He ran smoothly, a man trained to use as little energy as possible for physical endeavors.
Still, the bouncing made her sick, and she cried out, “John, this is foolish. Where are we going?”
“We’re going into the rasputye,” he said.
“What do you mean?” She lifted her head, got her elbows under her on his back. “How do we get into the rasputye?”
He stopped abruptly, leaned down, put her on her feet, and pointed up. “There. The doorway is up there.”
They were standing at the foot of the fourth of the Seven Devils, the immense stone formations that lifted themselves out of the forest to tower hundreds of feet in the air. Genny remembered what Lubochka had said about the legend surrounding these formations, but at the time Genny hadn’t understood. Now she looked straight up at the black-hued, shiny, jagged stone structures and said, “You’re kidding.”
“Climb.” John pushed her up to the rock and put her hands on the holds. “Climb!”
She’d never done any rock climbing at the gym. But she’d watched. There had always been ropes and safety harnesses involved. If she fell here . . . “Do you even know if this will work?”
“You mean, have I been into the rasputye before?”
“Yes!”
“No.” He lifted a finger. “But listen.”
She did. She heard shouting, dogs barking, and close at hand, someone thrashing through the brush.
“You can stay if you want. But the villagers are not going to spare you. If anything, they hate you more than they fear me.” His eyes were that bleached blue of anger. “But if you go up, I can follow you, catch you if you slip.”
I let my wife burn to death.
“Yes, but will you catch me?”
“You’ll have to find out.” He pushed her up toward the first handhold. “Now climb.”
She did.
As long as Genny lived, she would remember the look of the granite under her hands, streaked by nature and smoothed by time. Embedded in the black monolith were glittering vertical lines of gray, gold and brown crystal.
When they passed out of the forest, climbing above the trees, she was panting from exertion. Another ten minutes, and she couldn’t stand it anymore. She stopped, took a fortifying breath, and looked down. She could no longer see the ground—only the canopy of the forest waving at her as the wind passed over the treetops.
The higher they climbed, the more the wind blew, whistling eerily.
She looked up. This was the core of some long-vanished mountain, the tallest of them all—a monolith of mythic proportions that pierced the sky and sliced the clouds to shreds.
“Go on.” John showed his military training with his calm voice and steady hand on her back. “It’s not much farther.”
“Much farther where?” She looked up again. They were headed nowhere but up.
“You’ll see when we get there.”
They’d told her he was crazy, and had she believed them? Nooo. Now she had let him push her up a rock in the middle of the Ural Mountains toward some otherworldly place that didn’t exist.
What would happen when they got to the top? Would he want them to jump like star-crossed lovers to their deaths? Or would he simply kill her as he had killed his wife?
She stopped. Closed her eyes.
He hadn’t done it, had he? He’d been trying to frighten her . . .
And done a good job of it. Fear welled up in her. “I don’t want to go any farther.”
“You’ve got no choice. Look down.”
She heard a shout from below, and opened her eyes and saw Brandon climbing up out of the forest, his gaze fixed on them.
She had feared, suspected, denied that John was crazy.
Now, seeing Brandon’s wild eyes and the way he waved a pistol, she knew what real madness looked like.
With a gasp of terror, she started climbing as fast as she could.
But they had no cover here. He could kill them if he chose.
“It’s all right.” John climbed with her, slightly below and to the left. “He’d have to be a crack shot to hit us at this distance with that pistol.”
True to his prediction, the sound of a shot rang out. Genny ducked as rock chips showered onto them. Another shot. Another. She didn’t understand where they were going; she only knew every upward effort depleted her energy while each bullet increased her need to hurry. One shot hit to the right of them. One hit below. The others landed somewhere, she didn’t know where. She only knew she flinched with each report. But she and John were untouched.
Brandon shouted, infuriated by his failure and by their lead, and he climbed faster, better than she could.
Genny tried to speed up. But her palms were sweating, and when she hurried, her foot slipped; her heart stopped.
John sounded so composed. “Don’t rush. We’re going to make it.”
She didn’t dare not believe him.
Yet every time she glanced up, the rock structure seemed to grow taller—and nowhere did she see a way to escape. The slow, steady conviction that she was facing death grew in her.
She didn’t want to die. And she couldn’t stand knowing John believed the worst of her. “You have to listen to me.”
“No, I don’t.” His voice cooled.
“Please, John, I didn’t do anything so terribly wrong.” She jumped when he put his hand on her bottom.
He steadied her. “Do you see that shelf off to the right?”
She did. Cut into the rock, or maybe part of the natural formation, was a five-foot-wide, twenty-foot-long space with a flat floor, three open sides, and the thrust of rock up on one side.
“Get up on it,” John instructed. “Quickly. Brandon has almost caught us.”
She scooted to the side until she could pull herself up onto her stomach. “You’re bigger than he is.”
“Are you sure he used all his bullets?”
Of course she wasn’t sure.
“You have to remember to count,” John said. “Our biggest problem is that one of the Others got to him. He’s on drugs. Or demon possessed. Or both.” He shoved her hard.
She crawled all the way onto the splintered, glassy surface, scooted out of the way, and offered her hand to him.
He reached for it.
Below them, Brandon shouted in triumph.
John jerked, then suddenly slid down and out of sight.
Genny screamed. She heard a smack that sounded like John’s foot against a soft surface.
Brandon groaned.
John appeared again, his face grim. “Back up. Against the rock.” This time he was halfway onto the shelf when Brandon again grabbed his foot and yanked.
John kicked.
Genny sprang forward, caught John’s arm, and helped drag him onto the flat surface.
“Get back!” John shouted at her. Then Brandon proved John’s intuition was right.
Brandon leaped so lightly onto the rock, his eyes glittering with malice and fearless disregard for danger. He was clearly drugged. Bending his head down, he shrieked with fury and charged at John.
With the grace of a bullfighter, John stepped aside and let him pass, then ran after him and shoved.
Like a loose-limbed clown, Brandon tumbled over the edge.
Genny gasped and listened, expecting to hear the yell of a dead man. Instead, she heard an oomph, as if Brandon had had the breath knocked out of him, and silence.
She stared at John, eyes wide.
John glanced over the edge. Shook his head. “He fell about two stories. Didn’t even knock him out. He’s on his way back up. Genny, darling, come here. We’ve only got a couple of minutes alone.” He held out his arms.
Like an idiot, she sighed in relief.
He had forgiven her, maybe even believed her.
She rushed to him, prepared for his embrace.
He took her by the shoulders, whirled her in a smooth dance step toward the side where the rock dropped straight down. Down, all the way t
o the ground.
“John, what are you doing?” She glanced over John’s shoulder, saw Brandon climbing onto the shelf, red eyed and furious, his gaze fixed on John’s back. “Look out!”
“I can take care of Brandon,” John assured her. “And don’t worry—I’m not going to kill you. But I’m not finished with you yet.”
Picking her up, he dropped her over the edge.
Chapter 34
With a thump, Genny landed on the soft, thick grass and lay there, mouth agape, trying to contain the scream she hadn’t had the chance to release.
Am I dead?She had to be. She didn’t recall falling, but she certainly recalled John dropping her off the edge of the tallest Devil. She recalled the look on his face, angry and vengeful. She recalled the terror . . . but she couldn’t remember the sensation of falling.
She should have hit branches on her way down. She looked around. She was on the ground. Where was the forest? Where were the farmers with pitchforks and that one vengeful innkeeper rallying the villagers to murder?
The sky sparkled blue and iridescent. The trees were old and warped, with flowers growing in glorious profusion around their roots. Here all was peaceful . . . but it didn’t look like anyone’s version of heaven or hell.
My God. Where am I?
Close at hand, she heard water trickling. She turned her head to see a small, brilliantly clear brook burbling over smooth, crystalline rocks . . . rocks that looked like they had fallen off the Seven Devils.
The middle Devil. The doorway—to the rasputye.
Sitting up, she looked toward the horizons. To the east and west, the horizon looked as if it had been tucked into the earth. To the north and south, the sky went on forever.
The truth hit her.
She’d seen this place before, in the vision John had shared with her of his mother.
Genny was in the rasputye, in the crossroads.
John had thrown her off that rock.
Did he truly hate her?
Yes.
Yet fool that she was, she couldn’t believe he had let his wife burn to death.
She tried to, but she didn’t.
She had to believe in the John Powell he had shown her, a man so dedicated to the life of the forest that the rare Ural lynx allowed him to know the location of her den and gave him permission to hold her kittens. Genny had to believe the big cat instinctively knew what kind of man John was . . . and she had to believe in her own instincts, too.
She loved the man.
She covered her face with her hands.
Why had she fallen in love with a man whose life had been so stained with pain and betrayals?
She could have loved any number of civilized, driven businessmen, but for her, it had to be John. Right from the moment she had seen his photo, she’d been interested. Then the time they’d spent together, the conversations they had shared—that had been a seduction all of its own. And the sex!
She flopped back on the grass.
The sex had been pure fantasy.
What had come after, when he discovered that picture, was more nightmare.
So Genny loved the man.
But he had the right to his rage.
She sat up again.
She had to get out of here. She had to get away now, before he made the jump into the crossroads and came searching for her.
Because he would. John and Brandon were probably fighting right now, but Brandon didn’t stand a chance against John.
All too soon, John would appear in the rasputye. And he’d be after her.
Getting to her feet, she tested her shaky knees, then started running south.
John landed on his feet like a cat. A single glance proved what he already knew. The grass was soft, thick, and an impossibly bright spring green. The sky was sparkling blue, and shaped like an arch that reached the ground to the east and west, then went on forever to the north and south.
He had always known the rasputye was here. He had seen it in his vision. He could feel it, a magnet to his soul.But now he knew the ancients were telling the truth. The doorway was off the edge of the middle Devil.
He was in the rasputye; and for at least a little while, it would provide a refuge from his wreck of a life.
He studied the faint footprints in the grass.
More important, Genny was in the rasputye. Genny, who had convinced him that she was all that was good and decent. That he was wrong to live alone in despair.
He should have known she was a liar.
Bending to study her footprints, he knew she had taken off in a panicked run.
Yes. Smart girl. She had been afraid of him.
Genny had gone south.
He followed.
He had revenge to exact.
Chapter 35
The landscape looked almost normal. A little too bright, too colorful, too pristine, yet there were forests, and rivers, rocks and plants—all parts of the real world.
But as Genny ran and gasped and panted, then finally slowed to walk, the landscape still rolled by too quickly, almost as if she were on a Disney ride. That bothered her . . . but not as much as the vast emptiness of the land.The wind blew, the water ran, but there were no animals, no birds, no people. No sign of any living being.
Had she hit her head when she landed? Was she hallucinating? Again she wondered if she was dead.
Then as she climbed a hill for a look around, she heard a sound behind her. She turned to look.
One living being stalked across the landscape—John.
He was big. He was handsome. He was angry. His gaze was fixed on her.
Her heart leaped into her throat. Blood thundered in her veins.
Oh, she was very much alive, because irrepressible fear sent her into a sprint down the hill toward the gloriously clear pool and the wide, thundering waterfall that filled it. As she ran, she unlaced her leather boots, pulled them off, stashed them behind a pile of boulders. Her clothes had to go, too—the material was sturdy, heavy, made not to swim in but to protect her skin from bugs and thorns. She stripped off her shirt and pants, flung them into the oozing warm mud at the side of the pool, and stomped them in. They were hidden. Thank God, they were invisible. And if she could get in that water and behind that waterfall, she would also be hidden.
She glanced behind her.
John hadn’t yet appeared over the crest of the hill.
Dashing to the rocky lip beside the waterfall, she dove in.
The water enveloped her, balmy and clear. So very clear. She could see everything: the sandy bottom bubbling with warm springs that fed the pool; the plants waving among the rocks that rimmed the pool. She swam beneath the splash and boil of the falls, desperately seeking its concealment, and surfaced in the shallow rock grotto.
Pushing her sopping hair out of her eyes, she looked around. She stood on a gravelly shelf, waist deep in the warm water. Smooth black boulders protruded from the water. A pale blue light flickered on her and on the stones. Tiny springs dribbled off the rock, and when Genny tested them with her hand, they were comfortably, marvelously warm. The falls rumbled in front of her, providing a curtain that divided her from the world. From John.
He couldn’t see her here. She was safe.
Yet her racing heart didn’t believe it.
If he topped the hill at the right moment, he could have seen her swimming in that pristine water.
She inhaled in short, frightened breaths, and kept her gaze fixed on the falls, expecting at any second to see him part the water like Poseidon and tower over her—which was why, when his hands grabbed her ankles and pulled her under, she went without a fight.
He dragged her under the waterfall, out from beneath its roiling din, then let her go.
She fought her way to the surface. As she gasped a breath, she glanced around for him.
He swam on the bottom of the pool, circling beneath her; his expression feral, primal, furious.
She dove away with a silent scream of fear.
<
br /> He followed, naked, strong, efficient in the water. He grabbed her hips.
She shoved against him, frantic to get away.
He easily let her go. Too easily.
As she broke the surface, she realized why. He’d used her momentum to strip off her panties. She was naked, almost, except for her bra and whatever she could cover with her hands.
Looking down into the clear water, she saw him swim to the bottom of the pool . . . and drop her panties on one of the waving fronds.
Like an evil-tempered shark, he looked up at her, savagely satisfied with his actions—and his view.
She shouldn’t swim. She shouldn’t kick. She shouldn’t show him more of herself than he could already see, which from that angle was . . . everything.
She knew, logically, she had no chance of escape. She knew, by looking at him, at the way his body clenched, at the erection forming, that her flight would only trigger his need to pursue.
But when he started toward her, logic counted for nothing.
Panic drove her, and she dashed toward shore. He swam behind her—she knew he did. She was almost there . . . her feet touched the sand . . .
He grabbed her, dragged her under the surface, walked his hands up her calves, up her thighs, up her bottom, up her back.
She kicked back at him. She slammed one foot into his thigh, one into his shin, tried to kick higher, to do real damage.
He paid no attention, handling her as if she were a play toy. He unsnapped her bra. Twirled her in the water. Grabbed her sensible white C-cups, pulled them off her arms . . . slowly, willfully dropped the bra to the bottom of the pool to join her panties.
She hated him. She hated that deliberate demonstration of superior strength, hated the ice blue of his eyes, the heated sleekness of his body. She hated that he taunted her with her helplessness, hated that he wouldn’t believe her when she explained.
She hated that he made her want him so badly, she ached like she had the flu.
They came up face-to-face, body-to-body, treading water on the other side of the falls.
He was wet and seething and . . . hard. Very hard.