Chapter Sixty-Eight
It was her first day of training since her leg brace had shattered in Cirrus, and she was miserable.
"Watch your stance," Kurogane reminded her. The words were just another variation on the reminders he'd been giving her all day. Apparently, learning one stance wasn't enough to fight. He said this would be a big commitment, but I didn't think it would be so painful. She twisted her foot so it was angled in the correct direction, biting her lip to keep her mind off the pain. "Too close," the ninja called, watching her from his position across the field. Sakura winced and widened her stance. "Now strike."
She stepped forward, coming down on her good leg and thrusting her sword into an imaginary enemy.
"From the left!" Kurogane yelled. Sakura brought the cheap sword around, imagining the blade was cutting through flesh and bone instead of air. Before her sword came to a stop, Kurogane called out again. "Behind you!"
She turned again, not realizing until she was halfway through the spin that she was supposed to shift her stance. Her legs twisted beneath her at an unnatural angle, her momentum carrying her forward. Her sword pierced the ground, sliding six inches into the dirt before her face hit the dirt. The impact knocked her grip loose, but instead of having her hand come down on the grass as it was supposed to, the skin between her thumb and index finger parted against the sharp edge of her sword. Blood splattered across the grass.
"Shit," Kurogane hissed. Sakura heard his approaching footsteps.
She pulled her hand away from the sword, shocked at the stinging pain in her hand. Tears welled up in her eyes.
"Stay still. Let me see your hand." The ninja's warm hand swallowed hers up, and she rested her forehead against the ground, hiding her tears. "Shit . . . C'mon, this'll need stitches."
Stitches? she thought, a lump rising in her throat. She'd never had stitches before, and the mental image of having someone sewing her hand shut made her want to retch.
"Take this," the ninja said, handing her a slippery piece of fabric. "Clamp it over your hand; it'll slow the bleeding."
She did as he asked, wrapping the black cloth around the wound and pressing down on it. Kurogane picked up her sword and stowed it next to Souhi's sheath. "The hospital's this way."
Sakura looked down at the slippery fabric again. Some part of her recognized the significance of the cloth, but it wasn't until they were halfway to the hospital that she realized what it was. "This is the blindfold you gave Syaoran in Infinity."
The ninja threw her a look of surprise, then ducked to avoid once of the exhaust vents as it spewed out a puff of steam. Everything in this country ran on steam power. The technology here was greater than it was in Clow, but the exhaust vents and leaky pipes meant that water vapor could shoot out from a building at any moment. "Yeah, what of it?" Kurogane asked, sounding irritated.
"It's just . . ." Just what? Just because Syaoran touched it, it's somehow important? Her eyes drifted down to the cement squares of the sidewalk. "Nothing."
"Spit it out. What is it?"
"Syaoran-kun . . . didn't have much, when he joined us in Tokyo. What little he did have was from his time as prisoner. So to have something like this—something I know he touched and used for training—is sort of surreal."
The ninja looked at her, then away. He didn't seem inclined to say anything.
"Do you think we'll ever see Syaoran-kun again?" Sakura asked, as they reached the hospital parking lot.
Kurogane's shoulders stiffened. "How the hell should I know?"
Sakura winced. "When he shot that lightning bolt in Cirrus, I thought he meant to kill me. But that can't possibly be true, otherwise he would've hit his mark. Right? He wasn't aiming for me, he was trying to get me out of harm's way."
They'd reached the hospital doors. Kurogane held the glass door open for her, his expression unreadable. "The kid knows what he's doing, even if we don't. However it ends up, that'll be the way it goes."
"Do you think . . . that he might come back?"
Something flickered across the ninja's face, and for just a moment, Sakura glimpsed genuine sorrow in his red eyes. He looked down. "I hope so."
Syaoran wondered how long they'd tortured Miss Adele before they'd finally slit her throat. From the cuts carved into her body, it had been quite a while.
He wasn't craving blood now. The sheer scale of the damage nauseated him, and any appetizing scent the blood had once exuded was lost beneath the faint smell of decay. Part of him wondered how he recognized the stench of death even in this early stage. Perhaps the recognition was instinctive, like the scent of smoke.
Syaoran took a cautious step forward, sidestepping a pool of red. Some distant part of his brain was counting the lacerations on Miss Adele's body: one, two, three, four . . . Another part was busy identifying the nature of the damage. None of the cuts were more than half an inch deep. Not deep enough to hit any major arteries. No, these cuts had been made for the express purpose of torturing Miss Adele.
But why? he wondered. She's innocent.
. . . twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty . . .
Unless this was done to send a message, he reasoned, swallowing thickly. But to who? Me? Or Seishirou? Fei Wang Reed wouldn't be so blunt to send this, but as far as I know, Seishirou's only enemies are Kamui and Subaru. They wouldn't be so brutal, would they? Who would've been sadistic enough to do something like this?
. . . forty-one, forty-two, forty-three . . .
Syaoran shivered. There was only one person he knew who was that sadistic. I thought I was hallucinating when I saw the Other at the park, but maybe that was part of the message. Maybe he's taunting me, telling me he can get inside my head whenever he wants. He bit his lip, his gaze crawling from the lacerations on Miss Adele's body to the rope tied around her wrists. Her torturer—it was easier if he didn't attach the Other's face to this abomination—had hung her from a heavy metal hook in the ceiling, probably intended to hold up some hanging plant. For how long, Syaoran could only guess, but one thing was clear: that detail was just as much a part of the display as the cuts.
. . . fifty-three, fifty-four, fifty-five . . .
Is he saying this is what will happen to me? Or is he saying this is what he can do to the others? An image of Sakura, strung up and cut open, flashed in front of his eyes, and he recoiled from the body, stomach heaving. His legs carried him a few feet before he crashed to his knees, retching up whatever was in his stomach. His aversion to seeing Sakura in pain was so ingrained in his mind that the mere thought of it stole his self-control.
I can't be here, he thought wildly. Suddenly, he was running, sprinting away from the corpse, away from the stench of iron. He looked back only once, to finish his tally of the cuts.
. . . Sixty-seven.
His legs crashed into the couch and he toppled forward, landing on the soft cushions. A warm dampness brushed against his face, and he flinched back, hand flying to his cheek. It came away sticky with blood.
If a crash from upstairs hadn't disrupted his panic, he might've fled the house right then. Instead, he raced up the stairs, toward the sound. If the Other was still here, he had to stop him. Before he hurts someone I care about.
Supernatural speed came in handy sometimes. Before the sound abated, Syaoran reached the second floor. He ran down the hallway, wincing when he saw Seishirou slam into one of Miss Adele's bookshelves and knock it over, children's books tumbling all over the floor. His mentor held his sword high in the air, bringing it down to deflect another blade. Syaoran's eyes zeroed in on the hilt of the sword, trying to identify any familiar sigil. He recognized the yellow bat on a black background. So it was Reed, he thought, eyebrows slanting down.
The man with the sword came around the corner, trying to get past Seishirou's guard. Syaoran recognized the man's mask. Those are the same soldiers Fei Wang Reed sent to Clow, before Sakura lost her feathers.
Seishirou parried another blow, casting a quick glance back in his direction. His face was unusually serious.
The faceless man swung the bat-sword, aiming for Seishirou's ribs. Syaoran watched, transfixed by the rush of activity, as his mentor moved in for a counterattack. The black blade of his sword streaked through the air, so fast that Syaoran heard the sound of the wind being sliced apart. The sword cleaved through the flesh and bone of the masked man's shoulder, ripping his arm off and spurting blood everywhere. As Syaoran's fascination turned to horror, Seishirou brought the blade up and took the man's head off.