Touch of Darkness Read online

  Although perhaps she was kidding herself. Because as this day had worn on, she'd become more and more impressed with his competence. The guy had a way about him: he'd dug her out of the tunnel, hidden that backpack full of survival supplies, scouted out the B and B—all actions that revealed his character. This was a man who expected danger and prepared for trouble.

  Still, she'd brought the trouble, so she leaned forward. "You know who the Varinski Twins are?"

  "Two experienced assassins from a legendary Russian—well, now Ukrainian—crime family who were caught in Sereminia committing murder for hire and are now in prison awaiting trial."

  "Exactly. They're not the first members of the family to be caught, but they are the first ones who haven't managed to 'escape' "—she used air quotes— "before their trial. The Varinskis have been hiring themselves out as mercenaries for a thousand years, committing horrible misdeeds, and they've never been convicted of a single crime." She leaned farther forward, enthusiasm for her subject warming her. "Can you imagine that? A thousand years."

  "Incredible." He sat completely still, listening as if she were the most scintillating speaker in the world. "Why do you know so much about them?"

  "I've done my research."

  "What kind of research?"

  "Every kind. At the library, online, I've done interviews." That wasn't all, but she suspected he wouldn't approve of the rest.

  She was probably saying too much. But she never got to talk about this stuff. Not with anybody who hated the Varinskis like she did. Here was Rurik, his archaeological site blown sky-high, his life's work ruined—he would understand. "I've documented the Varinskis' history, their legend, and their crimes. Do you know the oldest Russian mention I could find is almost eight hundred years old, an illuminated manuscript that spoke of a treasure of great worth which the first Konstantine Varinski had given 'to the devil' to receive his supernatural abilities."

  "What supernatural abilities would those be?" Rurik sounded polite, like someone who thought his leg was being pulled.

  Tasya didn't blame him a bit. "I know—I can't believe the Varinskis got away with this bullshit, either. Supposedly, these guys are shape-shifters, and change into predators whenever they want to. The monks were afraid of them, and said this deal with the devil turned the Varinskis from humans into demons. Every Russian document I found after that said the same thing, and claimed that that is why they're such good trackers and why nobody can escape them. Is that not the best PR you've everheard?"

  "Amazing." Rurik leaned back, arms crossed over his chest, his face just out of the light. "What do you think the truth is?"

  "I discovered that Konstantine had paid somebody, some powerful man, probably a representative of the czar, a whole bunch of money to do as he wished without interference on the Ukrainian steppes. Once Konstantine received that permission, he proceeded to make quite a name for himself as a brutal warrior." She wouldn't talk about the stuff Konstantine had done, since Konstantine made Clo-vus seem mild by comparison. "He raised more brutal warriors, and they raised more, continuing the family tradition as men who hire themselves out as trackers and assassins, men who fight as mercenaries in any army. They don't marry, they go out and rape women, and if the women know what's good for them, they give over their babies. Supposedly, the Varinskis have only sons—"

  "That is possible, since it's the male who determines the gender," Rurik interposed.

  "Yes, but with these guys, I'd suspect they're leaving the girls out to die."

  Rurik almost spoke, then returned to watchfulness. "All of the Varinskis are trained to be soldiers of breathtaking viciousness."

  "So you don't believe the supernatural part?"

  "Oh, please."

  "You don't believe in the supernatural."

  "No. I believe in what I can see and taste and touch." She didn't even believe in God. She'd lost that faith the same night she'd lost her parents. "I tracked down what I believe to be the piece of the Varinski family treasure—"

  "The treasure Konstantine gave to the devil?" With Rurik's face in shadow, she could see only his eyes, and they were alive and watching. "Why doesn't the devil have it?"

  "According to the Varinski myth, the devil divided the treasure into four parts and flung the pieces to the four winds."

  Rurik shook his head. "He flung them to the four corners of the earth."

  "That's right. You do know your stuff!" She gave him points for that one. "The devil flung the pieces to the four corners of the earth. The accounts disagreed about the treasure and what it was. Some said gold. Some said silver. Some said it was a holy icon of the kind all Russian families keep in their household shrine."

  Rurik's gaze flicked to the computer, and he nodded.

  "I thought if it was that valuable, it was probably gold, and the etching and illuminations all showed photos like the ones on the stone panel." She tapped the memory chip in her shirt pocket. "I deduced that the agreement giving Konstantine his rights as a son of a bitch must be etched on the treasure somehow."

  "Okay," Rurik said slowly, frowning. "That's a big leap."

  "If Konstantine Varinski was so worried about the, urn, Hershey bar that he made up the story aboutthe devil flinging it to the four corners of the earth, then there's something incriminating on it."

  "If everything you say is true—the Varinski legend is bogus, they don't change into beasts of prey, and they merely use the myth to scare people to death— then yes, that would seem logical. But what if—"

  "What if they really change into animals?" She laughed lightly.

  In one swift move, he sat up straight, into the light. His face was alive with exasperation, and she would have sworn he was going to do something rash, although what, she didn't know. He subsided back into his chair, but she sensed a vigilance and an impatience, like the attitude of a hawk waiting for a mouse to bolt from its hole.

  "It truly is a great myth. They're not werewolves, controlled by the moon, or vampires who can't go out at night. They can go anywhere anytime as men or as beasts. That makes them so much more dangerous, doesn't it?" She laughed again. "Talk about PR!"

  "Incredible." He seemed to pick his words carefully. "What if the Hershey bar is merely a Russian family icon, and you've gone to all the trouble of tracing the Varinski treasure to CIovus's tomb on the Isle of Roi?"

  "But don't you see? The Varinskis are the international, high-tech, successful trackers and assassins in the business. They blew up the tomb." She put her hand on his knee. "They're trying to hide something."

  "So you're convinced it was the Varinskis who blew up the tomb." His leg was taut as steel beneath her grip.

  "Of course I am. And if you think about it, so will you be." She tightened her fingers, then let go. "You said you didn't believe in coincidence."

  "Then, likely, they wanted to kill you. The Varinskis don't like people poking around, exposing their secrets."

  Rurik knew more about the Varinskis than she had imagined. "That's possible."

  "You're taking your possible death very calmly." She thought of several answers, and discarded them—they all sounded so melodramatic. "That treasure chest was such a disappointment. When you got to the bottom and the tablet wasn't there, I almost cried."

  "I'm almost crying right now." He did look a little flushed. "As much as I hate to ask . . . what are you doing with all this information?"

  "I wrote a book."

  "You wrote a book about the Varinskis?" Rurik's voice rose.

  So did her eyebrows. "It's good!"

  "Do me a favor. Let's not find out."

  "My editor says it's good."

  In tones of horror, he asked, "You have an editor?" "It's going to be published in two months. In hardcover!" She'd used all her skills as a writer to knit the facts and fantasies together into a compelling read. She was proud of herself—and he was puncturing her exhilaration. "Do you know anything about publishing?"

  "I know most books fail. Maybe
no one will notice yours." He sounded positively hopeful.

  "Actually, presales are excellent," she said with chilly courtesy. "My publisher is talking New York Times best seller."

  "Doesn't that just figure?"

  She wanted to squash him like a bug—him and his flat lack of enthusiasm. "I've documented all my research, but if I can produce a real live piece of Varinski history—that will excite the press and give me the exposure I need. So although some kind of written record of Konstantine's corruption would be good, I can run with the icon, too, if that's what it is. It's all about publicity."

  "All about publicity," he repeated. "When we started this conversation, I told you to start at the beginning, but I don't think you did. Who are the Varinskis to you?" He carefully spaced each word.

  "What do you mean? Are you asking if they're relatives?" Her cheeks heated. "Because I am not related to those monsters. And I never slept with one!" He looked away, a quick flick of the eyes, then back. "No. That's not what I'm asking. There are a lot of injustices in this world, Tasya Hunnicutt You know them. You've seen them. Why did you choose to try and destroy this evil?"

  "Because it's the right thing to do." Lame answer. "Because that's what I do."

  "No. With the other evils, you take pictures. You write a story. You move on to relative safety. With the Varinskis, once you declare yourself their enemy, there will be no safety ever again. And you know that. So again, I ask—why the Varinskis?"

  "I'll have you know there are a few governments in this world who hate me for my stories." She hadn't thought Rurik would wonder about her motivation, or that he'd be so astute with his questioning. Most men were oblivious to everything except food, drink, and sex. Why did she have to get stuck with Mr. Interrogation?

  "You do sense evil." He watched her emotion-lessly.

  She squirmed in her chair. She knew where he was going.

  "You sensed Clovus and his traps. You knew the Varinskis were out there."

  "When they're close, I feel . . . there's a sickening buzz in my ears, and I get this hot flash that makes me see flames." Too close, Tasya! You're skating too close to the truth!

  "Are there any other times you've felt that?"

  She actually felt funny when he was around, but she put that down to a constant, low-level lust that afflicted her, and the way she forgot to breathe when she stared at him.

  She liked to stare at him, at the golden brown eyes, the strong, harsh face, the muscled body that looked so good in clothes—and so much better out of them. She liked his scent, and she liked the way she felt when he touched her . . . like she was going to live forever. Forever, in a moment.

  "Are there any other times you've felt that?" he repeated.

  He wasn't going to let this one go.

  And she wasn't going to talk about it—about that night so long ago, about the flames on the horizon, and how she'd screamed for her mommy because when those scary men were close, she was sick, so sick. "I am sorry, Rurik. It's partially my fault they bombed the site, but I swear, it never occurred to me they would."

  "So you have felt it before." He was like a dog with a bone. "And still you have the nerve to say you don't believe in the supernatural."

  Her temper had been wavering back and forth, and now it snapped. "That's not the supernatural. That's just a feeling!"

  "A very useful one." He stood.

  "Do you believe in the supernatural?"

  "Very much so."

  She couldn't tell if he was kidding or not. "An Air Force pilot who believes in ghoulies and ghosties?"

  "An ex-Air Force pilot. Perhaps the ghoulies and ghosties are the reason I quit."

  He wasn't making sense to her. She stood, too. "What do you think of what I'm doing?"

  "I think you're going to get killed."

  "But if I bring down a legacy of cruelty, won't that be worth it?"

  "No. For I can't bear to think of a world without you in it." Before she suspected his intentions, he had her in his arms, pressed against his body. He was hard and hot, just the way she remembered, but less gentle. ... He wanted to kiss her, and he no longer had the patience for seduction. This was a kiss as violent as a storm, as complete as a climax. He used his tongue in her mouth, his teeth on her lower lip. He held her with one arm across her back while the other cupped her rear and massaged so deeply she shuddered, halfway to yielding.

  Then he let her go. Let her go and stepped back. And walked out the door.

  She touched her fingertips to her bruised lips, and closed her eyes. She had thought no one would mourn her if she died, and yet—Rurik might appear to be calm and stoic, but the man hid depths of passion and anguish that raised her temperature and made her want to live, all at the same time.

  In a sudden hurry, she raced into the corridor, intent on catching him.

  He stood in the archway of the living room, where the television was blaring, and stared over the heads of Mrs. Reddenhurst and two of her guests.

  Tasya stopped beside him.

  A reporter stood in the rain before the collapsed mound on the Isle of Roi. Behind her, people worked under spotlights, digging frantically, as she said, "We don't know who bombed the site. The speculation is, of course, terrorists, but we do know two people are missing and presumed dead. But until their bodies are recovered, they're suspects in the blast."

  And photos of Rurik and Tasya popped up on the screen.

  Chapter 13

  Tasya looked guilty and like she wanted to bolt, but Rurik needed to know if their masquerades were sufficient. "Mrs. Reddenhurst, my wife and I are going up now."

  Mrs. Reddenhurst twisted in her wing chair. "Come in, come in. Meet the kind folk who've agreed to share their car with ye in the morning."

  Rurik took Tasya's hand and led her into the small room. "We appreciate you letting us ride along with you, Mr. and Mrs. Kelly."

  "Serena and Hamlin," Mr. Kelly said, and extended Ms hand. He was short, aging, with a round belly that overhung his belt, and a white beard. His wife matched him in height and girth, and both of them beamed enthusiastically.

  Apparently in the summer Santa Claus and his wife vacationed in the north of Scotland.

  "Glad for the company, especially since you're sharing the petrol." He cocked his head. "I recognize you."

  Shit.

  "Or at least I recognize your accent. You're Yanks," he continued.

  "We're from just north of you," Serena said, "from Canada. It's always good to see neighbors when we travel."

  Tasya leaned against Rurik as if she needed the support.

  "Remember that time we saw Fred and Carol in Florida?" Hamlin said. "That was wild. Wasn't that wild?"

  "Fred and Carol Browning were our real neighbors, from our neighborhood, and our kids grew up together," Serena explained.

  "And we saw them in Florida in February. Imagine that." Hamlin tucked his thumbs into his suspenders.

  "Imagine," Tasya said weakly.

  Before the Kellys could draw breath again, Rurik said, "Mrs. Reddenhurst, we want to thank you for the loan of your computer, and thank you for giving us shelter."

  "Yes, thank you." Tasya took her hand.

  "Ye're welcome, both of ye." Mrs. Reddenhurst looked pleased by their courtesies. "You'll go up now?"

  "Of course they will!" Hamlin said in hearty amusement. "They're newlyweds!"

  Serena gave a laugh to match his. "Tomorrow the car windows will be steamed up all the way!"

  It was going to be a long ride to Edinburgh.

  Rurik pushed Tasya toward the corridor and up the stairs.

  "None of them recognize us from the pictures on TV," she said in a low voice.

  "We've got a chance of getting to France incognito, then." He followed close on her heels as she climbed the stairs to the second floor.

  She stopped on the landing. "You don't have to go to France with me."

  "Believe me. I do."

  "No, really. I've put you in danger."
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  He laughed briefly and bitterly. He'd already been in danger, but she'd definitely added to the mix. "I have a better idea. Why don't I send you to safety while I go to France after the Varinski treasure?"

  "No." He answered himself at the same time she answered him.

  "I need to find the treasure for myself." Her eyes were big and blue and earnest.

  "Because that's better for the PR?" He could barely contain his irritation.

  When he thought about her plan—write a book about the Varinskis, and do a good enough job to make it a blockbuster—he wanted to shout at her. Tasya Hunnicutt, the most savvy world traveler he'd ever met, imagined that she could take on the longest-lived, most deadly cartel in the world, and win.

  The Varinskis made the Mafia look like altar boys, and why?

  Because old Konstantine had made a deal with the devil, and the devil knew his stuff.

  So what if Tasya didn't believe in demons and shape-shifters?

  Rurik lived with the proof—and the consequences— every day.

  So he was going to France with her, and when they located the icon ... he would take it from her.

  Because they were chasing the icon that could save his father's life, and more important—his soul.

  Tasya would be angry, but Tasya would have to learn to live with it, because Rurik intended to keep her.

  "You should go back to the dig," she said. "Leave me to track down the Varinski treasure."

  His temper wavered between hot frustration and cold intent. Putting his fingers over her lips, he said, "Don't even suggest that. I'm not leaving you to face the Varinskis alone."

  Her eyes filled with tears. She looked down, snuffled, said, "I'm sorry, I must be really tired."

  She thought he was a good guy, a human guy, and her willful foolishness, not to mention the coming confrontation, made him more furious. "We both are. I'm going to take a shower. Mrs. Reddenhurst said she would loan you one of her nightgowns. Don't wait up."

  "I won't." She looked up. "Rurik, I really am sorry I got your excavation blown up."

  She thought he was angry because of the site. Could she be any more wrong?