He moved forward and knelt before the altar, placing Tōzawa’s swords upon it. The world shrank to a hazy, glowing space that contained only this room, himself, and Aoi. Breathlessly he awaited her response.
She picked up the long killing-sword first, stroking its worn hilt and scabbard with gentle, probing fingers. Sano involuntarily imagined her hands caressing him. When she slowly unsheathed the blade, his manhood grew erect inside his loincloth. A pulse of desire drove hot blood through his veins as she brought the sword to her mouth and licked the gleaming steel. She repeated the process with the short sword, and Sano stared. Eyes half-closed in concentration, throat arched, she looked as though she shared his pleasure.
Now Aoi returned the swords to their scabbards and balanced them both on her palms. Her inarticulate moans intensified Sano’s excitement. Then came laughter-hearty, male, and startling.
“By the gods!” She stared from side to side. “Yoshiwara is all they say it is. Look at those beauties in the windows!”
Everything about her was completely samurai. Her brash voice; the swagger of her shoulders as she pantomimed walking; the insolent leer she aimed at the imaginary courtesans. Tōzawa’s spirit inhabited her body. Sano could almost see the rōnin walking toward him. Like an expert actor, Aoi somehow even managed to evoke the pleasure quarter’s bustling gaiety.
Aoi laughed Tōzawa’s laugh again. Her body jiggled like the stout rōnin’s must have. “Oh, yes, this is the right place for a man to end a long journey!”
Long journey: Tōzawa’s trip from his native province to Edo. Aoi’s evocation of the murdered man reaffirmed Sano’s belief in her powers.
“And the woman I had in Yoshiwara was the right one to be my last.” Aoi’s face lost its masculine cast to take on a new and disturbingly familiar aspect. She smiled in a maternal, yet flirtatious fashion. Her body seemed to gain a heavy ripeness of flesh. With a jolt, Sano recognized Sparrow, the prostitute he’d interviewed.
“You’re troubled, aren’t you? Would you like to tell me about it?”
Given his past experience with Aoi’s powers, hearing the words Sparrow had spoken to him shouldn’t have surprised Sano. But the rational part of his mind rebelled against this new assault by the supernatural. The incense choked his lungs. Enough! he wanted to cry.
Aoi replaced the swords on the altar. Cupping her bosom in both hands, she kneaded the full breasts; her fingers teased the nipples.
“Come,” she murmured, smiling in fond encouragement. “Suckle at my breasts, master. Take your pleasure and your comfort from me.” Her kimono rustled as she parted her knees. “Enter my heavenly chamber.” Her voice dropped to a soothing, yet seductive whisper. “Forget your cares for one night. Come to me now.”
A fresh onslaught of desire overrode Sano’s urge to stop the ritual. As his carnal self goaded him to sweep aside the altar and take Aoi, he fought physical need and addressed the spirit.
“Tōzawa-san. After you left Yoshiwara, what happened?”
Sparrow’s look left Aoi’s face. Her hands dropped from her breasts and took up the swords again. Tōzawa’s visage returned, distorted with anger and outrage.
“I started walking toward Edo,” Tōzawa’s voice said. “I was tired. Drunk. He caught me while I was undoing my loincloth to make dung. I went for my swords, but that miserable thief at the Great Joy had stolen them from me. And then I-a poor, defenseless rōnin-lost my life, all that I had left in the world after my lord dismissed me.”
Aoi’s face crumpled, and her chest heaved with a man’s wrenching, tortured sobs.
How could she speak of Tōzawa’s loosened loincloth, confiscated swords, and master less status except through a mystical bond with the spirit world? Awe and fear sharpened Sano’s desire even as he recoiled from her. His groin pounded with his need for her. What must it be like to possess a woman of such powers?
“Did you see your killer?” he asked.
A shake of the head; more sobs. “No. Too dark.”
“Wait. Don’t go yet!”
For Aoi’s sobs were diminishing, her face becoming once again calm, serene, and female as Tōzawa’s spirit left her body.
Sano watched, disappointed but nevertheless relieved, as she laid down the swords. How undisciplined he was to experience sexual arousal when he should have been concentrating on the investigation! Now, remembering last night’s debacle, he took the label from his sash and cautiously handed it to Aoi.
When the paper touched her palm, she closed her eyes; her body swayed. But she had herself under control.
“I see a five-petaled flower,” she whispered. “Painted on banners on the walls of a castle on a riverbank.”
Filled with awe, her eyes gazed into the distance. “The castle is under siege. Bombs explode beneath the walls. The enemy troops fire guns from rafts on the river, from tall wooden towers on the banks. From inside the castle walls, the defenders shoot back, killing many.”
Reflected in her eyes, the flickering candle flames mimicked the explosions and gunfires. “But the enemy has blockaded the castle; they will starve the defenders into defeat. That night, a brave scout leaves the castle and swims the river to seek help. Will he succeed?”
Enlightenment burst upon Sano as he recognized the scenario as the Battle of Nagashino, and the five-petaled flower as Oda Nobunaga’s crest. As one of Oda’s trusted men, General Fujiwara had surely fought at Nagashino. Aoi’s vision linked the murderer with him and that violent past, lending credence to Sano’s theory.
“But that was long ago.” Aoi’s hand trembled beneath the label as if under a great weight. “Now I see a man crossing a high bridge over a wide river. He passes great piles of wood, and canals with logs floating in them. He continues through fields and marshes. He carries a basket with a head in it. He reaches his house and goes inside. He washes the head, drives a spike through it, paints its face.”
Sano realized with a flare of jubilation that she was seeing the Bundori Killer. “Where is this house?” he demanded.
Her eyes scanned the distance. “In the marshes. Where two canals meet. It looks… like a samurai’s helmet.”
Sano saw her vision clearing, her trance dissolving. “Wait!” he pleaded. “Is the killer there now? Can you see his face? Whose head is it?” In his urgency, he leaned across the altar toward Aoi.
“Tomorrow… ” She spoke the barely audible word on a sigh. “He will go to the house tomorrow night. At the hour of the dog… ”
She laid the label on the altar, and her own persona gazed calmly out from her luminous eyes. Sano sat back as his galloping heartbeat subsided. The hand he passed over his face came away damp with sweat. His loins ached dully with unsatisfied desire; his mind clamored with unanswered questions. Still, he’d gained more facts to report to the Council of Elders tomorrow, and another lead to pursue.
“Hirata and I will search for the house and try to capture the killer there tomorrow night,” he said, striving for nonchalance in the face of Aoi’s aloof poise.
“Do you wish to discuss what you’ve learned about the murders today?”
Aoi’s husky murmur posed an irresistible invitation. Gladly Sano described his discoveries-as much to extend his time with her as to seek new insights. Her unwavering attention and apparently genuine interest drew every detail from him. And while his desire lost its edge as he warmed to his recital, he felt the current of attraction flowing between them.
“I think General Fujiwara’s feud is the key to the murders,” he finished. “But I couldn’t find a reason for his attacks on Araki and Endō, or any explanation why the killer should choose to satisfy a blood score after all this time.”