Into the Flame (37 page)

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Authors: Christina Dodd

Tags: #paranormal romance

BOOK: Into the Flame
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She high-fived him. ‘‘Victory. Now we can wipe them out. We’ve won!’’
‘‘Not quite.’’ Konstantine’s sharp eyes picked out the shape of a limousine as it cruised up the winding drive, heard the purr of its motor.
No, not just one limousine. Two. When the lead car came around the last corner, the driver slammed on the brakes. The other screeched to a halt behind it.
‘‘What the hell?’’ Vadim sat up straight and stared at the destruction before him—destruction brought upon his troops by a family of grape farmers. He stared at his men facedown in the mud, at the still-shuddering logs, at Varinski bodies tossed among them like so many cords of wood . . . at the old-fashioned, American-style house, still pristine in the middle of destruction, a symbol of the Wilders and their success.
His men, his bodyguards, sat in awe.
Konstantine had done this. With inferior weapons wielded by his sons and their women, the great Konstantine had reinforced his legend—and made a fool of Vadim.
‘‘Wow.’’ The weak and ignorant American driver craned his neck to see, then picked up his phone. ‘‘I have to call this in. Someone really kicked ass here.’’
Cold fury coiled in Vadim’s belly. Pulling his pistol, he shot the driver.
His head exploded. The windshield shattered. Blood splattered the glass, the wheel, the ceiling.
Vadim turned to his men.
Now he had their attention.
In the soft tone he employed like a velvet whip, he said, ‘‘Kill them all. Raze the valley. Burn the house. Burn the forest. Don’t leave a single creature alive.’’
Four men, tall, well built, dressed in dark suits, leaped out of the blood-spattered limousine in the lead. Another six piled out of the second limo.
One man, younger than the others, stepped out in front. His rage was palpable—and even from across the valley, it was intimidating.
This youth had power. Konstantine could feel it.
‘‘Vadim!’’ The call went up from the human Varinskis still on their feet. They hurried toward him, leaping logs and slipping in the mud. The wolves growled, and the great birds of prey swooped and screamed.
Vadim held up his hand.
They stopped.
He spoke, a single word, inaudible at such a distance.
The Varinskis shrank back.
He spoke again, and they cheered.
Konstantine knew what was coming.
The men of Vadim’s bodyguard shimmered in the sunlight; then, one by one, they changed. Six became tigers, large, tawny, ruthless, led by cruel instinct and a cat’s love of the hunt.
They prowled forward, heads down, heading across the field of battle and toward the Wilder house.
There his wife and grandson waited with the three icons.
Vadim, the Varinskis, and the devil himself intended to finish them.
Two of Vadim’s men took to the air as eagles, black and white, with wings that spanned seven feet. They soared high, their black eyes searching for their prey—for him, for Tasya, for Karen, alone on the other side of the valley.
‘‘Come.’’ Konstantine tugged at Tasya. ‘‘Let us get into position.’’
Yet no matter how strong his will, he had no
hurry
left in him. As he stumbled along the tree line, he had to keep his gaze on his feet, for every step was a challenge, made greater by the pine needles that slipped out from under his feet, the brush, the stones, the patches of old, dirty snow.
Tasya helped him, encouraged him, but their progress was painfully slow.
‘‘You must go on without me. You must continue fighting.’’ He pulled his arm from hers.
‘‘Promise me you’ll keep walking.’’ Her tenacity reminded him of an English bulldog, yet here in the forest, with the tall trees surrounding them and danger all around, she looked so fragile, so young.
‘‘I promise.’’ He pushed her away from him.
High above, he heard the telling scream of an eagle.
He glanced at the two men by the limo.
One reached inside the open door and brought out one rifle, then another.
Vadim lifted the rifle and pointed it toward Konstantine.
‘‘Down!’’ He flung himself toward Tasya.
He heard the shot.
Tasya screamed, twisted, and hit the ground. She held her thigh and rolled in agony. Blood pumped from between her fingers, turning them crimson.
‘‘No!’’ They were supposed to kill
him
. He crawled toward her. ‘‘No, daughter. No!’’ He ripped the tie out of his bathrobe and tied it above the wound, tried to pick her up and head toward the house.
No.
No!
It couldn’t end this way, with his failure to save Tasya’s life.
As if that were the signal they’d been waiting for, seven men moved out of the woods, camouflage paint on their faces, and surrounded Tasya and Konstantine. They held their rifles with expert ease, and considered Konstantine and Tasya with cool, dark eyes.
Varinskis. More Varinskis.
Damn them.
They would finish Tasya. They would kill him. He closed his eyes, prepared for the bullet that would end his life. He took his final breath . . . and identified the subtle scent of their bodies.
His eyes popped open. ‘‘You are Rom. Gypsies!’’
The leader was young, strong, dark-haired, a male version of Zorana in her youth, with eyes of black steel. ‘‘Very good, Konstantine.’’ Taking Konstantine’s hand, he helped him to his feet and, with notable insouciance, said, ‘‘I’m Prokhor.’’
‘‘What are you doing here?’’ Konstantine asked.
Turning to one of his soldiers, Prokhor said, ‘‘Stop Tasya’s bleeding; then let’s get them to the house.’’
‘‘How do you know her name?’’ Konstantine asked.
‘‘We’ve watched you for a long time. We know everyone in your family,’’ Prokhor said.
The medic dropped to his knees beside Tasya. He gave her morphine, and while he cleaned her wound, Konstantine asked Prokhor, ‘‘
Why
do you know us?’’
‘‘Until the icons are united, we protect you.’’
‘‘Why?’’ When Konstantine had stolen Zorana, her tribe had sworn vengeance. What had changed?
Prokhor bared his strong, white teeth. ‘‘We will have no luck, enjoy no prosperity, until we fulfill our destiny. And that destiny is to protect you and yours so you can unite those icons!’’
‘‘How did you
know
your destiny?’’
‘‘We had a convocation of the Rom and asked for knowledge. It was given.’’ Prokhor shuddered.
Konstantine shuddered, too. He’d seen the devil at work in the world. He’d seen his beloved wife seized by a vision. He’d learned to dread the evidence of the otherworld. He supposed it was a sign of age, but . . . he wanted peace. He wanted to tend his crops, love his wife, bounce his grandchildren on his knee, advise his sons, annoy his daughters.
He stroked Tasya’s sweaty forehead. She was quiet now; the morphine had done its work, and the medic had almost completed the field dressing.
Prokhor placed his rifle on his shoulder, pointed it across the valley, and squeezed off a shot.
It was a distance of more than half a mile, yet Vadim spun and fell. Like a roach, he crawled and scurried toward the protection of the limo, his bodyguard on his heels.
‘‘Missed,’’ the leader said laconically.
But Konstantine recognized a good sniper at work. ‘‘You hurt him.’’
Another shot slammed Vadim’s bodyguard against the car—that shot hadn’t come from this side of the valley.
‘‘We’ve got three men on the other side.’’ Prokhor lifted his walkie-talkie and listened to the report. ‘‘They’ve got Karen safe.’’
Konstantine sighed in relief.
‘‘Hurry,’’ one of the other men said to the medic. ‘‘Vadim’s bodyguards are on their way.’’
The tigers sprang into a run, loping across the valley. Above them, the eagles circled and screamed encouragement. Other Varinskis joined in the hunt, changing to wolves, to hawks, to beasts more dreadful than any nightmare on earth.
One Rom lifted Tasya in his arms. Another broad-shouldered youth hefted Konstantine over his shoulder. The whole group sprinted forward.
Branches slapped at them. They swerved and dodged, jumped a trickling creek, slid in an icy patch deep in the shade.
As Konstantine bounced against the hard shoulder, he struggled to catch his breath, to view the action below.
The tigers were running at an angle, intending to cut them off before they reached the house.
‘‘Go down into the valley. It’s our only chance. We’ll hold them,’’ Prokhor shouted, and he and two of his men dropped to one knee and lifted their rifles to their shoulders.
The others ran on, cutting a path toward the valley floor and an easier course.
Behind them, Prokhor pulled the trigger, and a tiger roared with pain.
Return fire blasted through the trees.
Konstantine heard the grunt of a man fatally wounded. Lifting his head, he looked back and caught a glimpse of the Romany scrambling around their fallen.
The runners broke out of the trees.
The tigers were close enough for Konstantine to see their whiskers and their smiling, sharp teeth. An eagle dove out of the air, talons out, beak open. ‘‘Put me down,’’ Konstantine said. ‘‘We’ve got to fight!’’
The Rom skidded to a halt and let Konstantine slide off his shoulder.
‘‘Go on,’’ Konstantine shouted at the man who held Tasya. ‘‘Take her in.’’
Her bearer dashed toward the house, two Rom at his heels.
Two of the tigers peeled off after them.
Two more furious, muddy, still-human Varinskis joined in the chase. One lifted his weapon and shot.
A tiger turned on him and snarled.
‘‘What happened?’’ one of the Rom asked as he settled their rifles on their shoulders.
‘‘Varinskis enjoy the close-in kill.’’ Konstantine pulled his pistol and pointed at the tigers racing toward them. ‘‘Especially now, when they face defeat. They want to rend her limb from limb, eat her while she still lives, use the horror to immobilize us.’’
The three Rom edged away from Konstantine. They had remembered who—and what—he was.
One Rom squeezed off a shot, blowing a hole between the tiger’s ears.
The tiger stopped, shook its head, then fixed its yellow eyes on them and snarled.
‘‘Keep shooting,’’ Konstantine commanded. ‘‘Don’t stop.’’
These Rom would die. He would die. But perhaps Tasya would live. Perhaps.
Then, across the valley, an explosion rocked the ground.
The battle stopped.
Konstantine looked in time to see debris flying from the remains of the first limousine, then to see the second rise like a living being and burst into a million pieces.
Behind, on the road, Jackson Sonnet sat on a motorcycle, waving his fist in victory.
Three wolves who were running to join the assault on Tasya turned and sprinted toward him.
He shot one with his 30-06 hunting rifle. The wolf struggled to get up, but its leg was shattered.
Jackson
holstered the rifle, revved his motorcycle, and raced back down the road.
The tigers returned to their attack on Konstantine and the Rom, and their eyes glowed red with fury.
Then, like a flying miracle, a black-and-white, silver-and-red helicopter swooped over the mountain, down the slope, and into the valley.

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