Surrender to Darkness Read online

  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?

  A soft knock at the office door lifted her gaze from the video screen. Standing serenely at the door waiting for permission to enter was an elderly man with snow-white hair and long, flowing black robes. Sora Yamashita, her mentor.

  “Come in, Sora-sensei,” she greeted.

  He entered slowly, but with the supple ease of a man many years his junior. “This office looks precisely the same as when your father occupied it. Did Watanabe-san not move in?”

  Kiyoko’s eyes trailed around the room, lingering briefly on the impressive collection of first-edition paper currencies hanging on the far wall. A significant part of Tatsu Ashida’s life was honored here. A part she did not know very well. “He chose the office next door.”

  “Hmmm.” Sora ran a finger through the light layer of dust on a nearby bookshelf. “Your father’s assistant tells me there is an American downstairs seeking your attention.”

  The elder’s face was placid, but Kiyoko sensed a great deal of contemplation behind those dark brown eyes. The American interested him.

  “A friend of someone I despise,” she explained, watching for a reaction. And getting none. “What brings you into the city, sensei?”

  “Today was an auspicious day to visit. So here I am.”

  An appropriate response from a wizened old onmyōji skilled in the calendar arts, but with Sora, nothing was as simple as it seemed on the surface. Nor, for that matter, as simple as the tranquil blue of his auras. Her innate ability to read the colorful life force emanations of human beings offered no advantage with her mentor. “Is this the forceful man you foresaw influencing my future, sensei?”

  “Possibly,” he said. “My divination said he would be a stranger.”

  “That would be unfortunate. I’ve sent him away.”

  The sensei shrugged. “If you were successful in turning him away, then he is not the right man.”

  Her gaze returned to the TV screen, which now showed an empty lobby. If he was not the man Sora had predicted would arrive, then why did she feel a sense of loss now that he was gone?

  Azazel tugged at the constricting knot of his tie as he shut Watanabe’s office door and locked it. What a very enlightening handshake that had been. He flicked a switch next to the floor-to-ceiling windows and they instantly became opaque.

  Murdoch had no soul.

  Very curious. The only soulless beings walking the middle plane were the immortal warriors Death tasked with collecting the souls of the dead. Many things had changed in the two thousand years he had spent trapped in the morass of the between, but not that fact. He’d bet his wing feathers on it. But in his day, Soul Gatherers did not travel the world in search of dark relics.

  He murmured a succinct spell and in a blink, without a single telltale spark of red, returned to his private chamber in the shadowy castle his minions had built for him. Travel to and from the between did not have the same restrictions as travel from hell. He wasn’t entirely certain why, but logic suggested it was because the between existed within the barrier itself. Not that he cared one way or another. All that mattered was that as his strength returned, he gained the ability to leave his prison and enter the midd
le plane at will.

  “Find me a soul to consume,” he said to the nebulous black shape hovering in the shadows near the door.

  Once it scurried off, he conjured a bottle of rich red wine. He yanked out the stopper and poured a generous quantity down his throat to wash away the taste of green tea.

  One thing was certain: Murdoch was seeking the Temple Veil, just as he was. He’d stake his return to glory on it. Why else would the man have been in Rome when his team of gradiors arrived to collect the Protectorate records of the Veil? Why else would he be here now? While it would be delightful if the fellow had taken the hint and toddled off to wherever he’d come from, the determined glint in his eye said he’d be back. It was just a matter of when.

  Time to pick up the pace.

  No more gentle wooing of Kiyoko. She had the whereabouts of the Veil stored inside that pretty head of hers, and he intended to pry it out. By force, if necessary. Using arcane magic to unlock her thoughts might alert the archangels to his presence, but it was a risk he had to take. Keeping one step ahead of his new rival was vital.

  The door opened and a freshly murdered body—with its soul intact—was tossed inside.

  Azazel smiled.

  Nothing could be allowed to derail his triumphant return from the dead.

  2

  Waiting was not Murdoch’s strong suit.

  Yet here he was, voluntarily twiddling his thumbs until Kiyoko Ashida was done with her very long work-day. Because the alternative—waiting until tomorrow—was worse.

  He stood across the street from the shiny glass edifice that was the Ashida building and carefully studied every car that left the underground parking garage. Unfortunately, Sapporo was not the bustling metropolis of Tokyo, and his large size drew attention on the quiet treelined avenue. But he maintained his vigilant stance in spite of the curious looks. As the hours passed and night fell around him, however, he grew increasingly impatient. The flight from Los Angeles had been long, and he had yet to eat or imbibe a decent pint of ale.

  It was nearing seven p.m. when the wide garage door finally rattled up and a sleek, dark American-made limousine eased into the street, headed north.

  Had it not been for his Soul Gatherer enhanced night vision, identifying the occupants through the smoky gray windows would have been impossible. But he was able to spot three people in the back of the car—Watanabe, the young woman he knew was Kiyoko from the photo Lena had given him, and an elderly man with white hair.

  His wait was over.

  He slid into the tiny rental car he’d acquired at the airport and followed. The cramped interior of the Honda stifled him, but the fear of losing the limo on unfamiliar streets shunted his discomfort to the back of his mind.

  After crossing the city and nearly losing his prey several times at traffic lights, he pulled to the curb behind the limousine. It had stopped before a seven-story brown and white building. Murdoch couldn’t read a word of Japanese, but the giant 3-D crab hanging over the main entrance marked the place as a seafood restaurant.

  The three passengers debarked and entered.

  As the limo drove off, Murdoch found himself scrambling for a parking spot, with none in sight. When he returned to the restaurant ten minutes later, he was greeted by soothing koto music and a smiling young woman attired in a navy blue kimono with a bright yellow obi.

  “I’m looking for another guest,” he told her, speaking slowly in hopes of bridging the language barrier.

  “His name, sir?” the hostess asked, glancing down at her reservation list. English, God love her. Despite the overwhelming number of Japanese faces he could see, the restaurant clearly entertained tourists as well.

  “Watanabe. He’s here with Miss Kiyoko Ashida.”

  Her face remained pleasant, but her voice subtly cooled. “Watanabe-san and his two guests are seated in a private dining room made for three.”

  In other words, no way are you expected.

  “Just tell me where they’re seated,” he said, smiling deeply, leveraging every ounce of his charisma. “I’ll stop by, say hello, and maybe Mr. Watanabe will ask you to get him a bigger table.”

  All hint of friendliness left the hostess’s face, leaving only a suggestion of dismissal. Not aggressive, though. The tilt of her head remained remarkably demure. “That would be irregular, sir. If you give me your name, I will make an inquiry of Watanabe-san. You can enjoy a complimentary glass of sake while you wait.”

  For such a tiny thing, she was an effective gatekeeper.

  If he’d been any less determined, she would have won.

  He leaned over her, using his broad-shouldered, six-foot-three frame to emphasize his words. “Here’s the truth, lass. I’m going to storm the castle. Either you tell me where Mr. Watanabe and his party are seated and save yourself the embarrassment of having a large Scot peer into every private room, or I go in hard, spilling a lot of green tea. Your choice.”

  Her gaze dropped. “I will get the manager.”

  And off she ran.

  Murdoch glanced at the intricate electronic seating chart on the console, but it was a blur of incomprehensible Japanese symbols. The only promising clues were the stars marking two rooms—one on the second floor and another on the fourth. Were Watanabe and Kiyoko starred guests? He was about to find out.

  Conveniently, with the restaurant only half full because of ongoing protests around the nearby Hokkaido Government Building, he found them on the first try.

  As he slid back the rice-paper door of a little room next to an elaborate rock garden, he met Watanabe’s gaze over a smoke-stained bamboo table. All three occupants knelt on cushions, sampling sashimi. Raw seafood. Ugh.

  “Mr. Murdoch,” said Watanabe, surging to his feet, his eyes widening with outrage. “This is highly inappropriate. You are interrupting a private dinner.”

  Murdoch gave the company president only a cursory glance. His attention settled on the woman at the table, a pretty lass in a bright pink sweater set that set off her dark hair and eyes. “Did Mr. Watanabe here happen to mention that I tried a more traditional approach at your office earlier today?”

  The woman placed her little teacup on the table. Delicate of feature, but not delicate of nature. No trembles. “He did not need to tell me,” she said, only a trace of accent in her perfectly enunciated English. “It was I who asked him to get rid of you.”

  She rose to her feet in a smooth, seemingly effortless lift of her knees. Her posture was pure serenity. The kind you only get from complete mastery over your physical form.

  “Please leave, Mr. Murdoch. I have nothing to say to you.”

  “I can’t do that,” he said, strangely unable to take his eyes off her. He’d seen plenty of glossy pink lips and pert little noses. What was it about hers that intrigued him? “I’m on a mission. You may not like the person who sent me, but she assured me you understood the critical nature of my task.”

  Her brown eyes met his. “I cannot help you.”

  “I haven’t told you what I’m looking for yet.”

  Watanabe slid the phone he’d just been mumbling into back in his pocket. He said something softly in Japanese to Kiyoko, then addressed Murdoch. “The police are on their way, Mr. Murdoch. If you want to avoid a night in jail, I suggest you leave now.”

  “I’m not going anywhere until Miss Ashida agrees to give me five minutes. Alone.”

  “Impossible,” Watanabe protested.

  The elderly man quietly sipped his tea, seemingly oblivious to the tension in the room. Kiyoko touched his arm, encouraging him to rise, but he ignored her.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Murdoch noted the arrival of two robust youths, both wearing black robes similar to those worn by the placid, tea-drinking elder. Japanese bouncers. A small bubble of heat rose in Murdoch’s chest, a mild response to possible danger.

  “In any case,” Watanabe added, guiding Miss Ashida toward the door with his hand on her elbow, “we won’t be continuing the conversation. We�
��re departing.”

  “Not until I get my five minutes.”

  Watanabe frowned. “Don’t make this more difficult that it needs to be. These men”—he pointed to the two standing just behind Murdoch—“are here to ensure that Ashida-san and I depart without incident.”

  “If they touch me,” Murdoch said softly, “they risk their lives.”

  The elder finally got to his feet, smiling faintly as he brushed imaginary wrinkles from his robes.

  “Threats are unnecessary,” Watanabe responded.

  “It wasn’t a threat. It was a warning.” Murdoch didn’t have time to explain. He again tried to connect with Kiyoko Ashida, facing her squarely. “Five minutes. That’s all I ask.”

  She didn’t respond. She just kept walking.

  The two men at Murdoch’s back stepped closer, clearly intending to prevent him from interfering with her exit, and the warmth in his chest burst into a small fire. Only two men, so the blaze was containable. For now.

  But there was no way Murdoch could allow Kiyoko to leave without a chance to discuss the collection of relics she’d recently inherited from her father. If the weapon he sought was among them, it could save the world a whole lot of grief. As she passed by, he put out a hand, intending to snag her sleeve.

  But her reflexes were excellent. She yanked her arm away before he could reach his objective, and in the process, her fingers lightly grazed his.

  Murdoch’s eyes rolled back in his head.

  A wave of hot, liquid pleasure raced up his arm and splashed into his chest, nearly taking him to his knees. He swam in it—his blood pounding, his breath short, his senses alive. The fiercest desire he’d felt in his entire seven-hundred-year existence licked across every inch of his skin, thrilled every nerve ending, and sent every drop of blood rushing to his groin. The urge to sink into Kiyoko Ashida’s warm embrace was so keen and unrelenting that goose bumps sprang to his skin and saliva pooled in his mouth. He wanted her as he had never wanted any woman before. It was both utterly blissful and horribly terrifying.