By Desire Bound Page 25

  And he was deadly serious.

  "We have no plan."

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  "Maybe things work better without a plan. How could you plan for the appearance of a Lazarin?"

  "We must be running out of money."

  "We will have to sell another stone fairly soon."

  "Perhaps to our friend the importer?" Darcie sug­gested.

  "You mean—as a test? I think he'd call the authorities in the blink of an eye. He's someone who very well might know the Pengellis diamonds. No, /—yes, I'm go­ing to get into his room and find out who he is, and if he's a threat. And yes, I'll have the revolver, so just keep quiet, Darcie, and eat your soup."

  "I have to do something," she grumbled later as they finished their tea.

  He sent her a scorching look. "Wait up for me."

  Their room was small, with the chimney of a central heating stove radiating a fair amount of warmth. There were hooks on the door for clothes, a wash basin and stand. Two kerosene lamps. A small table and one sag­ging chair.

  It would do. Only she was the one waiting, and there was no room to pace. She sat at the table wearily and waited.

  Con and his waiting. A person could die waiting.

  She jumped up impatiently. It was a coincidence. It had to be.

  Lavinia just couldn't move that fast. Couldn't.

  And yet—

  Time crept by. Con had left her on their return from dinner, and she had no idea how long ago that was. And the room was in the back of the hotel, on an upper floor, and all she could see was rooftops and the sky.

  And an occasional light dimming, and finally going out.

  How late could it be?

  And then, she imagined something happened to Con. The merchant had caught him, abducted him, killed him. Or called the authorities. Or something.

  Why wasn't he here yet?

  She threw herself across the bed. Better to sleep than make up scenarios that had no basis in reality.

  Wait up for me . . .

  She thought she would.

  She slept.

  And felt a hand on her arm, shaking her awake.

  She bolted upright. "Con!"

  "Shhh."

  "What? Tell me!" she demanded in a whisper.

  "His name is Kleist, according to the coachman. But he's not registered at the Vyatka. Or either of the two other hotels. Or any of the rooming houses that I found when I was searching out the driver. That precious little man has disappeared into thin air."

  Nor could they find any trace of him the following morning. And as far as they could tell, he hadn't rented a driver and sled.

  "This is too eerie," Darcie said.

  Snow was falling again, and they had come out early to scour the shops for woollen clothing and furs.

  "I feel as if we imagined him."

  "Or else he's biding his time, waiting until we leave." Con was spending rubles like they were wheat. Two fur blankets; a little heater for coals; sheepskin boots and coats for both of them, and a fur throw.

  "You're insane."

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  "It's cold." He bought woollen underwear and suits for each of them, and mittens, socks and gloves. And some dried fruit and beef; canteens for tea and water and—"I think that's enough."

  They needed a wagon to bring it all back to the hotel, but there seemed always to be an izvozchik waiting for a fare.

  Dinner out again in the hotel restaurant, their table rucked in a far corner where they could talk.

  Still, Darcie felt so far removed from the world they were about to breach. She could almost pretend that they were on holiday—or a honeymoon. Oh, but that thought was best left buried.

  Especially when Con told her the precautions he'd taken.

  "We'll have with us two revolvers and a knife. And I found a small lead-lined container for our trust, which you must wear fastened around your waist. We can't lose it. Or the remaining stones. I plan to sell the next one tomorrow in the market. And then we'll each have one, in case anything happens."

  "Nothing will happen," Darcie said, her voice tight.

  "We're travelling relatively light so we can move fast and get things done."

  "You call that mountain of fur and wool light?"

  "For the lower reaches of Siberia—yes. You'll be ready to move out as soon as tomorrow morning, as soon as I return."

  "And until then?" she whispered.

  He sent her a heated glance. "You'll move for me tonight, because, Scheherezade, I'm hot and ready and burning for you."

  Twenty

  A night of secret pleasures, told in the dark.

  Always in the dark. Began in the dark, ended in the dark, by touch, by word, by feel. Naked in the dark, your sex open in the dark, with a hunger you yearn to feed.

  That way, in the dark, upside down, cradling his sex while he worships your crown.

  The dark passion devours you; you resist, then you come, in the dark, on his tongue, till he finally sucks you away . . .

  He left for the market at dawn, having called for tea, and bundling himself in the new underwear, suit, coat and gloves.

  She felt leisurely this morning, replete from sex, and removed from the idea of any threats. She could drink some tea, pack—it seemed like she was always packing— and they would get a late morning start.

  It was still snowing, and it had drifted up against the rooftops and the back of the buildings that she could see. And she heard the unmistakable sound of a cow mooing in the distance.

  Just for this moment, things felt right.

  And then she picked up the case in which she would carry The Eye of God—and the feeling dissipated.

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  She took the diamond in her hands, and held it to the light, and for the life her, she couldn't understand why men risked their lives to possess this large dull stone.

  She wrapped it in coarse cotton and tucked it into the case. Then she threaded a belt through an attached loop, and wound it around her waist.

  She pinned the pouch with the Pengellis diamond on her camisole between her breasts. Now, she thought, she was ready to get dressed.

  She waited a long time—too long—for him to return, pottering around the room; filling the canteen with the remaining tea, rearranging everything in the suit­cases—anything to fill the time and ease her fears.

  But when he came, the news wasn't good.

  "Kleist is still in Omsk. He was at the market, wait­ing—"

  "Oh my God . . ."

  "Following me . . . shadowing me—there was no­where to make a deal."

  "What are we going to do?"

  "I think I outwitted him for the moment. Our driver is waiting. We're leaving—now."

  "Oh God—Con . . ."

  "Shhh . . . everything is taken care of. Grab your suit and coat and let's go."

  They left by a back staircase, slipping out a side door, into an alleyway. Con took the risk and summoned the driver to pull up there.

  She threw everything onto the floor and tumbled into the backseat.

  Their driver snapped his whip, the sled lurched for­ward, and in a matter of minutes, they were one of doz­ens of conveyances plying the streets of Omsk, until they passed over the train tracks, and down broad ave­nues to the outskirts of the town, and they were gone.

  BY DESIRE BOUND

  * * *

  She wasn't reassured that they had gotten a head start on Kleist.

  "He's coming after us, and not the other way around."

  "Probably," Con said. "It's still another chance we have to take." He had tented the blankets over their heads both to protect them from the steadily falling snow, and to give them some anonymity.

  "Dmitri, our driver, says he's done it many times," Con said. "One wonders."

  "And what if Kleist got to him? What if he's waiting s
omewhere down the line?"

  "We'll do what we have to do. All I care about is if you're warm."

  "I'm warm."

  "It's damned cold. Your nose is red. Bury it in that fur for a while."

  "God, I can't believe we're doing this. All for that stone. Every time I look at it, I see a big colorless rock."

  "And yet—" he started to say, and he caught himself. "Maybe not yet. This isn't the time to extol the prop­erties of the stone."

  "When will that be? When Lazarin is about to kill us?"

  "That would be a good time, yes."

  "Con—"

  "Shhhh. We're going forward, Darcie. That's all we have to know."

  But they didn't go swiftly. Several hours into the trip, they stopped to change horses, and replenish their tea and coals. By nightfall, they were ready to stop, and they found a hostel.

  Again, they slept in a barracks, wrapped in fur and

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  heat, among a half dozen travellers who had also sought shelter for the price of ten kopecks.

  They were off again in the morning, through a land­scape dotted with huts, rivers and mansions, seen through a curtain of diminishing snow.

  "Dmitri says—another day, maybe two if the weather keeps up."

  "I'm hungry. I hate this place."

  "We'll find something to eat."

  She'd never seen such a bleak landscape. The snow was intermittent and ongoing, constant and white.

  Another change of horses at another way station Dmitri knew, and they were able to get breakfast: eggs, meat, tea, water. It was enough. But the lower reaches of Siberia were endless, a horizon that stretched into the night.

  They pulled in once again to a barracks for the night.

  Dmitri negotiated the price and took off the horses, and she and Con went inside. There were a dozen trav­ellers in the bunks in various stages of sleep.

  "Darcie!" Con reached out and held her back. "Kleist. . ."

  She gasped. Kleist here, in the wilds of Okrug when Con had outwitted him two days before in the Omsk grand market.

  God, there was no end.

  They backed out of the room, and into the vestibule.

  "I'll get Dmitri." Even he was shaken. He was back in several moments. "Come."

  They slipped out into the snow and into the side yard where the sleighs and animals were corralled.

  "We have to go now," he said, as they approached Dmitri. But he'd already told him that.

  "The horses are ragged out."

  "I don't care." What was he doing, arguing with a peasant driver?

  "You go at your peril," Dmitri said, and then he started laughing loudly, contemptuously, taunting them with his laughter as he transformed himself, before their very eyes into the plump body and plummy tones of Kleist. Laughing at them, mocking them as if to say he was invincible, and they'd never get away from him.

  He couldn't reach a gun; he couldn't pull the knife.

  He grabbed Darcie and they ran, ducking behind the sledges and horses, and out of sight of their nemesis.

  His laughter echoed into the night.

  "I hope ... I pray," Con muttered, "another travel­ler comes in here tonight."

  They merged with the shadows, burdened with their bags. They moved slowly, cautiously, Kleist's laughter fol­lowing them.

  "He can't be everywhere, dammit," Con swore, dig­ging for a weapon. His fingers grasped the knife. "Good enough to immobilize Karun. Good enough to under­cut Kleist. Can you see him?"

  "I don't think he's moved," Darcie whispered.

  "Let's get closer, from his back."

  The laughter was impossible, high-pitched, not quite sane.

  They crawled noiselessly toward him on the snow.

  "It won't work, you know," Kleist called out. "I know where you are. Just give me the woman. And the stone."

  Con gestured for Darcie to stay still. They were within feet of Kleist whose laughter echoed into the trees.

  "Come out, we'll talk, perhaps we'll make a trade. You've already accepted a gift from Samael—" and he laughed again.

  Con crept closer. Closer still.

  Aim at the head.

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  He poised the knife on the tip of his fingers. He gauged the distance to the entity's head. He aimed.

  Kleist laughed hysterically, horribly.

  He snapped his wrist and released the knife.

  It hit Kleist with a sickening thud, and he dropped like a stone.

  "Darcie—!" He reached behind him to grab her. "I have to make sure."

  Darcie covered her eyes. "I don't want to see."

  He inched forward toward the body; it had fallen for­ward, the shaft of the knife buried in its neck. Blood spewed from the wound, a shocking pool of red on a white ground.

  "It's not moving. It's bleeding."

  "How much time?"

  "I don't know. And I don't know if we should go or stay."

  "We can't move anywhere in this snow."

  "You're probably right I'm going to drag him into the trees and cover up the blood. You go inside and get us two bunks."

  "I don't want to leave you."

  "You're better inside."

  "I've never been so scared."

  "I'll be in soon." He watched her reluctandy go, and he looked down at the bloody entity. Immobilized for maybe a day.

  Or maybe a bloodthirsty man could do something about that.

  Silently, with only the snow as witness, he pulled the thing into the shadows, and made sure it was dead.

  And now he had blood on his hands, in the name of The Eye of God.

  He took the reins of the sled the next morning, and they forged ahead; blindly, snow blown, determined, they pressed on toward Okrug in tandem with two other travellers who were going that way.

  Blessed be . . .

  They could have been attacked by their enemy.

  They could have died in the snow.

  The power of the stone . . . ?

  Buried in the snow, what remained of Kleist, never to be found until the snow thawed . . .

  In the name of. . . ?

  They raced on through the storm, the whole of their world a white vista before them. Stopping for maps, food, change of horses, sleep.

  Through Strezhvoy, Nizhne, Tarko-Selo, pausing only to ask had people seen him, did they know him, the tall ascetic monk with the burning eyes.

  They knew of him, they said; they'd never seen him. And it was said he lived in the village of Nadyl on the Nizmennost Plains of Siberia.

  And it was there they headed in those final hours, deep on the plain in the near north reaches of Siberia.

  The place of diamonds and death.

  It was a village of thatched log huts lining either side of the snow-slick road. And then a church, a school-house, a cemetery dressed in white. An abandoned wagon, a lone braying cow, fenced-in yards. And a knot of a half dozen children racing alongside them, throw ­ing snowballs, and calling out questions.

  "Where is your village priest?" Con asked them, and they pointed to a large house next to the church. "Where are your fathers?"

  They said, "Down in the mines."

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  "Whom can I talk to?"

  "Father Vasili."

  They drove into the church courtyard, surrounded by the children.

  "We're a novelty," Con said, as he helped Darcie from under the tent of furs in which she'd been wrapped the entire journey. "The priest will welcome us, hopefully he'll feed us, and tell us what we need to know."

  He was tall, Father Vasili, and dark, dressed in his robes, and he appeared immediately at the door of the presbytery with a welcoming smile, shooing the chil­dren away all the while.

  "My son, my daughter�
��come. There's tea and cakes. Come, get warm."

  They removed their coats and their boots in the ves­tibule, and followed him into the large well-lit room where he motioned them to a table that was set at a right angle to the window, and on either side of which were comfortable upholstered chairs and a sofa.

  "Sit on the sofa, do. Manya will bring food. I know you're from far away. Tell me your names."

  Con told him, filling him in as best he could with limited language on why they had come.

  Father Vasili nodded from time to time and then: "Ah! Here's Manya. Let us warm ourselves before we speak."

  They drank, they ate a leisurely meal, by the end of which Darcie was itching to get some answers.

  Con sensed her mood and opened the discussion, translating for Darcie as his questions were answered.

  "Father, we've come from India seeking some an­swers. What can you tell us?"

  "My son, my daughter, you've come such a long way on your quest. I can tell you, it ends here. Whether it

  is what you want to know—well ... it is for you to tell me."

  "We have heard, along the road and in the villages, that the man we seek is known by many to live among the people here in Nadyl. He is said to be a monk, a man of purpose. He is said to carry a divine stone."

  "Ah, the stone. Yes, he is our holy man, blessed is he. But you mistake, my children; he has been among us for years."

  They looked at each other in shock.

  "Oh, yes, he came among us with his talisman stone. He blessed it to our community; sanctified it to the blood of Our Father by dipping it in goat's blood; and in the name of his divine Lord, he cleaved it. A piece of that stone reposes in the church, and we believe im­plicitly in its powers."

  "And the other piece?" Con asked shakily.

  "Our holy man has taken it to St. Petersburg to gift a part of this miraculous stone to our beloved Father Russia with the prayer that it will guide his rule and the country will prosper."

  "Oh, dear God," Darcie breathed. "No . . ."

  "So . . ." Con went on, pushing aside his shock, "he is gone."

  "But for two weeks, maybe three."

  "And a piece of this stone remains in your church?"

  "Indeed. Would you like to see it?"