Emiko moved before she thought, spinning with the sword extended at the end of an outstretched arm. The last six inches of the razor-sharp blade caught the yakuza boss under the left ear and opened his neck, throwing his fat head back like an oversized PEZ candy dispenser. A fountain of blood arced upward, painting Emiko, who was still spinning, swinging the blade toward Tomoyuki. She heard the report of the pistol that killed Kenichi but brought the wakizashi around a split second later to take Tomoyuki’s hand and then his head in the fluid motion. Drenched in blood, she took the sword in both hands and turned to face the still gurgling Sagara.
“No!” she spat, a heartbeat before something heavy struck the back of her head and her world went black.
CHAPTER 20
For a time the only sound in Miyagi’s bath was the tick of expanding metal on the woodstove. Quinn didn’t speak. Revelations like this called for silent support, not talk. The longer he looked at the tattoo, the more scars he noticed on Miyagi’s body. And the more he listened to her story, the more he realized there were some scars that went much deeper than her skin.
“I knew I could not save Kenichi.” Miyagi’s reflection rippled on the surface as she continued her story. Her tattoo seemed to dance and sway, visible in the clear water. “But I had to kill Sagara as my last act of defiance. As it happened, unbeknownst to the fat yakuza boss, that was the test that Oda had planned all along. When I awoke a few hours later, I found myself as if transported back in time. I lay covered with luxurious silk quilts with my head on a pillow filled with buckwheat chaff. Oda knelt beside me, mopping my forehead tenderly with a cool cloth. He told me he was sorry Kenichi had died but said I had done the right thing, which is to say the thing he would have done. I was to stay with him and become his student. I told him I did not want to be his student, but he explained that the choice was not mine to make. When I asked him what he would do if I told him no as I had told the fool Sagara, he merely laughed and said he fully expected me to try to kill him many times before I understood the value of my training with the Kuroi Kiri—the Black Mist.”
Miyagi rolled her lips, gathering her arms to her chest in sudden embarrassment. “The stories of an old woman are certainly a bore,” she said. “I am sorry to burden you with them, Quinn-san, but I do have my reasons.”
“First of all,” Jericho said, “I have never considered you anything close to old.” He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “And this conversation is far from boring.”
“The bath is hot,” she said. “Perhaps you need to get out of the tub for a time.” She swished the water so it disrupted the multihued reflection that lapped at her chest. Quinn found it incredible that he and Thibodaux had spent so many days wondering about the mysterious tattoo that was now displayed so openly before him. It was something he’d likely never be able to mention to the big Cajun — something too sacred to speak of outside the confines of the bath.
“I’m fine,” he said. “But I understand if you need to get out.”
She shook her head, apparently happy he was able to stay for a time.
Quinn nodded. “Please go on.”
“Very well.” She took a long breath, her chest rising in the water. “At first, Oda was a marvelous teacher. The Garden, as I came to call the compound in which I was being held, was much like stepping back to feudal Japan. Entire families seemed to live within the walls — gardeners, tailors, teachers, sword smiths, and artists. All sorts to keep a society running smoothly, or at least it seemed that way to a teenage girl, snatched out of the real world. Apart from the tradesmen, there were the fighters, those of us in training. We all dressed in traditional clothing — kimono, pantaloons, and woven grass slippers — and were never to be caught without our weapons. Oda sensei assured us that we were a samurai class and he was our firm but patient lord. I began to grow into a healthier weight and gained social confidence under his guiding hand. When I first arrived, Oda spent his time in the company of several different girls. His favorite, it seemed, was Takako. She was much older than I was and very beautiful. Since she was the oldest, she saw it as her duty to take care of all the girls like a kind auntie — several times causing her much sorrow and pain at the hand of Oda. The fact that he spent time with each of us did not appear to bother her, but when he began to pay particular attention to me alone Takako began to bully me during practice. She was much taller and at first had no trouble beating me. Worse than the beatings, I felt that I had lost a friend. Oda ordered her to leave me alone, and I believe she came to forgive me in her own way.
“We all knew Oda was insatiable in his lust. But the moment he had any girl alone, he had a way of making us believe there would never be anyone else.” Miyagi’s shoulders rolled forward, as if to protect her heart. She sighed. “Still, there was always a favorite, a number one, so to speak. That position had belonged to Takako until I arrived. At first, he took me. I pretended it was against my will, but I did not fight back. By the time I had been in the Garden for three months, I sought him out in the soft grass behind the shrine and gave myself to him completely. Though I knew firsthand how to kill a man and by then had done so many times, I was still young and uneducated about sex and the attendant consequences of such things.” Miyagi blushed, something Quinn had never before seen her do. “Eventually, I became pregnant. Two months before I turned sixteen, I bore him a daughter.” She shivered in spite of the steaming water, wrapping her arms around her bare chest as if suddenly aware that she had exposed more than just her physical body to Quinn. “At the time, our relationship seemed completely natural, though looking back, what he did to me could only be defined as a rape. Oda was almost thirty and I was but fourteen when he first took me. In a way, I suppose, it was just another aspect of the brutal training I received at the hand of the Black Mist.
“There were other children born in the Garden, but I wanted my daughter to be the favorite. I redoubled my efforts, working day and night to make the father of my baby proud of me. I entertained no more thoughts of leaving, and only wanted to please this man who had such a mental and physical hold over me. It was about this time that he suggested I begin my irezumi.”
She stood to display the tattoo, holding an open hand over her groin. It made Quinn smile inside that for all her toughness and martial skill, Emiko Miyagi retained a certain degree of modesty.
She used the other hand to give him a tour of the brilliantly inked tattoo, letting her fingers glide over her skin. She turned slowly, careful not to splash, displaying the dark coat of ink that covered her delicate skin like black and green armor scales. Even the backs of her knees, which must have been excruciatingly painful, were completely covered, the ink stopping just above midthigh. “I was special, he said, and should mark myself as such. He helped me pick the design. The koi fish swimming upstream signifies struggle in life. Kwannon is the goddess of mercy. The woman is a concubine from our ancient stories, transformed by an encounter with a Zen monk. It took nearly five years to get this far. Five years of agony while the tebori master stabbed me over and over again with tiny needles. Oda sensei insisted that the act of getting the tattoo in the traditional way was more important than the tattoo itself. When someone from the outside world saw it, they would know without a doubt that I was capable of enduring endless suffering.” She ran a fingertip up the curve of her left hip. The concubine was a beautiful woman. Clutching a dagger, she was dressed in the flowing gowns of a courtesan. But work on the tattoo had ceased, leaving only the concubine’s face completed. Her other features and kimono were empty black outlines, like a child’s unfinished coloring book. “It remains undone,” Emiko said, detached as if looking at a museum painting and not the brilliant ink covering her own body. “A constant reminder that my struggles are not over, and, unlike the courtesan, I am not yet myself transformed into enlightenment.”