turned to the bushiman captain, drawing slowly on his pipe as the man met his
stare. The lotus in the tiger’s mouth flared bright, reflected in tired, bloodshot
eyes.
“Bring me the girl alive.”
The dragon uncoiled upon his tongue. “Kill the others.”
The Iron Samurai fanned out around the periphery of the arena floor, weapons drawn and ready, all growling teeth and rumbling motors. They glared out from behind their horned oni masks, the black enamel on their ō-yoroi gleaming a bloody scarlet in the light of the smothered sun. Buruu roared in warning, setting the iron plates squealing. The air was filled with static electricity, broken fingers of blue current running along the iridescent skeleton of his wings. He set his eyes on Kin, ready to end the boy for his betrayal.
“Kin, how could you do this to us?” Yukiko demanded.
“What?” A whisper.
“How could you tell them?”
“. . . You think I betrayed you?”
“How else did they find out?”
“I gave you my word.” Wounded eyes. Voice catching in his throat. “I gave
Buruu his wings. I would never betray you, Yukiko. Never.” Yukiko blinked, breathing hard, searching that knife-bright stare and finding only truth. She glanced back at Buruu, ashamed of her suspicion, unable to look Kin in the face. At that moment, she realized the boy had risked everything for them. He had discovered the truth about Hiro, known that she had deceived him. Despite all of that, he had stayed true to his promise.
But if it wasn’t Kin who betrayed them . . .
THE SISTER.
“Aisha?” Yukiko frowned at the Shōgun.
Yoritomo sneered, wiped one hand across the bloody gouges on his cheek. “No, my sister refused to betray you. And still she dared beg for mercy. His
eyes danced with the memory. “She found none.”
Bloody fingers curled into a fist.
“Nor will you.”
Yukiko swallowed.
“Then how did you know?”
The Iron Samurai standing next to Yoritomo reached into the folds of his jinhaori. He hurled a small, glittering object across the arena floor, bouncing and skidding to rest amidst the dirty straw. Kin’s gift: the tiny, mechanical arashitora.
“Little escapes the attention of Minister Hideo,” Yoritomo smiled. “Or his spies. Lord Hiro was most eager to make amends for his failure after your first round of treachery.”
Yukiko narrowed her eyes, sucking in a long, trembling breath. “Hiro?”
“So pretty on the outside.” The Iron Samurai’s voice sounded hollow and
breathless within his oni helm. His eyes were green glass. Empty, flat mirrors. “But inside you’re black and rotten. A liar and a whore. Kitsune trash.” She took a step back, as if he’d struck her.
Buruu growled and dug his claws into the floor, flagstones cracking to rubble. GIVE HIM NOTHING. HE DESERVES EVEN LESS.
“Kitsune trash is good enough for a Tora samurai to lay down with though,
right? Good enough to sleep with to get what you need?” She shook her head,
her voice a low hiss. “You’re the whore, Hiro. Living your whole life on your
knees, never once looking up from your master’s shadow to see what’s happening to the people around you. Serving a throne that fills its land with ashes and
its children with cancer.”
Yoritomo laughed, slapping Hiro on the broad, flat spaulder covering his
shoulder.
“She still has some spirit, eh? Peasant fire?”
“And you?” Yukiko turned on the Shōgun. “You make a wasteland and call
it an empire. You’re a parasite. A leech, bloated with the blood of your people.”
She spat on the ground at his feet. “Baby killer.”
Yoritomo’s smile died on his lips. He slowly drew his katana from its scabbard: three feet of gleaming steel, patterns of light rippling across the metal
like sunlight on rushing water. He levelled the blade at Yukiko’s head. “Leave the arashitora alive,” he growled. “Kill the others.”