Scent of Darkness

by Christina Dodd

  ‘‘Very impressive. No man has ever told that lie for his own gain.’’

  Wow. A cynical nun. In exasperation, he asked, ‘‘How do you expect me to prove my good intentions over the phone?’’

  ‘‘Proving your good character will be enough. Tell me, Mr. Wilder, what did you see when you saw the mark?’’

  ‘‘I saw a rose in bloom with a snake coiled around it.’’

  ‘‘And?’’

  ‘‘And . . .’’ He felt stupid admitting what he’d seen. He felt as incredulous as Ann must have felt when she’d seen a wolf turn into a man. ‘‘And the snake opened its eyes and looked at me, then closed them again.’’

  ‘‘That’s all?’’

  ‘‘Isn’t that enough?’’

  ‘‘It is.’’

  He’d passed a test. He didn’t know what test it could be, but he’d passed.

  ‘‘Did Ann tell you what I do?’’ Sister Mary Magdalene asked.

  ‘‘You’re a nun? You’re a teacher?’’ He groped for more.

  ‘‘I’m now the mother superior of this convent, and administration and prayer takes up my time, so I’ve given up teaching.’’

  Clearly, she was proud of her promotion.

  ‘‘But when I taught, I taught history and church doctrine, not only because the task of guiding children is a rewarding one, but because history is my passion.’’ The tone of her voice changed, became more intense. ‘‘Specifically, the study of the eternal struggle between good and evil.’’

  He cast his mind back to school. ‘‘I don’t remember reading about that in the history books.’’

  ‘‘I didn’t teach the children the stories I know. If they realized how closely the battle raged to their own front doors, and how evenly matched the odds, it would scare them half to death.’’

  ‘‘Yes.’’ In the background, he heard the rising noise of children’s voices. Class must have just let out. ‘‘I suppose it would.’’

  ‘‘I don’t know if she told you, but Ann was found in a Dumpster.’’

  ‘‘She did tell me.’’

  ‘‘Then she trusts you quite a lot.’’ Sister Mary Magdalene took a breath. ‘‘Dumping a baby isn’t unusual in this part of Los Angeles. Not unusual anywhere, really. The difference was that she had been premature, she’d been in there for days, and the wino who found her was so frightened of her he wouldn’t touch her. He told the other street people about her, and the mark on her back.’’ She shut a door, and the sound of children died away. ‘‘He said it was the mark of a witch.’’

  ‘‘That’s the mark of a witch?’’

  Sister Mary Magdalene’s voice developed a teacher’s intonation. ‘‘No, actually, a third nipple is a mark of a witch. Ann does not have one.’’

  He almost agreed, but caught himself in time.

  ‘‘As was wont, word got to me about the find. I went down to get her. Actually, I thought to pick up a tiny corpse, because this was during one of our rare cold snaps, and babies don’t survive without heat. When I got to that alley . . .’’ Sister Mary Magdalene’s voice wobbled in remembered disquiet.

  He found himself leaning forward in his chair. ‘‘Steady, Sister.’’

  ‘‘A bag lady, one of our schizophrenics and a woman dear to me, had rescued the baby, wrapped her in a newspaper, and taken her to the community fire to keep her warm. As I walked into that alley, a beggar I had never seen before was attempting to take Ann.’’ Jasha could almost see Sister Mary Magdalene clench her fists. ‘‘The beggar and Mary were playing tug of war with the baby, while Mary screeched that he wanted the baby for a sacrifice. Before I rescued her, they’d dislocated both her shoulders and the newspaper had caught fire.’’

  In his mind’s eye, Jasha could see the scene—the screaming baby, the shrieking woman, the nun parting the chaos like Moses parting the Red Sea.

  ‘‘The man didn’t fight me for the child. Instead he performed a rather hasty disappearing act. We put out the fire, I called the ambulance, and I thanked Mary.’’

  ‘‘Tell me where she is now, and I’ll thank her more.’’ He tapped his pen on the desk.

  ‘‘She didn’t survive. Within a week, she was found with her neck broken.’’

  He stopped tapping. ‘‘My God.’’

  ‘‘Precisely, Mr. Wilder. When I unwrapped the baby, I saw what all the fuss was about. There to the right of her spine was a tightly closed rosebud surrounded by a small, coiled snake.’’

  ‘‘A rosebud? But it’s—’’

  ‘‘In bloom. I know. As Ann grew, her birthmark changed.’’

  Jasha leaned back his chair and covered his eyes with his hand. To hear this story while the sun shone so strongly seemed obscene. This story should be told at night at a teenage girls’ slumber party right before they watched Night of the Living Dead. It was not a story to be told about Ann with her sweet mouth and her wide, blue eyes and the way she looked at him as if he were a hero . . . or she had, until that day in Washington when he’d claimed to love her.

  She’d said he was lying, that his love was nothing more than expediency.

  As always, she’d seen the truth.

  He’d been willing to settle for fabulous sex and a great relationship.

  But she wanted more. She wanted it all.

  ‘‘I knew she was a special child, but it took me years to discover what the mark meant.’’ Sister Mary Magdalene’s voice turned tart as she anticipated his questions. ‘‘And no, I can’t do most of my research on the Internet. The church doesn’t put its ancient texts on the Internet. And no, I couldn’t travel to view the texts because I wouldn’t leave Ann alone.’’

  ‘‘What could happen to her in a convent?’’

  ‘‘I didn’t keep her isolated, Mr. Wilder. She attended school with the other children, went to play at their houses, joined the Camp Fire Girls and the swim team. But I didn’t tell anyone about her birthmark—a secret is only a secret when it’s kept by one—so I couldn’t trust anyone to make sure that Ann was kept safe.’’

  ‘‘Right.’’ A whole different picture of Ann’s early life was emerging. Sister Mary Magdalene wasn’t the ogre he’d imagined, but a holy woman doing the best she could in extraordinary circumstances.

  ‘‘My first clue as to the meaning of the mark came when she was three. We had a worker in the nursery, a young woman, a former drug addict we employed to help with the children. I sent her to bathe Ann, and from the bathroom I heard a shriek of terror. She ran out, babbling that the snake had struck at her.’’

  ‘‘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 Kraków, 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 you’ve 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 insp
ected 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 CANTU 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.