Her Russian Bears

by Sinclair, Ava

  “Hell, yeah,” she said. “I’m ready.”

  Chapter Three

  The house wasn’t large, but it was tidy. And it was warm owing to the iron potbelly stove. Inside a fire crackled merrily, but the old man who sat in the chair next to the cheery blaze wore an expression as icy as the Siberian winds.

  “You shouldn’t have sent her away.” The large man’s tone was reproachful. “He loves her.”

  “Love,” the old man said, waving his hand dismissively. “This isn’t about love, and you know it.”

  “You’re right, Boris.” Mikhail Barinov paced the room, agitated. “It’s about more than love. It’s about saving Viktor. Or would you see him lost, too?”

  “Maybe it’s for the best.” The old man stood and picked up a poker. He opened the door to the stove, mumbling as he stabbed the fire as if angry with it. It was not a very sturdy jab.

  Mikhail felt a stir of pity. Aging had been difficult for Boris, who’d once been among the strongest bears in the clan. The old man shut the door and turned back to the larger man, his rheumy eyes tired.

  “Has it ever occurred to you,” he said, “that maybe the time of our kind has come to an end?”

  “No, Boris,” Mikhail replied. “I do understand that once an elder loses the ability to shift that it’s easy to forget the power of the gift, or the appreciation for it.”

  “Bah!” The old man tossed the poker aside. “More like a curse.”

  “You didn’t always feel this way, friend,” he said. “Please,” Mikhail continued. “Send for Marina. She and Viktor love one another. And if he doesn’t mate… Do you want his loss on your conscience?”

  The old man shook his head. “This is as much your fault as anyone else’s. You delve into the earth, expanding your mines. You walk more in the man world than the bear world. People travel now. They come. For work. For hunting. The world isn’t so small. Are you forgetting what that has already cost Viktor? You see my granddaughter as the mate who would cool his rage, give him balance, keep him human. But he will still shift. And next time, it may be more than an eye he loses. Would you see my granddaughter widowed here on this peninsula, possibly with a baby on her hip that carries the trait? Stuck here in the only place that baby would be understood once he realizes who he is?”

  He sank back into his chair, rubbing his legs. “My granddaughter is a bright girl. I’ll not bring her back.” He looked up at Mikhail. “The time for walking between the worlds is over. Accept it. The men who do not join the Rogues will have to learn how to stay human, unless the fear and anger turn them as well.”

  He smiled now and chuckled. There was a mean edge to it. “What about you, Mikhail?” he asked quietly. “I see no woman in your life. Or in Ivan’s. How long before the shattering of our world turns you from the… king… into just another beast of the forest?” He cocked his head. “Are you angry, Mikhail? Do you feel it now? The urge to turn, to kill me? What’s one more dead villager to a man like you? What’s one more casualty to a king?”

  Mikhail could feel the blood pounding in his head. Boris Volen had always had a bitter streak, but it had turned mean since he’d become unable to shift. An image flashed through his head of the last time he’d been out of control. It rarely happened, but it still made him sick to think of where, and of how suddenly it had come on him there in Yuri’s house.

  He turned stiffly and left without saying another word, ignoring the cackle of laughter that followed him into the chilly night.

  * * *

  “Perhaps I deserved it.”

  An hour later, he was in front of his own fire, standing with the only other person he could fully trust.

  Dr. Ivan Kolov was more than a confidant. He was Mikhail’s cousin and right-hand man. They’d grown up together, closer than brothers, the strongest of their clan. Leadership had been Mikhail Barinov’s birthright, but he shared the responsibility with Ivan, whose cool head and logical perspective provided a needed balance to what had become a complicated rule.

  “Boris is right. It was simpler years ago. Things are more complicated now. And I’ve made them worse.”

  “Yes, you have.”

  The confirmation of what he already knew hurt coming from Ivan, who usually tried to find some kind of optimistic lining in every situation, some possibility of solution.

  “I should have gone,” Ivan continued. “I should have been the one to talk to Yuri. Of the two of us, I’m the one who’s still…” His words died away as he met Mikhail’s eyes. There was no need to finish the sentence. Being the quieter, less passionate cousin meant that Ivan could control his shifts during times of anxiety or stress.

  “Do you think I’d have gone if I’d known this would happen?” Mikhail asked.

  “Does it matter at this point?” Ivan replied. “The damage is done. You shifted, and it would have not been a problem if it had just been Yuri and Alexei, but someone else was there and now…”

  “We will get through this,” Mikhail said. “We’ll answer the questions of this… what’s the name?”

  “Jordan Rowe.” Ivan stood and poured himself a drink. “He’ll be here tomorrow.” He paused. “I have to ask. Did you think there was even a chance this might happen, Mikhail?”

  Mikhail Barinov looked away. Was he going to lie? Especially when Ivan knew. He’d used private jets, his trusted pilot. He was angry when he’d heard that Yuri was cutting a deal with foreign outfitters to bring more hunters in. He’d found about it almost by accident at a fundraiser in Moscow, when he’d overheard an official touting the additional import permits the government would supply to meet demand for American hunters who wanted to bring home a bona fide man killer.

  He’d left the next day to confront Yuri, the man he’d put in power, the man he’d sent to America to protect the interests of the clan. Even though Yuri was not a shifter, he was one of the small circle of humans who knew and co-existed with BearKynd. The betrayal was infuriating. So yes, in the back of his mind he knew the risks of confronting Yuri when angry. He’d flown his own private jet and paid handsomely to bypass major airports all because in the back of his mind he’d known how angry he was, and how important it was to remain unseen.

  And that risk had been materialized during the heat of an argument. And now there was a whole new set of problems to deal with.

  “Any sign of Viktor?” he asked Ivan.

  His cousin shook his head. “I looked for him all day. I can only hope he’s not joined Sergei.”

  At the mention of that name, Mikhail winced. Sergei, with his easy smile and easier laugh. He’d been—was twenty-two. Mikhail had taken him under his wing, had thought to teach him all that he knew. But when his best friend Viktor had been shot, he’d had a breakdown. He’d told Mikhail he couldn’t live with the fear of needing to shift while knowing each shift might be his last. Mikhail had tried to reassure him, but it was no longer safe to be a bear. And without a mate, it was not safe to be a man capable of changing into one. All bears were suspect; even the villagers who knew of their existence were reluctantly taking up arms, unwilling now to take chances. And then, there were the hunters.

  “I’ll look again,” Ivan said softly. “This agent will come. We will show him there is nothing to see. And then we will find a solution.”

  “Will we?” Mikhail said.

  “Of course,” Ivan said. “We have existed since ancient times. BearKynd has always found a way.”

  But Mikhail could see doubt in his cousin’s eyes. And fear of what may happen next.

  Chapter Four

  The report was just as jarring now as the first time Jordan had read it nine years earlier. The remote corner of Siberia rarely made the news, but the horrific slaughter of two guards at the Koryakgeologia Mine sparked international headlines. The killers? A gang of massive bears that had been spotted near the mines a few days before the attack. At first, the miners weren’t concerned. Kamchatka was known for its density of some of the world’s largest bears
. But after the killings, things got worse as the bears began stalking residents of nearby villages. The villagers, who’d peacefully co-existed with the bears for generations, were too afraid to leave the safety of their homes. They knew the strength of the animals they’d begun to fear.

  Normally, bear attacks were linked to desperation. There had been a salmon shortage in the region, and bears had been seen scavenging trash. But the killing of the miners raised disturbing questions. The bodies were savaged, but not consumed. Why would starving bears not eat the humans they killed?

  Now the attacks had begun again. Jordan was the only passenger on the small plane transporting her on the last leg of her trip. She was glad she had no seatmate; she wouldn’t want someone sitting next to her to accidentally glimpse what she’d viewed on the way as part of her research.

  Russia was very conscious of its press these days, and she credited the government’s control of information for the reason these latest Kamchatka attacks weren’t getting out. In the photograph she held, a miner’s face was frozen in fear, the angle of his head suggested that his neck had been broken. Two slashes across his face indicated that a blow from a bear’s paw had caused his death. But it’s what the bear had done afterwards that unnerved her the most. The man was sliced from neck to pelvis, raked deliberately by massive claws. But he wasn’t eaten.

  The second photo showed another man who lay dead at the end of a blood trail. This man’s death had been more brutal. He had been bitten; despite the football-sized chunk of flesh missing from his leg, the panicked miner had managed to still crawl about a hundred yards across the frozen tundra. Jordan imagined the bear walking behind him at a leisurely pace, knowing that mortally wounded prey wouldn’t make it far. This man had died on his back, his mouth open in a silent scream. He’d been disemboweled alive. Like the other miners, he’d not been eaten.

  In 2008, the attacks had been blamed on desperation. Warming temperatures had the salmon spawning in areas below the peninsula, depriving the Kamchatka bears the bounty of fat-rich food they counted on. It had been a bad year all around, and the bears shot by hired hunters had been thin.

  But the killings this time were different. The savagery visited on the miners was worse, and villagers were being increasingly targeted despite the ready presence of fish and other prey animals. What’s worse, some villagers—mostly young men—were disappearing without a trace, and strange young bears were spotted in the area that were not part of the bear census.

  Jordan had requested the latest reports on Kamchatka from the Ministry of Natural Resources and the Environment—the Russian equivalent of her department. She’d gotten the reports via email the night before she’d left, and now one of the papers stuck out at her for the name on the top—Dr. Ivan Kolov.

  He argued that environmental changes had caused a shift in the bears’ pattern of movement, hence the migration of new, unfamiliar bears into the area. He downplayed reports of aggression blamed on these new bears, saying there was no proof that their appearance had anything to do with the attacks. But in another account, a guide who had hunted in one Kamchatka valley for years said a bear unfamiliar to him charged wildly in the direction of him and his guests, and only a lucky shot from the American hunter he was guiding stopped the animal from attacking. The bear had been hit in the head, but no body had been found.

  Was there a connection between the attacks and the unlikely possibility of Mikhail Barinov smuggling a bear into the home of Yuri Adanov, whom she since learned had his diplomatic post all but bought by Barinov? Adanov had grown up the son of a humble baker in his far east Russian village. He’d wanted better for himself, and had gone to school in Moscow. But it was money from Barinov’s mine that had propelled him to his post in DC, where he’d stymied efforts to allow more import permits coveted by U.S. hunters who wanted to take a bear from his region. That had changed recently, right before Mikhail Barinov’s visit, and the photos she still couldn’t explain.

  From her seat by the window, she could see the treetops now as the plane glided over dark, ancient forests that covered the craggy slopes. Ahead was a lonely airstrip where she’d be meeting Dr. Ivan Kolov, who was supposed to be waiting for her. It was eleven a.m., Siberian time, and her flight was right on schedule.

  The plane jolted as it touched down, and Jordan gripped the hand rest tightly, grateful that she wasn’t the type to get airsick.

  She breathed a sigh of relief when the aircraft rolled to a stop beside a large but simple steel hangar. A Land Rover was parked to the side of the structure, and as she unclipped her seatbelt Jordan watched as a man emerged from the vehicle. He was tall and muscular, and despite the cold he did not wear a hat over his short blond hair. He was dressed in blue jeans, a polo shirt, and a light jacket. Although it was early spring, it was still cold here. Jordan looked at the fur-lined, hooded parka and heavy gloves lying beside her on the seat. She glanced back out the window. She was the sole passenger on the plane, and there was no one else greeting it, so this minimally dressed man was obviously Ivan Kolov. Deciding she’d look like a tourist in the heavy jacket, she opted not to pull it over the heavy fishnet sweater and jeans she was wearing.

  “We are ready to deplane, ma’am.”

  At the pilot’s heavily accented words, Jordan stood and stuffed the gloves in the pocket of the parka, which she slung over her arm before pulling her duffle bag and computer case from where she’d stowed it under the seat.

  Her legs were shaky from spending so much time on planes. The door opened as she approached and Jordan gasped as a blast of cold air and the bright glare of day hit her at the same time. She blinked as she walked down the metal stairs, trying to keep her teeth from chattering in the icy breeze.

  The man was standing to the right of the steps, and Jordan realized that he wasn’t looking at her, but at the door she’d exited. When she reached the bottom, she stopped for a moment before walking over to him.

  “Dr. Kolov?” she asked.

  He looked down at her as if she were a distraction. “Yes?” he asked, before darting his eyes back to the doorway. Jordan purposefully moved into his line of sight.

  “I’m Agent Jordan Rowe with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. I believe I’m the person you’re waiting for?”

  Now he did look at her, and Jordan realized with amusement why he’d been ignoring her.

  “You are a woman,” he said.

  She allowed herself to smirk. “Yes, Dr. Kolov,” she said. “It may come as a great shock to you, but there are women in the branches of U.S. law enforcement.”

  The sarcastic edge to her words was apparent, but if she was expecting a reaction, he gave none. His back was to the sun, and his face slightly shadowed. It was a handsome face, but expressionless.

  “The name,” he said. “I thought Jordan was man’s name. My apologies if you’re offended.” His voice was deep, but his broken English wasn’t terrible, at least. There was a hint of Romanian in that accent, and Jordan wondered at the origins of the man before her. She’d expected a bookish-looking scientist, but Dr. Kolov had a powerful build and handsome face with a generous, almost sensuous mouth and piercing eyes. He fixed them on her boldly, and she felt the unusual heat of a flush rise to her face.

  “It takes more than that to offend me,” she said curtly, looking away lest he see her blush. It had not been the first time that someone she’d been sent to meet assumed that Jordan was a man’s name. She was used to the surprise, and now considered it a delightful preface to showing them she was as tough as any man. No, tougher.

  “You’re cold.” He pointed to her coat.

  “No,” Jordan corrected him. “I’m not.” This was a lie. The wind was so cold it burned, and she was expending a great deal of energy trying not to shiver against its fierce bite.

  Was it her imagination, or did a shadow of amusement cross the handsome face? She suppressed another shudder as the wind shifted, the cold making her ears throb. There was cold, and then there wa
s Siberia cold, she decided.

  “My vehicle is warm,” he said. “We should go.” He reached for the bag she’d placed by her feet, but Jordan grabbed it first.

  “I’ve got it,” she said, and realized the words were slightly slurred. Her lips were literally numb from just a few moments in the wind.

  Dr. Ivan Kolov was right about the truck, at least. She sat in silence, the parka across her lap as the heated air blasting from the vent thawed her face and ears.

  “So you are special agent?”

  She looked over at him.

  “Sort of,” she said, almost laughing. His words conjured the image of cloaks and daggers. “I investigate wildlife violations—poaching, smuggling—that sort of thing.” She looked over at him. “You’ve been briefed on the case, I assume.”

  He didn’t return her gaze, but kept it on the hard-packed dirt road leading away from the airstrip.

  “Yes,” he said. “But not much, this case.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Pictures?” he said. “Seems like… how you say… prank…”

  “We had the photos analyzed,” she said. “And hair was found at the scene. Analysis doesn’t lie, Dr. Kolov.” The truck hit a rut, and she would have bounced despite being belted in had not a large hand automatically flown to her arm. Jordan looked down, taken aback at the force of the protective grasp. When she went to move her arm away, he still held her, his other hand navigating the Land Rover through several more ruts.

  He did not apologize as he removed his hand, and Jordan placed hers where his had been and was surprised that there was a trace of warmth remaining where he grabbed her.

  “Your flight was good, no?”

  “Bumpy,” she said. “But good. I read up on the bears of this region on the way here.” She glanced over at him. The hands on the wheel were large, the forearms muscular through the fabric of his jacket. Her own hands, so much smaller, were starting to tingle in the warmth of the vehicle. “I’m surprised there wasn’t as much publicity about these recent killings,” she said. “There have been more this time, and worse.”