Chains of Fire

by Christina Dodd

She backed up against the coats, hangers clanging.

  She didn’t mean to, but she was definitely cowering.

  He kept talking, kept looking pleasant. “I am so glad to know the things we did together . . . you know, the things?”

  She nodded.

  “It’s good that you realize it was only desperation and fear that made us act that way.”

  “Right.”

  “I would hate to think that we meant the things we said to each other.”

  Isabelle opened her mouth, but no words came out.

  “My point is”—he grasped her upper arms and brought her close—“people who think they’re going to die say things they don’t mean. They do things they shouldn’t. We did. Right?”

  “Right. Exactly.” She swallowed. His body was pressed tightly to hers.

  “I fell back on my old feelings for you, and you fell back on your old feelings for me, and there we were, humping our brains out because we thought we were about to take the long dirt nap.”

  His body against hers . . . it felt nice. It felt right. Warm. Tough. Comforting. She wanted to lay her head on his shoulder, snuggle into his arms, listen to his heartbeat and his voice telling her everything was going to be all right.

  But that wasn’t what he was saying. And he was right. The way she felt about him was automatic, a knee-jerk reaction to being close to the guy who for five long days had been everything to her.

  Well, longer than that, really, but she wasn’t going to remember their first time together in the window seat, or those months after he returned from law school and they lived together and she had fallen more deeply in love with him than ever. Because that had ended in disaster. . . .

  She swallowed again to clear her dry mouth, and said, “A natural occurrence, I’m sure, for us to do what we did—”

  “Have sex?”

  “Yes. That. It was a natural occurrence in those circumstances. We don’t need to make a big deal about it. We’ve already proved twice that we couldn’t have a relationship and maintain it.”

  His hands tightened, then relaxed. “The sex was good, though.”

  “Oh, my God. The sex was great!” Oops. She’d been a little too emphatic.

  “We won’t be doing it again.”

  The moment of silence that followed was profound.

  Never again? Even to herself, her inner wail sounded pathetic.

  “Not that I didn’t thoroughly enjoy our time together,” he assured her.

  “Me, too.”

  “But we can’t do these things together unless we’re a couple.” He’d shaved off that tough black beard and now he smelled like some kind of spicy European aftershave.

  “I agree. It was a ‘we’re trapped in a claustrophobic place in Switzerland’ thing.”

  “Right. It was a Switzerland affair. A vacation fling with too much snow. A visit to the set of The Bourne Ice Creamery.”

  A laugh caught her by surprise.

  He grinned.

  They had so much in common. . . .

  “No need to tell anyone,” he said.

  “No, although . . . well, that’s silly.” What was she saying? Had she lost her mind? But she kept on talking, and she half laughed as if she were joking. “I’m so jet-lagged, I’m still on Switzerland’s time.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Here in this claustrophobic little closet, it’s almost like being back in the ski lodge. Facing death.”

  “That’s what I was thinking.”

  They stared at each other, body-to-body, face-to-face.

  She didn’t know which one of them moved first, but suddenly they were kissing, touching, making love. . . .

  “That is the last time we’ll ever do that,” Isabelle said.

  “Absolutely never again. My body clock will adjust soon.” Samuel helped her button her shirt.

  “Thank heavens we’re the only ones who know what we did.”

  “Yeah. Thank heavens.”

  Charisma watched Isabelle and Samuel slip out of the coat closet. Turning to Genny, she said, “Did you say Samuel had Isabelle in him? ’Cause now, I think it’s the other way around.”

  Chapter 41

  Aleksandr Wilder stood on the street outside Irving’s mansion and debated going in through the kitchen and grabbing something to eat, or going in the front door.

  Making his decision, he headed up the front steps.

  This was just easier. If he went through the kitchen, Martha would nag him because he wasn’t eating enough, and frankly, lately he’d had trouble swallowing past the constriction in his throat.

  He wasn’t sick; he was just a little . . . conflicted.

  At the top of the stairs, he looked back.

  She stood at the corner, her blond hair blowing in the breeze, and when she knew he was watching her, she kissed her hand and threw it toward him, exuberant and joyful and the most wonderful woman he’d ever met.

  His throat tightened a little more.

  He loved her so much.

  And he was afraid, so afraid.

  Lifting his burned, damaged hand, he saluted her. Turning back, he inserted his key in the lock and opened the massive front door.

  The blast of laughter and talk almost drove him back onto the street. It sounded as if the Chosen Ones were having a spontaneous party, and he wasn’t in the mood.

  But they were in the library. If he were careful, he could sneak past. Because let’s face it, if there was one thing a descendant of shape-shifters should be able to do, it was move quietly.

  As he passed the door, the laughter quieted, and a loud, Russian-accented voice boomed out, “Then I stopped pretending to be infirm, took off running, and when the explosives packed on the wheelchair blew, it took out a bunch of Varinskis and burned the tails off the rest of them!”

  More laughter. Boisterous applause.

  Aleksandr stopped.

  He’d heard that voice tell that story a hundred times.

  He backed up and looked into the room.

  There stood his grandfather, Konstantine Wilder, holding court in the middle of the crowd. Irving and his nurse, the Chosen and their mates—Konstantine was charming them, each and every one.

  Of course.

  Aleksandr didn’t know for sure how old Konstantine was—Konstantine didn’t know for sure how old Konstantine was—but the family thought he was in his eighties, tall and broad, hale and hearty, with the cruel face of a Cossack, a head of iron gray hair, bright white teeth that flashed in an infectious smile, and a heart as broad as the Ukrainian steppes.

  For the first time in weeks—months—Aleksandr broke into a spontaneous grin. “Grandpa!” He strode into the library, arms wide, and caught his grandfather in a bear hug, lifting him off his feet in an exuberant outburst.

  Konstantine hugged him back, and as soon as he got his feet under him, he returned the favor. Radiating love and joy as bright the sun, he exclaimed, “My boy. My boy!”

  They broke apart and pounded each other on the back, then hugged again before standing apart and looking at each other.

  Aleksandr saw the moment dismay struck his grandfather, and he would have given anything to give the old man comfort.

  “So,” Konstantine said, “they starve you here in this New York City?”

  Aleksandr searched for the best answer, the one that would help him explain the least. “I miss Grandma’s cooking. What I wouldn’t give for her cherry varenyky! The Russian restaurants make them here, but they don’t hold a ruble to hers.”

  There. That was diplomatic enough.

  Aleksandr looked around at his friends, at the Chosen Ones. “Varenyky are dumplings filled with all kinds of wonderful things. Sauerkraut, potatoes, sausage, cabbage . . . My favorite is the cherry varenyky served with sour cream.” His eyes half closed. “They taste like heaven. Grandma always made them especially for me....” He was hungry. For the first time in weeks, he was suddenly, sharply hungry.

  A ripple of laughter went thro
ugh the room. The Chosen Ones stepped back, and Aleksandr’s gaze fell on the table set up in the corner with pickled mushrooms, chopped herring, rye bread, cheeses . . . and varenyky. Lots and lots of varenyky.

  McKenna and Martha stood behind the table, serving spoons in hands, waiting to hand out the plates.

  “Oh, Grandpa.” Aleksandr walked toward the table. “This is a feast! How did you do it?”

  “Eat. Eat!” Konstantine waved the Chosen Ones and Aleksandr toward the table, and as they loaded their plates, he talked. “Your mother and aunts and grandmother were cooking for days. Your father shipped it overnight, which cost too much.” Konstantine frowned fiercely. “The shipping company are pirates and thieves!” He pinched Aleksandr’s cheek, hard. “But for you, it was worth it.”

  Belatedly, Aleksandr realized he should be worried. “Why are you here? Is everyone all right?”

  “Everyone is good! What, you think your old grandfather can’t fly to this New York City by himself?”

  “I’ve been here over four years and this is the first time you’ve visited me here.” Aleksandr shoved a pickled mushroom into his mouth, followed by a curd varenyky.

  “There is a first time for everything.” Konstantine poured icy-cold vodka into little glasses and passed them out.

  His nurse took the glass he presented to Irving.

  Konstantine poured another.

  “He can’t drink,” Amanda said.

  Konstantine looked down his nose at her. “Who are you?”

  “I’m his nurse,” Amanda said. “With the combination of drugs in his system, he should not be imbibing alcohol.”

  “Nonsense!” Konstantine roundly dismissed her concerns. “When I was sick, ready to die and go to hell, the doctors forbade me my vodka. But I drank it and grew strong!”

  “I thought it was breaking the deal with the devil that cured you, Grandpa,” Aleksandr said.

  “Vodka! And vodka will cure what ails Mr. Shea!” Again Konstantine presented Irving with a glass.

  “What am I going to do?” Irving’s speech had improved, become more precise as the days rolled along. “Die happy?”

  “You’re better,” Amanda insisted. “I want you to continue that way.”

  “I will continue.” Irving accepted the vodka. “Until I find Dina.”

  Aleksandr’s gaze shifted to Samuel.

  Samuel contemplated his vodka as if he were listening to some inner voice.

  Ever since he’d been back from Switzerland, the guy had had some weird vibes going on. Every time someone mentioned Dina, it was like he was listening to something in his head.

  Then Samuel shot a glance at Isabelle.

  Or, heck, what did Aleksandr know? Maybe he was not listening in his head. Maybe he was listening in his pants. But he sure had the hots for Isabelle.

  “A toast!” Konstantine boomed.

  Aleksandr lifted his glass.

  Everyone lifted their glasses—everyone except Amanda.

  Konstantine looked at her. Just looked at her.

  She lifted her glass.

  Konstantine continued. “To Irving Shea, long may he live and prosper and confound the enemies of the great good! Za vas!”

  Aleksandr had long thought his grandfather spoke in exclamation points, and right now he approved.

  Everyone drank, exclaimed, smiled. The women kissed Irving on the cheek, then, not surprisingly, kissed Konstantine on both cheeks.

  Konstantine Wilder had always been a lady magnet—but his heart and soul belonged to his wife. To his Zorana.

  Irving drank his vodka, then handed his glass to Amanda. “Let us all leave Konstantine and Aleksandr alone so they may have a reunion.” Again his speech was stilted, but so much clearer than it had been.

  “Can we take our plates?” Charisma asked.

  She looked so pathetically eager, Aleksandr laughed. “Ukrainians are hospitable people. Please. Take everything you wish!” It amused him to realize he sounded like Konstantine—loud, enthusiastic, with a faint Russian accent.

  The room cleared slowly, with much stopping for a last helping of varenyky or pickled mushrooms.

  But at last, McKenna closed the door on grandfather and grandson.

  Aleksandr put down his plate, went to his grandfather, took his shoulders, and looked into his eyes. “Tell me the truth. Why are you here?”

  Konstantine’s strong face sagged with worry. “Your grandmother—she is having sinister dreams about you.”

  Aleksandr dropped his hands.

  That wasn’t what he expected. A disaster in the grapes or an illness. Not one of his grandmother’s famous prophecies. Not about him. Not now. He didn’t need her to know so much. “What kind of sinister dreams?”

  “She dreams that you are alone in a dark place.” Konstantine watched him anxiously. “Men come to you; they stab you with needles and poke you with electric wires, and in agony you transform into a beast, a monstrous thing of claws and fangs.”

  “I’m sorry she dreams that. There’s no truth in it, I swear.”

  “She is very disturbed, so I promised I would come and see you and prove you are still our Aleksandr, our first and best grandson.” Konstantine smiled, but his boisterous voice was a low rumble, and he watched Aleksandr from beneath lowered brows. “This is true, no? You are as you always were, unchanged and untouched?”

  “I have never taken any other form.” Then, driven by some belief that Konstantine would understand, Aleksandr said, “But sometimes I feel as if, if I tried hard enough, I could be like you and change into a wild wolf who runs free in the forest, strong and unbound, glorious in my freedom.”

  When Konstantine wrapped his elbow around Aleksandr’s neck, held him in place, and slapped him hard on the cheek, Aleksandr could not have been more surprised. “No! No!” Konstantine said fiercely. “You cannot do this! Your father, your mother, your uncles and aunts, your grandmother and I risked our livelihoods, our lives, our souls to break the deal with the devil.”

  Aleksandr yanked himself out of his grandfather’s grasp. His hands itched to return the slap, and only the knowledge that Konstantine was old and seasoned and deserving of respect stopped him. But nothing could stop the hot words that bubbled to his lips. “What has that to do with me? You always said you thought I would be a wolf. If I can grasp that destiny without dealing with the devil, what do you care?”

  “Who are you talking to? Are they telling you that you do not need the devil to change? It is not true. Somehow, it all comes back to Lucifer, the fallen angel who rules hell and tempts each man according to his desires. And once you change, each change brings you euphoria, like drugs, like heroin, and all you want to do is change again. The slide down to hell is dark and dangerous and alluring, and that you desire such a thing—no!” Konstantine grabbed Aleksandr by the shoulders, held him still, leaned until his forehead touched Aleksandr’s. “Listen to me, my grandson, no! Find a girl. Marry her. Breed babies and be satisfied to be what you are—a strong man, a good man. But merely a man.”

  Aleksandr stared into Konstantine’s dark eyes.

  He couldn’t talk to him. Konstantine was caught in the memory of the old curse and the old story, and Aleksandr’s mistake was in thinking Konstantine would comprehend his feelings, his desires.

  This whole conversation proved she was right. She was right.

  But Konstantine wasn’t finished. “Come home, my boy. See your papa and your mama and your little brothers. Eat your grandmother’s cooking and remember who you are.”

  “I signed a contract, Grandfather. Until my seven years are up, I’m one of the Chosen.” Aleksandr posed the question that he knew would make his grandfather suffer. “Should I break my word and abandon my friends?”

  He could see Konstantine struggle between his love for his grandson and his hard-won honor. At last he said, “No. You should not.” He brightened. “But perhaps, hey, your grandmother and I could come here and stay. Zorana could cook for the Chosen Ones
. I could help Mr. Shea, who is so old and weak. What do you think about that?”

  “Grandpa, I appreciate the offer, but really, I’m fine.” Konstantine could smell a lie a mile away, so Aleksandr searched for the best piece of truth to dangle before him. “I am dating a girl, and we’re pretty serious.”

  But his grandfather wasn’t so easily diverted from what he thought Aleksandr’s role should be in life. “This girl—who is she? What is her name?”

  “Her name is Iskra. I’ve tutored her in math for a couple of years. She’s beautiful and smart.” As Aleksandr remembered, his heart lifted. “She makes me happy.”

  “You bring her to meet me!”

  “I’ll do what I can, Grandpa, but she’s an orphan. She had a pretty tough childhood, and she is shy of family. It took me months to convince her we could be involved and nothing bad would happen. She’s just so tender and reserved, and I’ve had to coax her every inch of the way.” Aleksandr knew he was wearing a doofy grin, but it happened whenever he thought about Iskra.

  Or else he remembered some of the stuff she said, and he was stressed again.

  “She should not be afraid of me!” Konstantine thumped his chest with his ham-size fist. “Who could be afraid of me?”

  “I don’t know, Grandpa.” Aleksandr loved the old man so much, but never had he felt a stronger rift. “It’s a mystery.”

  More quietly, Konstantine said, “I will be here for four days.”

  “Great! I can show you the city.”

  Konstantine would not be distracted. “You’ll bring this girlfriend to me, yes? I will meet her so I can reassure your grandmother?”

  “I will try. I really will try.” But Aleksandr knew it would never happen.

  Iskra had allowed Aleksandr to introduce her to no one on the Chosen Ones team. She was certainly not going to meet his grandfather.

  He didn’t want her to, because if what he suspected was true . . . Konstantine would tear her limb from limb.

  Chapter 42

  “Samuel, I’d like a word.” Isabelle’s breath brushed his ear.

  “Of course, Isabelle. I’ve been wanting to talk to you, too.” He glanced around the breakfast table.