Anastasia Forever (10 page)

We—Tasha and me—take a sip of her cup of tea. Her hands are steady on the cup, but her heart is still bopping around in her chest. I feel her lips curve into a smile as she looks at Ethan.

And when the teacup tips and tea splatters her skirt, I know she does it on purpose. In that moment when Ethan's eyes follow the spilling tea, I see Viktor flick a finger in the air. It's a tiny motion, barely noticeable unless you're me and working your butt off trying to figure out how to get out of a body that's not yours.

The cup falls from Tasha's hands, drops to the little table, and cracks into pieces. One tiny shard of teacup flies up and slices into the thin white skin on Tasha's wrist. I feel the cut along with her. Quickly, she presses her other hand to her wrist, applying pressure.

“Oh, how clumsy of me,” Tasha says. In my head, I'm hollering,
Hey, she meant to spill that tea! And Viktor made the cup break! They're both playing you!
No one hears me.

Ethan looks immediately concerned. “Let me see.” He pulls her hand away, his palms warm and soothing against her skin. I can feel her wrist pulsing. At first it looks fine, but in an instant, the sides of the cut separate. A thin line of dark red blood oozes to the surface.

“It's nothing,” Tasha says. Her heart is pounding now. She's definitely nervous—and I think it's about more than just the cut.

Viktor gets into the act. “That needs attending.” He reaches over Ethan and presses his cloth napkin to the cut. “You're bleeding. You wouldn't want to develop an infection. Ethan, I do believe there is a small first-aid station on the lower floor. Shall I see if I can find some bandages?”

I know Ethan's response even before he gives it. And in my head I'm telling him not to fall for this. She's hiding something. Walking away right now is the absolute worst thing he can do.

Except that if he goes, maybe I'll hear the truth from Viktor and Tasha once he's gone. My invisible heart starts pumping faster.

“Stay with her,” Ethan tells Viktor. “I'll be right back.”

He presses a quick kiss to Tasha's forehead. “You won't even know I'm gone,” Ethan says. His gaze catches Viktor's as he stands up, and for a few beats, I feel what I've felt before—that he's sensing something isn't right. That he's not himself.

Does he know that he shouldn't leave? Is he—like me—trying to get out of a body that doesn't belong to him?

Go
, I tell him with my thoughts that I wish he could read right now.
I
know
you're conflicted, and I know
you
suspect
something's up. Which is good because you're right. They're up to something. But go. If you do, maybe they'll confess something while you're gone.

Does Ethan somehow hear me? I don't know. But he does what I want. He looks back at Tasha only once before he disappears down the stairs.

Tasha and Viktor watch him go. Her emotions shift from relief to fear to something I can't quite put my finger on. If I had my fingers right now, that is.

“Well done,” Viktor says quietly. He smiles one of his creepy little smiles and places Tasha's hand over the napkin pressed to her cut wrist. I sit inside Tasha's head wishing that I could will her hand to smack him in the face.

“The cut is deep,” she says. “Deeper than I thought. Did you do that on purpose?”

Viktor chuckles. “Hardly. Just a little over-enthusiastic. My apologies, my dear. It will heal.”

She huffs out a breath and I feel her forcing her pulse to settle. She's only moderately successful. “It would heal better if I were one of you.”

Viktor taps a finger to his lips. “Shh. That, my dear Miss Levin, is not public conversation.”

Tasha swallows. I can taste bile in the back of her throat. “But it is what you have promised, yes? I keep an eye on Ethan and you help me bring my father to England. And if I distract Ethan long enough, you make me one of you. Immortal. I don't ask any other questions about your motives. You don't ask me any other questions about mine. But we made a deal, Viktor. And it seems I've now signed my piece in blood.”

If I had my own jaw, it would be on the floor. She knew. She knew what they were. And Viktor promised to make her like them. Or at least that's what she believed. Because Ethan told me he saw her years later. And she was old. Whatever Viktor promised her, it never happened.

She smiles, and I know she's forcing her tone to be light and sort of humorous. She's terrified of him, but she's trying not to let on that she's scared.

Viktor returns her smile, but he doesn't answer her question. “I need him to think only of you, my dear. For the next month or so. Until I'm certain about something. You need not concern yourself about what. But I need Ethan out of the way. And you, my dear, are indeed the beautiful distraction.”

Tasha nods. Her heart speeds up again, and I can feel her pulse in her neck. Her mind is racing—so many thoughts I can barely keep up. Lots of them are about Ethan. About bringing him home with her after the ballet. About how she's like Giselle. She's willing to stick it to the loyal guy to get what she wants. And if I'm not mistaken, she's also kind of happy that Ethan's hot so being with him is easy. At least he's not heinous looking. He doesn't scare the crap out of her like Viktor does.

But what she says next, her words rushed because surely Ethan is about to come bounding up the stairs again with a bandage, is this: “How is it possible? You have promised, and I believe. Truly, I do. But for the price of this cut in my flesh, you must tell me. How? How is it that you and he never age? Will I be like that too?”

Viktor's eyes darken. Go ahead, I think. Tell her. I'm really curious to hear you explain that one in three and a half seconds. Are you going to tell her about Anastasia? About Baba Yaga? About the ancient magic? Go on, Great-great-grandpa Viktor, my crazy-as-a-loon ancestor. Tell her how it's done. And if I ever get to speak to her face-to-face rather than being trapped inside her head, I'll tell her how I stopped you. 'Cause I bet even if you knew that was coming, you'd leave it out.

“There are ways,” he says eventually. “Old ways that I cannot, that I will not, speak of. But your own eyes tell you it is real. Your Ethan looks the same as when you first met him. He will look the same tomorrow and next month and next year and the year after that.”

“You tell me only what I already know. Tell me what I do not.” I feel Tasha struggle to keep her voice even and firm.

Viktor hesitates. One dark eyebrow arches. Does he find her question funny?

“You are the one who is in my debt, Miss Levin. Not the other way around. But I do appreciate a certain amount of arrogance. Especially in a woman. So I will say this. Only one other has ever discovered what I have. His name was Koschei and—”

“That's a child's story.” Tasha interrupts him. “A man who figured out how to hide his soul and live forever. It's a folk tale for schoolchildren and old women by the fire.”

“Believe what you will. But I repeat. There was one. Now there are two. He had his way. I found mine. That is all I will say. Even if I told you the rest of it, you still would not believe. Ethan was like that too. But he knows differently now. Those of us who were there, we know.”

Tasha's voice lowers to a whisper. “Who were where? You tease me with this, Viktor.”

I know she's not going to break him. He's playing with her. I scream this in my head as Ethan returns with bandages, tapes up Tasha's wrist, and then they all walk back to their seats because the second act of
Giselle
has started.

And me? I'm still trapped in Tasha's head. It's an angry place in there right now. She's definitely pissed at Viktor and not really happy with Ethan either, because he's fussing over her and I think it's making her feel guilty. Which it should, since she's lying through her teeth to him. Plus, she's worried about this Koschei story—not the one Ethan has told me, something I need to remedy once I'm just plain Anne again—and she's got this sixth-sense thing brewing that Ethan's not quite himself.

Onstage, the wili mermaid ladies dance around Giselle's lover, trying to lure him to his death. I'm more than over-identifying with this ballet. Enough is wrong in my world right now without adding vengeful mermaid visuals.

Close your eyes, I tell Tasha. Seriously. I don't want to look at this anymore. Close your damn eyes.

She blinks.

Hey. Did I
—

A tiny sliver of hope rises. If I can hear her, feel her emotions, maybe—

Close your eyes, Tasha. Go on. Do it.

Tasha's eyes flutter shut for a few beats, then snap open. I feel her forehead wrinkle. She looks at Viktor, then at Ethan. She touches a finger to each eyelid. Her pulse picks up the pace.

All
right. She can hear me. Sort of. I think.

Stand up, Tasha. Stand up.

Slowly, like she's not sure why she's doing it, Tasha rises from the red plush chair.

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.

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.