Their mother would sometimes sing to them in a voice as bright as the sun, and their father would look up from sharpening his blades or crafting his snares and stare, as if she were some magical thing he’d caught in his nets that might turn and escape at any moment. And then he would smile at her, and say that the Heavens should have been named Naomi.
Their mother would smile at his flattery, and kiss his lips even as she chided him for his blasphemy. She was old-blooded Kitsune, a true daughter of foxes. Hair of raven black, skin of smooth alabaster, the kami spirits of the Iishi Mountains flowing in her veins.
The same spirits that flowed in the blood of her children.
Yukiko had discovered it first, playing with their old scent-hound Buruu by the stream when they were six years old. She had stared into the dog’s eyes and felt the world falling away beneath her feet. And suddenly she was inside him, could hear the feelings and colors in his head, sense the overload of scent: wild azaleas and sakura-cherries, the moist earth, her own fresh sweat on her skin. She felt his simple joy at being with her, knowing he was hers and she was his, rollicking with her brother on the bank, tail wagging.
My pack. My boy. My girl. Love.
He barked at her, tongue lolling from his mouth.
Happy.
She closed her eyes and pushed her thoughts into his mind: that she was happy too, that she would love him always. He padded up to her and stared into her eyes, then slobbered around her face with his big pink tongue. She laughed and rolled onto her back, Buruu nuzzling her with his cold, wet nose as she giggled, throwing her arms around his neck. She sat on the grass beside Satoru and showed him how, holding his hand and reaching out with their minds to touch the hound’s, and Buruu barked and ran in circles, his tail a blur for his joy as his thoughts sang in their minds.
Happy.
The twins laughed and ran their hands along his flanks.
Love you. Love you both.
Their father had been fearful, angry that the gods had touched his children with the strange gift. He was afraid of what others would do if they knew. His children were fox-touched—yōkai-kin—and even here in Kitsune lands, suspicion and fear of the unknown had risen in the wake of the Guildsmen and their campaign against “impurity.”
The taint of the spirit world must be purged from Shima, or so spoke the Guild Purifiers. Lord Izanagi had cleansed himself of the underworld’s stain, and from the waters he bathed in were birthed three children: Amaterasu, Goddess of the Sun, Tsukiyomi, God of the Moon and Susano-ō, God of Storms. So too would the islands of Shima transcend if its people were to purify the taint that infected their collective bloodstream. The elemental kami spirits, the yōkai beasts, these were things of the Otherworld. Not the province of men. An infection to be carved out. A withered limb to be amputated and cauterized by blessed flame.
“You must keep it secret,” Masaru urged his children. “It is a gift, hai, but it is not one to be squandered, nor extinguished on some fanatic’s pyre. Tell nobody. Not even the wind himself.”
Their mother was less afraid, encouraging them to learn, to walk in the forest and listen to the minds of the birds and beasts. The twins would take Buruu with them, stalking silently, feeling ahead with the Kenning for the faint flutters of life, the rapid, shallow thoughts of the small warmbloods fleeing at their approach, their numbers dwindling every day.
Together. Their pack. Her brothers by her side, swimming in each other’s minds among the brilliant green, wishing it would be that way forever, that it would never, ever end.
But of course, it did.
The Thunder Child plowed north through fields of burgundy cloud, buffeted by the gentle hands of the summer breeze. Its propellers hummed, gears and pistons singing a metallic dirge as it vomited streams of poison into the Shima skies. The stink of burning chi was ever present; no matter where Yukiko sought refuge topside, it followed her like a reeking shadow. Below deck, the stench made her want to puke.
Standing at the bow seemed to offer the most relief, so she crouched against the wooden railing, kerchief tied around her face, goggles over her eyes, as unobtrusive as possible. Captain Yamagata stood beside her, one boot on the prow, breather strapped on tight, mirrored lenses reflecting the horizon.
Kasumi and Akihito were seated close by, triple checking the gear: vast hemp lines looped beneath the barrels of gas-driven net-throwers, vials of blacksleep loaded into the hollow centers of hypodermic bolts. The big man was sharpening the curved edges of four elegant nagamaki—two-handed swords with hafts as long as their blades. The weapons were crafted from folded steel, dark patterns rippling on the metal like the grain in polished wood, the long hilts wrapped in cord of deep scarlet. Each blade bore the mark of the master Phoenix artisan, Fushicho Hatori, reputedly the finest swordsmith of the late Shōgun’s court.