AllFreeNovel
Share Us
He pushed her inside, blocking her exit. So much for her preferences. He flashed the light around the room, and she tried to look at the place through his eyes.
She was uncomfortably aware of the bed. It was a large one, genuine Stickley, and she’d never shared it with anyone. Then again, she’d never done much bed sharing at all.
But of course he wasn’t interested in the bed. The flashlight passed it, over the walls, and paused at the antique ki
mono hanging there.
The garment was a work of art—hand-painted and embroidered, from the late nineteenth century, and Hana had given it to her for her fourteenth birthday. Lianne had been horrified, of course. Something of such value and beauty belonged in her own closet, not in the possession of her grubby little daughter, but even Lianne was cowed by Hana-san’s indomitable nature. Just to be on the safe side they’d hung it in Summer’s bedroom, the rich colors glowing and alive.
“I don’t just want the urn,” he said, shining the light over it. “I want everything else Hana Hayashi gave you.”
“I told you—the urn, a book and two kimono.”
“I’ll take them all.”
“You can’t—” Foolish protest, and he didn’t bother to answer. He could do anything he wanted.
“Do what you want,” she said finally, wearily. “I’m going to sit in the living room. The sooner we’re out of here the better.”
He said nothing, moving aside to let her leave the room. She couldn’t imagine ever feeling safe there again; with the kimono gone there’d be nothing left of Hana, replaced by the toxic presence of the man who’d started out rescuing her and ended up her kidnapper. Maybe, eventually, she’d wipe his memory out of the place. Open all the windows to let the sea air blow through, burn the sage sticks that New Agey Micah had given her. He’d loved this place, as well.
She walked into the darkened living room, dragging a heavy oak bench up to the bank of windows so that she could sit. The moon was bright and strong, providing some illumination, and she reached up and opened one of the casements, letting the cool night breeze in, rich with the tang of sea salt and cedar. She sat very still, looking out into the night, trying to shut out the noise from the bedroom. Trying to shut out the noise from her mind.
She ought to run. She had finally given Takashi O’Brien what he wanted, and he was too busy in her bedroom to pay any attention to her. Besides, she was of no value anymore. If she ran he’d probably just let her go.
So why wasn’t she running?
He said someone was going to help her sister, who was caught up in the same helpless mess that she was. Could Summer believe him? In fact, he was very good at rescuing—he’d saved her life at least three times, maybe more if you counted the fact that she’d almost electrocuted herself in that über suburban house. A safe house, he’d called it. She’d never been less safe in her life. Maybe he’d also saved her by just keeping her away from the Shirosama’s goons. If whoever had gone after Jilly was as efficient, then her sister would be safe.
But Taka might have lied. Although he hadn’t actually lied that much to her, he had let her assume things that weren’t true. That he was there to help her.
In truth, he’d told her he was no guardian angel, no rescuer. She’d just chosen not to believe him. Idiot.
When this was all over she’d bring Jilly back here, to the place she loved, and the two of them would heal. Far away from L.A. and her mother’s latest enthusiasm and the Shirosama’s goons. Far away from Little Tokyo and the Sansone Museum and the Santa Monica Mountains. Far away from anything that would remind her of Takashi O’Brien.
The trunk itself was a thing of beauty. Taka lifted it down from the top shelf of Summer’s closet very carefully. It was Chinese, which amused him. Hana Hayashi must have chosen it on purpose, knowing how much it would gall her ancestors. He opened it, and the Hayashi Urn lay there in ice blue glory.
He picked up the treasure carefully, turning it in his hands. How had he ever mistaken those copies for the real thing? This glowed with an almost unearthly light, enough to tempt him to believe in the myths surrounding it.
In the bottom of the trunk lay the book of haiku, handwritten in kanji. He wondered why Summer had kept it. Had Hana Hayashi told her to? Or had it been out of sentiment?
She’d lied about the kimono on the wall, but then, he’d expected that. It was a beautiful thing, embroidered and painted with chrysanthemums, and he stared at it a long time.
The chrysanthemums were another conundrum, one he couldn’t quite fathom. They were the flower of royalty…. Were the ruins of the temple somewhere on land once belonging to the imperial family? So many pieces of the puzzle, so little time to find an answer. He glanced back into Summer’s closet, and saw a light silk kimono hanging from a hook. The second kimono. Clearly something she used, something of no antique value. It was a pretty thing, and on a whim he wrapped the urn in it before placing it back in the box. He carried it out to the car, then went back for the antique kimono.
She was sitting in the living room, her back to him. Why the hell didn’t she run? He’d made up his mind that if she did, he’d let her go. He’d be taking a risk; if the Shirosama caught her before he knew the urn was gone she would be in for a very bad time. But if Taka kept her with him, then sooner or later he’d have to do what he’d been ordered to do. And he was still fighting it. As long as the Shirosama couldn’t get his hands on the urn it didn’t matter where the shrine was located. There was nothing Shiro Hayashi, the man who called himself the Shirosama, could do about his planned Armageddon as long as Taka held the urn, and he wasn’t going to let go.
“Tell me again what Hana-san has to do with all this?” Summer’s voice was quiet, contemplative.
He grimaced. “Your so-called nanny came from one of the oldest, most powerful families in Japan, dating back to feudal times. In the chaos following World War II she was sent to relatives in California in the hope that she would blend in with the people returning from the detention camps, and eventually she would be brought home again when things had settled down. But most of her family was killed, and she was stranded here, safeguarding her secret.”
“What secret?”
He hesitated. “You want the long version or the short version?” he asked. “In the early seventeenth century a monk and visionary was born in the mountains of Japan. He was an albino, and he took the name Shiro-sama, or White Lord, and he created his own religion, one that combined Buddhism, Shinto and the worship of Kali the Destroyer. He believed Japan must be destroyed to attain its full power in some kind of post-apocalyptic existence, and he had thousands of followers in a time where very few people questioned the way things were.”
“I’ve never heard of him.”
“I wouldn’t expect you had. What do you know of Japanese history?”
