First to Burn (30 page)

“Don’t. You can’t change your choices.” After fifteen hundred years of grappling with consequences, he still struggled with his own advice. “Don’t waste energy on what-ifs.”

“You neither, son.”

Perhaps due to the impossibility of following that guidance, the occupants of the car were silent until they emerged in Manhattan, where Carl directed Wulf to an alley between anonymous motels and Thai takeouts west of Broadway. “By the stack of cardboard. This city has too damn many street cameras, but last I checked, wasn’t no surveillance here.” Carl got out of the idling car, then went to Jeanne’s door.

In the rearview mirror, Wulf saw Theresa’s head loll to the side. During the drive she’d fallen into real sleep, the type the mind embraced to heal or escape.

“Watch your back,” he told Carl.

“You too.” Carl slung his bag over his shoulder and maneuvered his groggy wife down the alley.

Wulf hoped they’d meet again.

Driving uptown, weariness crushed him until he was too drained to plan beyond the next stoplight. He’d rest at Ivar’s. His brother would help protect Theresa.

A retina scan and shifting numeric codes had replaced the failed thumbprint security system. When the first row of car barricades lowered, Wulf eased twenty feet forward into the hot box and read randomly generated words out loud until the voice scan reconfirmed his identity. Finally admitted, he let his shoulders slump as the car rolled down the ramp to where his brother waited.

Food and sleep had restored Ivar’s speech and mental faculties, but his hand remained stunted, and no well-tailored suit could hide the way he hunched when he saw Wulf’s ripped clothing and blood-crusted hair. Awkwardly clippered blond hair stubbled his scalp, reminding Wulf that his fastidious brother had endured lice as well in Unferth’s prison. “I gather the reunion did not go as planned.”

“No.” Wulf paused with his hand on the car’s rear door. He and his brother had used to be near mirrors of each other, only Ivar’s eye color a truer blue and Wulf’s smile wider, but now Ivar seemed slighter. “Jeanne and Carl are alive. Theresa’s stepbrother and several others aren’t.”

“The security team?”

“They lost the coin toss.” Wulf hadn’t met them. Hadn’t dined with them and listened to bad jokes like he had with Raymond, but someone had known each of those men. Either he or Ivar would have to tell someone, several someones, that those men weren’t coming back.

He carried Theresa upstairs, her face pressed into his shoulder. She slept so deeply, he assumed she’d taken a pill from one of the bottles he’d shoved in her bag. On his bed, her dark hair spread across the white pillow, reminding him that a few hours ago he’d done nearly the same thing. The comforter had been pink, and he’d been filled with hope and laughter. Gone now, those dreams—as gone as the future he’d dared to imagine.

After he showered, he found his brother in the study. The replacement desk was a jarringly modern hunk of dark steel and walnut that slashed through the traditionally decorated room like a double-headed axe.

“Drink.” Ivar gestured to a tray of brown bottles.

By the time Wulf had finished the beer and wiped his upper lip with the back of his hand, the hops and malted grain had revived him enough to speak. “One of the men I killed had this.” He tossed the barrel of the crushed syringe on the desk. Too misshapen to roll, it slid several inches on the polished surface.

His brother stumbled into a stand holding a small Rodin bronze.

Regret soured the beer in Wulf’s mouth. The old Ivar wouldn’t have twitched for a guillotine, let alone backed away from a simple plastic tube. But the man Wulf had released from the torture chamber in Marrakesh wasn’t the old Ivar, so he brushed the drug container into the garbage and changed the subject. “We burned one house, but left the other and all the victims.” He started on his second bottle of brewed health. “It could get complicated.”

“Various government agencies will lie for some time to conceal the dead men’s identities.” Ivar stood behind his desk, not touching the chair, and didn’t rest his gaze on any single spot. “We should warn the others. They may be at risk.”

That possibility stopped Wulf’s beer halfway to his mouth. “You think Unferth’s after more than you and me?”

“I doubt his desire for research subjects—” Ivar’s good hand touched the fingertips protruding from his sling, “—has ended.”

“Can you find them? Bjorn went back to his boats, and Dunstan’s probably teaching somewhere, but Stig? Jurik?” Centuries hadn’t forged the misfits of Beowulf’s crew into a reliable team, only exacerbated their differences. He wouldn’t underestimate the effort it would take to reach the others, let alone try to assemble a force to oppose Unferth.

“My list.” With a jerk of his chin, Ivar indicated a paper with twelve names. Nine in one column, Unferth and his sycophants in the other. “We shall take this fight to Unferth. This time, we shall go on to the end.”

“No shit.” Wulf opened his third beer, the replenishing calories reestablishing whatever he might call normal about his relationship with Ivar. “Going to recite the ‘we shall fight on the beaches and never surrender’ part too? Been done, you know.”

“Your eloquence increases with each year you spend as a common grunt.”

“And your ego expands with the membership of the United Nations, but I’m too polite to comment.” Like old times, he toasted with his fresh bottle.

Ivar’s cheek spasmed, as if one muscle wanted to smile and the others agonized at the close call. Before he could reply, a woman screamed.

Chapter Twenty-Five

“Mom?” Theresa’s fake foot, unexpectedly attached in bed, caught in the sheets, and she flopped, half wrapped in covers, to the floor. “
Mom!
” Where was she? Had she sleepwalked after her medication?

Then memories flooded her—Wulf’s injuries, Carl’s devastation and Ray.

Ray. She bit her fist to contain the hot acid feeling in her throat.

Across the room, a gray rectangle signaled access to a lighter space, perhaps a hall. Two dark shapes charged low through the door and split to opposite walls.

In the corner between the bed and wall, Theresa touched a metal wastebasket. Silently, she raised it to her chest, prepared to defend herself.

One man rounded the foot of the bed, close enough he must have seen her outline, so she threw the can with both hands, like she was passing a basketball. It clunked into his body.

“
Skīta!
”

“Should’ve warned you. She has good reactions.”
That
voice was familiar.

“Wulf?” The fear left her, but she still felt fuzzy and thick. “Where’s my mother? And Carl?” She wasn’t sure what parts of the night she’d dreamed and what had really happened.

“Theresa—” Wulf’s heavy tone sat on her chest like a radiologist’s lead apron.

“They’re dead, aren’t they?” No matter how hard she tried to breathe, the dark pressed the air out of her until she could barely squeak. “They’re all dead.”

A lamp flickered, but the light didn’t change the facts, didn’t change reality, didn’t bring her family back.

“Your mother’s fine.” Wulf crouched at her feet, as smoothly modulated as her VA psych. “Carl took her away until it’s safer.”

“She wouldn’t leave me!” Her mother wouldn’t let her move into her own condo; no way she’d disappear. Theresa squeezed deeper into the corner. “You’re lying!”

“Dr. Chiesa.” Arms crossed, a man in a gray suit stood like a steel girder behind Wulf. Illuminated from below by lamplight, his face had eerie shadows and crags. “I apologize—”

“Who are you?”

“Ivar, son of Wonred.”

“My big brother.”

“Your mother and Carl are hiding, not dead. Your stepbrother and cousin are indeed deceased. Wulf brought you here because your condition precludes easy concealment.”

Instead of using euphemisms like
condition
, he might as well have called her useless to her face. They all knew what she’d become, and it wasn’t strong or tough or heroic. In plain English, she was a burden.

Ivar must’ve mistaken her silence for doubt. “I do not lie.”

Curled with her knees to her chest and her face buried in her arms, she heard Ivar’s footsteps leave the room, but she sensed Wulf waiting. Waiting, like her, until finally the pins and needles shooting through her good leg demanded that she shift positions.
Damn my legs
,
both of them.
She didn’t want to eat the carpet, which might happen if she stood too quickly, so she paused like a dancer doing a weird stretch.
Damn you and your brother
,
and damn crazy immortals.
And damn everything that had led her to be stuck clinging to an end table.

Silently, Wulf scooped her in his arms and laid her on the bed. Like everyone else, he acted as if she was a doll, as if her ability to take care of herself had been lost with her leg.

Her clenched teeth blocked the profanities she wanted to yell. She knew she had to make her point slowly and clearly. “I don’t want help. Don’t baby me, don’t coddle me, don’t touch me. Not ever again.”

“As you wish.” His flat tone conveyed hurt, but her own pain filled her too much to care.

When the door closed behind him, the flimsy box she’d constructed around her fears finally split. The room filled with a ragged tearing noise that sounded like packing tape pulling off cardboard. Despair stung her eyes and tasted salty on her lips. Covering her mouth with her fist wasn’t enough to stop the sounds, so she buried her face in a pillow and tried not to listen to her own sobs.

* * *

In contrast to the darkness swirling inside Theresa, the next morning was one of those glittering winter days with a blue sky and no clouds. No one could stay in bed with that much sunshine, no matter how much she wanted to hide, so she gave up and dragged a desk chair to the bathtub. Maneuvering in and out had become less challenging after months of therapy. Afterward she found black yoga pants stretchy enough to slide over her stump sock, a T-shirt, and a man’s periwinkle cashmere cardigan piled inside the bedroom door. A gym bag she recognized as her own held underwear and her ankle charger. Wulf must have gathered them before they left the house.

As she haltingly descended to the main floor, the art collection in the stairwell temporarily diverted her from seeking a telephone. Was it Ivar or Wulf who liked sketches of dancers? She recognized the work of several Impressionists and Cubists, and suspected the others were also by artists she should have known. The money hanging on this wall alone was more than three years of medical school tuition. What had Wulf flung at her during their argument at Camp Caddy—the people in these brownstones have problems like everyone else? Right.

It had been months since she’d walked through a house unaccosted by someone trying to make her eat or drink or talk or
do
something. Her mother definitely wasn’t there, which made her stop and close her eyes to hold back tears.
She’s fine.
Ivar said so
,
and he presumably doesn’t care enough to lie.
It has to be true.

A swinging door led to the kitchen, where a dark-haired woman turned from the counter. “Good morning!” The greeting and grin belonged to the reporter from Afghanistan, the one who’d known Wulf. “Dr. Chiesa, right? Can I call you Theresa?”

“Um, sure. You’re...” She searched for a name. “Laura?”

“You remembered! Wasn’t sure since we met so quickly.” The other woman fiddled with a chrome espresso machine. “Coffee?”

“Please.” The kitchen’s dark wood cabinets and shiny appliances were as sleek as the coffeemaker. Mica flecks in the countertops and a row of white dish towels contrasted with the rest of the dark palette. It was the complete opposite of her mother’s terra-cotta-and-fruit themed kitchen. It was cold.

“Glad to see the stretch pants work. Wulf asked for a skirt, but I didn’t have one.”

Learning that Wulf had asked to borrow Laura’s clothes for her felt odd. Unsettling. “You live here too?”

“I’m not in town enough to get a place of my own, and my grandfather works for Ivar.” She pulled half-and-half and strawberries out of the refrigerator. They looked lost on the long counter. “Hopefully I’ll be gone next week.”

“You’re returning to Afghanistan?” Watching Laura dart around the kitchen stirred a cauldron of emotions, but she didn’t want to dig too deeply to figure out whether she was more jealous of the darting, the job or the familiarity with Wulf’s home.

“Afraid not. I’m persona non grata at the military embedded media program.” Laura found bowls, a chopping board and a knife without having to search. “Feels like I’ve been stuck with lawyers for months, but it’s bogus to charge me with revealing classified information for exposing a crime, so I imagine I’ll be cleared soon.”

“What’ll you do? If you can’t go back?” How could Laura be so casual about losing her career?

“There’s a dozen other conflicts to cover besides Afghanistan and plenty of soldiers who aren’t Americans. Maybe I’ll head to Africa.” After rinsing the last strawberry, she set bread and butter on the counter. “What would you like for breakfast?”

“You don’t have to wait on me.”

When Laura froze, hand partially inserted in the bread bag, to stare at her, Theresa realized her words had emerged louder and more defensive than she’d intended.

“I’m sorry. That was—” She didn’t have a chance to finish before Laura waved her off.

“No offense. I know I tend to roll over people.” She gestured at the fixings. “Please.”

They settled on opposite sides of the kitchen island. Sharing the newspaper with Laura, who refolded each section as she finished, was pleasant enough that her shoulders relaxed. She drained her coffee and turned a page. The photo of a large colonial-style house surrounded by emergency vehicles was typical inside-page fare.

Second Tragedy Strikes Senator’s Family. This was the home of the senator who’d died next to her in Afghanistan. She dropped the paper and pressed against the stool’s backrest, almost tipping, while the black letters grew and swam on the page. Three dead. One daughter missing.
Not more death.
Not another family.

Wulf hadn’t known this family, and he hadn’t drawn Unferth to them.

“Oh.” Looking from the paper to her, Laura asked, “You okay?”

Without words to describe how or why a crushing weight had lifted from her chest, she nodded. This black-and-white picture forced her to be honest. Wulf wasn’t responsible for what had happened to the senator in Afghanistan, or to his family, or even to Ray. The blame belonged to Unferth.

“I got the short version from Wulf.” The reporter patted her jeans pockets and then squinted and shook her head. “That sucks. I’m sorry.”

“Thanks.” Right now she’d welcome a new subject. “How’s quitting?”

Laura snorted. “This is my third try. Maybe fourth.”

“Ouch.” A rumble from the kitchen alerted Theresa to another door past the refrigerator.

“Car in the garage. Wulf went shopping.” Laura’s eyebrows rose suggestively. “I suggest you prepare to be inundated.”

Seconds later, he shouldered through the door with a computer-store tote in one hand and department-store bags in the other. “Good morning. You found the clothes.”

Intellectually she understood that he wouldn’t be wounded, and she’d seen him recover other times, but his perfect smile was such an unsettling contrast with last night’s gruesome wounds that she didn’t know where to look or how to reply.

“I bought a few things that might fit better.”

“Thank you.” His presence heated the kitchen until she almost felt like she was back in the sandbox.

Laura tidied her mug and bowl into the dishwasher and headed for the door. “Sorry to miss this, but I have legal bills to go incur.”

Her departure didn’t make speaking easier. After rejecting him last night, Theresa wasn’t sure how to cross this distance. Her arms ached to wrap around him, but she hugged the blue sweater closer instead. It smelled faintly of evergreen.

“So.” Outwardly he looked and sounded calm, but his tight-fisted grip on the shopping bag handles hinted that, like her, he was nervous this morning. “Maybe you’ll prefer these.”

The new clothes wouldn’t hold his essence.

“Did Laura show you this?” He opened a third door she’d assumed led to a pantry or a powder room and revealed a blue-and-white-wallpapered nook. Sun streamed through a window to an enclosed courtyard, highlighting a toile-patterned chair and ottoman. “We eat at the kitchen bar or in the dining room, so I thought you might like to use this space.” As he unpacked a laptop, she recognized her
Beowulf
books and biology texts already on the table.

Had he truly given her a room of her own? A mug filled with pens and highlighters, a printer with paper, even fresh flowers—he’d thought of everything.

He stood up from the floor where he’d plugged in the computer and rubbed his hands on denim-covered thighs.

A braver woman would have told him that last night she’d been too afraid, too devastated, to be kind. She’d been cruel when he didn’t deserve it, and she owed him an apology. She let him turn toward the door.

A phone rang, and she jumped.

Even before Wulf gave her the handset, the familiar piercing request for
The-reeee-sa
filled the room.

“Mom?” She held her breath until the answer confirmed her hopes.

“Sweetie? Thank God, you’re fine. You’re fine, right?”

“What about you? Where are—”

Wulf sketched a half bow and silently left. He could take the clothes and the computer and office; she wouldn’t miss them, because he’d provided what she wanted most.

“Carl—no, wait, I can’t say that. Can you imagine now I have to remember to call him Lou, just like if he’d gone to the feds? He says I can’t tell you anything. Nothing.”

“It’s okay, Mom. I’m so glad to hear your voice. I’m glad you’re b-both—” Thinking of the two of them, alone somewhere, blocked her voice in her throat.

A public address system in the background garbled whatever her mother said next.

“Mom?” The phone she clutched wasn’t warm or strong, wasn’t her mother’s hand.

“
Lou’s
telling me to keep it short.”

She wanted to yell that she wasn’t ready. Two sentences wasn’t enough.

The background noise grew muffled, as if she’d cupped a hand over the mouthpiece, and her mother’s Jersey accent strengthened the faster she spoke. “It hit him this morning, that Ray’s gone. I have to keep pushing, or he slumps over and I doan’ know what to doooo.” Her voice rose, panicked.

“You can hold him together, Mom, like you did for me.” Since she’d come home hurt, her mother hadn’t faltered. Not once. “You can. You will.”

“He says we’ll be moving a lot, and I can’t call for a couple weeks. Take care of yourself and don’t worry about us, you promise?”

“I promise.” As if that were possible. “I love you, Mom.” Her words came out fierce and strong, filled with the need to make her mother understand how much she loved her. “Stay safe. You’re the best mother in the world. The best.” She’d never let it go unsaid again. “I love you.”

Her mother’s
I
love you too sweetheart
rang in her ears long after they’d both hung up.

As exhausted as if a whole day had passed, she couldn’t believe her watch indicated barely ten in the morning. Wulf and Laura, and presumably Ivar, were very quiet or else this house was very big. The rustling as she opened shopping bags seemed unnecessarily loud, but she needed to fill time. What she didn’t need to do was replay last night until she paralyzed herself.