by Anne Stuart
And she didn’t doubt him for one minute.
Jilly Lovitz was proving to be a particularly difficult disciple. She refused to drink the sacred water they brought to her, she was somehow able to shut her mind to the True Word as it was piped into the barren little room she was kept in. He had some of the most brilliant young scientists working for him, following his path. Chemists, explosives experts, doctors, engineers, along with the disaffected youth who’d made their lives on the streets. He’d offered them all a path to salvation, and they’d taken it gladly. And yet Jilly Lovitz resisted.
It was hard to believe she’d come from Lianne Lovitz, who had barely a brain in her pretty blond head. She was much more like her older half sister, Summer. Too smart, too cynical, too distrusting. That latter was no doubt due to the mother—Lianne would make a saint doubtful. And there were few real saints in the True Realization Fellowship.
The girl wouldn’t eat, either. She’d laughed when they’d brought her chocolate, something he’d been told was her particular weakness. In fact, he’d known very few women anywhere who could resist the siren lure of chocolate, but sixteen-year-old Jilly Lovitz was confounding him on many levels.
In the end it didn’t matter. She was in one of the induction cells, with his devoted followers watching her every move, and while anything was possible, he doubted that a woman like Summer Hawthorne would have endangered her baby sister by sharing her secrets. No, the girl was only a bargaining chip. As soon as the woman realized her sister was in jeopardy she would show up with the urn and all her secrets. All he had to do was wait.
Except that the Yakuza was now involved, and he wasn’t sure whether to rejoice or lament. Takashi O’Brien was the great nephew of Hiro Matsumoto—his connections were impressive, and who else would have sent him? It didn’t matter the Yakuza had the same goals as he did—Japan as a world power once more. The world power, in the new order of things. But the Yakuza were more likely to think of the profit the world could provide, while the Shirosama knew the only real future was to wipe it clean.
They were a concern, but a minor one. Summer Hawthorne had been chosen for a reason. Hana Hayashi would never have entrusted such a treasure to someone who couldn’t keep it secure, nor would she have shared her knowledge. It was a great tragedy that he hadn’t been able to make the old woman talk, a sin that he’d let anger overtake him and he’d ended her life before he found out what he needed to know.
He’d been much younger then, and only beginning to understand his destiny. It had been ordained since the beginning of time that he would run his aunt over with an automobile before he found the family treasure he was searching for. The treasure that would assure his ascendance and transfiguration.
But it hadn’t been his time. At that point he had only a few hundred followers, and his path wasn’t as clear to him as it was now.
No, all was unfolding as it was meant to be, and each new hurdle was simply to test his readiness for the coming storm. He would handle each obstacle as he faced it.
The girl had thrown her sacred water at Brother Kenno, a crime of such blasphemy that his holiness was only glad that it hadn’t been Brother Heinrich. But then, he’d kept Brother Heinrich far away from the girl. The Shirosama’s tools were varied and well honed, but one didn’t need to use an ax when a dagger would suffice. At this point there was nothing to be gained from having Jilly Lovitz undergo Heinrich’s inventive ministrations.
Perhaps she would be a reward to his faithful follower when all finally came together. Though in fact he’d promised him the older sister. While Heinrich might prefer the softer virgin flesh of the young one, his rage toward the older one would feed his pleasure.
The Shirosama shook his head. Heinrich was still so young, so driven by fleeting gratification that he was unready for the higher purpose in store for him.
But that would change. Events were coming together. The Shirosama could feel the winds of power swirling around his head, and he knew his time as a mortal was short.
The time and day most suited for the reunification ceremony were almost upon them. The True Realization Fellowship would retrieve the true urn. They would find where the ruins of the old temple were. Summer Hawthorne was the only living human being who had the information, passed on by his distrusting aunt, though she seemed not to know she had it.
He would help her remember, once he got the Yakuza off his back and the younger sister to break. And then all would unfold accordingly, and the end of the world would be set in motion. He would ascend, chaos would follow, and then nothing but blessed emptiness.
He folded his hands over his belly, let his eyes drift closed, and meditated happily. All would be as it was written.
If only he could find the rest of the text.
The woman moved through the Spartan halls of the True Realization Fellowship with purposeful strides. She had been brought in from Germany, an acknowledged expert in the gift of eliciting information, with or without pain, and she’d been summoned to Los Angeles at great expense. She carried her Hermes bag with her, the silk-wrapped pouch of tools in the bottom.
The brethren ignored her, as they’d been trained, their belief in the Shirosama’s will absolute. Most female followers were devout and plainly dressed, their heads shaved. This one was wearing the requisite white, but if anyone had looked they would have known it was a designer suit, and the sleek chignon of dark hair, the perfectly made-up face, were an affront to their ways.
Even her shoes were an insult—the sharp tap of high heels on tile floors seemed to mock the barefoot followers. She was there for a reason, however, and she must follow the Shirosama’s teachings despite her flagrant disregard of modesty.
The brethren turned their heads away, moving on as the woman stopped by the cell that held the noisy girl. They knew better than to linger—his holiness tolerated no questions, and the girl might cry out. Some of the followers were weak in their resolve, and might instinctively respond to a cry for help. Better that they not be tested.
By the time the woman reached the cell the hallway was deserted. She reached down and unlocked the door. And then she stepped through, her purse at her side, and all was silent in the south wing of the True Realization headquarters.
14
Takashi O’Brien was having to put too much energy into not thinking about his companion. Summer Hawthorne was certainly a minor transgression compared to some of the things he’d done. He’d given her the best partial sex of her life. So why was it eating away at him?
Probably because he was stuck with her. Normally he’d be able to dump people once he’d finished with them, but until he got to her family’s house on Bainbridge Island they were shackled together.
It should help that she was ignoring him, clearly pissed as hell. She wasn’t as edgy, nervy, frightened as she had been. Maybe she mistakenly thought he’d done everything he wanted to do with her. She was wrong.
Her very control was impressive—Committee-level impressive. Every now and then he felt a stray suspicion that she wasn’t quite the innocent bystander she was presumed to be, but then he dismissed it. His life would be a lot easier if she were some hard-core danger, a closet follower of the Shirosama, stringing him along. Then he wouldn’t have to feel even the slightest bit of this unfamiliar guilt.
But she wasn’t. She was exactly who and what she seemed to be. An ordinary woman in her late twenties, with average looks, an average body, too much education and far too much self-control.
Except when he’d made her come.
He’d made her cry, too, which was cruel and self-indulgent of him. He’d done it because he’d wanted to, even though he’d already found out just what he needed to know.
“I’m not getting in that plane,” she said, staring at the small seaplane he was heading for. It wasn’t the most impressive looking aircraft, but he knew that, mechanically, it was perfect. He never took chances he didn’t have to.
“You don’t have any say in the mat
ter,” he said over his shoulder, wondering if she’d be fool enough to make a run for it. It was a hot day, even for January, and he wasn’t in the mood to run after her.
She halted where she was, ten feet away from the plane. “Do you even have a license?”
“I’m not flying the plane. I’m sitting in the back with you. But yes, I have a license.”
“You don’t need to keep me company,” she said with false sweetness. “In fact, I’d prefer to be alone.”
“I’m sure you would,” he stated. “But the unfortunate thing is I don’t trust you.”
She didn’t move. “There aren’t any seats.”
“It’s a cargo plane.”
She didn’t say a word, and he wondered whether he was going to have to put his hands on her. Force her in. He didn’t want to. He’d tried not to hurt her more than he had to, but time was running out, and if he had no other choice he could hurt her very badly indeed.
She must have known that. After a moment she climbed into the back of the plane, moving as far away as she could from him, up against the bracing on the side. There were straps hanging from the bars, and he caught one, wrapping it around her wrists and then fastening it to the side of the plane. “I’m not likely to jump,” she said.
“It’s more in lieu of a seat belt.” He sat opposite her, winding the straps around his own wrists and hooking them. A moment later the pilot climbed into the front of the plane. “Sorry about the accommodations,” he called back. “Are you both strapped in?”
“Yes,” Taka replied.
Summer was looking at him, an odd expression on her face, and he realized their conversation had been in Russian. And then she glanced away, and there was no need to explain.
And no reason why he should want to.
Clinging to the straps, she closed her eyes as they taxied down the rough field. It would have been better if he’d strapped himself in beside her—he could cushion some of the shocks. Distract her. Because it was becoming rapidly clear that Summer Hawthorne was almost as terrified of flying as she was of sex.
Her skin was deathly white, and she was holding on to the ropes so tightly her hands had to be cramping. “Maybe I’d rather jump out, after all,” she said in a whisper, and he wondered if she was going to pass out from the fear. Fainting would have been a mercy, but she stayed rigid, clinging to the straps as the plane took off into the sky. He waited to see how long it took her to relax.
He didn’t have that much time. Her body was so tense she was shaking, and it was making him nervous. He had to do something for his own sake, not hers. He unclipped the straps that held him and slid across the floor of the plane. She was too panicked to even react to his sudden closeness.
“Is it just small planes?” he asked, half expecting her to ignore him.
But she was past any petty issues like pride or fury. “Any plane.” She practically ground out the words from between clenched teeth.
He’d already slid one hand into his pocket as he’d moved across the bucking plane, and the small needle was hidden between his fingers. He reached up and pricked her neck with it, and she had only a moment to try to jerk away before the tranquilizer hit her full force, and she collapsed on the floor.
He caught another of the hanging straps, which he wrapped around his waist, tethering his body to the side of the plane as it bounced ever higher into the windy California sky. And then he pulled Summer’s limp form against him, settling her between his outstretched legs, and held her.
He had no choice in the matter, if he left her hanging by the straps she’d end up being banged against the side of the aircraft. Not good for her, not good for the plane’s stability. You always fastened down a cargo, you didn’t leave it loose in the back of a plane.
That was all he was doing, he told himself putting his arms around her to hold her limp body still, letting her head loll back against his shoulder. Keeping the cargo secure.
It was his own damn fault he was getting hard again.
Summer was being rocked. So gently, wrapped in loving arms, rocking slowly in the velvety darkness. She was dazed and dreaming, in some magic world where there were no battles, no fear, just warmth and love and comfort. Rocking softly, gently, and she wanted to stay in that safe cocoon forever.
She’d been dreaming, a long series of strange, interconnected dreams. Some were terrifying—she kept running to find her sister, but everywhere she looked the spooky brethren turned up in their flowing white robes. She ran some more, and she was crying, crying in her dreams as she never did in real life.
But she had cried, hadn’t she? The final betrayal. She felt a hand on the side of her face, brushing away her tears, and she turned into that hand, pressing her lips against it, and the dream became erotic, full of red silk and wicked touches and smooth, golden skin hot beneath her flesh. It frightened her as much as her earlier dream.
But now she was at peace, wrapped in warm, strong arms, safer than she’d ever been in her life. Home, when she’d always felt like a stranger wherever she was. She could rest, and listen to the quiet beat of his heart, feel his breath in her hair, stirring it slightly, feel the plane rock beneath her…
Her eyes flew open, her body suddenly rigid, and for a moment his arms tightened around her before he let her go.
She couldn’t go far—her wrists were still wrapped with the strapping—and she fell across his outstretched legs, her face in his lap. She scrambled away, desperate, thankful for the murky darkness that surrounded them. She could get just far enough away not to be touching him, a small blessing.
At least they were no longer in the air. She could feel the plane rocking beneath her, hear the slap of water against the sides, and she suddenly realized things could be a lot worse.
“Did we crash?” Her voice sounded groggy to her own ears. “Are we in the middle of the ocean?”
“We didn’t crash, we landed. Several hours ago. This is a seaplane, remember? I’ve just been waiting for you to wake up.”
“Thoughtful of you,” she said, rubbing her neck. Something had stung her. She couldn’t remember when, but her neck still hurt.
“Not really. You were out cold. You must have needed the rest.”
“I didn’t get much sleep last night.” The moment the words were out of her mouth she choked, and if she could she would have slapped her hands over her betraying lips. But trying would only bring her closer to him, and she wanted to keep as far away as possible.
“No, you didn’t,” he said in a neutral voice that was almost worse than a leer. “Are you ready to go?”
“So polite. What if I said I wasn’t?”
He was reaching for the straps that bound her. “I would do my best to persuade you otherwise. Come here.”
She wasn’t moving any closer to him, not if she could help it. “No.”
“I can’t untie your wrists unless you do.”
“I can manage…” She was already trying to work her fingers into the knot when he muttered a curse beneath his breath and she felt the straps begin to pull. It was a simple enough matter to drag her next to him—there wasn’t that much play in the rope.
“Stop fighting me,” he said, undoing the knot with insulting ease.
“Yeah, like that’s going to happen anytime soon,” she retorted.
“You weren’t fighting this morning.”
Silence filled the darkened belly of the plane as it rocked gently on the water. “Everyone makes mistakes,” she said finally.
“Yes,” he said. “They do.” He moved past her, pushing open the door. It was dark outside, and the smell of the sea was strong. Could she shove him out the door and slam it shut, like Hansel and Gretel tossing the wicked witch into the furnace? He wasn’t likely to end up being gingerbread.
“Are we going to swim for it?”
“We’re tied up at a dock—you won’t even get your feet wet. Come on.”
“Lucky me,” she muttered, trying to stand. There was just enough room
do so, but her knees were wobbly, and there was nothing to hold on to as she felt herself falling.
Nothing but the arm that caught her, wrapped hard around her waist, bringing back the memory of that morning with shocking swiftness. She could even hear his words in her head—soft, seductive words.
“I’d rather you didn’t drown,” he said, lifting her over the threshold of the plane and setting her on the broad dock. He followed after her before she even had time to consider running.
“That’s right, you’ve already saved me from a watery grave, haven’t you?” she said, pulling herself together. “Why?”
“To find the urn.”
Ask a stupid question, get the wrong answer. He was still holding her, and if she thought she had a chance in hell of shoving him into the icy-cold waters of Puget Sound she would have tried.
“How far do we have to walk?”
“I have a car.”
“Of course you do. Where’s the pilot? Did you cut his throat and dump him in the sound?”
“I’d have a hard time finding pilots if I made a practice of doing that.”
“Maybe you were just taking out your frustrations on him, since you can’t kill me.”
Silence, deep and dark like the Pacific night stretched between them, and a light mist began to fall. “I can kill you, Summer. If I have to.”
She could see him now. There were no houses around to provide light, an oddity in itself. She would have thought every single inch of waterfront on Bainbridge would have been developed. But a slender quarter moon was out, and she could see his face, as expressionless as his voice. And she had no doubt at all he could do just as he said.
He took her arm, and she didn’t bother trying to free herself. He led her up the steep incline to the road, not much more than a narrow dirt track, and she barely looked at the car he bundled her into. The numbness was slowly beginning to recede, the numbness that had taken over her body from the moment he’d let her go in the bedroom, the numbness that had shut her down completely on the small plane. Anger was spiking through, shards of fury splintering the dazed calm. He’d lied about everything: why shouldn’t he be lying about her sister, as well? Maybe Jilly was still stuck in the Shirosama’s pudgy white claws, and maybe Summer would have to take desperate steps to save her. Steps that would doubtless involve getting on another airplane of her own free will.