Anne Stuart - Ice Blue

“Then her escape would have been preordained,” Brother Jaipur said.

The Shirosama’s pale, bleached hands were hidden beneath the folds of his white robe and no one could see his clenched fists. His expression remained serene. “Brother Jaipur, it was hardly an escape when we only meant to protect her,” he chided him gently. Brother Heinrich could strangle him—he’d taught the young German that squeezing the traitorous breath from doubters was an act of generosity, helping them escape their karma and move on to the next level. And Brother Heinrich enjoyed using his hands. “We make no mistakes, but unworthy and incompetent followers can be deluded by the snares of evil and allow the forces of the unrighteous to triumph. And if that happens, we must redeem the unworthy.”

All four of the fallen monks hung their heads in shame. They wouldn’t resist their punishment; the quickest path to paradise was to be cleansed by the Shirosama’s judgment. But while Brother Jaipur was dispensable, both Brother Sammo and Brother Telef were brilliant chemists with unquestioning devotion. The death of Jaipur would merely sharpen their focus.

“We must find the poor girl,” the Shirosama murmured, using his most hypnotic voice. “Look for guidance—our way will be made clear. I will visit her mother and see if the girl has been in touch, and I will meet with the younger sister as well. She could prove helpful in persuading Dr. Hawthorne of our sincerity. In the meantime, the rest of you must find out who helped her and where she is hiding. We can’t allow anything to come in the way of the True Ascension.”

The men rose to their feet, and he could feel the palpable relief in the room as they began to back away from his presence in abject humility. He savored the moment, until his quarry had almost reached the door.

“Brother Jaipur,” he said in the most gentle of voices. “You stay.”

No one looked at the hapless Brother Jaipur as they shuffled out—he had already left them on his trip to paradise. Brother Heinrich, without a word or a sign, moved to one side, knowing he would be needed. No, the Shirosama couldn’t dispense with Heinrich. Not yet. In his own way he was just as valuable as the chemists. Who would have thought the same calling would attract German street thugs and brilliant scientists? Once the Shirosama reached ascendancy all would be made clear. Until then he would simply have to make do.

The last acolyte closed the door, leaving the room silent, with only the Shirosama and his two followers inside.

“Brother Heinrich,” he said gently.

Brother Jaipur didn’t scream, accepting his fate, going to his heavenly reward with the blissful assurance that all was well, and the excruciating pain would cleanse him.

Brother Heinrich met his master’s eyes over his brother’s corpse, looking for approval like a stray dog. The Shirosama nodded benevolently.

“Find the girl, Brother Heinrich,” he said. “Bring her to the loving safety of our community. And kill anyone with her.”

“Yes, your holiness.”

The Shirosama nudged Brother Jaipur’s body with his bare foot. “And get some of the brothers to dispose of this mess, would you? His soul is already in paradise—get rid of the garbage left behind.”

He was really quite cross, when he shouldn’t allow himself to be. Now that they’d located the urn he was getting impatient. There were only a few short days until the onset of the Lunar New Year. He needed the girl as well, to complete the ritual and perform the ascendancy.

He was getting tired of waiting.

Summer opened the door to the bedroom very slowly, as silently as she could, not wanting to attract any attention in case her rescuer was asleep. The front room was empty; in fact, there was no sign of him anywhere. The pillows on the sofa looked untouched, so either he hadn’t slept there or he was very neat. It was dark outside, with a light rain falling, and her best guess was that it was late afternoon, and Takashi O’Brien was nowhere to be found.

She didn’t hesitate, sprinting across the living room in her bare feet and grabbing her shoes, which were set neatly by the door. His weren’t there, which meant he was gone, or so she hoped. But how far away was he, and for how long?

She opened the front door, peering out into the rain. She had no earthly idea where she should go. She could always make it out onto the street and see if she could find a cop, though L.A.’s finest were never there when you needed them. She could try to hitchhike, but that might be even worse than getting kidnapped by the Shirosama. Maybe she could just walk until she found a pay phone that had survived urban blight. Better than trying to find the main building of this rambling hotel complex. She didn’t want to risk running into Takashi O’Brien.

She hadn’t spent much time in Little Tokyo, but if it was anything like Chinatown it would be relatively safe, well-lit and well-preserved. Unfortunately, the True Realization Fellowship had their headquarters somewhere within this relatively small neighborhood, and the last thing she wanted was to run into one of them.

But she couldn’t stay here and do nothing. The more she thought about it the less likely her rescuer’s story seemed. How had he found her in the first place? How had he managed to save her without being seen by the Shirosama’s men? And why in the world would anybody want to harm her? While Lianne and Ralph Lovitz were about as powerful and wealthy as anyone in L.A. society, most people had no idea of her connection to them. She herself had nothing of value—apart from an obscure Japanese bowl that was now ostensibly out of her reach.

No, scratch that. She’d foolishly told her rescuer that it wasn’t the real one. Which meant he needed her to find it, and chances were he could be just as lethal as her mother’s guru. More so, in fact. The True Realization Fellowship simply wanted her; as far as she knew they didn’t actually want to harm her. But her companion had killed. And he sounded as if he had no objection to killing again if need be.

She couldn’t afford to hesitate. She took off down the winding drive, keeping as close to the carefully planted vegetation as she could, skirting the other bungalows until she made it to the front entrance, guarded by the bright red Japanese torii gate. The city traffic was heavy, as always, but she crossed at the first intersection, heading toward the row of tiny shops and restaurants. Someone would either let her use the house phone or tell her where a pay phone was.

The one asset she still had with her was her brain—she’d memorized her phone card numbers. She could call Micah at the museum—he was probably wondering where the hell she was—and get him to pick her up, bring her passport and even front her some money and drive her car over. She had a second set of keys in her desk, and with any luck the Volvo was still sitting in the parking lot up in the Santa Monica Mountains.

She had no luck until the third restaurant, a tiny noodle shop, and by that time she was thoroughly soaked. The woman at the counter didn’t understand much English, but with a combination of pantomime and pleading Summer got what she wanted—a pay phone at the back of restaurant, just off the kitchen.

She was ready to faint with hunger—the smells were making her crazy—but she had no money. She’d simply have to wait. At least Micah answered his private phone line immediately, and after a few panicked questions he settled down to write a list, and promised to meet her as soon as he could get there, probably an hour, given that it was raining and rush hour. She had to be satisfied with that.

She didn’t think she was going to be able to explain to the proprietor that in an hour she’d have more than enough money to buy everything on the menu; their initial exchange had been difficult enough and the old lady had been reluctant. Summer ducked back behind the wall, into the shadows. People were coming in and out of the shop, the flow of Japanese and English incomprehensible from her spot, the smell of the food a torment that she had no choice but to endure till rescue came. She was so busy concentrating on the front of the shop that she didn’t hear the kitchen door open, and then it was too late.