Читать книгу Brimstone Bride - Barbara J. Hancock - Страница 10

Chapter 2

Few people had gotten close enough to see his scars.

Adam Turov sat with his chest facing the back of a wooden chair. He gripped the polished cherry slats with white knuckles, but he didn’t flinch as he hunched his bare back for Dr. Verenich. The Brimstone in his blood wasn’t always enough to heal the injuries he sustained hunting devils with no care for how much human blood they spilled.

“Live for a century, learn for a century,” the doctor murmured under his breath as he plied needle and thread to close the dagger slash too severe to knit itself. “I have learned to use specially constructed thread in your treatment, shef. And yet you have not learned to avoid daemon-cursed blades.”

“Without effort, you won’t pull fish from a pond,” Adam said. He could fight the doctor saying for saying. He’d learned all his Russian idioms firsthand before the Revolution.

“So, no pain, no gain?” The doctor chuckled grimly as he worked on the man he still referred to as his boss as his father had before him, even though Adam Turov had also become his friend. Gloves protected his hands from Brimstone’s burn, but every now and then they’d sizzle and hiss, and smoke would rise into the air as he pierced Adam’s skin with his needle and fireproof thread. “I’ll tell you what you have gained, my friend...” He urged Adam to turn his back toward an antique mirror with a gilded frame. It was Tsarist, of course. The Turov family had brought a king’s ransom to California during the Revolution. They survived by adapting, persevering. They had worked through the darkest hours. Sweat and blood had replaced diamonds and tiaras.

Reflected in the mirror, Adam Turov didn’t look a day over thirty, even after a life-threatening battle with evil monks from the Order of Samuel and their Rogue daemon allies. On a good day, in fine clothes, he would seem even younger. Too young to successfully run the oldest winery in Sonoma, California.

“Wings. Over all these years, you’ve developed a macabre pair of wings,” the doctor said.

Adam could see them. The scarifications the doctor pointed out by gesturing in the air above them. The tracery of scars swept down his back on both sides like folded wings. The irony caused a grim smile to curve his lips. There. That expression was older. Much more in keeping with his actual age.

“A dark angel indeed, Doctor,” he said.

He could remember the initial beatings with a lash that had begun the “wings.” And later, every hack and slash. Every stitch. Every battle. He could remember the face of every monk he’d delivered to hell. None of the monks in his memory were the one that most haunted him. Not yet. Father Malachi had wielded the lash with enthusiasm. The younger the novitiate, the better. The Order purported to be the last line of defense between hell and Earth, but they lied. In truth, the faction of Rogue daemons that wanted to overthrow Lucifer’s Army and wage war on heaven had corrupted them. The Order of Samuel wasn’t holy. They were as damned as he was.

He liked to think he escorted them to their just ends, one monk at a time. He might never reclaim the soul he’d sold, but he could face his own damnation one day if he delivered every single monk to hell before him.

“No, not an angel. You are more like the legendary firebird caught in a greedy prince’s golden cage,” the doctor said. “You will insist on attending the party, I’m sure. Movement will cause great pain. That was a deep wound. You should rest. Heal.”

The doctor was already wiping Brimstone blood and ash from Adam’s lean, muscled back in preparation for the evening suit that waited across the foot of his bed. It was a disguise. He used the expensive, tailored clothes and the carefully cultivated sophistication of a vintner to hide his true warrior’s nature.

But he’d been hiding it for so long that his disguise came naturally to him now. He ran the Nightingale Vineyards as easily as he battled evil monks.

“I prefer the nightingale to the firebird, Doctor. The firebird was my mother’s favorite. I named our best pinot noir in her honor. There’s nothing golden about me. I’m far too dark for that comparison,” Adam said.

“Ah, but you’re forgetting how the prince was cursed by the firebird for his greed. Capturing the firebird was a mistake. It proved deadly. A dark enough tale, indeed,” the doctor said.

“Nothing heals more than movement,” Adam said, dismissing the fanciful talk. He rolled his shoulders to illustrate. The doctor hissed, but Adam ignored the agony that flared outward from his damaged skin. “We must keep moving forward.”

He’d been damaged for a long time. Agony was a familiar friend.

He’d been nine when the Order had stolen him from his family. He’d been infinitely older when he’d escaped. In experience if not in years.

“Victoria D’Arcy is arriving tonight. That’s why I completed a sweep. To clear the area so I could focus on her,” Adam said.

The doctor busied himself, cleaning his instruments and packing his case while Adam dressed. His bag resembled a traditional black leather satchel, but it held the instruments necessary to be the private physician to a powerful man who’d sold his soul a hundred years ago. Dr. Verenich was the second-generation descendant of a physician who had followed the Turov family to America.

“You must protect her?” the doctor asked.

“Those are my orders. I haven’t decided if I’ll be able to follow them,” Adam said. She’d been hunted by the Order of Samuel. They were her enemy, but she was their pawn. She wasn’t coming to the Turov estate as his friend. Adam had been kidnapped, beaten, tortured, programmed to become a daemon slayer so that he could be used by Rogue daemons to overthrow Lucifer. But it had been a Loyalist daemon that had saved him. And it was the new Loyalist king that he now served.

A daemon that claimed Victoria D’Arcy as his stepchild.

He’d been warned by the daemon king that the Order of Samuel was sending Victoria to infiltrate Nightingale Vineyards and uncover his secrets.

The woman he welcomed tonight might well be the most dangerous threat he’d ever faced. He was supposed to help her even as she planned to betray him.

* * *

She was afraid. Fear always made her angry. She rebelled against it. How many times had she stood on an opera house stage bathed in light and draped in a character’s costume—completely armored in powder, wig and an imaginary persona—to sing out in protest against her plight? She had fallen in love with a daemon. She’d gone against the Order of Samuel. She had survived. The father of her baby hadn’t. The Order had killed him. She’d barely lived. For their baby.

Everything had changed when Michael was born. She was no longer a rebel. She was a mother. Now she had to be cautious for two.

Tonight, as she hurried toward Nightingale Vineyards, more than her voice was lost. It was as if her very heart had been ripped from her chest and it beat elsewhere. Slowly, steadily, but threatened; each beat might be its last if she didn’t do as she was told. The new leader of the Order of Samuel, Father Malachi, held her strings and she was a puppet who could dance only to evil’s song.

She’d flown into California in a plain summer suit of black linen. The gray shell sweater underneath the blazer stretched loosely to brush the top of her thighs. As she was only five foot three, it didn’t have to stretch far. She’d pulled an oversize black fedora low over her eyes. Only her heels and handbag betrayed any personality. She’d grabbed them too hurriedly to think of disguise. Red. A holdover from a much bolder Victoria. That flamboyant woman seemed a lifetime ago.

Katherine had handled the other packing. She’d sent Victoria’s bags ahead to the vineyard’s estate house. Victoria hadn’t told Kat about the danger Michael was in. It was only a matter of time before Katherine discovered her nephew was being stalked by the Order of Samuel. By then, Victoria hoped to have accomplished what she’d been sent to do.

Anything to save her son.

Katherine thought she wanted to visit the vineyards as a retreat to rest and recuperate. Her voice hadn’t been the same since the opera house fire that had almost claimed her life. Doctors said she would recover. That she only needed time. Yet it seemed ages since she’d been able to sing.

She admitted to no one that it seemed ages since she’d wanted to sing.

She’d left her toddling son with his daemon nanny, Sybil, and his hellhound, Grim. Surely, they could protect him even better than her until she could arrange their freedom. One more task for the Order.

But wasn’t it always one more, one more, one more?

She stepped into a coffee shop for an espresso after her flight. While she ordered, she noticed a thick-browed man in a nearby queue. He hadn’t been on her plane, but he had been at the Shreveport airport. She was certain she’d seen him there. He wore a simple suit with a boxy cut and he was bald, stocky, his face smooth and plain, but he didn’t move like a casual traveler.

Maybe he was an off duty soldier.

Maybe he was a ninja in disguise.

But Victoria suspected an even more nefarious origin.

She sipped her small, rich coffee. She even managed a smile for the barista who had boldly scrawled bella on her cup instead of Vic. His dark eyes flashed above a bright smile, but he didn’t distract her from the suspicious-looking man who now placed his order at the register beside her.

She didn’t catch the man’s name. She didn’t have to. Now that he was closer, she could see the movement of his muscles beneath his suit jacket. Its loose cut couldn’t hide his extreme physicality.

Suddenly, the man looked up and met her gaze. He took his coffee from the barista, ignoring the tip jar with its yellow smiley face sticker. She glanced away. Why should she give him an intimate glimpse of her fear?

He had to be a monk from the Order of Samuel. His smirk and the black gleam of his large pupils seemed too knowing. The monks were following her to make sure she complied.

Victoria abandoned her steaming cup in the waste bin, no longer needing the caffeine. She was wide-awake. The whole shop full of weary travelers must see her heart beating in her chest. The Order didn’t have to follow or threaten her further to make sure the job got done.

One threat toward Michael was enough.

Yet the look in the monk’s eyes did quicken her steps. She hurried outside to the waiting row of taxis, and took the dark gaze with her. His eyes had held no sympathy, only the fire of fanaticism. That hateful glow had haunted her life. She refused to let it haunt Michael’s as well.

* * *

The Turov mansion was a California Craftsman castle with hints of Imperial St. Petersburg in its columns and arches. The cab approached down a long, winding drive. Rather than the expected cedar shakes, the house was constructed of rough gray brick, its roof gleaming slate instead of Spanish tile. Several turrets were capped in domes of copper that glimmered gold in the sunset. The material was echoed in hammered metal on the mansion’s gutters and window frames. She had time to appreciate the gleam as the car neared the entrance where the driveway ended in a circular loop. There was something that touched her about its design. It was art, not merely architecture. There was personality evident in every curve, passion in every turret.

But the hundreds of shadowed windows seemed to warn that the walls might shelter a difficult personality and a dark passion.

When she saw the main house, her first thought was forever. She’d traveled the world. She’d walked on ancient cobblestones. She’d sung on stages much older than she was. Nightingale Vineyards hadn’t been here forever, but it seemed to proclaim that it would be. Maybe she was attributing Russian determination to its every brick, every line, because she knew its owner’s heritage. It was natural to assume the house was a reflection of the man.

Since the house intimidated as much as it piqued her curiosity, she looked away.

The inhabited portion of the estate was surrounded by landscaped gardens that eventually gave way to rolling hills of endless cultivated greenery. The grapevines stretched as far as Victoria could see. The magazine hadn’t captured the truth of the expanse. The setting sun bathed the vines in a warm russet haze.

The scent of roses enveloped her when she stepped from the car. Loamy earth, green vines and roses. She breathed deeply, reluctantly soothed. She’d paid the driver before she exited the vehicle. There were no bags beyond the purse she carried herself. The cab drove away and the night deepened as she paused. The garden beckoned, but the house waited, with only the windows on the ground level aglow. She would have to go in. She had to do what she’d come to do.

All around her, the vineyard grew. She swore she could almost feel the pervasive, steady creep of its tendrils. So alive. It was early in the growing season, but soon grapes would be plumping in heavy bunches. What was it like to choose a place, set down roots and thrive? No running. No hiding. It was all so beautiful and real. She could never give this to Michael, but she longed for it. The permanence.

For a while, she was alone beneath a sky gone violet and beginning to wink with waking stars.

And then she wasn’t.

She tried to ignore the sudden pull of Brimstone, holding herself in place because if she didn’t she would immediately move to its source. And its source was her enemy in spite of his allure.

Adam Turov.

It had to be.

“I can do this,” Victoria whispered under her breath, the hoarse sound of her voice still a surprise, though the fire had been over two years ago. She shouldered her handbag and moved toward the portico over the front entrance.

“There’s no turning back once you step through that door,” a voice said from the shadows.

The glow from the windows did little to illuminate her welcoming committee. He didn’t require illumination. She knew who and what he was before he came closer. As he approached, she instinctively inched away and looked over her shoulder.

The Order of Samuel had used her affinity to hunt daemons. She’d been a reluctant bloodhound since she was a young girl. She still was. It hadn’t ended. The man at the airport was stalking her. He might be out of sight, but he wasn’t out of mind. She reminded herself that this time she was here willingly. Her job was to uncover Turov’s secrets and help the Order shut him down.

For Michael.

She forced herself to halt her retreat.

Adam Turov stepped into the light near the front door and he surprised her. He seemed nearer to her age than she’d expected. But she knew he wasn’t. He was much, much older. Fear fluttered in her stomach and she tightened her impressively toned diaphragm against it. She was a welcome guest. A harmless opera singer looking for a restful vacation. She needed to act like he was her host, not her prey.

Her throat might not be up to par, but her core was as iron as ever. For Michael.

“Mr. Turov. It’s nice to meet you,” she said. She recognized him from the magazine she’d been shown. But that didn’t matter—she could feel the Brimstone in his blood. He had already found her because that Brimstone drew him to her like a moth to a flame. The thought was heady as well as frightening. He was tall, sinfully attractive and powerful. Her temperature had risen. His would run hotter than 98.6. Her cheeks flushed. The earthy spring air was cool against her skin. It was the Brimstone, but it was also the man and her deception. Her job had always been to create beautiful, dramatic fabrications onstage, but she wasn’t comfortable with lies offstage.

“Welcome to Sonoma. Are you ready to leave work and worry behind? I’ll show you to the cottage where you’ll be staying. You can freshen up and join us for a drink,” Turov said.

“Do you always personally greet your guests?” she asked.

He didn’t confirm his identity. He probably knew he didn’t need to. He was famous. One of the most eligible bachelors in California. Of course she would recognize the Turov eyes, nose and chin that had graced his father and his grandfather before him. He couldn’t know she was privy to his deal with the devil. He was the only Turov left and had been for over fifty years. Brimstone fueled his longevity. But it had come at great price. What kind of man would sell his soul for wealth and acclaim? Never mind the permanent feel of the estate around her and the rich earth beneath her feet. It would all be ashes eventually. The devil’s due.

“No. Not always,” he said. Only that. No explanation. Her flush deepened as he looked closely at her, one brow slightly raised.

The damned master of Nightingale Vineyards offered her his arm and she lightly accepted it. Little did he know her work—the most important performance of her life—had only just begun. Her heart pounded as they walked around a manicured lawn to a rose-covered arbor that created a dark tunnel. There was discreet outdoor lighting to show them the path. But would he need it if he’d walked this way for decades?

Her son had Brimstone blood. This was different. Turov was no daemon. He was a human who had sold his soul. His was not an innocent, natural burn. He was dangerous in spite of his tailored suit and his cultured accent.

Who was the prey in his garden? She was afraid the tables had been turned already.

“You’ve lost your voice?” he asked as they walked through rose-scented shadows.

“I’ve strained it. There was a fire a couple of years ago. I breathed in extreme heat and smoke. The effects have lingered. I can talk, but I can’t sing. Not in my former way. I might never be able to sing professionally again,” she said.

“That’s a shame. I’m sorry. Never is such a long time and I’d love to hear you sing. Perhaps our pinot noir will soothe your throat,” he said.

She was used to taking on roles, but she wasn’t a spy. She might as well have “fraud” written on her forehead in scarlet. Her affinity was supposed to help her, but she was afraid it did the opposite. She couldn’t be as tactical and distant as she should be. Her senses were completely taken over by the heat in his blood. His arm was solid and strong under her fingers. His warmth radiated outward to counteract the night air. It was as if she walked with a flame. Her feet faltered. Her throat reflexively opened. For the first time in a very long time she felt a song well up in her chest.

“For you,” Turov said. They exited the arbor tunnel into a private courtyard ringed by high hedges. At first she mistook the cottage as a part of the hedge, but it was actually a stone building completely covered in lush vines of dark red roses. They tumbled and curved and twined, a profusion of color as the night came on, a riot of greenery and blossom.

“Oh,” she breathed out. She risked no other syllable. Her chest was full. Her lips trembled. She wanted to sing. It was the Brimstone. Katherine had shared the truth about their affinity and how their gift for music responded to daemon blood. They’d used music to drown out the magnetic pull, but in special cases the music seemed to resonate with the power of Brimstone. She had to keep up her guard. She couldn’t afford to allow this man to inspire her to song. Not if the song would bind them together. He was bound for the hell of the Order of Samuel’s clutches. That was all.

The cottage would have been a perfect retreat if that was what she’d truly come to California to find, but the song bubbling up in her made it a dangerous place.

“Your bags are inside. I know you’re tired, but join us once you’re refreshed,” Turov said. “I can’t claim it will actually heal your throat, but the wine is excellent. It will help you relax after your flight.”

“Thank you. I’ll join you soon,” Victoria said. Her voice was a classic film star’s dusky tones. Accidentally throaty and seductive. This was the first time she’d heard it that way since the fire. Always before it had seemed scratchy and ugly.

He opened the door of the cottage and then stepped back to hand her the key. It was a skeleton key made warm by his touch. Her fingers closed around it. She didn’t mean to fist them tightly, but tension betrayed her. He seemed to note her discomfort and watched her gather her composure. His gaze on her throat, moving as she swallowed, felt intimate—and intimacy with him would be dangerous. His many years of life left him too experienced and perceptive. If he got too close, she wouldn’t be able to keep her secrets. Yet she was here to get close. Close enough to fulfill a dark task.

“You’re safe here, Victoria. I read about the fire. How an obsessive fan caused it. Nightingale is a special place. Sacrosanct. We are older and wiser than most retreats. For a long time, I’ve insisted on privacy. I maintain this hideaway at great cost,” Turov said. “Please accept my assurance that no one can harm you while you are here with me.”

In the gloaming, it was too dark to read his eyes. But she recognized a greater danger in that moment than she’d previously acknowledged. She needed retreat. She longed for protection. And the last person she could expect to provide it was the man she planned to betray. His Brimstone blood coaxed her to sing, but it was his offer of protection that weakened her defenses.

“Forgive me if I don’t relax. It isn’t you. It’s me,” Victoria said.

“Yes. I see that. You hold yourself contained. Unusual for an artist,” Turov said.

She hadn’t stepped over the threshold yet. She regretted the pause as soon as his hand reached to tilt the brim of her hat up. Only a millimeter. Only the very tip of his fingers brushed the felt. But her expression felt suddenly exposed to his searching eyes. He lowered his hand. She held her breath. He leaned. Slightly. She might have imagined a lowering of his shadowed face toward hers. She backed up just in case, away from his heat, away from his discerning gaze.

“Join us,” he urged again. “It’s a small party. You’ll be a welcome addition.”

She nodded as she walked into the cottage he’d given her for her stay. The scent of roses would likely always remind her of this adrenaline-fueled retreat. For a few crazy seconds she had thought he was going to kiss her, and she’d recognized the pinch of disappointment in her chest with the realization that she couldn’t have allowed it even if he’d tried.