

      “Over the tea table, right after you left.”

      “Where did she come from?” Elena scuttled toward a shelf of ornaments—mostly traditional Ukrainian keepsakes.

      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.”

      Chapter 4

      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 СКАЧАТЬ