Jimen was in the parlor, counting out his money.
Stacks of it. Piles of it. Dull gray mountains of it. Rectangular braids of iron, stamped with the imperial seal. The little accountant pored over every one, stacking them into neat towers, counting off on his antique abacus. The spoils of war and markets black, growing ever higher as any semblance of order in Kigen disintegrated, and the yakuza gangs that had long suffered under the Shōgun’s law stepped in from the dark to claim what was theirs.
The lieutenants would come and go, delivering more satchels, smelling of smoke and blood and alley sex. Jimen would barely look up from his ledgers. He supposed he could have pulled in more hands to help with the count, but the Shinshi’s trust had all but evaporated in the wake of the robberies they’d suffered last month. That filthy rat-speaker and his friends …
The boy and his sister had escaped in the chaos of the rebel attack. And though they’d be fools to return, the Gentleman had demanded security be the Scorpion Children’s watchword from here on. Thinking of the money and men they’d lost to that boy-child and his iron-thrower, Jimen couldn’t help but agree.
The hour was late, and his eyes felt full of sand. Jimen stretched and yawned, listening to the rain, looking at the mural of Lord Izanagi on the wall. The Maker God was rendered in a familiar pose; stirring the ocean of creation with his spear, Lady Izanami beside him.
Life was never simple, Jimen thought. Such was man’s fate. Even when he got what he wanted, it was seldom what he thought it would be. He could climb the tallest peak he sees, and still there would be another beyond, yet higher to climb. Only Lord Izanagi stood above all, higher than any mortal could ascend.
And even the Maker had an insane bitch of a wife to deal with …
Something moved in the shadows of the ceiling beams above, making Jimen start. The little accountant squinted at the shape and cursed, reaching for the tantō at his belt. A corpse-rat peered at him with eyes of black glass, gleaming and empty, lantern light flickering in their depths. The thing was over a foot and a half long, mangy ears, yellow teeth bunched in its mouth like an arena crowd. It snuffled the air, head tilted, blinking.
“Little bastard…” Jimen hissed. “How did you get past the baits?”
Shouts from the warehouse outside, dulled by distance and old timber. Jimen turned just as the door opened, a tattooed lump of muscle poking his head around the frame.
“Trouble,” the gangster said. “Stay here, Jimen-sama.”
The accountant flourished his knife, backed into a corner. The rat peered down at him with empty doll’s eyes, black and dead. Jimen flinched as he heard a loud boom, a man’s scream. Glancing at the knife in his hand, he set it aside, hefting a long tetsubo club sitting by the door. Four feet of studded iron, comforting and heavy in his hand. The rat on the ceiling tilted its head.
Blinked.
A second boom, then a third. Another scream, like a babe ripped from mother’s womb—the tune of an ending no man really deserved. Jimen blinked sudden sweat from his eyes, backed farther into the corner and, despite the knowledge there were a dozen of his fiercest between him and whatever “trouble” approached, found himself wishing his office had more than one exit.
The wall pressed hard against his back.
Scuffling and screaming drawing closer, beating now on the door, hinges cracking. Silence followed, dark and cold and bottomless, broken only by the soft chittering of the rat above his head, the drip-drip-drip of something thick and viscous just beyond the door. Leaking in across the landing. Gleaming dark.
The handle turned slowly.
The door opened slower still.
Eyes. A legion of eyes. Jet-dark and shining in the gloom, a hundred tiny orbs reflecting the paper lanterns. A boy stood amongst them, tall and spattered red. Ghost-pale skin and shaven head, a blood-soaked bandage over a missing ear. An iron-thrower, ugly and smoking, clutched in one white-knuckle fist. Running a slow tongue along bloodless lips.
The boy spoke, voice dripping murder. “You know who I am?”
Jimen glanced at the corpse-rat sea around the boy’s feet. “Hai.”
“The Gentleman. Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
Laughter. Grim and mirthless. Ending as suddenly as it began.
“What do I look like to you?”
“A dead man,” Jimen spat, hefting the warclub.
The boy raised his finger, blood-slicked, eyes narrowing. And the horde rippled like black swell on a midnight bay, and forth they came, open mouths and bloody teeth, a swarm from some far-flung nightmare in the days when prayers were answered and the dark had eyes and monsters were oh, so very real.
The boy stood and watched. Listened as they began to chew. Smiling soft and deadly as Jimen screamed his mother’s name, his own voice only a whisper.
“What do I look like now, motherfucker?”
*