The Siren's Dance. Amber Belldene

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СКАЧАТЬ glanced at his computer screen where he’d run a search on Demyan’s name. Zero results, just like all the other times he’d tried to find his father.

      It must have been during one of those attempts that he’d scrawled the name on a notepad and left it out for Dmitri to see. Which had proved to be good luck, since the younger Lisko had called with this new lead. Of course, Sergey had told him Demyan was just a name that had surfaced on the fringes of an old case, no need to reveal the personal nature of that investigation.

      The cursor on the screen blinked as if in mockery. 0 results match your search. Still no trace of the guy in the national databases. Tension ratcheted up Sergey’s shoulders--all the old frustration and fears coming back to him. If his father was a good man, he wouldn’t be impossible to find.

      “Yuchenko,” Pavel said, tilting his head toward the door.

      The Liskos stood just inside, along with a pretty girl he’d never seen before, who cradled a shoebox to her chest as carefully as if it had a newborn inside.

      Gregor stepped out from behind Dmitri, leaning severely on a cane. God, the man looked bad--years older in the months since Sergey had last seen him. Bruises ringing his eyes, the skin of his face shriveled like a tired balloon. Pity softened Sergey toward the guy. The elder Lisko more or less ran Ukraine behind the scenes, but to his credit, he did it better than a lot of men could.

      Sergey showed them down the hall into one of the empty interrogation rooms.

      When the door closed, Dmitri extended his hand. “Thanks for this, Yuchenko.” He angled toward the woman. “Meet my wife, Sonya.”

      Sonya? Strange. That had been the name of one of the girls in the Truss family. Sergey had pulled the case file on their murders for Dmitri last month.

      “Nice to meet you.” He offered his hand, and she shook it eagerly in a warm grasp.

      “You too.” She had an amiable smile, and Sergey liked her immediately, maybe because of how Dmitri’s sharp edges felt duller and less dangerous with her at his side. She returned her hand to its place hugging the shoebox. “And I want to thank you personally. This is important to all of us.”

      “Have a seat,” Sergey said, indicating a table dented by handcuffs and stained by water rings. Sonya put the shoebox on it ever so gently, but no baby whimpered. Of course not. No one carried a baby in a shoebox, but the way she handled the thing sure had him thinking it was precious cargo.

      He cut to the chase. “I’m afraid this is hopeless. Aside from a brief stint at the National Ballet, there is no record of Stas Demyan anywhere.”

      Gregor turned toward the empty corner of the room and raised his palm toward the blank wall. “Shh. We will find him.”

      Sergey sat back in his chair, transfixed. He’d never seen the oligarch at less than full-blown intimidating, and now he was talking to the wall? The guy had to be on some serious meds.

      “So, what’s this lead you mentioned?” he asked.

      Sonya and Dmitri looked at each other, exchanging one of those wordless communications lovers seem to manage, but that Sergey had never once experienced.

      A gust of warm air billowed through the room, as if the heat had just kicked on and blown through the vents. But the building didn’t have a central furnace, just radiators.

      Sergey turned toward the door to see if someone had opened it while Gregor angled to the corner again and said, “Hush.”

      Shit. He was seriously hallucinating.

      Sergey braved a stare right at high-as-a-kite Lisko. “Why are you looking for this guy?”

      His gaze flicked toward that empty corner again. “It’s an unresolved matter between Demyan and a woman of my acquaintance, to whom I owe a debt.”

      “Okay. So when can I talk to her?”

      Another knowing look passed between Dmitri and Sonya.

      Gregor jumped in. “She’s anxious to talk to you, and would sincerely like to offer her assistance until the son of a bitch--her words--is found.”

      “Great. Then where is she? Can she come down to the station?”

      “She’s right here.” Gregor waved toward the corner where he’d been so focused.

      Sergey looked to the couple for a clue just in time to catch Sonya’s wince.

      “Brace yourself, bro,” Dmitri said.

      Right. Were they all nuts? Having a little party on Gregor’s meds?

      And then Gregor seemed to take hold of something, and… Hell, a woman appeared out of nowhere.

      Sergey held statue-still as his skin tightened and his heart hammered against his sternum. This could not be happening. Shit like this didn’t happen.

      The petite woman coughed and spluttered, retching like she had lungfuls of water. The cop in him was chomping at the bit to go to her aid. His inner child trembled like he’d just woken from a nightmare. But he would force reason to prevail. He gripped the seat of his chair with both hands and waited until he had a better grasp on the situation.

      When her heaves stopped, Sergey could see the woman was drenched and almost naked. She had to be--what--a ghost? There was no other explanation. But that was no kind of explanation. Ghosts inhabited children’s books with witches, fairies, and demons, not the real world, and sure as hell not his interrogation room.

      He tried to blink the vision away. No dice.

      Fear formed a ball in his throat, threatening to break free as a scream. He swallowed it and reached for the pistol holstered at his hip. “Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to put your hands up.”

      “Put that away, Yuchenko,” the ailing Lisko scoffed. “She’s harmless.”

      Dmitri crossed his arms over his chest. “I wouldn’t say harmless. She’s been whispering violent fantasies into Gregor’s ear since we found the little harpy--”

      Sonya silenced him with an elbow to his ribs. “That’s my sister you’re talking about.”

      Sister. She couldn’t mean…?

      Dmitri shuddered. “The things she said. Enough to turn a guy off his lunch.”

      The younger Lisko was a former heavyweight boxer who’d done his uncle’s wet work. Sergey didn’t want to know what would ruin the guy’s appetite. Still, he holstered his gun. There wasn’t a single place she could hide a weapon in that skimpy get-up anyway.

      The ghost stared at her hand, flexed her fingers, then touched her face. Her mouth fell open, astonished. So small and fragile and pretty. Sergey’s fear bled away, and in its wake came fascination. He couldn’t look away from the ghost.

      “Oh, Anya, you’re wearing the pink nightie,” Sonya said.

      Anya looked down at herself for a long, tense moment, then rose to her full height. “So what.” She put her hands on her hips, though the СКАЧАТЬ