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.
“Do you play?” Daichi asked.
“Play?”
Daichi nodded to the chessboard on the table. It was a marvelous set, obsidian and jade, each figure carved in intricate detail. The dark pieces were Yomi horrors; hungry dead and bone dragons and oni, led by Enma-ō and Lady Izanami upon thrones of skulls. The light pieces were the likenesses of heavenly celestials; Raijin and his drums, Susano-ō and his Grasscutter Sword, Amaterasu the Sun Goddess and Tsukiyomi the Moon Father. The Emperor, of course, was Lord Izanagi, the Maker God. The board was stained oak and pine, tiles inlaid with mother-of-pearl. The seal of a Phoenix artisan was embossed in one corner.
“It’s beautiful,” Kin said.
“One of the few pieces of my old life I carried with me.” Daichi’s voice was somber. “That, my swords, my daughter, and my regrets.”
“You were Iron Samurai once.”
“To my everlasting shame,” Daichi sighed. “Though we may shed our skins, the stains of our pasts dwell as deep as our bones.”
Kin stared at the board, saying nothing.
“So,” Daichi said. “Do you play?”
“I play. Although I’m not very good.”
“Much can be learned by defeat.” Daichi knelt by the board, tea in hand, gestured to the other side. “Sometimes there is no finer sensei under heaven than a boot to the throat.”