by Jenn Stark
“Nigel hopefully has filled them in. I don’t want this to be a big deal,” I said. My hand rested protectively on the sword across my lap. I’d switched out my hoodie and jeans for the thick tights I employed on night raids, and a technical T-shirt that allowed movement, also in black. So much easier to hide the blood that way. Otherwise, it was me, my sneakers, and the Honjo Masamune, against the arrayed ranks of Soo’s best warriors.
I gave myself about even odds.
“You’re going to be great,” Nikki said, parking the vehicle. Instead of exiting immediately, though, she put her long, Miss Kitty-manicured fingers on the steering wheel and stared straight ahead at the mansion for a long moment before turning to me.
“And when you are great, and you find yourself wondering if you could ever do this thing, be this person, I want you to know this. You can. You may not have all the answers yet. You may not understand fully the ramifications of the job. You may be years away from being able to handle it well—but you can handle it. And no matter what you choose to do, whether it’s running your sword down the center of Soo’s generals or using it to draw a line in the sand between you and the Council, I’m here for you. I’ll fight in front of you as long as you need me to, beside you as long as we can, and behind you until I can no longer stand.”
My trembling hand reached out and closed over one of her great big ones, and I let it sit there for a few moments before I squeezed. Once more I couldn’t speak, my throat too tight around the lump wedged in it.
“There. That about covers it.” Nikki slapped the wheel, her eyes bright. Then she got out of the car.
It took me a moment longer to compose myself, but by the time my feet hit the sizzling-hot pavement of Soo’s luxurious desert mansion, calm draped over me like a ceremonial cloak. I followed Nikki, fixing my gaze on her broad back until she reached the door. There she stood aside and opened it, grinning at me.
“Go get ’em, cowgirl,” she whispered, and I managed a smile back.
My triumphal entry was marred by a workman exiting the building, followed by Jiao.
“Apologies, Madam Wilde,” Jiao said, bowing to me. Her serene manner shifted slightly to a scowl at the worker. “He should have been completed hours ago.”
“He…” I frowned at the man, then stiffened as he turned his capped head toward me. Beneath the crisp tan uniform with a patch of an HVAC business whose name I forgot even as I saw it, stood Simon the Fool, grinning like a twelve-year-old. I stared at him. “You had work here?”
“Checking the systems, ma’am. We had reports of damage to the coils in your main AC unit, and as hot as it gets out here, you don’t want to mess with that. The company wanted to make sure we checked everything was safe before things got out of hand. They worry.”
I blinked at him, hearing the layered message in his words. What was going on? “And what did you find?”
“Monitors were acting up, but we’ve got the right eyes in place now. You should stay cool for the duration.”
He tipped his cap again and Jiao shooed him outside, leaving Nikki and me frowning after him.
“He bugged the place?” Nikki asked under her breath.
“Who knows what he did,” I muttered. “But no hanging your bra on the camera unless you want to get called on it later. I have a feeling we’re going to have a live studio audience for whatever is happening in here.”
“Roger that.” We moved inside the foyer and waited for Jiao.
Jiao returned seconds later, her heels clicking on the gleaming blue tile. “The generals are assembled in the fight center. I’ll brief you as we go,” she said.
Nikki and I fell into step behind her, and I mouthed Fight center? to Nikki, who gave me a broad wink.
The Honjo weighed heavily at my side, a welcome pressure against my hip, and I dropped my left hand to it, more for my own reassurance than because I was worried it would slip out of its scabbard. Technically, it wasn’t a scabbard, but a saya, I’d learned from Google. I didn’t need to know the language of the blade, but it made me smile anyway to recall the term.
“There were no casualties from the assault on the Tallawanda warehouse,” Jiao said crisply, my attention returning to her. “It’s our only semi-manned warehouse in the city, and that day it was free of employees. Detective Rooks’s timing was—unfortunate. We don’t know if anyone entering any of the unprotected locations would have tripped them, or if Gamon set them off on a predetermined schedule.”
“Good that it wasn’t worse.”
Jiao glanced over her shoulder. “It’s odd, though. Typically, for maximum effect, Gamon prefers an audience and collateral damage.”
“Brody’s still in the hospital?”
“Convalescing in private care,” Jiao corrected.
Nikki’s eyes rounded as she turned and matched my grin. I didn’t want to imagine what Dixie Quinn’s version of private care consisted of.
“We’ve settled the disputes with local authorities about the contents of the warehouse,” Jiao said, continuing her briefing. “There had been no activity in or out of the building in over a year, as corroborated by their own surveillance cameras placed by the city when Soo purchased the building. So the weapons were legal, for all that they continue to be a concern. We’ll be transporting them out of the city at the LVMPD request, or we may simply donate them. The decision is one of many to be made after today.”
After whatever happened in the fight center, she meant. “What about other locations?”
“They’ve been swept with bomb squads, but there appear to be no other breaches.” Jiao flashed me a serene smile. “You understand, we do not often advertise the location of Soo’s holdings. So our exposure is limited.”
“No other member homes have been struck? Warriors for the House of Swords?” So many people in this House. Families who depended on strong leadership and a steady sword.
Jiao’s smile turned more speculative. “No. The only disruption to the network of Soo’s personnel was the one you orchestrated earlier this week. It created more traffic in our communication channels than we’ve experienced in a year…and it’s been a very busy year. So thank you for that.”
I winced. “I didn’t intend—”
“No.” Jiao stopped and placed a hand on my arm. “I mean that in all sincerity. Thank you. The true call to arms for the House of Swords has been long in coming. For years it’s been too heavily draped in ceremonial trappings, as the work of the samurai became at the end of its long run.”
“I thought they were still going strong,” Nikki said.
Jiao shook her head. “The ancient Chinese practice of warrior philosophers also died a slow death as the vaunted warrior life became the province of peasants and not those seeking the greater way. In every society on every continent, there has been the divide between warrior mystic and base killer.”
“Now that I can understand,” Nikki smiled wryly.
Jiao shifted her gaze to me. “Your appearance in the homes of two schools of practice, an ocean apart on the same night, went further than you can imagine to stir the spiritual energy of the House members. With energy flows fervency, and with fervency, we can mobilize if and how we need to.” She bowed. “We are already in your debt.”
She turned again and moved forward. Nikki bumped my elbow with hers and winked at me. The three of us arrived all too quickly at the familiar door deep inside Soo’s fortress. Jiao’s serene smile had returned to her face, but her eyes were alight with interest, her expression rapt.
“You will fight honorably, Sara Wilde,” Jiao said, straightening my shirt like a pageant mother. “Of that I am certain.”
She pushed the door wide and motioned Nikki to precede me. Her shoulders back, Nikki stepped into the room like she owned it, her body language shifting only slightly as she came into contact with the springy, rubberized floor. Watching her almost telegraph “bouncy house” aloud in her adjusted step resulted in my reluctant smile as I crossed the threshold as wel
l.
But the men and women on the other side of the room were not smiling. My hand tightened on the Honjo, thumb at the ready to kick against the base of the hilt and free the blade.
There were nine generals, including Ma-Singh, standing tall in his black uniform. General Som stood near the back of the group. All the generals wore black, the sole nod to their ranks the stylized helmets placed carefully beside them. They all wore kendo swords similar to mine, and no apparent other blades. Their legs and arms were padded, but I hadn’t had time to hit up Amazon for “modern samurai fashion.” What I had would have to do.
The diversity of the House of Swords was readily apparent in the assembled generals. The two women were split—one looking strikingly like Alaina, though much taller, and then, of course, General Som. The men ranged from the Mongolian Ma-Singh to a crop-cut American or Western European, to three more men of decided Asian appearance. We stared at each other a long moment, then I stopped. I was nearly halfway across the room, but they had not moved.
Nigel was there, but his role in this exposition was clearly one of spectator. He nodded to me as my gaze swept over him and the people beside him. The room had become a gallery with men and women three rows deep—far more than I would have expected given the number of cars outside. These were not the injured souls of Soo’s ranks either. These were silent and intense men and women, unspeaking, unsmiling.
So, okay. This fight was a big deal. I got it.
Jiao stepped forward, her soft voice cutting through the silence. “The generals have elected Ma-Singh to do battle against Sara Wilde, for the right to rule the House of Swords, to lead its warriors and defend against usurpers.”
Ma-Singh? I flicked my gaze to the warrior even as he stared at me with fierce pride, and tried to remember how many days it had been since the shootout in the Vegas lot. Surely he couldn’t be ready to lift a sword, I don’t care how cauterized his wounds had been. The man had been Swiss cheese.
He apparently agreed.
“I relinquish my right to lead the House,” Ma-Singh said. He widened his stance, his left hand on his own sword’s hilt. “I serve Soo’s true successor.”
No one seemed surprised by this, but I found Nikki’s gaze in the crowd, and she shrugged, clearly sharing my WTF for the smoke and mirrors.
Jiao bowed to Ma-Singh, then straightened. “In second succession, the generals have elected General Som to do battle against Sara Wilde, for the right to rule the House of Swords, to lead its warriors and defend against usurpers.”
If I’d thought General Som and I could settle the dispute over a handshake and a game of Words with Friends, I was mistaken. She strode forward, the most samurai looking of everyone, despite her gender. Her face was set into fierce lines, her snarl heartfelt. Her black hair was now wrenched into a topknot at her crown, and as she took up her stance opposite me, I knew she would not go quietly into the night.
It suddenly occurred to me: I should have watched more YouTube videos.
Jiao said something, but I couldn’t take my eyes off General Som. Her glare consumed my whole world. She didn’t blink, but I had the curious sensation of her mind momentarily laid open to me, as if I reached inside her to the place of anger and ferocity and drew from it what I needed to know.
At Jiao’s next musical command, I kicked my sword out another inch with my thumb, then reached for it, withdrawing it smoothly with my right hand. I brought the sword around at the same time General Som brought hers, but her motion didn’t stop. She lifted her sword high and brought it down at me, aiming for my head—yet her gaze never seemed to leave mine. It was as if she’d sent me an instruction guide when I was six years old, and all these years later, I was reacting the way I’d been taught for decades.
In a sweeping arc of the Honjo Masamune, I countered General Som’s blade. The abrupt, resounding clang echoed off the walls, but we didn’t stop fighting, didn’t stop moving. Instead, we danced. I met her thrust for thrust, never attacking, always defending—but I could defend, it seemed. Or, more precisely, the sword in my hands could. It seemed larger than life in my loose grasp, twisting and leading me so that all I truly needed to do was hold on.
This was what the fight instructor Kunh Lee had told me in this very room. That I wouldn’t be a fighter, I’d be a messenger of spirit. And the Honjo Masamune was making a great noise.
Then my concentration slipped, and General Som’s blade snapped into the breach, catching the flaring edge of my collar and nicking the skin of my neck before I could duck away in time.
What happened next I couldn’t fully process. The slice was not a killing blow—General Som pulled back with the smoothness of long years of training. I, however, spun away and kept going, my feet bringing me back around in a movement that had me leaving the forgiving floor of the fight center and leaping up, whirling through the air in a Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon move for the ages, my left elbow out with my hand cocked, my sword arm arced high.
I fell on General Som fast enough that she was taken by surprise, and knocked her backward as my sword arced down. It didn’t cut her—it could have, but it didn’t. Instead, it passed harmlessly in front of her face as I was brought round yet again, following its arc, until once more I stood on the rubberized floor, my stance wide and both hands wrapped around the hilt of the Honjo Masamune, poised for a killing blow.
General Som stood, gaping at me, her blade down and to the side. For a second time, I could have killed her, or at least drawn blood. I didn’t.
I was not a warrior here. I was a messenger.
“You have been judged by the Honjo Masamune,” I said into the shocked silence. “You are a worthy leader for the House of Swords.”
I tried to move a step, but it was General Som who shifted, stepping back and bowing to me, offering me her sword, though I clearly had my hands full.
“I relinquish my right to lead the House of Swords,” she said, her voice ringing out. “I serve Soo’s true successor.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Two more of Soo’s generals stepped forward to do battle with me. They each started out with snarls and growls, but toward the end, it seemed like they were doing it more for the opportunity to fight the sword, not so much me. In each case, one defining attack of the Honjo Masamune stopped the fight, resulting in wide, knowing eyes and an assertion of following Soo’s true successor. By the end of the session, I had several slash marks to my arms and torso and one impressive one along my thigh.
Importantly, none of Soo’s generals had so much as a scratch on their bodies. Anywhere. I hadn’t even managed to give one of them a hangnail.
Which was why their goodwill seemed problematic. Jiao stood in front of me now, her face serene, her manner beatific. Something was definitely not right.
“What am I missing here?” I asked between my teeth.
She looked over at Ma-Singh, who apparently, as first elected general, still carried weight with the group as their unofficial leader. His hand was cupped to his ear, apparently to trigger an earpiece I hadn’t noticed before. He nodded to Jiao, then to me. “We have confirmation,” he said, his voice slightly strangled. “The witnesses are talking.”
Jiao pursed her lips, then spoke. “We have arranged for audio of the battles taken place here today to be transmitted to House members worldwide. You understand, we did not wish to allow video—”
“No.” Ma-Singh kept talking, his words stronger now but no less stressed. “The witnesses received audio feed through their computers, yes. But there was visual feed as well—in the sky, on the walls. The ceilings.” Ma-Singh waved his hand, turning his startled gaze to me.
I grimaced, my mind jumping immediately to Simon. The Council clearly hadn’t had any concern that I would embarrass myself on international channels. “And—is that good?”
“It simply is,” Jiao said, bowing slightly. “Those who would question you have been answered. You are worthy.” She turned to Ma-Singh. “What is the count of exter
nal claimants to the House?”
“Before today, five different warriors attempted to attack our generals and claim the right to lead the House of Swords,” he said. “Three challenged General Som alone.”
The feral woman smiled, and I forced myself not to take a step back. General Som was one scary general.
“My size is their undoing,” Som said. “My size and their arrogance. It makes a powerful combination, but only for me.”
Jiao continued. “There are rumors of another warrior, though, one who will only fight Soo’s true successor.”
I lifted my brows. “Gee, I wonder where that phrase came from. And you mean Gamon?”
“A lieutenant of Gamon’s, certainly.” Jiao nodded. “One we have heard rumors of for years—ambushing our people, delivering them to Gamon’s foul cells. We have never been able to discover the warrior’s identity, though. Now we can.”
“O…kay.” I frowned. “Except I’m not the best swordsman here. Any one of the generals can fight with the Honjo Masamune and have far better results than I could.”
It was Ma-Singh who responded, not Jiao. “The usurper would have gone unsatisfied if there was anyone less than Soo’s named successor who wielded the sword for the final battle.”
Usurper. I grimaced. I couldn’t seem to get away from that word.
Ma-Singh continued. “Though we need to draw out the warrior, we could not send you into battle if you were not prepared. The ceremony of succession is not yet finished, but our pledge holds. We serve Soo’s true successor. That is you.”
“Yeah, well, after me, it’s you,” I said, staring at him. “I don’t think I’ll much care who you tag after that.”
“Yo, Sara.” Nikki was staring at her phone. I turned, and she lifted it to me. “Simon texted his congratulations. And, ah…an invitation.”
“Nikki, I don’t really have time—”
“No, I think you’re going to want to take this one,” she said, eyeing her phone and then me again. “You’ve been called to speak to the Council. As, um, the Head of the House of Swords.”
