The Siren's Dance. Amber Belldene

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      The blue rectangular sign announced the town was just ahead in white block letters, Любашівка. The sight of the word, not Yuchenko’s saying it, threw her back into the memory. Stas had never said the name of the place, only chosen it to end the test he’d devised for her. The road looked different, and on that long-ago trip, it had taken many more hours to come so far, but the sign proved it had been Lyubashivka where she’d nearly humiliated herself.

      Shame and anger fell upon her like a hailstorm, the memories pelting her with blow after blow of icy impact.

      “Whoa,” Yuchenko said, the car seeming to swerve out his control. But he corrected the course and stayed in his lane.

      She tried to contain the fury, to bear down on it and hold the pulsing, angry energy at bay. At the river, it had been easy to control--or perhaps there had been no need. No cars with drivers, no interrogation rooms where her unfurled fury could wreak havoc. With all her strength, she managed to hold it firm, like a beast tightly reined.

      As Yuchenko pulled up to the pump and slid out of the car, she stared across the street at an empty field. The very same one.

      She did it without thinking--blew right out of the car, carried on a gust of rage, without sparing a single anxious thought over passing through glass and metal. The moment of dissolution passed quickly, and she found herself hovering over what seemed like the exact spot.

      They left Kiev after breakfast, driving the same route. Perhaps an hour into the journey, Anya asked him to pull over at the next opportunity so she could use the restroom.

      “A prima ballerina is the master of her body. She uses the toilet when she wants to, and does not inconvenience those around her.” As he spoke, he wore his captivating smile, his heavy-lidded eyes promising that she was his prima, the object of his admiration and desire.

      “Okay. I’ll hold it until you’re ready to stop.”

      For a while, they discussed the performance that had just ended, the upcoming auditions for Giselle, which of the other dancers would be Anya’s greatest competition.

      Anya put in a valiant effort, ignoring her discomfort until her need became truly urgent. “Stas, I can’t hold it anymore.”

      “But you will,” he said, again with his smile, his sensual gaze reiterating the command.

      For a few minutes, his words worked like magic, convincing her she could control her bladder forever, but when the pressure returned, it had magnified, painful and shaking her whole body. She hated to show him her weakness, but she wasn’t able to help it. She began to weep.

      He sighed. “I’m disappointed in you. You’ll never be Giselle if you have so little self-control.”

      “I know, but please, Stas. I’ll…” She couldn’t bring herself to say the humiliating and obvious truth of what would happen if he didn’t let her use a restroom.

      And at that moment, the sign appeared. Любашівка.

      “Fine. If you must.” He pulled off the highway, toward the town, and though a service station was open, he forced her to urinate in a field, squatting down like an animal where anyone could see her. She did her best to stifle her tears, determined to be the ballerina, and the woman, he wanted her to be.

      But in the end, she hadn’t been good enough.

      The wail tore out of her, a shriek of fury tangled up with the pain of rejection the vila always tried to keep her from feeling. The wind rose up from the earth and down from the sky, coalescing around her, swirling, twisting at the particles of her ghostly self like it would wring her out, squeeze the pain from her like water from a dishrag. She surrendered to it. If it would only carry her away so she didn’t have to feel any of it ever again.

      Chapter 6

      A cool wind billowed past just as Sergey holstered the nozzle on the gas pump and screwed on the cap. Then came a roar like the sound of a train at high speed, louder and louder until the howl engulfed him.

      A train? Impossible. The north-south railroad ran miles west of Lyubashivka. What else could possibly be making such a thunder?

      He scanned his surroundings and found the answer.

      A tornado, barely fifteen yards away. The funnel cloud churned, so dark it cut a slash against the bright blue sky. Which way was it moving? The wind battered him from all sides, but the tornado itself seemed to hover, stationary, over an empty field across from the petrol station.

      The hair on the back of his neck stood up. Moments ago, the sky had been brilliantly clear blue. Tornados didn’t come out of nowhere. They formed as part of storm systems, which meant--Anya.

      He ran to the car.

      Of course, she was gone. He yanked open the passenger door. Gregor’s ring fell onto the asphalt.

      He picked it up. Hell, he couldn’t even see her. How would he ever get it back on her? Shit. He’d lost a ghost, a pretty little pain-in-the-ass ghost. His heart rate shot up to racing speed.

      All around, cars screeched one hundred and eighty degree turns and began driving away, though a few had come to a halt. A young man dashed from the service station, holding out his mobile phone, probably shooting a video. An old woman came to the front porch of her small house.

      “Take cover,” Sergey shouted to the gawkers. “Into your basements.”

      None of the onlookers heeded his warning. Perhaps they couldn’t hear him. Should he run to them first?

      No. His guts were twisting just like that funnel cloud. He had to find her before she blew away.

      “Anya!” He searched the sky, knowing it was futile. He couldn’t spot an invisible ghost.

      Where was she? Somewhere near the car? The answer choked him, lodged in his throat with certainty, a hunch without a shred of proof. She was in the middle of that twister.

      What had set her off? They’d been having an almost civil chat. How she’d lived in sweet and feminine Sonya’s shadow, her obsession with ballet, her ghostly isolation, and the beauty of sunflowers. He’d made inroads toward understanding her, his interrogation methods far more subtle than she’d given him credit for. And she’d revealed tiny confidences, each one more significant, until he’d begun to know what made her tick.

      Once he’d uncovered those gears--seen their size and shape--it turned out she wasn’t so bad. Kind of funny, really. Though he was still completely at a loss about what she wanted with Demyan.

      If he didn’t get Lisko’s ring on her fast, he might never find out.

      “Anya?” he shouted with the full force of his lungs.

      The tornado swallowed her name. It brooked no sound but its own deafening roar. But for all its churning energy, the swirling funnel stood perfectly vertical and still. He jogged toward it, even though his shoulders tensed and his skin prickled with the urge to run the hell away from the danger.

      “Anya!” How had Dmitri calmed her before? He’d told her to--“Breathe!”

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