Darkness Chosen 01: Scent of Darkness Read online

  Scent of Darkness,

  by Christina Dodd

  Book I in the Darkness Chosen series

  Ann Smith loves her handsome, dynamic boss, Jasha Wilder, but her daring plan to seduce him goes awry when she encounters a powerful wolf who - before her horrified eyes - changes into the man she adores. She soon discovers she can’t escape her destiny, for she is the woman fated to break the curse that binds his soul.

  "Dodd brings her unique sense of plotting, character, humor, and surprise to this wonderful tale. You'll relish every word, cherish each poignant moment and ingenious plot twist, sigh deeply, and eagerly await the sequel. Dodd is clever, witty, and sexy."

  —Romantic Times

  "Dodd adds humor, sizzling sensuality, and a cast of truly delightful secondary characters to produce a story that will not disappoint." —Library Journal

  "Strong and likable characters make this an enjoyable read. Ms. Dodd peppers the story with interesting secondary personalities, which add to the reading pleasure." —The Best Reviews

  "Sexy and witty, daring and delightful."

  —Teresa Medeiros, New York Times bestselling author of The Vampire Who Loved Me

  "A master romantic storyteller."

  —Kristin Hannah, New York Times bestselling author of The Magic Hour

  "Christina Dodd keeps getting better and better."

  —Debbie Macomber, New York Times bestselling author of Susannah's Garden

  "Treat yourself to a fabulous book—anything by Christina Dodd!"

  —Jill Bamett, New York Times bestselling author of The Days of Summer

  For Lisa Kleypas,

  my friend, my comrade-in-arms,

  my sister-of-the-heart, and the person

  who taught me to swear in Russian.

  Za vas

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, July 2007

  10 987654321

  Copyright © Christina Dodd, 2007 All rights reserved

  REGISTEREDTRADEMARK—MARCA REGBTRADA

  Printed in the United States of America

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permis­sion of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  PUBLISHER'S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold and destroyed" to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any pay­ment for this "stripped book."

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Starting a new series requires guts, imagination, and planning, which is why I'm grateful to my editor, Kara Cesare, for being my cheerleader, sounding board, and steely-eyed Keeper of the Rules. Thanks to Lindsay Nouis for being Kara's right hand. A big thank-you to Kara Welsh and Claire Zion for their enthusiasm for Darkness Chosen, and to Anthony Ra-mondo and his team in the art department for inspiring and exhilarating covers.

  Thank you to my friends, the ones who write and the ones who read.

  Thank you to the Squawkers for their constant enthusiasm.

  Thank you to Scott. For everything.

  The Beginning

  For centuries, the name of Cossack struck terror in the hearts of the people of Central Asia, and the Family Varinski was the embodiment of merciless conquerors who murdered, maimed, and raped.

  Even today, the Varinskis reside on the steppes of Russia. They are known for their scouting abilities, proving themselves again and again able to discover their enemies’ weaknesses. They leave a trail of blood, fire, and death wherever they go. Terrible rumors swirl around them, rumors that say Konstantine Varinski, the founder of the Varinski tribe, made a deal with the devil –and, in fact, that is exactly right.

  A thousand years ago, Konstantine Varinski, a magnificent warrior of great cruelty, a man driven by his craving of power, roamed the steppes. In return for his ability to hunt down his enemies and kill them, he promised his soul to the devil. To seal the pact, he promised the devil the family icon, a single painting divided into four images of the Madonna.

  To obtain the holy piece, the heart of his home, he killed his own mother . . . and damned his soul.

  Before she died, she pulled him close and spoke in his ear.

  Konstantine paid no heed to her prophecy. She was, after all, only a woman. He didn't believe her dying words had the power to change the future— and more important, he would do nothing to jeopar­dize his pact with the Evil One.

  But although Konstantine did not confess the prophecy his mother had made, the devil knew that Konstantine was a liar and a trickster. He suspected Konstantine's deception, and he comprehended the power of blood and kin and a mother's dying words. So to ensure he forever retained the Varinskis and their services, he secretly cut a small piece from the center of the icon, and gave it to a poor tribe of wanderers, promising it would bring them luck.

  Then, while Konstantine drank to celebrate the deal, in a flash of fire the devil divided the Madonnas and hurled them to the four ends of the earth.

  To Konstantine Varinski and to each Varinski since, the devil bequeathed the ability to change at will into a hunting animal. They could not be killed in battle except by another demon, and each man was unusually long-lived, remaining hale and hearty well into old age. Because of their battle; prowess, their endurance, and their decisiveness, they became rich, respected, and feared in Russia.

  Through czars, Bolsheviks, and even presidents, "they retained their warrior compound, went where they were paid to go, and, with flawless ferocity, crushed uprisings arid demanded obedience.

  They called themselves The Darkness.

  They could breed only sons, a matter of much exul­tation to them. They took their women cruelly, and in their sprawling home they had a turnstile equipped with a bell. There the women who had been impregnated by the Varinskis' careless mating placed their newborn sons. Each woman rang the bell and fled, leaving the child to be taken by the Varinski men into their home. They hailed the birth of a new demon, and raised me child to be a ruthless warrior worthy of the name Varinski.

  For no Varinski ever fell in love...

  Until one did.

  No Varinski ever married...

  Until one did.

  No Variriski ever fled the compound and that way of life...

  Until one did.

  For the first time, cracks appeared in the solid foundation of the deal with the devil.

  Heaven took note.

  So did hell.

  Chapter 1
/>   “Pass the vodka! I wish to make a toast." The Wilder children groaned, but Konstantine Wilder, descendant of a long line of demon warriors, would not be dissuaded by the bad manners of his own disreputable offspring. They might groan and his guests might grin, but everyone from the small mountain town of Blythe, Washington, expected him to give a speech during one of the Wilder family celebrations. His words were as much a part of their special occasions as the picnic tables loaded with Russian delicacies like kasha and tabaka, and American delicacies like hot dogs and corn on the cob, like the Russian music and dancing, like the poker games, like the good company.

  He would not disappoint.

  Striding over to the blazing bonfire, he took his place as the center of attention. His voice boomed out across the company. "My wife and I fled Mother Russia with the demons of hell on our heels. We come to this land of milk and honey." He threw out his big hands to embrace the long stretch of valley— his valley. "And here we have thrived. We grow grapes, the best grapes in Washington. We have our own garden. Our own goat. Our own chickens. More important, we grow our children."

  The people of Blythe shifted in their seats to grin at his children,, standing together like three lambs to the sacrifice.

  "Jasha has grown strong and tall and handsome, like me," More like Konstantine than any of these people could imagine or understand. A wolf. "He owns—he is leader!—of his own wine-making com­pany in Napa, California, and he uses his papa's grapes to make good wine." Konstantine lifted a bot­tle from the table and showed everyone the label. "He is smart. He is wealthy. He is my oldest, my firstborn son, yet still, at the age of thirty-four—"

  "Here it comes," Jasha said out of the corner of his mouth.

  "He shows no respect for his father, whose hearing is excellent."

  "Sorry, Papa." Yet Jasha planted his feet shoulder-width to the ground and crossed his arms over his chest.

  Konstantine was not impressed with the apology or the posturing. He saw the flash of red at the root of Jasha's golden eyes. "Yet still, at the age of thirty-four, he is single."

  Rurik jabbed Jasha hard enough to make him sway sideways.

  "He breaks my heart. Maybe one of you young ladies would consent to marry him. Next week, talk to me. We will make arrangements." Konstantine nodded, satisfied with crossing one item off his men­tal list. Get my eldest son married off.

  He proceeded to his next victim. "Rurik is an adventurer."

  "An archaeologist, Papa," Rurik said.

  "Archaeologist, adventurer—I saw the Indiana Jones movies. They are the same." Konstantine dis­missed Rurik's objection with a wave of his beefy hand. "Rurik is smart, so smart, with many fine de­grees. He is also handsome, like his papa." Rurik's eyes, the color of brandy, his smooth brown hair, and his fine muscles made him a catch for the ladies. Even a father could tell that. "He is not so wealthy as his brother. Still, when I die, he will receive his share of my land here in the beautiful Cascade Mountains, so he would bring money to a marriage. I mention this because still, at the age of thirty-three—"

  With a resounding thwack, Jasha punched Rurik in the shoulder.

  "—he is single. He breaks my heart. Maybe one of you young ladies "would consent to marry him. Next week, talk to me. We will make arrangements."

  The men of BIythe were laughing, but the women, they were appraising his sons. True, BIythe was a small town, only 250 people including the outlying farms, so some women were very young and some past the age of childbearing, and quite a few had legs like tree trunks and skin like old tree bark. But the boys had been out in the wide world for more than ten years and neither had yet brought home a bride, and desperate situations called for desperate measures.

  Konstantine wanted to cradle a grandchild before he died.

  If all had turned out as he and Zorana had planned thirty-five years ago, when they came to this country, he would now talk about Adrik. . . .

  His guests grew quiet as they waited, seeing his grief, respecting his anguish.

  Adrik was lost to them. Lost to the wickedness of his own soul. Lost to the lure of the pact.

  Konstantine took a long, quivering breath. He squared his shoulders, and steadfastly pushed away the pain in his chest. With a broad smile, he gestured at Firebird. "And finally, we have my own baby daughter. Today we celebrate, not only Indepen­dence Day for the great United States, but also Fire­bird's twenty-first birthday." Even after all these years, he couldn't believe it. For a thousand years, no one in his family had fathered a daughter. Yet he had. His own girl child, his baby, his miracle.

  Love and gratitude welled up in him so strongly, he could scarcely speak as he stood looking at her, so beautiful, with blond hair that she insisted on cut­ting into an unfeminine short length, and blue eyes so bright and determined. Always determined, his daughter. Determined as she toddled after her broth­ers, determined as she trained in her gymnastics, de­termined to walk again after the uneven bars broke, shattering her leg and ending her dreams.

  Tonight her eyes were not so bright, though.

  She had grown up during her senior year at col­lege. She was a woman now, with a woman's silences and a woman's mysteries.

  How had that happened?

  "My Firebird, she is beautiful, and she is smarter than her brothers."

  Both boys socked Firebird's shoulders, but gently. Her brothers were always gentle with Firebird.

  "She won scholarships to four colleges." Konstan-tine held up four fingers for emphasis. "She went to Brown, a very prestigious school, and finished in only three years with a degree in software program­ming and one in Japanese." He thumped his chest in pride. "Now, you wonder—-what good is so much education to a woman?"

  His audience laughed again.

  "I don't know. What man wants a wife who is smarter than he is?" he wondered.

  "Yet that's what every man's got," Zorana said.

  The crowd's roar of laughter caught Konstantine by surprise, and he pondered his reply until the tu­mult had died down. Then, shaking his head sadly, he said, "You see what I suffer. Two unmarried sons, a clever daughter, and an impertinent wife. I am truly the most put-upon of men."

  "Poor guy." Sharon Szarvas, wife of River Szarvas, an immigrant from Eastern Europe, showed no sym­pathy for the dent in Konstantine's manly pride.

  Ah, but she knew him too well. His manly pride didn't depend on praise or support. He knew who he was. “I think my daughter should stay home now, but my wife, my Zorana, says no, that we must wish her well and release our little Firebird to flutter away. Someday she will return, her restlessness assuaged." He tried to smile at Firebird, to show her he meant every word, although his heart was breaking.

  She smiled back and mouthed, "Thank you, Papa."

  Her ambitions were his fault. His and his sons'. Always she had envied them, wishing for a wildness no one could tame. But they had gifts Firebird did not share, and although Konstantine had, from the day she was born, held her on his knee and called her his little miracle, she was discontented.

  "So"—he pointed his finger around at his guests— "although Firebird is twenty-one and well past marriageable age, I do not offer her as a wife. So, you men, do not look on her."

  They did, though. They looked on her, and lusted. The loggers, the farmers, the ranchers, the artists— they all wanted his Firebird.

  She looked on none of them with favor, but stood with one hand pressed against her back and one rest­ing on her belly, and watched her father with patient, sad eyes.

  What was wrong with his girl?

  But now was not the time to ask.

  "For all my blessings, I have my Zorana to thank." He held out his hand, and with a smile, Zorana joined him.

  She was tiny, his wife, only five feet one, with delicate bones, hair dark as a blackbird's wing, spar­kling brown eyes, and a fiery spirit. She was younger than he was, but the first time he had seen her, she had entranced him. He had never recovered, and he loved her as no man i
n the history of the world had ever loved a woman.

  Now she was fifty-one, and he worshipped her still. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, looked down at her, and he saw himself reflected in her eyes. In her eyes, he was a good man. A great man. Her man.

  He spoke more to her than to his audience. "This woman, she is worth dying for, but better than that— she is a woman worth living for." He kissed Zorana's smiling lips, then looked up at the people gathered around his tables, friends and strangers, his guests. His voice swelled. "Zorana and I and my children— all of my children—we thank the United States of America, who allowed us to immigrate from Russia to this place where we may be a normal American family and own this land and grow strong, and have wealth and health and safety, and have many good friends who come to celebrate the Independence Day with us."

  The crowd was silent; then one person began to applaud. Then they all applauded, and stood and cheered.

  From far away, Konstantine could almost hear the old enemies howling in fury and frustration, and he smiled: This life, the life he had built, was perfect.

  He gestured, and everyone hurried to fill their glasses with vodka, wine, even water. Lifting his tumbler, he toasted his guests and his family. "Za vast"

  "Here's to you!" they answered, and everyone drank their shot, even Miss Mabel Joyce, the old maid schoolteacher, even Lisa, the crazy New Age herbalist with only one name, and especially the old doctor who had missed Firebird's birth because he'd been too drunk to walk.

  Then Jasha and Rurik ignited fireworks that lit up the skies—and his foolish sons set the meadow on fire. So they led the neighbor boys as they ran through the grass, carrying washtubs of water and bellowing with laughter.

  By the time the excitement was over and the fire was out, the neighbors were packing up to go home and reminiscing about the trouble the Wilder boys had created when they were younger.

  The neighbors had no idea.

  Miss Joyce hobbled over to Zorana, kissed her cheek, and said, "Well, folks, it's always an adven­ture when I visit, but it's time for this old woman to leave."