‘‘No, you impudent boy. We named her after the legend of the bird with such brilliant plumage a single feather would light up the room. We knew our daughter would be like that.’’ Konstantine, bound to his recliner by the terrible weakness generated by his illness, held out his arms to Firebrand and Zorana. ‘‘And so she is.’’
Zorana took Firebird’s hand and went to him. Taking care not to disturb the IV line that ran into his arm, Zorana snuggled beside him.
Right now, Firebird didn’t feel much like a hundred-watt lightbulb. She felt like a woman who had spent the day in Seattle giving blood and skin samples in the hopes of helping the doctors discover some link to her father’s mysterious disease, and had instead discovered she was not the person she’d always thought she was. But her father—or rather, the man she’d always believed was her father—would soon struggle to his feet if she didn’t respond, so she knelt by the recliner.
He cupped her face.
Zorana took her hand.
‘‘You’re our little girl,’’ he said. ‘‘The pride of my heart, and now more special to me than ever.’’
Firebird knew he meant it, and—oh, God!—how she treasured that sentiment now!
Bending her head, she put it against his shoulder and closed her eyes, for one moment allowing herself to sink into the familiar safety of her parents’ affection.
Then she sat back and smiled, and pretended nothing had changed, when in fact her whole world had tilted on its axis. ‘‘Enough excitement and angst for one evening. It’s past Aleksandr’s bedtime.’’
‘‘No!’’ Aleksandr protested.
No matter how tired he was, he always protested. He wanted to be with his family, part of the action, playing, singing, stacking blocks. Some people probablythought he was spoiled; the Wilder family called him well loved.
Firebird scooped him up and carried him around so he could kiss everyone. Every aunt, every uncle, took extra care with him, showing their affection to the child, and thus to her. Konstantine reached up his arms for Aleksandr and held him close, rubbing his stubbled cheek against Aleksandr’s hair and breathing in his essence. ‘‘I would have sworn he was going to be a wolf,’’ he murmured.
The sentiment stabbed Firebird through the heart.
Zorana kissed Aleksandr, and hugged him as if she couldn’t bear to let him go. Firebird knew it was more than mere sentiment; Zorana was thinking of the son who’d been stolen from her.
Firebird carried him upstairs to the bedroom she shared with her son.
The house was small and old, with acoustics that let everything echo through the corridors.
So Firebird paused in the doorway, waited and listened—and heard Zorana’s low, broken voice say, ‘‘Where is my baby? What did they do with my baby?’’
Chapter Five
Zorana’s plaintive question haunted Firebird, but as she tucked her son into his pajamas, wrapped him in his blanket, and nestled Bernie, the soft yellow duck with the bright orange bill, in beside him, she understood.
How could she not? When Aleksandr was born, she had looked him over. She had thought he was skinny, with long toes and broad shoulders that had given her trouble during the birth, but he was hers, her son, and a fierce tide of protectiveness had risen in her. At that moment, she knew without a qualm that she would kill to protect him.
Now Zorana had discovered her baby, the one she’d given birth to twenty-three years and eight months ago, had been stolen, and she needed to know where he was.
As Firebird looked at her son, sleeping with his hand under his cheek, she knew she would feel exactly the same way.
The trouble was, knowing didn’t make the sting of rejection any less painful.
She should wonder about her birth parents, she supposed, but right now, she didn’t care about people she’d never met. She cared only about the family she knew, the battle they faced against evil, and whether she could help them . . . or whether she was nothing, superfluous, a burden.
She couldn’t go back downstairs. She was tired, feeling sorry for herself, and embarrassed for feeling sorry for herself, because she wasn’t the only one hurting here. She ought to go to bed, but worry buzzed in her mind like a swarm of bees. So she changed into a tough, warm outfit—jeans, sweatshirt, jacket, boots. Going to the window, she raised it, leaned out, and grabbed the branch of the huge tree that grew so conveniently close.
In her life, she’d been up and down it dozens of times—to run through the forest, or go to the movies, or kiss a boyfriend. But not recently. Single motherhood had had the effect of keeping her close to home. Her family thought it was because she took her responsibilities to her son seriously, and that was true.
But she also feared that if she wandered very far, Aleksandr’s father would find her. Find them. And the consequences of that were too dreadful to contemplate.
Yet now . . . she was contemplating those consequences.
The tree was hard, frozen in the grip of a Washington mountain winter. The bark was icy beneath her bare hands. The broad branches supported her as she slid toward the ground, and above her, the black night sky glinted with glittering star chips. She landed on her feet and took a long, deep breath of air, her first since the doctor had broken the news.
Someone had traded the Wilder boy for her. For a changeling, an infant who had come from God knew where.
Firebird walked around the house, crunching the frozen grass beneath her boots. Quietly, she opened the front gate and strolled down the path toward the vines. Wrapping her arms around herself, she stood looking across the shadowed valley deep in the Cascades.
It stretched long and narrow between two mountains, a fertile plain her father and mother had found and bought for almost nothing, because a series of owners had tried to grow apples and tulips and vegetables—and failed. The soil was rich, but the weather was constantly overcast and wet, with too little sunshine for anything but stunted plants and mildewed fruit.
The people in the nearby soggy hamlet of Blythe had sniggered about the foolish Russian immigrants.
They didn’t snigger now.
Konstantine had planted wine grapes. Zorana had planted a vegetable garden and a small orchard. And as if they’d brought the sunshine, the weather patterns changed. The valley—and Blythe—seemed protected by a clear bubble that let in the sunshine and just the right amount of rain.
By the time Firebird was born, the Wilders had established themselves in the community. All her life, this valley had been her home, and when she got pregnant, it had become her refuge.
Now the clear air, the cold temperatures, the relentless familiarity made her face the fact she had avoided all day long.
She had to leave.
As the realization struck her, as she imagined the repercussions, her whole body clenched. She stopped— stopped thinking, stopped breathing, stopped moving. For the first time in two and a half years, she let herself remember the first time she’d seen Douglas Black.
The weather had just turned to spring, and the entire student body responded by falling in love. All of them except Firebird. She was on the fast track, as always, finishing up her degree, and she didn’t have time for love.
But when the hot new campus policeman strolled by, she discovered she had time to look. There was just something about a guy in uniform—or at least that guy in uniform—that worked for her. He stood tall and straight, with powerful shoulders tapering to a small waist, and he moved smoothly, his boots never making a sound. He had a hard, sculpted face, at odds with his obvious youth. His golden blond hair contrasted with his tanned skin, yet it was his eyes that captured her attention, eyes intent on her . . . eyes a dark, Gypsy brown.
After she walked past him, she turned to look at his butt and caught him doing the same thing to her. She was so embarrassed, she turned around and walked faster, her head buried in her books while she giggled.
It was painful to remember how gauche she had been, but she had been twenty, the pro
tected daughter of a Russian immigrant family with strict morals and a protective streak. She’d lived with her father and brothers, so she knew a lot about men, but not so much what to do when men were interested in her. The few boys in Blythe who had shown an interest had a tendency to scamper away, never to return, after her father or brothers spoke to them. Nothing she could say ever changed that; her family saw no reason for her to date. If it were up to her father, Firebird had bitterly complained to Zorana, Firebird would live and die a virgin. Zorana had serenely agreed.
Firebird thought she would never see the hunk of a police officer again, but she had not yet realized who, and what, he was. That insight had come later, after she’d found herself swept off her feet, romanced and seduced. . . .
She covered her eyes with her fists, trying to fend off the memories that still had such power to hurt and humiliate.
What a fool she’d been.
She lifted her head.
What a fool she was now, standing out here alone.
From the time she was an infant, Konstantine had walked with her through the forest, teaching her how to listen, what to watch for, when to take flight, and when to stand and fight. He taught her the world was full of dangers, and only a fool was unprepared. He taught her exactly as he had his sons.
No, not exactly—more sternly, for she was a girl, and vulnerable.
Now, here she was leaving the safety of the house, wandering in the night, brooding and paying no attention to her surroundings, all because she imagined her home was safe.
But the forest was too silent.
Something was watching her.
Something hostile.
Something dangerous.
Papa would shout at her for carelessness, but first he would say, Get back to safety, Firebird. Get back now.
How to get to the house without alerting that thing out there that she was onto it?
She made a big deal of shivering and adjusting the band around her ears. Turning back toward the front porch, she walked briskly.
She slipped her hands in her coat pockets; in one, she carried a small switchblade, and she palmed it, then brought it out and held it to her chest. The other hand she brought out and swung as she walked, ready to use it as a weapon or a defense.
If she screamed, her family would come spilling out of the house, but it would be better if they could catch this thing unaware and question it. For she assumed it was human. Human . . . and something else.
Worse, if she screamed they would know she’d come out alone and attracted this thing, and been unable to handle it herself.
She hated when her brothers had to take care of things for her. They never let her forget it.
Behind her, she sensed movement—something coming out of the woods, daring the open ground to move toward her. The footfalls were almost imperceptible and still cautious, yet the hair rose on the back of Firebird’s neck. Whoever or whatever it was, it was a predator, and it was angry.
She moved more quickly, her gaze fixed on the house where the lighted front room windows beckoned.
Behind her the pursuit intensified.
Her heart jumped in her chest. Her brothers and their teasing be damned.
She opened her mouth to scream.
Chapter Six
A drik opened the door. ‘‘Hey, Firebird, you out here?’’
The predator behind her veered off.
She gave a gasp of relief. ‘‘I’m here.’’ Giving in to her instincts, she ran the rest of the way to the porch. She leaped up the stairs and up to Adrik. Putting her face close to his, she whispered, ‘‘There’s something out there.’’
Adrik glanced at the switchblade in her shaking hand. Sticking his head back inside, he spoke softly to his brothers, then stepped out onto the porch. Taking the blade, he shut it, handed it back to her, and casually scanned the area. ‘‘I smell him,’’ he whispered. ‘‘He was on the porch.’’
Another proof that Firebird was not one of this family. Konstantine, Jasha, and Adrik had heightened senses of smell. Rurik saw with the vision of a hawk. They could track anything or anybody.
Firebird slid the knife back into her pocket.
From the time she had understood about her familyand their special gifts, she had envied them, wanted to be like them.
Instead, she had always been completely normal, so normal she bored even herself.
So she’d driven herself to succeed: in school, in sports, especially in gymnastics. When she leaped between the parallel bars, it was the closest she could come to flying.
In the end, she’d reached too high and tried too hard to fly. She’d crashed to earth and shattered her leg. Even now, the cold made her ankle ache where the pins held the bones together.
‘‘Is it . . . is it a Varinski?’’ she asked in a low voice.
‘‘No. Or at least, not one like I’ve ever smelled.’’ Reaching inside, Adrik grabbed a coat. He stepped out and shut the door behind him. ‘‘If it’s a Varinski, it’s a Varinski who’s had a bath, and that’s almost unheard-of.’’
She laughed, as he hoped, yet worried still. ‘‘Whoever it was wanted to hurt me. I could feel it.’’
He sobered. ‘‘They all want to hurt us. Make no mistake about that. They plan to kill us. You must be very careful, little sister. Very careful, indeed.’’
‘‘I will. I am.’’ But whether it was wise or not, this situation required a little daring.
‘‘I feel like a little fresh air,’’ Adrik said. ‘‘Do you want to stay out a few more minutes?’’
To keep an eye on operations, he meant. ‘‘I’d like that,’’ she answered.
They both knew that inside the house, Jasha and Rurik were changing as they ran to an exit. Jasha leaped out into the night transformed into a muscled black wolf. Rurik took wing as a sleek hawk. Whatever was out there, they would find at least a trace of it.
In a parody of casualness, Adrik and Firebird walked to the edge of the porch, leaned their hands against the railing, and stared out at the valley.
The hawk soared high into the air. The wolf loped past, his nose to the ground.
Adrik watched them enviously, then allowed his gaze to linger, as hers had done, on the length and breadth of the valley. ‘‘I have missed this place. All the long years that I’ve been gone, I dreamed of it, longed for it, and hated myself for being unworthy to return.’’
Firebird hadn’t yet had the chance to speak with her long-lost brother, and in the light beaming out from the living room windows, she examined him.
Like Jasha and Rurik, he was tall and big boned, but thinner, with the whipcord strength of a great cat. A panther. ‘‘Now that you’re back?’’
‘‘Karen loves me, and I saved her life. So she points out, rather sarcastically, that if she’s worth something, then I must be, too.’’ Adrik watched the perimeter of the forest, vigilant, ready to fight and kill, if needed. ‘‘She’s who gave me the guts to return and face Papa. I always thought he would throw me out, and instead he . . . he welcomed me.’’
‘‘Of course he did.’’ Firebird tucked her hands through Adrik’s arm and hugged it. ‘‘How silly of you to think he would do anything else. He’s nothing but a big marshmallow.’’
‘‘To you. You’re his daughter.’’
Not anymore.
‘‘I was always the rebel son, and he came down hard on me. He used to nag me.’’ Adrik imitated Papa’s rumble, and the Russian accent that gave his voice its Old World flavor. ‘‘ ‘Don’t drink, Adrik. Don’t smoke. Don’t change into a panther; the temptation brings you close to evil and you’ll fall into the pit of hell.’ ’’
‘‘Was he right?’’
‘‘Of course he was. I did fall into the pit of hell.’’
Firebird wanted to ask what he meant, how he’d lived, what had happened . . . but not now. Not when her own hell yawned before her. Not when she suspected that, in her fear and anger, she’d left the man she loved to burn in his
own hell.
He could have confided in me. He could have told me who he was.
Yes, and you could have hung around long enough for him to explain. It’s not like he didn’t have a lot of chances to rip your throat out. And it’s a pretty good bet that a man who brings a big, cuddly stuffed cougar as a graduation gift and gives you his first hints about his past is winding up for a big confession.
Unaware of her inner argument, Adrik continued, ‘‘Yet when I came back, Papa didn’t yell at me or say, ‘I told you so’; he simply opened his arms and hugged me as if I were his favorite—’’ His voice stopped, as if choked off by emotion.
She couldn’t let her big strong brother humiliate himself and cry, so she smirked and said, ‘‘You remind me of Papa. You’ve done horrible things, but you’ve paid a great price. So now inside you’re nothing but a big marshmallow, too.’’
Adrik looked sideways at her and cleared his throat. ‘‘You’re too smart for your own good.’’
Her amusement slipped away, and with brutal honesty, she said, ‘‘If that were true, I wouldn’t be in this damn shitting mess I’m in.’’
He went on alert. ‘‘What mess?’’
She’d almost said too much, and this so-perceptive brother noticed. ‘‘What? It’s not enough for me to discover I’m not related to the family? There has to be more?’’
‘‘I suppose not—but somehow, I thought your trouble was bigger than that.’’
‘‘Climbing out the window and attracting something in the woods that wanted to stalk me is fairly awful, too.’’ She felt as if she were dodging through a field of truth land mines. ‘‘I have never felt unsafe here. What’s happening? How can everything change in an instant, in a breath?’’
Adrik covered her hand with his. ‘‘It happens more often than you think—but it’s not always bad. Sometimes the change is good, although you don’t realize it at the time.’’ He glanced inside, where Karen rested on the couch, recovering from her injuries.
Into the Flame Page 5