Brimstone Bride

He fisted his hands as if frustrated he couldn’t kill the monk again for her slight injuries. He turned and walked away, his body in tight lines beneath the tailored suit and his posture determined. She’d been hurt before. Daemon hunting was risky business even for the hunter’s bloodhound. But she couldn’t remember anyone reacting to her bruises the way Adam Turov reacted.

Victoria cooled when he left. The flush in her cheeks drained away until her face chilled. Her entire body cooled until, bereft of his Brimstone heat, she sat shivering in the morning light.

* * *

After she left the table, Victoria returned to the cottage. She changed out of her sundress into more practical celery-green pants that she cuffed above sturdy canvas sneakers. She paired the pants with a snug black T-shirt and a soft loose sweater in complementary green. She wasn’t supposed to care how she looked for Turov. Meeting him in his favorite vineyard block wasn’t a date. To prove it, she did nothing with her hair, leaving it clipped up. She planned to wander around the house and grounds during the day until it was time to meet the vineyard manager at the equipment shed Turov had pointed out to her while they ate.

Victoria expected to encounter servants and staff in the main house, but cool and quiet darkness greeted her with hushed shadows instead. Age showed in the house’s walls, where darkly stained teak wainscoting was topped by richly tinted wallpapers. Upon closer inspection, the textured papers had the faded sheen of silk or satin. Green, pale gold and burgundy tinged with scarlet were prevalent in the varying designs from room to room.

She stepped lightly. Her heartbeat felt obvious in her chest. She hadn’t been invited to tour the house. Around every corner, she expected an unpleasant reaction to her presence. The coolness of the air seemed deserted, empty of any living warmth, but it also held a hint of wood smoke scent that reminded her of Turov. This had been his home for a long time. His scent and the aura of all she touched and saw that belonged to him made her jump at every creaking floorboard and the whispers from each well-oiled door.

She wandered with no interruptions through hallways and rooms filled with framed memorabilia and photographs. Awards, newspaper articles and family photos all in black-and-white. Adam Turov wasn’t in many of them. When had he realized his longevity meant he shouldn’t be photographed?

Victoria found only a few solid hints of him. His tall, lean back and dark cap of black hair were in one photograph with a couple that was probably his parents, although they seemed like his grandparents. The man was in an old-fashioned suit with wide lapels and cuffed trousers. The woman was in a shirtwaist dress with a fabric belt. On her chest was a brooch. Vic leaned in close enough to see that the gem-encrusted pin was in the shape of a bird. They were seated at a table in the garden. She wished the photograph was in color because a large bouquet of dark roses was placed in the center of the table. She imagined they must have been lush and red. The couple looked at Adam with great affection. Not like he was a monster. They’d loved him in spite of the Brimstone.

And he had been all alone since they’d passed away?

An army of servants who seemed to wait on him without direction wasn’t the same as a family that adored him.

Added to the photographs and memorabilia was a vintage collection of birdcages of varying sizes and shapes. Some were quite elaborate, created from a twining of fine metals such as copper and brass. Others were simple and crafted of wrought iron. All of the cages were empty.

All had their doors opened wide.

From the delicate and small to the large and ornate, the cages were so prevalent that they were obviously a beloved collection and not simply a decorative theme. When she saw the myriad of cages in the main house, she remembered that there were several in the cottage as well and she promised herself she’d look closer at them when she returned to her rooms.

It was fitting, actually, for Nightingale Vineyards to have a collection of birdcages, but there seemed to be more to it than that. Especially when she leaned closer to one or two and saw the open cage doors could easily swing close and latch if someone hadn’t decided to keep them open, as if to be sure no bird was ever trapped inside.

The upper stories of the house were silent and still. Hallways branched from the main staircase in a labyrinthine confusion. Occasionally, she heard footsteps and doors open and close. She assumed Turov had many maids in his employ, but she never encountered one. The solitude suited her clandestine intrusion, but it also made her avoid silent shadows that seemed darker than they should be. The house was too big. Too empty. It seemed almost like a museum or mausoleum. Turov had lived long beyond his natural time. There was obviously a price to his longevity beyond the damnation he ultimately faced. Isolation. Loneliness. He lived in a house that must once have known love and laughter, but was now dusty with all humor long forgotten in gray photographs.

Finally, she found a room that drew her curiosity even more than the birdcages. At its heart was a large glass case—the glass waved with age—and within its protection sat a Russian tea service decorated with an elaborate design. The wallpaper throughout the house must have been chosen to complement the tea service with its antique pot and dainty cups. The motif on the porcelain featured an exotic bird with boldly colorful feathers outlined in glimmering gold. The gold also accented the handles and the rims of the cups as well as the curved spout of the pot. The whole service rested on black velvet that was faded and dusty even within its case. It hadn’t been used in a long time. She chose not to disturb it now.

But she did note that an open gilded birdcage was a part of the background design.

On a card table nearby she found a copy of a book with illustrations similar to the tea service. She picked up the volume and found it delicate from frequent use and age. Its spine was cracked. Its cover was worn. It wasn’t dusty under glass. No children lived in the house, but the book wasn’t forgotten. The title page was translated, The Firebird. The rest of the book was in Russian.

Again, she noticed an open birdcage featured on one of the pages.

She would look up the tale on her laptop when she had a chance. For now, she reluctantly put the beautiful book down after quickly skimming through the illustrations.

Victoria explored the rest of the room with more urgency. The book wasn’t abandoned. That meant the room wasn’t as abandoned as it had first appeared, although the chairs were covered with linen sheets gray with age.

Low on an otherwise empty shelf, she found a wooden box carved all over in a design of grapes. She almost glanced over it, but something in its rough, dust-embedded surface called to her. When she opened the lid, she felt more intrusive than she’d felt so far. This had been someone’s keepsake box. It wasn’t meant for her eyes or fingers. Inside, nestled on a bed of scarlet velvet gone pale and worn, she found a ring of keys much like the one Turov had given her for the rose-covered cottage. In fact, exactly like. Her key must have been taken from this set. Only now did she realize the swirled design in the key’s grip was another firebird.

Suddenly, she remembered the woman in the photograph with Turov. His mother. Firebird Pinot Noir was named in her honor. Now, Victoria saw the meaning behind the name. The Russian fairy tale must have been a treasure to her. She’d worn a firebird brooch in the photograph. The tea set had been hers and this must have been her sitting room. The dust everywhere but on the book indicated Turov visited at times to mourn or recall.

Had the birdcage collection been hers as well, and was it somehow tied to the firebird fairy tale?

Her fingers shook when she placed the keys back in the box and put the box back on the shelf. Tears pricked her eyes and shame colored her cheeks. She shouldn’t be here. She might as well have desecrated a tomb. How horrible to outlive the family you loved by decades and more to come. They might be the only people who ever understood his dark secrets. Turov’s mother had loved him as she loved Michael. And Victoria had disturbed the room where he came to sit with long-dead memories.

Briefly, she’d even considered taking the keys.

She should. If one fit her cottage door, the others would unlock other places, maybe even the secret prison she sought. But she couldn’t. Not now. It was too intrusive to contemplate.

Instead, she looked long and hard at the whole room. She adjusted the book on the card table to more closely assimilate its previous position. She couldn’t help the disturbed dust. Best to leave it as it had been found. A place for a son who’d been left behind to grieve.

* * *

The middle-aged manager introduced himself as Gideon. His friendly sun-crinkled eyes and informative banter eased her disappointment after a fruitless day. She’d seen or heard nothing to indicate a clue about where Turov might be holding crazed monks for the devil. His house was cool and shadowed and overwhelmingly empty.

Except for the firebird keys.

Of course, she hadn’t ventured into his private apartment. There were many places she wasn’t free to explore. But the whole dark house had made her feel guilty for her snooping. Especially his mother’s sitting room.

“Please, climb aboard, miss. I’ll drive you over to the hilltop,” Gideon said.

The vehicle was an ATV designed like a miniature pickup truck. It had large tires with deep tread and two rows of side-by-side seats. The small aluminum truck bed currently held a cooler and what seemed to be gardening equipment—rakes, gloves, shears and buckets.

“I’m sorry to add to your chores,” Victoria said. She was glad she’d changed out of her dress into practical clothes. Gideon’s coveralls were belted neatly but she could tell he’d put in a long day.

“I’ve overseen the thinning for years, but I don’t often get to drive such pleasant visitors through the rows. Happy to do it,” Gideon said. He grinned and Victoria couldn’t help smiling back.

“You must have known Mr. Turov for a long time?” Victoria asked as the ATV bumped along. Gideon was explaining that the cover crops grown to fight erosion between rows had been recently mowed. The rainy season was over. Drier weather and approaching summer meant moisture needed to be directed toward the grapevines instead.

“No. No one knows Mr. Turov. He’s a private man. But he’s a good man. I haven’t always been a grower. My life before I came to Nightingale Vineyards was a very different sort of life,” Gideon said as he cut the wheel so that they were bumping over different terrain. “I owe Mr. Turov a great debt. I’m honored to repay it every day in these rows. He gave me the sun. I give him my hands and my back in return.”

He spoke so warmly of Turov that Vic was taken aback. She tried to absorb what he said and what he’d left unsaid. How had Turov given him the sun?

They left the gentle roll of the main vineyard behind in order to curve up and around a rise. The sun was low on the horizon. It painted everything it touched in a gold wash of color. Other crews were finishing for the day. She could see them piling into other ATVs and tractors in the distance.

“You’ll ride back with Mr. Turov. He has his own vehicle. There he is now,” Gideon said.

She could see the tall outline of Turov’s form silhouetted by the glow of the sun.

“Most of the maintenance on the hilltop is done by hand. There isn’t room for equipment. Mr. Turov oversees much of it himself. This was his mother’s parcel. The Firebird is named after her,” Gideon explained. “From her favorite Russian tale.”

He stopped at the base of an even steeper slope. The vineyard rows extended up in diagonal alleys from the path where he parked beside another ATV long enough for her to exit. Turov didn’t come to meet them. After raising his hand to salute his foreman, he bent to continue his work. Victoria climbed from the mini truck and thanked Gideon.

“Please, take the cooler. Cook sent some refreshment. Mr. Turov never rests as he should. He’s a driven man. These grapes are his obsession,” Gideon said.

Victoria didn’t argue. She suspected Turov had much darker obsessions, ones that would shock Gideon and Cook.

“Good night and thank you,” she said. Gideon waved as he drove away.

Victoria stood for a few moments as she noticed several large windmills spinning on steel posts. There didn’t seem to be enough wind to make the red blades move. The air was rapidly cooling and still. She placed the cooler in the last remaining ATV and climbed the hill toward where Turov was working. He didn’t look her way. He continued to tend to the vines with flying fingers.

That’s what she noticed. Deft manipulation of small pruning shears had leaves raining down at his feet.

She’d seen a Japanese bonsai trimmed once at a garden show. This reminded her of that meticulous attention to detail on a grander scale. The vines seemed perfect to her. Not a stem out of place. And yet tendril by tendril across hundreds of acres would be carefully groomed to maximize and perfect this year’s harvest.