Anne Stuart - Ice Blue

“What’s up?” The cook was no more than a teenager, with several piercings, bleached hair and a friendly expression on his face. He sounded as if he’d grown up in the Valley, so at least with him the language difference wouldn’t be a factor.

“I’m waiting for someone,” Summer said. “Do you mind if I stay back here?”

“My mom would bust a gut if she caught you,” he said cheerfully, and Summer’s growling stomach tightened. “But she stays out by the counter—she doesn’t trust anyone except me, and that’s only sometimes. Go on in the kitchen. You can wait there.”

“Thank you!” Summer breathed. Being near all that food was going to be an even greater torment, but at least she’d be safely out of sight for the time being.

The kitchen, really nothing more than a prep table and a couple of huge stoves, was a mass of steam and smells, and Summer found a stool in a corner, as far away from temptation as she could manage. When the kid came back in he took one look at her, grinned and said, “You hungry?”

Pride demanded she say no, but after the last twenty-four hours pride had no place in her life. “Starving,” she said. “I have no money, but my friend is coming and he’ll pay …”

“No problem,” the kid said, dishing up a simmering bowl of noodles and squid and handing it to her, plus a pair of chopsticks. Summer didn’t hesitate. She’d spent her life trying to avoid tentacles, but at that moment she’d eat a live cow.

Her newest savior busied himself dishing up noodles, refilling her own bowl once she’d emptied it, this time with chicken, thank God. He made several trips in and out of the dining room, and Summer ate until she couldn’t move, then leaned back against the kitchen wall, feeling more human and hopeful than she had since this whole nightmare had begun. It had been close to an hour since she’d called. Micah should be there anytime, and she needed to be on the lookout for him.

The kid came back into the kitchen with a tray full of empty bowls, setting it by the sink, and she was just about to offer to work on the dishes when the door opened again.

“I’m sorry,” the teen said, sounding truly regretful, as two white-robed brethren headed toward her.

Her first, instinctive thought was she shouldn’t have eaten the squid—she wanted to throw it up right then and there. But that was only fleeting; she was learning to be fast on her feet, and she moved, heading toward the stove as the two men closed in on her.

There were two huge vats of boiling water on the burners, heavier than she’d expected, but she was desperate. Summer pulled them to the floor, jumping ahead of the scalding water, which hit her pursuers. She knocked the kid aside as she sprinted out of the kitchen, howls of pain following her.

It was full dark now, the rain still falling heavily, and she heard the woman behind the counter let loose a shrill string of invectives as Summer ran out onto the sidewalk. A little boiling water wouldn’t slow the brethren down for long—she’d heard rumors of the kind of training they went through—and she knew she had to move fast. The streets were crowded with people, enough to slow her down, not enough to hide her, but she wove her way through them quickly, keeping her head down while she tried to look for the familiar shape of her old green Volvo. Micah should have been here by now. With any luck he’d show up in time for her to jump in the passenger’s seat and take off. Micah drove so fast he’d lost his license three times; once he arrived, no one would be able to catch up with them. He just needed to get there.

She thought she saw a flash of white out of the corner of her eye, and she sped up, moving as fast as she could. People didn’t tend to wear white in January, even in L.A., and there were at least three white-garbed forms behind her, closing in. She didn’t dare take the time to look back, just kept heading blindly forward as they got closer. She could try running—she would if she had to—but she was already feeling sick to her stomach. They couldn’t just snatch her in broad daylight, could they? Except that it wasn’t broad daylight, it was dark and raining, and people in cities tended to mind their own business and ignore trouble. She could see an alley up ahead, and she had a split second to decide whether to risk it or not. With no Volvo in sight she was going to have to save herself, not count on Micah.

She darted into the alley, away from the muted streetlights, and she could hear her pursuers following her. She was screwed, she thought desperately, taking time to glance behind and see the three white-robed men with shaved heads moving into the shadows after her. There wasn’t going to be anything she could do about it.

Summer slammed into him hard, too busy looking behind her to notice his sudden appearance in front of her. He caught her arms and shoved her out of the way, behind him, and she fell, momentarily dazed. She didn’t need to look through the shadowed alleyway to know who had turned up at the last minute to save her. Summer scrambled back against the brick wall, watching through the pouring rain with frozen fear as the three burly men converged on slender, elegant Takashi O’Brien.

And then she closed her eyes, horrified. Violence was one thing on television and in the movies—it had nothing to do with real life. In person, the slow motion, macabre dance of it made her feel dizzy, and she couldn’t, wouldn’t watch. The sounds were bad enough.

If she had any sense, she would get up and run—there were three against one, and she only trusted the one slightly more than the very dangerous three. They would make short work of him, and she needed to use this chance to get away.

And then the noises stopped, leaving just the sounds of the heavy rain and traffic in the street beyond. She opened her eyes, to see Takashi O’Brien standing over her, and she glanced past him to discover two white-clad bodies lying in mud and rain and blood, and no sign of the third.

He held out his hand and she took it, letting him pull her to her feet. His cool, beautiful face was expressionless—no hint of censure or emotion at all. “Don’t run away again,” he said. “Or next time I’ll let them have you.”

And she didn’t doubt him for a minute.

If there was any chance the Shirosama’s goons would have simply killed her, then Takashi O’Brien would have let her go and good riddance. He was pissed. As far as she knew he’d nobly saved her life, twice, and she’d thanked him by taking off when his back was turned.

In fact it was himself he was mad at. Normally he wouldn’t have made the mistake of leaving her long enough to switch cars. Normally he wouldn’t have had to factor her in at all—she wouldn’t be alive.

He couldn’t afford to make mistakes, not if he wanted to live. And he did—he’d fought hard when that madman had finished with him, survived when other men wouldn’t.

The icy Madame Lambert was probably wondering what the hell was going on. During the night Taka had come up with a simple enough plan—switch to a less conspicuous car, find out where Summer had stashed the real Hayashi Urn and retrieve that, and see if he could figure out exactly what else she knew.

That had been his original mission. Keep the urn out of the brethrens’ hands, find the missing piece of the puzzle and then wipe out any trace of his presence. But Summer Hawthorne didn’t appear to be any more forgetful than she was compliant, and she wasn’t about to ignore the events of the last twenty-four hours. He had his orders about her, whether he liked them or not. He couldn’t waste any more time trying to circumvent them—the Shirosama and his followers were upping the ante, the lunar year was approaching and a mistake could be disastrous.