Touch of Darkness Page 8

  "Stop it!" She watched him with haunted eyes.

  "Make me." He sat down at the table, his hands palm down on the surface.

  Tasya stood facing him, her hands in fists before her chest.

  "Break and run, Tasya," he taunted, "so I can chase you down."

  "I wouldn't give you the satisfaction."

  "Oh, yes, you will. I promise you'll give me exactly the satisfaction I demand."

  A slight cough made them both whirl to face their hostess.

  In a tone both horrified and delighted, Mrs. Red-denhurst asked, "Do ye two want yer steak and eggs now, or yer salad first? Or would you rather I put yer supper back a bit while ye finish yer fight upstairs?"

  Chapter 10

  Boris Varinski sprawled in the biggest recliner in the Varinskis' family room in the Ukraine, remote control in hand, watching CNN news on the fifty-eight-inch plasma flat-screen TV. The sound was blaring. All around him, Varinskis were pounding fists on one another's backs and hooting with laughter.

  He wasn't laughing.

  He had been; when news of the explosion at the Scottish excavation broke, he'd gladly received congratulations from his men. He'd basked in their renewed respect.

  Then the reporters came on and announced that the administrator of the dig, Rurik Wilder, and the National Antiquities photographer, Tasya Hunnicutt, had vanished and were believed dead in the explosion. They'd flashed pictures of them, and right away, Boris knew everything had gone to hell—and he was the only Varinski smart enough to know it.

  That man in the picture was Konstantine's whelp. Boris had spent one whole long day in Kiev, closeted with Mykhailo Khmelnytsky, the respected historian, while Mykhailo researched the Varinski family icons and where they could be now. Occasionally, Boris had urged him to hurry, and as incentive, he cut little pieces off Mykhailo—the tip of a finger, his little toe. In the end, Mykhailo had come through, identifying the tomb in Scotland as a place one ot the icons was hidden. Boris had sent the demolition team, they'd blown up the site, and in the celebration that followed, he had had a few moments of hope that he'd saved his own ass.

  But if Konstantine's son directed the excavation at the same site, Boris could bet the boy was looking for the same damned icon Boris had been instructed to find—and not for a good reason.

  Worse, he would not die as easily as the reporters imagined, and if he had the icon in his possession .. .

  Boris glanced around.

  At least, Uncle Ivan had stumbled off, drunk again, and now should be lying somewhere in the big, rambling house, his white eyes rolled up in his head. Uncle Ivan slurped more vodka than any one liver could bear, trying to cure his grief that he was the first Varinski in a thousand years to go blind, and Boris gladly sent the bottles over. Because when Uncle Ivan had drowned his sorrows, Boris knew he was safe from Uncle Ivan and the being that possessed him. The thing that knew about the icon, that used Uncle Ivan's body to grab Boris and threaten him.

  If Boris was lucky, his demolition team would find Rurik, find him fast, eliminate him, and grab the icon. Boris would give them the girl. She would be a reward for them, and that would be a lesson for her. "Give me a phone," Boris said. No one paid any attention to him. He came to his feet. Pain streaked through his bad hip, and the pain made him louder and more belligerent. "Give me a phone!"

  Abruptly, the celebration died. The boys stood and stared at him, and he stared back.

  Blin! Half of the young ones were idiots, drooling, staring blankly, understanding nothing. They had all the intelligence of chimpanzees.

  Some of them, the youngest ones, changed into repulsive beasts—weasels, or snakes, or vultures. Predators, but not noble predators—predators that preyed on carrion. Predators that slithered or scampered or scuttled.

  And there was Vadim. Boris's own son. Vadim was smart, mean, big,'and not quite twenty. Since thetime he could crawl, he had ruled his generation. That little govnosos eyed Boris like a tiger eyed an aging antelope that would soon be brought down. Vadim watched, and he waited, smug in the belief that soon Boris would fall and he could step into his shoes.

  That was crap. Sure, after Konstantine abandoned them, Boris had had to fight to be declared leader of the Varinski clan, but he'd held power for over thirty years. He'd been the one who decided to abandon the search for Konstantine and his bitch wife. He'd been the one who brought the Varinskis into the modern era with tracking devices and modern explosives and a really good website that stated their goal and had a great corporate logo.

  Varinski—When You Want the job Done, and Done Right.

  Boris had made it up himself, and the slogan said it all. Business had been up since he'd started advertising. The Varinskis were raking in the gold—and it was gold. When a dictator came and wanted someone put down, he paid in gold. When an oil corporation wanted to start a small war, they paid in gold. And when Boris blackmailed the dictator and the oil company to keep the information quiet, they paid in a lot of gold.

  Hell, Boris had an investment counselor, and the guy had real incentive to make sure the investmentswere sound. He knew if he didn't, Boris would kill him with his bare hands.

  Just when he got the whole Varinski family arranged to his liking—stuff happened. Some of the guys got sick. Varinskis didn't get sick. Some of the old guys died in their eighties. Varinskis lived well into their hundreds. Some victims of the Varinskis started fighting back; women who had been raped brought charges against them.

  They got nowhere—the Varinskis held the Ukrainian justice system in a tight grip—but that the women had so little respect for custom boded ill for future Varinski generations.

  Yerik and Fdoror had been captured and awaited trial for racketeering and murder. Like that hadn't happened before!

  But this time, nothing Boris did, no pressure he brought to bear on the Sereminian government, no bribes he offered, no threats he made to the Sereminian officials, could get them released.

  The world and everything in it plotted a conspiracy to bring Boris down.

  "Here's a phone, brother." One of his brothers, one of his own generation, handed him a cordless.

  Boris looked down at it, clutched in his shaking hands, and realized he couldn't talk here. His agitation had already betrayed too much. "I'm going to my office."

  "Uncle/ before you go make your phone call to try and fix this mess, give me the TV remote." Vadim lounged on the couch, smiling that repellent, mocking smile.

  Boris stared at the wide-eyed young idiots, at the critical mature men, and at the decrepit old guys. He tossed the remote to Uncle Shaman.

  Vadim snapped his fingers, and Shaman tossed it to him.

  His own uncle betrayed Boris! Betrayed and stared at him accusingly.

  "Hey, thanks!" Vadim laughed and changed the channel.

  Boris lunged toward Vadim.

  Vadim never moved. But the other boys did, stepping in front of him as if they would willingly sacrifice their lives for him—and some of them were Boris's sons.

  His sons! His uncles! All disloyal. All!

  Boris stopped. He sneered, "You're not worth my spit." He turned to go—after all, what choice had he?

  Vadim called, "You're limping, Uncle. Can I help you to your office?"

  "You dumb little fuck," Boris muttered. He left the TV room, walking without a hitch. Stopping justoutside, he leaned his hand against the wall, shook his leg, trying to move the joint into a more comfortable position. Then he limped down the darkened hall toward his office.

  His hip hurt. The stupid doctor had said it was the arthritis.

  So Boris had killed him. Boris needed no witnesses to his weakness.

  But he couldn't kill the witness that ground his bones and ate at his nerves, night after night, day after day. The disease was there, and getting worse.

  He needed his medicine. He stepped more quickly—when out of the dark, something grabbed his ankle.

  He stumbled. His leg gave way. He fell on one knee
, caught himself on one hand—and found himself on the floor with Uncle Ivan.

  Uncle Ivan, with his eyes glowing blue in the dark. Uncle Ivan, who moved with a speed and a strength far above the old warrior's capacities. "I warned you." His voice was deep, cruel, cold enough to freeze the marrow in Boris's bones.

  This wasn't Uncle Ivan. It was ... it was the Other.

  "It's not my fault," Boris said. "I didn't know Kon-stantine's whelp was director of the excavation. I didn't know—"

  In a flash, Uncle Ivan changed his grip from Boris's ankle to his throat. The twisted old fingers squeezed Boris's windpipe, cutting off his breath. "Fault? Who talks of fault? I care only about results."

  The pressure eased a little, just enough so Boris could speak. "I know. I'm going to fix—"

  "I told you to find the icons."

  "I did. I found one. I tried to destroy—"

  "You can't destroy the icons. No man can."

  "The explosion—"

  "Did nothing. Don't you understand?" The hand tightened. And tightened. "The Varinski mother gave her life to protect the Madonna. Her blood made the icons indestructible."

  The last thing Boris remembered was clawing at the enfeebled arm, and realizing that something gave Uncle Ivan strength. . . .

  When Boris returned to consciousness, the Other leaned over him, remorseless, old, evil in a way Boris had only begun to fathom.

  The blue flame glowed within Uncle Ivan's eyes, and he whispered, "Bring the icons to me. All of them. And find the women."

  Boris desperately wanted to shut his eyes—and he didn't dare. "Yes."

  "The women the Wilders love are linked to the icons. Find the women. Find the icons. Find them, bring them to me."

  "Yes," Boris said hoarsely.

  "Succeed, Boris." The smell of brimstone tainted the old man's breath. "Boris, you will succeed, or you'll see hell in all its glory, and much, much sooner than you ever imagined."

  Chapter 11

  "She heard you." In a fury of embarrassment, Tasya strode down the dimly lit corridor toward the miniature library. "Mrs. Reddenhurst heard every word!"

  "And enjoyed it, too." Rurik strolled behind Tasya, his long legs easily keeping up. "I'll bet she goes to bed tonight and hugs her pillow."

  "Only if her pillow contains two D-sized batteries." Tasya had never been so mortified in her life.

  He hadn't been bothered. Obviously. He'd simply smiled and eaten his steak and eggs with gusto.

  And that bugged Tasya all the more. "I mean, I'm no prude—"

  "Just inexperienced."

  She stopped. Turned. Found her nose almost buried in his chest. "I am not!"

  "Inexperienced and flustered." He walked around her, past the front room where Mrs. Reddenhurst sat with two of her guests, television blaring, and into the empty library. Mrs. Reddenhurst's computer sat on the desk, a four-year-old Mac with a twelve-inch monitor. He turned it on, examined the connections, and extended his hand. "We can do it. Where's the memory?"

  Tasya slid into the chair. "Right here." She pulled the memory out of her pocket and stuck it into the reader.

  She halfway expected Rurik to try to evict her from her seat, but he pulled up a chair and sat by her left shoulder. "Are the pictures there?"

  She loaded the photos in the program, brought them up, and gave a sigh of relief. "It looks as if there's no problem."

  Yesterday she had taken hundreds of photos of the site, the treasure chest, and all its contents, but she zipped past those to get to ones she'd taken this morning.

  She winced when she saw the number—only a few dozen of a panel three feet long and densely covered with figures, symbols, and writing. She squinted. The monitor wasn't good; everything was tinted green, and the resolution was lousy. "How's your Old English?" she asked.

  "Not good, but luckily this carving was made only a few years before the Norman invasion, so we're getting close to Middle English. Plus most of the story is told in pictures." He pointed to the first photo. "Can you enlarge that?"

  She did, and the two of them studied her view of the wall.

  She pointed to the figure on the left. "Clovus is a warlord—he beheads his enemies until they're a great pile of bodies beneath his feet, and the other warriors cower before him."

  "I've found the proof of that," Rurik agreed.

  "He cuts a swath of destruction through Europe, and the only one who can stand against him is this guy." She pointed at the stick figure, crudely drawn, of a crowned figure with one eye and a melted face. "Makes you wonder what the king was like if he managed to outdo Clovus the Beheader."

  "There were a lot of charmers in those days."

  She brought up the next photo, and realized it helped if she sat back and looked at the overall picture rather than trying to decipher every line. "Clovus took a boat." She knew it was Clovus, since he'd brought along a dripping souvenir head. "So I'm guessing he crossed the channel to England."

  Rurik pointed to some script. "That's what it says here."

  She squinted at the monitor. "Really? That's what that says? I should have studied more Beowulf."

  "I'm glad to discover a reason I did." Rurik put his hand on the back of her neck and used his fingers to massage away the knot there.

  If she was smart, she'd tell him to knock it off. But he used his hands with real talent, and she'd had a long day. A very long, very tense day. "Okay. So this time, Clovus cut a swath through the English countryside, right up until the time he met—" She enlarged the picture. "He met the devil?" This kept getting better and better.

  "Cloven hooves. Tail. Yep, that's the devil." Rurik sounded prosaic.

  "Clovus really hung around with the wrong crowd." She controlled her excitement and brought up the next photo. "The devil gave him a wonderful present."

  "The Hershey bar." Rurik pointed at the square that was changing hands.

  "Oh, bite me." But she was concentrating too hard and his massage was too good for her to put much vitriol behind her insult. "What do you think it is?"

  "I don't know."

  "See that glow around it? I think it must be a gold tablet."

  "You might be right."

  She twisted to look at him. "What's wrong?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "You sound so ... neutral. And you look—" He looked funny. Sort of knowing, and filled with suppressed excitement. "You're the archaeologist. I'm only the amateur. Am I reading this wrong?"

  "You're reading it exactly as I would. Except . . . I don't think that's gold." He pointed at the screen, at the object the devil gave Clovus.

  "What do you think it is?"

  "I think it's a holy object."

  "Because of the halo." That shot her theory about the Varinski treasure all to hell. "But what is the devil doing with a holy object?"

  "Nothing good, I'll bet."

  "No." She tapped the desk.

  "You're disappointed."

  "I don't know." She thought about the details of the Varinski mythology. "There's the part about the icon—"

  "Icon?" Rurik was instantly alert.

  "Nothing. I just . . . nothing." She did not need to go into that right now. Turning back to the screen, she said, "Look. Clovus is sick." The stone carver had rendered the picture of Clovus's various bodily disorders with disgusting completeness.

  "And he blames the object, whatever it is, and sends it to the king with one eye." Rurik leaned back in the chair and pressed the heels of his hands to his forehead. "That would be perfect!"

  "Perfect?" She could hardly contain her disappointment. "If the Hershey bar were in Europe somewhere? Why?"

  "Because otherwise, this object was blown sky-high in the tomb, and even if it wasn't destroyed, it's going to take ten years to sift through the wreckage and catalog every piece, and who the hell has tenyears?"

  "Right," she said sarcastically. "Now all we have to do is figure out which one-eyed, mean son-of-a-bitch eleventh-century European ruler he
sent it to."

  In the end, for all his disclaimers, Rurik deciphered enough of the Old English to figure out the one-eyed king had lived and pillaged in Lorraine, now a province on the far eastern edge of France. They would start there.

  His scholarship impressed Tasya. That and the heat he provided by sitting close, and his fingers rubbing at the base of her neck . . . she liked sitting here with him, deciphering the carvings, talking about their next move. They were comfortable with each other, two people who had a lot in common. Almost . . . friends.

  Friends, except for the fact that she hadn't been completely frank with him—to say the least—and there was that sex thing that they did so well and which made her want to run so far away.

  Because Rurik Wilder would never be threatened by her career and her independence, and scamperaway. Rurik Wilder wasn't threatened by anything. He wanted a relationship with her—what kind and how long, she didn't dare ask—and that terrified her. Terrified her because of the people who chased her. Terrified her because he could get hurt. And that wouldn't be fair to him.

  While she pulled the card, replaced it in her camera, and stashed her camera safely away, he cleaned the remnants of the photos from Mrs. Reddenhurst's computer. Tasya watched with a sense of satisfaction; they'd done a good night's work. They made a good team.

  He switched the computer off, then turned, and so swiftly she didn't have time to back up, he caught her hand in his. "Now, tell me about you and the Varinskis."

  The reckoning had come sooner than she'd thought.

  Chapter 12

  "I don't know where to start." Tasya tried to run her fingers through her hair, and at once the rigid spikes reminded her what she had done to change her looks, and why.

  "Start at the beginning." Rurik used his toe to pull the chair right in front of him, and pointed.

  She might not like his attitude, but she sat. After all, she owed him. She'd got him involved in something so far above his head, he could never handle it.