This is it. Our chance. Help me, brother.
“What are you—”
A gasp, eyes wide, mouth open in shock. Yoritomo moaned, pain registering at the base of his skull and spreading bloody fingers throughout his synapses.
The shape of his mind was slippery, alien, not at all like the mind of a beast. Yukiko felt it sliding away, her rage not hot enough to maintain her grip, a serpent slithering between her fingers. And then, someone was beside her, inside her, anger entwining with her own. A familiar warmth, a strength that lifted her up and carried her on his shoulders high above the ground, the whole world at her feet. Together they pressed down, using the hate, the rage, seizing hold and wrenching from side to side, gray matter running to pulp in their grip.
Yoritomo staggered away, a shapeless gurgle spilling from his lips as his ears started to bleed. He put one hand up to his brow, pawing at his temple, hemorrhaging turning the whites of his eyes a dark, cloudy scarlet. The iron-thrower wavered in his grip. He blinked. Gasped. Squeezed the trigger.
A muzzle flash. A burst of sound. A voice roaring her name. A hard shove, something heavy slamming into her from behind. A metallic breeze whispering past her cheek, so close she could feel its heat. Hear its hiss. She was falling. She was weightless.
The little boy cried out in horror.
The Shōgun collapsed on the ground, blood pouring from his nose and ears and eyes. He spasmed, spine arching, heels kicking at the stone. Fingernails clawing at the sky, lips peeling back from bloody teeth. They wrapped their hands together and strangled until nothing remained inside him, darkness fading away into a whimper as the Ninth Shōgun of the Kazumitsu Dynasty folded down upon himself and ended on the ash-covered stone.
Blinking, gasping, she came to her senses. The presence inside her head receded like an ebb-tide, leaving her hollow and empty in its wake. She reached out toward Buruu, felt him speeding closer, but still too far away.
Then who . . .
There was blood on the cobbles around her, blood on her skinned hands and knees. The smell of the shot hanging in the air. Someone had shoved her, pushed her out of the way. Someone . . .
She turned, saw him writhing on the stone, sticky red spilling from his mouth and the hole in his throat.
No.
She crawled toward him, a scream tearing loose and echoing across the square.
“Father!”
A roar from the skies, a typhoon wail. The soldiers looked up and cried out in fear, scattering as Buruu landed atop Yoritomo’s corpse, smearing it across his claws and shattering the flagstones beneath. He spread his wings, lightning flashing on his feathers, electricity dancing across the manacles on the Burning Stones. White fur, black stripes and spatters of warm, fresh red. The bushimen fell back as he circled around Yukiko and Masaru, roaring again in warning.
The thunder echoed the beast’s cry. Raijin was pleased.
Kin descended from the sky in a cloud of burning smoke, blue-white flame flaring at his back as the crowd scattered out of his path. Roaring at the soldiers to back away, he landed beside the arashitora, brass boots crunching on the cobbles. Anguish welled in knife-bright eyes as he caught sight of the girl kneeling over the bleeding body of her father. She looked up at him, eyes shining with tears, pale with grief.
“Kin.” Her throat was raw, choking. “Help me with him.”
Face drawn with sorrow, he helped Yukiko lift Masaru onto the thunder tiger’s shoulders. A ribbon of blood spilled from the older man’s mouth, spattered across the cobbles, smeared on the Guildsman’s skin. A murmur rippled among the spectators, watching in amazement as Yukiko leaped on Buruu’s back.
Fly, Buruu. Fly!
A collective gasp ran through the crowd as the beast leaped into the air. People pointed in wonder, eyes wide, blessed with a story to tell their children.
“Stormdancer,” one whispered.
A gale swelled beneath Buruu’s wings as the ground fell away below them. They spiraled upward on Kigen’s thermals, up into the rumbling sky. The buildings became toys, and the people became ants: tiny dark figures gathered around the blackened pillars and a small spot of blood, staring skyward. The ocean stretched out to the south, red waters melting into deeper scarlet, the wind caressing their skin.
Yukiko cradled her father in her arms, rocking him back and forth. Her hands were soaking wet; dark, hot floods gushing from his neck as she pressed down on the wound.
“Father,” she whispered. “No, please, no.”
She clutched him, desperate, hot tears and blood smudged across her cheeks, her whole body shaking with the sobs. Masaru opened his mouth but no words would come, thick red bubbling and bursting on his lips. He clutched a handful of the arashitora’s fur, white knuckles, trembling hands. He pressed his fingers to the beast’s flesh, reached out for his warmth in the growing cold, the spark to keep the dark at bay.