Scent of Darkness

by Christina Dodd

‘‘A thousand years . . .’’ Konstantine leaned forward, oxygen tank at his side, IV in his arm, his gaze locked on the icon.

  Zorana tucked her hand into his. ‘‘It’s your salvation.’’

  ‘‘It is at least a beginning.’’ He drew a difficult breath. ‘‘It is the first miracle.’’

  Chapter 26

  Ann looked from Rurik to Firebird to Zorana to Konstantine. A single tear trickled down Zorana’s cheek. Firebird clasped her hands on the table and stared at the icon in awe. Rurik shook his head, over and over, as if he couldn’t believe the icon sat on the table, the gold sparkling dully, the Virgin’s red robes bright, the holy family surrounding her.

  Ann dared a glance at Jasha.

  He, too, watched his family, taking in their wonder. He smiled at her, and nodded as if in thanks.

  Perhaps he gave her the courage, or maybe it was the vodka, but she could no longer restrain her curiosity. ‘‘I understand that an icon of the Virgin is a miracle, and I understand that this icon, especially, is a miracle. But I don’t understand why this one is Konstantine’s salvation.’’

  The family looked from one to the other, knowing what she didn’t and silently deciding whether to tell her, how much to tell her. Perhaps . . . whether to trust her.

  All her life when she visited her friends’ families, she’d experienced that feeling of being left out, of being judged. No matter how much families liked her, they held a reserve between themselves and outsiders.

  She’d had it with that kind of bull. She was marked, for evil or for good, but no matter what, Jasha was right. The icon had chosen Ann, and Ann would not fail in her responsibility.

  Slowly she came to her feet. She pointed at the icon. ‘‘You know, I’ve spent days being filthy and exhausted, climbing up and down mountains, getting almost raped and killed by a vicious murderer, to protect the icon. I stuck with Jasha instead of running away screaming the way any normal woman would, and I would think that all of you would realize that I’m not some harbinger of doom. I’m a good, clean, trustworthy woman, and you Wilders owe me an explanation, and I want to hear it right—’’

  Shit. She was making a speech. Every single Wilder was staring at her. Especially Jasha, who knew very well how much she hated giving speeches. She especially hated giving speeches when the only possible ending was to lie down on the floor, drum her heels, and scream like a two-year-old.

  She’d definitely had too much to drink. She needed to get away. She needed to get away now.

  But before she could make an excuse and escape, Zorana said, ‘‘Pardon us, Ann, it is difficult to talk about that dreadful day. Yet you’re right. You do have the right to know.’’ She looked around at her family, then back at Ann. ‘‘On July fourth, I had a vision.’’

  ‘‘Oh,’’ Ann said in a small voice. She slid back down in her seat.

  ‘‘When I was born, among my people, I was hailed as the One—the One who would receive the visions that have guided us for so long. The tribe’s amulet was hung around my neck, and never did I take it off—until I left my people. Then I thought the gift was gone from me, and I put the amulet away. For thirty-five years, I saw nothing but that which is here—the earth, the sky, my children, my husband. But that night . . . that night the vision came, and it was powerful, sucking me into a darkness so black my soul was lost to me. I could see nothing, hear nothing. Then . . . a voice. I realized it was my own.’’ Zorana’s tone deepened. ‘‘I said—’’

  ‘‘Ma!’’ All four legs of Rurik’s chair smacked the floor. He grabbed her hand. ‘‘Don’t say it again!’’

  In exasperation, she shook him off. ‘‘I’m not going to have another vision! It isn’t words, but the unholy thing, that brought it.’’ She turned to Ann. ‘‘The unholy thing was a statue of my daughter.’’

  As if that explained everything.

  ‘‘What happened to the statue?’’ Jasha looked around as if expecting to see it on the counter.

  ‘‘I threw it in the garbage,’’ Firebird said.

  ‘‘You touched it?’’ Jasha didn’t bother to contain his horror.

  ‘‘I’m your younger sister, Jasha, and while being related to you might make some people think I’m an idiot, I am not.’’ Firebird’s eyes flashed. ‘‘I wrapped it in a towel before I tossed it.’’

  ‘‘She’s been a little touchy lately,’’ Rurik muttered loudly, and tilted his chair back on its hind legs.

  Firebird turned on him, her cheeks rosy with anger.

  ‘‘That’s enough,’’ Konstantine said.

  Although the color in Firebird’s face died slowly, the squabbling stopped as if cut by a knife.

  ‘‘Did anyone talk to the kid who made it?’’ Jasha asked.

  ‘‘No, because the next morning when River and Sharon Szarvas went looking for him, he was gone.’’ Firebird looked at Jasha.

  Jasha looked back.

  Their twin expressions of terror sent a chill up Ann’s spine.

  And Konstantine’s look of cold fury made her want to run screaming into the night. Even though he was handicapped by his illness, his ferocity frightened her. She was very, very glad he was on her side.

  ‘‘So.’’ Zorana leaned back, her hands in her lap, the picture of calm in a sea of violent emotions. ‘‘My vision.’’

  Everyone’s attention snapped back to her.

  ‘‘I predicted that each of my four sons must find one of the Varinski icons.’’

  ‘‘Four sons?’’ Ann said. ‘‘I thought there were only three.’’

  ‘‘I just have the visions, I don’t explain ’em.’’ Zorana spoke matter-of-factly. ‘‘I predicted their loves would bring the holy pieces home.’’

  Ann’s gaze leaped to Jasha.

  She was his love?

  He hadn’t told her about the prophecy. All the time they were in the woods, he’d known what his mother had seen, and he hadn’t told Ann.

  Now he watched her intensely, as if he wanted to convey something to her.

  Of course. He wanted her to realize that the vision was uncertain and that she shouldn’t take it seriously.

  Because obviously, he didn’t.

  Zorana continued. ‘‘A child will perform the impossible. The beloved of the family will be broken by treachery . . . and leap into the fire. The sons of Oleg Varinski have found us, for the blind can see.’’

  ‘‘What does that mean? ‘The blind can see’?’’ That made no sense to Ann.

  ‘‘Yeah, Ma, what?’’ Rurik’s voice held a firm tone that surprised Ann. Did an archaeologist really need to sound so commanding?

  ‘‘I don’t know. I just saw these two white eyes staring at me through the dark.’’ Zorana looked at Jasha. ‘‘But obviously, the sons of Oleg have found us.’’

  ‘‘Or at least me,’’ Jasha said.

  ‘‘Show your father your throat,’’ Zorana said.

  Jasha opened his collar wide and showed them the mark the Varinski had made.

  Konstantine examined it. ‘‘The mark of a demon-wolf. Did you kill him?’’

  ‘‘I did.’’ Jasha’s voice was grim.

  ‘‘Then you’ll heal, but slowly.’’ Konstantine bared his chest. The coarse gray hair was thick, except over the mass of white scars over his ribs. It looked as though, long ago, some beast had tried to rip out his heart.

  The overhead light was on, and the glow from the living room came through the wide doors.

  Yet the night breathed on the windowpanes, frosting them with fear, and on the edges of Ann’s consciousness, a pale, sad ghost floated.

  Ann pushed her glass forward.

  Jasha stood with the bottle and walked around the table, pouring another round. Then with a glance at her and one at his mother, he went to the windows and pulled the curtains shut.

  At once, the pressure in Ann’s chest eased.

  Zorana turned to Ann, spoke directly to Ann, as if she needed Ann to understand. ‘‘While in my vision, I said
that—’’ She stopped and breathed, as if she fought back tears. ‘‘I said that if we do not break the devil’s pact before Konstantine’s death, he’s going to hell and we will be forever separated.’’

  Ann saw the anguish in Zorana’s large brown eyes, saw that stern Rurik’s hand shook as he sipped his vodka.

  Zorana continued. ‘‘I said . . . I said Konstantine was dying. And then . . . then he fell . . . to the ground . . . in the dirt. . . . I tried to catch him, but I fell, too. . . .’’

  ‘‘Hush, ruyshka, don’t cry.’’ Konstantine caught her hand in his and squeezed it. ‘‘The doctors don’t know what they’re talking about.’’

  Zorana squeezed his hand back as she told Ann, ‘‘The doctors make their predictions, too. They say he has two, maybe three years before the end.’’

  Konstantine held up one finger. ‘‘They are all quacks!’’ But he looked wearier all the time.

  With a glance at him, Zorana hurried to finish her story. ‘‘So, Ann, to have you produce this icon and put it on the table! This is the greatest gift. Nothing in our lives is more precious.’’

  ‘‘Where should we keep it?’’ Firebird reached out to pick it up.

  Jasha swatted her hand away. ‘‘No! The Madonna burned me.’’ He showed Firebird the red place on his face and his outstretched hand.

  ‘‘Really, my son? Let me see,’’ Konstantine rumbled. Jasha stood and went to his father, and Konstantine surveyed the red patches. ‘‘Do they hurt?’’

  Rurik leaned in to see, then leaned his chair back again and grimly crossed his arms over his chest.

  ‘‘They’re like tiny coals under my skin, burning all the way down to my bones,’’ Jasha said.

  In Jasha’s face, Ann caught a brief glimpse of a beast who suffered.

  Had he really been in pain all the time? And he’d never said anything?

  She looked down at her palm, at the now-pale scar the arrowhead had inflicted. But hadn’t she had a feeling like Jasha’s? Not a burning so much as a heat that warned that demon blood slid through her veins? And since she’d witnessed the death of the Varinski, hadn’t she noticed, and determinedly ignored, an answering heat that blossomed from the mark on her back?

  ‘‘Pain is the price we pay for our gifts.’’ Konstantine affectionately squeezed Jasha’s chin.

  Firebird licked her fingertip, then dabbed the icon like a woman testing an iron.

  Nothing happened.

  She looked at her finger, then slowly wrapped her hand around the Virgin and picked her up. ‘‘It’s the Madonna and child. It is so beautiful.’’ Tears sprang to Firebird’s eyes and shimmered on her cheeks.

  ‘‘Yes. I love the colors. I love the scene.’’ Tears to match Firebird’s sprang to Ann’s eyes.

  Zorana extended her hand, palm up.

  ‘‘No.’’ Konstantine stopped her with a gesture.

  Jasha and Rurik tensed.

  ‘‘Konstantine, it’s all right.’’

  He looked at her, then dropped his hand and inclined his head.

  ‘‘The visions will come when they will. Trying to stop them will accomplish nothing except to leave us in darkness when we need the light.’’ Zorana looked at her sons. ‘‘Do you know why your father stole me from my tribe?’’

  ‘‘Because he was a horny old guy?’’ Rurik guessed.

  Even Konstantine laughed and nodded.

  ‘‘That, too,’’ Zorana said. ‘‘But he took me because he wanted to pass my gift on to his sons. And who knows? Perhaps I have.’’

  Rurik tipped his chair too far. His arms flailed, and he fell backward with a thump that shook the floor.

  It was Zorana’s turn to laugh.

  He stood up, red-faced, dusted off his seat, stood the chair up again, and sat down hard. ‘‘Ma, don’t joke like that.’’

  ‘‘She’s not joking,’’ Konstantine said.

  Ann glanced at Jasha, who mouthed, ‘‘Not me.’’

  Cautiously, Firebird placed the icon in Zorana’s palm.

  Zorana wrapped her fingers around the icon—and nothing happened.

  The men sighed in relief.

  But Ann had found the icon. She alone had held it, kept it safe. To have other people talk about it, handle it, made her jumpy, as if with each contact, she relinquished possession . . . and that felt wrong. For whatever reason, it was wrong.

  Zorana cradled the Madonna in the palm of her hand. ‘‘After I had the vision, I prepared the traditional place for the icons.’’ She pointed to the small corner draped in vibrant red velvet. ‘‘The krasny ugol.’’

  Jasha translated for Ann. ‘‘The red corner, or the beautiful corner. In Russia, red means beautiful.’’

  ‘‘Ma, we can’t put it there,’’ Firebird said. ‘‘Anyone who walks in could take the icon.’’

  Zorana tossed her head in exasperation. ‘‘Not yet! When the icons are united, then we will keep them in the krasny ugol.’’

  ‘‘For now, put the icon in a safety-deposit box,’’ Rurik said.

  ‘‘No.’’ Jasha spoke decisively. ‘‘The icon is Ann’s.’’

  Ann started to agree, but Rurik talked over the top of her. ‘‘That thing is a thousand years old! Ann doesn’t want to wander around with the icon in her pocket. The responsibility is too much. If nothing else, she could lose it as easily as Firebird loses her car keys.’’

  ‘‘Shut up, Rurik,’’ Firebird said.

  Rurik’s cool indignation forcibly reminded Ann of his profession. He was an archaeologist, and he couldn’t bear the thought that any one person should keep such an ancient relic.

  Yet he didn’t have the right to decide. Only she did. ‘‘I won’t lose it.’’

  ‘‘The icon was given to Ann.’’ Zorana cocked her head and examined Ann. ‘‘Isn’t that right?’’

  The kitchen got very quiet. Everyone waited on Ann’s answer.

  She looked to Jasha, who nodded encouragingly.

  ‘‘The tree . . . lightning struck the tree, and the tree crashed to the ground. It fell, and in the tree roots, I found the Blessed Virgin. She was looking for me.’’ Ann hated being the center of attention, but this was important. ‘‘She put herself into my keeping, and I won’t give her up.’’

  The Wilders scrutinized Ann, and for the first time she realized how dangerous they were. How dangerous they all were. The men changed when they wished, became beasts of prey with fangs and talons. Zorana and Firebird were strong women, alpha women, who would defend their family to the death.

  Ann had to do as much for the Madonna. She hated confrontation. But she had no choice. ‘‘I’ll keep the icon.’’

  Rurik came to his feet. ‘‘All right, I’ll concede that you found her.’’ He leaned his fists on the table and, with ice-cold logic, said, ‘‘But that doesn’t give you the right to keep her, no more than any discovery I make as I excavate this Celtic tomb gives me the right to keep it.’’

  ‘‘No, but this gives her the right.’’ Jasha also stood, stripped his shirt off his shoulder, and showed them the small white scar. ‘‘The Varinski shot me with an arrow. We didn’t know why. He could have wanted to poison me, or drug me so I would bend to his will. Ann didn’t hesitate. She cut me open and removed the arrow—and the tracking device that would have led them here.’’

  Jasha made her sound like a heroine. ‘‘I was scared,’’ she whispered.

  ‘‘She was scared to death,’’ Jasha agreed. ‘‘She’s not like us. She hasn’t been raised to face violence. She grew up in a Catholic orphanage. She’s an innocent. She’s been protected from the violence we understand so well. But she saved me. She saved all of us.’’ He stared Rurik down. ‘‘If she wishes to have it, the icon is hers.’’

  Zorana stood, the icon in her grip. She turned to Rurik.

  Ann scrambled to her feet. She didn’t know what Zorana would do: she knew only that she needed to be standing.

  Zorana said, ‘‘The icon is Ann’s.’�
��

  Rurik nodded, a stiff, swift nod.

  Zorana came around the table, placed the icon in Ann’s hand, then curled Ann’s fingers over it. Taking Ann’s cheeks in her hands, Zorana stood on tiptoe and kissed her forehead. ‘‘I am grateful. Thank you, and welcome to my family.’’

  Then the whole family stood, even Konstantine.

  One by one, they walked past Ann, and hugged her and kissed her forehead, all solemn and kind. Firebird, Rurik, Konstantine . . . Jasha.

  Jasha, who kissed her lips rather than her forehead.

  That night, as Ann lay in the upper bunk in Firebird’s bedroom, she began to comprehend what the icon meant to the Wilders, to their family, to the love that bound them together. Any one of them would die for the icon, for to them, it represented their father’s salvation.

  And Ann—Ann had gone from having no one who cared if she lived or died, to having five people vitally concerned about her safety and happiness. At last, after twenty-two years of loneliness, she had the family she’d always wanted. This was wonderful. This was the fulfillment of her dream—wasn’t it?

  Yet if they were responsible for her, then she was responsible for them.

  And what would happen if Ann, who took her responsibilities very seriously, failed them? What would happen to her then?

  Chapter 27

  Jasha watched his mother as she hustled around the kitchen, cleaning up the breakfast dishes. He also kept an eye on Ann, who sipped her coffee as if she hoped the caffeine would cure her hangover— or help her wake up from a nightmare that included a miraculous icon, a family of demons, and a deal with the devil.

  ‘‘What do you two want for supper?’’ To Ann, Zorana said, ‘‘We keep farmers’ hours, and have our big meal in early afternoon.’’

  ‘‘That’s great,’’ she said.

  He’d donated more of his clothes to her, but this time no camouflage. Instead she wore one of his blue dress shirts with the cuffs rolled up, and a pair of his jeans with one of Firebird’s belts cinched around the waist. And although the shirttails drooped over her fine ass, she still looked so cute he wanted nothing more than to take the clothes right back off.

  She put down her cup. ‘‘Is there anything I can do to help?’’