Into the Flame

by Christina Dodd

  Zorana offered her hand, palm down, over the tablecloth. Ann’s hand covered hers. Tasya was next, and Karen finished it off. The women met one another’s eyes and nodded in unison.

  ‘‘Our own pact,’’ Zorana said. ‘‘A good pact, to fight the evil that every night creeps closer.’’

  ‘‘Gramma.’’ Aleksandr tugged at her sleeve. ‘‘Treasures!’’

  The women broke their handshake, lifted the wine-glasses, toasted one another, and drank.

  Then Ann handed Zorana the wooden box, and the girls leaned closer as she opened it.

  ‘‘What are your treasures?’’ Karen hadn’t been in the family long enough to know.

  ‘‘Mementos from my former life with my Gypsy tribe, and the only possessions I brought when I emigrated from the Ukraine.’’ First Zorana pulled out a ball of yarn. ‘‘Here is the wool I spun as a girl.’’ She gave it to Aleksandr, who first rubbed it on his face, and then, like a basketball player, threw it in the basket.

  Tasya applauded. ‘‘Two points!’’

  ‘‘Yay!’’ Aleksandr lifted his little fists.

  ‘‘This is the spindle I used to spin the yarn.’’ Zorana smiled as a memory sprang to life. ‘‘It is also the spindle I used to stab Konstantine when he abducted me.’’

  Karen laughed. ‘‘Really? You stabbed him?’’

  ‘‘He deserved it.’’ Zorana handed it to Karen.

  ‘‘I have no doubt about that,’’ Karen said fervently, and tested the point against her finger.

  ‘‘Here’s my hat, part of the Gypsy outfit.’’ Zorana settled a colorfully embroidered cap on Aleksandr’s head. ‘‘My grandmother made it for me. She was very wise. They told me that the first time she held me, a squalling newborn, she declared I had the Sight.’’

  Aleksandr took off the cap and stood, then walked across the tablecloth and placed it on Ann’s head. ‘‘Pretty!’’ he said.

  ‘‘Thank you, Aleksandr.’’ Ann posed for him.

  ‘‘But those are simply tokens of my life.’’ Reverently, Zorana prepared to show her only true inheritance. ‘‘Now I will show you the treasure.’’

  ‘‘Treasure!’’ Aleksandr hurried back to Zorana’s side and leaned against her shoulder.

  Taking an unpretentious brown leather sack from the box, Zorana worked the straps loose and reverently let four stones fall onto the tablecloth before her. One was a chunk of turquoise, worn smooth with handling. One was a shiny, sharp, black slice of obsidian. One was a large, uncut red crystal. Last was a malformed white stone, flat and roughly cut into a small square. ‘‘For a thousand years, this collection of stones has been given to the one seer who is born to every generation.’’

  ‘‘If I were still a reporter,’’ Tasya told Karen, ‘‘I’d do a story about this.’’

  Zorana rubbed the turquoise with her thumb. ‘‘This is a piece of the sky.’’ Next she touched the obsidian. ‘‘This is a window into the night.’’

  Karen slid her fingertip across the stone’s edge. ‘‘Ouch!’’ She pulled it back and examined her skin. ‘‘It cut me!’’

  ‘‘Obsidian is volcanic glass, and the edge can be as sharp as a surgeon’s scalpel,’’ Ann told her.

  ‘‘This is a frozen flame.’’ Zorana handed Karen the crimson stone.

  Karen held it to the light, and deep in its heart, the stone gleamed bloodred with hints of blue. She gasped in awe. ‘‘Is that a ruby?’’

  ‘‘The biggest I’ve ever seen,’’ Tasya said.

  Zorana cradled the white, malformed sliver of rock in the palm of her hand. ‘‘This is the greatest of all. This is purity.’’

  ‘‘What is it made of?’’ Karen asked.

  ‘‘Of purity,’’ Aleksandr answered with a toddler’s impatience. He gathered the four stones—blue sky, black night, red flame, and white purity—and placed them in a row before him. Then, one by one, he named them and placed them in Zorana’s cupped palms.

  When the fourth stone, the white stone, touched her skin, the earth tilted on its axis, and in her brain, she heard the echoes of her own prophecy. . . .

  A child will perform the impossible. And the beloved of the family will be broken by treachery . . . and leap into the fire.

  She shuddered.

  When she had witnessed the vision, no one understoodwhat it meant, yet one by one, the pieces had fallen into place. Again she heard the voice in her mind . . .

  A child will perform the impossible. And the beloved of the family will be broken by treachery . . . and leap into the fire.

  She didn’t know what it meant—was Aleksandr the child? And who was the beloved? But soon, too soon, she would. She could only pray that no one died before the pact was broken, and if someone must, better her than Konstantine. Better her than any of them. She would gladly sacrifice herself for her children, for their mates, for Aleksandr, and for Konstantine.

  ‘‘Gramma.’’ Aleksandr shook her. ‘‘Aleksandr want the treasures.’’

  Without realizing what she had done, she’d clutched the stones tightly in her fists.

  She glanced around.

  Her daughters-in-law were laughing, sharing food, and they had noticed nothing. That was fine. They should have one hour not overshadowed by the pact, by war, by worry.

  Zorana nibbled on her food and sipped her wine, and observed Aleksandr as he explained to Karen, for the third time, what the stones were and what they meant. She reminisced, ‘‘He reminds me of Adrik at that age, very focused and intense.’’

  Her daughters-in-law exchanged glances.

  Gently, Tasya said, ‘‘Aleksandr is Firebird’s son, and we all love him very much. But he’s not related to Adrik, or Jasha, or Rurik.’’

  Zorana stared at Tasya. At Aleksandr. At the stones. She listened to his voice, so like her own sons’, as he made up a story involving the stones.

  And she found herself on her feet. ‘‘That’s not true. Aleksandr is my grandchild.’’

  ‘‘Mama?’’ Ann cast off the afghan and stood also. ‘‘Do you mean . . .’’

  ‘‘Aleksandr’s father is my son.’’ The realization both broke Zorana’s heart and gave her hope. ‘‘And Firebird has gone to get him.’’

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  About three hours after Doug had spoken with Vadim, the call came in on his cell phone.

  ‘‘Doug? It’s Gloria down at the diner. Listen, I hate to bug you at this hour, but there’re some weird guys wandering around downtown tonight. The alarm went off at the restaurant, and the sheriff called and asked me to check on it. He’s busy up on One-oh-one—got a three-car pileup. I’m surprised you’re not working it.’’ Nosy as always, that was Gloria.

  But right now he was grateful. ‘‘What’s with the alarm?’’

  ‘‘The wind blew a board through the window, and hell, I can’t sleep anyway, so I came down to help clean up. These two guys wandered by, right in the middle of the storm, and one of them, when he talked, he sort of hissed.’’

  ‘‘Like a snake?’’

  ‘‘Yeah! Do you know him?’’

  ‘‘I thought he’d left town.’’ Until Vadim called him back in.

  ‘‘Like I said, weird. I think they must be on drugs.’’ Gloria wasn’t a simple woman to shake, but now she sounded profoundly uneasy.

  ‘‘Did you see which way they went?’’

  ‘‘They got in a car and headed up for the lookout. I thought they might make trouble up there.’’

  ‘‘Thanks, Gloria. I’ll go check it out.’’

  ‘‘Hey, Doug? You might call for backup. They really are nasty-looking guys.’’

  ‘‘Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.’’

  He smiled in satisfaction. Vadim had done exactly as Doug expected he would: He had set up an ambush.

  Now all Doug had to do was put himself in harm’s way to find out the details of the attack on the Wilders, and hopefully keep Vadim’s assassins away from Firebird long enough for
her to return to her family and warn them.

  For they were her family. They weren’t his—no one had ever wanted him before, and now they never would.

  Who wanted a guy who had sold his own family to a pack of vicious murderers?

  The light from the bathroom woke Firebird. She rose onto her elbow and shielded her eyes.

  Douglas was a looming silhouette in the doorway. ‘‘I’m sorry to have to wake you.’’

  It was dark outside. The clock said four a.m., but he was dressed in his state police uniform.

  ‘‘What’s wrong?’’

  ‘‘My boss rang me.’’ He paced toward her. ‘‘Some-one called in an accident on the highway. I may be a while, so I need to bring you up-to-date.’’

  She’d learned to wake up when she needed to; having a baby had taught her that. Now she roused herself completely, stuck a pillow behind her back, and focused.

  ‘‘The storm knocked out the electricity,’’ he said.

  She heard the wind thrashing through the trees.

  He continued, ‘‘I have a backup generator. The phones are out. I can’t do anything about that. But the storm’s passing, and because I’m a state cop, the phone company always repairs my lines first, so that should be back up soon.’’

  ‘‘If you’ve got no phones, how did you find out about the accident?’’

  ‘‘I keep a cell phone backup. In my line of work, I can’t be caught without one.’’ He pulled it from his shirt pocket and stared at it indecisively. ‘‘I should leave it with you.’’

  ‘‘No. You need it worse than I do. But I’ll tell you what.’’ She took it from him and programmed in the Wilder number. ‘‘If you get in any kind of trouble, you can call home and someone will come to rescue you. I programmed them in as autodial number four, for four brothers.’’ She handed it back with a smile.

  He did not smile back. ‘‘Thank you. Good idea. I hope I’m never in that kind of trouble.’’

  ‘‘Me, too, but that’s what families are for.’’ He didn’t yet know that. It would probably take years before he realized how completely he could depend on his brothers, his father and mother . . . and her. But he would learn. She would see to it.

  ‘‘I went out and scouted around,’’ he said. ‘‘I don’t smell Varinskis, but in normal mode, the house security system will alert me to any invaders, and in high alert, this room acts as a safe room, and the system will repel invaders. I’ll set it for that. You’ll be safe while you sleep, but if I’m not back before you get up and want to eat, you have to reset the code.’’ He placed a piece of paper with scrawled numbers on the bedside table. ‘‘Don’t forget.’’

  ‘‘I won’t.’’

  He placed a Glock beside the paper. ‘‘You know how to use this.’’

  She picked it up, checked the safety, hefted it up and down to get the feel of that individual piece. ‘‘I can outshoot my brothers.’’

  ‘‘I never doubted it.’’ Douglas smiled.

  Well, not smiled. But he looked pleased. Well, not pleased . . . but she thought she was beginning to read him better, and that pleased her.

  ‘‘The pistol is loaded,’’ he said. ‘‘If you go out for any reason—’’

  ‘‘I’ll take it.’’

  ‘‘I wouldn’t leave if I thought there were danger.’’

  ‘‘I know.’’

  He reached out, and his fingers hovered an inch from her cheek. ‘‘Be careful. Stay here. I’ll be back as soon as I can, and then we’ll . . . then you can give me to your mother.’’

  ‘‘Your mother.’’

  His hand fell away. ‘‘My mother.’’

  As he turned away, she caught his cuff. ‘‘I didn’t exactly tell you everything. Not because I was deliberately leaving it out, but because we had so many other things to, um, cover . . .’’

  He stood as still as a cougar anticipating attack. ‘‘What did you leave out?’’

  There was no way to put this tactfully. ‘‘We believe that sooner or later—probably sooner—the Varinskis plan to attack my family and wipe them out.’’

  ‘‘Then I guess I’d better finish my business tonight so I can help with the fight.’’ He sounded so prosaic, as if the family’s battle were his, no question. Then he kissed her.

  He tasted her, he breathed with her, and when he finished, he held her close and inhaled the scent of her hair. It was as if he were saying good-bye . . . forever.

  He placed her on the pillows and walked to the door; then, as if he had changed his mind, he walked back. ‘‘Tell me—why do the Varinskis want the icon?’’

  The blood drained from her face. ‘‘What . . . icon?’’

  ‘‘They’re offering a reward for a Russian icon. I take it by your expression that you know about it.’’

  This the Wilders hadn’t anticipated—that the Varinskis would openly hunt for the icon. Didn’t they realize that once they indicated interest, every scoundrel in the world would be buying up icons by the dozens, and their chances of finding the one right icon would be diminished?

  Of course, perhaps they thought the Wilders’ chance of finding them would be diminished, too.

  But so far, the discovery of each icon had been miraculous in its own way. She had to have faith that the miracles wouldn’t fail them now.

  Yet how to efficiently explain the situation to Douglas? ‘‘There are four icons. We have possession of three. When we find the fourth one, when we put them together, we will break the pact with the devil.’’

  ‘‘So the icon is very valuable.’’

  ‘‘It is beyond value. The Varinskis can’t allow us to get it, or they’re nothing. Listen, Douglas.’’ She took his hand. ‘‘My mother had a vision, and in her vision, each of the four Wilder sons will find an icon. The Varinskis don’t realize that you’re the fourth son, but . . . be careful out there.’’

  ‘‘I always am.’’ This time, as she searched his face, she thought he looked troubled. But he leaned down, kissed her with warm lips and cool intention, and she responded.

  Then he was gone.

  She had misjudged him. He was a good guy. Such a good guy. She’d done the right thing in coming here to get him.

  She slid back under the covers and tried to go back to sleep, but she was wide-awake and worried.

  The Varinskis were seeking the fourth icon. Offering a reward. Did the Wilder family know?

  Firebird had listened to the message from Ann on her cell phone, but she hadn’t talked to her mother since she’d left three days ago. She didn’t know if they’d tried to call her—her phone was ruined and at the bottom of the ocean.

  But surely they’d replied to her e-mail.

  She got up, pulled a blanket around her shoulders, and used the code to reset the security system.

  Then she headed into the corridor and Douglas’s office.

  The door was locked.

  She stared incredulously at the handle, then tried it again.

  Definitely locked.

  Her face flushed with hot embarrassment.

  He knew she’d gone into his office and used his computer, of course. With a security system like his, he would know every room she’d visited, every faucet she’d turned.

  She thumped the door with the flat of her hand.

  He didn’t trust her?

  No. Apparently he didn’t.

  She had a choking feeling in the back of her throat, a feeling made up of mortification and betrayal.

  But he hadn’t betrayed her, not really. He just . . . didn’t have the same faith in her that she had in him.

  Like a bird, a little doubt peeped in her ear: What did he have to hide?

  But she ignored that misgiving.

  She still needed to communicate with her family.

  Okay. No e-mail. The house telephone was out. But Douglas had a new BMW in the garage. He kept at least one extra cell phone. Was another out there?

  Grabbing her bag, she headed into the bath
room. When she came out, she wore blue jeans and an earthy brown, close-fitting T-shirt. She had a knife strapped to her wrist and a Luxeon LED five-inch defensive aluminum flashlight in her pocket. She sat down in a chair and laced up her boots. She tucked the pistol in her belt and went looking for a coat to wear—hers had disappeared somewhere in the ocean.

  She found a brown leather jacket in the closet, one that must fit Douglas like a glove. The leather was supple, yet strong; the zipper slid up as if it were on ball bearings. She checked the brand name; this thing must have cost a fortune.

  And once again the doubt peeped in her ear.

  Where did Douglas get the money for this jacket? To remodel this house? For a BMW?

  He’d said gambling, but if that were the truth, why had he locked his office?

  She found the keys for the BMW right away; they hung on a hook inside the pantry, where Douglas could grab them on the way out.

  She set the alarm, turned off the lights, pulled her pistol, and stepped out the back door.

  And listened.

  The clouds hid the moon’s half-light. The night was pitch dark, without a sign of the impending dawn. The wind blew, rattling the loose boards on the porch, vibrating the metal gutters above. The waves rolled into shore.

  But she heard no stealthy movement, sensed no predators in wait.

  She moved cautiously down the porch and around the house, pausing and listening, but she grew more confident with each step.

  If her father was right—and he always was—the Varinskis believed that when she’d gone in the ocean, they’d successfully completed their mission. If they didn’t believe that, they would have attacked at Mrs. Burchett’s, or here at the house. She was convinced she was alone and safe.

  But she didn’t put the pistol down.

  Douglas’s BMW X5 was parked in the gravel parking space.

  Her car was gone. Had Douglas put it in the garage? She didn’t take the time to find out. Her mortification at Douglas’s distrust had changed to uneasiness.

  Something was not right.

  She unlocked the car and climbed into the driver’s seat, locked the door behind her, and placed the pistol in the seat beside her. She stuck the keys in the ignition, in case she had to drive; then, with her flashlight, she went through the console between the seats and the glove compartment. She explored the door pockets, front and back. She felt around under the seats and above the windshield.