Surrender to Darkness Page 9

  “Indeed.”

  Palms flat on the tatami, she slid smoothly into the plank position. “Does the divination my father did at my birth give any clue to how I will transcend?”

  “It only identified you as the one who will join Abe no Seimei in the endless fight. You know this already.”

  “It foretold my unique ability to manipulate the Veil’s power,” she pointed out.

  “That was part of the prophecy. Proof, if you will, that you are indeed the descendant with the right skills.”

  She sighed. “Does that not suggest that as my ability to leverage the Veil decreases, my right to transcend wanes, too?”

  “No. It is not your skill that is waning, but rather the blanket spell cast over Veil’s dark side. As with anything in nature, the two halves are in a constant struggle for balance, and for a time, the dark side is winning. It is consuming the positive energy flow.”

  Kiyoko walked her feet back to her hands, then slowly rose to full height. “Which would not be a problem if I didn’t depend on that energy for survival.”

  Glancing up from his tea, Sora nodded. “If we can find some way to tap into Mr. Murdoch’s dormant power, are you prepared to transcend immediately? Abe no Seimei did not transcend until he had lived a full life as a mortal. But your choices are different.”

  She gave her mentor a rueful smile. “Choices? In a month or two the positive energy from the Veil will be completely gone.”

  “You have at least one option. If you walk away from your current role and cease to use magic, you could live another decade or longer.”

  Kiyoko stared at him. Abandon the fight against evil? Let others take up swords against the demons while she sat back and watched? Not possible. “I can’t do that.”

  “Then we must move swiftly. While you are still healthy and the chances of success are excellent.”

  “Shall I explain my destiny to Murdoch then? Ask him to aid me?”

  “To do so will doom your efforts,” Sora said. “To successfully transcend, you must hide your soul from the goddess of Death. Since she is Mr. Murdoch’s master, sharing the details of your destiny with him is the same as sharing them with her.”

  “Oh.” Did he share everything with Death? How disconcerting. “Leveraging Murdoch’s power won’t be easy. The energy that surges through me when we touch is too vigorous to contain.”

  “Now, perhaps. But with practice, you will learn the exact nature of its ebb and flow.”

  “So long as Murdoch’s berserker doesn’t kill me in the process,” she responded drily.

  “I don’t believe he wants to kill you.”

  Kiyoko barely held back a flush. She didn’t believe he wanted to kill her, either. “I meant in the maelstrom of his rage, by accident.”

  Sora was silent for a moment. “Perhaps we can reduce that risk. If you were to teach him the art of zazen, he might gain a stronger rein over his berserker.”

  “I’m not certain allowing him to join the meditation sessions would be wise. There’s a possibility that he’ll lose control of his berserker as he struggles with the concept of inner release. He may end up disrupting the sessions.”

  “I agree. Individual tutoring would be best.”

  The skin between Kiyoko’s breasts suffered a sudden wave of damp heat. “You wish me to spend time alone with him?”

  “I do. But I can see the notion concerns you.” Sora’s eyes narrowed. “Does your reluctance have anything to do with the invitation you extended to Watanabe-san?”

  “No,” she protested. “Watanabe-san offered to set up a temporary office in your old cottage to save me further trips into the city. Once we complete the review of the company reports, he will return to Sapporo.”

  “Then it is fear that motivates you.”

  Fear of falling victim to her own desires, perhaps. “Although fear sometimes halts us when we should move forward, it is also a reminder of the possible consequences. More time spent with Mr. Murdoch will increase the chance of an accidental touch.”

  He nodded again. “But if you replace chance with purpose, and slowly accustom him to your touch, his response may lose its fury.”

  Kiyoko stuffed her feet into a pair of sandals, then joined him at the table. Kneeling on a dark blue cushion, she reached for the stoneware teapot. “So, the plan is twofold: teach him better control and train him to my touch?”

  A low chuckle escaped Sora’s lips. “Mr. Murdoch must, of course, be a willing pupil. Fortunately, I believe he aspires to greater self-discipline, so he should be amenable to your teachings.”

  She refilled the sensei’s cup, then poured tea for herself. “I’m not so sure. If he thinks it will endanger me, he’s likely to refuse.”

  Sora smiled. “Then your first task is to convince him that you will remain safe.”

  Kiyoko grimaced. “No. First, I must convince myself.”

  7

  Frustrated didn’t even begin to describe Murdoch’s mood.

  As if Kiyoko’s refusal to see him last night weren’t galling enough, she’d managed to elude him this morning, too. He’d stalked up the pathway to her home first thing, determined to gain entry. Even the dragon lady hadn’t been able to hold him off. Hounded by a furious spate of Japanese he had no hope of understanding, he had searched every room. But the house was empty. No Kiyoko. It was only when he consulted with his new friends in the dojo compound that he discovered her whereabouts. She and a team of warriors had departed on a demon hunt in the middle of the night.

  A demon hunt.

  Without telling him.

  Shrugging off his leather jacket and tossing it over a nearby bush, he swore. The woman had a bloody death wish. He rolled his shoulders to warm the muscles, then drew Bloodseeker from its sheath, rendering it visible. In an almost unconscious routine, he stepped through the four primary guard positions and simulated several opening attacks. The leather wrap of his hilt fit snugly against the calluses formed centuries ago on his right palm and thumb, and the familiar moves settled his thoughts.

  “I see you were a student of Johannes Liechtenauer, Mr. Murdoch,” Kiyoko said from behind him.

  He spun about.

  Her loose white gi and ponytail lent her such a slim and feminine appearance that he instinctively lowered his weapon, despite the glistening steel katana she held. Dark circles under her eyes spoke to her eventful night, but she was otherwise hale and hearty. Which was the only reason he didn’t paddle her ass.

  “And others, including Agrippa,” he acknowledged.

  “What? No Japanese masters?” she teased, smiling.

  “I’m always willing to expand my repertoire.” The silver necklace and bracelet were both present. No earrings, though. And if she was carrying a pouch, it wasn’t anywhere obvious.

  “Good,” she said. “I was rather counting on that.”

  He frowned. “For what?”

  She gestured to one of the smaller buildings on the other side of the compound, next to a well-tended herb garden. “I’m about to begin my training routine. Will you join me?”

  The structure was tiny, unlike any training facility Murdoch had ever seen before. But having just said he was open to new ideas, he could hardly refuse. He nodded and led the way inside.

  Inside was a single narrow room decorated with tatami mats, cushions, and a sunken hearth. At one end of the room a painted scroll hung on the wall. He turned to find her standing immediately behind him, close enough that he could easily drink in her jasmine perfume. His pulse leapt and he made no effort to tame it.

  “What do you do in here?”

  “Meditate.”

  Murdoch raked a hand through his hair. “Don’t take this the wrong way, lass, but I’m going to pass on the meditation. I’m all for mental discipline, but sitting on my ass contemplating my navel is not my cup of tea. I’d much rather have joined you on the demon raid you and your foolish friends embarked on last night.”

  “We have a set routine. You woul
d have disrupted it.”

  Like her closeness was disrupting the normal flow of blood through his body? “You should have at least told me you were going.”

  “Why? So you could order me to remain at home?”

  “Aye. You do not heal the way a Soul Gatherer does. Nor are you blessed with the enhanced sight, smell, speed, and strength we have. Taking on demons by yourself is sheer lunacy. This talk of becoming a master of meditation is only proof that you’ve no idea what you’re up against. Demons don’t bloody well meditate, I can tell you that.”

  “You see meditation as a form of inaction.”

  “Aye. Because it is,” he bluntly pointed out.

  She shook her head, the tip of her ponytail peeking briefly over her shoulder. “That assumes action is only physical. What does your brain do while you are fighting, Mr. Murdoch?”

  A memory of his last battle resurfaced—fending off the six gradiors trashing the Protectorate offices in Rome. “Notes the position of the enemy, gathers clues about what my opponent is going to do next, chooses the moves I must make to reach my objective.”

  She hung her katana on a wall mount. “So, you would agree that situational awareness is as important as the physical actions you take?”

  “Aye.”

  “Well, meditation is about expanding your awareness. The objective is not, as you stated, to withdraw from the world. It’s actually the opposite. To experience reality and understand your place in it.” Crossing to a cushion, she sat. “Understanding your relationship with the world around you will give you greater control over yourself.” She looked up. “You are interested in achieving greater control, are you not? Sit.”

  Actually, at that precise moment, he was interested only in the expanse of pale skin her gaping gi revealed. His motivation for taking a seat opposite her was merely to get a better view of it. But sit he did.

  “What now? Do I close my eyes?” he grumbled.

  “No, zazen requires open eyes. But first we need to assume a proper meditation posture.”

  “Don’t expect me to bend like a pretzel. I’m seven hundred years old.”

  She chuckled. “You look remarkably good for a man of your age. Proper posture requires your knees to be flush with the cushion. Can you do a half lotus, like this?”

  She tucked her left heel against her buttocks and lifted her right heel into her lap. It made his knees ache just to watch her.

  “No,” he said.

  “Then kneel.” Rolling back, she grabbed a short, tilted stool from the corner of the room. “And sit on this.”

  Carefully avoiding her fingers, he accepted the seat. “This is a lot of effort to go to just to think.”

  “We will be doing this several times a day, so get used to it,” she replied. “Once you have mastered zazen, we will attempt to touch again.”

  He grinned. “Is that your way of confessing you can’t get enough of me?”

  Her expression remained neutral. No smile.

  “Come on. Admit it,” he continued, egged on. “You felt exactly what I felt when we touched, and you’ll do anything to feel it again.”

  She blinked.

  “The hot rush of blood through your veins, the heavy pound of your heart against your chest, the edgy, almost unbearable need. You remember what it was like, don’t you?”

  “Not really.”

  “Liar.”

  “My goal is to reach the point where touching you engenders no reaction whatsoever,” she responded flatly.

  “No reaction whatsoever?”

  “None.” Her gaze dropped. “Are you ready to begin?”

  “No.” He knelt and leaned back on the stool. It was remarkably comfortable, even for his war-torn knees. “Why do you care what happens when we touch? Once you give me the Veil, we’ve no need to see each other again.”

  Her lips tightened briefly. “The emotions that be-siege me when we touch run contrary to my desire for inner tranquillity and enlightenment, so I seek to tame them.”

  He studied her for a moment. “I rather like the way you make me feel. If it weren’t for that small problem with my berserker, I’d pounce on you this very moment. I’d offer you no reprieve until you screamed your pleasure to the heavens and finished with a huge smile on your face. There’s more than one way to find tranquillity.”

  Her eyes lifted to meet his, and she flushed crimson. “Do you always say what’s on your mind?”

  “Aye. It saves time.”

  Any lingering coolness in the November air melted away under the heat of their shared gaze. It was a moment of unabashed honesty, a complete lack of artifice or cloaking. They both wanted each other.

  And they both knew it was impossible.

  “That small problem with your berserker is why we are here,” she said, lowering her eyes and grasping for her composure. “The discipline inherent in zazen may help to avoid the loss of control you experienced. We’re going to start by focusing on your breathing.”

  “Just so you know,” he said drily, “it was empty thoughts and a complete focus on the physical that led to my berserker gaining control in the first place.”

  “Do not empty your thoughts. Zazen is about being fully engaged with the world, not about being empty-headed. The focus on breathing is only to rid you of distraction.”

  “Fine.”

  “Eyes open,” she admonished him. “Half-lidded is best. Pick a spot on the floor three feet in front of you and stare at it.”

  “Lass? Your lap is three feet in front of me. How am I supposed to focus on my breathing when I’m staring at the very thing that’s driving me to distraction?”

  “Concentrate. You do know how to concentrate, don’t you?”

  Murdoch straightened his shoulders. “Sarcasm does not become you.”

  “Focus, Murdoch. Cup your weaker hand with your dominant hand, then put your thumbs together to form an oval. Hold your head high and align your spine perpendicular to the floor. Now breathe deep. From your gut.”

  Such a simple thing, the dropping of the salutation in front of his name. Hardly worth the contented sigh he suppressed. But the implied intimacy pleased him immensely. Eyes on the white cotton gi in front of him, he pulled in a deep breath.

  “Release the breath slowly, feel it leaving your lungs, leaving every muscle, leaving your body. Draw in another. Feel the coolness in your throat, the expansion of your lungs, the stretch of your diaphragm.”

  Having committed to the exercise, he followed her directions with diligence and centered his attention on the steady rhythm of his chest. The delicate sound of her voice never faded from his consciousness, but it did settle in some soothing spot outside his body. By the fourth breath, his Soul Gatherer senses had come fully alive. Not only could he track the flow of every indrawn molecule of air, but he could feel the gentle pressure the air placed on each inch of his skin. He knew which slow swirls had entered from the chilly outdoors and which had slid along Kiyoko’s heated body before wrapping around him.

  She continued to speak, but her words lost meaning.

  With every slow, deep draw of air, he got a taste of Kiyoko. The floral scent of her shampoo, the fresh cleanliness of her soap-washed skin, even the faint trace of green tea on her breath. He experienced it all.

  And his berserker took notice.

  There was a rumble under his breastbone, a stirring of the beast that he likened to hunger. The first preludes of change assailed him—a heightened temperature, the slight swelling of his muscle tissues, the swift distribution of oxygen to the farthest reaches of his body—and he was forced to quash them. He wanted nothing to interfere with the heady enjoyment of her presence, because this was as close to touching her as he was likely to get. And it was strangely satisfying. Or it was until he caught the spicier note wafting off her left shoulder. A more masculine scent. Citrusy. Complicated. Expensive.

  Watanabe’s cologne.

  He kicked the stool away and surged to his feet.

  “I�
�m done.” Taming his berserker took a great deal of effort, and his words came out stilted. Bloody hell. She’d recently spent time with the wretch, somewhere confined, somewhere his scent could pool around her and cling. Watanabe had touched her.

  She frowned. “You barely began.”

  “My senses are more acute than a human’s,” he said, “and are more easily overwhelmed. Believe me, stopping now is wise.”

  Before someone got hurt.

  He drew in a deep, shuddering breath.

  Damn it. This was so unlike him. He wasn’t normally a jealous person. Not about women. Holding on to them—allowing their lives to become entangled with his—never ended well, so he dated a lass once or twice and then moved on. Jealousy didn’t suit his lifestyle. But this crazy attachment his berserker had for Kiyoko didn’t follow any rules.

  It was all about want and need.

  “Your self-control is very rigid,” Kiyoko said. She got to her feet and crossed the mat to his side. “But that works against you in meditation. You must interact with your environment, not hold yourself aloof from it.”

  He glanced down at her. The top of her head came only to his shoulder. “You’re not actually suggesting I let go, are you? Allow the berserker to surface?”

  “Something must give. You carry a wall everywhere you go.”

  He snorted. “What happened the other day in the dojo is only a sampling of what my berserker can do. If I gave it full rein, we’d all regret it. Believe me.”

  Her fingers grazed the loose material of his T-shirt over his abs, sending an acute thrill of awareness rippling through his body. “I’m not advocating a complete loss of control, just a managed flow in and out of your body. Believe it or not, there is strength to be gained from the world around you. Even the mightiest tree must sink roots into the ground and blend with the earth or fear the next powerful wind.”

  Murdoch forced himself to breathe. How easy it was to imagine those slim fingers dancing along his bare flesh, driving him to distraction. How easy to envision hauling her against his chest and kissing her until she sighed with delight. But such thoughts were madness.