spilling light into the frozen lawn. He walked to the back, where he found more lawn, a winter-nipped garden surrounded by a tall deer fence, and a small orchard of fruit trees arranged in straight rows.
This place was soft. One man could attack the house and do damage—significant damage. A hundred men could raze the entire valley and destroy every living thing in it, every creature and every blade of grass.
Konstantine Varinski had forgotten his past, and his heedlessness had put him and everyone in his family at risk.
The Varinski’s quiet tread was as much a part of him as his tawny hair and his dark brown eyes. He returned to the front, mounted the stairs, and walked silently from one end of the porch to the other. He looked in the windows, into the living room crowded with life, with warmth, with love.
Although Konstantine had changed, had grown prematurely old and desperately ill, the Varinski recognized him. He sat in a recliner, a tank of oxygen beside him, an IV drip in his arm. He must be almost seventy, and painfully gaunt, yet he had the same strong frame and vigorous head of hair he had sported in photos taken forty years ago.
His wife sat nearby. The Varinski recognized her from the old photos, too; she had barely changed. She was in her early fifties, petite, pretty, a hundred pounds soaking wet. Her dark hair shone and her dark eyes sparked with life.
As he moved from window to window, he saw them all. Three sons who closely resembled their father. Three women whom their sons obviously adored. One lone older man, who tried to make himself small in the crowded room.
Everyone stared at Firebird, watched Firebird. She sat on the floor by the door, her back pressed against the wall. The toddler sat in her lap.
Her face was hard and accusing, and she spoke rapidly, like a woman in the grip of fury, yet all the while, she hugged the little boy as if he brought her comfort.
As the Varinski watched with cruel intention, he deliberately began the change. His bones melted and mutated. His hands developed into paws, paws with long, sharp claws that could rend a man to shreds. His face lengthened and squared; his teeth shaped themselves into fangs; his jaw grew large and strong enough to snap a man’s neck. His blond hair spread down his body, becoming a golden pelt that invited the touch of any simpleton who was fool enough to dare caress the swift, intelligent, deadly beast that he had become.
With a single spring, he silently leaped off the porch and raced across the valley, seeking the shelter of the surrounding forest.
Firebird had been in the hospital in Seattle . From the information the Varinski had been able to collect—and he was good at collecting information—Konstantine’s children were coming in one at a time to give blood and have tests as the doctors pursued the cause and cure of his unique and life-threatening illness.
The Varinski leaped up a tree and found a broad branch, one that allowed him to observe the house and the narrow road that wound its way into the valley, and mull over all the vulnerabilities that could be utilized in an attack.
And all the while, he wondered, What had she discovered?
What had left her so distraught?
How could he turn the situation to his advantage . . . and destroy the family?
Because he wasn’t really a Varinski.
He was the thing not even the Varinskis wanted to claim.
Firebird would never forget this day.
The day she discovered her family had lied to her.
The day she’d discovered the truth.
Now, finding herself in the safe, familiar setting of the place she had always called home, she hugged her baby, her Aleksandr, and in a steady voice that surely belonged to a stranger, she asked, ‘‘Why didn’t you tell me that I’m adopted? That I’m not related to you? To any of you?’’ She looked right at the woman she had always believed to be her mother. At Zorana. ‘‘Why didn’t you tell me I’m not your
This place was soft. One man could attack the house and do damage—significant damage. A hundred men could raze the entire valley and destroy every living thing in it, every creature and every blade of grass.
Konstantine Varinski had forgotten his past, and his heedlessness had put him and everyone in his family at risk.
The Varinski’s quiet tread was as much a part of him as his tawny hair and his dark brown eyes. He returned to the front, mounted the stairs, and walked silently from one end of the porch to the other. He looked in the windows, into the living room crowded with life, with warmth, with love.
Although Konstantine had changed, had grown prematurely old and desperately ill, the Varinski recognized him. He sat in a recliner, a tank of oxygen beside him, an IV drip in his arm. He must be almost seventy, and painfully gaunt, yet he had the same strong frame and vigorous head of hair he had sported in photos taken forty years ago.
His wife sat nearby. The Varinski recognized her from the old photos, too; she had barely changed. She was in her early fifties, petite, pretty, a hundred pounds soaking wet. Her dark hair shone and her dark eyes sparked with life.
As he moved from window to window, he saw them all. Three sons who closely resembled their father. Three women whom their sons obviously adored. One lone older man, who tried to make himself small in the crowded room.
Everyone stared at Firebird, watched Firebird. She sat on the floor by the door, her back pressed against the wall. The toddler sat in her lap.
Her face was hard and accusing, and she spoke rapidly, like a woman in the grip of fury, yet all the while, she hugged the little boy as if he brought her comfort.
As the Varinski watched with cruel intention, he deliberately began the change. His bones melted and mutated. His hands developed into paws, paws with long, sharp claws that could rend a man to shreds. His face lengthened and squared; his teeth shaped themselves into fangs; his jaw grew large and strong enough to snap a man’s neck. His blond hair spread down his body, becoming a golden pelt that invited the touch of any simpleton who was fool enough to dare caress the swift, intelligent, deadly beast that he had become.
With a single spring, he silently leaped off the porch and raced across the valley, seeking the shelter of the surrounding forest.
Firebird had been in the hospital in Seattle . From the information the Varinski had been able to collect—and he was good at collecting information—Konstantine’s children were coming in one at a time to give blood and have tests as the doctors pursued the cause and cure of his unique and life-threatening illness.
The Varinski leaped up a tree and found a broad branch, one that allowed him to observe the house and the narrow road that wound its way into the valley, and mull over all the vulnerabilities that could be utilized in an attack.
And all the while, he wondered, What had she discovered?
What had left her so distraught?
How could he turn the situation to his advantage . . . and destroy the family?
Because he wasn’t really a Varinski.
He was the thing not even the Varinskis wanted to claim.
Firebird would never forget this day.
The day she discovered her family had lied to her.
The day she’d discovered the truth.
Now, finding herself in the safe, familiar setting of the place she had always called home, she hugged her baby, her Aleksandr, and in a steady voice that surely belonged to a stranger, she asked, ‘‘Why didn’t you tell me that I’m adopted? That I’m not related to you? To any of you?’’ She looked right at the woman she had always believed to be her mother. At Zorana. ‘‘Why didn’t you tell me I’m not your
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