by Zoe Marriott
“You look tired.” It was a statement, not a question, but I wasn’t fooled. I could hear the unspoken questions – the same ones he was always asking – jostling under the surface. How are you coping? Are you all right? How do you feel? What will you do next?
Involuntarily my nails began to beat out a rapid tattoo on the counter. I knew he wasn’t the cause of my frustration and anxiety, but … I was the one who’d been tossed around like a rag doll in that hospital ward. I was the one who was trying to figure out the sword’s influence on me. I was the one hanging in there, waiting for some sign of his feelings that he apparently couldn’t be bothered to give. I had enough problems. Why was I constantly having to tiptoe around reassuring him that I was fine?
What if I wasn’t fine, dammit?
“Mio,” he said heavily, reclaiming my attention. “We need to talk.”
Apprehension tingled through me. I made myself turn to face him. “Well, that sounds like fun.”
My sarcasm bounced off without leaving a dent. “Earlier today – before Jack-san was attacked – I meant to speak then, but I did not have the chance.”
Earlier today when I told you that I loved you? I took a slightly shaky breath. “Yes?”
“I can sense that something has changed.”
I nodded. “OK.”
“Things have altered between you and the sword. You said that the compulsion is growing stronger, but I think it is more than that. I am right, am I not?”
It was like stepping into what you thought was a warm shower – and being drenched with ice water instead. I let out a choked, incredulous laugh. “That’s what you want to talk about?”
“Please,” he said gravely. “Tell me how you defeated the Nekomata alone. Tell me what happened to you after I … when I fell.”
The scaffolding pole broke through his chest, blood gushing up like a red flower…
The green blade flashes down in the red light—
I flinched, then sighed. “Nothing. Nothing really … happened. We fought. I won.”
His eyes were fixed on me like lasers. I could almost feel the burn on my skin. “I do not believe that is all.”
I drummed my nails on the countertop again. “I don’t know exactly. After … after I saw you go down, I got angry. Very angry. And I screamed your name, but I think the sword took it as an invitation because it spoke to me again, but it didn’t … do anything. I mean, it didn’t blast the Nekomata into smithereens or open a wormhole and suck it into space. The blade caught flame, and I suppose it probably boosted my strength and speed again, but … I had to use what Ojiichan taught me. I had to do my own fighting. Then after I’d killed the demon, the sword tried to talk to me about making some kind of deal and I told it to piss off and shoved it into the saya. And I haven’t taken it out since. Even though I really, really, really want to.” I stopped abruptly, breathing hard, and looked him in the face for the first time since I’d started talking.
He was staring at me with horror. “You communicated with the blade? You … made some kind of – of bond with it? Why did you not tell me?”
“Why would I?” I asked defensively. “Look, it’s not like there’s anything you can do about it. I messed up, I get it. I let the sword in somehow. I didn’t mean to. What more do you want?”
“I want you to talk to me!” he snapped. “Tell me what is happening and how it affects you! This is important. I had a right to know!” He slapped one hand down flat on the counter. It made a sound like a gunshot. The katana rattled.
I jumped in surprise and reached out to put my hand over the hilt before it could fall off onto the floor. As my fingers closed around the silk wrappings, I felt the angry thrum of the sword’s power and suddenly my own temper ignited.
“What. The. Hell?” I snarled. “You have the right to know? You don’t have the right to know anything about me. It’s not like I know everything about you! You don’t get to decide what I should and shouldn’t do because you’ve appointed yourself my bodyguard. I don’t belong to you! I don’t owe you anything. If I wanted this kind of crap, I could have phoned my damned father.”
The look of surprise and – yes – hurt on his face was oddly satisfying. “That is not what I—”
“No, you’ve said enough. Get out of my face. Go away. I don’t want to look at you right now.” He hesitated and it was the last straw. “GET. OUT.”
Without another word he turned on his heel and stalked back into the living room. I put the sword back down onto the counter, ripped the fridge open and furiously started grabbing the ingredients for sandwiches, which was what I had intended to do before Shinobu came in and started throwing his weight around.
Seriously? Seriously, he was going to take that attitude with me? I slammed a plate down and started buttering bread with a fury. I’m supposed to tell him everything when he tells me nothing? He can’t even bring himself to tell me that he likes me!
Maybe he didn’t like me. He’d never said that. Ever. All he’d ever said was that I was important to him because I was the one thing he had when he was trapped in the sword. He might still be in love with her, for all I knew. I sliced a sandwich in half with a vicious movement. The knife skittered over the chopping board.
Maybe he’s just … clinging to me now that he’s out. The way that someone who’s drowning will cling to any old chunk of wood that floats past in the sea. The way a man lost in darkness will cling to his last candle.
The way a boy who lost his entire family in a single moment might desperately fight to protect the one person he has left…
Shit.
How could I have forgotten that? How – Jesus, how – could I have completely ignored the fact that for Shinobu, it was only yesterday that his world disappeared forever? It was barely an eyeblink since he died protecting them, and he knew he would never see them again. Never get to say goodbye. He was completely adrift in a different time, in an alien world … and I was all he had.
He was scared it would happen again. The fact that he had lost his last girlfriend would just make that even worse. If I had gone through what Shinobu had, I would be a psychotic mess. But Shinobu wasn’t. He wasn’t even that overprotective. He’d never tried to stop me from fighting. He just wanted me to be honest with him.
And I’d turned round and annihilated him for it.
Oh God. Oh God, what did I just do?
I dumped the butter knife in the sink, grabbed the sword and rushed into the living room.
Shinobu was standing with his back to me, staring out of one of the living-room windows into the street. His hair hung over one shoulder, leaving the line of his spine looking exposed and somehow … vulnerable. One hand was knotted into a tight fist on the wall above his head. He was utterly motionless. Like a rock.
The sight was horribly familiar. He’d gone like this once before. Only yesterday, actually, after I’d accidentally reminded him of everything he’d lost. He’d sort of curled into himself, curled around the pain, frozen as if one unwary movement might shatter him. And now I’d done it again, but this time it wasn’t just an ignorant mistake. I’d deliberately hurt him.
That time I’d left him alone. I’d walked away and left him to deal with his feelings by himself.
Well, not this time.
I swallowed hard, and slowly, slowly bent over to place the katana on the sofa. My fingers spasmed and twitched, fighting me as I forced them to release the warm, gleaming lacquer of the saya. It took a lot of effort to straighten up again and leave the sword there. I was shaking as I walked across the room to stand behind Shinobu, but I forced myself to ignore the need to turn back. This was about Shinobu now, and I had to focus on him.
He gave no sign that he had heard me come into the room or approach him. Slowly – even more slowly than I’d moved when I put the katana down – I reached out and put my arms around Shinobu’s narrow waist, leaning into the warm, dense muscles of his back. I pressed my lips between his shoulder blades, resting my palms
flat on his chest. The warm pines-and-smoke scent of his hair and skin met my nose.
Immediately I felt the nearness of him affect me. My heart pounded harder than it did when I thought the Shikome might be lying in wait for me. I couldn’t get control of my breath. I rested my forehead against his shoulder and squeezed my eyes shut against the heat of tears. But at the same time, I could feel a terrible, cold tension easing out of me. Like I had come home. Like I was where I was supposed to be, and I was safe.
Shinobu always made me feel safe, even when my feelings for him scared the crap out of me.
At first it was as if he didn’t even notice me embracing him. Maybe he’d gone somewhere so far away that he really didn’t. I just held on, tight, pressing myself into the hard planes of his body in wordless apology.
Come back. Come back to me. I’ve got you. I won’t let you go.
I won’t let go.
I felt a little shudder go through him – a ragged breath dragged into his chest. His hand unclenched and dropped from the wall to his side. And then it lifted to touch mine; a tentative caress of his fingers across my knuckles that became more confident when I didn’t move away. He laced our fingers together, his big hand cradling my smaller one.
“You have it completely wrong,” he said finally, his voice so quiet that I could barely hear it. “I do not … I have never felt that you belong to me.”
My heart throbbed like a wound. “Why not?”
“Because it is the other way around. I am yours. Completely.” He stopped, sucked in another uneven breath. “You own all of me. Forever, for as long as you live. And as long as I may stay by your side, I will have all that I need. Everything that I need.”
And I had wanted some pat twenty-first century declaration of love?
The tears spilled over and I turned my face to the side so that they wouldn’t soak through his T-shirt and give me away. Something tipped him off, though. He turned suddenly and took my face in his hands. His thumbs stroked the tracks of moisture away.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t know why I said all that to you. I was wrong.” My voice trembled and broke, but I forced myself to meet his eyes.
They were dark and very serious, and full of silvery grey shapes like clouds. But his lips quirked up on one side into a crooked smile. “Not completely wrong. I had no right to shout and demand answers, and for that I am sorry too.” He stopped, and I knew he was waiting.
I sighed, a long painful exhalation. “The katana wants something from me. I don’t know what, not really. It said ‘freedom’, but … what does that mean to a sword? It can’t get at me while it’s in the saya, but I can still sense its energy. Pushing at me. Pushing constantly, trying to get in. When I fight with it, I hear it in my mind, talking to me, trying to influence me. And when I say its true name … that’s when things get really scary because I’m not always sure what thoughts, what feelings, are mine and which are…”
My voice trailed off as I remembered touching the sword, its grip, at the exact second that I had flown off the handle just now. But the blade had been sheathed. And I had already been annoyed and touchy. It couldn’t influence me that much through the saya. It… I … I couldn’t face that possibility.
Shinobu drew me closer, pressing his forehead against mine. “We must find out how to break the compulsion and free you, before it damages you in some way that is irreparable.”
“I can’t waste time on that. No, listen, Shinobu – I’m as desperate to be rid of the sword and the compulsion as you are to have me rid of them, believe me. But everything I said to Rachel before still stands. Helping Jack and getting rid of the Shikome is more urgent than anything else. And we need the sword to do that.”
His arms were almost crushing me. I felt his lips against my hair. His voice shook when he spoke. “Then fight it, Mio. You must fight it with everything you have.”
“I will,” I promised, even as the deep pull of need was already drawing me back to the place where the sword rested on the sofa.
“Euw. God save me from lovey-dovey teenagers,” Rachel said from the doorway. I hadn’t even realized she was there.
I blinked a few times and cleared my throat, dazed from the intensity of the moment.
“Remember what I said,” Shinobu said softly. With a last touch to my cheek, he reluctantly released me.
Rachel gave us a sly grin, so like Jack’s that my heart stuttered in my chest. I scurried away from both of them, snatching the katana up from the sofa en route to the kitchen, where I retrieved the sandwiches and some bottled water.
When I came back, Rachel had flicked on the overhead light in the living room, making me realize how dim it had grown. She had the TV remote in her hand and was frowning down at it.
“Turn it on,” I said quietly. “Try to find a news programme. I have a worried feeling about what’s going on out there. We need to know how bad it is.”
Rachel nodded and switched on the set, flicking channels for a minute before coming across what seemed to be a press conference. A woman stood outside the front door of Number 10 Downing Street, surrounded by microphones, her face lit with constant photo flashes.
“Health Secretary Anders is unable to carry out his duties due to illness at this time,” she was saying. “The prime minister has authorized me to take over.”
“Can you confirm the reports that Mr Anders is in a coma?” one of the reporters shouted.
“It would be inappropriate for me to divulge any confidential medical information about Mr Anders,” she responded primly. “Next question.”
Another reporter called out, “What can we – the general public – do to protect ourselves from this disease?”
“Firstly, it is not a disease. It is an allergic reaction. Secondly, current information shows that around ninety-eight per cent of those admitted to hospitals with these symptoms today were outside, either when they were taken ill or immediately before. We are urging Londoners to stay inside their homes unless their journey is essential. If you are currently at work or travelling, we advise that you head for your home or the home of a friend or family member, whichever is closest.”
“How many people have been affected?”
The woman looked grim. “We need to focus on helping one another at this time, not on numbers.”
“What about the risk of infection from person to person?” the same reporter demanded.
“I repeat, this is not a disease. It is not infectious. There is no evidence – I repeat, none – that these contaminants are transmitted through person-to-person contact. Please do not hesitate to welcome friends and family into your home.” The woman drew herself up, raising her chin. Her voice took on a rolling, pompous tone as she continued. “London is an ancient, proud city which has survived plague, fire, flood, and the Blitzkrieg of World War Two. I am sure that Blitz spirit will remain with its people today, and we will pull together, and work to get through this crisis—”
Rachel made an exclamation of annoyance and jabbed the remote with her finger. The TV screen went black. “They’re as useless as normal,” she said. “But the question is, how many of those Shikome are out there? They must have infected a lot of people for the government to be doing a public statement.”
One by one, two by two… If it really had been Izanami in my vision, and if she had told me the truth, then she was somehow getting “closer” to the mortal realm, and the closer she got, the more of her Foul Women she was able to push into our world. Their numbers had to be increasing – but how quickly? How many of the Shikome would it take before the situation reached critical mass and so many people were infected that the city just fell apart?
“Hello?” Rachel interrupted my train of thought. “Are you listening? Please tell me that you have some sort of plan?”
I set the sandwiches and water on the coffee table and sat down on the floor next to it, shoving my hair back behind my ears. “The plan is, we’re all going to eat something so none of us pass out
at a crucial moment. And then I’m calling in my favour from the Kitsune. Whether they want my help or not, they still owe me theirs.”
Rachel pulled a face. “They ignored you this morning,” she pointed out. “What makes you think it’ll be any different tonight?”
“This time I won’t let them ignore me,” I said grimly.
CHAPTER 8
DOWN THE RABBIT HOLE
Shinobu waited patiently, leaning on one of the extension’s glass panes while Rachel wandered around the messy kitchen, not tidying so much as rearranging the mess. I stood in the back doorway, yelling for Hikaru. Then shouting the name of every other Kitsune I knew. I called for the king. I even tried a formal “summoning” in stilted Japanese that Shinobu taught me to repeat parrot-fashion when it was clear things were getting desperate.
Hikaru didn’t answer.
No one did.
I didn’t give up easily. It took a good couple of hours for my voice to give out. Or maybe it was my hope that failed first, not my throat. Finally I had to admit that I wasn’t doing any good. That was when Rachel lost her temper. “Those sneaky, lying, ginger b—”
I glowered at her. “Stop it. They’re our friends.”
She folded her arms in the now-familiar defensive posture. “You are such a child, Mio. Just because people say ‘I promise’ doesn’t mean they’re your friends.”
The condescending tone tweaked a nerve, and when I spoke again it was through gritted teeth. “Can you give it a rest, please? I know that you’re older than me – you point it out every three seconds – but you don’t know everything. When it comes to this world, you are the kid and I’m the adult.”
“Excuse me?” she demanded. “What does that mean? I should be seen and not heard?”
“That’d be nice actually, yeah,”
Rachel let out a tiny scream of frustration. Vivid yellow sparked in and then flooded the dark brown of her eyes. She spun round and kicked at the pile of debris that was the ruined kitchen table. A splintered piece of wood – one of the table legs – flew up and embedded itself in the wall.
