Wilder The Chosen Ones

by Christina Dodd

  “Isabelle is in labor,” Jacqueline informed him.

  “I wondered whether that would happen with one of you. That’s a washboard gravel road coming into the Wilder estate.” Leaning down, he kissed Genny. “Promise me something.”

  She clung to the sleeve of his T-shirt. “What’s that?”

  “Promise me you’ll wait until we get home to California before you have little Firebird’s sister.”

  “I’ll do what I can.” But she looked worried.

  Which made John look worried.

  “Everyone’s panicking prematurely.” Isabelle sounded patient. “It’s just a backache. If it turns into something more, you all will be the first to know. In the meantime, Charisma?”

  Charisma raised her eyebrows.

  “You promised us a Downton Abbey fest when we got here.” Isabelle ignored the guys’ groans.

  “Which one?” Aaron asked. “Season eight . . . thousand?”

  Charisma flipped on the TV.

  “There aren’t eight thousand seasons,” Caleb said. “It only seems that way.”

  “It’ll distract me,” Isabelle said.

  That stopped the groans.

  The news flashed on the screen: Riots in Hong Kong.

  Jacqueline held up her hand. “Wait a minute. I want to see this.”

  The broadcasters chronicled the rise of a mysterious new overlord who now controlled the drug and prostitution trades, and sought ever more power by dissention and murder. The overlord was named Sun Tai-shu, and the news show flashed on-screen the blurry picture of an elderly Chinese lady with a sweet face.

  “Look at her eyes glowing,” Jacqueline said dreamily. “Glowing blue with evil.”

  Samuel walked in from the kitchen in time to hear her. He looked at the TV. “I don’t see any glowing blue eyes,” he declared.

  “Jacqueline’s having a vision, Samuel,” Isabelle said.

  “I know.” Walking over, he turned off the TV.

  Jacqueline blinked and looked around.

  Samuel faced them. “We’ve saved the world once, and now it’s up to the current Chosen Ones. They have McKenna to direct them. We still have our gifts. If they need us, they know they can call us. But they haven’t, and they wouldn’t thank us for interfering. And according to tradition, there can be only seven. So let’s let them do their jobs, and we’ll love one another, raise our children, and live in peace.”

  For a long moment, it was very quiet.

  Then Charisma said, “I say this so seldom, but . . . Samuel’s right.”

  Everyone nodded.

  “What?” Samuel cupped his ear. “I can’t hear you!”

  He got a chorus of “You’re right.” “You’re right.” “You’re right.” “You’re right.” “You’re right.”

  And one, “We’re having a baby.”

  “What?” Samuel shook his head and stared at Isabelle. “I know we’re having a baby.”

  “No. I mean”—she pushed herself out of the chair—“we’re having a baby now.”

  “You can’t.” Samuel clutched his forehead. “You promised that if we came to the Wilder Fourth of July picnic, you wouldn’t have little Tasya until after we got home.”

  “I lied.”

  Samuel turned to Aleksandr. “Where’s the nearest hospital?”

  “No time for a hospital,” Isabelle said more emphatically. “We’re having this baby now.”

  “Oh, no,” Genny whispered.

  From her easy chair, Charisma immediately began to direct operations. “Samuel, help Isabelle to bed. Aleksandr, call your mother and your grandmother and have them come over.”

  Aleksandr pulled out his cell phone and stepped onto the porch.

  From inside, he could hear Charisma ordering everyone around. “Aaron, Dr. Bloom’s number is in the kitchen by the house phone. Give her a call and tell her what’s going on. John, can you herd the kids over to the main house? Aleksandr has plenty of relatives to care for them. Genny and Jacqueline, there are towels in the linen closet by the bathroom. Get them all. Caleb, I know it’s a cliché, but we’re going to need boiling water.”

  When Aleksandr stepped back inside, the guests had scattered to do their duties, and Charisma sat in the living room, alone, burping the baby.

  “Mom and Grandma are on their way.” He grinned. “I could hear Grandpa shouting in the background. After what happened to Grandma when she had Firebird, he gets excited about a birth.”

  Charisma laughed, and lifted her head for his kiss.

  “You’re a superwoman,” Aleksandr murmured. “You arranged that like a general, and all while nursing Emma.”

  “I had it planned out. I suspected this was coming.”

  He took the baby so Charisma could adjust her bra and shirt. “Are you our new seer?”

  “Isabelle had that abstracted look, like she was looking inward.” Charisma touched the stones at her wrist. “And she kept pausing when she walked.”

  “The stuff you women know,” he marveled.

  “Just using my powers of observation.” Charisma waved an airy hand. “I gave you the look when I came in. Didn’t you get it?”

  “Oh. Is that what the look was for?” It was always good to have a woman explain woman stuff. “No, it never occurred to me we’d be delivering a baby today.”

  “Babies,” Charisma said. “Keep an eye on Genny. I think she’s in the early stages of labor, too.”

  “I had no idea labor was contagious.” Against his ear, Emma burped so loudly, Aleksandr shook his head to clear it.

  “You guys so constantly exclaim about how we get pregnant at the same time. Surely it can’t be a surprise when the babies arrive at the same time.”

  “You’re right. Of course.”

  “Of course.” She leaned her head against his chest and looked into their baby’s face. “Someday, maybe all of us Chosen Ones will have sons together.”

  “I like girls.” And he loved Charisma so much. Charisma, his wife: rebel, wild child, genius, lover. With her enthusiasm, courage, and determination, she had saved his life, his sanity, and his soul. Now Aleksandr knelt at her feet. “I’ve been thinking.”

  “Always dangerous.”

  “I love it up here in the mountains.”

  “Me, too.”

  “And with the success of my game, Killing Demons for Fun, our company has a lot of money.”

  Charisma was smug. “I know.” Leaning close, she took his collar. “Admit it. Marketing it to the public was a great idea.”

  “It was a great idea,” he repeated. “How often do I have to say it?”

  “Once a day, at least.” Before he could speak, she waggled her finger. “And no, you can’t say it seven times on Monday and have that be for the whole week. I want you to remember it every day.”

  “I was thinking,” he began again. “We love it up here in the mountains, and with the amount of cash we’ve got coming in, what if we bought the property next door?”

  “Okay.”

  “I checked it out. It’s seven acres of mostly forest, with a crummy little house and a great view. We could live there while we build a nicer home for us and the girls, and whatever little boys you want to bless me with.”

  “Okay.”

  “Work’s not a problem. We can set up anywhere, and I know our little town of Blythe would be happy to get a business to stimulate the economy.”

  “Okay.”

  “Grandpa and Grandma are getting older. We could keep an eye on them. . . . Why are you smiling at me?”

  “Okay.” She kissed him. “Okay.” She kissed him again. “Okay. I would love to buy the place next door. I would love to be close to your family. And as long as you’re with me, I am happy to call anywhere home. Okay?”

  He kissed her eagerly, lingeringly. “Okay.”

  Find out where Aleksandr came from!

  Read the whole story about the Wilders

  and their pact with the devil

  in the boo
k that launched

  Christina Dodd’s Darkness Chosen series,

  SCENT OF DARKNESS

  Available now from Signet.

  Continue reading for a special preview!

  The Beginning

  For centuries, the word Cossack struck terror in the hearts of the peoples of central Asia, and the family Varinski was the embodiment of merciless conquerors who murder, maim, and rape. Even today, the Varinskis reside on the steppes of Russia, known for their scouting abilities, proving themselves again and again able to discover their enemies’ weaknesses. They leave a trail of blood, fire, and death wherever they go. Terrible rumors swirl around them, rumors that say Konstantine Varinski, the founder of the Varinski tribe, made a deal with the devil—and, in fact, that is exactly right.

  A thousand years ago, Konstantine Varinski, a magnificent warrior of great cruelty, a man driven by his craving for power, roamed the steppes. In return for the ability to hunt down his enemies and kill them, he promised his soul to the devil. To seal the pact, he promised the devil the family icon, four images of the Madonna painted on a porcelain tile and fired to brilliance.

  To obtain the holy piece, the heart of his home, he killed his own mother . . . and damned his soul.

  Before she died, she pulled him close and spoke in his ear.

  Konstantine paid no heed to her prophecy. She was, after all, only a woman. He didn’t believe her dying words had the power to change the future—and more important, he would do nothing to jeopardize his pact with the Evil One.

  But although Konstantine did not confess the prophecy his mother had made, Satan knew that Konstantine was a liar and a trickster. He suspected Konstantine’s deception, and he comprehended the power of blood and kin and a mother’s dying words. So to ensure that he forever would retain the Varinskis and their services, he secretly cut a small piece from the center of the icon and gave it to a poor tribe of wanderers, promising it would bring them luck.

  Then, while Konstantine drank to celebrate the deal, the devil divided the Madonnas in a flash of fire and hurled them to the four ends of the earth.

  To Varinski and to each Varinski since, the devil bequeathed the ability to change at will into a hunting animal. They could not be killed in battle except by another demon, and each man was unusually long-lived, remaining hale and hearty well into old age. Because of their battle prowess, their endurance, and their decisiveness, they became rich, respected, and feared in Russia.

  Through czars, Bolsheviks, and even presidents, they retained their warrior compound, went where they were paid to go, and with flawless ferocity, crushed uprisings and demanded obedience.

  They called themselves the Immortals.

  They could breed only sons, a matter of much exultation to them. They took their women cruelly, and in their sprawling home they had a turnstile equipped with a bell. There the women who had been impregnated by the Varinskis’ careless mating placed their newborn sons. They rang the bell and fled, leaving the child to be taken by the Varinski men into their home. There the men would hail the birth of a new demon and raise the child to be a ruthless warrior worthy of the name Varinski.

  For no Varinski ever fell in love. . . .

  Until one did.

  No Varinski ever married. . . .

  Until one did.

  No Varinski ever fled the compound and their way of life. . . .

  Until one did.

  For the first time, cracks appeared in the solid foundation of the deal with the devil.

  Heaven took note.

  So did Hell.

  One Thousand Years Later, in Another Land

  The storm broke.

  How appropriate.

  Ann had broken into her boss’s house on the wild Washington coast. She’d showered, she’d donned her slinkiest gown, and now, at last, she was going to seduce Jasha Wilder—if he managed to make his way home through this unpredictable tempest that trapped her here.

  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 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.

  A gunshot.

  Running to the second-story window, she separated the curtains and peeked out.

  Billows of storm clouds diffused the late-afternoon sunshine. Wind blew the rain sideways. Lightning flickered across the branches of the cedars and pines, casting them in bleak colors of black and white. She could see the shiny, wet roof of her car, but there was no sign of anyone on the driveway or in the yard, no glint of a gun or sign of movement in the forest that stretched for miles in every direction. Uneasily, she opened the bedroom door.

  Someone was moving around below. Someone—or something.

  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 like 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 growling. Panting. Those weren’t human sounds.

  Did Jasha have a dog?

  She peeked over the rail.

  Yes—a dog stood facing the fire. It was tall at the shoulders, long and gaunt, yet it easily weighed a hundred and fifty pounds, with a black and silver coat that gleamed with red and gold in the flames. It was growling, a constant low 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 his head, and his pointed snout and white-fanged snarl sent her scurrying back against the wall.

  A wolf. A wolf stood before the fire.

  Her heart pounded so hard that it 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 sides of his head.

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

  Oh, yes. She was definitely nuts.

  Drawn by the same fascination that always plagued her in Jasha’s presence, she walked toward the top of the stairs. Shock ripped away her ability to plan. Her mind was empty of anything but wonder, but she never took her gaze off the wolf, and she walked carefully, making no sound on the hardwood.

  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 hi
s head and became hair.

  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 she didn’t dare shut her eyes against the sight, to take a deep breath and give herself a stern warning about the dangers she faced.

  But she didn’t dare shut her eyes—as she inched down each step, she stared at the thing before the fire. And she certainly didn’t dare take a deep breath. She couldn’t risk any sound.

  The transition was happening slowly, and once or twice, it—he groaned as if the growth and change of his bones 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 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’d finally worked up the nerve to chase her dream, only to find that 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. 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.

  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 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 . . .

  She’d had this nightmare a million times, the nightmare of hiding from some supernatural creature who would hunt her, chase her, kill her.

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