Kinslayer (33 page)

Yukiko’s heart lurched as she noticed them. The helmets had been beaten flat, mounted on his shoulders like spaulders, but the snarling oni faceplates were still recognizable.

Iron Samurai helms. Half a dozen, at least.

The big gaijin was wearing them like trophies.

Behind him stood the first gaijin woman Yukiko had ever seen. Her hair was so blond it was almost white, tangled into a series of long knotted braids interwoven with insulated wiring, reaching down to her hips. She might have been pretty once, but her face was marred by symmetrical scars; three on each cheek, four running from lip to chin in jagged, lightning patterns. Clad head to foot in dark leather, adorned with wiring and transistors and heat sinks; machine components of all shapes and sizes. Plates of burnished brass covered her torso, shins and forearms. An enormous pair of boots with thick rubber heels lifted her to average height, long fingernails and lips unpainted. Her shoulders were adorned with the remnants of insectoid helmets, severed breather tubes spilling from the mouths, eyes of red glass. Yukiko would recognize them anywhere.

Lotusmen helms.

It was as if she’d flayed the metal skin from their flesh and turned them into skin of her own.

The woman stepped into the room, her movements feline, minimalist. Her adornments swayed and shifted, making a clicking, hollow music. Yukiko would guess she was close to thirty, but it was difficult to tell; beyond the scarification and outlandish clothing, there was something altogether alien about her. She tilted her head and stared, and Yukiko saw her eyes were mismatched; one black as Kigen Bay, the other a strange, luminous rose, aglow like the choking moon. She spoke, her voice low, lilting and completely indecipherable.

The big man wearing the bearskin murmured a reply, nodded. Respectful.

A dog darted into the room, scorched copper fur, eyes to match. He jumped onto the bed and slobbered over Yukiko’s face before burying his nose into the chowder bowl. Piotr yelled at the hound, who promptly jumped off the bed and slunk into a corner.

She steeled herself, gathering her wall about her, pushing a tiny fragment into his mind.

Hello, Red.

it’s you! girl!

A flare of pain. Brittle-sharp. Bearable.

These are friends of yours?

He blinked at the knot of people in the doorway, speaking in hushed voices.

boy yes men no mean lady no

Mean lady?

she kick me

Oh.

i am gooddog don’t need the kicking

I’m sure you’re very good.

and men hit my boy don’t like it boy is mine my boy i am gooddog yes I am

Can you understand what they’re saying?

Red tilted his head to one side, blinking.

Never mind …

By the doorway, Piotr’s face was flushed, and he stabbed the air with his finger, pointing at Yukiko and making gestures not even a foreigner could mistake for friendly. Yukiko presumed the big man wearing the samurai trophies was an authority figure—when he spoke, Piotr stopped talking, listened intently. The woman in the flayed Lotusman skins simply stared at Yukiko, head cocked, running one fingernail along the helms on her shoulder. The boy who’d rescued her from the sea leaned against the wall and said nothing at all.

“She.” The dark-haired man spoke. “Pretty girl.”

The gaijin were all looking at her now. Red was eyeing the chowder bowl, wondering how best to steal it without catching someone’s boot. Her skull was pounding, stomach lurching, mouth dust-dry and tasting of salt. She felt as though she might vomit.

“Me?” she answered.

“Why here?”

The two gaijin men gathered around the bed, the woman lurking by the door, hands clasped as if in prayer, pale lips curled in a faint smile. The boy quietly shuffled away from her, standing against the opposite wall.

The dark-haired man who’d called himself Piotr pulled up a stool, sat down, wincing as he straightened his crippled leg. The pistons hissed, joints creaking despite the black grease smeared butter-thick on the metal. As he leaned closer, she smelled salt and liquor, chemicals and greasy smoke. His good eye was bloodshot.

“Who are these people?” Yukiko said.

The man blinked, taken aback. “Me asking in the question.”

“Yukiko.” She pointed to herself as best she could with bound wrists. “Piotr.” She pointed to him. “Them?” A nod toward the others.

The man growled, said nothing.

“Ilyitch,” said the blond boy, exhaling smoke. He pointed to the big gaijin with the samurai trophies. “Danyk.” The woman. “Katya.”

Piotr snarled something in his own tongue. The big man roared, stepped forward and slapped the boy’s face, sending his smoke stick flying in a shower of sparks. The language was coarse to Yukiko’s ears, almost frightening. Her temples throbbed. The woman still stared, mute, head tilted, hips swaying as if she heard music.

“Why she here?” The dark-haired man poked her chest to regain her attention.

Yukiko jerked away from his touch, scowling. “I fell off my thunder tiger, if it’s any of your business.”

The man blinked.

“Thunder tiger.” She tried to make a flapping motion with her bound hands. “Arashitora.”

“Gryfon,” the woman said with a strange, hungry voice.

Piotr made a questioning noise, turned to look at her. The woman spoke again, pointing skyward. Danyk spoke, eyebrows rising to his hairline. The woman nodded and whispered a mouthful of guttural nonsense.

“She snake?” Piotr glared at Yukiko.

“A snake?” she scowled.

“She snake for the pleasing!”

“What the hells are you talking about?”

“Coming here.” Piotr pointed at the ground, growing angrier by the second. “Taking words away for the Shima, da? Snake.” He clicked his fingers. “Spy! She spy!”

“I’m not a godsdamned spy.” Yukiko rose up off the pillow, growling, the memory of his slap burning on her cheek. “I didn’t want to come here, you mad round-eye bastard. I flew here on an idiot with his penis where his brain used to be.”

Piotr looked utterly befuddled.

“Penis!” Yukiko pointed at the man’s crotch. “Your other head! The one you think with for most of your godsdamned lives!”

Piotr covered his groin with both hands, shuffled his stool a few feet away. Katya laughed, clapping her hands as if delighted, and Yukiko saw the woman had filed her teeth into sharp, gleaming points. Even the boy managed a grin, despite the handprint on his cheek. Piotr started yammering, shaking his head. The room devolved into general chaos until Danyk’s roar rose above the clamor.

Piotr turned back to her, brow creased in concentration as he searched for the words.

“Beast,” he finally managed. “Gryfon.”

He made a flapping motion, pointed to the sky.

“Arashitora,” Yukiko said.

Piotr nodded. “Where is? Where?”

Yukiko frowned. “I don’t know where he is.”

“Die?” Piotr closed his eyes, crossed his hands over his chest. “Is die?”

“I…” Her voice cracked and she cleared her throat. “I don’t know.”

“Call?” Piotr put his fingers to his lips, gave a shrill whistle. “Calling him?”

“Izanagi’s balls, he’s not a dog.” She eyed the gaijin one by one, anger swelling her chest. “And believe me, the last thing you want is him coming here. He’d tear this little tin can of yours to pieces. He’d show you the color of your insides.”

Piotr shook his head and spoke with an apologetic tone to Danyk. The woman shrugged, addressing the men as if they were children, and with a sigh, the big man nodded. He held up the cylindrical object in his hand, unwrapped the oilskin, and Yukiko caught her breath as she saw her katana gleaming in the half-light.

“Yofun,” she whispered.

She’d thought it’d been lost in the ocean.

“That’s mine, bastard,” she hissed.

Piotr offered what she assumed was an abridged translation. Danyk drew the katana, soft music of folded steel ringing against the backdrop of the storm. He tilted the blade, watched the light rippling across the polished face. With a grunt of admiration, he looked down at Yukiko.

“Spy,” he said.

“No.” Yukiko grit her teeth. “I am not a spy.”

Danyk lowered the blade by inches, until it was level with Yukiko’s throat. She swallowed her rising fear, forced away the pain at the base of her skull, the pounding of the world just outside her head. She met the gaijin’s stare. Unblinking. Unafraid.

Danyk spoke to Piotr, a sharp mouthful tinged with command.

“What soul you pledge to?” Piotr said.

“Soul?” Yukiko shook her throbbing head, eyes still on Danyk. “What the
hells
are you talking about?”

“Name.” The man slapped his right shoulder. “Name!”

“I told you, my name is Yukiko!”

Danyk growled deep in his chest, muttered a word. Piotr reached out and took hold of Yukiko’s collar, still damp with seawater.

“Sorry,” he said, meeting her eyes. “Sorry you.”

“Wha—”

The gaijin jerked her uwagi back and down, exposing her shoulders and breasts. Yukiko’s words became a shriek of outrage, bucking on the bed, blood flooding her cheeks as she swore and spit and thrashed in impotent fury, that beautiful, wonderful rage returning with a vengeance. Veins standing out like cable in her neck, restraints cutting into her flesh as she cursed them for cowards, screaming, snarling, vowing if they came near her, she’d kick in their heads, gouge out their eyes, tear their throats apart with her teeth.

Katya caught her breath, mismatched eyes turning deathly cold as she stared at Yukiko’s tattoo. Without a sound, she turned and stalked from the room. The boy, Ilyitch, lowered his gaze to the floor, cheeks flushing at her nakedness. Piotr looked to his leader, but his eyes kept drifting back to Yukiko’s body.

Danyk lowered the katana until it touched Yukiko’s skin. She ceased her struggles, breath hissing through spit-slick teeth, eyes narrowed in defiance. Bringing the razored edge to rest against her throat, he ran it down her naked shoulder, over the beautiful clan tattoo curling around her right arm. The Nine-Tailed Fox she’d not had the heart to ask Daichi to burn away. All she had left of the family she’d lost. The person she’d been. Danyk spoke to Piotr and the man stood, limped from the room. With an apologetic glance, the blond boy followed.

The big gaijin spoke then, ice-blue glare fixed on her ink. Words mangled by his thick accent, cold and hard; an accusation so full of hatred that it fairly dripped upon the floor.

“Keetsoonay,” he growled. “Sahmoorayee.”

Yukiko found herself terrified, acutely aware of her naked skin, burning under the gaijin’s stare. They were the only two in the room now, her wrists and feet still bound, a thousand miles from home, no Buruu, no Kin, no one to help her at all …

She narrowed her stare, feeling the Kenning build up inside her, pain crackling across her skull. Remembering Yoritomo collapsing in the Market Square, blood spilling from his eyes. But would she be strong enough without her father helping her? Could she hurt this man before he—

Danyk scowled, muttered something indecipherable, sheathed her katana at his waist. And stalking to the door, he slammed it shut behind him, leaving her utterly alone.

Breathing deep, heart pounding, mouth dry as dust.

Alone …

Yukiko closed her eyes, face upturned to the ceiling.

Thank the gods …

23

DELUGE

The forest-sweet scent of peppermint and cedar, warmth filling him, skin tingling. A wisp-faint breeze slipping through the hole in the floorboards, the cedar bough twisting through the ceiling, as much a part of the furniture as the fire pit. The low rumble of autumn storms outside wooden shutters, fire curling over blackened logs, smoke upon tongue’s tip. Kin breathed deep, savored the taste, understanding why Daichi was spending so much time indoors lately.

It is quiet here. Inside and out.

He pressed his forehead to the matting, waited for the old man to speak.

“Kin-san.” Daichi’s voice was dry as the bottom of an alcoholic’s bottle. “Welcome.”

Kin lifted his head, sat on his heels. “Do you know you’re one of the only people in this village who calls me that?”

“Surely no surprise dwells in that house for either of us.”

“No surprise. Disappointment perhaps.”

A sip of tea.

“Kin-san, you do not honestly believe children’s toys and a few semi-functional shuriken-throwers will win their favor?”

“Semi-functional?” Kin tried to keep the hurt feelings from his voice. “The line is fully operational, Daichi-sama. Pressure issues are all resolved, stress testing is complete. I’ve arranged for a demonstration tomorrow. In front of the entire village.”

“Even if these trinkets work, will it make people forget who you were? What you were?”

“Everyone here was someone else once. Why not me?”

“Why not indeed.”

Kin sighed, chewed his lip. The old man took another slow sip of tea, eyes never leaving the boy’s.