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Authors: Annette McCleave

BOOK: Surrender to Darkness
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K
iyoko was adjusting her bra when Umiko suddenly delivered a spate of frantic Japanese. The old woman’s words were a mix of fury and panic, laced with a deep undertone of martyrdom.
“Stop right there, Mr. Murdoch,” Kiyoko called out, glancing over her naked shoulder at the paper-thin door and praying it wouldn’t slide open. “She’s explaining that she’s prepared to die rather than let you enter. I’m in the middle of getting dressed.”
“Oh.”
“Meet me in the garden,” she added. “I’ll be out in a moment.”
“Fair enough.” The low, smoky rumble of his voice drifted over her skin, leaving a scatter of goose bumps on the back of her neck. A strange thing to admire about a man, his voice. “Where’s the garden?”
“Umiko-san will show you.”
Kiyoko made the request of her housekeeper, then grinned at her retainer’s muttered response:
Dim-witted bear
. He did rather resemble a large brown bear.
A few moments later, attired in a black skirt, a crisp white cotton shirt, and a warm sweater coat, Kiyoko stepped onto the pathway that divided the raked gravel. She followed Murdoch’s dewy footprints to the arched bridge overlooking the man-made pond. All the leaves had fallen, opening the bare black branches and cold clear water trickling down the artfully arranged rock structure to view.
Murdoch was leaning on the wooden railing, gazing into the water, but he straightened as she approached.
“Beautiful,” he said.
She nodded. “My father was an avid gardener. He enjoyed strolling through here even in the winter and chose the position of every plant with exacting care. When a thick frost falls, it’s like a miniature ice world made just for fairies.”
A corner of his mouth lifted. “Aye, the garden is lovely, too.”
Warmth surged through her.
Kiyoko dropped her gaze to the water flowing silently under the bridge. Blue sky and a thin gauze of cloud reflected on the smooth surface. Safer to study the scenery than the rugged angles of his face or the intimate humor in his eyes. The palpable tension between them already caused her enough grief. If he dared to mention the arousal she had felt at his touch, her shame would know no end.
“I’m traveling into the city this morning, Mr. Murdoch,” she said. “The car will be here in half an hour. What was it you wished to discuss?”
“The Temple Veil.”
Her stomach rolled. Learning of the relic’s capacity for evil had sickened her. Yet she was not willing to part with it, even with her newfound knowledge.
“It’s not for sale.”
He leaned on the railing again, the sleeve of his jacket and his broad, square hand only inches away. “Every moment you hold on to it, you risk the fate of the world. If Satan should discover you have it—”
“No one knows except Yamashita-sensei … and now you. If word of its presence here were to leak out, it would most likely result from your interest. The safest course would be to forget we had this conversation and return to the United States.”
“I can’t do that. I’m staying right here until I get what I came for.”
The leather of his black jacket was thick and strong, scuffed by regular use and worn at the cuff. No delicate, butter-soft calfskin for Murdoch.
“Because you made a promise to your superiors?”
“Because the battle with Satan is one we could lose, and I really hate to lose.”
The voice of experience. A quick glance at his face confirmed the presence of fine lines around his eyes and mouth. He wore the signs of his maturity with pride.
“So, the Veil is a weapon,” she said softly. “What exactly does it do?”
“It slays demons.”
“How?”
A short gust of air left his lips, fogging the air. Kiyoko risked another glance, uncertain whether it was a chuckle or a snort of disgust. His lips twisted. “I have no bloody idea. This entire trip hinges on Lena Sharpe’s gut instinct and the impressions she got six months ago, before she lost the amulet.”
“She lost the amulet?” The woman’s most prized possession, invested with both sentimental and mystical value. “How?”
“Trapping a demon.”
Kiyoko bit her lip, thinking. “She sacrificed it?”
“Aye. To save her niece.”
The tight muscles of her shoulders eased a fraction. Lena’s initial behavior was still unforgivable, but it was heartening to discover the woman had come around in the end.
“Gut instinct,” she repeated. “So, there’s no actual evidence that the Veil is a weapon? No documentation of its powers?”
“No.”
“Then why would I give it to you?”
“Because even the old man admits it’s a dark relic. The bloody thing is dangerous. Not to insult you, lass, but as immortals, we’re better able to protect it than your talented but very vulnerable
human
warriors.”
A faint breeze blew Kiyoko’s unbound hair into her face, and she tucked an errant lock behind her ear. “You’re not going to insist that everyone in your group is immortal, are you?”
Silence.
She smiled. “I’m privy to a great deal of information, Mr. Murdoch. I may be human, but I’m not a fool. Ever since Lena-san betrayed my trust last spring, I’ve been investigating her and her little band of … friends.”
“Then you know what we’re doing.”
“Not precisely,” Kiyoko admitted. “It’s clear you’re no longer simply gathering souls. Judging by the flow of people through the ranch, I’d guess you’ve undertaken the training of other Gatherers—very understandable given the current state of the world. But your group also does an inordinate amount of travel, to places that make no sense. South Africa, for example.”
He grimaced. “My boss’s pet project—finding and protecting all of the Ignobles.”
“Your boss? Would that be Brian Webster?”
“Aye.” His hands gripped the wooden rail, knuckles white.
“You don’t like him,” she guessed.
“Webster and I have … issues,” he admitted. “But we’re committed to the same cause: stopping Satan in his tracks. The devil is making inroads everywhere, even in Asia.”
Kiyoko nodded. The toll here was different, but as corruption spread and people continued to turn away from their beliefs, crime rose and the economy grew ever more unstable.
Murdoch straightened, facing her. His body blocked the breeze and instead of cool fall air, she got a subtle whiff of warm masculinity and spicy soap. “I cannot allow another dark relic to fall into Satan’s hands. Leaving the Veil here is an unacceptable risk.”
His words were weighted with both confidence and passion. There was no doubt he’d do exactly as he promised—protect the Veil with his very last breath, if necessary. It was a testament to his overwhelming charisma and vivid personality that she almost agreed to his demands. But giving up the Veil was impossible. Even if she wanted to, which was still a very debatable point, Sora would never allow her to part with it. “It’s a risk you’ll have to take.”
He reached for her hand, but abruptly halted just short of touching her. “Am I not explaining the risks well enough? Are you not convinced I’m capable of keeping it safe?”
Kiyoko stared at his hand.
Big and square. Tanned from hours in the outdoors. So close to her own flesh that she swore she could feel tiny electric shocks passing between them.
“I understand that if Satan acquires the Veil, his hold over the darkest parts of mankind will increase.” It was an outcome so opposite to her principles it made her belly quiver. “And I believe you to be an unparalleled defender.”
“Then why not entrust me with it?”
“Because I draw on the Veil’s strength.”
He frowned. “To do what? Fight demons?”
“That … and other things.”
Like keep my heart beating
. Kiyoko surprised herself by omitting that detail. Her years of study at Sora’s knee had taught her to eschew feelings of pride and vanity, yet admitting that she was weak to Murdoch—arguably the most healthy and virile man she’d had opportunity to meet—bothered her.
She wanted him to see her as she’d been before the attack on her father—strong, capable, wise. She wanted him to admire her. Was that so terribly wrong?
“Whatever your reason is for holding on to the Veil,” Murdoch said, ducking down to peer in her eyes, “I can’t believe you would think it more important than keeping the relic safe. People are already dying by the thousands, losing their life savings in corporate scandals, and abandoning their hopes for a brighter future—all because two relics have fallen into Satan’s hands. Under no circumstances can I allow another to go the same route.”
Kiyoko looked away.
“The Veil is an undocumented relic. No one seeks it.”
“Nothing remains hidden forever, lass.
I
came looking for it. That means its existence is known, whether you choose to believe it or not.”
His words rang with quiet sincerity, and the queasy feeling returned to Kiyoko’s stomach. Risking the lives of others for personal gain did not sit well with her, not when she had pledged herself to serving the greater good. But handing the relic over to Murdoch would mean her death.
“I need to go into the city,” she said, turning away.
“I’ll come with you.”
“No, I—”
A muffled shout, followed by several loud cracks, broke the stillness of the morning air, coming from the direction of the training compound up the cliffs. Murdoch’s hand shot out, grabbed her sweater-buffered shoulder and shoved her to the ground. “Keep your head down.”
“Why?”
“Gunshots.” He didn’t elaborate or hang around to explain. He just dashed down the path toward the compound with superhuman speed, his weapon drawn as he ran.
A sword. Against bullets.
Guns were not part of the
onmyōji
training regimen. Her warriors trained in the old ways. They fought only with katanas and other traditional weapons, augmented by a few magic spells—because demons didn’t bother with guns either. So why had shots been fired?
Kiyoko glanced down at her pencil-thin skirt, now smudged with dirt from the wooden bridge, and frowned. Why had she picked today of all days to dress like a woman? To impress Murdoch? How foolish. She kicked off her heeled pumps and peeled off her sweater coat, tossing it aside.
Then she sprinted up the path in Murdoch’s footsteps.
 
A lone gunman.
Murdoch caught a glimpse of the fellow in the gap between two buildings as he hopped the ten-foot-tall perimeter fence. It was one of the young warriors from the dojo—standing in the courtyard, pivoting slowly, and shooting at anyone who dared move. He was speaking in Japanese, his voice low, urgent, and angry.
Keeping to the thin morning shadows along the wall of the main hall, Murdoch slipped closer.
Getting shot wasn’t a big concern—bullets wouldn’t do anything more than piss him off—but it might be smart to assess the situation before engaging the enemy. Not that his berserker rated the fellow as a real threat—his blood was only lightly simmering and most of that was the residual effect of standing close to Kiyoko.
At the corner of the building, he paused.
The gunman’s back faced him, although the slow circle he was making would have them eye to eye in a moment. Three bodies lay sprawled in the courtyard, unmoving. Impossible to know if they were dead, unconscious, or just playing it safe.
And it didn’t really matter.
The gunman held a 9 mm pistol firmly in one hand and some kind of switch in the other. He had three other holsters stuffed with steely black guns, a belt hung with several replacement clips, and something strapped to his chest that looked remarkably like a … bomb. This was no accidental firing or ploy for attention. The man was on a mission to kill and be killed.
Murdoch’s hand flexed around the leather-wrapped hilt of his sword. An ordinary blade, nothing special. No heavy two-handed superweapon like the one MacGregor carried. Just a sturdy, double-edged broadsword crafted by an ancient Norse sword master and kept in pristine shape by meticulous daily care.
He called it Bloodseeker.
For good reason. The blade was blessed with an uncanny ability to deal a killing blow, and it had served him well long before it received the mystical augmentations provided by Stefan Wahlberg. Its history was as colorful as his.
But before he resorted to slaying the fellow, he ought to try something more diplomatic. Like a sleep spell.
Or not.
The fellow’s thumb might accidentally depress the trigger of his bomb and blow up the compound. A bind spell would work, though.
The gunman continued to pivot, wary eyes vigilant for any sign of movement. One more step and …
Murdoch cast the bind spell.
It hit the shooter’s shield and bounced harmlessly into the air, only a few blue sparks confirming the accuracy of Murdoch’s aim. Now alerted to Murdoch’s presence, the gunman fired into the shadows with deadly intent.

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