Ginjiro slapped him hard, knocked the breather askew. “Feel real to you?”
His corpse-gray face twisted in a smile. “No…”
Yukiko put the breather back on straight, looked into those pools of bloodshot red. There was something familiar about this—a nagging déjà-vu sitting beside her splitting headache. The lotus scent made her think of her father, long nights sitting by the— “Masaru-san sends his love,” the little man said.
“… What?”
“Kitsune Masaru. The Black Fox of Shima. He sends you his love.”
Yukiko scowled, anger flaring in her breast. “My father’s dead.”
“I know. I see him often, in my travels.”
“What the hells are you talking about?”
“Exactly,” the little man breathed.
“He’s a godsdamned madman,” Michi growled. “This is a waste of time.”
“I see your uncle too, Michi-chan.” The Inquisitor’s bloody gaze flickered to the girl. “Still bleeding from the cross-shaped cut in his belly. He wanders the dark, calling for his wife and children.” A small shake of his head. “They never come.”
Michi’s eyes were wide, her voice a whisper. “… What did you say?”
The little man’s eyes were affixed on the empty air just above Michi’s shoulder.
“Oh … look…”
Ginjiro’s fist slammed into his belly, bending him double. The samurai hauled him back up into another fistful, a smoke-filled sputter underscoring the whine of Ginjiro’s ō-yoroi.
“Enough lies,” the general growled. “You speak when you’re spoken to. You answer the questions we ask. One unwanted word and I rip this mask off and leave you down here in the dark to scream yourself to sleep, understand?”
The little man straightened with a wince, exhaled a ragged sigh. “Perfectly.”
Ginjiro nodded to Misaki.
“What is your name?” she asked.
“Inquisitors have no names, sister.”
“Amongst yourselves. What do they call you?”
“They do not call me. They call Her.”
Another punch from Ginjiro. The little man rocked sideways, blood trickling from his ear. He started chuckling, as if remembering some long-forgotten joke.
“Her?” Misaki frowned. “Who is her?”
The Inquisitor caught hold of himself, laughter dying on his lips. “You will see.”
The punch lifted him off his feet, a fine red spray mingling with the smoke, gurgling and wet as he inhaled. He sagged like a broken toy in the samurai’s arms.
“Ginjiro-san,” Yukiko warned, “you’re going to kill him.”
“It’s all right,” the little man wheezed. “I end here, I think…”
“The tattoo on your arm,” Misaki said. “What does it mean? Are you Serpent clan?”
“The Serpent clan is dead. Food for Foxes.”
“Do you control the First Bloom? Do you control the Guild? What do you want?”
“Nothing. We want nothing at all.”
Misaki looked to Yukiko, shook her head. Michi still stared at the Inquisitor, eyes wide, horror etched in her expression. It felt cold in the cell, bitter and bleak. Not the shivering clean of the first snowfall. It was the cold of tombs. The chill of time and implacable, approaching death.
“Not long now,” he whispered. “A season, perhaps two. There has been enough blood, don’t you think? The little ones are already here, after all.” His eyes drifted to Yukiko’s belly. “Perhaps they can play with yours…”
Yukiko covered her stomach, backed away a step.
“Two seasons from now. Three at the most.” His eyes crinkled as if he smiled. “Your little ones will be old enough to try and run by then.”
“He’s mad,” she breathed. “Lord Izanagi save him.”
In days to come, when Yukiko thought back on that moment, she’d swear the lantern light dimmed as if someone had thrown a veil over it. The little man’s eyes widened, a sharp intake of breath through the breather. And then he screamed, awful and gut-wrenching, thrashing in the samurai’s grip as his face purpled.
“Pray for me?” he shrieked. “Pray for yourself!”
A blurring of light, an absence of breath. Yukiko blinked, certain her eyes betrayed her. Where once the little man stood, there was now only smoke. Shifting and intangible, iron manacles dropping to the floor, samurai hands closing tight on fistfuls of vapor.
Michi cried out, Misaki’s silver arms flaring wide. And in a blinking, the man stood before Yukiko, solid as the walls around them, lashing out almost too fast to see.