Into the Flame

  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?’’

  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.

  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.’’

  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.’’

  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 tw
enty-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.’’

  ‘‘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.’’

  ‘‘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.

  The flames parted as she walked, then closed in behind her. The walls crumpled behind her, yet she strode steadily toward the place where the front door had been, disappearing when the inferno flared high, appearing again when it died back.

  ‘‘Is it Firebird?’’ Zorana asked in a trembling voice.

  ‘‘Impossible,’’ Rurik said.

  ‘‘Not impossible. We all see her.’’ Doug started toward the house, toward her.

  Adrik grabbed him. ‘‘It’s a trick of the devil.’’

  Doug turned his head and looked into Adrik’s eyes. ‘‘If it were your love, wouldn’t you go to her?’’

  Adrik’s grip loosened.

  Doug walked forward, pacing toward the illusion— if she was an illusion—as she walked out of one fire-storm in the house and into another on the porch.

  Zorana tried to follow, but Konstantine held her back. ‘‘Leave him. It’s right that he take the chance, and if it is . . . if it is our Firebird, it’s right that he be there first.’’

  Zorana curled her fingers into the lapel of Konstantine’s robe. ‘‘Yes. You’re right.’’ But she trembled with the need to go to her daughter, to her grandson, and in a quiet voice, she recited the end of the vision. ‘‘ ‘The beloved of the family will be broken by treachery . . . and leap into the fire.’ ’’ She looked up at Konstantine. ‘‘It is Douglas’s treachery of which the prophecy speaks.’’

  ‘‘Then it’s up to him to make it right,’’ Konstantine said.

  The heat from the fire had blackened the winter-blighted lawn. Doug felt the crunch as the blades fractured beneath his feet. He heard the fire as it greedily licked the wooden structure. He advanced on the figure in the flames, moving on the fire as if it weren’t hot, weren’t cruel, weren’t deadly.

  The figure held up her hand to halt him.

  He stopped, held in place by her wishes.

  And Firebird stepped off the porch and into the world.

  Flames still engulfed her.

  He rushed toward her, ready to put them out.

  Again she gestured, and it was as if he’d slammed into a wall.

  Moving with extreme deliberation, she flicked the flames off one hand. Then the other.

  They fell into the grass, sizzled, and vanished.

  She brushed the flames off one shoulder; then, with great care, she lifted the blanket and shook the fire away. She wiped her face, her hair. . . . Gradually, Firebird emerged from the flames, whole and clean, glorious and beautiful. She walked toward him.

  The bundle on her shoulder stirred, tossed aside the blanket, lifted his head. . . .

  Doug couldn’t stand still anymore. He ran forward, grabbed them in his arms, held them as hard as he could. They didn’t vanish, and he shook as he hugged them. ‘‘Are you real? Because if you’re not, I don’t care. I thought you were dead, and I can’t stand to live in a world without you.’’

  She pushed away and frowned at him. ‘‘Of course I’m real.’’ She looked him over. ‘‘You look a little worse for wear. What did they do to you?’’

  He brushed off her concern. ‘‘Are you really real?’’

  ‘‘Did you get hit on the head? Because you’re being weird.’’

  Okay. She sounded real. She sounded exasperated.

  He took a deep, relieved breath and felt the heavy, horrible burden of fear and anguish lift from his soul.

  Firebird was alive. She had walked through a fire so intense and hungry no mere human could survive. Yes, it was impossible, but even now, he could feel the power humming through Firebird, exerting a force field that kept them safe.

  The little boy had had enough of being ignored. ‘‘Are you my daddy?’’ he demanded.

  ‘‘Yes. I am your daddy.’’ Doug picked them both up, held them in his arms. ‘‘And I’m taking you away.’’

  ‘‘Daddy.’’ Aleksandr pointed at the Wilders, still standing clustered together. ‘‘Aleksandr go there!’’

  ‘‘Right.’’ Doug walked toward them. Toward the women, wiping tears off their cheeks, toward the men, straining as if they could barely bear to stand and wait.

  He reached the fence, walked through the gate— and it was as if the essence that had been holding the house together dissolved. The structure disintegrated with a roar, a mighty conflagration making its last report.

  Doug didn’t worry, didn’t run.

  But the house’s collapse broke the family’s will. They rushed forward to surround Douglas, Firebird, and Aleksandr.

  ‘‘Hurry!’’ Jasha herded them away from the danger.

  ‘‘You’re safe.’’ Zorana took Firebird’s hand, stroked Aleksandr’s head, and cried happily, ‘‘You’re safe.’’

  ‘‘H-how?’’ Adrik stammered. ‘‘Little sister, how did you do that?’’

  Adrik didn’t seem the kind of guy who stammered.

  ‘‘I don’t know how I did it.’’ Firebird kissed her son’s head.

  Konstantine held Zorana’s other hand and led her, led them all, down the road.

  ‘‘You have to tell us more than that.’’ Zorana’s voice was ragged with emotion and hoarse with smoke.

  ‘‘I was panicked.’’ Firebird shrugged. ‘‘Of course. I was sure Aleksandr and I were going to die. I thought about jumping out the window—I thought we might survive, and if not, it would be a better way to go.’’

  Doug tightened his arms around her, his chest tight with delayed fear and anguish.

  For a moment, only a moment, Firebird leaned her head against his chest. Then she straightened. ‘‘I was holding Aleksandr when I fell through the floor. Actually, the boards sort of tilted me like a teeter-totter, and I landed very softly right in the middle of the fire. The flames were burning everything except around me. So I told Aleksandr we were going to get out of there. I thought we were dead, that we didn’t have a chance, but as we moved, a cocoon of fire moved with us. It was warm, but it didn’t burn. Aleksandr kept talking to me from under the blanket, so I knew he was all right. And I kept walking.’’ She fell silent as if, even now, she wasn’t quite of this world. br />
  Doug couldn’t help himself. He shook her a little, as if reminding her that he was there.

  She glanced up, focused on his face, and smiled as if the sight of him brought her back to earth.

  ‘‘Go on,’’ Konstantine encouraged.

  ‘‘Yes, Papa. I wouldn’t want to leave my brothers frustrated because they didn’t know the whole story.’’ She drolly looked from brother to brother.

  ‘‘Then hurry up,’’ Jasha said.

  She took a few quick breaths, as if still surprised that she could. ‘‘The fire seemed to be doing what I wanted, holding the house together until I could leave. I kept walking. Out of my bedroom, into the hall, down the stairs . . . I wasn’t afraid. The flames caressed me. The fire was . . . is . . . my friend. It would never hurt me.’’

  ‘‘The fire protected you from something worse,’’ Doug said abruptly.

  ‘‘That’s right,’’ she said in surprise. ‘‘How did you know?’

  ‘‘It kept you alive and out of the hands of the devil.’’ Doug stared uneasily toward the woods. He remembered that man with the blue-glowing eyes, and hoped the guy ran far away, because . . . because Doug wanted never to see him again. He didn’t even want to know for sure who he was.

  As they rounded the curve that would hide the valley from their eyes, she tried to turn and look. ‘‘No, ruyshka. Let us not watch the end. Let us look to the future, instead.’’

  She put her head against his chest and let him lead her.

  The old man was wise. No one looked back. No one wanted to stay and watch the house turn to cinders, look out over the ruined vines, see the bodies of the dead Varinskis and the remains of the Romany soldiers killed in battle.

  When they had rounded the corner and the valley was out of sight, they stopped.

  Rurik put Tasya down on a log and seated himself beside her, holding her as she leaned on him. ‘‘The Rom are sending an ambulance,’’ he told her.

  She nodded, her mouth tightening with pain.

  ‘‘Is Ann all right?’’ Karen asked.

  Jasha pulled the phone away from his ear, and the grim-faced warrior became a fond husband. ‘‘She’s fine. No problems, no Varinskis, and she did it! She transferred the funds out of their accounts and into a charitable trust to be administered by . . . her.’’