Free Ekaterina by Susan May Warren, Susan K. Downs

in this world, but rather something I cling to, in the hope it will shelter me from that which might destroy me.” His wretchedness scraped across Kat’s heart. She winced and shot a look at the monastery, the white walls that sheltered the brothers from the brutal world. But surely this monk wasn’t recanting his vows to a pair of strangers?
    “Isn’t that what faith is, though? A shelter in the storm of life?” Kat resisted the urge to reach out and pat the monk’s hand, like she might reassure a young parent that the child he’d waited for so long would join their family soon.
    “I believe faith must be more. Perhaps it is not something to hide behind, but to give us vision. Help us see clearly. The faith of Brother Timofea was true faith. He saw the Master’s hand in everything. He had discovered something. . .more about God.” His voice pinched into the tight tenor of grief. “I still miss him.”
    Kat glanced at Captain Vadeem and saw the planes of his face harden, his gaze turn dark and hone in on the monk. “Faith does not give vision, Brother. It betrays and destroys and crushes.”
    His words punched the breath out of Kat. She stared, shocked dumb, at the captain as he pounced to his feet. “Come, Kat. It’s time to go. Your visit in Russia is over.”

Chapter 6
     
    “No!” Kat’s plaintive voice stabbed at him. “I’m not ready!”
    , Vadeem forced himself to ignore her protests and stalked through the cemetery toward the road. She’d better be on his tail. He wasn’t above turning around, slapping her in handcuffs, and hauling her bodily to the train station.
    Faith, indeed. Oh, yes, he knew all about faith. How it deceived and hurt. How it killed. He balled his fists and made a deliberate effort to slow his rocketing heartbeat.
    “Please, Captain. I need to know more. How did Brother Timofea know my family? How did he know me?”
    He heard the unspoken plea in the echo of her words. Who am I? Where do I fit into this puzzle of life? To whom do I belong? He kept walking, furious at the burning in his eyes, at the tempest of emotions this little two-hour excursion had whipped up. He was dangerously close to reliving every nightmare he’d been dodging for twenty years, and he had no one to thank but a feisty runaway with a knack for choosing the wrong friend. “Let’s go,” he growled, not caring that he sounded like some remnant from the Cold War. “Train’s leaving.”
    “No!”
    He winced. Don’t make me cart you out of here like a two year old. He turned and wrung out a polite tone. “Yes. I’m sorry, Miss Moore, but you’re leaving Russia, today. And if I have to throw you over my shoulder and haul you to the train kicking and screaming, I’m prepared to do that.”
    “Over my dead body.” She stood in the middle of the cemetery, hands on her hips. The wind teased her hair around her face. Her eyes shimmered with fire.
    Vadeem sucked in a breath, feeling like he’d been punched in the chest. American to the bone, she actually glared at him, like he was her hired farm hand who’d just ditched her with a ripe-for-harvest crop in the field.
    “I don’t think we’ll have to go that far.” He strode over, picked up her backpack, and shoved it into her arms. “But, rules are rules.”
    He bent down, grabbed her around the knees, and threw her over his shoulder.
    -
    Ilyitch stepped off the train and turned up his collar against the crisp Moscow wind. The train belched and smoke clogged the already polluted sky. Ilyitch lit a cigarette, then crossed the street where a shiny Moscovitz waited. He threw the bag in first, then climbed into the back seat.
    The driver didn’t even turn around. Ilyitch let a smile tweak his cheek as he watched Moscow hustle by. Twelve hours in Pskov had turned his stomach raw. Wooden huts, sunken by time and the shifting earth, ringed the town like a barricade of slums. Only six hours by car from Moscow, the city—the grand Pskov where Czar