Darkness Chosen 01: Scent of Darkness Read online

  But he didn't. To Jasha, she was a highly efficient method of filing papers, producing correspondence, and making phone calls. When he was gone, he left Wilder Wines in her hands, and when his executives complained, he stared at them blankly and said, "But Ann does a better job than you."

  Of course she did. She had something to prove.

  She had everything to prove—but she'd been afraid to live, until six months ago when she'd been blindsided by a blow that woke her to the fact that Jasha didn't even know the two basic facts about her.

  She was alive. And she was a woman.

  Yet she knew everything about him, including that he liked good-looking confident women. So she set out to remake herself.

  And she had.

  She blew her hair into a shining, slippery mass of strands, and put on makeup—not too much, because she still wasn't particularly skillful, but enough blush to conceal her blanched skin and enough mascara to turn her lashes dark and her eyes bluer.

  But if she was going to get naked with a man, she had one more matter to care for. ...

  She twisted so her back was to the mirror, and frowned at her distinctive birthmark. Over the years, it hadn't faded. She'd thought about having it re­moved, but the idea of showing it to a doctor who would ask questions, be incredulous, maybe see more than Ann wanted . . . she couldn't explain that mark. Because how did one explain the impossible?

  Swiftly, she used her makeup sponge to dab a splash of foundation over it. Last of all, she donned the panties, the dress, and the shoes.

  She stared at herself in the mirror.

  How could she look so good, yet feel so much like the Cowardly Lion?

  Okay. She was going to go to the great room, get a glass of wine, pose artfully in front of the fire, and wait for Jasha to show up. She could do it. All she had to do was walk downstairs. ...

  Above the battering of the storm, she heard a blast of sound from outside.

  She knew that sound. She'd grown up in down­town LA.

  A gunshot.

  Running to the window, she crouched low and off to the side. Warily she separated the curtains and peeked out.

  The window faced the front of the house. Late-afternoon sunshine was diffused by billows of storm clouds. Wind blew the rain sideways. Lightning flickered across the branches of the cedars and pines, Douglas firs and rhododendrons, casting them in bleak shades of black-and-white.

  She could see the shiny-wet roof of her car, but no one on the driveway or in the yard, no glint of a gun or sign of movement under the encroaching forest.

  Yet this was the wilderness. Maybe someone was out there hunting.

  She let the curtains fall—and heard a high, distant scream, then another shot. She leaped back from the window and knelt on the floor.

  For long minutes, she heard nothing.

  Finally, she looked out again, and stared hard at the ground beneath the thrashing trees.

  Gunfire, and an inhuman scream. Weren't panthers supposed to scream? Had someone shot a panther?

  Were there panthers in Washington?

  Her impression about Jasha's bleak, ominous castle changed—she was nestled inside, safe from the ele­ments, from the beasts, from a madman with a gun. Maybe that was why Jasha loved this place; once inside, he could let down the guard she sensed he kept around him.

  Uneasily, she opened the bedroom door.

  Someone was moving around downstairs. Someone— or something.

  She heard a soft snuffling interrupted by re­peated growls.

  Had she reset the alarm?

  No. She hadn't. And someone in the forest had a gun.

  Had someone who was not Jasha—someone crazy, someone Ted Kaczynski—shot him and walked into his house?

  She felt silly. Overly dramatic. She was plain Ann Smith, administrative assistant and nerd. Nothing harrowing ever happened to her. Yet she tasted fear. Taking off her stiletto heels, she held one in each hand as she walked quietly down the corridor. She paused on the balcony.

  She heard snarling. Panting.

  Did Jasha have a dog?

  She peeked over the rail.

  Yes—a dog stood facing the flickering fire. It was tall at the shoulders, long, and gaunt, yet it easily weighed 150 pounds, with a black and silver coat that gleamed with red and gold in the flames. It was growling, a distinct, constant, bass rumble of displea­sure rising from deep in its chest.

  Ann wasn't afraid of dogs, but she'd never heard such a menacing sound in her life.

  Then the dog turned its head, and its pointed snout, its scarred cheek, and its white-fanged snarl sent her scurrying back against the wall.

  A wolf. A wolf stood before the fire.

  Her heart pounded so hard the sound thundered in her ears.

  How had a wolf broken into the house? Was the back door open? Had it crashed through a window?

  Where was Jasha? If he walked in on this thing, he could get hurt.

  She sidled forward and slid along the rail, examin­ing the room from every angle.

  No sign of her boss, but although the wolf's rum­blings had subsided, Ann knew it was dangerous. A killer, A predator.

  As she retreated, the clear-minded planning that made her such a valuable administrative assistant kicked in. Return to my room. Lock the door. Call Jasha on his cell and warn him. Then call 911 so they can get animal services out here. ...

  She stopped backing up, and stared.

  The wolf looked different somehow.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. She opened them again.

  I'm allergic to something. The new-car smell. . . Jasha's soap ... I have to be. Because I'm hallucinating.

  But no, really.

  He looked . . . longer. His muscular shoulders had lost hair, and his ears ... his ears grew bare and rounded, and slid down the side of his head.

  The wolf had begun to ... had begun to resemble a man.

  The man had begun to resemble Jasha.

  Chapter 4

  Oh, yes. Ann was definitely nuts. The stress of coming up here to confront Jasha had caused her hold on reality to snap.

  Now shock ripped away her good sense. Without making a sound on the hardwood, and drawn by the same fascination that always plagued her in Jasha's presence, she walked toward the top of the stairs.

  The wolf stood on its hind paws. Stood erect, like a man.

  Her blood stirred. Her skin grew sensitive. The air in the house had grown thick and heated.

  She recognized the signs. That was Jasha. That , . . that thing was really Jasha.

  The pelt retreated to the top of his head and be­came Jasha's black, black hair with a premature streak of silver on each side. His skin absorbed the fur, and she saw his right arm, and its distinctive tattoo. . . . She broke into a light sweat.

  He was naked. Nude. Absolutely without covering of any kind.

  And apparently she was the weirdest perv ever to walk the earth, for even in the midst of her madness, she found the sight of his bare, toned butt riveting. She wanted to shut her eyes against the sight, to take a deep breath and give herself a stern warning about the dangers she faced.

  But as she inched down each step, she couldn't risk shutting her eyes, and she certainly didn't dare take a deep breath.

  Don't stumble, Ann.

  Don't make a sound, Ann.

  The transition was happening slowly, and once or twice, it—he—groaned as if the growth and change pained him. The paws became hands, large hands with Jasha's long fingers, and he used those fingers to push back his hair in a gesture she recognized as one of exasperation and worry.

  With each step down the stairs, her frozen disbe­lief became certainty . . . and fear. The man she adored was a wolf. A beast. Something unholy, unnatural.

  She brought the bad -people. She always brought the bad people.

  But Jasha wasn't bad. He couldn't be. She couldn't stand that.

  Yet ... yet here she was. She'd finally worked up the nerve to chase her dreams
only to find he had become her worst nightmare, and she was stuck in the house with him. It.

  Jasha.

  Think.

  Her keys were on the end table by the door.

  He hadn't noticed her yet.

  If she could get from the stairs to her keys, she could open the door and race to her car ahead of him. She could drive off, and for once she wouldn't care about the speed limit.

  He hadn't noticed her yet.

  She would drive as if her life depended on escape—and it did.

  Five steps from the bottom.

  He hadn't noticed her yet.

  She'd go back to her apartment, grab Kresley, and run as far away as possible. She would never look back. Never.

  But first she had to get her keys. Open the door. Start her car ...

  And just like in her nightmares, the thing in the great room lifted its head and sniffed. Its head turned slowly in her direction. It looked at her.

  Almost human. That thing was almost human. Ex­cept that deep in its golden eyes, a red glow burned. ''Ann.” Its deep voice sounded rough, as if it had a cold. It looked human again.

  It looked like Jasha, the man she loved.

  Her gaze fixed on the small, dark red smear at the corner of his mouth.

  Blood.

  He walked toward her. Naked. He was as glorious naked as she had always dreamed, and now she didn't dare take the time to check and see if the rumors were true.

  Because he had blood on his face.

  Blood.

  "You little fool,” he said, "what are you doing here?"

  She screamed and with all her might, she flung first one heavy-soled shoe, then the other.

  He dodged the first one. The second caught him squarely in the chest. The stiletto heel smacked his breastbone. She heard him grunt. Saw him stagger back, and blood spurt.

  She ran. Ran so hard she skidded into the door. She grabbed the keys. Her sweaty palms slid on the doorknob.

  Any second now and he'd have her.

  The heavy door swung toward her. The wind swept through the door, taking her breath. She ran onto the porch.

  Behind her, she heard a growl. In terror, she glanced back—and saw it.

  The transformation was reversing.

  Inexorably, Jasha was becoming the wolf once more.

  Fangs . . . and claws . . . and an intelligent, venge­ful, red-rimmed gaze fixed on her.

  Using every ounce of courage she possessed, she ran back, grabbed the door, and slammed it shut.

  Let Mr. Wolf Man daw his way through that.

  As she sprinted toward the car, she sorted through the keys. The windblown rain slapped her in the face, dear-ing her brain___What good did a dear brain do her?

  Everything she believed in—everything she knew as true—was vanquished by the reality of that thing in the house.

  Jasha.

  The Miata's lights flashed as she unlocked the door with the remote. She slid into the seat and scraped her knee on the steering column. She knew it must hurt She just couldn't feel it. Not now. Not yet. She didn't have time.

  She slammed the door. Glanced at the house. Tried to get the key in the ignition. Tried again.

  Her hand was shaking too hard to make the con­nection.

  She glanced at the house again—and saw the wolf leap through the sidelight beside the front door. The glorious, expensive, leaded glass sprayed outward as his sleek body arched through, head outstretched, teeth bared.

  Magically, her hand steadied and the key slid into the ignition. She started the car; she'd never heard a sound as wonderful as that of her engine turning over.

  She put her foot to the floor. The car leaped for­ward and she whipped around the circle drive with the verve and expertise of a driver in the Grand Prix.

  Rain sluiced down the windshield. She fumbled with the wipers, got them on ... in the intermittent mode. As the wipers slid unhurriedly across the windshield, she cursed the new car, the unfamiliar controls, the desire that had brought her here.

  She should have known better. She was an orphan, abandoned and alone, marked by evil, rejected by the Al­mighty. Sister Mary Magdalene had urged her to accept her fate and live her life alone, but Ann had rebelled.

  Now she swore she'd thank God if she lived at all—especially since she hadn't even put on her seat belt.

  Then she glanced into the rearview mirror.

  The wolf raced across the grass after the car.

  To hell with the seat belt.

  He couldn't catch her. She knew it was impossible. Wolves couldn't move as fast as a car.

  But men didn't turn into wolves, either. Maybe Jasha was a freaking Transformer. Maybe he was going to turn into a giant mechanized robot and stomp on her and her car.

  She bent her attention to the road, driving faster than she had ever driven in her life.

  The wind buffeted the tiny Miata. Lightning flashed and thunder cracked. Her hair dripped into her eyes. Her hands slipped on the steering wheel, from the rain, from fear-induced sweat. She squinted through the blurry windshield, taking the winding curves too fast, seeing the ocean cliffs flash past as she cleared the forest, then, as she turned inland again, the trees loom above her. Soon she would skirt the cliffs again. She needed to concentrate, to remem­ber the route she'd driven only once. ...

  And without warning, the road rose, then dipped, then rose. The car was airborne. She was airborne. With a jaw-snapping impact, the wheels hit the as­phalt. The air bag exploded in her face, smothering her in white for one vital moment.

  As it subsided, she desperately clawed it out of the way. Then she could see. The car was headed straight—but the road curved. Curved to the left, and ahead she saw nothing but rain and clouds and the edge of the cliff.

  She slammed on the brakes. The car hydroplaned, the rear wheels sliding sideways.

  At last the tread caught. She was in control.

  But too late. Too late. The rear wheels dropped off the precipice. Half the car hung over the cliff, over the rocks and the ocean. The undercarriage screamed as it scraped the asphalt.

  She was going to die.

  The side panel smacked something. Something big. A boulder. A tree trunk. Something. The metal crunched. The car stopped. Stopped so suddenly she slid sideways into the passenger seat. She lost her grip on the wheel. Her legs tangled with the console.

  She sat frozen, waiting for the car to tip, to plunge her into the ocean.

  Nothing moved. The stench of hot metal and burn­ing rubber filled her nose. She was still alive—and if she wanted to stay that way, she had to get out. Get out before the car plunged off the cliff. Get out before it burst into flame.

  She put on the emergency brake, then dosed her eyes.

  Taking care not to suddenly shift her weight, she grasped the handle and opened the door. AH her care was wasted; the wind caught it and jerked it open. She held her breath, waiting for the inevitable shift and tumble.

  Nothing.

  Distantly she noted that her hand was now steady as a rock.

  Somewhere on this wild ride, she had transcended terror.

  She slid her legs out, inched her butt along the seat, then gradually stood.

  The car hung there, suspended over the cliff, rest­ing on the front tires and the frame.

  She stepped away from it. Backed away, waiting for it to take the plunge.

  The Miata remained still.

  She stood alone on a one-lane private road. Her new car was smashed and unsalvageable, a testament to her bad driving—and a sign to Jasha that she was helpless and on foot. She was barefoot, rain lashed her, and—she faced back the way she came—nothing made sense, especially not the wolf who was Jasha.

  She had to hide.

  On one side of the road, the ocean ripped at the base of the cliff. On the other, the primeval forest loomed, dark and thick, branches lashing in the wind. She didn't want to go in there.

  Then in the distance, a wolf howled.

 
He was coming for her.

  Ann sprinted across the road and into the forest.

  Chapter 5

  The trees closed in around Ann, muting the already-dim light, protecting her from the lash of the wind and rain. Her bare feet sank into the damp loam. The scent of spicy pine drifted on the air cur­rents, and for a second, she felt protected, absorbed by nature.

  Then lightning struck and thunder boomed. The rain and wind struck with renewed force, and she heard one wolf howl, then another, then another. It sounded as if a whole pack was stalking her.

  They probably were. Jasha's buddies.

  The false sense of security was stripped away. She shoved her sopping hair out of her face, and her hands came away smeared with black. Her mascara was in ruins. Her dress was in ruins. Her dreams were in ruins. Her life ...

  As she jogged along, pine needles slipped beneath her soles, and she listened to the groan of the trees as they fought the wind.

  Behind her, a single wolf howled again, and some­thing in the sound, some note of fury and frustration, alerted her—that was Jasha.

  What was he? Not some Wolf Man of legend; the full moon controlled those beasts. He was some other . . . thing.

  Lightning flickered, turning the tall boulders into long faces that grinned and mocked. She ran along, looking for the best place to take cover, knowing that no place could be good enough. She was lost to civili­zation. She would probably die of exposure ... or at Jasha's hands.

  Paws. Whatever.

  A stream crossed her path, and some long-buried Girl Scout memory surfaced. . . . Jasha couldn't track her if she walked through the water.

  She stepped in. The cold water soothed her tender soles. She tried to hurry, but the large, smooth, mossy stones slipped beneath her feet. She strained, listening for the pad of a wolf's paws, but heard nothing. For a few minutes she imagined she'd saved herself.

  Then she heard it. A splash downstream, and the slowly escalating sound of an animal loping through the water.

  He'd found her. He was here.

  She had nowhere to go.

  She ran anyway, out of the stream and down a path between two great boulders. The way narrowed, and for a horrible moment, she thought she'd come to a dead end. But she squeezed through the crack, and beyond her, the forest opened. She was in a meadow, empty except for one immense hemlock. Its trunk was wide, and the crown touched the clouds.