The Siren's Dance (17 page)

“Were you scared, when you were negotiating with the junkie?”

He nodded. “I was shaking like crazy, my body scared as fuck. I’m lucky I didn’t piss myself. But it all stayed down here.” He thumbed his chest and then tapped his forehead. “I didn’t let it up here, where it could cloud my thinking.”

“I wish I was as brave.”

He chuckled. “Are you kidding? You’re the toughest little scrapper I’ve ever met. You’re fearless about going after what you want.”

“If I were brave, I would have been able to stand up to my grief. I would have fought for my life instead of drowning in that river.”

He frowned. “Damn, ghost. You could figure out a way to blame yourself for the weather.”

She spun her finger in the shape of a tornado. “Yep.”

“Oh, right.” He grinned. “Bad example.”

Unable to resist his smile, laughter slid out of her mouth. But she couldn’t let that go to Inspector Effortlessly Charming’s head. She popped another sliver of chocolate into her mouth before it could sink into the hot drink, and tried to scowl.

He stole a shaving off her mug, leaving his vile chemistry experiment of a drink untouched.

“No juice?”

He shook his head. “I know that recipe. It needs lemon and parsley.”

“You’re a real weirdo, Yuchenko.” But he wasn’t. Just an all around nice guy who drank juice instead of coffee or Bloody Marys like everybody else in the cafe.

“Probably so.” He kept on grinning like he’d heard the compliment in her heart, rather than the barb in her words. No one else had seemed able or willing to listen to her so closely before. She leaned nearer to him, so their upper arms touched.

He didn’t pull away or stop smiling until Vadim passed by, balancing an impressive number of steaming plates straight from the kitchen. “I know what you mean about Vadim and Rita. She’s lucky to have a father like that.”

“My dad looked at Sonya like that, but always blinked at me like I was a stranger who’d just appeared in his house.” The old sorrow settled on her, grief she’d disappointed Papa, and bitterness fate hadn’t blessed her with a family who embraced her. “What about your father?”

“My dad left my mom before I was even born, and I’ve always suspected that’s what tipped her over the edge.” He tapped his temple, indicating which edge he referred to. “The doctors say she can’t help it. But when I was a kid and had to take care of her on my own, it always seemed like she’d just given up.”

“Does she love you, though?” Anya asked. “Just a little bit of that light in Vadim’s eyes would have gone a long way for me.”

Sergey rested his chin on his knuckles, watching the little girl. “Yeah, she does. And she always let me know it, even in the darkest days. I probably don’t give her nearly enough credit for that.”

Anya could well believe she did. Even if he looked exactly like his dead-beat dad, he would be impossible not to love, the kind of son any mother would delight in, versus the disappointing daughter who only cast her angelic sister in a more perfect light.

Her eyes stung and she blinked, hoping to high heaven she wasn’t going to start crying.

Thankfully, the food arrived, and they both settled in. Last night over cake, Sergey had proven himself ambidextrous enough to wield a fork with his left hand, and so he’d sat on that side of her again for breakfast, their clasped hands between them. He meticulously cut the omelet in half and ate only his share, even though with his size he probably had the appetite to match a ghost running on empty for fifty years.

In spite of his good example, she was not so generous with the French toast.

They ate, and he told her about moving to Odessa at the age of ten, his friends, another of which owned a gelato shop at the waterfront, the one who’d become a harbormaster and navigated ships into port. Sergey asked her when she’d started dancing, where she’d studied, what she’d truly loved about it.

He listened so intently, his focus like a gift. His rapt look could make a girl feel special and treasured, but it was probably just a cop thing, paying close attention for clues about Stas.

He asked about the hours spent dancing as a girl. The question catapulted her back into the past--how strong she’d felt, developing her technique, training her body to defy nature and become ever more graceful, more flexible, more precise. Slowly, ambition had squeezed all the joy from dancing, and very little about her time as a ghost had called her old delight to mind.

But with his questions, Sergey did.

After breakfast, they caught a taxi to the state archive on Zhukovskoho Street. The gray stone building might have once been a church, with its leaded windows curving into gothic peaks. They found their way into a bright and sunny reading room, where records could be requested from a librarian. Behind the prim, gray-haired woman a sign was posted stating records retrieval took seven business days, upon completion of proper forms. Sergey filled out a slip of paper with the address of the
Académie de Ballet
. Anya wasn’t sure if it was his badge or his smile that persuaded the woman to pull the records immediately, but she scurried into a back room hastened by one or the other.

While they waited, Sergey showed Anya the computers available for research. There were cardboard-thin screens and flat keyboards and printers that could produce documents instantly, and they were hooked up to all the other computers in the world and could therefore tell a person almost anything.

Then he gave her a tutorial on how to use his phone, the maps, the photographs, and a dozen other functions that made very little sense to her. But there was a telephone with numbers listed, and he explained that if she pushed the green button next to a name, it would call that person, such as Dmitri, who he’d most recently spoken to, and a message could be typed and sent in the same way. Anya had never cared for speaking on the phone, so the appeal of an instantaneous message, like a pocket telegram, held a lot of appeal.

After some time, the librarian returned, walking in the shadow of a man who extended his hand. “Inspector Yuchenko, I’m Deputy Director Tsobenko. It’s most curious, but neither Veronika nor I were able to find any records for that building. There is, in fact, no deed for the property. It’s as if the Odessa regional government does not know the address 109 Pidzemnyy Street exists.”

“That’s impossible. Census takers went door to door just a few years ago when the property tax was passed. A prominent storefront in Center City wouldn’t have been overlooked. It’s next door to--”

“Plotkin’s Timepieces. Yes, I just searched the Internet for the street view of the address. I can assure you I will alert the proper authorities of this oversight. But I’m sorry to say I have no records of use to you.”

Anya’s breakfast had turned to a brick in her belly. If the ballet studio had seemed like a dead end yesterday, this mysterious lack of records made it anything but. Stas Demyan, who did not exist on paper--or on that Internet thingy, for that matter--had run a business out of a building that also did not exist according to the city of Odessa.

Sergey sighed but shook the man’s hand. “I sincerely appreciate the expedited effort.” He bowed his head toward the one Tsobenko had called Veronika. “Madam.”

As soon as they were out of earshot, Anya said, “We have to go back.”

They took another taxi the kilometer and a half to Pidzemnyy Street. The studio was dark, and no one answered the door.

“Can’t you just break in or something?” Anya asked.

“No. I could get suspended for that. Or, hell, lose my job.” His lower lip jutted, and for a split second, he was Inspector Putz again, but his mother depended on him, and there was nothing puppyish about taking care of one’s own. He was as honorable as her parents, and an annoying do-gooder too.

They ventured next door and learned no one in Plotkin’s shop knew how to get a hold of the couple who ran the studio. From the exchange, Anya got the impression they weren’t on especially friendly terms with their neighbors.

And then she and Sergey found themselves out on Pidzemnyy Street again--butting their head against a locked door instead of a dead end. As her hope drained away, an unbidden wind whipped up, causing awnings to flutter and stirring the leaves.

“Hey.” He brushed a stray lock of hair out of her face without comment, didn’t even seem to notice he’d done it. Oh, but she had, and the wind calmed instantly.

“Hold on,” he said, and pulled out his phone. “Hey. It’s Yuchenko. I’m working a case here--unofficial, for Gregor Lisko…yeah, right… Listen, I need to get inside a building. Can you get me authorization?” He rattled off the address. “Thanks, man. If they ask, say it’s a follow-up on the Belov case. An accomplice on the lam. Great. That’ll have to do.” He slid the phone back into his pocket and smiled his effortless grin. “When you were here before, did you ride the funicular?”

She whacked him on the shoulder. “What on earth was that phone call, Yuchenko?” Which was a dumb question, because she knew exactly what it was. And the real mystery was what the funicular railway had to do with it.

“I might get clearance from the local
politsiya
, but it’s going to take a while. They’re spread thin with the investigation of those three brothers who were found at the lighthouse.”

Anya shivered again. She couldn’t help but imagine them tugging against the chains that bound them as their lungs filled with water. She couldn’t help but relive her own panic.

Sergey pulled her close and stroked her hair. “I thought we might go for a ride to pass the time. Have you already been on it?”

She inhaled deeply and got hold of her fear. “That rickety old thing? I didn’t have a death wish.” Not at the time, at least. “Also, Stas didn’t exactly encourage me to stroll along the harbor or sunbathe at the beach.”

He winced, the sweet puppy. “Of course. I should have realized. The good news is it’s not rickety anymore. They shut it down while you were dead, but it’s been rebuilt. We can go, if you’d like.”

During her stay in Odessa, she’d wanted to go desperately, no matter how many times she’d heard stories of people getting stuck on it. Stas had made her run the immense Potemkin stairs, leading from the water level of the harbor all the way up to the plateau where the city perched. The funicular railway’s cars had moved parallel to her workout and to each other, one gliding upward while the other sailed downward on its rails.

“Yes. I’d love to go,” she said.

They began to walk in the direction of the water. When she turned her back on the studio, her skin tensed like she was leaving herself defenseless, open to attack from Stas himself. But then Sergey drew her closer by pressing their arms together lengthwise, and she relaxed. She may as well have a little fun. She might never have the chance again.

Sergey felt so light he could have believed he was a
vila
, swooshing around without gravity to trouble him. Over the course of the morning, Anya had toppled over some tipping point, as if she’d decided to toss away the chip on her shoulder and enjoy herself for a little while. It had shifted her mood into a joyful, exuberant one, and her company was such a pleasure that he could put last night’s unsettling phone call from his mind.

He’d get authorization from the local
politsiya
, and they’d get inside, and maybe something in there would lead them to Demyan. Maybe this very minute, the old man was sitting in a rocking chair watching football and drooling from ill-fitting dentures.

Lisko called nearly every hour, but Sergey ignored him. He didn’t want Anya frozen up again.

On the way to the funicular, they stopped for a treat. It was slightly worrisome what erotic pleasure he took in watching her devour an ice cream cone lick by lick. Then they stopped again, her stomach still growling. And, hell, even her dainty bites of a steaming piroshki stuffed with beef and potatoes reminded him of her kiss, and had his cock straining against his fly. She was so hungry for food, but also for life, even if she said she’d made peace with death. Watching at least one appetite be satisfied was both a pleasure and temptation.

All day, she remained the wry, quick witted, and deadly sarcastic Anya he’d come to enjoy, but the barbs were never aimed at him, or anyone, really.

“Do your feet hurt?” The ankle boots she wore had a two-inch heel and a pointy toe. They’d have killed him.

“Ever worn point shoes?”

“Fair enough.”

He’d found himself having to resist the instinct to place his hand on her lower back in that gesture of possession he’d never once before felt the urge to demonstrate. But they had to maintain skin-to-skin contact, which thankfully kept him from even a little subtle, non-verbal claiming. Hand in hand, they walked down the vast Potemkin Stairs lined with trees in their autumn splendor.

The illusion of the landmark’s construction had always fascinated him. To an observer looking downward, the stairway appeared to be only landings, the individual steps invisible. But when that same observer gazed upward from below, the landings were invisible and only the segments of stairs could be seen, appearing continuous and unbroken by deep landings. As always, the sight of the colossal escalade stirred up the pride in his city, rising up out of the Black Sea as it did, wordlessly declaring the importance and majesty of Odessa.

He stood there with her, at sea level, admiring the stairs. “I love these.”

“They’re impressive, but hell to run.”

He worked hard to keep the easy expression on his face as her meaning sunk in. Demyan must have brought her there. The hairs of his neck stood up, like her preternatural
vila
sense had rubbed off on him, alerting him his father was near. He’d waited his whole life to find this man, to measure him against fantasies and judgments, to shake him and ask him why he’d left behind Oksana and their son. Sergey should be glad the moment was finally at hand.

And yet, the moment would end this time with Anya. She wasn’t his, never could be. She might get to join the other
vilas
. But if by chance she did get to live again, like Sonya, she wouldn’t want Demyan’s son in her new life.