Unknown: Grace Sufficient, #1

Chapter 1

HER FINGERS TREMBLED, her arm tingling with the strain. Her breath rasped in her throat, aching, burning.

Evgeny’s face was pale, his eyes closed, his chest heaving. His hand was so far, so still. To touch him one last time ...

Yet it was not to be. Weakness swept over her, and she slumped across his prone body, her eyes sliding shut.

Darkness lowered, Evgeny’s body searing her own, the stage cool under her hands.

Love fought for, but love denied ... love lost.

The applause rose, first as a smatter, then into a continuous din, and the heavy curtain brushed closed.

Sofia Rykova opened her eyes to stare up at the wide expanse above the stage and swallowed against her thick throat.

The bright lights surged back on, cloaking the stage in light.

Evgeny propped himself up on an elbow, and she slid off him. His eyes were somber, but he reached out to brush her cheek, his own fingers shaking. Well done, princess. He was barely audible over the applause beyond the red brocade curtain.

She dragged in a breath, but it didn’t fill the void in her chest.

Evgeny dropped his hand and pushed himself to his feet. She rose on trembling legs, claiming his sweaty hand, and hurried offstage.

Her ankle twinged, but she ground her teeth. Not tonight.

The corps de ballet, each in their assorted roles, rushed onstage to take their bows. Applause swelled from the crowd, and a wavering smile lifted her lips.

Would the day come when she’d grasp this was reality, not just a dream from which she’d awaken?

Evgeny’s strong arm slipped around her waist, and she sagged against his familiar, lithe form. She cleared her throat to speak over the crowd’s appreciation. And well done to you too, Evgeny.

He chuckled. How could it not be well done, with such a lovely ballerina as my partner?

The flatterer. She shook her head and lightly clapped for the corps.

The applause remained steady, interspersed with shouts, and after several minutes, Evgeny led her onstage for their own bows.

Her ankle complained again under her weight, but the crowd thundered its pleasure. She pressed a smile to her face, her lipstick stretching tight under the heat of the stage lights.

She dipped into a low curtsey, the toe of her pointe shoe slick against the floor. The lights were blinding, but past them were so many people cheering and applauding the heartache they’d witnessed.

A rose for you, my Juliet?

A laugh tickled her throat as Evgeny held out a single long-stemmed rose. An audience member must’ve thrown the flower onto the stage.

She grasped the stem and offered a brief curtsey. The crowd resounded its delight. Thank you.

Evgeny tipped his head in a courtly nod and lifted her hand to his lips, his deep blue eyes searching her face. Anything for you.

She squeezed his hand—such a charmer onstage—then released it and stepped back to clap for the conductor as he strode across the stage.

After many more bows, the curtain drifted shut as she dropped into one last curtsey. She straightened and pressed a hand to her hammering heart, dizziness tipping her head.

Evgeny seemed untouched by her maladies, as if they both hadn’t gone through a slew of emotions in the last couple hours. He held out an arm. Ladies first.

She snorted and headed offstage. Fluorescent light glowed sallow from the hallway leading backstage, far different from the warmth of the stage. Chatter drifted from the dressing rooms, beckoning, but she threw one last look over her shoulder.

The story they’d told had been painful, yet tangible and true in those short moments. Now it was gone, held only in memory.

Come on, Sofia. I don’t have time for you to stand here, or the rest of the girls are going to run us down.

She huffed out a breath. Several of the ladies from the corps de ballet were heading backstage, the toes of their shoes clomping against the hard floor. I’m going, I’m going. You’re not quite as charming as Romeo, you know.

He laughed under his breath. Don’t worry. We’ll be back at it soon enough. He grinned and ducked into his dressing room.

She laughed and hurried to her own dressing room. The stage door had been packed last week, and it’d be the same tonight if the crowd’s size and Igor’s grumbling were any indication.

She pushed her dressing room door open, revealing, as usual, a complete disaster. If only her bag of pointe shoes hadn’t gone missing an hour before the performance. They’d done a good job of hiding under her sweatshirt while she was tearing the room apart.

She plunked down onto the chair in front of her dressing table and loosened the ribbons of her shoes. Her shaking hands made the familiar task harder than it should’ve been, but she wrestled both shoes off and pushed herself back onto trembling legs.

Her image stared from the mirror, and she narrowed her eyes. No, she’d never be as pretty as some of the other girls, but stage makeup did relieve the thinness of her face.

But she’d need more than makeup at the stage door. A smile would be welcome, even if she’d been wrung out like a dishrag tonight.

She dragged in a breath and smiled as she smoothed her hands down the bodice of her costume. Romeo and Juliet wasn’t quite as technically demanding as other ballets, but it required so much storytelling, so much passion.

How could she not smile when this was her job?

She breathed a laugh and dropped her costume to a pool of fabric at her feet. Quickly, she pulled on leggings and a sweatshirt.

She was slipping her flats on when the expected knock came at the door. I’ll be right there! She tugged the other shoe on and swept to the door.

Igor stood on the other side of the doorway, a frown lowering his dark features. There are too many tonight, Sofia. You must stop dancing so beautifully, my precious.

She smiled and brushed past him as she buttoned her coat. Don’t worry. I shall attend to them just fine.

He fell into step beside her. I know you will, and after that performance, they won’t ever let you go.

Ah, Igor and his compliments. And I do believe you talk sweeter after every performance.

The frown morphed into a brief smile, his strong aftershave filling the air. That is my job, is it not? To keep all of you happy?

Not really, but there wasn’t time to answer. The door was already open, and given the clusters of females, Evgeny had beaten her. Every woman fell in love with the debonair, love-stricken Romeo.

However, when she stepped out the door, the crowd surged toward her. She affixed a permanent smile, which wasn’t too hard after many compliments. Person after person extending programs, gushing praises, smiling, laughing.

Finally, she signed the last audience member’s program, her hand cramping and nose freezing. One more smile, and she turned back to the building. Igor’s strident orders of Leave! No more! trailed her.

The poor soul. If Igor wouldn’t snap her head off, she’d sign the program—but not after Igor’s decree.

She shoved her icy hands and the marker into her coat pocket as she walked back down the hall. Her room had to be straightened after the shoe fiasco, or the cleaning ladies would shoot her death glares in the morning.

She threw the door open and leaned down to seize Juliet’s off-white gown. The gauzy fabric, slick against her fingers, flowed with movement—a beautiful costume fitting Juliet’s girlishness.

Well, Sofia ... you looked beautiful, as you always do.

She spun. Her brother leaned against the doorjamb.

She pursed her lips and hung the costume up before crossing the room to him. Are you trying to scare me or something?

Maybe. But you shouldn’t be scared. Dmitri’s arms came around her, and she turned her face so makeup wouldn’t smear his black tux. I do visit you on a regular basis.

Her eyes fell shut, and she tightened her arms around him. What would she do without Dima’s constant encouragement? You don’t usually try to scare me like that.

He leaned back, a dark brow raised even as he smiled. Can’t let you get too comfortable.

She let out a breath and released him. Let me just get this place cleaned up a bit, then we can go.

Take your time.

She picked up a stray bobby pin that’d fallen to the chair. Dmitri was impeccable tonight, his tuxedo tailor-fit, his black hair freshly trimmed. A rogue strand of hair had slipped over his forehead, probably just to tempt a woman to brush it back.

Dima, ever the lady’s man. She zipped her makeup bag shut. Is Sasha not with you?

Oh, not tonight. She’s mad at me for some reason. I don’t really remember why.

She quirked a grin as she shoved her warm-up outfit into her bag. Maybe that’s the problem.

He tipped his head carelessly. How’s the ankle?

Dmitri could have every girl in Moscow lined up if he wanted, which was probably why Sasha was mad. She shook her head as she reached for her scarf. The rest of the mess could wait. Nothing serious. I’ll go to physio tomorrow.

Good. But be careful with it. He crossed his arms. Are you ready for a night out?

Not tonight. She wound her scarf around her neck. Drinking wasn’t a good idea in the middle of the Bolshoi’s season. Besides, Dmitri wasn’t exactly the escort she’d desire if she were of a mind to go out.

You’re sure?

You know I can’t. Not with my schedule. She snatched up her purse and headed for the hall. Maybe someday there’d be time for frivolities and someone to share that time with—other than her big brother.

Dmitri switched the lights off and closed the door behind him. A few Theatre employees strode past, shouting at each other as they closed up for the night. Several girls from the corps scurried out of a dressing room, including Oksana, one of the newer hires from the Bolshoi Academy.

Sofia offered a smile as she and Dmitri passed. Oksana returned the expression, but her eyes quickly turned to Dmitri.

Sofia rolled her eyes at Oksana’s flirty wave. Stop it, please.

What? Dima’s deep voice was too innocent.

She whacked his arm. Your flirting. Freezing air hit her face as she shoved the door open.

He just laughed. I’m parked over there. His black-gloved finger pointed away from the sidewalk toward a thin side street packed with cars.

You could’ve parked closer. She burrowed her face in the scarf and shoved her hands into her pockets.

Or I could let you take the taxi, since you refuse to buy a car.

Shut up. I don’t want to deal with a car.

You can’t drive anyway.

That earned him a swift elbow to his ribs. She could drive, just not very well. And driving was awful, anyway.

Dmitri laughed again, tugging keys out of his pocket as they neared the car. So you’re stuck with me. This was as close as I could get. He hit the key fob, and the sports car beeped, flashing its headlights.

You should con Igor for priority parking or something. She skittered to the passenger’s side and yanked the door open.

Not any better. The inside of the car was filled with the same unforgiving Moscow winter.

I do have a talent for getting what I want. Dmitri folded himself into the driver’s seat and turned the key. The engine purred to life.

Even Dima couldn’t convince Igor of something like that. Good luck. But turn on the heat, please. She aimed her sweetest smile at him. And can we get some food?

The engine’s not warm enough. He eased the car out of the parallel parking space. And of course we’re getting dinner. Without drinks, per your request.

Yes. She shivered. An entire ballet worked up an appetite.

He threw her a look. I’d prefer you not to go hungry. I know what happens when you don’t eat after a while.

I yell at you.

Yes. And you’re doing a pretty good job of it right now.

She glared at him, but it was too hard to sustain. She leaned her head back against the headrest as he wove through the thick traffic. It went so well tonight, didn’t it?

Mm-hmm.

She blinked at the passing bright lights. If she could savor those moments onstage where nothing else mattered, where it was only her, Evgeny, and ballet, she’d never grow weary of early morning rehearsals or the everyday aches and pains.

No, ballet wasn’t all jewels and glitter—but it was worth far more.

Life rolled on. Nothing stopped, nothing changed ... even when his world had slammed to a jarring halt.

The city lights pricked through the dark of night, a night that threatened to swallow up the entirety of the city. Cars slid by on the street below the hotel, each carrying a passenger to his destination.

A demanding buzz cut through the silence, and a sigh gathered as Gabe turned from the window. The phone he’d thrown on the bed had been blowing up these last few days. Stupid thing.

His sigh broke free as he pivoted back to the window. Probably Mr. Mathers inquiring about another client. Gabe should just pick up the phone and tell the man he was on leave. He was not working right now. He couldn’t.

Yet Mr. Mathers didn’t understand that some things came before work. That making a profit was not the most important thing in life.

Oh, there was so much more to life—and it’d taken this to make him realize it.

He’d been sitting in his new desk chair at the office, printers humming nearby, keyboards ticking from each cubicle. He’d just gotten off the phone with a would-be client, and the phone had rung again. He hadn’t even glanced at the number.

Gabriel? I—I have some very bad news.

The Russian words had jolted him, had churned the coffee in his stomach. What is it, Sergei?

The head deacon of Mom and Dad’s church plant had paused for long moments. Then his words had traveled those thousands of miles and shattered Gabe’s world.

Your parents were found dead early this morning.

Somehow, he hadn’t lost his breakfast on the desk. Somehow, he’d mumbled something to Sergei, assured him he’d be on the next plane to Moscow.

Then he’d hung up, shaking uncontrollably as he’d choked back sobs that would grip him short minutes later.

It’d been two years since the week he’d visited Mom and Dad, and only this year, he’d gotten enough vacation from work to plan another trip.

Now they were dead. Dead.

The funeral this afternoon had sealed it. Sergei’s reddened eyes and hearty but mute embrace spoke more than words. Every churchgoer, grasping his hands, pressing kisses to his cheeks, offering tearful apologies, drove the reality home.

He’d never see Dad again. Never see Mom again.

They were gone.

He lowered his head, his fists clenching as the gaping hole tore at his chest. Tears burned the backs of his eyes—as if he hadn’t cried enough in the past three days.

Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection, and the life: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live ...

Yes. The word rasped over his raw throat. Yes, he had to believe that. Had to cling to that, even when everything else was so muddled.

He dragged in a breath. They were gone ... but they were alive. Mom and Dad were in heaven with the Savior they’d served so faithfully. And he would see them again, just not on this earth.

That was comfort. That was truth. But even those faithful promises didn’t stop the questions.

Why? Why would God take such good people? Hadn’t they given their lives to His service and risked so much for the Russian people for more than two decades?

And they’d died in a random burglary?

He turned from the window, swiping at his grainy eyes. Help me, Lord. I don’t know ...

He sank onto the bed. He didn’t know anything. How was he supposed to function when his parents lay in their graves—lay in this cold city they’d sacrificed so much for—with two bullet holes in their bodies?     

He groaned and buried his face in his hands.

The Bible said the Lord worked all things out for the good of those who loved Him.

Even this?

His throat seized, and his eyes went back to stinging. Dad had preached a sermon on the topic the last time Gabe had been in the city.

There’s going to come a time when you and I look around us, and we’re not going to understand. But the Lord understands—and He will use every situation, good or bad, for our good. For His glory. And that is why we never despair, why we never fear, and why we always hold firm to our faithful Lord.

Dad’s voice, deeper than his own and filled with so much compassion, so much love, so much faith.

Mom and Dad wouldn’t be doubting God’s Ways. Dad would be praying. Mom would be singing a hymn. And they’d tell him to do the same.

Yet they couldn’t tell him a thing.

He dragged his hands away from his face. The dull gray curtains framing the window stared back at him. Mom had sewn curtains for his eleventh birthday. She’d been so proud of them, but he’d been gutted to receive such a dull gift.

Why had he ever complained? She’d spent hours on those things, and he’d had the nerve to complain because they weren’t a meaningless toy.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Reminders lurked everywhere. Just hours ago, as he’d wandered back to the hotel from the cemetery, the stranger walking down the sidewalk had worn a cap just like Dad’s. How many times had Dad tugged a cap on his head, winked at Mom, and said his farewells in a mock Irish accent?

He flopped onto his back. If only he’d come sooner. If only he’d been here, not halfway across the world peacefully sleeping while they were murdered.

Bile rose in his throat, but something was jabbing into his back. He swallowed hard and reached under himself to grasp his phone and the complimentary newspaper the hotel provided.

Temptation urged him to toss the cursed electronic at the wall, but he pressed the phone to life.

The screen lit, and he sat up. Mr. Mather’s number. Three voicemails in the last two hours.

Couldn’t the man leave him alone?

He darkened the phone, set it aside, and numbly snapped the newspaper open.

Just like Dad had every morning.

He gulped and stared at the front page until his eyes cleared.

The Bolshoi Ballet in a production of Romeo and Juliet, the title explained. This must be the entertainment section of the newspaper or something.

Moscow, along with all of Russia, loved their ballet. Mom and Dad had never had time for such things, but they’d always asked Sofia about it when she’d come over ...

He blinked again, down at the elegant blonde in the picture.

It couldn’t be her.

The caption. Evgeny Yurlov (Romeo) and Sofia Rykova (Juliet) in the Bolshoi Theatre’s latest production.

The weakest of smiles tugged at his mouth. Good for her. She’d turned into a true ballerina, just as he’d always said.

His hand fisted the edge of the paper. Mom had loved Sofia, always wheedling her to eat a little more. Judging from the picture, Sophie hadn’t started eating any more in recent years. All the extra bread or muffins Mom sent home with her hadn’t helped.

He lowered the paper to his lap. They’d been healthy, both of them. They could’ve had many more years on this earth. All to be cut short by two bullets from a random killer.

Tears prickled again.

Not now. He couldn’t.

The church.

The paper crinkled between his fingers. The little Baptist church in the heart of Moscow, now lacking a human shepherd. Sergei could preach, but he’d never led a church. And Gabe wasn’t about to presume he could do anything for the church, much less stand in Dad’s shoes.

Besides, in four days, he’d be on a plane back to Virginia Beach. He’d probably never return. The States were home now.

He wasn’t a preacher. He was a marketer, a businessman who had no place in the ministry.

And he said unto them, Go ye into all the world, and preach the gospel to every creature. He that believeth and is baptized shall be saved; but he that believeth not shall be damned.

He twisted the newspaper into a cylinder. His few bites of lunch threatened a dramatic return.

How many times had Dad quoted that verse? He’d loved explaining that being baptized is only in the first part of the verse, not in the second. Baptism doesn’t save, but is rather obedience that follows faith. The Russian Orthodox members had never liked Dad’s argument.

Go ye into all the world, and preach the gospel to every creature ... 

He released the newspaper from its coil. Wasn’t that what he did in America? He’d shared the Gospel with his roommates in college, been involved in a campus ministry, and now, he tried to live faithfully and point others to the Lord in word and deed.

He didn’t have to stay in Russia to serve the Lord. He didn’t have to live in this dark, cold place where murderers lurked to kill innocent people.

A chill crawled along his spine, and he slammed his eyes shut before his imagination feasted on Mom’s and Dad’s final moments.

Moscow hadn’t always been dark and cold.

He eased out a breath. True, the best days of his life had been spent in this city, filled with happiness and friendship and service to the Lord. He’d rejoiced alongside Mom and Dad so many times as the church had grown one member at a time. As people had matured in their faith, freed of sin’s chains through the power of the Almighty Savior.

No, Moscow hadn’t always been dark, and it wouldn’t always be.

But it was now.

And in this hour, he needed Someone greater than this darkness, than this drowning grief, than this roiling anger that would consume.

He slid off the side of the bed, and his knees smacked against the thinly carpeted floor. His breath came thick. Jesus, I need You. I need You.

Now, in this night, more than ever.

Chapter 2

THE BITTER FEBRUARY air chased Sofia into the Theatre the next morning, and a beaming Oksana greeted her within four meters of the door.

Sofia! Where’s your brother?

She snorted, clenching her chattering teeth together. Of course the boisterous welcome was about Dmitri. He’s working or something. He was always working. Don’t get any ideas about him. I don’t want him breaking more hearts, much less yours.

Yeah, but he’s handsome. Oksana, dressed in warm-up sweats, fell into step beside her. Those eyes. And he’s tall and dark ... She sighed and fluttered her hand in front of her face.

Please. Sofia brushed into her dressing room and switched the lights on. The room was still a mess. Too bad it didn’t clean itself in the night. Spare me the details. He’s my brother, you know.

Even better. I have an advantage. Oksana grinned, halting in the doorway.

Sofia set her bags down, shivering in the too-cool room. Do you? I’m not setting you up. He’s too old for you. Not to mention Oksana didn’t stand a chance against Sasha’s beauty.

That doesn’t matter. Oksana frowned. How old is he?

Sofia grinned as she sat and slipped her shoes off. Like I said, too old for you. Thirty-one was way too old for Oksana’s twenty.

He can’t be over forty. I’ll accept that.

Sofia cocked a brow as she pulled out last night’s pair of pointe shoes. They could probably make it through rehearsal. Stop fawning over him. He has enough women falling over him.

Is he coming to your next performance?

She shrugged as she bent the pointe shoes. Rather soft, but they’d work. She shoved the shoes into her bag. As for Dmitri ... well, his schedule was unpredictable. I’m not sure.

Oksana sighed. Have mercy, Sofia. A girl’s got to have a little romance. Not everyone gets to dance with Evgeny Yurlov. And kiss him, too!

Warmth touched her cheeks as she pulled on her ballet slippers and slid her warm-up boots over them. I have to admit it’s not a difficult task.

Evgeny was one of the Bolshoi’s crowning danseurs: his technique flawless, his phrasing impeccable. Every ballerina, whether she conceded it or not, dreamed of dancing with him.

She gathered up her bags. I’m thankful to have won the role. She cleared her throat—too bad it didn’t make her blush recede—and stepped past Oksana.

I wish I could get a role like that someday. Oksana heaved out another sigh and followed Sofia down the hall to the studio. Class was in thirty minutes, so she had some time to stretch and warm up after enduring this morning’s blustery wind.

It will certainly take you a bit more time, Oksana.

Sofia’s spine tightened at the too-familiar voice. The worst person to encounter this morning—or any morning.

Elena’s footsteps whispered behind her. Only the finest of ballerinas should be rewarded with such a role.

More torment, first for years at school, and now because of contracts with the Bolshoi.

Too bad such is not the case. Elena’s voice came low.

Oksana paled, and her eyes widened. For once, her mouth stayed shut.

Sofia gripped the straps of her bag, her nails cutting into her palms. How much abuse did she have to suffer from this woman?

She turned to aim a brittle smile at Elena. Then I suppose none of us are worthy, since Antonov denied you the role.

Elena’s mouth compressed into a thin line, but before she could say anything else, Sofia stepped into the studio. She lifted her chin and headed for the far side of the room. How many times had she sworn she wouldn’t react to Elena’s goads?

She dropped her bag to the ground and collapsed beside it. After eight years in the company with the woman and other snippy colleagues, she should be immune.

Who’s riled you up this time, Sofia?

In lieu of meeting Evgeny’s gaze, she extended her legs and wrapped her hands around her feet. Nothing out of the ordinary. She pressed her face to her knees.

One try, and I can guess who it was.

She lifted her head and narrowed her eyes at his tease. You’re supposed to be warming up.

He chuckled. I will. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t angry with me.

It’s that obvious? Stupid Elena.

Maybe. He bumped her foot with his. I got some nice compliments from Davydov on last night’s performance, if that’s any cheer.

It was always good to receive pleasant tidings from the director of the Bolshoi. Specifically?

He smirked. "Mostly my leaps, which isn’t a surprise. But he especially liked the balcony pas de deux."

She nodded. Maybe she’d see Davydov today, and he’d offer a few direct compliments. The director’s satisfaction was a balm after Elena’s snide comments.

She pushed herself to her feet, and her ankle protested. Annoying thing. She’d have to go to physiotherapy between rehearsals.

Rehearsals in which she’d prove she was worthy of the roles she’d received, no matter what that petty jerk said. 

Gabe shoved his hands deep into his pockets as he strode down the familiar street, the lump in his throat more choking than ever. He’d walked this street hundreds of times to visit the Dorokhovs—but never without Mom and Dad nearby, whether beside him or back at home.

He dragged in a rough breath and tilted his head to the leaden sky. Home.

Home was in Virginia Beach, where his spacious apartment lay quiet.

Or was it here in Moscow, where he’d lived for so long—and where Mom and Dad had lost their lives?

Oh, Lord ... He rubbed at the gnawing ache in his chest. Maybe someday it wouldn’t hurt so badly.

He slid his hand back into his pocket. The neighborhood was more dilapidated than it’d been a few years ago, but maybe that was compared to American luxuries. His apartment in the US was at least twice the size of Mom and Dad’s, not to mention it boasted fresh coats of paint, brand-new appliances, and a spotless entryway.

Quite unlike every normal Russian apartment he’d stepped foot in.

No one was out on the street this early—half past six if his watch were correct—and he made quick time to the apartment complex.

He trotted up the front steps that led to the entry to Sergei’s apartment building and punched Sergei’s apartment number into the keypad by the door. It only took four attempts for the system to react, and then a shrill ringing swirled through the morning air.

He clasped his hands behind his back. How many times had he stood here, Dad discussing a new book or relaying a conversation he’d had on the Moscow Metro with a stranger?

Now, all was quiet save for the whisper of a passing car.

Lord, I miss them so much.

Good morning?

A woman’s voice—hopefully Ana’s—drifted from the speaker. Good morning. This is Gabe Kelly. I hope I’m not too early?

Gabe! Ana’s reply came bright even through the ancient system. "No, of course not! Come right on up. I’ll get