Ghost stepped over the boy and pulled open the taxi door. After hunting around, he removed the sword from under the seat and held it up to show Kiko, who, along with the man in red, was running toward him.

She took the Moon Sword, gently separating the hilt from the scabbard to check the blade within.

Well done, Ghost. He felt the insect in his brain squirm and twist. You have proved your worth.

He watched her tie the scabbard to her waist before unsheathing the blade again. She stepped toward the boy and raised the katana in the air. Something in Ghost snapped.

Wait!

What? The voice in his head sounded surprised.

Don’t kill him.

Why not?

Ghost looked down at the bloody-nosed boy. He was sure he recognized that face but couldn’t think who it was. He was beginning to feel stronger, his own voice louder inside his head. Let him go. He can’t harm us now.

Kiko looked at Ghost, her dark pupils probing him for something: a reason—a reason to kill the boy, a reason not to? He could feel the insect wriggling in his brain, as if reaching for something. Perhaps Kiko looked a little nervous, as if she didn’t want to do anything to upset Ghost … I’ll do this for you, Ghost, she said eventually, lowering the sword.

The boy was conscious again and trying to stand. Ghost helped him to his feet. “Run.”

The boy wiped his bloody mouth and glanced at the two adults before returning his gaze to Ghost. “What have you done?”

“Go!” shouted Ghost, pushing him away.

The boy stumbled away from them, stopping once to look back before disappearing down the street.

Let’s go.

He followed the adults to an empty part of the area. Kiko and the man looked at each other and nodded.

It is time. Take this.

Kiko handed Ghost the Moon Sword. He felt its weight in his palm, its energy against his skin. The two adults unsheathed the other blades. The man barked a command.

On three, we cut.

Something in Ghost rebelled, but Kiko’s mind grasped at his own, stopped him from thinking.

The man waited with his Butterfly Sword raised. Now Kiko spoke aloud, a faint tremble in her voice. “One. Two. Three!”

The man screamed and together they cut into the air with the three swords.

Ghost was aware of a blinding white light and the sensation of flying through the air.

CORMAC OPENED HIS EYES. HE lay facedown on the hard ground. A throbbing pain pounded in his head. He peeled himself off the street. Something wet ran down his neck. He put his hand to the back of his head. Blood. An armored car lay upturned beside him, completely mangled, as if it had been chewed by some great beast, then spat out. Holding onto the vehicle’s crumpled frame, he pulled himself upright.

Somewhere, bending metal groaned. Nearby, glass shattered, shards tinkling on the ground. A distant rumbling was followed by a muted explosion. Around him, human groans filled the air.

Cormac hobbled through the mess, kicking aside a rifle, now corkscrewed into a piece of modern art. As he picked his way through the debris, he remembered what had happened.

Ghost had saved his life and sent him running. Cormac had raced toward the army barricade at the edge of Times Square, shouting for help. The soldiers had spun around to face him, a dozen guns pointing straight at him. Then there had been a giant flash of light from behind him and his body had lifted into the air …

He staggered up the street. Cars lay overturned or on their sides, crushed by some invisible force. Signs, traffic lights, and lampposts—everything made of metal—was twisted and bent. The once sleek and shiny skyscrapers leaned drunkenly in the sky. Windows that normally reflected the sun had been replaced by thousands of dark holes. A pillar of smoke rose from one of the crumbling office towers.

Glass crunched beneath his feet as he turned into a side street. He almost tripped over the body of a dead soldier. The man lay crushed beneath an overturned car, his face the same color as the sidewalk, a pool of dark blood around his head. Cormac turned away from the horror, overcome with nausea, and leaned against a misshapen trash can. He retched. But nothing came out, just a loud bark and the bitter taste of bile.

Kate!

Feeling dizzy, he tapped his chest and spoke into his comm but received no reply. He pulled the device from his ear to check it. The plastic casing had ruptured and its internal organs were a fried mess of melted wires and transistor chips. Flinging it aside, he teetered up the street. He had to find her.

Some buildings had collapsed entirely, spilling rubble onto the streets, and everywhere crooked vehicles littered the avenues as if they’d been dropped from the sky. As he passed the smoldering remains of a burned-out car, his legs gave way and he fell to his knees. Blood loss, fatigue, and shock brought his body to a standstill. He would have flopped forward onto his face if a pair of strong arms hadn’t caught him.

GHOST SAT UP AND WIPED a thick layer of dust off his face. He looked around him at a scene of utter destruction.

He had seen Times Square on TV many times. But now it was barely recognizable. The skyscrapers, normally radiant with flashing lights and neon advertising, hunched over like old men, gray and lifeless. Their windows were empty eyes, staring out at a city covered in broken glass. And all around, paper and dust fell like snow.

A noise diverted his attention. A man in a red kimono knelt on his hands and knees, coughing and spitting.

I know him. Goda. President of the Samurai Empire.

When Goda had cleared his lungs, he looked about frantically, reached under the wreckage of a car, and pulled out a gleaming sword. He struggled to his feet, put the blade in a dark scabbard, and rushed over to an inert body lying under a pile of green silk. From beneath the silk, he pulled out another sword and sheathed it before lifting the person up and pulling dark tresses from a pale face. Kiko.

The memory of what had just happened came surging back.

Ghost glanced around at the carnage. They had done this. With their swords. The Empire was taking America.

But that was as far back as his memory reached. How he had gotten here was still—

Ghost.

His body froze, as if turned to stone. She stared at him, her black gaze penetrating his mind, becoming a poisonous serum coursing through his body, ready to attack. He remembered that insectoid presence she’d planted in his head, the one that gave her full control over him. But now he couldn’t feel the wiggle of its legs or the squirming of its scaly body. It seemed to be gone. Perhaps the explosion had gotten rid of it? Her voice was still in his mind, but Ghost could think, remember, and move on his own. Though Kiko didn’t seem to know this—and Ghost wasn’t about to tell her.

Come here. Bring the Moon Sword.

He looked around and found the blade nearby. When he brought it to her, she sheathed it in the scabbard at her waist.

The force unleashed by the three swords had blown everything into heaped piles at the edge of Times Square. Contorted cars and crushed concrete surrounded them in a ring of disaster.

Goda looked around as if getting his bearings. He took a step forward, then adjusted his position by shuffling sideways on his feet. He kept glancing around as if searching for something. When finally satisfied with where he stood, he swept away the glass on the ground with his foot.

He drew one of his swords, held it above his head, and smiled at his wife. She smiled back. Goda’s scream echoed around the area, bouncing off the shattered skyscrapers. He cut down with the blade, slicing another dark hole in the air. It contorted and contracted, its edges wobbling like jelly.

Kiko moved to the hole and pulled at its edge, stretching the opening.

Grab the other side.

Ghost obeyed, curling his fingers around the gelatinous rim.

Wider.

The opening wanted to close, but Ghost pulled harder until it was wide enough for two men to pass through.

And that’s what happened.

Two medieval samurai, dressed in red armor, stepped out of the black hole. They bore Empire banners and carried extra armor in each of their hands. They bowed to Lord Goda and began dressing him in leather and iron. More followed, carrying a helmet and other paraphernalia. Soon Goda was dressed for war. He ordered two samurai to replace Ghost and Kiko at the portal.

Warriors continued to stream through the hole, two carrying green armor for Lady Kiko. As she dressed for battle, samurai formed a protective ring around Times Square, spears and swords pointing outward toward the ruined skyscrapers.

Ghost looked to see who was coming through next, then jumped out of the way.

A horse galloped through, covered in chain mail and leather. The rider had swords on his hip and a banner on his back. His horse vaulted over a smashed taxi and disappeared behind the rubble. Then another came, and another, as a stream of riders emerged from the portal to form regiments across the intersection and in the surrounding streets. Times Square was soon filled with the sound of iron-shod hooves on stone and the snorting of warhorses.

The cavalry was followed by archers, two at a time, jumping through the opening and running off in orderly lines. Ghost was dizzy watching the torrent of men pouring into the city. Soldier after soldier emerged, clad in iron, armed to the teeth, all marked with the Empire’s insignia.

When the last soldier had stepped through, the samurai released their hold on the portal and it snapped shut. Goda surveyed his troops. Times Square and countless streets around it were filled with samurai in their divisions. Their bright banners, glinting steel spearheads, and quivers full of red-feathered arrows brought color to an otherwise bleak scene.

Kiko asked her husband a question in Japanese. Ghost didn’t understand, but for some reason he understood Goda’s reply: “Ichimannin.” He had a vague memory of learning Japanese numbers in a classroom.

Ichiman meant “ten thousand.”