back to Yukiko.
“Rise, daughter of foxes.” The command was given with a smile, as if she hadn’t been a breath away from decapitation moments before. “You have work to do.”
The Shōgun turned back to Masaru, a dangerous glint in his eye. “A daughter with courage is a blessing to her father’s house.”
“Thank you, great Lord.” Masaru dropped to his knees again and bowed.
“Do not fail me, Black Fox. I have no wish to take more from you than I already have.”
“. . . No, Lord. Of course not.”
“Then good hunting, Masaru- san. Bring me back my arashitora.”
He gave a cursory nod to Captain Yamagata, then spun on his heel and strode back to his rickshaw, scruffing the puppy’s ears.
“The lotus must bloom,” he added, almost as an afterthought.
Yukiko rose on trembling legs beneath the Iron Samurai’s gaze. She met his stare as he unclasped his oni mask and swung the faceplate aside. He was terribly young for a samurai; barely seventeen, if she had to guess. High cheekbones and a strong jaw, tipped with a small pointed goatee, smooth skin the color of polished bronze. His eyes were a dazzling green, deep and sparkling like paintings of the great northern seas. He was smiling at her.
“That was very brave, Lady.”
Yukiko stared, her tongue somewhere in her sandals.
Gods, he’s gorgeous . . .
The samurai pulled off his gauntlet and ran his thumb across the now silent blades of his sword, leaving behind a thin smear of red on the patterned steel. He wiped the blood on his golden tabard, then slid the katana into its enameled sheath with the sound of a cicada’s wings.
“Once drawn, it must taste blood.” His eyes sparkled like creamy jade. “I am glad it was not yours, daughter of foxes.”
He bowed, slipped his gauntlet on and lumbered back to his place in line. At a signal from the choir mistress, the children took up their song again, and the entire pro cession rolled out, kicking up clouds of acrid dust. Roiling plumes of blue-black smoke spewed from the motor-rickshaws and spattered the goggles of the assembled mob. The footsteps of the bushimen were a thundering percussion beneath the vibrance of the choir, accompanied by a lotus engine growl.
As the entourage departed, many of the crowd turned curious eyes on Yukiko, their murmurs filling the air like cricket song.
Akihito stood, wiped dirty sweat from his brow. “Beards of the hungry dead. Are you mad, little fox? They could’ve—”
“Not now.” Kasumi gave the big man a shove. “Let’s just get aboard.”
“Hai.” Yamagata cast a wary glance among the hunters. “Time we were away.”
The trio climbed aboard the elevator, platform creaking in its corroded couplings. Yamagata lifted the hydraulic control from its rusted hook, looked at Masaru expectantly.
“Are you coming, Hunt Master?”
Yukiko’s gaze was focused on the boot prints at her feet. She dared a glance up at her father and was met with a furious stare, unblinking, bloodshot eyes. His hands were fists by his side, muscles over-clocked, shaking with anger.
“Masaru- sama . . .” Kasumi’s tone was gentle.
“We’re coming,” he growled, breaking the stare and stalking toward the elevator.
Yukiko joined him on the gantry, hands clasped and gaze downturned. She could feel her father’s eyes on the back of her neck, a thin trickle of sweat running down her spine.
She watched the Shōgun’s silk parade stomp off into the haze.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
7 Thunder Child
Yukiko and Satoru had always been close, even for twins. Each seemed to know what the other was thinking without ever saying a word. They loved to sit together on nights when their father was home, listening to his tales as the wind whispered through the bamboo and the cedar logs crackled and the fire filled their little house with comforting, ruddy warmth.
With a soft, sad voice, he would tell the legends of the henge and yōkai spirit beasts; the great sea dragons and thunder tigers now long gone
“Rise, daughter of foxes.” The command was given with a smile, as if she hadn’t been a breath away from decapitation moments before. “You have work to do.”
The Shōgun turned back to Masaru, a dangerous glint in his eye. “A daughter with courage is a blessing to her father’s house.”
“Thank you, great Lord.” Masaru dropped to his knees again and bowed.
“Do not fail me, Black Fox. I have no wish to take more from you than I already have.”
“. . . No, Lord. Of course not.”
“Then good hunting, Masaru- san. Bring me back my arashitora.”
He gave a cursory nod to Captain Yamagata, then spun on his heel and strode back to his rickshaw, scruffing the puppy’s ears.
“The lotus must bloom,” he added, almost as an afterthought.
Yukiko rose on trembling legs beneath the Iron Samurai’s gaze. She met his stare as he unclasped his oni mask and swung the faceplate aside. He was terribly young for a samurai; barely seventeen, if she had to guess. High cheekbones and a strong jaw, tipped with a small pointed goatee, smooth skin the color of polished bronze. His eyes were a dazzling green, deep and sparkling like paintings of the great northern seas. He was smiling at her.
“That was very brave, Lady.”
Yukiko stared, her tongue somewhere in her sandals.
Gods, he’s gorgeous . . .
The samurai pulled off his gauntlet and ran his thumb across the now silent blades of his sword, leaving behind a thin smear of red on the patterned steel. He wiped the blood on his golden tabard, then slid the katana into its enameled sheath with the sound of a cicada’s wings.
“Once drawn, it must taste blood.” His eyes sparkled like creamy jade. “I am glad it was not yours, daughter of foxes.”
He bowed, slipped his gauntlet on and lumbered back to his place in line. At a signal from the choir mistress, the children took up their song again, and the entire pro cession rolled out, kicking up clouds of acrid dust. Roiling plumes of blue-black smoke spewed from the motor-rickshaws and spattered the goggles of the assembled mob. The footsteps of the bushimen were a thundering percussion beneath the vibrance of the choir, accompanied by a lotus engine growl.
As the entourage departed, many of the crowd turned curious eyes on Yukiko, their murmurs filling the air like cricket song.
Akihito stood, wiped dirty sweat from his brow. “Beards of the hungry dead. Are you mad, little fox? They could’ve—”
“Not now.” Kasumi gave the big man a shove. “Let’s just get aboard.”
“Hai.” Yamagata cast a wary glance among the hunters. “Time we were away.”
The trio climbed aboard the elevator, platform creaking in its corroded couplings. Yamagata lifted the hydraulic control from its rusted hook, looked at Masaru expectantly.
“Are you coming, Hunt Master?”
Yukiko’s gaze was focused on the boot prints at her feet. She dared a glance up at her father and was met with a furious stare, unblinking, bloodshot eyes. His hands were fists by his side, muscles over-clocked, shaking with anger.
“Masaru- sama . . .” Kasumi’s tone was gentle.
“We’re coming,” he growled, breaking the stare and stalking toward the elevator.
Yukiko joined him on the gantry, hands clasped and gaze downturned. She could feel her father’s eyes on the back of her neck, a thin trickle of sweat running down her spine.
She watched the Shōgun’s silk parade stomp off into the haze.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
7 Thunder Child
Yukiko and Satoru had always been close, even for twins. Each seemed to know what the other was thinking without ever saying a word. They loved to sit together on nights when their father was home, listening to his tales as the wind whispered through the bamboo and the cedar logs crackled and the fire filled their little house with comforting, ruddy warmth.
With a soft, sad voice, he would tell the legends of the henge and yōkai spirit beasts; the great sea dragons and thunder tigers now long gone
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