seized his mother.
And yeah, she was a Gypsy, and yeah, Rurik suspected she was a weather-worker. And yeah, their whole family was a little different from most American families—his parents had immigrated from the Ukraine and changed their name from Varinski to Wilder because the Varinskis were assassins and p lenty pissed about his parents getting together, and his mother's Gypsy clan had been hot under the collar, too.
But except for the time when Rurik was eight and he'd shoplifted that Megatron Transformer from the Wal-Mart down in Marysville and his mother had made him turn out his pockets before he even left the store, he'd never witnessed any signs that Zorana was psychic—until the night of the Fourth. Her slight body had exuded power, her usually feminine voice had grown deep and great. She'd looked at Rurik, and he would have sworn she could see the stains on his soul.
She had cursed the family with her prophecy. . . .
Each of my four sons must find one of the Varinski icons.
Only their loves can bring the holy pieces home.
A child will perform the impossible. And the beloved of the family will be broken by treachery . . . and leap into the fire.
The blind can see, and the sons of Oleg Varinski have found us. You can never be safe, for they will do anything to destroy you and keep the pact intact.
If the Wlders do not break the devil's pact before your death, you wilt go to hell and be forever separated from your beloved Zorana. , . .
And you, my love, you are not long for this earth. You are dying.
She'd been talking to Rurik's father, and as soon as she'd finished speaking, Konstantine had crashed to the ground, crushed in the grips of a rare disease that ate away at his heart.
Konstantine had always been one of the most hearty, commanding men Rurik had ever met. To see him stretched out on the gurney in Swedish Hospital in Seattle, IVs poked into his arms, a shunt in his chest, tubes running up his nose—in that moment, Rurik's understanding of the world had changed.
He had only a limited time to find the icon that would save his father's life and soul. If Rurik failed, destruction came to everything important to him. His family. His world.
Maybe the whole world.
The ferry took a sharp turn to the left, coming around the end of the island, and there it was, the village of Dunmarkie, nestled into the harbor and bragging of three dozen homes, a pub, and a market.
The streets were empty.
Rurik straightened.
As he'd done every day for the last twenty years, the captain efficiently brought the ferry into the dock. The crew hurried about, securing her moorings, setting the gangplank . . . and then they stood there, looking uneasily at the village.
"Where is everybody?" Duncan asked.
Rurik met Duncan's gaze. "Something's happened at the site."
***
Rurik cleared the last rise, looked down, and swore.
His lonely, windswept archaeological site, with its gently mounded grave that was brushed alternately by the caress of the sea breeze and the roar of brutal storms off the North Sea, was inundated by people. Villagers, fishermen, photographers, and reporters— they were all there, tromping down the pale green grass and fragile flowers, overrunning his carefully marked sections, milling, talking, jostling for position.
Where were his workers? Who was in control?
Where was his superintendent? Where was Hard- wick?
Grimly Rurik surged forward.
The crowd had already spotted him, and he heard his name repeated over and over again.
Ashley Sundean got to him first before he reached the edge of the crowd. She was an archaeology student from Virginia, here for the summer dig, a girl whose soft-spoken drawl hid a steel core and a hard head for drinking.
He stopped and faced her. "What is going on here?"
"It's ... it's so awful.. . ." She slumped before him.
"It sure as hell is." He saw the flash as camera lenses turned his way, and heard them start to click and whirl. "Start at the beginning. Tell me