Blood and Chrysanthemums Read Free Page A

they had been heading for Vancouver. Their car, cheap and barely roadworthy, had finally died just outside the town. They had resigned themselves to a longer stay when it became apparent that fixing it would cost more than they could afford. But as they looked around, it seemed as if Banff was the perfect place to hide. Tourists thronged the streets and young travellers from all over the world came and went, seeking brief employment to subsidize the climbing, hiking, cycling and camping that were the reasons for their trips.
    Now, seeing it through new eyes, she no longer felt invisible. In the summer sea of Japanese tourists, her short black hair did not merit a second look; now, compared only to the predominantly long, natural styles of the locals and transient travellers, it looked like the dye job it was. Her dark clothes, so perfectly anonymous in Toronto’s Queen Street bars, seemed suddenly too strong a contrast to the bright outdoor gear favoured by most of the tourists and townspeople alike.
    You couldn’t be more conspicuous if you put up a sign, she thought, catching a glimpse of her reflection in the window of a coffee shop, moving past a knot of late-lingering tourists. Pick the one that doesn’t belong in this picture.
    Then, thankfully, she was past the bright blaze of the stores and restaurants that lined Banff Avenue and onto the street that led to their rooms. The rounded bulk of Tunnel Mountain rose in front of her and seemed to promise shelter in its shadow.
    The natural glory of the place had overwhelmed her from the start. She had never been attracted to the outdoor life but for the first time could understand the allure. Nothing she had seen in photographs or films had prepared her for the encircling embrace of the mountains, the raw beauty of rock and trees, even glimpsed only by moonlight or the long twilights that lingered here as the sun disappeared behind the peaks. She had been frightened setting out on their first hunt, city-bred nerves jumping at every breeze in the tall pines around her, but her night-sight had turned the moonlit woods bright silver. If there were other predators in its depths, they stayed well away.
    She was almost home when she heard him call. There were no words, just the sudden knowledge in her heart that he had left the observatory and was on his way across the bridge over the Bow River. It was early for the hunt but she knew that he was going up the mountain, beyond the last line of houses carved from the woods. Hunger twitched into life and the memory of Mark Frye’s hand burning against hers made her throat ache.
    Wait for me, she whispered in her mind and felt his assent. She swerved back to the main street, crossed the river and found the trail that would take her to him.
    He was waiting at the edge of the small clearing, partway up the mountainside, across from the path she had taken. As he stepped from the shadow of the trees, the moonlight struck him, turning the loose grey hair to silver, revealing a fine-boned face. Ardeth felt something twist deep inside her, something perilously close to pain. But she did not move, simply waited beneath the branches as he stared into the woods to her left.
    After a moment, he lifted his hand. She heard the faint rustle of leaves, the crack of a twig. A dark shape moved into the clearing. It tossed its head, the wide rack of antlers seeming to rake the sky, and pawed at the dirt. Ardeth felt the edges of the call that drew it and found her fingers digging into a tree-trunk to keep herself from moving.
    At last, the great head dropped. The elk took two steps forward and was still. The hand dropped onto its sharp shoulder.
    Ardeth moved from the trees and crossed the clearing to the animal’s side. Across the lowered spikes of its antlers, she met Dimitri Rozokov’s eyes. For a moment, something moved in the grey gaze, a darkness she could not identify, then he smiled. She put her hand over his on the elk’s withers.
    In the