‘‘Yes, but he saved my life.’’
‘‘Again,’’ Warlord interjected.
‘‘You took your payment last time,’’ Karen snapped.
‘‘So in return you’re saving his life?’’ Dika looked him up and down. ‘‘Handsome devil. I can see why you might.’’
‘‘You told me to trust my instincts. In this case, my instincts tell me to get him out of here without anyone seeing. Fast.’’ Karen waited, wondering if Dika would mock her.
Instead, the soft, smiling maid was gone, replaced by a hard-faced, determined, and intelligent woman. ‘‘Right. Give me five minutes. I’ll be back.’’ She left.
Karen pulled two water bottles out of the refrigerator and started to hand him one.
He shook in a hard burst, and gave off a flash of fever so hot she felt it where she stood.
For the first time she took a breath, and realized how inadequate she was to this task. She didn’t know anything more than basic first aid. She wasn’t capable of fighting demons who turned into beasts. She placed the bottle against his neck, hoping to cool him, and said, ‘‘I’m a normal, sensible woman who is good at planning chocolate buffets and dealing with flower arrangement emergencies. How am I going to help you now?’’
‘‘Sensible, yes.’’ He took the bottle, opened the cap, and drank. ‘‘But you are anything but normal. You can build a hotel, beat up a man, survive a trek through the Himalayas. Right now I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have at my side.’’
She didn’t want his tribute—but it touched her heart. ‘‘Drink it all,’’ she said tartly. ‘‘It’ll flush the venom through.’’
As he drank, he was grinning, and he reminded her of someone. Someone she liked.
Oh, yeah. He reminded her of Rick Wilder.
‘‘I’ve got survival gear on the plane,’’ he said. ‘‘With the stuff you’ve got in your backpack, we’ll be okay.’’
‘‘Did you go through everything I own?’’ She drank, too, grimly aware that she had also taken in a few fatal drops of the poison . . . and a few frightening drops of his blood.
‘‘Right after your little conversation on the patio.’’ He nodded toward her sliding door.
She jerked the bottle away, spilling water down her front. ‘‘Dika? You heard us?’’ He’d heard every word she’d said? About him? About her? About her fears?
Even now, sick as he was, he watched her, smiling. ‘‘Dika was very helpful. If she hadn’t convinced you to stay, I would have had to take stern measures.’’
‘‘Damn you to hell. I should walk out right now and leave you to the vultures.’’
Taking her wrist, he kissed it. ‘‘It’s too late for that. Even if I die from this—and I may— somehow I would come back for you.’’
‘‘Shit kicker.’’ She paced from one window to another and twitched the curtains aside to look out.
What was wrong with her that his confession both flattered and compelled her? Why, of all the men in the world, was she in thrall to Warlord?
Dika hurried toward Karen’s cottage, pushing her housekeeping cart ahead of her.
A year ago, when Karen found employment at Aqua Horizon Spa and Inn, Dika had arrived from her people with a mission—to make sure Karen Sonnet remained safe and the prophecy could be fulfilled.
Now the Varinskis had struck suddenly, viciously, and Dika had to get Karen and Wilder out.
She rapped on the door, and in her perfect maid’s voice she sang out, ‘‘I’ll clean up that spilled wine now, Miss Karen.’’
‘‘Come in, Dika; we appreciate your doing this.’’ Karen sounded as pleasant as Dika. The bright girl completely understood the reason for subterfuge.
Dika closed the door behind her and locked it. She opened the side of the cart and said to Wilder, ‘‘Get in.’’
Wilder nodded and stood slowly, moving as if his joints ached.
Karen saw his disability and cursed color-fully, in a variety of languages.
So. The girl might not like him, but she couldn’t stand to see him in pain.
Wrapping her arm around his waist, Karen helped him fold himself up and in. Dika loaded Karen’s bags on top of him, closed it up, and Dika and Karen and their hidden passenger headed out the door.
Karen helped Dika push—Wilder weighed a ton, and the wheels sank into the gravel paths—and they chatted lightly as they walked, for all intents and purposes two women who worked at the spa and were friends.
Yet Dika’s skin crawled. They were out there, the Varinskis, moving in for the kill. . . .
Dika, Karen, and Wilder reached the parking lot without incident.
Karen looked at the brightly lit entrance of the Aqua Horizon Spa and Inn, then at the white laundry van as it pulled up. She looked down at her hands as she clenched them into fists over and over. She faced the danger, and she feared the trial.
Dika couldn’t help her with her fear, but she could help her take the next step down the road.
Two men jumped out and lifted the cart into the back of the van.
‘‘These are my people, the Rom, my tribe. They will get you to the airfield.’’ Dika placed her hand flat on Karen’s head. ‘‘Blessings, luck, and strength be with you.’’
Karen hugged her, jumped in, and waved as they peeled across the asphalt and into the darkness.
Dika turned back toward safety. Toward the brightly lit entrance to the lobby.
Yet as she walked, the sense of being watched grew. She slid her knife from up her sleeve. She glanced behind her. Strained to listen. Her steps got shorter and faster. She almost reached the doors—and someone stepped out of the bushes. Or, rather, something.
Pointed ears spouted from the top of its head. Fur covered its neck and cheeks, yet its nose and eyes and body were definitely human.
He was what the Rom feared—the new and evil Varinski curse, a being who straddled the line between predator and human.
‘‘You shouldn’t have done that.’’ He spoke slowly, as if words were hard for him.
Dika’s only safety was inside. She stepped sideways. ‘‘Excuse me, please.’’ She tried to go around.
He moved in front of her, half grinning. ‘‘I said you shouldn’t have done that.’’
‘‘I need to go in.’’
‘‘We’re going to get them anyway . . . and now I’m going to get you.’’ He sprang at her, fangs bared.
With a swift slash of her knife she cut his face.
He howled in agony.
She darted toward the entrance.
As the automatic doors opened, she shrieked with all the force of her lungs.
She saw the bell captain look up in horror. Saw the manager on duty start around the check-in desk.
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.
Chapter Twenty-three
As the van sped down the road and dawn tinged the sky with the purest, lightest blue, Karen opened the cart and helped Warlord climb out.
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 m
e 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.