Chapter 3

Before

The girl with the constellation of freckles was gone in the morning, not just from the bed, but from the inn entirely. Hiei couldn't sense her, not with his energy awareness, nor with his nose. Outside her room, there was no trace of sandalwood, no hint where she might be hiding.

So Hiei assumed her gone.

Fair enough.

He was about to be gone, too.

He left a handful of coins on her pillow, dragged on his clothes, and then (because they'd felt too much like paying for services he hadn't asked for) gathered his coin back up. He lingered a while longer, staring at her maps, before he yanked her dagger from the wall and secured it in the back of his waistband, safe beneath his cloak.

Downstairs, he stopped at the bar and slapped his money down before the barkeep. The demon—a male with the same reptilian features as the girls'—blinked at the offering in such a way that Hiei knew he'd paid too much, but he'd already spent too long dawdling over how much to leave, and he didn't ask for any of it back before turning heel and stalking away.

Outside on the dusty crossroads, he loitered, just for a moment, before following the inn's ramshackle wall around to the thicket of trees and wildflowers tucked behind it. There, in the dew-covered earth, he discovered fresh dug dirt and a stone dragged to the head of the churned-up plot.

A gravesite.

He clenched his jaw.

It had been a funeral—that ritual he'd sensed last night. And he had indeed been a distraction.

Around Hiei, the morning remained quiet, hardly yet woken from its own slumber, dawn's pink light skewing toward gold with each breath he drew. He stood ankle deep in grass, only a half-collapsed stone wall dividing him from the new grave, and he understood now why he'd seen no other patrons the night before, why he'd been so summarily dismissed by the sisters. This wasn't a place for outsiders. Not yesterday. Not today. Its walls were meant to hold grief, not travelers.

And yet…

He could not force his feet back to the path. He could not will himself onward to the Brotherhood.

Instead, he stepped over the wall and into the trampled garden beyond.

The grave was a simple affair, but even Hiei could spot the care that had gone into its making. Among the Brotherhood, death warranted no name carved into stone, no flowers scattered over earth. In time, death came for all creatures. What use, the brothers thought, was there in grieving what could not be changed? Life, after all, was for the living.

But not so for these people.

A name had been painstakingly carved into the headstone, flowers bundled and left lovingly atop the turned earth. There was… love here. Or something close to it, anyway.

Last night's storms had done their worst, churning the dirt into mud and battering petals from the bouquet. Silent as a shadow, Hiei crept to the grave's edge and knelt, grasping a fallen petal between his forefinger and thumb. He rolled the silken surface between his fingertips. Had the girl with the freckles plucked these flowers? Had she loved whatever soul lay beneath his feet?

He supposed she must have. The memory of her swollen eyes promised him that much.

He snorted softly, huffing the dewy air into his lungs, the tang of the flowers' pollen sharp on his tongue. Love. What a foolish notion. Such a misbegotten use of energy. There was no room for it. Not in his life. Not in this world.

If the girl had loved whoever had been buried here, better she feel the sting of that loss now and learn to steel her heart against it than remain weak all her life.

Dropping the petal, he rose and melted back into the thicket of bushes, stepping neatly past a burst of vibrant wildflowers, disturbing not so much as a leaf with his passing. When he reached the rock wall, he kicked his heels against it, knocking the dew from first one, then the other, imagining he could brush the filth of this place's tenderness from his soles as easily. Then he stepped over the stones, leaned his toes into the strength of the loamy earth underfoot, and broke into a run.

Time was up.

The Brotherhood (and home) awaited.

Life within the Black Brotherhood had a certain rhythm to it. An ebb and flow.

Camp was a place of tension, of cracked knuckles and steel drawn across whetstones, of words with veiled meanings and nights with one eye open. In contrast, raids were pure, concentrated freedom. With his katana in hand and his brothers at his back, Hiei lived. In the midst of battle, he feared no soul. He and his blade were a singular creature, crafted for slaughter, formidable in their might. In a fight, there was honor, a means to prove himself, a way to earn his keep—and in the lull after a raid gone well, there was peace. Even in camp. Even for Hiei.

There was never a guarantee how long it might last. Maybe a day. Maybe a week. On occasion, a month. Never longer, though. Eventually, the others always remembered his Hiruseki stone. Eventually, the greed and the hunger seeped back in, the tension drawing over them all, inevitable as the tide. He'd beat his brothers back, claim a life or two, and retreat until they no longer wanted him dead.

Ebb and flow.

Tension. Freedom. Peace.

A cycle Hiei knew well. A rhythm he could navigate.

After his night at the crossroads inn, Hiei was welcomed home as he always was—with hollers that bared sharpened fangs and claps on the back that might have sent a weaker demon into the mud. The lot of it rolled off him like water off oiled leather, and he claimed a place around a firepit the same as the rest of them, fighting for a scrap of roasted boar just as he had since he'd been a babe.

His timing, though, had been flawless.

Tonight, there'd be no sleep. No chance for his brothers to betray him.

Instead, as twilight bled into true darkness, the Brotherhood broke camp, moving as a hivemind entity, no individual at their lead. Two dozen souls slunk through the boughs of the Woods of Wayward Wanderers, gliding like ghosts through an endless night. Hiei kept pace with ease, thankful for the sound sleep he'd gathered in that nameless girl's arms, unsure when he'd next rest so thoroughly. By dawn, they'd traversed miles, breaking free of the tree line on a cliff overlooking their target—a manor occupied by a foolish slave trader who thought his name alone might keep his gold safe.

The Brotherhood's ransacking of said manor was no act of societal decency. If the imbecile had run an orphanage as profitable as his slave trade, they'd have sacked that, too. All that mattered were the riches they walked away with—and oh, how many riches there were.

When the day was done, seven demons had crossed to Spirit World's halls upon the wake of Hiei's blade. His pockets bulged with coins and jewels, and though none rivaled his Hiruseki stone in value, they'd be enough to ensure he could spend months away from the Brotherhood if he so chose.

He didn't, though.

In fact, he stayed three weeks in their company, hunting beside them in the mornings, sparring in the midday heat, gambling over the fires at night. Taunting them, always, with his Hiruseki stone. The peace that followed the raid lasted but a few days—and yet he couldn't bring himself to leave them. Their calamity. Their stench. Their jealousy. It was familiar. It was home. (It was his.)

When he was not among them, the world grew too quiet. Without their constant rioting, the demon plane was too vast. He was but a leaf tumbling through its endless expanses, lost without a tree to anchor him.

And so he stayed. He played the games he must play in order to survive. He met threat with threat, answered snarl with snarl—and always, he slept the lightest of slumbers, one eye open, one hand upon his blade.

Such was his life.

The only one he'd ever known.

The Brotherhood's next target took them north. Unlike their strike upon the slave trader, this was not a silent, nighttime raid, but rather a call to battle. A clan of upstart thieves had begun pillaging the fertile valley where the Riverlands and the Woods of Wayward Wanderers intermingled, and the Brotherhood couldn't stand by while others encroached upon their lands. The Bloodied Swords owned the Riverlands, the Brotherhood claimed the Woods, and the stretch of border between those territories was a land of equal opportunity—but not for outsiders. Thus, the Brotherhood would meet the Swords upon the crossroads and march east to lay waste to the upstarts.

The battle promised to be fierce (if only because Hiei had wagered no less than three rubies that he'd notch the most kills amongst the Brotherhood), but the trip was a slow, monotonous slog. Trudging amongst the Brotherhood's ranks, Hiei kept his gaze locked forward, catching glimmers of the land ahead between the bobbing shoulders of his clansmen.

After the fight, he'd collect his winnings and break ranks with his brothers. At least for a time. Long enough to spend his coin and flex his legs and remember what it was like to hear his own thoughts. (And, truth be told, to sleep. With both eyes closed.)

But first, there was blood to spill.

At the crossroads, the Brotherhood's march ground to a halt. In little more than seconds, their ranks dissolved, giving way to disordered chaos as demons slumped where they stood, throwing off their packs and clamoring at one another like a flock of enraged geese. An industrious few gathered wood to start fires, but Hiei melted away before the first tendrils of smoke drifted skyward.

The Bloodied Swords were nowhere to be seen. It would surprise no one (least of all Hiei) if the lot of doddering fools were a day or more late to this pre-battle party. Which meant he had time to kill. At least a few hours. Perhaps a whole night.

In truth, it was more shocking that the Brotherhood was on time than that the Swords were late. The Brotherhood was a leaderless lot, as easily blown about by the wind as by their own will. Who could be certain what had sent them trekking through the Woods hours earlier than they might have usually? Perhaps it had been the whims of nature that extinguished their fires.

Or perhaps the clenching of a fire demon's fist.

(Hiei, for one, would never say.)

What he was sure of, though, was that his to-do list had grown to three items—and the first lay ahead, just off the road, the smoke of a welcoming fire drifting up from its chimney.

The crossroads inn.

His tongue flitted out, wetting his lips and running nimbly over the sharp tips of his incisors. He was parched from the day's travel, he resolved, and well in need of a drink (or three). What better place to quench his thirst than the least hospitable inn he'd ever encountered?

Turning his back on the rumbling calamity of the Brotherhood, he strode for the tavern. Unlike his last visit, the front door was thrown open, held in place by an upturned stone, and music drifted out onto the road, the notes of a shamisen twisting through the leaves rustling in the garden behind the inn, joining the wind's gentle song. He spotted shadows darting beyond the open door, and he kept his pulse steady by force of will alone.

Dust-covered and wind-ruffled, he swaggered across the threshold like a conquering king, head held high, cloak flowing in his wake. Within, he found a dozen patrons. A handful occupied seats at the bar. The others took up residence at the scattered tables. In mere moments, Hiei had clocked the serving staff: the same demon he'd paid after his night here and the girl (her name escaped him) who'd first tried to deny him a bed.

Nearly every eye in the place turned to him upon entry, but few lingered. In fact, it was only the girl who continued to glare at him for more than a moment.

She stalked between the tables, coming to stand before him, hands planted firmly on her hips. "Get out," she ordered, glaring down at him over the arched line of her nose. By purely traditional standards, she was more attractive than her freckled sister, her hips a little rounder, her lips a little softer, but she was missing something. There was steel in her sister's spine that this girl's makers had forgotten to forge into hers.

It was easy to stride past her and claim an empty table. He draped his cloak across a chairback, then slung himself into a seat, smooth as hot oil.

She stamped a heel into the floorboards, swiveling to face him, and flung a hand toward the door. "Out!"

Hiei rapped his knuckles against the tabletop. "Bring me shochu."

The girl's raised voice had drawn gazes around the tavern back to him, but he ignored the lot of them, attention firmly on his belligerent foe. She remained rooted in place, her chest heaving with each frustrated exhale. Cocking a brow, he kicked out his feet and laced one ankle over the other. Once thoroughly comfortable, he flicked a gold coin from his pocket. It landed on the table, spinning in a perfect circle before falling flat upon the battered wood.

"Shochu," he said again.

"Get—"

"Sueko," called the demon behind the bar, interrupting her catchphrase. "Serve the lad."

Hiei bristled. He cut his gaze to the bartender and found the bastard smiling all too knowingly at the glass he was polishing. A sneer crumpled Hiei's veneer. He was no lad. No child. How dare—

"I'll get it, Uncle."

That voice.

Hiei straightened, both boots planting firmly on the floor. The freckled girl stood beside the bartender, the door to the kitchen swinging at her back. Her hair was pulled back into a messy knot atop her head, and the light caught across the bridge of her nose, highlighting the freckles that had remained burned upon his retinas for three weeks.

She did not smile when their eyes met.

But he felt a connection snap into place between them, zinging through him like a charged strike of lightning. His sneer faded.

He reached for his gold coin, rolling it between his fingers, letting it dance across his knuckles. When she came to his table, a small decanter of shochu in hand, he flipped it to her. Only then, as she caught it midair, did he grin.

"I'm in need of a bed," Hiei said as the freckled girl returned with his third round of shochu and a steaming bowl of noodles.

She didn't look at him, gaze focused squarely on the dishes she set upon the table. "What you need is a bath."

He snorted. "That too."

"We have no rooms open."

Grinning wickedly, the heat of the shochu churning in his veins, he leaned forward. "Wasn't a problem last time." And then, dropping his voice to little more than a humming purr, he added, "I don't mind a bedfellow."

"Oh?" she asked as she turned, returning to the bar. "Perhaps old Arata would enjoy your company, then."

A flick of her wrist indicated an old beast of a demon, slumped in his cups by the door. Hiei spluttered on his shochu. Coughing, he dragged a wrist across his lips, scrambling for a rebuttal, but she disappeared into the kitchen before he found one, her laughter tumbling in his ears.

"Another," Hiei said, pushing his empty glass—the fifth of its kind—across the table.

The tavern was nearly empty, the sun's light long since gone from the crossroads beyond the door. The shamisen player had packed up half-a-drink ago, and only the infamous Arata remained at a table, his snores rumbling outward like miniature earth tremors. Well, Arata… and Hiei.

The girl studied him a moment, one hip jutting to the side, her fingers drumming atop it. A strip of bronze flesh was visible at her midline, just beneath the hem of her shirt, and he wet his lips, imagining his teeth nipping that soft skin.

"If you drink another, you won't get up from that table," she said at last, her apparent calculations completed. "Never mind make it upstairs."

Hiei froze. He moved only his eyes as he raked his gaze upward to meet hers.

Upstairs?

"Thought you didn't have any open rooms." His voice emerged like gravel. Low. Humming. Charged with the desire he couldn't be bothered to hide anymore.

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, arms crossing over her chest protectively, and Hiei became aware of their audience. Her sister and uncle, watching from behind the bar.

"We don't," she said. "You'll have to share mine."

It was such a simple statement, so devoid of gimmick or games. They'd share her bed, just as they had three weeks before, and they'd share their flesh—he was sure of it.

He stood, sweeping his cloak off his chair. "After you."

She shook her head. "I meant what I said before. You need to bathe."

His eyes narrowed, and he considered protesting, but then she leaned past him to gather his glass and the sandalwood scent of her washed over him, and he acquiesced. The stench of the Brotherhood had no place in her bed. The only thing he wanted to smell that night was her.

She pointed to a door on the back wall. "Bathhouse is through there. Take the backstairs up. I'll be waiting."

As promised, once he'd scrubbed his every last crevice clean and climbed the steps to the boarding rooms, he discovered her door ajar. The light of a lantern flickered within, and he slipped inside, the shadows dancing over his toes.

She sat upon the bed, her tawny hair spilling over her shoulders in loose, riotous waves. Her eyes were closed, her head tipped back to rest against the wall, exposing the long column of her neck. Even in the unsteady light, Hiei's keen gaze picked out the fragile drumming of her pulse just below her jaw.

His breath caught in his teeth.

(Stunning.

She was stunning.)

She wore nothing but a long, threadbare tunic, one clearly knit for a male twice her size, and as her eyelashes batted open, he toed off his boots, reaching for his belts, eager to join her. "Door," she said, before he undid his first buckle.

He shoved it closed with his elbow, then tossed a belt to the floor. A second followed quickly. Then his fingers were at the laces of his pants, ready to shuck those as well.

She watched, her head tilting a degree. "May I ask you something?"

"Hn. You just did."

Though it was hardly a witty response, she laughed. The sound fell between them, gentle as a leaf drifting to the forest floor. "Not a question, then," she said, "but a request."

He let his pants hit the floorboards, then looked up at her.

She met his gaze squarely. "Tell me your name."

His brow furrowed in surprise. "Hiei."

"Hiei," she breathed, soft as a whisper, as if testing it upon her tongue.

(A shiver wracked down his spine.)

"Yours?" he asked hoarsely.

She smiled and drew back the bedding, slipping beneath it. As he climbed in beside her, she answered simply, "Nozumi," and sealed her lips to his.

AN: So full disclosure, I'm aiming to be as canon-compliant as I possibly can be with Hiei's history, but there are places where I'm going to add color or make tweaks that won't precisely match how he recounts his own history in the anime. For example, I've removed the 'father' figure who led his bandit clan. In later chapters, there will be a few other deviations. I hope you'll forgive them! I've made my changes with intentionality, and because I believe they'll allow for a tighter, more emotional story. (And also, because Hiei is an unreliable narrator on his best possible day. I fully believe that the story we hear from him is driven by his ego and crafted to reflect the version of himself he thinks existed, rather than who he truly was—which was a kid, struggling to survive in a very cruel world.)

Heartfelt thanks to anyone who left a review! It means the world to me. (And as a heads up, I'm planning to post every Friday or Saturday, just depending on how my time shakes out. One update a week!)