Surrender to Darkness Read Free Page B

stake his return to glory on it. Why else would the man have been in Rome when his team of gradiors arrived to collect the Protectorate records of the Veil? Why else would he be here now? While it would be delightful if the fellow had taken the hint and toddled off to wherever he’d come from, the determined glint in his eye said he’d be back. It was just a matter of when.
    Time to pick up the pace.
    No more gentle wooing of Kiyoko. She had the whereabouts of the Veil stored inside that pretty head of hers, and he intended to pry it out. By force, if necessary. Using arcane magic to unlock her thoughts might alert the archangels to his presence, but it was a risk he had to take. Keeping one step ahead of his new rival was vital.
    The door opened and a freshly murdered body—with its soul intact—was tossed inside.
    Azazel smiled.
    Nothing could be allowed to derail his triumphant return from the dead.

2

    W aiting was not Murdoch’s strong suit.
    Yet here he was, voluntarily twiddling his thumbs until Kiyoko Ashida was done with her very long work-day. Because the alternative—waiting until tomorrow—was worse.
    He stood across the street from the shiny glass edifice that was the Ashida building and carefully studied every car that left the underground parking garage. Unfortunately, Sapporo was not the bustling metropolis of Tokyo, and his large size drew attention on the quiet treelined 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 flight from Los Angeles had been 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 into the street, headed north.
    Had it not been for his Soul Gatherer 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, the young woman he knew was Kiyoko from the photo Lena had given him, and an elderly man with white hair.
    His wait was over.
    He slid into the tiny rental car he’d acquired at the airport and followed. The cramped interior of the Honda stifled him, but the fear of losing the limo on unfamiliar streets shunted his discomfort to the back of his mind.
    After crossing the city and nearly losing his prey several times at traffic lights, he pulled to the curb behind the limousine. It had stopped before a seven-story brown and white building. Murdoch couldn’t read a word of Japanese, but the giant 3-D crab hanging over the main entrance marked the place as a seafood restaurant.
    The three passengers debarked and entered.
    As the limo drove off, Murdoch found himself scrambling for a parking spot, with none in sight. When he returned to the restaurant ten 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. 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. “Watanabe-san 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 charisma. “I’ll stop by, say hello, and maybe Mr. Watanabe will ask you to get him a bigger table.”
    All 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.