The Siren's Dance. Amber Belldene

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      “Do it again, Anya!”

      That time, the wind discernibly slowed. It still swirled, but now gently enough that he could make out her shape, just a silhouette within the cloud’s vapor. The sight of her, straight-backed and calm in the funnel, reminded him of a painting he’d once seen in a museum in Belgrade when he’d gone to a detective’s conference. A vila, a wind nymph, brandishing a bow and arrow and troubling some Serbian prince. Only Anya spun like a pirouetting ballerina instead of taking aim like an archer, graceful and terrifying.

      Sonya had said Anya was a rusalka, a vengeful water sprite, but this funnel cloud would beg to differ, though he didn’t precisely know what difference her breed of ghost made.

      There was bound to be some difference, because that’s how the damn fairytale logic worked. God, he hated this superstitious shit. But that wasn’t Anya’s fault.

      “One more breath,” he called out, “and then come get Gregor’s ring.”

      The tornado collapsed like a deflated balloon, and he lost sight of her in the melting wisps of cloud. Had she collapsed too? Had he lost her for good?

      A moment later, an icy breeze brushed against his fingers. He braced himself for her touch, knowing instinctively that it would be unpleasant--another thing his mother’s fairytales had taught him. Don’t cuddle with ghosts.

      On second thought, he took hold of the loop of packing twine her sister had fashioned so Anya could wear the enormous ring as a pendant. Threading his thumbs into the rough strand, he held it open, and seconds later, her fine-boned face appeared, her semi-nude, entirely svelte form next.

      He dropped the string and stepped back. “Hi.”

      She smiled, somewhat sheepishly, if such a thing were possible on a face set in such a permanent scowl. “Hi.”

      Her sudden demureness was enough to tickle the corners of his mouth with his own smile. “You’re not embarrassed, are you?”

      “Of course not. I’ve lost my shot at the national ballet. An audience of bumpkins to admire my tornado will have to satisfy me until we find Demyan.” She glanced around behind her, crossing her arms and shivering.

      “Lisko said you mean to talk to him.”

      “Yes.”

      “And that’s all? You don’t plan to start a tornado and suck him up into it?”

      She blinked, her dark brown eyes widening in surprise. “No. I didn’t even know I could do it until just now, before that, I’d only managed to stir up the wind. Fast sometimes, but not like that.”

      “I see.” And that much, he believed. In spite of her efforts to hide it, she’d been shaken.

      Sergey was an investigator. Long before this moment, he should have formed several working hypotheses about why she wanted to see the man who might be his own father. Yet, between Lisko on death’s door and a ghost appearing in the interrogation room, he’d been distracted. Also, she was pretty. But none of that was an excuse for the oversight. This case was personal.

      He needed to get his act together, draw on his expertise. Motives, at their core, were basic. They all boiled down to the three categories: greed, jealousy, and ego.

      Had Demyan taken something from her? Possessed something she wanted? Or wounded her pride in some unforgivable way? His cop’s intuition told him it was the last choice. It seemed the only thing worth holding a grudge over for so long. And if there was one thing this ghost seemed to have, it was pride.

      Of course, there was the possibility of a less sinister motive--an overdue confession of love, maybe a child born in secret?

      She was spinning again, like a dancer in a music box, and humming a vaguely familiar tune, though he couldn’t place it.

      Nope. That high chin, that heat flashing in her dark eyes, and the wind… She wasn’t on a mission of reconciliation.

      He examined her… What was the word? It would have been her skin, if she had a body. Instead, it was her…surface would have to do. Something had changed about her. When Gregor had held her wrist, her skin had been lovely and fine alabaster, just as creamy from her collarbone to her fingertips, and the hem of her nightie to her toes. The kind of complexion that would look radiant on a stage even from the highest mezzanine, luminous skin, the kind a man could lap at like a cat from a saucer of milk.

      Sergey’s cock stirred, his mouth moistening to imagine what the hollow of her collarbone would taste like, or those pert nipples.

      “What are you looking at?” She crossed her arms over her chest.

      “Just making sure none of you blew away.”

      “I see. Concerned with any parts in particular?”

      A blush crept up his neck.

      She laughed. “Look all you want, puppy. No one has in a long time, probably never will.”

      The black words instantly stifled his desire. It was one thing to check out an attractive woman, another to ogle a ghost, who may or may not have the chance to live again. But he made use of the invitation to keep staring.

      Yes, something had changed. Before, she’d had a pearly sheen. Now she wore a dusting of microscopic sparkles, like the supernatural version of the glitter girls sprinkled on themselves before going to nightclubs.

      Hadn’t there been something about glittery vilas in the orange, cloth-bound book of fairy tales his mom kept for him? Just as other kids were given a baptismal Bible, she’d read to him from the tome in hopes of instilling a healthy fear of the things that go bump in the night, until he was old enough to know she was more than a little unbalanced in her own fears.

      It was an ancient book, given to her by the babushka she believed to be something of a wise woman. It had an extensive encyclopedia of mythic beings, from A for Afron, the mythical Russian tsar, to Z for zmora, the greedy, nightmarish incubi who fed on the souls of women.

      She stared at the overgrown field, its grass turning brown from the cool nights of early fall. In spite of her stiff posture and her determined jaw, she trembled. If she wasn’t scared, she was at least unsettled by her own surprising power.

      She looked so young and had been a devoted dancer--she’d probably never even been to a nightclub. Never really lived. She’d tried to carve a life for herself outside of her sister’s shadow, and presumably under Demyan’s wing. And then it had all been cut short, just like his mother’s promising career.

      Now that was a coincidence a cop couldn’t ignore. Two women, tied to his father, their lives destroyed.

      “Did Demyan do something to you?”

      She glanced up, her face shuttering at the same time, and he regretted the question instantly.

      So much for subtle, big guy.

      She wrapped herself in her bare, sparkly arms, curving with shapely strength.

      “Are you cold?” he asked.

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