dangerous to know. Unfortunately that is a lesson some men must learn over and over again. But I fear that this time you will suffer enough to fix it in your mind permanently. Good night, Sano-
Chapter 13
At Sano’s mansion, the guards bowed and opened the gate for him. A yawning stableboy led his horse away. Inside, a lantern burned in the entryway, but the rest of the house was dark, silent. As Sano walked toward his bedchamber, carrying Tozawa’s swords to put away for safekeeping, the creak of the floor under his feet echoed in the chill, deserted corridor. Where were the servants? Not that he required their attentions; he wasn’t hungry, and he could prepare his own bath and bed. But he always dreaded this solitary homecoming. And tonight his melancholy went deeper because of his disappointment over not seeing Aoi, which he tried to dismiss as purely professional. He didn’t want to admit he’d been looking forward to her company all day.
Then he stopped when he reached the main reception room and saw its paper walls aglow with light. Curious, he slid open the door.
Inside, Aoi knelt before her altar, where candles burned and the smoking incense saturated the air with its musky sweetness. Sunken charcoal braziers sent up warm fumes. As Aoi returned his gaze with one solemn and serene, her odd beauty caught at Sano’s heart. His depression disappeared; suddenly, he felt extraordinarily alive. A dark thrill of excitement prickled his skin. His house had been transformed into a temple, with Aoi enthroned as a living goddess ready to receive his prayers or offerings. His rational, intellectual self withdrew into slumber. He didn’t question how Aoi had known to come to him, or how she’d gotten into his house. He simply responded to her implicit invitation.
He moved forward and knelt before the altar, placing Tozawa’s swords upon it. The world shrank to a hazy, glowing space that contained only this room, himself, and Aoi. Breathlessly he awaited her response.
She picked up the long killing-sword first, stroking its worn hilt and scabbard with gentle, probing fingers. Sano involuntarily imagined her hands caressing him. When she slowly unsheathed the blade, his manhood grew erect inside his loincloth. A pulse of desire drove hot blood through his veins as she brought the sword to her mouth and licked the gleaming steel. She repeated the process with the short sword, and Sano stared. Eyes half-closed in concentration, throat arched, she looked as though she shared his pleasure.
Now Aoi returned the swords to their scabbards and balanced them both on her palms. Her inarticulate moans intensified Sano’s excitement. Then came laughter-hearty, male, and startling.
“By the gods!” She stared from side to side. “Yoshiwara is all they say it is. Look at those beauties in the windows!”
Everything about her was completely samurai. Her brash voice; the swagger of her shoulders as she pantomimed walking; the insolent leer she aimed at the imaginary courtesans. Tozawa’s spirit inhabited her body. Sano could almost see the
Aoi laughed Tozawa’s laugh again. Her body jiggled like the stout
Long journey: Tozawa’s trip from his native province to Edo. Aoi’s evocation of the murdered man reaffirmed Sano’s belief in her powers.
“And the woman I had in Yoshiwara was the right one to be my last.” Aoi’s face lost its masculine cast to take on a new and disturbingly familiar aspect. She smiled in a maternal, yet flirtatious fashion. Her body seemed to gain a heavy ripeness of flesh. With a jolt, Sano recognized Sparrow, the prostitute he’d interviewed.
“You’re troubled, aren’t you? Would you like to tell me about it?”
Given his past experience with Aoi’s powers, hearing the words Sparrow had spoken to him shouldn’t have surprised Sano. But the rational part of his mind rebelled against this new assault by the supernatural. The incense choked his lungs.
Aoi replaced the swords on the altar. Cupping her bosom in both hands, she kneaded the full breasts; her fingers teased the nipples.
“Come,” she murmured, smiling in fond encouragement. “Suckle at my breasts, master. Take your pleasure and your comfort from me.” Her kimono rustled as she parted her knees. “Enter my heavenly chamber.” Her voice dropped to a soothing, yet seductive whisper. “Forget your cares for one night. Come to me now.”
A fresh onslaught of desire overrode Sano’s urge to stop the ritual. As his carnal self goaded him to sweep aside the altar and take Aoi, he fought physical need and addressed the spirit.
“Tozawa-
Sparrow’s look left Aoi’s face. Her hands dropped from her breasts and took up the swords again. Tozawa’s visage returned, distorted with anger and outrage.
“I started walking toward Edo,” Tozawa’s voice said. “I was tired. Drunk. He caught me while I was undoing my loincloth to make dung. I went for my swords, but that miserable thief at the Great Joy had stolen them from me. And then I-a poor, defenseless
Aoi’s face crumpled, and her chest heaved with a man’s wrenching, tortured sobs.
How could she speak of Tozawa’s loosened loincloth, confiscated swords, and master less status except through a mystical bond with the spirit world? Awe and fear sharpened Sano’s desire even as he recoiled from her. His groin pounded with his need for her. What must it be like to possess a woman of such powers?
“Did you see your killer?” he asked.
A shake of the head; more sobs. “No. Too dark.”
“Wait. Don’t go yet!”
For Aoi’s sobs were diminishing, her face becoming once again calm, serene, and female as Tozawa’s spirit left her body.
Sano watched, disappointed but nevertheless relieved, as she laid down the swords. How undisciplined he was to experience sexual arousal when he should have been concentrating on the investigation! Now, remembering last night’s debacle, he took the label from his sash and cautiously handed it to Aoi.
When the paper touched her palm, she closed her eyes; her body swayed. But she had herself under control.
“I see a five-petaled flower,” she whispered. “Painted on banners on the walls of a castle on a riverbank.”
Filled with awe, her eyes gazed into the distance. “The castle is under siege. Bombs explode beneath the walls. The enemy troops fire guns from rafts on the river, from tall wooden towers on the banks. From inside the castle walls, the defenders shoot back, killing many.”
Reflected in her eyes, the flickering candle flames mimicked the explosions and gunfires. “But the enemy has blockaded the castle; they will starve the defenders into defeat. That night, a brave scout leaves the castle and swims the river to seek help. Will he succeed?”
Enlightenment burst upon Sano as he recognized the scenario as the Battle of Nagashino, and the five-petaled flower as Oda Nobunaga’s crest. As one of Oda’s trusted men, General Fujiwara had surely fought at Nagashino. Aoi’s vision linked the murderer with him and that violent past, lending credence to Sano’s theory.
“But that was long ago.” Aoi’s hand trembled beneath the label as if under a great weight. “Now I see a man crossing a high bridge over a wide river. He passes great piles of wood, and canals with logs floating in them. He continues through fields and marshes. He carries a basket with a head in it. He reaches his house and goes inside. He washes the head, drives a spike through it, paints its face.”
Sano realized with a flare of jubilation that she was seeing the Bundori Killer. “Where is this house?” he demanded.
Her eyes scanned the distance. “In the marshes. Where two canals meet. It looks… like a samurai’s helmet.”
Sano saw her vision clearing, her trance dissolving. “Wait!” he pleaded. “Is the killer there now? Can you see his face? Whose head is it?” In his urgency, he leaned across the altar toward Aoi.
“Tomorrow… ” She spoke the barely audible word on a sigh. “He will go to the house tomorrow night. At the
