Kinslayer (21 page)

“We have no need of iron.” Cataract eyes roamed her body, something akin to hunger swelling in their depths. “A foot should suffice.”

“What?” Yukiko twisted in his grip. “You want my feet?”

She jerked her arm again, the sleeve of Brother Shun’s robe slipping down, bunching at his elbow. And with a low moan of horror, she saw the entire limb had been peeled like fruit, skin flayed clean off, exposing wet dark muscle and gleaming bone beneath.

“Perhaps fourteen inches…” Shun smiled. “You
did
destroy our door, after all.”

“I said let go of me!” she roared.

Her free hand grasped Yofun’s hilt, drawing the blade with the crisp ring of metal against metal, bringing it down on the brother’s arm with all her strength. Folded steel sheared through cloth, muscle, bone, the brother flinching away with a shriek. Yukiko pivoted, kicked the monk behind her square in the privates, bringing a knee up into his face as he curled over in agony. The three others stepped forward, cutting her off from the stairs and her escape, hands outstretched. She snatched Bishamon’s scroll off the shelf, backed away from the monks. Away from Buruu. The thunder tiger roared again, pounding the walls.

YUKIKO, COME TO ME!

Head ringing with Buruu’s plea, Yukiko glanced at Yofun’s blade, noticed it was unstained. Thunder in her veins, the Kenning splitting her skull. Stuffing the ghastly scroll into her obi, she tried again to sense the brothers, seize the life within them as she’d done with Yoritomo, grind it beneath her heel. But there was nothing to grip, no heat or life to hold. Almost as if …

As if …

Brother Shun looked up at her with empty eyes, a ghastly smile splitting his lips. Reaching down to his severed arm, he plucked it from the floor, thrust it back onto the glistening stump (no blood, none at all) and as Yukiko watched in utter horror, flexed his fingers as if to ease some minor cramp. The brother whose privates she’d brutalized picked himself up off the stone, straightened the pulp she’d made of his nose, tilted his head until his vertebrae popped.

“Secrets in abundance,” Shun whispered. “As I said.”

They lunged, all five, a rolling, snarling bramble of gibber-grasping hands and milk-white eyes. The constant lessons she’d endured under her father and Kasumi and Sensei Ryusaki, the years of wooden sword drills came back to her in a flood, her body falling into the familiar stance, side-on, knees bent. She moved like liquid, like an angry tide, seething forward and rushing back, Yofun held gently in a double-handed grip, its hilt like a lover’s hand in her own. She divested one brother of his outstretched fingers, another of his leg below the knee, a third of his windpipe and jugular, the blade slicing clean through his throat. Through it all, she was backing down the row, feet skipping across the floor, wisps of hair in her eyes, hoping to double back through the shelves and make a desperate dash for the stairs.

No blood flowed from the wounds she inflicted, only mild grunts of surprise accompanied her sword’s travels, followed by the wet plopping of whatever extremity she’d removed hitting the stone. She noticed the leg she hacked away was skinless above the ankle. Slicing another monk across his chest, she saw no skin through the rend in his robe—merely gray pectoral muscle and a grin-white rib cage.

Thunder rolled above and she screamed to Buruu, loud as she could, heedless of the blood spilling down her nose. At the sight of the ruby fluid smeared across her lips, Shun and his brethren seemed to lose all semblance of sanity, eyes so wide she could see the whites all around, teeth bared and gleaming. Too many to fight under the best of circumstances, and her circumstances were a god’s throw from that. And so, sheathing the five feet of useless katana at her back, Yukiko did exactly what her father had told her to do in the face of overwhelming odds.

She turned and bolted.

Using the alcoves as handholds. Hauling herself up onto one of the shelves, kicking in a brother’s face as he seized her ankles. Hopping onto the ledge, she tore Yofun from its scabbard again, taking careful aim at the monk scrambling up after her. With a fierce cry, she sliced clean through his neck, blade cleaving bone as if it were butter. The brother crashed to the floor, head rolling away across the stone. Thunder roared overhead, shaking the walls. And with vomit pressing at trembling lips, Yukiko saw the headless corpse rolling about on the ground, hands groping toward its disembodied head. Lighting strobed, rendering the scene in a lurid, grisly glow. Clawing fingers. Eyes still blinking. Mouth still moving.

Maker’s breath …

Yukiko turned, leaped over the gap between one shelf and another, back toward the entrance, fighting for balance as the structure shifted underneath her. Shun and another of his brethren had scrambled up behind her, two more cresting the shelves ahead and cutting off her escape route to the stairs. She noticed more figures now, fading out of the gloom, clad in those same bruise-blue robes. Female forms standing in the corners with impassive faces, holding armfuls of their own entrails, lit by strobing lightning strikes. Others hauling themselves up onto different shelves, closing in all about her. Dozens. Upon dozens. Upon
dozens
.

Buruu!

Leaping across to another shelf. Shearing through an outstretched, skinless arm. Sweat in her eyes. Breath pounding in her lungs. Blood on her lips, in her mouth, in her veins. Painted Brethren closing in about her. Backing away toward the edge of her last shelf-top and clawing the loose hair from her eyes.

BURUU!

Thunder crashed, shaking the tiles above. Lashing out with her blade. Glancing behind. Grasping hands. Snow-white eyes. Grinning teeth. Ink-stained fingers. Heels at the edge.

Nowhere to run.

Thunder again, closer this time, loud enough to shake the floor. Yukiko gasped as the ceiling above disintegrated, clay tiles smashed to dust and rubble; a tumbling, jagged waterfall crashing onto brother Shun and smashing him to pulp. The shelf collapsed below her and she fell with a shriek, landed hard on the stone. Hands clawing at her, pulling her to her feet. And then a roar, the sound of wind and pistons, a white shape diving through the shattered ceiling and splintering the flagstones beside her. Shelves tumbled like dominos, Buruu roaring again, lashing out and splitting the brother holding her in half. He struck a second time, wings spread wide, clapping together with concussive force, timbers blasted apart, leather scrolls spinning in the crackling air like dead leaves.

SISTER!

Sheathing her sword. Leaping onto his shoulders. A sea of figures all around. Rain swirling through the ceiling, static electricity setting her skin tingling. Talons parting flesh, arms from shoulders, heads from necks. A roar shaking the stones beneath them. But in a rush, the sudden press of a starving gravity, they were airborne, more shelves tumbling in the blast of their wings, soaring up through the sundered tiles and out into the open air. Wind in their faces. Rain in their eyes. Blood on their lips, spilling from their ears. They were flooded (she was flooded), body shaking, nausea rising in a rush, out of her throat and into the void, spraying through their (her) teeth as she clawed and tore and pulled back from the brink, back into herself, into her body, this tiny trembling thing with no wings, clinging to his back, small and sick and afraid.

She slumped on his shoulders, wiping the blood and puke from her lips. The pain in her head was incandescent; a thing of rusted nails and serrated teeth and razor wire, coiled tight at the base of her skull. Panting. Breathless. Aching.

But alive.

Thank you, brother.

Buruu purred, thoughts kept to himself for fear of hurting her. She reached down to her obi, taking hold of Bishamon’s scroll, the oily, leathered surface giving birth to another round of nausea. The sight of those shelves lingered in her in memory, the miles of secrets and acres of skin. She wondered about the other truths kept there in the dark amidst that horrid brotherhood. What other secrets lay inked in that library of flesh.

But none of it mattered now. It had cost them precious days, the countdown to Hiro’s wedding ticking ever closer. But she’d gotten what she came for. She had what she needed.

She just hoped it had been worth it.

13

PROPOSAL

Blinding light was waiting for Hiro when he opened his eyes.

Squinting against the glare, he tried raising a hand to blot it out and realized he couldn’t move a muscle. Not that anything held him down, bound his arms to his side, or his body to the cool flat at his back. He simply felt nothing below his chin. A cold numbness, stained with vertigo, the dull sensation of something tugging at his core. He could hear wet clicking, as if a thousand larvae nested in the air above him, chewing blindly with oily mandibles. He inhaled and smelled blood, the sharp tang of metal.

Chi.

He lifted his head.

A dozen bulbous eyes stared back at him, blood-red, affixed in bone-smooth, mouthless faces, a tiny voice in back of his mind wondering how they breathed. Six figures were gathered around him; vaguely feminine forms with impossibly narrow waists. Clad head to foot in leather-brown membranes, mechabacii chattering upon their chests, buckles and straps running down their bellies and long, blood-spattered skirts. Clusters of eight chromed arms uncurled from their backs, slicked to the first knuckles in blood, clicking as they moved. If he could feel it, he was certain his skin would be crawling.

His eyes traced the long, silver line of the spider limbs down to his own flesh, pupils dilating, every artery running cold. They had peeled his chest open, folded the corners of his flesh back like origami, exposing the ribs beneath. The bone had been pried apart, wet and gleaming. They were planting lengths of glistening cable into his chest cavity, his shoulder laid open like a duck at a wedding feast. And as the horror seized hold and shook him side to side, he saw his right arm was missing entirely. Nothing remained but a ragged stump below his shoulder, punctured by translucent tubes and studded with bloody iron clamps.

Hiro fought to struggle in a body that felt nothing at all.

Drew ragged breath to scream.

And woke.

Woke as he did every morning. Sweat in his eyes. Heart rolling and heaving in his chest. Taste of metal on his tongue. And as he looked down at the mutilated nub of flesh where his sword arm should be, studded with bayonet fixtures and snaking iron cables, he sank his head into his hand—his only hand—and let out a shuddering, bone-deep sigh.

A False-Lifer was waiting outside his chambers, ready with the prosthetic cradled in her arms. He felt its weight as she slipped the limb onto its couplings, jacked hungry inputs with gushing feeds, clicking and snapping and tweaking and twisting, finally slipping a thin robe over his sweat-slick flesh. He flexed the arm back and forth; a slow grind of gears and pistons, a sound like chromed spider limbs. He could feel cable pulling beneath his skin. Smell grease.

Pushing open the balcony doors, he stepped out into the scorching sun. The city’s stink rushed inside, underscored with the sharp, wood-smoke tang of burned buildings and dissent. Garish heat licked his skin, a blast-furnace glare forcing his eyes closed. To the south, Tiger ironclads hung limp about the docking spires, forlorn in the poisoned wind. Faint, choking sparrow calls drifted in the gardens; pitiful wretches flitting about on clipped wings, staring mournfully at the red sky above.

He could feel it moving behind his back; the machine set in motion by the Guild and the ministers intelligent enough to have backed him from the outset. The machine of politics, grinding just beneath the palace’s skin. The promises of promotion or coin, the thugs and assassins dispatched to deal with those who could not be bought. Like the clockwork hanging from his right shoulder, smooth and unfeeling. All of this. This estate. This city. This clan.

Soon.

Hiro smiled bitterly. Shook his head. Finding no comfort.

Mine
.

“Shateigashira Kensai, exalted Second Bloom of Chapterhouse Kigen!”

Matsu’s voice tore Hiro from his brooding. The servant stood behind him, bowing low, shaved head gleaming.

Heavy steps. The hiss of exhaust. Cloying chi-scent. Hiro glanced over his shoulder at the Shateigashira’s approach; extravagant polished brass, the beautiful, frozen face of a boy in his prime, black cable flooding from his lips. Kensai joined him on the balcony, floorboards groaning in protest.

“Shōgun Hiro.” The Lotusman covered his fist and nodded.

“Do not call me that,” Hiro said.

“Brethren of Chapterhouse Kawa have sent confirmation.” Kensai inclined his head; a small bow barely worthy of the label. “The Dragon clanlord has accepted invitation to your wedding, and is en route. You are one step closer to absolute rule of Shima.”

Hiro tried his best to scowl. He forced down the faint thrill that coursed through his veins at Kensai’s words, crushing it beneath suspicion’s weight.