Into the Flame (38 page)
The cavalry had arrived.
Chapter Thirty-five
‘‘Watch this.’’ Rurik turned the helicopter sideways and ripped across the valley, moving like a giant scythe, skimming low, sending tigers and Varinskis skidding onto their faces.
‘‘Oh, yeah?’’ Firebird spotted the eagles diving and swirling in the sky. ‘‘Get us close to one of those birds.’’ They reached the other end of the valley, and Rurik pulled sharply up, slowing their airspeed to zero. He dropped the nose and executed an immediate hard rudder turn to place the eagles outside the cockpit. Firebird had removed the clipboard from the dash; she opened the door and sailed it like a Frisbee.
It whipped through the air, rotating like a buzz saw. The metal clip sliced into the eagle’s wing, the impact of the board knocking the bird sideways, then into an uncontrolled dive.
Rurik clapped her on the shoulder. ‘‘You always were the best at moving targets.’’
A shot from below whistled past her ear and buried itself in the ceiling.
‘‘You son of a bitch, I’ll teach you to shoot at my sister.’’ Rurik turned so sharply her door slammed shut. He dumped the nose toward the shooter. The sensation was like going down the first hill on a roller coaster. She had no breath; her heart raced. The Varinski’s cruel face grew closer and closer, his eyes narrowed as he aimed at Rurik. Just in time, Rurik jerked the helicopter level and rudder-turned so quickly, the landing skid hit the Varinski in the chest, knocking him facedown and sending the rifle into the mud.
Rurik circled the helicopter in a spiraling climb as he surveyed the battle scene. ‘‘There’s Papa. Varinskis have got him pinned down.’’
‘‘He’s got guys with him. Protecting him.’’ She watched the camouflage-clad warriors, saw how fearlessly they fought. ‘‘Who are they?’’
‘‘I don’t know, but watch this.’’ Rurik swept down on the attackers and sent them scattering.
‘‘The soldiers have picked up Papa. They’re running for the house.’’ Firebird’s heart pounded. She’d never seen Rurik in his true element—flying hard, taking chances, proving once and for all that he was the great pilot he claimed to be.
Closer to the house, she saw another group fighting a desperate battle, while one man stood apart, holding . . . Oh, God, he was holding a woman, and the woman was hurt. Firebird touched Rurik’s arm. ‘‘Is that Tasya?’’
He’d already seen her. ‘‘Yes.’’
Tasya struggled in the guy’s arms, trying to stand.
‘‘She’s alive,’’ Firebird said.
‘‘She’s going to stay that way.’’ Rurik performed a swirling, diving maneuver so fast and so hard that, for the first time, Firebird closed her eyes.
But they didn’t crash, and she opened her eyes when Rurik said, ‘‘That’ll keep the bastards away until we get you inside.’’ He took the helicopter down and around the house, flying fast enough to blow shingles off the roof. ‘‘They’re scattering. We’re going around again, and I’m going to stop at the back porch and tilt your side down. Jump. Move quickly. Stay low. Firebird—keep living.’’
‘‘You, too.’’ She discarded her helmet, unbuckled her seat belt, and braced herself, one hand on the dash, one hand on the door. ‘‘I’m ready.’’
He headed around the last corner and stopped so suddenly she thought his eyeballs hit his visor. As he tilted the helicopter, she dropped toward the door. Opening it, she slid out like an omelet out of a pan.
She hit the ground hard.
Above her, the helicopter rumbled like thunder and whipped around, pulled pitch, putting her in the tornado of the rotor’s downdraft, then headed up and over the house.
She stayed low and ran toward the porch, up the stairs, to the back door. She hit it hard.
It was locked.
Of course. It would be stupid to leave the door unlocked, like an invitation to marauding Varinskis. She fumbled in her pocket for her key.
A bullet slammed into the trim beside the door.
She jumped back.
Another ripped through the wood siding close to her head.
She backed away again and looked for cover.
Nothing. The Wilders had cleared the furniture off the porch.
Another bullet struck close to her feet, and she jumped.
From out by the horse barn, she heard jeering male laughter, and a heavily accented voice shouted, ‘‘See, boys? I told you she could dance.’’
Another shot sounded—but this time not aimed at her.
A Varinski fell out of the hayloft, smashed into the ground, and didn’t move.
Jasha stepped out of the forest. He was equipped with a semiautomatic rifle and a deadly expression. ‘‘Go on, Firebird; I’ll cover you.’’ He shot the lock off the barn door.
She leaped back to the kitchen door. The key slid into the lock. She opened it, stepped into the kitchen, looked back to wave at Jasha—and saw a falcon diving out of the clear sky, talons aimed for his head.
‘‘Jasha,’’ she shrieked. Pulling the Glock from her belt, she shot it out of the air.
With the butt of his rifle, Jasha smashed it to the ground.
From inside the barn, a volley of shots sounded. He staggered back, blood streaming down his face. ‘‘Go on,’’ he yelled. ‘‘Hurry!’’
She slammed the door, locked it behind her, and hit the floor.
Bullets ripped through the door.
She low-crawled across the kitchen, across the living room, while pictures flashed through her mind.
Jasha. Arrogant, know-it-all big brother Jasha, fighting against impossible odds . . . and dying?
Rurik, going back for Tasya. Firebird knew that he would happily die for his wife.
Adrik . . . where was Adrik? What would he do to keep Karen and his family safe?
And Papa . . .
Would they all die?
She wouldn’t allow it.
Racing up the stairs, she burst into her bedroom. ‘‘Mama!’’ she hollered. ‘‘Mama, it’s me!’’ Grabbing one of Aleksandr’s toys, she aimed at the trapdoor in the ceiling. ‘‘Mama!’’
It slammed open. Zorana looked down, her face white and strained. She tossed a rope ladder into Firebird’s hands.
The window shade was down, but Firebird climbed fast. Bullets penetrated siding and Sheetrock easily, the Varinskis kept up a steady barrage, and any random shot might take her out. And she wanted to live.
She might be a changeling, brought to this family by the devil’s machinations. She might have slept with Douglas Black, a despicable traitor, and helped by giving him the information that had led to this assault.
But she had the fourth icon in her possession.
She would end this pact. She would end it now. She owed her family for their love and kindness.
She owed the devil, too. She owed him his downfall, for he had ruined her life.
She flung herself onto the floor of the attic.
Zorana shut the trapdoor and locked it.
The attic was stuffy, the ceiling low, the window dormers deep. Konstantine had had the walls reinforced, so bullets could not penetrate. He’d stashed food and water, enough to support a short stay. There was a bed and a crib, a chair and a white-painted table. Zorana’s box of treasures was on the floor and open, and Aleksandr sat among the stones, one set at each corner of the compass—south was blue sky, north was black night, west was red flame, and east was white purity.
Perhaps Zorana had set the stones around him in the hope of protecting him from evil. But perhaps . . . he had done it out of instinct.
He was, after all, Zorana’s grandson by her youngest boy, Douglas.
Aleksandr’s chubby face lit up when he saw Firebird, and he leaped to his feet. ‘‘Mama! Mama, Aleksandr missed you!’’
‘‘I missed you, too, sweetheart.’’ Firebird sat up and caught him when he ran into her arms. ‘‘My baby.’’
‘‘
My
baby.’’ Zorana sat down and wrapped Firebird and Aleksandr in her embrace.
My
baby.’’ Zorana sat down and wrapped Firebird and Aleksandr in her embrace.
Never mind that Firebird wasn’t Zorana’s birth daughter; here with Zorana she was safe, she was loved . . . and Aleksandr extended their magic circle.
Zorana knew . . . somehow she knew what was in Firebird’s mind, or maybe it was in her mind, too, for she said, ‘‘It’s not blood that builds the bonds of love. It’s the hours spent in the middle of the night with my sick baby daughter, the time driving her to gymnastics, the pride when she got her scholarship, the joy of watching my first grandchild come into the world, the tears we cried when we watched
It’s a Wonderful Life
.’’
It’s a Wonderful Life
.’’
Firebird wept now. ‘‘Don’t forget
Ghost
.’’
Ghost
.’’
‘‘And
Titanic
.’’ Zorana wept, too.
Titanic
.’’ Zorana wept, too.
‘‘While the guys snickered.’’
‘‘You have given me so much, and I wish—’’ Zorana stopped and blinked. ‘‘
Dorogoi
, what happened to your hair?’’
Dorogoi
, what happened to your hair?’’
Firebird’s tears became laughter. ‘‘It’s a long story.’’
Aleksandr tugged at Firebird’s neck and pointed to the window. ‘‘Mama, Gramma watches.’’
Recalled to the now, the two women listened. The helicopter roared overhead, bullets flew, and even worse, beneath the sounds of modern battle, they heard the growl of beasts and the victorious shrieks of hunting birds.
Zorana took Firebird by the shoulders and shook her. ‘‘The icon.’’
‘‘Yes.’’ Firebird pulled it from between her breasts.
‘‘That’s my girl. The perfect spot.’’ Zorana gestured to the table in the middle of the room. She had laid a rich red cloth over the top, for red was the holy color of the Russians. On the cloth she had placed the three icons.
Ann had found the first one. In it, the Virgin Mary held the infant Jesus, while Joseph stood at her right hand.
On the icon that Tasya had found, the Madonna’s face was pale and still, her dark eyes large and sorrowful,and a tear gathered on her cheek. For in her lap, this Madonna held the crucified Jesus.
On Karen’s icon, the painter had portrayed Mary as a young girl, a girl who foresaw her destiny and that of her son. Her sad, dark, knowing eyes gazed at them, reminding them that she had given her son to save the world.
Firebird put the fourth icon in the place left for it, then hoisted Aleksandr up on her hip.
The three of them stared with awe into the dark eyes of the Madonna. The icons were old, the painting stylized, yet the pigment had been fired onto the tile, and the colors glowed as if they were new. This time, the artist had painted her ascending to heaven.
Of course. The fourth icon would be the holiest of all.
There they were, four visions of the Virgin Mary. Once, a thousand years ago, they had each been part of one icon, the icon of the Varinski family. The first Konstantine had murdered his mother for it. The devil himself had slashed it with his flaming sword and cast the Madonnas to the four corners of the earth.
Now the icons waited to be reunited.
‘‘Do it, Mama,’’ Firebird whispered. ‘‘Hurry.’’
Zorana pushed the icons together—and they waited for a miracle to happen.
Chapter Thirty-six
Vadim huddled behind a pile of logs on the edge of the battlefield, nursing one hell of a headache.
The shot that had struck him had sliced through his scalp. If he were anything but a Varinski, he’d be dead. As it was, the wound was rapidly healing, for Varinski blood was strong and full of evil magic.
He could feel that blood bubbling with the rage that heated him.
His men had disobeyed him, taken whatever bait Konstantine had dangled before them, and gone into battle early. Many were dead now, killed by primitive weapons, and Vadim, who had left the
Ukraine
with a surplus of Varinskis, was now down to a precious few.
Ukraine
with a surplus of Varinskis, was now down to a precious few.
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