Anastasia Forever (9 page)

The pain is crazy. Like someone turning me inside out. This is what it feels like when something begins to yank me forcibly from my own body. Memories rush through me as my brain tries to make sense of what's happening. I remember times I dreamed as Anastasia—felt like her, moved like her, cried like her. That horrible moment I morphed into her when I was in Baba Yaga's hut. I know what it's like to be someone I'm not. But nothing has prepared me for what happens next. There's noise and dizziness, and I think it's happening to Ethan too.

I scream his name. And then I'm just screaming. Does anyone hear me?

There's noise and dizziness, and the endless stabbing sensation of being ripped apart and shoved somewhere I don't want to go. And inside me—flashes of questions. Am I making this happen? Is it something in the past? Viktor? Baba Yaga? The questions tumble in my head adding to the dizziness and nausea. And a weird thought—I need to throw up, but I don't know where my mouth is.

It stops in stages. The world settles. The pain eases.

I'm not dead. I'm not gone. Slowly—it takes a lot of effort—I open my eyes.

And see someone else's outfit, someone else's hands, someone else's, well, everything.

Seriously?

I blink. Look again. The other body hasn't gone away. And unless I'm totally hallucinating—which might be the better option here—I'm inside it.

This can't be happening. Time travel—okay. Reading Ethan's thoughts—creepy, but I can deal. But body shifting?
Hello. If anyone is listening, this is where I draw the line
. Especially because unless I'm mistaken—and I don't think I am because let's face it, what girl doesn't play a little compare and contrast with her boyfriend's ex—the body I'm trapped in is Tasha's. Yes,
that
Tasha.

And Ethan is standing next to me—well, her—looking dazed and clueless. But which Ethan is he? My Ethan? Or Ethan in the past?

Calm down
, I tell myself. It should be easy enough to figure out. I'll just tell him who I am. If he freaks out, then he's the wrong one. Simple enough.

“Ethan!” I scream at him, not calm at all. “It's me, Anne. I'm stuck in your ex-girlfriend's body. You've got to do something.”

Except what comes out is Tasha's voice. And unless I'm totally mistaken, she's not saying what I'm saying. She's chatting about the freaking ballet.

And I still don't know which Ethan I'm looking at.

“Oh my God,” I yell at Ethan—present, past, at this point I'd just love one of him to hear me—while below us on the stage Giselle is going crazy because she's been betrayed by the guy she fell in love with. “You're not talking to Tasha. Ethan! It's me. Anne! Something's happened. Something bad.”

Only here's what happens: I look at Viktor and say, “But she forgives him.” It comes out in Tasha's voice.

This
absolutely
can't be happening. Shit
.

“Ethan,” I try again. “We've got a huge problem.”

The words echo only in my head. My mouth doesn't say them. Instead it quirks into a small smile.

Ethan smiles back. So what does this mean? Where is my Ethan? If I'm stuck in Tasha's body, then maybe he's stuck in his old body? Does he know? It sure doesn't seem like it.

This is bad. Really bad. My heart should be racing a zillion miles an hour. But the heart in Tasha's body—the one I've invaded like an unwilling body snatcher—beats slowly and evenly. Only my brain seems aware of the switch. The same brain that suddenly seems to have lost its fast-track connection to Ethan's thoughts.

Plus, where the hell is the rest of me? If I'm here in the past in Tasha's body, where's the physical me? My personal body that I had no intention of leaving any time soon. I scan the small room. No real Anne standing at the ballet in her shorts and tank top. Not good. Not at all.

Tasha's hand is resting on Ethan's. In my head, I tell myself to move my hand away. That maybe then he'll notice that his girlfriend is acting standoffish. He'll think,
Hey, why did she do that?
And then he'll investigate. He'll look into Tasha's eyes and think,
Hey, that's not my girlfriend. That's someone else in there.
And then maybe—

Maybe what? What good would that do? And besides, it's not working. My Tasha hand is still on top of Ethan's.

All right. I need to try this another way. Onstage, Giselle is dying. In our box in the balcony, I'm racking my brains for a solution to my out-of-body problem.

Breathe, I tell myself. Just breathe. Figure this out. You are a powerful girl now. You've got witch powers. You can do this.

Shit. I
so
cannot do this. I don't even have my own body anymore. There's nothing for me to breathe with.

And then somewhere—in my brain? Tasha's?—Baba Yaga's voice speaks. Low and harsh, like tires rolling over gravel, but familiar. Insistent.

Listen
, Baba Yaga's voice says.
You
will
know
what
to
do
if
you
listen. Trust yourself. Learn. See what must be seen. Inside the insides, my girl. Listen to what is there.

Does she really say this to me? It's pretty crowded in my head right so I can't say for sure. Maybe it's her. Maybe it's just wishful thinking. Maybe it's a trick.

But what's my alternative? Sit here in this body and hope that somehow something drags me back out? That doesn't seem to be the most solid plan.

Onstage, Giselle finishes dying. The ballerina clutches her chest gracefully as she flutters to the floor. Is she dying of a heart attack? I would like to be clutching my chest right now, but Tasha doesn't seem to want to do that. Is she in her head too, wondering about the chick who's invaded her personal space?

“Are you all right, my dear?” Viktor leans across Ethan. His breath smells like some weird combo of spearmint, herbal tea, and incense. His dark eyes grow darker, almost black. If I could shudder right now, I would. In my head, I do.

A question in the middle of my freak-out: Does he know? Is he somehow aware things aren't normal right now? Normal, of course, being a relative term for a guy who at this point in history was immortal and knew that Anastasia wasn't dead—and was planning on keeping it that way.

A guy like that would know everything, wouldn't he?

This is what I wonder while I try to calm down and listen. If I'm here for a reason, if this is happening for a reason—and at this point it better be—then maybe the Baba Yaga voice is right. Even if it's just me telling myself what to do.
Don't freak out, Anne. Figure it out. You can do this
.

“
Spasibo, kharasho
,” is what comes out of my mouth.

Terrific. Now I'm speaking Russian.

“Pardon me,” I say then. “It is so easy to slip into Russian with both of you here. But I have promised myself that I will speak English. Be like these Londoners. I am well, thank you. There. That's correct, yes?” Well, okay then. At least Tasha's polite enough to translate for everyone. Including me.

Ethan smiles at me. It's such a sweet smile and so familiar that I'm caught off guard. For the tiniest second, things feel normal. It's Ethan—tall, blue-eyed, hair just a little too long. Ethan same as always. Ethan who was kissing me in my room before all this extra craziness began. Ethan who I might be pissed at but who I think I love. Who I know loves me.

He rises from his seat, pulls me up with him. There's an odd look on his face, and that smile, I realize, has never quite reached those blue eyes.

“I…we,” he begins. He clears his throat. Looks at me as though he's seeing me for the first time.

Viktor stands too. “We have a few minutes before the second act. Some refreshments, perhaps? The English do know how to make a fine cup of tea. Or maybe such a lovely evening calls for something a bit stronger. Of course, the lovely Madam Tasha can have whatever she desires.” He bows slightly, watching me—or I guess watching Tasha—so intently that if I was in charge of my body right now, I'd shiver. In my mind, I do.

Ethan nods sort of blankly. He blinks. Stares at me again.

“Tasha?” His voice rises in a question. “Tasha?”

“Yes, dearest,” my mouth says. But inside Tasha's head I'm watching Ethan, who is still standing very still, staring at me.

Viktor's eyes narrow. Slowly, he brushes an invisible piece of lint off his dark suit.

My Ethan
has
to be here—stuck in past Ethan's body. If I'm lucky, he's realizing it. At least I hope he's realizing it.

But now what? How do I get out of this body? How do I let Ethan know I'm in here without also alerting Viktor, who already looks more than suspicious—which doesn't surprise me. My wacky Russian ancestor may be evil and conniving, but he's not stupid. Maybe he doesn't know that two of us are actually four, but he's got to realize that something strange is going on, even by his standards. I see him tilt his head like he's thinking things over. I need to do something—the right something—before he catches on.

As Tasha, I take Ethan's hand. He twines his fingers with hers, and Viktor stands aside so we can walk ahead of him out of the box seats. Down the hall, I can see a small area set up to serve refreshments. In my mind—all that's left of me—I call to him:
Ethan, Ethan, Ethan. Can you hear me? Do you know what's happened?
If he hears me, there's no indication.

My head fills with Tasha—who, it seems, is pretty thirsty. This is the message her body is giving off. Her throat is dry and she's looking forward to some hot tea. But not with milk, she's thinking. Crazy English with their milky tea and biscuits. She wants hot, black tea with sugar, and she knows she's going to be disappointed.

Her thoughts come to me as images and words—a lot of Russian but some English too. I don't understand every word, but I get the basics. If we get out of this in one piece and back in our own bodies, I'm going to thank Ethan for his love of the whole tea thing. Because without that, I'd be more lost in what Tasha is—

Thinking. I'm not just thinking my own thoughts, am I? I'm hearing hers. At least the ones about tea. Have been hearing them all along. But they've been sort of fuzzy. Like a car radio when you're in between cities and the station turns to static. But the tea craving—it's coming in loud and clear.

If I had my own body, I'd take deep breaths. But I'm just thoughts—hers and mine, and maybe Baba Yaga's too. The truth I haven't said aloud? The witch is always inside me now, some essence of her lingering in my cells wherever I go. I guess she hangs out even when I'm basically just a parasite brain in Ethan's ex's body.

Listen, says the voice that's not me and not Tasha. Listen.

I listen. It's not easy—I'm walking as Tasha and holding Ethan's hand, and Viktor is making small talk about how perhaps we might prefer a small glass of sherry instead.

“Perhaps,” my Tasha mouth says. But she keeps on thinking
tea.
This chick is definitely thirsty.

We settle on tea—no big surprise. Tasha's happy when she sips from her cup. The tea is strong and dark, and somehow I can taste it along with her. Feel its warmth going down her throat as she drinks.

She drains the cup. I keep listening. Honestly, it's a better option than blind panic.

Viktor blots his lips with a white cloth napkin. Ethan continues to look confused. Is he as helpless as I am? I hope he's figured out that he's trapped in his former self.

He stares at me for a while, then studies his teacup like it's going to give him an answer. If we get out of this situation, I plan on telling him that the next time he feels that something fishy is going on, he needs to be a little more decisive. Even if he doesn't know what the hell is going on.
Don't get sucked in by random tea drinking
. No wonder it took him close to one hundred years to find me.

“The second act is even more tragic,” Viktor says. “Wouldn't you agree?”

He touches me-Tasha lightly on the arm. It's a casual motion, just sort of neutral and friendly. But on my-Tasha's other side, Ethan stiffens slightly as Viktor's hand makes contact. It's a small series of events, but there's something in it that makes Tasha tense. Her emotions flood my consciousness. She's happy, nervous, scared, excited. The feelings rush through my brain.

And then—well, then it's like getting zapped by lightning. My mind dives below the small-talk and the thirstiness and Tasha's disgust with English tea.

“It's sad,” my Tasha mouth says. “But is that truly tragedy? Giselle is no longer with her lover. But she protects him in the end. She doesn't stop loving him. It frees her from the Wilis. Although I prefer to think of them as rusalki. That German poet—Heine, I think—he took the idea from us. Still the end is the end. Love conquers all. Not so bad, perhaps.”

And in her head I hear: Except, of course, for the loyal gamekeeper who loves Giselle and is thrown to his death by the rusalki. Or Wilis. Either way he is just as dead.

She shifts her gaze—my gaze—to Ethan. Her heart, so steady all this time, skips a beat, then speeds up.
You
should
never
have
trusted
me, dearest. I am not what you think. But you will have to figure that out on your own. You are a smart man. Not like the foolish gamekeeper. But so worried about your own secrets that it never occurs to you that I might have a few of my own.

What? Is she kidding? Oh my God. She's not kidding. Did Tasha somehow betray Ethan in the past? Is that what I'm supposed to find out? Not about Lily, then, but Ethan?