by Emiko Jean
“I dressed for the occasion,” Mari said stiffly, “not for the prince.” A partial truth. Mari still held the Animal Wife desire to be beautiful and wanted, pleasing and perfect, goals she would never accomplish. She remembered raiding the stores of precious silk kimonos from under the singing floorboards as a child, and playing dress-up with Hissa. It was a fun game that resulted in fits of giggles and mismatched outfits. She had felt beautiful then. But somewhere along the way, the game of dress-up became less fun and more like hard labor, especially when her mother joined them one day. Tami had dusted the girls with perfumes and powders and imparted advice: Men like the smell of self-worth, confidence. You must know your mind and speak it, but not too often. Men fear intelligent women. It means they are capable of anything. You must laugh, but not be funny. You must be spirited, but not strong . . . Mari shook the memory away. “I just want to blend in. That’s all,” Mari told Asami.
Asami huffed. “I don’t care about those things.” Her chin jutted out, as if daring Mari to call her bluff. “Let’s go,” Asami ordered one of the samurai. She may dress as a peasant, but she gives demands like a courtier.
The samurai muttered a gruff, “This way.”
As they trailed the samurai, Mari scanned her ally, her eyes traveling over Asami’s hands. “I thought . . .” Mari said, uncertain. “I thought I saw tattoos on your wrists and palms when we were in the Summer Room.”
Asami’s dry laugh bounced through the cavernous hall. “Tattoos? Never had one in my life.”
She was certain she’d seen ink on Asami’s hands, and Asami’s laugh seemed forced, her smile falsely bright. Why hide your tattoos?
They reached a set of open double doors. “The Wet Garden,” the samurai said. He bowed and withdrew.
Together, Asami and Mari stood, hovering at the threshold, staring at the opulent sight before them. A place where heaven meets earth.
An artificial lake sat in the middle of the garden, placid water glowing in the moonlight. In the center of the lake was an island, dotted with black pines and white sand. Lanterns hung from the pines’ twisted branches. No, not lanterns. Glass bubbles filled with fireflies. Two streams flowed from the lake, and the current carried dragon barges, their backs carved to hold cups of sake. Courtiers laughed, picking up glasses of rice wine as they drifted by.
At the farthest point in the garden was a sandpit. Large men with rotund bellies and loincloths stomped their feet and threw salt in the air, purifying the ring. Closer in was a table with a wooden box that contained satchels of incense, each held wood shavings from different parts of the empire. Participants were guessing from which region each satchel hailed. Mari wondered if there was a scent from the Tsuko funo Mountains. She ached for home with a sudden acuteness.
A gong rang, and Master Ushiba appeared beside them. “Lady Asami, representing the Akimoto Clan, Fourth Finisher in the Summer Room,” he announced in a sonorous voice. “Lady Mari, representing the Masunaga Clan, Tenth Finisher in the Summer Room.”
The courtiers grew silent, twisting their necks to watch Mari and Asami descend the staircase. Mari tensed, and her throat ran dry. She scanned the crowd and found the girl with the bow and arrow. She held up a cup of sake and tilted it toward Mari and Asami, a toast that seemed more like a warning. Mari caught sight of Taro. The prince stood, just past the bow-and-arrow girl, under a sugi tree. Quickly, Mari averted her eyes.
“Smile,” Asami mumbled behind her own tight one. “Remember, sharks circle only when they smell blood.”
Mari pasted on a smile, bright and blinding, and gazed at the sea of courtiers, at their grinning mouths, their black teeth. Inside, she hardened, willing her soul to be dry earth. Duty and home. Conquer the Rooms. Marry the prince. Steal his fortune.
Eoku:
God of War, Military, and Night
Eoku, god of war, military, and night sought to make an army of followers on earth. His army would be made of the strongest men, with the toughest skin and the fiercest tempers. The army would carry out his will and worship him so that he would always be remembered, always live in the hearts of men. Gods and goddesses fed on worship, and when they faded in human and yōkai memory, they fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Eoku snuck away to Honoku, entering through a cave in the northeast-most corner of the land. He invited yōkai and humans to compete in battles to the death. The champion would be Eoku’s namesake, his right hand, the most feared being in the land.
As a test of courage, Eoku created a gate of fire that all had to pass through before competing. Many tried to breach the threshold but burned up instantly.
Only four succeeded.
All were yōkai.
The tengu, a giant birdlike creature, flew through the center of the ring of fire, his wings only singed by the flames. The ashura, a demon with six arms, three faces, and three eyes, walked through the fire unharmed, his slick skin protecting him like a fireproof robe. The jorōgumo, a mammoth spider that could shift into the shape of a woman, used its web to smother the flames. And the oni, a pale-skinned lesser demon, inhaled a massive breath, then exhaled, extinguishing the hellish fire before walking through.
The four creatures battled, and Eoku watched with wicked delight.
The ashura snared the tengu, caging and crushing the bird’s hollow bones in his six arms. The jorōgumo wrapped the ashura in a web of unbreakable silk and suffocated him.
Only the jorōgumo and oni remained.
They circled each other, their bodies tense, coiled snakes ready to strike. The jorōgumo shot a web from its abdomen, hoping to ensnare the oni. The oni caught the web in his hand and pulled the jorōgumo forward by her own thread. The jorōgumo’s eight legs scrambled on the dirt ground, kicking up rocks, trying to find purchase. But the jorōgumo was no match against the oni’s massive strength. Once the jorōgumo was close enough, the oni climbed on its back and bit into its neck. The jorōgumo collapsed. The oni painted his body with his victim’s blood, staining his skin red. Eoku made the color permanent. From that day on, all oni were born with red skin and pledged their lives to Eoku. And they were no longer regarded as lesser demons. Through blood and might and the strength of Eoku, they were the strongest of the yōkai.
Chapter 20
Taro
“Sometimes my father forces oni to fight here,” said Taro. Mari jumped visibly. She’d been watching the sumo match for some time. And Taro had been watching her, unsure how to approach. He did it with his usual finesse, speaking in a near bark and scaring the daylights out of the recipient.
“Your Majesty,” she said, bowing low. Salt, thrown from the ring, crunched under her wooden sandals.
Taro’s lips twitched, and his frown deepened. “Please don’t call me that.”
In the soft lamplight, he saw her anger flare. “How should I address you, then? Prince? Samurai? Taro?” Liar? She didn’t say it. But she didn’t have to. The accusation was present in her narrowed eyes, in her quivering lips. She wasn’t just angry. She was hurt. Taro didn’t like that he’d caused her pain.
With a small sound, and before he could say anything else, she fled with a swish of her kimono.
Taro gave pursuit, muttering an oath. Once he was within feet of her, he used his most imperious tone, the one that made samurai, priests, and peasants shake and bow. “Mari.”
She stopped, her spine rigid, tiny hands clenched. A glass bulb of fireflies hung from a tree, lighting the path. The two deer embroidered on the back of her obi shimmered, black eyes silently watching him. Slabs of obsidian stone paved the pathway. The air smelled sweet, loamy, and cool.
Taro gulped, waiting for Mari to turn. She didn’t. “Will you not look at me?” he asked roughly.
Mari made the slightest movement. Taro shifted on his feet, ready to pursue her again. He would insist she accept his apology, insist she banter with him as she’d done in his mother’s tea garden.
She didn’t run.
Instead, her voice floated
to him, soft and demure, a light mist of rain. “I’m afraid,” she said. “And embarrassed. And angry.”
“You fear me?” Taro asked, surprised, dismayed.
“I struck you. With a snap of your fingers, you could order my death.”
Taro inhaled. What courage it had taken her to admit that. His breath made little fog clouds. The bruises didn’t even hurt anymore. Taro had told the emperor that he’d gotten them while sparring with a samurai, catching a clumsy elbow to the face. His father had seemed pleased. Until Taro explained that he’d lost.
“I do not wish to be a pawn in your cruel game, Your Majesty.” Her shoulders squared.
“You think I play a game?” Taro asked.
“Isn’t that what a man does when he dresses as someone other than himself?”
Taro ventured forward. Gently, he touched Mari’s shoulder, then pulled back. Gooseflesh rose on her small neck. He sighed. “I am the heir to the imperial throne. This is the truth. I cannot change the status of my birth any more than a tiger can change its stripes. The person you met in the garden the other day, wearing samurai clothing and holding a metal bird, that is the real me.” He stepped around her so that they were face-to-face. “Twice now I have gravely insulted you. First, by assuming that your intentions for entering the competition were to live a life of luxury.” Mari expelled a caustic breath. “Second, by not revealing to you who I really am. Please accept my most sincere apology.” Taro swept into a sharp, formal bow. The low type of bow that you present to a superior. The type of bow an imperial prince never executed. “I owe you a penance. A boon. What would you like?”
Mari tilted her head, deep in thought. A signal her anger was yielding? “How big of a boon?”
“Ask me for anything,” he demanded quietly. The need for her forgiveness, to make things right between them, burned under his skin. Why was this so important to him?
“What if I wanted a garden with a million roses?”
“Done,” Taro answered swiftly.
She reached up and removed a lantern from the nearest branch, cradling it in her hands. Her lips pursed. “Now that I think of it, roses make me sneeze. What about a boat?”
“Of course. A yacht or a fishing boat?”
Mari’s mouth relaxed. “I don’t think I want that, either,” she said softly.
“What do you want?” he asked.
Mari sighed, her expression unreadable. “Thank you,” she said. “But I don’t think anyone can give me the thing I truly want.” Mari uncapped the top of the lantern. Unsure of their newfound freedom, the lightning bugs lingered for a moment before gliding away.
“Why did you do that?” Taro asked, studying Mari’s face, trying to take her apart, figure her out like one of his contraptions. Who are you? Why are you here? What are you doing to me?
“Lately, I’ve found myself bothered by things in cages.” He felt her shoulder brush along his arm as she turned. “But I am monopolizing the prince. You have many guests to entertain. I must say good night.”
And with that, she left Taro alone in the dark.
Chapter 21
Akira
Akira awoke in the clock tower with a pounding headache. Again.
But this time he knew how he’d gotten there. The night before, Hanako had taken him out to celebrate their new “friendship.” They’d gone to a yōkai tavern on the docks with Ren, ordering a bottle of pomegranate rice wine as they entered. The night passed in a haze of drinks, toasts, and bar fights. The sun’s rays had just begun to crest when Ren had thrown Hanako and Akira each over a massive shoulder and brought them back to the clock tower.
Akira rolled and groaned, softness grazing his cheek. He was on a futon. His headache spiked as the door opened, the squeaky hinges like nails scraping across his brain. He grumbled, burying himself farther under the covers.
An ice-cold foot crept under the blankets and nudged Akira’s side. Hanako’s voice followed, clear and sharp. “Get up. It’s time to train.”
Hanako stood over him, looking amazingly refreshed. Today she’d dressed in a black leather kimono. Her feet were bare. Still fascinated by her see-through skin, Akira watched the delicate veins running through her toes. Ren leaned against a wall, muscled arms crossed over his chest. He picked something from his teeth. Probably hummingbird, apparently the demon’s favorite.
“Go away. I need to sleep another hour,” Akira said, a queasy hitch in his voice. Or maybe the whole day. He couldn’t possibly learn to fight in his current condition.
Hanako crouched, bringing them nose-to-nose. “It’s funny. You think you have a choice. Come, new friend, Son of Nightmares. Today we choose your weapon.”
Akira’s interest was piqued. He held up a hand to shield his eyes from the sun streaming through the window. “I won’t be trained on all weapons?” he asked.
Hanako laughed. “Only a Weapons Master can wield all weapons. I trained for sixteen years with the Taiji monks in the art of war.”
So the rumors are true. Akira had heard that the monks adopted children and trained them, male or female, to be courtesans. But when children were too ugly, the monks trained them as assassins. But all assassins were supposed to report to the emperor for duty, to serve in one of his legions. How had Hanako come to live in the Imperial City but not serve the emperor? And how had she become the leader of the yōkai Resistance?
“A weapon is a very personal item. It must choose you as much as you choose it,” she explained.
“Interesting,” Akira murmured. Still, his head pounded, his eyes drifted closed . . .
Hanako clapped twice. “Ren. The bucket.”
The oni grabbed a bucket of ice-cold water and dumped it onto Akira’s head. He gasped and jumped up. “Gods and goddesses, that’s cold!”
Hanako broke into a poisonous smile. “That’s nothing. Compared to the blood that runs through my veins, an ice bucket is a warm bath.” She tossed an apple and a cloth at him. “Eat, dry yourself off, and meet me in the room directly below. Be ready to bleed.”
* * *
Akira threw open the door. A hallway and a rickety staircase lined with yōkai greeted him. They filled the corridors: Red-skinned oni with various metal body piercings, one even with an iron hoop punched through a tusk. A trio of kamaitachi, weasel-like creatures with hedgehog quills and a dog’s bark. A yamawaro, a stout yōkai with long, greasy hair and a single eye in the middle of its head. It could mimic the sound of falling rocks, wind, or even dynamite.
“Be careful,” Hanako had warned last night, “Ebisu, the yamawaro, will sneak into your bed and take naps. He leaves behind a greasy outline and stray hairs.”
Akira eyed the yamawaro. It smiled at him, a single line of drool dripping from the corner of its mouth. All were collared. All eyed Akira with a hint of distrust.
Akira closed the door firmly behind him. Maybe he could find a lock in the markets. A few steps down, he passed the geezers sitting on the stairs, the ones who’d drugged him and brought him to the clock tower. They were brothers, identical twins, hatched from the same egg. As Akira walked by, they sniffed. “New pet,” one said.
He didn’t stop. But he studied his surroundings carefully, as he’d been too inebriated the night before to take note of anything. The clock tower was circular and built around a set of winding steps. Narrow hallways shot off on each floor and housed small rooms. From the rafters, giant logs had been strung up. With a knife, the strings could be cut, sending the massive pieces of wood down the staircase. Last night, Hanako had gleefully explained her traps to him. She’d rigged the whole clock tower with swinging logs, explosive tripwires, even nail spikes along the windows. It was clear that the Snow Girl was preparing for something. Whatever it was, Akira planned to clear out before it happened. A few more steps, and Akira reached the room below his. He opened the door and stood, stunned.
Wall-to-wall weapons filled Akira’s vision—katana and wakizashi swords, sickles and chains, bows and arrows, miniature canno
n launchers, throwing daggers, and on it went. Does Hanako truly know how to use each of these weapons? Below were glass cases. Akira’s eyes rested on a set of tantō knives, their blades catching the light. A chill ran through him. A tantō knife had killed his mother.
“What do you think of my collection?” Hanako asked, strolling amid the armory, running nimble fingers along the edges of the glinting blades. “I am skilled in all. You will be skilled in only one.” Slowly, the Snow Girl approached Akira and circled him, rubbing her hands together. “Let’s see what you’re made of. Then I will determine what weapon you shall have.”
For the rest of the day, Akira endured Hanako’s endless torture. She measured the span of his arms, had him balance on his toes until the next bell on the clock sounded, demanded he flex. She timed how long it took him to run from one end of the room to the other. She made him do jumping jacks. Then he had to drag himself across the floor with just his arms. Hanako’s yōkai comrades filtered in, laughing when Akira fell and wincing when he lost his lunch all over one of Hanako’s glass cases.
By late afternoon, Akira was sweaty and dirty and more tired than he’d ever been. He was also incredibly hungry. The apple he had in the morning and the bit of rice in the afternoon had barely sustained him. Akira collapsed into an exhausted heap. “Have you decided what weapon yet?”
Hanako made a pffting sound. “Oh, that. I knew the moment we met. All this was just for my enjoyment.” Laughter among the yōkai ensued. Ren’s rumbled like thunder.
