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Authors: Annette McCleave

BOOK: Surrender to Darkness
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With a low groan of pleasure, he pressed her back into the pillows and took all that she offered.
His hand slipped over her hip, raked up the hem of her nightgown, and discovered a smooth expanse of tender flesh. Breathing became a challenge as he kneaded the soft satin of her skin with a desperation born of long, unbearable waiting. The damp heat between her legs and the heady scent of her arousal teased him, taunted him, spurred him. Undeniable need poured through his veins to his groin and, shuddering, he slipped his hand around the globe of her buttock to the warmth that welcomed him.
“Murdoch-san.”
He tensed, resisting the cool politeness in that voice.
“Murdoch-san.”
Murdoch opened his eyes. And blinked. Twice. He was alone in the bunk, surrounded by dozens of other beds, all of them empty and tidily made. He blinked again. Yoshio, the senior
onmyōji
warrior, stood over him, frowning.
Sweet Jesu, he’d been dreaming.
Possibly moaning in his sleep.
“Murdoch-san, my apologies for waking you, but the sensei has requested to meet with you,” Yoshio said, glancing at the sheet over Murdoch’s body, then quickly looking away.
No need to guess why.
Murdoch casually moved his hand and adjusted the sheet so his erection wasn’t quite so obvious. The morning woody didn’t embarrass him—hell, most men got them. The self-pleasuring didn’t bother him either, even though it had been a very long time since he’d been that invested in a dream. But he was a tad concerned about what he might have mistakenly uttered while lost in his erotic fantasy. Her name, for example. That could potentially cause grief.
“Which sensei would that be?” he asked. “Yamashita-sensei or Ashida-sensei?”
The young man’s gaze returned to his face. Calm, clear, and unflustered. “Yamashita-sensei.”
Excellent. It didn’t appear that he’d gasped Kiyoko’s name in the midst of a pleasurable stroke. “Please inform him I’ll be but a moment.”
Murdoch rolled out of bed and snatched his duffel bag off the floor. Remnants of the dream clung to him, leaving an ache in his chest and disappointment slurring through his body. Damn it, he could still taste her on his lips, still close his eyes and recall the fragrance of her skin in perfect detail.
It wasn’t bloody fair.
Not only did he suffer the most unimaginable lust when he touched her and battle a ridiculous urge to snarl a warning to all other males whenever he saw her, but he was haunted by her in his sleep. And there wasn’t any way to rid himself of the itch—acting on his desire was impossible.
Unless he was willing to risk her life.
Damn it. Hadn’t he been punished enough for his decision to drink that blasted Norse potion? If he could take that moment back, he would. A thousand times.
He jerked his white T-shirt over his head.
But the moment for regret was long past. The berserker was a tightly ingrained part of him—had been for seven hundred and twenty-seven years—and he was as responsible for its actions as he was for his own. In truth, the only days he could control were the ones in front of him. If he wanted to avoid further regrets, he’d best retrieve the Veil from Kiyoko and return to California. The sooner the better.
He carefully zipped his jeans.
Yoshio led him across the courtyard to a building that Murdoch had not yet visited—a small single-level pagoda next to the main hall with a large gold, black, and red painted cabinet as its centerpiece. The doors of the cabinet were open and Sora sat cross-legged on a cushion before them, perusing a scroll spread across a low podium.
As Murdoch crossed the room, barefoot, the old man glanced up. “Sit, please.” He waved a thin hand at a second cushion, then returned his gaze to his studies.
“I prefer to remain standing.”
Sora lifted his eyes again. “That would be most impolite, Mr. Murdoch.
I
am sitting. Would it truly trouble you to sit for a moment while I finish what I’m doing?”
No, sitting wouldn’t trouble him. But having the old man take him to task for being impolite most definitely did. He dropped to his knees on the cushion, smoothly but reluctantly. “You need to convince Kiyoko to give me the Veil.”
“You are concerned for its safety.”
“Aye.” And for Kiyoko’s safety. But explaining why was not a conversation he wanted to start.
“I understand.”
But Sora didn’t volunteer to do anything about it. Just ran his finger over a series of intricate drawings painted on his scroll, then glanced at a calendar and frowned. Murdoch held back a pained sigh. “I’ve already been here longer than I’d planned. I need to get back to the United States. She listens to you. I’m certain she’d give me the Veil if you pointed out the wisdom of doing so.”
“That may be true.”
Again, no offer to help. “Will you tell her to give it to me?”
“The issue of the Veil will sort itself out in good time.” Sora slid two pieces of wood off the scroll and allowed it to roll back up. “I’m curious about your role as a Soul Gatherer, Mr. Murdoch. Will you indulge me by answering a few questions?”
“No.”
The elder glanced up. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said no. I’m not interested in answering a bunch of damned questions. Not without some assurance that you’ll help me obtain my goal.”
Buried in the depths of Sora’s calm gaze was a glint of something hard. “And I’m not interested in helping you obtain your goal without knowing more about you and your motivations.”
Hell and damnation.
It was a reasonable request.
He
wouldn’t hand over a valuable relic to someone he knew nothing about, either. It would be a lot easier to capitulate if the old man weren’t so bloody annoying, though.
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll answer a few questions. But first, I’ve got one of my own.”
Sora spread his hands wide. “Ask.”
“If I satisfy you that my credentials are genuine, will you help me convince Kiyoko to give up the Veil?”
He shook his head. “I would recommend she keep it.”
“Even when you know that every moment she holds on to it endangers her? Why?”
“Why are you so certain she in danger?”
“Because I’ve seen the lengths Satan is willing to go to acquire these relics and increase his power. He’s not sending callow, inexperienced demons to seek them out. He’s sending his most formidable warriors. None of whom have been easy to defeat, by the way, even by immortal standards. Even with an army of ninjas at her back, Kiyoko doesn’t have the strength to withstand such an assault.”
“Kiyoko-san is unique.”
Murdoch nodded. “Sure, she’s a gifted swordsman. I admit that. But those skills won’t be enough. Defeating a couple of pith demons who steal souls is not the same as defeating a martial demon capable of demolishing buildings. Or a lure demon capable of twisting your very thoughts.”
The old man set aside the scroll and moved the podium, then rose to his feet in a dignified flow of limbs. His robes never once revealed more than a socked toe. “She is the only one in a millennium to display equal mastery of the martial arts, the mystic arts, and divination. The only one born with the true promise of her ancestors.”
Murdoch sighed. “Look, I’d be the first to acknowledge that the woman is bloody marvelous. But she’s human, damn it. She can die. Far too easily, as far as I’m concerned.”
“Which brings us full circle,” the old man said. “I know you are Death’s servant, that you owe her your allegiance and your obeisance. I presume that means you are here to collect a soul. Whose?”
A ripple of displeasure ran down Murdoch’s spine at the word
servant
. “I am no one’s servant. I gather souls, as is my duty, but I do not blindly follow orders.”
Sora frowned. “Does that mean you can refuse to collect a soul marked by Death?”
“No. If she places her helix upon someone’s cheek, then the fate of that soul has been decided—a fate I can neither change nor deny. But I do not answer only to Death. I also answer to my conscience. And that leads me to further my own tasks, such as keeping dark relics out of Satan’s hands.” Murdoch pushed to his feet, now towering over the old sensei. “I am not here on a mission for Death.”
“Does she know that you are here?”
Murdoch grimaced. “Without a doubt.”
“Then she supports the protection of these relics?”
“
Supports
is too strong a word,” Murdoch said drily. “
Condones
would be closer to the truth.”
“Until such time as it interferes with her own ambitions.”
Murdoch skewed a glance at the old man. “Aye, that’s probably accurate.”
Sora turned and shut the doors on the painted cabinet. “Thank you for your honest and helpful responses, Mr. Murdoch. I’ll offer this in return: Help Kiyoko-san understand your berserker and you’ll make it easier for her to give up the Veil.”
Murdoch frowned. “I’ll tell her what I know, but I do not fully understand the beast myself. The potion I drank was the instrument of a Norse god.”
Sora nodded. “Odin, the god of war. I’ve read several accounts of his soldiers having such skills. Fear not—Kiyoko’s interest lies less in the origins of the berserker than in how it manifests inside you.”
“Why does she need that information?”
“She’s on a personal journey.”
“A journey? What does that mean? Can you never just answer a question with a simple truth?” Murdoch demanded, exasperated. “Does everything need to be a bloody riddle?”
“Calm is a virtue, Mr. Murdoch,” Sora admonished.
“So is being direct. Answer the question. Why does Kiyoko need to know anything about my berserker?”
“I should think that is obvious.” Sora tucked his hands into his long sleeves. “Based on the way she’s able to instantly call your berserker to the surface, it’s clear that she and it have a common destiny.”
She and
it
? “That’s ridiculous.”
Sora shrugged. “I believe that Kiyoko-san is the lake of tranquillity needed to balance your berserker’s existence.”
Tranquillity? Was the man mad? When the two of them touched, anything resembling tranquillity flew right out the window. For both of them. Kiyoko felt exactly the same sensations he did. He’d stake his very existence on it. But she’d clearly never mentioned her hot, sweaty, and totally stirred-up feelings to her revered mentor.
Maybe he should set the record straight.
Kiyoko knew the instant Murdoch entered the meditation hall. Not because he made any noise. Just the opposite—the silence in the room deepened. Perhaps his body blocked the wind at the door, or perhaps his weight upon the floor silenced the faint creaks of the building. Whatever the cause, the quiet grew.
“Come in, Murdoch,” she encouraged, without lifting her eyes. “I hope you dressed comfortably. After meditation, I thought we’d take a run outside the compound.”
He crossed the room and without a word dropped to the cushion in front of her. As usual, his legs were encased in black jeans and when he knelt, the material pulled snug over the heavy sinews of his thighs. Kiyoko tried not to notice.
But the dreams that had tormented her all night did not make it easy.
He cupped his hands together and made a perfect oval with his thumbs. “I just had a little heart-to-heart with Sora-san.”
The gentle rumble of his accent sent a thrill over her skin. The deep roll of his
r
’s evoked a rush of vivid memory. In her dream, he had groaned when she clutched at the long locks of his hair and opened her mouth to his kiss. Deep and guttural, a perfect reflection of satisfaction.
“Oh?” she responded, more breathless than she’d planned.
A brief pause. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
Nothing a peaceful meditation and a run through the forest wouldn’t cure. She let go of the memory, settled her breathing, and sought the serenity of blending her being with the world around her.

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