“Do you know the tale of Ikkaku Sennin?” She stands.
“No.” You stand with her.
“He fell in love with Sendaramo, and lost his magical powers. But my bastard father didn’t do that.” She clenches her fists. “Someday, I’ll find him. I’ll make him suffer what I’ve suffered; I’ll make sure he understands.” The hate in her voice ebbs away. “My mother was human,” she says, as if this needs saying. But if not for that mother, she could not possess such a look of misery; she wouldn’t feel at all.
This time it’s you reaching for her, not cupping her ears or her chin, just holding your hands out, waiting to see what reaction this will elicit. She stares for a moment, then moves toward you. You pull her in, and her arms curl around your back, her chin rests on your shoulder. Her chest against yours rises and falls, steadily, and you can feel her heart like a hummingbird. The demon blood thrumming inside it.
“Aren’t you afraid of me?” she whispers.
You shake your head. You can’t say why this is true—perhaps because she has a beating heart, just like yours, and she has suffered through so much more. You are no longer afraid of her, of what will happen. But there are many things you wish to ask her. Is the demon you’ve seen the one leaning against me now, lovely in the lake’s reflection? Who has bought you, who has sent you to our camp to kill us? How long have you been circling these white plains? How many men and women have you murdered this way, in Yoshiwara, in Edo, in the war? Before the war?
What do you think of when you see snow falling? What do you think of when you smell winter?
“What is your name?” Your mouth is against her ear, closer than you’ve ever been to another person since Kaoru lay beside you, trying not to let you hear his weeping; no—since they pushed your face into a pillow and forced themselves inside you, groaning—
Her laughter emerges as white breath against your shoulder.
“In truth I have no name, but the humans who first raised me called me Ayame.”
“Ayame,” you repeat.
“A name is a useless thing to have.” She pulls back and studies you. You see blood cascading in her eyes. You see fire. You see Kazushige’s wound. When she kisses you, you close your eyes, but it doesn’t stop the images. Snow keeps falling, right through the darkness that remains long after you’ve opened your eyes again.
“Why Kazushige?” you ask, later that day. You are polishing guns that will obviously be used soon.
“Do you know how to fold paper cranes?”
“Yes. Why Kazushige?”
“Promise me you’ll teach me how to fold a paper crane, first.”
You’ll have to think about where to find the paper, but that can be arranged. Taichou keeps some for his official letters. They’re not square. You’ll just have to slice them square, or maybe she can do that, with whatever she uses to slice men’s throats. “I promise.”
“I’m teasing. I already know how. You think I don’t know how?” she smirks and you shrug, the gesture unpracticed.
“Why Kazushige?”
Irritation crosses her face. Her eyes narrow, as if she is asking: Why? Do you care? Why should you care? “He detested you.”
“He was kind to me.”
“Kind? Just because he didn’t hurt you the way the others did? You think that is kindness? You disgusted him with your weakness. That’s why he never touched you.” You don’t know if you can trust her; you don’t know if that will make things hurt less. She glares. “How you can hold on to that fluttering goodness inside you? Don’t you get angry? I’m angry all the time.”
You hold her gaze, try not to tremble as she continues: “You misunderstand me, Akira-kun. The desire to see some blood spilled—you don’t know the hunger, how much it hurts here,” she draws a circle over her heart, waits to see how you’ll react when she says, “How much I burn to see you all dead, how your breathing makes me want to spit. How humans make me sick.”
That doesn’t surprise you, doesn’t chill you even if it should. You put down the rifle you were cradling. “Let’s fold some cranes,” you say, taking her hand. She looks shocked for a moment. Then rueful.
It turns out she has paper—one of the parting gifts from the obasan. She balances a perfectly folded crane on your head; it flops down onto your shoulder. She sighs and picks it up. “That body Kazushige saw? That was the work of an oni not covering its tracks. He had seen too much. So I decided I was going to finish the job. I was prepared to slay him, slay everyone. I was told not to let anyone live. But then you came back—you came in—and I couldn’t kill you.” She grins, but there is nothing happy about it. “It’s all your fault.”
So the camp marches, marches onwards, through the drowsy mountains and your own protesting feet, shivering. It’s glorious in its way, the battle hymn of war singing in your bones, in the strings she still plays. There is a village some miles before the next checkpoint. You will scour it for supplies, for signs of the enemy.
Ayame still performs, sings, dances. But these days, they don’t even wait for dinner. They take her when they want to, wherever they please. You can taste the climbing anxiety and anticipation—the bloodlust with it, musk and iron, the taint one can’t be rid of. You fear for the women in the approaching village. Ayame’s wrists are often bruised. If you could see her hips, you are certain they would be too, but she just smiles and shakes her head. Doesn’t hurt me. You think your stupid human brutality can hurt me?
“Are you incapable of being hurt?”
“I wouldn’t give that away so easily, would I?” she says, amusement like a curling green leaf beneath her words.
One night, she has finished just her first two songs when Kenjirou asks her to stop. There is a pause while people wait for Taichou’s reaction, but he says nothing: arms crossed, mouth set. Kenjirou grabs the shamisen out of her hands. Her eyes widen, but she remains silent. He plays for a few seconds; someone else beats a rhythm with the bottom of his cup. After being spoiled by her music, the noise he makes is discordant—ugly.
“You know this game, don’t you?” Kenjirou slurs.
The tang of alcohol is suddenly alive in your mouth—but the pain in your chest is not due to poison. So this isn’t the method she uses. (Not enough blood, you think. Not enough pain.) Ayame slowly stands, and nods.
He plays, and she begins to sway—the movement can hardly be called a dance. Back and forth, her hands folding out, drawing in—then he stops, abruptly. She is caught in mid-step, and judders to a halt. Kenjirou laughs, and everyone laughs with him. Expressionless, she unties the sash from her obi, and drops it to the ground. The music begins again. This time she freezes perfectly when it stops; but when Kenjirou says “Hey!” she obligingly sheds her kimono.
Soon everyone is pounding out the beat with their hands or cups. Kenjirou yodels a tune as he strums her instrument. There is no paint on her body to match her face, but there is something unnatural about the paleness of her breasts, her limbs. You are only sure it is her bare skin because of the way she shivers, and how painful it looks where the blues and blacks are stippled red.
“Akira! More sake,” Taichou says. The game continues, and with it, the jeering and panting, growing more animal-like.