Into the Flame (7 page)
More than anything, that informed Firebird how truly angry he was. That and his clenched fists. But also he was concerned about his wife, and hurt that Firebird had been so cruel. He looked between the corridor where Zorana had disappeared, and Firebird, sitting on the floor clutching her little boy, and his lids sagged over his troubled brown eyes.
‘‘All right,’’ she mumbled. ‘‘I’m a jerk.’’
‘‘That’s for sure,’’ Rurik said.
Maybe these people weren’t her family, but she loved them. She loved Zorana.
A big, hot tear spilled onto her cheek.
Konstantine, Jasha, Adrik, and the strange guy all glared at Rurik.
‘‘Nice job,’’ Adrik snapped.
‘‘Like you all weren’t thinking the same thing.’’ Rurik looked beleaguered.
‘‘Yeah, but we’re smart enough not to say it,’’ Jasha said.
‘‘I didn’t know she’d cry,’’ Rurik said.
‘‘She always cries,’’ Adrik said.
‘‘How would you know? You haven’t been around for seventeen years. And I do not!’’ Firebird tried to suck back the tears, which had the unfortunate side effect of making her sob and hiccup at the same time.
Aleksandr patted her cheek and glared around the room. ‘‘Stop. Mean boys!’’
‘‘Enough.’’ Konstantine snapped his fingers at his sons, then gestured at Ann and Tasya.
Her sisters-in-law swooped in, kneeling beside Firebird.
‘‘Don’t pay any attention to that idiot man of mine.’’ Tasya had electric blue eyes, a dark head of curly hair, and a sharp brain that matched Rurik’s. Passing Firebird a tissue, she said, ‘‘Here, blow your nose.’’
Firebird blew. ‘‘I yelled at Mama.’’
‘‘The drugs . . . and those people . . . Zorana didn’t know or she would never have . . .’’ Ann hesitated.
‘‘Accepted me as hers? Ever stopped searching for her real baby?’’ Now that Firebird’s tears had started, she couldn’t stop. She hugged Aleksandr.
He squirmed and protested, ‘‘Mama, don’t squish!’’
‘‘Mama’s sorry.’’ Firebird had yelled at Zorana, had hurt her son, all because she had learned the truth and hated it.
‘‘Aleksandr.’’ The lady on the couch patted the seat beside her. ‘‘Bring your book and come and sit with me.’’
Aleksandr looked at his mother. ‘‘Can I go sit with Karen?’’
Ann answered her question before she could ask. ‘‘That’s Adrik’s wife. They got married last week.’’
Tasya indicated the gruff-looking older man who stood by the kitchen door, looking panicked by the overflowing emotions. ‘‘That’s Karen’s father. There was a battle with the Varinskis, and he helped.’’
‘‘I was only gone one day.’’ Firebird gazed at her long-lost brother, at his new wife. If things were normal, she would have spent the evening asking about his life, listening to his stories, meeting the people he’d brought home with him—his new wife and new father-in-law.
Distantly, she was ashamed for ruining Adrik’s homecoming. But today . . . today she thought that things would never again be normal.
‘‘Mama!’’ Aleksandr tugged at her shirt. ‘‘I want to go see Karen.’’
‘‘Go on.’’ She gave him a boost and watched him as he ran across the room. ‘‘He crawled at six months,’’ she murmured. ‘‘He walked at nine months. He talked early. He puts together puzzles. He builds with blocks. He’s so smart. . . .’’
‘‘We all love him.’’ Tasya fumbled for the right thing to say. ‘‘He’s still the only baby in the family.’’
Firebird laughed, a brief, slightly hysterical laugh.
The bathroom door opened and Zorana came out, her eyes red and damp.
Firebird scrambled to her feet and stood awkwardly. ‘‘Mama, I’m sorry.’’
Zorana hurried toward her.
They met in the middle of the living room.
‘‘I know. I’m sorry, too.’’ With all her strength, Zorana hugged Firebird.
Firebird hugged her back, and realized how great was the difference between them.
Zorana was exotic, five-one, and wiry, with black hair, and eyes so dark they looked black. Her skin was a beautiful, clear brown, tolerant of the sun and proof of her Romany heritage.
Firebird was five-four, blond and blue-eyed, with fair skin that required the constant application of sunscreen. Her heritage was probably Irish or English or German. Not Russian, and not Romany.
Zorana said fiercely, ‘‘When you first looked at me, you captured my heart, and I don’t care what that stupid
Seattle
doctor said. You are mine. My child. Forever.’’
Seattle
doctor said. You are mine. My child. Forever.’’
All around the Wilders’ cramped living room, Firebird’s family sat or stood, sniffed or tried to smile or glared in impotent fury as they realized how they’d been betrayed by people they trusted. Firebird’s three brothers, Jasha, Rurik and Adrik. Her three sisters-in-law, Ann, Tasya, and Karen. Karen’s father. And Firebird’s parents. Oh, God, her parents. She loved them all so much—and she was nothing to them.
Only her son was of her blood. Only Aleksandr, who sat tucked beside Karen, trusting because he’d never met anyone who wished him ill.
‘‘You are the best mother anyone could ever have,’’ Firebird told Zorana, and in a world full of sudden uncertainties, that, at least, was true.
‘‘Too bad she named you for a car.’’ Adrik had been gone far too long, yet he hadn’t forgotten the family joke.
‘‘No, you impudent boy. We named her after the legend of the bird with such brilliant plumage a single feather would light up the room. We knew our daughter would be like that.’’ Konstantine, bound to his recliner by the terrible weakness generated by his illness, held out his arms to Firebrand and Zorana. ‘‘And so she is.’’
Zorana took Firebird’s hand and went to him. Taking care not to disturb the IV line that ran into his arm, Zorana snuggled beside him.
Right now, Firebird didn’t feel much like a hundred-watt lightbulb. She felt like a woman who had spent the day in
Seattle
giving blood and skin samples in the hopes of helping the doctors discover some link to her father’s mysterious disease, and had instead discovered she was not the person she’d always thought she was. But her father—or rather, the man she’d always believed was her father—would soon struggle to his feet if she didn’t respond, so she knelt by the recliner.
Seattle
giving blood and skin samples in the hopes of helping the doctors discover some link to her father’s mysterious disease, and had instead discovered she was not the person she’d always thought she was. But her father—or rather, the man she’d always believed was her father—would soon struggle to his feet if she didn’t respond, so she knelt by the recliner.
He cupped her face.
Zorana took her hand.
‘‘You’re our little girl,’’ he said. ‘‘The pride of my heart, and now more special to me than ever.’’
Firebird knew he meant it, and—oh, God!—how she treasured that sentiment now!
Bending her head, she put it against his shoulder and closed her eyes, for one moment allowing herself to sink into the familiar safety of her parents’ affection.
Then she sat back and smiled, and pretended nothing had changed, when in fact her whole world had tilted on its axis. ‘‘Enough excitement and angst for one evening. It’s past Aleksandr’s bedtime.’’
‘‘No!’’ Aleksandr protested.
No matter how tired he was, he always protested. He wanted to be with his family, part of the action, playing, singing, stacking blocks. Some people probablythought he was spoiled; the Wilder family called him well loved.
Firebird scooped him up and carried him around so he could kiss everyone. Every aunt, every uncle, took extra care with him, showing their affection to the child, and thus to her. Konstantine reached up his arms for Aleksandr and held him close, rubbing his stubbled cheek against Aleksandr’s hair and breathing in his essence. ‘‘I would have sworn he was going to be a wolf,’’ he murmured.
The sentiment stabbed Firebird through the heart.
Zorana kissed Aleksandr, and hugged him as if she couldn’t bear to let him go. Firebird knew it was more than mere sentiment; Zorana was thinking of the son who’d been stolen from her.
Firebird carried him upstairs to the bedroom she shared with her son.
The house was small and old, with acoustics that let everything echo through the corridors.
So Firebird paused in the doorway, waited and listened—and heard Zorana’s low, broken voice say, ‘‘Where is my baby? What did they do with my baby?’’
Chapter Five
Zorana’s plaintive question haunted Firebird, but as she tucked her son into his pajamas, wrapped him in his blanket, and nestled Bernie, the soft yellow duck with the bright orange bill, in beside him, she understood.
How could she not? When Aleksandr was born, she had looked him over. She had thought he was skinny, with long toes and broad shoulders that had given her trouble during the birth, but he was hers, her son, and a fierce tide of protectiveness had risen in her. At that moment, she knew without a qualm that she would kill to protect him.
Now Zorana had discovered her baby, the one she’d given birth to twenty-three years and eight months ago, had been stolen, and she needed to know where he was.
As Firebird looked at her son, sleeping with his hand under his cheek, she knew she would feel exactly the same way.
The trouble was, knowing didn’t make the sting of rejection any less painful.
She should wonder about her birth parents, she supposed, but right now, she didn’t care about people she’d never met. She cared only about the family she knew, the battle they faced against evil, and whether she could help them . . . or whether she was nothing, superfluous, a burden.
She couldn’t go back downstairs. She was tired, feeling sorry for herself, and embarrassed for feeling sorry for herself, because she wasn’t the only one hurting here. She ought to go to bed, but worry buzzed in her mind like a swarm of bees. So she changed into a tough, warm outfit—jeans, sweatshirt, jacket, boots. Going to the window, she raised it, leaned out, and grabbed the branch of the huge tree that grew so conveniently close.
In her life, she’d been up and down it dozens of times—to run through the forest, or go to the movies, or kiss a boyfriend. But not recently. Single motherhood had had the effect of keeping her close to home. Her family thought it was because she took her responsibilities to her son seriously, and that was true.
But she also feared that if she wandered very far, Aleksandr’s father would find her. Find them. And the consequences of that were too dreadful to contemplate.
Yet now . . . she was contemplating those consequences.
The tree was hard, frozen in the grip of a
Washington
mountain winter. The bark was icy beneath her bare hands. The broad branches supported her as she slid toward the ground, and above her, the black night sky glinted with glittering star chips. She landed on her feet and took a long, deep breath of air, her first since the doctor had broken the news.
Washington
mountain winter. The bark was icy beneath her bare hands. The broad branches supported her as she slid toward the ground, and above her, the black night sky glinted with glittering star chips. She landed on her feet and took a long, deep breath of air, her first since the doctor had broken the news.
Someone had traded the Wilder boy for her. For a changeling, an infant who had come from God knew where.
Firebird walked around the house, crunching the frozen grass beneath her boots. Quietly, she opened the front gate and strolled down the path toward the vines. Wrapping her arms around herself, she stood looking across the shadowed valley deep in the Cascades.
It stretched long and narrow between two mountains, a fertile plain her father and mother had found and bought for almost nothing, because a series of owners had tried to grow apples and tulips and vegetables—and failed. The soil was rich, but the weather was constantly overcast and wet, with too little sunshine for anything but stunted plants and mildewed fruit.
The people in the nearby soggy hamlet of Blythe had sniggered about the foolish Russian immigrants.
They didn’t snigger now.
Konstantine had planted wine grapes. Zorana had planted a vegetable garden and a small orchard. And as if they’d brought the sunshine, the weather patterns changed. The valley—and Blythe—seemed protected by a clear bubble that let in the sunshine and just the right amount of rain.
By the time Firebird was born, the Wilders had established themselves in the community. All her life, this valley had been her home, and when she got pregnant, it had become her refuge.
Now the clear air, the cold temperatures, the relentless familiarity made her face the fact she had avoided all day long.
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