Anne Stuart - Ice Blue

The first thing she needed to do was get the hell away from him. But she couldn’t go back to her house, and she couldn’t turn to her beautiful, brainless mother, who’d probably just hand her over to her beloved master. Her stepfather, Ralph, let Lianne do whatever she wanted as long as it didn’t interfere with Summer’s half sister, Jilly. Summer had learned to take care of herself long before Lianne had met her third husband, and Summer’s mother and stepfather were hardly people to depend on. The best place was the house on Bainbridge Island—she could probably hide out there without anyone noticing until the Fellowship either stole the fake urn and disappeared, or gave up. She really didn’t care which, as long as the real ceramic bowl stayed hidden, out of greedy hands.

Summer had no purse, no identification, no money, which made escape a bit problematic. But not impossible. Once she got away from her rescuer there were a number of people she could contact. The head of the Sansone Museum, William Chatsworth, was a shameless glad-hander and publicity hound, but he would jump at the chance to get rid of her, including forking over money with no questions asked. And there was her assistant and best friend, Micah, who was more reliable. Her passport was in the desk drawer in her office, it was all the ID she’d need unless she wanted to rent a car.

If that failed, she could turn to her half sister, but that was a last resort. Sixteen-year-old Jilly Lovitz was a smart, cynical kid who loved her older sister unconditionally and harbored grave doubts about her mother’s good sense, but Summer didn’t want to put her in the middle of things or draw any attention to her. Last night with its danger and its violence didn’t seem quite real, but it was, and dragging her baby sister into this mess was the last thing Summer wanted to do. No, there had to be some other way.

But Micah would help her with no questions asked. And she didn’t need to worry about Jilly. Summer’s stepfather paid little attention to his wife’s enthusiasms, but he wouldn’t let anything happen to his teenage daughter, and Lianne probably knew that. She could offer up Summer without a qualm, but Jilly would be untouchable, thank God. And that was the most important thing in the world because Jilly was all that mattered.

She needed answers. What was so damn important about her porcelain bowl that people were willing to kidnap and kill for it? What exactly was the Hayashi Urn? And what the hell was going on?

But given the choice between getting out of there and getting answers, escape seemed the wiser choice. She really didn’t want to see her so-called rescuer again if she could help it. He stirred irrational things inside her, things she didn’t want to think about. She needed to get lost, fast, because too many people were out to get her.

And she had no guarantees that Mr. Takashi O’Brien, if that was really his name, wasn’t one of them.

His holiness tossed down the last of his Fresca, settled his white robes more sedately around his body and walked into the meeting room of the tabernacle on the edge of Little Tokyo, his head lowered in a prayerful attitude. The contact lenses were an annoyance—his eyes were dry and itchy, and all the artificial drops in the world didn’t seem to help. It would have been easier if he had blue eyes—going from dull brown to a colorless pink shade was more stressful on the eyes—but it was a price he paid willingly.

It didn’t matter; he didn’t have to be able to see that well. As long as he was in control he had others to do the seeing for him. His vision was clear where it counted: his divine mission to cleanse the world.

The innermost circle was already in attendance, kneeling around the edges of the room, heads bowed so low they touched the floor as he made his stately entrance, his bare feet light on the straw mat. His followers were particularly penitent today, a good thing, since they’d failed him most dismally. Two of their brethren were dead, and if he had his way the other four would follow them.

He took his seat, folding gracefully into a kneeling position despite his weight, and lowered his head in corresponding respect, keeping his expression blank.

“Who wishes to tell me of the disasters that have passed this night?” he intoned.

The one known as Brother Heinrich spoke up. He was one of the Shirosama’s favorites—a former East German gang member who’d found salvation in the True Realization Fellowship. He could be counted on to carry out the most ruthless of disciplinary actions, all without question, but this time even he had failed.

“We have no idea where she is, Master,” Brother Heinrich said in a low voice. “The car was forced off the road and the two brothers were dead inside, and she was nowhere to be seen.”

“How did Brother Samuel and Brother Kaga die?”

“They both had broken necks. Presumably from the force of the crash. They must have hit the windshield—there was blood everywhere.”

“How convenient.” He allowed some of his acidity to seep into his voice. “And the girl managed to get herself out of the trunk on her own? Do limousines come with an interior latch?”

Brother Heinrich looked confused. “I don’t know …”

“They don’t,” the Shirosama informed his follower. “And the two brothers most certainly didn’t die from the accident. Someone must have been following them, following the girl, when I told them to be extremely careful there were no witnesses.”

Brother Heinrich lowered his head further in an attitude of abject shame. He was only twenty-two, and he’d managed to kill at least seven people in his short life, three of them in the service of the Shirosama. It would be a pity to dispense with his services; very few followers had the blind dedication combined with experience to meet such special needs.

“So we can only assume someone helped Miss Hawthorne to leave our protection,” the Shirosama confirmed. “You went back to her house to see if she was there?”

“We did, your holiness,” Brother Jaipur said, sounding equally miserable. He was more dispensable than Brother Heinrich, and this wasn’t the first time he’d failed him. Maybe the Shirosama could make an example of him. “The house was empty, but clearly she’d just been there. There was water surrounding her bath and her bedroom was in shambles.”

“If a woman is running from what she mistakenly perceives as danger, she doesn’t stop to take a bath. Someone else must have been involved. I am afraid Dr. Hawthorne is in very grave peril. It is our solemn duty to find her and bring her under our protection,” he intoned. “If any harm comes to her then we should bear the blame.” He allowed his milky gaze to rest on the four miscreants, one by one, making it clear that the “we” was only a figure of speech.

Brother Jaipur was foolish enough to speak up. “Shouldn’t we just retrieve the Hayashi Urn and let the girl fend for herself? Do we really need her?”

The Shirosama turned to look at him, his long, silent gaze a reproach that turned Brother Jaipur’s dark complexion pale. “We must care for all those unfortunates who have not yet seen the light. We need to lead her to paradise any way we can. There are no accidents. She was placed as the caretaker of the Hayashi Urn for a reason, and we must honor that.” He wasn’t about to share why he needed to get her under his control—that knowledge was his alone. As far as his followers knew, the Shirosama’s wisdom was infallible. The plan had indeed come to him in a vision, but that vision had left out a crucial element. Where the final ascendance was to take place.

But he knew who held the answer. And he would bleed and burn it out of her if he must, once he got his hands on her.