Into the Flame (4 page)

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Authors: Christina Dodd

Tags: #paranormal romance

BOOK: Into the Flame

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A Varinski.

Somehow, a Varinski had found her.

She didn’t look around, didn’t indicate that she knew she was being followed. Her heart pounded, her skin flushed, yet she walked at a steady pace.

Don’t run, little Firebird,
she heard Konstantine’s voice rumble in her head.
Running brings out a hunter’s urge to chase, and you can’t outrun a wolf or a panther. You can’t outfly a hawk. But you can outsmart them, and you can outfight them.

As the Varinski moved from tree to tree, she listened to the sounds, trying to figure out what kind of creature was tracking her. A bird of prey, perhaps, or a great cat leaping between the branches.

Her dorm loomed ahead. Lights illuminated about half the windows. People were awake and nearby. She could scream for help.

But then someone would get hurt.

She opened her purse, pulled out her cell phone, and debated about calling
Douglas
. He would want her to—but then, he wouldn’t be happy to discover she was walking alone, and if she put her phone up to her ear, that might force the stalker to attack.

How had he located her? What did he want?

As she got closer to the dorm, the sound behind her grew more pronounced. She dug out her keys and threaded them between her fingers so a key stuck out between each knuckle. She opened her phone and dialed nine-one— And before she could hit the last button, the door to the dorm burst open. Eight guys came dashing out, Jacob in their midst, wearing nothing but baseball caps, body paint, and running shoes. They hooted as they passed her. She pumped her fist to indicate her approval, and slipped inside before the door could close.

Then
she ran. Ran down the hall and up the stairs to her bedroom. She didn’t turn on the light, but crept to the window. Staying well back in the shadows, she looked out.

There it was, crouched in a giant oak, a great golden cat stretched along the branch. The moonlight seeped through the leaves and picked up the smooth glory of its coat, and even from here she could see its dark eyes watching her window, and its tail twitched slowly, as if the loss of its prey had irritated it.

What did it intend to do to her? Was this a rogue Varinski, entertaining himself by stalking and killing the daughter of Konstantine Wilder? Or did the Varinskis have plans to kidnap and hold her as a pawn in their plot to destroy her family?

She had to go. She had to leave. She couldn’t wait until graduation; she needed to go at once—and she couldn’t tell
Douglas
why.

He would never believe this.

‘‘Oh, my love.’’ What had she been thinking, getting involved with a normal guy? He wouldn’t understand about the pact with the devil and her family’s special talents. How could he? It was absolutely insane.

Worse, as her mate, he’d be in danger, the same kind of danger that shadowed her.

But . . . she stroked the infinitesimal bulge of her belly. She didn’t have a choice. She would have to try. This baby deserved a father, and
Douglas
deserved his child.

Outside the window, the great cat moved at last. It stood and stretched, then lightly jumped down out of the tree.

She got her first good look at it.

A cougar. It was a cougar.

She frowned. Her heart stopped. She looked toward the bed where the large, soft stuffed animal lay sprawled.

A cougar?

As the cat began to change, her heartbeat leaped.

The claws retracted. The bones warped into new shapes: The paws became hands, the back legs lengthened and straightened, the shoulders got broader, the hair retreated onto the head and chest and genitals.

The face changed, too, becoming a man’s face, a familiar man’s face . . . the face of the man she loved.

She stared. Stared so hard her eyes hurt.

Douglas
.
Douglas
was a Varinski.

He’d come to Brown, sought her out, courted her, seduced her, made her trust him, got her to confide in him. . . . In a brief spasm of shame, she hid her eyes with her hands.

She’d told him she was from
Washington
. She’d told him she had three brothers, that one was a wine-maker, that her father grew grapes and her mother ruled the family.

Had she told him the name of her town?

No.

Had she given him anything that would enable him to pinpoint her location?

No.

No. Please, no.

He stood out there, naked in the moonlight, a tattoo that looked like great claw marks ripping the skin on his left side.

She hadn’t seen that before. He’d taken great care not to take off his shirt in the light.

Smart guy, because that would have tipped her off for sure. Her brothers had tattoos that were just as vivid, just as distinctive, and they had come naturally the first time they became beasts.

Completely unself-conscious with his nudity— well, why should he be self-conscious? Apparently, half the guys on campus were streaking—
Douglas
turned and loped away.

Virulently, she hoped he was happy with himself. Because he’d managed to get laid, but he hadn’t caught her. He hadn’t killed her.

And he wasn’t going to get another chance to try.

Going to the bed, she picked up the soft, plush stuffed cougar by the scruff of the neck. Its dark, intense eyes mocked her as she walked out into the hall and to the trash chute. But she got the final laugh—she dropped the damned thing down the hole and into the Dumpster outside.

Back to her room, she called an airline and reserved the first flight out of town toward the West Coast. It went to LA, but that was good enough. She could hang out there, try to figure out how much to tell the folks, then catch a ride to
Napa
to Jasha’s winery, and from there on to
Washington
.

She packed her clothes, leaving most of the stuff— she’d worn it all down to the threads, anyway.

She left the dorm, walking toward the bus stop, and as she walked, she dug into her purse, pulled out the envelope with the Father’s Day card and the plastic stick with the telltale blue stripes, and threw it into the garbage.

No matter how hard she would try, she could never forget Douglas Black.

He’d given her a souvenir that would last forever.

Chapter Two

Washington
State
Present Day

T
he Varinski stood in the dark forest and watched the young woman drive up to the small two-story house, park, and get out. She leaned against the late-model Mercury Milan—a sensible car for such a pretty woman—looked up at the starry sky, and anguish twisted her face.

For one moment, he felt almost sorry for her. Almost.

But pity fought with lust, and lust fought with resentment.

Because what did
she
have to be anguished about? Mountains covered with deep, green, primeval forest enclosed this long valley. Vines covered most of the flat ground, but the old-fashioned house, filled with light and warmth and family, occupied one end. A picket fence enclosed the carefully tended yard. Most people would call this setting idyllic, yet if she was restless for the bright lights, it was less than a half hour drive to the nearest small town, also idyllic, and two hours to Seattle.

More important, she had family inside, waiting for her.

Firebird Wilder might be feeling sorry for herself, but she had it made.

With a deep breath, she headed up the steps. Placing her hand on the doorknob, she stopped. She straightened her shoulders.

The door opened under her hand. A man greeted her. A man holding a little boy of two.

The Varinski flinched.

Then he thought . . . no. The man looked like a Varinski. So that was her brother, and the kid must be her nephew.

He didn’t like to be relieved . . . but he was.

She stepped inside and the door closed behind her.

Drawn by anger, need, and the pact he had made, the Varinski walked out of the trees. He scrutinized the house, with its wide, welcoming porch that spanned the front of the house, and its windows un-draped and spilling light into the frozen lawn. He walked to the back, where he found more lawn, a winter-nipped garden surrounded by a tall deer fence, and a small orchard of fruit trees arranged in straight rows.

This place was soft. One man could attack the house and do damage—significant damage. A hundred men could raze the entire valley and destroy every living thing in it, every creature and every blade of grass.

Konstantine Varinski had forgotten his past, and his heedlessness had put him and everyone in his family at risk.

The Varinski’s quiet tread was as much a part of him as his tawny hair and his dark brown eyes. He returned to the front, mounted the stairs, and walked silently from one end of the porch to the other. He looked in the windows, into the living room crowded with life, with warmth, with love.

Although Konstantine had changed, had grown prematurely old and desperately ill, the Varinski recognized him. He sat in a recliner, a tank of oxygen beside him, an IV drip in his arm. He must be almost seventy, and painfully gaunt, yet he had the same strong frame and vigorous head of hair he had sported in photos taken forty years ago.

His wife sat nearby. The Varinski recognized her from the old photos, too; she had barely changed. She was in her early fifties, petite, pretty, a hundred pounds soaking wet. Her dark hair shone and her dark eyes sparked with life.

As he moved from window to window, he saw them all. Three sons who closely resembled their father. Three women whom their sons obviously adored. One lone older man, who tried to make himself small in the crowded room.

Everyone stared at Firebird, watched Firebird. She sat on the floor by the door, her back pressed against the wall. The toddler sat in her lap.

Her face was hard and accusing, and she spoke rapidly, like a woman in the grip of fury, yet all the while, she hugged the little boy as if he brought her comfort.

As the Varinski watched with cruel intention, he deliberately began the change. His bones melted and mutated. His hands developed into paws, paws with long, sharp claws that could rend a man to shreds. His face lengthened and squared; his teeth shaped themselves into fangs; his jaw grew large and strong enough to snap a man’s neck. His blond hair spread down his body, becoming a golden pelt that invited the touch of any simpleton who was fool enough to dare caress the swift, intelligent, deadly beast that he had become.

With a single spring, he silently leaped off the porch and raced across the valley, seeking the shelter of the surrounding forest.

Firebird had been in the hospital in
Seattle
. From the information the Varinski had been able to collect—and he was good at collecting information—Konstantine’s children were coming in one at a time to give blood and have tests as the doctors pursued the cause and cure of his unique and life-threatening illness.

The Varinski leaped up a tree and found a broad branch, one that allowed him to observe the house and the narrow road that wound its way into the valley, and mull over all the vulnerabilities that could be utilized in an attack.

And all the while, he wondered, What had she discovered?

What had left her so distraught?

How could he turn the situation to his advantage . . . and destroy the family?

Because he wasn’t really a Varinski.

He was the thing not even the Varinskis wanted to claim.

Firebird would never forget this day.

The day she discovered her family had lied to her.