by Joy Preble
Alex’s ghost makes a chuckling sound. “So you’re the noble hero then, Ethan? Good to know. I suppose that’s why I hung on while I was bleeding to death on the floor: so I could thank you for your great sacrifices on my behalf. I get to be here,” he spreads out his arms, “and you get to do it all over again—only this time with the girl. Yes, it’s quite the sacrifice. I can see why you had to run off to brood in Paris.”
He looks disappointed when I force myself not to react—not an easy task when some piece of me feels he’s right. Every day I was in Europe, I told myself that I had done the best I knew how to do. Still, when I got on the plane to return to the States, I had yet to convince myself that this was true.
“Clever man.” Ghost Alex smiles. Can he somehow read my mind? In the distance, there’s a long peal of thunder. The breeze that’s been rustling the leaves of the trees in the cemetery blows a little stronger. The air smells like rain.
“Perhaps I have underestimated you, after all.” Alex rises from the bench and paces a few steps to stand in the middle of the grass that covers his grave. He bends and studies his gravestone, then straightens and turns back to face me.
“What is it that people want, Ethan? Why do we do what we do? What crafts our destiny? Did Anastasia wake up one morning and just decide that she should trust that bastard half-brother of hers? Or did she come to it slowly, day by day? Your friend, Viktor. What forces made him choose vengeance? Or you, my friend. Did you wake up one morning and just decide that you wanted to be the hero? How much would you have to lose before you chose a different path? What would it take? What would it be? Is there something that you could not bear to lose?”
Two faces float into my mind. One is Anne’s. The other—perhaps not so strangely, since I was speaking of her only hours ago—is Tasha Levin. Natasha, who was lost to me long ago—that day I left her without a word. Even before that, really, because I knew that while Anastasia remained trapped, so did I. I bore the pain of that for decades, but it did not change my course. It has not altered who or what I am. Only Anne has done that—Anne who gave me back my life.
Ghost Alex tips back his head and laughs. The sound echoes in the quiet cemetery, bounces off the oak trees, with their wide branches covered in leaves, and the mausoleums, thick with the sleeping dead. He steps around his own grave and leans against a large tombstone that reads Oberman Family, crossing his arms and observing me with an expression of amusement. A storm cloud settles overhead, and a few small raindrops begin to sprinkle.
“Well, well,” he says. “Our hero has a few secrets, eh? Does your girl know what a coward you were back then? Sad, tortured Ethan. Had to give up the one he loved. Did she feel sorry for you when you told her? Did she tell you that you didn’t have a choice, like our dear Anne told you that day you brought her to see me? When she realized you’d killed one of Viktor’s men before you went after her?” Alex moves his lips to speak again, but it’s Anne’s voice that emerges from his mouth. You saved my life, I hear her say. If you killed him, it’s because you had no other choice. And in my head, I hear myself reminding her that there’s always a choice.
“You’re not Alex,” I declare. “So let’s cut to the chase here. Who the hell are you? And what do want?”
The Alex thing shakes its head. “Just when we were having such fun. I don’t have much fun lately. And here you have to go and ruin it all. Perhaps your friend Viktor was right about you. Too damn virtuous for your own good. You’d really be so much more fun if you’d just let it all go once in a while. Imagine the havoc you could wreak if you did, Ethan! Women, riches, whatever you want. Like we’ve been discussing. Everyone wants something. And here you are, getting a second chance at it all. Why would someone who knows the way the world works not want to use it to his advantage? Shake loose, friend. Just let it all go! I did.”
This isn’t Alex—or his ghost. I rise from the bench and the rain starts to pelt harder, drops smacking my face, the ground, the thing that looks like Alex, the graves. A bolt of lightning shivers through the sky above us. In the brief seconds during which my gaze shifts skyward, the figure leaning against the Oberman Family tombstone changes. When I look back, it’s not Alex Olensky looking at me. It’s Viktor.
He’s horribly, horribly aged: pale, gaunt, white-haired, with deep crevices of lines etched into the sagging flesh of his face. The skin on his hands is paper-thin, the joints huge and stiff and knotted. He looks every year of what he really is. And more.
“Ah, yes, Brother Etanovich. Look your fill. I’m not even sure what you’re seeing. She keeps no mirrors in her place, our girl Baba Yaga. I can catch my reflection now and then in her eyes. But I don’t want to bore you with what happens when I get too close to her. Let us just say that I should have thought twice about letting her take me in place of my half-sister. But that’s the thing about sacrifice, isn’t it? You don’t really get to control how it all turns out. Not that I haven’t been trying to find a way to fix things, although I haven’t quite stumbled on it yet. But these are my concern, not yours. You’ve been too busy with your little girlfriend. Sweet, sweet Anne. I really would have thought she’d have better taste in men. It must really eat at you that she took up with the lifeguard while you were gone. Or is our friend Alex right? Perhaps you’re too virtuous to think about such things.”
My hands tighten into fists, but the thing shifts again before I can hit it. The rusalka stands in front of me, her lilac gown soaked to the skin, strands of her black hair twisting about her like snakes. Even as the smell of rain surrounds us, the salty scent of the sea washes over me as intensely as it had in my apartment. She smiles. Her sharp white teeth gleam in the jagged flash of lightning that bursts over us again.
“You really shouldn’t listen to him.” Briefly, she lifts her face to the rain. “He’s never told you the truth, and I doubt that he’s going to start now. Then again, you don’t know whether I’m lying either, do you? But you know my kind. That girl from your village—Lena. You saw what happened to her that day. So you know.”
I swallow the fear that’s risen inside me. I do know. The memory of those other bodies flickers in my mind: the men that Lena and her rusalka sisters dragged to their doom. The body of her father, a man too big to drown in such a shallow stream.
“You planning on changing again?” I keep my voice low and even. It’s not easy over the increasing thunder. I’m as soaked as she is now, and the rain shows no sign of letting up. The sky continues to darken. A man and a woman rush past us on the little path. I see no indication that they notice me talking to a mermaid.
“No need.” The rusalka grins through the downpour. “I’ve kept you here long enough. My sisters are taking care of the rest of it for me.”
I must look confused—which I am, since I’m not sure what she means. Maybe I’m too busy trying to figure out how she’s been in my head long enough to create images of Alex and Viktor that feel real to me. Or maybe I’m still not sure if this last image is the one I can believe. Is this Lily? Is this the rusalka? What does she hope to gain by her little charade here in the cemetery? If she wants vengeance on Viktor, if she thinks that will change things for her, why waste time talking to me and showing me illusions? What good will it do her?
“What does my granddaughter see in you? She’s such a clever, sharp girl. So lively and amusing. I’ve been explaining it to you this whole time—although perhaps I went a little too far with all the impersonations. But I really needed to get your attention, make you understand. We all come to the truth in different ways. I came to mine when it was too late. So I thought I’d make things simpler for you. But I see that it’s not working.”
“Well, then,” I say, “why don’t you save us both the effort and just tell me? I’ve been around for longer than you have. I think I’ll catch on.”
She wags a bony finger at me. “Temper, temper, Ethan. I do believe that my darling granddaughter is rubbing off on you.” She nods her head as though considering that.
Rain flies from her hair and pelts against me. I shiver violently.
“I told Anne what I wanted. But I see that she needs some extra motivation to get it for me. So I’ve decided to give it to her. And here you are. Her hero. Visiting your friend’s grave rather than protecting her when she needs you. She and I are going to have to chat about this. My Misha wouldn’t have left me in the face of danger. He knew I was strong, but he didn’t make assumptions about things beyond what we understand. On the other hand, he hadn’t been away from the Old Country as long as you have. He hadn’t forgotten. And still, Viktor killed him.”
In that moment, I understand what she wants from me. Bait for Anne.
The rusalka’s spell is as fast as the lightning in the sky above us and more potent than any magic that I have left inside me. She’s gripping my hand before I can move. The coldness of it shoots ice through my veins. The world around me slows to a crawl. I need to do something—conjure a spell, even though I have no real magic left. But all I can do is look at her. Every fiber of my body tells me that she’s the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen. Only one tiny fragment of my brain screams that it’s a lie—and also reminds me that because I’m now mortal, it is quite possible that I will die.
“She’s the only one who can set Viktor free,” Lily says to me. “Baba Yaga is still compelled because your foolish Brotherhood didn’t have any idea what they were dealing with. You thought the power came from you. But it didn’t. It’s her. It’s always been her. I knew it all those years ago, and I know it now. I couldn’t get to her then unless I went with one of you. And you had no idea what Viktor was up to—no idea that he’d found me and planned on getting rid of me. Or that he killed Misha instead. But Viktor himself didn’t know everything about the witch. Not really. And Laura—my baby—she has no idea about any of this. Then there was you. You found Anne and set the rest of it motion. Only there are rules—aren’t there always with magic? I can haunt her, but Anne has to know me. And she has to want to help me. And that’s where you come in, Ethan.”
We drift together across Alex Olensky’s grave and wind our way out of the cemetery. The rain never ceases. If my feet are touching the ground, I can’t feel it. Blank-brained, I keep pace with the rusalka, my hand bound to hers as though with invisible ropes. I don’t have to ask where we’re going. This much I understand as we move east through the rain, passing by cars and people with umbrellas as though we are both now invisible. In Chicago, heading east eventually means only one thing: Lake Michigan.
FRIDAY, 12:02 pm
ANNE
The plate glass window in the front of the Jewel Box cracks—one thin line down the middle, then hundreds of them all over as the rusalkas press themselves against the glass. The window shatters. Thousands and thousands of tiny shards of glass crash in a heap onto the soaked wooden floor. Rusalka after rusalka swishes inside. They move slowly toward us, their bodies soaked with rainwater, their hair long and tangled.
“Don’t look at them!” Baba Yaga calls from the sky. “You know better than that, my girl. Don’t look at them! Don’t let them fool you!”
Oh, right. Because that’s going to make a difference right now.
“One of those—that’s what I saw yesterday,” Ben says. I can hear the terror in his voice. “Carter said I was seeing things. But you knew it was real, didn’t you? When you jumped in the water to help me—you knew what was down there. Your friend Ethan did too, didn’t he, Anne? What is this? Last night, you—shit, Anne. Whatever this is, we need to get out of here. Now.” He yanks me toward the back of the store. The rusalkas edge a little closer. The smell of seawater is overpowering. Even in the steady downpour, I feel dizzy from the heavy odor of salt and seaweed. I gag. It’s filling my lungs like sludge and making me cough. It feels like drowning.
My mother’s coughing, but she hooks her arms under Mrs. Benson’s and pulls her up from the floor. I try to collect my thoughts, but my own fear is pounding in my veins like a crazy drumbeat. I’ve called Baba Yaga, and she’s come to me somehow, even though she couldn’t before. All the rules—did I ever understand them?—have changed again. And where’s Ethan? He was supposed to call, wasn’t he? The drumbeats of fear inside me pound harder.
“What have you done?” Mrs. Benson wrenches herself free from my mother and stumbles over to me. She’s gasping for air that’s clear of the thick scent of the rusalkas. “What are you? Why is this happening?”
“What do you mean, what is she?” My mother grabs Mrs. Benson’s shoulder. “She’s my daughter! She hasn’t done anything here! You’re the one with the secrets and the lies. You’re the one who knew what happened to my mother and never told me. What kind of person are you?”
“No, no.” Mrs. Benson sloshes through the water that’s pooling heavily on the floor. “Oh, Laura.” She coughs violently, spits what looks—impossibly—like a clump of seaweed onto the floor. “No. I wanted to find you. Do you hear me? I wanted to make sure you were safe.”
“We need to move,” I yell at them. My lungs feel tight. Every word hurts my chest. “Ben’s right. We need to get out of here!” Baba Yaga makes another swoop above, but the rusalkas are almost on us, and it doesn’t look like she’s planning on stopping them. Why did I bother to call for her? Or is it part of the magic that I don’t understand? Maybe she can’t help us, after all. Maybe she doesn’t want to. All those dreams, all those conversations—possibly all lies. But why should this surprise me?
“Ben Logan,” one of the rusalkas croons to him. “Dearest Ben Logan. Take my hand. Be with me. I need you, Ben. I want you. Don’t you like to be wanted? I can give you everything. More than she can. Just ask her. Ask her if she truly loves you. And when she doesn’t answer, just look into my eyes.”
“Shut up!” I shout at it. “Leave him alone!” But Ben is already letting go of me. His body is moving toward this thing with blond hair and eyes dark as the seaweed that’s clinging to her hair.
“Pretty,” he says. “You’re so pretty. What’s up, pretty girl?” He smiles goofily, the same sweet, half-drunk smile he’d given me right before the first time he’d kissed me—really kissed me—at a party at Carter’s. We’d wandered off to the study and made out, and for the first time since Ethan had dropped into my life, I’d felt like maybe I could pretend I was still the old me. A nice illusion while I could get it.
“Don’t listen to it, Ben!” I pull him back to me, gripping his arm hard. I even think about slapping him, but the faint mark where my fingers had burned his cheek stops me.
With an effort, since he’s still sweet-talking the mermaid, I drag Ben toward the back of the store with one hand and grab my mother’s hand with the other. She’s got her other arm linked around Mrs. Benson.
“Do something!” I shout up to Baba Yaga. “Damn it! What’s it going to take for you to help me?” But she still refuses to answer.
“Wonderful! You yak up a storm while I visit you in my dreams, and now what? You’re just going to hang out up there and watch the show? What kind of witch are you, anyway?”
“We’re going to die!” Mrs. Benson begins to moan. Her voice is a wheeze, and I know why, because I’m choking again myself. “We’re all going to die! They’re coming for us the way they came for Lily! The rusalkas took her. They made her one of them. I couldn’t make myself believe it. But I knew. I’ve always known. ”
“Lily?” Ben tries to squirm away again. “Who’s Lily? Is she pretty too? Like that girl over there? Isn’t she pretty, Anne?”
“She’s a mermaid, Ben. And no offense, but she’s probably trying to kill you.”
“This can’t be real,” my mother comments weakly. “How can this be real?”
“It’s real, Mom. I’ll fill you in later. But trust me, it’s real.”
She’s about to argue with me about this—at least, that’s what I figure, since she’s squinched up her forehead in that way she does sometimes when she’s about to launch into a rant. Except she doesn’t, becaus
e that’s when the back door of the Jewel Box—the same door I was trying to get us to—crashes open. Dozens of rusalkas flood into the store.
My gaze whips from mermaid to mermaid. Some are dark-haired. Others are blond. Some have light skin, others dark. There are tall rusalkas and short ones. It’s a veritable buffet of mermaid madness, all moving steadily toward us. I search frantically for the one mermaid face familiar to me, but Lily isn’t there. So if she’s not here, then where the hell is she? Why are all these others here, but not her? I’m already beyond freaked, but the questions amp up the fear.
Tess’s voice runs through my head. “It all ties in to you, but it ties in to him too. So why not this also? Which means I ask again—what does she want from Ethan?”
“Think, my girl!” Baba Yaga calls to me. Could she seriously be any more useless to me at this particular moment? “Think! Have you learned nothing from me? Have I been wrong about you? Is this what you are deep down? Just a fearful little girl who asks her Baba Yaga to help her? Is this all you are?”
Still in full mermaid-induced daze, Ben asks, “Is that witch up there talking to you, Anne? ’Cause she is one ugly lady. You know that, right? Not pretty like you. Not like these other girls. Do you see them? You need to let me go with them and stop holding my hand so hard. You really should try out for wrestling or something this year. You’ve got grip like iron, baby.”
“Shut up, Ben. I’m not letting you go. Just look at me, okay? Not the pretty mermaids. Mermaids are bad, Ben. Just look at me.” But Ben is not a particularly good listener right now either. He continues to strain toward the rusalkas.
The air thickens even more. I start to cough again, only it just makes things worse. The air is humid and wet and almost solid, and it feels like the cough doesn’t even leave my mouth.