Chapter Eight

"I'm going to go to bed. Goodnight, Kurogane."

"Finally," the ninja muttered, repressing a surge of irritation. He hadn't thought the mage could make his real name as annoying as the nicknames. One of the few times he'd been wrong, he supposed.

"Goodnight, Fai-san," Sakura said softly, her leg brace creaking as she crossed from the kitchen sink to the cupboards. She'd volunteered to help with dishes tonight, since the mage had made dinner. Or that was her reasoning anyway, despite the fact that she usually fled to her room as soon as dinner ended.

Kurogane rose from the couch and walked over to the kitchen to help put away dishes. Unlike the mage, Sakura was unlikely to tease him about taking on extra chores. "Here, I got it."

"No, that's fine," the princess said, edging away from him. "I've got it."

He frowned and picked a plate from the soapy water, rinsing and drying it before depositing it in the cupboard overhead. "So, how come you suddenly decided to leave your room?"

Sakura paused, then shrugged.

"Something bothering you?" Besides the usual?

She frowned, her face losing what little animation it had held a moment ago. "No. Nothing."

Patience, he told himself. Maybe she doesn't respond well to direct questions. He was quiet for a moment, trying to think of a way to draw the information out of her. He knew something was bothering her besides what had happened in Tokyo, and given that she'd decided to come out of her room today, while Syaoran was out, Kurogane had a pretty good idea what it was about. "You've been hiding out in your room a lot lately. The mage is probably worried about you."

"Fai and I talk every night."

I know that, he wanted to say. He held his tongue, considering his words before he spoke. "The boy's probably worried about you, too."

A line of tension formed along Sakura's jaw. She stacked several bowls and shoved them into the cupboard.

So that's it, then. Kurogane pressed his advantage. A chasm had opened up between all of them. The longer it was left alone, the wider it spread. If their little band fell apart now, they'd never make it through this perilous world.

"Look," he said, abandoning the indirect approach. "I know everyone's gone through a lot of shit since Tokyo, but you're really not helping anything by hiding out by yourself. You need to talk to him."

Sakura frowned. "This Syaoran—"

"Why do you have to call him that?" Kurogane snapped, glad the kid wasn't around to eavesdrop on this. "Why does it have to be 'this Syaoran?' Why can't you just call him 'Syaoran?'"

A grave look flashed through the princess's eyes then. She set down the fork she'd been drying and turned to him. "He's not Syaoran."

Frustration twisted through his abdomen, coiling like a spring. Before he could act on it, the princess turned away and hobbled back to her room.

The wrench swung so close Syaoran's face that he heard the air parting as it passed. He threw himself to the side, adrenaline shooting through his veins, speeding his reaction time.

The red-haired man sneered. "Not so tough without the rest of your team, are you?"

"I don't want to fight you," Syaoran said, struggling to keep his voice level. I need to find a way out of this, he thought, glancing around, looking for an escape route.

"Why not? Nothing more than a pawn for your chess master?" The man swung the wrench again, nearly striking Syaoran's broken shoulder. His sleeve fluttered with the glancing blow, and he took a quarter of a second to think about how lucky he'd been to avoid the debilitating impact.

"Swing harder, Jet!" the female voice egged him on, and Syaoran caught a glimpse of her cheeks, flushed with excitement.

The red-haired man—Jet—lunged forward again. This time, Syaoran had time to analyze the angle of his attack, the too-wide arc of his arms. Kurogane-san would see half a dozen faults to exploit, he thought, dodging to the side. His hand snaked out, fumbling for Jet's wrist. If he could get a good grip, damage the ligaments, the man would have to let go of the wrench.

Another swing, this one closer to Jet's body, more refined. Syaoran jerked back, inhaling harshly as he tried to bring oxygen to his muscles. His hand snaked out, fingers grasping, but he couldn't catch hold of the stiff fabric of the man's sleeves. I'm not close enough, he realized, faltering.

In the split second when he hesitated, Jet lunged forward, his superior reach allowing him to snatch Syaoran's wrist. Syaoran raised his leg, muscle memory kicking in at last. His heel came forward, the bones and muscles aligning just the way Seishirou had taught the Other, so long ago. Sensing his intentions, Jet dropped his wrist and reeled back, out of the way.

Logic dictated that he should run while his opponent was off balance, but something held him in place. There was something subtly off about the whole situation. Something that twisted in his gut like a dagger.

That spark of intuition gave him enough time to react as a pipe came sailing toward his face.

His legs collapsed under him, keeping the metal cylinder from crashing into his temple. Instinct drove him back to his feet almost as fast, even as his logical mind processed what had happened. While Jet had distracted him, the thickset man who'd been lounging nearby had come up behind him with a copper pipe. Syaoran hadn't noticed it in the man's hands before, had subconsciously eliminated that man as a threat, but as the pipe came crashing into the wall beside the spot he'd stood a moment ago, he reevaluated the danger.

Meanwhile, the blond woman shoved Jet back into the fray. Syaoran saw a flash of moonlight on steel before something slammed into his eye.

Everything went white for a split second. Agony flared in his head, and his broken shoulder hit the sidewalk. The jolt brought him out of his stupor. He had hoped for a diplomatic resolution or, failing that, a painless victory. Now, all he hoped for was a quick escape.

His ears rang after the impact, and for some reason, his vision had gone blurry. Purely by instinct, he threw a kick to the hand holding the bludgeon.

In his condition, he might've imagined the sound of metal hitting concrete, might've spawned the song from his much-abused head. Even so, it spurred his legs forward, away from the confrontation, away from the persistent throbbing in his temples. Shouts pierced the air behind him, shrill and loud, like sirens. Something—the pipe?—clanged against the sidewalk.

Syaoran ran until his lungs burned, crossing streets and dodging traffic. When he could run no further, he slowed to an unsteady walk. Even through the haze in his brain, he recognized his surroundings—he'd grown familiar with this section of the city, having spent many days staring out his tiny bedroom window at its shops. In the dark, with his body still flooded with adrenaline, the shadows seemed to spill out of the alleyways, stretching out like misshapen hands to drag him into the darkness.

When he finally reached the glass doors of the Ephemeral Apartments, he sighed in relief. He wasn't safe—he was never safe—but it was a vast improvement from Infinity's dusky streets.

The nice thing about living in the basement was that there wasn't far to walk between the front doors and the creaking steel door of their apartment. Syaoran fished the key out of his backpack (noting with some surprise that he hadn't dropped his bag during the fight) and unlocked the door.

With a feeling like walking away from a ravaged battlefield, Syaoran stepped inside.