Ice Blue (14 page)

"You'd cry over ice cream and not over a friend being killed?"

He sounded no more than casually curious, and she shouldn't have felt the need to defend herself. "Tears don't help," she said tightly.

"True enough."

"Ice cream, on the other hand, does wonders." She reached for the container, pulled off the top and went searching for a spoon. Mission accomplished, she started to eat straight out of the container. She glanced up at him. "I'm not sharing," she said, sitting down at the perfect little table in the perfect little breakfast nook.

"I didn't think you were." He went over to the fridge, and emerged with a Sapporo beer and a small black platter. He sat down opposite her, like the perfect husband in the perfect house.

The black platter had sushi and a pair of chopsticks. She raised an eyebrow. "Don't you think you're taking a chance with raw fish? Who knows how long that's been in there."

"Less than six hours," he replied. "I'd offer you some but it doesn't go well with ice cream."

She wasn't about to tell him that she had an indecent craving for good sashimi, and she almost would have given up the ice cream for it. She didn't need anything that would bring her closer to him. "I don't suppose there's any Diet Coke in the fridge."

"Diet Coke with ice cream?"

She could be enigmatic as well. "Yes."

To her surprise he rose, went back to the refrigerator and emerged with a fuchsia-colored can. "No Diet Coke, but this looks close."

She dropped her spoon. Tab was almost impossible to find in southern California—she only knew of one place to buy her supply, and she was used to accepting Diet Coke as a substitute. On rare occasions she'd even tolerate Diet Pepsi.

No one could have gotten Tab by accident. Whoever had stocked this house knew exactly what she liked, down to something as minor as her favorite kind of ice cream and her preferred soft drink. She had no doubt at all there'd be a complete wardrobe in her size, all in black and white and gray, probably from the same stores she patronized. They seemed to know everything about her, whereas she didn't even know who "they" were.

Just the man sitting across from her, eating his nigiri with calm dedication, his distant, elegant face giving nothing away. She could thank him for the food and the clothes she knew she'd find. He would have told them.

She pushed back from the table, suddenly sick. "I'm going to bed," she said, putting the lid back on the half-eaten quart of ice cream.

"Aren't you going to eat anything else?"

She didn't want to ask what else there was. There would be her favorite foods, the kind of yogurt she liked, her favorite wine, all the arcane little peculiarities she'd developed over the years. She didn't want to see. They knew too much about her.

"I'm not hungry," she said, only half a lie. She wasn't too shaken to leave the Tab behind—right now she needed all the comfort and normalcy she could get. "Any bedroom?"

"Take your pick. Just don't lock the door."

"The doors have locks? I'm amazed. Are you planning on making a surprise visit?" She could have kicked herself. Why did she keep bringing up sex when that was the last thing she wanted to think about.

He just looked at her. "I'm trying to protect you," he said. "Not that you're making it any easier. Leave the door unlocked in case we have to get out of here quickly."

She was too exhausted to argue. She found the room with the right clothes, including duplicates of things she'd had in her own closet. The sky was starting to lighten, and she pulled the miniblinds, shutting out the deceptive ordinary world of the suburbs, stripped off her clothes, down to her underwear, and crawled into bed. She wasn't going to sleep in constricting clothes. There was also no way she could fall asleep naked—there probably wasn't any way she could fall asleep at all, and taking a gulp of cold, caffeinated soda wouldn't make the slightest bit of difference. She'd closed and locked the bedroom door, despite his warning. She knew he wasn't about to come into her room while she slept; despite the odd kiss, she knew he had absolutely no interest in her apart from keeping her alive.

The house was completely silent. No traffic noise, not even the sound of birds disturbed the stillness. Another day was dawning in this strange, nightmare world she'd stumbled into. And she closed her eyes, rather than face it.

"The child is unhappy, your holiness." Brother Kenno's soft voice was hesitant.

The Shirosama opened his eyes, blinking rapidly. It was past time to change his contact lenses. Each time he remembered to change the extended-wear contact lenses, he expected his eyes to have changed as well. It was always a shock when his own brown ones looked back at him, bloodshot and bleary.

It was happening, he knew it was. His vision was getting milkier and harder to focus—it was all part of the preordained change that was coming. By the time of his ascension he would be complete: Shirosama in body, mind and spirit.

"Are not all children unhappy?" he replied. "Are not all people unhappy? It is the way of karma. Her soul is at war, and the more she fights the more unhappy she is. Have you done nothing for her?"

"Your holiness, she refuses. She kicked Brother Sammo, and she refuses to wear our robes or listen to your holy word. I've told her that the gift we offer her is invaluable, but she is stubborn. Should we have Brother Heinrich deal with her?"

The Shirosama shook his head, the white hair settling around his shoulders. "Not until she is ready to receive the gift of moving past her karma. For now simply keep her contained and quiet. She's still in the induction room?"

"Yes, your holiness. She tried to block the speakers but she was unable to reach them."

"Good. Sooner or later my words will penetrate her stubborn mind, moving past the veil of illusion that rules humankind. When she is ready she will listen."

Brother Kenno bowed. The Shirosama couldn't see his expression, but it didn't matter. Kenno had been with him for the last five years, and his devotion was absolute. "And then she will be blessed?"

"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.

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S
ummer 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 goddamn urn was, and he'd let her get away with too many lies.