Darkness Chosen 01: Scent of Darkness

by Christina Dodd

  She must have seen him before he turned.

  Ann stopped just inside the door.

  Jasha was sitting up, his back against the wall, spattered with blood. But his eyes were warm, golden, amused. "I'd say that's TMI from Mrs. Edges, wouldn't you?"

  She rushed to him, almost hugged him, drew back at the last minute. "You're hurt. You're so hurt."

  The bruises were coming up fast, and in great pur­ple blotches. "Yeah, and remember, demon bites don't heal worth a damn."

  "Then you can go to the hospital." Thank God.

  "And you, my darling. And you." He stroked the swelling on her throat. "When I think how close I came to losing you ..."

  "Don't." She caught his fingers. "I'm all right."

  "We're going to have to come up with one fascinat­ing explanation about the wolf bites and scratches I got killing the guy who tried to murder my fiancee."

  In a burst of inspiration, she said, "You had run through the grounds to save me, and . . . and some­one's mean German shepherd attacked."

  "Does anyone have a mean German shepherd?"

  She shrugged. "So it was a stray."

  "Right." Jasha considered the dead Varinski stretched across her floor. "Where in hell did he come from? How did he get in?"

  "He said he was from the moving company. And I let him in." She flushed in chagrin. "I thought you'd sent him to collect for the bill."

  As wounded as he was, he managed to look more hurt. "Because that's the kind of thing I'd do."

  "No, because I was mad." She allowed her head to lightly drop on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Jasha. Sorry for the things I said, and thought, and . . . I'm just sorry."

  "It's all right. We're both fools for love." Heedless of the pain, he pressed her against him. "What do you want to bet the police find a mover's body on the grounds without his uniform?"

  "Oh, God, Jasha." She gave a dry sob and again reached out to hug him, then pulled back and lightly touched his bruises with her fingertips. "You keep saving me, and you're so hurt, and I thought you were going to die, and I just keep loving you, no matter how hard I try not to—"

  "That's all I needed to hear." He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close.

  She tried to hold herself away. "I'm going to hurt you."

  "It's a good hurt."

  She gently relaxed against him.

  He kissed the side of her face.

  She kissed his shoulder.

  If he hadn't almost been killed, he couldn't say this. But the Varinski could easily have won this bat­tle. And there would be battles yet to come. If Jasha didn't speak now, he didn't deserve to have Ann. "Ever since we got back from Washington, all I could think was I wanted to go back into the forest where you had to depend on me to keep you safe. Here, every time you left my sight, I was afraid."

  "I can't stay in lockdown all the time. That's not living." She tried to laugh. "I must buy shoes!"

  "I know. Shoes are important." He squeezed her, trying to convey comfort, love, every good emotion. "But it's not just because I fear for you. I fear for me, too. Without you, I'm not whole. Maybe that's not the kind of love you want. Maybe you want a stronger man who doesn't need you. But this is the only kind of love I have, and it's yours if you want it." He felt the trickle of her tears on his shoulder. The salty water ran down his chest and into his wounds, and burned, but in a good way.

  "It's exactly the kind of love I want, because it's exactly the kind of love I've been looking for all my life. But the birthmark . . . you don't need more vil­lains in your life, and I swear to you, it does bring them."

  Lifting her chin, he looked into her face. "What have I done that you should think I am so much less than you?" He was pleased to see her brimming blue eyes widen.

  "What do you mean?"

  "You're willing to accept me, and I've signed a pact with the devil. Someday, I'm going to have to pay him for my ability to change into a wolf. It would be so much safer for you if you ran as far and as fast as you could in the opposite direction."

  "Well . . . you . . . that would be . . ."

  "Cowardly? Why, yes, so it is. So why do you think I should run away from you because of a birthmark?"

  "At least you can control your special . . ." She groped for a word.

  "Freakiness?" he suggested. "Don't bet on it, Ann. I've spent the last week fighting every minute not to become a true Varinski and take you regardless of what you thought. I was doing so well, too, until I thought you were going to run into real danger, and then I..." The memory of those minutes in his office burned him with delight, and humiliation. Delight for the pleasure, and humiliation that when he was with her, he had no control. "My darling, I am so sorry. Please forgive me."

  "There was nothing to forgive. It was rough, and it was fast, and it was . . . good." She touched his face as if she was memorizing each feature with her eyes and her fingertips. "Although I would believe your apologies more if your eyes weren't glowing red."

  He groaned and closed them, trying to hide a desire too easily betrayed. "The birthmark makes you very special. But I already knew you were special."

  "And I have worked so hard to be average."

  He chuckled. "You are at least as average as I am."

  It was a special moment, a once-in-a-lifetime pack­age of emotions made clear, and only one thing could have interrupted them.

  A huge yowl and a head butt from Ann's stupid cat.

  Ann leaped back. "Kresley! My dear, darling boy, I thought you were dead." She tried to run her hands over his huge body.

  Kresley shoved her aside, climbed into Jasha's lap, and plopped himself down.

  Jasha groaned—and he would have sworn Kres­ley smiled.

  Ann settled for stroking Kresley's head. "He saved me. When the Varinski was choking me, he saved me."

  "Were those the scratches on the Varinski's chest and face?" Jasha scratched under Kresley's chin.

  Kresley allowed the touch, and even deigned to rumble a purr.

  "Some of them. The others I did."

  "You did? With what?"

  She explained, and showed him her hand.

  He stared fixedly at it, but it looked normal. Nor­mal. Yet through their time together, he'd learned one thing—the true miracle wasn't the icon. Ann was.

  "I guess it was your blood mixing with mine, but why could I do it then?" She wore a puzzled frown, oblivious to the wonder of her. "Why not any other time?"

  "I would guess that particular miracle took the perfect ingredients—your birthmark, my blood, and the rage you felt at someone killing an innocent ani­mal." Yes, that made sense. She hated to see an ani­mal, any animal, hurt. And when the Varinski hurt her beloved cat ...

  "Listen. I hear the sirens." He struggled to his feet and began to dress.

  She watched with flattering interest, yet at the same time, her brow was puckered as her mind worked. "Jasha, I understand that your blood mixed with mine, and I had the ability to protect myself and my cat. But when I pulled out that arrow, my blood went into you, too. So what did you get from me?"

  He finished buttoning his pants, then went down on one knee. "Salvation, my darling Ann—and love. So much love."

  Jasha thought he and Ann would have to do some fancy talking to justify the blood and mayhem.

  Instead, Sergeant Black easily accepted their expla­nations about the hostile stray dog, the guy in the mover's coveralls, the attack on Ann, and how Jasha saved her. He sent a patrolman searching the grounds, and they did indeed find one of the movers, dead and stripped of his uniform.

  He didn't ask about the ardmallike scratches and bites on the Varinski's body. Instead he quickly zipped the body into a body bag and sent it to the morgue, assuring Jasha and Ann that the report would state that the killing had clearly been a case of self-defense.

  Then, as the paramedics bundled Ann and Jasha into an ambulance, turned on the siren, and drove away, Doug Black watched—and his pupils glowed red.

&n
bsp; Look for book two in the Darkness Chosen series from New York Times best-selling author Christina Dodd, on sale in August 2007.

  TOUCH OF DARKNESS

  Handsome, powerful Rurik Wilder battles darkness—the darkness without, and the darkness within. He possesses the power to transform himself into a fierce bird of prey, and that gift has caused death and destruc­tion. At last he is offered the chance to re­deem himself and break the evil pact which has held his family in thrall for centuries. Only one woman stands in his way— flamboyant Tasya Hunnicutt, a writer de­termined to wreak revenge on the assassins who murdered her family. Assassins, it's been rumored, who have powers no human should ever possess . . .

  Sneak preview:

  In July in the north of Scotland, the sun rose at four in the morning.

  Rurik rose earlier. He dressed in camouflage and combat boots, and set off for his usual morning run— except that this wasn't his usual morning run.

  Now, when he knew the reporters had pulled their pillows over their eyes and the locals were sleeping off hangovers, he ran up the road to the tomb.

  He'd spent the previous evening in the village pub, eulogizing Hardwick, showing off the tomb discover­ies, pretending modesty, and sharing credit with every one of his team. He'd had one too many ales, and watched Tasya as she made her way through the crowd, exchanging information with the reporters, an­swering questions for the tourists, and talking with the archeologists and locals. Oh, and ignoring him. She did that with obvious and consummate ease.

  At least he could take comfort in the fact she both­ered. Worse, much worse, would be if she treated him as casually as she treated the others.

  It was midnight by the time he got to bed, and three a.m. when he got up, sleepless and itching to go back to the tomb.

  He hadn't located the Varinski icon. The treasure chest might have contained it once—according to Rurik's research, had contained it once—but it was gone now.

  Yet the tomb was large, and Clovus had proved wilier and more ruthless than Rurik imagined; perhaps the icon was secreted somewhere inside. Or perhaps the tomb contained a clue as to its whereabouts. Today the archeologists and reporters would rush to the tomb in hopes of more electrifying discoveries ... so he ran.

  The sun was at his back. The fresh air filled his lungs. He moved swiftly along the road, his long stride challenging the upward slope of the island.

  Yet as he approached the mound, he met his men walking away.

  What the hell . . . ? He stopped and waited until Connell and Tony reached him. "This isn't time for the guard to change."

  Connell pointed. "MacNachtan's still up there with his rifle."

  The grim villager stood on a cluster of rocks, sil­houetted against the sky, and he sent Rurik a sharp salute.

  "We couldn't see any sense in all of us being here." Tony's hair stood on end—he'd probably slept through his whole shift.

  "All of us?" Rurik asked.

  "Hunni said you'd be along soon," Connell said.

  "Hunni?" Rurik stared at the grass blowing in the ocean breeze, at the tomb, patient and menacing. "Tasya Hunnicutt is here?"

  "Yeah, she said you wanted her to start photo­graphing the entrance." Tony grinned at him, that infatuated grin of a man who'd a moment ago had his dreams fulfilled by a woman's smile and a few flirtatious words. "You know, boss, it's great to have her here from National Antiquities. She's got a real case of the hots for the stuff in there. She could be an archeologist—she totally gets it."

  "She is amazing." In more ways than one. Rurik watched the guys as they walked away.

  The dumb shits. It never occurred to them Tasya might be lying, that she might have an ulterior mo­tive. Using archeologists to guard the tomb was like using puppies to protect a fire hydrant.

  Of course, it had never occurred to him that Tasya would get up earlier than he did to check out the tomb. So who was the dumb shit now?

  He walked down the stone ramp to the tomb's entrance, taking care that Tasya didn't hear him.

  He'd always thought she knew too much, was too interested, had reasons of her own for following the excavation so closely. Now he intended to interrogate her—and he would enjoy every minute.

  Light leaked from inside the tomb. She had some source of illumination set up, and he could hear her camera as she took picture after picture. Taking care not to alert her to his presence, he eased around to peer inside.

  There she was, dressed in a camouflage T-shirt tucked into her glorious tight jeans.

  No wonder his guys believed every word she said. The woman had a shape that made a man want to throw that football through that tire. Repeatedly.

  She wore black work boots, and her khaki back­pack rested on the floor beside her. One might sup­pose she'd come dressed for the dust in the tomb . . . or if one was suspicious, one might believe she'd worn camouflage for the same reason he had. So she wouldn't be easily seen.

  She knelt at the wall behind the shelf where the treasure chest had been placed. Carvings covered the stone, and she leaned close, macro-lens on her cam­era, to capture each panel.

  How fascinating. She worked exactly the wall he intended to examine.

  Why would she be interested in the carvings when the interior of the tomb might contain more gold? More jewels?

  What was she looking for?

  Right now, he didn't care.

  Because they were alone. Just as he promised her, he had her cornered, and she had nowhere to run.

  Deliberately, he loomed in the entrance, blocking the sunlight that reached inside, touching the wall... touching her.

  As she swung around, she crouched into a fight­ing position.

  "You're nervous." He ducked down and entered the tomb. "Why? Are you guilty?"

  "Rurik. What are you doing here?" She looked him right in the eyes.

  "According to what you told my guys, I'm sup­posed to meet you here."

  "Yeah. Well." She put her camera around her neck and fussed with the settings.

  Yep. She was guilty.

  "I couldn't wait to see what's inside the tomb," she said.

  "But you're not inside. You're concentrating on the wall carvings in the entrance. Why would that be?"

  "I'm the National Antiquities photographer. I need to record each piece of this tomb." Her black hair curled riotously, as if she'd done no more this morn­ing than run her fingers through the strands.

  Rurik reached out.

  She tried to dodge, then consciously stood still.

  Was she trying to convince him that she didn't care if he touched her? Good luck.

  He tucked a curl behind one ear.

  She chewed her lip.

  Smart girl. She should be apprehensive.

  Sliding his hand behind her neck, he pulled her toward him.

  "No." She put up her fists.

  "Try and stop me." He smiled a toothy smile. "I would really like it if you fought."

  "Why? What are you going to do? Force me to kiss you?" She sounded scornful as only an independent woman could sound.

  "I don't have to force you to do anything." He whispered in her ear, "I'm going to get you so hot, we'll melt together, and you'll never know where I end and you begin."

  The way she caught her breath did wonders for his temperament.

  Turning his head, he kissed her cheek. "But later." Later, when he had toyed with her, kept her off bal­ance, threatened hell and promised heaven.

  He couldn't make her love him, he couldn't make her stay with him, but by God, if she ran again, she would remember him.

 

 

 
yscale(100%); filter: grayscale(100%); " class="sharethis-inline-share-buttons">share