The first human leaped up and ran.
Stranger stood still, looked at Leader, and spoke.
Leader didn’t understand human-speak, but he understood this man. He recognized this man—he stood naked, with dark hair on his head, and dark brows, long, dark, curly lashes that framed familiar golden eyes, and a tattoo that rippled down one arm from his shoulder to his wrist that matched the marks on Stranger’s fur.
‘‘Are you all right?’’ Stranger asked.
Leader looked down. Blood dripped off his chest. His flesh burned like fire. His alpha female licked it, and Leader knew he would survive.
He inclined his head.
‘‘He won’t bother you again.’’ The human changed again. More slowly this time, as if the effort cost him. But when he was done, he was a wolf. A wolf wrong. A wolf damned. But a wolf.
Then he sprinted after the human.
Leader took his pack deep into the forest, and hid. Hid from the humans, from Stranger, and from the scent he now recognized.
The scent of damnation.
The storm broke.
How appropriate.
Ann had broken into Jasha’s home. Of course, now an unpredicted storm would trap her here. It was no more than she deserved.
She made it up the stairs and into the bedroom without tripping or dropping anything, and as she unpacked and hung her clothes in the closet, she gave herself brownie points for coordination, for good unpacking skills, for not burying her nose in Jasha’s suit and breathing in his scent. . . . Nope, she had to take those points away. Sniffing his sleeve while she hung up her coat constituted cheating.
As she worked, she kept straining, listening, waiting for that whisper of awareness that said Jasha had returned to his home. Nothing. She even walked back to the top of the stairs, but he wasn’t here.
Her active imagination created the scenario—he’d gone for a walk in the woods, tripped, and broken his leg. Or better yet, he’d been attacked by a cougar, had fought it off, and was even now calling for her.
And she . . . she sensed his distress and hunted through the night until she found him, cleaned and bandaged his wounds, built a stretcher out of saplings, dragged him back to the house, and nursed him. . . . Unfortunately, she couldn’t convince even herself of that story.
Not that Jasha couldn’t get hurt. He was a daredevil—he rappelled, he skydived, he participated in the Ironman Triathlon once, but the training took too much time from his surfing. He’d been in a cast for three weeks after that ski accident last winter.
She was the problem. Wounds made her faint, and anyway, why wouldn’t she use her cell to call for help?
Immediately, in her imagination, she found herself garbed like Scarlett O’Hara—but there was still that yucky blood problem.
Nope. If Jasha knew what was good for him, he’d stay healthy.
One thing she knew for sure—if he was healthy, he’d be here for dinner—Jasha never missed a meal. And if she hurried, she could shower and be dressed in her wraparound black-and-white silk dress, the one that fastened with a single button at the Empire waist.
Her friend Celia had called it the perfect dress for getting laid.
Ann tended to agree, for every time she took a step, the slit in the skirt opened all the way up her thigh, and when she thought about Jasha’s tanned hand sliding up her leg, her skin prickled. But, as Celia was fond of pointing out, only the Carmelite nuns who lived near the beach kept Ann from being the oldest virgin in California, and something had to be done.
In a sudden and violent hurry, Ann grabbed the dress, a pair of panties so minuscule they were nothing but lace and elastic, and black stiletto Betsey Johnson sandals with a hard wooden sole that added an inch to her height, and sprinted into the bathroom.
The rich copper tile shower enclosure welcomed her. She set the land-speed record for bathing with Jasha’s shampoo and Jasha’s soap—made especially for him, and unscented, as he demanded. As soon as she was done, she ran to the locked door and listened, then cracked it and listened again.
Nothing. No sound. He wasn’t here yet.
Her heart raced as she toweled herself dry.
It used to embarrass her, the way she longed and lusted when he was nearby. She used to worry that he would notice the way she stammered when he got too close or the way she blushed every time he looked at her.
But he didn’t. To Jasha, she was a highly efficient method of filing papers, producing correspondence, and making phone calls. When he was gone, he left Wilder Wines in her hands, and when his executives complained, he stared at them blankly and said, ‘‘But Ann does a better job than you.’’
Of course she did. She had something to prove.
She had everything to prove—but she’d been afraid to live, until six months ago when she’d been blindsided by a blow that woke her to the fact that Jasha didn’t even know the two basic facts about her.
She was alive. And she was a woman.
Yet she knew everything about him, including that he liked good-looking confident women. So she set out to remake herself.
And she had.
She blew her hair into a shining, slippery mass of strands, and put on makeup—not too much, because she still wasn’t particularly skillful, but enough blush to conceal her blanched skin and enough mascara to turn her lashes dark and her eyes bluer.
But if she was going to get naked with a man, she had one more matter to care for. . . .
She twisted so her back was to the mirror, and frowned at her distinctive birthmark. Over the years, it hadn’t faded. She’d thought about having it removed, but the idea of showing it to a doctor who would ask questions, be incredulous, maybe see more than Ann wanted . . . she couldn’t explain that mark. Because how did one explain the impossible?
Swiftly, she used her makeup sponge to dab a splash of foundation over it. Last of all, she donned the panties, the dress, and the shoes.
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 to 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.
She knew that sound. She’d grown up in downtown LA.
A gunshot.
Running to the window, she crouched low and off to the side. Warily she separated the curtains and peeked out.
The window faced the front of the house. Late-afternoon sunshine was diffused by billows of storm clouds. Wind blew the rain sideways. Lightning flickered across the branches of the cedars and pines, Douglas firs and rhododendrons, casting them in bleak shades of black-and-white.
She could see the shiny-wet roof of her car, but no one on the driveway or in the yard, no glint of a gun or sign of movement under the encroaching forest.
Yet this was the wilderness. Maybe someone was out there hunting.
She let the curtains fall—and heard a high, distant scream, then another shot. She leaped back from the window and knelt on the floor.
For long minutes, she heard nothing.
Finally, she looked out again, and stared hard at the ground beneath the thrashing trees.
Gunfire, and an inhuman scream. Weren’t panthers supposed to scream? Had someone shot a panther?
Were there panthers in Washington?
Her impression about Jasha’s bleak, ominous castle changed—she was nestled inside, safe from the elements, from the beasts, from a madman with a gun. Maybe that was why Jasha loved this place; once inside, he could let down the guard she sensed he kept around him.
Uneasily, she opened the bedroom door.
Someone was moving around downstairs. Someone— or something.
She heard a soft snuffling interrupted by repeated growls.
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 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 snarling. Panting.
Did Jasha have a dog?
She peeked over the rail.
Yes—a dog stood facing the flickering fire. It was tall at the shoulders, long, and gaunt, yet it easily weighed 150 pounds, with a black and silver coat that gleamed with red and gold in the flames. It was growling, a distinct, constant, bass 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 its head, and its pointed snout, its scarred cheek, and its white-fanged snarl sent her scurrying back against the wall.
A wolf. A wolf stood before the fire.
Her heart pounded so hard the sound 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 side of his head.
The wolf had begun to . . . had begun to resemble a man.
The man had begun to resemble Jasha.
Chapter 4
Oh, yes. Ann was definitely nuts. The stress of coming up here to confront Jasha had caused her hold on reality to snap.
Now shock ripped away her good sense. Without making a sound on the hardwood, and drawn by the same fascination that always plagued her in Jasha’s presence, she walked toward the top of the stairs.
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 his head and became Jasha’s black, black hair with a premature streak of silver on each side. His skin absorbed the fur, and she saw his right arm, and its distinctive tattoo. . . . She broke into a light sweat.
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 as she inched down each step, she couldn’t risk shutting her eyes, and she certainly didn’t dare take a deep breath.
Don’t stumble, Ann.
Don’t make a sound, Ann.
The transition was happening slowly, and once or twice, it—he—groaned as if the growth and change 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 one of 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 brought the bad people. She always brought the bad people.
But Jasha wasn’t bad. He couldn’t be. She couldn’t stand that.
Yet . . . yet here she was. She’d finally worked up the nerve to chase her dreams only to find 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.
He hadn’t noticed her yet.
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.
He hadn’t noticed her yet.
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 go back to her apartment, grab Kresley, and 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 . . .
And just like in her nightmares, the thing in the great room lifted its head and sniffed. Its head turned slowly in her direction. It looked at her.
Almost human. That thing was almost human. Except that deep in its golden eyes, a red glow burned. ‘‘Ann.’’ Its deep voice sounded rough, as if it had a cold. It looked human again.
It looked like Jasha, the man she loved.
Her gaze fixed on the small, dark red smear at the corner of his mouth.
Blood.
He walked toward her. Naked. He was as glorious naked as she had always dreamed, and now she didn’t dare take the time to check and see if the rumors were true.
Because he had blood on his face.
Blood.
‘‘You little fool,’’ he said, ‘‘what are you doing here?’’
She screamed and with all her might, she flung first one heavy-soled shoe, then the other.
He dodged the first one. The second caught him squarely in the chest. The stiletto heel smacked his breastbone. She heard him grunt. Saw him stagger back, and blood spurt.
She ran. Ran so hard she skidded into the door. She grabbed the keys. Her sweaty palms slid on the doorknob.
Any second now and he’d have her.
The heavy door swung toward her. The wind swept through the door, taking her breath. She ran onto the porch.
Behind her, she heard a growl. In terror, she glanced back—and saw it.
The transformation was reversing.
Inexorably, Jasha was becoming the wolf once more.
Fangs . . . and claws . . . and an intelligent, vengeful, red-rimmed gaze fixed on her.
Using every ounce of courage she possessed, she ran back, grabbed the door, and slammed it shut.
Let Mr. Wolf Man claw his way through that.
As she sprinted toward the car, she sorted through the keys. The windblown rain slapped her in the face, clearing her brain. . . . What good did a clear brain do her?
Everything she believed in—everything she knew as true—was vanquished by the reality of that thing in the house.
Jasha.
The Miata’s lights flashed as she unlocked the door with the remote. She slid into the seat and scraped her knee on the steering column. She knew it must hurt. She just couldn’t feel it. Not now. Not yet. She didn’t have time.
She slammed the door. Glanced at the house. Tried to get the key in the ignition. Tried again.
Her hand was shaking too hard to make the connection.
She glanced at the house again—and saw the wolf leap through the sidelight beside the front door. The glorious, expensive, leaded glass sprayed outward as his sleek body arched through, head outstretched, teeth bared.
Magically, her hand steadied and the key sli
d into the ignition. She started the car; she’d never heard a sound as wonderful as that of her engine turning over.
She put her foot to the floor. The car leaped forward and she whipped around the circle drive with the verve and expertise of a driver in the Grand Prix.
Rain sluiced down the windshield. She fumbled with the wipers, got them on . . . in the intermittent mode. As the wipers slid unhurriedly across the windshield, she cursed the new car, the unfamiliar controls, the desire that had brought her here.
She should have known better. She was an orphan, abandoned and alone, marked by evil, rejected by the Almighty. Sister Mary Magdalene had urged her to accept her fate and live her life alone, but Ann had rebelled.
Now she swore she’d thank God if she lived at all—especially since she hadn’t even put on her seat belt.
Then she glanced into the rearview mirror.
The wolf raced across the grass after the car.
To hell with the seat belt.
He couldn’t catch her. She knew it was impossible. Wolves couldn’t move as fast as a car.
But men didn’t turn into wolves, either. Maybe Jasha was a freaking Transformer. Maybe he was going to turn into a giant mechanized robot and stomp on her and her car.
She bent her attention to the road, driving faster than she had ever driven in her life.
The wind buffeted the tiny Miata. Lightning flashed and thunder cracked. Her hair dripped into her eyes. Her hands slipped on the steering wheel, from the rain, from fear-induced sweat. She squinted through the blurry windshield, taking the winding curves too fast, seeing the ocean cliffs flash past as she cleared the forest, then, as she turned inland again, the trees loom above her. Soon she would skirt the cliffs again. She needed to concentrate, to remember the route she’d driven only once. . . .
And without warning, the road rose, then dipped, then rose. The car was airborne. She was airborne. With a jaw-snapping impact, the wheels hit the asphalt. The air bag exploded in her face, smothering her in white for one vital moment.
As it subsided, she desperately clawed it out of the way. Then she could see. The car was headed straight—but the road curved. Curved to the left, and ahead she saw nothing but rain and clouds and the edge of the cliff.
Scent of Darkness Page 4