Deadly Flowers

by Sarah L. Thomson

  It was nowhere. Everywhere. It was about to capture me. It already had.

  I was good. I was the best. There was not a girl in the school who could put a blade to my throat in the practice yard. I had not felt the sting of the bamboo rod in two years.

  But I could not fight this.

  I wrenched myself awake, breathing hard. How long had I slept? I’d only meant to nap. Now the room was dark around me. The other girls were asleep on their mats, and the quiet sound of their breathing made waves in the dark air. The rhythm of it should have soothed me back to sleep.

  It didn’t. I’d slept too long. I was awake, even sharply alert. That dream had left me ready to fight, and there was no one to attack.

  And I was hungry.

  It was not the first time I’d been awake and hungry, of course. Hunger had lain down beside me most of my nights at the school. I’d never done anything about it. The kitchen was kept locked.

  Of course, I knew how to pick a lock.

  If Madame found out …

  Madame was not home.

  One of the girls would betray me.

  Only if one of them heard me. I’d just slipped in and out of a warlord’s mansion. Couldn’t I manage a kitchen?

  I felt possessed by a little of that giddy recklessness that had taken hold of me last night. As if I were floating, I drifted up. Barefoot, picking my way carefully over and around sleeping girls, I slipped into the hallway.

  There was a black thread stretched across the top of the stairs, with tiny bells, lacquered black as well, attached. It was invisible in the dark, unless you knew just where to look. I ducked under it and padded softly down, skipping the sixth step, which had been built to creak.

  At the foot of the stairs, I paused and listened. The Boulder would have laid his mat out here. I heard no breathing—he must be a quiet sleeper—but I glimpsed a bulky outline against the orange and black coals that glowed in the square fire pit, and I watched it for long enough to be sure he would not stir. At last I felt safe, turned left, and let my bare feet carry me three steps to the kitchen door.

  My lockpicks, well greased and wrapped in soft, quilted silk to keep them from jangling, were still in my pocket. The lock was not difficult. Maybe Madame never dreamed that any of her girls would have the audacity to attempt it.

  The door slid open, and I stepped down onto the cool, smooth dirt of the kitchen floor, closing the door behind me.

  No cook or maid slept in the house, of course. Madame was not foolish enough to keep servants here overnight. They might be bribed or threatened into opening a door or leaving a shutter unlatched, clearing the way for a thief or an enemy.

  All the better for my mission.

  Slowly, silently, I eased open the iron door to the oven so that the dim coals inside would give me just enough light to find my way. On the other side of the room there was a bamboo pipe in one wall, with a dipper hanging from it. I filled the dipper with water, took a long, cool drink, and felt the last traces of my nightmare wash away as I swallowed.

  Returning to the stone oven, I lifted a lid on a clay pot and smiled. Perfect. Soup, keeping warm for tomorrow. If the level in the pot was a finger’s width lower in the morning, who would notice? With the water dipper, I scooped myself a salty, savory meal. It had mushrooms in it, and chewy seaweed. I slurped.

  Something echoed the sound.

  I whirled. Soup splashed across the dirt floor at my feet.

  Darkness. Silence.

  No, not silence. Something.

  Something … moving.

  It was a sound between a rasp and a slither. With two quick steps I moved sideways, away from the stove. I would be outlined against the glow of the fire in its innards, easy game for anyone.

  Easy game for who? For what?

  I held myself motionless. I would find out.

  Movement betrays. Stillness conceals. Everyone’s eye is on the fluttering bird. No one notices the stone.

  Whatever was making that sound would be moving. That meant I could find it.

  I tried to open my ears as far as I could. I poured my whole self into my listening.

  I could hear my breath easing down my throat. I could hear the coals in the oven shift and sigh, hear their heat hissing into the cool air. I could hear the blood in my veins.

  When the sound came again, my head turned easily toward it. I knew just where it was.

  On the wall to my right was a wooden sink. Beneath it was a stone-lined drain that led to a wide bamboo pipe, so that wastewater could run out into the vegetable garden.

  Something was coming up through that drain.

  The pipe was much too small for a man or a woman. Even a child Ozu’s size would be hard-pressed to squeeze through.

  An animal, perhaps? A rat. A snake. A clever, curious badger, nosing its way toward the smell of rice.

  But it did not sound exactly like any of those.

  That slurping sound came again, a vile, eager little gulp. And then a strange, soft clack-clack-clack.

  The skin on my back crawled, a chilly ripple that worked its way up my spine and into my scalp.

  Whatever it was, it sounded hungry.

  I’d put my sword back in the armory. I’d left my knives upstairs. There was nothing but a water dipper in my hand.

  A sword is a tool, not a crutch. Use it; do not lean on it. Anything can be a weapon. A stick, a stone. A comb, a needle.

  Or, of course, a cooking pot.

  I laid the dipper down on the stovetop and seized the pot of soup with both hands. Then I waited, the length of one breath, until from the shadows across the room I heard small, sharp claws scrabbling against bamboo, and then the softer sound of those claws on the dirt floor.

  Whatever it was, it had reached the kitchen. I threw the pot hard and heard it thud as it hit the ground, the bamboo pipe, and—something else.

  It would have been better if the soup had been boiling rather than lukewarm. Curtains of broth and showers of noodles flew everywhere. There was a squeak and more of that clacking.

  This time it didn’t sound hungry. It sounded angry.

  I snatched up the dipper before I leaped, planning a dash across the kitchen to the door of the main room. On the second step, I slipped. A nest of noodles under my feet sent me sprawling in a slick of soupy mud.

  I gasped breath back into my lungs, rolled—

  —too late.

  There came a quick scuttling sound that might have been made by dozens of legs all working at once, and it was on me. A snakelike weight, a long, writhing body, and those legs, too many, all grasping and pinching and scrabbling at me, while giant pincers clacked shut an inch from my face.

  A centipede? But huge. Longer than I was tall, thick enough that my two hands could not quite close around it. A crawling, filthy thing that fed on mold and graves and death—only this one was trying to feed on me.

  With one hand I grabbed its neck, or where its neck should have been—it was all neck, this thing, and trying to coil around me. I shoved the horrible head away from my face. It squealed, furious, ravenous. The mandibles snapped and sticky-soft feelers groped for my eyes. Angry claws raked the skin of my stomach and legs.

  With my other hand, I gripped the water dipper tightly and brought it down as hard as I could across the creature’s head.

  It squealed again, and writhed, and we were both flung about in the mud I’d made of the dirt floor. My shoulder and hip cracked hard against the platform where the cook sat to work.

  I could have screamed, and ten highly trained girls, not to mention one instructor, one useless rich man’s daughter, and one kidnapped boy who didn’t know he’d been kidnapped, would have poured into the kitchen.

  But it didn’t occur to me to yell.

  No ally will defend you. No army will come to your aid. No lord will protect you. Protect yourself. Be your own ally. Be your own army.

  No one ever said, Be your own lord. But we all knew it was meant.

  A
ninja was for hire. A ninja served any lord. Therefore, a ninja served none.

  Protect yourself.

  The platform where the cook worked was just above me. He knelt there to chop and grate and mince and pound and slice and hum and whistle.

  That meant there were knives, and cleavers, and mallets, laid out neatly in a row, just above my head. All I needed was to get my hands on one.

  NINE

  With my right hand still gripping the centipede’s neck, I bashed the vile creature once more in the face with the ladle and then threw the tool away. With my left I grasped one of the feelers that were groping at my eyes and yanked as hard as I could.

  The thing squealed and thrashed, and sharp claws tore at my neck, but the head reared back in panic, and I had the few seconds I needed.

  Fumbling blindly along the edge of the platform, again with my left hand, I felt it—something cold and slim and sharp.

  I came close to slicing my own fingers off, but in two more seconds I had the handle of a heavy knife in my hand, and I stabbed with all my strength.

  The knife slid harmlessly off the centipede’s slippery carapace, and its head plunged down toward my face again.

  I wrestled the head back with both hands, fumbling with the knife and nearly dropping it. While I struggled to get a firmer grip on the blade’s handle without letting go of the creature’s neck, it writhed a coil of its long body around my chest. I felt it suddenly cinch tight.

  My breath burst out from between my lips. My ribs creaked.

  Would it crush me first? Or would its fangs be in my neck while there was still breath in my lungs?

  Don’t hack blindly. That’s for samurai on horseback. One thrust is enough for a ninja. Plan your attack. Know your target.

  The thing’s armor was too tough for anything but an axe. What did that leave? The most vulnerable parts of any creature—eyes, ears, mouth.

  The centipede’s mouth gaped. Grayish froth sizzled and dripped from its fangs into my face, stinging where it touched.

  I found a good grip on the knife and thrust it with all the strength of my arm and shoulder straight into the demon’s mouth.

  Thick, white fluid from the wound splashed over my arm to the elbow. The centipede screeched and flailed, and my head hit the platform hard enough that dark stars burst across my vision. But then the creature flopped down on top of me, shuddered all along its length, and lay horribly, heavily still.

  I shuddered, too, and fought free of its coils, shoving and kicking them away, then crawled up to the cook’s platform, out of the mud, gripping the knife tightly. There I took stock of myself.

  My clothes had protected me from the worst of the creature’s claws. The scratches across my stomach and neck were the deepest, but even they would stop bleeding soon on their own. I’d have a bruise on my temple and a sore shoulder from hitting the platform. But I was still strong enough to fight, and that was what mattered.

  My face was stinging where the demon’s foamy saliva had dripped. I scrubbed at the sore spots with my sleeve and felt my shivering start to ease.

  That had been no ordinary creature. It was something from the shadows, from the hidden places of the world. Something unnatural. Something changed.

  A bakemono. A demon.

  Of course I’d known there were demons in the world. But I’d never expected to meet one in the kitchen.

  I’d never expected to meet a tengu in the forest, either.

  Why? Why was all this happening now?

  Never mind why. That was not the most urgent question.

  What I really needed to know was: were there more?

  I listened, but I could hear nothing except my own ragged, juddering breath. That would never do. I closed my eyes and deliberately let the tension in my shoulders ease. Three counts to breathe in. Five to breathe out. Again. Five to breathe in, seven to breathe out.

  Listen.

  A faint, fragile chime rang out. Tiny bells had been gently shaken. The sound rippled through the dark and empty rooms.

  Something was in the house.

  Something was on the stairs. Going up? Going down? Did it matter?

  “What’s happening?” asked a tentative, sleepy voice. “Is everything—”

  I barreled past Ichiro where he stood in the doorway to the main room, very nearly knocking him sprawling, and took the stairs two at a time. I didn’t skip the creaking sixth step. The more noise, the better.

  “Wake up!” I bellowed.

  Someone was already at the top of the stairs. I lifted my knife, but lowered it when I heard Masako’s voice. “What was all the noise in the kitchen?” she asked, worried. “And I heard the bells. Kata, did you—”

  I felt for the thin black thread. It had been broken. Each piece, strung with bells, hung limply from a nail.

  “No, I didn’t,” I answered grimly. “Someone’s in the house.”

  “Quiet, all of you!” Masako said sharply to the younger girls, who were crowding around.

  We listened, twenty-six ears straining in the darkness.

  “There’s nothing.” Fuku’s voice came from the shadows on my left.

  “Nothing didn’t break the bell thread.” Masako’s hair whispered as she shook her head.

  “Kata probably did.”

  “What’s happening? Kata?” Ichiro was behind me on the stairs.

  “You don’t think I’d know if I broke a bell thread?” I growled at Fuku. My brain hurt from the effort of listening. With all this chatter, how could anyone hear the enemy?

  “I don’t think you’d admit it.”

  “What’s happening?” Ichiro insisted.

  “Nothing.” Fuku was scornful. “Nothing is happening.”

  “Where’s the instructor? Where’s Huge?” Masako demanded. Everyone fell silent.

  The bell thread had rung. I’d fought a giant centipede in the kitchen. Everyone in the house was awake.

  I turned slowly to face the foot of the stairs.

  Everyone was awake—except that still figure huddled by the fire.

  It seemed to be up to me. All the girls, and Ichiro, too, stood and watched as I made my way slowly, reluctantly, down.

  I skirted the dark lump on the mat, approached the hearth from the other side, grabbed a poker, and jabbed the flames into life.

  My shoulders sagged with relief.

  “He’s not here.” I looked up at the apprehensive faces on the stairs. “It’s just his quilt. He’s gone.”

  “Gone?” Masako started down, Ozu clinging to her hand. “He left? Why would he leave?”

  “The door’s still locked,” Kazuko pointed out as the girls and Ichiro trooped down behind Masako, Saiko bringing up the rear. “Unless he went out through the kitchen.”

  “He wasn’t upstairs,” Aki said.

  “Not upstairs,” Okiko repeated, nodding.

  “Is he in the classroom?” Kiku looked that way but didn’t move to check.

  I stepped away from the fire. Gingerly, I used the tip of the poker to lift the crumpled pile of silk from the mat underneath.

  “No,” I said. “He’s not in the classroom.” Or upstairs. Or outside. Somehow I was quite sure that The Boulder was not anywhere in this world, not anymore.

  Everyone stared down at the mat, at the dark splotch as large as a man—a big man—that had been revealed when I lifted the quilt. Ichiro drew in a slow breath.

  “We’ll search the house.” Masako’s voice was firm, and it seemed to shake us all out of a daze. “We’ll need light first. Kiku, Tomiko. Get lanterns lit. Stay together. No one is to go anywhere alone. Fuku, don’t argue.”

  Miraculously, they did it. Even Fuku kept her mouth shut while Kiku and Tomiko hurried to get the lanterns off their shelf and light them at the fire. In the pale light glowing through the rice paper, faces were revealed: Fuku, nervous and restless; little Ozu, holding tight to Masako’s hand; the twins Aki and Okiko, together as always, trading quick glances as if talking without words;
Yuki, alert but not panicked; Kazuko, bouncing on the balls of her feet; Masako, sharp-eyed and watchful.

  All of them took in the sight of me.

  “Kata. What …” Masako whispered.

  I cut her off. “When we get to the kitchen, you’ll see.”

  Masako wanted to ask more, but she bit her questions back when I shook my head.

  “Kiku, Tomiko, go with Yuki and check the rooms upstairs,” she said briskly instead. “Fuku and Oichi, with me. Saiko, too. We’ll look in the classroom. Kata, inspect the windows and the door here. Take Aki and Okiko. Kazuko, stay on the stairs. You’ll be a messenger if we need one. Ozu, of course you stay with me.”

  For half a second I bristled—who was Masako to order me about, as if I were Ozu’s age? But I had no fault to find with her plan, and we had no time to waste on arguing.

  “What about me?” Ichiro asked meekly.

  Masako looked baffled. What should we do with him—our tame hostage, our unwitting prisoner?

  “Oh, come with me,” I grumbled.

  It didn’t take long for us to check the house and gather back in the main room to report. The dormitories and the hallway upstairs: nothing. The wing with the classroom: nothing. The main room: nothing. The secret room under the stairs where we’d stowed Ichiro was empty. The screens on the windows were unbroken.

  Then I led the way into the kitchen.

  Nothing there, either. Except, of course, an upended pot of soup and the corpse of a centipede demon.

  Everyone wanted an explanation, but I cut them off until the search was over. At last there was only one place left to look: Madame’s own chamber.

  We gathered together back in the main chamber and stood before her door. I gripped my knife tightly, feeling that I’d rather face a troop of mounted samurai, or another flesh-eating demon, than go into that room unbidden. It wasn’t even locked. Of course it wasn’t locked. The kitchen might need defending, but Madame’s room? Our fear of her was a barrier better than any lock or bar.

  It was Yuki who gently pushed the door open, looked back over her shoulder at us, and stepped inside. Fuku flicked a glance at me and followed. The rest of us crowded in.