Sagara Sanosuke had a pounding, throbbing, excruciatingly painful headache. It might have been the drinking he’d done last night. It might have been the fact that Tae had completely refused to serve him breakfast this morning and had, instead, called him a “useless sponge not even worthy to clean out the grease pits of the Akabeko.” Or it might have been the fact that, just now, upon approaching the Kamiya dojo, he passed a man he thoroughly abhorred: Sawagejou Chou.
Although Sanosuke had stopped in his tracks, Chou had just kept on walking, flexing his arms quickly to pull his long red coat more tightly closed.
“Oi, baka, arentcha even gonna say hello?”
Chou finally stopped but did not turn around. “I’m trying to incorporate into my life a policy of not talkin’ ta every damn idiot I pass on the street.”
“Why you … If you wanna fight, we can fight. I got a hangover, but I can still pummel you into a stain on the ground.”
Looking back over his shoulder, Chou replied, “Ya wanna go to jail today, moron?”
Sanosuke shrugged. At least in jail, maybe he could get a meal.
“Look, roosterhead,” Chou said, watching the other man pop his knuckles. “Ya better get yerself back to whatever fucking porch ya slept under. Ain’t no damn reason for ya to go to that stupid dojo today.”
“What in the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Now it was Chou’s turn to shrug. “Maybe it means that I don’t want to be called over there in case ya start trouble. I got better things to do with my day.”
While Sano attempted to compose his retort, Chou started down the road again. He really didn’t have time for this, after all. Not if he wanted to get to police headquarters, break into the room where they kept Shishio’s sword, and hightail it out of Japan on the next boat leaving for somewhere warm.
Both katanas. He would own both katanas used in the epic battle that decided the fate of the entire nation. That alone made the sakabatou worth its weight in gold, even if it was a damn useless hunk of metal otherwise. It was like owning history itself.
Right. So if he were so damn certain of his plan, why exactly had he said precisely the words that would have caused Sanosuke to run to the dojo? Why was he walking so fucking slow? He didn’t give a damn what happened to Fujita Tokio. He’d be long gone before anyone figured out his part in whatever the hell it was that Tokio had planned.
But Naoya. He’d never see her again. She’d probably call him some pretty nasty names. She might even make fun of his hair. Or his face. And she was the one person who’d never said the first word about the way he looked.
Damn, she’d hate him forever. If not for leaving, then for helping Tokio get into whatever trouble she had been cooking up. And then Naoya would go off and get married to some respectable fucker and make lots of little rat-girl babies that would speak impeccable Japanese but wear their obis crooked. Damn it. Damn it.
Of all the days he had to grow a conscience, why today?
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity fuck!
Chou changed directions and headed away from the police station toward Taito Street.
He knew full well that his boss was going to kill him.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Tokio took a deep breath as she looked down at the katana in her hands. The replica wasn’t perfect, not on such short notice, but she only needed it to pass as the true sakabatou for a few moments, tops.
Chou had been waiting, just as instructed, on the other side of the wall behind the dojo’s kitchen. The trade-off went smoothly, wordlessly.
Her plan was falling exactly into place. In the end, all you really needed to trap your prey turned out to be immeasurable patience and a knowledge of how people thought, and, of course, the strength of will to sacrifice everything for your desired goal.
The mild narcotic she’d slipped into Hajime’s and Eiji’s dinner would keep both of them sleeping long into the morning. This had given her the necessary time and cover to wake up and cook the poisoned spice cakes for Yahiko, Ayame, Suzume, Kaoru, and, just in case, an extra one for that loudmouthed street-fighter. Of course, Himura Battousai’s had been saved from an untainted batch she’d cooked the previous day.
By writing out the names of the recipients in cinnamon on the tops of the cakes, Tokio hadn’t even needed to make certain the right ones went to the right people. Though, true, it had been slightly difficult to keep Yahiko from eating Sanosuke’s.
Now for the rest of the plan. If everything went as she had decided, by the end of the day, her misery would be no more. The unending sadness she had borne these past few months would be laid to rest. The mournful suffering that had, at every turn, assaulted her heart would crumble into nothingness.
In addition, she’d have the justice for which she had so adamantly longed. Battousai would be dead. Her parents would finally be able to rest, no longer calling out for the vengeance she had taken so many years to procure.
Do not look at me now, Mama, Papa. Do not watch what your daughter must do. Stay blind to the broken woman who stands before you. Forgive me now, I beg of you, for so long wishing for happiness that I have remained deaf to that which is rightfully mine. I must own this sadness, I understand. I have too long stolen smiles from this world, and now is the time to pay my dues.
As Tokio turned the sheathed katana over in her hands, a clink echoed though the kitchen of the dojo. The usually demure woman felt her flesh crawl at the sound.
The sound of death.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
“Oi, Kenshin, where is everyone?” Sanosuke strolled into the dojo like … well … like he lived there or something.
“Hello, Sano,” Kenshin replied, standing to hang yet another article of clothing out to dry. “They’ve all gone to take naps due to the heat. Tokio-dono brought breakfast for everyone; I think she saved a bit for you, she did.”
“Fuck no, I’m not eating a damn thing that creepy lady cooks.”
“That’s all right, Sagara-san,” Tokio whispered as she exited the kitchen and walked along the engawa, the sakabatou in hand. “I think there is some rice left over from the dinner Himura-san cooked last night. Why don’t you have that?”
“Leftovers? Ugh.” Without apologizing for his insult, Sano stepped up onto the engawa and plopped himself down cross-legged. This would require some thought. Either he had to eat the cold rice, or he had to eat whatever Tokio had made. Wait. Was she carrying the sakabatou? “Why’s she got your katana, Kenshin?”
“Tokio-dono was repairing the laces for me, that she was,” Kenshin replied, beaming a bright smile at his obviously hungover friend.
Tokio hid her frown by walking past the moping streetfighter and bending down to lean the replacement sakabatou against one of the engawa posts. “I’ll put this right here, Himura-san, no need to handle it while your hands are wet.”
“Thank you so much, Tokio-dono.”
Tokio stood and watched Sanosuke out of the corner of her eye. He wasn’t moving. Well, she hadn’t planned on a witness, but his presence would prove inconsequential. Now that events had been set into motion, there could be no going back.
“Himura-san,” Tokio began, stepping off the engawa as Kenshin bent again toward his wash bin. “There was something I wanted to ask you about.”
“Oh?”
He had such an innocent look just then, those eyes of his so wide with the expression of complete cluelessness. Surely the truth behind the man could not lie in this gentle rurouni. No. It was a mere shell, like the outer skin of a snake, just waiting to be shed and expose the raw scales beneath. Tokio’s hands found themselves at her scarf, deftly untying the knot as she walked toward the clothesline behind Kenshin.
The tone of Tokio’s whisper turned to a grating rasp. “Mm, yes. I have to wonder if you, yourself, have ever known true fear. The kind of fear that rips away innocence and leaves behind only a ghostly spirit condemned to wander forever unhappy through this waking world.”
“Tokio-dono, I don’t think I understand …” Kenshin’s eyes narrowed as he heard the rustle of fabric behind him. The clothesline? No. No breeze. Tokio? Suddenly, Kenshin felt the shocking tear in her ki, her spirit forcibly ripping itself from her body leaving behind only …
Kenshin’s eyes went wide both with an unmistakable realization about Saitou Tokio and with the automatic need for defense. His hand flew from the water to his hip. The sakabatou. Not there. Kenshin tried to turn but found himself pinned as Tokio’s foot planted itself on his back and her scarf wound itself twice around his neck.
Tokio pushed forward with her foot while at the same time pulling backward on the ends of her scarf.
“No, no,” Tokio hissed. “No need to speak, no need to struggle, Battousai. Be a pleasant host for Tanagi Tokio and receive that which is so freely given. Die.”
“Kenshin!” Sano yelled, standing up, his hangover suddenly not terribly important anymore. “What the fuck are you doing, lady?”
Kenshin raised one hand toward his friend and choked out his words, the silk of the scarf biting into the skin at his neck. “No, Sano. Don’t.”
The rurouni’s eyes darted back and forth, seeking out an answer. Tanagi. Tanagi. That name. He knew that name because …
“That’s right, Battousai. Come to the realization of your death.” Tokio’s grating rasp assaulted his ringing ears. “What will you choose, in your final moments? Fear? Or will you come to the understanding that you are not meant to possess happiness. You have plucked from the tree of life an apple that does not rightfully belong to you. It is time, Battousai, to pay for that theft.”
Why doesn’t he just throw her off? Sano wondered, inching further toward his struggling friend, fully intending to punch the woman at his earliest convenience. He could easily execute some move, any move, and be out of her grasp.
Kenshin’s thumbs attempted to wiggle underneath the fabric rapidly scissoring itself through his neck. He needed air. Focusing on his concerned friend, Kenshin tried to will his thoughts into Sano’s head. Sano, I hope you are paying attention. Please be paying attention.
“This is far more amusing than I had imagined,” Tokio whispered, grinding her heel into Kenshin’s back. “I can see how you might have enjoyed killing so many people during the revolution, Battousai.”
Wincing against the burning sensation at his throat, Kenshin struggled to pull in air, just enough, just enough to say, “Sano! She’s pregnant.”
So that’s why he hadn’t thrown her off.
Tokio’s grip on the ends of the scarf faltered. He wasn’t supposed to figure that out. He was supposed to leap for the sakabatou. Damn. No one was supposed to know. Not until … not until …
Using Tokio’s moment of surprise as his opening, Kenshin rolled to the side, away from the rapidly approaching Sanosuke. The fabric slipped easily from the startled woman’s hands, but the removal of the body that had been underneath her foot caused Tokio to lose her balance and begin to fall in the opposite direction from Kenshin.
Kenshin was thankful Sanosuke had been paying attention. He caught Tokio easily, one hand at her back, one on her arm, and pulled her back upright. No matter how much he might have disliked the woman, you just did not get rough with a pregnant lady.
As Kenshin unwound the scarf from his neck and gasped for much-needed air, Tokio shook herself from Sanosuke’s grasp. “Hn. How did you know? You weren’t supposed to figure that out, Battousai. But it doesn’t matter. You will still die.”
Tokio stormed toward the engawa, leaving the two men wondering exactly what had just happened.
“You all right, Kenshin?”
“Aa.”
The fake sakabatou now in her hands, Tokio turned on her heel and tossed the katana in the direction of Kenshin. It landed at the crouched rurouni’s feet with a clank.
“You’ll be needing that, Battousai. You have a choice to make.”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Chou arrived at the Saitou house just as Hajime walked out onto the engawa. Saitou, still hurriedly pulling on the outer shirt of his police uniform, looked up to find the broom-haired cop loitering at the gate.
“Whatever you want, I don’t have time for it now,” Saitou said. “I’ll be at the office tomorrow. Talk to me then.”
“Yer never late to work, Boss. What’d she do, slip something in your dinner?”
Hajime’s head jerked upward as his hand fell to the hilt of his katana, leaving the rest of the buttons on his outer shirt undone. The left corner of his lip turned up in the faintest semblance of a sneer. “You knew.”
“Aa. Once again, I got information that you don’t have, boss. Funny how that keeps endin’ up happenin’. So, what’ll ya give me for it? I could use a raise, ya know.” Chou attempted to grin evilly but in reality just appeared to be squinting against the sunlight.
“Hn. I’ll give you a reprieve from instant death, ahou.” Saitou’s thumb slid underneath the stop on his katana, clicking it from its sheath to punctuate his intent.
Chou threw up his hands. Best to comply, for Tokio, and by extension Naoya’s sake. “All right, all right. Look. I don’t know much—”
“You never do.”
“Tokio-san just told me that you’d be out long enough for me to cover the trail of what happened to this.” Chou threw open his coat and withdrew the sakabatou. He tossed the stolen item to Saitou, who caught it one-handed. “She had me make a double-bladed replica and bring it to her at the Kamiya dojo this mornin’. I don’t know what she plans to do with it, but—”
“You are a goddamn idiot. What makes you think I won’t put you back in jail for theft?”
“I think ya got bigger things to worry about right now, Boss,” Chou replied with a shrug.
Saitou’s eyes narrowed, regarding the wayward cop with immense disdain. True. He didn’t have time to deal with Chou now. And at least the man had come forward with a confession of his crime. “Get inside my house. Eiji’s been poisoned. Watch him until I return. I’ll deal with you then.”
“Poisoned?” But it was too late to ask questions. Saitou had already brushed past him and was making his way well down Taito Street at a remarkable speed.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
“A choice?” Kenshin looked up from where he had been crouching on the ground. Even from twenty feet away, he could clearly make out the disfiguring scar on Saitou Tokio’s now naked neck. It didn’t seem like anyone should have been able to survive such a wound.
Tanagi. Tanagi. That name echoed in his mind. Did it have importance? Some significance he could not recollect?
A flash of fire reverberated in Kenshin’s mind—a burning house, eyes watching him from beneath a porch, a tiny ki that curled upon itself becoming miniscule with fear.
“Yes, Battousai,” Tokio replied, nonchalantly kneeling into a sitting position on the edge of the engawa. “You see, I’ve already realized that I can’t kill you as you are now, since the man I seek to destroy is buried within you. Nor could I possibly hope to fight you once you return to your true self. I am, after all, merely a woman and not a skilled and legendary swordsman like my husband.”
“Did Saitou put you up to this, lady?” Sanosuke asked, offering a hand to pull Kenshin up.
“No, my husband knows nothing of this, though he has harbored suspicions for some time.” Tokio returned her calm gaze to Kenshin. “Are you agitated yet, Battousai? No? Well, you shall be soon. Recall those spice cakes I fed you and your friends this morning?”
Kenshin’s pupils dilated as a broad smile spread on Tokio’s lips. “No … you wouldn’t …”
“Ah, but I would, Battousai, I would. But I am kind. I should not wish your friends to suffer, so they shall die most peacefully in their sleep. The poison takes some time to work its way through a person’s system, but then, eventually, their hearts will just stop. I suppose Ayame-chan and Suzume-chan will go first, their little hearts becoming still like a butterfly coming to rest on a flower. Next Yahiko, I assume. He’s strong for a child but still small. And then the lovely Kamiya Kaoru. I find myself remarkably saddened to have to do this to her. But we women are constantly sacrifices to the mistakes of men. They are all such innocents, ne? You really should do everything in your power to save them, Battousai.”
“Kami-sama, what a twisted bitch. I told Jou-chan that someone would have to be deranged in the head to marry Saitou, and boy was I fucking right.”
“Tokio-dono,” Kenshin said, bowing his head. His low tones, tinged with urgency, rang through the courtyard like the dulcet notes of a bamboo wind chime. “Sessha is not certain what grievance he has caused you, but I beg you not to harm my friends. Sessha does not believe that a woman who has given such care to Eiji-chan so freely, would put at risk any child. This I know, you do not wish to do what you are doing, that you don’t. So, please, tell us how to save our friends.”
“There is a readily available antidote,” Tokio whispered. “And if you choose, you may have it with my blessings.”
Kenshin breathed a sigh of relief. “Sessha thanks you, Tokio-dono. Where might we find this antidote?”
Tokio’s head leaned back, her entire body beginning to quake with silent laughter. One hand fingered her collarbone as she attempted to get control of herself, pressing the delicious deviousness of her plan back inside her body. Instantly, Tokio snapped back up, glaring at Kenshin with a bemused grin. “In my stomach, Battousai. That is where you will find the antidote. I’ve made small capsules containing the required cure and swallowed them. I’m afraid you’ll have to cut me open to fish them out.”
“You want Kenshin to … kill you?” Sano asked incredulously. “She’s loonier than Enishi, Kenshin.”
Kenshin’s jaw dropped slightly. He’d battled many a man with a desire for revenge but never one willing to sacrifice himself on his blade. But why? Why would she want to kill herself and her unborn child?
“I see you are beginning to understand the choice you must make, Battousai. If you would pick up your katana, you’ll find that I have provided you with an adequate symbol of this most amusing situation.”
As commanded, Kenshin bent to pick up the sakabatou at his feet, only to find that it felt far too light. As Kenshin loosed the blade from its sheath, Tokio whispered, “A double-edged sword. Proper, don’t you think? Just like the choice you must now make. You may choose to kill me and my unborn child, saving your friends, thereby breaking your oath and returning to the ways of the hitokiri. Or you may choose the path of inaction and lose all that is dear to you as your friends die one by one.”
Sano’s hands clenched into fists at his side. “Don’t even worry about it, Kenshin. I’ll get Megumi, and she can—”
“Cure your friends? There isn’t enough time. Kamiya-san told me all about the good doctor lady. I’m afraid that by the time you retrieve her, have her examine your friends, determine the identity of the poison I used, and retrieve all the elements needed to concoct the antidote, it will be too late.” Tokio leaned back on her outstretched arms, allowing the sun to play on her psychotically serene face.
Kenshin stared at the half-withdrawn blade in his hands as his flesh began to crawl with the realization of the situation. Even merely holding this sword made him feel … odd, sick to his stomach. And every time Tokio spoke, as quiet as her rasping whisper was, he found himself compelled, entranced, as if pulled toward her reasoning against his will. It reminded him far too much of his fight with Jin’eh. She was doing something, something he could not outwardly perceive.
But it felt so … familiar.
Kenshin slid the sword back into the sheath with a snap.
“Sessha will not kill you, Tokio-dono, that I will not.”
Tokio’s broad smile fell slightly as she sighed. “How selfish of you, Battousai. You choose your own way of life over your friends? Is the outer shell you have concocted for yourself really more precious than your loved ones? Poor Kamiya-san. I feel for her, truly. I believe she may have been made happy by you, however strange that seems. I wonder if she will cry tears of despair from heaven, cursing your name.” Tokio leaned forward, her intense gaze burning with the reflection of the sunlight. “Heaven. Yes. Perhaps you should go to comfort her there. If you were to take your own life, you could explain yourself to her in the next world.”
“No, Kaoru-dono would be upset with sessha if he were to take your life, his own life, or any life.” But even as he said it, Kenshin could feel his fingers itching to draw the blade. Why? This was completely unreasonable. Nonsensical. He did not want to kill Saitou Tokio. He did not. Nonetheless, scenes of gore kept playing across his mind. Blood coating his hands as he ripped into the woman’s stomach. The smell. The feel of …
“Draw the sword, Battousai.” Her voice seemed so far away now. Just a whisper of a whisper. Dreamlike. Coaxing him like Tomoe’s elegant fingers. He couldn’t breathe. Was there air here in the dojo yard? “It is so, so simple to kill, Battousai. Yes. Come to me.”
Kenshin found himself stepping forward against his will. Sessha must fight. No. This isn’t right. This isn’t …
“Kenshin, what are you doing?” Sano yelled, bounding across the yard to place himself between the struggling rurouni and Saitou Tokio. “You can’t be seriously thinking about—”
“No, Sano … something … she is doing something, that she is.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about, Battousai,” Tokio rasped, pulling the pins out of her hair and sticking them in her obi. Yes, with her hair around her shoulders, that would make for a more compelling scene. Not that Hajime would care what her corpse looked like, would he? Hajime, you will wake soon. I know it won’t take you long to figure out what has happened. I am glad that you won’t mourn for me. Glad that you won’t shed tears. You will be angry, and that much I deserve, but do not waver in your beliefs.
Fighting against feet unwilling to obey his commands, Kenshin’s bowed head uttered a soft request, “Please, Tokio-dono, why would you want this lowly one to kill you? I cannot understand, that I cannot.”
“It is simple. My death will cause the outer shell that contains the Hitokiri Battousai to collapse, leaving only the assassin of legend. And this transformation will free my husband from staying his hand where you are concerned. He will come for you, and even if he fails, I have no doubts that Okita-san will follow shortly in his footsteps. You may be able to defeat one of them, but I doubt even you could defeat them both. If you could have, you would have done so during the revolution, would you not?”
“So, you would sacrifice yourself just to get your husband to fight Kenshin?” Sano shook his head sadly. Crazy. Absolutely dead bonkers. Wait. Probably shouldn’t use the word dead.
“Yes.” Tokio tilted her head to look past the ex-streetfighter, peering at Kenshin expectantly. “Please do not waste this precious time, Battousai. I beg of you, save your friends. End my life. It is proper. It is my wish. Just as you did so many years ago … do … now … for me.”
Kenshin found himself struggling against Sanosuke, who had now taken the rurouni by the shoulder in an attempt to keep him from advancing. “Don’t listen to her, Kenshin. Don’t. Oi! Damnit, are you listening to me?”
And that was when Sanosuke did the first and only thing that came to mind. He punched his best friend directly in the gut. “Snap out of it, Kenshin!”
Blackness.
Voices. Voices from the past.
“Be calm, Battousai.”
A line of women, all wearing cloth gags.
“Don’t talk to them. Don’t ever talk to them.”
Tanagi.
Tanagi Kojurou.
That was the night …
That was the night they found out …
And in his hand …
The last black envelope.
Kenshin sat up with a start, once again gasping for air. Slowly, his eyes focused on Sanosuke’s face. His friend was kneeling by his side. “Sorry, Kenshin. I couldn’t think of anything else.”
“It is all right Sano, it is.” Kenshin’s voice sounded far more certain now, so his friend merely nodded and helped the winded rurouni to stand. Both men turned to look at Saitou Tokio, who remained perched on the engawa, watching the exchange with the same empty smile. “Tanagi Tokio. Sessha apologizes, that I do. I understand now. You are in mourning, as you have been for a long, long time. Your parents …”
Tokio’s eyes closed as a brief expression of pain crossed her brow. “You took them from me. I saw you. I saw the horror you wrought with your blade. And now it is time to give something in return, Battousai. This is the way the world is, a constant balance of happiness and sadness. You cannot escape from that balance.”
Kenshin dropped the katana in his hands. A brief burst of dust encircled his feet. “This may or may not be true, Tokio-dono. But Sessha fears that in this case, your intentions are mistaken.”
A dry whisper sounded only one syllable. “Oh?”
“I did not kill your parents, that I did not.”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Kyoto, 1867, Summer
Himura leaned against the gnarled tree in the enclosed courtyard of the Makaze Inn. He was pretty sure that the inn had been built around the enormous tree, but frankly, he had more important things to think about than tracking down the history of his current residence. The end of the war would come very, very soon. He could feel it.
And then, then he could keep his promise to Tomoe—to find another way of life. Once the new era dawned, he would be free to do her gift justice.
But it really did prove hard to think about the new era with a gash in your leg. Damn that Saitou Hajime. Damn the Shinsengumi. Damn his shoes. Damn the rain. If it hadn’t been for them, he wouldn’t have slipped and fallen when he had jumped onto the roof to evade capture or, well, death—though, as far as he knew, the former would probably be far worse than the latter where the Shinsengumi were concerned.
“Don’t lurk around, Hyobe-san,” Himura murmured as he rewrapped the wound. “If you have something to say, come out and say it.”
Hyobe Otani stepped out of the shadows of the enclosed engawa and onto one of the roots of the massive tree. Except for his obscenely long fingernails (which, apparently, had to do with some sort of superstition the man held), Hyobe was a rather unimpressive man, with a short top-knot and moonish face. Still, he had proved to be far more agreeable than Iizuka, his predecessor.
“Just came to see how you were doing. Heard you were wounded last night.”
Himura shot the man a deadly glare. “The rain. I misplaced my footing. That is all.”
The cross-scarred assassin’s tone made Hyobe feel like backing up, but instead he held his ground. “I wasn’t accusing you of anything. I seriously just wanted to know if you were all right. Katsura-san would have my head if your leg fell off or something.”
“I am fine.”
“Uh, anyway,” Hyobe muttered, plopping down between two tree roots, “you missed everything that happened while you were gone. Katsura-san showed up around midnight. There’s going to be a meeting here today, they say, with the leaders of the Hachinisasareru. Almost everyone we can spare has been sent away.”
“Hn.” Himura feigned indifference, but the tiny spark of curiosity wavered in his mind. The Hachinisasareru. He’d really only ever heard of them as gossip from the other Ishin Shishi—whispers in dark corners. Hardly anyone knew if the Hachinisasareru were even real or just a legend told to keep men on their wives’ good sides.
But earlier that year, it was rumored Katsura had struck up a tentative alliance with the bizarre kunoichi clan. It seemed the Hachinisasareru wanted the new era to dawn as fervently as the Ishin Shishi. They had their own ideas about what this change would bring, certain new freedoms and rights for women, more legal protection for children, especially orphans. So in order to procure what they wished, they had offered their services to the Ishin Shishi, gathering information as spies in prominent samurai and politician households, at inns and restaurants. Wherever a man would prove far too suspect, the Hachinisasareru wormed their way in.
But the alliance was quite fragile. Neither side truly trusted the other. Several Ishin Shishi men who had roughed up some prostitutes had turned up poisoned the next week, and the Hachinisasareru had been top suspects. And a supposed kunoichi of that clan believed to be selling Ishin Shishi secrets had been hung from the roof of an apothecary thought to be a Hachinisasareru stronghold.
All in all, nobody trusted anyone.
“Have you met them, the Hachinisasareru?” Himura asked Hyobe.
“Yeah. I’ve been to two different meetings with Katsura-san involving those kunoichi. Let me give you some advice, Battousai, don’t speak to them. Don’t ever speak to them.”
“Eh?” But Himura’s inquiry was cut off by a shoji on the far side of the courtyard sliding open. Katsura walked out first, followed by several bulky bodyguards. Then, Himura saw the women. Five in total, they all wore identical garments, black kimonos with yellow obis and yellow shoulder sashes. But the strangest thing was, except for the woman at the front, they all had twisted pieces of cloth tied around their mouths. Gags.
One of the bodyguards opened another shoji, an entrance to a large and formal room often used for important meetings. The eldest woman, the only one free to speak, nodded to two of the women, both of whom appeared to be several years younger than the eighteen-year-old hitokiri. “Keisuke, Ienobu, stay outside and alert us to any trouble.”
The two young women both bowed their heads in acquiescence as their mistress and the two remaining kunoichi stepped into the room, followed by the bodyguards. This left only Katsura, who had halted on the engawa. He now stood, smiling gently, looking at Himura and Hyobe.
“Himura-san, if you would watch over these ladies and see that no harm befalls them, I would appreciate it greatly.”
Kenshin’s head dipped slightly in wordless response. He understood the true meaning behind Katsura’s request without thought. “Watch them. Don’t let them go anywhere.”
Himura pulled the leg of his hakama down over his newly redressed wound and glanced at Hyobe, who appeared to be picking clean his absurd fingernails with a sharpened tanto. Ignoring the lieutenant, Himura pulled himself up, making every effort not to walk like a wounded man, and crossed the immaculately tended courtyard.
As he approached, he noticed what he could not have from the distance. The younger of the two girls, likely no more than thirteen or fourteen, had bright-purple hair bound in two long braids. The other, a year or two older, stood with remarkable confidence, peering at the world around her as if she were destined to own everything in it.
All in all, the two girls were rather … disconcerting.
Now slightly more curious, Kenshin probed their respective kis as he sat down on the edge of the engawa, drawing one leg up underneath his body and bending the other knee to lean against. Nothing. Well, that was to be expected. They were ninjas, after all, experts in secrecy and hiding.
At least he wouldn’t be expected to make conversation.
He watched the two girls out of the corner of his eye. They had taken up positions on either side of the shoji, but after a few minutes, both seemed remarkably listless. The purple-haired one shifted her weight constantly, and the other resorted to flexing her fingers in front of her determined face.
The younger of the two girls sighed into her gag, turning her head to look at the one their mistress had called “Keisuke” expectantly. In turn, Keisuke nodded and reached into the sleeve of her kimono, retrieving a small package no larger than a finger. She untied the string around the bundle and removed a long needle.
Kenshin watched as Keisuke held up the needle and then proceeded to lace it through the skin on the back of her longest finger, wincing openly at the pain.
Ienobu’s eyes grew wide, and Kenshin fought his hardest not to change his own expression. Keisuke pulled the back of her hand toward her face, hiding the needle from the two onlookers. Her other hand darted out, fingers snapping twice, the sound reverberating through the courtyard.
When Keisuke turned her hand back around, the needle was gone and no blood could be seen. She grinned into her gag as Ienobu hopped and clapped quietly.
The older girl tilted her head and peered down Kenshin. The look in her eyes, a demand, perhaps? No, a challenge. He’d misread it due to the fact that most of the challenges issued to him had to do with sword fighting. Kenshin fought the urge to look away from the girl. She should be afraid. Everyone else was afraid. A sensible woman would be trembling from his mere proximity.
So. She was either insane, ignorant, or too innocent to realize the danger.
But a challenge was a challenge.
Kenshin could only think of one response, a puzzle that his master had taught him long ago to teach some moral now lost to time. He bent down to untie the lace from his left waraji. Holding up the string, he quickly performed a series of loops and twists, creating a complicated web between his fingers. At the middle was a small hole.
“Put your hand in,” he said to the purple-haired one. Ienobu looked to the elder girl questioningly and received a nod to proceed. Dipping her hand tentatively into the middle, Ienobu peered at Kenshin. At least she seemed afraid.
Kenshin quickly pulled the loose ends of the waraji lace. The thread bounced and danced. And though it seemed as if Ienobu’s hand should have become tied by the string and the unwinding of the complicated knot, her hand ended up outside of the loop.
Ienobu turned her hand over in surprise, looking down at the redheaded man. No. She was looking at his legs—or rather, the tear in his hakama from falling last night. He hadn’t repaired it yet.
Ienobu knelt down beside Kenshin, pointed at the tear, and then motioned Keisuke over. The elder girl too bent to inspect the rip. She produced her needle yet again and looked at Kenshin, expecting an answer to her unsaid query.
“No. I’ll stitch it later. Don’t bother.”
Ienobu’s hands pressed together, as if in silent prayer, begging to be allowed to complete the task.
Well. He didn’t want to offend their allies.
And that is how the Hitokiri Battousai ended up having his hakama patched by Fusada Ienobu and Tokorago Keisuke of the Hachinisasareru.
It wasn’t long after that when the other Hachinisasareru and Ishin Shishi reemerged from the meeting room. As Katsura’s bodyguards led the women away, Kenshin stood to speak with his waiting superior.
“It went well, Katsura-san?”
“Yes. We’ve renewed the alliance for at least another two seasons. I hate to involve women in such affairs, but if I did not, the Hachinisasareru would still continue to put themselves in harm’s way. Their Okashira is a strangely independent and headstrong woman. Her ideas about the world make even mine seem old-fashioned.”
Kenshin said nothing to this. He was still replaying the last fifteen minutes over in his head. What were the Hachinisasareru? Dealers of death? Consummate spies? Or just simple women?
“Katsura-san,” the hitokiri said, his voice low, “why …”
“The gags? Ah. Because the most accomplished and high-ranking Hachinisasareru are reputed to be able to use their voices to persuade men of anything, even to take their own lives. It may just be a rumor, idle gossip, but I suppose it is one that they, themselves, reinforce. Whenever they meet with their allies, they wear the gags just as a samurai might remove his sword. They wish to show their intent is harmless.” Katsura looked at the shorter man to gauge his reaction, which was, as always, pointless. The hitokiri he had created masked everything behind a frozen exterior.
“I see.”
Katsura closed his eyes in thought. Would he go to hell for what he had done to the young man standing beside him? It seemed entirely likely. “I heard you were wounded. You are recovering?”
“The rain. I merely slipped.” Kenshin turned, deciding he would return to his room. “I appreciate your concern.”
“I hope to see you tonight at dinner then.” Katsura stepped forward, one of the few people—no, perhaps the only person on earth—who had no qualms about having his back turned to the legendary assassin. “And, Himura?”
“Aa?”
“You’re missing one of your shoes.”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Kyoto, 1867, Early Winter
Kenshin pulled Tomoe’s blue scarf more tightly around his neck. Winter this year would prove harsh if already the chill crept into his flesh so vehemently. Well, maybe it wasn’t the cold that caused his shivers so much as the night’s task.
He walked the deserted road alone, keeping himself to the shadows as best he could, his hearing already becoming more acute. Disheartening, indeed, how quickly he returned to the habits and defenses of the hitokiri. Would he ever be able to put them aside?
Three months now. Three months since he had been in possession of an item similar to the one he’d received today—the black envelope. Hyobe had come to his room in the morning, that businesslike look on his face, the one that imparted such a sinking cruelty to Kenshin’s soul.
“Himura-san …”
Kenshin looked away from the man, gazing out the open shoji at the enormous tree in the courtyard below. He already knew what Hyobe wanted.
They didn’t ask him often now. Not with the Hitokiri of Shadows, his replacement, so eagerly on the job. No. Now Kenshin spent his days as a bodyguard for Katsura-san and his nights holding back the Shinsengumi.
“You have a man for that sort of thing, do you not, Hyobe?”
“The new hitokiri has been injured. And it can’t wait. The man in question is an adviser to Matsudaira of Aizu. He’s drawn up a proposal for new laws that will prove devastating to the movements of the Ishin Shishi, which he plans to present tomorrow. It is believed Matsudaira will take his advice and—”
“Stop.” Kenshin held up his hand. “There is no need to divulge such details. They are unimportant to the task.”
“You will do it, then?”
Kenshin didn’t say anything. Of course he would do it. A hitokiri was a hitokiri unto death. He should not have expected to be so easily freed from his fate. Hyobe, noting the other man’s suddenly extremely icy demeanor, put the black envelope on the top of the nearby pile of books.
“Is there anything else?” Kenshin asked.
“Aa,” Hyobe replied, folding his arms into the sleeves of his gi. “You will have to do it at his house. There is a wife and a daughter. Let them escape.”
“I may be many things, Hyobe-san, but I do not kill women and children.” Kenshin winced at his own words, glad he had his back turned to the other man. Well, he didn’t kill them on purpose; that was for certain.
“Good.”
But that exchange had been hours ago, and the passing of time had brought no reprieve from the inevitability of the night’s task. The scar on his cheek stung, whipped raw by the cold night wind. Tomoe wouldn’t approve of this, but he would spend his entire life making up for it if he had to do so. After the new era dawned, just a little longer …
Kenshin approached the house, fully aware that Hyobe and one of the newer Ishin Shishi recruits sat in the limbs of a tall tree across the road. The hitokiri easily hopped up onto the top of the stone wall surrounding the property.
The home of Kojirou Tanagi. A plain house, traditional. No guards. Not too close to any of the other houses on the street. Good. Kenshin was fast, but still, killing someone in his own home was far different than striking him down in the street.
With a parting glance to the men in the tree, Kenshin disappeared into the yard below, making his way to the side shoji that he sensed would likely be closest to the bedrooms. Not a sound. Even the wind had died suddenly, as if it too were holding back from breathing. Kenshin made his way down the hallway, taking slow, even steps.
No. Something was wrong. Even in the dim light, he could see that the shoji at the far end of the hall had been torn away and lay against the floor, ruined.
The smell of blood. He’d been holding his breath, but now the odor of death assaulted his senses. Kenshin’s hand flew to his katana as he raced forward, entering the room to find an atrocious scene of gore.
Blood everywhere—on the walls, on the ceiling, soaking into the thick blankets on the futon. The two bodies lay like discarded dolls, ripped open as thoughtlessly as a wrapped gift given to a small child.
Kenshin bent to inspect the wounds. The man … and his wife … had both definitely been killed by the same sort of weapon. But not a sword. This was not a lean blade, such as found on a katana, kodachi, or tanto. No. It was much thicker, with a thrust rather than a slash. A rouchin, perhaps?
But who? And why?
Guilt immediately followed the relief that washed over Kenshin. So he wouldn’t have to be a hitokiri on this night after all. Still, two people had died, the woman needlessly, it seemed. The reprieve, while welcomed, didn’t really make him feel exactly glad.
Kenshin made his way to the backyard, the designated spot where he was to meet Hyobe. The two Ishin Shishi men were already there, waiting. The winter wind had picked up once again, causing the men to huddle close, if not for warmth, then to be able to hear one other.
“That was fast, Battousai,” Hyobe said. “And not a drop on you.”
“They were already dead.”
“Nani?”
Kenshin felt a small prickle at the back of his neck. His gaze darted toward the house. “The man and his wife. Already dead. I suggest you go in and search the place to find out why.”
The two men nodded and headed up the steps of the engawa into the house, leaving the man known as the Hitokiri Battousai standing in the yard.
Kenshin glanced again at the house. Yes. Underneath the porch. Something so tiny, he’d barely even noticed it, a ki that shuddered as it grew more and more miniscule, drawing in upon itself. He couldn’t make out much more than her eyes and the tears that wet her cheeks, both of which reflected the white of the full moon.
The little girl.
Well, that was … not good. Still, there was no reason to harm her. If he left, she could easily escape through the back gate. But the real question was, would she? She seemed almost paralyzed with fear.
He couldn’t really … just … leave an orphan like that, to make her way in the world absolutely alone. Maybe he could protect … no. He still had much to do to bring about the new era.
But the women who had given their lives to save him … He couldn’t really … just turn away? Wasn’t it innocents like these for which he had fought in the first place?
Yes. So it was decided then. He’d go for now, assist the other men in reporting to Katsura-san. Then, he’d return in the morning, and if the child was still present, he’d take her someplace safe. There were some nuns at the outskirts of the city sympathetic to the Ishin Shishi. Surely they would take the girl in.
His mind resolved, Kenshin walked toward the porch and into the house, never saying a word to the frightened girl hiding in the shadows.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
They had poured over the documents from the ransacked house far into the night—or, rather, the others had. Kenshin just sat, patiently waiting for them to come up with some sort of explanation. Around dawn, he excused himself and left the Makaze Inn, his mind becoming clearer with each step.
This definitely felt right. Saving this girl was something tangible, something he could look to as proof that he had not become completely inhuman since Tomoe’s death.
But as he approached the Tanagi house, the scent of fire made itself known only seconds before the glow of the blaze. The house was burning. A crowd was collecting by the front gate, so Kenshin quickly changed his stride and turned down a side street to approach the property from behind.
The little girl—was she still there? Under the porch? Deftly, Kenshin hopped the wall and let his trained eyes search through the smoke and heat.
No. No. She wasn’t. Surely … surely she had escaped. But who? How? Did the killer return only to burn down the house? Why not do so the first time he had been there?
Kenshin leaned against the stone wall, watching the conflagration eat away the walls of the rapidly disappearing home. He should have pulled her out from underneath the porch before. But … really … what would he have said? “I came to kill your father, but since I didn’t and he and your mother are dead anyway, I’m going to save you.” Ridiculous. What did he think he was? Some sort of hero?
“Interesting. Are you a moth drawn to a flame, or might you be here for a different reason, Battousai?”
Kenshin looked up, drawing his katana and jumping away from the voice all in one movement. Through the smoke, he made out the small figure, even smaller than himself, perched on the edge of the stone wall. Why hadn’t he sensed …? As the breeze blew the caustic smoke aside, Kenshin understood. It was the Hachinisasareru girl known as Keisuke.
“Calm … Battousai …”
Her voice seeped into his soul, almost like sake or perhaps a long-needed sleep. And he had to admit, he did feel himself becoming strangely calm.
“Was this done by your people?” Kenshin asked, resheathing his sword.
“Nay,” Keisuke replied, hopping down to the ground. “We received word of the danger. I was to escort the woman and the girl back to our headquarters, but it appears I was too late.”
“Who, then? And why?” Kenshin was in no mood to have a conversation really. But Katsura would be disappointed if Kenshin missed the opportunity to assist the Ishin Shishi in solving the mystery that had plagued them all evening.
“The Bakufu. They’ve gone and procured themselves an assassin.” Keisuke clicked her tongue, as if mildly disgusted by the prospect. “The woman who died here was the daughter of the Hachinisasareru Okashira. They found out about her origins and believed that she was using her husband to gain sensitive information about the Shogunate’s plans and passing it to our clan. Or perhaps they thought he was giving up that information willingly. Either way, they saw the Tanagis as a threat and had them killed.”
“Then who set the fire?”
“Unfortunately, I have no idea.” Keisuke looked at the blaze and shrugged. “It’s too bad about the young daughter, hmm?”
“Aa.”
Too bad. Too bad that he couldn’t even save one little girl.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
“Lies!” Tokio hissed, slamming the heel of her hand down onto the engawa. “I cannot, I will not, believe you. My mother was an upright woman. A good woman. Not some sort of ninja!”
Kenshin bowed his head, taking a tentative step toward the now visibly upset woman. “Sessha is certain that she was, indeed, a good woman, I am. But I understand now why you are so upset. If you are here, then sessha assumes you are perhaps the one who set fire to the house?”
“I didn’t want anyone to … see them. Not like that. I didn’t want anyone to know … how brutal … I can’t let … I don’t want to be in pain anymore …”
“Sessha is sorry, Tokio-dono. But if your mother was a good woman, then she must have raised a good daughter. Do you think she would want to see you hurt Ayame, Suzume, Yahiko, and Kaoru? Would she wish you to die? For your unborn child to die?”
Tokio sucked in air through her teeth. “That is the way it must be. You can’t possibly understand. Your face is the one that haunts me. You are the one … You must be the one …”
Sanosuke looked like he was getting ready to say something, but Kenshin held up his hand to silence his friend. “The man who killed your parents is dead, Tokio-dono. I know, because I saw his lifeless body as we escaped from Shishio’s Mount Hiei hideout, that I did. He is the man your husband fought and killed that day, Usui of the Shingan. There is no need to hold on to your need for revenge any longer.”
“No … I … I won’t believe … I don’t want to …” Tokio reached into the sewing basket she had brought out with the double-bladed katana and retrieved an object that startled both Sanosuke and Kenshin.
A shuko.
Tokio slipped on her claws and fastened them with one swift movement. “It doesn’t matter then. I can’t … take the pain …” The whispering woman lifted the claws to her naked throat and closed her eyes. “I’ll do it for you. We’ll go together, this time, little one. There is no need to be alone …”
“Quit being so goddamned melodramatic, Tokio. Put the shuko away.”
Tokio’s eyes shot open. No. No, it couldn’t be. He wasn’t supposed to see her again, not alive. “Hajime …”
The man in question emerged from shadows beneath the overhang of the dojo’s gate. He strode confidently across the yard, decisive gait in stark contrast to his wife’s current distraught demeanor. The blazing sun caused his hair to reflect an almost purple sheen, which, when combined with the ferocity in his eyes, made him seem like a strike of lightning in the night.
“How long has he been there, eh?” Sanosuke murmured to the rurouni at his side.
“Quite a while,” Kenshin replied.
“Did you not hear me, Tokio? This foolishness has gone on long enough. Regain your sanity. And if you cannot do that, at least admit your selfishness. Admit your weakness. You and I both know what you really want, even if these morons can’t grasp the truth.”
Tokio’s shoulders fell as the woman shrank away from her husband’s voice. Her words stuck in her throat. “I want … revenge …”
“Hn. You are already avenged, Tokio. Unwittingly, certainly, but avenged nonetheless. You know it is the truth. Himura Battousai may be pathetic, but he’s not particularly skilled at lying.” Saitou’s gaze shifted briefly to take in Kenshin’s reaction. There was none, as it seemed the rurouni and his friend were trying to figure out if they’d just been insulted or complimented. “No, Tokio, you’ve wrapped yourself so tightly in a cloak of fears, indulged so freely in your own anguish, that you can see nothing else. How revoltingly self-serving. Did you not think of Okita? Or Naoya? What of Eiji? Your selfish actions have put even the boy in danger. He’s eaten the poisoned cakes as well, since you were so thoughtless as to leave them where they could be found.”
“Eiji-chan?” Tokio whispered, her shuko still pressing at her neck. “But …”
“Aa. Perhaps you are unworthy to be a mother, indeed. So, do it. I give you leave to run yourself through. I do not want a wife such as the one you have become. But do it with me watching. Do it with the knowledge of how disgusted I am at the scene I now witness. I will not curse you after you die, no, I will never think of you again. ‘The entirety of a man’s life can be seen in his death.’ Thus is the way of Bushido. To die now is irrational and insane and renders the life you have lived pointless.”
“Hajime, don’t …” Tokio bit her lip as her husband quirked an eyebrow.
“I’m waiting, Tokio.”
The shuko fell to Tokio’s lap as she buried her face in her free hand, sobbing deeply. “I’m … sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Saitou stepped forward, lifted the hand wearing the shuko, and removed the sharp weapon. This he tossed aside as he knelt on the engawa next to his wife. His hand wound around her thin wrist, tugging it away from her face. “Tokio, this is no time to fall to self-pity. You’ve put people in danger. Now, you must discern a way to save them.”
It took Tokio several seconds to stop crying enough to form an answer. “There isn’t any need. They are all merely sleeping deeply and should wake within a few hours’ time.”
“What?” Sanosuke exclaimed, muttering curses as he realized his friends were never in danger. “So …”
“I see,” Kenshin added. “If killing you didn’t bring out the hitokiri within, then you believed that the realization that I had done so without accomplishing anything certainly would.”
Tokio nodded in response, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand.
Saitou looked at the two men standing in the yard, the edges of his lips turning up into a mild snarl. “Do you mind? I’d like to speak to my wife privately.”
“Hey, you arrogant fuck, we live here!”
“Sano,” Kenshin whispered, “you don’t live here.”
“Well, I …” This stumped him. Shrugging, Sano thrust his hands into his pockets. “I’m going to go check on Jou-chan and the brats. Come on, Kenshin.”
“Aa.” Kenshin took one last look at the woman on the engawa. Definitely a different sort of enemy than he had ever fought before. But what if he had killed her parents? What if the truth had been what she suspected? The idea wasn’t out of the range of possibility. Would he have …? The question gave him a headache. Today had been merely lucky. And living on luck certainly didn’t make him feel better.
As the two men disappeared around the side of the building, Saitou regarded his wife coolly. “How long, Tokio?”
“Three months. The night you told me of your Kyoto mission, as best I can deduce.” Tokio’s head hung limply forward, too ashamed to even look at her husband. “Hajime, I don’t want … I can’t go through it, not again.”
“Aa, Kitty, I know.” Saitou reached up to push the moist hair away from his wife’s face. “But you will not do so alone. If you are traveling down my road with me, then I am also to travel your road with you. We are forever together, no matter what happens, no matter who tries to interfere, no matter what losses we encounter.”
Tokio leaned forward to press her face against her husband’s shoulder. He caught the back of her head with his hand, stroking her hair to soothe her. “Hajime, I’m so frightened.”
“Hn. I did not marry a coward. I married a woman who can brave out a year alone, who fought back when kidnapped, who helped ensnare one of the Juppon Gatana, and who, on a rare occasion, makes mildly amusing jokes.”
Tokio attempted to smile against her husband’s shirt but found that the tight lump in her throat prevented anything more than a choked sigh. “I tried to strangle Himura with my scarf.”
“So ka? I would have enjoyed seeing that. Don’t worry; I’ve done the same thing. He has such a scrawny little neck. It merely invites strangling.”
“Are you angry, Hajime?”
Saitou pried her away from his shirt. “Aa, Tokio-neko. What you did today was stupid beyond compare. And on top of everything, I missed work.”
“Kami-sama,” Tokio whispered, hushed tones dripping forced sarcasm. “We can’t have that.”
“Hn.” Saitou glared at his wayward wife, but the harshness in his expression quickly fell away. He reached up, tracing her cheeks with his callused touch. “Tokio, I want to …” His hand slid over the taut fabric of Tokio’s obi, pressing against the loose material at her stomach. “Here, hmm?”
Tokio wrapped her hand around her husband’s and repositioned it slightly lower over the yet outwardly imperceptible bulge. “No, here.”
Saitou grinned, his canines prominent in his wolfish smile.
“What?”
“Eh? Can’t a man be proud to get his wife pregnant?”
“Come, Hajime; it isn’t like it was hard.”
Saitou leaned forward and pressed his lips against Tokio’s left earlobe. “No, Tokio, I do believe that is one of the prerequisites.”
Tokio pursed her lips and attempted a fruitless punch against her husband’s shoulder. Saitou sat back up and said, “Yare yare, haven’t you had enough of fighting for one day? Let’s go home, Tokio. This place irritates me.”
Tokio nodded meekly as her husband stood, extending his hand to pull her up. The pair walked together to the gate, where Saitou reached into the shadows and pulled out the item stashed there.
“What a ridiculous object,” Saitou muttered, turning away from his wife briefly to toss the sakabatou into the dojo yard.
It landed with a resounding clank. And as husband and wife left the dojo, the dust kicked up by the falling sword settled.
There it lay, among sprouts of grass and weeds, the sakabatou’s sheath caught between two long blades of the discarded shuko.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Four Months Later
“Fat women walk so slowly,” Eiji complained, rolling his eyes as he slowed his pace, yet again, so that he wouldn’t get too far ahead of Tokio.
“Eiji-chan, I believe Fujita-san explained to you that I am fat for a reason, did he not?”
“Yeah,” Eiji muttered, recalling the terrifying speech that Saitou had given him, which included such disturbing phrases as impaled with the sword of manhood and delicious cries of a woman’s need. He was thankful when the speech had ended in a muttered curse and the command, “Go ask Okita.”
“It’s terribly nice to have a walk, don’t you think, Eiji-chan? This winter has proven so mild.” Tokio pulled her warm haori at the collar, delighting in the feel of the rabbit fur she had indulged in for the trimmings. She had to beg, pretty much, just to be allowed out of the house anymore. Naoya, Okita, Eiji, and Saitou all used their various means of persuasion to keep her from doing anything even as mildly strenuous as walking to the marketplace. Even Chou, who now often accompanied Naoya around the city, would cross his arms and say, “Get back in the house, Tokio-san. I ain’t fucking kidding.”
“It’s chilly though,” Eiji said. “You should let me make soba for dinner and miso too.”
“Well, perhaps. There shall be so many eating at our house tonight.”
The pair arrived at their destination shortly. Tokio rapped on the gate of the Kamiya dojo and pulled it open to find the residents engaged in their usual daily activities.
“Tokio-san!” Kaoru exclaimed, moving aside to dodge the swing of Yahiko’s shinai. “What a wonderful surprise. What brings you out today? Shouldn’t you be home? And, Eiji-chan, how could you let her walk all this way?”
Eiji merely shrugged. He was beginning to get the idea that, pretty much, it was vaguely useless to argue with a stubborn pregnant woman.
“Tokio-dono, you are looking well, that you are,” Kenshin said, glancing up from his laundry at the visitors. “You’ve not come to try to kill me again, sessha hopes?”
“Thank you and no,” Tokio whispered, her hand resting on the growing roundness in her midsection. “I’m afraid Eiji-chan and I can’t stay for long. I merely wished to bring something for you, Himura-san.” Tokio reached into her haori and brought out a neatly folded pile of olive-green cloth. “I noticed your gi has been patched beyond repair, Himura-san. I hope you will accept this one as an apology for my previous behavior.”
Kenshin dried his hands on his hakama and crossed the yard to take the offered gift from Tokio. “Sessha thanks you, Tokio-dono.” He unfolded the gi and pulled it over his current garment, letting the heavy fabrics drape his small frame. “It is very fine, that it is. Sessha has never had such a well-made gi.”
“Well,” Tokio replied with a soft smile, “it is befitting a legendary swordsman. Don’t you think, Kaoru-san?”
“It looks great, Kenshin!” Kaoru chirped. “Now you can throw away that other horrid gi. I swear, I don’t know how that old one holds together anymore.”
“But … but …”
Tokio smirked and placed one hand gently on top of the rurouni’s. “You don’t have to wear it, if you don’t want, Himura-san. Just keep it. Perhaps you can wear it when you have your final duel with my husband? I’d like that.”
“Yes, I shall,” Kenshin replied. “Thank you, Tokio-dono.”
“No, thank you, Himura-san.” Tokio looked down at the boy at her side. “Well, Eiji-chan, shall we?”
“Yeah.”
The pair said their good-byes and left the dojo. As they headed down the road, Tokio suddenly stopped, an odd look crossing her face.
“Auntie Tokio? What is it? What’s wrong?”
“Eiji-chan … I need … I need …”
Eiji’s eyes grew wide with apprehension.
“I need beef, lots of beef, and pickled radishes too.”
The boy breathed a sigh of relief and then rolled his eyes. “All right, Auntie Tokio, let’s get more food in you.”
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Saitou leaned against the post on the side engawa, watching the gate out of the corner of his eye. No, he wasn’t watching the gate. He was just taking a break.
Suddenly, the upside-down face of a smiling Okita Souji was peering at him.
“You’d best come up, Saitou-san. I do believe Chou is about to take a sword to the roof tiles.”
“I should have put him in jail instead of having him help us build this extra room. We’d have probably been done quicker.”
“Hai, hai!” Okita chuckled, as his head swung from side to side. “But it would have been so much less amusing.”
As Okita pulled himself back onto the roof, the front gate opened, and Tokio and Eiji stepped into the courtyard.
Saitou turned his head to watch his wife pad carefully up the steps of the engawa, Eiji hovering at her side. She’d become incredibly clumsy around the fifth or six month, her growing belly throwing off the remarkable ninja-trained grace with which she usually moved.
But, ah, how she glowed, for once so radiant with life that even he had a hard time leaving her side. As each passing day made it more certain that this child would not be lost, a little sadness dissolved from her eyes.
Her child. His child. Something they had made … together. It affected him in ways even he could not fully comprehend. He’d always loved Tokio, cherished her, adored her beyond what his severe demeanor could express. But now, now he needed to protect her. It had always been Japan for which his time and effort had been given, but for these few months, that could wait. Just this once.
Because they both knew that the most dangerous part yet lay ahead.
Even the doctor couldn’t deny it. “There is a very great chance that Tokio will not survive the birth. Outwardly, the sword wound has healed a great deal in eight years’ time, but there is no way to tell the conditions of the organs beyond.”
“The roof is coming well?” Tokio asked, moving to stand next to her husband.
“Aa,” Saitou sniffed briefly at the air and narrowed his eyes. “Ugh. Beef, again, Tokio?”
“Yeah!” Eiji said, hopping off the engawa. “And pickled radishes. And just about everything else she could lay her hands on. That’s not a baby in there; it’s the entire country of China.”
“I do believe you had your part in helping me eat, Eiji-chan.”
Eiji shrugged. “Well, I’m a growing boy, you know. Anyway, I’ll go get some wood and start your bath, Auntie Tokio.”
“Thank you, Eiji. I would appreciate it.”
The boy disappeared around the side of the house, leaving the pair alone.
“He’s such a good boy,” Tokio whispered, moving in front of her husband. His hand instinctively wrapped around her waist, coming to lie on the swell of her stomach. The rather animalistic need to protect the priceless pair of mother and unborn child so overwhelmed him that Saitou found himself grinding his teeth.
“Hn. Less annoying than some.”
“I should go in and make tea for everyone.”
“No,” Saitou said, his voice firm, “you should bathe and go to bed. I forbid you from walking that far again.”
“Am I to be a prisoner in my own home?”
“For the next two months—” Saitou’s statement was cut off by a terrible noise starting on the roof above them and ending somewhere behind the newly built room, punctuated by Okita’s voice uttering a piercing yell of “Eiji!”
“Oh shit!” Chou’s voice called. “Boss! Come quick. It’s Kita-san. He’s fallen off the fuckin’ roof!”
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