Into the Flame (10 page)
Zorana turned on him. ‘‘You heard her leave? And you didn’t do anything?’’
In the breaking dawn, he was a broad lump under the covers. Light glinted off the chrome of his oxygen tank and his IV pole, and she could dimly see the plastic tubes that ran up his nose and into his arm. Yet for all that the disease ate at his body, his eyes were still sharp and bright. ‘‘Zorana.
Liubov maya
. We have all had a horrible shock. But none of us has suffered as Firebird is suffering. If she felt she had to leave without telling anyone—’’
Liubov maya
. We have all had a horrible shock. But none of us has suffered as Firebird is suffering. If she felt she had to leave without telling anyone—’’
‘‘Aleksandr!’’ Aleksandr said helpfully.
‘‘—without telling anyone except Aleksandr,’’ Konstantineagreed, ‘‘then I know better than to stand in her way.’’
‘‘But where is she going?’’ Zorana demanded.
‘‘Costco,’’ Aleksandr said. ‘‘For Aleksandr’s daddy.’’
‘‘That sounds reasonable to me.’’ Konstantine tugged Zorana back down on the bed and put his arms around her and Aleksandr.
Zorana had never felt less sleepy. ‘‘All this time, she never would tell us who Aleksandr’s father is. Why would she go find him now?’’
‘‘Last night, for Firebird, everything changed.’’ Konstantine tapped his forehead.
Yes, and now Zorana’s heart was torn. She loved the child she had cherished as a daughter, and she longed for the baby she had lost.
Tears sprang to her eyes. Tears for her, tears for Firebird, and, most of all, tears for her son.
Where was her baby? Happily adopted by another family? Abused and beaten? Or dead, an infant not allowed his chance at life?
She struggled to sit up. ‘‘I’m going to call Firebird. Tell her to be safe.’’
‘‘No. You are not.’’ Konstantine held her in place. ‘‘If she wanted to tell you where she was and how long she’d be gone, she would have woken you before she left. As for being safe . . . we have raised her to be smart, and be safe. But we also have raised her to do the right thing, the responsible thing, and we have to trust her to know what that is. She is a grown woman. Leave her alone to do what must be done.’’
Zorana relaxed and leaned her head into Konstantine’s shoulder. ‘‘If I knew then what I know now, I would have never had children.’’
His laughter thundered through him. ‘‘Yes, you would.’’
‘‘No, I wouldn’t.’’
‘‘Yes, you would. You had no choice. In those days, all the time, we were humping like bunnies.’’
‘‘Konstantine!’’ Zorana covered Aleksandr’s ears.
‘‘Humping like bunnies,’’ Aleksandr repeated in a clear, thoughtful tone.
‘‘Aleksandr!’’ Zorana glared at her husband.
Konstantine stretched and grinned at her, looking young and carefree for the first time in months. ‘‘Those were the good old days.’’
Delighted, Aleksandr repeated, ‘‘The good old days. Humping like bunnies.’’
‘‘Zorana, we have lived here for almost forty years. Your tribe swore to take you back from me. The Varinskis swore I was mad to love you, and that they would take me back. None of them ever found us— and they should have.’’ Konstantine sounded less like Zorana’s kindly husband and more like a general preparing for battle. ‘‘I never asked you why.’’
Her whirling thoughts stilled.
‘‘But last night, a stranger came into our valley. Our very talented sons sought him, but despite their best efforts, they couldn’t find him, and when we were alone, they told me he carried the scent of a great cat.’’
‘‘A great cat,’’ Aleksandr repeated thoughtfully.
‘‘Yes, my boy.’’ Konstantine stroked Aleksandr’s hair. ‘‘A panther, like
Dyadya
Adrik, or a tiger, a lion, a cougar. So the stranger was a Varinski, an enemy. I think perhaps for almost forty years you have been protecting us from prying eyes, and I think perhaps something has changed. Heh?’’
Dyadya
Adrik, or a tiger, a lion, a cougar. So the stranger was a Varinski, an enemy. I think perhaps for almost forty years you have been protecting us from prying eyes, and I think perhaps something has changed. Heh?’’
How could Zorana have imagined she could fool Konstantine? Konstantine, who was so intimately familiar with the supernatural . . . and with her? ‘‘I don’t talk about it. I don’t understand how it works. But I am a seer. I foretell the future . . . but I have no control over when and where. I wish I did. Two and a half years ago, I burp forth a prophecy and our whole world goes to hell. If I could just tap into that power again . . .’’
Again Konstantine hugged her, silencing her self-recriminations. ‘‘We are grateful for any knowledge sent to us by the good God.’’
‘‘Yes. Of course we are.’’ She hadn’t meant to complain about what she did know, only what she didn’t. Sitting up, she wrapped her arms around her knees. ‘‘I have another talent. It’s a little thing. With my mind, I can make a bubble, like Teflon, over the place where I am. It wards off the bad things. Storms that would ruin the grapes or split the cherries. People who wish us ill.’’
‘‘Yes.’’ Konstantine understood. Of course he did. ‘‘So how did one of
them
get here last night?’’
them
get here last night?’’
‘‘Maybe he followed Firebird in. I think that might be it. Or maybe I . . . Lately I’ve wondered . . .’’
‘‘Wondered?’’ he encouraged.
‘‘When we married, the line between good and evil blurred. There are still men, women, beasts who have given themselves totally to the devil. And there are men, women, and beasts who are completely God’s creatures. But most people are struggling to do the right thing, and succeeding or failing. You and I and our kids . . . we fit into that group. And maybe whoever it was last night—maybe he fits into the group, too. Wanting to do evil, but not easy with his decision, or evil and struggling toward a change.’’ Zorana turned her head to Konstantine. ‘‘He was one of us.’’
‘‘Yes. You’re right. The old rules don’t count anymore. The whole world is changing. The time is approaching when we fight the devil’s own. And we need to plan our attack.’’
‘‘We don’t know when or where the battle will take place.’’
‘‘We don’t wait for them to make that decision.’’ Konstantine sounded stronger than he had for months. ‘‘We decide where—’’
‘‘Here?’’
‘‘Definitely here. And when. We must plan our strategy, and the first thing we have to do . . . is talk to our known enemies.’’
‘‘Enemies,’’ Aleksandr said cheerfully.
‘‘Yes, my boy.’’ Again Konstantine caressed Aleksandr’s head. ‘‘We have enemies.’’
Zorana didn’t even have to think. ‘‘I know exactly who to start with.’’
Chapter Eight
Zorana watched as her sons, the Wilder demons, walked toward the van, their arms swinging confidently, their grins flashing. At the last second, they all made a dash toward the driver’s seat. Adrik won by the simple strategy of slamming open the back door and leaping over the seats.
Stupid kids.
They hadn’t changed a bit.
They hadn’t changed a bit.
As Jasha and Rurik stood outside and stared in disgust, Adrik said, ‘‘Just like old times.’’
‘‘Yeah, you’re the same pain in the ass you always were,’’ Jasha said.
‘‘Shotgun,’’ Rurik called.
Zorana walked up behind them. ‘‘I’ll ride shotgun.’’ Taking advantage of their horror, she hopped into the front beside Adrik. ‘‘You boys get in the back.’’ When none of them moved, she mocked, ‘‘You didn’t think I would let you go by yourselves, did you?’’
Jasha, always her responsible son, said, ‘‘Mama, I don’t know if this is a good idea. This probably won’t be pretty.’’
‘‘I don’t care about pretty. I want to
know
.’’ Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Rurik nod.
know
.’’ Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Rurik nod.
‘‘It’s your right, Mama.’’ Adrik turned the key. ‘‘You guys getting in, or are you going to chase us all the way to Miss Joyce’s?’’
As the two climbed in, Adrik asked, ‘‘Has anybody ever suspected Miss Joyce before?’’
‘‘Not one bit,’’ Jasha answered. ‘‘But we should have. She’s always been around, watching us, poking her nose into our business.’’
‘‘In all fairness, she pokes her nose into everyone’s business.’’ Rurik tapped his mother’s shoulder. ‘‘Better buckle yourself in, Mama. Adrik drives like a maniac.’’
Zorana buckled her seat belt. ‘‘What’s new? You all always did that.’’
‘‘Adrik’s practiced,’’ Rurik said.
Miss Joyce lived in a little house built in the twenties, suitable for a schoolteacher with no family: one bedroom, one bath, a living room, a tiny kitchen, and a minuscule lawn surrounded by a white picket fence. The place was not far from the edge of town, yet isolated by a stretch of meadow, and the people of the town respected Miss Joyce’s privacy.
Zorana pulled open the screen door and knocked. Privacy. Yes. Miss Joyce would want privacy to hide the truth about herself from her students, her neighbors . . . from the rest of humanity. For she was a monster. A monster.
The silence was profound. The winter sun shone in the bright blue sky, casting sharp shadows but shedding no warmth.
Zorana waited for an uncomfortably long time, then glanced back at her sons, lined up against the van parked on the side of the road.
Jasha looked solid and businesslike, and nothing about his appearance hinted at the passionate soul Ann had fought for and captured.
Rurik retained the dash of an Air Force pilot and the pragmatism of one of the world’s leading archeologists.
Adrik . . . Adrik still nursed a bone shattered in the fight that had almost taken his Karen’s life. He had plunged into the depths of evil and barely escaped. He was harder than the other two, broken and rebuilt into a different man, and Zorana had not been there for any of his trials.
‘‘For all that she has done, I will make her sorry,’’ Zorana vowed quietly.
She raised her hand to knock again. Then she heard it: the shuffle of feet across wood floors. The curtain at the front tweaked aside enough for one eye to peer out of the dusty glass.
Slowly, the locks unlatched, the door creaked open a few inches, and Miss Joyce examined her.
Miss Joyce looked surprisingly short. Almost . . . shrunken.
‘‘Zorana, how nice to see you. I wish you’d called . . . I’m in the middle of something right now. . . .’’ She waved a vague hand into the house.
‘‘I’ve got a surprise for you.’’ Zorana placed the flat of her hand on the door to keep it open. ‘‘News about one of your students. You always love to hear news about your students.’’
‘‘So, tell me,’’ Miss Joyce said querulously.
‘‘Let me show you.’’
‘‘That’s nice, dear.’’ Her voice quavered like an old woman’s. Which she was, but always before she’d shown few signs of age. ‘‘But I haven’t been feeling well. . . .’’
‘‘I won’t take no for an answer.’’ Zorana smiled, but she was implacable.
Miss Joyce looked from side to side, seeking an escape.
Did she realize that the time of reckoning had arrived? ‘‘Let me get my coat and hat.’’
‘‘I’ll wait inside.’’ Zorana pushed the door open.
The stench struck her like a blow.
Miss Joyce, who had always kept an impeccable house, now lived in filth, with newspapers piled on the floor, dust on all the surfaces, and . . . somewhere, something was rotting in here.
‘‘Pardon the mess. I haven’t had a chance to straighten up.’’ Miss Joyce struggled into her coat, pulled on her gloves, and grabbed her large straw hat off the rack by the door. Shoving Zorana outside, she followed her out. Carefully she locked the door— no one locked their doors in Blythe—then turned and smiled with false brightness.
Zorana was shocked. The sunlight showed the changes the winter had wrought on the schoolteacher.
Always before she’d been proud of the way she shed the years. She’d been tall, erect, with a full head of wavy gray hair and strong features. Now everything was withered: Her prominent nose was a blob, her stubborn chin had receded, her bones had bent and curved—she was now no more than Zorana’s height. And she smelled. Smelled like her house.
What was rotting in there was
her
.
her
.
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