The Siren's Touch by Amber Belldene

punch exploded against his ear, shattering the drum and sending him to the pad, where he closed his eyes and surrendered to blackness.
    When he awoke, the pain did too. Aches covered his body like a close-fitting garment. He drew his arm around his waist, only to realize it had been gripped by Gregor—a giant like Ivan. Now though, the dreamscape was Gregor-sized. Glancing down at his trousers and small black leather shoes, Dmitri discovered he was only a boy, standing hand in hand with his uncle. The surroundings barreled toward him, all 360 degrees of world coming into focus with a jarring snap.
    Snow blanketed the Lukyanivska neighborhood, whitewashing the city grime. A gunmetal-gray sky loomed low, churning with clouds. Bare-branched trees reached like slender women with their arms lifted, their human shape both mournful and angry.
    Apartment buildings lined the street, their tan brick faces and rows of windows offering an orderly pattern for Dmitri’s eyes to trace over and over again. Thirty-six windows in that one. Fifty-four in that one.
    “Do you have any questions for me?” his uncle asked, his speech as careful and proper as always.
    Dmitri didn’t want to raise his eyes in the direction of the elephant called Lukyanivska Prison. He kicked at a pile of sooty snow. “How long was he in there?”
    “Eleven years.”
    “Did you visit?”
    “He was not permitted visitors.”
    “What did he do, Uncle?”
    Gregor’s face twisted in a rare display of anger. “He did some bad, stupid things. We both did, with our friend Boris Makar. Only Boris was angry at your father, and so he made sure Ivan went to prison for all our crimes.”
    Dmitri had heard the name before in Ivan’s hazy rantings.
    “Why was he angry with father?”
    “It doesn’t matter, because, I assure you, your father did not deserve to spend a decade in hell for it. One day, Dima, your father and I will find that bastard and make him pay.”
    Finally, Dmitri braved a glance at the horrid place. Hell was supposed to be hot. Lukyanivska looked cold and cruel—more like a frigid meat locker than a furnace. “What do they do in there all day?”
    “They work. At first, your father worked at manufacturing radios, but his violent behavior earned him custodial duties.”
    “He fought?”
    “It was dangerous, son. He had to defend himself. And now he does not know how to stop. Something happened to him in there. He thinks everyone is an enemy and he is never safe.”
    Dmitri had experienced the blunt truth of Gregor’s words often enough. He’d known the sting of his father’s so-called defenses more times than he could count. “That’s why he drinks.”
    “To forget.”
    “No. To pretend he isn’t afraid of his enemies. Only it never works.”
    Uncle Gregor’s hand cupped Dmitri’s shoulder in a warm squeeze. Still, he shivered, already anticipating the next time his father would decide his own son had turned against him. “Is he coming home today?”
    “I think they will keep him for one more day until he has kept down a meal or two.”
    Tense muscles in Dmitri’s scrawny little chest unwound, and he inhaled deeply. Another night safe. “You know the lady who smelled like pickled herring?”
    Gregor smoothed the falling snow off his hair. “Yes.”
    “Did the doctor tell her that father did this to me?”
    Gregor’s gaze traveled all over Dmitri’s face before he replied. “Did you want him to tell her? Or do you want to stay with your father?”
    Not an easy question to answer. He wanted both, completely and entirely both. Because he wanted to feel safe, and he wanted his father not to hate him. “I want to stay.”
    “That is what I thought. I paid the doctor not to tell her. You are all your dad has, you know.”
    “Yeah. I know.” Who would clean up for the mean old fool?
    “He doesn’t mean to hurt you. When I think about the way he used to be, before he went in there… Dmitri, he was a rising star in the