The Siren's Touch. Amber Belldene
“No way. She’s too fucking real. I’ve gone off the deep end.”
“I am real,” she said, her voice at once plaintive and potent.
He shook away the desire flashing through him.
Elena peered into his face, and her mouth softened like she was considering possibilities other than him being a useless, wasted drunk. “Perhaps she is real. I happen to believe in ghosts.”
“What?” This had to be part of the hallucination.
“I do. How could I not? I study folklore. All the Slavic fairytales, even the literature, it is full of eerie legends about ghosts and witches that must have some roots in reality.”
Oh hell.
If she was going to give him a lecture, he really needed that smoke—bad. He stepped toward the chair where his coat hung and reached inside for the box. But he stopped himself before pulling them out. It would only give Elena one more thing to nag him about—no more drinking, no more smoking—blah, blah, blah.
He folded his hands together to keep them from fidgeting, or from grabbing a cigarette of their own accord. “Have you ever seen a ghost?”
“No. But many people have.”
“Right. And like them, I’m completely nuts—”
His stomach twisted with a sudden fear, one he’d never even thought of until now. “Elena, did my father drink himself crazy?”
She took firm hold of his elbow. “No. And don’t even think it. You’re not him.”
Her words melted away some of his dread—maybe this ghost was just a coincidence, and not one more stepping stone on the path to becoming his father.
“Now tell me. Is the ghost male or female?”
“What?” His spine went rigid, all too aware of his freaky reaction to the ghost. “Why does that matter?”
Elena skewered him with her glare.
He dragged a straight-backed chair away from the table and dropped into it, pressing his thumb and forefinger against his tired eyes. “Female.”
“Did she follow you from Kiev?”
“No way. I’d have been spooked outside, not enjoying a smoke.”
“You looked like hell though. Haunted.”
Well, he was, but not by this pretty thing.
The ghost’s eyebrows were pulled together in concentration, but she stuck out her tongue at his unintentional pun. It was a very cute tongue, and he mourned the idea that he would never taste it, lick it, feel it on his—
“So she appeared here. Interesting. I’ve never had the faintest glimmer of a haunting, although the house is—”
“Elena, she speaks Ukrainian. She understands your every word.”
“A Ukrainian ghost? Here in San Francisco?”
The ghost yelped again, like a stepped-on puppy. He wanted to cradle her to his chest, pet her, and murmur reassuring nonsense.
She swooped over to him. “Where exactly is this San Fran Sisco?” The whisper in his ear wasn’t carried on a warm breath, had no damp heat to it, but it still sent tingles down his spine.
“California. In the United States.”
“America?” The word easily counted as a third yelp.
“Dmitri, focus,” Elena snapped.
“You’re both talking to me at the same time. How can I focus?”
“Where did she appear?”
“Over the tea table, right after you left.”
“Where did she come from?” Elena scuttled toward a shelf of ornaments—mostly traditional Ukrainian keepsakes.
He tried to remember.
“I came from the teapot,” the ghost said.
“Huh.” He hadn’t actually seen her fly out of the pot, but it was the only thing that made sense. “The teapot, Auntie.”
At the same time, the ghost continued. “I know this teapot. It belongs to me.”
Elena began to pace around the large, open room, click-click-clicking over the tiles of the kitchen, to the spacious living area, to the table where they’d had tea. “Is she wet?”
Dmitri’s face heated, his mind going to the…obvious—but also obviously not what his aunt meant. “What?”
“This is important. If she came from the teapot, I may know what she is, but only if she is wet.”
The ghost, who apparently recognized no double meaning, held up a dripping, lock of hair.
“Yeah. She’s wet.” He crossed his leg, resting one ankle on the opposite knee, and leaned forward over the tent in his pants.
“Hmm. Maybe she’s a rusalka then.”
“A what?”
“A water spirit.” Elena’s focus aimed at the general area where Dmitri looked, but she wasn’t quite focusing on the ghost.
“Like a mermaid?”
“Sort of, or a siren. And if I remember correctly, they come equipped with a deadly need for vengeance.”
Chapter 4
Some kind of spiritual leash tried to keep her at his side, but she broke loose from it and floated behind the pacing woman. A rusalka? Impossible. Those only existed in fairytales…
Just like ghosts.
Oh, phooey.
It was as good an explanation as any. She rifled through her spotty memories, trying to drag up whatever she could recall about the watery female spirits. Nothing came. Her brain didn’t feel right. It was sluggish. Thoughts swirled and floated in the same way she moved through the air, rather than racing and snapping into place the way they were supposed to.
Then one surfaced—a nugget of self-knowledge—she’d never liked scary stories. She would bury her head under the pillow and hum when Mama read Anya fairytales about witches or monsters. Next, a wisp of melody floated by, the memory of a whistled tune. That’s right. Of all the operas she’d seen, tucked deep in the velvet folds of the side stage, Dvorak’s Rusalka had been her least favorite. Sure, all operas were tragic, but that water princess’s longing for a love that could never be—she needed a smart smack in the face and something to keep her busy, a meaningful job, or a hobby.
All of a sudden, the memories popped like sudsy bubbles in a kitchen sink, vanishing from her ghost brain. All that was left for her to do was simply hover along, trailing after Dmitri’s aunt, hoping for guidance and for crumbs that might spark more memories. The older woman circled the airy room, which was crowded with plenty of keepsakes that had made her certain she was in Ukraine if they hadn’t told her otherwise.
The woman passed near the wide window where Dmitri loomed, his broad shoulders obscuring the scenic view. Even though he sat slumped in the chair, his little aunt barely matched his height, and she wore heels.
Her shocking outfit appeared to be a man’s suit, tailored for her miniature frame. Slacks of black wool crepe with a hint of pin striping grazed the top of patent-leather shoes. The matching jacket of the masculine ensemble was so well cut it flattered the woman’s figure in surprisingly feminine angles. Her black bob was sleek, framing her jaw and softening its lines.
She could appreciate the care put into the older woman’s dress and appearance. It was an odd style, one she’d never seen in Kiev, to be sure. But perhaps it was the latest fashion from Paris. She found herself curious to know what others were