Year of the Demon

her. There was no pain in his right hand. The stiffness in his muscles was gone, though he’d felt it only moments ago. Shichio looked at the blade and even raised a hand as if to touch it. “So beautiful,” he said.

•   •   •

It was so beautiful. The sight of the boy drawing a weapon on him should have terrified Shichio—indeed, it did terrify him, but his fright was no match for his desire for the sword. He had never felt such overwhelming need to have something for his own. Even his beloved mask paled in comparison. In fact, the mask itself wanted him to take the sword. His right hand reached out without his even willing it, desperate to touch the gleaming steel. So beautiful, he thought. He might even have said it aloud. It was hard to be sure; the sword held all of his attention.

“If you want it, you can have it,” the Bear Cub said. “All you have to do is take it from me.”

He lowered his weapon. Shichio’s gaze followed it. The sword could be his. He needed it. He’d seen it in thousands of visions. His mask wanted him to take it. The vile boy had left himself exposed. Vulnerable. Shichio reached for his katana.

A voice in his mind cried out in protest. This whelp had bested Mio, and Mio was more than a match for Shichio even if the giant were only armed with a chopstick. Shichio knew it—hated it, but knew it. He stood no chance against the Bear Cub, and yet the mask bent all his will toward that massive, magnificent sword. He was not one to believe in sorcery, but there was no doubting it now: the mask held some power over him. It was bewitched, and though Shichio did not understand the nature of its enchantment, he knew his need for the Bear Cub’s Inazuma blade was irresistible. It might well kill him, and yet he could only obey.

He hurled himself at the sword. The boy anticipated the move and stepped back. Shichio clawed out with both hands, reaching for the sword’s hilt but finding only air. The Bear Cub’s weapon soared upward, fast as an arrow. Shichio knew his head was soon to leave his shoulders.

But the boy missed. His cut fell short.

It did not strike flesh, but it did find iron. The Inazuma blade sheared off one of the mask’s fangs—just the tip of it, but it felt like it cut Shichio’s own tooth, right down to the root.

The world began to spin. The Bear Cub lost his balance and stumbled out of reach. Shichio clutched at his face. The mask bit into his palm, just where the Bear Cub’s sword had cut. The fang ended in sharp right angles now, its beautiful curves spoiled forever. And through the broken fang, Shichio could feel new power leaking into the mask.

The barest caress of the mask had always made him think of swords. Today was the first time it had ever made him crave a sword so strongly. It hungered for Inazuma steel—and now, because the boy had damaged it, he felt that hunger changing. He could not say how. He knew no more than a wave knows the shape it is destined to take when it hits the shore, but he felt the surging power of transformation.

Still huddled and clutching his face, somehow he could sense the huge Inazuma blade coming toward him. His own sword was still in its scabbard. Even if the mask hadn’t distracted him, sheer fright made him forget to draw his weapon. The Bear Cub lunged with a broad, two-handed swipe strong enough to cut a man in half. All Shichio could do was duck and hope.

•   •   •

Daigoro’s cut should have chopped Shichio in half. He had the reach. Shichio’s blade was still in its sheath. He was defenseless. And once again, Daigoro missed.

His blade sailed over Shichio’s head and sent Daigoro spinning. The blade had taken him off balance. Again. And he knew why. He wanted Shichio dead. He wanted to claim victory over this cocky son of a bitch and make House Okuma safe once and for all. Hideyoshi could not be angry: Shichio had broken every law of hospitality. If General Mio had anything to say about it, killing Shichio might earn Daigoro a general’s rank. Daigoro could outshine even his father, his greatest role model, his hero.

And for that reason, Glorious Victory Unsought would see him dead.

That was his sword’s curse: it ensured victory, but only to those who did not seek it. Daigoro had never lost a duel with live steel because he never wanted to fight. The day he wanted to win would be the day his father’s sword would make him lose. Daigoro had seen it before. Ichiro died because of it, slain in the snow on a moonlit night just like this one. Now Daigoro, standing under the moon on snow-white gravel, finally understood.

He sheathed Glorious Victory—no small feat, given her length—and it rendered him vulnerable. If Shichio were to draw on him now, Daigoro had no chance to counterstrike. But Shichio did not draw his weapon. He stumbled backward, clutching that sinister mask as if it pained him. Blood dripped from his hands, giving Daigoro the eerie impression that the mask itself was bleeding.

“It was a mistake for you to threaten me in my own home,” Daigoro said, wishing to hell that he could just cut this peacock down and be done with it. “I am well within my rights to kill you. But I won’t.”

Just saying it aloud made his heart sink. This man was a lunatic. Letting him live was dangerous. But he was also cowering and unarmed, and Daigoro had already stretched the bounds of honor by attacking him. Failing to kill him was the worst kind of embarrassment: every sentry in earshot would have moved to see what transpired in the courtyard, and none of them understood the curse and blessing of Glorious Victory Unsought. They would only see a crippled boy try to kill an unarmed man and fail.

“Go back to the safety of your regent,” he said. The words were so heavy that he thought they might crush him. “Hide under his wing, and remember the Bear Cub of Izu showed you mercy tonight.”

And with that he watched Shichio walk away, knowing full well that this was his family’s worst enemy, and that he might never have another chance to kill him.

BOOK THREE

HEISEI ERA, THE YEAR 22

(2010 CE)

16

Mariko jumped just before the oncoming car hit her in the knees.

The screech of tires on blacktop filled the air, overpowered by the stink of burning rubber. Mariko tucked and rolled just like the department’s aikido instructor taught her, somersaulting across the hood and coming down in a dead sprint.

Her quarry was ten meters ahead of her and gaining. His name was Nanami, a lanky twenty-two-year-old with frosty blond highlights in his hair, a long history of drug priors, and a distinct height advantage that left Mariko and her shorter legs struggling to keep up with him.

Adrenaline and sheer dumb luck took Nanami through four lanes of traffic without so much as a bump. Mariko’s only edge was that his mad dash had panicked oncoming drivers enough to slow them a bit. She skimmed across a taxicab’s hood in a feet-first Ichiro Suzuki slide that gained her a precious fraction of a second.

Nine meters now. Nanami cut a diagonal across the flagstone courtyard of a Shinto shrine three hundred years older than the high-rises that flanked it. Mariko cut a sharper angle and closed the gap.

Eight meters. She dogged Nanami into the narrow alley between the shrine and one of the apartment buildings. It was a dead straightaway. In seconds he widened the gap to ten meters, then twelve.

And then Han blindsided him. Just as Nanami cleared the corner of the apartment complex, Han hit him in the knees with a perfect double-leg takedown. The two men hit the ground in a rolling skirmish that saw Han take a flailing haymaker to the jaw before Mariko tackled Nanami and laid him out flat.

“Good morning again,” Han said, rubbing his cheek and kneeling on the back of Nanami’s neck. “You should