The Shōgun snarled, cheeks flushed with blood. He took a few deep, calming breaths, clenching and unclenching his fists. Yukiko could see the tension in Hideo’s stance, the nervous glances between the samurai at their Lord’s growing rage. Yoritomo closed his eyes and breathed deep, blotches of color fading on his cheeks. Finally, he gritted his teeth and nodded.
“So be it.” He opened his eyes and glared. “You will break this beast, get it accustomed to the notion of a rider, of being steered with bit and bridle. When the Artificers have completed my saddle, we will begin training. You will stay in the palace, one of my Elite will accompany you at all times.” His tone became darker, edged with steel. “I remind you that your father is still imprisoned in the dungeons. Should you fail in this task, you will not be the only one to suffer for it.”
COWARD.
“May I see him, great Lord?”
Yoritomo seemed surprised by the request. He stared at her for a long, pregnant moment, drumming his fingertips on the hilt of his katana.
“Very well,” he finally nodded, turning to the green-eyed samurai. “Hirosan, you will be the Lady Yukiko’s escort while she is our guest. Should any trouble come to her, or because of her, you will pay the forfeit. Is this clear?”
“Hai!” The samurai strode to Yukiko’s side and bowed to his Lord, palm over fist.
Yukiko realized the Shōgun was watching her, something unpleasant coiled in his eyes. As she met his stare, he let it linger a minute longer, drifting down to her throat, over her breasts. She felt naked and exposed in her tattered clothing, folding her arms and turning her eyes back to the floor.
“It is settled,” he nodded. “Visit your father, then Hirosan will show you to your quarters. Your desire is his command. I will check in occasionally to monitor your . . . progress.”
“As you say, great Lord.”
Yukiko covered her fist and gave a deep bow. The Shōgun replaced his respirator, collar folding over his throat with a small, metallic hymn. Spinning on his heel, he stalked from the pit, red silk billowing behind him. His retinue fell into step after him, heavy metal tread cracking on the stone. Faint trails of chi fumes twisted through the air in their wake, weaving among each other and drifting up into the red sky overhead.
How long until you begin to moult?
WEEKS. PERHAPS THREE. WHEN THE SUMMER BEGINS TO DIE.
We must keep your wings hidden while your new feathers grow in. Yoritomo must think you crippled. He must underestimate us both.
HE WILL.
Yukiko finally turned to the Iron Samurai looming over her, breath hissing through his tusks. Embossed black steel covered his body, spaulders broad and flat and studded with rivets, expression entirely hidden behind the twisted oni mask. Yukiko looked into his eyes, at those irises colored like creamy jade. Though he was the right height, she couldn’t see enough of his face to confirm her hopes. Butterflies floated through her stomach on lead-lined wings.
Is it really him?
YOU MONKEYS ARE SO STRANGE. SO MUCH FUSS OVER COUPLING.
Buruu!
WHAT? YOU WISH TO MATE WITH THIS ONE. YOU ARE OF AN AGE. THERE IS—
Gods, stop it! You’re worse than my father.
“We meet again, daughter of foxes,” the samurai said.
“It is you.”
Her pulse pounded in her veins, the memory of her dreams rising with the flush in her cheeks. She shoved them away in a dark corner of her head, barred and locked the door.
“You remember me?” A hint of a smile in his voice.
“You remember me.” She shrugged.
“How could I forget?” He covered his fist and bowed. “I am Lord Tora Hiro, sworn of the Kazumitsu Elite.”
“Kitsune Yukiko.”
“I know who you are, Lady.” The smile in his voice was unmistakable now. “It is my honor to serve you.”
BE WARY. HE SERVES THE SHōGUN FIRST AND FOREMOST. HE IS A WEAPON IN THE MACHINE.
. . . Maybe he’s not like that.
DO NOT BE BLINDED BY YOUR DESIRE TO—
Gods, if you say “couple” again I’m going to scream.
CALL IT WHAT YOU WISH, THEN.
I know what he is and who he serves. Not everyone who swears to the Shōgun is evil, Buruu. I wear Yoritomo’s irezumi on my flesh too, remember?
Buruu snorted and prowled away, lying down near the spike that kept him tethered. He heaved a great sigh through his nostrils, straw dancing off the ground, slipping and spinning through the air. The Iron Samurai watched with unashamed wonder.
“It is beautiful,” Hiro said. “Can you really hear its thoughts?”
“Hai,” she nodded, watching the Iron Samurai carefully. “I suppose that repels you.”
Hiro checked over his shoulder, ensuring they were alone.