‘‘And I love him.’’
Zorana’s heart squeezed. The pain of loss, the knowledge that he had died so far away, those things were always there. But Karen would tell them about Adrik, fill in the gaps from so many lost years, and that would help Zorana’s anguish. She really hoped it would help.
Karen looked so fragile, as if she could blow away in the brisk winter breeze.
Zorana rose. ‘‘What are you boys doing, letting her linger in the cold? Take her inside. Your papa will want to meet her at once. Go on. Scoot!’’
Rather than pushing the wheelchair across the grass, they picked it up and headed toward the porch. A handicapped ramp had been installed, a necessity as Konstantine grew ever weaker.
An older man, a man of steel gray hair and steel blue eyes, followed them. He stopped beside her. ‘‘I’m Jackson Sonnet. I’m Karen’s father. I hope it’s all right, but I’m going to impose.’’
He looked so uneasy and sounded so gruff, as if he half expected her to kick him into the vines. So she hugged him, because, as Firebird always said, Zorana had no respect for personal space. ‘‘Please go in, Mr. Sonnet. A guest is a blessing for my soul, and the father of Adrik’s woman . . . that is a double blessing.’’
Another man, young, tall, handsome, stepped out of the van.
She glanced at him and smiled welcomingly, thinking he must be Karen’s brother. Except that he didn’t look like Karen’s brother.
Instead he was tall, like her sons. His hair was dark. He had a cast on one arm. He was thin, wiry, with a tanned, scarred face that had seen dissipation and suffering. His green-and-gold eyes were a peculiar shade she’d seen only once before in her life . . . in a baby she’d held in her arms.
Her heart stopped beating.
‘‘Mama?’’ The man raised his eyebrows. He spoke hesitantly, as if unsure of her response.
‘‘Adrik? Adrik?’’ She heard her own voice. It was loud, louder than she ever was, and Konstantine had the keen hearing of a gray wolf. She clapped her hands over her mouth, then slowly peeled them away. She whispered, ‘‘Adrik?’’
‘‘It’s me, Mama.’’ He smiled, the most beautiful smile she’d ever seen. ‘‘I’ve come home.’’
The last time she had seen him, he’d been a gangly boy. Now he was a man, lashed by experiences that had molded him, lifted him, broken him, and remade him. She didn’t know him now, and at the same time . . . he was her boy, her little boy.
She flew toward him, arms outstretched.
He caught her, picked her up, hugged her so hard her bones cracked. ‘‘Mama.’’ His voice broke. ‘‘Mama.’’
‘‘My beautiful boy.’’ Overcome with joy, she hugged his neck. Hugged and hugged, as if she could never let him go. This was the baby she had carried in her womb, the boy whose knees she had bandaged, the young man who had grown tall on her cooking, who had hugged her before his first date and told her he would always love her best. . . .
Abruptly enraged, she leaned back, took his shoulders in her hands, and shook him as hard as she could. ‘‘Where have you been, you stupid . . . I have worried and cried. Where have you been? Why didn’t you call? Or write?’’
‘‘You didn’t want to hear from me.’’ He wore guilt on his face, and hard-won wisdom, and such sadness.
‘‘Of course I wanted to hear from you, you big, stupid . . .’’ She hugged him again. ‘‘Men are so stupid. You are so stupid. Like your brothers. And your father. Did you have to be such a man?’’
He kissed her and set her down. ‘‘I guess.’’
She turned and faced the porch. Her other boys stood with Karen and Jackson, watching and grinning. Tasya and Ann stood by the windows, looking out and crying.
The boys started to applaud and hoot, and Zorana hushed them. ‘‘Your father’s sleeping in the living room. If he looks out . . .’’ Remembering her shriek, she said, ‘‘In fact . . .’’ and started for the house.
Too late.
The door slammed open.
Konstantine Wilder stepped out on the porch.
The stent was still in his arm, thank heavens, but he’d stripped the tubes away. For the first time in over a month he was on his feet, thin, worn with pain, his face ablaze with some emotion she didn’t dare guess.
Jasha and Rurik rushed to his side, took his arms.
He gestured them to help him down the stairs.
They didn’t argue. No one argued with Konstantine when he looked like that, like the lead wolf in a fury.
They helped him down the stairs, step after painful step.
He shook them off. He fixed his gaze on Adrik, pale and immobile, waiting for his father’s verdict.
Zorana didn’t dare move, didn’t dare speak.
The whole world waited in a hush to see what Konstantine would do.
He walked to Adrik. He stood and looked at him, looked at him for many long seconds, his eyes overly bright. Then he opened his arms. ‘‘My son. Adrik. My son.’’
Adrik walked into Konstantine’s all-enveloping hug. ‘‘Papa, forgive me. Forgive me.’’
‘‘You’re alive. You are home.’’ Tears ran down Konstantine’s face. ‘‘I have forgotten everything except how much I have longed to hear your voice and see your face.’’ Throwing his arm around Adrik’s shoulders, he said, ‘‘Now come in. Come in. Tonight we celebrate. Tonight we will have a feast!’’
Chapter Thirty-five
Karen lay on the couch in the Wilders’ crowded living room, her head in Adrik’s lap, while he poked his mother’s pickled beets into her mouth. ‘‘They will make new blood,’’ he said.
It amused her that when he was around his family, his voice took on a decidedly Russian intonation. ‘‘I feel fine.’’
‘‘He is his mother’s son, so it is easier not to argue.’’ Konstantine sat in his recliner, his swollen legs elevated. ‘‘If you eat your beets, they let you drink your vodka.’’ He saluted her with his glass full of clear, straight liquor.
She smiled back.
His illness had worn the old tyrant down physically, but he had lost none of his power. He noted everything, heard everything, and his family deferred to him as if he were a king— or rather, the lead wolf in the pack.
Jasha and Ann sat on the floor arguing as they built something with blocks—they called it the new home of Wilder Wines—while Aleksandr frowned mightily and built his own structure.
Rurik and Tasya were in the kitchen, supposedly preparing another plate of appetizers. But they’d been gone so long Karen suspected they were in a corner kissing.
This family was big on kissing. And hugging. Karen grinned as she watched Jackson, sitting beside Konstantine on a straight-backed chair, filling him in on the details of the battle on the cliff. Every time Zorana got close to Jackson, he jumped back to avoid another affectionate assault.
Karen paid no attention to the low-voiced conversation until she heard Jackson say, ‘‘When I realized that limp little prick Phil Chronies had sold my daughter’s location to those Varinski bastards, I broke his one arm.’’
‘‘Good man,’’ Konstantine said.
Yeah, Karen thought.
‘‘First he says he’s going to sue me; then I give him to understand he has a lot of bones in his body and I’m a mean old man, so instead he may take the retirement package I offered.’’ Jackson grinned with all his teeth. ‘‘So I call Karen in Sedona, but some poor woman’s been murdered at the spa, Karen’s on a Cessna flying to California, and the next thing I hear is that the plane crashed in the Sierras. If anyone could survive, it would be my Karen, but with those Varinskis tracking her, I knew she’d be heading for a defensible position, so I studied the terrain, then got into the backcountry and tried to intercept her. I missed, but, by God, I made it in time for the fight.’’
‘‘I’m glad you made it, Dad,’’ Karen called. ‘‘You saved my life.’’
Jackson looked startled, then horrified and embarrassed. ‘‘Well
, I . . . You are . . . Um, your mother made me . . .’’ He glanced around at the interested Wilder family, and his voice got lower. ‘‘And I didn’t do what I . . . It was the least I could do since . . .’’
She rescued him. ‘‘I know, Dad. Thank you.’’
‘‘Yes.’’ Adrik stroked her forehead. ‘‘Thank you, Jackson.’’
‘‘Welcome,’’ Jackson muttered.
‘‘I wish I’d been there for the fight.’’ The wistfulness in Konstantine’s voice almost broke Karen’s heart.
‘‘Where is Firebird?’’ Adrik asked, to distract his father. ‘‘I had hoped she’d be here by now.’’
‘‘You know what it’s like down at the hospital, ’’ Zorana said soothingly. ‘‘They’re always running late.’’
Konstantine crossed his arms over his chest. ‘‘Oh. I do know. Always slow. But I can’t wait another minute to see this third icon, to join it with the others. Please, my daughters. Will you show them to me?’’
‘‘Of course, Papa,’’ Ann said. ‘‘You may see my icon.’’
‘‘And I will show you my icon,’’ Tasya said.
The two women both agreed to present the icons they had found, yet at the same time they laid claim to them—and no one in this powerful family disputed their right to possess their Madonnas.
That gave Karen the courage to say, ‘‘If Adrik will bring me my bag, I’ll find my icon for you.’’
The men in the room sighed in relief.
The two wives left the room to fetch their icons.
Adrik reached behind the couch, where they’d stowed their gear—with only three bedrooms, the house was full, and Adrik and Karen would sleep on a Hide-A-Bed in the living room.
Zorana cleared off the table at Konstantine’s elbow and placed a pristine red cloth over the surface.
Jackson scowled. During the battle, he had seen Adrik and the Varinskis transform themselves into predators, so he had no trouble believing they were shape-shifters. But he obviously did not like the tone of any conversation that gave so much authority to women. ‘‘What’s an icon? Why are they so important, anyway?’’
‘‘Konstantine Varinski gave the devil his family’s four icons to seal the pact that gives us our powers as animals and predators,’’ Jasha said. ‘‘Our branch of the family—’’
‘‘The Wilders,’’ Rurik interposed.
Jasha nodded at his brother. ‘‘Right. The Wilders have been charged with uniting those icons, and each son and his love must find it.’’
Jackson looked around in bafflement. ‘‘I thought the other child, the one in Seattle, is a girl.’’
‘‘She is, Dad.’’ Karen found her icon, then leaned on Adrik as he helped her to her feet. ‘‘Zorana’s vision spoke of her four sons, but I guess visions aren’t always easy to understand. ’’
‘‘That’s for sure,’’ Konstantine muttered.
Zorana turned on him in an instant fury. ‘‘I would have a clear vision if I could, Konstantine Wilder.’’
‘‘I know. I did not mean—’’
‘‘Then be careful what you say.’’
Zorana, Karen realized, was touchy about her prophecy.
Ann returned with her icon first. She brought it to the table by Konstantine and placed it on the red cloth.
Like Karen’s icon, this was old, the painting stylized, yet the paint had been fired onto the tile, and the colors glowed as if they were new. The Virgin Mary held the infant Jesus, while Joseph stood at her right hand.
Tasya returned next, and placed her icon next to Ann’s.
As with Karen’s icon, as with Ann’s icon, the Madonna’s robes were cherry red, and the golden halo around her head glittered. But on this icon her face was pale and still, her dark eyes were large and sorrowful, and a tear had gathered on her cheek. For in her lap this Madonna held the crucified Jesus.
Karen placed her icon above Ann’s. 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.
The family and Jackson gathered around, staring in awe.
‘‘A thousand years these icons have been separated. Soon we will find the fourth one, and they will all be together.’’ Zorana took Konstantine’s hand. ‘‘Then you will be free.’’
‘‘Eh? What?’’ Jackson looked between the two. ‘‘He’ll be free of what?’’
‘‘Papa got sick on the night Mama had her vision,’’ Rurik told him. ‘‘None of the doctors in Seattle have ever seen this disease which eats at his heart. There is no cure. And if we don’t unite the icons and break the pact before he dies, he will burn in hell forever.’’
‘‘Son of a bitch! That’s a nasty penalty,’’ Jackson said.
‘‘We look at it as incentive,’’ Ann answered.
Karen smiled when she met Jackson’s gaze. ‘‘Once you get used to the idea of men who change into animals, the rest sort of falls into place, doesn’t it?’’
The Wilders laughed and nodded, and the women took the icons back and put them away.
Rurik and Tasya returned to the kitchen.
Jackson sat in his easy chair and tapped his fingers on the arm. ‘‘If the icons are that important, wouldn’t it make more sense to lock them in a safety-deposit box or something?’’
‘‘The Varinskis are rich.’’ Konstantine poured a glass of vodka and passed it to Jasha, who passed it to Jackson. ‘‘Rich from a thousand years of being the best stalkers and assassins in the world. A safety-deposit box is not safe from them. Nowhere is safe from them. But if Zorana’s vision is correct’’—hastily he added—‘‘and of course it is, then the Wilder women own the icons, and God will protect them.’’
Jackson blinked, swallowed the whole glass of liquor, and nodded. ‘‘Makes sense to me.’’
Zorana sat in a rocking chair close by Konstantine’s hand, computer in her lap. ‘‘Karen, did you see a light?’’
‘‘A light? When?’’ Karen asked in puzzlement.
‘‘When you died.’’
Warlord froze, his laden hand halfway to Karen’s mouth.
Rurik and Tasya stepped through from the kitchen, holding half-filled platters.
Conversation ceased.
Zorana continued, ‘‘I looked up after-death experiences, and most people say they see a light.’’
Everyone was looking at Karen.
She pushed Warlord’s hand away and sat up. ‘‘I didn’t see a light. I was light. And warmth, and just . . . I’d been in such pain.’’ Innokenti had thrown her. She’d hit the boulder, her ribs had broken, and one had pierced her lung. She remembered using the agony to stay conscious; it had been so important to stay conscious, to see Warlord once more, to tell him . . .
He slid over next to her, put his arm around her.
She laid her head on his shoulder. ‘‘One minute I was suffering; the next minute something popped . . . and I wasn’t. I was, I don’t know, floating in the warmth, going somewhere.’’ When she tried to recall where, the colors bleached from her memory. ‘‘Then I heard Warlord.’’
‘‘Was he calling you?’’ Zorana asked.
‘‘Not exactly.’’ Karen wasn’t sure how much to say.
Warlord pressed his cheek to her head. ‘‘She heard me crying. I was sobbing and begging the Virgin Mary and Karen’s mother to bring her back.’’
Karen wondered if his brothers would tease him, but they nodded, and Konstantine looked fierce and proud. ‘‘I would have done the same for your mother.’’
‘‘Your return, it was a miracle.’’ Zorana clasped her hands in joy. ‘‘The Madonna looks upon us with compassion.’’
‘‘You don’t know how much of a miracle,’’ Jasha said. ‘‘When we got her to the hospital, the doctors said she should never have lived through her injuries.’’
‘‘They’re astonished at how quickly she’s healing, too.??
?’ Rurik brought a platter of bread, cheese, anchovies, and olives and placed it beside his father.
‘‘It’s her healthy lifestyle,’’ Jackson said proudly.
‘‘It’s the Varinski blood in her,’’ Warlord said.
‘‘It’s another miracle.’’ Ann had been raised in a convent; she knew her miracles.
Karen said, ‘‘I’ve been thinking about what happened and why. I suppose your own death makes you do that.’’ Odd to speak of such weighty matters, but in this place and with these people it seemed natural. ‘‘With the help of the icon, Adrik is the one who created the miracle. He suffered, he repented, and he was redeemed. There is power in redemption.’’
‘‘That’s true.’’ Jasha laughed. ‘‘But look at Adrik. He’s so uncomfortable, he’s squirming. ’’
He was—squirming like a little boy on a hot seat. ‘‘It wasn’t me,’’ he protested. ‘‘It was the Madonna and Karen’s mother.’’
Jackson drank another glass of vodka. ‘‘Abigail would want to do that for Karen.’’
Karen knew she would never forget the way Jackson had treated her as a child, or that he’d taken Phil’s part against her, or that he’d so brutally informed her of her true parentage. But once he realized his mistake, he’d been sorry and come through for her. If not for him and his rifle, the Wilders probably wouldn’t have won that battle. So Jackson would always be part of her past, and she would make him part of her future.
Warlord glanced at the clock on the mantel. ‘‘Where is Firebird?’’ He was changing the subject, yes. But Karen knew that while he had longed for this reunion with his parents, he’d been worried, sure they could never forgive him.
Now he wanted to see his little sister. Firebird had been four when he left. She was twenty-three now, a mother, unwed, a college graduate who worked at the neighbor’s art studio and lived at home with her son.
What would she have to say to her long-lost brother? Would she even recognize him?
‘‘Yes. Where is that girl?’’ Konstantine rumbled in his deep bass. ‘‘I don’t like when she’s out so late.’’
Rurik laughed. ‘‘It’s only eight o’clock.’’