Chimera (The Korsak Brothers #1)(2)

“A picture’s worth a thousand words.” Jesus, how often have you heard that old saying? Slathered across sickeningly sweet greeting cards, beaming from manipulative TV commercials, it was a time-honored classic. A picture’s worth a thousand words. . . . Yeah? Right now I could think of only one.

Goddamnit. Behind glass, framed in velvety rosewood, the photograph was one I hadn’t seen before. Not that I didn’t recognize it; I did. I might not have remembered ever seeing the picture, but I recalled all too clearly the moment it captured—the last Christmas. Not as in the one last year—no, it was a helluva lot more momentous than that. Think “the Last Christmas” as you would “the Last Supper.” In some ways it was much the same—an ending, a betrayal, and lives that would never be as they once were. I might have been an unwitting Judas, but the result had been the same. Consequently, I hadn’t felt much like celebrating on the twenty-fifth in the past ten years. You could keep the twinkling lights and the tree, but screw the presents and the eggnog; I didn’t want any part of it.

All those things were in the five-by-seven photo . . . along with two boys. One was fourteen; one, seven. There was no guessing involved in that. I knew those ages to the day, if not the minute. The older kid was obviously a cocky son of a bitch with black hair, mocking pale brown eyes, and a grin that just wouldn’t quit. My grin . . . I hadn’t seen it in a long, long time—not that version. The one I flashed these days had all the warmth of a jagged shard of ice.

The younger boy in the picture occupied a different end of the spectrum, in appearance and personality. He had unusual eyes, unique in their innocence and color. One green, one blue, they looked out calmly from beneath the fringe of pale blond bangs. His smile was smaller than my grin, but pure and happy. I touched a finger to the glass over that smile. It was my brother, Lukas.

We sat under a ridiculously huge tree. The lights sparkled among a thousand silver icicles and a thick coating of artificial snow. We’d insisted on the cheap and tacky spray despite our father’s snort of derision. It would be the only snow we were likely to see that year. Southern Florida wasn’t much for the white stuff—not that kind anyway. I had my arm slung around Lukas’s smaller shoulders and both of us sported eggnog mustaches, yellow and foamy. Mom had started the habit of making us alcohol-free nog three years before, and even though she’d died only a year later, the tradition was kept up. It kept her alive and with us for the holiday. And it made Lukas happy.

Kid brothers were always a pain in the ass. Any older brother or sister would tell you that. They tagged after you, asked a thousand questions, and bugged you endlessly. They took your crap without asking and narc’ed you out every chance they got. Lukas did all that, sure. He also looked up to me, brought me things—a sea-polished stone from the beach or a comic book he bought with his allowance—and didn’t think any cootieridden girl was good enough for his brother. If making eggnog made him smile, what the hell? I’d do it. And for those two years I did. Dear old Dad was always too busy, and the housekeepers . . . well, they weren’t Mom. The creamy drink pretty much sucked, but Lukas and I drank it anyway before opening our presents.

Of course, that year was the one the presents were too big to open. That year was the year we had to go to the newly built stable to see them. They came with fancy names, I’m sure, but I never learned them. I called mine Harry, after Dirty Harry. That was the year I wanted to grow up to be a cop. I’d never seen my father laugh before; not like that. “A mussor,” he’d choked, darkly amused. “I couldn’t show my face again, Stoipah.” He shouldn’t have worried. It had been a dream that didn’t have a prayer of lasting very long.

Lukas named his Annie for our mother, Anya. Those were our presents. Horses, two of them . . . a mare and a gelding. It would’ve been natural to blame it all on them, the horses, but it would’ve been a lie. And while I could lie smoothly without conscience to anyone I came across, I’d never figured out the art of lying to myself. It damn sure would’ve made things much easier. But if I knew one thing in this godforsaken world, it was that I didn’t deserve easy and I didn’t deserve to forget.

Others though . . . For them it seemed much easier to forget. The framed picture had come through the mail, boxed neatly with a short note from my father. For you, Stefan. It wasn’t signed, but it didn’t have to be. I recognized the bold slash of ink, the roughly spare sentiment. Anatoly Korsak had to pick and choose his words very carefully—an occupational hazard. You never knew who might be reading your mail or listening to your phone conversations. Actually, that was a little less than true. Anatoly was all too aware of who was reading his mail these days—and thanks to our connection, mine. Let them. Aside from my monthly Playboy, they weren’t going to find anything of interest. As for the postmark on today’s package, you could bet your ass that Anatoly was states away from that location.

The day before had been my birthday. The picture was my present. Maybe it was meant as a memorial, a reminder of better, sweeter times, or maybe Anatoly was just cleaning out his goddamn attic. Either way, I didn’t give a shit, because in reality it was none of those things. It was a gravestone, pure and simple. Unconsciously, my hand had already tightened on the smooth wood of the frame, a split second away from slamming it against the wall. It would’ve been a petty piece of violence wrapped around a large chunk of raw pain, but in the end I couldn’t do it. That smile, my brother’s smile . . . Smash it? I just couldn’t.