Read Online Senshi (A Katana Novel) by Cole Gibsen - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Cole Gibsen
Tags: Fiction, Young Adult Fiction, Japan, Young Adult, teen, Samurai, teen fiction, warrior, Reincarnation, youth fiction, supernatrual, kunoichi, ninja, senior year
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blink at her. It hadn’t occurred to me that she’d been trying so hard to be my friend. The shame of not noticing washed over me in a hot wave. “Cut it out, Michelle.” I gave her a playful bump with my hip. “If you make me cry they’ll revoke my samurai club membership.”
She grinned and bumped me back. “If they do, we’ll kick their ass.”
“Or worse—have Braden give them a neck massage.”
Laughing, we climbed into her car and, for the first time in months, I actually felt like a normal teenager. We sang along with Michelle’s iPod, took pictures of each other with our phones, and laughed until we approached my building.
Then the laughter died on my tongue.
He was standing across the street, half-bathed in the shadows cast by the streetlights. Waiting.
“Stop!” I screamed.
Michelle slammed on the brakes as I fumbled with my seatbelt. She called out to me as I pushed out the door but I ignored her. I had to get to him. Had to prove that he wasn’t a figment of my imagination.
But no sooner had I stepped out onto the street than a horn blared, freezing me in place. I had only an instant to come to my senses and throw myself back on the sidewalk before a Metrobus would have mowed me down. I turned my head away from the bus and braced against the backdraft that whipped my hair into my face. When it passed, I scrambled to my feet and readied myself to weave across the busy intersection. But as I looked for a gap in the coming traffic, my eyes went back to the place where the guy had stood doing who-knows-what. Watching? Waiting? I guessed it didn’t matter.
Because he was no longer there.
I leaned against a street sign for support and a chance to steady my breathing.
Whitley was gone—if he’d even been there at all.
13
T he doorman, a kindly looking man with fluffy white hair, pushed open the heavy glass door and ushered me inside with a smile. He said something. I watched his lips move, but I couldn’t hear the words over the pounding of my heart.
I smiled and nodded, hoping that was an appropriate response, and kept walking. What was wrong with me? Was I going crazy? It was the second time I’d seen Whitley
—or a guy that looked a lot like him—within a month. I didn’t know what to make of that. I didn’t believe in coincidences, but I didn’t believe in ghosts, either.
The frigid temperature in the lobby—or the mausoleum, as I liked to call it—was cold enough to sting. I hugged my arms across my body to ward off chills as I raced across the polished granite floor to the elevators. My temples throbbed as a stress headache built behind my eyes. Awesome. The perfect ending for the day from hell.
One of the elevators opened with a ding and I darted inside. After the doors closed, I pushed the twelfth-floor button and waited. As the elevator ascended, I stared at the reflection of myself distorted by the steel doors. The girl that stared back was thinner than me, pale, with black eyes and bones that twisted in inhuman waves. As I studied the ghostly version of myself, I couldn’t help but think about how close I’d come to actual death. It had only been four months since Whitley—the reincarnated version of my samurai nemesis Zeami—had nearly succeeded in killing me. In turn, I’d left him pinned to my wall with his own shuriken as the house burned down around him. If he wasn’t dead—and that was a long shot—I could only imagine how pissed off he would be.
This time my shivers were not from the cold.
I folded my arms across my chest and watched the floor numbers change on the digital screen. As soon as an eleven appeared on the digital screen above the buttons, the elevator shuddered and I reached out to grasp the handrail to keep from falling to the floor.
“Of course,” I muttered. The stupid elevators were always breaking down. And today I was lucky enough to be inside of one when it happened. At least I was only a floor away from home.
The elevator
She grinned and bumped me back. “If they do, we’ll kick their ass.”
“Or worse—have Braden give them a neck massage.”
Laughing, we climbed into her car and, for the first time in months, I actually felt like a normal teenager. We sang along with Michelle’s iPod, took pictures of each other with our phones, and laughed until we approached my building.
Then the laughter died on my tongue.
He was standing across the street, half-bathed in the shadows cast by the streetlights. Waiting.
“Stop!” I screamed.
Michelle slammed on the brakes as I fumbled with my seatbelt. She called out to me as I pushed out the door but I ignored her. I had to get to him. Had to prove that he wasn’t a figment of my imagination.
But no sooner had I stepped out onto the street than a horn blared, freezing me in place. I had only an instant to come to my senses and throw myself back on the sidewalk before a Metrobus would have mowed me down. I turned my head away from the bus and braced against the backdraft that whipped my hair into my face. When it passed, I scrambled to my feet and readied myself to weave across the busy intersection. But as I looked for a gap in the coming traffic, my eyes went back to the place where the guy had stood doing who-knows-what. Watching? Waiting? I guessed it didn’t matter.
Because he was no longer there.
I leaned against a street sign for support and a chance to steady my breathing.
Whitley was gone—if he’d even been there at all.
13
T he doorman, a kindly looking man with fluffy white hair, pushed open the heavy glass door and ushered me inside with a smile. He said something. I watched his lips move, but I couldn’t hear the words over the pounding of my heart.
I smiled and nodded, hoping that was an appropriate response, and kept walking. What was wrong with me? Was I going crazy? It was the second time I’d seen Whitley
—or a guy that looked a lot like him—within a month. I didn’t know what to make of that. I didn’t believe in coincidences, but I didn’t believe in ghosts, either.
The frigid temperature in the lobby—or the mausoleum, as I liked to call it—was cold enough to sting. I hugged my arms across my body to ward off chills as I raced across the polished granite floor to the elevators. My temples throbbed as a stress headache built behind my eyes. Awesome. The perfect ending for the day from hell.
One of the elevators opened with a ding and I darted inside. After the doors closed, I pushed the twelfth-floor button and waited. As the elevator ascended, I stared at the reflection of myself distorted by the steel doors. The girl that stared back was thinner than me, pale, with black eyes and bones that twisted in inhuman waves. As I studied the ghostly version of myself, I couldn’t help but think about how close I’d come to actual death. It had only been four months since Whitley—the reincarnated version of my samurai nemesis Zeami—had nearly succeeded in killing me. In turn, I’d left him pinned to my wall with his own shuriken as the house burned down around him. If he wasn’t dead—and that was a long shot—I could only imagine how pissed off he would be.
This time my shivers were not from the cold.
I folded my arms across my chest and watched the floor numbers change on the digital screen. As soon as an eleven appeared on the digital screen above the buttons, the elevator shuddered and I reached out to grasp the handrail to keep from falling to the floor.
“Of course,” I muttered. The stupid elevators were always breaking down. And today I was lucky enough to be inside of one when it happened. At least I was only a floor away from home.
The elevator
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