Surrender to Darkness Page 10

  Although his thigh muscles quivered in protest at the unfamiliar movement, he retreated. Her hand dropped away, falling to her side. “Lass, I’m not a tree. I’m not even a man. Don’t make the mistake of trusting me to act like one.”

  He met her eyes—and allowed her to see the turmoil of his efforts to control his berserker. Purposely trying to frighten her. Because the beast was raging inside, demanding to be set free, just as she encouraged. And it wanted her. With a tight, hot burn that begged to be satisfied.

  Mine, it howled. Mine, mine, mine.

  When her gaze dropped under the sheer intensity of his stare, as he knew it would, he turned and left the room.

  Kiyoko’s heart beat like that of a terrified lamb. He had tried to frighten her, and he had succeeded.

  I’m not even a man.

  Those words said it all. Honest and brutal, the words defined both Murdoch and his actions. No self-pity, no sorrow, and no compromise. It was difficult not to admire him for his fierce resolve and his pledge to do no harm.

  But those very qualities might be her downfall.

  During meditation, the potent hum of his immortal strength had stood the hairs on her body on end, but she’d been unable to tap into it. The berserker power she so desperately needed lay on the other side of a rigid wall of self-control.

  Of course, Murdoch’s self-control wasn’t the only barrier.

  Guilt also entered the mix.

  She despised the necessity of tapping into his power without his explicit permission. But according to Sora, sharing her plans would force her to walk away from her role as an onmyōji. And while she found such a purposeless future horribly distressing, it was the knowledge that she would be slamming the door on her father’s dreams for her that stung the worst. From the moment he’d read the stars at her birth, he had dedicated his life to seeing her fulfill her destiny.

  Kiyoko put her hand to the silver locket around her neck.

  Her father had been so certain of her future. So sure. But to fulfill her father’s vision, she had to convince Murdoch to loosen the constraints on his berserker.

  Kiyoko grimaced.

  What sort of miracle would it take to do that?

  Today’s meditation had failed, but the sessions might still have merit in the long run, so she would continue them. And her touch to his clothed body—while not as potent as touching his skin—had definitely produced a reaction. Continued touches might eventually accustom her to his presence … as long as her own responses didn’t get the best of her. She’d barely resisted the urge to slide her hand up his chest to the warm skin of his throat.

  A dangerous desire if ever there was one.

  The beast inside him was immensely powerful. Twice she’d touched his flesh, and twice a sluice of radiant energy had swept through her. It had been enough to light up every cell in her body and stir her to unprecedented life. It passed through her in a blink, followed quickly by a wave of passion almost equal in strength.

  The point being, it passed through her.

  To transcend, she would need to cultivate that power—gather it, internalize it, and build on it. No easy task.

  “How did you fare?”

  Kiyoko glanced at the doorway.

  Sora stood there in his black robes, his arms folded into the long sleeves. He was confident she could do it, but then again, the old onmyōji was confident about everything.

  “His restraint is exceptional,” she said. “I could not enter his auras—let alone reach the berserker under his skin.”

  The elder frowned. “Did he not make a sincere attempt to become one with his world?”

  “He did. But his Soul Gatherer senses are heightened, and it took only a few moments before they were overwhelmed. He was forced to stop.”

  “Ah. A complicated man, our Mr. Murdoch.”

  “Too complicated.” Kiyoko sighed. “Perhaps there is some other way for me to claim my destiny, sensei.”

  “Perhaps,” Sora allowed. “But it cannot be coincidence that your paths have crossed, not when he possesses the very power you need. Nor can it be coincidence that the Veil now binds you to a common course.”

  “We are not on a common course,” she protested. “He seeks to take the Veil away, while I seek to keep it.”

  “Your larger goal is the same. You both seek to destroy evil.”

  Kiyoko tightened the knot of her belt. “Murdoch has no respect for the work we do. He thinks we are fools for taking on the demons.”

  The old man shrugged his narrow shoulders. “He knows nothing of the powers you will inherit when you transcend. Your ability to wield magic will grow tenfold, your body will heal itself when injured, and your divinations will become more precise. Perhaps even more important, you will breathe new life into the onmyōji warriors you lead. You will add a new layer to the legend of Abe no Seimei.”

  Crossing the room, Kiyoko slipped her feet into her straw thongs. “How can you be certain that my destiny is still to transcend, sensei? Is it not possible that my fate has changed since my father’s death?”

  “The stars are the stars, Kiyoko-san,” he said, waving her out of the meditation room ahead of him. “They say what they say. You are needed in the battle ahead.”

  She stepped out into the midday sun. His words were easier to believe after last night’s demon raid. Despite Murdoch’s fervent belief that she and her senshi were incompetent, they had routed a hellish beast who’d taken up residence in a Sapporo bathhouse, tainting the hot mineral waters with disease.

  “Then I’d best stride forward and meet my destiny.”

  “You are absolutely the luckiest chick in the world,” Sheila said with a heavy sigh.

  Em hefted her textbooks into her other arm and dug into her pocket for her cell phone. “Why? I’m pretty sure I just flunked my English exam.” She glanced down at the screen. A text from her mom. “My mom won’t be here for another half hour. Want to hang in the cafeteria?”

  “Um, I think you’re already busy. Isn’t that one of your stepdad’s sword students?”

  Em glanced up. Her best friend was nodding toward the front doors of the school … where the lean body of a young archangel slouched against the white brick wall. Uriel. “No, but you’ve probably seen him at the ranch. He visits us from time to time.”

  “Is every guy in your life the hottest thing ever?”

  “I’m not sure hot is the right word to describe Uriel,” Em said drily. Tucking her phone away, she veered left down the hall toward him, Sheila in step.

  “Are you kidding? Look at him.”

  Em looked. And made a serious effort to see the angel from Sheila’s point of view. Lanky, muscular build. Long, loose curls that hung past his shoulders. A perfect face, a faint glow of intensity, and a casual confidence most men would never attain.

  Okay, yeah. Maybe he was hot. But …

  “He’s too old for you.”

  “So says the girl who dated a twenty-two-year-old when she was fourteen.”

  “I was—” under the influence of a lure demon. But that wasn’t an explanation Sheila was ready to hear. “Infatuated. It was stupid, I admit it.”

  “And what about Carlos? He was seventeen.”

  Em swallowed tightly. Thinking about Carlos still hurt. She sensed him sometimes, vaguely, on the edge of her consciousness. A familiar, soothing presence that made her ache with loss and wonder how he was doing. But the mental walls she’d learned to put up had helped. She no longer thought about him every five seconds or cried at the drop of a dime.

  “Let’s not talk about Carlos.”

  “Sorry,” Sheila said, with a sympathetic grimace. “Are you dating this Uriel?”

  “No.” Em snorted. “Definitely not.”

  “So, you could set me up, right?”

  “Trust me, Sheila. You don’t want a date with Uriel.” The implications of that scenario were downright ugly. “He’s majorly unavailable.”

  “Married?” Sheila asked i
n a whisper as they drew closer.

  “To God,” Em answered with a nod.

  “Oh.”

  “Hi, Uriel,” Em said in greeting to the archangel.

  He straightened and smiled at Sheila.

  Em made the introductions, shaking her head at the way Sheila melted when Uriel took her hand. Her friend was already half in love.

  “Did you need something, Uriel?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Could I have a private word?”

  “Sure.” Em nudged Sheila with her elbow. “I’ll hook up with you in the caf.”

  “’Kay.” The other girl wandered off, glancing back several times, clearly reluctant.

  Em wrinkled her nose at Uriel. “If you’re going to drop by my school, could you be a little less glowy? And wear some different clothes?”

  He glanced down at his jeans and T-shirt. “What’s wrong with my clothes?”

  “Nothing. That’s the problem. You don’t look anything like an angel. You look like a hot guy, but you’re not. Cut it out.”

  His brow lifted. “How is an angel supposed to look?”

  “Cherubic. Harmless. Sexless.”

  “I see.” Amusement softened his eyes.

  “Oh, never mind.” Em grabbed his arm and tugged him outside to the wide cement steps. There was a cold, damp wind blowing in from the coast and most students were taking refuge indoors. “What’s up? Got news on Azazel?”

  “I was rather hoping you had news.”

  “Things have been pretty quiet the past couple of days. I haven’t heard anything. If I had, I’d’ve called you. Honest.” She eyed his neutral expression. “Did you talk to Michael?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “He says there’s no evidence to suggest Azazel survived the flood. The horrific crimes for which he was renowned ceased at that time, and nothing of consequence has since been attributed to his name.”

  “Nothing of consequence?” Em pulled the hood of her red Aéropostale sweatshirt over her head, blocking out the worst of the wind. “Does that mean some things were attributed to him?”

  “A few. But they were minor and not unique to Azazel. Seduction of innocents, excessive greed, that sort of thing.”

  Em tilted her head. “So, if Michael doesn’t think Azazel is alive, why do you look so worried?”

  He smiled faintly. “Very astute, Emily. I am worried. I’ve been thinking about the creatures of the between. There was a time—before the Great Flood—when there were only a few such creatures. That they now exist in such quantity that you can hear them is bothersome. That they fear something is even more bothersome.”

  “Even if it’s not Azazel.”

  He nodded. “Even if it’s not Azazel.”

  “What do you need me to do?” she asked, hopeful.

  “Nothing yet. Just listen and report back to me as we discussed before. I’m going to investigate further.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to try popping into the between to see what’s going on?”

  “Definitely not,” he retorted. “Until we have a better sense of what’s going on, I insist you remain on the middle plane. Even an immortal can suffer greatly at the hands of bone-sappers and gradiors.”

  Bone-sappers did exactly what it sounded like—they sapped the bone out of you. Not fun. And gradiors were zombies with a fancier name. Undead flesh eaters. Again, not fun.

  “Okay.” Em glanced at the glass doors of the school. “I should get back. I’ve got a history exam to prep for. Need anything else?”

  “No, thank you.” As she turned to leave, he put a hand on her sleeve. “Are you all right? You’re very agreeable these days.”

  She tossed him a weak smile. “I’m fine. Just growing up, like everyone wants me to.”

  The look in his eyes said he didn’t buy her explanation, but he didn’t press, either. Which was a relief, because lying to an archangel would probably be a sin.

  8

  Delicate fingers trailed across his back and down his spine, sending a host of tiny shivers rippling to his toes. Murdoch rolled, caught her teasing hand in his, and drew it to his lips. Despite the blunt-cut nails and sword-callused palm, it was a feminine hand, half the size of his and incredibly, intriguingly soft.

  Their gazes met, hers a little uncertain.

  He placed her hand upon his chest, giving her the means to reject him but hoping she would not. Then he leaned in, seeking her mouth with his. She did not resist. Rather, she entered the game with enthusiasm, folding her other arm about his neck and tugging him closer.

  She tasted just as he had imagined she would—a potent combination of sweet and spicy, light and firm, bold and submissive. As anticipated as that kiss was, when she opened her mouth and invited him deeper, his head swam. His blood sang and his skin grew tight and eager.

  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 reg
rets, 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.”