Darkness Chosen: Into The Shadow Part 14

The Aqua Horizon Spa and Inn had been constructed along a cliff, and designed to make the most of the majestic red rock formations and sweeping valley vistas below. It faced south, so it always caught the sun, and the building exteriors, the native plants, and the graveled paths blended into the desert atmosphere with warmth and sensitivity.

Fists clenched at her sides, Karen walked along the trail away from the sprawling, five-story hotel structure. As soon as she was out of sight of the windows she ran, ran as hard as she could toward her cottage at the edge of the grounds. Stepping in, she shut the door behind her and leaned against it.

Usually the eggsh.e.l.l blue walls, cool cream tile floors, and framed Jack Vettriano prints in the studio apartment soothed her, but now nothing could wipe the shock from her mind.

It was him.

Wasnat it?

It couldnat be coincidence that Rick Wilderas game was called Warlord.

Could it?

No. It couldnat.

She pulled her suitcase out from under the bed. She kept it packed with good walking shoes, underwear, and sensible clothes, always ready for the moment when she had to flee.

Because although it had been two years since shead walked away without a backward glance, leaving Warlord to battle for his life, she still believed that someday he could reappear and claim her again.

Somehow, someday, I will come for you.

Going to the safe in the closet, she opened it and pulled out her pa.s.sport. Then, more slowly, she retrieved the icon painted with the Madonna. For one vital second she stared at the painting. She remembered the child who had protected the icon for a thousand years, the way her eyes had opened and looked at Karen before her frail body crumbled to dust. And although Karen did not want to believe, every morning when she looked in the mirror and saw those same eyes looking right back at her, she knew the child had pa.s.sed custody of the icon to her.

She had to protect the Madonna.

But she had a life, too, and she needed to protect her own freedom. Grabbing the framed photo of her mother off the table, she placed the picture and the icon in a padded, zippered container and stowed them in the bottom of the bag. She wrapped the gla.s.s bell shead bought in Italy in a lace shawl shead bought in Spain, and tucked them in one of the side pockets. Then she zipped it all closed and placed it by the door.

She slid her backpack out from under the bed. That contained all the necessities to maintain life in the wildernessa"freeze-dried foods, a flashlight, a waterproof poncho, a canteen. A quick visit to her tiny kitchen and she had a selection of Bakeras Breakfast Cookies added to her larder, and she was ready to go.

A knock made her swing around to stare at the door as if a rattlesnake stood on the other side. Or Warlord, which was even worse.

"Miss Karen, itas Dika!" the maid sang out.

Fifty-year-old Dika Petulengro had come to work there not long after Karen arrived. She cleaned the two dozen guest cottages that were scattered across the grounds, spoke English with a Russian accent, had beautiful dark brown eyes surrounded by long, dark lashes, and liked everyone. Karen considered her one of the kindest people shead ever meta"but she didnat trust her. Mingma had taught her to be wary.

More important, Karen didnat need a witness to her flight. So she placed her body to block the view and opened the door. "Dika, could you come back in a half hour?" Which gave her time to get to her car and get the h.e.l.l out.

"Because you have that beautiful man in here?" Dika craned her neck to see around Karen, and her eyes widened. "No. Not a man, a suitcase!"

"Iam doing a little packing for my vacation," Karen said.

Dika b.u.mped the door with her ample hip and knocked it out of Karenas hand. "No, Miss Karen, look. You have packed your pretty gla.s.s. The lace mantilla you drape across your dresser is gone." She looked hard at Karen. "And you have that look in your eyes."

"What look?"

"The look of a refugee forced to flee again."

Somehow Dika recognized the expression.

Karen set her chin.

"Okay, I help you." Dika pushed her way in and shut the door behind her. "But first tell me why. Why are you afraid?"

"One of the guests . . . reminds me of someone."

"Mr. Wilder?"

Karen grew very still. "How do you know?"

"The staff is gossiping, of course." Dika shrugged. "They said you looked enthralled with the man, but I think maybe they mistake fright for enthrallment."

Karen nodded stiffly. She hated admitting to this overwhelming panic, but Dika seemed to understand.

"Sometime, he mistreated you? Maybe he is your husband?"

"No. And no. I mean, Mr. Wilder is definitely not my husband, and Iam not even sure heas the guy I think he might be." That sounded crazy, Karen knew, so she tried to explain. "The other guy . . . his eyes were black."

"Black. All black? No color?"

"Thatas right. At first I thought it was drugs, but then I realized he was . . . that somehow he . . ."

"He was the devilas own," Dika suggested.

"Yes," Karen burst out. Of course. Dika understood. She had come from the Ukraine, from a land as wild and peculiar as the Himalayas. "Mr. Wilder is not him. His eyes are light green, beautiful and not at all frightening. "

Dika nodded.

"He indicated that he was interested in me, but it seemed nothing more than any other guy."

"This man, Mr. Wilder, might be . . . You fear him?"

"Yes."

Dika thought for a moment. "You have b.i.t.c.h beer in the refrigerator?"

"A couple."

"Iall open them." Dika indicated the patio door, then bustled to the refrigerator. "Go outside and sit. We need to talk."

"I need to leave."

"First we talk. Then, if you wish, I will help you leavea"and I know the secret ways to go."

That made sense. That made a lot of sense. And something about Dikaas matter-of-factness calmed Karenas panic and made her think more clearly.

She opened her patio door and went out into the warm, dry air. The encircling wrought-iron fence was thick with shrubs and vines, giving her privacy and the illusion of coolness, and the chairs were made of lightweight blue fabric and reclined to weightlessness.

Behind her the door opened and closed, and Dika thrust an icy beer into Karenas hand. She seated herself with all the a.s.surance of a seasoned counselor and said, "So you donat know if heas actually the one."

"No. When I was in Europe, right after I escaped him, I saw him all the timea"on the train, in the restaurants, on the beaches. Iad see some man from behind, notice his walk, the color of his hair, or the movement of his hands, and I would just freak." Karen started to lift the beer to her mouth, then brought it back down. "But it was never him."

"Youad look again, and you were wrong," Dika said. "Then, as days slipped into weeks and weeks into months, you relaxed and didnat see him so much."

"Right. Once, about six months in, I even dated a guy who reminded me of him. This guy was actually a lot better-lookinga"how could he miss? he actually shaved on a semiregular basisa"and then he kissed me. I was so bored I almost slipped into a coma." That was a memory shead just as soon forget.

"Your other mana"his kisses were not boring."

"He was a lot of things, but never boring." Karen took a long drink of b.i.t.c.h beer.

"But you donat know what he looks like in the face? You donat remember? You think Mr. Wilder has changed his looks? His eyes?"

Karen told her about the beard and the hair, and the name of the computer game, and finished with, "Mr. Wilder doesnat have Warlordas intensity."

"Yet you, who are a sensible woman, fear that this is the man."

"Sounds dumb, I guess."

"No. Your instincts tell you to be cautious. I believe you should be cautious. This could be a brother or a flunky, someone sent to spy on you."

A chill crept up Karenas spine. She looked around. "I have to go," she whispered.

Dika put her hand over Karenas. "All the more reason you shouldnat go. Here you have security men who can defend you. Friends who will believe you when you say a seemingly normal man is a threat."

"Yes . . ." What Dika said made sense, and the clawing sense of panic, the desperate need to take flight, faded.

Dika viewed Karenas relaxation and smiled. "Yes. Good. Let me tell you a story. Almost forty years ago my tribe suffered a great tragedy."

"Your tribe?"

"I am Rom. Romany. Gypsy."

"Oh!" Karen studied Dikaas brown eyes, her swarthy complexion, her compact body. "I didnat know the Rom lived in the Ukraine."

"The Rom have wandered across the world, and about a thousand years ago my own tribe made the mistake of wandering into Russia." Dika made a face. "The Russians made persecution into an art form. But we didnat have real trouble until almost forty years ago, when our most precious possession was taken from us."

Karenas mind immediately sprang to the icon. Her icon. "What is your most precious possession?"

Dika sighed. "It was a girl, the one chosen to see the visions that guided us. Our Zorana. When she lefta""

"She left? I thought you said she was taken from you."

"The stories differ." Dika shrugged expressively. "The old folks change their tales. All I know is that the luck wead enjoyed for so long vanished. Our axles broke, our babies died, our young men were killed. My father disappeared into one of the Russian prisons. I was eleven then. In the Ukraine, the militia could be very bad, very corrupt. They took what they wanted, they killed, they burned. My mother taught me to hide when they came, and I always did, until one day when I was fifteen, the general saw me before I could get out of sight. He threatened to burn the wagons if the Rom did not give me into his keeping. So they did."

Incredulous, Karen asked, "How could they?"

"It was me or their own children, and so they sacrificed me."

A ghost of memory slipped through Karenas mind. The child sacrifice . . .

Dika looked down at the b.i.t.c.h beer clasped in her hands. "I never saw my mother again. I was with Maksim five years. The whole time he was mad for me, and eventually, I think, just mad. He said I slept with other men. He accused his soldiers, his brother, his best friend. He beat me, kicked me, made it so I could not have children."

"I am so sorry."

"So finally I did sleep with another man, a powerful man, and when the general came for me I gave the order to have him shot like a dog in the street. Then I came here." Dika looked up, and deep lines etched her upper lip and between her brows. "Even now, sometimes I see Maksim in my nightmares."

"You make me ashamed to complain." Because Warlord had kept her against her will, but he had promised not to ever hurt her, and even now she believed him.

"No. Donat be ashamed. Be proud of yourself that you got away. I thank G.o.d every day that I used my strengths to fight Maksim, and I remember with pleasure giving the order to have him killed." Dika lifted her chin. "Miss Karen, you donat want to run forever. If this isnat the man, then you are where you want to be. I will tell the staff to watch him, and if he is the one I will personally fix the sheets to make him break out in a terrible rash and have to go to the hospital."

Karen laughed, and relaxed. "Youare right. Iave got to stop running from a memory. Iave broken the old bonds." And, interestingly enough, she meant the ones holding her to Jackson Sonnet, not the ropes Warlord had used to fetter her.

In truth, her break with the man shead called her father had made her realize how alone she was in the world. She had had no friends, because she had worked too much and didnat have time for them. She had moved from place to place and had no home except the dark, cold, depressing mansion in Montana. And shead spent her life afraid she was unlovable because of one manas unattainable approval.

So she had changed her life. She traveled. She got pedicures. She made friends, sang songs, drank fine wines. Sometimes she missed the old life; she had been a d.a.m.ned good project manager, and there had been satisfaction in completing the work.

Yet the only true dark spot remaining on her horizon was her fear that Warlord would emerge from the shadows of her old lifea"and she remembered all too clearly the legend head relayed about the Russian villain and his descendents, d.a.m.ned for all eternity. She remembered the way his flesh had sizzled on contact with the icon.

Dika was right. If Mr. Wilder was Warlord, Karen would have little chance to escape him if she ran. So it was time to face her fear. "Iam strong. Iam self-reliant. Iam not the same person I was two years ago. So . . . Iall stay."

"Good!" Dika patted Karenas knee and stood. "My people have gathered again. We have a stake in this struggle against the devil and his minions, and we will help you, Miss Sonnet. So be wary, yet know you have friends at your back. Now I need to go to work."

"Me, too. Iave got a buffet to supervise." Karen stood, too.

"Who knows, Miss Karen?" Dika sounded positively perky. "If this Mr. Wilder isnat your lover, then perhaps the demon is dead."

Karen ran her tongue over the inside of her lip. Sometimes, unexpectedly, the taste of his blood filled her mouth, and she saw with his eyes, felt with his heart . . . anguish, darkness, violence, and a deep, desperate, clawing longing. "No. He is most definitely not dead. Heas out there somewhere . . . waiting."

As the two women went inside, the stranger stepped out of the shrubbery, dusted himself off, and waited as still as a statue.

Karen left first to supervise her buffet.

Dika worked for a half hour; then she left also, locking the doors behind her.

He climbed the fence. Once within the privacy of the patio, he knelt by the door, picked the lock, and let himself inside.

The cottage smelled of disinfectant. Feminine touches decorated the room. Karen Sonnet had made this place her own.

But shead been ready to abandon it at the first sign of trouble.

Her bag and backpack were still tossed on the bed.

He started toward them.

She should have run while she could.