Scent of Darkness

by Christina Dodd

  But that kiss was anything but businesslike. It was . . . possessive. She should be glad he cared about where they made love instead of simply using her to satisfy his base desires.

  She wasn’t.

  But she was worried about him. ‘‘What if the hunter goes to the police?’’

  ‘‘And tells them what?’’ Jasha pulled towels out of the cupboard and laid them on the counter. ‘‘That he shot at a wolf who turned into a man and broke his gun, then turned back into a wolf and chased him, bit him, then turned back into a man who gave him hell and put him in his car?’’

  ‘‘You bit him? But that’s evidence against you.’’ She couldn’t believe they were holding this conversation.

  ‘‘No dentist holds the records for my wolf state.’’

  ‘‘No, I . . . I suppose not.’’ She was so relieved. And confused. And . . . horny. ‘‘So you can change back and forth as much as you like?’’

  ‘‘Yes, but the more times I turn right in a row, the slower I get. It takes a lot of energy.’’ He leaned against the tile counter as if it had been a long day with too much turning, and maybe too long a trip back to the house packing someone as tall as she was.

  ‘‘And while you’re a wolf, you do know what you’re doing. You’re not out of your mind?’’

  ‘‘Actually, in my opinion, dumb beasts aren’t nearly as dumb as we would like to think.’’

  Eagerly she pursued her line of questioning. ‘‘You’re not controlled by anything like the moon or your moods?’’

  ‘‘That business with the moon is bull. But then, I’m not a werewolf. I’m a—’’ He hesitated.

  ‘‘What are you?’’

  He avoided looking at her while he answered. ‘‘I’m like any guy, except I can change into a wolf if I want. Especially if I lose my temper, which I shouldn’t have. Not with you. Now, a quick shower here’’—Jasha popped the glass door open—‘‘a long soak in the hot tub upstairs, then bed for you. You’re tired.’’ He turned on the water. ‘‘I need to make sure the house is secure. Cover that broken window by the front door. Check on a few things. Can you take care of yourself?’’

  She strangled the impulse to claim helplessness. ‘‘Of course I can.’’

  ‘‘Of course you can. You’re indomitable.’’ He pressed his hand to her cheek, held her still, and kissed her hard on the mouth. ‘‘Bathrobe’s on the hook,’’ he said, and left.

  In a sudden hurry, she placed the icon on the counter, stripped off her clothes, and stepped into the shower. Mud ran down the drain in brown streams, and as she scrubbed herself, she moaned with pleasure at the sensation of ever-increasing cleanliness. She had never been the kind of child to play in the dirt; she’d kept her uniform so scrupulously clean the other kids in school, the ones with parents, had loved to throw grass clods at her.

  One of the younger nuns, Sister Catherine, had gently tried to get her to really play at recess, to get down in the sand and make roads, or roll in the grass, or swing to the top of the swings and jump out. Ann had tried, but her heart wasn’t in it.

  Sister Catherine had cajoled her into trying finger paints, then chuckled when Ann grimaced at the mess.

  And one evening, when all the other children were gone home or busy with homework, Sister Catherine had swung on the tall swings with Ann. She urged her higher into the air, laughing breathlessly, not like a nun at all, but like an angel about to take flight, and for those few minutes, Ann left her burdens behind and shrieked with answering laughter.

  Now Ann found herself standing, her hand pressed on her lower back, staring into space.

  The joy had been short-lived.

  She brought the bad people. She always brought the bad people.

  The lesson had been learned, and learned through blood and anguish. Never again had Ann been so carefree, for when she played, the ghost of Sister Catherine played alongside her.

  Jasha thought she’d never been a child.

  She had been. A fearfully responsible child, but a child nonetheless. Ann never did anything that wasn’t the right thing to do.

  Until now.

  She leaned her head against the steamy tile and closed her eyes.

  One time. Just one time she did something wild and wicked, and look at the damned mess she’d got herself into.

  Yet Sister Mary Magdalene would tell her there was no use crying over spilled milk. What was done, was done, and Ann had to deal with the consequences.

  Ann stepped out, dried, and wrapped herself in his robe.

  Picking up the icon, she washed it free of mud and examined it.

  It was beautiful. Perfect. A miracle.

  There was nothing here to burn Jasha, yet she’d seen his flesh sizzle.

  She’d been raised by nuns. She knew very well what such a portent meant.

  Somehow, sometime, he had displeased God, and now he was cursed.

  A single tear brimmed over and landed on the Madonna’s face, and Ann wiped it off.

  She didn’t understand. He was so normal. More handsome than most men, but not supernaturally so. He had a gift with women, but apparently not a supernatural gift—his fiancée had left him with many a scathing comment about his intensity. He was a brilliant businessman, but only because he worked long hours and knew how to pick his employees, not because his rivals dropped dead of mysterious wolf attacks.

  Yet when she’d asked him what he was, he evaded an answer.

  Was he cursed?

  And if he was, what did that make her? She’d yielded. More than that, when it mattered most, she’d actively and energetically participated.

  Worse, she wasn’t running away now.

  She slid the icon into the robe’s pocket.

  She was going up to the master bedroom to soak in the hot tub.

  Then she was going to snuggle in Jasha’s bed.

  And for that, she believed she would eventually go to hell.

  So she might as well make this a night to celebrate.

  Chapter 9

  Jasha stood absolutely still in the middle of his great room and allowed his animal senses to roam.

  First and foremost, he could smell the passing storm, the spice of pine, and the richness of growth. Those odors came sweeping in through the broken window and permeated the whole house.

  Within this room, he could smell the odor of the wolf pack; earlier, he’d carried it in with him. The feminine fragrance of Ann’s body always lingered in his house; it was a pleasant undertone on every sheet of paper he brought from the office, on the briefcase she packed for him, and on the laptop she used. Yet now her scent was overlaid by her horror at seeing him change; it was that odor that had first spoken to his wolf senses and pointed him to her.

  But no one else had been in here. At least—no one human.

  He listened, extending the range of his hearing in increments. In the utility room, he heard Ann shut off the shower. He heard the hum of the water heater in the basement. Outside, he heard the brush rustle as the wolf pack circled the house.

  All else was quiet.

  He looked around his great room. He saw the magazines on the coffee table ruffled open by the wind through the broken window. He saw the paw prints he’d left on the hardwood floor, the shoes Ann had thrown at him, the drop of blood from his chest.

  The woman had a good eye and a good arm.

  He touched the burn on his cheek.

  A very good arm.

  Ann was the only intruder in this house today.

  But they were coming.

  His mother had had a vision. She’d been, not unconscious, but speaking words . . . not her own. Or maybe she’d been spouting her own premonitions. Or maybe she’d cursed them all. Hell, he didn’t know. He’d never seen her do that before. He hadn’t known she had the gift, if it could be called a gift.

  The blind can see, and the sons of Oleg Varinski have found us.

  The Wilder family files were intact. His house was secure. Nothing had changed
.

  But . . . everything had changed. Everything.

  You can never be safe, for they will do anything to destroy you and keep the pact intact.

  The pact. He knew about the pact. How could he not? On that day when he had turned, his father had sat him down and explained it all. But to a thirteen-year-old boy who’d just discovered he could change himself into a beast of prey, who had just developed the coolest tattoo ever, who had a mustache made of five hairs on either side of his lip, the pact had meant nothing.

  A thousand years ago? The Family Varinski? The most dreaded name in Russia? A deal with the devil?

  Yeah, Papa. Sure. Cool. Now I can stay out all night, because if I can do this, I don’t have to go to school anymore.

  He and Konstantine had had a loud, heated difference of opinion.

  He’d gone to school the next morning. As long as he lived under his father’s roof, never once had he skipped school, and only once had he stayed out all night long—and Konstantine had made him very, very sorry.

  Because his father had been from the Old Country, from Russia, and his sons obeyed him, feared him . . . and loved him.

  And you, my love. You are dying.

  His mother had presented his father with a death sentence.

  Jasha walked to the answering machine, its red light blinking fiercely, and listened to Firebird’s voice say, ‘‘Papa is off the respirator and doing as well as can be expected. The doctors still don’t know what’s wrong, but they definitely agree it’s his heart. It’s, um, a rare condition. They don’t, um, agree about it.’’ Firebird’s voice shook. ‘‘I overheard one of the nurses say it was a mystery and we’d be better off taking him to a witch doctor.’’

  ‘‘Of course,’’ Jasha muttered, and deleted the message.

  Zorana loved Konstantine. Jasha knew that as well as he knew the stars rotated around the North Star. But three nights ago, on July fourth, due north had moved, and his mother had said things, horrible things. Jasha would never forget the sight of his mother’s finger pointing at his father, cursing him with death and eternal damnation.

  Her curse had been powerful—and instantaneous.

  His father had stared at Zorana. His eyes had filled with tears. And she sprang toward him as he collapsed.

  What had she imagined she could do, his miniature mother holding up his ox of a father? But she grabbed him, went down with him, stayed at his side when the fire truck from the county volunteer fire department showed up to take him to the local hospital, then on to Seattle and Swedish Hospital.

  Jasha walked to the full-length windows and looked out at the view—at the cliffs along the wild coastline and the ocean, roiling with another incoming storm.

  As soon as the doctors had declared that Konstantine was stable, Jasha had assumed the duties of head of the family. He had left Zorana, Firebird, and Rurik huddled around Konstantine’s bed, and come here to check that the family’s secrets—their assets, their immigration papers, their private information—were still locked in the vault downstairs.

  Everything was there, hidden in his wilderness home guarded by the best security system money could buy.

  The security system Ann had turned off and left off.

  Had she done it on purpose? Had the Varinskis paid her to come here and betray him? Or, more likely, threatened her if she didn’t?

  ‘‘Hi, there.’’ She stood in the arched doorway. His big, white, terry robe swamped her, and she held the lapels close to her chest. She’d pushed her damp hair back from her pale, bruised face. Red scratches etched her shapely legs, and her blue eyes were wary. But she smiled timidly with that kind of worshipful expression she wore around the office when she thought he didn’t notice. ‘‘Is everything okay?’’

  ‘‘So far.’’

  ‘‘Is there anything I can do?’’

  She would never betray him. Not without any sign of discomfort. If he was going to say a certain thing existed in this world, it was that Ann Smith was honest. Painfully, completely honest.

  Besides, she adored him. He’d known it from the first time she stepped into his office; worship came off her in waves. Her infatuation hadn’t affected her job performance, so it had been unimportant, sort of like a space heater giving off a low-level hum of warmth.

  She limped to the foot of the stairs, so self-conscious, she tripped on the fringe of the rug. She winced, glanced to see if he was watching, then took a visible breath and asked, ‘‘Are you mad at me for coming here? I mean, obviously you weren’t expecting me. . . .’’

  ‘‘Or I wouldn’t have been a wolf, you mean.’’

  ‘‘Yes. That.’’

  He shouldn’t have gone out to run with Leader’s pack, but he’d been reeling with shock and grief, and he’d thought, What difference will it make this one time?

  Now he knew.

  If only he’d caught her scent sooner . . .

  ‘‘You asked me who sent me. And you said I was like the devil, and the illegal hunter, and your mother.’’ Ann straightened and looked into his eyes. ‘‘What did you mean?’’

  ‘‘I was in a rage.’’ Which was no excuse for what he’d done, but it was the only reason he had.

  ‘‘You like your mother. Don’t you?’’ Ann’s face was forlorn with hope, like a child who’d been disappointed in love far too many times.

  Who was she, this woman who had discovered the icon? He didn’t know anything about her early life. It had never been important before. She had never been important before.

  ‘‘I do like my mother. She wasn’t to blame for any of what happened. I don’t know who was to blame.’’ He spoke almost to himself.

  ‘‘Then, are you mad about the Ukrainian deal? If you don’t want to go through with it, Wilder Wines will be fine. We’ll have to postpone our expansion, but not forever. We’ll find another company interested in taking our wines overseas.’’

  ‘‘I know.’’ And if he needed further proof that Ann knew as much as he did about the company, her assurance gave it to him.

  He looked at her. Looked at her hard. Innocent? Yes. Unknowing? Yes.

  But for all that, perhaps a traitor still.

  She shivered under his gaze.

  ‘‘You’re cold. Go up to bed.’’

  ‘‘Are you coming? I mean, to bed? You said you were, but . . . soon?’’ The wariness in her grew.

  What a fascinating woman. She’d discovered his deepest, darkest secret. In a fit of rage and frustration, he’d chased her like prey, caught her, and mated with her without finesse, without a care to the circumstances or to her comfort. Yet while he terrified her, while the sex had been rough and new, nothing scared her like the prospect of being rejected.

  ‘‘I’ll be up as soon as I get some plywood and cover the window.’’ He gestured toward the entry.

  ‘‘Of course. That’s what you’ve got to do.’’ She turned to climb the stairs.

  He’d always felt a responsibility for his young, vulnerable assistant, but it had been the responsibility of an employer for his employee. He wasn’t a man to underestimate the significance of the old symbols.

  Each of my four sons must find one of the Varinski family icons.

  Ann had discovered the icon. Ann had been a virgin. She had bled for him. She had responded to him. She was the key to his family’s survival, and he would do anything to protect her.

  For them. And for himself.

  ‘‘Ann.’’

  She looked back, blue eyes wide.

  ‘‘Nothing could keep me away from you tonight.’’

  Chapter 10

  Ann heard Jasha come into the bedroom and won-dered how every muscle in her previously relaxed body could tense so instantly. She opened one eye and checked to make sure the bubbles—she had used the jets to create a lot of bubbles—still covered her strategic parts. Because even though he had seen everything, and licked it, too, she wasn’t ready to pose naked.

  Lots of bubbles, but just to make sur
e . . . she flicked on the whirlpool jets again.

  He stepped into the doorway. ‘‘So you like my whirlpool?’’

  ‘‘It’s nice.’’ Very nice. She was six feet tall, and when she stretched out as she did now, her toes barely touched the other end. The tub was almost as wide as it was long, with jets all the way around, and the rich caramel color matched the grout in the large copper tile surround. When she looked up at the skylight, she saw the last swirls of cloud wiping the night sky clean, leaving the stars with freshly washed faces.

  Of course, she’d known all this was here, drooled over the remodeling plans, but seeing made it real. Seeing him strolling across the heated tile floor, his gait unhurried and predatory, made the whole strange day real, too.

  Casually, she brought the bubbles toward her.

  The currents pulled them away.

  A little more frantically, she brought them back.

  ‘‘Did you find the ‘Who needs a man?’ setting?’’ He looked down into the tub.

  The bubbles kept escaping. ‘‘The ‘Who needs a man?’ setting? What’s the . . . ?’’ A mental picture formed—her sitting with her legs in the air, getting off in the whirlpool, while he walked in. ‘‘No!’’

  ‘‘You should try it.’’ He knelt beside the tub and stirred the water with his forefinger, and the way he looked . . . ‘‘The saleswoman gave me to understand it’s quite satisfying.’’

  ‘‘The saleswoman said that to you?’’ Ann was shocked at the strange woman’s temerity. Shocked . . . and a little pissed.

  ‘‘I believe she was offering to demonstrate it.’’

  ‘‘What kind of professional behavior is that?’’

  ‘‘That’s why I refused her kind offer.’’ He looked solemn. ‘‘I wanted to wait and see if it works for you.’’

  ‘‘I would never . . . I mean, not in yours . . .’’

  ‘‘But in yours?’’ He chuckled, and shoved the bubbles away so he could see into the water. ‘‘Why not? I loved seeing that expression of ecstasy on your face.’’

  ‘‘You’re not looking at my face.’’ And she didn’t know what to do with her hands. Put them over her breasts? But wouldn’t that look as if she were playing with herself? Over her . . . ? No, that playing-with-herself idea went double there.