Minutes passed. Hours. The Moon God Tsukiyomi rode low in the sky behind a choking veil of fumes. More painted men strolled up to the stoop, ushered inside with gap-toothed smiles. And finally, as the hours wore on and the Goddess Amaterasu was just beginning to lighten the eastern skies, two men exited the building. The first, a skulking knife-thin bastard, yellowed teeth like broken stumps in dark gums. The second, a short, broad lump with piggy eyes and cauliflower ears. On their shoulders, each gangster carried a small beaten satchel, filled with the clink of muffled coin. Yoshi felt his whiskers curl, yellow teeth bared in what might have been a smile, and he whispered thanks to the body he rode and stole on back to his own.
He opened his eyes
the room throbbing and all
a-shudder flexed inside long limbs and hairless
flesh and grubby cloth the body he’d lived most of his
life inside feeling
for just a moment
longer
like something utterly
repulsively
wrong.
Jurou was sitting across from him as his vision came into shuddering focus. Dark bangs hanging in dew- moist eyes, empty lotus pipe utterly wasted on those perfect lips.
“Well?” he said.
“Same time. Every morning just before the dawn,” Yoshi smiled. “It’s a money-house for certain.”
“Who runs it?”
“Scorpion Children. Biggest yakuza crew in Downside.”
“You sure you want to start that heavy?”
“You recall a time old Yoshi ever did things by halves, Princess?”
“I’m just not—”
Yoshi put his finger to Jurou’s lips, frowning toward the door.
“Daken’s back. Hana too.”
Yoshi arranged himself on a pile of cushions in the corner, Jurou leaning against his bare chest. He sipped the dregs of their rice wine, felt the big tom drawing closer, the way a magnet must feel as iron draws near. Slouching on his cushion, legs askew, hand snagged in Jurou’s hair as Hana’s key twisted in the lock. Tipping his split-brimmed hat away from his eyes, he aimed a crooked smile at his little sister.
“This is the part where I juggle some comedy about what the cat dragged—”
Hana stole into the room, looking paler than usual, skin filmed in a sheen of fresh sweat. Behind her loomed one of the biggest men Yoshi had ever raised an eyebrow at. A straw hat pulled down low over his brow, ragged black cloak over street-worn thread. Door-broad shoulders, a jaw you could break your knuckles on, a few steps on the right side of handsome, truth be told—at least from what Yoshi could see. He walked with a pronounced limp.
“Well, well,” Jurou smiled. “Took my advice, girl?”
Hana muttered a mouthful, looking embarrassed. Shuffling before the pair like a disobedient child before the Great Judge, she gestured feebly to the giant still looming in the doorway. She spoke so fast her words tripped over each other in the rush to her teeth.
“AkihitothisismybrotherYoshiandhisfriendJurou.”
Jurou’s grin was all Kitsune-in-the-henhouse, aimed squarely at Hana, but he spared a glance for the newcomer. “How do?”
Yoshi’s eyes hadn’t left the big man. He nodded once. Slow as centuries.
“Akihito-san is going to be staying here for a few days,” Hana said.
“Do tell,” Yoshi frowned.
“Only a few.”
“Not like you to have houseguests, sister-mine.” His eyes shifted to the big man. “Can he cook? Doesn’t look much of a dancer.”
Her voice was soft, expression pleading. “Yoshi, please…”
The tomcat had assumed his usual perch on the windowsill, cleaning his paws with a tongue as rough as an iron file. His thoughts were velvet-smooth by contrast, a whispered purr rolling through Yoshi’s mind like sugared smoke.
Yoshi sniffed. Squinted. Trying hard to find fault with it and coming up empty. She’d never brought anyone home before, but Hana was a big girl now. What she did,
“All good, sister-mine.”
She turned, gestured to the big fellow. “Come on.”
With a guilty nod aimed Yoshi’s way, the big man limped past the pair and into Hana’s bedroom. Hana was on her way to join him when Yoshi softly cleared his throat.
“Forgetting something?”
Hana made a face, reached inside her servant’s kimono, drew out the iron-thrower. Leaning down, she placed it in Yoshi’s open palm, whispered for his ears only.
“Explanations later.”
He glanced at Daken, now sawing away at his nethers with his long, pink tongue.
“As you say.” He waved the ’thrower. “By the by, you can’t take this to work with you tonight. We need it.”
“What for?”
“Explanations later.”
The curiosity gleaming in Hana’s eye retreated with reluctance. She gave him a small nod, slipped into her bedroom. Daken prowled inside behind her and she quietly closed the door. Jurou had a grin on his face like
“Good for her,” he grinned.
Yoshi lifted the iron-thrower and sniffed. A burned chemical smell, like generator oil and refinery stink wafting from the barrel. It felt just a touch lighter than it had yesterday. Just a little less death inside.
He pulled his lucky hat down over his eyes.
“Doubtless…”
Akihito perched by the window, peering out through dirty glass as Hana shut the bedroom door with a whispering click. The flat was four floors up, commanding a decent view of the street below; claustrophobic and wreathed in exhaust. But even with an elevated vantage point, he still felt utterly naked, shaking with nervous energy, belly doing cartwheels. His thoughts went to Gray Wolf, to Butcher and the others. Praying they’d gotten away safe or died fighting. He’d seen enough of Kigen jail to know it was no fit place for anyone to end.
Reaching inside a pouch on his obi, he retrieved an old chisel and a pinewood block, began whittling at the surface, his eyes still on the street below. No sign of bushi’ out there; just a few street urchins running dice on a corner, two lotusfiends playing pass the pipe. And still his nerves were bunched tighter than overwound clock springs, the chisel’s handle slippery in sweat-slick fingers.
“That’s pretty,” the girl said, gesturing to his carving. “What is it?”
“Present,” he muttered. “For a friend.”
“So what do you think happened? How did they find us?”
Akihito glanced to the doorway, the boys in the living room beyond. The beautiful tones of shamisen players
