Kinslayer (18 page)

“AkihitothisismybrotherYoshiandhisfriendJurou.”

Jurou’s grin was all Kitsune-in-the-henhouse, aimed squarely at Hana, but he spared a glance for the newcomer. “How do?”

Yoshi’s eyes hadn’t left the big man. He nodded once. Slow as centuries.

“Akihito-san is going to be staying here for a few days,” Hana said.

“Do tell,” Yoshi frowned.

“Only a few.”

“Not like you to have houseguests, sister-mine.” His eyes shifted to the big man. “Can he cook? Doesn’t look much of a dancer.”

Her voice was soft, expression pleading. “Yoshi, please…”

Who the fuck is this, Daken?

The tomcat had assumed his usual perch on the windowsill, cleaning his paws with a tongue as rough as an iron file. His thoughts were velvet-smooth by contrast, a whispered purr rolling through Yoshi’s mind like sugared smoke.

… friend …

Yoshi sniffed. Squinted. Trying hard to find fault with it and coming up empty. She’d never brought anyone home before, but Hana was a big girl now. What she did,
who
she did, was her business. He leaned down, kissed Jurou on the forehead and shrugged.

“All good, sister-mine.”

She turned, gestured to the big fellow. “Come on.”

With a guilty nod aimed Yoshi’s way, the big man limped past the pair and into Hana’s bedroom. Hana was on her way to join him when Yoshi softly cleared his throat.

“Forgetting something?”

Hana made a face, reached inside her servant’s kimono, drew out the iron-thrower. Leaning down, she placed it in Yoshi’s open palm, whispered for his ears only.

“Explanations later.”

He glanced at Daken, now sawing away at his nethers with his long, pink tongue.

… don’t ask hers won’t tell yours …

“As you say.” He waved the ’thrower. “By the by, you can’t take this to work with you tonight. We need it.”

“What for?”

“Explanations later.”

The curiosity gleaming in Hana’s eye retreated with reluctance. She gave him a small nod, slipped into her bedroom. Daken prowled inside behind her and she quietly closed the door. Jurou had a grin on his face like
he
was the one about to do the mattress bounce. He leaned over and switched on the soundbox, turned up the volume to bestow some privacy, looking ready to turn a cartwheel.

“Good for her,” he grinned.

Yoshi lifted the iron-thrower and sniffed. A burned chemical smell, like generator oil and refinery stink wafting from the barrel. It felt just a touch lighter than it had yesterday. Just a little less death inside.

He pulled his lucky hat down over his eyes.

“Doubtless…”

*   *   *

Akihito perched by the window, peering out through dirty glass as Hana shut the bedroom door with a whispering click. The flat was four floors up, commanding a decent view of the street below; claustrophobic and wreathed in exhaust. But even with an elevated vantage point, he still felt utterly naked, shaking with nervous energy, belly doing cartwheels. His thoughts went to Gray Wolf, to Butcher and the others. Praying they’d gotten away safe or died fighting. He’d seen enough of Kigen jail to know it was no fit place for anyone to end.

Poor Kasumi …

Reaching inside a pouch on his obi, he retrieved an old chisel and a pinewood block, began whittling at the surface, his eyes still on the street below. No sign of bushi’ out there; just a few street urchins running dice on a corner, two lotusfiends playing pass the pipe. And still his nerves were bunched tighter than overwound clock springs, the chisel’s handle slippery in sweat-slick fingers.

“That’s pretty,” the girl said, gesturing to his carving. “What is it?”

“Present,” he muttered. “For a friend.”

“So what do you think happened? How did they find us?”

Akihito glanced to the doorway, the boys in the living room beyond. The beautiful tones of shamisen players were spilling from the soundbox, slightly muffled by the two inches of cracking plaster between them. He couldn’t shake the feeling of wrongness. Of being watched. Vulnerable. “It’s not safe to talk in here. We could be overheard.”

“It’s just my brother and his boyfriend.”

“And your neighbors? I’ve met blacklung beggars who weren’t as thin as these walls.”

The girl pouted, blew a stray lock from her eye. He sized her up with a slow stare—waif-thin, pointed chin, an old scar gouged down her brow and cheek, leather eyepatch hiding the worst of it. An unruly bob of straw-dry hair, black as cuttlefish ink. Hard, he decided. The kind of hard bought on broken concrete with an empty belly and bleeding fists. Smart? Smart enough for this whole thing to be a long game? Was she playing him?

Doesn’t make a lot of sense. But maybe
 …

She sat down in the middle of her grubby mattress. Glancing at the door. At him. Back to the door. The hint of a crooked smile curling her lips.

“Ohhhh,” she sighed, shivering.

Akihito frowned, hands falling still at his carving. He drew breath to speak when another low moan from the girl killed the words on his lips.

“Ohhhhhh,
gods
.”

The big man sat a little straighter, slightly disconcerted, jaw hanging loose. He watched the girl pull herself up on all fours, prowling across the sheets. Searching the room for somewhere else to look, he found the tomcat sitting at his feet, head tilted, staring at him with wide, pus-yellow eyes.

Blink. Blink.

Leaning up against the bedroom door, the girl groaned, throaty and breathless, as if in the throes of first-night passion. She slapped one hand against the doorframe, thumping her heels against the floorboards.

“Ohhh,” she purred. “Ohh,
please
.”

“What the hells—”

She held up a finger, silenced his protest, continued her performance against the wafer-thin wood. Her brother’s muffled curse seeped under the door—a plea to the great and beneficent Lord Izanagi to strike him deaf as stone, or failing that, for a quick and merciful death. Akihito heard what sounded like laughter and applause from the other boy.

“Oh. My.
Go-o-o-o-ods,
” Hana groaned.

The soundbox squealed in the room beyond, cranked to full over Yoshi’s prayers, the tiny speakers now strained and crackling under the increase in volume. Loud enough to drown out the girl’s groans. Loud enough to drown out her screams, truth be told. Hana plopped herself back down on the mattress, tucked her feet beneath her with a satisfied smile.

“Safe enough now?”

Akihito couldn’t help but chuckle. “Nice.”

“You’ll have to forgive my brother.” Hana began running fingers through her badly cut bob of raven hair. “I don’t usually have friends … stay over.”

“Has he always been like that?”

“You mean a smart-mouthed little bastard?” Hana laughed. “Always.”

“No, I mean like
that
.”

Hana blinked, taking a few moments to process.

“Ohhhh … You mean has he always liked boys?”

Akihito muttered a series of incomprehensible words.

“Why?” An eyebrow crept toward the girl’s hairline. “What do you care?”

“I don’t.” Akihito seemed mortified at the suggestion. “I’m just, well…”

“Not used to that sort of thing.”

“No.”

“Well, don’t fret.” Hana smiled lopsided, began tying her hair into braids. “You’re definitely not his type.
Far
too old.”

Akihito felt his cheeks flush. The girl’s laughter rang out on the walls, the empty beach-glass eyes staring onto smog-choked streets. The straining soundbox filled the void, drowning the murmur and hum outside. Hana watched him for a long time, saying nothing, working plaits across her scalp.

“So,” she finally said. “How did they find us?”

“Hells if I know,” he sighed, pulling off his hat and running one hand over his braids. “Trailed someone. Caught someone and made them sing. I’m still not one hundred percent sure you didn’t set us up, truth be told.”

The tomcat jumped into his lap without warning, and Akihito gasped as its claws sank into his flesh. Using his leg as a springboard, the cat vaulted up onto the windowsill and began licking at its nethers like they were made of sugar-rock. The big man winced, whispered a curse, massaged the old wound and new claw marks in his thigh.

The girl nodded to his bloodstained hakama. “How’s the leg by the way?”

“Hurts like a bastard,” Akihito murmured, still kneading the flesh.

“What happened to it?”

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“So?”

“So how would you feel if I asked what happened to your eye?” He gestured to the leather patch.

“I’d tell you my father was a mean drunk.” A small shrug.

“Izanagi’s balls…” Sudden guilt slapped him across the mouth. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. So how’d you hurt it?”

It had been over a month since the bloodbath during Masaru’s rescue from Kigen jail, but the sword-blow wasn’t healing well. Akihito knew he should have been resting, changing his dressings more often, but circumstances being what they were, he was just glad it hadn’t gone gangrenous. When Michi had gone back to the palace in search of Lady Aisha after the jailbreak went sour, she’d abandoned him with nothing but a tourniquet and vague directions to the sky-ship that was supposed to ferry everyone out of the city. Akihito hadn’t even limped halfway to Spire Row before the bushi’ locked Kigen down, sky-spires, rail yards and all. He’d returned to the Kagé safe house he’d sheltered in before the prison break, hooking up with Gray Wolf and other members of the city cell. His thinking was simple enough—if he couldn’t get to Yukiko, he’d do his best to help her from where he was.

Masaru would have wanted it that way.

Kasumi too.

“Just … helping a friend,” he said.

She nodded. “Well, I’ll see if I can find some bandages at the palace tomorrow.”

He scowled, turned his eyes back to the wood in his hand, carved off another chunk. A Guild sky-ship cut through the smog overhead, its engines rattling the windows. He thought of the ambush in Kigen jail, Kasumi’s blood glistening on the floor. The betrayal that had killed her. Killed Masaru. Almost killed him too.

“How did you know those bushi’ were coming tonight, Hana? You said your lookout spotted them before ours did, but who was your lookout? How did he get word to you?”

The girl peered at him, one dark eye gleaming between disobedient locks of hair. Standing slowly, she padded across the room to tug the window open. A faintly toxic breeze drifted inside, the bustling city song beyond nearly drowned by the soundbox wail. The girl stood back, folded her arms, staring at the cat perched on the windowsill above. For his part, the big tom seemed too intent on his not-so-privates to notice.

“Go on!” the girl finally yelled. “Get!”

The cat unfolded himself from his knot, made something close to a huffing sound and dropped to the lower sill. After a languorous stretch, he spared Hana a dagger-sharp stare, and finally slipped into the daylight. The girl slunk back to her mattress, her tread soundless. Sinking down with crossed legs and a challenging stare, she continued braiding her hair.

“How long have you been with the Kagé?” he frowned.

“Two weeks.”

“What made you join?”

“The Stormdancer.”

“Stormdancer?”

The girl looked at him as if he were a simpleton.

“The girl who tamed the thunder tiger? Brought it back from the Iishi single-handed? You must have heard of her. She’s all over the Kagé broadcasts. Someone’s even written a kabuki play about her; I saw it outside a brothel in Ibitsu Street last week, before the bushi’ started cracking skulls.”

“Oh, I’ve heard of her,” Akihito nodded. “I’m still just getting used to the name, to be honest. I always called her Yukiko.”

Hana’s eye narrowed. “You know her?”

Akihito considered the girl staring at him. Defiance. Suspicion. She was so wretchedly thin; fingers almost skeletal, pale skin covered in grime. He focused on that single dark eye, almost too large in her emaciated face. He wanted to trust her, but couldn’t quite fathom why. Was it because she was somehow familiar? Female? Young? How old could she be, anyway? Seventeen? Eighteen?

Almost the same age as …

“I hunted with her father, Kitsune Masaru.”

“The Black Fox of Shima?” Hana’s voice was awed, and she leaned forward, braids forgotten. “People lay spirit tablets for him near the Burning Stones!”

The big man held up the wood he’d been carving. “Who do you think started putting them there?”

“My gods, you
knew
them?” Hana breathed. “Did you meet her thunder tiger?”

“Meet it?” Akihito’s chest puffed out a little. “I helped catch the bloody thing.”

“Oh my
gods
!” Hana was back on her feet, hands over her mouth. “So help me, if you’re talking out of your—”

“I helped catch it. On the sky-ship
Thunder Child,
neck-deep in the worst storm I’ve ever seen.” The big man’s eyes shone. “Ryu Yamagata knew how to fly a ship, for godsdamn certain. He was a good man.” The light in his eyes dwindled and died. “They were all good men.”

“What’s she like?” Hana’s eye was bright, her imagination afire. “The Stormdancer?”

“A clever girl.” Akihito nodded. “Strong. Hellsborn stubborn. But sugar-sweet. Truth be told, she’s a lot like you, Hana-chan.” He glanced up at the windowsill where the tomcat had been perched a few minutes before, scratched the whiskers on his chin.

“She’s an awful lot like you.”

11

DESOLATION’S EDGE