The Miko - 02 Read Free

column. In a grotesque gesture, the head came forward and down, hanging only by the thin length of skin at the neck, as if the sensei was deep in meditational prayer.
    Then crimson blood spurted upward from the severed arteries, fountaining the room, spattering the tatami where they both knelt. The sensei ’s torso jerked spasmodically, its legs tangling beneath it as it tried to leap forward like a frog.
    The female knelt rooted to the spot. Her eyes never left the body of her teacher. Once, when he lay on his side and one leg spasmed a last time, she felt something inside herself trembling like a leaf before a rising wind and she felt one tear lying hotly along the arch of her cheek. Then she hardened her heart, strengthened her will, and dammed up her emotions.
    With that, elation filled her. It works, she thought, feeling her heart thundering within her rib cage. Jahō. Without it, she would never have been able to mask her intent from him, she understood that quite clearly.
    As she stared down at her handiwork, she thought, It’s nothing personal; nothing like what that bastard muhon-nin Tsutsumu had in mind. I am no traitor.
    But I had to prove myself. I had to know. And therefore I had to take on the best. She got up and, moving like a wraith across the tatami , avoiding the spattered stains that had already begun to seep away across the floor onto other tatami , went to him.
    You were the best, she thought, staring down at her mentor. Now I am. She bent and wiped the blood— his blood—from her weapon. It left a long scar on the fabric of his kimono.
    The last thing she did there was to strip him and reverently fold the precious garment as if it were the national flag. Soon it disappeared into an inner pocket.
    Then she was gone; and with her absence came the rain.



BOOK ONE
SHIH
    [Force, influence, authority, energy]

NEW YORK / TOKYO / HOKKAIDO
SPRING, PRESENT
    D ROWSING, JUSTINE TOMKIN BECAME aware of the nightblack shadow that slowly pierced the sunlight like the blade of a sword.
    Her mouth opened wide and she tried to scream as she saw the face and recognized Saigō: the images of blood and carnage, a deathhunt too frightening to contemplate. The odor of the grave had pervaded this once peaceful room in her father’s house on Long Island so full of childhood memories: of a Teddy bear with one eye missing and a plaid gingham giraffe.
    Her powerful scream was muffled by the thick wind of Saigō’s passage, as if he could control all God’s elements with a wave of his hand. His torso expanded, extending through the light streaming down through the great glass dome in the ceiling, an opalescent mist rising about him as if his connection to the earth was not meant for her eyes.
    He bent over her prostrate form and while her mind screamed, Wake up! Wake up! he slowly began to work his magic on her, the icy menace in his eyes as dead as stones somehow transferring itself into her heart.
    She felt the horror squirming there like a palmful of live worms. An unholy bond was forming which she was powerless to deflect. Now she was part of him, she would do his bidding like a servant, take up his fallen katana and slay his enemy for him.
    She felt the cool haft of the heavy katana beneath her curling fingers as she drew it upward off the floor. She wielded it just as Saigō would have had he not been dead.
    And before her stood Nicholas, his vulnerable back to her. She raised the katana , its shadow already beginning to slice through the sunlight striking his spine. Nicholas, my one and only love. Her mind whirled in a sick fury and her last thought before she began the lethal downward strike was not her own: Ninja, betrayer, this is your death!…
    Justine jerked awake. She was in a sweat. Her heart was thumping uncomfortably, as loudly as a blacksmith strikes his anvil. Slowly, she ran a shaking hand through her damp hair, pulling it back, away from her eyes. Then, with a great indrawn breath that halfway through