Darkness Chosen 01: Scent of Darkness Page 15

  "Yes, you are. But I don't quite understand"—he took a breath—"why now?"

  "You're a Varinski." She looked at him with the same kind of horror any woman would feel for one of his cousins. "Last night you explained what that really means."

  Years ago, Jasha had learned to discipline himself, to change only when it was safe, when he was alone, and only when he desperately needed to throw off the shackles of civilization and run like a beast. But Ann, with her wide eyes and sensual mouth and long, long legs, strained his control almost to the limit.

  She was his.

  He wanted to take her, prove to her she was his mate, make her understand in the most primitive way possible that she could depend on him for food and water, for safety ... for passion.

  Instead, she shrank from him.

  When he'd chased her down, she had been a vir­gin. He'd hurt her—it had been unavoidable, but he had. He'd also given her pleasure. A lot of pleasure, over and over.

  She was skittish still. He would gain nothing by forcing the matter.

  Yet he wanted her with a dark torment that tore at his soul and made him wonder if she was right, if the Varinski genes had only been waiting to use the right temptation to take his soul and plunge him into the pit of fire and brimstone . . . and savage pleasure.

  "Do you want to know what it really means to be a Varinski?" He scooted over to sit on the log next to her. She leaned away, but he pretended not to notice, and looked earnestly into her eyes. "I told you about the legend. I told you about their reputation. I didn't tell you that when my brothers and I were teens, we sneaked off to the library and searched the Web for the Varinski name."

  "The Varinskis are on the Internet?" Interest woke in her eyes, chasing some of the shadows away.

  "You'd be stunned to see the amount of informa­tion about the family. They don't have their own Web site—or they didn't—but like almost everything else on the Net, the info's wrong. Half the stuff said the Varinskis were vampires and the other half said they were werewolves. And supposedly the family is fabulously wealthy, but there were photos of the Varinski 'mansion/ and it was this huge, dark, ram­shackle place surrounded by rusty cars." Jasha shook his head when he remembered. "Adrik was always the smart-mouthed one in the family, and as soon as he saw that place, he said, 'You know you're a Rus­sian redneck when you prop up your mobile home with the complete works of Dostoyevsky/ "

  "That's terrible!" But she giggled.

  A good start. "Then we all joined in. 'You know you're a Russian redneck when you and your cousin Boris Bob can play a wicked "Dueling Balalaikas'' ‘You know you're a Russian redneck when your best coon dog is named Lyudmila.' "

  Ann laughed harder and harder.

  "After 'You know you're a Russian redneck when your 'sixty-nine Dodge Charger is painted just like the one on The Dukes of Kiev,' the librarian had to throw us out. Again." Sadly, the whole story was true. "And when we got home, we were in trouble. Again." Also true.

  Still Ann laughed . . . until a sob interrupted her bursts of merriment. Then another, then another, until she was really crying.

  Damn. This wasn't the response he'd been looking for. On the other hand, it was an opportunity. Put­ting his arm around her, he pulled her close.

  She didn't fight, but she didn't cuddle, either.

  "What's wrong?"

  "I d-don't know." Sobs punctuated her words. "It's just so weird to l-laugh out here, about a story that seems so n-normal, set in a world it seems I never kn-knew." She took a long, quavering breath. "I can't believe someone evil is chasing us. I can't believe the icon came to m-me. I can't believe you talk t-to wolves. I can't believe we could end up d-dead."

  "If I have to die, I would rather die with you than with any other woman in the World." He kissed her, a brief kiss on her quivering mouth, then a series of kisses across her wet cheeks.

  "I need to blow my nose."

  He was ready to seduce her with his best moves— and she needed to blow her nose.

  All right. It was daylight; she needed more coffee, more food, and probably some space between her and the place where she'd heard the Varinski legend. He could wait.

  Not forever, but he could wait.

  He handed her his handkerchief, and she looked at it, then looked at him.

  He comprehended her thoughts all too well. She was so private, so unused to sharing her thoughts, her dreams, even her past, she couldn't blow her nose in front of him. Hell, she worried when she showed unchecked emotion.

  Yet when she laughed too loud, when she cried too hard, when she gave in to passion, then he caught a glimpse of the Ann she could be, and he wanted her all the more. So he wandered off to finish cleaning up the campground before she caught a glimpse of the wolf that peeked out of his eyes.

  She disappeared into the woods, walking toward the stream.

  He allowed her privacy, but he listened, too. He wouldn't let her blunder off. His trick with the rat would divert the Varinski only so long, and this morning, when he woke, a sense of urgency woke with him.

  Something was watching them.

  At first, he thought it was the wolf pack.

  But with the coming of daylight, they'd slipped away to sleep in the shade.

  No, this was less than knowledge, more than in­stinct. Something in his gut knew they had at most two more days before the battle.

  He intended to keep Ann safe.

  The news that she had no parents had taken him by surprise. And yet why? He should have expected it. In a conflict like this, with evil on one side and good on the other, and human warriors marching into battle, of course the shield bearer would be an orphan. Of course he had to try to pierce the shad­ows of her background and decide—in the end, would she stand by his side? Would she run? Or would she turn traitor?

  When she came back, her face and hair were damp and her courage seemed restored. "Jasha, what did you do after you saw the Varinski mansion? Did you talk to your father?"

  "Not exactly." He finished the packing. "Rurik, Adrik, and I felt as if he'd exaggerated the Varinskis' importance. We knew the legend was real—we did, after all, turn into animals—but we thought the rich­est crime family in the world could at least afford a decorator."

  "But they're ail men. No one cares about their house.” She whispered, '"Their image is a spatter of blood and the stench of arson."

  Jasha jerked his head around in surprise. "That's very wise."

  "Whenever I slept last night, and there wasn't much of that, I dreamed about them." She picked up her backpack. "Personally, I'm surprised the Var-inskis didn't track you to Blythe from that Internet contact."

  "It was early days for the Net." He didn't like that the Varinskis had invaded her dreams. Was she like his mother? No. Ann's subconscious had logically connected the dots. She might have sprung from mysterious circumstances, but everything about her shouted, Normal!

  Yet after a thousand years, the Madonna had al­lowed Ann to find her.

  What secrets did Ann so thoroughly and pru­dently conceal?

  Chapter 21

  When Ann and Jasha stopped for lunch in the shadow of a giant yellow cedar, she had questions, and she would not hesitate to ask them. She wanted no more scary stories around the camp-fire.

  She took the piece of leftover sourdough bread and the salami he passed her, and simply held them while he ate.

  "If there are no mothers, who raises the Varinski sons?"

  Jasha chewed and swallowed. She observed him as he considered her and her question, and knew that he was weighing all the factors—the time it would take him to explain, the distance they had yet to travel, the fact that he'd begun his family's tale and not yet finished it—and she saw him make the decision to satisfy her curiosity. Crossing his ankles, he leaned back against a tree. "The Varinskis keep old women to cook and take care of the babies, but basically, the boys are raised like puppies, tumbling over each other, faying out their teeth. They train, they hunt, they fight each o
ther and the world, and the dominant son takes the name of Konstantine."

  "Your father . . ."

  "My father is Konstantine." Jasha took another bite.

  "On the phone, he's so nice." Ann recalled the booming, accented voice, the hearty pleasure he took in their conversations, the constant, generous offers of his son's hand in marriage. "He makes me laugh. And you're saying he was the leader of that family? That he killed people? He raped women?"

  "He isn't proud of what he did, but there's nothing he can do to change the past." Jasha rubbed one hand over his stubbled cheek. "He knows that. He knows the price he'll pay if he dies before he re­deems himself."

  Ann stared forbiddingly at Jasha. "You told me he adores your mother!"

  Jasha dropped his bomb. "He stole her from her tribe, and they've been on the run ever since."

  Ann felt her jaw drop, and she crisply snapped it shut. "Your father stole your mother?"

  "She was sixteen."

  "Sixteen! How old was he?"

  "There are no documents that prove his date of birth, but we think around thirty-three."

  Just when Ann thought the story couldn't get any worse, it did. "The poor girl!"

  "Get to know my mother before you say, 'Poor girl.' The poor girl came as close to killing him as it is possible for a mere human to do. And by the way, my mother is five foot one and a hundred pounds soaking wet, and my father's a mountain." Jasha grinned. "She brought him to his knees."

  "Really?" Ann grinned back and relaxed. "How lovely."

  "She'll talk about it sometimes, tell how he de­manded she cook dinner, so she threw a pot of boil­ing water in his face. When he roared and grabbed her, she stabbed him with her sewing needles. When she tells that story, Papa turns red and mumbles for Firebird to listen to her mother."

  "How did they get from bodily injury to falling in love? I mean ... I assume they're in love?"

  "Stupid in love. She ... I always thought she adored him." He looked at the bread as if he didn't know what it was. "But for sure, he looks at her as if a star has fallen from the heavens and landed in his pocket."

  Ann caught her breath. She wanted Jasha to look at her that way.

  But instead of a star, he looked at her and saw a woman. A woman he wanted a woman he meant to have. When they walked, when they spoke, when she slept, when she was awake, always she felt the weight of his intention and his need.

  She'd allowed herself to be lulled away from the first shock of knowing he was a wolf. She'd wavered between disbelief and acceptance, but some irrepress­ible curiosity—or was it a sense of self-preservation?—had urged her to ask about the deal with the devil.

  What a fool she'd been. Jasha was a demon from a long line of demons. When she was with him, she knew he would keep her fed and safe from harm.

  At the same time, she'd worked for him for four years. She'd studied him with the intensity of a dedi­cated student. Perhaps she couldn't smell his moods, but she knew them.

  He loved the hunt. He loved the running, the for­est, the deep dark nights and the brilliant days. Lur­ing the Varinski into a trap was what he was born to do.

  And he stalked her with equal skill.

  No matter how carefully he tried to hide his inten­tion, she must never forget what he wanted, and what he intended.

  "My parents don't exactly give us the details about the part between the throwing of the water and the falling in love. I think there was quite a series of tumultuous fights that ended in bed." He watched her now, gauging her reaction. "The next thing they knew, they sneaked off to get married.”

  "And the Varinskis were perturbed.” she said with deliberate understatement.

  "So were the Romanies. My mother was beloved of her tribe, a beautiful, happy girl with special gifts."

  "What kind of special gifts?" Ann asked suspi­ciously. "Because I'll bet you're not talking about the kind you can wrap in paper and tie with a bow."

  "Not exactly. Mama makes plants grow."

  "She talks to them." Ann nodded.

  "You wish that was true." He watched her as if he understood exactly how much she wished that was true. "She works the weather around her."

  "She works the weather? As in ... she controls it?"

  "Let's just say, our mountain has a very whole­some microclimate, perfect for growing grapes."

  Someone had to be logical. "That's not to say your mother directs it."

  His white teeth bit into the meat. "When Papa and Mama bought the high valley, the winters were too harsh and long to grow much of anything. All the farmers on the lower slopes predicted the weird for­eigners would starve or freeze before the first winter was over, but that winter was unusually mild. In the spring, my parents planted vines and a garden." Jasha finished eating and folded his hands across his flat belly. "Everyone in the area grows grapes now, but my parents are the most successful, and the other growers consider my mother a good-luck charm."

  Ann tried to remember when pronouncements like this had begun to be commonplace.

  "She also has the Sight," Jasha said.

  Which made weather working sound positively be­nign. "The Sight? As in, she has visions?"

  "I didn't know that until very recently." His ex­pression became severe. "Very recently."

  "What did she see?" Whatever it was, he didn't like it.

  He looked around at the trees, the stones, the clear blue sky, and shook his head. "That's not a story for out here. Not even in the daylight."

  "All right. When is it a story for?" Tearing up the bread, she popped a chunk in her mouth and chal­lenged him with a lift of her chin.

  "When we're safe inside with warriors all around."

  "And when do you project that will be?"

  "When we are at my parents' house. In no more than a week, Ann. Give me patience for no more than seven days, and I swear, your questions will all be answered."

  She liked the way he appealed to her, as if she had the right to reject his terms.

  But she was a fool in love. She would always do what he wanted. "So your parents ran off and got mar­ried, and both families ran after them to break it up."

  "You must understand, for my mother's people, who are wanderers and who make their living as peddlers and farmworkers, to have someone who can see the future, who can control the weather—that's invaluable."

  "It's Romeo and Juliet as written by Stephen King.”

  He leaned back and looked her over. Then looked her over again, his gaze lingering on the curve of her mouth until she, self-conscious, bit her lower lip. "You have a way of seeing right to the heart of the matter and summing it up in a few words. I've al­ways admired that about you."

  "It's my job."

  "No, it's your genius."

  He had tossed her compliments before, but he'd never really looked at her before. Now he saw her, his gaze so warm, appreciative ... lustful.

  After all that had happened, how could she still love him so much?

  In a steady voice, she asked, "What happened next?"

  "Everybody—the Varinskis, the Romanies—was in a rage. Unfortunately, the Varinskis' idea was to kill my mother and drag my father back home and beat him until he renounced his madness. Papa's brother Oleg was number two in the pecking order. He was the leader of the expedition—and my father killed him."

  "He killed his brother. Like the first Konstantine killed his mother."

  "Yeah, the Varinskis are all into keeping that assas­sination thing in the family."

  With every word, with every step, Ann moved fur­ther into a world of death and blood, of magic and wonder. She'd fought so hard . . . but always she'd feared that this was her destiny.

  "So Oleg's sons vowed to exterminate my father and all of his line. My parents fled to the United States, changed their last name to Wilder, and disappeared into the mountains in Washington." Jasha waved his hand around. "Which gets us to our current situation."

  "Not . . . quite."

  "Do yo
u know, I used to admire your ability to see the details? Now—"

  "Now?" She lifted her eyebrows.

  "Now I admire you more."

  Smart man. "What did the Romanies do to your parents?" She nibbled the salami and wished for a carrot stick.

  "The old woman of the tribe cursed my father."

  "With what?"

  "His conscience."

  "That's brilliant." Ann thought about the ramifica­tions. "That's diabolical."

  "He never says anything, but no matter what hour I come home, he's always awake."

  "He's afraid to sleep." She knew. "His dreams are like memories, and they haunt him."

  "Yes, but why do you say that?" Jasha sounded as if he was accusing her of something.

  "I'm a woman. I'm perceptive about stuff like that." She smiled easily.

  "Hm." Again, as he watched her, she caught a glimpse of the wolf within him.

  Weren't men supposed to be insensitive? Why wasn't he? Did he smell the truth about her?

  Had he seen the ghost of Sister Catherine?

  Had he seen the mark on her back?

  She reviewed the past few days. When would he have? Not in the woods that first time—they'd been covered with mud. Not in the tub—she'd been very careful. Not when she'd dressed for this trip . . . no. She had to stop worrying about the mark. For all Sister Mary Magdalene's dire warnings, Ann was no different from any other woman.

  "What about your sister?" she asked. "How is it possible for a Varinski to produce a girl?"

  Jasha smiled, and all sign of the wolf disappeared and slid into a fond expression. "Firebird is our mira­cle. Mama had the three of us boys, one year after another. Then nothing for ten years—and she deliv­ered Firebird at home in the middle of a storm, the first Varinski girl in a thousand years. We named her Firebird, the symbol of rebirth in Russia."

  "That's beautiful!"

  "My father hoped it meant the devil's pact has been broken, but that same week ... I turned into a wolf."

  If she hadn't been watching him, she wouldn't have noticed his hungry glance and the slight narrowing of his pupils.

  She was sharing a meal with this man, and sud­denly, she felt a lot more respect for Little Red Rid­ing Hood.