Falling Through Glass (5 page)

Her body shook with fear, but she let the samurai drag her along the narrow, dusty corridor. She stumbled on the long hem of her kimono and fell forward. Her hand collided with the small bones of some long-dead creature whose skeletal teeth cut into her flesh. The man behind them, Matsuyama, tripped over her, and his foot connected with her ankle.

“Oww!” she cried out.

“Quiet!” Fujiwara ordered, pulling Emmi to her feet and continuing.

She limped along as best she could, ignoring the grumbling of Matsuyama behind her. At last the dusty corridor gave way to fresh air. They were outside in a darkened courtyard of some type, where the samurai had the decency to pause… At least until he barked more orders. He set the mirror on the ground.

“Straighten yourself! Stand up straight!” He yanked Emmi’s hands from her middle and grabbed for her wide silk obi. “Slide this around.”

He froze when he saw a blood smear on the obi. He took hold of Emmi’s hands. There, on her left palm, were two gashes from the teeth of the dead whatever.

He surprised Emmi by taking a handkerchief-like cloth from the sleeve of his haori jacket and wrapping it around her hand. He finished adjusting the obi to his satisfaction and pulled the edges of her kimono closer together.

“What are you doing?” she asked when the samurai began combing his thick fingers through her hair.

“Making you presentable,” he said. He set to braiding her hair. He turned to the man who’d accompanied them. “Your chopsticks.”

Matsuyama grimaced then pulled two gold-trimmed, black-lacquered chopsticks from the sleeve of his own jacket.

Emmi was at a loss. These guys carried more junk in their sleeves than she did in her backpack.

“Oww,” she said when the demon-hating samurai twisted her braid and jammed the chopsticks into the hair to hold it atop her head.

He reached down to retrieve the mirror then propelled her toward a gate in the courtyard fence.

“Where are you taking me?”

“You’ll find out when we get there.”

“But—”

“Quiet,” he said roughly as they exited into a narrow side street.

Patches of wetness lingered on the ground, suggesting it had rained earlier. Was this part of the movie backlot? It didn’t look familiar, and there should have been lights and clean-up people at the very least.

The farther they traveled, the more afraid Emmi became. This wasn’t a movie set. This was a real street. These were real, solid, complete buildings. What had happened? Where was she?

The old Kyoto from the movie they’d been filming stretched before her, but that was impossible. Wasn’t it?

Matsuyama brushed past Emmi to walk alongside the other samurai. He whispered something she couldn’t quite make out, but it sounded suspiciously like “You’re giving her to the wolves?”

“For tonight at least.”

“If you are human, and truly a Maeda, what did you do to disgrace yourself? Why would your family send you here to Shimabara to be a whore?”

Emmi stopped dead. She tried to pull her sleeve from the grasp of the samurai. Though fear shook her inside and out, she did not back down at the look of anger the samurai gave her.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked.

“That’s my question. What gives you the right to give me to someone for the night? I’m no prostitute, and I don’t plan to be one.”

“And yet you dress like one and appear in a brothel. You merit no explanation.”

He tugged her sleeve. She still would not budge.

“I want to know where you’re taking me. Who are you taking me to?”

The young samurai glowered, and common sense tried to tell Emmi that he wouldn’t tell her a thing. Yet he surprised her, and from the fleeting look in his dark eyes, he surprised himself as well.

“I’m taking you to a secure place until I can figure out what to do with you. To friends who will not fall for your tricks and who fear no demons.”

“Because they are the demons,” Matsuyama murmured.

Emmi gave them both a hard look, though she wanted very much to cry and run away as fast as she could. “No.”

The samurai smirked and lifted the mirror into her line of vision. “Fine. I’ll smash this and put an end to you now.”

“No!” Emmi lunged for the mirror, but the samurai handed it to the other man, who stepped away. “Please don’t break it. I’ll go.”

She had no choice but to follow meekly.

Her free hand reached into the collar of her kimono so that she could touch the gold dragonfly pendant around her neck. She was glad the wardrober had found a way to conceal it within the kimono collar when she insisted that she couldn’t take it off. She’d had the pendant as far back as she could remember. It was a Maeda family heirloom, and her father once told her that as long as she wore it, she had nothing to fear. The pendant would protect her with the strength of every generation of the samurai family it had passed through.

Emmi sensed there was a lot to fear if she was being taken “to the wolves” as that Matsuyama guy had said. That phrase “to the wolves” nagged at her as they continued onward. However it all fell into place once Emmi saw men dressed in matching blue haori jackets with bands of large white triangles along the sleeves’ edges. Fujiwara was handing her over to the Wolves of Mibu, the Shinsengumi, one of the Tokugawa Shogunate’s most feared police troops.

“Oh shit,” she muttered. She couldn’t end up in Alice’s Wonderland. No, she had to end up in nineteenth-century Japan during one of the bloodiest civil wars in history.

“Quiet,” Fujiwara ordered as he continued toward the patrol troop, which had now noticed them.

The men carrying lanterns came forward to illuminate the three strangers, and the looks they gave Emmi reminded her very much of a pack of ravenous wolves. Her stomach churned and she prayed she would not be their midnight snack in any way, shape or form.

Nearing the “wolf pack,” she noticed the stains on some of the men’s clothing. Bloodstains. She stumbled, and Fujiwara shot her a fierce look before grabbing her arm a moment to steady her.

“Harada-sensei,” he called.

A man carrying a spear stepped forward. His gaze immediately swept over Emmi and lingered before he turned his attention to her captor. He broke into a toothy grin. “Another night, another pretty girl, eh?”

The Demon Hater and his friend laughed.

“Very pretty,” one of the patrol troops called. “Between the two of you and Kato-kun, you maybe wore the ladies out so they had to hire new ones?” another said, eliciting more laughter.

Of course Mr. Demon Hater Fujiwara laughed. “I think she is not that kind of girl, Harada-san.”

“Then why is she with you?”

There was more laughter, and Emmi’s cheeks burned in embarrassment. She looked around for a way to escape but decided against it. She certainly wasn’t guilty of any wrongdoing, but if she took off, these guys would slash first and not question at all.

“Is Yamanami-san in?” Fujiwara asked.

“He is,” Harada said. “You need to see him?”

“Yes. It’s important.”

The man nodded. “Follow us.”

“Follow” wasn’t exactly how it went. The patrol group surrounded Emmi, her captor and his friend as if they were all prisoners. More than once men purposely brushed up against Emmi, but she didn’t dare take notice even though she wanted to punch them.

Surprisingly, her demon-hating samurai captor did notice, and he instructed his companion to move behind her while he took a position to her right. He glared over at the Shinsengumi member to her left as if warning him to keep an appropriate distance.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

Not surprisingly, the samurai didn’t bother to respond or acknowledge her gratitude.

Finally they came to a halt in front of a wide wooden gate guarded by two uniformed men.

The patrol captain, Harada, asked one of the guards for the whereabouts of Vice-Commander Yamanami. Once inside the gates of the Shinsengumi compound, the men drifted away, leaving Emmi with Harada, her demon-hating samurai and Matsuyama, who still carried her mirror.

The group veered left and stepped up on the engawa, the porch that ran the length of the building. Three-quarters of the way down Harada stopped and tapped lightly on the frame of the shoji. It slid open to reveal a rather sad-looking man dressed in a simple dark gray yukata, a thinner, less formal kimono.

“Is there a problem, Sano?” he asked before noticing Emmi and her male companions. He smiled a smile that didn’t quite reach up to brighten his eyes. “Ah, Kaemon-dono. What a pleasant surprise. Come in.”

Harada bade them a quick farewell and jogged off around the dark corner.

So, Mr. Demon Hater Fujiwara’s given name was Kaemon.

When the two samurai slipped off their sandals, Emmi removed her dirty tabi socks so as not to get any mud on the clean tatami mats within the older man’s room. Surprisingly, her captor, Kaemon, she reminded herself, turned to his companion and asked him to head back home. Then he took the mirror and followed Yamanami inside, gesturing for her to do likewise.

Yamanami cleared a sheaf of papers, a calligraphy brush and an ink stone from the low table in the center of the room and motioned for them to sit.

“Would you like some tea?”

“Yes,” Emmi said.

“No,” Kaemon said at the same time.

Yamanami suppressed a small smile. “I was about to have a cup myself, Fujiwara-san. I’ll be back in moment.”

Fujiwara Kaemon—Demon Hater. That sounded like a cheap direct-to-video movie. Only her brain would think of something so lame at a time like this.

With Yamanami gone, Emmi turned to Kaemon. “Why did you bring me here? What are you going to do to me?”

His dark eyes impaled her. “I brought you here for safekeeping until I can find out exactly what you are and where you came from.”

“I told you I’m Em—Maeda Emiko. I don’t know how I got here, but I know the mirror has something to do with it, and I need it to get back to my time.”

“Your time?”

Before Emmi could even try to think of a way to explain, Yamanami returned with a steaming pot of green tea and three cups.

Also on the tray were a cloth bandage and a small jar. He gave the bandage and jar to Emmi, saying that the jar contained a healing ointment. While she tended to her cut hand, he sat and poured the tea. He took a long sip from his handleless cup and studied Kaemon and Emmi.

“What can I do for you, Fujiwara-dono?”

Yamanami’s reversion to formality struck Emmi as odd after he’d initially addressed him by his given name. Apparently it struck Kaemon the same way, though his expression betrayed nothing. Emmi detected quite a bit more rigidity to his posture than had been there a moment ago.

Kaemon put down his cup. “I have something of a favor to ask, Yamanami-san.” He paused then turned to Emmi. “Wait outside.”

“No!”

Kaemon placed his hand on the mirror that rested on the tatami between them. “Wait outside.”

Exhaling a defeated sigh, Emmi took a quick sip of her tea then rose. “Fine.”

She gave them a quick bow, then went out to the engawa and sat on the step a few feet away from Yamanami’s room. Since she doubted she’d like anything she might overhear, she saw no point in eavesdropping.

She was conscious of the curious and suggestive looks she received from the men who passed through the compound or stood talking on the porch of the building across the way. They reminded her of the jocks back in high school who checked out the cheerleaders and rated them on their potential “bed-ability.”

By the way her luck was going, she might as well have “fresh virgin” tattooed on her forehead. She propped her chin on her palm and stared down at the ground. Maybe if she ignored them, they’d go away. Maybe if she prayed hard enough, she’d go—

A gruff voice broke into her thoughts.

“Who are you?”

Emmi jerked her head up and found herself face to face with yet another one of the Mibu wolves. She recognized him from the history books her father had collected. He was Hijikata Toshizou, and, though he wasn’t an especially tall man, the sheer force of his presence loomed over her.

Emmi stood, stepped up to the engawa, then bowed deeply and backed away as he stepped up as well. She straightened to find the man’s dark eyes fixed sharply upon her. His hand hovered over the hilt of the katana at his side.

“Who are you, woman?”

“Em-Emiko… I-I…”

The shoji slid open and Yamanami stepped out. “Ah, Hijikata-san. I’m glad you’re here. Please, come in. And don’t worry, the—er—young lady is accompanying a friend of ours.”

Emmi shrank back when Hijikata shot her a most unsympathetic look before striding past. She struggled to swallow her heart, which seemed to have stuck in her throat. Talk about looks being able to kill.

As a preteen, she’d developed something of a fangirl crush on the drop-dead gorgeous man in the photos that had survived the years. Now, after seeing him in the flesh and getting that look that said he’d be quite fine killing her for no reason other than that she seemed “suspicious,” Emmi knew that crush was never to return. No wonder historians had referred to Hijikata as the Demon of the Shinsengumi.

“What?” Hijikata bellowed from inside, breaking into Emmi’s thoughts.

She sank back against the building’s wall and groaned. No doubt Kaemon had just hit the vice-commander with the “She’s an oni from the mirror” bit. No, he wouldn’t do that. No one would believe him, and Kaemon would not take the chance of alienating these men, if what she knew about them was correct.

But then again, this was the nineteenth century, and Japan wasn’t the major world power that it was in 2009. In fact, it was just coming out of three hundred years of isolation from the rest of the world.

Not caring that a ‘proper young Japanese woman’ wouldn’t intrude, Emmi got up and wandered toward the room containing the men. They had exited Yamanami’s quarters and stood, still conferring, near the door.

“We have two cells empty as far as I know,” Yamanami said.

“Then it’s agreed,” Kaemon answered.

“I don’t like the idea at all,” Hijikata said, casting a menacing look Emmi’s way.