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“Then she will join her sister on the next level, and all her worldly cares will be done with. They will have ascended before Armageddon—a gift indeed.”
“Indeed,” Brother Kenno echoed solemnly. He backed out of the room, leaving the Shirosama to contemplate the bloody, glorious, necessary future.
And whether Jilly Lovitz would need to learn personal instruction from the Shirosama himself, before she accepted her preordained fate.
She wasn’t quite a child, but she was young enough. She wouldn’t fight, not once Brother Sammo made certain she ingested the proper combination of medicines necessary for true enlightenment.
The Shirosama couldn’t afford to indulge the child’s needs right now, not until he found out where her sister was, and let the woman know that Jilly was under his protection.
The news would finish any resistance, and Summer would come to him herself, bringing the bowl.
He would also mine the stories his aunt Hana had filled her head with. Before he’d killed her.
Part of his karma was to live with that miscalculation. He had let frustration and anger get the better of him thirteen years ago, and he had acted rashly. In truth there were no mistakes—everything happened as it was meant to happen, and he was preordained to kill that infuriating old woman who had stood between him and his destiny.
Just as it was his fate to labor onward, gathering the pieces of the puzzle, the pieces he needed in order for his ascension to become complete. In the past thirteen years he had amassed followers and wealth, power that should have been his by birth. They followed his vision—thousands of them, hundreds of thousands of them. His role was a gift and a burden he accepted gladly.
Now it was all coming to fruition. The New Year was at hand. He knew what he needed, and he had the bargaining chip to bring her to him.
The Shirosama closed his eyes once more in blissful meditation, the gilded future bright and terrible.
11
Summer had locked the door, of course. She had no idea how predictable she was, at least in certain matters. Taka picked the lock in silence, opening the door and looking in on her. She was sound asleep, her long hair loose around her head, the covers tossed off. He wasn’t surprised to see she was sleeping in the underwear she’d been wearing earlier, though if she’d looked closer among the clothes she probably would have found a reasonable facsimile of what she usually slept in. The Committee was good about things like that.
He never would have thought black underwear could be so utilitarian. She wore a plain bra, no lace, and panties covered her generous butt and then some. He leaned against the doorway, picturing her in sexy underwear and a thong, and then pushed the thought away, disgusted with himself.
He closed the door silently. He could give her another few hours, though he didn’t dare sleep himself. He didn’t trust her not to take off, and she seemed stubbornly unaware of just how dangerous a situation she was in.
He could go days without sleep—a real benefit at times such as this. They were in a holding pattern. Summer had received a last minute reprieve, for the kidnapping of her sister changed everything. He wasn’t quite sure why…. In the old days Harry Thomason wouldn’t have hesitated; any complication was dealt with quickly and ruthlessly. Back then, Thomason would have had him taken out, as well, for not getting the job done in a timely fashion.
Complications aside, Taka knew that the sister posed no particular danger. Summer didn’t even understand the knowledge she possessed, so could have hardly passed it on to anyone. Jilly Lovitz could harm no one—her only value was as a hostage. They could leave her in the Shirosama’s pudgy white hands. Hell, it would serve their ditzy mother right. As long as Summer didn’t try to go after her.
He glanced at his mobile unit again. No message since the last, when Madame Lambert had instructed him to go to Belmont Creek and stay put.
She was a different kind of boss altogether. She liked alternatives. Death wasn’t always the answer, and when it appeared as if that was the only choice for Summer Hawthorne, she hadn’t liked it any more than Taka had. But she’d ordered it.
And now she’d told him to wait. Fine with him. Only the longer he kept Summer alive, kept her with him, the harder it would be to kill her. It made no sense that he was having second thoughts about Summer Hawthorne, and had been since he’d first hauled her out of that trunk.
God, he’d kissed her. For no other reason than he’d wanted to. He’d never gotten that close to someone he’d had to kill. He knew he could do it if he got the word—he was a machine, the King of Death. He just wasn’t sure if this time he could live with himself.
He needed a shower and a change of clothes if he wasn’t going to allow himself any sleep. They’d be off again in another four hours, heading God knew where.
But first he needed to make sure the bowl was securely packed. His orders were to leave it behind, and someone would pick it up—presumably the same person who’d brought the Sapporo and sashimi and his favorite dark roast Ethiopian coffee. He wasn’t particularly happy about leaving the urn; he’d gone to so much trouble to find it that letting go wasn’t easy, but so long as they had it the Shirosama could do nothing.
And then Taka took a good close look at the urn.
Most people wouldn’t have known it was another fake, but most people didn’t have his knowledge of ancient Japanese ceramics. He shouldn’t have been surprised, he thought, setting it on the kitchen counter in the bright artificial light. If she’d managed to get one fake, she could easily procure two. This was a beautiful copy, but the glaze was just a bit too uniform, the lines too smooth, the deep blue color muddied.
Taka couldn’t help himself—he laughed. She was a resourceful woman, and it was a good thing he hadn’t followed orders, or right now they’d be up shit’s creek without a paddle, especially with the Shirosama in possession of Summer’s closest relative. To find the urn, they would cut her into little pieces if that were necessary.
He made himself a cup of coffee, using the grinder and the coffee press provided, as he considered the fake bowl. He decided to do as he’d been ordered, wrapping it as carefully as if it were the real thing. He needed to keep the Committee off his back for a few days, long enough to figure out what the hell he was going to do next. Long enough to get Summer Hawthorne to tell him where the true urn really was.
He’d always been able to compartmentalize his life and his work. Sex was an everyday part of his job, one he did with his usual skill. It was said he could seduce a seventy-year-old lesbian and make her like it, and he didn’t doubt it for one moment. Everyone had skills. Peter was a sniper, a born assassin. Bastien Toussaint could be anyone he wanted, and he was lethal with a knife.
Taka knew how to fuck. He could get what he wanted from any woman, no matter what age or sexual orientation. He had skills that would have made Casanova blush. His body was his best weapon—he killed by hand, seduced and destroyed with merciless determination.
Summer Hawthorne would be child’s play compared to some. He wasn’t going to have any choice, and he accepted that fact with equanimity. Betrayal was the name of the game—to get what he’d have to use every weapon in his arsenal. She hadn’t responded to threats, to last-minute rescues, to danger, and time was running out. He needed to find out where the godd
