Stones: Theory (Stones #4) (12 page)

A
lexa drops down in a deep chair by the window in her private suite. A red glow from the setting sun ignites the outer skin of the tower across the street, lighting it up like a huge fiery diamond. Her gaze drifts to the furnishings of her room. They are luxurious, but subdued, just as she likes them.

It’s a far cry from the life of itinerant wandering she’s been subjected to for the last three months.

Without looking, her hand reaches behind for the wineglass and brings it up to her lips.

In the end, it had been a simple calculation.

Life on the run is exhausting in the extreme. Living off grid, catching rides on random transports across the country, camping in the wilderness, drinking from streams, eating whatever is handy or nothing at all, and no end in sight. She had grown tired of it.

On top of that, reports were trickling in that Ryzaard’s destroying angels were tracking down members of her extended family and disposing of them in gruesome and disturbing ways. Execution style, quick and clean, would have been much better. But when she discovered that Uncle Alexander had been found, tortured and scattered around her hometown in central Greece, it became too much of an embarrassment. She was never really close to any of them, not even her parents and siblings, but had given them large amounts of money to spend on protection and quiet living. Instead, she found out they used it up on worthless luxuries. Antique roman statues, Greek antiquities and the like.

Besides, there were limits to what money could do.

Somehow, it all had to stop.

Being on Matt’s side had worn thin. The initial exhilaration of running from Ryzaard was gone, leaving only hard work and deprivation. All the fun had gone out of it. But going back to Ryzaard had been out of the question, for a while.

She knows he has a long memory and is incapable of forgiveness.

But she also knows if Ryzaard is anything, he’s pragmatic.

One day while on a walk, she had enough and decided it was time to leave. She told Matt and Jessica about it, saying she needed a change of scenery, leaving out any mention of trading them to Ryzaard in exchange for freedom for her and her family. She half thought they might try to stop her, but they never did. The most risky part of the plan was the little girl. Her telepathic powers gave her unfettered access to the minds of lesser mortals, but Yarah had limited reach without the regular use of her Stone, which was kept inside a small stone box, what Matt called a
cloaking box
.

Alexa had never really been sure that it worked, but she stayed as far away from Yarah as possible, making up excuses to go for long walks in the woods. The little girl was never interested in Alexa anyway, lavishing all her attention on Matt and Jessica. In the end, Yarah never raised the alarm that Alexa’s intentions were dangerous. Then one day, while Yarah was out on an excursion with Matt, Alexa went to see Jessica and attached a tiny tracking dot to the bottom of her heel while pretending to give her a relaxing foot massage.

Wherever Jessica went, Alexa could track her. She knew from their conversations that Matt would never wander far. Keep track of one, and you would have the other. Then she wrote a short note and slipped away. They had already told her many times that she was free to go, so it shouldn’t have come as a surprise.

They were probably relieved to have gotten rid of her and her constant complaints.

She drains the wine glass and puts it back into its place.

Knowing Ryzaard, he will quickly grow impatient, and she’ll be expected to deliver on her promises. Soon.

Her eyes slip down to the map on the slate, and her pulse jumps.

Matt and Jessica are on the move, heading north.

Coming closer to New York City.

T
he morning after the vision, Miyazawa wakes early and walks across the white pebble courtyard under a pale pink sky, past the cherry tree and its mass of green leaves and into the darkness of the forest at the base of the mountain.

He needs to clear his head.

Now that he understands the reason for the words of the
Other
in his mind, it changes everything. There is no longer any need to worry or resist when his own consciousness pulls away, taken over by the Other. Instead, he looks forward to it, opens himself to it. Yearns for it.

It is the
Kami
within him.

All in one, and one in all.

His walk carries him to the ancient tree in the forest where he often goes for quiet personal worship. It is at such a place that his ancestors first experienced the presence and the power of the
Kami
, leading to the beginnings of Shinto. The shrine just inside the forest celebrates that presence. Out of habit, he kneels on the flat stone at the base of the mighty trunk and brings his palms together, about to bow his head in humble reverence.

But then he stops with a sudden realization.

If all that he saw in the vision is true, and he has no reason to doubt it, he is no longer the worshiper. He has transcended that role and become the object of worship.

Letting his hands drop to his side, he stands and walks two steps forward to the venerable tree. With trembling fingers, he reaches out to touch the holy
shimenawa
rope, resisting the urge, for now, to cut it down and wrap it around his own waist. Instead, he places his hands on the moss-encrusted bark of the tree and stares up into the branches above, opening himself to the
Kami
within it, brother to brother. Instinctively, his eyes close and he holds his breath.

For a long time, he listens to silence and the rhythmic buzzing of cicadas in the forest. A trace of doubt rises up in his chest, but he fights it back. His knuckles turn white as he grips the moist bark with his fingers, willing the tree
Kami
to make itself known to him.

It is then that a tiny vibration starts in his fingertips. As it travels up his hands and arms to his ears, rich music erupts within his mind and fills his senses. All doubt is erased. The
Kami
within the tree is singing to him. It is all the evidence he needs. With firm resolve, he determines to never doubt again.

Turning from the tree, he makes his way through the grove, eyes focused upward with inexpressible joy. Shards of early morning light filter through the branches and turn drips of morning dew into strings of sparkling diamonds. The cry of cicadas is more urgent than before.

Birds chirp in awe of the
ikigami
, the living god, that walks among them.

Crossing the courtyard, he suddenly stops and kneels to pick up one of the white pebbles. Its surface is pitted and worn with bits of dirt from the last rain, not worthy of his presence. He resolves to have the entire courtyard resurfaced with pearls worthy of his greatness. As he passes the cherry tree, he reaches out to its smooth bark. One touch of his finger will surely bring the tree instantly into full bloom.

But there is no time now to perform the miracle.

He rushes past the tree and mounts the wooden stairs to the living quarters. Visitors are coming. In less than an hour, the Shinto Council is to arrive from Tokyo in a golden transport. It is time for the monthly meeting. The members of the Council will expect a report on the progress of the American campaign.

When they arrive, he will treat them to a demonstration of his newly discovered divinity.

The excitement makes it difficult to breathe. He imagines the look on their faces when they discover the truth that Miyazawa is so much more than they imagined. Surely, there will be no further questioning of his policies, no complaining about the publicity that trails him wherever he goes and the cost of the radical expansion of Shinto. The accusations thrown at him that he is ignoring its true tenets in favor of his own vain ambitions will cease. The council members will stop their incessant reminders that fame and celebrity are pursuits unfit for one who seeks purity of heart and mind.

In the end, even they will kneel before him in awe and adoration.

He moves down the hall to the large meeting room in the back and begins the preparations for their arrival. Only the best tea will do, so he searches through his collection until he finds the
Yame Gyokuro
tea, its leaves kept shaded from the sun to create a sweeter taste. For tea of this quality, the full taste can only be enjoyed with mountain spring water, so he rushes outside once again and brings back a bucketful from the well on the other side of the courtyard.

By the time he hears the touchdown of the Council transport, Miyazawa is ready.

He meets the four elderly gentlemen, each dressed in traditional priestly robes, with a deep bow as they exit the transport. Walking past the cherry tree, he resists the urge to reach out and touch it.

Not yet.

He escorts them to the meeting room where they take their places on
zabuton
cushions arranged in a neat row on the
tatami
floor behind a long, low table. With ceremonial grace, he pours the special tea into each of their cups and provides them with a traditional Japanese pastry made of soft rice
mochi
cake with red bean paste inside. When he finishes serving his elders, he kneels at a small table in front, facing them alone.

Then the meeting begins.

Miyazawa’s father, one of the four elderly priests, takes the lead. His bushy white eyebrows droop down over his eyes. “I see you’ve acquired the habit of drinking expensive tea and eating premium rice cakes. Is that worthy of a simple member of our sect?”

Miyazawa listens to the stinging rebuke. “Is not a meeting like this, where matters of great importance are to be discussed, worthy of special celebration?” He bows deeply as an outward sign of contrition, but inwardly his anger boils at the slightest suggestion that his worthiness has been called into question.

“A Shinto priest is not consumed with worldly comforts.” The old priest next to his father lifts an index finger up to scratch a black mole on his nose. “He draws his solace from a higher source, a
purer
source.”

Miyazawa hides his growing fury under the mask of an emotionless face. How dare the old man imply, even obliquely, that Miyazawa lacks purity? His morning walk in the forest is more than proof enough that his spiritual virtue has reached beyond the highest pinnacle of this life. He is an
ikigami
, a living god, under whose leadership Shinto has become the fastest growing world religion. That alone is ample proof of his stainless character.

Bringing the tea to his lips, Miyazawa lets its sweet taste dissolve away the rage that moves just below the surface. With studied dignity, he puts the cup down on the table before him and opens his lips.

“The success of our operations in the United States is sufficient proof of the purity of our cause.” Miyazawa lets his index finger slide in a circle along the rim of the cup. “The
Kami
would not bless us with such prosperity if they did not view us with approval.” A burst of excitement surges along his spine and urges him on to greater words. “I feel their presence close to our work. They go before us, preparing the way.”

The old priest on the end, farthest from his father, puts down the rice cake in his hand. “Blasphemy!” The half-eaten cake rolls off his lips to the table. “How dare you speak of the
Kami
? As if you knew anything of their ways.”

Miyazawa keeps his eyes focused on the table in front. His fingers are separate and apart from him, acting on their own as they curl tightly around the teacup.

“You must be careful young one,” his father says. “Do not let worldly success cloud your vision. It takes a lifetime to learn the ways of the
Kami
.” He motions to the others seated beside him. “Years of dedicated study. Humble searching. This is the path to true purity.” Taking a sip of tea, he sets the cup down with studied grace. “That is why I fear this project of yours is leading you off the path, away from the
Kami
you speak so lightly of.”

Away from the Kami? You know not what you say!

During the entire exchange, one of the old men has remained silent, drinking tea and looking out the window. Now he looks up. “Your youth and inexperience cause you to move too fast. Perhaps it is time to slow down, to consider carefully the path you have chosen. Perhaps you have lost your way. Perhaps it is time to come back to the old ways.”

The muscles of Miyazawa’s hand grow taut, making his fingers white around the teacup. He tries to loosen the grip, but the fingers refuse to let go. As his eyes drift up to stare at the four men seated before him, the cup crumbles in his hand. Green fluid explodes across the table. Slowly opening his palm, he sees deep cuts filled with blood. It begins to drip onto the table.

Rage boils over.

“Enough of your worthless talk!” Miyazawa’s fingers wrap into a fist that slams down hard on the table. Trembling lips curl into a half-snarl. “You know nothing of the
Kami
. You know nothing of their ways.” He stands and throws the table to the side, watching it crash against the wall in slow motion.