Scent of Darkness (6 page)

But Jasha wasn't bad. He couldn't be. She couldn't stand that.

Yet ... yet here she was. She'd finally worked up the nerve to chase her dreams only to find he had become her worst nightmare, and she was stuck in the house with him. It.

Jasha.

Think.

Her keys were on the end table by the door.

He hadn't noticed her yet.

If she could get from the stairs to her keys, she could open the door and race to her car ahead of him. She could drive off, and for once she wouldn't care about the speed limit.

He hadn't noticed her yet.

She would drive as if her life depended on escape—and it did.

Five steps from the bottom.

He hadn't noticed her yet.

She'd go back to her apartment, grab Kresley, and run as far away as possible. She would never look back. Never.

But first she had to get her keys. Open the door. Start her car ...

And just like in her nightmares, the thing in the great room lifted its head and sniffed. Its head turned slowly in her direction. It looked at her.

Almost human. That thing was almost human. Except that deep in its golden eyes, a red glow burned. ''Ann.” Its deep voice sounded rough, as if it had a cold. It looked human again.

It looked like Jasha, the man she loved.

Her gaze fixed on the small, dark red smear at the corner of his mouth.

Blood.

He walked toward her. Naked. He was as glorious naked as she had always dreamed, and now she didn't dare take the time to check and see if the rumors were true.

Because he had blood on his face.

Blood.

"You little fool,” he said, "what are you doing here?"

She screamed and with all her might, she flung first one heavy-soled shoe, then the other.

He dodged the first one. The second caught him squarely in the chest. The stiletto heel smacked his breastbone. She heard him grunt. Saw him stagger back, and blood spurt.

She ran. Ran so hard she skidded into the door. She grabbed the keys. Her sweaty palms slid on the doorknob.

Any second now and he'd have her.

The heavy door swung toward her. The wind swept through the door, taking her breath. She ran onto the porch.

Behind her, she heard a growl. In terror, she glanced back—and saw it.

The transformation was reversing.

Inexorably, Jasha was becoming the wolf once more.

Fangs . . . and claws . . . and an intelligent, vengeful, red-rimmed gaze fixed on
her.

Using every ounce of courage she possessed, she ran back, grabbed the door, and slammed it shut.

Let Mr. Wolf Man daw his way through
that.

As she sprinted toward the car, she sorted through the keys. The windblown rain slapped her in the face, dear-ing her brain___What good did a dear brain do her?

Everything she believed in—everything she knew as true—was vanquished by the reality of that
thing
in the house.

Jasha.

The Miata's lights flashed as she unlocked the door with the remote. She slid into the seat and scraped her knee on the steering column. She knew it must hurt She just couldn't feel it. Not now. Not yet. She didn't have time.

She slammed the door. Glanced at the house. Tried to get the key in the ignition. Tried again.

Her hand was shaking too hard to make the connection.

She glanced at the house again—and saw the wolf leap through the sidelight beside the front door. The glorious, expensive, leaded glass sprayed outward as his sleek body arched through, head outstretched, teeth bared.

Magically, her hand steadied and the key slid into the ignition. She started the car; she'd never heard a sound as wonderful as that of her engine turning over.

She put her foot to the floor. The car leaped forward and she whipped around the circle drive with the verve and expertise of a driver in the Grand Prix.

Rain sluiced down the windshield. She fumbled with the wipers, got them on ... in the intermittent mode. As the wipers slid unhurriedly across the windshield, she cursed the new car, the unfamiliar controls, the desire that had brought her here.

She should have known better. She was an orphan, abandoned and alone, marked by evil, rejected by the Almighty. Sister Mary Magdalene had urged her to accept her fate and live her life alone, but Ann had rebelled.

Now she swore she'd thank God if she lived at all—especially since she hadn't even put on her seat belt.

Then she glanced into the rearview mirror.

The wolf raced across the grass after the car.

To hell with the seat belt.

He couldn't catch her. She knew it was impossible. Wolves couldn't move as fast as a car.

But men didn't turn into wolves, either. Maybe Jasha was a freaking Transformer. Maybe he was going to turn into a giant mechanized robot and stomp on her and her car.

She bent her attention to the road, driving faster than she had ever driven in her life.

The wind buffeted the tiny Miata. Lightning flashed and thunder cracked. Her hair dripped into her eyes. Her hands slipped on the steering wheel, from the rain, from fear-induced sweat. She squinted through the blurry windshield, taking the winding curves too fast, seeing the ocean cliffs flash past as she cleared the forest, then, as she turned inland again, the trees loom above her. Soon she would skirt the cliffs again. She needed to concentrate, to remember the route she'd driven only once. ...

And without warning, the road rose, then dipped, then rose. The car was airborne.
She
was airborne. With a jaw-snapping impact, the wheels hit the asphalt. The air bag exploded in her face, smothering her in white for one vital moment.

As it subsided, she desperately clawed it out of the way. Then she could see. The car was headed straight—but the road curved. Curved to the left, and ahead she saw nothing but rain and clouds and the edge of the cliff.

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 dosed her eyes.

Taking care not to suddenly shift her weight, she grasped the handle and opened the door. AH 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.