Authors: Christina Dodd

Tags: #paranormal romance

Into the Flame (39 page)

BOOK: Into the Flame

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Worse, when news of this fiasco got out, he would be a laughingstock among assassins. He’d sent one hundred and fourteen men against a family of three brothers, one old invalid father, five silly women, and a two-year-old, and so far, he’d lost at least seventy men.
So far.
Nothing would keep this quiet . . . unless he managed to kill every single Wilder. And he would. Before this day was done, he would wipe that vermin from the face of the earth.

Not that he had a choice. Those explosions had ruined his beautiful limousines—and left him standing here when he should be on his way to a new name and a new life paved with the gold from a thousand Varinski-executed assassinations.

At least, that had been his plan if anything went wrong today.

He simply had not foreseen that he would be without transportation.

A faint moan nearby caught his attention.

Georgly. Vadim’s best lieutenant, his brother and his best friend, had been shot by a sniper, then had his face blown half-off by the explosions that destroyed the limos. He struggled to rise, and as he did, the blackened skin grew and sealed the space where his left eye had been. He staggered to his feet, whimpering and limping.

Worthless. Georgly was worthless.

And all that whimpering got on Vadim’s nerves.

Taking the Glock from the holster around his chest, he cocked the pistol.

Georgly’s head turned toward the sound. His single eye widened. His hands came up as if that puny defense would deflect the bullet. ‘‘No. Please, Vadim, no!’’

Vadim shot him in the heart.

A voice spoke so close to his side, he jumped and swung his pistol around.

‘‘Why did you do that?’’ Mikhail asked. He wasn’t the brightest of Vadim’s men, but he was alive and capable of fighting—and he’d sneaked up on Vadim, although Vadim did not understand how.

‘‘I hate a whiner.’’ Vadim stood and kept the barrel pointed at Mikhail.

Mikhail looked different, a little sharper than normal, and his voice sounded . . . funny. Maybe the others had sent him to assassinate Vadim. He wouldn’t doubt it for a minute.

That was what he himself would have done.

‘‘You need living men. You have lost most of my army.’’

‘‘Your army?’’ Vadim smirked. ‘‘Who are you? Nobody, that’s who.’’

‘‘You’re good at setting fires.’’ Was Mikhail’s tone critical? Did this oaf really dare to challenge Vadim? ‘‘Yes. Of course you are. You gave Uncle Ivan enough vodka to swim in, turned his blood into an incendiary, then spread gasoline throughout the house and lit a match. What a spectacle that was.’’ Mikhail’s voice really did sound funny, sliding down, gaining more and more bass, as if he could suddenly sing baritone opera. ‘‘Listen to me closely. Stop sulking on the fringe of the battle. Find gas. Find a match. Burn the house. Now. It is old and dry. It will go up like kindling and kill the women who are inside.’’

‘‘Good idea. I’ll order the men to bomb the place.’’ Vadim wanted to get away from this guy. Something about him was not right.

But when he tried to walk off, Mikhail grabbed him and held him with a grip of cold steel. ‘‘No. Not a bomb. I want fire. I am very fond of fire. It is painful, it is long, and it gives a taste of the torments to come. For even as I speak, the women imagine they can unite the icons and destroy the pact. They cannot—nothing can unite the icons—but they deserve to suffer the agonies of hell for trying, and their men deserve to suffer the agonies of love before they die, too.’’

‘‘You can’t tell me what to do.’’ That voice. That voice. Where had Vadim heard that voice?

‘‘Can’t I?’’

‘‘Who do you think you are?’’

‘‘I know who I am. Do you?’’ Mikhail scrutinized him, a slight smile on his wide lips—and deep in his eyes, a blue flame glowed.

Vadim staggered backward.

He
did
know. He recognized that voice. The timbre was a little different, the tone a little younger, but . . .

‘‘I see you have figured it out. You are a smart boy, Vadim; I always said so.’’

‘‘But I torched . . . I torched the house. I torched Uncle Ivan,’’ Vadim was screaming. He heard himself, but he couldn’t stop. ‘‘I saw him burn with my own eyes.’’

‘‘You destroyed one of my best tools. For that, and for thinking I could be removed, you will pay.’’ The devil laughed, and the cruel sound reverberated throughout Vadim’s black and rotted soul. ‘‘Did you really think you could ever get rid of me?’’

Chapter Thirty-seven

Firebird stared at the icons against the red cloth, stared so hard her eyes hurt.

Nothing happened.

Zorana darted to the window and looked out.

‘‘Did that do it?’’ Firebird asked. ‘‘Somehow, I expected . . .’’

Zorana turned back, her eyes as dark and tormented as the Madonna’s. ‘‘The Varinskis are still out there. Still animals. Still attacking.’’

‘‘That can’t be.’’ Firebird rearranged the icons. ‘‘This has to work.’’

‘‘Mama, Aleksandr do the puzzle.’’

She placed Aleksandr on the floor. ‘‘No, honey, Mama do the puzzle.’’ She rearranged them again, more frantically. But no matter what she did, nothing happened. Because . . . she pointed in horror. ‘‘Look at this. It’s not all here.’’

Zorana hastened back to stand beside Firebird. ‘‘What are you talking about?’’

‘‘There’s a piece missing.’’ The edges of each icon were curled, uneven, burned in spots, as if the devil had cut them with a sword of flame. But they fit together everywhere—except in the middle.

There a chunk was missing from each icon. Not a big chunk, one about the size of the tip of Firebird’s little finger. It wasn’t obvious when the icons were separate. But the lost piece made it impossible to reunite them.

Firebird swallowed. ‘‘I can’t believe it. The prophecy said, ‘Four sons, four loves, four icons.’ It didn’t say
anything
about an extra piece.’’

‘‘I didn’t see this. In my vision, I didn’t see this at all.’’ Zorana leaned over the table and tried to press them together, as if somehow she could mold the ancient, flinty material into a new shape.

Outside, Firebird heard the piercing wail of a police siren. Her head snapped up.

Douglas
.
In the depths of her mind, she’d been waiting for him.

Douglas
had arrived to help his relatives.

The question was—
which
relatives?

She ran to the window.

A Washington State Patrol car swerved around the wrecked limousines and ripped up the driveway with the throaty roar of a police interceptor engine at full throttle. One Varinski in a business suit was running toward the back of the house; they almost creamed him.

The patrol car cut a cookie through a pack of snarling wolves racing to attack the group protecting Tasya.

Wolves flew into the air, then fell to the earth in human form.

Douglas
was on
their
side. He had taken his stand with the Wilders.

The car headed toward the mob attacking Konstantine. Varinskis lifted their automatic weapons and shot two bursts into the car.

‘‘No!’’ Firebird strained forward. ‘‘
Douglas
!’’

The windshield blew out. The tires slipped on the mud. The car made a swift turn, skidded—and flipped.

The two groups protecting Tasya and Konstantine had combined, were surrounded. As the women watched, one of the tigers leaped and brought down a fighter, broke his neck, ripped open his abdomen— and began to feast.

Firebird and Zorana turned away, crying in horror, and when they turned back, it was over.

But Zorana gasped, her eyes wide with terror. Brokenly, she said, ‘‘Oh, no, my love. No, I beg you. Don’t.’’

For the first time in her life, Firebird saw her father change—change from an enfeebled old man into a huge, ferocious gray wolf with a pointed snout rich with strong teeth, and glowing red eyes. The transformation lifted the curse of his illness, and he attacked the tigers with intelligence and ferocity, proving why he was the fabled leader of the Varinskis.

‘‘He changes because he knows he has no choice,’’ Zorana said softly. ‘‘He sees they have no chance, so he’ll go to hell fighting . . . for us. He sacrifices his soul . . . for us.’’ She looked at the icons on the table, at their failed hope of freeing Konstantine from the damnation promised him. She purposefully walked toward the trapdoor.

Firebird leaped and grabbed her arm. ‘‘Don’t.’’

‘‘If the icons can’t break the pact, then I will die beside your father.’’ Zorana yanked herself free. She went to Aleksandr and hugged him fiercely, and determination and anguish gleamed in her eyes. ‘‘Save him. If you can, save him.’’

Opening the trapdoor, she dropped the rope ladder and disappeared through the hole.

So it was up to Firebird. She had to save her father, her family, her son . . . her lover. She could not give up.

At the table, she stacked the icons and placed them once more.

Aleksandr dragged a chair over, climbed up, and shook his head disapprovingly. ‘‘No, Mama. Treasures. Gramma treasures.’’

Outside, a crash rattled the windows and shook the house.

As quickly as she could, Firebird returned to the window.

In what remained of the vineyard, the helicopter lay in ruins, shot out of the sky. The passenger door opened, and a brown hawk—Rurik—flew up and soared toward the escalating battle around Tasya and Konstantine.

Flames started out from under the hood of the patrol car. Soon, the gas tank would explode, and inside, no life stirred. ‘‘
Douglas
. . .’’

Zorana sprinted across the yard and jumped the fence.

Four Varinskis ran to intercept her.

Knives flashing, eyes deadly, she turned to face them, a tiny Gypsy woman who would rather die than live without her husband.

From behind the house, a huge wolf ran to help her.
Jasha
. Jasha would fight at his mother’s side.

‘‘Mama,
treasures
,’’ Aleksandr insisted.

‘‘Go ahead and play with them, little one,’’ she said. Clutching the windowsill so hard her fingers turned white, Firebird watched the destruction of everything she loved. Five minutes ago, she had been sure the fourth icon would turn the tide. Now . . . the Wilders were losing the battle.

Then . . .
Douglas
crawled out, half-clothed, covered with blood and bruises, but alive. ‘‘Get away from the car,’’ she whispered. ‘‘Get away before it blows.’’

He turned and crawled back in.

He was crazy.
Crazy
.

Firebird wiped tears out of her eyes as quickly as they formed, desperate to view every movement, to figure out what in the hell he was doing.

He backed out, dragging an unconscious Adrik after him.

She clutched her chest in relief.
Douglas
had saved Adrik. He had saved her brother.

Then the wolves arrived, snarling and brutal.

Douglas
shot the first three. They flipped, fell, twitched, and were still.

The others kept coming, swarming around the two men like fire ants consuming a tender morsel.

Firebird couldn’t stand to watch.

She turned and faced into the room.

Aleksandr stood on the chair again, rearranging the icons.

She couldn’t stand
not
to watch, and turned back to the window.