Chosen by Desire (46 page)

Once she’d read about the professor’s death, she hadn’t wasted time hiring someone to do the footwork for her. After several weeks, the man she’d hired claimed he’d found someone wanting to talk to her. An informant who had knowledge of the Bad Man. But the person would only speak with her in person. Which was why she was hiking up a pitch black hill at two in the morning.

“At least it’s not Golden Gate Bridge,” she assured herself. That was where her informant wanted to meet. She shuddered. Crossing all that steel would have been a bitch. Any time she was around too much metal it became difficult to perform. Metal chops wood, just like a child’s rochambeau.

Willow crested the hill. Ahead of her, two figures sat on a bench.

Her broadsword-shaped birthmark, the mark of a Guardian, stung. An internal warning system. One that had been clanging in alarm ever since she stepped foot in San Francisco.

“At least here there are plenty of weapons.” She touched the low branch of a tree and headed to the two shadows. Show time.

They didn’t move or acknowledge her presence.

She stopped. “Something is so wrong,” she muttered. She let
mù ch’i
branch out to them.

Her mother had taught her that everything had energy-even plastic and other manmade materials had energy to some degree. Using the energy of trees came naturally to the Guardian of the Book of wood, but it took skill to read and manipulate energy from other sources-skill her mother had made sure she learned.

And she knew instantly that the two bodies ahead were dead. “Damn it.”

The faint wail of sirens overrode the soft whisper of the wind in the trees. She paused, listening.

They were headed toward the park.

“
Damn it.
” She hurried to the bodies, yanking her leather gloves on. The one on the right was the man she’d hired. Half his head was bashed in, but there was enough of him intact for her to ID him from the pictures she’d seen of him.

Always make sure you know who’s working for you. She’d found that out the hard way.

She patted him down, taking in the scene carefully. Staged. Because someone wanted to set her up? “If the approaching sirens are any indication, the answer would be yes.”

She took his wallet and slipped it into her pocket before turning her attention to the other guy. Presumably the informant. He was less messy, with a thin line of blood trickling from a small hole in his head. Bullet, 9mm. Professional.

The sirens stopped abruptly.

They were here.

Through the trees, she caught flashes of red and blue lights. They’d probably parked at the top of the hill, at the park’s east entrance.

“Which means they’ll be on my ass in only minutes,” she said, transferring everything from the informant’s pockets to hers.

A card fluttered to the ground. The wind grabbed hold, but just before it got lost in the night, Willow caught it and stuck it in her stuffed pockets. Taking in the scene one more time, she turned and strode toward the copse of trees and bushes just beyond the scene. She stepped behind a five-foot tall bush. Not tall enough to hide her 5’10 frame, she let
mù ch’i
reach inside the plant and urge it higher until its branches provided enough coverage without obscuring her view.

Hopefully. She tugged off her gloves and touched her long hair. The white-blond was like a beacon in the night, so different than her mother’s short dark curls. But she never covered it. It’d become something of a calling card. Just in case, she encouraged extra foliage to sprout in front of her.

Two cops huffed up the hill a moment later. It seemed they knew exactly where to find the bodies.

“Of course they did,” she whispered, shaking her head.

More officers flooded the scene shortly after, including several plainclothes policemen. She watched as they cordoned off the scene with yellow police tape and began methodically recording their findings. She’d seen it before, in different countries all over the world. Slight variations, some forces more inept than others, but pretty much the same procedures. Being in her line of work, it behooved her to be familiar with it.

Her mark burned, sharp and insistent. Something made her turn her head to the left, just as he crested the hill.

Her breath caught in her chest for some reason, and she had to force it out with a harsh exhale.

He walked to the scene with an air of authority. The officer in charge. Which meant he was homicide, detective level. He wore a suit, no overcoat despite the bitter San Francisco wind that whipped through the city all year round. Even though it was past midnight, his clothing was immaculate. So was his dark hair, cut short and neat.

Willow couldn’t see details-damn it. That bothered her more than she cared to admit. She wasn’t sure if his hair and eyes were dark or if night cloaked him.

Something about him was familiar, and for a moment she was tempted to come out from hiding and walk to him.

“Ridiculous,” she said under her breath. He’d probably arrest her. She was where she wasn’t supposed to be-the same place as two murdered men. She’d been set up-totally and completely-and here she was thinking of going to introduce herself to a man who’d probably love to lock her up and throw away the key.

Standing at the edge of the scene, he took a small notepad and pen out of his inner suit pocket. He motioned to the first officers to arrive on the scene and asked them questions.

Too low to hear, damn it. She frowned, willing herself calm. She knew what he’d be asking. When did they get the call? Had they disturbed the scene? Any witnesses found?

He finished talking to the two patrolmen and ducked under the police tape to inspect the bodies. She waited, wondering what was going on in his mind.

Then he suddenly knelt, laying a palm on the ground.

Willow swallowed a curse. Her boot print on the dirt.

He stood up and scanned the area. Sharp gaze-he probably didn’t miss much.

And then he focused on the bush were she hid.

He couldn’t see her. She knew he couldn’t see her. But somehow she felt his gaze deep-all the way to the space inside her that had been closed off for the past twenty years.

She didn’t like it. One bit.

And then he turned around and waved one of his minions over.

Willow exhaled. “Forget the cop,” she muttered. “Time to move.”

She had to examine what she’d taken and hope it’d lead her to something of value. Not that she was going to hold her breath.

Pulling her mother’s wooden flute from her pants pocket, she backed out of the bush, silently so as not to attract any attention. As an extra measure of caution, she had the trees across the way rustle, drawing their attention away from her.

She waited until she was a little distance away before she put the flute to her lips and blew a delicate, mournful tune in honor of the dead.

# # #

The night from hell, and it was only getting worse.

Homicide Inspector Rick Ramirez glared at the crime scene. Not much to go on so far. East side of Buena Vista Park, two victims, male. No witnesses. No signs of struggle. No ID on the victims.

Why should it be easy?

At least there was a footprint. A boot. Looked like a woman’s.

He crouched down to get a closer look. Women didn’t murder just for the hell of it. Homicides with female offenders were typically in the context of domestic abuse, or as an act of desperation. Two men, one shot in an execution style? A woman wouldn’t have been his guess.

Of course, all sorts of unusual things had been happening in the city the past year. Things he’d been hard pressed to explain. This barely rated on that scale.

A bush fifteen feet away rustled. Ramirez looked up, frowning. Something wasn’t right. Still, to cover the bases, he signaled a couple of his men to investigate.

Odd. He scanned the area, feeling like he was being led astray somehow.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a figure. Tall, but obviously a woman. Enveloped in black, like the shadows that clung to her. Except for her hair, which shone a brilliant white even in the dark.

The woman with the boots? Instinct said yes. He took off at a run, trying to remain as silent as possible so he didn’t alert her to the chase.

But as he rounded the bend, she was gone.

How could she be gone? He scowled into the night, looking behind the trees and bushes.

Nothing.

“Damn.” He raked a hand through his hair. Cursing again, he headed back to his team. The sooner he wrapped up, the sooner he could go home and get some rest.

As he made it back to the scene, he heard the faint whisper of a tune. Like a flute-soft and sad-carrying on the wind.

Tell us a little about yourself outside of your writing career.

Uh… There’s more outside writing?

Wait-give me a second-I’m sure I’ll come up with something. Like the fact that I study martial arts. Kung Fu San Soo, specifically, for thirteen years now. And I play golf, although that’s a recent phenomenon (watch out, Tiger).

Otherwise, my life is pretty simple. I read all the time, but I also have a pretty active social life. I like to eat, which means I go to the gym a lot. I sit on my porch and blow bubbles. I drink loose leaf tea. I have an odd but endearing fascination for tutus.

Have you always wanted to be a writer?

No, I always wanted to be a gypsy. I was going to have my own cute little purple and red wagon with a bull named Philippe pulling it. But when I realized there’d be no plumbing, I thought I might prefer to be an ambassador. Get paid to schmooze and party in fancy clothes? Heck yeah. But now I get paid to hang out in cafés in my pajamas, which is almost just as cool. 

You study kung fu. Could you talk about that and how you incorporate it into your books?

I love to fight! Kung fu is a big part of my life. I’ve been studying Kung Fu San Soo for over thirteen years. As I write this, I’m a 7th degree black belt, but I’ll be a master in September (2009).

The Guardians of Destiny series came about because I wanted to write about a heroine who kicked ass, kung fu style. It evolved from there. Writing fight scenes-totally fun. The scary, baddies-are-closing-in scenes as well as the getting-to-know-you foreplay scenes between the hero and heroine.

What I incorporate into a book depends on my mood. When I wrote MARKED BY PASSION, I had a hankering to write knife fighting scenes. In the next book, CHOSEN BY DESIRE, I wrote in some sword scenes because it gave me an excuse to dust off my own sword.

I’ve got the urge to write cane into a future book. I love my cane, maybe more than my swords and knives. Don’t tell.

So can you kill a man with your pinkie?

Yeah, but it’s much more satisfying to use a skyscraper heel.

If you were a Guardian, of which scroll would it be and where would your dagger tattoo be?

I’d totally be Guardian of the Book of Fire. Having flames right at my fingertips? The mere possibility makes me shiver with pleasure.

But I can’t decide where I’d have my mark. A sexy mark like Gabe’s in MARKED BY PASSION, on the inside of my hip? Or on the bottom of my foot, hidden away? I’ll have to ponder this question some more.

How much of your personality and life experiences are in your writing?

My beloved, Nate, likes to warn people to be careful of what they say around me because it may end up in a book. Pout. I don’t think I’m
that
bad.

Writing is like having children. Your characters have bits of your personality and some of your quirks, but really they’re their own people.

What does your“work” area look like?

Lately, my work area looks like the café ten blocks away. Right at the black marble counter, the corner furthest away from the espresso machine. In front of me, Robin and Diana joke as they help customers. Behind me, a bunch of the regulars have put their tables together and chat as they enjoy their beverages.

Sometimes, however, my office has been known to look like a certain dive bar on Lower Haight. Or a cave-like wine bar in Hayes Valley. Or-I almost forgot-a cupcake shop in Ghirardelli Square.

How may we contact you?

Either through my website (
www.kateperry.com
) or by email (
[email protected]
). I love receiving email.

When you encounter a large bonfire, do you…

a. skip toward it, eager to frolic?

b. worry the ground beneath is suffering?

c. pull out a hunk of metal and start forging your next sword?

d. scream in sympathy for the wood that’s fueling the fire?