Chapter 13

Before

Hiei hated cities.

Their calamity. Their filth. The utter concentration of weaklings they tended to house.

Survival out in the wilds of the demon plane required grit—an ability to fight, to battle back against the elements, to fend off the other demons brave enough to forge their own way in the world. There were exceptions, of course. Enclaves of weaker souls who managed to hold their own without power to back them up. (Places like the crossroads inn.) But in cities, every weak fool stood a chance at life. Food was plentiful. Housing was adequate. Death was a faraway ghost, not a frequent friend.

Yet, despite all that, Hiei found himself perched in a sprawling maple, staring across a muddy field and rutted road at the outskirts of Lakefront, the largest commonwealth of demons for leagues and leagues. It was no metropolis, nothing like the capital of Gandara many weeks travel to the north; nonetheless, its sprawling reaches gobbled up the terrain for as far as Hiei could see.

Through the ramshackle buildings and winding roads, he spotted the telltale glint of late afternoon sunlight refracting off water. No doubt the lake after which this community had named itself. If his knowledge of the region was accurate, a series of rivers connected this lake to others in a trail of waterways that worked its way north all the way to Gandara's distant capital seat. All of which meant Lakefront hosted a bustling port, its docks hidden beyond his line of sight.

Try as he might, he couldn't fathom why Nozumi had come here.

Why live in a place like this? Why give up the inn and its precious, impenetrable peace?

Asahi had mentioned an apprenticeship, but Nozumi had never acknowledged such a thing to Hiei, and he couldn't begin to guess what skill she hoped to hone. What could be so valuable as to come here? To this wretched place?

He didn't know. (Resigned himself to never knowing.)

Tension knotted through every muscle in his body as he leapt from the maple. He landed with cat-like grace, knees bent to absorb the impact, the long grass disturbed more by the breeze than his arrival. Straightening, he drew in a deep breath. Faced the city.

Lost his will.

Turned away.

Strode into the gathering dusk (and tried not to look back).

He returned the next day.

And the day after.

But he never made it further than the maple at the edge of that long, daunting field.

In the end, it was his own weakness (his own shame) that drove him north. Farther north than he'd ever traveled. Far, far beyond the reaches of the Brotherhood or even the Bloodied Swords. Into mountains that ruptured from the earth like a spine, each more rugged and inhospitable than the last. Brutal cliffs and slanting winds did not deter him. He pushed onward, hunting for sustenance, hiding in caves at night, carving a path as far from Lakefront as his legs would carry him.

And yet, each evening, as he begged for sleep to claim him, he thought of Nozumi. Of what he might say to explain himself. Of what he'd ask if she gave him the opportunity. (Of the apology he might utter.)

When he rose each dawn, he banished her back into the dark of eventide, letting the sun burn away the memory of her touch. But not even his best efforts could erode the scattering of stars burned across his retinas—her constellation of freckles. Ever present. Inescapable. Calling to him. Drawing him back to her.

Drawing him home.

He made it more than halfway to Gandara's capital. Through sheer force of will alone, he notched more than two weeks of merciless travel under his belt. Then he turned back, and faster than he'd been on his journey out, he raced to Lakefront—to her.

The city was an illogical maze of roads. They intersected and curved, bifurcated and terminated without warning. In every spare inch not covered with paving stones, buildings crowded. Most were no better than hovels, windows shuttered, doors barred, roofs sagging. But some structures were multi-storied. Some even boasted fresh paint.

The latter grew more common the farther he delved into Lakefront's reaches, but it took him days of trying to make it that far. His heart and pride remained ever at war, driving him down the city's winding streets and then sending him racing away. Two steps forward, one step back. Day after day.

It didn't help that he had no leads, no guess where Nozumi might be hidden. He'd left the crossroads inn before Asahi could share specifics, and he was too proud to ever return there—to that place where Nozumi had forsaken him. He tried to sense for her in Lakefront, but her energy was so weak it proved impossible to identify amongst the hordes infesting this miserable place. She was a phantom, traceless and invisible.

He kept his head on a swivel, checking every face he passed, searching for her tawny skin and hair, the glint of her supple scales. Yet he found nothing.

In time, he stopped leaving the city, at last putting his pride to rest. He couldn't continue to waste hours each day, trekking through Lakefront's deplorable outskirts. Nozumi did not live there. He refused to believe she'd settle for something as decrepit as those hovels. Which meant he needed to remain within Lakefront's nicer districts. Its markets. Its port.

The docks reeked of fish, yet he found himself gravitating to them. At least in the harbor, he could catch a breeze off the water, inhaling that fresh air deep into his lungs. It kept him going. (Kept him sane.)

After a few nights spent sleeping on rooftops, he made it his mission to find an inn worth his coin. It took three nights before he found one that satisfied him. The first had been riddled with insects, and he hadn't even asked for his coin back before departing out the window. In the alley beyond, he immolated the air around himself, heedless of ruining his clothes, refusing to carry so much as a single egg from those vile creatures with him. The second inn was blessedly clean but much too close to the docks. In the morning, when he left, he feared the stench of fish may never leave his nostrils.

At last, on his third attempt, he found a room he could stomach returning to. After a tactical display of his (dwindling) wealth to the proprietor, the inn became his base of operations, the place he retreated when he could stomach no more of Lakefront's noise and bustle.

Still, his coin purses continued to thin, food and lodging eating through his reserves. He needed a means to bring in fresh income, or he'd be back to the rooftops far too soon.

With dogged persistence, he began to split his time. In the mornings and afternoons, he trawled the city for Nozumi. (He couldn't even say anymore why he looked for her. He only knew that he had to find her. He couldn't rest—literally—until he did.) After nightfall, his pursuits shifted. He put all his years amongst the Brotherhood to use, pilfering pockets and identify juicy marks. Soon, coin was no problem at all. If anything, his only quandary was where to store his newfound wealth.

The inn's tavern was better appointed than the one Asahi tended at the crossroads. Electric lighting—unheard of in the Riverlands or Woods of Wayward Wanderers—cast a buttery glow across the well-polished tables and leather-backed chairs. Behind the bar, liquors in dozens of shades lined the shelves, neatly labeled and beckoning to the patrons gathered in the thrumming space. Yet, despite its apparent quality, Hiei could never bring himself to feel at ease within the pub's walls.

Nevertheless, he became a regular, haunting a booth in the back corner.

The wait staff learned his order in a matter of days. Shochu. Udon with whatever meat was freshest. Simple and to the point.

None of the handful of barmaids met him with barbs as Sueko always had, though two tried their hand at flirting. He ignored their efforts.

It wasn't the crossroads inn. It wasn't even close. But it was something. (It was all he had.)

Two weeks into his stay, the proprietor himself delivered Hiei's meal. He set a tray holding a bowl and two glasses of shochu down with a clatter, then leaned against the side of the booth. He lay claim to one of the tumblers. With a dip of his chin, he acknowledged Hiei, then knocked back his drink in one smooth swallow. "On me," he said with a nod toward Hiei's pour.

"Hn." Hiei tipped his glass toward him in appreciation, then drank it down.

"New to Lakefront?" the bartender asked when he'd finished. A mane of coarse brown hair flowed over the proprietor's shoulders, and fangs protruded from his lips even when his mouth was closed, but there was nothing threatening in the broad splay of his chest. Just a cat's curiosity.

Hiei picked up the metal chopsticks that had come with his udon and slurped down a mouthful before answering. "What's it to you?"

"None of my business, admittedly. But it's rare someone stays so many nights. Figured you must not have a steady place of your own in these parts."

Accurate.

Though Hiei wouldn't admit it.

The bartender wasn't deterred, Hiei's silence rolling off him like water off oiled-canvas. "What brought you to town?"

Hiei gritted his teeth, loathe to share his secrets, but his search had proven fruitless so far. Perhaps changing tact wasn't the worst plan. "Looking for a friend."

"Ah."

"A girl from the Riverlands. Nozumi."

An upward heave of the bartender's shoulders accompanied his answer. "Can't say I know her."

Hiei fumbled for more identifiable details. If she possessed a surname, he didn't know it, and her apprenticeship was a mystery. All he had to go on was the crossroads inn. "Her family runs an inn at the border between the Riverlands and Woods."

A dry chuckle. "I've lived in Lakefront all my life, lad, and I'm too worried about the inns down the street to fret about those beyond the Riverlands."

Hiei shook his head. "She's not here to compete with your inn." He curled his hand into a fist atop the table, glaring at his knuckles. A tendril of smoke curled free of his skin, frustration scorching through him. "She comes with a caravan. A bunch of traders."

Another shrug from the bartender, though a moment later, he tilted his head, a pleased rumble purring through his chest. "Too many traders come through these parts. Can't help you identify a particular band myself. But—" a second purr thrummed through him "—all merchants run through the trade post. They're required to register their goods upon city entry. You might be able to find your caravan there."

It was hardly anything.

Barely even a lead.

But it was something. (And that was more than he'd had in weeks.)

When Hiei left his table that night, he left a fat, glistening ruby as payment.

Hiei stopped looking for Nozumi.

(Ostensibly, anyway. Every freckle still caught his eye. Every bronze scale warranted a double take. None belonged to her.)

Instead, he hunted for the caravan. In particular for the elderly demon who'd driven the cart Nozumi most favored. He could barely remember the ancient creature's face, but he hacked together what recollections he could. White beard, ill-kept and ragged. Black eyes, too warm and welcoming to belong to a demon used to fighting to survive. Wiry frame. Wizened hands.

His efforts took him to the trade post, which lay north of the harbor. Most days, it was upwind from the fish markets, its air mostly breathable.

Hiei observed it from the rooftops, seated against a chimney, one knee drawn to his chest.

At first, he was ever-vigilant, head on a swivel, eyes tracking every face, searching for the shock of white beard or the bent-over stature, but as the days drew on, it grew harder to stay attentive. Under the sun's steady heat, naps tended to creep up on him. Each time, he woke with a start, cursing his own incompetence, frantically scanning the crowds milling below. There was no knowing what he might've missed.

He could only hope the caravan hadn't arrived during his moments of shut eye.

(Truthfully, he worried the old merchant might never come. Perhaps another of the convoy's members checked in their goods at the trade post. Perhaps they skirted the law entirely. Perhaps they dropped Nozumi off at the city's edge and never ventured in themselves. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.)

If not for the ever-increasing hoard of treasure hidden in his rented room, he might've given up. His ego would've forced him to. But pillaging Lakefront was beginning to prove itself the most profitable venture of his lifetime. Thieving alone was a far more lucrative business than splitting the plunder across the entire Brotherhood, and the sheer density of possible marks more than made up for the occasional bust.

It almost (almost) compensated for the city's racket.

Even still, on his seventh day staking out the trade post, Hiei couldn't help but wonder what had become of him. What did he hope to gain from finding her? Was he truly willing to beg forgiveness? Was he so desperate for a bedfellow that he'd debase himself to such lows?

Hn. No.

He wasn't.

(But he wasn't here in hopes of bedding her. It wasn't the sex he missed. It was… so much else. The cool touch of her skin. Her arms curved about his waist. The smooth planes of her scales.)

(Her laugh.)

(Those three perfect freckles.)

When the cart trundled into the square, Hiei almost missed it. He was preoccupied, contemplating flight from this cursed city and a return to the Brotherhood. Only the obnoxious clatter of the cart's wheels over the paving stones managed to pierce through the storm of his thoughts. Dully, he glanced downward, tempted to set the source of the clangor ablaze—but a bushy beard, white as snow, stayed his hand.

The caravan.

He sat upright. A desperate (pointless) scan confirmed Nozumi wasn't present, but this was undoubtedly her convoy, complete with old man and motley young whelps. Hiei leaned forward, elbows braced upon his thighs, tendrils of heat smoking to life in his chest, burning like stubborn coals.

For nearly an hour, he held on to his patience as the old demon progressed through the trade post's chaotic queue. He itched to leap from the rooftop, grab the geezer by the collar, and shake him until he revealed Nozumi's location, but he knew better. The Brotherhood's preferred technique for information gathering was not the correct tool at his disposal.

So he bided his time.

Waited.

Until the caravan departed, heading down a thoroughfare toward the inn where Hiei stayed. He trailed it, darting from roof to roof, surefoot and determined, following the ruckus all the way to a squat, wide warehouse. Only there did he drop down to the paved road and stride toward the elder.

The merchant was busy unloading his goods, surprisingly strong for one so bent backed, but at the sight of Hiei, his brow knit together in consternation. "Do I know you?" he called, reedy voice quavering.

"We've met," Hiei said, settling for a truth, however vague. He stopped beside the cart, thrumming with anticipation.

The trader set down a box overflowing with bolts of colorful cloth. His black eyes churned with thought, as if he were wracking his mind to place Hiei, and after a beat, he snapped his fingers. "Nozumi's friend. You traveled with us a ways. One of the Bloodied Swords, are ya?"

Hiei shook his head, annoyed at this detour. "No. The Brotherhood. But that's not the point." A moment too late, he realized his mistake—the lie he'd revealed—but if the trader thought anything of it, it didn't register in his eyes. With feverish intensity, eager to cover his error, Hiei plowed onward. "I'm looking for Nozumi. Supposed to meet her in the city, but she forgot to tell me where."

The elder chuckled, grasping his beard as the laughter chortled through him. "Can't guess your meeting point, but I can tell you where she's staying." He gestured west. "Five blocks that way. Bright blue boarding house. Can't miss it."

Hiei whirled, already on the move.

The trader called after him. "Tell her we miss her."

Hn. Not likely.

Bright blue was inaccurate. The shade was more royal than bright. More like the hue of a berry than the shade of the summer sky. Still, the trader was right on a different count.

The boarding house was utterly unmistakable.

It nestled at the edge of a bustling square. Shops and restaurants crowded in around it (no structure for a dozen blocks rivaled the building's cheerful paint). Never in his weeks of searching had he thought to look in a district like this one. No stretch of Lakefront housed the truly wealthy, but if anywhere came close, it was this street.

Not so long ago, Nozumi had demonstrated her poverty to him with a wiggle of toes inside a busted shoe. Yet now she lived here?

Unfathomable.

Distrustful, Hiei hunkered at the mouth of an alley, leaning one shoulder against the wall of a thriving market. He was half-certain this was just another fool's errand, a trick the old trader had played on him, and as the late afternoon sunlight slanted through the square, casting long shadows, he sank further and further into himself, retreating from yet another disappointment.

At the storefront to his left, clerks hustled, selling fresh produce and slabs of meat to the milling throngs. One dared approach him, beckoning for his order, but Hiei waved him away. (No doubt it was his snarl, not his hands, that deterred the pest.)

As the seller retreated, a flash of powder blue drew Hiei's eye back across the street.

His stomach bottomed out.

There, clad in a pale blue tunic and a forest green sash, stood Nozumi.

She was chatting with two others dressed in the same garb. One of her companions was a lithe, impossibly narrow demon at least seven feet tall; the other a purple-skinned, many-eyed creature who shifted about on a dozen legs like a skittering bug. Their conversation was fluid and lively, and the bustling crowds broke around them, parting like a river about a stone.

Hiei lurched from the alley, halfway across the street before he realized he'd still never worked out what he'd say to her.

Not that he got a chance to speak at all.

A cart cut across his path, and he lurched to a standstill at the same time as her gaze flitted up. Their eyes met for the briefest of moments before she was obscured. The tremulous, fragile creature that had taken up residence in his chest woke, fluttering gossamer wings against his ribs.

But when the cart passed, she had already turned heel—turned her back on the square. On Hiei.

The crowd jostled him, someone slamming into his shoulder, someone else careening off his back. If Nozumi and her companions had been a boulder parting a river's course, he was no better than a leaf caught in rapids, tossed and dunked and drowned in equal measure. Yet he remained rooted in place. Staring after her. Dumbstruck that after all his searching, their encounter was already over.

She'd left him.

When she'd left the inn, she'd left him, and coming here had not changed that.

Pressure at his hip jerked him to his senses.

He whirled, catching a pickpocket's fingers between his own with vice-like strength. Bones snapped. A pitiful screech reached Hiei's ears as if at a great distance. Heedless, he jerked his coin purse from the miscreant's grip and stepped past the collapsed weakling.

His legs carried him forward of their own accord. Down one block. Left at another. He had no plan, no destination. All that mattered was getting as far from that square as he could.

Until, entirely without meaning to, he stopped moving.

A storefront like a thousand others in Lakefront stood before him. An awning stretched over the door, which was flung wide, inviting customers within. But unlike so many of the shops he'd passed day after day in this miserable city, this boutique didn't deal in foodstuffs or armaments or fabrics.

It dealt in maps.

Hand-drawn. Mass-printed. Black and white. Colorized. Canvas. Bookbound.

Every variety even the most cartography-obsessed demon could hope to encounter.

Nozumi's slanted ceiling swam before him with its three precious maps, each tacked up with painstaking care, perfectly level despite the angle at which they'd been hung.

Call it fate, call it weakness—whatever it was that drew Hiei into that store would not be denied. He was powerless to resist it. Powerless, as he scoured the shelves and flipped through an atlas that perfectly matched the style of Nozumi's most beloved map. Powerless, as he approached the owl demon manning the counter. She complimented his taste and wrapped the atlas in parchment, tying the protective layer in place with twine. Powerless, as he handed over nearly half his coin purse.

Powerless, as he returned to the street. Retraced his steps. Tracked Nozumi's energy inside the boarding house that was as blue as a berry.

Powerless, as he leapt to her window and left the parchment-bound parcel atop her windowsill.

He didn't stick around for her to find it. He couldn't bear to.

Like the coward he was, he retreated to the tavern where he boarded. There, he downed shochu until the world spun. When he collapsed into bed, it wasn't sleep that welcomed him.

It was merely oblivion.

The next day, Hiei packed his belongings, stuffing his accumulated riches into the single bag he'd brought with him. He lingered at the foot of the bed a moment, feeling more adrift than he ever had in his life. But an emphatic shake of his head banished that sensation, and he stalked from the bedroom, stopping at the bar only long enough to close his tab with the proprietor and return his key.

He intended with every ferocious fiber of his being to leave Lakefront in his dust and never return, yet as stepped into the street, his feet carried him not to the road out of town but to the square where Nozumi lived. She wasn't home, her energy signature impossible to locate, but up on the third floor, her windowsill sat empty.

Weak, fluttering wings pattered against his ribs.

On tenterhooks, he skulked into the alleyway he'd claimed the day prior, settling there like a stone gargoyle, utterly frozen. He told himself he would leave, that at any moment he would abandon this hellhole and never return, but he didn't. For hours, he didn't.

It wasn't until the sun fell below the rooftops of Lakefront's tallest buildings that Nozumi appeared amongst the crowd, clad in icy blue, bereft of yesterday's companions. Their eyes met across the bustling road, but she granted him no acknowledgment before slipping inside her residence.

That was it then. The end. So be it. He wouldn't grovel. He wouldn't demean—

Her window opened.

A taloned hand slipped out. Gestured, beckoning. Just once.

As sundown swept across Lakefront, Hiei obeyed.