Surrender to Darkness by Annette McCleave Page A

attacked with a sharp yell.
     
    Kiyoko recaptured her still-water state of mind the moment she entered into battle with Takeo. Tumultuous thoughts of Murdoch fell away, replaced by cool, lethal purpose. She reached the young warrior in two measured steps and engaged him in a flurry of standard attacks and parries, made possible by the steady flow of energy into her body from the Veil.
    Sadly, there was no way to undo what Takeo had done here today. His continued existence would poison those around him, robbing the other warriors of the confidence they needed to win. Faith was the mainstay of the onmyōji . Without an unshakable belief in the rightness of what they were doing, they would not win the war against evil.
    Her opponent attacked fast, but without originality. Lulled by years of sparring with her, he assumed his familiarity with her style and stance would telegraph her next moves, and she took advantage of his arrogance. Varying her speed and drawing on the entirety of her attack repertoire, she pressed him hard, forcing him back. A flurry of rapid sword strikes, then a spin to the left, and she sliced through his flimsy first-level shield with a smooth arc of her blade.
    The detonation switch dropped to the ground.
    Takeo had slain his fellow warriors, turned on his own brothers with unforgivable brutality. Even if she managed to convince the young man to return to the fold, the faith others had in him would never be the same. And that reluctance to rely on him would get the rest of her men killed.
    She deflected Takeo’s swinging sword with her own.
    Worse, he now represented the very evil they fought every day. If she showed him mercy—if she allowed him to live—her men might hesitate when faced with evil in the future, wondering if leniency was the proper course of the day.
    She could not permit that.
    With a wealth of regret and a steady hand, she thrust her katana between the fourth and fifth ribs.
    Takeo’s eyes lifted to hers the instant her weapon pierced his heart, an instinctive need to connect in his last moments. She grabbed his arm as his knees gave out, her chest heavy. How many times had they dueled together in the dojo? How many hours had she spent with him on his technique? Lowering him gently to the ground, she watched the dark ferment in his gaze fade. Evil had abandoned him to his fate.
    “You’re good with a sword,” Murdoch said grudgingly. He tugged Takeo’s sleeve free of her chilled fingers.
    “There are times when I wish I were not.”
    He nodded. “The day you take a life without regret is the day you should lay down your sword and walk away.”
    Kiyoko looked at him. “Have you killed a man?”
    “Worse. I’ve killed boys.” His face was grim. “Lads who never got a chance to bed the girl of their dreams or dance at their own weddings.”
    His admission surprised her. Such an act did not mesh with the obvious honor that held him upright. “Why?”
    He shrugged. “In war, you do what you must.”
    As the other warriors poured from the surrounding buildings, tending to their fallen comrades, Kiyoko glanced down at Takeo’s lifeless face. “You yourself have died.”
    “Aye.”
    “What was it like?”
    “Unpleasant.”
    Such a minimalist word. Kiyoko smiled faintly. “Was it a swift passing?”
    “No,” Murdoch said. “I’m an ornery sort. I didn’t go quickly or quietly. I bled out on a battlefield, cursing the seven maggots who felled me with every breath, even my last.”
    “Did your comrades not try to save you?”
    “I was buried deep in the enemy line and there were scores of other wounded men on the field. By the time the healers reached me, it was too late.”
    “Oh.”
    He grimaced. “Spare me the pity, lass. I was quite the fool in those days. My death was a blessing.”
    “I doubt your mother and your wife thought it so.”
    He said nothing. Just met her stare for a long moment, then turned and surveyed the courtyard. “Three dead. A very