Blood Ninja (7 page)

But Hana wasn’t quite ready. Kame was a short-range hunting hawk, not a peregrine like Hana’s father’s. It was necessary to wait for prey to come close enough before letting her go. Otherwise the hawk might fly off, never to return. Of course, that was always a risk with a hawk. It was not loyal, like a horse, and Hana respected Kame for that. You knew that the bird remained with you, and did your bidding, only with its consent and tolerance. It was a killer, a weapon,
content for a short time to bear the touch of a human hand, but certain to one day take its leave
.

If a sword could think,
Hana said to herself
, it would not be so different from a hawk.

Hana breathed in the scent of the pine forest. She was not far from the castle where her father, Lord Oda no Nobunaga, ruled his fiefdom, but she was alone in this clearing, and for once could simply enjoy the feel of the horse beneath her, and the clear country air around her. Her father had no sons, but sometimes he joked that Hana had inherited his male spirit, even if she could never inherit his title of daimyo and rule over the Kanto when he died
.

Judging that a sufficient time had elapsed since she had entered the clearing, Hana removed Kame’s hood. The hawk cast her sharp eyes over the surrounding trees, then looked up at Hana and gave an excited cry—
ki, ki, ki.
She strained against the leather leashes that bound her to Hana’s wrist
.

Just then, Hana saw a shape moving fast over the trees—a pigeon. With practiced smoothness she untied the leather thongs and thrust her left hand out, as if striking out with a sword. Kame shot forward, wings folded, then lifted into the air with a snap of feathers. Hana watched, proudly, as her hawk rose quickly over the trees
.

The pigeon banked when it saw the hawk, but much too late. Kame was bred for this. She was as perfect in her efficiency of purpose as a well-honed weapon, all muscle, claw, and sharp eyesight. As the prey dropped and turned, Kame uttered another harsh cry—
ki, ki, ki, ki—
and, folding her wings, plummeted as straight and true as an arrow at a pocket of clear, empty air—

(Hana held her breath.)

—that a heartbeat later contained the pigeon, following a trajectory the hawk had seen and calculated before she’d committed to the attack
.

There was a startled coo and a flipping and flapping sound like clothes drying, as the hawk and the pigeon spiraled and tumbled through the air. Kame struggled to get a grip on the heavy bird as she fell, but soon enough she got it under control and was falling gracefully to earth, the limp pigeon held between her claws
.

Hana squeezed her heels against the horse’s flank and trotted forward under the trees. Kame looked up at her from where she stood on the body of the pigeon, next to a broken branch on which grew dense moss, making Hana think that when she returned to the castle, she would pick up pen and ink, and render the scene on paper. The drama of death, the grace of the hawk, the elegance of the twisting branch
.

Kame shrieked with pride
. Krrriiiiii, ki, ki.

“Well done,” said Hana. She held her hand down, offering the leather guard to the hawk. As always at this moment, she caught her breath. Would this be the time that …? But Kame hopped lightly onto her wrist, and Hana gave silent thanks to the
kami
of the sky. She looped the thongs quickly over Kame’s feet, binding her to the gauntlet
.

Now for the tricky bit
.

Holding the hawk still, Hana kicked her right leg out, swinging it in the same movement behind her, as if executing a spinning kick. As her weight turned in the saddle, she tucked her left leg at the knee, bringing it round to the right over the horse’s back, so that she spun almost in a full circle, and dropped lightly to her feet next to the horse. Kame did not even stir
.

Hana bent down and picked up the pigeon. She tore off one of the wings and gave it to Kame. The hawk fell upon it greedily
.

It was then that Hana noticed the scroll tied around the pigeon’s leg. She cursed. A messenger pigeon. At least it had been flying toward the castle, and that meant it probably didn’t belong to her father. Hana dreaded to think what would happen if she brought him one of his pigeons, its neck broken by her hawk. Already his patience with her hunting and riding was growing thin. He was beginning to think about her marriage, and the alliance he could seal with it
.

Hana unfurled the scroll. She would take it to her father, and bear his wrath—which, because the bird was not his property, and because he was still receiving the message, would almost certainly not be terrible. (Almost. His temper was legendary.) But first she wanted to see what it said. Could it be the news she had dreaded—an announcement of her marriage to some daimyo of a distant province, necessary to her
father in his endless quest to be shogun and rule over all of Japan?

But it wasn’t that at all
.

It was a single line of script, the calligraphy done in an uncertain hand, not at all the way a noble would write. Hana stared at it, puzzled
.

The boy lives.

She leaped lightly onto her horse and turned around, galloping back to the castle. A nameless misgiving stirred in her breast
.

As it turned out, she was right about one thing: Her father was wrathful. She was wrong about another: She did not have to bear it. In fact, he turned from her almost as soon as she handed over the message, and she did not see him again for some days
.

Behind them was a line of red fire on the horizon, and before them loomed the dark embrace of the shore. Just dimly visible above it was the twin-peaked promontory that marked out the bay of Minata. Taro pulled hard on the oars, amazed by the new strength in his arms. He was rowing almost as quickly as Hiro had done, and Hiro was the one with all the muscles.

“Quickly,” muttered Shusaku, glancing at the encroaching sunlight.

The safety of land seemed too far away, but Taro kept his mind on the rowing, making the rhythm of the oars into a sort of mantra:
out, down, pull, out, down
… Even he could see that the light in the east was growing faster than the land was approaching, and he could sense the ninja’s tension in his rapid breathing. Hiro, beside him, was scanning the horizon worriedly.

Taro’s fingers tightened on the oars, his hands clinging to the wood like pale starfish. His arms ached, his eyes burned with salt. His robe was beginning to chafe against his inner arm and chest,
which were being rubbed raw by the wet fabric. But ignoring the discomfort, he continued his rhythmic mantra.

Up, back, pull, up …

Then, surprised, he felt the gentle shock as the boat slid up onto sand. He had been so focused on rowing that he had barely noticed the beach expanding, until instead of a far-off line of darkness it had become an embracing enormity of trees and rocks and mountains, and they had passed from the realm of water into the realm of land.

Shusaku leaped down into the shallows. “We need to find shelter, fast.” Taro scanned the hills. Minata’s simple huts were too far away—their lights shone on the upper slopes, so distant as to resemble fireflies. But then he saw it: the sweeping red gate of a
torii
temple on the mountainside. Beside the temple was a small wooden hut. Taro showed it to Shusaku, and the three companions began to run.

Over the sea, the flames of sunrise began to burn the clouds. As the still-weak light reached them, Shusaku gave a little grunt of pain, despite the dark clothes he wore. Taro wasn’t sure if he could feel anything, but he was aware of the burning in his muscles as they raced for shelter.

The door of the hut was shut, but Hiro barged it open. Shusaku cast his eyes around. He ran his fingers over the joints between the wooden planks of the walls. A rake leaned against one of these, and Taro thought that the hut must serve as a storeroom for the person responsible for maintaining the temple.

After circling the room, the ninja nodded, apparently satisfied. “We’ll be safe till nightfall,” he said. Wearily, he sat down.

“What do we do now?” asked Taro.

“We sleep.”

“But it’s daytime.”

“Indeed it is. You’re going to have to get used to it,” said the ninja.

Hiro was pacing up and down. “I’m hungry,” he said.

Shusaku smiled. “You of course are free to leave the hut—just be careful when you open and close the door.”

Taro felt a tingling in his stomach. “I’m hungry too.”

“I’m afraid
you
will have to wait. Unless you wish to feed on your friend.”

Taro looked at Hiro and for a moment he was acutely aware of the vein that beat in the other boy’s neck, the blood welling in the wound on his cheek, and he felt hotly ashamed of it while at the same time thinking how good it would be to sink his teeth in and—

He turned away, breathing deeply.

“Hunger is one of the disadvantages to being a vampire,” said Shusaku.

“And the advantages?” said Taro, hoping there were some. He could smell Hiro’s blood and it was making his mouth water …

“Those you know already. Speed. Strength. Agility.” Shusaku smiled. “I’ll answer all your questions, I promise. But first, I think we should tend to your friend’s wound, before you lose control and feed on him.” Taro swallowed, flushing with embarrassment. He had been so fixated on the blood, its rich, delicious smell, that he had forgotten his friend was hurt.

Shusaku sent Hiro out into the daylight to gather some wet seaweed from the beach, as well as some dry wood and twigs from the forest. Then he set Taro to lighting a fire in the middle of the small hut, to dry their wet clothes, while he created a seaweed compress that he put over Hiro’s cut. He tore a piece of his black shirt and used it to bind the salve onto the wound.

When Hiro’s cheek was safely bound, Taro and Hiro sat cross-legged on the bare, hard ground before Shusaku. Hiro cleared his throat, then said, “So are you a demon?”

Shusaku laughed. “Hardly. Some say that vampires are descended from the
kami
of night, and that is why we cannot go abroad in daylight. But you have already seen that one vampire can create another—the ability is passed by the sharing of bites, not by parenthood. So I wonder if that story can be true.”

“And all ninjas are vampires? Is
that
really true?”

“Yes. Though the reverse is not. There are vampires who are
not ninjas, such as yourself. But a person cannot become a ninja without being turned. Usually we train the young until we feel they have reached a sufficient … maturity, and control of their powers. Then we turn them. With you, it was somewhat different.”

“You did it to save my life.”

“Yes.”

“And now what?”

The ninja stiffened, and Taro could almost have believed that, for once, Shusaku was unsure of himself, worried, even.

“I will take you to the home of my clan,” he said. “It’s the safest place for you.” He spoke these words as if to convince himself as much as the boys, and Taro frowned. Something was making the ninja uncomfortable. What was it? “And anyway, I have received no instructions beyond saving your life. I must go back to await further information.”

Taro bit his lip, feeling impatient. “And how long will that take? I want to find my mother. You said when I was safe, we would look for her.”

It was only in saying this that he realized, with a lurch in his heart, how much he already missed her. He wanted to curl up in her arms so she could make all of this go away, like a childhood nightmare.

But then, unbidden, his final image of his father swam into his mind—the body, divested of its head, lying in a pool of blood.

And this was no nightmare he could awaken from.

Surrounding his grief, like the sharp edges welded to the shaft of a sword, was a murderous desire for revenge. Taro knew that, as much as he missed his mother, he also wanted to avenge his father. “And then we find the person who sent those ninjas. The person who killed my father.”

Shusaku made a weary gesture. “As for your mother, she is even now seeking out a place to hide. You will not find her alone. We must wait for the pigeon I gave her.”

“Good. Perhaps it will come soon.”

The ninja snorted. “It is a clever bird but not that clever. It
cannot find me wherever I happen to be. It will fly to my home. So you must return with me there.”

Taro twitched, impatiently. He wanted to find his mother
now
, but he could see that the ninja talked sense. “My father, then. We will find his killers. Take vengeance.”

Shusaku sighed. “Yes, of course. But what would you do, a boy, on his own, with little idea of how to use his powers? Even one fully trained ninja would slaughter you like a pig. And whoever is after you, they are
very
serious about killing you. The services of ninjas do not come cheaply. I’ve never seen so many sent against one target. The cost would usually prohibit it. And anyway, for most missions one of us is sufficient.” He said this with an unmistakable measure of pride—as if the assassinations of unarmed men were an impressive thing, as if putting on a disguise and killing people before they even knew they were under attack were an act on par with a samurai’s bravery in battle.