Into the Shadow (16 page)

Then the beast caught her in his claws. His fangs gashed her neck. And while she screamed, he ripped her to shreds on the pristine sidewalk of the Aqua Horizon Spa and Inn.

He moved with excruciating slowness. ‘‘It’s the venom.’’ The ceiling was low; he bent to avoid bumping his head. ‘‘I feel as if I’m one hundred years old.’’ He shot her a hard look. ‘‘Are you feeling any effects?’’

‘‘My fingertips are tingling as if they’ve got frostbite.’’

He took her hands, turned them palms up, examined the skin, took her fingers into the curl of his. ‘‘You’re doing really well.’’

‘‘I didn’t get much.’’

‘‘You saved my life.’’

The guy was running a fever, had probably lost an eye, could scarcely move, and he was worried about her. He was warming her. Physically. Emotionally. ‘‘So now we’re even,’’ she said. ‘‘No obligation on either side.’’

‘‘I saved your life. You saved mine.’’ He smiled. ‘‘But I tied you up. So for us to be even, you should tie me up.’’

‘‘I will.’’ She yanked her hands free. ‘‘And throw you off a cliff.’’

‘‘Uncharitable.’’ In a sudden paroxysm of chill, he shivered and paced away from her. ‘‘You may not have to.’’

‘‘I know,’’ she muttered, and rooted around in the cart until she found a pile of clean towels. She wrapped two around his shoulders for warmth. Used one to wipe the sweat off his face.

And slammed against the back door of the van as the driver put the gas pedal to the floor.

‘‘Varinskis.’’ Warlord stood immobile, braced with one hand on the ceiling and one on the side, and looked out the back windows.

Inching her way to her feet, she looked out, too.

A black Hummer H2 with dark-tinted windows swung in behind them and was gaining fast.

The private airfield was ten minutes from the hotel.

‘‘We’ll never make it,’’ she said.

Then the guy in the van’s passenger seat opened his door—at eighty miles an hour— leaned out, and dropped something on the road.

Karen watched a small ball roll, break open, and spread steel stars across the asphalt.

The Hummer drove over them. The tires blew. They swerved off the road.

Karen breathed a sigh of relief, started to turn back to Warlord—and the Hummer doors opened. A wolf sprang out. Another. Another. A peregrine falcon flew out and after them. And in an impressive show of sleek strength, a great panther leaped from the vehicle.

His body flowed as he ran. His spots glistened in the rising sun.

Her heart leaped with the horror of knowing . . . knowing the truth about these beasts, these things that came from the heart of evil, who would murder her, murder anyone who got in their way. ‘‘Who
are
these guys?’’

‘‘Varinskis,’’ one of the guys in the front said aloud.

She glanced at Warlord.

He was one of them.

She glanced behind them. The wolves were falling behind. They were just too slow to keep up. But they kept running, knowing they’d get there.

The panther ran ahead, looking almost leisurely in his pursuit, but his green eyes seemed to glow.

‘‘How much longer?’’ Warlord asked.

‘‘We’re almost there.’’

She saw him push aside the pain and the fever. Saw him gather his strength.

He flexed his knees, his arms. Coming to the back, he looked out. ‘‘Wolves. Bad choice. Their top speed is forty-five miles per hour. What else have they got?’’

‘‘A peregrine falcon.’’

‘‘Which dives at speeds of over one hundred miles per hour. These Varinskis aren’t all stupid. Someone in this part of the organization has brains. I wonder who?’’ He scrutinized the panther. ‘‘Innokenti. Of course. Wouldn’t you know he’d be a panther?’’ Taking a breath, he quietly said, ‘‘The bird’ll be on us before we can get on the plane.’’

She looked out on the runway. A Cessna Citation X sat on the runway, ready to go.

‘‘That’s yours?’’ She was impressed. Fastest small jet in the world.

‘‘Can you fly it?’’

‘‘Try to stop me.’’

He nodded. ‘‘The bird will go for me. Take your bags and get on that plane.’’

‘‘These guys are like you. A mixture of man and animal.’’ She ought to be over the shock by now.

She wasn’t.

‘‘Except they’re the bad guys and I’m the good guy.’’ Warlord sounded so calm, so reassuring.

The van screeched around the corner and into the airfield, throwing her into Warlord’s arms.

He held her, hard, for as long as it took them to clear the gate. ‘‘If I don’t get on the plane by the time you’re ready to go, shut the door and take off.’’

She could. She should. He was sending her away. She knew her way around the world better than most people did. She had money. She had his plane. He might not have faith in her, but she knew she could run from him and his freaky enemies, hide from them, keep the icon safe, and if she did that, she would never have to confront her passion for this . . . beast.

But the same stubborn
stupidity
that had made her go back in her cottage and save his life still held her in its grasp. ‘‘No.’’

‘‘They want the icon.’’

‘‘They can’t have it, so you’d better win this fight.’’

Blood flushed his cheeks. He visibly shook off the poison. He gazed at her with the old Warlord determination—how could he ever have fooled her?—and said, ‘‘You’re right.’’ As the driver slammed on the brakes, he held the door handle, and her. Before they’d come to a full stop he flung himself out. ‘‘Have the plane ready to go as soon as I’ve finished,’’ he shouted. He landed on the asphalt with the lithe grace of a . . . a panther.

She saw a blur streaking toward him from above.

The van fishtailed, stopped, and both guys leaned back and yelled, ‘‘Out! Get out! Get to the plane!’’

She grabbed her backpack and bag and went.

The van screeched away.

The small, beautiful blue and white personal jet sat waiting. She raced to the wheels and shoved the chocks aside, leaving the wheels free to roll. The stairs, part of the outer shell, hung there, open and inviting. She took the steps three at a time, got to the top, and turned in a tight whirl.

Below her, Warlord fought a slender man who handled a knife with deadly accuracy.

And out beyond the gate the wolves were loping along, their eyes fixed on Warlord, and glowing red.

‘‘Fine,’’ she muttered. She had her weapons, too.

She dumped her bags in the passenger seat and ran to the cockpit. She’d never flown one of these babies. Yet her father had trained her well. It took only a minute to familiarize herself with the controls. Then, with a grim smile, she began the preps for takeoff.

Battery—on. Fuel pumps, gangload—on. Right engine starter engage, rpm coming up. Ignition— on. Throttle around the horn.
She could feel the vibration of the engine spooling up and hear the whine somewhere behind her.

Left engine starter switch in hand, ready to activate
. . . As soon as Warlord was on board.

As she ran through the checklist, the tower radioed, ‘‘What the hell’s going on down there?’’

She grabbed the mike and put a note of panic in her voice. ‘‘They’re fighting with knives. Send the airport police!’’

Not that the police would do much good, but they’d provide a diversion, and she needed all the help she could get.

Behind her the engines purred, sweet and low. She moved the plane a few inches, feeling the way it handled.

The two men wrestled on the ground, and Warlord was visibly losing strength as they rolled.

The wolves were through the fence, all their attention focused on the battle.

The cops were running toward the fracas, their pistols in their hands.

Karen gunned the throttle and, with the engine screaming, headed for the wolves.

They hadn’t expected that. They looked up, saw her illuminated face through the windscreen, and kept running, playing chicken with an airplane because they thought that a woman wouldn’t really run over them.

Arrogant, egotistical, dumbshit thinking about this girl.

She swerved fast enough to mash one into wolfie roadkill.

The howls, composed of equal parts fury and anguish, reached her ears even over the sounds of the screaming engines.

She turned the plane again and chased one of the remaining wolves. It might be some supernatural being who changed from man to wolf and back again, but she was pretty sure she could make a dent in his ego with the wheels of her plane.

The wolf veered off toward the grassy edge of the runway.

She headed toward Warlord and the other, the falcon Varinski.

She’d made her point. The Varinski lost his concentration and watched her from the corners of his eyes.

Warlord gathered strength and, with a swift wrench of his hands, snapped the guy’s neck.

‘‘Yes!’’ She slowed and swerved, putting the steps close to Warlord. She heard a clatter of feet, looked and saw him pitch headfirst into the cabin, and yelled, ‘‘Secure the cabin!’’

Left starter—engage. Left throttle—advance.

Warlord looked up toward her, and as his will drained away his face became skeletal.

‘‘Get up and do it!’’ Because the wolves had disappeared from her view, and she knew that at least one of them was going to try to catch their plane.

Picking up the microphone, she transmitted, ‘‘Tower, November eight-seven-eight-seven-six, taxiing, ready to copy clearance.’’

Warlord heaved himself to his feet. He looked out and blanched paler than death.

‘‘There’s a pistol in the side pocket of my backpack,’’ she called.

He found it, pulled it out, and shot in one smooth movement.

She heard a yelp. ‘‘You killed him,’’ she yelled.

‘‘It takes more than that to kill a Varinski.’’ He pulled the steps up and sealed the plane; then, as she moved onto the runway and accelerated, he staggered up to the cockpit and heaved himself into the copilot seat.

The Cessna neared takeoff speed, and a man, a human, stepped onto the runway.

She recognized him.

She shouldn’t, but she did.

She’d seen him in a vision.

A face like a Neanderthal—wide jaw, heavy brow, and one cheekbone that had been broken and shoved up toward his eye. His earlobes hung low, each pierced by a three-eighths-inch countersunk bolt. He waded through the battle, throwing Warlord’s men aside as if they were toothpicks. He was massive, indifferent to pain, fast as lightning—

No. No! She couldn’t go into one of those trances now. She had to
focus
.

The Neanderthal stood with his massive hands on his hips, his eyes drilling into hers, silently commanding she stop.

The little Cessna accelerated like a slingshot dragster. She saw the mark on the airspeed indicator indicating single-engine speed as the airspeed needle flashed past it. Immediately she pulled the control wheel back slightly.

Airborne, gear up, flaps up, turn to departure heading.

Right before she hit the Neanderthal, he moved aside.

‘‘What was that?’’ she whispered.

‘‘My idea of hell.’’

"What are you doing?" the tower screamed at them. ‘‘You did not have takeoff clearance! Return to the field immediately! A violation has been filed!’’

Warlord reached down, flipped a switch, and the speaker went silent. Elevating the long middle finger of his clenched right fist, he rotated it with a flourish and pointed straight ahead.

‘‘What does that mean?’’ Karen asked.

Warlord grinned. ‘‘Screw them. I filed visual flight rules.’’

Karen grinned back. ‘‘Where are we going?’’

‘‘Turn the pointy end of this aerial vehicle to northwest. Three-three-zero should be about right.’’

As they arrived at a nice, safe, mountain-clearing altitude, she engaged the autopilot and turned to Warlord.

He looked like hell. A long cut on his chest oozed blood onto his crumpled two-hundred-dollar shirt, and his eyes were closed hard, the skin over them crusting over, as if he were trying to keep evil visions at bay. One fist rested over his heart, the other over his gut, and his legs were braced as if he were fighting a grim battle.

She was sorry, but she didn’t have time for sympathy. ‘‘What’s the plan here? You’re in bad shape, and to tell you the truth, I’m not feeling so good myself.’’

He stared at her through one dull green eye. ‘‘It’s the poison. Even a trace is toxic to someone like you.’’

‘‘I’m not dead, just feeling ill.’’

‘‘You also swallowed a few molecules of my blood, and that will fight the venom.’’

‘‘Why? What’s so special about your blood?’’
Other than the fact that it makes me see things you’ve seen, hear things you’ve heard, fall into your memories, your mind.

He grimaced and didn’t answer.

‘‘It’s because you’re one of them.’’ And that made her furious all over again. ‘‘You’re a . . . a Varinski.’’

His unwounded eye sprang open, and he glared fiercely. ‘‘No, I’m a Wilder. My name is Adrik Wilder. Remember that.’’

‘‘Why should I?’’

‘‘Because if I die of this, I want one person to remember my name.’’

‘‘You’re not going to die.’’ Not after all this, he wasn’t. She wouldn’t allow it.

‘‘No?’’ He groaned and moved his long legs as if the joints ached. ‘‘Go back in the cabin. Get in the right overhead. Get out my clothes.’’

She did as he commanded, and when she came back in he was naked, huddled on the seat, his formal wear crumpled on the floor beside him.

She sized him up with a single glance. His body looked longer, thinner than it had been in the Himalayas, and yet the muscles were sculpted. He had scars on his shoulders, pale and crisscrossed, and across his chest and down his arm, a vibrant tattoo, two thunderbolts of glorious red and gold.

Despite her fervent hopes while they were apart, his genitals were still intact.

‘‘When did you have time to get a tattoo?’’ She touched the thunderbolt lightly.

‘‘It’s not a tattoo. It’s the mark that came to each Wilder boy at puberty, the one that proves he’s part of the pact with the devil.’’ He winked. ‘‘It’s a swell gift to get along with a cracking voice, body hair, and inconveniently timed erections.’’

‘‘But you didn’t have it before.’’

‘‘I did, but as I grew more evil, the stain shriveled and became black.’’

‘‘Like your eyes.’’

‘‘Yes. Like my eyes. And as with my eyes, as I’ve stepped back into the light, the color has returned.’’ He shivered, and goose bumps spread over his skin.

She started to shove his arms into the black T-shirt, but when he leaned forward she caught a glimpse of his back. The crisscrossed scars covered him from his buttocks all the way up his spine and from shoulder to shoulder. Some were deep, cutting ridges through his skin. In outrage she asked, ‘‘What happened to you?’’

‘‘It doesn’t matter.’’ He took the T-shirt and pulled it on.

‘‘Doesn’t matter!’’ She pushed him into the black flannel shirt and wrapped him in the thigh-length camouflage coat. ‘‘How could that not matter? Someone beat you!’’

‘‘Doesn’t matter,’’ he repeated.

Kneeling at his feet, she fed his legs into long underwear and a pair of camouflage combat pants. ‘‘It was that Varinski, wasn’t it? The guy who defeated you in battle.’’

‘‘How do you know that?’’ he snapped.

So she was right. She had seen into his mind. Into his memories.

Every time she tasted his blood, their minds’ connection grew stronger. . . .

But he didn’t realize it, and she didn’t want to explain what she couldn’t comprehend herself. ‘‘Doesn’t matter,’’ she imitated him.

‘‘You are an aggravating woman.’’ He pulled up the pants, dug in the pocket, and found a piece of paper. He shoved it at her. ‘‘In an hour, call that number. You’ll get Jasha. Give him these coordinates and tell him Adrik needs him.’’

‘‘Who’s Jasha?’’

‘‘My brother.’’

‘‘Why don’t
you
call him?’’

‘‘There’s a pretty good chance he hates me.’’

‘‘You have that effect on people.’’

He caught her by the back of the neck, held her as he leaned down, and kissed her hard. ‘‘But not on you.’’

‘‘I do hate you,’’ she said automatically.

At least, she had hated him for two years, and for good reason. But no matter how hard she’d tried, she hadn’t forgotten him.

Now, as she stared at his face, so close to hers, as fever flashed through him, as his pupils narrowed and he shuddered in agony, she knew what he’d risked to rescue her.

Maybe she still hated him. She didn’t know. But death pumped through his veins—through her veins, also—and she would not let it take them.

They had unfinished business.

Warlord sat back, his face twisted. ‘‘Whether he hates me or not, there’s a pretty good chance Jasha will come.
If
he believes you.’’

‘‘I can’t wait to make
that
phone call.’’

‘‘I prefiled the flight plan with the FAA. We’re about to change it.’’

She remembered the guy on the runway. ‘‘Good idea.’’

‘‘Descend as low as you can comfortably fly and turn north, across the Great Basin.’’

She disengaged the autopilot and did as he directed.

He continued, ‘‘We’re headed for the Sierra Nevadas just south of Yosemite.’’

‘‘And then where?’’

His mouth set in grim lines. ‘‘That’s all.’’

‘‘What do you mean?’’ She wasn’t going to like the answer, she could tell.

‘‘We’re flying this baby right into the side of Acantilado Mountain.’’