Warlord was going to make it. He would be okay now.
But she . . . she was in trouble.
Beneath her, Innokenti’s massive body bucked like a maddened bull. He choked. He gagged. He gasped for air.
But his Varinski blood was pure.
Inexorably he rose. He reached over his head. As she rode his shoulders, he grabbed her thighs, lifted her high, and flung her as hard as he could.
As Warlord landed, feet on the battlefield, he heard a cry of pain.
A Varinski fell from the top of the cliff and splattered on the rocks. Up above, his brothers were fighting, and winning at least one victory.
He glanced back toward Karen, but she was gone. Innokenti stood, flexing his fists, looking dazed and chagrined.
Warlord had never imagined a woman could fight like that, like an Amazon, tackling Innokenti from such a height. He’d bet Innokenti had never imagined it, either.
She had just kicked Innokenti’s ass.
Now somehow she’d freed herself and fled.
Smart girl. Smart Karen.
Warlord’s arm was broken, the bone shattered by Innokenti’s bullet.
So what? Now it was his turn to fight.
He faced a charging cougar.
The cougar bowled him over, straddled him—and while Warlord was on the bottom, he cut out the cougar’s heart with his knife.
While the creature became human, while it twitched, while the last of its blood drained away, he called, ‘‘Innokenti.’’
The big bastard insolently looked him over, noting the blade and the blood. ‘‘Little man, this time I will kill you.’’
‘‘You should have done it when you had me in chains.’’ Warlord leaped at Innokenti, and as he did he changed. The sleek black panther struck Innokenti full in the chest, knocking him backward, landing with all his weight.
Innokenti began his change, transforming himself into a panther, large, strong, sleek, spotted.
But he wasn’t quick enough. While he was caught in the stage between man and big cat, Warlord ripped out his eye with one swipe of his claws.
For Magnus.
Innokenti shrieked with rage and agony.
Now the battle was even; Warlord’s arm was shattered, but Innokenti was blind on one side.
Warlord struck again, aiming at his throat.
Innokenti jerked back, but barely in time.
His sharp white teeth snapped at Warlord’s chest.
Warlord lowered his head and smashed it into the bleeding wound that was Innokenti’s face.
Innokenti shrieked again, and clawed at Warlord’s ear.
Warlord felt the pull, heard the flesh rip, knew it hurt . . . but he didn’t feel it. He didn’t feel the pain of his arm. He knew only one thing.
Innokenti did feel the pain. Innokenti was stunned by his wounds. Innokenti had never suffered defeat of any kind . . . and this glimpse scared and crippled him.
Warlord attacked, and attacked again.
Innokenti whirled and roared, ripping at Warlord’s arms, his belly. But Innokenti was on the defensive, always on the defensive.
Blood coated the ground beneath them, the smell of it inciting Warlord’s fighting instinct. Over and over he took pieces of meat off the giant cat that was Innokenti.
Then . . . the moment he’d been waiting for.
Weakened and in pain, for one betraying second Innokenti lost his panther form. He became a man.
And Warlord ripped his throat out.
For Karen.
He gave a roar of triumph. He burned with glory. He was a panther. He was mighty. He had defeated Innokenti. He had won.
He looked around for other battles to fight.
There were no more.
There should have been celebration, yet it was silent. So silent.
The Varinskis were fleeing, limping, crawling into the trees.
He spotted his brothers, both of them. They were alive. They’d made it down the cliff and stood at the base, looking down at one of the bodies.
Jackson Sonnet—Warlord recognized him from his picture on the Internet—stood there, too, scratched and covered with blood, apparently hale and hearty, but frozen in place.
No one was talking. No one was moving. This wasn’t right.
He walked toward them. He glimpsed the slight, still figure crumpled against the cliff.
Not a Varinski. That was not a Varinski.
No. Oh, no.
Triumph turned to ashes.
Warlord ran, and as he ran he changed. He was human once more. Blood covered him— Innokenti’s, his own—but true to his heritage, he was already healing.
When Warlord reached Karen, Jasha caught his shoulder. ‘‘Careful. He threw her against the rocks. She’s hurt. She’s so—’’
Warlord struggled free. He flung himself on his knees in the snow beside her.
She was alive. She was still alive. But . . .
‘‘No.’’ He ran his hands lightly over her face.
Her complexion was ashen, her lips blue. She struggled to breathe. Yet at the sight of him she smiled a glorious smile. ‘‘You . . . killed him.’’ Her voice was a whisper.
‘‘Yes. Karen . . .’’ She had suffered internal injuries. Horrible internal injuries. He didn’t dare move her.
‘‘Trusted . . . you. Knew . . . you would.’’ She lifted her hand.
Good. She wasn’t paralyzed. That was a good sign.
He took her hand. Cold. Not a good sign. ‘‘Give me a blanket,’’ he said fiercely. ‘‘Something to warm her with.’’
Jackson handed him his coat.
Warlord tucked it around her.
She examined him anxiously. ‘‘You’re hurt.’’
‘‘Not badly.’’ The bones in his arm shot pain through his shoulder. The skin around his ear oozed. But compared to her wounds . . . ‘‘Karen, you’ve got to fight.’’
‘‘Did.’’ She closed her amazing aquamarine eyes. Opened them. ‘‘We won.’’
Pain blossomed in him, grew, choked him.
‘‘Won . . . because . . . we knew each other’s . . . secrets. You knew my . . . fears. I knew . . . you were part . . . part of a deal with the . . . devil.’’ She fought for every word. ‘‘With your blood in me . . . I am, too.’’
‘‘Stop talking. You’ve got to save your breath.’’ He was frantic, sick with anguish.
He wanted to gather her into his arms.
No. No, he shouldn’t, because moving her might make her internal injuries bleed more. Might jar her spine and paralyze her.
She had to live. Oh, God, she had to live.
‘‘No. Now’s the time . . . for talk.’’ She smiled again, but her lips were trembling. ‘‘I’ve thought . . . about it. Will . . . definitely . . . marry you.’’
She was slipping away, and he could do nothing. ‘‘Then you have to stay.’’
‘‘Next . . . time.’’ She smiled at him. ‘‘I love you.’’
He stared into her eyes. ‘‘I love you, too. That’s why we’re meant to be together. Karen . . ."
But she was dead.
Chapter Thirty-three
"Karen!" Warlord shook her, desperate to bring her back. "Karen!"
Dimly, he was aware of his brothers’ hands on his shoulders.
He shrugged them away, and gathered her into his arms. He shouldn’t have let her lie in the snow. She was cold. Already cold. ‘‘Listen to me,’’ he said to her. ‘‘You said it yourself. We’re joined. I’m in your mind. You’re in mine. We can’t be separated. Karen. Come back to me.’’
He listened for a response. Listened for her to speak in his mind. In his heart.
He heard only silence.
No. This couldn’t be happening. She could not be dead. They were meant to be together. All the time he’d been imprisoned in the mine, he had imagined their future. Believed in their future. To think of Karen, her vital inner light extinguished . . . it was impossible. This was impossible.
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Yet . . . she was without breath, without heartbeat, limp in his arms and drifting away from him. He could feel it. Every minute, she moved further away, into eternity.
He leaned close to her ear. ‘‘If you can’t come back, take me with you.’’
Her hand dropped away, limp and lifeless.
‘‘I’m going with you. Please.’’ A thought struck him. He dug in Karen’s pocket, found the picture of her mother. He brought it out and placed it on her chest. He found the icon. It blistered his hand, reminding him of what he was. A demon, one of the devil’s servants. He held it clasped in his palm, wanting the pain to purify him . . . knowing that was impossible.
He placed the icon beside the picture and pleaded with Karen’s mother, a pretty blonde, with the dark-haired, sad-eyed Madonna. ‘‘Please. You both love her. And she loves you. She protected you both. Bring her back. Or take me. I beg you.’’
‘‘Adrik, for the love of God . . .’’ Jasha sounded hoarse, choked.
Warlord ignored him. ‘‘Please, Mary, I know what I am. I know what I’ve done. I’m not worthy to . . . touch you. Or Karen. But I love her so much, and she loves me. She really does. Don’t separate us forever. I beg . . .’’ He struggled to speak through the lump in his throat. ‘‘Talk to Karen’s mother. She wouldn’t want her daughter to be alone. She would want me to be with her. You’re both mothers. Please . . .’’ Tears trickled down his cheeks, hot and salty. Not out of fear, as they had in the mine. Not for himself. But for Karen, beautiful, vibrant, courageous. His voice shook. ‘‘She pulled me back from the brink of hell. She sacrificed her life for me.’’
Only silence answered him. She was gone. Really gone. He couldn’t feel her in his mind. All he had were memories and a cold, still body in his arms.
A sob broke from him like the wail of a wounded animal. His tears fell—on Karen, on the icon, on the photograph. He sobbed again and again, crying with such grief he thought he would die.
But the Madonna had made the answer clear. He had to live. Live until he helped break the pact.
‘‘All right,’’ he whispered fiercely. ‘‘I will do what needs to be done. I’ll fight the battles to defeat the devil, and when he’s vanquished, I’ll live the rest of my life as a virtuous man. Every day, I will repent for the sins I’ve comitted.’’ As he gave his oath, he cradled Karen and clenched his fist until the cords stood out in his wrists. ‘‘I will live every day with one goal in mind—that I must be as good a man as any man can be, so that when I die, I can see Karen again, I can be with Karen again. I swear. I swear.’’
The wind whispered through the pines and lifted his hair. The frigid air bit at his bare flesh, and the cold earth dug into his knees. A snowflake drifted past his gaze and nestled on Karen’s marble skin.
Nature wept with him.
But somewhere, someone heard his vow.
‘‘I love you, Karen Sonnet,’’ he whispered, hugging her, wanting to absorb her into his bones. ‘‘I will always love you.’’
He heard a huge, gasping sob behind him. Jackson, the poor son of a bitch, was crying.
Rurik knelt beside Adrik and clasped his hand. ‘‘I know you don’t care, but you’re bleeding, and we’ve got to do something about your arm.’’
Warlord stared at him blankly, then down at Karen. His tears had mixed with his blood and his sweat, and one pink-tinged drop rolled slowly away from the corner of her eye. It looked as if she were crying, and tenderly he brushed it away.
Her eyes fluttered.
Rurik jumped backward.
Jackson’s sob broke in the middle.
Jasha said, ‘‘Did you see . . . ?’’
Against his body Warlord felt her take a breath. He didn’t dare move. Didn’t dare speak.
She took another. And another. Her lips, her skin slowly flushed with color. Her eyes fluttered again.
He couldn’t look away.
Her eyes opened. She looked right at him. ‘‘I heard you calling me.’’ She took another slow, careful breath. ‘‘You brought me back.’’
Chapter Thirty-four
Washington state
Ten days later
Baby on her shoulder, Zorana Wilder walked back and forth in the kitchen of her Craftsman-style home, making dinner for her stubborn, opinionated husband, who, after thirty-six years of marriage, didn’t trust her to know what was good for him. He tried to stand by himself when she should help him. He grumbled about eating his vegetables. He tried to drink vodka when he should be taking his medications. The big ox. The big, stupid, horribly ill ox.
She whisked away her tears. He also worried when she cried, so she wept in the kitchen into her soup pot rather than on him in his wheelchair, with his tubes and his oxygen and his drugs and all the thousands of things needed to keep his tired, wounded heart beating.
She heard a car drive up the road.
Firebird said they were miles away from civilization.
Zorana laughed at her daughter and told her she didn’t know what she was talking about. When Zorana was a girl, traveling with her Romany tribe throughout the Ukraine, there had been days and roads where they saw only broken farmhouses and broken men. Here, the Cascade Mountains were all around, covered by primal forest, Douglas firs, and hemlocks so tall they protected Zorana’s family from the ferocious storms off the Pacific. In their little valley they grew vegetables and fruit and wine grapes. Here they were protected from bleak weather.
Zorana made sure of it.
The nearest town, Blythe, was twenty miles away, and Seattle was only a few hours away. So this home was the best of civilization.
Her friends and family knew where to find her at this hour, and sure enough, the car she’d heard drove around to the back, and in a few moments someone tapped, then opened the door.
Her daughters-in-law stuck their heads in. ‘‘Hi, Mama,’’ they said in unison.
They were pretty women.
Jasha’s wife, Ann, was twenty-four, blue-eyed, slender, and six feet tall. She dwarfed Zorana, who at five-foot-one looked up to everyone in the family while bossing them around—for their own good, of course.
Rurik’s wife, Tasya, was the opposite of quiet Ann. She was a former photojournalist who traveled the world taking pictures of war, of poverty, of troubles that could land her in prison or worse. Her dark, curly hair and bright blue eyes snapped with life. Now she was writing her fiction book, and Rurik no longer worried quite so much.
‘‘Mama, you shouldn’t carry Aleksandr. He’s too big for you.’’ Ann took the warm, limp weight that was Firebird’s son and Zorana’s only grandchild.
‘‘I know.’’ Zorana rolled her tired shoulders, then kissed the girls, one after the other. ‘‘He is like my boys. Too tall for his age, sturdy and strong. And stubborn. When Firebird is in Seattle he doesn’t sleep well.’’
‘‘Mama’s boy,’’ Ann murmured to the sleeping child.
No one said the obvious—he had no choice but to be a mama’s boy. His father was a mystery. Firebird had returned pregnant from college, and to her brothers’ fury she had refused to name her lover. In the two and a half years since, she’d never wavered; she would not allow the man, whoever he was, to know about Aleksandr.
Firebird was like her brothers. Like her father. Stubborn. Too stubborn.
‘‘Where is Firebird?’’ Tasya lingered by the window, looking out.
‘‘She’s in Seattle, having those tests done.’’ Bitterly, Zorana said, ‘‘You know which ones. The doctors are trying to discover what is wrong with Konstantine by checking his children. They think it’s genetics. They would be better asking Satan what evil he’s worked.’’
‘‘I don’t think the doctors are that well connected. ’’ Tasya’s cheek quirked.
‘‘Only some of them,’’ Zorana snapped.
‘‘How is Konstantine?’’ Ann asked.
‘‘It would be easier if I could carry him around as I do Aleksandr. His feet would drag
on the ground, but at least then he could sleep when the pain gets too much. . . .’’ Zorana studied the girls, the way they looked everywhere but at her, the way they glanced out the window. ‘‘What’s wrong?’’
‘‘Mama.’’ Tasya came forward and put her arm around Zorana. ‘‘We have found the third icon.’’
Zorana froze. The pain that was never far away swamped her. ‘‘Adrik’s icon?’’
‘‘Yes.’’ Ann came to join them.
‘‘He had a . . . love?’’ Without thinking, Zorana stroked Aleksandr’s soft cheek. Aleksandr, who, with his bright, sparkling laughter and his angry tantrums, reminded her so much of her third son. . . .
‘‘We have Adrik’s woman,’’ Tasya said.
‘‘Actually, his wife,’’ Ann said.
‘‘He married?’’ Zorana clutched her fist against her chest. ‘‘Where is she?’’
‘‘Jasha and Rurik are getting her out of the car.’’ Tasya grimaced. ‘‘She was hurt.’’
‘‘She was hurt caring for the icon?’’ Zorana headed out the door, out onto the porch, down the stairs.
They had a saying here: As the days begin to lengthen, the cold begins to strengthen. So true. The yard and Zorana’s garden looked sad, waiting for spring, and Zorana wished briefly for a coat.
Then she forgot the winter and the cold.
Jasha and Rurik had driven a strange van with dark windows, and Zorana quickly saw why. They had pulled a stretcher out of the back, and were now maneuvering a woman into a wheelchair.
She was a tiny thing, only a little taller than Zorana herself. She was gaunt. She was bruised. She had tubes running into her arm. And Zorana knew she had been Adrik’s love.
She walked out to meet them.
‘‘Mama—’’ Jasha began.
‘‘Sh.’’ Absently Zorana cupped his cheek. Cupped Rurik’s. Then, carefully, she enfolded the girl in her arms. ‘‘Welcome. Welcome.’’
Tears sprang to the girl’s amazing blue-green eyes.
Answering tears sprang to Zorana’s. She knelt before the woman. ‘‘I’m Zorana. What’s your name?’’
‘‘I’m Karen.’’ She had a pretty voice, husky and warm.
‘‘And you knew my Adrik. He loved you.’’