Triumph gleamed in its eyes—but only for a second.
Warlord finished the change. Grabbing the cobra by the back of the neck, he jerked it free and slammed it against the wall. The skull cracked. The snake fell, dead at last.
And Warlord was completely human.
Too late.
She lunged toward him. ‘‘Are you all right?’’
He fended her off with one hand. ‘‘Don’t!’’
‘‘Let me get an antivenom kit.’’ She reached for the phone.
‘‘It wouldn’t help with this venom. You have to go. Now.’’
‘‘You could die!’’
‘‘Unlikely,’’ he snapped. He held his leg in both hands. One eye was swollen shut. The skin over the other was scoured red and covered with dirt, as if he’d violently rubbed the venom off. ‘‘They’re after the icon.’’
Nothing he could have said would have commanded her attention like that single word. ‘‘What icon?’’
‘‘The icon of the Madonna. The one you found in Nepal.’’ When she still pretended ignorance, he said impatiently, ‘‘You’ve got it packed in your bag with your mother’s picture. ’’
‘‘How do you know what I—’’ He’d searched her room.
This was Warlord, all right. And Warlord was a panther.
She had guarded that icon, kept it secret, never told anyone about the child’s body, and her eyes, and the way they had looked into Karen’s . . . and only one man had ever seen the icon.
This man. ‘‘You told them I had it.’’
‘‘No. I did not.’’
‘‘Right.’’ Her ire rose. ‘‘Because you’re the bastion of honor. How do you know that’s what they want?’’
‘‘I spied on them. I heard them. I came here to warn you.’’
Remembering the last few days, she said, ‘‘You took your own sweet time about issuing the warning.’’
‘‘I don’t know how they found you so quickly.’’ He lifted his arms, then dropped them. ‘‘But you don’t need to repeat my mistakes. Listen to me. Get dressed.’’
She looked down at her crumpled black dress. ‘‘All right.’’ She headed into the closet, stripped off her dress, and dropped it on the floor.
‘‘My plane is waiting at the airport,’’ he called. ‘‘You can fly, right?’’
‘‘You know every other thing about me. Don’t you know that?’’ She pulled out her stack of tough clothes, the kind she had worn when she was building hotels.
‘‘Your pilot’s license is up-to-date.’’
He really did know everything about her.
‘‘I’ll call and tell them to get it ready to go. I’ve filed a flight plan for California.’’
‘‘What’s in California?’’ She dressed so swiftly, she pulled her black T-shirt on inside out. She didn’t take the time to correct it.
‘‘My brother. He owns Wilder Winery. Smart guy. Powerful. He can protect you. When you get to the airport, search the plane. Make sure you haven’t got any extra baggage in the form of another Varinski.’’
She walked out wearing jeans and a heavy belt, her inside-out black T-shirt, her hiking boots, and a light jacket—and, beneath the long sleeves, her gold bracelets.
She couldn’t bear to leave them behind.
‘‘What’s a Varinski?’’ she asked.
He nodded toward the snake. ‘‘That’s a Varinski.’’
She shuddered, grabbed the comforter off her bed, and flung it over the long, twisted body.
Warlord continued, ‘‘I’ll call my brother. When you land at Napa County Airport, he’ll take care of everything.’’
‘‘Like I would trust your brother?’’
‘‘You have to trust someone sometime, Karen Sonnet.’’ Sweat broke out all over Warlord’s body, and he shuddered and grimaced in pain. ‘‘You’ve got no choice. Now go.’’
She knew how to walk away without a backward glance. Once before, she’d walked away from him. She’d walked away from her father.
Now she grabbed her bag and her backpack, strode to the door, opened it wide, stepped through, and quietly shut it behind her.
Chapter Twenty-one
Warlord watched Karen disappear out of his life.
Good for her. He was glad she took the Varinski threat seriously. He was glad she was willing to do anything to protect the icon.
He deserved this, to die alone, half-blind, and in agony.
But . . . after all that had happened, he didn’t want to bite it here on the floor of her cottage. She needed him to survive.
He needed to know that she did survive. She was his light in this world, and she had to go on.
Thin threads of agony shot through every nerve in his body, and he breathed slow, deep breaths until he’d vanquished the pain.
During that year he’d spent in hell, he’d learned to control his pain. In fact, he’d learned a lot. He’d learned to survive eternal darkness and stifling heat, a lack of air and constant beatings. More important, he’d learned patience, he’d learned to plan, he’d learned self-discipline.
Self-discipline. The one thing his father had yammered at him to learn, and Warlord finally had it. Except when it came to Karen.
He’d planned this whole operation: Get close to her, alleviate her fears, seduce her, show her that he was a different man, then gently explain the danger that stalked her and get her the hell out of there and to his parents.
Only one thing had thwarted him.
Karen. Karen, with her professional distance and her pink toenails and her wary courtesy. Karen, with her black dress and her upswept hair that bared the nape of her neck and her willingness to sleep with Rick Wilder while she wore Warlord’s bracelets around her wrists. Karen, and her one moment of high-octane, head-on, passionate kissing—right before she knocked his dick in the dirt.
She was the only woman who had ever managed to hit him, and she’d done it twice.
He wasn’t bragging about it. But that said a lot for the way she affected him.
The cobra, that stupid fucking cobra, had spit poison at him, bitten him, and filled him with death. The Varinskis’ pact with the devil was falling apart, and they would do anything— sabotage, torture, murder—to prevent that from happening. Warlord was passing into the next world. And all he could think about was Karen and how much he wished he could have loved her once more.
So, dumbshit that he was, he would do everything in his power to live. He had to struggle. He had to fight. He wouldn’t simply lie down and die.
He set his sights on the pair of his dress trousers crumpled on the floor eight feet away from him—the trousers he’d shed when he’d thought, incorrectly, that he was going to get lucky tonight. Keeping his breath even and his blood pressure down, he slowly pulled himself along the floor until he touched the cuff of one leg. He pulled it toward him, crumpling the material until he could reach into the pocket and pull out the switchblade he kept there.
With the touch of a button the short, sharp blade sprang out. It glinted in the light, his savior if anything could save him. He twisted around, trying to see the puncture points where the snake had bitten him. He couldn’t; the fangs had pierced him in the upper thigh on the back of the leg. Nevertheless, he’d give a poke and see if he could spill the venom out, along with a lot of blood. What had he to lose? He flexed his wrists and prepared to blindly operate—when Karen opened the door and walked back in.
She was gorgeous. He wanted her. So he said the only thing that made sense: ‘‘Get the hell out of here.’’
‘‘Don’t tell me what to do.’’ She lifted both of her bags as high as she could, dropped them, and slammed the door with her foot. ‘‘Give me that stupid knife.’’
‘‘You have to leave.’’
She marched over and extended her hand, and her eyes sparkled with outrage. ‘‘I’ll leave when you can leave with me. Now, are we going to get this done before another of your stupid, slimy friends pops
out of the woodwork, or are you going to loll around on the floor and whimper?’’
She was furious with herself for returning. And the fact that she had returned warmed his heart and strengthened his resolve.
He would live.
‘‘When you put it that way . . .’’ He handed her the knife, handle first, and hoped she wasn’t mad enough to take the opportunity to stick it in his heart.
She rolled him onto his stomach. ‘‘Gonna sting,’’ she said.
‘‘Already stings.’’ He could feel the venom dissolving the cells, the threads, the strength of his muscles in his leg.
With two sure strokes she sliced his skin and into his muscle.
The pain made him arch in agony.
Blood spurted and ran down his leg.
‘‘Did I hurt you?’’ she asked.
‘‘Yes.’’
‘‘Good.’’ She reached up to the end table beside the bed and flipped on a reading light. ‘‘Remember what the venom looks like?’’
‘‘Thick, silvery, beads together like mercury.’’ When it hit his cheek and eye it had burned like acid, ripping his skin and . . . well. He could do nothing about his eye. No use thinking about it now. But he’d been able to shake the venom off onto the floor, and outside he’d rubbed his face in the flower bed. If anything had saved his vision, that had, but he could still feel the remaining molecules eating away at his skin. . . .
‘‘The poison is nestled in there, clinging to the strands of your muscles. So roll back onto your side.’’ Karen gave him a shove.
He did as he was told. ‘‘Why are you doing this?’’
‘‘Because I’m sick of worrying about you and when you’re going to pop up again.’’
‘‘So you’re going to take care of me so I don’t surprise you anymore?’’
‘‘Also, I need help living through the night, and you’re my best bet.’’
‘‘Not in this shape.’’
‘‘Shut. Up.’’ She used the tip of his knife to push first one drop of poison, then the other out onto the floor.
They rolled and beaded like mercury.
‘‘Not good,’’ she muttered.
‘‘Because?’’
‘‘They left a silvery coating along the strands of your muscles. Stay here.’’ She ran for the bathroom. He could hear her slamming through the drawers.
Karen made him feel almost . . . hopeful.
She came back with a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, rolls of gauze and first-aid tape, and a bottle of Listerine.
He didn’t even want to know what she intended to do with the Listerine.
‘‘I haven’t got a snakebite kit. Or a suction cup. So we’ll try this.’’ She knelt at his side. She tilted him onto his stomach and poured the hydrogen peroxide into the wound.
It hurt like a son of a bitch.
She tilted him back and let it drain out.
‘‘No change. The silver’s still hanging in there. Let’s try it again.’’ She did, and all the while she talked to him, trying to keep him focused.
He knew it. He appreciated it. But she was getting increasingly frantic, and finally he gasped, ‘‘I’m no good to you. Go on now. Remember, my plane. My brother—’’
She rolled him onto his stomach. ‘‘I know perfectly well how to walk away.’’ She sounded livid that he dared suggest she didn’t.
Thank God. If he pissed her off enough, she’d do her disappearing act and maybe save herself and the icon and his family.
Instead, in the most courageous act he’d ever witnessed in his life—and the stupidest—she stuck her knee in his back, put her mouth to the bite, and sucked the poison out of his wound.
Chapter Twenty-two
Karen spit the blood and venom onto the floor.
Warlord knocked her off, shoved her away.
Dimly she heard him shout, ‘‘Are you crazy?’’
The poison hit her first, ripping into her senses like acid.
Then she tasted his blood, and—
The Varinski wore a helmet and a Kevlar vest. His earlobes hung low, each pierced by a three-eighths -inch countersunk bolt. He had a knife in a holster strapped to his side, and steel covered his knuckles. His arms were muscled and massive, and he had a face like a Neanderthal—wide jaw, heavy brow, and one cheekbone that had been broken and shoved up toward his eye. He waded through the battle, throwing Warlord’s men aside as if they were toothpicks. He was massive, indifferent to pain, fast as lightning . . . and his gaze was fixed on Warlord.
A fight to the death. Warlord deserved this.
He rushed to meet him.
They met in a clash of cruelty.
Warlord slashed at the Varinski, ripping him with tooth and claw, but this was no ordinary demon. This guy had a flair for killing. He didn’t bother with his knife or his pistol, but pounded on Warlord with his metal-clad fists, taking pieces of flesh with each blow.
Warlord slashed with his knife, ripping the Varinski’s neck, his legs, his face, but the Varinski shook it off and kept coming. He moved quickly, used his hands as well as his fists, showed the kind of technique only a self-defense master should know.
Warlord panted, his breath heaving in his lungs. He was losing. For the first time since he was a boy with his brothers he was losing a fight. Quickly, he weighed the options. If he changed, became a panther, perhaps he could escape, but . . . his men were overwhelmed, wounded, dead, or prisoners.
No. He would stay with them. He would get them out.
The Varinski circled him; then, at a shout from the field, he looked away.
Warlord made a lunge for the Varinski’s belly— and one mighty fist slammed him in the chest.
Warlord blacked out, woke to find himself flying through the air, blacked out again as he bounced down the cliff . . . and hit the rocks.
The brisk, antiseptic taste of Listerine splashed in Karen’s mouth. She sputtered and spit, shoved Warlord’s hand and the bottle away. ‘‘Son of a bitch!’’
Warlord held her in his lap. He shook her shoulders. ‘‘Are you all right? Do you know how potent that poison is? Are you crazy?’’
‘‘Yes. Yes. Yes.’’ Launching herself out of his arms, she ran to the bathroom. Her stomach heaved, and she tossed her cookies in the toilet. She hung there for a moment, her mind whirling as she tried to think, to comprehend what was happening to her.
Bracing herself, she rose and went to the sink, leaned against it, and looked into her own haunted eyes.
She’d tasted his blood . . . and been transported. It had happened before, in his tent in the Himalayas, but only briefly.
This time she’d seen, smelled, felt that dream, that vision. She’d lived in his skin, and what had occurred had been her nightmare. She’d bounced down a cliff and hit the rocks, and suffered horrible internal injuries. She should have . . . no, he should have died a slow, painful death.
He hadn’t.
She shivered.
But he had suffered. She knew that now. He had suffered in a myriad of horrible ways. Yet he had survived to save her life, and if she didn’t move, didn’t push her own shock aside and deal with the situation now, he would die on her floor. Even Warlord deserved better than that.
That snake man out there wasn’t the only one of those things. They had to escape.
She splashed cold water on her face, brushed her teeth, and went out.
Warlord was on his feet. He had managed to wrestle his way into his trousers, and now he fought with the fastenings.
‘‘First let me look at the bite again.’’
‘‘It’s fine.’’ His complexion was gray; his pupils were pinpoints.
‘‘I can see that.’’ A little more gently, she pushed at him. ‘‘Let me look. It needs to be bandaged. You’re dripping blood on the floor.’’ She pointed at the pool by his feet.
‘‘I suppose. Just don’t touch it again.’’ He lowered his pants.
She wiped the wound clean with the gau
ze. ‘‘The blood’s washed it out. I can’t see any more of the venom.’’ She pressed another gauze pad over the bite, taped it in place, and glanced up at his white-knuckled grip on the bedpost. ‘‘You have to fight whatever’s in your system.’’
He looked down at her. Red, painful blisters spotted his cheek, one eye was sealed shut, and a fine sheen of sweat covered his forehead. Yet the hand he reached out to her was steady, and he stroked her cheek as if she were the one who needed reassurance. ‘‘Don’t worry. I’ll hang in there long enough to get you onto the plane and to safety.’’
‘‘I didn’t mean . . .’’ But she’d told him she was saving him because he was her best bet for safety.
Did he believe that?
Did she?
He tugged up his pants.
She helped him with the zipper and the belt, then pushed him into a chair and shone her reading light on his face.
Carefully she cleaned the dirt out of the wounds. ‘‘This one eye should be okay. How about the other one? Can you open it?’’
‘‘No. But the eyeball didn’t take a direct hit. There’s a chance I’ll retain my sight.’’
He was so calm. So sure of himself.
He continued, ‘‘I called ahead. They’re getting the plane ready. We have to get to the airfield and head toward the mountains.’’
‘‘I’ll order a car.’’ She started to lift the phone, then paused. Hotels had operators, and phone conversations were not always private.
She paged Dika, then helped him on with his shoes and socks.
A soft knock sounded on the door. She looked through the peephole.
It was the maid. She was smiling, nodding. ‘‘Miss Karen,’’ she called. ‘‘I brought the bottle of wine you requested.’’ She held up a bottle for Karen, and anyone else who was watching, to see.
Karen let her in.
As Dika took in the mess—the scattered DVDs, the smooth, jewel-colored tail of the snake protruding from beneath the comforter, the man in the chair—her smile disappeared. ‘‘What happened?’’
‘‘We were attacked.’’
Dika lifted her chin at Warlord. ‘‘Is this the man you were afraid of?’’