Anastasia Forever

by Joy Preble

  If I had my body, I’d do a happy dance right now. Way happier than the creepy mermaid ballerinas on stage.

  “Are you feeling ill?” Ethan’s up now too. He takes Tasha’s hands in his. The feeling of his hands is at once familiar and foreign. I have so got to get out of her body and back into mine. If I’m holding Ethan’s hand, I’d like him to know it’s me.

  But at least I think I’m headed in the right direction. I’ll get her moving. Get her away from Viktor, maybe. When she and Ethan are alone, maybe then—

  Distract him. Viktor’s directive echoes in Tasha’s head.

  “Yes,” she says slowly. “I am just not myself, I’m afraid.” And then what only I hear: Has Viktor done something to me?

  The music from the orchestra pit grows louder. Giselle’s forgiveness has saved her lover.

  “Take me home,” Tasha says to Ethan. “I need to go home.”

  Viktor smiles. He leans in to Tasha and whispers in her ear. His voice sends shivers down my nonexistent spine. “Remember, my dear. Whatever it takes. Your Ethan will be more than willing, I am sure.”

  She makes no indication that she heard him, but I know she did.

  Giselle has freed herself from the Slavic mermaids.

  “We’ll all leave then,” Viktor says. “Giselle is about to go to her grave anyway.” He presses a hand lightly to Tasha’s arm, just below her bandage. I feel the rough sandpaper of his fingers on her skin. “Take care, Tasha. You wouldn’t want to hurt yourself again.”

  He looks at her with those dark, glittery eyes. I hate, hate that he and I are related—that I share any tiny molecule of DNA with him.

  When we all stand, Viktor pats Ethan on the shoulder. Ethan startles, jerks away slightly. In my head, I hold my nonexistent breath. Is Ethan about to notice that something is seriously wrong? No. He tucks his hand under Tasha’s elbow and two separate sensations hit me: the comfort of Ethan’s familiar hand and Tasha’s racing pulse.

  “Let’s take you home,” Ethan says. Trapped inside her, I have no choice but to go with them.

  Tasha’s Flat, After the Ballet Maybe Wednesday, Maybe Not

  Ethan

  Something feels off. It has since intermission. And because it does, I mutter a protection spell under my breath as we enter Tasha’s flat. Use the magic Viktor’s Brotherhood taught me to ward the windows, the doors, the chimney. We will be safe now that we’re inside. Whatever it is that wants to toy with us—if there is something—it will not follow us inside. My powers will keep Tasha safe.

  “Did you say something?” Tasha asks. She has busied herself lighting lamps, and the warm glow of the electric lights bathes the room. For both of us, this is still a wonder—my own flat has only gas lamps, but Tasha’s building is newer and her landlord prosperous. Electricity is the wave of the future. Soon everyone will have it.

  “Just thinking aloud,” I tell her. “I’m sorry. You’re not the only one who is not yourself tonight. Perhaps we should have stayed in. Then you could have avoided that cut.”

  She shrugs, tosses her gloves on the small settee, and crosses the room to the piano in the corner, where she sits on the bench and runs her fingers lightly across the keys. Chopin, “Etude in C Minor.” One of her favorites. And a private joke, since Chopin wrote it after Poland failed in its revolt against Russia. She plays the first few measures, then looks back at me.

  “Come,” she says. “Sit next to me while I play.”

  Viktor has not joined us. “Another time,” he said. “When Miss Levin is feeling better. It would make me uncomfortable to impose.”

  And then the oddest thing: a voice in my head saying, He’s lying. Don’t trust him. What in the world would make me think that? A curious evening this has turned out to be.

  I’m about to do as Tasha requests and join her at the piano, then find myself digging through my pockets for a cigarette instead. A habit I’ve picked up over the last few years since the Revolution. These days I rarely find myself without a pack.

  It’s a quick and easy diversion for those moments when questions become too pointed. Vodka works the same. People rarely dig any deeper than “international trade, an old family business” if I offer them liquor and tobacco. In the States, it works even better—or at least for now until their government repeals that ridiculous Prohibition that none of them adhere to anyway.

  “On the side table,” Tasha says with a laugh. “What would you do without me, my dearest?”

  She continues with Chopin as I pick up the slim silver case and extract a cigarette, then light it and inhale. I blow out the smoke, a ring of gray haze that hovers in golden lamplight.

  In that instant, I have the distinct feeling of being in two places at once. No. That’s not quite it. Rather, it is as though I am watching and being watched. Yes. That is closer.

  “Dearest.” Tasha’s voice rises above the music. “You must look at my wrist again. Assure me that the scar isn’t too deep. No need to play the gentleman anymore. Your friend Viktor has abandoned us. It is just you and me and my beloved Chopin. Or would you rather stand there smoking? You know how I despise it.”

  Her fingers stop suddenly, pull back from the keys. She turns to me again, her face pale in the soft glow of the electric lamps. “How rude of me,” she says. “Smoke if you want. I don’t know why in the world I said that.”

  Again, that unsettled feeling, the sense that something is hiding beneath the surface. Tasha smokes more than I do.

  Still, I stub out the cigarette in the bronze ashtray on the end table. Seat myself next to her and press my lips to her neck. Her perfume filters into my nostrils, but something unfamiliar too. Something that smells of rainwater and peppermint.

  We sit like that for a while, the notes of her music somehow still echoing in the air.

  “Make love to me,” she says. Her face, so close to mine, is very pale. She strokes a hand through my hair, then eases back to study me.

  “Ethan,” she says. “Ethan, do you see me?”

  Such a strange question, I think, as I press my lips to hers. Pull her to me and feel her breasts against my chest.

  For a moment, I think she is going to withdraw that request. Tell me to have another cigarette while she plays more Chopin. She will not take me to her bed. Perhaps for now that would be best. This is what I find myself thinking. That she is not herself and neither am I and perhaps I should leave. Yes.

  Tasha slips from my embrace and rises from the piano bench. Extends the hand with the bandaged wrist and pulls me up to her.

  No, I hear us both thinking. And something else—something new and dark: yes. I hesitate only a beat, then I crush my mouth against hers.

  Tasha’s Flat, After the Ballet Maybe Wednesday, Maybe Not

  Anne

  Holy crap. This is not about to happen. Only I think it is.

  Hey, there, I scream into Tasha’s head. Seriously, missy. Stop touching him. Back away from the lips. I don’t have time to deal with this. I have to get out of your body and get Ethan back to normal and tell him that you’re a snake in the grass and that there’s this story about some guy named Koschei the Deathless that maybe we ought to research, in addition to the whole Giselle-rusalka thing. So stop it.

  She doesn’t listen to me.

  We head toward her bedroom. I get her to pause a couple of times. Ethan in the past doesn’t seem bothered, just like he didn’t notice how wrong things were when I got her to tell him to stop smoking. My God, how clueless is he? He just keeps kissing her.

  Are you in there too, my Ethan? It’s me you want to kiss, not her. And if any other touching goes on, I want it just you and me. Things are a little too crowded right now. Don’t you know that?

  He kisses her some more, and I feel each of those kisses like he’s kissing me. I think I start to cry, but it’s only
in my head. I hate that when he touches her I know how good it feels. I hate that this is happening.

  Be present, the voice that may or may not be Baba Yaga’s, booms in my ears. Do not be a frightened little girl. And then: Daughter, it will be fine. No matter what. You are strong. Just as I am.

  It isn’t particularly comforting.

  Ethan kisses her lips, her nose, her cheeks, her chin. He trails kisses down the sensitive skin of her neck to where her cleavage is shoved up by the fancy dress. She gives a small moan of pleasure. I hate her for that. Luckily she’s got a lot of clothes on. It’s going to take him a while to unpeel all those layers.

  Tasha reaches up and unpins her hair.

  Or maybe it won’t take that long at all.

  He kisses her again. And again. And so many times that I lose track. He rakes his hands through her hair. Her tongue flicks against his finger as it traces her lips.

  Ethan lifts Tasha’s hand and kisses the center of her palm. It’s familiar and horrifying all at once. You kissed my hand like that, Ethan, I shout at him. You have to snap out of this. You have to remember. You have to—

  The memories pound in my brain. Ethan and me, making out in his apartment the night the rusalka—my crazy grandmother Lily—showed herself to us in his shower. We’d run our fingertips over each other’s faces, and I’d wondered if people could memorize the feel of one another. That if time and circumstance made something happen, you’d just know. You couldn’t forget.

  He has to remember. How can he not remember? Was it important only to me?

  Touch his face, I tell Tasha. Touch his face and open your eyes.

  He kisses her so deeply that if I had breath, it would be taken away. She kisses him back, opens her mouth so his tongue can explore. I try to stop her from making a low, sexy sound in the back of her throat, but she does it anyway as Ethan’s teeth graze her lower lip. I hear her thinking—God, I hate her—that she’s doing what Viktor wants. She’s distracting Ethan by letting him love her.

  Open your damn eyes, Tasha.

  She opens them.

  They kiss again, a deep kiss that I want to be mine alone. Time feels like it’s standing still.

  Ethan’s blue eyes—eyes I know, deep as oceans—look into Tasha’s. His hands are everywhere, his body pressed to hers. I stare through Tasha’s eyes, willing him to somehow know I’m here.

  “Ethan!” I shout. “Ethan. Please.” He needs to hear me. My Ethan would hear me. That’s been the whole problem, only now I need it to happen.

  He hugs her. His grip is very strong. She doesn’t seem to mind. Her hands stroke his back, and even through his clothes, I knew when her fingers reach that lion tattoo on his back, the sign of the Brotherhood that has never left him. My own fingertips feel the heat of it just as Tasha’s do.

  “Ethan,” I say again in my head. “Ethan.”

  Something shifts. In those blue eyes—there’s—

  Ethan.

  “Anne?” he says. “Anne.”

  I’m sobbing now, and this time I think he can hear me.

  “Ethan,” I say again. “Thank God.”

  The world contracts and folds.

  And just like that, we’re us again, and then we’re gone.

  Chicago,

  The Present

  Wednesday, 12:45 am

  Ethan

  Leaving was tumultuous. Returning is just sudden. One second we’re in London in the past. The next we’re back in Anne’s room, my arms around her, our lips pressed together in a kiss.

  She pushes me away with a force that reminds me exactly how strong she is. For a few beats we just stare at each other. There are no words for what I feel right now. Shame. Anger. Fear. Sorrow. Nothing makes sense except maybe violation. If I hadn’t realized when I did—

  I clear my throat. “That was—”

  “I know,” she says. Her eyes are huge and tears slip from them. She blows out a breath, wipes her nose with the back of her hand.

  “You know I’d never—if I’d understood sooner, I’d never have…God, Anne. I tried to hold on to who I was. But everything melded together. And then I heard you. I saw you. In Tasha’s eyes. It wasn’t her. It was you. I don’t understand how it happened—any of it. I’m so sorry. My God, I’m—”

  “I thought you’d never know me. It took you so long. I—shit.” She makes a sound that’s half laugh, half sob. “That was crazy. Was it real? I mean if you hadn’t figured it out—if I hadn’t been able to…”

  She doesn’t have to finish. We both know how it would have been. If somehow after that we’d come back, things would never have been the same. I would never have been able to forgive myself.

  I move to wrap my arms around her, but she holds up a hand. “Don’t. I—just don’t. Give me a minute, okay?”

  I nod. Then glance at her alarm clock. We’ve been gone mere moments. Impossible. But like everything else that just happened, it seems to be true.

  “My God, Ethan.” Anne sits on the edge of her bed, then stands up again and paces the room. “They were playing you. That whole time. He wanted her to keep you distracted so he could go do something. Make sure you didn’t find any potential girl who could save Anastasia, probably. That’s why she wanted you to—well, you know. He promised to make her one of you. Immortal.”

  Her words shock but not completely. In the moment that I’d recognized her in Tasha’s eyes, everything else had come to me too. In a rush, it washes over me. Tasha. Viktor. Total and utter betrayal. The last things in my former life that I thought were true—they were all a lie. Everything she and I shared together. Everything I have felt guilt for all these years—leaving her, never telling her the truth—it was all a lie. How stupid can one man be?

  “It was a long time ago,” I begin, grasping for some way to make sense of how I never knew. “I suppose—”

  “Suppose what? And lower your voice. My parents are asleep down the hall. Are you going to justify what she and Viktor did to you? Say it was okay because it was a long time ago and you—what? Still believed that everything was goodness and light?”

  Anne strides to the window, and I follow her, the moon full in the sky behind us. “How long did you go on justifying what you helped do to Anastasia? That it was okay because you believed that you could restore her to the throne or whatever? I mean, I know it’s Viktor who had the plan. I know he screwed with your head—in more ways than you ever knew, obviously. But Jesus, Ethan. Didn’t you ever once think that something was off? When that evening happened in real time—without us guest-appearing in other people’s bodies—didn’t it seem suspicious?”

  She grasps my hands in hers. “I love you, Ethan. At least I think I do. But it scares me. Not what just almost happened with me along for the ride. That was totally gross and unsettling, but I’d have dealt with it. Somehow. But how could you love someone who didn’t love you back? How could you not know?”

  The words tumble from her, each one an indictment. You didn’t know. You didn’t know. How could you not know?

  And for the first time, I realize—really understand—my complicity in Anastasia’s destruction. She is dead and gone now, and would have been in any case. But what I did? It made it worse. It took everything from her. I am as guilty as Viktor, perhaps even more because it’s clear that I had opportunity after opportunity to figure out what he was doing. To stop him. To help Anastasia sooner. So many days, so many minutes, year after year, she remained at Baba Yaga’s. And I—I let it happen to her.

  Just as I let Tasha betray me. Blind to the truth. Over and over and over again.

  And once again, even in the past, I’ve hurt Anne with the consequences. I think of meeting—was it just yesterday?—with Dimitri, something I’ve yet to fully tell her about. I hear his voice. You are not an innocent in this, Ethan. Yet another a
ccurate indictment of my past mistakes.

  “We need to talk about the rest of it,” I say. “Giselle, the Wilis—”

  “And Koschei. Viktor talked to Tasha about some guy named Koschei the Deathless. Do you know that story?”

  “Koschei? Of course, everyone knows…” I stop mid-sentence. A chill passes through me—and in my head, I see shadows. Fragments of images—a hand clenched into a fist, colors, faces, too blurred to be familiar. For one horrible moment, I think we’re about to travel again. But it’s not that. Not at all. Inside me, the dark something that’s been simmering starts to rise.

  In my head, a voice. No one can destroy Koschei. No one.

  Anne lets go of my hands. “Your eyes,” she says. There’s fear in her voice.

  “What?” I shake my head. Focus on Anne.

  “Look.” She drags me to the mirror over her dresser. We stand together and stare into the glass.

  My blue eyes grow darker, then darker still. But that’s only part of it.

  Reflected in the mirror, Anne’s eyes glow just as dark as mine—and in the center of each, a tiny skull.

  Wednesday, 1:03 am

  Anne

  “Your eyes,” I say again because it’s slightly less crazy-making than saying “our eyes,” which obviously would be more accurate.

  Except I can explain mine. And if I concentrate hard enough, I can probably make them go away—at least for now. But what explains his?

  Ethan presses his hands to his eyes. Pulls his hands away and looks back into the mirror. It’s like he’s wearing Prince of Darkness contacts.

  “There’s something,” he says. “Inside me. I—”

  Panic gives my own insides a healthy smackdown. I want to stay put. I don’t want to go anywhere again. I sure as hell don’t want to be shoved inside some bimbo with an evil agenda. Can’t we stay just us?

  “Focus, Ethan,” I say and struggle to keep my voice calm. “Maybe it’s just a leftover of what just happened. Like some sort of mystical fallout or something. Travel through time—eyes go black. You know. Probably happens all the time, right?”