Into the Flame (36 page)
Zorana paced back to Konstantine. As she covered him with a blanket and tucked it around the cushion beneath him, all her despair, pain, and love shone in her eyes.
‘‘Don’t worry,
liubov maya
,’’ he said. ‘‘Have faith. In this, I am the expert.’’
liubov maya
,’’ he said. ‘‘Have faith. In this, I am the expert.’’
She kissed him lingeringly. ‘‘I would be happier if you weren’t enjoying yourself so much.’’
‘‘I’m not enjoying myself,’’ he protested.
‘‘Liar.’’
He hid his smile with his oxygen mask. He slumped in his chair, moved to the top of the handicapped ramp his sons had built him, and, with careful control, rolled down and onto the front path. When he reached the gate, he lifted his oxygen mask away and gestured toward one young man with feathers sprouting from his head. ‘‘Open it, sonny. Show some respect for the great Konstantine.’’
The kid walked forward, unhooked the gate, and held it wide while, with trembling hands, Konstantine replaced the mask, put his veined hands on the wheels, and rolled through. Konstantine heard him mutter, ‘‘
That’s
the great Konstantine?’’
That’s
the great Konstantine?’’
Konstantine moved forward into the crowd, letting them surround him, and the incredulous murmurs grew into taunts.
‘‘You’re the Konstantine who led our family to its golden age?’’
‘‘You made us great and glorious and feared?’’
‘‘You’re old.’’
‘‘You’re sick.’’
‘‘You’re nothing. Nothing!’’
They were a pack of salivating dogs with no thought beyond the obvious.
They were fools.
He looked toward the porch.
Zorana had not gone inside, as instructed. She stood on the porch and watched, and when she saw him glare at her, she lifted her chin.
He was thirty feet from the gate. The crowd of Varinskis had grown to thirty, then forty as they filtered out of the hills and came to watch the show. They pressed in, groped him, tore at his clothes. One ripped at his face with a claw.
In a flash, Konstantine ripped back. He could not allow his mask to be dislodged.
The youth snatched his bleeding hand away.
The mob leaned back, surprised at his display of fury.
As he slumped once more, they pressed forward, angry at themselves for their brief fear.
The voice from the back moved forward, calling, ‘‘Let me at him. I made the deal; let me have my piece of him.’’
A quieter voice said, ‘‘Yes, let Afonos through. Let him see what he has done that Vadim will kill him for.’’
‘‘Shut up, Kolya. Vadim will not kill me. Not when he has just killed so many others. He cannot afford the loss of another man.’’
Interesting, Konstantine thought. This Vadim was killing his own?
On the other hand—Konstantine looked thoughtfully at the Varinskis—some of these things weren’t men and weren’t beasts. They were weird and horrible combinations of both, like the guy with the feathers coming out of his head, like that one with snakelike scales on his skin and the pupils that contracted into narrow slits. The pact with the devil was breaking apart, and the things that failure had created made Konstantine’s flesh crawl.
A brawny thirty-year-old stepped in front of the wheelchair. Placing his hands on his hips, Afonos stared contemptuously down his nose at the wrinkled bathrobe, the ragged slippers, the oxygen mask, and at Konstantine, who trembled and drew the woolen blanket up to his neck. ‘‘The great Konstantine, indeed. Do you not remember who we are? We are Varinskis. We are the Darkness. We do not honor deals made with a foolish old man who offers himself as a sacrifice.’’
‘‘You won’t?’’ He groped under the blanket, found his weapons, and armed himself.
Afonos continued, ‘‘We’re going to take your family. We’re going to rape your wife and your daughters. We’re going to—’’
‘‘Shut up.’’ Konstantine pushed himself out of the wheelchair. He held the blanket over one hand, and with the other he ripped off his mask. Clutching it in his fist, he jerked the plastic tubing free of the oxygen tanks, triggering the timer on the detonator.
One.
He stood toe-to-toe with Afonos.
‘‘Poshyol ty.’’
One.
He stood toe-to-toe with Afonos.
‘‘Poshyol ty.’’
While Afonos gaped at the insult, Konstantine pulled the pistol from the pocket of his robe and shot Afonos through the heart. Then he shot the man behind Afonos, and the man behind him.
Two. Three
. Dropping the blanket, he pulled the machete from its sheath against his leg and slashed left and right. He ran through the path he’d cleared, kicking off his slippers, revealing his running shoes, and all the while in his head he counted,
Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.
Two. Three
. Dropping the blanket, he pulled the machete from its sheath against his leg and slashed left and right. He ran through the path he’d cleared, kicking off his slippers, revealing his running shoes, and all the while in his head he counted,
Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight.
He dove for the ground.
The bomb strapped to the wheelchair detonated. His oxygen tank exploded. Shrapnel blasted in every direction.
Varinskis screamed, some in pain, some in fury. Some never made another sound.
Konstantine looked around, calculating the damage at about twenty dead and wounded. But just as many and more had escaped damage. They stood dazed, incredulous, then in mounting rage. And all the while, more Varinskis were coming out of the trees.
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
?’’
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.’’
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.’’
so
Washington
State
. An environmentally friendly weapon.’’
Konstantine held up his palm.
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