The men laughed and proceeded down a rocky slope along a rough, almost invisible track. Buruu found the going so difficult that he was forced to glide down to the valley floor on his maimed wings. He waited below, eyes upturned, fretting as he paced back and forth.
“I have never seen the like of him,” Kaiji shook his head. “We thought them extinct.”
Yukiko shrugged.
“I could have said the same thing about oni until a few days ago.”
“You have seen oni? Where?”
“North. Above this ridge. There was a temple, I think. Dedicated to Lady Izanami, the Dark Mother. We killed five of them altogether.”
“Aiya,” breathed Kaiji. “So many . . .”
“What happened to its wings?” Isao interrupted. “Why can’t it fly?”
Yukiko noted the sudden change in topic. Wary of revealing too much to the strangers, she feigned indifference to the boy’s question.
“Our ship was commissioned by the Shōgun. The court Hunt Master was aboard with us, commanded to catch the beast. When it became enraged, he clipped its wings to break its spirit.”
“Masaru, the Black Fox?” asked Kaiji.
Yukiko nodded slowly.
“Desecration.” The man shook his head. “No wonder Raijin tore you from the skies. To treat his offspring so . . .”
Isao muttered under his breath, hands curled into fists. Buruu rejoined them at the bottom of the rocky slope. The arashitora stared at the men with open suspicion, purring as Yukiko ran a reassuring hand over the back of his neck. They made their way further into the forest, Yukiko stumbling in her weariness, eyelids heavy as the world became a dark, whispering haze.
Buruu’s thoughts snapped her from her reverie.
MORE MEN. MANY. I SMELL STEEL.
Be ready for anything.
Shapes dropped from the trees in front and behind, clad in gray and green that tricked the eyes, melting into the forest around them. They were masked, faces hidden by thick sashes and hoods, only their eyes exposed. Split-toed tabi socks made barely a whisper across the dead leaves. Each was armed; bo staves, short tonfa clubs, kusarigama sickles, all tense and ready. Buruu dug his claws into the earth, growl building and bubbling out of his throat.
“Hold, Kaori.” Kaiji held up his hand. “These ones have spilled oni blood.”
A short figure swathed head-to-foot in gray-green stepped from the shadows, an exquisitely crafted wakizashi held poised to strike. The sword’s blade was perhaps two feet long, curved and single-edged, dark ripples flowing in the steel. The scabbard at the figure’s waist was black lacquer, golden cranes taking flight down its length. Yukiko couldn’t see the maker’s mark, but had no doubt it was the work of a master artisan.
“Do I walk sleeping, Kaiji-san?” The figure’s voice was female, low and smoky. “Or do you walk with an arashitora beside you?”
“No dream,” Kaiji shook his head. “A miracle, perhaps. The arashitora is called Buruu. The girl is Yukiko. They are comrades in arms, slayers of five oni.”
Yukiko felt a multitude of eyes on her, instinctively stepping closer to Buruu’s side. He unfurled a wing, curled it about her. The handle of her tantō was cool in her grip, slippery with sweat. She could sense him in her mind, reaching out across the Kenning and absorbing the conversation. It was true that he couldn’t really understand their words. He was discovering meaning through her; a filter processing the tumbling jabber of monkey noises into colors and impressions and images he could comprehend. His muscles were tense, and that tension flowed back into her; hands curled into fists, the sharp tang of adrenalin on the back of her tongue.
The woman stepped closer, and Yukiko tried to stifle a gasp as she took off her mask. She was in her early twenties, possessed of the kind of beauty that inspired poets; the kind that a man might happily murder his own brother to taste for a single heartbeat. Porcelain skin, high cheekbones, full lips, waves of blue-black velvet falling past her chin, glinting with a moonlight sheen. Her eyes were the color of water reflected across polished steel. But the scar ruined it all. Angry red, bone deep, it ran in a diagonal line from her forehead, cutting down across her nose to a jagged conclusion at her chin.
Knife work.
“Yukiko-chan.” The woman covered her fist with her palm and bowed slightly. She tossed her head, her long diagonal fringe spilling down to cover the worst of the scar.
“Kaori-chan.” Yukiko repeated the bow and covered fist.