"My God." He had to stop saying that.
"When I went in, Ann was in the tub, wide-eyed and frightened, but not crying—Ann seldom cried— and when I looked, the snake was moving. It circled the rose quickly as if agitated. When it saw me, it settled down and closed its eyes."
Now he knew why she'd asked what he'd seen when he looked at the birthmark, and why his answer had satisfied her.
"Later that week, the woman came to work and asked to care for Ann. She said she must have imagined that the snake had moved."
"Bull."
"Exactly. So I watched her. I caught her sneaking out of the orphanage with Ann in her arms. She had returned to her depraved ways, and she'd struck a deal to sell Ann for quite a lot of money."
Jasha became aware that he was gripping the edge of his desk hard enough to cut into his palms.
"If that woman had collected, she would have had the cash to buy enough smack to kill herself a hundred times over. As it was, later that week after I threw her out, someone did the job for her."
"She was killed?"
"A fall from one of the tall buildings in downtown Los Angeles. There wasn't enough of her left for an autopsy."
Jasha flinched. "How did she get up there?"
"No one knows." The nun's voice grew quietly enthused. "But that incident gave me the clue I sought. Unfortunately, in the seven years it took me to reveal the truth of the mark, we had another incident."
"Sister Catherine."
"Yes. Sister Catherine. That tragedy almost broke me, for perhaps if I had told her about Ann's mark, she wouldn't have . . . well." Sister Mary Magdalene's voice was heavy with sorrow. "Such supposition is foolishness. I did what I thought best, and perhaps there was no good way to handle the matter."
Should he have been watching the Varinskis from afar? Would they have noticed him, guessed his identity, and come looking for his family sooner? Or would he have been prepared for their attack? "Second-guessing the situation will get us nowhere, Sister."
"You're right, and of course, the real tragedy wasn't Sister Catherine, who died in a state of grace, but Ann, who has lived to blame herself."
"She believes the mark brings the bad people," he said softly. The memory of Ann's anguish still broke his heart. "Why is it on her? What does it mean?"
Eager now, the nun explained, "I found its purport in an obscure text I borrowed from the Convent of St. Agnes in Krakow, Poland. The rose, of course, is Ann, the innocent, the one who must be protected until she could do the task which God put her on this earth to do."
"But the snake ... in biblical mythology, the snake is not exactly on the side of the angels."
"The snake is used by God as God wishes. To push mankind out of Eden and into the world to prove itself, or as an ample protection for one of his chosen."
"I see." But he didn't know if he agreed.
"So God uses us all in the battle between good and evil. There is a Russian saying I like—'God sits high and sees far/ "
"I've heard that." From his father.
"And perhaps youVe seen that in your own life, Mr. Wilder."
Jasha thought of his mother and her prophecy, of the lightning strike that brought down the tree and revealed the icon to Ann, of the love that united his parents . . . and bound him to Ann. "Yes, I have."
"I have a saying, too. Pray as if all things depend on God, and work as if all things depend on you. So I prayed, and I worked, and I did what I thought best—I blocked any chance for Ann to be adopted, because I believe that Ann's birthmark attracts the evil ones. I believe she has a special role in the battle between good and evil."
"She has accomplished at least part of it when she found a thousand-year-old icon that is precious to my family."
"Did she? And are you protecting her, and it?"
"The icon is locked up in a safe in my home. And I go almost everywhere with Ann."
"Good, for the Satan worshippers and the demons, they want to destroy her."
Not all of the demons wanted to destroy her. He wanted to keep her safe. Because he feared the sister was right.
"Ann deserves the love and devotion of a good man. Are you a good man, Mr. Wilder?"
"Very seldom.” he admitted.
The nun chuckled. "Then you had better love her with all the passion that is in you, for she deserves nothing less."
"I know. And ... I do." Of course he did. But he heard Sister Mary Magdalene's voice echoing in his mind.
Ann's birthmark attracts the evil ones.
He found himself on his feet. "Sister, I have to go. I have to—"
He dropped the phone and ran out the door.
God couldn't be so cruel as to show Jasha love, then snatch it away.
Chapter 34
Ann walked into her condo, her beautiful condo that she'd taken such care to decorate, and the place was so empty it echoed. Echoed with her footsteps on the hardwood floors, echoed with memories of her delight in her first home ever . . . echoed with Kresley's yowls from behind the closed bathroom door.
Hurrying over, she let him out, and he stalked past her, so offended all his fur stood on end. He looked around for his food bowl, for his couch, for his toys, and when he saw nothing, he growled and stalked around the living room in the epitome of feline fury.
"I know, sweetheart. I know." The place was too empty, yet the air was stifling. She went to the sliding glass door and pushed it open, stepped out on the balcony, and looked over the manicured grounds.
Her home. This was her home, with a swimming pool and live oaks shading the grounds and air conditioners humming in all the units. She'd been gone every night for the last two weeks . . . and Kresley was madder than hell.
Turning away from the vista, she wandered into the condo and looked into the bedroom, stripped of everything, the bathroom, stark and naked, the kitchen, empty of pans and hanging racks.
She went back to the living room, sat on the floor against the wall by the gas fireplace, and closed her eyes to hold back the tears.
She had walked out on Jasha in a dramatic exit worthy of an opera diva.
And what good would that do her? She had no furniture and nowhere to go except to the safety of his house. Because no matter how hurt and angry she might be, she knew perfectly well she was in almost as much danger as the icon. No matter how much she wanted to pretend otherwise—the bad people always did come.
She knew Jasha well enough that no matter how stunned and frightened he might be by her birthmark, and by the horrors of her past, and by her cowardice, he would still want her where he could keep an eye on her.
That had been Sister Mary Magdalene's strategy, anyway. Keep the marked child close in the confines of the convent and away from families who might wish to adopt her and use her in a cult, or sacrifice her to Satan. Because that had been the learned sister's real fear—that Ann's mark would attract the Evil One and his minions.
Instead, it had brought the icon and a family of warmhearted demons who took her to their collective bosom. And Jasha. The mark had brought Jasha, and no matter what she did, no matter what she said, he was there. There in her dreams, in her heart, in her body ...
The thrusts, the motions, the sounds, the scents of sex—everything made her think of him, made her want him again, and again. As the memories made her damp, she pressed her legs together, trying to preserve the pleasure for another few fleeting moments.
Where did all of this leave Ann?
The same place she'd always been. Sitting alone in an empty room, unloved, unwanted, and feeling really sorry for herself.
Kresley stalked over to her, growling. He sniffed her, and she thought she was going to cry if he rejected her again. Then he shoved his way into her lap, and curled up, a heavy weight she welcomed, a warmth she craved. She scratched his throat; he arched his throat and purred, and he was loud enough to sound like a small motorcycle.
"Dumb cat," she muttered, and bent to bury her head in his
fur. "So you've forgiven me, huh?"
He licked her face with his sandpaper tongue, and she laughed a wobbly laugh.
The loud knock on the door made her jump.
Who dared to interrupt her own quiet pity party? Jasha?
No. He wasn't much for knocking. He was more about barging in, or calling on the cell and making demands and giving instructions, as if she were some simpleton who needed his guidance to get through the day, when in fact she'd been alone and taking care of herself for—
Whoever it was, he knocked again, and this time he was clearly impatient.
Scooping Kresley up in her arms, she walked to the door and looked through the peephole.
A tall guy dressed in coveralls with the mover's logo on it stood holding a clipboard and scribbling on it.
Of course. The paperwork. Jasha probably wanted her to pay the bill. What an asshole.
She opened the door.
The mover barely glanced at her when he said, "Hi, Mrs. Smith, I'm Max Lederer. I just need your signature on these papers that say you inspected the condo and we did no damage."
"I ... haven't looked around at all." Could he see the marks of the tears on her cheeks?
"You want to do it while I wait?" He glanced at Kresley, who for a change was absolutely still and silent.
"Sure." She shifted Kresley in her arms and held out her hand for the clipboard. The forms said cajntu movers, followed by the list of rooms.
Max pulled a pencil from behind his ear and used it to point at the form. "Just go through each room and see if there's any problems, and if everything is okay, check the box that says walls, pull-ins, fixtures, whatever. If there are problems, jot down some notes, and I'll go over it with you." Max had a great build, blond hair, a tan, and a slight accent.
Ann would bet he attracted women in droves. He smelled sour, but then what did she expect? He'd been moving furniture all day, and it was the Napa Valley in July. And ... he was barefoot. How weird.
He must have seen her looking, because he explained wryly, "I wore new boots to work, and now my feet hurt."
"And I don't have any Band-Aids to offer." Because without getting her permission, that jerk Jasha had had her condo emptied. Not that she would have given her permission. And not that he wouldn't move her back in fast enough when he figured it was safe for her to live alone. "Okay, Max, I got it. If you want to wait in here, I'll run through it." She'd start in the bedroom and go from there.
But as soon as Max stepped across the threshold, Kresley started growling, the same deep-throated, threatening growl he'd used for Jasha.
"That's one helluva big cat." Max had that I hate cats look on his face.
"Are you the one who shut him in the bathroom? That would explain why he's so hostile." In fact, with the noises Kresley was making, she didn't trust him not to attack Max and then, the way her luck had been running, she'd be slapped with a lawsuit.
"I'll put him away." As she started toward the bathroom with the big cat, her cell phone rang.
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 Kres-ley'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."
Darkness Chosen 01: Scent of Darkness Page 25
