Darkness Chosen 01: Scent of Darkness Page 7

  "Put what on your back?" She grabbed at his shoulders. He was warm. He was so warm.

  "Your ice-cold toes." As if the prospect delighted him, he smiled down at her.

  He intended to sleep with her.

  "So you're not going to eat me?" she blurted.

  He started to walk. "Now and again."

  She wanted to hide her head. She wasn't used to this kind of flesh-to-flesh contact, or to sexual teasing ... or to the relief in knowing that Jasha always kept his word, and she had something more to look forward to.

  Being eaten by a wolf who was really good with his tongue.

  "You can't carry me all the way back to the house." She was no featherweight, but tail and muscled.

  He didn't pause. "It's only about a half mile."

  "That can't be right," she said indignantly. "I drove farther than that!"

  "But the road winds around. By the way the crow flies, we're close to the house."

  The trees broke away. They were back in the meadow, and when Ann saw the fallen tree with its blackened crown, her brain, so engaged with minor matters like fantasy versus reality, sanity versus mad­ness, and pleasure versus embarrassment, suddenly reengaged.

  She'd left something precious back there. "No. I've got to have the lady!"

  He stopped. "What lady?"

  "I found a painting of the Madonna."

  He froze.

  "I lost her when I hit you, but while you were gone, I found her again and—" His immobility cap­tured her attention. "Jasha?"

  "Where did you find a painting?" He looked down at her, his face still and smooth.

  "When the lightning hit the tree and it fell, weM, there she was." And in a day of miracles, that might just be the biggest.

  "Was she?" He sounded very odd, choked and al­most afraid. "Where is she now?"

  "She's back there. Where we were."

  He carried Ann back. He let her legs slide to the ground.

  Ann searched. She recovered the tile. She showed it to him.

  "My God." Jasha knelt beside her, his gaze ab­sorbed and amazed. "I can't believe—" He looked up at Ann, then back at the painting. "You found the icon."

  "You know about it?" Impossible!

  Yet he'd called it an icon, and now that he had, she recognized the stylized method of painting, the use of vivid colors, the Madonna's stiff pose. This was Russian—and so, she knew, was Jasha's family. "Is it yours?"

  He gave a short, incredulous laugh. "In a manner of speaking." Gently he took it from her, smoothed his palm across the Madonna's face . . . and to her horror, his flesh sizzled, a curl of smoke rising from the burning flesh.

  Chapter 8

  With a shout, Jasha dropped the icon.

  Ann caught his wrists in hers.

  A brutal red mark seared his palm and his fingers.

  "What happened?" She couldn't believe her eyes. "You must be allergic to the finish."

  "Allergic." He yanked his hands away and plunged them into the mud. "Is that what you hit me with? Before?"

  "Yes." That mark on his cheek, the vivid flare of red—that was a burn, too. "Why did it do that to you?"

  "She did it. The Blessed Virgin. I am not to touch her."

  "I don't know what you mean." Ann picked the icon out of the dirt and wiped it with the tail of her shirt. The ragged edge caught on the material. "It's just a painting."

  "In Russia/ icons are not just paintings. The revolu­tion is but a weak obscenity compared to the weight of years when icons embodied the Russian soul, the Russian heart, and the Orthodox faith. It's tradition that an icon of the Blessed Virgin and the baby Jesus be given as a wedding gift, and all family icons are kept in the krasny ugol, the beautiful corner, decor­ated with candles and red cloth." He wiped his muddy hands on his jeans, but his gaze never left the face of the Virgin. "More important, icons of the Madonna aren't made—they appear."

  "What?"

  "Icon painters do not sign their work. So the icons are said to appear, to be miracles."

  Ann looked at the picture, trying to see what had hurt Jasha.

  The Virgin looked back, serene and unworried.

  "The Madonna refuses to let me touch her," Jasha said. "But you can. She has entrusted herself to you."

  "That's—" Ann drew a breath.

  "That's what? Superstition? Impossible?" Jasha touched his cheek. "Yet I'm burned. No wonder it hurt like a son of a bitch."

  Surreptitiously she touched the mark on her lower back. It felt smooth; if she didn't know better, she would think that nothing was there.

  She should have expected her life would take this kind of freakish turn. But after so many years of bal­ancing atop the high wire of normal, of only Sister Mary Magdalene's truly knowing how the infant Ann had been found and the troubles that followed, Ann thought ... believed ... hoped she could be ordinary. "I guess I need to change my opinion of what's impossible now," she mumbled.

  He laughed sharply, and glanced around. The wind had died; the lightning was fading, the clouds thinning. "The storm is gone, but this is no place to be after dark. Let's get out of here." He slid his arms around Ann again, picked her up, and strode off.

  He set a fast pace, and she read his moods very well—it was part of the job description. Right now he was worried. "Jasha, what are you afraid of?"

  "That I'll fail."

  That made no sense, but he was panting, and his uneasiness transferred itself to her. The last rays of the sun hit the treetops, while in the woods below, the shadows multiplied and thickened. She heard rustling in the underbrush. Wild animals . . . and worse. Maybe . . . maybe things like him.

  The wolves.

  Jasha and Ann reached the castle in record time— humiliating to think that if she'd run the right direc­tion, she would have returned to the relative safety of a phone and locked doors—and he took her around to the back. Here she could see the garage sitting at right angles to the house, with its four doors for Jasha's prized cars.

  And that reminded her—"My poor car.” she said.

  "I'll call someone to tow it tomorrow."

  "If it's still there," she said gloomily.

  "Yeah. That was a hell of a storm. Literally." He laughed again, one of those short, bitter laughs that told her he knew something she didn't.

  He put her down on tine porch at the back door, and held her until she regained her balance. "You okay?"

  Her feet were sore, yes. All that running had ex­hausted her. But she held the icon, and she was alive. Alive as she had never been in her whole life. "I'm fine."

  He stretched up to the top of the doorsill and felt along it until he found a key; then he unlocked the door. Using his hand on the small of her back, he pressed her inside, acting as if she would turn and run at any minute.

  And maybe he was right. She didn't like the house anymore; it reminded her all too vividly of that mo­ment when he transformed before her eyes. "Before—how did you get in?"

  "There's a dog door." He gestured absently, and reset the alarm system.

  "Of course. A dog door. How else would a man who turns into a wolf get into his own house?"

  His swift glance assessed her.

  The passions and madness had begun to pass, leaving cold good sense and a dreadful suspicion.

  His expression gentled. "Ask me."

  "Ask you what?"

  "The question that is burning in your mind."

  There were so many questions. So many. Yet one bothered her more than any other. She shuffled from one foot to the other, tried to decide if she wanted to ask it or remain in blissful ignorance. But one of the many lessons Sister Mary Magdalene had drilled required she seek the truth and face it square on, so she asked, "Did you kill him?"

  "Kill who?" He toed off his shoes without untying them and with his bare foot pushed them into the corner.

  "Are there so many you don't remember?" She tugged at the hem of the shirt, trying to cover her thighs with cloth and belated modesty. />
  His generous mouth tightened in annoyance. "I haven't killed anyone lately, if that's what you mean."

  "Before you came in, I heard a shot. And you . . . you had blood on your mouth." She tensed, desper­ately wanting Jasha to deny the crime, not able to bear the idea that he'd come from murdering a man ... to her.

  "That's the question?" It was almost dark in the small entry hall, and in this light his face was all stone and shadow, with a pale slash of his scar across one cheek, and on the other a blot where the icon had burned itself into his flesh. Only his eyes were alive, watching her with the steady intensity of a predator, "That's all you want to ask?"

  "That's enough.”

  "You amaze me."

  She stayed stubbornly silent.

  "No. I didn't kill him."

  She sagged with relief.

  "He was a hunter. He was drunk and he was shooting at wolves."

  "That's illegal." And you could have been killed.

  "That's a lot of things, including stupid, especially when I'm running with the pack." Jasha's grim ex­pression broke into a grin. "I broke his gun and scared him so badly, he'll never stop running."

  "Are the other wolves like you?"

  "You mean, do they turn? No. They're animals, but they're smart and they're loyal, and although Leader doesn't like it, he lets me run with them without a challenge. And sometimes, like today, running with the wolves is the best way to ease my frustration and my fury."

  "Do you mean because of the hunter?"

  He rubbed his thumb on her cheek as if cleaning off a mark, and stared soberly into her eyes. "My father always warned us not to turn. He said the change tore down the restraints of civilization and left us vulnerable to the wilderness in our hearts. Today I guess I proved he was right."

  She started to place her palm over his heart; then at the last moment/ she skittishly pulled back and doubled her hand into a fist. "But I like the wilderness.”

  "Don't. . ." He caught her hovering hand. "Don't tempt me. It's all still too raw and close, and I found too much pleasure in your body." He kissed her knuckles; then when her fingers loosened, he brought her open palm to his mouth and kissed its center. He watched her as he kissed her wrist, and his lips lingered over the leap of her pulse. Tucking her hand behind her back, he pulled her close.

  The press of his body against hers still shocked her with its glory of heat and intimacy, and -when he kissed her, the air grew sultry with need so recently fulfilled, and passion so easily aroused.

  She tasted him, sinking into the pleasure. Her breasts tightened, and the warmth and dampness be­tween her legs began to grow. ...

  With a gasp, he let her go and leaped back. "You burn me like the icon."

  And she stood bereft, trembling and wanting, al­most in tears.

  Every time she showed her feelings, someone laughed, or someone scolded . . . or no one noticed.

  She never got it right.

  "Not here. Ann, not in the entry with dirty boots and—don't cry!" He wrapped his arm around her, ushered her into the utility room, and flipped on the light. The floor was tile, coats hung on hooks, and boots neatly lined the wall. There was a counter with a sink and a mirror and a small shower in the corner.

  She touched her lips with her fingers. Since they'd left the woods, he'd been less a lover and more Jasha—businesslike, effective, and brisk. She'd thought that maybe one taste of her had been enough.

  But that kiss was anything but businesslike. It was . . . possessive. She should be glad he cared about where they made love instead of simply using her to satisfy his base desires.

  She wasn't.

  But she was worried about him. "What if the hunter goes to the police?"

  "And tells them what?" Jasha pulled towels out of the cupboard and laid them on the counter. "That he shot at a wolf who turned into a man and broke his gun, then turned back into a wolf and chased him, bit him, then turned back into a man who gave him hell and put him in his car?"

  "You bit him? But that's evidence against you." She couldn't believe they were holding this conversation.

  "No dentist holds the records for my wolf state."

  "No, I ... I suppose not." She was so relieved. And confused. And . . . horny. "So you can change back and forth as much as you like?"

  "Yes, but the more times I turn right in a row, the slower I get. It takes a lot of energy." He leaned against the tile counter as if it had been a long day with too much turning, and maybe too long a trip back to the house packing someone as tall as she was.

  "And while you're a wolf, you do know what you're doing. You're not out of your mind?"

  "Actually, in my opinion, dumb beasts aren't nearly as dumb as we would like to think."

  Eagerly she pursued her line of questioning. "You're not controlled by anything like the moon or your moods?"

  "That business with the moon is bull. But then, I'm not a werewolf. I'm a—" He hesitated.

  "What are you?"

  He avoided looking at her while he answered. "I'm like any guy, except I can change into a wolf if I want. Especially if I lose my temper, which I shouldn't have. Not with you. Now, a quick shower here"—Jasha popped the glass door open—"a long soak in the hot tub upstairs, then bed for you. You're tired." He turned on the water. "I need to make sure the house is secure. Cover that broken window by the front door. Check on a few things. Can you take care of yourself?"

  She strangled the impulse to claim helplessness. "Of course I can."

  "Of course you can. You're indomitable." He pressed his hand to her cheek, held her still, and kissed her hard on the mouth. "Bathrobe's on the hook.” he said, and left.

  In a sudden hurry, she placed the icon on the counter, stripped off her clothes, and stepped into the shower. Mud ran down the drain in brown streams, and as she scrubbed herself, she moaned with pleasure at the sensation of ever-increasing cleanliness. She had never been the kind of child to play in the dirt; she'd kept her uniform so scrupu­lously clean the other kids in school, the ones with parents, had loved to throw grass clods at her.

  One of the younger nuns, Sister Catherine, had gently tried to get her to really play at recess, to get down in the sand and make roads, or roll in the grass, or swing to the top of the swings and jump out. Ann had tried, but her heart wasn't in it.

  Sister Catherine had cajoled her into trying finger paints, then chuckled when Ann grimaced at the mess.

  And one evening, when all the other children were gone home or busy with homework, Sister Catherine had swung on the tall swings with Ann. She urged her higher into the air, laughing breathlessly, not like a nun at all, but like an angel about to take flight, and for those few minutes, Ann left her burdens be­hind and shrieked with answering laughter.

  Now Ann found herself standing, her hand pressed on her lower back, staring into space.

  The joy had been short-lived.

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

  The lesson had been learned, and learned through blood and anguish. Never again had Ann been so carefree, for when she played, the ghost of Sister Catherine played alongside her.

  Jasha thought she'd never been a child.

  She had been. A fearfully responsible child, but a child nonetheless. Ann never did anything that wasn't the right thing to do.

  Until now.

  She leaned her head against the steamy tile and closed her eyes.

  One time. Just one time she did something wild and wicked, and look at the damned mess she'd got herself into.

  Yet Sister Mary Magdalene would teE her there was no use crying over spilled milk. What was done, was done, and Ann had to deal with the consequences.

  Ann stepped out, dried, and wrapped herself in his robe.

  Picking up the icon, she washed it free of mud and examined it.

  It was beautiful. Perfect. A miracle.

  There was nothing here to burn Jasha, yet she'd seen his flesh sizzle.

  She'd bee
n raised by nuns. She knew very well what such a portent meant.

  Somehow, sometime, he had displeased God, and now he was cursed.

  A single tear brimmed over and landed on the Ma­donna's face, and Ann wiped it off.

  She didn't understand. He was so normal. More handsome than most men, but not supernaturally so. He had a gift with women, but apparently not a su­pernatural gift—his fiancee had left him with many a scathing comment about his intensity. He was a brilliant businessman, but only because he worked long hours and knew how to pick his employees, not because his rivals dropped dead of mysterious wolf attacks.

  Yet when she'd asked him what he was, he evaded an answer.

  Was he cursed?

  And if he was, what did that make her? She'd yielded. More than that, when it mattered most, she'd actively and energetically participated.

  Worse, she wasn't running away now.

  She slid the icon into the robe's pocket.

  She was going up to the master bedroom to soak in the hot tub.

  Then she was going to snuggle in Jasha's bed.

  And for that, she believed she would eventually go to hell.

  So she might as well make this a night to celebrate.

  Chapter 9

  Jasha stood absolutely still in the middle of his great room and allowed his animal senses to roam.

  First and foremost, he could smell the passing storm, the spice of pine, and the richness of growth. Those odors came sweeping in through the broken window and permeated the whole house.

  Within this room, he could smell the odor of the wolf pack; earlier, he'd carried it in with him. The feminine fragrance of Ann's body always lingered in his house; it was a pleasant undertone on every sheet of paper he brought from the office, on the briefcase she packed for him, and on the laptop she used. Yet now her scent was overlaid by her horror at seeing him change; it was that odor that had first spoken to his wolf senses and pointed him to her.

  But no one else had been in here. At least—no one human.

  He listened, extending the range of his hearing in increments. In the utility room, he heard Ann shut off the shower. He heard the hum of the water heater in the basement. Outside, he heard the brush rustle as the wolf pack circled the house.