Page 27 of Blazing Embers

“Konstantin, Petra was there for eighteen months,” I remind him. “She came back changed, and we both know it, we just refused to acknowledge it. And now, she’s a fucking black hat on every security agency in the world’s most wanted list.”

Konstantin’s eyes darken, and his jaw is tight. His eyes bore into mine. “Even if I was going to bring her in, I don’t know where the fuck my sister is. She hasn’t contacted me in months.”

“I know where she is,” I tell him. “But she won’t come here for me. But she will for you. Call General Morozov. She’s working for him as one of the Dragunov Guard.”

“Yeah, you said.” He nods. “I’ll find you Clyde Smythe.” He takes a sip of the coffee in his hand. “Now go shower before I call the nurses in here to throw a tarp over you. You’re smelling up the place, and you know how bad you smell when you start to overpower the disinfectant in a hospital.”

“Fuck off.” I laugh, grab the items he brought, then move toward Tara. I hesitate, but Tara’s breathing is steady.

I kiss her forehead. “I’ll be right back,ptichka. Don’t go anywhere.”

Konstantin takes the seat I vacated and sips his awful coffee. I don’t want to leave her side, but I also need a shower. Konstantin is right. I’m beginning to stink, just like what's really going on with Tara.

10

TARA

The Eve before Elena’s Birth

The cabin is dark, but not in the spooky horror-movie sense. It's dark the way an old library is dark: heavy wood, low ceilings, ancient carpets layered with dust and stories. Everything in this cabin was once handmade, battered, and oversized, as if my late father measured the world by how much it could hold, rather than how much space was left. That was until my sister blew up two years ago.

Fuck was it two years ago that Sabrina was helping Radomir Molchanov try to find her best friend Leigh Vasilikis?

Time has flown by since then. I sigh and try to get comfortable in the overstuffed armchair that Sam has replaced all my father’s furniture with. One thing that hasn’t changed is the god-awful knitted blankets that Sam seems to have a barnload full of, one of which is draped over my legs.

I shift my weight for the twentieth time in as many minutes, feeling like I’m literally going to burst my belly, which is so distended. I really didn’t think it could get this big. Every timeI move, even in bed, it’s like trying to rearrange a sack of wet cement that’s been left out in the sun. My back groans. My ankles throb. A hot, heavy ball presses into my diaphragm, just under my ribs, threatening to crack them like wishbones. My belly looks fake, like I’m hiding a beach ball under my t-shirt for a viral prank, except when I try to laugh, it jiggles and something inside responds by kicking me so hard I want to pee myself. Sometimes I do pee a little.

I grunt, trying to find a position that doesn’t make me want to cry. It’s impossible.

“Maybe if you tried jumping on a trampoline, the baby would just fall out,” Sabrina says from across the living room, not looking up from her phone. She’s sprawled on the couch like a cat, one leg hooked over the back and the other dangling off the edge, a bowl of peanut M&Ms nestled against her fake-pregnancy bump.

Yes, my sister is wearing a fake pregnancy bump. She’s been “training” for this for weeks, walking around town, eating for two, trying on all the looks of pregnant exhaustion and bliss. To give her her dues, Sabrina is a damn good actress and I’ve commented many times during these past seven months that she’s missed her calling. Instead of a dancer, she should’ve been an actress.

Instead, I scowl at her. “You’re the one who said I should stay off my feet.”

“You are off your feet.” Sabrina points her phone at me like a judge with a gavel. “You just look like you want to murder everyone who’s ever contributed to the invention of chairs.”

“That’s because every single one of them was a man,” I mutter. I haul myself up, groaning, to get a better grip on the mug of peppermint tea that’s been cooling on the end table. “Who clearly didn’t know how to invent chairs that pregnant people can get comfortable in.”

Sabrina sighs theatrically, sets her phone down, and swings herself upright in one smooth motion. Show-off. “You want to trade?” She taps her fake belly. “Yours for mine?”

I snort. “Please. Yours probably comes with a tiny flask and free Spotify premium.”

She grins. “You think I’d settle for Spotify? Amateur.” She pads barefoot over the creaky floorboards and sinks down onto the ottoman in front of me. “Move over,” she says. “I need to check the swelling.”

“No,” I groan, but she’s already tugging the blanket away from my feet and prodding my ankle bones with a gentle, expert touch.

“Sam says the more you walk, the less you’ll swell up,” Sabrina observes, squinting at the puffy contour of my left foot.

I kick at her halfheartedly. “Sam also says the best cure for insomnia is sheep dip and whiskey. Are we taking medical advice from the guy who thinks Tylenol is a government mind-control device?”

“He’s not wrong,” Sabrina says, deadpan. Then she brightens, producing a tube of minty-scented lotion from her hoodie pocket. “Want a foot rub?”

I freeze. “Are you going to mock me the whole time?”

“Absolutely.” She squirts lotion into her palm and starts massaging my foot anyway. “You realize tomorrow is D-Day, right?” She says it softly, with that edge of nervous humor she reserves for moments when she’s actually terrified but wants me to feel better.

I swallow hard. “Yeah.”

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