Scent of Darkness (34 page)

She brought the bad people. She always brought the bad people.

"Do you know what my first memory is? I was tiny, three or four, and I was in the bathtub. One of the volunteers was bathing me, and all of a sudden, she screamed and pointed, and screamed again." In a move so bold she didn't recognize herself, she stood and walked to the west window, where the sun beamed into his office. "I still remember the words she screamed.
Fiend. Monster.
I didn't know what those words meant, but I remembered them so clearly." Ann still remembered how terrified she had been. "The girl was so frightened, she ran away. That was the first time I knew."

"Ann, I've seen you naked," he said patiently. "There is nothing monstrous about you."

"You haven't seen this." Ann turned her back to Jasha, lifted her skirt, and pointed to the mark. "I've made sure of it."

He strolled over, curious, yet sure of himself and what he knew. "I saw it just now, when we made love. It's a tattoo. I couldn't tell what it was, but I had other, more pressing matters that held my attention." He grinned at her, a sexy quirk of the lips that made her glad she'd taken the opportunity for one last chance in his arms.

"Look closer." With her thumb, she rubbed the makeup off the mark that made her special. That made her different from everyone else.

He leaned forward to scrutinize her, and she could tell—he was on the verge of making a risque joke.

Then he observed the outline, the shape, and maybe, maybe he saw the thing that set her apart from the rest of humanity.

His eyes grew wide, and he took a compulsive step back. "What . . . ? How .-..?"

"I've had it since the time I was born. Sister Mary Magdalene didn't like to talk about it, not even with me, but she told me a few things. She told me she thought that mark was probably the reason my parents abandoned me in the Dumpster like I was garbage. She told me I could never tell anyone about it, or the bad people would come and take me away."

"That's ridiculous." But he bent again to look. His finger hovered over the top . . . yet he didn't dare touch the thing that marked her.

"No, it's not. The bad people did come."

His gaze jerked to her face. "What happened?"

"Sister Catherine was a young nun. A nice, young woman who worried about me. She told me I was the most solemn nine-year-old she'd ever met. So she told me jokes. She hugged me. She tried to teach me to play." Ann lowered her skirt and turned to face him. "One evening, she wanted me to sneak out, leave my homework, so we could go and swing on the swings. She was so pretty and so smart, and I wanted to be just like her ... so I went. And we swung. And the bad people came. . . ." Ann found herself staring at the square of sunshine on the carpet, and the old anguish, the anguish she'd tried to put behind her, rose from the depths of her soul. "They came for me. When she realized they wanted to steal me, she told me to run, and she fought them for me. She died for me, right before my eyes."

"Ann." Jasha put his arms around her, but gingerly, as if she were injured ... or as if he was afraid of her. "That wasn't your fault."

"That's not what Sister Mary Magdalene said." The vision of Sister Catherine's broken body and her crimson blood burned Ann's memory like a brand.

"I don't like your Sister Mary Magdalene."

"She's not lovable, but she did tell me the truth. She told me the bad people wanted me, to use me and my mark. She told me . . . she told me that God had a service for me to perform, and to pray that I was strong enough to perform it." Ann remembered the years of obedience fueled by fear, and a slow fury unfurled in her gut.

All her life she'd done what she was told.

First she'd lived in an orphanage with no chance of adoption—because of her mysterious mark.

Then she'd taken a secretarial course, moved on to a job at Wilder Wines, and willingly placed herself in Jasha's service, working her way up to the position of his executive assistant—because she loved him.

She had always,
always,
rived under rules passed down to her by a higher power, making sacrifices to give others peace of mind, and she'd done it without a thought to any kind of return.

And she'd received what she anticipated, because no one had ever bothered to try to make her happy. At least, not without an ulterior motive.

Her eyes narrowed on Jasha.

She was done trying to please him. She was done being a martyr—for anyone or anything.

She pulled out of his embrace. "If the service God wants me to perform includes marriage to you, I won't do it. I won't sacrifice myself for God or for Sister Mary Magdalene or for your family or for you."

"You love me."

He wasn't a quitter, not even when he knew the truth; she'd say that for him. "Yes, I do, but there's one thing our adventure has taught me—I deserve the same kind of total loyalty and total love I'm capable of giving."

"Why do you think I won't give you that?"

"Not
won't,
Jasha—
can't."
Ann was very sure of herself. "You can't because you're balanced on a knife's edge, throwing all your heart and mind into breaking the deal with the devil. And because we both know Sister Mary Magdalene might be wrong."

"What do you mean?" His face and body grew still as if expecting a blow.

"I mean you don't dare marry a woman who might unwittingly be in league with the devil." She caught her jacket off the chair and flounced toward the door.

"Ann, don't run too far."

She turned back and looked at him.

"Because don't you know? In the wild, wolves mate for life." And his eyes glowed red.

Chapter 33

Driven by anger, concern, and confusion, Jasha sought answers the only way he knew how— by going right to the source. Picking up the phone, he dialed the Convent of the Blessed Virgin in Los Angeles. "I'd like to speak to Sister Mary Magdalene."

The person on the other end, a severe female with an attitude that clearly declared he was impertinent, said, "The mother superior is busy. May I take a message?"

"It's about the orphan Ann Smith.”

The voice changed, became terse and concerned. "I'll see if she'll speak with you."

He wasn't surprised when the nun came to the phone right away.

"Is Ann well?" Sister Mary Magdalene's voice was thin, old, and deep-South Southern.

"She's fine." And
he
was furious. "Do you really care?"

A long pause followed his terse query. "I do care. Every day since Ann graduated from high school and left, I've prayed for her well-being."

"And for her wicked soul?"

"There is nothing wicked about Ann's soul,” the sister said sharply. "She's kind and sensitive, and let me tell you, mister, I've taught a lot of children, and she's one of the few I can say that about."

He'd just had his knuckles figuratively rapped with a ruler.

"Mr. Wilder, you're Ann's employer, is that right?"

"She's told you about me." So Ann was still in contact with the convent.

"So you are Ann's employer." The nun wanted her questions answered, and clearly she had the experience to get her own way.

"I am."

"Then listen to me, sir. My concern is now and always has been that through her own kindness and innocence, she'll fall in with someone who will want to use her for their own evil purposes. And, sir, if you are one of those, I warn you, an angry old nun is a formidable foe. Now, why
are
you calling?"

Okay. Maybe he'd read the situation wrong. "I'm calling because today I found out about the mark on Ann, and I want to know—"

"You're her husband?"

"I am trying to be, but she won't agree.” She wouldn't agree for a lot of reasons, but now he'd realized everything in Ann's life went back to that damned mark.

The hesitation on the other end of the line was long and thoughtful.

He scrambled for the right words to convince her of his good intentions; and the best he could come up with was, "Sister. I love her."

"Very impressive. No man has ever told
that
lie for his own gain."

Wow. A cynical nun. In exasperation, he asked, "How do you expect me to prove my good intentions over the phone?"

"Proving your good character will be enough. Tell me, Mr. Wilder, what did you see when you saw the mark?"

"I saw a rose in bloom with a snake coiled around it."

"And?"

"And . . ." He felt stupid admitting what he'd seen. He felt as incredulous as Ann must have felt when she'd seen a wolf turn into a man. "And the snake opened its eyes and looked at me, then closed them again."

"That's all?"

"Isn't that enough?"

"It is."

He'd passed a test. He didn't know what test it could be,, but he'd passed.

"Did Ann tell you what I do?" Sister Mary Magdalene asked.

"You're a nun? You're a teacher?" He groped for more.

"I'm now the mother superior of this convent, and administration and prayer takes up my time, so I've given up teaching."

Clearly, she was proud of her promotion.

"But when I taught, I taught history and church doctrine, not only because the task of guiding children is a rewarding one, but because history is my passion." The tone of her voice changed, became more intense. "Specifically, the study of the eternal struggle between good and evil."

He cast his mind back to school. "I don't remember reading about that in the history books."

"I didn't teach the children the stories I know. If they realized how closely the battle raged to their own front doors, and how evenly matched the odds, it would scare them half to death."

"Yes." In the background, he heard the rising noise of children's voices. Class must have just let out. "I suppose it would."

"I don't know if she told you, but Ann was found in a Dumpster."

"She did tell me."

"Then she trusts you quite a lot." Sister Mary Magdalene took a breath. "Dumping a baby isn't unusual in this part of Los Angeles. Not unusual anywhere, really. The difference was that she had been premature, she'd been in there for days, and the wino who found her was so frightened of her he wouldn't touch her. He told the other street people about her, and the mark on her back." She shut a door, and the sound of children died away. "He said it was the mark of a witch."

"That's the mark of a witch?"

Sister Mary Magdalene's voice developed a teacher's intonation. "No, actually, a third nipple is a mark of a witch. Ann does not have one."

He almost agreed, but caught himself in time.

"As was wont, word got to me about the find. I went down to get her. Actually, I thought to pick up a tiny corpse, because this was during one of our rare cold snaps, and babies don't survive without heat. When I got to that alley . . ." Sister Mary Magdalene's voice wobbled in remembered disquiet.

He found himself leaning forward in his chair. "Steady, Sister.”

"A bag lady, one of our schizophrenics and a woman dear to me, had rescued the baby, wrapped her in a newspaper, and taken her to the community fire to keep her warm. As I walked into that alley, a beggar I had never seen before was attempting to take Ann." Jasha could almost see Sister Mary Magdalene clench her fists. "The beggar and Mary were playing tug of war with the baby, while Mary screeched that he wanted the baby for a sacrifice. Before I rescued her, they'd dislocated both her shoulders and the newspaper had caught fire."

In his mind's eye, Jasha could see the scene—the screaming baby, the shrieking woman, the nun parting the chaos like Moses parting the Red Sea.

"The man didn't fight
me
for the child. Instead he performed a rather hasty disappearing act. We put out the fire, I called the ambulance, and I thanked Mary."

"Tell me where she is now, and I'll thank her more." He tapped his pen on the desk.

"She didn't survive. Within a week, she was found with her neck broken.”

He stopped tapping. "My God.”

"Precisely, Mr. Wilder. When I unwrapped the baby, I saw what all the fuss was about. There to the right of her spine was a tightly closed rosebud surrounded by a small, coiled snake."

"A rosebud? But it's—"

"In bloom. I know. As Ann grew, her birthmark changed."

Jasha leaned back his chair and covered his eyes with his hand. To hear this story while the sun shone so strongly seemed obscene. This story should be told at night at a teenage girls' slumber party right before they watched
Night of the living Dead.
It was not a story to be told about Ann with her sweet mouth and her wide, blue eyes and the way she looked at him as if he were a hero ... or she had, until that day in Washington when he'd claimed to love her.

She'd said he was lying, that his love was nothing more than expediency.

As always, she'd seen the truth.

He'd been willing to settle for fabulous sex and a great relationship.