Into the Flame

  He understood the meaning of understatement, especially now, when six people sat facing him—four women, one man, and a child.

  Yes, the odds were against them.

  Zorana, Ann, Tasya, and Karen were fierce in their determination and their defense of their loved ones. They were well taught in self-defense. But they were soft, in the way of women. They hated to hurt even a feeling.

  His daughters-in-law were dressed like soldiers, in camouflage, and carried sidearms, but they could not dupe a professional warrior. They had breasts and hips. They smelled of flowers and spice. They were women.

  Jasha was also dressed in camouflage, and the weapons he carried were many.

  Konstantine had instructed Jasha in battle since the day he was born, and probably had been harder on him than on his other sons, for Jasha was his eldest. Yet while Jasha was a great warrior, he was one against many.

  And Aleksandr was the diamond of the family, pure, strong, and in need of protection. He stood on the bench beside Karen, putting his puzzle together and looking up occasionally to add a word or two, usually, ‘‘No!’’ or ‘‘Humping like bunnies!’’ and once, ‘‘Bad Varinskis!’’

  Konstantine continued his pep talk. ‘‘But we have many advantages over the Varinskis. I have watched as their men gather in the woods surrounding the valley.’’

  Even better, last night, he had sent his sons out among them as spies. Why not? The beasts outside didn’t know every cousin or stepcousin, and in the dark, his sons looked, moved, and sounded like Varinskis.

  ‘‘Since the days when I was in command of the Varinskis, the organization has grown sloppy. Many of these striplings are untrained. They came without provisions or supplies. They are hungry and they are cold. They cannot move until their leader gets here. Best of all’’—he smiled—‘‘they believe us to be weak.’’

  ‘‘What are our disadvantages, Papa?’’ Karen sat across the table, her hands folded before her.

  One disadvantage, he thought, was that very intelligence that understood how perilous their mission had become.

  He answered honestly—what choice had he?—and he answered completely. ‘‘The Varinskis are the devil’s best troops, and there are at least a hundred men out there. Men with evil flowing in their veins. Men who like to kill, who enjoy torture. They will tear you limb from limb.’’

  Tasya lifted her chin. ‘‘I have the same mercy for the Varinskis that they had for me and mine.’’

  ‘‘That is wise,’’ Konstantine said. ‘‘The biggest disadvantage we have is that they are fighting to be special, to turn into birds of prey and soar on the wings of the storm, or become wolves and run through the forest, or become great cats and leap from tree to tree. I have experienced the joy of those freedoms—they are intoxicating, addictive, and each time I indulged in the pleasures, I grew more vicious and less human.’’ He looked down at his hands, at the big bones and emaciated muscles, and wished fiercely for the chance to revel in those freedoms one last time. Then, with a sigh, he resigned himself to being human, only human, forever, for whatever time God had planned for him.

  Looking up, he observed a similar wistfulness on Jasha’s face.

  Yes, Jasha knew. He and his son were wolves, and the wildness in their souls did not wish to be caged.

  Konstantine confessed, ‘‘Also, I am a disadvantage. To you. To all of you. I take my medicine; I breathe from my tank of oxygen. I fear at the crucial moment, I will fail you.’’

  Jasha laughed long and loud. ‘‘Papa, you’re no disadvantage. Without you, we would have no battle plan. Most of all, we will beat them all and break the pact so that you might live long! And when you pass into the next world, we want to know that when our turn comes, we’ll meet you at heaven’s gate.’’

  His son was a good man. A good man. Touched, Konstantine said, ‘‘I would like that, too. I will go down fighting. This, at least, I can promise.’’

  Ann offered her hands to Jasha and Karen, and one by one everyone at the table joined hands. ‘‘They are the Varinskis,’’ she said. ‘‘They are the Darkness. We’re fighting them, so that makes us the Light. Let us remember that, and live up to the name.’’

  Aleksandr beamed around the table and swung the hands he held.

  Konstantine’s chest filled with pride. ‘‘For a woman, Ann, you give a good speech. You would make a very fine general.’’

  To his surprise, Ann sighed.

  ‘‘You can take a man out of the Old Country, but you can’t take the Old Country out of the man,’’ Jasha advised her.

  Konstantine didn’t understand what he had said wrong, but sometimes, it was nothing more than a woman thing, so he did not care to try. Placing his glasses on his nose, he picked up the paper in front of him. ‘‘Jasha, take Ann and her computer. Make it obvious that you’re leaving. Some will follow you, as they followed Rurik and Adrik. When you have taken them far, lose them, take Ann to her Internet connection, and let her work. Ann, you know what to do.’’

  ‘‘Move the money from all the Varinski accounts, everywhere I’ve found them, into the accounts of deserving charities.’’ Ann’s pale complexion glowed with anticipation. ‘‘Give me two hours, and I will wipe them out.’’

  ‘‘I know that I’ll be here, and I’ll fight the good fight,’’ Tasya said. ‘‘But I am so proud of you, Ann. I don’t know if we’re going to be able to destroy the pact—’’

  Jasha interrupted, ‘‘The fourth icon is coming. Rurik and Firebird won’t fail us.’’

  Tasya nodded. ‘‘Yes, but no matter what, being poor is really going to hurt those Varinskis.’’

  Ann beamed. ‘‘I can’t wait.’’

  ‘‘Jasha, come back as fast as you can.’’ Konstantine looked at Ann over his glasses. ‘‘I do not like to leave you alone, but—’’

  ‘‘Papa.’’ Ann placed her hand over his. ‘‘I have defeated a Varinski before. I will again.’’ She looked meaningfully at Jasha. ‘‘I have defeated a Varinski, and I have captured and tamed a Wilder.’’

  ‘‘As have I.’’ Tasya smiled wickedly.

  ‘‘And I,’’ Karen said. ‘‘How did you do it?’’

  ‘‘Extract blood from him? I bit him,’’ Tasya confided. ‘‘He liked it.’’

  ‘‘So did I. So did he.’’ Ann smiled up at Jasha. ‘‘We are one.’’

  Jasha scowled mightily. ‘‘I don’t want you to share my fate should I die.’’

  ‘‘That is my decision, my love,’’ Ann answered.

  Konstantine shot Zorana a startled glance.

  She smiled serenely.

  He, too, had been bitten in the night. He, too, had liked it, or at least liked the activities that accompanied it. ‘‘What is the point?’’

  ‘‘Your blood gives us strength,’’ Zorana said.

  ‘‘And they will perhaps burn in hell with us for sharing that bond,’’ Jasha told his father.

  Konstantine stared at his wife: petite, protective, loving, fierce. ‘‘Only I am assured of suffering in hell if I should die before the pact is broken. But to think that you would voluntarily share that fate . . .’’

  Zorana rose and came to his side, took his hand, and knelt. ‘‘There was never a doubt, my love. Neither time nor distance can ever separate us. You are the best part of me.’’

  Tears rose to his eyes. He slid his hands around her neck under her hair. Pulling her close, he pressed his lips to her forehead and murmured, ‘‘Many years ago, Zorana, you saved me from myself. No matter where my destiny leads me, I will love you into eternity, in this world or the next.’’

  When at last he lifted his head, Ann stood with her face buried in Jasha’s chest, and Tasya and Karen were wiping their damp eyes with paper towels.

  Konstantine gestured for one of the paper towels and blew his nose like a mighty trumpet. ‘‘Now, we must hurry. This Vadim, this leader, will be here within two hours. So, Ann and Jasha, you leave now.’’ When Ann hesitated, he said, ??
?‘You have already said your good-byes. Now!’’

  Jasha wrapped her in a coat and bundled her out the door.

  Konstantine listened for their car to start, and when it did, he waved Tasya toward the window. She had been a reporter; he trusted her account.

  ‘‘Ann’s driving. She’s backing up. Going forward. Backing up, going forward. That’s not a three-point turn; it’s a thirty-point turn. Now they’re turned around and are leaving. And there’s one of the Varinski vehicles on their tail.’’ Tasya turned back into the room and almost smiled, but not quite. ‘‘They pulled at least five Varinskis after them. I only hope Ann can drive well enough to shake them when it’s time.’’

  ‘‘Ann is very accomplished. If she decides she should learn something, she is like a librarian. She does research, and she takes classes.’’ Konstantine picked up his paper again. ‘‘Since the time she first became Jasha’s woman, she has taken driving classes. Not the kind so the insurance vandals charge you less. No. She learns how to foil a kidnapper, how to drive too fast, how to skid and turn. My daughter Ann—she is neither as sweet nor as helpless as she looks.’’

  ‘‘She does hide her light under a bushel,’’ Tasya said in wonder.

  ‘‘What is this bushel?’’ Konstantine asked.

  Karen shrugged. ‘‘I don’t know what it means, either.’’

  Konstantine rattled the paper. ‘‘Then we will finish. Tasya, you will take Rurik’s place in the planning. Karen, you will take Adrik’s place. You all know what to do?’’

  Everyone nodded.

  ‘‘Then we will begin in nineteen minutes, at precisely ten a.m.’’ He smiled broadly. He had been anticipating this moment for a very long time. ‘‘Zorana? If you will assist me in my preparations?’’

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Zorana pushed Konstantine onto the front porch. ‘‘I don’t like this,’’ she muttered. ‘‘There has to be another way.’’

  ‘‘There are a hundred ways, but this is the best way to start.’’ He kept his attention on the crowd of Varinskis who stood outside the picket fence around his lawn. They watched him, two dozen strong and growing as more and more disobeyed Vadim’s command to remain hidden and wandered out of the woods to watch the show. Dressed in his pajamas and bathrobe, he slumped in his wheelchair, tubes in his arm and up his nose, the ever-present tank of oxygen hooked on behind.

  ‘‘Go play your part,’’ he told Zorana. ‘‘And try to look feeble.’’

  She walked to the railing and waved at the Varinskis.

  They didn’t wave back.

  ‘‘My husband, the great Konstantine, knows who you are and that you’ve been watching us,’’ she called.

  Konstantine called her back. ‘‘Louder.’’

  ‘‘You said to look feeble, so I didn’t want to bellow. It’s not as if I don’t know how,’’ she snapped nervously. ‘‘After all, I have been married to you for thirty-seven years.’’

  ‘‘You are a great comedian.’’ But he didn’t say it loudly; she was under stress, and it would do him no good if she tried to throttle him in front of the whole contingent of Varinskis.

  ‘‘My husband, the great Konstantine, knows who you are and that you’ve been watching us.’’ Zorana did indeed know how to bellow. She proved it now. ‘‘Because of your great skills of observation, you know our sons left us. So my husband wishes to offer you a deal.’’

  No one made a move toward the porch. No one pulled a pistol and aimed.

  Konstantine’s theory was right—they were waiting for instruction from their leader.

  ‘‘My husband, the great Konstantine, wishes to offer himself as a sacrifice for his family.’’ Zorana was getting into her role, gesturing largely, using a stage voice. ‘‘You will take him and do as you wish with him, and in return, you’ll allow us to leave here in peace!’’

  Amusement rippled through the crowd.

  Then someone hushed them, and a voice rose from the back. ‘‘We agree to the deal.’’

  ‘‘You’ll take him in our place, and let us go?’’ Zorana’s voice rose above the quarrels that broke out by the speaker.

  The same voice said, ‘‘What harm could there be?’’ Then, more loudly, ‘‘We do agree.’’

  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.’’

  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?’’

  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.’’

  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.

  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.