and a half feet in length before the tang disappeared into a hilt wrapped in old, oiled wood and black fabric. It bore an impressive forging pattern, the darker gray rolling like the ocean’s waves along the brighter and much lighter steel below it. I traced my fingers along the symbols engraved in the metal, obviously the signature of its maker. A note, written in flourishing script, had been placed inside the case.
Edo 1681—made by Yasutsuna. It is called Bright Death.
This was no bouquet of flowers or twenty-dollar box of chocolates. From the look and condition of the blade, I estimated its worth somewhere in the range of tens of thousands of dollars. I took the sword from the case with reverence. A weapon worthy of its name, I was sure. Warriors of the ancient world often named their swords, a practice as out-of-date as sword use itself. I hadn’t even been a living human in the year 1681. My immortal existence began somewhere closer to 1910, but the ancient weapon connected me to all those who lived and fought before I had been made into what I am now.
My cell rang, interrupting the awe of the moment, and I dug it out of my pocket to read PRIVATE NUMBER on the caller ID. “Hello?”
“Did the box arrive?” Xander’s smooth, smug voice said on the other end.
“How did you get my number?”
“That saber of yours is an unfit weapon.” Then he asked, “Do you like the katana?”
Leave it to His High and Mightiness to totally ignore me. “Exactly what do you want in return for this . . . token?” I’m not stupid; nothing in this world comes without a price.
Xander’s answering laughter said, Aren’t you quaint? “I don’t want anything at all. If you’re going to work for me, you’d best have the right tool for the job. Enjoy.”
Before I could get a word in, he hung up. I stared at the sword, gleaming blue in the light of my kitchen. I wanted to keep it. It was the most magnificent sword I’d ever seen. I just hoped that by doing so, I wasn’t biting myself in the ass.
I don’t know why, but aside from feeling very manipulated, the katana made me feel very, very purchased.
Chapter 8
W hen I showed up at the warehouse, Raif examined the katana with jealous eyes. I couldn’t help but show it off. I pulled it from the scabbard, savoring the ringing tone as the blade slid free. A wicked smile curved my lips as I pictured my teacher flat on his ass and me standing over him with the shining steel hovering over his heart.
“How did you come by that blade?” His almost accusatory tone belied his envy.
“Xander gave it to me,” I said, giving it a few practice swings.
Raif turned, and with a swing that took two hands to maneuver, struck my back with the flat of his own sword, knocking me face-first to the floor. I cried out—the blow stung like hell. I pushed my palms into the cold concrete and tried to propel myself upward, but my progress was stayed by the sole of Raif’s heavy boot.
“ Who gave you the katana?” he asked in a tone colder than Death itself.
Several quips leapt to the tip of my tongue. But I thought better of putting my voice behind the words when I pondered the painful consequences. “The High King Alexander gifted me with the blade,” I said, glaring at the concrete inches below my eyes. I hated humbling myself to anyone. Raif demanded respect, and I had no choice but to oblige or else learn respect the hard way. Considering his not-so-gentle tactics thus far, I didn’t think I’d like the hard way.
Raif spent the better part of six hours teaching me a painful lesson. He used every opportunity to lay his blade against my skin. I paused to survey a new gash, realizing this was punishment. I would not be permitted to speak with a loose tongue in regard to Xander again. It didn’t matter that I thought of him only as a client and didn’t regard him as king of anything. He was Raif’s king a thousand percent, and in his eyes, my king by virtue of my very
Edo 1681—made by Yasutsuna. It is called Bright Death.
This was no bouquet of flowers or twenty-dollar box of chocolates. From the look and condition of the blade, I estimated its worth somewhere in the range of tens of thousands of dollars. I took the sword from the case with reverence. A weapon worthy of its name, I was sure. Warriors of the ancient world often named their swords, a practice as out-of-date as sword use itself. I hadn’t even been a living human in the year 1681. My immortal existence began somewhere closer to 1910, but the ancient weapon connected me to all those who lived and fought before I had been made into what I am now.
My cell rang, interrupting the awe of the moment, and I dug it out of my pocket to read PRIVATE NUMBER on the caller ID. “Hello?”
“Did the box arrive?” Xander’s smooth, smug voice said on the other end.
“How did you get my number?”
“That saber of yours is an unfit weapon.” Then he asked, “Do you like the katana?”
Leave it to His High and Mightiness to totally ignore me. “Exactly what do you want in return for this . . . token?” I’m not stupid; nothing in this world comes without a price.
Xander’s answering laughter said, Aren’t you quaint? “I don’t want anything at all. If you’re going to work for me, you’d best have the right tool for the job. Enjoy.”
Before I could get a word in, he hung up. I stared at the sword, gleaming blue in the light of my kitchen. I wanted to keep it. It was the most magnificent sword I’d ever seen. I just hoped that by doing so, I wasn’t biting myself in the ass.
I don’t know why, but aside from feeling very manipulated, the katana made me feel very, very purchased.
Chapter 8
W hen I showed up at the warehouse, Raif examined the katana with jealous eyes. I couldn’t help but show it off. I pulled it from the scabbard, savoring the ringing tone as the blade slid free. A wicked smile curved my lips as I pictured my teacher flat on his ass and me standing over him with the shining steel hovering over his heart.
“How did you come by that blade?” His almost accusatory tone belied his envy.
“Xander gave it to me,” I said, giving it a few practice swings.
Raif turned, and with a swing that took two hands to maneuver, struck my back with the flat of his own sword, knocking me face-first to the floor. I cried out—the blow stung like hell. I pushed my palms into the cold concrete and tried to propel myself upward, but my progress was stayed by the sole of Raif’s heavy boot.
“ Who gave you the katana?” he asked in a tone colder than Death itself.
Several quips leapt to the tip of my tongue. But I thought better of putting my voice behind the words when I pondered the painful consequences. “The High King Alexander gifted me with the blade,” I said, glaring at the concrete inches below my eyes. I hated humbling myself to anyone. Raif demanded respect, and I had no choice but to oblige or else learn respect the hard way. Considering his not-so-gentle tactics thus far, I didn’t think I’d like the hard way.
Raif spent the better part of six hours teaching me a painful lesson. He used every opportunity to lay his blade against my skin. I paused to survey a new gash, realizing this was punishment. I would not be permitted to speak with a loose tongue in regard to Xander again. It didn’t matter that I thought of him only as a client and didn’t regard him as king of anything. He was Raif’s king a thousand percent, and in his eyes, my king by virtue of my very
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