Scent of Darkness

by Christina Dodd

  She slammed on the brakes. The car hydroplaned, the rear wheels sliding sideways.

  At last the tread caught. She was in control.

  But too late. Too late. The rear wheels dropped off the precipice. Half the car hung over the cliff, over the rocks and the ocean. The undercarriage screamed as it scraped the asphalt.

  She was going to die.

  The side panel smacked something. Something big. A boulder. A tree trunk. Something. The metal crunched. The car stopped. Stopped so suddenly she slid sideways into the passenger seat. She lost her grip on the wheel. Her legs tangled with the console.

  She sat frozen, waiting for the car to tip, to plunge her into the ocean.

  Nothing moved. The stench of hot metal and burning rubber filled her nose. She was still alive—and if she wanted to stay that way, she had to get out. Get out before the car plunged off the cliff. Get out before it burst into flame.

  She put on the emergency brake, then closed her eyes.

  Taking care not to suddenly shift her weight, she grasped the handle and opened the door. All her care was wasted; the wind caught it and jerked it open. She held her breath, waiting for the inevitable shift and tumble.

  Nothing.

  Distantly she noted that her hand was now steady as a rock.

  Somewhere on this wild ride, she had transcended terror.

  She slid her legs out, inched her butt along the seat, then gradually stood.

  The car hung there, suspended over the cliff, resting on the front tires and the frame.

  She stepped away from it. Backed away, waiting for it to take the plunge.

  The Miata remained still.

  She stood alone on a one-lane private road. Her new car was smashed and unsalvageable, a testament to her bad driving—and a sign to Jasha that she was helpless and on foot. She was barefoot, rain lashed her, and—she faced back the way she came—nothing made sense, especially not the wolf who was Jasha.

  She had to hide.

  On one side of the road, the ocean ripped at the base of the cliff. On the other, the primeval forest loomed, dark and thick, branches lashing in the wind. She didn’t want to go in there.

  Then in the distance, a wolf howled.

  He was coming for her.

  Ann sprinted across the road and into the forest.

  Chapter 5

  The trees closed in around Ann, muting the already-dim light, protecting her from the lash of the wind and rain. Her bare feet sank into the damp loam. The scent of spicy pine drifted on the air currents, and for a second, she felt protected, absorbed by nature.

  Then lightning struck and thunder boomed. The rain and wind struck with renewed force, and she heard one wolf howl, then another, then another. It sounded as if a whole pack was stalking her.

  They probably were. Jasha’s buddies.

  The false sense of security was stripped away. She shoved her sopping hair out of her face, and her hands came away smeared with black. Her mascara was in ruins. Her dress was in ruins. Her dreams were in ruins. Her life . . .

  As she jogged along, pine needles slipped beneath her soles, and she listened to the groan of the trees as they fought the wind.

  Behind her, a single wolf howled again, and something in the sound, some note of fury and frustration, alerted her—that was Jasha.

  What was he? Not some Wolf Man of legend; the full moon controlled those beasts. He was some other . . . thing.

  Lightning flickered, turning the tall boulders into long faces that grinned and mocked. She ran along, looking for the best place to take cover, knowing that no place could be good enough. She was lost to civilization. She would probably die of exposure . . . or at Jasha’s hands.

  Paws. Whatever.

  A stream crossed her path, and some long-buried Girl Scout memory surfaced. . . . Jasha couldn’t track her if she walked through the water.

  She stepped in. The cold water soothed her tender soles. She tried to hurry, but the large, smooth, mossy stones slipped beneath her feet. She strained, listening for the pad of a wolf’s paws, but heard nothing. For a few minutes she imagined she’d saved herself.

  Then she heard it. A splash downstream, and the slowly escalating sound of an animal loping through the water.

  He’d found her. He was here.

  She had nowhere to go.

  She ran anyway, out of the stream and down a path between two great boulders. The way narrowed, and for a horrible moment, she thought she’d come to a dead end. But she squeezed through the crack, and beyond her, the forest opened. She was in a meadow, empty except for one immense hemlock. Its trunk was wide, and the crown touched the clouds.

  She sprinted through the short grass. Rain splattered her face. The storm raged, gathering its strength until with one mighty strike and roar, lightning ripped through the hemlock. She felt the heat, covered her ears, smelled the brimstone . . . sank to her knees. Birds flew free, crying their anguish to the skies, and squirrels scattered as if bewildered.

  As she watched in horror, the vindictive wind grabbed and shoved at the tree. Slowly, so slowly, the hemlock tilted toward the far end of the meadow. Its roots gripped the earth almost at her feet. But that was not enough; they ripped free in a great wide circle that took the green grass and clods of dirt and carried them high into the sky. The blackened branches flailed in protest, yet inevitably, gravity took command, and the tree slammed to earth so hard the ground shook beneath Ann’s feet. Now, like the rest of the wild creatures, she rose to flee. Flee nature. Flee Jasha. Flee to survive . . . she scampered across the freshly exposed earth, imagining that somehow she could find a way to hide in the broken branches where Jasha couldn’t find her.

  Then the wolf howled, shattering her hopes. Startled, she slipped on a clod of earth, fell to the ground, glanced behind her—and saw, not the wolf coming through the gap in the rocks, but a glint of gold, and a woman looking at her.

  A painting. A miniature. On a ceramic tile?

  Ann blinked. She extended her hand. She curled her fingers around the small piece of polished clay.

  The noise of the storm faded.

  She lifted the image from the dirt, brushed it clean, looked closely.

  This was old. So old. The painting was stilted, stylized, yet the paint had been fired onto the tile and the colors glowed as if they were new. The Virgin Mary held the infant Jesus, while Joseph stood at her right hand, and their halos glittered with gold leaf. Her robes were cherry red, the background was gold, and her eyes . . . her eyes were large and dark, filled with wisdom and compassion.

  Ann’s heart lifted. She wasn’t going to give up. She wasn’t going to die. She clutched the tile so hard the edges cut into her hand, and one ragged corner drew a single drop of blood. She stood, and ran again, heading right for the forest.

  Overhead, the gray clouds swelled with renewed life. The thunder rumbled evilly. As she reached the circle of trees, she glanced back—and saw the wolf bounding across the meadow, his intelligent gaze fixed on her.

  The rush of adrenaline hit her. Her heart leaped in her chest. She had thirty seconds to escape, and before her she saw only the wilderness filled with fallen branches, wide trunks, and swirls of moss. Fired by the intention to climb to safety, she raced toward a tumble of huge boulders, but as she took her first step up, something hit her from the side.

  Jasha.

  The wolf.

  Whatever it was.

  She toppled into a pile of leaves, rolling over and over, and when she came around the last time, she put all her strength behind her arm and hit it in the face with the painting.

  With a yelp, it leaped back. It blocked her arm as she wound up for another blow. The wet tile flew out of her grasp, and she found herself nose to nose with a snarling wolf.

  He straddled her body, his body trembling with fury, his white fangs bared, his eyes yellow while, deep within his pupils, some thing glowed red.

  As she fought for breath, her chest heaved, and the wolf’s gaze w
andered downward. Slowly, his head dipped, and he ran his tongue from the base of her throat to her chin. Again. And again.

  She closed her eyes. Did wolves wash their prey before they killed it? For any minute she expected his teeth to close over her windpipe and crush it. Then he would rip out her throat, then drag her body away into the forest where it would never be found. . . .

  But, my God, the long stroke of his tongue felt almost . . . erotic, and unwillingly her pounding heart changed its rhythm. He nuzzled under her ear, a gentle touch that prepared her for the nip on her ear. She felt his breath over the artery in her neck, and tensed again, expecting . . . but he kissed the side of her mouth.

  She was confused. He felt human, but when she opened her eyes, she expected to see a wolf.

  She saw Jasha. Jasha, with his intense gold eyes, his generous mouth, and a new red mark on his cheek.

  He knelt over the top of her, this man who smiled and asked, ‘‘Who sent you?’’

  ‘‘What?’’ What did he mean? She didn’t know, she didn’t understand.

  ‘‘Who sent you?’’ Jasha’s voice was smooth, warm, but with an edge that ripped through her like straight brandy. ‘‘Why did you follow me here?’’

  ‘‘I came . . . I came because the international deal will fall through unless you sign the papers. I brought them. They’re in my briefcase. In the house.’’ My God. His eyes were so gold, so intent. And his gaze wandered. . . . She looked down at herself.

  She was splattered with mud, soaked to the skin. Her silk gown was ruined, and the stark white bodice showed everything—the shape of her breasts, the color of her nipples, that she was cold . . . and aroused. The black wraparound skirt was plastered to her thighs, and as she watched, Jasha placed his hand on her knee and slowly slid it up her thigh.

  Her breath caught.

  She was still afraid. Terrified. How could she not be? But mixed with that unfamiliar emotion was another, newer emotion—she was aroused. She was needy. She was ready.

  How, when the lightning flashed overhead, and rain splattered on her face, could she want a man— a monster—like Jasha?

  Yet she did.

  Ann was a creature of instinct. Or perhaps of madness. She didn’t know. She knew only that when he pressed his palm against her flat belly, she wanted his hand to move lower.

  ‘‘Refresh my memory.’’ Jasha sniffed her hair where it grew away from her forehead. ‘‘Where does the international deal originate?’’

  ‘‘The Ukraine.’’

  ‘‘Of course.’’ He laughed huskily. ‘‘The Ukraine. You’re innocent. Of course you are. Like the devil. Like the illegal hunter. Like my own mother.’’

  She didn’t understand what he was talking about, whom he was talking about. ‘‘I didn’t come to hurt you. How can you think I would hurt you when I . . . ?’’

  ‘‘Love me? Do you love me, little Ann?’’

  ‘‘No!’’

  ‘‘Yes, you do.’’

  ‘‘You don’t know that.’’ He didn’t. Did he?

  ‘‘Of course I do. I know you better than you know yourself. I’m a beast, remember? I have instincts that no mere man can match.’’

  He was mocking her—wasn’t he? He didn’t really have instincts, did he? Not those kind. Not the kind that would help him see into her soul.

  ‘‘Do you still love me now that you’ve seen what I am?’’

  ‘‘I don’t love you.’’ Did she still love him? She didn’t know. She knew only that his touch changed her from a frightened girl to a ready woman, that regardless of her fear and her exhaustion, her unwilling body wanted him. Now. ‘‘Are you going to kill me?’’

  ‘‘Kill you?’’ His golden eyes narrowed. The pupils shifted, and for a second, his eyes flared with red. ‘‘Yes. I’m going to kill you—over and over and over again.’’

  It was a threat her mind couldn’t comprehend . . . but her body knew perfectly well what he meant.

  She grabbed his wrists and twisted, trying to move him aside.

  Dumb. He outweighed her by eighty well-muscled pounds. She couldn’t budge him. But she couldn’t bear to kick him, either. Even now, she couldn’t hurt Jasha.

  ‘‘What are you thinking, Ann? Are you thinking that I could tear your throat out?’’ His hand slid inside the band of her minuscule panties. His finger slid between her folds, found her clitoris, and stroked with a leisurely, almost imperceptible touch.

  But the only person who’d ever touched her there was . . . herself, and each motion bit at her nerves like the strike of a snake. She forgot who she had been—she had no past, no future—and became the person who lived now, and only now.

  ‘‘Are you thinking of the cold earth against your back and the rain splattering your face?’’ He was crooning as if she were a wild bird he lured to its destruction.

  Each one of her senses widened, embracing the scent of the earth, the cold rain, the wilderness around them . . . the wildness in him.

  ‘‘Or is every fiber of your being concentrated between your legs? Are your nerves tightening as you wait for me to slide my finger inside you?’’

  He was reading her mind. He was taunting her. ‘‘Maybe just an inch. Maybe all the way in—’’

  ‘‘Stop laughing at me!’’

  He bared his teeth. They were not at all fanglike, but they were very white. ‘‘I have never been farther from laughter than I am at this moment. Look at me.’’

  She stared at his face, stark and fierce, with golden eyes that blazed in the dim light and, where she’d hit him, a scarlet patch of skin on his cheek.

  ‘‘No. I mean—look at me.’’

  With a shock, she realized what he wanted. She’d avoided running her gaze over the naked body crouched over her. And why? Fear of the wolf?

  Or fear of the man and what he would demand?

  She took a fortifying breath, then slid her gaze over his shoulders, so broad they blocked the rain, down his chest with its narrow band of dark, curling hair. The tattoo twisted down the length of his muscled arm, black and enigmatic.

  He had a bruise on his left pec, and in the middle of his chest a small, bloody puncture wound. It looked like an arrow had struck him or—no, not an arrow. The narrow heel of her stiletto.

  She chewed her lip. She should be pleased with herself. She’d got him good, and he’d deserved it.

  But she’d cried when Bambi’s mother died. She’d covered her eyes when she saw Ghostbusters. She was softhearted and a chicken, and she’d hurt Jasha, really hurt him. She touched the bloody mark with her fingertips, a quick, apologetic pat. ‘‘Sorry. You scared me and I, um . . .’’

  ‘‘You’ve got a good arm.’’ He impatiently brushed her apology away. ‘‘Now stop making excuses and look at me.’’

  She could feel the heat radiating from above her; it was the only thing that kept her from shivering as the wind howled through the rocks and lightning blistered the air. She looked down at his sculpted belly. . . . His erection was pale, deeply veined, and larger than . . . well, in the magazines, they just didn’t look that big.

  ‘‘Touch me.’’

  ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘Touch me.’’

  He was furious—with life, with nature, with her— and a smart woman would do as he ordered.

  But to touch his erection? When before she’d never had the nerve to do more than shake his hand?

  He must have read her refusal in her face, for the hand in her panties pressed hard, and his finger stroked a circle around the entrance to her vagina.

  The pleasure was so sudden, so intense, she found herself flattened, her arms stretched out to her sides, grasping handfuls of last year’s fallen leaves as if gravity’s law had been repealed and the earth threatened to throw her free.

  ‘‘Touch me,’’ he repeated.

  She looked at her hands, dusted them clean, then reached up and grasped his shoulders. The muscles in them shifted, as fascinating a sensation as
she could have imagined, and he took a breath as if to instruct her better. Then she dragged one hand down his chest.

  The hand between her legs was still. Perhaps to tease her with anticipation. Perhaps because the way she stroked his nipple, circled it, pinched it, made him lose the power of movement. As both his nipples tightened, she heard his breath rasp in his throat.

  So. She was not quite as helpless as she thought.

  Except that she was—now that she’d started touching him, she couldn’t stop. She loved the feeling of his warm skin, loved realizing that he might have chased her down, this not-quite-human man, but she held power over him as she didn’t touch him. Didn’t—

  He freed his hand from her panties, grasped her fingers, and wrapped them around his penis. ‘‘There,’’ he rasped. ‘‘Touch me.’’

  The heat he radiated originated here. She wanted to pull her hand away before he burned her with lust . . . but then he used her hand to stroke himself. His voice was gravelly as he said, ‘‘This is not a sign of laughter, Ann. That is a sign of arousal. You ran. I chased you down. You were frightened. Now . . . you’re not afraid.’’

  ‘‘Yes, I am,’’ she said quickly. She’d be stupid not to be afraid, and she was not stupid. She had run. He had chased her down. He intended to . . . to screw her here and now, and she knew without a doubt that no matter what argument she made or how loud she screamed, he would have her.

  Then he let go of her hand.

  She found she couldn’t—didn’t want to?—take it away and be righteously indignant. Instead, she used her thumb to find a silky bead of semen at the tip and spread it in a small circle.

  His breath hissed between his teeth, and for a second she feared she’d driven him to wolfish shape again.

  But no. He was still human.

  And his body was still fascinating.

  He leaned his head close and spoke softly into her ear. ‘‘Do you know that a wolf can smell arousal in a female?’’

  Snatching her hand away, she turned to stare into his eyes. ‘‘No, you can’t.’’

  He sniffed her hair, behind her ear. He laughed, a deep, husky, wolfish laugh. ‘‘I know your scent as well as I know my own. I know your moods. I know your cycle. I even know your cat.’’