“It was too late for us. I knew I wanted to be your lover since I was fourteen years old.”
“Fourteen?” Iwata frowned in puzzlement. Hiroshi had been twenty-two when he joined the prince’s regiment.
Hiroshi laughed. “I knew you wouldn’t remember. Kumomo had just given birth to Shiro, and I was permitted a few days away from school to visit them. I hadn’t seen my sister in two years. Prince Narita was in the field, but he’d arrived before I did, to inspect his new son. And you were with him.”
Iwata searched his memory. He recalled Hiroshi at twenty-two—composed, watchful—but he couldn’t summon any image of him before that.
“It was only a moment. You were striding across a courtyard with a scowl on your face. You couldn’t have seen me; I was hiding inside a doorway. I asked Momo about you. You frightened her, but she said you were rumored to be in love with the prince, so surely you weren’t as fierce as you seemed. I wondered what lay behind that angry face of yours.”
“So when you came to the army—”
“I spent two years waiting for the right time to approach you.”
Iwata stepped over a twisted root. “That was foolish.”
Hiroshi stopped, their twined fingers forcing Iwata to halt as well. “Why?”
“Because if you had come to me the night you arrived at the camp, the results would have been the same. You think I didn’t notice you the moment I saw you?”
“But I had to earn your respect. And you don’t respect anything so much as good soldiering.” Hiroshi grinned.
Despite the scar, despite the dark shadows that haunted his eyes, he looked painfully young. Iwata kissed him. Hiroshi’s lips parted, and he raked his teeth over Iwata’s lower lip, sending a shudder down his spine. Iwata dropped the ax blade-first into the undergrowth. Kyoko could wait for her firewood.
Iwata caught Hiroshi’s reaching hands, holding them still. Hiroshi’s fingers curled into fists. He hissed in frustration and nipped at Iwata’s collarbone. Iwata opened his mouth to speak, but before he could say anything, a wave of pain struck him, cresting and breaking, washing into every limb. He dropped Hiroshi’s hands. His knees buckled.
Hiroshi caught him around the waist. “Sho?”
Iwata forced his hand toward his katana. Every nerve hummed with pain, but he clutched convulsively at the hilt of his sword. He felt Hiroshi draw his wakizashi, but his lover couldn’t fight while supporting him. Iwata made his knees lock, made himself stand upright. Hiroshi let go and turned in a slow circle, weapon at the ready.
“Show yourself!” he barked. “Come out, you coward!”
Something rustled in the trees behind them. Hiroshi swung around. Iwata followed, more slowly. He squinted into the riot of green. Shadows danced among the leaves, but he saw no flash of red or white. He thought he could smell the faintest hint of its fur, acrid and sour, but it was gone in an instant. Hiroshi breathed rapidly beside him. Suddenly the iron grip that had held Iwata in agony released him. The pain drained away, bleeding out of him like poison. Iwata sagged with relief. Hiroshi stared into the trees a few moments longer, his jaw working as he gritted his teeth in frustration. Finally he turned to Iwata, and his features melted from fury to concern. He wrapped his bandaged arm around Iwata’s chest. With his good hand, Hiroshi sheathed the short sword. Iwata still clutched the katana. Even as the pain trickled away, his stiff fingers refused to unfold. Hiroshi covered Iwata’s hand with his own and gently began to pry his fingers off the hilt. Iwata let him.
“It’s taunting us.”
Hiroshi presented the freed katana to Iwata, who took it with a nod of gratitude. His mind was clearing rapidly now the thing was gone.
Hiroshi shook his head angrily. “Where could the damned beast have gone?”
The answer occurred to them at the same time. As Iwata opened his mouth to say it, Hiroshi’s eyes widened. He released Iwata and bolted back down the path to the village. Iwata followed, his stiffness overcome by urgency. He drew his sword again as he ran. Dead leaves crunched under his feet. Thin branches clutched at his robe as if trying to hold him back.
He emerged from the forest a step behind Hiroshi. The sunlight struck him like a slap to the face. He blinked away the shock without stopping. At first glance the collection of houses looked the same. Then Iwata saw it: the door of the village head’s house now stood open. As they approached, the white dog rushed out of the doorway, her bark urgent. Hiroshi charged past her into the house. Iwata followed, his muscles knotting with tension.
Hiroshi stopped abruptly. Iwata skidded to a halt behind him. Quickly he scanned the room—no sign of the fox. He turned his attention to the fire pit, where two figures huddled together. Kyoko’s face was streaked with tears. Daigo knelt beside her. As Iwata turned to them, Daigo drew guiltily away. Seeing no danger, Iwata relaxed. Hiroshi’s glance was still suspicious.
“What happened?”
“The… the chickens,” Kyoko choked.
Daigo rose. His face was flushed pink. “I went into the garden to gather the eggs for Mistress Kyoko. The chickens were… they’re dead. All of them.” He hobbled to the end of the corridor, where another door opened onto the large vegetable garden. Huge paws had torn up and flattened three rows of radishes. The chickens lay scattered among the surviving plants, their brown and white bodies ripped open, their little heads yanked off. Shreds of pink flesh and bright red blood spattered their feathers and the leaves of the surviving vegetables. A head, wrenched free of its body, lay near Iwata’s feet. Its shiny black eye had clouded over.
“The fox?” Daigo’s mouth was a grim line.
Hiroshi nodded wearily. “It passed us in the forest. We didn’t see it, but Sho felt it.”
“We didn’t hear anything. After you left, Mistress Kyoko and I talked for a few minutes. Then I came out here and saw them.”
In the short time between Iwata and Hiroshi entering the forest and turning back, the creature had stormed the garden and killed every bird, stealthily and so swiftly the chickens hadn’t even been able to flee.
Daigo clenched his fists. “I’m going to kill it! I—”
“Daigo!” Hiroshi barked. His nephew halted, one hand drifting toward his healing ribs. Hiroshi’s tone softened. “We will kill it. We’ll hunt it down and slaughter the thing. But not today. Not this moment.”
“Yes, Uncle.” Daigo glowered at the savaged chickens. Frustration flowed from him in waves.
“Go inside and comfort our hostess. We’ll clean up the garden.”
Daigo obeyed. Iwata looked at Hiroshi. “Your wrist is nearly healed. But he won’t be able to fight for some time yet.”
Hiroshi raked his fingers through his hair. “If it’s coming this close, right into the village, it’s not going to wait for us much longer. Start a fire, please. We’ll have to burn these chickens. That thing tainted them, so there’s no eating the meat now.”
IWATA STARTED awake into darkness and reached for Hiroshi. But this time his fingers touched nothing. Iwata’s eyes flew open. He sat up, his nerves tingling. Hiroshi wasn’t in the storeroom. The door was closed. Iwata gritted his teeth. He touched the shelf where he laid his weapons at night, already knowing he wouldn’t find them. He rose, yanked on his kimono, and flung open the door, tying his sash as he crept down the corridor. For once Snow seemed to read his mood—she wagged her tail sleepily as he passed but didn’t follow.
The night was warm, the moon half full, and the stars clustered thickly in the emptiness above. Silvery light rimed the yard and the roofs of the houses. It was bright enough for Iwata to see a figure moving by the tree line. Hiroshi was heading to the same path they’d taken that morning. Iwata stepped into the grass; it was wet and slick on his feet. In his haste to find Hiroshi, he’d forgotten his sandals. He moved as quickly and quietly as he could across the strip of grass separating the village from the woods.
Beneath the foliage it was too dark to see much. Iwata paused, listening. At first he heard n
othing but the languid chirping of crickets. Then, ahead and to the left, a twig cracked. He moved toward the sound. Vines clung to his ankles. He placed his foot on a sharp rock and sucked in a breath as it tore his skin. Soon he caught sight of Hiroshi, who was little more than a silhouette, solid black against the forest’s shifting darkness. Hiroshi stood still, one hand resting on a broad tree trunk, the other hovering by his sash—over the hilt of Iwata’s katana. He was perhaps ten feet away. If Iwata went any closer without announcing himself, he’d find his own sword buried in his flesh.
“Hiro,” he said.
Hiroshi didn’t turn. “I should have known I couldn’t slip away from you.”
“Are you tracking the fox alone?” Anger sharpened his tone. “Have you gone mad?”
Hiroshi’s answer was quiet, so quiet Iwata had to move closer to hear him. “My nephew isn’t well enough to accompany me.”
“But I am.”
“Damn you, Sho!” Hiroshi’s voice was a brittle whisper. “You think I can stand by and watch that thing send you into fits of pain? You think I like seeing that? I have to find where this demon is nesting. And I have to do it without you. Being near it might kill you!”
“A little pain won’t kill me!” Iwata clenched his fists in frustration. “It would slaughter you before you had a chance to tell us where it is!”
“I would have gotten away before—”
Iwata had heard enough. He closed the distance between them in two strides and yanked Hiroshi into his arms, cutting off his words. His lover remained stiff, still angry. The ragged ends of his hair brushed Iwata’s face.
“I love you,” Iwata growled hoarsely. “I love you, Hiro, and if that thing killed you, I couldn’t bear it.”
Hiroshi’s body relaxed. He sagged against Iwata, his heart pounding. Hiroshi returned the embrace so fiercely, it forced the air from Iwata’s lungs. His breath was warm on Iwata’s neck. Iwata closed his eyes. In that moment he would have been happy to forget Daigo, forget the village, forget even the fox.
But he couldn’t. Hiroshi would never leave his sister unavenged. Iwata wouldn’t love him if he was the kind of man who could.
They explored no further that night. They followed the path back to their borrowed house, Iwata limping on his wounded foot. They were silent. Iwata felt oddly shy. He knew every inch of Hiroshi’s body and had let Hiroshi explore him until he could map every scar, every freckle. But now, for the first time, he felt strangely exposed.
When they returned to the house, Mistress Noriko was sitting by the fire, sewing in its uncertain light.
“I saw the storeroom door open.” Her wrinkled face was a map of shadows. “Did you find what you were looking for?”
Hiroshi’s tone was tense. “No.”
“Don’t sound so offended, young man. I wasn’t listening for you. Old people wake in the night sometimes. Your general there knows what I’m talking about, I’d wager.”
Iwata snorted. “We’ll find the fox, don’t fret.”
“I know you will. Because once it kills one of my villagers, they won’t tolerate you anymore.”
Hiroshi opened his mouth to reply, but Iwata cut him off with a shake of his head. He’d known the incident with the chickens would be known by every villager within two hours. And he suspected that the village would turn against them now there was physical evidence of the fox.
They bowed to Mistress Noriko and went to their room. Rather than sleeping, they merely waited until morning.
BY DAY they practiced fighting the fox, and by night they hunted it. Iwata and Hiroshi took to sleeping in the afternoon, waking into the blaze of sunset to begin combing the forest.
Iwata’s decades in the military had given him an ability to build maps in his head, so each night they entered the forest at a different point and searched as far as they could until daylight. They didn’t encounter the fox, but they found its work: paths torn through the brush, animals with their throats torn out but the rest of them untouched, paw prints larger than their hands.
After a week of finding nothing, Iwata and Hiroshi sat on the steps of their hostess’s house and extended their plans. Iwata used a stick in the dirt to draw a rough map of the island from memory. The places beyond a day’s reach faded into blankness.
“We’ll pack a few days’ worth of food and walk until we find the sea. Then we’ll circle around the coast and cut back to the village from a different direction,” he concluded. “This island isn’t big. That monster can’t hide forever.”
“Daigo will want to come.” Hiroshi flexed his wrist. Since the healer had cut off the splint the day before, he’d been moving it constantly, watching the muscles ripple as if he’d never seen them before.
“I won’t slow down for him.” Iwata examined his map.
“It doesn’t matter. I don’t—”
Hiroshi broke off abruptly, and Iwata glanced up to see Daigo and Kyoko coming toward them. Kyoko balanced a basket of laundry on her hip. Daigo carried a smaller basket full of greasy white soap. He still limped, but it was hardly noticeable. The abrasions had healed. Except for some shadows beneath his eyes, he looked nearly as young as he had before the funa-yurei.
Kyoko seemed to have grown younger as well. The weary lines on her face weren’t as deep. She smiled often, and even the gray strands in her hair seemed to have darkened.
“Uncle, Lord General.” Daigo grinned. “And Snow.”
Iwata glanced down to where the little dog sat next to him. He’d been absently fondling her ears without noticing. She blinked up at him, panting contentedly.
“What’s this, my lord?” Kyoko frowned at Iwata’s drawing. “Is this our island?”
He nodded. She studied it a moment longer, then pointed with her free hand. “Those three hills, there… there’s a waterfall a little past there. I don’t know if that helps,” she added as Iwata leaned over to add the waterfall to his map.
“I’ll go with you.” Daigo’s face hardened. “I’m well enough.”
Iwata glanced at Hiroshi. Hiroshi’s scarred face betrayed nothing as he studied his nephew. Finally he nodded. “We leave tomorrow at twilight. The beast hunts by night, so if we can find its nest while it’s gone, we can surprise it when it returns.”
“I’ll be ready.” Daigo smiled grimly. He broke away from Kyoko’s side and carried the soap into the house. She stood a moment, staring after him, her mouth slightly open in dismay.
“We’ll protect him, Mistress.” The gentleness in his own voice surprised Iwata.
She blinked at him, her lip quivering. Then she came to herself and bowed before hurrying inside with the clothes. Iwata raised his eyebrows. Hiroshi recognized the question in his face and looked away.
“He’s not coming,” he muttered, and stalked away to the garden where the chickens had died.
THEY BARELY spoke the rest of the day. Iwata couldn’t keep the disapproval from his face, and Hiroshi refused to meet his gaze.
In the afternoon they tramped down to the beach, where Iwata attacked Hiroshi with a ferocity borne of frustration. Hiroshi acquitted himself well; both ended up bruised and stiff. In silence they walked back to the village, Snow darting in and out of the trees along the path.
At dinner Daigo talked excitedly about the next day’s journey. He was seemingly oblivious to Kyoko’s pale, drawn features and Hiroshi’s iron silence. But Mistress Noriko noticed. When her shrewd gaze settled on Iwata, he turned away, slipping Snow a strip of rubbery squid flesh. Her wet whiskers tickled his palm. Mistress Noriko seemed to him like an echo of Lady Mari, always seeing more than she made known.
After dinner they scattered to their respective rooms, Daigo to plan, Kyoko to worry, Mistress Noriko to do whatever she did when alone. Iwata shut Snow out of the storeroom and turned to Hiroshi. He was already stripping off his robe. The bruises Iwata had inflicted stood out like dirt smears on his pale shoulder.
Hiroshi flashed a brief, troubled smile. “Were these necessary?”
“Was this?” Iwata shrugged off his own robe to show the purple mark blossoming on his flank.
Hiroshi pulled on his sleeping robe. “You disapprove.”
“I disapprove of you not allowing Daigo to pursue his vengeance. He’s a man, Hiro. He makes his own choices. And it’s honorable for him to avenge his mother.”
“Honor,” Hiroshi said slowly. “Strange how honor seems less important when it’s your own nephew in question.”
“He’s your nephew, but he’s also Lady Kumomo’s son.”
“And she’s dead. If I led Momo’s son to his death as well, she’d never forgive me.”
“He’ll never forgive you.”
“But he’ll be alive.” Hiroshi ran a hand through his hair. His voice was husky with uneasiness. “Can you forgive me, Sho?”
“Eight years ago, no. Now….” Iwata reached out and touched Hiroshi’s face, tracing the scar by his eye. “Honor seems less important when you’re in question.”
Hiroshi’s eyes widened. The next moment he was kissing Iwata, hungry and insistent, digging his fingernails into Iwata’s shoulders. His suddenness made Iwata stumble backward, but Hiroshi seemed desperate to touch him, to possess him. His mouth roved over Iwata’s skin, his hands stroking every part of Iwata’s body he could reach. Iwata let him.
Afterward they lay together. Iwata tangled his fingers in Hiroshi’s hair. It wasn’t long enough to braid, but Iwata could pull it back in his fist.
Hiroshi yawned. “Do you think Kyoko will lend me a hair tie?”
“I don’t doubt it.” Iwata closed his eyes. In his mind he was listing all the things they would need to pack for their expedition.
“SHE’S COMING with us whether you want her to or not, Sho.” Hiroshi sounded amused. “Her will is even stronger than yours.”
Snow barked once as if in agreement. Iwata scowled at her. But Hiroshi was right: she never obeyed commands, and if he tied her up, she’d find a way to slip the rope. She was a clever little beast. Iwata shook his head and turned away. Sensing she’d won, Snow came to lean against his leg, her tail wagging. Iwata crouched down to survey their equipment. Absently he scratched her ears.
Late Summer, Early Spring Page 15
