Kinslayer (The Lotus War #2)

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.”

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