The anger shook her harder and the doors rattled in their frames.
The taller sister took the smaller one’s hand, their mouths pressed thin, but their expressions did not reveal any fear. In this entire year she’d been a ghost, they were the only ones not to take cover when the fury shook her, and the building too.
“We’re going to have to get Dima here,” said the one who’d called herself Anya. “To tell her himself how repentant he is.”
The fury coalesced into a single up swell of longing. Yes. Bring Dmitri Lisko here.
“Perhaps, though I…” The one called Sonya exhaled. “I know how strong her anger is, and I don’t want her to hurt him.”
“Okay.” The petite one nodded and pointed at the clothes. “If she was wearing those clothes, it means she’s materialized. We could leave her your phone number.” She’d already taken a pen and notepad from her purse and begun to scribble. Then the pair turned for the stairs.
At the top, Sonya paused and cast a look over her shoulder. “I know you don’t believe me, but he’s a good man. He’s trying to fix all his mistakes.”
Murder was not a mistake that could be repaired. There was no bringing Fedir back.
A growl erupted from Katya’s lips and with it, another pulse of power strong enough to knock Sonya off balance. If she hadn’t been holding on to the handrail, she might have gone tumbling down the stairs.
No!
Katya flew forward, as if her useless, vaporous form could catch the woman.
Oh, God. She’d almost killed her. Katya’s ghostly form froze at the stop stair.
The pair hurried away. Safe, thank God.
All Katya’s buzzing particles had stopped, but when the lobby door slammed far below, they began racing even faster. She hadn’t wanted to kill the woman, no matter how foolish she was to love Lisko.
Katya tried the ghost-version of breathing they’d suggested, trying to calm herself down. It didn’t work. She paused over the pile of clothing to read the name and telephone number on the paper. There was no way to pick it up or move it until Nikolai came home and shed more blood to bring her back.
She gave up her qualms about eavesdropping and went back in to watch TV with Dariya, who’d settled in front of their favorite Russian soap opera, set in a Moscow legal office with very beautiful attorneys.
After a while, Dariya turned off the TV and shuffled back into her room.
Katya watched the street out the window as the autumn sun descended. Afternoon traffic crawled lazily down the avenue, babushkas strolled with their dogs, and children skipped alongside their parents. She’d liked living here, in the upper-middle class suburb more pedestrian and homey than the glitzy flat in a historic luxury apartment building where her parents lived.
And she’d liked living with Fedir, the way he’d smiled a little every time he caught sight of her before going back to playing his video game or thumbing out texts from his phone. Even when she’d known the work was important, he’d always made her feel he was glad she was there. Or when he’d come to bed late and spoken sweetly to her that he wanted to show her how beautiful she was. She would let him touch her, undress her, trying to muster up all the desire she could, never enough, but he never complained.
Twice, footsteps sounded in the hall, and she’d hoped for Nikolai with a kind of excitement she’d never felt while awaiting Fedir’s return. Surely only because she was a ghost and his blood would give her reprieve?
* * * *
Nik hunched over his desk, shooting lasers of forceful attention at a draft of an article about a Kiev artist who had an upcoming exhibit at New York City’s Metropolitan Museum of Art. In spite of his effort to burn useful editorial criticism into the draft with his eyeballs, he couldn’t make himself care one bit about a man who vandalized his own canvases with graffiti, then painted over it with a roller from the hardware store. Yeah, yeah, his work symbolized Kiev’s constant process of disintegration and reconstruction. The city should hire him to remediate some actual graffiti.
The phone on Nik’s desk rang. “Zurkov.”
“Hello, Mr. Zurkov. My name is Hanna Vovk, and I’m calling from the media relations department of Lisko Enterprises.”
An invisible fist got hold of Nik’s Adam’s apple and squeezed. Chert. Why the hell were they calling him? Did they know something? Were Dariya and Katya safe at the apartment?
“Mr. Zurkov?”
He forced his throat to open and his fears to chill the fuck out. Investigate first, act if necessary. Never panic.
“Yeah. I’m here. You the one who told Lisko not to do his press conference in his shorts?”
The woman had a low, husky chuckle. “You saw that, did you?”
“All of Ukraine saw that,” he grumbled, hoping the compression in his throat wasn’t too audible over the line. “How can I help you, Ms. Vovk?”
As he spoke, he typed her name into his Internet browser and pulled up her image and bio on the Lisko Enterprises page. Pretty lady, about his age, all kinds of university honors.
“I’m calling to offer you an exclusive interview with Dmitri Lisko. He wants to grant you full access to the results of our internal investigation before any other reporters.”
“I believe you have the wrong information. My colleague, Lyuba Popovych, is covering the case. I’m the culture editor.” And he couldn’t risk adding a little barb. “I no longer cover corruption.”
Again with the husky chuckle. “That scathing comment is precisely why I want you. I’m aware that Ms. Popovych attended the press conference. I’m also aware your sister was one of the victims, and that you have a reputation for being merciless about government and corporate misconduct. For these reasons, Mr. Lisko would like you to have the report, and to do with it what you see fit. His exact words were, ‘Tell him to eviscerate us, if it’s what we deserve.’”
Nik’s ego preened under the praise, and his reporter’s instincts were chomping at the bit. What a fucking amazing opportunity. But then he recalled Sofiya’s plea to remember Tiger the fish. Who knew how many sniper’s rifles would be aimed into his window if he took this on. Chert, he couldn’t even trust that Lisko himself wouldn’t order one. What the hell was the man’s game? Was he toying with Nik?
He loosened his tie and undid his top button, feeling suddenly like a lone mouse pursued by a dozen invisible cats.
“As I said, I’m assigned to the culture desk. And I vouch for Lyuba. She’s not the dewy school girl she appears. She’s perfectly capable of eviscerating Lisko.”
“Lisko Enterprises, you mean.”
“Yes, of course.” Though his personal hatred of the man grew by the second, bringing him to relish the violent language, he would never condone actual blood spilling. “Just a metaphor. We love those at the culture desk.”
She chuckled that sexy, throaty sound again and he glanced at her photo, her impeccably smooth golden hair and sharp cheekbones. A smart, beautiful woman with a wicked laugh and a keen, flirtatious wit. Just the sort of woman he liked to tussle with over drinks and foreplay, who could take or leave him at any moment without it mattering to either one.
“Well, we admire your metaphors, Mr. Zurkov, and we’d love to work with you on this.”
On closer inspection, her features seemed too angular, her hair too perfect. She lacked softness. Katya’s image formed in his mind even as he became aware of the thought. Smart without showing off, hair a wild cloud of platinum blond, and blue eyes, a bullet wound right between her palmable, pear-shaped breasts. He had to help Katya before there would be any room for interest in a woman like Hanna Vovk again.
“That’s very flattering. Would you like me to transfer you to Lyuba? She’s just across the newsroom at her desk.”
“Hold one second, please.” The phone clicked and the line went quiet, but only for a few seconds. “No, thanks. The offer of an exclusive was just for you. Give me a call if you reconsider, though I’m
not sure how long it will sit on the table.”
Something about her quick pause to confer made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Had she been consulting with Lisko?
Chert. Nik had to get home and check on his fish.
Quickly, he crammed his laptop into his brief case, grabbed his shopping bag, and crossed the room toward the double doors, nearly plowing down Leonid as the older man came through.
“All right?” his mentor asked with gentlemanly air.
“I think so, but there’s something I’ve got to take care of at home.”
When he mounted the final stair onto his floor, the apartment door came into view, and with it a pile of empty clothes.
Chert. But at least if she was a ghost, she was safe from Lisko.
He knelt to pick up his sweats, no longer warm from her body. On top of the pile lay a slip of paper with a phone number. Who the hell was Sonya?
But more importantly, was his niece okay?
His keys jangled in his shaky hand until he could line one up with the keyhole. Then he twisted and swung the door open. “Dariya?”
Music pounded from her bedroom, but no answer came. His heart hammered faster than the hip-hop beat. He sprinted across the room and found her sitting cross-legged on her bed reading a book.
He took a deep breath and tried to calm the sprint-ready organ in his chest.
“Oh, hi.” She smiled. “You’re home early.”
“Yeah.” He glanced around. Something was different about her room. He tended to steer clear of the frightening domain of the adolescent female, but occasionally he’d been forced to approach its entrance, and it hadn’t looked like this. He stepped inside to reach the speakers blasting her music and realized what had changed. He could step inside.
He flipped off the sound. “You cleaned up.”
“Katya helped.”
Of course she had. She wielded a magic touch with Dariya, hipper than Nik and just maternal enough to put his niece at ease.
“When did she leave?”
“A couple hours ago.”
Again, he searched the empty room from floor to ceiling. The craving to see her, to know she was all right—it was an ache in his chest.
He dropped the shopping bag on the coffee table, wincing from the tender cuts on his arm, and headed for his bedroom. He changed into jeans and a soft shirt with sleeves he could easily shove up to his biceps. Then he dug the straight razor out of the back of his toothbrush drawer and slid his ass down the tile wall where the blood could drip onto the right spot.
Should he open the same wound as this morning, which had already formed a nice scab, or switch arms? Chert. What a junkie’s dilemma.
He formed a fist to examine each possible vein. Was she here watching him? Had she been here watching him two nights ago when he’d spent the needs of his neglected sex drive? Earlier, the prospect had shamed him, but now, here, hungry to see her again, a new thought took root. If she’d watched him, then slipped into his dream and offered herself to him like that, she must have enjoyed the show. And the thought of her, both so innocent and so worldly, becoming aroused by the scene made his cock stiffen.
Down, boy. He needed his blood in his arm, not his groin.
Well, hell. Splitting open a vein was a guaranteed way to get rid of an unwanted erection. He opted for the fresh arm and pinched up a bit of flesh to raise the vein, inhaled, then slid the sharp-as-sin blade deep into his skin. He wanted her in her skin as long as possible—no more ghosting on his door step, no more watching unseen.
This time the incision really gushed, a veritable river of blood pouring down the crook of his arm. He let it flow, more and more onto the floor. She’d gotten a few hours out of the last serving. Maybe this would be enough to keep her in her skin well into the night. He looked away. He wasn’t especially squeamish, but resisting the urge to stop one’s bleeding seemed to be a compelling instinct, like the need to breathe. He grew lightheaded.
“Stop, Nikolai!” She was there all of a sudden, crouching at his side, pressing the blue washcloth to his arm. “It’s enough. More than enough.”
Out of the swimming blackness of his thoughts, her warm, firm touch anchored him, a comforting tether like his weekly dinners at Sofiya’s house had been. I’m not alone, people care, life matters. He exhaled past the dull throb in his arm.
Her face was so close to his—smooth skin over elegant cheekbones and a delicately angled jaw, and that slightly open mouth that made her look constantly surprised, vulnerable even when she was smiling, or irritated, as she apparently was now.
“You cannot bleed to death for me, Nikolai.” Her stern tone was so cute.
A dumb smile took hold of his lips. “Chert, it’s good to see you.”
And then, without giving it a moment’s thought, he acted on that tethering impulse, taking the back of her head into his hand and kissing those parted lips, sliding his tongue right inside to taste her in the flesh.
She yielded, groaned in the back of her throat, but didn’t precisely return the kiss. Gently, he pressed deeper, stroking and coaxing. Hopeful. But no. She was not kissing him back.
He stilled his mouth over hers, drank her in one last time, and then pulled away. “What is it?”
“Nothing. Just… Did Inspector Yuchenko discover anything?”
“No.”
“This is taking too long.” A lock of her soft white-blond waves fell over her eyes, and she grabbed a handful of her hair in her fist, holding it firmly over her forehead. “If we keep at this, Dariya is going to find you bled out on your bathroom floor, Lisko will go free, and I’m going to be stuck as a mara for eternity.”
“Stuck?” He’d thought her mission to avenge Fedir was her choice. “You mean you can’t just give up and fly off to the…wherever?”
She shook her head. “I’m not free until Lisko pays.”
“Chert, what if he gets hit by a bus first?”
She grimaced, crossing her arms over her breasts that were barely covered by her tank top. “Earlier, I snuck into the apartment of a friend who lives upstairs. He has an extensive and esoteric library. Not a lot about maras but one pithy paragraph. I can only go free when I avenge poor Fedir.”
Until this moment, she hadn’t spoken of her own desire for freedom, only of her need to avenge Fedir. The change was heartening—had she come to accept the truth about her dearly departed deadbeat of an ex? Or perhaps she’d become frightened of the prospect of eternity as a ghost.
The mere thought tightened his chest. For a moment, all his goals receded and he thought only of her future, her wellbeing. “I won’t let that happen. I’ll stay on Yuchenko. And I might have another lead.” If he could call Lisko’s offer of an exclusive interview a lead and not an attempt to turn him into a pawn in order to neutralize him. But if he learned something, maybe it could help. Then he thought of Dariya, alone in her now-tidy room, floating through her days in a haze of grief the way Tiger the fish had bobbed in his fishbowl.
No. Lisko had offered a nice juicy piece of bait, and Nikolai couldn’t think of it as a lead. He had to find another one, had to keep his niece safe, and do his best to help Katya too.
“You have my word. I’ll help you however I can, as long as it doesn’t endanger Dariya.”
Her eyes crinkled at the corners, bright with some emotion he couldn’t name. “I don’t deserve your help, but I will accept it, for Fedir. And I will do whatever I can to repay you, help out around the apartment, and—”
“You do deserve it. And it’s okay to want your freedom, to want something for yourself.”
Her gaze drifted from his eyes. With the realization she was staring at his mouth, a hot throb of desire pulsed through him. “Katya?”
“Hmm?”
“I’m going to kiss you again, and this time, I want you to kiss me back.”
She frowned. “Why?”
“Because I want you. And I could feel yo
u wanted me. And that’s enough of a reason—just doing what you want.”
She glanced at his bandage.
“No. You don't owe me a thing. Wanting another person is not a trade, Katya."
For once, her lovely lips closed, pursing skeptically. “But Fedir, and Lisko’s trial, and…”
And so many other urgent, important things that at this very moment, alone on the floor of his bathroom with her, he refused to let into his consciousness. Maybe she’d been given this weird mara mission to avenge Fedir, but he was beginning to think he’d been given one too.
He brushed his thumb over her lower lip. “Do you want to kiss me?"
She blushed and, God help him, his cock began to harden almost instantly.
“Yes. But it feels selfish.”
Right. Because with parents like hers, a kid never knew when it was actually okay to want, or even need something. That was one of the reasons Sofiya had kicked out Dariya’s dad.
“Something tells me you weren’t selfish a day in your life. Maybe, now that you’re dead, it’s time to live a little.”
Chapter 13
Katya was still reeling from the lies those women had spouted—that Lisko was sorry for her death, that she might live again. And now this beautiful bear of a man wanted her to seize hold of her distracting desire and take something for herself. He was right that other than her degree she’d never pursued something simply for her own pleasure.
“Come here.” Even his gentlest whisper sounded like a growl, and it sent wet heat to the parts of her that had never gotten excited about the men she’d dated, even when she’d prayed for lust or, short of that, a pill she could take. She’d have done anything to melt her body the way she understood it was supposed to turn soft and hot.
Now, finally, she understood just how delicious that felt, how people lost their minds to it, abandoned their virtue. But the mara inside Katya would not let her forget even for a minute why she still lingered in this un-life, in this body reincarnated only by Nikolai’s blood. She wrapped the towel more tightly around her shoulders.
The Siren's Dream Page 11
