Into the Flame (41 page)
The heat was so intense, the picket fence around the yard was smoking. He jumped it without pause. The air was so hot he couldn’t breathe. The flames licked at him, shriveling his skin. He felt his eyebrows melt, his hair frizz and die. But he couldn’t let his love die in there. He couldn’t let his son die before he had lived.
A huge weight hit him from the side, knocking him down, rolling him away. Someone, some man, pounded on his head, shouting, ‘‘You’re on fire.’’
Doug tried to catch his breath. Instead he coughed. He struggled, but someone else grabbed him under the armpits and dragged him. Men were talking, shouting at him, while he fought. At last he heard Adrik’s voice, recognized Adrik’s voice.
‘‘
Douglas
, listen to me. You can’t go in there. Listen to me. The fire’s too hot. The house is going to fall.
Douglas
, they’re already dead.’’ Adrik’s voice broke. ‘‘Firebird and Aleksandr are already dead.’’
Douglas
, listen to me. You can’t go in there. Listen to me. The fire’s too hot. The house is going to fall.
Douglas
, they’re already dead.’’ Adrik’s voice broke. ‘‘Firebird and Aleksandr are already dead.’’
Dimly, Doug heard women screaming. But maybe not. Maybe that was the fire that roared in his ears.
He looked up into the dirty, scratched, bruised, strong faces.
Jasha. Rurik. Adrik. Zorana. Konstantine. The two daughters-in-law . . . he couldn’t remember their names now.
Everyone had fought bravely.
Everyone was crying now.
He pushed them away.
One by one, they stepped back.
He stood. He looked at the house, at the flames reaching for the sky. He tried to comprehend, to feel sorrow. He knew the agony was there, waiting to pounce, but right now, he felt nothing.
Then, in his madness, he heard laughter.
He looked and saw a group of six Varinskis gathered around one man. They slapped him on the back, pummeled him affectionately.
‘‘Vadim,’’ they said. ‘‘Vadim did this. He is our hero!’’
Doug took a step toward the group. Then another. Then another. Then he was running toward them. He plowed into them, tossing them aside like tooth-picks, to get to the man in the middle.
Vadim. Dapper in a designer suit. Smirking at him. Taunting him. ‘‘What’s wrong,
Douglas
?’’ Vadim said in his perfect English. ‘‘Are you unhappy that your woman is finally, really dead?’’
Douglas
?’’ Vadim said in his perfect English. ‘‘Are you unhappy that your woman is finally, really dead?’’
Doug slapped him across the face, an openhanded, insulting slap that snapped Vadim’s head sideways.
Astonished, Vadim turned his head and looked at Doug. ‘‘You dare—’’
Doug slapped him across the other cheek. The sound echoed like a gunshot across the battlefield.
Vadim grabbed Doug’s wrist and twisted.
The pain was instant and irresistible. Doug flipped and went down on his knees.
‘‘I’m going to kill you,’’ Vadim said. ‘‘I’m going to kill your whole family. Your bitch is just the beginning.’’
The valley fell silent.
Doug’s wrath started slowly, rising from his fingertips and toes, climbing his arms and legs, filling his abdomen, his chest, his brain. A killing frenzy built, flashing colors inside his skull. Red and yellow, purple and scarlet. He clenched his shaking fists until his nails dug into his palms.
All around him, Doug heard the growl of infuriated men, the snarl of vengeful women.
The battle was joined once more.
The Wilders were killing Varinskis. The berserker rage had fallen on them all.
Doug slammed his foot backward into Vadim’s knee.
Vadim screeched and fell forward.
Doug was free.
Mad with rage, he plucked the knife from Vadim’s belt and slashed, opening a thin line across Vadim’s throat.
Vadim pulled a pistol and aimed.
But no. Knives and pistols were too impersonal. Doug wanted to feel Vadim’s face break under his fists, feel Vadim’s blood splash warm against his skin.
He wanted revenge.
He wanted justice.
Vadim fired as Doug kicked the gun out of his hands.
The bullet buried itself in Doug’s hip.
He didn’t care.
Vadim chopped at his throat, and dimly, Doug realized how much damage Vadim’s trick had done. But rage vanquished the pain, and he moved in close, his knuckles breaking Vadim’s nose and jaw, his fists cracking Vadim’s ribs.
Vadim got his arms beneath Doug’s thighs and flipped him over.
Doug came up and rammed his head up and into Vadim’s breastbone.
Vadim flew through the air, his arms flopping like a rag doll’s. With a clatter, he landed on a battered old metal five-gallon gas can, and Doug realized . . . that was how he’d done it.
Vadim used gasoline stolen from the Wilders to ignite the fire that burned their house, that killed their daughter and grandson.
Firebird and Aleksandr never had a chance.
‘‘You are going to die.’’ Doug stalked forward.
Vadim took one look at Doug, at the insanity that promised revenge. He clambered to his feet and tried to run.
He tripped on the gas can. Gasoline splashed him.
Doug picked him up by his collar and his belt, lifted him above his head, and carried him toward the burning house. ‘‘Bring that can,’’ he said to nobody in particular.
Vadim screamed and screamed, struggling against Doug’s hold, but his arms and legs flailed in the air, and all Doug had to do was twist his collar one way and his belt another, and Vadim shrieked in pain.
‘‘Broken ribs are a bitch, aren’t they?’’ Doug said. He knew. Eventually, he was going to feel his own broken ribs, the bullet in his hip, the place where his finger had been.
But now, all he could feel was a need for vengeance.
The blaze was at its height.
The south wall collapsed with a roar. The roof ridge was sagging. Soon, the fuel that fed the flames would be gone, and all that would be left were ashes.
But Doug had one more thing to feed the fire.
With a mighty shout, he tossed Vadim in like a log, through the missing wall and into a room ablaze with pieces of furniture, with electronics that exploded and wiring that sizzled.
Vadim leaped up, screaming, and tried to run.
Doug took the gas can Adrik handed him, and with deadly accuracy he threw it. The battered red metal knocked Vadim’s feet out from under him, then exploded in a fireball that made Doug and the man beside him duck.
Vadim still screamed, but Doug didn’t care anymore.
Turning his back, he walked away. Looked up. Saw people watching him.
His family and, mixed among them, guys in military clothing.
And Varinskis. Still more Varinskis to kill.
One huge, shambling, bearlike man with glowing blue eyes and a deep, deep voice, said, ‘‘I truly am very fond of fire. It is painful, it is long, and it gives a taste of the torments to come.’’
Doug started toward him.
The big man saw Doug’s expression. The blue glow faded. He backed up—and ran. The others followed, scattering across the field, scurrying into the woods, glancing behind, falling, picking themselves up, and running again.
The leader of the military unit placed his hand on Doug’s shoulder. ‘‘We’ll take care of them.’’ He spoke to the other Wilders. ‘‘We’ll clean up the stragglers. We’ll send you an ambulance and transportation. Don’t worry. We’ll handle it all.’’
Doug took a few more steps—and stopped.
Behind him, he heard another crash.
The front wall of the house had fallen away, and inside, the flames roared and danced.
They danced with Firebird’s ghost.
Doug withered and died inside. Across the valley a woman limped toward them, escorted by two of the military men.
Adrik gave a glad cry. ‘‘Karen!’’ He ran to her, picked her up, kissed her as if she were his very life. . . .
Every punch, every stab wound, every broken bone Doug had suffered flared into agony.
Or was it simply that he now could feel his broken heart?
His legs failed him. He sank to the ground. He wanted to cry, to curse heaven, to beg that
he
be the sacrifice. Not Firebird. Not Aleksandr. Not the innocents. He was the one who had betrayed the family. He was the one who deserved to die.
he
be the sacrifice. Not Firebird. Not Aleksandr. Not the innocents. He was the one who had betrayed the family. He was the one who deserved to die.
All around him, Wilders collapsed with him. They cried. They cried as a family.
Adrik helped Karen walk, and as she got closer, Doug could hear her sobs. ‘‘From up on the hill, I saw the fire start. But I was hurt by one of the logs, and my guards wouldn’t let me come down. They tried to call, but you were fighting for your life and . . . Oh, Adrik!’’
For the first time since he was a boy sitting in Mrs. Fuller’s parlor, tears filled Doug’s eyes. He gave a hard sob, one that ripped at his dry throat and made him bleed inside. Another sob followed, and another.
Zorana put her arm around him. ‘‘
Douglas
.
Douglas
, don’t. It’s not your fault.’’
Douglas
.
Douglas
, don’t. It’s not your fault.’’
He looked into his mother’s face, and she looked back.
‘‘It
is
my fault. This is my fault. All of it. You should spit on me.’’ He looked around at Adrik, at his other brothers, at Tasya, pale with pain . . . at his father, now tall and strong, but with grief etched on his features. ‘‘I brought this battle on you. I sold you to the Varinskis. You should
all
spit on me. You should throw me on the fire to die like Vadim.’’
is
my fault. This is my fault. All of it. You should spit on me.’’ He looked around at Adrik, at his other brothers, at Tasya, pale with pain . . . at his father, now tall and strong, but with grief etched on his features. ‘‘I brought this battle on you. I sold you to the Varinskis. You should
all
spit on me. You should throw me on the fire to die like Vadim.’’
Konstantine still stood, but now he knelt beside his wife and rubbed her back. ‘‘We all had a part to play to bring the prophecy to fulfillment.’’ He sighed heavily. ‘‘Your part was the hardest to bear.’’
‘‘It’s my fault for not insisting, on that day twenty-three years ago, that I
had
borne a son.’’ Tears swam in Zorana’s eyes and spilled down her cheeks. ‘‘If we hadn’t lost you, you wouldn’t have been . . . lost.’’
had
borne a son.’’ Tears swam in Zorana’s eyes and spilled down her cheeks. ‘‘If we hadn’t lost you, you wouldn’t have been . . . lost.’’
‘‘There’s plenty of blame to go around,’’ one of the brothers said. ‘‘But what good does that do us? For now, we need to clean up.’’
‘‘For God’s sake, Jasha!’’ Adrik said.
‘‘We will take the time to grieve.’’ Jasha’s voice choked, then grew strong. ‘‘But it’s winter. It’s cold. We’re hurt.’’ He gestured around at the men. ‘‘We’re naked. Tasya needs medical care. We all do. We need to leave this place now, find somewhere to sleep tonight.’’
‘‘Jasha is right.’’ Rurik spoke now. ‘‘Freezing to death will not bring Firebird back. Our suffering will not give Aleksandr life once more. We’ve got to go.’’
‘‘No.’’ Zorana dug her fingers into Doug’s arm. ‘‘No.’’
Konstantine embraced her, helped her stand. ‘‘Yes,
ruyshka
. Our sons are right. First we must live. Then we will grieve.’’
ruyshka
. Our sons are right. First we must live. Then we will grieve.’’
‘‘The house is going to collapse, and when it does . . . it’s not safe here.’’ Tasya swayed.
Rurik picked her up and walked away.
One by one, the family stood.
Doug didn’t move. He stared at the burning house, his eyes dry. It would take more than a minute to deal with his grief. It would take a lifetime.
Some sorrow was too deep for tears.
And sometimes, a man wanted something so badly, he saw what he knew could not be true.
In a hoarse voice, Doug said, ‘‘Someone is walking out of the house.’’
Chapter Forty
At the urgency in Doug’s voice, every head turned.
A woman. A woman carried a boy-sized lump on her shoulder and walked through the fire.
No, that wasn’t right—the fire embraced her.
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