Ninja Girl: The Nine Wiles

by Steven W. White

  Of course, the seniors didn't actually do any work in here. It was just a broom closet. It stank. And it was hot. And the air vent near the ceiling piped in distracting noise from every other room in the building, especially Principal Alexander's office next door.

  Spencer didn't care about any of that. He just loved that he had his own office, even though he was only a freshman. He spent his breaks and lunches here, and stopped by before and after school sometimes, too. He did some of his best writing here.

  But today wasn't one of his better days. Distant voices creeped out of the vent, tinny and weak, toying with his imagination. His mind tried to make sense of the words, dragging his attention to them, breaking his concentration.

  "Yes sir. Yes sir, everything is right on schedule."

  That was Principal Alexander, on the phone again. His voice was deep and rumbling, but soothing and even, a hypnotic sort of monotone.

  "The renovation is on schedule. The library closes a week from Friday. Yes, a great victory. I understand your concern. No, I don't anticipate any delays of that nature."

  The renovation – same old thing the principal always talked about. Spencer tried to tune the words out, to concentrate on his own paragraphs on the screen – a brilliant editorial about the pathetic nutritional value of the school lunches.

  "How long has it been since our efforts have been so rewarded? No one's found a page since the one in Austria, 1915. We'll be... what? Yes, of course. Of course we are watching for her. That's true, but for now, it's all we can do. Listen, I have certain rules I have to follow – I can't just... "

  Blah, blah, blah. Spencer really needed some headphones. No use now. His time was about up. He saved his work and powered down the laptop.

  "I understand all of that. That's what the cameras are for. She wouldn't dare. She can't. And if she did, we'd... the girl? She's just sixteen, not old enough to be a concern. I'm aware of that. I'm aware of that, too. All right, if you must know, I have a particular plan for her – she's something of a special project of mine..."

  Spencer's reporter antennae twitched. Who was the principal talking about? A student, obviously. He shouldn't be eavesdropping... but that just made him want to listen all the more. Could there be a story here?

  No, the principal yammered on about this student or that student all day long.

  The schoolwide bell rang, marking the end of lunch. The broom closet amplified the sound as it did every other noise, turning it into a clamor that rattled every thought out of Spencer's head. He had to remember to get out of this room before that bell went off. Now, he'd have a headache the rest of the day. He stumbled into the office hallway, wincing, and shut the broom closet door behind him. He straightened the door's picture of the winged, scowling Falcon, and raced off to class so he wouldn't be late.

  #

  After school, Ash found Elsbeth's gift still on the coffee table. She carried it up to her room.

  Open it when you're alone.

  Pink, with a black ribbon and a black bow. Ash hesitated. What if her father came in?

  She'd open it later. She was already preoccupied about what to wear tonight. What did she have that looked decent but could hold up to sitting on grass all evening? She settled on her good-not-great jeans and white blouse, with her tan double-breasted coat with the belt.

  She frowned at her reflection in the mirror on the back of her bedroom door. There wasn't any more time.

  "Ash?" Dad called from downstairs. "Ready?"

  Dad had insisted on picking her up at nine, whether the concert was over or not. All Ash could do was be grateful for the ride and look forward to Driver's Ed next semester.

  On the ride downtown in her dad's blue Nissan Altima, Ash's heart hammered away while Dad fired question after question. As Dad drove, the Space Needle shone into the evening sky, beckoning.

  "When did you meet this boy?"

  "This week. At school."

  "You have his cell?"

  "Yes."

  "Write it on the ledger. In the glove box."

  Ash did.

  "Why didn't you invite any girl friends?"

  "I don't have any girl friends."

  "Why didn't you invite Samuel?"

  "Dad!"

  "Okay, okay. What kind of a name is Drake, anyhow?"

  "Dad?"

  "Hmph. His parents' address?"

  "His father is the principal. Jeez."

  He nodded, looking thoughtful. "Good."

  "Ugh."

  "Listen, young lady. You're lucky to be going at all. I shouldn't even let you out of my sight."

  "It's not my fault I was attacked! You can't hold it against me for the rest of my life!"

  "Oh, yes I can." His fingers drummed on the steering wheel, then he gripped it, turning his knuckles white. "I'm sorry. I know you're sixteen. I know... I need to let go. It's not easy."

  "I'll be in public. I'll be with Drake. I'll call."

  The car pulled up to the curb on Mercer, near the Space Needle and the Experience Music Project. "So... what band is this?"

  Ash sighed. "Dad..."

  "I'll be right here at nine. You will too. If I have to hunt you down, you can say goodbye to these little outings."

  Ash looked solemn for his sake. "Yes, Dad." She jumped out of the car and waved as he slowly pulled away.

  Free! Ash strolled under the old monorail track and turned right at the base of the Space Needle. As the day's twilight faded, light from the Needle's windows lit the asphalt like white moonglow.

  She was right on time. Drake could be waiting for her already. What would she say to him?

  Hi, Drake. Thanks for inviting me.

  No, that was letting him get away with how he had treated her at her locker.

  Hey, loser.

  Tempting.

  Good evening, Drake.

  Too formal. She would have to come up with something. She could hear the band tuning their instruments. A joke, maybe. Something that would make him smile. She would love to see that.

  Ash came to the grassy field between the Seattle Center and the science museum. On a permanent stage at one end, four men in black fiddled with instruments and stage lights, casting eerie and out-of-place tones to the people sprawled on the grass.

  The audience sat in groups, chatting, an even mix of young men and young women, dressed in dark clothes, but sitting on bright beach towels and blankets. Some people sitting near the stage shouted advice to the band.

  She turned to the bistro-style iron tables and chairs on the patio outside the Seattle Center's Starbucks and scanned surreptitiously for Drake's blond hair and blue eyes. Every chair was occupied... but none by Drake.

  Where was he?

  He had to be up to something. She turned a casual three-sixty, pretending to watch the band tune up, searching every face. Nothing.

  The band was about to start. Ash strolled diagonally across the field, stepping carefully around pillows and coolers, watching for him and being visible, hoping he would call to her. At the far side she circled back around, past the trees at the field's edge, and returned to the Starbucks tables. He wasn't here.

  "You looking for me?" Wrong voice. Not Drake, Ash knew before she turned. It was some old guy, maybe twenty-two, leaning back in an iron chair, his legs kicked wide apart, his hair long and dyed black. "You get stood up?"

  Three other guys at his table snickered. They looked like him, more or less. Ash turned away from them as rage charged through her arms and legs, and her face flushed uncomfortably warm.

  "Hey, wait! Cute little girl. You're really tiny. That's hot. Come talk to us."

  "Dude," one of his friends said. "She's twelve, asshole."

  "No, she's not. She's just... you know. I'm gonna go talk to her."

  Oh, please no. Panicked, Ash glanced back at them. The guy was walking her way. He wasn't Mule's size, but he was big enough to be scary. She bolted in purposeful strides just short of a jog, along the street that ran beside the
field. Lots of people wandered here, and Ash weaved between them.

  "Hey, wait. Wait, cute little girl!"

  Ash wanted to puke. Now, Drake, she thought.

  The lead singer of the band stepped up to the microphone and his voice echoed across the field. Ash didn't catch his words and didn't care. She scanned for a security guard as she slipped between a couple holding hands, racing to put distance between her and the creep.

  The band started their first song, some ethereal, slowly-building rock.

  By the time Ash had reached the far side of the field, she'd lost him. She stood at the elbow of a chubby security guard who hadn't noticed her, ready to tap him if the creep showed up. The music pounded through her, making her angrier and angrier.

  Where was Drake? She'd kill him for this.

  She dialed his number, but it routed to voicemail. "Hey, this is the Drake Alexander," he said in his perfect voice. "Leave a message." Hearing him seemed to empty her out, leave her with nothing but longing. She fought to find words, then hung up.

  She couldn't breathe – every muscle in her body wanted to throttle him. Was she stupid? Was he playing her? What was happening?

  Tears washed her eyes, doing phantasmal things to the stage lights. Ash cried as quietly as she could, not wanting the security guard to hear.

  By the third song, she was breathing better. She sniffed. Maybe Drake had arrived. She craned her neck but couldn't see the bistro tables from here.

  Ash doubled back along the field's edge, slinking from shadow to shadow among the trees. She leaned on the trunk of the last tree, and from the darkness, watched the creep and his friends bobbing their heads to the rhythm. In her tan coat, she was far from invisible. They might see her if they looked this way.

  Should have worn black, she thought absently.

  After two more songs, Drake still hadn't come. There was no more point to this.

  What a waste.

  She ducked behind the tree and pulled her phone from her pocket. "Dad? It's me."

  "Hey, sweetheart. You okay?"

  No. "Yeah."

  "What's going on?"

  "Could you come get me?"

  "Now? Sure, if you want. I just pulled in the driveway. What's wrong?"

  Ash couldn't say it.

  "Honey? What is it?"

  Her voice broke. "He's not even here, Dad!"

  #

  Ash slouched in the back seat on the way home, her forehead against the cold window. Thankfully, Dad didn't pry. And once she was in the house, he didn't try to stop her from retreating up the stairs to her room.

  In her room, she stared at her eyes, puffy and bloodshot, in the mirror on the back of her door and worked to get a hold of herself. Drake was a psycho. It was over. Not that it had ever started. She wouldn't talk to him, wouldn't look at him. If he showed up at her locker, she'd ignore him, and if he pushed his luck, she'd call Mule.

  Loser, scumbag, jerk.

  Why did his eyes have to be so perfectly blue?

  She pressed her fists to her temples, hating herself for the thought. She had to get her mind off this evening's disaster.

  Elsbeth's gift sat on the dresser. The oblong box in pink wrap and black ribbon, too heavy to be underwear, the gift she'd never said thank you for. Too big to be a jewelry box, too small to be anything else. She picked it up, pulled off the ribbon, and tore the paper.

  When she lifted the lid, she wasn't sure at first what the thing was – nothing but a slender black handle with chrome trim and a shining button.

  Switchblade. She'd seen it before. The memory came back strong and fast, a descending shadow, and the five fingers of the attacker's empty hand silhouetted against the wall... right before Mule hit him.

  Coincidence. Had to be. Ash swallowed and touched the black handle. Her fingers dug into the box's velvet and lifted the switchblade out. It felt cold and awkward in her small hand. Her thumb brushed the button–

  The blade flipped out and locked into place with a quiet snick. Its sheen turned to dull brown at the blade's tip. Something had clung to the steel and dried there.

  Mule's blood.

  This is impossible. Ash's hands trembled, and the soft light of her bedroom lamp made the blade glitter.

  Someone knocked on her door.

  "Ash, it's me," Elsbeth said quietly.

  Ash took a deep breath and opened the door. Elsbeth stepped in silently and closed it behind her. Ash instinctively pointed the switchblade at her.

  "I heard the wrapping paper tear," Elsbeth said softly. "I've been waiting."

  Ash couldn't think. "How can you...?"

  Under Elsbeth's patient stare, she stopped. Ash set the blade carefully on the dresser, and sat on the bed.

  "It's yours," Elsbeth said. "It was mine as proper spoils, and I give it to you."

  "You were with us," Ash said. "Mule and me. When I was attacked. You..."

  "Disarmed him for you, yes."

  "I barely saw you."

  Elsbeth folded her arms and leaned against the door, smiling. "I'm not as fast as I was at your age. You shouldn't have seen me at all."

  Ash's voice was a whisper. "You jumped, like, ten feet."

  "Ash," Elsbeth's smile fell away. "There are things you need to know. That's why I'm here. That attack was not random."

  Ash could still feel her hands trembling. She drew her knees to her chest and hugged them, and suddenly wished she hadn't opened the box after all. "Are you really my aunt? Who are you?"

  Elsbeth sat on the bed beside her. "I'm going to tell you who I am. Then I'm going to tell you who you are."

  6

  Elsbeth spoke slowly and softly. "The man with that switchblade was assessing you. Testing your development, to see if you are a threat. They have noticed you."

  "Why me?" Ash shivered. "I'm just some girl. I'm nobody."

  "Because of me. Because of your mother. Because of your heritage. A lot of people are interested in you, Ash. Including us. Which is why I must warn you – at the end of this conversation, there will be a test."

  Ash couldn't believe it. She shook her head. "What, like an essay?"

  "No." Elsbeth's voice was cold. "Not like an essay."

  This was all too much. Ash stood up. "Nobody's interested in me. I have no heritage. You need to start making some sense."

  "You know more than you think." Elsbeth sighed. "I am your aunt. Your mother was one of us, once. We are looking for her... although I suspect she is dead. That trunk is full of her things, and they will be handed down to you. When you are ready."

  Ash's thoughts scattered like startled pigeons. Mom had to be camping on a mountaintop or lounging on a beach somewhere. Not dead. And what could be in that trunk?

  Elsbeth stood and drew a tissue from the box on Ash's nightstand. She carefully rubbed Mule's blood from the switchblade. "We guard a secret, Ash. For centuries, now. A secret so terrible, a power so dangerous, that if it were revealed, nations would fall. Civilizations would crumble. The world would be cast into a thousand years of darkness."

  She inspected the blade, and it glinted in the bedroom's lamp light. "We fight those who would steal the secret for themselves. We fight using secrets of our own. And you will fight with us. If you can."

  "No, I won't." Ash folded her arms and scowled. "You people are crazy. I don't want any part of this. You're just a cat-burglar on speed or something."

  Elsbeth paused, grinning. "I've never heard that one before." She closed the switchblade and set it on the dresser. "What we are is an eight-hundred-year-old underground society. We have no name. No historian knows of us. Our reach is global, our quest is eternal, our invisibility undisturbed..." Her eyes locked on Ash. "Except once, when a clan was briefly uncovered by outsiders, six hundred years ago in Japan."

  The memory of that dark shadow came to Ash again, dropping between Mule and the attacker. Then a dark outline on the portable's roof. Then nothing. Cat burglars on speed. "Oh... you guys are, like, ninjas. Is that i
t?"

  Elsbeth nodded slowly.

  Ash giggled. "Seriously? Guys running around in black pajamas, stabbing people? Mule likes those kinds of movies."

  "We don't kill," Elsbeth said. "Unless we must, to keep the secret. And there's something else you need to understand."

  Ash didn't feel that she understood any of it. Was she supposed to believe that her mother was some sort of ninja? Or did Elsbeth just have a hyperactive imagination? Maybe Ash was the center of some awkwardly unfolding practical joke. "What about the guy with the switchblade? He wasn't part of your little team?"

  Elsbeth shook her head. "You aren't quite hearing me. Words are not working with you. Let me show you something." She drew up the blinds and opened the window. "Turn off the light," she whispered.

  Ash hesitated. Cool night air poured into the room.

  She flicked off the room light. The trees across the street, lit amber by the streetlights, became the only thing visible. Elsbeth, silhouetted in the window, worked the screen loose and set it on the floor. She hopped on the sill.

  "Follow." She crawled out and disappeared.

  Ash's room was on the second floor, and there was no escape route that way – no trellis or balcony, as much as Ash had always longed for one. She raced to the window and checked the lawn below. Elsbeth was gone.

  "Up here."

  Ash craned her neck and saw Elsbeth on the roof, smiling and peering down from the eave, her hair hanging and framing her face.

  "How did...?" Ash began.

  Elsbeth tilted her head toward the pipe that ran from the rain gutter down the corner of the house to the rosebushes. Ash couldn't count how many times she had dreamed as a little girl of shimmying down that pipe and running away – but she had never tried it. It was too far from the window. "I can't reach that!"

  "I did."

  "I'm too small!"

  Elsbeth huffed and disappeared. Ash was suddenly alone, leaning out her bedroom window. She could hear the traffic of Fifteenth Avenue, and a yippy dog barking on the next block over.

  Ash carefully set her feet on the window's metal sliding track and crouched on the sill. She gripped the frame and let a leg dangle out.

  Long way down. Her hands sweated, and her heart started thumping uncomfortably.