Chapter 2

      Even though she had the snowstorm and the frigid mountain pass for comparison, she didn’t find the great hall of the castle welcoming. It was nothing like the illustrations in her book. Dark, gray, unlit by torches or firelight, it seemed more a massive cave than a place where people would gather. A fireplace several times larger than any she’d seen before yawned cold and dark. Wind whistled down its chimney like a banshee. A frozen banshee.

      In the shadows, the elaborate tapestries hanging on the walls were lifeless and dull. In her book, they were painted with vivid detail that never seemed to fade. Romanov had carried her through the outer keep without greeting or comment from a dozen or so dreary-looking denizens going about half-hearted work. The gamboling of the giant wolves had seemed cruelly vigorous in comparison. The wolves were playful when all else was doom and gloom. They must have been protected from the gloom of the villagers by their simpler, animal comprehension.

      Something was wrong with Bronwal. The wrongness permeated the people and the atmosphere, including the man who held her to his chest.

      Inside, the great hall was deserted. Elena tried to speak, but her teeth chattered together and shivers racked her body. The trembling meant her nerves hadn’t been frozen, but the pain of her skin coming back to life caused her to moan.

      “We have no accommodations for visitors. Not anymore,” Romanov said. He turned around as if he was looking for somewhere to put her that wasn’t dark and damp.

      “I s-see th-that,” Elena replied. Welcome or not, she was here. She’d made it. Once she warmed up enough to face the challenge, she would find the alpha wolf even though this last Romanov was determined to send her away. She’d be much better off facing this man’s determination not to help her than she’d been facing Grigori in Saint Petersburg alone.

      “Fetch Patrice. To the tower room,” Romanov ordered. The russet wolf jumped to attention. He stopped his leaping and stared at his master for several seconds as if his wolf brain had to interpret the command. Then he was off. The white wolf sat on its haunches and looked at them.

      “I know there are plenty of empty rooms. Don’t look at me like that. Anyone who would have an opinion about where best to put her is long gone,” Romanov said.

      He tightened his arms when she tried to press her palms against his broad chest for release. He didn’t place her on her feet. Inside the castle, even in the lofted great hall, he seemed much larger. He was well over six feet with muscled arms and legs that matched his intimidating frame. His hold was overwhelming. His embrace swallowed her petite body. He held her close against his chest. Odd, since he had ordered her to go away. His heartbeat was clear and strong against her cheek.

      Suddenly, he was too real. Her respiration quickened and her fingers curled into the damp material of his cloak. He felt her increased tension and paused. His whole being became alert. She could sense the intensity of his attention on her face. Her focus was on the fur of his mantle, but she forced her gaze from that safe haven to more dangerous territory.

      In the shadows, his eyes were lighter than his dark brows and hair, but they were hooded against her. She couldn’t read his emotions before he looked away. He betrayed nothing of his inner feelings yet she sensed them beneath his stiff demeanor. She noted his tightened hands and his unwillingness to meet her eyes. They waited for a long time, made longer by her fatigue and fear.

      Finally, at some unspoken signal, he turned again and headed from the room in a decided direction. They came to a circular stone hall that eventually changed to stairs. She held him as he carried her up and up the never-ending climb. She was accustomed to athletic artists and dancers. Sophisticated and polished businessman and patrons were her usual companions. She wasn’t used to storybooks come to life from legends that originated in the Dark Ages.

      Romanov’s scent was one of wind and snow, leather and fur. His hair had enveloped her with stinging strands outside on the mountain. Now it dried around his face in a riot of damp waves. By the time they came to an open door at the top of the stairs, Elena had seen Romanov’s face by the light of a thousand torches. The impact of his appearance wasn’t diminished by the increased time to study him. His face was as bold as the rest of him, with a strong brow and patrician cheekbones. His lips were sculpted and sensual against his hard features and there was a shadow of beard growth on his jaw that only served to highlight its perfect, sharp angles. The contrast of his green eyes continually startled her against his dark hair and pale skin.

      Not that he looked at her again. He kept his gaze on the stairs. He didn’t have to look. She could feel his attention zeroed in on her every blink and sigh. She’d followed a call she couldn’t define to a strange place she’d only heard about from a storybook, but she was afraid she might have found more danger than she’d left behind. The wolves had been terrifying, but Romanov was in some ways more intimidating than his pets. In trying to escape Grigori had she placed herself in even greater danger?

      The glow of a small fire met them when he stepped inside the room at the top of the long, spiraling stairway. A round woman in a faded apron bustled around and the russet wolf stretched out by the fireplace, soaking up what heat it provided in its infancy. Romanov had carried her up into the tallest tower she’d seen from far below in the pass. The windows were obscured by ancient stained glass, wavy and dense with imperfections. Occasional shadows seemed to swoop by, hinting that the ravens still circled outside. The room was furnished sparsely with a plain wooden bed draped in thick velvet textiles against the cold. There were two sturdy chairs on either side of the fire. There were no lamps or electric outlets. No technology of any kind.

      Had she expected modern amenities in a castle made by magic hands centuries ago?

      The woman didn’t speak. She quietly straightened a woven throw on one of the chairs by the fire and Romanov responded by placing Elena on it. The move was hurried, as if he couldn’t wait to put her down, but also gentle. He was being careful with her leg. His size and strength and gruff manner made his courtesy that much more surprising.

      “It isn’t a new injury. My name is Elena Pavlova. I’m a dancer. The stress of the climb aggravated an ACL condition I developed from my years in ballet,” Elena said. “I’ll be fine with rest and another knee surgery.” She didn’t tell him she’d never dance again. An additional surgery might give her a greater range of movement, but she would never reclaim the grace she’d lost.

      She could no longer focus on dancing. It had been a necessity to help support her family. It had saved her when her mother died, but now all of the drive she’d used for the dance needed to be focused on survival. Never mind there was an empty place left by the loss of her dance deep inside of her. It had given her purpose for so long even though it had been a cruel taskmaster more than a heartfelt occupation. The call had seemed to fill the void for the last several days, but she tried to ignore it now. She was here. Why did it still seem to compel her toward something she couldn’t see?

      “Thank you,” Elena said to the woman, who tucked another throw around her legs. Patrice didn’t reply.

      “It’s been several Cycles since she’s spoken. You spoke of the wolves. You must know of the curse that binds us. The Queen of the Light Volkhvy punishes us for my father’s betrayal of her trust. Every ten years, Bronwal materializes from the Ether. At the end of the month, we disappear into the Ether once more. We all change each time we’re lost in the Ether,” Romanov said. “When the enclave dematerializes, we’re left with an awareness that makes the Ether a purgatory. It drains our souls away, little by little, time after time. For some there’s a sudden vanishing. For others, a slow fading away. Vladimir Romanov hasn’t been seen since the first Cycle.”

      The legends about the Light Volkhvy champions had always seemed magical and romantic to her, filled with heroics and daring. She hadn’t known about the curse. No wonder there seemed to be something wrong with her storybook castle and all the people she’d encountered