The hollow samurai armor glared at him with silent indignity from where it perched behind the glass case. It had been carefully balanced on a painted bench so its detailed lacquer work and intricate stitching were on full display, but it would be subject to the prying eyes and gawking faces of millions of tourists.
Good thing it was empty. If someone had to wear it and be the object of attention and adoration for millions of people, it would get really old, really fast.
He moved past the Edo Period display, deeper into the exhibit on Feudal Japan and checked his watch. Morrow was keeping him waiting. True, the man was busy, but this felt intentional.
He probably deserved it.
Even across the room, the empty armor’s hollow eyes followed him, which was ridiculous. It didn’t have eyes. It was an empty armor in a Smithsonian exhibit.
Still, there was something enchanting about it. The face shield in the old samurai armor snarled and sneered like a demon, exquisite craftsmanship apparent in the carved mask. But it was just an empty armor.
Not like a warlord. Or one of the Reishosan. This was just an old samurai armor with empty eye sockets that leered hauntingly.
It’s not like I haven’t seen an empty armor before. Sam scowled at the armor behind the glass. I must be tired.
It didn’t make sense for it to bother him.
Empty samurai armors were part of his job, part of his everyday research. They were nothing to get creeped out about. But something about it felt different—familiar. Like he’d seen it before.
Or like you will see it.
A chill crept up his arms beneath his suit coat. That hadn’t been his thought, but it had echoed in his mind as though it had been his.
Had that thought come from Hinode?
Really? What sense did that make? Now he was becoming superstitious. He’d connected with the semi-sentient piece of junk for one day, and now it felt free enough to interject creepy premonitions into his mind whenever it wanted to?
The sword was nice.
The sword was very nice.
But if the armor was going to butt into his own private mental conversations at the drop of a hat, maybe it wasn’t worth it.
Sam paused and glared at his reflection in another display case. He was absolutely losing his mind, wasn’t he? Is this what happened to Ryan? Had Ryan actually been an intelligent, well-adjusted human being before he accepted his armor?
Sam snickered.
Ryan intelligent and well-adjusted? Not a chance.
“Dr. Logan!”
Sam turned to see Morrow heading toward him. The man was imposing as ever in his three-piece suit with his expression like someone on a used car lot trying to strike a bargain.
“Dr. Morrow.” Sam accepted his hand and shook.
“I got your message.” Morrow held Sam’s hand and wouldn’t let go when Sam tried to pull away. “I can’t say I’m not disappointed, Sam.”
“I know, sir.” Sam paused and let the man hold on to him, beating down the urge to put him in a thumb-lock.
“Come on, now.” Dr. Morrow grabbed his elbow. “Surely I can convince you to reconsider.”
Sam held himself steady in spite of how close the other man had gotten. Maybe Tom Morrow didn’t understand the concept of personal space.
“I truly appreciate your offer.” Sam wrested his hand free of Morrow’s grip. “At my age, it’s a real honor to be given the opportunity.”
“It certainly is.” Morrow nodded fiercely. “So I can’t understand why you’ve turned us down. You’re an excellent researcher, Dr. Logan. The Smithsonian is where you belong, not at a cut rate personal collector running digs out of his basement.” He laughed. “You’re the only reason Davalos hasn’t gone under. Your grant writing skills are unparalleled.”
Yeah, good thing the Doc isn’t here. Sam smiled. “Dr. Davalos has been good to me. For the time being, that’s where I belong.”
Morrow moved closer again. “I know it’s a frightening prospect to step out of your comfort zone, but I promise you, Sam, you’ve got what it takes. You can make it here. You can thrive here. It’s not something to be scared of.”
Rage surged through him at Morrow’s implication, but Sam kept his expression neutral, although his answering smirk felt predatory even to him. “Sometimes it’s scarier to stay where people need you than to face a challenge on your own.”
Morrow grinned in response. “Well said, Dr. Logan.” He offered his hand again, and Sam accepted reluctantly. “Well said. I wish you the best.” He thumped Sam on the arm.
Sam swallowed the urge to wince in pain as Morrow struck him squarely on a patch of skin that had seven stitches.
“There’s no expiration date, Dr. Logan.” Morrow stepped back. “We’d be honored to have someone of your caliber here whenever you are ready to take the next step in your career. You’re exactly right to wait. You’ll want to be committed fully before you accept the offer here, so staying with Davalos until you’re ready to take your career seriously is a smart move.” Morrow nodded. “Pass my regards on to Robert.”
Sam waved at the man’s back, muttering under his breath. “I most certainly will not, you pompous pigheaded sycophant.”
He spun on his heel and headed for the exit, although he paused to give the glaring samurai armor in the display case one more examination.
Sam wasn’t sure why it looked familiar or why it continued to bother him. It was a new exhibit, so he hadn’t seen it before. But then, most Edo Period samurai armors all looked similar.
There was just something about the eyes.
A soft tingling sensation rippled at the back of his mind. It made him catch his breath, but it was gone as soon as he felt it. That was Hinode for sure. But why? And what was the amror trying to tell him?
He rolled his eyes.
This whole armor-being-sentient thing was going to take some getting used to.
He strode into the hallway, leaving the empty samurai armor to glare at his back as he walked away.
As he stood in the elevator, he checked his watch. He still had time to stop by Gideon’s and see how he was settling in before he had to meet the others at the airport.
Once they’d all escaped the underground, they’d grudgingly consented to a hospital visit. Mia had her way entirely and even got Ryan under a stethoscope, in spite of his vocal disagreements about it.
Outside of a full range of scrapes, bruises, and deep gashes that requires some stitches, they all made it out relatively unscathed. Gideon and Dr. Davalos had gotten the worst of it.
The Doc had found them once they were checked in at the hospital, and he made sure they were all aware of his general irritation at being thrown around like a ragdoll and left behind like—how did he put it?—a leftover plate of stuffed eggplant.
Or something like that.
If the Doc wasn’t mixing his metaphors with gardening terms, he was comparing himself and various aspects of his life to random Greek dishes.
The Doc had a concussion and a separated shoulder. Gideon had a broken arm, several busted ribs, and a sprained knee. But the old cuss refused to stay at the hospital like a reasonable person.
Sam marched out of the museum and flagged a cab down. He climbed stiffly into the backseat and told the driver Gideon’s address. The least he could do was check in on the old fool. He was supposed to have a physical therapist coming over to help him get back on his feet, but it had only been a day.
By this point, the crazy old man had probably painted his entire house just to prove that he didn’t need any help.
The cab drove past the part of the city that would be under construction for the next several months to repair the damage the collapse of DuPont Circle had caused. Sam scowled at the destruction their little skirmish with the soldiers had effected. It was truly fortunate that none of them had been killed.
Blessed, Mia had said. But Mia was sentimental.
It had been close.
Too close.
Jinsoku had gotten into his head. No one was supposed to be able to do that. No one had ever been able to manipulate his thoughts like that. It just meant that either the warlord had studied him carefully, or the warlord was incredibly smart.
Or both.
Both was very likely.
That just made Jinsoku even more dangerous than he’d been before. Because he was right. If Thalia had no intention of killing the Reishosan, Jinsoku was going to have to get creative with his methods. And there were far worse things than death.
We have to be ready.
The cab finally pulled up to Gideon’s house. Sam handed the driver a stack of folded bills as he opened the door. “Wait. This won’t take long.”
The driver nodded, and Sam strode to Gideon’s door. It was partly open, so he pushed his way in.
“Gid?”
“In the kitchen, Sammy.”
Sam rolled his eyes and stepped inside the house. “Why are you leaving your door open, you old fool?”
“I knew you’d come by.” Gideon waved at him from the kitchen table where he sat in his sling, drinking a cup of coffee with his free hand. “I raised you right, after all.”
Sam approached him and set his hand on the old man’s shoulder. The kitchen and the rest of the house were clean and organized. A few bags of groceries had been unloaded on the cabinet.
“You went to the store?”
“Lucille from my church did.” Gideon patted Sam’s arm. “A couple young folks from church are coming over to make dinner tonight. I’m getting the special treatment, you know.”
Sam chuckled.
“Good.” He squeezed Gideon’s neck. “That’s good, Gid. I’m glad.”
“I got something for you.” Gideon pointed to the end of the table where a book was laying. “I couldn’t remember if you had a copy for yourself or not.”
Sam picked up and book and laughed. “I have several copies of this one, Gid. MacBeth.” He waved the book at his old friend. “But I can always use another copy.”
Gideon tapped his forehead. “Old Shakespeare really saved the day down there, didn’t he?”
Sam smirked. “It wasn’t Shakespeare. It was you.”
Gideon reached for him, and Sam took his hand rolling his eyes again.
“Don’t you roll those pretty eyes at me, young man.” Gideon tapped his chest. “You remember what you learned down there. Don’t you listen to folks who use heartless words. Words are supposed to have heart. They’re supposed to make you feel something because they’re supposed to mean something.”
“I get it, Gid. Don’t preach at me.”
Sam smiled down at the old man. Even after all the years had passed, the old man was still strong and sturdy. A giant. He probably always wound be.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” Sam said.
Gideon showed him a toothy smile.
“But you can’t tell anyone about what happened down there, Gideon, you know that right?”
“What? About your magic armor?”
“Gideon.”
“Or your very sentimental conversation with that warlord fellow?”
“Gideon.”
“Or that you care more about the people in your little family than they think you do?”
“Yes, Gideon. All of that.”
Gideon laughed. “I won’t say a word about the armor, boy, but the rest of it is open to interpretation.”
“Yeah. That’s what I was afraid of.” Sam winced.
Gideon took his arm and stood up with a groan. “How about we make a deal? I won’t tell anyone you actually have a heart as long as you call me once in a while.”
Sam snorted.
“Deal?” Gideon raised his eyebrows.
“Deal.”
Gideon nodded and wrapped his good arm around Sam, pulling him into an embrace before Sam could tell him not to. And since he was already there? Well, what did it hurt to give the old cuss a hug?
“I’m proud of you, boy.” Gideon whispered in his ear.
Sam let the old man hang on a bit longer before he gently pushed away. “How about you sit down before you fall down?”
Gideon laughed again and let Sam help him sit in his chair. “Now, I’m happy you came to see me, but you better run after your friends. You’ll miss your flight.”
Sam took the book off the table and set his hand on Gideon’s shoulder. “I’ll call you.”
“You’d better.” Gideon looked after him with sightless eyes. “Or I’ll be calling the papers in San Francisco telling them you like warm hugs.”
“I get it, I get it.” Sam tucked the book under his arm and held up his hand in surrender. “I promise. I’ll call.” He paused at the door and looked back at the old man in his chair.
As though Gideon knew he was still there, the old man looked directly at him. “I love you, Sammy.”
Sam smiled back at him. “I know, Gid.” He looked down. “I—yeah. You know.”
“You take care of yourself, boy.”
Sam nodded and stepped outside, shutting the door behind him. He walked to the cab and climbed back in.
“Get me to Dulles.”
The cab driver responded and gunned the engine. Sam settled back in the seat and opened the book Gideon had given him. MacBeth. They had spent hours reading it together. Shakespeare had always been a passion of Gideon’s, and he had shared it with Sam as soon as he knew how to read.
Sam might scoff about the impromptu plays he and Gideon had put on for his mother, but those had been happy days. Happy times. Good memories.
His eyes skimmed the page for the line Banquo had uttered to MacBeth in warning. It was a statement he’d memorized as a boy, more because it sounded cool than out of understanding what it meant.
MacBeth. Act 1, Scene 3.
He knew what it meant now.

And oftentimes, to win us to our harm the instruments of darkness tell us truths, win us with honest trifles, to betray us in deepest consequence.

Sam shut the book and stared out the window at the passing buildings and landscaping features.
Jinsoku hadn’t been lying. He’d been authentic, genuine, in the tunnels of the DC Underground. Sam hadn’t even imagined that the warlord could be authentic. He’d sounded practically human.
Which, of course he was human. Why wouldn’t he have been human? He was just a human obsessed with Thallia being the supreme leader of every dimension. But—what if Jinsoku had been like Sam once upon a time? What if he’d been someone who would have died to protect his world and just bought into the lie that Thallia couldn’t be defeated? What if Jinsoku wasn’t evil?
What if Jinsoku had been betrayed the same way he tried to betray Sam?
Not that it changed anything. Jinsoku was their enemy, and he would always be their enemy. If he was even still alive. The whole tunnel collapsing on top of him might have finally brought his reign of terror to an end.
Sam set the book aside and leaned back against the seat.
There was a bigger plan in motion. There always had been. Thallia didn’t just move all those thousands and thousands of soldiers into the DC Underground overnight. It had been happening for years. Decades. Maybe even longer.
Ten years ago when he’d been on the street alone fighting soldiers, had Thallia been moving his army into Washington DC? Or had he started before then?
And who was the man Yamainu? Mia had talked about him, but for all she knew, she didn’t know much. The man hadn’t been very forthcoming, but he and Jinsoku obviously knew each other.
Sam took a long, deep breath.
He’d taken a big step with Hinode. They had all taken a big step as a team. For the first time, they’d defeated Jinsoku together. He hadn’t run away. They’d beaten him. Maybe even killed him. Time would tell that score.
But it was a single step, and if Sam knew nothing else, he knew now that taking Thallia down was going to mean more than a few victorious battles. Thallia wasn’t some two-bit warlord with a shoddy plan to conquer the world. Thallia had power. Real power. Probably in amounts none of them had even considered possible.
“We have a lot of work to do,” Sam murmured to the car roof.
The cab slowed after a long trek through traffic and dropped him off at the airport. Sam made his way through the crowds and survived the ridiculous security lines. He had given his bags and carry-on things to the others when they had parted ways at the Smithsonian earlier in the day.
As he approached their gate, he spotted Ronnie first, tucked away in a corner with a computer tablet, head down and eyes hidden behind a pair of sunglasses. But his blue hair was impossible to ignore, although there were a few other people with hair dyed in equally bright colors, so he didn’t stand out too much.
That was probably a relief for him.
Dr. Davalos and Mia were sitting together reviewing a newspaper in quiet voices. Karl and Stan were nowhere to be seen, which was definitely concerning, but Sam didn’t care enough to worry. Stan would keep Karl from getting into too much trouble.
Most likely.
Ryan was also not in sight, which meant he was probably bailing Karl out of airport security or buying some kind of snack to make sure Karl was suitably fed before they boarded.
Sam sank into the chairs across from Mia and the Doc. Mia smiled at him but didn’t stop her conversation with her grandfather. Sam crossed one leg over the other and looked for a clock.
Fine.
They had twenty minutes before boarding would begin. Maybe he could get a quick nap before—
“Lurch!”
He snarled.
Karl bounded toward him with a plastic sack swinging at his side. Ryan and Stan followed him at a more reasonable pace. Karl flopped into the chair next to him and stared digging through the bag.
“We found candy, Lurch.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Gummi worms!” Karl grabbed a package of candy from inside the bag and shoved it in Sam’s face.
“Oh, goody.”
“Want some?”
“I want you to go away.”
Karl dropped the bag of candy in his lap. “You should eat them. You need more sugar in your life. That’s why you’re such a grump all the time.” Karl glanced around the airport gate. “Blue Jay!” He vaulted out of his chair. “I have candy!”
Karl raced to where Ronnie was trying to melt into the wall, and Sam snickered.
Shaking his head, Stan sat next to Sam and gave a start as Sam handed him the bag of candy. “He loves his sweeties.” Stan smiled.
“I don’t know how you put up with him.” Sam crossed his arms.
“About the same way I put up with you.” Stan poked him in the shoulder.
Sam scoffed and leaned his head back, watching Ryan carry a drink tray to where Mia and the Doc were looking at the newspaper.
“You talk to your friend at the Smithsonian?” Stan asked.
“I did. Told him no.”
Stan beamed. “Good on you, mate. I’m glad.”
Sam looked back at him. “Well, you guys are stuck with me for a little while longer at least.”
Stan chewed on his bottom lip. “We need you, Sam.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Stan turned the bag of candy around in his hands. “Sam?”
“What?”
“Have you had the dream some more?” Stan asked softly.
Sam glared at him and glanced at Ryan and Mia. They hadn’t heard. Didn’t Stan know he didn’t want to talk about this out in public?
“No.”
Stan pressed his lips together and looked like a kicked puppy.
Sam rolled his eyes. “Why?”
Stan shrugged.
Stan didn’t shrug. The little British brat had perfect posture and could articulate like a statesman. He only shrugged when he wanted to say something but thought it would upset everybody.
“What?”
Stan met his gaze. “I saw it again.”
“You saw what again?” Sam frowned and kept his voice low. “Hinode?”
“Aye.” Stan nodded. “But I didn’t tell you before—I didn’t know how to tell you before. It—Hinode was empty, Sam. It was empty and walking around on its own. That was my dream. That’s what I saw. And I saw it again last night, mate.”
“Stan, calm down.” Sam shook his head, partly because Stan was getting emotional and partly because that tingling sensation at the back of his mind had returned in full, dizzying force.
Stan shrank into his chair, fidgeting with the corner of the gummi worm bag.
“It was just a dream, right?” Sam leaned toward him.
“I don’t know.”
“It was just a dream.” Sam repeated it more forcefully. “Right?”
Stan smiled. “Right.”
“We were both going through some stuff.” Sam leaned back in his chair. “You were right. Hinode was trying to talk to me, and I guess it thought the best way to get my attention was trying to scare the living daylights out of me.” Sam smiled. “It didn’t work, of course.”
“Of course,” Stan sneered.
“It was a dream, Stan. Just a dream.” Sam held the boys eyes and pretended not to feel the tingling sensation scratching all over his scalp as he said the words. “Hinode and I have connected, and nothing bad happened. So there’s no danger Hinode could ever walk around on its own, okay?”
Stan took a long, deep breath. “So I’m overreacting?”
“Yeah, you’re overreacting.”
Stan smiled. “I guess I do that often enough, don’t I?”
Sam ruffled the boy’s hair. “Yeah. Something like that.” He nodded toward the corner. “How about you overreact about something important? Like Karl trying to force-feed gummi worms to Ronnie.”
Stan’s expression turned distraught and he thrashed around in his chair, turning to see Karl throwing handfuls of gummi worms at the blue-haired ex-gangster.
“Oh, buttons.” Stan pitched forward and hurried to intervene before Ronnie decided to shove the entire bag of sweets down Karl’s throat without unwrapping them.
Sam scoffed as the boy ran and nearly laughed as he tackled Karl from the back and almost took them both down.
A dinging sound echoed throughout the gate. The screen over the flight desk flashed, indicating the boarding for the flight to San Francisco would begin shortly. The flash of light on the screen made the tingling at the back of Sam’s mind increase again.
A flash like lightning. Like the reflection of the fluorescents off the helmet of that old samurai armor at the Smithsonian. Like the deep, black eye sockets of Hinode’s empty helmet staring at him from the depths of the nightmares Sam kept trying to forget.
Sam shut his eyes and shook himself.
Now Stan had him overreacting. Hinode wasn’t empty. Hinode was his.
“Sam?”
Sam jerked and looked up at Ryan as he stood in front of him with a drink tray. Ryan’s eyebrows were raised in the perpetual worried expression he wore when one of the Reishosan were acting like weirdos.
Sam blew out his breath. “What?”
Ryan held up the drink tray. “Coffee?”
“Coffee?”
Ryan plucked out a paper cup from the tray and handed it to Sam. Sam took it haltingly.
“Thanks,” Sam said.
“Don’t mention it.” Ryan took the other cup for himself and smiled, stepping over to sit with Mia and join the conversation about whatever article the Doc had found in the newspaper.
Slowly, the tingling sensation in his mind faded to the background, and the noise of the crowd in the terminal gate rushed into his ears.
He could calm down. They were safe now, and they’d be back in San Francisco soon. Things could get back to normal, and they could forget that most of this experience had even happened.
Most of it. Not all of it.
Sam smiled to himself and took a sip of the coffee, bracing himself for it to be terrible. People didn’t bring him coffee. It wasn’t that he was too picky about it; nobody else had discerning enough taste to get him coffee he would actually enjoy.
But this was—good?
Sam scowled and took another sip. It was black. No cream. No sugar. Extra strong dark roast.
Just how he liked it.
Leave it to Ryan to know how Sam liked his coffee.
Across from him, Ryan smirked and saluted with own cup of coffee. Idiot.
Sam smiled and sank back in his chair.
Yes. Ryan Lewis was an idiot, but he was also a good man. And apparently he knew more about how to make a good cup of coffee than Sam had realized.
What a shocker. Maybe there was more to Ryan than Sam thought.