Scent of Darkness

by Christina Dodd

  Behind her, she heard a snap as Max shut the front door, and a snick as he turned the lock.

  Ann froze. Now she knew why Kresley was growling.

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

  And this time, she truly had brought him.

  She had let him in.

  Chapter 35

  Ann turned.

  Max grinned.

  She’d seen that grin before, in the woods when the other Varinski prepared to attack. But unlike before, she had no knife strapped to her leg, and no icon to protect her soul.

  Her heart leaped into a gallop. Sweat trickled down her spine. And the cell phone stopped ringing.

  Jasha probably thought she didn’t want to talk to him. She’d told him she didn’t want to talk to him.

  What had she been thinking?

  She was alone, with nothing and no one to depend on but herself.

  Max started toward her, his bare feet making no sound on her hardwood floor.

  The phone started ringing again.

  She bolted into the bathroom. She tossed Kresley at his cat box. She slammed the door, turned the lock—the stupid little lock that wouldn’t keep out a flea. All Max had to do was stick a screwdriver in the little hole and—

  He kicked it open.

  The door slammed back against the wall, ripping the lock through the trim.

  He filled the doorway, still grinning, still stinking, savoring each moment before the kill. He took one step in, then another, the sound of his laughter singing the melody of her death.

  She grabbed the towel rack. With the strength of fear, she wrenched it off the wall. She swung it at his head.

  He caught it in one hand.

  She kicked him in the nuts.

  He doubled over. His grin disappeared.

  He wasn’t having quite so much fun anymore.

  He grabbed so quickly she didn’t see his hands move, yet suddenly they were around her neck, and she couldn’t breathe. She tore at him with her nails.

  He didn’t flinch.

  She could see his handsome face, and he was grinning again. Distantly, she could hear the racket of glass hitting the floor. Then she could hear nothing but the sound of her heart frantically trying to beat. She could see nothing but explosions of red and a fog of black.

  Suddenly she was free. She slammed against the wall, gasping for air, holding her throat.

  Max staggered backward, her cat attached to his head. She saw Kresley’s claws swipe, and swipe again, ripping Max’s face.

  Max swore, a vicious stream of Russian profanity. He grabbed the cat, tore free, and flung it as hard as he could against the wall.

  Kresley hit, fell to the ground, and lay unmoving.

  Max had killed her cat.

  Time stopped.

  The earth shifted.

  Ann took a long breath, and as air filled her lungs, scalding fury filled her being.

  Max started toward her, bleeding from deep scratches across his forehead, his nose, his lips. ‘‘You’re going to pay for this. . . .’’

  Incandescent with rage, she leaped to meet him. She slashed at his chest.

  ... And he staggered backward, stumbled, fell into the empty living room with a thud that shook the building.

  Time started again.

  The earth settled on its axis.

  He sprawled on the floor. He groped at his chest. Four long slashes ripped his uniform, and blood oozed sullenly from the cuts.

  She lifted her right hand before her face and caught a glimpse of the long, sharp, wolflike claws.

  They vanished even as she stared.

  He saw them, too, and a low rumble started in his chest. Slowly he came to his feet and stood, shoulders hunched, head outstretched, and his eyes . . . his eyes glowed bloody red. In the guttural tone of a speaking beast, he said, ‘‘Abomination! No woman may take part in the pact. I’m going to kill you. Abomination!’’

  He started for her.

  And Jasha—the wolf Jasha—leaped through the open sliding glass door and into the room.

  In a single smooth move, Max tore off his coveralls and became a wolf, large, pale, broad-shouldered, with a sharp-fanged grin.

  Ann flung herself backward, out of the way, as the two beasts clashed. Fur flew as they ripped at each other, tearing at each other with tooth and claw.

  She couldn’t stand to watch, but she couldn’t stand to look away. She scooted backward, toward Kresley’s still body. She touched the still-warm cat, sinking her fingers into his fur. Her throat swelled from Max’s throttling, and her heart thumped so hard she wanted to faint.

  But she didn’t dare. She needed to keep her gaze on Jasha, always on Jasha, as if she could project her power into him. Because he was fighting for her. Fighting to the death for her.

  The icon was safe. He didn’t need her to be alive for that to be true. So . . .

  Dear God, he meant it. He loved her.

  The two giant wolves rolled and snarled, their white teeth flashing, first one on top, then the other. Sparks snapped off their upraised fur. Scarlet blood spattered the wall, and a metallic odor filled the air.

  They hit the wall hard. The glass in her window shattered. They bounced off.

  She heard a snap and a yelp.

  Then . . . nothing. Not a sound.

  As she slowly stood, transfixed by the horror of two wolves, one dark, one light, lying unconscious on her floor, while dual transformations took place.

  The big blond wolf became Max, naked, bloody, his head skewed at an odd angle.

  And Jasha . . . she dropped to her knees beside him. He’d taken a horrible beating. He had bruises and gashes all over his legs and arms, and his chest reminded her of his father’s—it looked as if Max had tried to take out his heart.

  She pressed her fingers to the artery in Jasha’s neck, then dipped her head in thankfulness.

  He still lived.

  In a flurry, she leaned over Max and checked for signs of life.

  He was dead, his neck broken.

  Good.

  Jasha’s clothes. Where were Jasha’s clothes?

  She ran onto her balcony.

  There, flung on the ground below—his pants, his shirt, his shoes.

  ‘‘Dear, are you all right?’’ Mrs. Edges stood below, looking up. ‘‘When I saw your young man flinging his clothes off, I was pleased for you, but once he leaped up there, the thumping was so loud, I called the police because I was afraid he was killing you.’’

  ‘‘No, he was killing a guy who was trying to kill me.’’ She thought about Max. When the police showed up, she could explain one naked man, but not two. ‘‘And rape me.’’

  Mrs. Edges pressed her hand over her heart. ‘‘Look at the bruises on your neck! Are you all right?’’

  ‘‘Jasha saved me.’’ Again. Jasha had saved her again. ‘‘Would you toss me Jasha’s clothes, please?’’

  ‘‘Of course, dear.’’

  Ann leaned over to catch the rolled-up bundle of his pants, shirt, and underwear.

  Then Mrs. Edges said, ‘‘Stand back!’’ and his shoes came flying over the rail.

  ‘‘Thank you, Mrs. Edges.’’ Ann hurried inside.

  ‘‘No, thank you,’’ Mrs. Edges called. ‘‘It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a young man like yours, at least not in the flesh.’’

  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 fiancée.’’

  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 animallike 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.

  Look for book two in the Dar
kness Chosen series from New York Times bestselling 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 . . .

  Turn the page for a 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.