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Authors: Annette McCleave

BOOK: Surrender to Darkness
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Terrifying, because his berserker rejoiced at the sudden lack of restraint. It rose up in a red tide of fury, filled every empty thought, and swallowed him whole. At precisely the same moment, the two young warriors tasked with protecting Miss Ashida made the error of grabbing his arms and dragging him backward. Lost in a sea of bloodlust, Murdoch knew only one thing—he could not let Kiyoko leave. A vague memory of his mission lingered in his berserker-controlled thoughts, but the dominant motivation for all that followed was a primitive, almost bestial certainty that the female in the pink top belonged to him and no one could be allowed to take her away.
He yanked his arms forward.
The first guard sailed through the paper door enclosing the room across the hall and landed atop a variety of fine crab dishes. Rice porridge flew everywhere and the couple inside jumped up and flattened themselves against the faux rock wall. The second guard held to Murdoch’s arm with an admirable grip, but he was no match for the berserker power that fueled Murdoch’s every action. A heavy fist to the face sent him flying, too.
But the bouncers had succeeded in their primary goal—slowing Murdoch down. By the time he freed himself, Kiyoko and her two male escorts had reached the stairs.
As they disappeared from view, he released a bellow of pure rage and dove for the stairwell, pulling his sword free of the invisible scabbard on his back. Panicked diners scrambled to get out of the way. But the two young warriors were not done. Displaying an unwavering, if foolish, dedication, they attacked him again, this time with their weapons in hand. One wielded a gleaming katana, the other a
nunchuck
.
Just short of the door, with a savage growl of frustration, Murdoch was forced to turn and face his opponents.
 
Kiyoko dove into the limousine, followed closely by Ryuji. Sora took his usual sweet time, refusing to be rushed. Once the sensei was inside, a uniformed employee shut the car door, and they pulled away from the curb, leaving the restaurant behind.
“What a shame we had to leave,” her elderly mentor said as he settled into his seat and adjusted his robes. “Watching him fight would have been quite entertaining.”
Kiyoko barely heard him.
She was still reeling with the aftereffects of the man’s brief touch. Her heart was racing, her face was flushed, and her hands were trembling. Ripples of hot, titillating desire continued to torment her body.
“Are you well?” Ryuji asked, staring at her with obvious concern in his eyes.
What was she to say? That she’d never felt more alive or more aroused in her life? Hardly. Careful not to catch Sora’s all-seeing gaze, Kiyoko turned her head and peered out the window. “I’m fine. He barely touched me.”
The limousine slowed.
Up ahead, the intersection was blocked by hundreds of protesters. They carried signs blaming the collapse of a local food-processing plant on greed and mismanagement. These were dark days. Companies were folding all over Japan for similar reasons, a very painful trend for a country where many people spent their entire working lives with one employer.
The driver opened the privacy partition and glanced at them through the rearview mirror. “The usual route to the estate is blocked. A detour is required.”
Watanabe nodded. “Do what you must.”
The glass partition slid up again, and the car made a right turn, avoiding the bulk of the protestors.
“I suspect we’ll have difficulty getting reservations at that restaurant again,” Sora said, amused. “If those crashing sounds were reflective of the damage he was inflicting, Mr. Murdoch will have a substantial bill to pay when all is done.”
“No less than he deserves,” Ryuji retorted, settling back against the leather seat. “I hope the police lock the madman away.”
“He was quite sane until the end,” Sora said thoughtfully. “Impatient, yes. But not a raving animal. It almost seemed as if touching Kiyoko-san set him off.”
She glanced at him, and immediately regretted it.
His eyes were steady.
Knowing
.
Her flush deepened. “Surely not. It was a fleeting moment.”
Actually, she had no doubt that the trigger had been her touch. The collision of their flesh had been explosive, on both a sensual and an energetic level. The cause was a mystery, though. If he was possessed, it hadn’t shown up in his auras. There’d been no tainted mix of gray and black. And the presence of a demon did not explain her reaction. She’d touched other possessed individuals in the course of her endeavors, and none had ever given her a jolt like this.
“Obviously,” said Ryuji, “there can be no more contact with Mr. Murdoch. If he returns to the office tomorrow, I shall have security remove him from the premises.”
Kiyoko did not respond.
Her eyes remained trained on the passing landscape, a soothing peace stealing over her as the lights of the city gave way to the silhouettes of the hilly countryside.
Dismissing Murdoch was not as easy for her as it was for her company president. The effects of his brief touch still surged through her veins. In addition to the edgy arousal, her heart beat with a firmer rhythm. Her auras were a bright royal blue once more and gentle waves of intuition were lapping at her subconscious. After months of suffering, she could almost believe she was cured. Except that the power was bleeding away, fading quietly into the night like the exquisite waves of lust.
And the blame for her disquiet didn’t lie entirely with his touch.
Even before he’d reached for her, her pulse had been racing. Spying on him via the camera had not prepared her for the force of his physical presence. He had dominated the open restaurant space with thoughtless ease, his large size and bristling power epitomizing the term
alpha male
. And she’d fallen helplessly under his spell. Surprising, to say the least. Prior to this evening, had she been pressed to describe her ultimate male companion, she would have listed features more in keeping with Ryuji’s sharply elegant face and intelligent brown eyes. Large muscles, an aggressive jaw, and eyes the rusty color of autumn leaves had never appealed to her before.
Yet there was no denying the tug of desire.
Or its raw intensity.
The limousine pulled off the highway and onto the familiar well-tended dirt road leading to the estate.
Then again, she was not a nun. One did not reach the age of twenty-four without experiencing the fluttering heart and damp heat of arousal. But she’d never experienced anything quite like this. Even a solid half hour after leaving the restaurant, even after the unbearable edge of need had worn off, the lingering sensations wracking her body could not be captured with such weak words as
flutter
and
arousal
.
Explode, shudder, devastate, burn
. Those did a better job, and even they did not quite express what she was feeling.
Strange.
And humiliating.
Years of study, long hours of learning to control the inner workings of her mind, all lost in an instant. All scattered like the wind with a single glancing touch. Her reaction to Murdoch had been that of a novice, of an untrained acolyte, not the enlightened response of a master. Yet a master was what she purported to be. As the direct descendant of Abe no Seimei, the most venerable
onmyōji
wizard of all time, she was presumed to be uniquely capable of leading a group of mystical warriors against the current madness in the world.
“Even a master can stumble,” Sora said softly.
Her gaze flew up to meet his.
Ryuji huffed. “You’re not suggesting Murdoch is any form of master, are you?”
The old man shrugged. “Everything about him whispered
warrior
.”
“Whisper? Ha. Nothing about the man is a whisper.”
Sora tilted his head. “Do you agree, Kiyoko-san?”
Recalling her first impressions of the images on the video screen, she shook her head. “The subtleties speak louder than the roars. He moves with the grace and purpose of a highly trained soldier, not a simple antiquities dealer.”
Ryuji frowned. “Perhaps you should verify his credentials with your mutual acquaintance.”
“No.” Calling Lena was out of the question. It would take more than a visit from an intriguing emissary to forgive the woman for involving her in a scheme that went against every principle she held to. Every value Tatsu Ashida had instilled in her.
She blinked rapidly, swamped by a sudden rush of memories.
The hole her father left was still deep. For twenty years, ever since the death of her mother, he’d been her lodestone. Always patient and purposeful, he had schooled her in the
onmyōji
ways—revealed the secrets of their ancestral spells, trained her to the sword, and shared all that he knew of fighting evil. His belief in her destiny had been unwavering, but the light shone less brightly now that he was gone.
The majestic sweep of the compound’s stone gate appeared out of the gloom, and the limousine braked to a halt before the torii. Kiyoko smiled at the two large
niou
statues overlooking the entrance. The familiar fierce stone guardians resembled Murdoch.
“The only way to get to the root of why Murdoch-san is in Japan is to ask the man himself,” she said, taming the eager surge of her pulse with a studied breath. Would his appeal be just as potent the second time around?
Ryuji expressed his opinion with a silent glare.
“I do think there is more to Mr. Murdoch than meets the eye,” Sora said, as they exited the car.
“Perhaps,” Ryuji allowed, “but he’s dangerous.”
He turned to Kiyoko.
“Will you be coming into the city tomorrow? I’ll understand if this unfortunate situation discourages you from making the trip, but we made excellent progress with the manufacturing reports today and I should like to continue.”
She smiled. “Yes, I’ll be there. You’ve been most generous with your time, Watanabe-san. I greatly appreciate your willingness to allay my fears about the state of the company.”
“It is both my pleasure and my duty,” he responded. “You are, after all, our majority shareholder.” He offered her a gracious bow, then got back in the car.
As the limousine circled the small parking lot and headed back down the lane to the main road, Sora observed, “He’s smitten with you.”
Kiyoko frowned. “He knows my commitment to the
onmyōji
.”
“Your father married. It’s not beyond imagining for you to wed someday, too.”
“My father didn’t share my destiny, sensei. Or face my current dilemma. How can I marry a man when I know that I will be leaving him soon to join Abe no Seimei in the great fight? Besides, Watanabe-san has said nothing to indicate an interest.”
Her mentor accepted the arm she offered him. “Perhaps not, but he has hardly left your side since Tatsu-san died. And by wedding him you would guarantee the company a strong future.”
Kiyoko resisted a grimace. Her commitment to the survival of her father’s company was no secret—she had abandoned the familiarity of the dojo every day for the last week to examine the company accounts. This was Sora’s subtle way of questioning the wisdom of her decision. “With the current spread of evil, there are no guarantees.”
Passing by the gate to the training compound, they strolled down the path to the house, a low-lying mist clinging to their feet. The sprawling, single-story traditional home sat majestically on a rocky outcrop overlooking the valley, the peak of Mount Tengu in the distance. The view was unrivaled. Kiyoko’s father had built the house adjacent to the much older dojo before she had been born. The house was large by Japanese standards, a gift offered to his new bride in 1975. Too large, really, which was why she had begged the sensei to move in with her when her father passed away three months ago.
They were met at the main entrance by Kiyoko’s only formal retainer, Umiko. The woman was nearing seventy, but she had served the Ashida family with straight-backed devotion for more than fifty years, and she proudly served Kiyoko. Almost as if she’d caught word of Kiyoko’s arrival from the wind itself, the housekeeper held a tray of rice crackers and green tea, steam still rising from the pot. No doubt her prescience was attributable to something much more mundane than the wind—like a quick call from the limo driver as he pulled up—but Kiyoko preferred an air of mystery over the truth.
Umiko slid open the decorated shoji partition, stood, and placed the tray on the low table in the main room. Then she bowed and retreated to the kitchen, her cream-colored kimono softly rustling against her ankles.
Kiyoko knelt on the square cushion before the table and lifted the pot. “Tea, sensei?”
He nodded. “Explain to me, in detail if you will, precisely what occurred when Murdoch-san touched you.”
Because she’d been expecting the question, Kiyoko was able to tame the color in her cheeks. But not the tiny flip of her heart. “For a brief moment, I experienced a deep and intimate connection with the man.”

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