CHAPTER TWENTY

“You didn’t need to break her arm,” said Ken’s voice from somewhere behind me. Be worried, Survivor Koi whispered, but I couldn’t pay attention. I was too busy enduring jagged shards of fire shooting from my forearm, my skin crawling with shock and denial, lungs crumpled like used tissues.

Tojo released my arm. “Pain is the only reliable way to get a dream-eating Baku’s attention.” I cradled my arm to my chest, blinded with tears, gasping when fresh jolts of fire traveled up my shoulder and licked at my heart with the slightest movement.

I’d been burned, almost lost a finger to Dad’s sharpest sushi knife, stung by bees, felt the agony of Dzunukwa’s icy hunger, and sliced with Mangasar Hayk’s sacrificial dagger. All of what I’d called pain before paled in comparison. This was pain: shooting agony, unbelieving, breathless shock. It hurt.

A man was angrily monologuing in harsh, archaic inflections I didn’t have the energy to translate, and people splashed in and out of the river. It wasn’t until someone grabbed me around the waist, jostling my arm again, that some barely coherent part of me processed I was being hauled backwards out of the water away from the Black Pearl.

Tojo grunted in my ear as he dragged me onto the slick riverbank where Ken stood, arms tied behind his back, held by Princess Stewardess. A grim-looking Pon-suma in plaid pajamas faced off with Kwaskwi, weirdly motionless under a huge fine-weave mesh.

So he can’t fly away. Not good. And also, fuck, my arm hurts.

“You’ll handle the Black Pearl?” said Tojo over my head. He was talking to someone still in the river.

“At least see to her pain,” said Ken.

“It would be the diplomatic thing,” added Kwaskwi.

“You violated oaths. You were caught. Diplomacy doesn’t apply.” Tojo spat on the ground. “And the Bringer is ours to deal with.”

“We may need her coherent,” said the man in the river. Kawano. I squinted into the dazzling sunlight still reflecting off the water. Just like in the dream, Kawano stood waist-deep and naked in the river, bald head glistening wet, skin below his neck leathery with a greenish tinge. What had Ben called him? A dried up old Kappa. Not so dry now. The river was his domain and somehow his Kappa magic had let him invade the river even in the Black Pearl’s dream.

“Where is Yukiko-san?” Tojo gripped my sodden shirt collar and jerked me up to standing. A nauseating feeling of things shifting in my arm that were meant to be solid made me close my lips tightly. Mothertrucker. He gave me a little shake.

“I don’t know,” I gasped. “I don’t know!”

Pon-suma pointed a finger at the ground in front of Kwaskwi. “You stay here,” he said. Under the net, Kwaskwi gave a pouty wink and clasped his hands behind his back. Opening the little black doctor bag he had tucked under his arm, Pon-suma approached and bowed to Tojo stiffly. “If I may.”

Tojo looked down his arched nose at him in a way that said he didn’t trust Pon-suma further than he could throw him, but he released my collar. What was Pon-suma doing here? Where were Ben and the others?

And where was Yukiko?

Pon-suma drew out the huge syringe he’d used what felt like a million years ago on Dad. Japan is supposed to be the country of cuteness and miniaturization. Why are the syringes all horse-sized?

He plunged the syringe into a sealed glass vial and drew up the plunger. At least the drug wasn’t glowing absinthe green this time. I flinched at his careful touch, pushing up my sleeve. Tojo gave a disapproving scoff. At the first prick of the needle, a warm relief flowed up my veins, loosening muscles stiff from terror, melting the iron cage around my lungs. I gave Pon-suma a loopy smile.

Ken settled back on his heels, relaxing as if some dire struggle had concluded. He was so dramatic. I was fine. Everything was fine! I loved Pon-suma’s syringe.

“Now,” said the old grouch in the river, “where is Yukiko-sama? The Black Pearl will not stay quiet long.”

I giggled. “Don’t come any closer,” I warned him. Whoops, I think that was English. Does Kawano speak English? Kawano was dangerously close to revealing if he was naked below the waist.

Tojo’s panties were in a bunch and he made as if to grab my collar again. Someone growled, a quiet sound speaking of anger about to boil over and a willingness to shed blood. It was that nice young man that Kwaskwi was trying to hook up with. I blinked rapidly, peering at him. His long hair was smooth and the morning sun picked out gold highlights in the dyed orange. I suppose if the stretchy, swimmer-muscled look floated your boat, he was nice enough. He didn’t look nice now, though. He looked snarly. It wasn’t really safe to snarl at Tojo.

“Nice boy,” I said. “Good boy.”

One of the Council black suits appeared suddenly, out of breath. “Tojo-sama,” he said. His hair was moussed up into those touchable spikes Ken used to do back in Portland. I sighed. Things were so much easier in Portland. Now everyone was mean. Even Ken! I was supposed to worry about Ken for some reason, but I couldn’t quite remember what it was. I was too busy appreciating Ken’s nicely defined shoulders. Even more fun to look at than Pon-suma.

“Your knees are wet,” I told the black suit in English. My brain was too fuzzy to bother with Japanese. Tojo gave one of those too-pompous-to-live nods. Black Suit swallowed audibly. Uh-oh, someone’s in trouble.

“We found Yukiko-sama.”

Kawano bristled, anger making his body into one slimy-looking bald human. “Like a banana slug,” I said. No one else laughed.

Ken shot me a worried glance. “Pretty boys shouldn’t be worry worts,” I told him. Tojo spun away to follow Black Suit down the riverbank toward a patch of trampled cattails.

“If Yukiko is harmed, Bringer, there will be no path to forgiveness for you.”

“It’s not his fault,” I explained carefully to Kawano. My lips felt oddly heavy, and although I was trying to use my most solemn and formal Japanese inflection, my voice came out high-pitched like a Powerpuff Girl. “She wanted to die.”

Kawano raised an arm, hand outstretched toward me. He has seriously froggy-looking hands. Why did I never notice before? “You lie.” He lunged. I shut my eyes tightly. Don’t need to see the banana slug naughty bits!

After a moment where everyone angrily yelled and basically had bi-lingual hissy fits, I realized no one had choked or punched me. I cautiously opened one eye. Princess Stewardess was standing in front of me. “Sir,” she said. And then more urgently, “Sir! The Black Pearl!”

“Snakey-wakey,” I explained helpfully and Kawano turned to look upriver. The Black Pearl’s head reared up out of the water, lashing back and forth like she was gripped in a violent dream. Kawano barked commands to several more black suits milling around. Talk about anger management issues. He slipped under water again with nary a ripple. So creeptastic. I shivered. The water around the Black Pearl began churning like piranha had suddenly invaded the Aisaka.

“How long will she be like this?” I heard Ken ask.

“It should wear off in an hour. And then she’ll be in more pain. She needs to see Midori,” Pon-suma answered. Silly boys. The Black Pearl isn’t in pain, she just doesn’t want to go with Banana Slug.

“Okay Herai-san, time for a ride in the Council limo.” Princess Stewardess had me by the elbow.

“Not my name,” I told her primly.

“Yes,” said Princess Stewardess. “I know your name. Don’t tempt me to use it.”

“If you even—”

“Shut up,” she overtalked Ken. “You can come willingly and protect your little girlfriend here or I can have Tojo bring you later.”

Ken’s truck was getting carefully backed down the river bank, herded by black suits. All of them had the same spiky haircut. Do they get a group discount on the mousse?

“Hey!” Kwaskwi called out. “Dangerous foreigner over here. Don’t I get a ride in the limo, too?” He leered at Pon-suma. “With a personal guard, of course.”

Kwaskwi was so funny. And he wasn’t as big a pouty-face as Ken. Pon-suma should definitely get himself a slice of that. Relationship goalz. I ship them so hard.

Princess Stewardess frowned. “Kawano-sama does not wish to involve you in the internal discipline of Council matters.” Pon-suma tugged the net off of Kwaskwi.

“No doubt,” said Kwaskwi. “So I’m free to go?”

Princess Stewardess nodded. The next instant Kwaskwi vanished, replaced by a large blue jay that streaked out from under the mesh just before it fully crumpled to the ground. I clapped my hands with glee. “That is lit!” The jay flew straight up to the sky, circled once with an angry squawk, and then dive bombed down again, landing on Pon-suma’s shoulder with a little flourish of wings almost like a bow.

Pon-suma looked at the jay, rolled his eyes, and then returned to worried readiness.

Shouts from black suits at the river edge caught everyone’s attention. The churning water was pushing the Black Pearl back to where a herd of black suits stood with nets and poles, knee-deep in the river.

Princess Stewardess’ grip on my arm was annoying, but she wouldn’t let go. “I wanna see,” I said, tugging, and then repeated in Japanese “Mitte mittai desu.” She just pulled me further toward the gravel parking lot. She finally stopped at a truly blinged out, over-sized limo. Is that where all the black suits came from? I pictured them all squeezing out of it like clowns from a Volkswagen Bug at the circus. My giggle earned me a variety of disapproving and worried looks.

A black suit with flat, salt-and-pepper hair popped out of the driver’s door, rushed around to the passenger’s side and opened the door. I patted his head as Princess Stewardess slid me inside the dark interior. “You need more mousse.”

He blinked in surprise. No one appreciated my helpful comments today. Or maybe he thought I meant the animal moose. I had used English. I giggled again.

Princess Stewardess gracefully settled next to me in the way-back bench on leather seats covered in pristine, white ginormous doilies. Ken, a bit pouty-faced, awkwardly ducked into the limo—it must be hard to be smooth with hands tied behind your back. Pouty-face tried to sit next to Pon-suma on the opposite bench, but I reached out with my good arm and pulled him down next to me.

I cocked my head to the side and studied those big, dark mocha-roast eyes, the thick lashes, the sharp cheekbones. Even Marlin called him a hottie, but there was something I was forgetting. Something he’d done I should be mad about…

My broken arm twinged. I wish he’d look at me like Kwaskwi looked at Pon-suma sometimes. Okay, not like a hungry blue jay eyeing a worm the way Kwaskwi was now, but more like delighted I was alive. And lose the angry caterpillar brows.

“Where will they take the Black Pearl?” said Ken.

“Back to the cave,” said Princess Stewardess. “But we are to await Kawano-sama at the museum with the rest of The Eight Span Mirror.”

“Ooh! Can we stop for coffee at that amazing test tube place?”

“Did you have to give her such a high dose?”

Pon-suma shrugged. He settled against the bench looking squarely at Princes Stewardess in that implacable way that said he was not giving ground. The jay squawked. Pon-suma leaned over and opened the window enough that a bird could squeeze through, but the jay just pecked him behind the ear in a chastising way and turned a beady black eye on Princess Stewardess.

“And Ben, Murase-san and the others?” Ken asked after glancing at the closed, solid plastic privacy screen between us and the black suit driver. The limo was in motion, but it was so smooth I could hardly tell. Did Dad used to ride in blinged-out limos before he chucked it all to work long hours at his PDX sushi restaurant? Eating dreams for the Council couldn’t really be that bad.

“They are not implicated in your plot, for now. Kawano-sama detected no lie when they confessed ignorance of what you had done.”

“Hey!” I said, suddenly struck by Pon-suma’s role as Kwaskwi’s keeper, “how come Pon-suma isn’t tied up? He kidnapped me and Dad.”

“As I said,” Princess Stewardess said with a moue of distaste, “None of The Eight Span Mirror is under suspicion here.”

“But he’s so nice. He would totally let Ken go in a hot second if it would help us.”

The jay chortled.

“She’s useless at keeping secrets,” said Princess Stewardess at the same time as Ken held out a supplicating palm and protested, “She’s on drugs.”

“We cannot talk openly unless you can guarantee her loose tongue won’t reveal me to the Council. In English or Japanese.”

I blinked. “Ooh, you guys are sneaky,” I said. “Is there anyone who’s actually on the Council’s side?”

“Take us to the museum,” said Ken. “But then we’ll need this car to get everyone to the cave before Kawano-sama gets there with the Black Pearl.”

The banked fire in my arm had slowly been gaining heat. It flared up. Little shooting pains spread up my arm, not cringe-worthy yet, but I could tell a pain inferno was just waiting to pounce. Migraine spikes formed in my temples. Whatever Pon-suma had shot me up with, it had dampened both pain and the bursting balloon feeling from eating Yukiko’s dream, but the dampening was wearing off.

Yukiko.

I flashed to her lying, a splotch of white in the green, green grass and knew with heart-certainty she was dead. And her sacrifice was for what? Kawano had stopped us. The Black Pearl had been so close to escape. Whatever Kappa control he had over water had seeped into the Black Pearl’s dream. We’d failed. And it was on me. My head suddenly felt filled with lead. It lowered to Ken’s shoulder. He stared down at me, surprised.

Ken put his arm around me, but even this soft touch jarred my arm. The pain made me bite the inside of my cheek. I sat up, leaning away from him.

“What happened out there?” he said softly. “What did Yukiko-sama do in her dream?”

“Yukiko’s dead,” I whispered in English, and then repeated more loudly. “Yukiko-sama ga inaku narimashita.” At Ken’s sharp intake of breath I squeezed my eyes shut tight, but it was too late. Hot tears spilled out, dribbling down my nose.

“Inconceivable,” said Princess Stewardess, like a Japanese Vizzini from the Princess Bride movie.

“She wanted to set the Black Pearl free,” said Ken. His words were colorless, devoid of feeling, and by their very stiffness indicated surging anger. Oh god, what have I done?

“I ate her dream. I killed her.”

Ken brought narrow eyes to bear directly on me, pupils dark like they sucked in every bit of light so they reflected back nothing but void. Something crumpled inside my chest. I choked back a sob. At the small sound, he cupped my cheek, holding me still as he bent forward to touch his forehead to mine. “No,” he breathed. “No, Koi. This is not your fault.”

More tears fell, caused by the broken bone in my arm or the broken place in my heart, I couldn’t tell. I let all my limbs go loose and shifted sideways, protecting my arm, so that my face found the comfort of the crease between Ken’s neck and shoulder. Breathing in sweat and a faint trace of Old Spice for an instant of escape, denial, of what the world held for me.

I explained in quiet English how Yukiko inserted her primal-self dream between me and Ken in the river, how she goaded me into eating it until the Baku hunger took over, and then Kawano’s shadow rose up to block the Black Pearl before I could focus Yukiko’s gift of power into releasing the Black Pearl from the prison of her unending dream. I left out how I’d rejected Ken’s dream as a focus for Yukiko’s awesome power, and how that failure felt like hot welts laid across my heart.

And then I let the tears come; great, gasping sobs that made my arm ring with pain. Ken held me tight the entire time, his slow, conscious breathing finally penetrating through the grief fugue by the osmosis of our body-to-body contact.

“Yukiko-sama chose this as her ending,” said Ken in English.

Princess Stewardess gave a disparaging cluck of her teeth. “Yukiko-sama, gone? At the hands of this…this American?” She made my nationality sound like it ranked lower than pond scum. “No, I refuse to believe it. She is strong, almost an ancient one. She would not waste her life so unwisely.”

I wanted to punch Princess Stewardess, and I wanted her to be right. Oh, how tempting to hope that I was mistaken. That Yukiko was alive. But the Baku heart of me was sure.

“Not a waste,” said Ken, firmly. “A long life lived as she willed and ended for a great purpose by her own decision.”

Pon-suma glanced up under lowered eyelids framed with that fringe of eyelashes as lush as falsies. “Koi-chan still holds Yukiko-sama’s power.”