Jay Kristoff - Kinslayer

“Tell me you do not love me,” Ichizo said. “Tell me you do not feel something .”

“I…”

He tore the breather from his face, seized her wrists.

“Look me in the eyes and tell me you do not feel what I do. When you feel my lips on yours. When you whisper my name in the dark. Tell me there is nothing between us.”

She felt tears spilling down her cheeks. Lower lip trembling. Hands shaking as he searched desperately within her eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words would come, and her face crumpled like someone had kicked it in.

“Don’t cry…”

He kissed her eyelids, one after another, the same way he’d done when first he said “I love you.” Hands pressed to her cheeks, gentle as feathers.

“I know you,” he whispered. “Who you really are. You’re not a traitor. You’re not a Shadow. You are my lady. You are my love.”

She fell into his arms, mouth seeking his, hot with the flush of her tears.

“You are my love…”

She tasted salt as their lips touched, his body against hers. And in that brief pin-bright moment, she saw everything she thought she’d never have. A life spent in peace, far from blackened shores. A good man to share it with; a man who’d risked everything to be with her, who loved her more truly than Daichi or Kaori or Aisha ever would. A glimpse of happiness she’d long ago given up any hope of holding, here, now, in her arms, if only she could find the words to speak it.

She pressed her hands to his cheeks, running her fingers through his hair, breathing the words into his mouth.

“I’m sorry, Ichizo…”

Fingers around the golden needle holding his hair in place.

Slipping it free, quick as flies.

“I truly am…”

Sliding it up under his ear, behind the curve of his skull and into his brain. Her mouth over his to smother the gasp, the feeble, choking cry as his eyes opened to the sight of hers looking back at him, filled with tears. And his legs gave way and she caught his weight, lowering him twitching onto the bed. The mattress creaked beneath him as she pulled the needle free, leaving a tiny spot of blood on his skin.

“But I am not your lady,” she whispered. “And I am not your love.”

She slipped the needle into his heart, just to be sure. A fool’s heart, to love a girl who’d abandoned the very idea of it, too long ago now to remember.

“I am Kagé Michi.”

The key turned and the door opened wide.

The girl was dressed in a beautiful jûnihitoe, all scarlet and cream and smooth, smooth skin. Her face was powdered white, thick kohl rimmed about her eyes, a vertical stripe of cherry-red paint on her lips. She was facing to the left of the door, smiling, bowing from the knees.

“Thank you, my Lord,” she said.

The four bushimen straightened, waiting for Magistrate Ichizo to appear behind her. The girl stepped into the hallway, tiny steps hobbled by the gown’s hem, and her feet caught upon the threshold. With a small cry she lost her balance, pitched forward. Two bushimen stepped up to catch her and she straightened, arms extended, driving hair needles up under their chins before either could blink.

Quiet gurgles. Stupefied expressions. Men dropping like stones.

The other two guards cried out, hefted their nagamaki; four-foot blades of polished steel with hafts of equal length, far too long to wield in the narrow corridors of the servant’s quarters. And Michi drew two more of the long, glittering needles from her hair and stepped between them, whirling as if she danced, burying one into each man’s eye.

This is what I am.

The bushimen hit the boards like lead, limp and breathless, armor ringing on polished pine like iron bells tolling the changing of the hours. The air was stained with the stink of blood and urine. She lifted her chin, closed her eyes and breathed deep.

This is where I belong.

Scanning the corridor, she grabbed each corpse and dragged it into her bedroom, struggling with the weight. Blood wiped from the floorboards with a scarlet tabard, staining golden tigers red. Hefting one of the nagamaki, she rucked up the outer layer of her jûnihitoe and slit the eleven layers underneath, all the way up to her thighs. She wiped the needles clean, reinserted them into her hair, staring at her reflection in the looking glass. Finally the face of the girl she knew—the vacuous, servile mask torn away and left bleeding on the floor.

In the distance she heard a low roar, a rumbling that shook the earth. Looking through her tiny window, she saw flames lighting the sky, daubed upon the clouds in clumsy, orange strokes. She heard faint cries. Iron bells. Running feet. Looking around the room at the bodies, slowly cooling, these men who had thought her a mouse. A fool. A whore.

She smiled.

And picking up the box Ichizo had brought her, now lighter than it had been before, she stepped into the corridor and locked the door behind her.

There comes a point where the bite of cracked ribs amidst every breath, the searing kiss of salt in fresh wounds, or the throb of bamboo shards beneath your fingernails makes you want to sing. Where any absence of new pain feels for one delirious moment like the greatest gift you’ve ever received, and it seems you should blubber thanks through swollen lips at the men who’ve stopped hurting you, if only for that wonderful, shining moment. Where the thought of one more blow, one more second of fresh agony becomes so terrifying you’ll say anything, do anything to avoid it.

But the boy wasn’t there yet.

“Whoresons.” Bloody drool spilled over his lips, gathering below his chin to drip onto the floor. “Whoresons, the both of you.”

Seimi stepped into the dim light, licking the yellowed rubble lodged in his gums. The yakuza’s face was calm, spotted with stray flecks of blood.

“How did you know where the money was being taken?” His tone was that of a man asking for the daily specials, or directions to the sky-docks. “How did you know where we were moving it?”

“Your father told me.” A ragged, bubbling gasp. “When he was done swallowing.”

Seimi grinned, sipped a cup of red saké with rock-steady hands. Hida stood by the doorway, arms folded, scratching at one cauliflower ear. A lukewarm bottle of liquor sat on a table beside a collection of tools; a hammer, pliers, tin snips, blades of varying lengths. A stained rag. A handful of bamboo slivers. Five bloody toenails.

The boy was naked save for his trousers, wrists bound with thick rope, suspended from a hook in the ceiling just long enough for his toes to touch concrete. His ankles were chained to the floor, a lonely globe casting a circle of pale light on bloodstained ground.

Seimi hefted the hammer. Its claw head was dull, rusted iron, the wooden handle grubby and unfinished. He patted his palm with the business end and sat crossed-legged in front of the boy, smiling up into swollen eyes.

“Where’s your friend? The one with the iron-thrower?”

“Your mother’s house.”

“What’s his name?”

“She’s never asked. She doesn’t talk with her mouth full.”

Seimi looked over his shoulder and smiled at Hida, shook his head. He grasped the boy’s ankle with his left hand, lifted the hammer with his right. The boy curled his toes up instinctively, breath coming quicker. Teeth gritted. Muscles taut. Sweat rolling through the bloodstains and glazing his lips a watery red.