Surrender to Darkness Read online

  “I’m so not liking the sound of that,” she said.

  “Have you heard anything more from the between?”

  “No, things have been pretty quiet. Why?”

  “Michael had one of heaven’s administrators comb through the records of the days following the Great Flood. She found a single, unverified reference to an ashen angel rescued from the floodwaters.”

  “Ashen?”

  “Pale gray.”

  Emily rolled her eyes. “I know what ashen means. Why would an angel be gray? Was he dead?”

  “No, he was not dead. And the color of his skin is far less concerning that the mention of extensive scarring on his torso.”

  “Why?”

  Uriel slid a hand through his curls. “Because Azazel had an intricate weaving of malevolent runes etched into his flesh.”

  Her heart skidded to a halt at the edge of a cliff. “So, Azazel is alive.”

  “We believe so, yes.”

  “But he hangs out in hell, right? With Lucifer and Beelzebub and Satan?” She painted on a smile. “And you guys can track him.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What do you mean, not exactly?”

  “Unlike the other demon lords, Azazel has not appeared at a monthly soul tally in several millennia. Satan makes no official accommodations in hell for him. Nor do we have any accounts of activity attributed to him. It’s like he doesn’t exist.”

  Emily blinked. “You’re saying you have no idea where he is? That he could be walking around on the middle plane, sucking souls out of people, and nobody has noticed?”

  “We thought he was dead,” the archangel pointed out. “We’re watching for him now. Very closely. And he can’t suck souls out of the living. Only blood.”

  “That’s not very comforting, Uriel.”

  The handsome archangel glanced over his shoulder at the empty road. “Your parents are almost here. You could help us find him, you know.”

  “Azazel? How? I have no idea what a fallen angel feels like.” Lure demon, sure. Having one for a boyfriend had taught her how to spot one of those slimy bastards. Thrall demon, yup. Couldn’t mistake those blue smoky guys for anything else. Fallen angel? Pure mystery.

  The archangel tilted his head. “What do you see when you look at me?”

  “A regular person. Except for a very thin rim of shimmery white stuff at the edge of your gold core.”

  “Azazel will appear much the same, except he’s unlikely to be white. Black or dark purple, perhaps.” The gate creaked and slowly began to open. “You can see every soul on the middle plane, Emily. Do some wide sweeps and if you spot him, call me. Do not engage him. Understand?”

  “Got it.” Skip the attack on a very powerful fallen angel? She could do that. No problem-o. “Should I warn Lachlan and Brian?”

  Uriel nodded. “That might be wise.”

  The black Audi rounded the corner and surged up the road toward the gate.

  “I have to go,” Uriel said. “Please be careful.”

  And with a blue flash in the night, he was gone.

  The car purred to a halt beside her and the driver’s-side window descended. Lachlan frowned at her. “Is Michael harassing you again?”

  “Nah, it was Uriel.” She tugged open the rear passenger door and slid in next to the car seat. Katie’s red wrinkled face peeked from a swath of pink blankets. Her mom sat on the other side, looking tired but very happy. “I’ll fill you in later. Right now, I need to kiss my baby sister.”

  Murdoch caught up to Watanabe as he exited the trees.

  The demon was hindered by the physical limits of his human glamour. Murdoch wasn’t. A Soul Gatherer was a spiritual entity of the middle plane and had access to a full complement of skills, with or without magic. Exceptional speed, smell, strength, and night vision. All the things that helped him find and recover souls.

  Or fugitive demons.

  He slashed at Watanabe in midstride.

  And missed. The demon dove and rolled, narrowly escaping the razor-sharp edge of Bloodseeker. As he landed and regained his feet, he shed the black sweater and sprouted a set of massive black wings. A pair of horns curled from his brow and the skin of his upper body and arms glowed dark purple as a series of markings rose up on his pale flesh.

  Black feathers.

  Did that mean—

  A bolt of black lightning darted from the night sky and pierced Murdoch’s left calf. Agony shot through him and his leg buckled, nearly taking him to the ground. But the instant the bolt struck, his berserker snapped the tethers holding it in restraint and swamped his body with hot, satisfying rage. His muscles expanded, his skin stretched, and his heart beat with heavy, fortifying pumps of blood. The pain fell away, completely forgotten. The beast took control, destruction of the demon its only goal.

  Bloodseeker hummed through the air, slicing through everything in its path, even the tip of a glossy black wing. Feathers flew, and the demon roared in outrage. The creature tossed a second bolt, but it failed to land, repelled by the shield that was as much a part of the berserker as its skin.

  The berserker swung again, and cut into the demon’s thigh.

  Hissing angrily, the demon soared into the air with a mighty flap of his huge dark wings. From his superior vantage point, he flung bolt after bolt of lightning, pitting Murdoch’s shield, while remaining out of reach.

  The berserker was unable to deal damage to the winged demon. No leap, no feint, no sudden change of direction gained him a point. His sword ripped through empty air. A growl of frustration rose from his throat as he tried again and again.

  He had to equalize the battle.

  The demon had to come down.

  But even with all of Murdoch’s whispered advice, the berserker could not entice the hellspawn within range of his sword. All he could do was dodge the energy bolts as best he could and swat at empty air.

  Unacceptable.

  He pivoted and jogged down the hill to the tree line. With a fierce grunt and a sharp jerk, he pulled a small pine tree from the ground, whipped around, and flung it at the demon. The heavy javelin struck true, and the creature crashed to the ground amid clumps of dirt and needles.

  The berserker dashed in for the kill.

  He shoved aside the tree and drove his sword tip straight toward the demon’s rune-emblazoned chest. The demon’s shield held up, but quivered under the powerful force of the thrust. Sensing the imminence of victory, the berserker put both hands upon the hilt and shoved even harder.

  And the steel sank in.

  But as the hallowed Norse blade parted flesh and ground against bone, something odd happened. The air rippled and bent, the temperature plummeted, and the demon’s body disappeared. Leaving Murdoch standing on the hill with his sword plunged deep in the soil.

  “For a second there, I thought you said feathers.”

  “I did.” Murdoch responded to Webster from the depths of the living room sofa, still replaying the battle in his head. Even the four-hour field mission with the trainees hadn’t dulled the memory. “Black feathers, big wings, horns, and a mess of strange symbols carved into its flesh.”

  “You think it was a fallen angel?”

  “Aye.”

  Webster turned to MacGregor. “What do you think?”

  The new father sat forward in his armchair, resting his elbows on his knees. “The black wings and basic human form match the descriptions I’ve heard.”

  “But the horns? And the runes?”

  MacGregor shook his head. “In most references, Lucifer is described as beautiful. Blond hair, blue eyes, no scars. Were it not for the black wings, he’d be labeled angelic.”

  “This creature had black hair, not blond,” Murdoch said. “Admittedly, I didn’t get a look at its eyes. It was dark and I was rather busy at the time.”

  “Safe to say it wasn’t Lucifer, then,” Webster said. “So, who was it?”

  “Azazel.”

  Murdoch glanced at the door to the
hallway. Emily stood there, looking as grim as he’d ever seen her, a dirt smudge from the training session bisecting her pale cheek. “Tell us what you know, lass.”

  She slowly advanced into the room, a tray of chicken wings in her hand. Placing the tray on the coffee table, she tossed MacGregor a rueful look. “That’s why Uriel was here. I’ve been hearing—or maybe feeling is a better word—these sounds from the between. Uriel’s the one who told me about Azazel.”

  “Azazel is a fallen angel,” Murdoch said, taking a cue from Webster’s frown. “Once the most powerful demon in Satan’s realm. He is a known seducer, and is credited with introducing war and artifice to the human race.”

  Emily nodded. “That’s what Uriel said.” Between bites of chicken, she relayed everything she and Uriel had discussed, from Azazel’s supposed death to the more recent suggestion that he had survived. “He asked me to keep an eye out for him.”

  “That’s no longer necessary,” Murdoch said. He’d slain a fallen angel. Bloody hell. He’d finally done something righteous. “Based on Uriel’s description, I can confirm that it was Azazel I killed out on the hill.”

  “Are you sure he’s dead?” Webster asked.

  “I put a sword right through his heart,” Murdoch said, with a shrug. “None of us could survive that.”

  “And he didn’t open up a portal to hell?”

  “No red sparks,” Murdoch confirmed. “The body vanished, but that might have something to do with the runes on his flesh.”

  Emily smiled at him. “Good job, Murdoch.”

  “Thanks, lass.” His return smile faded. “As for the task you set me to, I wasn’t able to twist Stefan’s arm with that package. By the time I got back down the hill, it was gone.”

  “He snuck out of the trailer and picked it up while you were fighting for your life with a demon?” she asked, scandalized.

  “So it would seem.”

  “What the hell’s got into the guy?” Webster asked, looking at MacGregor. “He’s gone right off the deep end. Can’t you talk some sense into him?”

  Lena and Kiyoko entered the house, both wearing a gi and sporting sweaty hair. Kiyoko was guzzling bottled water, her head tipped back and her throat working with each swallow. Murdoch couldn’t take his eyes off her.

  MacGregor stood. “I can try. But right now I’ve got a date with a wee lass and a diaper.”

  Lena snorted as she grabbed a chicken wing. “I’ve never seen a man look quite so pleased about that chore.”

  “Good men excel at even the most unpleasant deeds.” He smiled at her. “I’ll bring Katie over to the house for a viewing in the morning.”

  The female Soul Gatherer’s normally crisp expression softened a little. “A baby in a house full of warriors. That should be interesting.”

  “I’ll come home after I clean the kitchen,” Emily told her stepfather.

  MacGregor nodded and left.

  Lena had a wistful look on her face. Webster tugged her away from the chicken wings and against his chest. He didn’t say anything, just held her, displaying more empathy than Murdoch would have given him credit for possessing.

  “I’m going to retire for the night,” Kiyoko said from the doorway. “It’s been a long day.”

  Murdoch scrambled to his feet. “I’ll walk you upstairs.”

  “That’s hardly necessary,” she said.

  “Actually, it is,” he said drily. “I’ve got something I need to tell you about Ryuji Watanabe.”

  Kiyoko spent most of Sunday on the phone with the board of directors, dealing with Ryuji’s disappearance. The “official” story was that he’d gone out for a bike ride and never returned. She’d even called in the police to support the tale.

  The police officer had berated them for allowing him to ride off on his own, but had accepted the story.

  The company had a succession plan in place, but losing two top executives in a matter of months had hit hard. The choices for an interim president were not stellar. In the end, the board settled on the head of the manufacturing division, a solid man with a good reputation. But no Ryuji Watanabe. The options would have been better if the board had been seeking a permanent replacement. With the recent rash of failed companies, there were a number of excellent prospects to approach. But there was still hope that Ryuji would reappear and the board acted accordingly.

  By the time Kiyoko got off the phone, the ranch house front yard was a hive of activity. New trainees mingled with the old, bags and suitcases littered the lawn, and the oily exhaust of bus engines filled the air. Murdoch shook hands with Quinn and the others, then rounded up the new batch of trainees with an authoritative command. A larger group than the last. Sixty-three men and nine women.

  “Did you tell him?” Sora asked as they watched Quinn’s van depart for the airport. The cocky Irishman waved to Kiyoko from the backseat.

  “No.”

  “Do you intend to?”

  She leaned against the porch beam and stared up at the twilight sky. “He will not endorse the idea.”

  “Perhaps not. But we need his help.”

  “Yes, we do.” The only star visible at this early-evening hour was Polaris. A lone twinkle in the heavens. “Do you think Ryuji Watanabe was a lie from the beginning? That my father was fooled from day one?”

  Sora’s gaze followed hers. “I cannot imagine a demon having patience enough to play the part for over a year,” he said.

  She agreed. Which meant a good man had been murdered—probably several months ago—and they had failed to mourn his passing. And it meant she had given her trust to a demon. Perhaps even fed him valuable information. The notion made her stomach heave. “My father was carrying the Veil the day he died. Ryuji-san was the first to arrive in the garage after the attack.”

  “You suspect it was he who battled your father?”

  Kiyoko nodded. “But why not kill us both that night? Why spare me and leave the Veil behind?”

  “Perhaps a simple case of exhaustion? The battle with your father would have taxed the demon greatly. Tatsu-san was a formidable warrior. If the real Watanabe-san entered the garage as the battle was ending, it would have been forced to slay him as well.”

  “That might explain why I survived the initial attack, but not why I am still here. Why did it not kill me the moment it recuperated?”

  Sora scratched his chin. “A valid question.”

  “We’re missing something.”

  The door to the bunkhouse rattled shut, and she looked up. Having settled his brood in their quarters, Murdoch strode across the lawn toward the house, ignoring the path in favor of the shortest route. He wore a gray long-sleeved T-shirt and his typical black jeans, and his hair hung down his back in a riot of dark waves. Except for those few slightly shorter locks that teased the sides of his face. The ones he shoved away with a careless hand but kept returning to torment him.

  It was remarkably easy to imagine him in chain mail. Urging a mighty steed into battle. Mowing down the enemy with his blade, delivering swift, sure justice.

  “Does anyone have a pair of tweezers?” he said as he bounded up the two steps onto the porch. “I have a sliver.”

  Kiyoko’s lips twitched.

  Or not.

  She straightened. “I have one in my purse.”

  He nodded politely to Sora, then followed her into the house and up to the second floor. “Did you get everything straightened out with the board?”

  “As best I could,” she said. She pointed him to the chair by the window, then dug into her purse on the dresser.

  “How long before they accept that he’s gone?”

  “I don’t know.” She tossed him the tweezers. “It’s not a common occurrence, misplacing your president.”

  Head bowed to his task, Murdoch didn’t respond right away. He struggled with the tweezers, made an attempt to grab the offending piece of wood embedded in his skin, then lost the tool when it sprang from his fingertips.

  “Bloody hell.
”

  Kiyoko retrieved the tweezers from the floor. “The sliver’s in your right hand?”

  “Aye.” He glanced up. “I don’t suppose you could take it out?”

  Her brows soared. “Without touching you? I doubt it.”

  His dark gaze firmed on her face, and she knew where his thoughts had gone. To the hot, delicious gropings that filled his dreams. Just like hers had. “Technically, only the tweezers need to touch me.”

  “It would be too risky. One slip and—”

  “I’ll make certain we don’t touch,” he said.

  It was an absolutely crazy idea. The very epitome of playing with fire. But her pulse raced at the notion of being so close to him, breathing in his scent, feeling the warmth radiating from his body.

  “All right.”

  She perched on the edge of the window seat and leaned over his hand. A dart of wood had buried itself deep in the pad of his thumb. But no matter how she angled the tweezers or how she twisted her body, she couldn’t quite grip the sliver.

  He opened his legs and nodded at the floor. “Sit here.”

  Her breath caught.

  There? Between his thighs? Resting against that smooth-worn denim, grazing the inside of those heavy muscles as she worked? Was he determined to drive them both to the brink of sanity? Or was he purposely pushing himself, taunting himself, testing his ability to resist her?

  She sank to her knees on the hardwood.

  If he developed the strength to turn her away, her plans for tomorrow would fail. To unleash the berserker, she’d have to convince him to kiss her … seduce him into breaking his vow. What better place to start than right here?

  On her knees, her bottom lip caught artfully in her teeth, she advanced into the vee of his thighs. She paused there, her breasts scant inches from his legs, and released the now swollen lip. To her delight, he sucked in a sharp breath.

  “Extend your hand,” she said.

  He did.

  She turned around, leaned back against his pelvis, and tucked his arm tight against her body using her elbow. His hand was now perfectly positioned to work on.