Shadow Reaper

by Christine Feehan

  That was when Master Kin Akahoshi decided to intervene. He was the martial arts instructor as well as the hojojutsu instructor. He had seen the treatment of Ricco, as had all the instructors, but none wanted to go against the powerful council--especially after the "car accident" that had killed their children. Everyone knew they were grieving, but no one knew why they had singled out Ricco for the treatment they gave him.

  Master Akahoshi came into the training hall to find Ricco pounding the bag, his knuckles, wrapped as they were supposed to be, bloody right through the wraps. He stood there for a long moment, just observing him, and then he stepped in close and ordered him off the bag. Ricco had whipped around, prepared to fight for his right to use the equipment in off hours, but Akahoshi had held up his hand and simply said, "Come with me."

  For some reason he never really understood, he followed the instructor to his home where his private training hall was located. Ricco had known he was the best in the class at hojojutsu. He was fascinated with the art and the knots. The tying. The way they looked on his opponent. He began to learn more and more intricate knots and how to lay them perfectly against skin. Immediately he had excelled in his anatomy class, because he needed to learn how to lay the ropes without hurting--or to cause the greatest discomfort possible.

  They never talked about the three council members or why they were so hard on him, but his going to Akahoshi's home and being accepted there sent a message to the three men that someone, at least, would hold them accountable. The beatings weren't stopped, but they were fewer. In the meantime, Ricco continued learning the art of Shibari.

  Each time he picked up a bundle of ropes, he felt completely grounded. When he tied, he was so utterly absorbed in his art, the anger and fear drained away, leaving him relaxed and at peace. It was the only time he felt that way.

  Akahoshi had moved to the United States, specifically Chicago, following three other family members. He had contacted Ricco to see if he wanted to continue with his instructions and of course Ricco had. Now the rope was a part of him and he exceeded his master in training. Still, he returned to compare knots, to talk to the man he credited with saving his life. The council might have driven him to suicide had it not been for Akahoshi.

  He'd been conditioned to believe the murders were his fault for being late, for getting turned around. The lives of his family depended on his silence and his skills. He continued to train daily, and at night he haunted the homes of his brothers and sister in order to protect them. He'd developed a thin razor-like strip to attach to the bottom of the door, blocking out all shadows, so no rider could slide through and surprise his family in their sleep. It was easy enough and fast to remove with a single touch, making it possible for them to escape if necessary via the doors.

  Sighing, he sat up. When he was like this, restless and unable to sleep, he often visited Akahoshi. His former master always had rope models available to work with and he could lose himself that way. He didn't want to bring trouble to Akahoshi's door, suspecting that because he took Ricco's side and protected him all those years ago, the council members had made it difficult for the instructor to remain in Tokyo.

  He could insist that Mariko join him in the studio. He was not 100 percent yet when it came to working out, and his head was still giving him trouble, but although he was paying her, he would never ask her to join him. Not when he was so edgy and moody. His sister Emmanuelle always called this side of him his "dark, scary and very dangerous." No one wanted to be around him when he was like that. If he went to Akahoshi, he usually was brutal in his ties, laying rope in the more traditional punishing knots.

  He would never take a chance of accidentally hurting one of the female rope models, let alone Mariko. She needed care. It wasn't that she was fragile, far from it, but she'd obviously never known kindness. She still wasn't opening up to him and he'd practically shoved his entire history down her throat.

  He groaned as he sat up, pushing both hands through his hair. The room spun for a moment and then righted itself, letting him know he was a mess. Of course, he'd have to be at his worst when he met Mariko. He prided himself on his abilities, and already she'd had to save the day.

  He stripped, tossing his clothes in the vicinity of the hamper. He had bad habits from living alone so long. Emmanuelle told him he was a slob every chance she got--although he knew he wasn't. He just never picked up his dirty clothes until it came time to wash them--something he'd have to get over if he could ever convince Mariko to forgive him and to take a chance on him.

  He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror before he stepped into the double shower. His chest was scarred and he touched one of the long streaks the tip of the sword had left behind in his flesh. His shame was carved into his skin for everyone to see. The number-one question always asked by any woman he was with was how he got those distinctive scars. He made up outrageous stories, turning the moment to laughter when that well of rage always opened up inside of him at the question.

  He'd been unarmed and all four boys had extremely sharp swords. The scars should have been badges of courage, but they represented failure to him. He stepped under the pouring hot water and let it ease the pain in his tight muscles. What he wouldn't give for a decent massage. He never could relax enough to get one. He was too busy looking over his shoulder. Even in the shower he felt vulnerable and always faced out toward the room. It was an insane way to live, but he'd been doing it for so many years, he wasn't certain he could live any other way.

  He rinsed off the soap and shampooed his hair. It was getting too long. He rarely bothered to have it cut by a professional. He just had Emme chop it off for him. It grew thick and wild, and when it annoyed him, he handed her the scissors. She always shook her head, but she did as he asked and cut it for him.

  He pulled on loose-fitting pants, tightened the drawstring, pulled on a tight T-shirt and walked barefoot down the hall into the training room. The moment he set foot inside, he allowed himself to acknowledge his state of mind. This edginess wasn't all about the memories so close, although that was a good part of it. He had lost her--Mariko. And what kind of fate had dictated that the little girl he'd saved would be sent to kill him and he'd fall like a ton of bricks for her.

  He pulled on thin leather workout gloves while he contemplated the irony of his fate. He wasn't a man who felt sorry for himself. He got angry, but he didn't wallow in misery. He lived his life in the fast lane to escape the ever-present rage and fear that his family would become a target. He had considered returning to Tokyo and getting rid of the threat, but he knew that would bring disgrace to his family.

  Stefano had ways of dealing with threats, and more than once, especially lately, Ricco had contemplated telling him the entire mess. He wasn't all that sorry that Mariko had provided him with the catalyst to do so.

  He settled into a rhythm, pounding the bag, moving around it while he jabbed and punched. The sound of his fists hitting the heavy bag along with the jolt of pain as his knuckles slammed over and over into the bag. After a while his thoughts faded from his mind, allowing the craziness to disappear for a short while. He ignored his body's protest. Sometimes the pain in his body was worth the way his mind quieted.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Mariko cried through her shower and the entire time she was in the soaking tub. The water was cold by the time she could stem the torrent of emotion pouring out of her. She cried for the little three-year-old girl who was told she'd gotten into a car, put it in gear and run over her baby brother. She cried for her brother who went back and forth, along with her, believing and then not believing. She cried for her lost family. She cried to know she wasn't an abandoned orphan no one wanted but a Tanaka, of the legendary riders. Mostly she cried for the fourteen-year-old boy who had killed three boys and permanently paralyzed another to save her, and had been made to suffer a lifetime for his courageous actions.

  She understood Osamu's madness just a little better. Her sons had been murderers. They were respo
nsible for several deaths and contributed to the loss of the Tanaka riders. No one would want the stigma and shame of that hanging over them. Osamu and her husband, Dai, were both proud people. The thought that Ricco could at any moment change their lives would eat away at both of them.

  Osamu went back and forth between loving Ryuu and hating him. She would, by turns, treat him as the son she had lost and then as the reminder of that loss. She kept him off-balance and always seeking love from her. Mariko she punished for being alive when her sons were not. She would have a hatred for Ricco like no other. He had killed her sons, regardless of the circumstances.

  Over the years, Dai and Osamu had grown apart, as her madness had progressed. Dai had retreated, leaving for long periods of time to his apartment in the country, but he always came back. Could Osamu have orchestrated the attempt on Ricco's life? The answer was yes. Certainly. She would have seen justice in using Mariko to kill him. That would explain the note delivered to her room rather than through the mail. But would she involve Ryuu? Risk his life by letting her accomplices kidnap him?

  Mariko shivered as she wrapped a towel around her. Ryuu wouldn't conspire against his sister. She was certain of that. He might have swung back and forth between following Osamu's example of ridiculing her and being affectionate, but he would never agree to force her to kill another human being. Ryuu might try to do so himself for Osamu, but he wouldn't use Mariko.

  She let her hair down, pulling out the pins so that it tumbled to her shoulders. She should try to sleep, but she wasn't tired. She could hear the echo of a fast-paced rhythm, thuds hitting repeatedly like the beat of a drum. She knew that sound. She knew Ricco must be hitting the heavy bag in the training room. She winced, thinking about the amount of time she'd been noting the noise--certainly the entire time she'd been in the soaking tub. Maybe longer. It was a punishing rhythm, and he hadn't let up for a moment.

  She went to the cedar drawers where lingerie had been placed. A red lacy bra and matching panties lay on top. She smoothed her hand over them. She'd always worn plain underwear. Nothing to make her think she was a woman--especially a sexy one. Ricco made her feel beautiful and sensual every time he looked at her. He had a way of focusing on her that made her feel as if she were the only woman he saw. She knew that wasn't true, because she read the tabloids, but still, for the first time in her life, she felt beautiful. More, she felt as if Ricco Ferraro saw only her.

  She pulled on the bra and panties, sliding them over her pale skin--skin she'd always hated. Now it felt warm and soft. Sensual. Because she was thinking of him. She hadn't known life could be different. At home, there was always back-breaking, unappreciated work that was never ending. She loved training, but she couldn't train forever. Osamu was always waiting to hand her a list of chores. Even coming off missions, she wouldn't have so much as a night's sleep.

  She looked around the room. Comfortable. Beautiful. Spacious. She'd never had anything like that room. Her own bathroom. Drawers and a closet filled with clothes. She pulled a silk kimono from the closet. Blossoming cherry trees ran up the material in soft pinks and browns. It was gorgeous. She wrapped herself up in the long robe and ran her hands down it. The silk felt sensual against her skin, and glancing at herself in the mirror, she was shocked at how she looked.

  She studied the makeup in the light-up vanity. She knew enough to make her eyes smolder, but she had never used a red lipstick. Osamu would have been furious and called her all kinds of names. She could barely believe she was so daring as to choose the ruby red. She nearly wiped it off, but then she squared her shoulders.

  Ricco Ferraro was a good man. A worthy man. By every account he was considered one of the best shadow riders. If she had a small amount of time left, she wanted it to be spent with him. She wanted to feel like a beautiful woman. She had gone over and over where her brother could possibly be, but she had no clues. No information. Nowhere to start. She could only hope that if Osamu was in on the conspiracy to kill Ricco, after Mariko's death she would have Ryuu released unharmed. In the meantime, Mariko was going to spend as much time as possible with Ricco. She'd continue to try to find her brother, but she knew the odds were stacked against her.

  She took one last look in the mirror at the woman she didn't really know and resolutely turned toward the sound of that heavy bag and the pounding rhythm that hadn't once paused. Heart pounding, she continued at the same pace, not fast, not slow, but graceful, silent, moving in the silk of the kimono, feeling it against her bare skin. She had never been more certain, or more nervous, about a decision.

  Ricco moved around the bag with the fluid grace of a fighter. She couldn't help but admire him. He was a gorgeous man, a perfect physical specimen if she was going to be clinical. She much preferred to be clinical over the surprising well of emotion he invoked in her.

  "You shouldn't be in here right now," he said.

  He didn't turn around or even glance her way. She was behind him, their shadows hadn't touched, yet still, he was aware of her. That was good, because she was acutely aware of him.

  "You have to stop." He was hurting himself. She knew why. She'd used physical exercise to try to stop the pain and the chaos in her head when Osamu had driven her to want to hurt something or someone--usually herself. Just as he was doing.

  "You shouldn't be in here," he repeated. "Give me another hour or so."

  "There has to be a better way. Hurting yourself isn't the answer, Ricco." She kept her voice very low, just like his. Her tone was sultry; his was commanding and it vibrated right through her.

  He stopped hitting the bag and glanced over his shoulder, his eyes dark and enigmatic. She shivered at the mixture of pain and rage she saw there.

  "I have two ways to rid myself of this: working the bag and Shibari. This seemed safer."

  She stood her ground, although it took more courage than riding the shadows ever had. "I'm here to be your rope model."

  He shook his head. "It isn't safe when I'm like this. I could hurt you."

  "No, you couldn't." If there was one thing she was certain of, it was that Ricco Ferraro would never hurt her. She was shocked at how certain she was of that fact. Clearly, when their shadows touched, it revealed far more of him than she understood until that moment. She could spend a lifetime getting to know another man and she wouldn't know him as well as she did Ricco. "You would never harm me. I very much would like to do more rope art with you, that is if you want it, too."

  The drumming of her heart was loud in the ensuing silence. She had no idea if she was stepping over some invisible line with him. She didn't know enough about relationships of any kind, let alone the strange one she found herself in now. She only knew that she had to stop him and the only way to do it was to give herself to him.

  "I was late, Mariko. You understand if I had gotten there on time, I might have stopped the massacre. I got lost."

  "I hesitated coming out of the closet after Nao pulled Ryuu out. I was so terrified, I hesitated."

  He swore in Italian. One of the first things all riders had to learn was multiple languages, and she winced at the extremely foul expletives. He finally switched back to English. "You were three fucking years old."

  "You were only fourteen," she countered. "You probably would have been killed had you gotten there earlier, and then I would be dead and so would Ryuu. You gave me back my family. Osamu had convinced me I was left on the street. Unwanted. A female devil child bringing bad luck to anyone I encountered. She told me my mother was a whore and that I had gotten into a car, taken it out of gear and run over Ryuu. I know now that isn't the truth. I wasn't the one to hurt him."

  He erupted into another long litany of very angry foul language while he jerked the thin leather gloves from his hands. "I will be paying Osamu Saito a visit. The world of riders will know exactly what she did as well as the crimes her sons committed. I can't believe she made up such an ugly story. She had to have done it to separate you and your brother."

  She'd nev
er had a champion, someone to take her back. She didn't know how to feel without falling apart. She was offering him her body as a canvas, and that meant his rope, an extension of him, would wrap her up. Instead of feeling frightened, she had felt safe in his ropes. Now she knew why. The shadows connecting her to him had allowed her to see him for what he was--a man to be counted on. For whatever reasons, she'd fallen under his protection, and he took that seriously--every bit as seriously as when he was fourteen years old. Maybe more so.

  "What would you like me to wear, Ricco?" she murmured softly, hoping to ease the anger in him.

  He went still. "Are you certain? I don't want to frighten you. Having you for a rope model is extremely important to me. My sister says I'm very scary at times."

  "Your sister is right," she admitted, "but you don't scare me."

  He raised an eyebrow.

  She couldn't help but smile. "You intimidate me, which isn't the same thing, and only because I'm out of my element."

  Immediately she saw tension drain from his face. He still looked--intimidating--but she knew he would always be that to her. Just a little. Just enough to make it interesting. Still, he'd relaxed. She'd managed to tame the demons that drove him, and that made her feel very, very powerful. Once again, she had his complete focus. Not the past. Not the problems in the present. Just Mariko.

  "You aren't out of your element," he corrected. "I like what you have on. Are you comfortable in what you're wearing?"

  She'd chosen the red lace because the color made her feel sexy. The silk kimono with the cherry blossoms across it made her feel at home and exquisitely beautiful. She nodded.

  He held out a hand to her. She didn't hesitate to put hers in his. His fingers closed around hers. Hard. Warm. He led her from the training hall toward the studio. Already her breath was coming too fast, but it was from excitement, not fear.