Читать книгу The Siren's Touch - Amber Belldene - Страница 9

Her lungs were on fire. Burning. She couldn’t breathe. Her throat constricted. Coughing, a gasp, more coughing.

So wet, so cold.

Panic swirled and churned inside her like the water overhead. If only she could get a mouthful of air, get the river water out of her lungs…

Cough.

Bright light shone around her. She blinked. It had been night. She’d been on the riverbank…running. Perhaps she’d died? Was this heaven?

Again, she was gripped by the urge to expel water from her lungs, but it was all in her head. Her body was…

Gone?

No. She could sense it, but it was different…less.

Peering down, she saw right through her bare feet, utterly transparent and floating over a tea service, onto which she dripped brown sludge.

How rude.

She raised her hands before her eyes—transparent.

She was a ghost. Had to be. She must have died in the river. But at that conclusion, her thoughts came to a jarring halt. No other memories volunteered themselves. Who was she, and what had happened?

A low voice rumbled. “Fuck.”

She squeaked at the crude word. The frightening man pointing a gun at her elicited another squeak. She had to get away, and with the mere thought, her ghostly body swished toward the wide, bright window, opening onto a street like no place she’d ever seen—strangely colored houses, bizarre automobiles in every shade imaginable, and a huge swath of sea. Was she in Odessa? She’d never been there before.

Her breath came fast, but now she could tell they weren’t really breaths, only the habit of inhaling. No air came in, and she didn’t need it. Panic, which used to grip her chest and turn her heart into a sewing machine at full speed, now only made her mind race and her thoughts tangle.

“Breathe, girl, be calm.” The big man lowered his weapon. His voice was gravel crunching under tires on a country road. The same habit of breathing forced the empty breaths to come slower. Her ghost chest rose and fell, but she couldn’t feel it, only see. Could see her breasts, fully outlined by her wet nightgown—a sheer bit of fabric that could never dry.

Oh, sweet Jesus, she would be indecently clad for eternity.

She squeaked again.

The man’s frosty blue eyes roamed over her, lingering on her breasts, her belly, then flicking to the spot between her legs. An unfamiliar feeling flitted through her, the remembered sensation of butterflies in her tummy, although she no longer had a tummy. She covered her private parts with one outspread palm and hid her breasts with her arm. Although it was no use—her limbs were as sheer as her nightgown.

Still, he must have taken her meaning, because he returned his hard gaze to her face. The man was big—no, hulking—his eyes almost level with hers, though she floated above the ground. His head was bare and evenly covered with black stubble. A scar marred one thick eyebrow, as if the flesh there had been split wide open and not properly tended. His nose would have been a fine, noble thing, were it not very slightly askew and too large across the bridge. The scarring would be from one bad break, or several minor ones.

He tucked his weapon into his waistband and crossed his arms over his chest, narrowing his eyes. “Are you real?”

The mouth that formed his words was exquisite—soft, full lips hinted at a hidden kindness. Once he voiced the question, he pressed them into oblivion, leaving no trace of the sensitivity they’d suggested.

She tried to twine a lock of hair around her finger but couldn’t grab hold of one. Combing her fingers through the mass, she pulled the curls forward. The brown waves held fast between her fingers, but they had no weight, no texture. “I don’t know.”

“How did you come to be in the teapot?” He flung his hand out, gesturing at the crockery.

Inside her mind, a shutter closed and then opened on a new scene. Her teapot, wrapped carefully in newspaper, and bundled into a blanket along with the family bible and photos. Anya had packed the matching teacups with her, in the little knapsack she’d carried to school. Where was Anya? Where were her parents?

Logical, orderly thoughts eluded her. Her ghost brain worked, but not the way it had before. Now, her mind only flashed images and recalled sensations—

Cold ground under her bare feet—

A bang, then her shoulder ripped open, exploding in pain.

Her ethereal fingers traced to the spot of remembered pain but felt nothing. There, a perfectly round hole pierced her nightgown, the circle rimmed with rusty-looking blood. Beneath it, her skin puckered with the scar of a bullet wound.

And then, like a monstrous ocean wave, the frigid river swallowed her up, black water under a blacker night sky. She thrashed, trying to stay afloat, but the cold sapped her strength and vital warmth poured out of her shoulder.

She was dead, drowned in the river. Someone had shot her and chased her into the river to die.

In this mysterious room, looking out over the sea, her ghost body came alive. Hot fury began at her toes, boiling up her legs and torso and finally reaching her throat, where it tore out of her with an anguished yell. She would find whoever had done this to her and rip him apart with her teeth and fingernails. No, first she would hold his head under icy water, depriving him of every last breath but one, only to resuscitate him and do it again. And again. When she tired of it, she would begin the ripping apart.

She gasped, frightened by the fierce need, an unfamiliar and wholly new emotion. She’d never wanted to hurt someone, other than to yank Anya’s hair or smack her for being sassy. But—oh, how right this violence was, resonating in her diaphanous ghost body and tingling through the fabric of her soul. She felt…felt more… No, she simply felt, and it was good. The violent fantasy had brought her to life—or some ghostly echo of it—and explained her very existence. She had one purpose and one purpose alone.

Vengeance.

The desire shook her, and even without a body, the force was immense, all-consuming. It rattled her thoughts, her feelings, and then the dishes on the table began to shake, the lid to the teapot tapping a rapid rhythm on the oak table.

Oh God, was she doing that?

“What the hell? Are you doing that?” He pointed his gun at her again.

She swished to a door with a frosted glass window. It appeared to lead onto the street. She reached for the handle, but it passed through her insubstantial fingers, sending a cold shudder reverberating through her. That horrid sensation was enough to deter her from attempting another pass through the barrier. She was trapped in a room with this brute, trapped in this un-body, when she had to go find whoever was responsible. Panic shook her.

“Cut it out,” he shouted.

Across the room, a door swung, slamming into its frame, further closing off the sunny space. Then an old-fashioned glass and silver stekan bounced to the edge of the table and crashed to the floor, breaking into shards. She couldn’t control the power coursing through her and cried out, flying into a dark corner occupied by a small tree in a pot. Crouching beneath its glossy green leaves, which swayed from the waves of energy radiating from her, the full force of the truth hit her—she was dead, a ghost, without a body. And her family was…

Still, no memories came. She drew her knees up to her chin and shook her head. The phantom pressure of tears built behind her eyes, although she had no tears, and really, no body at all. She whimpered and began to cry, her own bleating not-quite sobs reminding her of a frightened child.

Gun dangling at his side, the giant prowled toward her, pinning her in the corner. He frowned, black eyebrows drawing together into a fierce slant. Then he dropped to a knee in an awkwardly humble gesture.

“Easy, girl.” He laid the gun on the floor in front of him.

“You can hear me?”

Rubbing one hand over his bald head, he replied, “Yeah.”

“And see me?”

He grunted the answer to her obvious question, and his gaze roved over her knees—and lower. Oh God, her sheer, wet nightgown was only so long. She was probably exposing everything to him. She crossed her heels, pressing her calves into her hamstrings, and reached around her thighs to gather her wispy garment, so that at least a thin layer of cloth covered her.

His eyes were the cornflower blue of the dress worn by the virgin God-bearer Mary in the holy icons. Although most had been destroyed by the Communist Party, some had survived, hidden in churches, or stowed away in people’s homes at great risk. She loved the vibrant paintings and their air of holy mystery.

Surely the good Virgin Mary, mother of God, had never wanted vengeance for the horrible things done to her family.

The big man’s gaze wrapped around her and the memory disappeared, taking with it any clue of who she was. His focus skimmed over her thigh and hip, across her bare arm and back to her face, where his blue eyes widened. Again, the imaginary butterflies fluttered in her memory of a stomach. His lovely mouth fell open too, and a full, pink tongue moistened his lower lip. He rubbed his wreck of a nose and then smoothed his palms down over his thick thighs.

A power coalesced inside her. Like her fury, it began to fill her from her toes as if, from over her head, a pitcher poured liquid strength into her. A warm buzz tingled and soothed her, turning her furious vibrations into pure power. When the sensation reached her head, she understood, and it shocked her.

She elongated, reaching her bare arms overhead, stretching her body long, and revealing all its lines to him under the slip of a nightdress.

There—his tongue reappeared against his lower lip. She smoothed the shift over her waist and hips, highlighting her silhouette. He let out a slow breath.

She focused on the strange, harsh-looking man who appeared to be as confused as she felt.

“What is your name?” Her voice came out strange—low and melodic, full of new timbres.

The oddly beautiful sound seemed to affect him. He stood and bowed his head. “I’m Dmitri Ivanovych Lisko.”

“You will help me?” With the power in her voice, it wasn’t really a question.

He fell back to one knee. “Anything, girl.”