Just beneath the hilt, a dragon had been etched lovingly into the blade’s surface. It was lunging forward, its front claws reaching toward the pointed end of the blade, smoke pouring from its mouth and between its whiskers.
“It hungers, Shizu. Hungers for death and destruction and misery, hungers for everything its creator wished upon his enemies.”
That last was said quietly, almost reverently, and she wondered for a moment if there were hidden meanings behind the words.
“It is the sword carried by your predecessor, the original Dragon. Now it is yours.”
Shizu stared at the blade in her hands and vowed to do the gift justice. She would be better than the original Dragon; she would make the legend live as it never had before.
Sensei gently took the weapon from her, sliding the blade back into the scabbard and returning the sword to the rack behind him.
“It is there for you when you need it,” he told her.
He moved to stand before her again, his gaze capturing her own.
“I have one more gift for you,” he said.
Stepping in close, he bent his head and kissed her passionately on the lips.
For a moment she froze in shock and then the hunger and passion she had been hiding inside for years exploded. She clung to him, losing herself in his touch and his taste and his very closeness. Her love for him knew no bounds and she had prayed for years that this day would come, but had never actually believed that it would.
His hands found the ties of her kimono and deftly released them, sliding the garment off her shoulders to let it pool on the floor at her feet. His lips traced their way down her neck and Shizu nearly screamed in delight.
Sensei took her on the floor of the dojo and every move of his body upon hers cemented her allegiance to him. When he was finished he left her alone. He had won her over, heart, mind and soul. She would do whatever he asked, whenever he asked, without hesitation or doubt.
WHEN HE SUMMONED HER to his study a few hours later, he gave no indication that anything out of the ordinary had happened between them.
Recognizing what she thought was his need for discretion, Shizu did not refer to it, either.
It would be their secret.
Sensei handed her a file folder. Inside was a color photo of a stunningly beautiful woman with chestnut hair and amber-green eyes. A name had been printed across the bottom of the photograph.
“That woman carries a certain sword that I wish to possess. I want you to get that sword for me,” Sensei said.
Shizu nodded. “She’ll be dead before the week is out,” she replied, displaying a sense of newfound confidence that was as surprising to her as it was to her master.
“No!” he said sharply, and then calmed himself. To Shizu it seemed as if he was embarrassed at having shown even that little emotion.
“No,” he repeated, this time in a calmer tone. “She is not to come to any harm, nor can the sword be taken from her by force. It must be given of her own free will. Anything less and my plans will be ruined. Do you understand?”
Shizu hid the confusion she was feeling and simply nodded. She had been trained to kill, to eliminate her enemies as ruthlessly and as quickly as possible. The woman had something Sensei wanted and she was not allowed to use the one skill she could most easily bring to bear on the problem? Was this another test?
Sensei saw her confusion. “The sword is an item of considerable power, but that power is only available if its current bearer still lives and if the sword has been given freely, rather than taken under duress. She must remain alive,” he explained.
“Hai!”Shizu said, bowing to show her complete agreement.
Sensei pointed at some materials in a file folder. “Everything you need is in here—habits, locations, even her travel schedule for the next several weeks. An account has been opened for your use—the access codes are in the folder, as well. Once you have the sword, reach me through the usual channels.”
He moved out from behind the desk and Shizu understood that her audience was over. It was time for her to leave.
“I will await word that you have succeeded,” he said, “as I have no doubt that you will do so. Good hunting.”
Later, in her own room, Shizu stared at the photograph, studying the woman. Her gaze drifted to the name at the bottom of the image.
“What secrets are you hiding, Annja Creed?” the Dragon asked. “And why is preserving your life so important to Sensei?”
She did not know the answers, but she was certain she would find out.
Maybe then she could quench the fire of jealousy that was suddenly burning in her heart.
27
Now
Annja slept badly that night, her dreams plagued by faceless samurai soldiers and a massive feathered dragon that breathed fire in great scorching arcs. Roux appeared more than once, as well—a gagged and bound captive who endured torture after torture at the hands of a beautiful porcelain doll with long dark hair.
By the time she awoke for the fifth time, heart pounding, Annja decided that it wasn’t worth trying to sleep any more. She got up to greet the sun.
She ran through a series of katas to get her blood flowing and her head clear, then settled down in front of the windows for some meditation and deep breathing. The sun kissed the rooftops nearby, then rose high enough to shine its light directly into her loft, illuminating her as she sat lotus style on the floor.
Satisfied she was ready for what was to come later that day, Annja got up, showered and ate a hearty breakfast, knowing she was going to need the energy reserves later.
All the while, her thoughts were on her sword. The plan called for her to give it up to the Dragon and do what she could to hold it here in this world as she and Henshaw tried to free Roux. Then she would call the sword back to her, ultimately returning it to the otherwhere.
It wasn’t half-bad as plans go.
There was only one thing wrong with it.
They had no idea what would happen when she voluntarily gave up the sword. Would it still be bonded to her at that point? Would the link between them be shattered? Would she ever be able to command the sword again?
She didn’t know.
And not knowing scared her.
HENSHAW ARRIVED AT THE park just after it opened. He carried a backpack over one shoulder and had several cameras slung around his neck, emulating the look of just another picture-obsessed photographer come to document the beauty of the garden in bloom. A tour bus with New Jersey license plates was unloading passengers as he approached the entrance to the park so he merged with the crowd and struck up a conversation with one of the tour’s patrons as they waited to buy their entrance tickets.
If the park was under surveillance as Annja suspected, then they would be looking for a solitary individual and might not pay too much attention to the group as it entered the park.
He stayed with his newfound friend until they had moved through the entrance pavilion and into the park itself, then wandered away on his own.
When he was certain that no one was taking an undue interest in him, Henshaw took out the little map he’d been given when he’d bought his ticket and quickly located the Japanese Hill-and-Pond Garden.