by M. H. Bonham
“Halt! Who are you?”
Akira turned to see another samurai, a warrior who served Takeshi. The man’s gray hair made him look older than Rokuro, and his silk clothing, brightly colored blue and red, marked him as a higher-ranking samurai. A scar ran from his lower lip to right jaw line. Akira recognized him as being one of his father’s retainers but didn’t remember his name.
His name is Masashige, the sword replied. He may not recognize you. Treat him as a subordinate; you are heir to Takeshi.
Akira frowned. He didn’t want to treat anyone poorly. “Masashige-san, it is me, Takeshi Akira.”
Masashige’s eyes widened. For a moment, he scrutinized Akira’s face then bowed. “Takeshi-sama, your father has been searching for you.” His eyes fixed on Kasumi. “Who is this?”
“She is Naotaka Kasumi Neko…” He paused as he saw the man’s eyes narrow. “You are to treat her honorably, for without her, you would not be speaking to me.”
Masashige gave her a half bow then turned back to Akira. “Your father will be pleased to see you.”
#
Akira strode into the courtyard before his father’s house with Masashige and Kasumi beside him. The door opened and Akira saw his father step out of the house with a younger man at his side. His father had aged significantly since he had last seen him. Takeshi’s hair had a large shock of gray at his temples that Akira didn’t remember. His skin held wrinkles and worry lines from stress and the years. He had lost a fair amount of weight too; Akira never remembered seeing his father so thin or pale. He wore a simple black hakama and tunic of muted blue. The only thing that marked him as a major daimyo was the hawk crest.
For several moments, the two men stared at each other, neither moving. Akira felt jittery but controlled the urge to fidget. He felt self-conscious about his clothes, his hair, and even Kasumi. Despite everything he had been through, he felt as though he were a ten-year-old looking for his father’s approval. The feeling angered and embarrassed him.
“Akira-kun,” Takeshi said softly. He opened his arms and walked toward Akira.
Akira resisted the urge to run to him. Instead, he walked slowly and met his father’s embrace. “Father, I have missed you.”
Takeshi gripped his son’s shoulders, and Akira could feel a quiet sob escape his body. Akira felt helpless as he hugged his father. He had always thought of Takeshi as being strong and powerful, but the man here appeared frail and weak. He wanted to tell his father about everything but just stayed silent while the older man held him.
#
Hiroshi watched the exchange, keeping his face carefully neutral as the two embraced. He tried to remember his mother’s tenderness or his father’s kindness when he was young, but the ninja had taken him early from his family on Shinobi-jima. He had flashes of memory but little else. Most of his childhood recollections were in the ninja compound, training to be a warrior, spy, and assassin.
His parents had been relatively poor, even though they were part of the Shinobi clan. He remembered the sea breezes and running barefoot to the dock with his mother to see his father. He recalled crying when the splinters stuck in the flesh of his soft feet and how he wailed as his father pulled them out carefully. They probably didn’t have enough to buy sandals for him at that time.
His parents gave him to Shigeko because it was a great honor to be picked to be one of the genin. Yet watching Takeshi and his son, Hiroshi wondered if he had lost something vital in his life. He had great respect for Takeshi, despite his being a samurai daimyo, but he wasn’t Hiroshi’s father.
Akira looked half-wild with his long, unruly hair; bloody clothes; and great no-dachi. Hiroshi could feel the tingle of magic around the large sword and suspected the blade was enchanted, at the very least. The woman who stood beside Akira was lovely in a very exotic way. Her hair wasn’t completely black but had touches of orange running down her smooth locks.
Neko, he thought. Hiroshi had heard that those of the Neko clan had variations within their hair, mimicking the fur of certain cats, both large and small. She met his gaze with a glare, similar to the fierce looks he had seen samurai give him from time to time. She was as disheveled as Akira, and he wondered what adventures the two had been through.
He heard a small trill not far to his left. Waiting until the Neko woman was preoccupied, he slipped away and followed the soft sound until it took him around the house and to the garden. There, a ninja waited for him.
The ninja slipped a small scroll into his hand and vanished with a puff of smoke. Hiroshi opened the scroll and read it. He paused and read it again. He frowned, slipped it into a special sleeve pocket, and walked back to the gathering, wondering how quickly the samurai would take his life if he obeyed his orders.
Chapter Eighty-Seven
That night, Takeshi held a great feast for his son’s return, inviting many of his samurai to join him. Akira sat beside his father and Kasumi next to him. Hiroshi sat many seats away from them, past several retainers and other samurai. Kasumi watched Hiroshi carefully. The impeccably groomed young man couldn’t quite hide the Shinobi scent. After smelling dragon and ninja, she was certain that Hiroshi had dragon in his blood, and that most likely made him Shinobi.
Hiroshi, too, stared at her when he thought she wasn’t looking. She had caught a glimpse of her hair in the mirror earlier and seen the changes. Did he know what she was? She didn’t know how much the Shinobi knew about the Neko, but if they did know she was a shapeshifter, he would take precautions against her. The last fight with the Shinobi left her shaky. She had nearly died.
Yet to her surprise, she had not become sick since her encounter with the demon. She suspected it had given her some immunity to the demon-sickness.
She felt Akira’s hand touch hers briefly under the table, and she glanced at him and smiled in return. His hawk-colored eyes glimmered with warmth as she met his gaze. They had both cleaned up and now wore kamishimo, hakama, and tunics of the finest silk. Akira had chosen red with golden hawks rising up to the morning sun; she had chosen blue silk with tigers across it. She noted that Akira chose to keep his hair long but had tied it back in a simple braid, not the topknot that would’ve denoted him as samurai.
The food was delicious and they ate in silence. Servants brought tea and platters of sashimi, sushi, miso, rice, udon noodles cooked in broth, skewers of cooked meat, and various cooked and raw vegetables. The smell of fish and chicken made her abandon any manners, and she heaped the food on her plate, seeing Akira do the same. She noted a few raised eyebrows but didn’t care. She had used so much energy as a tiger that she needed food and rest now.
After the dinner, Takeshi clapped his hands, and servants brought forth sake. They poured the sake in small cups and handed one to each of the guests. Kasumi thanked the servant and held the tiny cup in her hand, awaiting the toast.
“To the return of my son and heir, Takeshi Akira,” Takeshi said. He raised the drink and they all sipped the sake. It burned as it went down Kasumi’s throat, at once warming her.
“Now that you’ve had a chance to eat and rest, I want to hear what happened,” Takeshi said. “Tell us what happened to you, my son.”
#
Akira stared at his father for a moment. He looked from retainer to retainer, uncertain what he should say. How much should he reveal in the presence of others?
You will have to tell him most of your ordeal, Rokuro said. These men are Takeshi’s most loyal men; they will not betray you.
Akira gave a mental nod and began to tell the story, leaving out Windspirit’s special properties, Kasumi’s shapeshifting, and his and Kasumi’s lovemaking. He watched his father’s face grow pale as he told him of Rokuro’s death and Ikumi’s fate among the Tengu. He glossed over Kasumi’s bargain with the demon, saying that a kami offered them a way out.
As he told the story, he listened to his own words. It was as though another man spoke through him, as though the warrior he described had to be someone else. He felt so
foreign and alone here, after weeks of training with the Tengu. He looked from samurai to samurai, wondering if he had a place here anymore.
When he finished, the whole room was silent. Akira met his father’s gaze, not sure what his father thought. It had been so long since Akira had seen Takeshi that he could not read his father’s expression.
At last Takeshi nodded. “I am deeply pleased you have returned, Son. I only wish your mother and my good friend Rokuro could still be here.”
He is with you, old friend, if not in body, then in spirit, Windspirit said softly to Akira. Akira chewed his lip and nodded. He glanced at Kasumi, who had stayed quiet the entire time. He hoped he had told the story accurately enough to portray her well; her demeanor was one of thoughtfulness and not irritation.
Takeshi turned to Kasumi. “Naotaka Kasumi Neko, you have my eternal gratitude for helping my son return home. The clans under Nanashi have often been our enemies, but perhaps there is much good there. Is there anything you might want that I could give you in thanks?”
“Takeshi-sama,” Kasumi said, bowing low in deference, much to Akira’s surprise. “My people are in great need. When I came to Tsuitori-jima, I had asked Ikumi and Rokuro for help. My people, the Neko, have been guardians of the Kimon, the demon gate, for millennia. That is now in jeopardy. Nanashi has summoned a demon and will attack my people on Neko-shima to open the Kimon to fight for him so he may become emperor. My people humbly beg you to aid us, and in return, we will pledge our fealty to Takeshi.”
Silence ensued and Akira stared at Kasumi as she remained bowed before Takeshi. He had known Kasumi would ask for help, but to offer her entire clan’s loyalty, even a small clan, was a great honor. It meant that they trusted Takeshi as a daimyo. Akira looked at his father, who shook his head slightly.
“Neko-san, with a heavy heart, I cannot accept this gift,” Takeshi said. “You would bring my clan and my samurai to war against Nanashi, who is much more powerful than we are.”
That’s not true, Windspirit said in Akira’s mind. Our samurai could destroy Nanashi’s forces if we wanted to.
“That isn’t true,” Akira said. A murmur ran through the samurai present, and Kasumi glanced up at him incredulously. “Rokuro told me that we have a powerful enough army and greater warriors than anything Nanashi could bring against us. The Neko are guarding us from the demon gate, Father. If Nanashi opens the gate, who knows what will come out? We need to fight the enemy now, before he gets reinforcements—oni reinforcements. We can’t possibly fight against those.”
Takeshi frowned. “Fighting Nanashi is too costly.”
“It will be too costly for us if we wait and fight him when he is more powerful.” Akira glanced around the room. “Father, I have fought kami, dragons, and demons, and I am half Tengu. I know what fighting demons is like. I nearly died. It would be folly for us to fight Nanashi later.”
Takeshi’s eyes narrowed. “You’re speaking out of line. I have not asked for your advice, nor will I be counseled by my son.”
Ikumi and I were willing to send samurai to help them, the sword said.
“Ikumi and Rokuro were willing to help Kasumi,” Akira relayed Windspirit’s words. “Why won’t you?”
“Enough,” Takeshi nearly shouted. Kasumi slid backward, cringing like a cat who had lost a fight. “I have made my decision.” He turned to Kasumi. “Forgive my rude son, Neko-san, but I cannot help you. Feel free to stay as long as you like before returning home.”
Kasumi bowed and forced a smile. “Thank you, Takeshi-sama. I will relay your message to the Guardian. Please excuse me.” She bowed and left.
Takeshi turned on Akira. “How dare you dishonor me.”
Akira stood up, not caring. The man who sat before him was a stranger, not his father, who had dishonored him before Kasumi. He shut out Windspirit as the sword began to object. He set his jaw. “It is you who has disgraced this family, not I. You refuse to see the sacrifices of others, and because of this, it will be too late. Kasumi saved my life. If I were to abandon her now, I would be dishonored. Kasumi’s people have sacrificed all so humans can live without fear of oni. I thought I knew my father; I guess not.” With that, he walked out.
Chapter Eighty-Eight
Kasumi fled to her room after dinner and began packing. Tears streaked her face as she thrust what few belongings she still had into her ragged pack. She sat down on the futon and held her head in her hands. She had failed in every way. There would be no help for the Neko, and both Keiko and Kanayo would be disappointed in her. She had given her body to a demon who would take possession of her in a year. She felt sick and could taste bitter bile in her mouth as her stomach churned, wanting to heave its contents. There was only one thing left to do.
She drew her tanto and turned the blade toward her body. She took a deep breath, trying to steady her shaking hand as she did so. Even as she did, her breath came out in ragged gasps, and she shook to the point where she could barely hold the knife.
A rap on the door interrupted her concentration, and she laid the knife down.
“Kasumi-chan?” Akira’s voice came from the other side of the door.
Her throat tightened and she stood up and hurried to the door, sliding it open a few inches.
“Kasumi-chan?” Akira peered at her face that she knew was still stained with tears. “Are you all right?”
Kasumi took a quick breath but had not the energy for a retort. “What do you want?” she asked sullenly.
Akira’s hand reached up and caressed her face, as soft and light as a feather.
She sniffled and swallowed hard.
“Kasumi-chan, may I come in?”
Kasumi hesitated then nodded. She slid open the door to admit him. Akira stepped in and she watched as his eyes stopped at the tanto on the bed. “Oh, Kasumi-chan,” he whispered. He walked over to the tanto and picked it up, taking the scabbard beside it and sheathing it. “You don’t want to do that.”
She shook her head, fresh tears falling. “Don’t I? I’ve failed, Akira-chan. I’ve failed.” She buried her head in his chest and wept as he wrapped his arms around her. “I’ll become a Bakeneko within a year, and my people will be dead. The world will be overrun with demons, and Nanashi will be emperor.” She shook with each sob.
#
Akira held her, uncertain what he could say that would make her stop crying. Unlike Tengu women, real women seemed to be weepy and certainly temperamental. He kissed her, tasting the salt of her tears on his lips. “Kasumi-chan,” he whispered in her ear, smelling the faint jasmine in her tawny hair. “I won’t let the demon take you; you know that. And I can help, somehow, I’m sure. I can ask the winds to help me. Even if I am not allowed to use Tengu magic, I am still capable of fighting.”
Kasumi looked up at him, her tears streaming down her face. “I’m to return to Neko-shima to help with the fight. You would come with me?”
Akira nodded. “I would be honored to fight beside such a fierce tiger.”
You would disobey your father? Rokuro’s voice was reproachful.
Yes, because this is right, Akira replied. Takeshi is wrong. You said we could defeat Nanashi if we wanted to. He’s unwilling to risk our army.
With good reason. Nanashi has probably planned this for some time.
Perhaps, Akira said. But it won’t matter if Nanashi opens the Kimon and lets the demons loose. We’re dead anyway.
The sword said nothing, and Akira realized he had won the argument. The anger and hurt over Takeshi’s response still burned in his throat, but Akira knew he was doing the right thing. That seemed to ground him. He closed his eyes. This is what it means to be human. To make choices and to freely do what I know is right. As a Tengu, there was no right or wrong, just laws that couldn’t be broken. Deep within him, Akira knew that made the difference between him and the Tengu. The Tengu were more than happy to cause misery to people; Akira would not.
He opened his eyes again and ran his fingers through Kasumi�
�s hair. “We can get passage on a ship to Neko-shima if that’s where we need to go.”
“Are you sure you want to come with me?” Kasumi whispered. Her voice conveyed her amazement.
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“This isn’t your fight.” Kasumi looked into his eyes, and at once he was struck by their deep brown. Kasumi had been the key to his humanity all along. He kissed her again, and she wrapped her arms around him as he laid her down on the bed and slid her clothes off, relishing in the silky softness of her skin as his tongue met hers.
“Isn’t it?” he replied between kisses.
“But your father…” she objected.
“Later. Let’s make the rest of the night ours.”
#
Hiroshi had sat quietly at the table as Akira told his story. He had watched Kasumi’s impassioned plea and the argument between Takeshi and Akira unfold. Akira’s story of how Hiroshi’s own people, the Shinobi, had treated Akira appalled him. Indeed, Hiroshi was surprised Akira wasn’t dead. That said much of the young samurai.
Now Hiroshi sat in his room, pondering what he should do next. Shigeko had sent orders for him to kill Akira and Kasumi, yet Hiroshi was loath to do so. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t killed before; he had assassinated an older samurai while the man slept. It had taken Hiroshi the better part of a year to track the man and learn his habits before slipping into his bedroom one night while the man was drunk on sake and stabbing him.
The samurai had deserved it, Hiroshi told himself. The man was the epitome of what was wrong with the samurai culture: arrogant and vicious, he had treated those beneath him worse than animals. Hiroshi had gained access by becoming one of the man’s servants and discovered that the man was a pedophile, taking peasant boys from their families, often with no compensation, and abusing the children for sport. Hiroshi had been glad to kill this man.