Surrender to Darkness Page 18

  He peered in the smoky glass of the mirror.

  Barely noticeable.

  Of course, had he acquired the Veil, the picture would be even prettier. Murdoch’s untimely return had dashed his hopes in a most annoying way. But there would be other opportunities. It was only a matter of time before Kiyoko shared the whereabouts of the Veil, and while he cooled his heels, his army grew in strength. The Scottish Soul Gatherer would not be a problem in the end. Not for a legion of bone-sappers.

  The real concern was that girl.

  The one known as the Trinity Soul.

  Her sensing skills were incredibly powerful. The moment the car had driven onto the estate, he’d felt her testing the edges of his glamour. Only by drawing on the full range of the skills he’d developed over centuries of seducing human women had he managed to keep his true identity cloaked. But that couldn’t last. One tiny slip on his part, one moment of inattentiveness, and she’d see through him.

  In a perfect world, he would simply kill her. But two ancient primal spells bestowed upon her by Death and God had granted the young female immortality. And kidnapping or harming her would bring the wrath of the archangels down upon his head. How to effectively neutralize her was a conundrum worthy of some thought.

  In the meantime, though, every new black feather was cause for celebration.

  “I need food,” he bellowed.

  The heavy wooden door of his chamber swung open and a strong, virile male with dark curly hair was tossed inside. Still proud, the man rose quickly from the cold stone floor, his chin high and his shoulders stiff. But as his gaze took in Azazel’s spiraled goat horns, the multitude of glowing runes etched into his skin by his own fingernails, and the mighty black wings, the fool’s air of defiance wavered.

  The fallen angel smiled. “What’s your name?”

  “Carl Roche.”

  Azazel crossed the room and circled his prize, allowing his primary feathers to brush the man’s arms and legs. The accelerated pump of blood sang to him, and he leaned in close to let the waves of heat crest over him. “Not afraid, Carl?”

  “You and your creepy crawlies don’t have nothin’ on me, man.”

  Azazel laughed. “You’re a regular badass, are you?”

  “I’ve killed twenty-seven people,” Carl affirmed.

  “Punks? Hookers?” guessed Azazel with a faint sneer. Unable to resist, he ran a finger along the man’s stubbled chin and down his thick neck.

  “Regular joes, too. Even kids, if you count those who OD’d on the drugs I sold. Then the number goes up to almost a hundred.”

  “Oh?” Azazel lifted his gaze from the throbbing carotid pulse whispering his name. “Tell me, Carl. What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”

  “Strangled my thirteen-year-old daughter to death. The bitch stole my cigarettes.”

  Azazel raised his brows. “My, that is nasty.”

  Carl nodded, pleased.

  “But not nasty enough to dare compare yourself to me,” Azazel said. “You don’t make bottom rung demon for less than five hundred deaths or monstrous behavior like butchering innocents just for fun. And to reach the top of the ladder where I stand, you must be a truly gifted dispenser of evil. You, Carl Roche, are nothing more than a garden-variety worm.”

  And with that, he tipped Carl’s head to one side and sank his fangs into the pulpy flesh of his neck.

  13

  Murdoch yanked Kiyoko to his chest, bent his head to her lips, and kissed her with all the frustrated anger searing his veins. And just as she had in every dream he’d enjoyed in the past two weeks, she kissed him back with equal fervor.

  He knew it was a dream. He knew because the berserker never surfaced. Never even flexed a toe. But he didn’t care. He let the vision own him, savoring every sweet nuance of Kiyoko’s soft skin, every heady rub of her lips against his, every bead of sweat that rose on his brow from resisting the urge to take her hard and fast.

  He dug his fingers into her hair and angled her head to deepen the kiss. Wanting more. Needing more. Her lips parted under the encouraging sweep of his tongue, and he took full advantage. The whimper she released as their tongues tangled set his blood aflame and tightened his skin to painful intensity.

  He peeled off his shirt and tossed it aside.

  Then just as quickly, he dispensed of Kiyoko’s flowery dress, leaving just the soft cotton lace of her underwear, and pulled her back against him. Skin to skin.

  The dance of her delicate hands over the hot muscles of his back sent ripples of pleasure to every nerve ending in his body. And the responding pound of his blood near made his eyes roll back in his head. Dear God. He wanted those hands on other parts of his body, cupping him, squeezing him. In three short steps, he had her backed up against a birch tree, grinding his jeans-encased pelvis against her nearly bare body.

  Trying desperately to relieve the pressure.

  He’d never wanted a woman so badly.

  He had to have her.

  Releasing her hair, he attacked his belt buckle. But his fingers wouldn’t do his bidding. They bumbled the simplest of tasks, and he moaned his frustration against her lips.

  She gently brushed his hands away, taking over. Belt, jeans, boxers. Quicker than he thought possible, he was free. But not satisfied. Not even close. He buried his face in the fragrant hollow of her throat and begged.

  “Please,” he murmured, needing Kiyoko to touch him.

  And she did. Mercy, her cool fingers on his achingly tight skin nearly finished him right then and there. But he gritted his teeth and held on. He wanted this never to end. The sensations were so vivid and cruel and beautiful that he could have expired at that moment and been happy.

  Then she moved. With one hand holding him steady, she used the other to pump up and down. From the base of his cock to the very tip, teasing every sensitive spot along the way. Perhaps because it was a dream, or perhaps because she was a goddess, the hand stroking him was lubricated, rocking his world with a perfect blend of friction and glide.

  The breath caught in Murdoch’s throat.

  Sweet Jesus.

  He really was going to die.

  It was almost as if she could read every feverish peak of excitement rippling through his body. She knew just how to touch him. Slow at first—oh, so tortuously slow—then faster as the tension in his body rose. Faster and faster.

  His breaths grew raspy and shallow.

  Every inch of his skin shivered with expectation.

  She didn’t let up. She teased and taunted his flesh, making his head spin with every perfectly pressured stroke and every creative swirl over the tip.

  And he came.

  Lord, how he came. In a glorious explosion of sensation, accompanied by a low moan and a soft, adoring whisper of her name. His ears were ringing. His blood was pounding. And the scent that was uniquely Kiyoko filled his nose. Sheer heaven.

  A fist pounded on the door. “Murdoch? You in there?”

  Murdoch’s eyes flew open. Above him was the woodpaneled ceiling of the bunkhouse. Beside him were the twisted sheets of his bunk bed. No Kiyoko. Trying not to analyze the keen sense of loss swirling in his gut, he quickly covered himself with a sheet and sat up.

  Just in time. The door swung open and Brian Webster entered the private bunk room.

  “You’re supposed to wait until I give you leave to enter.” Murdoch said, raking his hair out of his eyes.

  “You look like shit. Rough night?”

  “Do you have a reason for being here at this ungodly hour of the morning, Webster? Or did Lena kick your sorry ass out of bed?”

  The other man grinned boldly, not bothered one bit by the suggestion that his love life was lacking. Because it obviously wasn’t. “Gotta say, now that I’ve met Kiyoko, I’m not surprised it took you so long to return from Japan. She’s quite the looker. If you need advice on how to get to date number three, call me.”

  Murdoch scowled. “Just so we’re clear, Webster, we are not f
riends. I don’t want or need your advice. Go annoy someone else.”

  “Stop being a grouch.” Webster crossed to the window and yanked open the drapes. Even in jeans and T-shirt, the man looked like he’d just stepped out of a damned fashion magazine. “Rachel had the baby.”

  Murdoch’s annoyance slipped away. “Really?”

  His boss nodded. “Girl. Eight pounds three ounces. Mom and baby are doing fine.”

  “Thank God.”

  “How cool is that? We’re uncles.”

  Murdoch stood, wrapping the sheet around his hips. “We aren’t anything. You are a pain in the ass, and I am late for breakfast. Can I have some bloody privacy, please?”

  “I’m going.” But the wretch didn’t leave. “I confess, I thought you’d be up at the house with Kiyoko, not bunking down here. What’s the matter? She sleeping with one of the two guys she arrived with?”

  Murdoch closed his eyes. He is my boss. I will not kill him. With every shred of restraint he could muster, he pointed at the door. “Get. Out.”

  The door creaked open. “Come out to the arena after you’ve eaten, so I can teach you the finer points of being a plebe. You really need to show more respect for your betters.”

  Murdoch lifted his gaze.

  One-on-one duels rarely roused his slumbering berserker, and without its preternatural edge he and Webster were evenly matched. Webster had less formal training, but he had a gift for the sword that few men possessed, and he was lightning fast. A sword fight would be an excellent way to blow off some steam.

  “I look forward to it.”

  Emily drove home with Lachlan, exhausted but content. Bale had taken a cab back to the ranch the previous night, and her mom was resting at the hospital, so the car was quiet. She eyed her stepfather’s face as he maneuvered the car along the windy road through the hills above San Jose.

  “Are you disappointed?” she asked.

  He tossed her a quick glance. “About what?”

  “That the baby’s a girl.”

  He smiled. “Absolutely not. Katie’s healthy, that’s enough for me. And from the look of her, I suspect she’ll grow up to be a real beauty, like her sister.”

  “Stepsister.”

  “Close enough,” he said. He tossed her another look. “I thought you were pleased about the baby.”

  “I am.” Just being stupid. Feeling like second fiddle for no good reason. “You deserve to have a kid of your own.”

  He pressed a button on the dash. A moment later, he pulled into the estate entrance and squeezed through the slowly opening gate, waving to the Gatherer in the booth as they passed. “Katie was a bonus. Being a parent to you was already satisfying. I enjoy the role I play in your life.”

  She smiled. “Even when I backtalk?”

  Lachlan halted the car in front of the house, then turned to face her. “No’ so keen about that part, I’ll admit. But it’s less of an issue these days.”

  “Yeah, I’m getting older. Got another birthday next week.”

  “Sweet sixteen.” Another smile. This one more sly. “I know.”

  “Did you get me something?”

  “Would I tell you if I did?” He opened the door and climbed out of the car. “And spoil the surprise?”

  “You’re cruel.”

  He grinned. “Aye. That’s best part of being an evil stepfather.”

  Spurred by a happy bubble in her chest, Emily hugged Lachlan. “I’m going over to the arena to check on the trainees. Coming?”

  “Give me twenty minutes. I need to take a shower and make sure Katie’s room is ready for her arrival tonight, and then I’ll be there.”

  “Pulleez.” Emily rolled her eyes. “You can’t fool me. I know you’re calling the florist. How many dozen roses are you sending to Mom?”

  He smiled down at her. “As many as they have.”

  “You’re such a sap.”

  Planting a kiss on her forehead, he pushed her away. “Go.”

  She obligingly turned. “I’m going to see the mushy note eventually, you know.”

  “Aye, well, if you hover over me while I craft it, it won’t be genuine. Go.”

  Emily crossed the grass to the arena with a smile on her face. Lachlan was okay. Really okay. She tugged open the door of the arena.

  As big as a hockey rink inside, the arena had a sand floor and two sets of bleachers, one on each side. In the center, several mock battles were going on, but the one that immediately caught her eye was the one involving the two Japanese warriors.

  One guy, one girl, both dressed in long, wide-legged black pants and elbow-length shirts, with some sort of armor over top. Both fighting with two swords—one short and one long—and both attacking quick as rattle-snakes. They moved with such grace and flowing ease that they looked more like a dance couple than battling opponents.

  Totally smokin’.

  Brian was talking to one of the trainees, so she scrambled up the right-side bleachers and took a seat next to the elderly Japanese man she had gotten the strange vibes from earlier. Sora something-or-other.

  “That’s really cool,” she said. “The two-sword thing.”

  “Nitōjutsu.”

  She grimaced. “Sorry. I don’t speak Japanese.”

  The old man smiled gently. “The two-sword method is called nitōjutsu. It dates back to the time of the great samurai.”

  “Oh.” She eyed him more directly. His narrow face was wrinkled and his long hair was white, but his eyes were clear and bright. “Are you their coach?”

  “Yes.”

  Elbows on her knees, she leaned forward, her attention once again drawn to the sword fight. “Bet it takes a long time to learn moves like that.”

  “It depends on how willing a pupil you are.”

  “I’m not a very good student. I find it hard to concentrate these days.” Em sighed. “Who am I kidding? Not just lately. I’ve had trouble for the past couple of years.”

  “Ever since you started noticing boys?”

  She flushed. “Maybe.”

  “Very normal,” Sora said, nodding. “Kiyoko-san and Yoshio-san both had the same problem.”

  “Those two?” she asked, pointing.

  “Yes.”

  “You sure can’t tell.” The two danced barefoot, sliding across the sand without a wobble and attacking with absolute precision. They effortlessly deflected slices and resumed their guard positions with an enviable speed.

  “Because they’ve learned the art of stilling the mind. You could learn it as well. It’s not difficult.”

  “Hmmm.” It was tempting to ask him to teach her, but that seemed pretty rude, considering she barely knew him. “I usually train with Brian, Murdoch, or my stepdad. I’ve been learning the techniques of the old European masters.”

  “An excellent foundation.” His gaze lifted to the dark red steak in her hair—the bright lights of the arena no doubt made it hard to ignore—and his expression grew thoughtful. “If you desire to learn the Japanese way of the sword, I would be most pleased to be your sensei.”

  “That means teacher.”

  He nodded. “You do wish to learn, do you not?”

  Em grinned wryly. “Am I that obvious?”

  “Yes,” he said with a smile. “But enthusiasm is a virtue.”

  A virtue. She had virtues. How cool was that? “Yeah, I’d really like to learn, sensei,” Em said. “When can we start?”

  “How about now?”

  She blinked. “Uh, I guess so. Do I need a special sword?”

  The old man stood. “Not today. We’ll start with words, not weapons. Come, let us find a peaceful place to begin.”

  Em chewed her lip for a moment. The strange vibes she got from him didn’t have any hint of darkness, just an air of quiet mystery. Pale gold was, after all, still gold. She glanced at Brian, who was now demonstrating an ox guard for his companion. Then she looked for Murdoch, but the big Scot wasn’t anywhere in sight. Oh, well, they probably wouldn’t miss h
er anyway.

  “Okay, let’s do it.”

  She followed Sora out of the arena, wondering how he kept the hem of his black robes so clean when it constantly dragged along the ground. Magic, maybe.

  A wave of heat rolled over Kiyoko the moment Murdoch stepped into the arena. Her cheeks flushed, but through some small miracle, she maintained her composure and did not falter in her sparring match with Yoshio. A miracle, because this morning’s dream had been the most intimate yet.

  The match ended, and she bowed to her opponent.

  Yoshio was the closest thing she had to a sibling. He had arrived at her father’s doorstep at the tender age of seven and had trained alongside Kiyoko every day since. Although he lived in the compound and not under her father’s roof, they had spent many an hour together when their studies were done. Climbing hills and trees, naming shapes they saw in the clouds, laughing over their first attempts at divination.

  He smiled at her.

  They weren’t as close now. Not since he found his first girlfriend and became a little more reserved. But he was never far from her side.

  Kiyoko sheathed her katana, then quickly scanned the bleachers for Sora, skipping over the all-too-appealing male body standing next to Brian Webster and Conn Quinn. She wasn’t sure she could ever look Murdoch in the eye again. Not when she knew they shared those dreams.

  Sora had disappeared.

  She raised a brow at Yoshio, but he shrugged.

  “He left a few moments ago.”

  How curious. No kata practice this morning. “Shall we go get breakfast, then?”

  Yoshio wrinkled his nose. “Did you see what they eat in the morning? Everything is dripping in butter or grease.”

  “Murdoch said the cafeteria in the bunkhouse serves all nationalities. We must be able to get some rice and tea.”

  A guttural roar echoed through the arena, followed quickly by the metallic slither of sword against sword. Immediately, the mock battles around her ceased and everyone turned to watch, big smiles on their faces. Kiyoko peered over Yoshio’s shoulder to see who was battling whom. She wasn’t entirely surprised to see Murdoch and Brian Webster locked in a fierce test of sword skills.