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Authors: Annette McCleave

BOOK: Surrender to Darkness
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“Not anymore it’s not.” The others in the room shuffled uncomfortably. “You guys can go,” Webster told them. “Murdoch and I can finish this conversation on our own.”
After the library door closed, Murdoch said quietly, “You prick. You’re doing this out of spite.”
“No, I’m not. If this assignment was limited to kicking some demon ass, maybe I’d decide differently. But it also involves guarding a Protector. Another man just like the
cardinale
. For six long months. And if that Protector goes down, we lose the relic he’s entrusted with. There’s no way I’m sending a guy who explodes like a bomb at the first sign of danger on a mission this critical. I can’t risk it.”
Although it was tempting to stomp across the room and take his frustration out on Webster’s nose, Murdoch subsided. He was in Webster’s house. That called for a little decorum. “I did not explode at the first sign of danger. My berserker took control after we were swamped by gradiors determined to tear us to shreds. And for the record, I succeeded in my mission. I saved the
cardinale
’s life.”
Webster’s silver eyes held his for a long moment. “Every wound on his body—all seventeen of them—came from
your
sword, not a gradior’s claws. So, yes, you saved his life, but you nearly killed him in the process.”
“He’s alive,” Murdoch said.
“He’ll be in therapy for months.”
True, and the knowledge shamed him. But the past was in the past. If there was one lesson he’d learned over the years, it was that rehashing his failures ad nauseam wouldn’t change the facts. “I’m not pleased with the outcome, but neither do I regret my actions. Any other Gatherer faced with six opponents would have failed.”
“Maybe,” Webster allowed, closing the wooden panels that hid the map of the world from prying eyes. “But it could easily have gone the other way and you know it. We could be standing at the man’s graveside comforting his widow, instead of forking over the dough for his hospital bills. I spent months convincing the Protectorate to trust us enough to guard the Ignobles, and your stunt in Rome nearly cost us everything. I can’t let you lead a mission this important, Murdoch. Not when I know your little problem could take the mission south at the drop of a hat.”
“MacGregor trusts me,” Murdoch reminded the other Gatherer.
“It doesn’t really matter what MacGregor thinks,” Webster said softly. “He’s not in charge anymore. I am.”
The muscles in Murdoch’s stomach knotted. MacGregor’s decision to name Webster as leader still tasted like failure, even after six months.
“I’m not calling your leadership into question,” he said. In truth, Webster had done an outstanding job thus far. He had depths Murdoch hadn’t suspected, repeatedly displaying not only intelligence but courage and an innate gift for strategy. “I’m giving you my word as a Highlander that I’ll lead the South African team to success.”
Webster stared out the big picture window. Water dripped from the chairs and umbrellas onto the ruddy-colored cedar deck. The first rainy day in San Jose in over a month.
“I’m sorry, Murdoch,” he said. “I can’t do it.”
An invisible hand clenched Murdoch’s throat. His damned berserker was screwing up his life.
Again
.
“Fine,” he spit out. In a purposeful display of impressive musculature, he folded his arms over his chest. The soft material of the T-shirt pulled snug over his shoulders and pecs.
Beat
that
, little wharf rat
. “I’ll go to Japan. In the midst of global riots and unprecedented numbers of demon attacks, I’ll wander off for an unspecified amount of time to check out the slim possibility of an undocumented demon-slaying weapon.”
“Excellent.”
Murdoch barely resisted a snort. The man was impervious to sarcasm. “But listen up. If I find this bloody thing, you’re damned well going to eat crow and give me an assignment worthy of my skills.”
The other man smiled. “Sure. Do a good job, don’t slice up any innocent people, and you’ve got a deal.”
“Fuck you, Webster.”
 
Genuinely curious, Kiyoko studied the man filling the video screen. Judging by his proximity to the camera lens, he stood well over six feet tall, a notable height in Sapporo. He also had long brown hair swept back off his strong face like a warrior of old. “You’re certain he said Lena Sharpe sent him?”
“Yes.”
She sat back in her father’s executive chair, rubbing her hands over the leather armrests. Even after all this time, the light cinnamon scent of his cologne still clung to everything. “Then he’s a fool. Lena and I had a falling-out several months ago. I no longer count her among my trusted colleagues.”
The assistant bowed. “Shall I tell him you are unavailable?”
Kiyoko’s gaze flickered back to the video screen and the indomitable features of the man overwhelming the front desk of the Ashida Corporation. “Do you think that will discourage him?”
The woman shook her head. “He is very determined.”
“Then simply have him wait. His physical stature suggests he is predisposed toward action, and such men are born with little patience. In a few hours, he will grow weary and leave of his own accord.”
The assistant bowed again and left the room.
“The real question is not whether he will leave, but why he was sent here,” Ryuji Watanabe said, rising from his chair near the huge picture window. His gray wool suit remained unwrinkled despite a long day at the office. “Did you not tell me this Sharpe woman was a thief?”
“Yes.” Kiyoko almost added,
But she steals only from known criminals.
Except Lena had proven to be far less honorable than Kiyoko had originally believed, involving her in a nasty deal with the devil. The knowledge still stung.
“And this Murdoch-san does not look like a businessman.” Ryuji joined her at the desk. “More like an enforcer.”
Or a samurai.
His movements were smooth and effortless. He appeared relaxed, yet his feet were apart, his knees slightly flexed. He did not fidget, he did not wear his thoughts on his face, and his gaze absorbed everything that occurred around him. Kiyoko had no trouble imagining the man with a weapon in his hand, neatly dispatching foe after foe.
“What do you suggest?” she asked Ryuji. Watanabe had been company president for less than three months, but there was nothing tentative about her father’s successor. It was hard to watch someone erase her father’s stamp with fresh ideas, but Watanabe’s natural authority and consistently profitable motives made the changes bearable.
“Allow me to dismiss him. I’ve dealt with Americans before. I can be, as they put it, quite blunt.”
Ryuji had earned his business degree from Harvard. She did not doubt his knowledge of Americans. Still, she was reluctant to press this Murdoch-san into leaving, though she couldn’t quite say why. “When pushed, many Americans push back.”
“Dealing with them takes a deft touch,” Ryuji agreed.
Which her president possessed. Kiyoko sighed. In truth, Murdoch’s presence made her slightly uncomfortable. “If you can convince him to leave, I would be most grateful, Watanabe-san.”
Ryuji nodded and left the room.
Moments later, he appeared in the camera lens, striding across the white marble lobby to Murdoch’s side. The disparity in their physical stature was striking—Murdoch stood a solid foot taller than Ryuji and outweighed him by several kilos.
Kiyoko smiled.
This should be interesting.
 
Murdoch had declined the seat offered to him by the uniformed woman behind the massive front desk, preferring to stand, even though he’d been warned it might be a lengthy wait. Old habits died hard. On his feet, he had more options. He peered into the glass display cases in the center of the lobby as he waited, noting every person who passed by.
The Japanese businessman in the gray suit piqued his attention the moment he exited the elevator. There was a steely purpose to his step and a confident tilt to his head that instantly separated him from the other men in the lobby. The wretch reeked of importance.
When the fellow smiled at him and extended his hand in a North American-style handshake, Murdoch smiled in return. The wait was over.
“Mr. Murdoch, what a pleasure to meet you,” the man said as their hands connected. No limp grip here. “I’m Ryuji Watanabe, the president of Ashida Corporation.”
Murdoch frowned.
Company presidents wearing thousand-dollar suits don’t come down to the lobby to greet perfect strangers. They send their secretaries. Or some other lackey. Unless they have no intention of letting said stranger gain entry to the inner sanctum.
“My request was to meet with Kiyoko Ashida,” Murdoch said.
Watanabe smiled ruefully. “As I’m sure someone’s already informed you, she’s extremely busy. I came downstairs to save you several wasted hours. She’s not going to see you.”
Blunt and to the point. Yet spoken with a friendly air that suggested he was being kind. “Not at all?”
“Your credentials did you in, I’m afraid.”
The only credential he’d presented was his association with Lena Sharpe. Which suggested that, contrary to her claim that they were longtime friends, Lena was persona non grata with Miss Ashida. “I see.”
“It might be best if you simply left.”
Watanabe’s smile seemed genuinely rueful. The man was nothing if not pleasant. Yet for some reason, Murdoch felt lacking. Perhaps it was the subtle hint of money that wafted off him—reminding Murdoch all too much of Brian Webster. The clothes, the expensive scent, the perfect presentation. It was difficult not to make comparisons to his own beat-up leather bomber jacket and black twill trousers. The chunky heels and silver buckles of his motorcycle boots seemed large and ostentatious when viewed next to the finely stitched leather of Watanabe’s Italian loafers.
He fingered his chin. At least the scruffy beard was gone. After losing half of it to a fiery blast several months ago, he’d shaved it completely. It made him look more presentable. Or so the women he dated assured him.
“It’s vital that I speak to Miss Ashida,” Murdoch said. “My business has nothing to do with Lena Sharpe. She was merely an introduction. I’m actually looking to purchase an item of rare antiquity with which I believe Miss Ashida may be familiar.”
“I understand,” said Watanabe, nodding. “And I empathize with your situation. But, unfortunately, Miss Ashida is quite adamant. She will not change her mind about meeting with you. At least, not right away. You could try again in a few months, with better credentials.”
A few
months
?
Murdoch grimaced. Imagine Webster’s reaction if he returned with that piece of news.
“That won’t do,” he said softly. “I need to hear Miss Ashida decline in her own words.”
“Your need is not my concern.” The smile was still friendly, but a glint of something hard had appeared in Watanabe’s eyes. He had correctly interpreted the determination in Murdoch’s voice as a problem.
“Surely even a busy woman like Miss Ashida can spare me the few moments it would take to say no?”
Watanabe stood taller. He barely reached Murdoch’s collarbone. “Do not be difficult, Mr. Murdoch. Insisting will only annoy her further. You will do your cause more good by leaving without a fuss. If you truly want to impress her, come back tomorrow and request another audience.”
The advice was genuinely helpful, if not palatable, so Murdoch settled back on his heels. Losing a potential ally like Watanabe would be an error.
“Fine,” he said, offering the businessman a slight bow similar to the sort he’d seen many Japanese men present since his arrival six hours ago. “I’ll return tomorrow. Please offer Miss Ashida my respects.”
Then he spun on his heel and left the building.
Kiyoko tossed her gold pen onto the desk and stood.
Mr. Murdoch had displayed more restraint than she’d thought him capable of. She’d seen him stiffen at Ryuji’s dismissal. Didn’t Western men typically use intimidation to gain their desires? The aggressive cant of his shoulders and the jut of his square chin suggested he knew he held the physical advantage and was tempted to use his size to gain his desire. Instead, he’d walked away.
Why?

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