How the hells did they build this place?
They landed in the overgrown courtyard, cobbles choked by weeds, rain flooding in cackling waterfalls over the battlements. There was no sign of struggle—the outer doors were still whole and barred, the stonework unmarred by siege or fire. But slipping lightly off Buruu’s back and surveying the surroundings, Yukiko’s heart sank. Whoever lived here had done so long ago. Nobody builds a fortress in climes so inhospitable and then lets nature reclaim it.
Buruu surveyed the surrounds with unblinking, molten eyes, head tilted, puzzlement in his gaze. With a faint disquiet, Yukiko realized the world inside her head was almost completely silent. No blazing tangle of human thoughts, not even the burning sparks of birds or beasts. A few lonely gulls wailed at the very edges of her senses, but that was all. The monastery, the scrub-brushed cliffs, the entire vista felt almost entirely bereft of life. The storm was the only sound, the shushing of constant rain, a whip-crack of thunder setting Buruu to purring, thin fingers of lightning racing each other across the clouds.
I SMELL NOTHING.
Yukiko winced, flinching as if Buruu’s thoughts were a solid hook to her temple. Another inexplicable surge of power, always when she was least prepared, her wall dashed to pieces. Breathing ragged, body sore, suddenly and terribly tired of this; her closest friend in the world being the source of almost constant pain. She fought the welling frustration, knowing it would only make things worse, send the Kenning spiraling out of control. Toward what? Another earthquake? Her skull splitting open, brain flopping about at her feet like some drowning fish?
She pressed her hands to her brow, squeezed her eyes shut.
You’re so loud, brother …
I AM SORRY. I HATE TO HURT YOU.
Anger flared then, despite her best efforts to press it back. The Kenning had always simply been, never changing, never failing; taken for granted as thoughtlessly as talking or breathing. It was as if her legs had suddenly betrayed her, sending her skipping when she wanted to stand still, tripping her onto her face when she wanted to run. For the first time in her life, she was afraid of it. Truly afraid of who and what she was.
She looked up to the monastery’s silhouette, charcoal-etched against the lightning sky.
I hope we find our answers here, Buruu.
I DO NOT LIKE THIS, SISTER.
We’ve flown all this way. It seems foolish to stop at the threshold.
I THINK FOOLISH MAY BE BECOMING OUR SPECIALTY.
Thunder crashed again, rain falling like tiny hammers. Though part of her (part of him?) longed to be up in the clouds, her human side was shivering cold, drenched to her bones, the ever-increasing downpour doing little to ease the nagging ache at the base of her skull. She felt exhausted, sore from the flight, thirsty and miserable. A few moments out of the elements would be a welcome change, if nothing else.
We’ll find no answers out here in the rain, brother. And every moment we waste is another moment Hiro’s wedding draws closer.
A low growl, tail lashing. His volume receding slowly, not unlike an ebbing tide.
AS YOU WISH.
Tall double doors barred entry to the main building, heavy oak shod with iron. She lifted the knocker, rust flaking beneath her grip, pounding it against the wood. Waiting interminable minutes, pounding again, dragging rain-soaked hair from her eyes. She blinked up at empty windows, lightning reflected on cloudy, dust-dark glass.
Nobody home.
STAND ASIDE.
Yukiko backed well away, Buruu lowering his head, talons scarring the flagstones. She could feel it gathering around him—a whisper-rush of static charge, the hair on her arms standing tall, ozone thickening in the air. The thunder tiger spread his wings, pistons on his false-pinions creaking, shuddering, tiny wisps of lightning trickling across his sheared feathertips. The world fell still as he reared up on his hind legs, Yukiko clenching her teeth, covering her ears as Buruu clapped his wings together, giving birth to a deafening peal of Raijin Song.
It was written in the old legends that arashitora were children of the Thunder God, Raijin. That to mark them as his own, their father had gifted their wings some measure of his power. Yukiko had thought the tales a myth until she’d seen it with her own eyes—the night Buruu had almost blasted the Thunder Child from the skies.
A thunderous boom rocked the courtyard; the crack of a thousand bullwhips splitting the air in two, the shivering walls bleeding mortar. Flagstones burst skyward as if black powder were being ignited underground, rainwater vaporizing as the shock wave collided with the ancient wooden doors and sheared them to splinters. Iron buckled, rivets popped, hinges squealed as the doors burst inward. One was blasted clear of its moorings, the other hanging from a single stubborn hinge, swinging like a broken jaw.
Dust in the hallway beyond danced briefly in the calamity, echoes dying with reluctance.
Yukiko brought her hands away from her ears, a smile curling her lips. She put her arms around Buruu’s neck, stood on tiptoes and kissed his cheek. His purr set the broken stones at their feet trembling anew.
You are a little magnificent, you know.
ONLY A LITTLE?
Gasping, hand to her brow as his thoughts bounced like boulders around her skull. Slamming the door on the Kenning again; a recalcitrant child marched off to its bedroom to ponder its wrongdoings. Buruu whined, stepped away, tail tucked. Yukiko could sense he wanted to apologize, but without the bridge of thought between them, he had no way to do so. She wondered what it must feel like for him when she closed off her power completely—to be locked in the cold outside her head, just as alone as she was. Reaching out, she ran her hand down his throat, curling her fingers through whisper-soft feathers, giving him the only comfort she could. As she kissed him again, she saw she’d left a smear of scarlet on his cheek.
Wiping one hand across her nose, she brought it away gleaming and bloody. And with a grim nod to the arashitora, the pair stepped across the shattered threshold and walked inside.
12
ACRES OF SKIN
Skin prickling. Flinching at shadows. Teeth clenched so tight they ached.
A wide hallway stretched out before them into sodden-blanket gloom. Choked daylight streamed through filthy windows, leaking into the corridor as mud-bright stains. The wind was a hungry ghost, chilled fingers scrabbling at the shutters, moaning as it shambled about the halls. The timbers creaked like old men’s bones, walls shifting as if the monastery were some slumbering giant, lost in nightmares and praying for dawn.
Yukiko reached into the satchels over Buruu’s back, fetched a paper lantern and a wallet of matches. The crackling flare illuminated dozens of old tapestries, faded through the passing of years and the sea’s corrosive breath. Bitter cold winds howled through the blasted doors and set the talismans trembling on their hooks.
Buruu was all tingling spine and dilating eyes, wingtips scraping the walls. Brushing the feathers at his throat, her fingertips crackled with static electricity. His talons gouged the stone as they prowled into the dark, ears straining for lifesound. But there were only the tapestries whispering in the gloom, the blustering storm and their own synchronized heartbeats.