Touch of Darkness

by Christina Dodd

  "Good. Still no woo-woo about the booby traps?"

  "Nothing. We're safe."

  "Well." He removed the flashlight from the pocket on his leg. "I'm safe. You're in deep trouble."

  She stopped taking photos and turned on him in exasperation. "You don't have to be obnoxious every chance you get."

  "I'm not being obnoxious. I'm being truthful." He picked his way through the rubble on the floor and around the edge of the wall, and shone the light into the antechamber of the tomb.

  The walls were stone, dense and dark, and his head brushed the stone ceiling. Ancient tools and animal bones cluttered the floor, and before the far wall stood a stone altar. A half-opened stone sarcophagus leaned against it.

  Tasya stepped inside with him. "What's in here?"

  "A mixture of Bronze Age and early medieval artifacts. That confirms my suspicions—the tomb is probably four thousand years old, and Clovus removed the king buried here, and confiscated the burial ground for himself."

  "That guy had no fear, did he?"

  "No fear of the dead, and no respect for the past. I suspect that sarcophagus contains the first occupant of the tomb."

  "I don't like this place." She shrugged uneasily. "Where's Clovus?"

  "The burial chamber is in there." Rurik nodded toward a wall of smooth stones.

  "Yes." She shivered. "I can feel him."

  He knew nothing about her. Nothing. And here was his chance. "What do you feel? How do you know it's him? How long have you been able to tell if a man is evil?"

  He didn't think she would answer, but she took his questions one at a time. "I feel as if I'm being smothered by darkness. I don't know for sure it's Clovus, but who else would it be? And I felt them when I was four, and I've never forgotten the sensation."

  "Them?" She had his complete attention. "Who's them?"

  She paid him no heed, but gradually turned her head toward the entrance and stared intently. She whispered, "Perhaps if s not Clovus I feel Because .. . they're here."

  At the same time, he heard the voices, and it didn't take her warning for him to recognize their accent, their boastful tone, their menace.

  Varinskis. Son of a bitch. Varinskis. His cousins from hell had found him.

  Varinskis were trained to ferret out the unwary, to assassinate their enemies, to destroy whatever it suited them to destroy. Usually, they performed their assassinations and sabotage only for their paying clients.

  No one was paying them now. They hunted the Wilders for vengeance. They'd found his older brother, Jasha. Now they'd found him.

  Rurik was caught here . . . between his fate and a woman who made his heart ache and his temper flare.

  His death would put an end to his family's hopes, but he'd fight, and he'd get Tasya out. She didn't deserve to die because she was with him.

  "Get back," he said. "Get behind the altar."

  She looked at the camera in her hand. "My backpack. My backpack's there in the entrance!"

  He hurried, grabbed her backpack and her flashlight, and hustled her to the back wall. Together they knelt behind the altar. He put her behind him—and with a gasp, she vanished into the wall. A short panel of solid rock had swiveled and swallowed her.

  He reached into the pitch-darkness.

  She caught his hand in hers, and her hand trembled. So did her voice. "I'm here. It's a passage."

  Yes. The fresh air blew in right from the sea.

  He leaned in. His vision was excellent—more than excellent—and he saw a small stone chamber and a tunnel twisting away into the earth. He shoved her backpack and flashlight toward her. "Go. I need to hear what they say."

  Pulling himself back into the antechamber of the tomb, he closed the wall, crouched, and waited.

  There were four of them, men, of course—the Var-inskis produced only sons—and Rurik realized at once they didn't suspect he was here.

  He also realized that Boris, the head of the Varinskis, hadn't sent his top men on this mission. Or if he had, the Varinskis were sadly overrated. Because these guys were loud, irtept, unworried about what, or who, might be hiding in the tomb. They walked right in, boys without a care in the world.

  One of them, a husky thirty-year-old, carried a good-sized leather bag. "So, what's the big deal here?" he asked in Russian.

  "Yeah, why did we have to come to a crap little island in Scotland?" Another guy examined the stone pillar and the wall that blocked the entrance. He wore a cowboy hat and boots, and looked like a Cossack imitating a Texan.

  Rurik slid around, staying behind the altar, watching.

  The leader was maybe forty, and he stood in the middle of the tomb with his hands on his hips. "Apparently one of the old boys had a vision. I don't know what it was, but man, did it scare Boris."

  "I was there when it happened," the youngest boy said.

  The other three turned on him.

  "You were not." The leader plainly didn't believe him.

  "Yes, I was," the kid insisted. "Freaky Uncle Ivan, the blind guy with the white film over his eyes, called Boris over like he could see him, grabbed him by the throat, and in this voice that sounded like . . . like . . ." The kid shivered. "It sounded deep and strong and spooky."

  "Uncle Ivan never has liked Boris," the leader said. "He's baiting him."

  The kid shrugged uneasily. "Yeah. I wish I believed that."

  "So what did he say?" one of the other guys asked.

  "Uncle Ivan told Boris the deal with the devil is breaking apart, that unless the Varinskis get their shit together and kill that guy who married the Gypsy—"

  "Konstantine," the leader said.

  "Yeah, Konstantine. If the Varinskis didn't kill Konstantine and his whelps and the bitch he married, the Varinskis would become a laughingstock and the pact would be broken. The whole thing gave me the creeps."

  The story gave Rurik the creeps, too. He'd assumed his mother's vision was an isolated incident, and without considering it, he'd figured some benevolent force had worked through her. The vision had warned his family of trouble, instructed them about how to break the pact with the devil.

  Now it sounded as if one of the Varinskis had had a similar vision telling Boris to destroy Konstantine and his family—or else.

  Shit

  "So what has this place got to do with it?" The guy with the bag pulled it open. He tossed a round metal disk to each of the others.

  "Uncle Ivan said there was an icon, some kind of holy thing, that we had to find." The kid caught a disk and attached it to a pillar. "I guess the icon's here, and we're going to blast it to smithereens."

  Rurik, who'd been concentrating on eavesdropping, realized that his killer cousins . . . were the demolition team.

  No wonder they didn't care if someone hid in here. They were going to blow the tomb, and possibly destroy the icon, his father's chance for salvation and ... oh, God, would Tasya survive?

  "You knew Konstantine, didn't you, Kaspar?" the kid asked.

  "I knew him," the leader said.

  "Is it true he was the biggest, best boss we ever had, and Boris was afraid of him?" The three subordinates turned to Kaspar and waited for the answer.

  "He wasn't the biggest, but he was smart. Wily. When he fought, he always won. He had great strategies, and when he was in charge, the Varinskis were the greatest power in the world." Kaspar spit on the ground. "Not like now." The team was quiet, setting the charges. Rurik didn't dare move. The icon . . . and Tasya. Would he lose them both?

  The kid said, "Boris better do something soon, or he's going down."

  "Did you overhear that, too?" Kaspar mocked. "Boris is my father, but Vadim is my brother. Vadim has my loyalty, and I promise, he's the next boss." The kid smiled, and turned his head toward the sunlight. Rurik jumped.

  His lips were colored red; his cheeks were equally bright; his eyes were slanted. Maybe he wore makeup so he could look like that, but Rurik didn't think so. That kid was a natural freak.

  "Don't b
e a fool," Kaspar said sharply. "Vadim's too young."

  The kid hissed at Kaspar. He swayed, and Rurik had a sudden vision of what the kid could become. . . . The pupils in his eyes were pointed from top to bottom, his smooth skin gleamed as if covered by nail polish, and the teeth in that red mouth were pointed like a vampire's ... or a rattlesnake's.

  Kaspar snapped his fingers at the kid. "Stop it! Alek, we don't have time for that shit. We've got to get this done before someone comes to check the tomb."

  Alek stopped swaying.

  "If anybody catches us, it'll be a damned mess," Kaspar added.

  "Okay. But don't jeer at my brother, or he'll get you." Alek took his charge and leaned down to set it.

  When Kaspar was sure Alek paid him no heed, he turned his back and used his handkerchief to wipe his forehead.

  Rurik felt like doing the same thing. Varinskis were birds of prey or wolves or panthers. Never snakes. Never something that slithered on the ground and killed by poison. What had happened? When had this change occurred?

  When Alek straightened up, Kaspar asked, "Charges in place? Timers set?" When everybody nodded, he said, "Then let's get the hell out of here."

  The Varinskis hustled out at a speed that expressed only too clearly the power of the blast. Rurik dived through the wall and into the tunnel—and ran into Tasya.

  "What did you find out?" she whispered.

  "What the hell are you doing here? Run. Run!" He shoved her forward.

  Smart girl. She didn't ask for details. She responded to his agitation and sprinted into the darkness.

  He raced with her, his hand on her back.

  The light faded behind them. The tunnel got narrower and shorter. They ran through dirt now, with a few rocks . . . but the scent of the sea lured Rurik on.

  Darkness surrounded them. Tasya stumbled on the rubble on the floor.

  He kept her on her feet. "Bend down. The ceiling is dropping. We're going to have to crawl—now." He shoved her to her knees and pushed her ahead of him- The tunnel narrowed more, but ahead and around a corner, he could see light. "We're almost there."

  "It's getting so tight." She was panting from exertion, but more than that—she was panicked.

  Claustrophobia. What a hell of a time to find that out. "Let me get in front. If I can get through, you can."

  "Yeah. Okay." The thought seemed to make her feel better.

  Maybe it wasn't a good idea to add to her terror, but from what he knew of Tasya's character, she would rise to the occasion. As he squeezed past her, he said, "Keep up. The tomb is going to blow."

  She kept up.

  They rounded the corner. He could see the sunlight ahead. It was a small hole, but they could make it out. They were crawling, moving fast. The tunnel narrowed more, decaying to a mere burrow, and he found himself wiggling along on his belly. "A few more yards. A few more!"

  At first, the vibration was a hum in the earth. It grew to a rumble. The tremor came from behind, caught them. The ground lifted once, a huge shock. His hand grasped a stone on the wall outside.

  Tasya screamed.

  And in the violent shaking, the tunnel collapsed, burying them in the earth.

  Chapter 6

  Tasya couldn't breathe. She couldn't breathe. There wasn't air. It was dark. The earth weighed her down. She had dirt in her mouth, in her lungs.

  All her life, this had been her nightmare.

  She was buried alive.

  She flailed helplessly, disoriented, not knowing which way was out.

  Then some thing grabbed her. Pulled her by her shoulders. She fought, trying to help. Trying to get away.

  She hit something hard with her head. Felt something frantically slither past her. Grabbed a metal rod and used it as an oar. Tried to scream, but she couldn't breathe.

  Oh, God. She was going to die. In the darkness. She was going to suffocate in the darkness.

  And suddenly, her head was out. Out, in the open. She couldn't see; her eyes were caked with dirt. She couldn't breathe. Dirt filled her mouth and nose. But the weight was gone from her head. She could feel the air, and savored the impression of sunshine.

  Some thing pulled her harder. Pulled her all the way out of the tunnel that had been her grave, and flung her on the ground.

  Frantically, she brushed at her face, spit earth, still couldn't breathe. Her head was buzzing.

  She was dying.

  "Stop." Rurik. Rurik is here. "I'll help you."

  He put his mouth to hers and gave her his breath.

  Her lungs expanded. When he pulled away, she coughed. Coughed and coughed, spewing dirt, getting air, blowing her nose . . . she was alive. She felt like hell, but she was alive.

  When she could open her eyes, she found herself propped up on a narrow rock ledge on the cliff over the sea. They were about ten feet below the level of the ground above, and about ninety feet above the ocean.

  Rurik sat beside her, his arms resting on his upraised knees, his hands dangling. He stared out to sea. Dirt caked his hair, his eyebrows, his clothes, his skin. Dirt was in his ear. A cut on his forehead oozed blood.

  He gave her an idea how horrible she must look.

  She didn't care. She was alive.

  She leaned her head back against the stone. The air smelled good, like the ocean . . . and the earth. The rocks dug into her back, and the discomfort told her she was alive. Dirt filled her boots, and pebbles had worked their way between her toes, and that was good, too.

  "You afraid of heights?" Rurik asked.

  "Nope." Far below, the waves pounded the rocks. "Just the dark."

  He nodded. "I can't believe you made it out with that backpack."

  She looked down. While she'd waited for Rurik at the entrance of the tunnel, she'd placed the backpack on her front, tightened the straps as much as she could. "Camera," she said.

  He chuckled a little. "Figures." And, "Is it okay?"

  She unzipped the main flap, pulled out the Nikon, and examined it. Her waterproof, dirt-proof, ripstop, padded backpack had come through. "Looks good."

  "Good girl." He chuckled again.

  Tenderly, she put her beloved camera back away.

  Pulling his cell phone out of his pocket, he opened it. Dirt showered out. "Shit." The screen was cracked.

  He shook it, pushed talk, put it to his ear. "Shit," he said again. "It wasn't built for a cave-in." He put it back in his pocket. "Have you got one?"

  "In my backpack," she said vaguely. "It's off, though. Who's going to call me?"

  "I don't know. Your mother? Your father?"

  She gazed across the ocean. A thin, pale gray line crept up from the horizon, swallowing the blue sky. "My parents are dead."

  "Your other lover?"

  "He's busy," she said without missing a beat.

  "Are you trying to make me jealous?"

  "No."

  "No. Of course not. To do that, you would have to care."

  Do you really want to talk about this now? But she didn't ask. He did want to talk, anytime, anywhere. And she wanted to avoid that confrontation at all costs. She started to unzip the backpack. "Do you want to call your family? Because when news of the explosion hits, they're going to worry."

  He placed his hand over hers to stop her. "They won't worry, not for a few days, anyway. I have a way of landing smoothly. No, keep your phone off for now."

  She knew why. Pointing up at the top of the cliff, she asked, "Are we in danger here?"

  "No. Those boys never knew we were in the tomb. They certainly don't know we escaped."

  "I knew the legend was overrated," she said with satisfaction.

  He rolled his head toward her. "What legend?"

  "I'll tell you when we're off this island."

  His eyes narrowed. He started to speak. Changed his mind. Spoke anyway. "What are you holding?"

  She would bet that wasn't what he'd been about to say.

  She looked down at her hand. She gripped a piece of dirty, rust-enc
rusted metal about eight inches long and narrow as a blade. "I don't know. A knife of some kind. It sort of found me white you were pulling me out."

  "Keep it. We'll examine it later."

  She unzipped the pocket in her backpack, the one on the outside for the water bottle she never carried, and dropped the ancient thing inside.

  Rurik watched her, and disappointment turned his mouth into a thin line. "That knife may be the only thing left from the excavation."

  "I'm sorry." She put her hand on his arm. "I know what that tomb meant to you."

  He considered her hand. Looked up at her. And his eyes were savage. Almost. . . frightening, with a red flame deep inside.

  She caught her breath. She yanked her hand away.

  "As long as you're alive, the tomb is nothing."

  She'd expected him to hit on her, grab her, kiss her. Not say that. And to say it in such a serious tone . . . "I've been in danger before."

  "Not like this. Not because of me."

  He could be so irritating—and powerful, and seductive. He made her put up all her defenses, because he made her feel safe from the world—and in peril from him. If she gave in to him, leaned on him, trusted him, she would be the biggest fool in the history of the world. She kept her voice brisk and unwelcoming. "You give yourself too much credit. I'm afraid I'm the one who's put you in danger."

  At first he started to deny it. Then he chuckled. "Yes. You could infuriate a saint. But no matter whose fault this is, I'm going to do everything in my power to keep you alive." He stood and extended his hand.

  She let him pull her to her feet.

  Sliding his arm around her waist, he pulled her close and leaned his forehead against hers. "I can't predict the future, but I know this has just begun."

  His eyelashes were grainy with dirt, but his brown eyes were somber, calm, thoughtful—and he wasn't talking about the tomb or the explosion; he was talking about them.

  Scary. Rurik was scary when he was like this.

  Not physically scary. She never thought he would hurt her. But relentless scary.

  He wanted her, and he intended to have her. Maybe she could explain why that was impossible. Maybe she could confess her past, and explain the danger of being with her, and frighten him away.