Into the Flame

by Christina Dodd

  Trembling from exertion, Konstantine got to his feet. He sheathed his machete and put his pistol in the holster at his waist.

  The growl that rippled through the Varinskis was a single sound, a unified beast.

  When Konstantine had planned this, he had feared he would collapse at the wrong moment.

  Seeing those faces change from human to animal, from savage fury to rabid madness, gave him the incentive he needed to stay on his feet. Dropping the machete, he sprinted toward the steep ravine, toward the dam he’d built to irrigate his grapes. He needed to time this right—it was even trickier than the bomb on the wheelchair—but if Tasya performed, he might live long enough to see the sunset.

  Tasya was a brilliant young lady, for the ground rumbled beneath his feet.

  On the hill above him, chunks of concrete flew into the air.

  Tasya had blown the dam.

  Looking up the deep V of the ravine, he saw a green wall hurtling down, destroying trees, rolling boulders as water thundered toward him—and toward the Varinskis who followed close on his tail.

  Just in time, he swerved straight up the side of the gorge, leaped and grabbed a tree root. He kicked at the Varinski that followed, knocking him back and into the others. They fell like dominoes into the torrent. Then he clambered clear as the icy water thundered beneath his feet, sweeping his pursuers back into the valley, drowning them, crushing them with debris and burying them in mud.

  But at last his diseased body rebelled at the strain he’d put on it. He gasped. Groped for his medicine.

  Another spasm racked him. He held his chest in agony.

  The medicine. It was close. So close. In his pocket . . .

  With trembling fingers, he got out the bottle, tried to open it . . . dropped it.

  Blackness closed in, stealing consciousness. He fought; he had too much left to do to fail now.

  Yet fighting accomplished nothing.

  What the Varinskis could not do, this wretched disease had.

  He was done.

  He would die here in the dirt.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  His daughter-in-law had other ideas.

  A woman’s voice: determined, energetic. ‘‘Papa, get up now. I’m taking you back to the house. Papa. Now!’’

  Konstantine opened his eyes.

  Tasya looked down at him, her dark, curly hair framed by green trees and blue sky, her blue eyes sparkling with resolve.

  ‘‘Run,’’ he said faintly. ‘‘Leave me.’’

  She knelt beside him. She picked up the bottle and frowned, stuck a pill in his mouth and said, ‘‘Swallow. Now! Now!’’

  He swallowed. ‘‘No chance for me,’’ he whispered. ‘‘Save yourself.’’

  ‘‘Save myself?’’ She wrapped her arms around him and tried to lift him. ‘‘So that Mama will kill me when I come back without you? Do you think I’m crazy?’’

  Stupid girl. He was too heavy for her. She would hurt her back.

  So he got to his knees.

  Pain shot up his neck and down his arms.

  He gritted his teeth, waiting until the agony subsided.

  He stood.

  ‘‘Better to die on your feet and fighting, right, Papa?’’ Tasya slid her arm under his shoulders and helped him, one step at a time, down the slope.

  He stopped and gasped for breath. Haltingly, he asked, ‘‘Where do you think you’re going to take me? Do you think the Varinskis are going to let us walk back to the house like a couple of girlfriends out for a stroll?’’

  ‘‘No.’’ Tasya glanced at her watch. ‘‘But if we get down there in time, I’m betting that Karen will provide us some cover.’’

  ‘‘Ahhh.’’ Konstantine remembered, and maybe it was the medication, but probably it was the pleasure of imagining what next would thunder down on the Varinskis’ unsuspecting heads.

  They reached a spot with an unimpeded view of his valley.

  The wall of water had blasted out of the ravine, flushing Varinskis like so many turds down a sewer pipe. It spread out across the lower end of the valley, the end planted with vines. It ripped up his grapes and spread sludge, tree trunks, and chunks of concrete across the well-tended acres. The water reached its limit just short of the house, and the picket fence looked like a dam against the flood. Everywhere he looked dead Varinskis were sprawled facedown or faceup. The ones who still lived struggled to stand in the cold, slippery mud. They examined their ruined firearms, cursing at the top of their lungs.

  The Wilders hadn’t taken out all the Varinskis—there were more coming down into the valley—but they’d knocked down their numbers and infuriated them.

  A dozen still dry, still unhurt, still human, prepared to blast the house with a rocket launcher.

  Zorana and Aleksandr were in there.

  The remaining Varinskis prowled across the valley in their animal form, roaring and growling, seeking their prey. Seeking the Wilders.

  His daughters-in-law were that prey.

  ‘‘No.’’ Konstantine took an unwary step. ‘‘No!’’

  Tasya caught him and held him in place. ‘‘Wait, Papa. Wait! Listen!’’

  From high above the other side of the valley, they heard a detonation. Then a growl. Then the rapidly rising rumble of thunder.

  The Varinski warriors stopped. They looked up and around.

  Logs, huge logs weighing tons, roared down from the mountain, rolling and bouncing, gaining speed as they spun downhill, headed for the area in front of the house, toward the men who would destroy Konstantine’s home, his wife, and his grandson.

  He exalted in the power of the logs and their stampede. He watched closely, fearing a miscalculation, that one might flip end over end and rip open the walls of the house.

  But no. The rocket launcher went flying. The men who would have shot it disappeared into the mud or were tossed like puppets on a stick. The logs spread a swath of death and destruction across the battlefield, killing and mutilating dozens of Varinskis, leaving a few, only a few, untouched.

  Satisfaction settled into Konstantine’s bones and pumped through his wounded heart. ‘‘I watch the Disney Channel with Aleksandr, I see the Swiss Family Robinson, and I learn how to fight. See? There is no modern bomb that could cover so much ground and wreak such destruction, and yet leave my land pristine. In the spring it will bloom again.’’

  Tasya watched in awe. ‘‘That log trick is so Washington State. An environmentally friendly weapon.’’

  Konstantine held up his palm.

  She high-fived him. ‘‘Victory. Now we can wipe them out. We’ve won!’’

  ‘‘Not quite.’’ Konstantine’s sharp eyes picked out the shape of a limousine as it cruised up the winding drive, heard the purr of its motor.

  No, not just one limousine. Two. When the lead car came around the last corner, the driver slammed on the brakes. The other screeched to a halt behind it.

  ‘‘What the hell?’’ Vadim sat up straight and stared at the destruction before him—destruction brought upon his troops by a family of grape farmers. He stared at his men facedown in the mud, at the still-shuddering logs, at Varinski bodies tossed among them like so many cords of wood . . . at the old-fashioned, American-style house, still pristine in the middle of destruction, a symbol of the Wilders and their success.

  His men, his bodyguards, sat in awe.

  Konstantine had done this. With inferior weapons wielded by his sons and their women, the great Konstantine had reinforced his legend—and made a fool of Vadim.

  ‘‘Wow.’’ The weak and ignorant American driver craned his neck to see, then picked up his phone. ‘‘I have to call this in. Someone really kicked ass here.’’

  Cold fury coiled in Vadim’s belly. Pulling his pistol, he shot the driver.

  His head exploded. The windshield shattered. Blood splattered the glass, the wheel, the ceiling.

  Vadim turned to his men.

  Now he had their attention.

  In th
e soft tone he employed like a velvet whip, he said, ‘‘Kill them all. Raze the valley. Burn the house. Burn the forest. Don’t leave a single creature alive.’’

  Four men, tall, well built, dressed in dark suits, leaped out of the blood-spattered limousine in the lead. Another six piled out of the second limo.

  One man, younger than the others, stepped out in front. His rage was palpable—and even from across the valley, it was intimidating.

  This youth had power. Konstantine could feel it.

  ‘‘Vadim!’’ The call went up from the human Varinskis still on their feet. They hurried toward him, leaping logs and slipping in the mud. The wolves growled, and the great birds of prey swooped and screamed.

  Vadim held up his hand.

  They stopped.

  He spoke, a single word, inaudible at such a distance.

  The Varinskis shrank back.

  He spoke again, and they cheered.

  Konstantine knew what was coming.

  The men of Vadim’s bodyguard shimmered in the sunlight; then, one by one, they changed. Six became tigers, large, tawny, ruthless, led by cruel instinct and a cat’s love of the hunt.

  They prowled forward, heads down, heading across the field of battle and toward the Wilder house.

  There his wife and grandson waited with the three icons.

  Vadim, the Varinskis, and the devil himself intended to finish them.

  Two of Vadim’s men took to the air as eagles, black and white, with wings that spanned seven feet. They soared high, their black eyes searching for their prey—for him, for Tasya, for Karen, alone on the other side of the valley.

  ‘‘Come.’’ Konstantine tugged at Tasya. ‘‘Let us get into position.’’

  Yet no matter how strong his will, he had no hurry left in him. As he stumbled along the tree line, he had to keep his gaze on his feet, for every step was a challenge, made greater by the pine needles that slipped out from under his feet, the brush, the stones, the patches of old, dirty snow.

  Tasya helped him, encouraged him, but their progress was painfully slow.

  ‘‘You must go on without me. You must continue fighting.’’ He pulled his arm from hers.

  ‘‘Promise me you’ll keep walking.’’ Her tenacity reminded him of an English bulldog, yet here in the forest, with the tall trees surrounding them and danger all around, she looked so fragile, so young.

  ‘‘I promise.’’ He pushed her away from him.

  High above, he heard the telling scream of an eagle.

  He glanced at the two men by the limo.

  One reached inside the open door and brought out one rifle, then another.

  Vadim lifted the rifle and pointed it toward Konstantine.

  ‘‘Down!’’ He flung himself toward Tasya.

  He heard the shot.

  Tasya screamed, twisted, and hit the ground. She held her thigh and rolled in agony. Blood pumped from between her fingers, turning them crimson.

  ‘‘No!’’ They were supposed to kill him. He crawled toward her. ‘‘No, daughter. No!’’ He ripped the tie out of his bathrobe and tied it above the wound, tried to pick her up and head toward the house.

  No. No! It couldn’t end this way, with his failure to save Tasya’s life.

  As if that were the signal they’d been waiting for, seven men moved out of the woods, camouflage paint on their faces, and surrounded Tasya and Konstantine. They held their rifles with expert ease, and considered Konstantine and Tasya with cool, dark eyes.

  Varinskis. More Varinskis. Damn them.

  They would finish Tasya. They would kill him. He closed his eyes, prepared for the bullet that would end his life. He took his final breath . . . and identified the subtle scent of their bodies.

  His eyes popped open. ‘‘You are Rom. Gypsies!’’

  The leader was young, strong, dark-haired, a male version of Zorana in her youth, with eyes of black steel. ‘‘Very good, Konstantine.’’ Taking Konstantine’s hand, he helped him to his feet and, with notable insouciance, said, ‘‘I’m Prokhor.’’

  ‘‘What are you doing here?’’ Konstantine asked.

  Turning to one of his soldiers, Prokhor said, ‘‘Stop Tasya’s bleeding; then let’s get them to the house.’’

  ‘‘How do you know her name?’’ Konstantine asked.

  ‘‘We’ve watched you for a long time. We know everyone in your family,’’ Prokhor said.

  The medic dropped to his knees beside Tasya. He gave her morphine, and while he cleaned her wound, Konstantine asked Prokhor, ‘‘Why do you know us?’’

  ‘‘Until the icons are united, we protect you.’’

  ‘‘Why?’’ When Konstantine had stolen Zorana, her tribe had sworn vengeance. What had changed?

  Prokhor bared his strong, white teeth. ‘‘We will have no luck, enjoy no prosperity, until we fulfill our destiny. And that destiny is to protect you and yours so you can unite those icons!’’

  ‘‘How did you know your destiny?’’

  ‘‘We had a convocation of the Rom and asked for knowledge. It was given.’’ Prokhor shuddered.

  Konstantine shuddered, too. He’d seen the devil at work in the world. He’d seen his beloved wife seized by a vision. He’d learned to dread the evidence of the otherworld. He supposed it was a sign of age, but . . . he wanted peace. He wanted to tend his crops, love his wife, bounce his grandchildren on his knee, advise his sons, annoy his daughters.

  He stroked Tasya’s sweaty forehead. She was quiet now; the morphine had done its work, and the medic had almost completed the field dressing.

  Prokhor placed his rifle on his shoulder, pointed it across the valley, and squeezed off a shot.

  It was a distance of more than half a mile, yet Vadim spun and fell. Like a roach, he crawled and scurried toward the protection of the limo, his bodyguard on his heels.

  ‘‘Missed,’’ the leader said laconically.

  But Konstantine recognized a good sniper at work. ‘‘You hurt him.’’

  Another shot slammed Vadim’s bodyguard against the car—that shot hadn’t come from this side of the valley.

  ‘‘We’ve got three men on the other side.’’ Prokhor lifted his walkie-talkie and listened to the report. ‘‘They’ve got Karen safe.’’

  Konstantine sighed in relief.

  ‘‘Hurry,’’ one of the other men said to the medic. ‘‘Vadim’s bodyguards are on their way.’’

  The tigers sprang into a run, loping across the valley. Above them, the eagles circled and screamed encouragement. Other Varinskis joined in the hunt, changing to wolves, to hawks, to beasts more dreadful than any nightmare on earth.

  One Rom lifted Tasya in his arms. Another broad-shouldered youth hefted Konstantine over his shoulder. The whole group sprinted forward.

  Branches slapped at them. They swerved and dodged, jumped a trickling creek, slid in an icy patch deep in the shade.

  As Konstantine bounced against the hard shoulder, he struggled to catch his breath, to view the action below.

  The tigers were running at an angle, intending to cut them off before they reached the house.

  ‘‘Go down into the valley. It’s our only chance. We’ll hold them,’’ Prokhor shouted, and he and two of his men dropped to one knee and lifted their rifles to their shoulders.

  The others ran on, cutting a path toward the valley floor and an easier course.

  Behind them, Prokhor pulled the trigger, and a tiger roared with pain.

  Return fire blasted through the trees.

  Konstantine heard the grunt of a man fatally wounded. Lifting his head, he looked back and caught a glimpse of the Romany scrambling around their fallen.

  The runners broke out of the trees.

  The tigers were close enough for Konstantine to see their whiskers and their smiling, sharp teeth. An eagle dove out of the air, talons out, beak open. ‘‘Put me down,’’ Konstantine said. ‘‘We’ve got to fight!’’

  The Rom skidded to a halt and
let Konstantine slide off his shoulder.

  ‘‘Go on,’’ Konstantine shouted at the man who held Tasya. ‘‘Take her in.’’

  Her bearer dashed toward the house, two Rom at his heels.

  Two of the tigers peeled off after them.

  Two more furious, muddy, still-human Varinskis joined in the chase. One lifted his weapon and shot.

  A tiger turned on him and snarled.

  ‘‘What happened?’’ one of the Rom asked as he settled their rifles on their shoulders.

  ‘‘Varinskis enjoy the close-in kill.’’ Konstantine pulled his pistol and pointed at the tigers racing toward them. ‘‘Especially now, when they face defeat. They want to rend her limb from limb, eat her while she still lives, use the horror to immobilize us.’’

  The three Rom edged away from Konstantine. They had remembered who—and what—he was.

  One Rom squeezed off a shot, blowing a hole between the tiger’s ears.

  The tiger stopped, shook its head, then fixed its yellow eyes on them and snarled.

  ‘‘Keep shooting,’’ Konstantine commanded. ‘‘Don’t stop.’’

  These Rom would die. He would die. But perhaps Tasya would live. Perhaps.

  Then, across the valley, an explosion rocked the ground.

  The battle stopped.

  Konstantine looked in time to see debris flying from the remains of the first limousine, then to see the second rise like a living being and burst into a million pieces.

  Behind, on the road, Jackson Sonnet sat on a motorcycle, waving his fist in victory.

  Three wolves who were running to join the assault on Tasya turned and sprinted toward him.

  He shot one with his 30-06 hunting rifle. The wolf struggled to get up, but its leg was shattered. Jackson holstered the rifle, revved his motorcycle, and raced back down the road.

  The tigers returned to their attack on Konstantine and the Rom, and their eyes glowed red with fury.

  Then, like a flying miracle, a black-and-white, silver-and-red helicopter swooped over the mountain, down the slope, and into the valley.