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?”