Bound by Darkness

  in the Soul Gatherers series,

  SURRENDER TO DARKNESS

  Available from Signet Eclipse in January 2011

  Waiting was not Murdoch’s strong suit.

  Yet here he was, voluntarily twiddling his thumbs as he endured the hours until Kiyoko Ashida was done with her very long workday. Because the alternative—waiting until tomorrow—was worse.

  He stood across the street from the shiny glass edifice of the Ashida building and carefully studied every car that left the underground parking lot. Unfortunately, Sapporo was not the bustling metropolis of Tokyo and his large size drew attention on the quiet, tree-lined 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 trip from San Jose had been very 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 onto the street, headed north.

  Had it not been for his Soul Gatherer’s 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, a young woman he knew was Kiyoko from the photo Lena had given him, and an elderly man with white hair.

  The irritating wait was over.

  He slid into the tiny rental car he’d acquired at the airport and followed. The cramped interior stifled him, but his discomfort was secondary, as the low profile the car provided made it easier to follow the limo on unfamiliar streets.

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

  The three passengers disembarked and entered the building.

  As the limo drove off, Murdoch found himself scrambling for a parking spot, with none in sight. When he returned to the restaurant five 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. In 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. “Mr. Watanabe 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 personal charm. “I’ll stop by, say hello, and maybe Mr. Watanabe will ask you to get him a bigger table.”

  Any 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 enquiry of Mr. Watanabe. You can enjoy a complimentary glass of sake while you wait.”

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

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

  He leaned over her console, 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 big 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 to him. 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 due to ongoing protests in and around the 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 kneeled 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 slim young lass in a bright pink sweater set that offset her dark hair and eyes. Much prettier in person. “Did Mr. Watanabe happen to mention that I tried a more traditional approach at your office earlier today?”

  The woman placed her little teacup on the table. “He did not need to tell me,” she said quietly, 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 fluid, seemingly effortless lift of her knees. Her posture was all loose, easy elegance. The kind one gets only from complete mastery over her 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. “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 Ms. Ashida agrees to give me five minutes. Alone.”

  “Impossible,” Watanabe protested.

  The elderly man, who was still seated, quietly drank his tea, seemingly oblivious to the conversation. Kiyoko touched his arm, encouraging him to rise, but the man 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 bubble of heat rose in Murdoch’s chest, a mild response to possible danger.

  “In any case,” Watanabe added, guiding Ms. 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 than it needs to be. These men”—he pointed to the two standing just behind Murdoch—“are here to ensure Ms. Ashida and I depart without incident.”

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

  The elder finally got to his feet, brushing imaginary wrinkles from his robes and smiling faintly. He obviously spoke no English.

  “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, facing her squarely. “Five minutes. That’s all I ask.”

  She didn’t respond. She just kept walking.

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

  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 co
uld save the world much grief. As she passed by, he extended a hand, intending to snag her sleeve.

  But her reflexes were excellent, and she yanked her arm away. In the process, her fingers grazed lightly along his.

  Murdoch’s eyes rolled back in his head.

  An exquisite wave of pleasure raced up his arm and burst into his chest, nearly taking him to his knees. He swam in it. Blood pounding. Breath short. Senses excruciatingly alive. The fiercest desire he’d ever felt in his entire eight-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 female 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 delicious and horribly terrifying.

  Terrifying, because his berserker nature rejoiced at the sudden lack of restraint. It rose up in a hot funnel of fury, filled every empty thought, and swallowed him whole.

  At precisely the same moment, the two young warriors tasked with protecting Ms. Ashida made the error of grabbing his arms and dragging him backward.

  Lost in a haze of bloodlust, Murdoch knew only one thing—he could not let Kiyoko Ashida leave. A vague memory of his mission lingered in his berserker-controlled thoughts, but the dominant motivation for all that followed was a primitive, almost bestial certainty that the female in the pink top belonged to him and no one could be allowed to take her away.

  He yanked his arms forward.

  The first guard sailed through the paper door enclosing the room across the hall and landed atop a variety of fine crab dishes. Rice flew everywhere and the couple inside jumped up and flattened themselves against the wall. The second guard held to Murdoch’s arm with an admirable grip, but he was no match for the berserker power that fueled Murdoch’s every action. A heavy fist to the face sent him flying, too.

  But the two bouncers had succeeded in their primary goal—slowing Murdoch down. By the time he freed himself, Kiyoko and her two male escorts had reached the stairs.

  As they disappeared from view, he released a bellow of rage and dove for the stairwell, pulling his sword free of the invisible scabbard on his back. Panicked diners scrambled to get out of the way. But the two young warriors were not done. Displaying unshakable calm and unwavering dedication, they attacked him again, this time with their weapons in hand. One wielded a gleaming katana, the other nunchaku.

  Just short of the door, with a savage growl of frustration, Murdoch was forced to turn and face his opponents.