Yuki Shiro: 0 Absolutes: The Night Parade Page 3

  Leaning back, dropping the considerate guise she had struggled to wear anyway, Amaya gazed at me steadily. “Your flight has already been booked. You and Kurokō will be leaving in the morning. You have tonight to get packed. I’ll send Gozu to pick you up at dawn.”

  Wait? Dawn?

  WAIT? Kurokō?!

  Glancing down, I met the glowing green eyes of the feline sitting there, on my lap, with a smug expression on his little kitty face. It was only then I noticed the subtle pattern of rosettes in his black fur.

  What was that I had said about catching a tiger’s cub?

  Yeah, looks like a jaguar’s cub caught me instead.

  Kurokō leaped down from my lap, disappearing back into the shadowy depths of the penthouse when I turned my attention back to Amaya. Finding her watching me much as one would look at a fascinating bug, one she was looking forward to dissecting, once more, I checked a physical reaction.

  “It will be an honor to serve the Katei,” I said simply, using the same archaic title for the Tribe, back when it was called ‘The Family.’

  “Of course, Yoshiki,” she replied, rising to her feet in an obvious dismissal. “Please, see yourself out, and do give my regards to your mother and the Shiro Clan.”

  Glad to no longer be of interest, I rose to my feet and left without a word, trying to ignore the weight of her gaze on my back.

  Hell, I barely managed to offer a nod and farewell to Gozu and Mezu, whom I had known for as long as I could remember. I just wanted out of the oppressive penthouse, and away from Kuro Amaya.

  Maybe going to America wouldn’t be a bad idea after all? Even if I could see that I was being set-up from kilometers away.

  During the ride down in the elevator, I managed to maintain my dignified calmness, which lasted all the way until I was once more straddling Tan-kun. Thankfully, I wasn’t too distracted to once more assume my human form before I left the elevator, or that could have been awkward.

  Pulling out my phone, I activated the wireless hands-free to my helmet before pulling out, away from the Tower.

  “Mom?” I said as soon as she accepted the connection, “Yeah, I’m going to need a drink when I get there… and you may want to call Obāchan Fuyu.”

  I’ll admit, the sound of my mother cursing at having to call her mother? Yeah, that made me feel a little bit better.

  Just a little.

  Chapter 3

  Yuki | Shibuya District, Tokyo, Japan | 2017年12月5日

  Okay, so maybe suggesting my mom call her mother was a mistake.

  Slowing Tan-kun to a crawl as I pulled down the side street leading to my mother’s garage, the sight of all those motorcycles lined up outside the front, with a single, brilliantly white moped, was a daunting sight. It looked like Mom had not only called my obāchan, my grandmother, but to provide a buffer, Mom had also called in her biological sisters, but had also apparently called in her entire bosozuku, Raiufubuki no Shimai, the Sisters of the Thundering Blizzard Motorcycle Club.

  That was just way too much estrogen in one place for anyone’s sanity.

  With a sigh, I parked Tan-kun at the first available spot, closest to the alleyway—for a quick getaway, if necessary.

  “Miki, if you could get me those files, I’ll send you details on my itinerary as soon as Wicked Queen-sama provides them,” I said as I slid off my bike.

  “Hai, hai!” Miki replied, her perky voice loud and clear over the helmet’s wireless connection. “Keep us in the loop and let us know if you need any back-up.”

  “Too bad it’s too late,” I muttered as I eyed the entrance to the garage. The blinking, twinkling Christmas lights depressed me because I knew what lay on the other side. It was a cheerful, glittering portal to Hell.

  “Too late?” Miki screeched, “Yuki-chan! Are you okay? We’re on our way!”

  Wincing at the ringing echo of her screech in my ears, I spoke rapidly, “No, Miki, no…just arrived at my mother’s place, and not looking forward to the next few hours.”

  “Ooooooh,” Miki drew out in understanding, “Well, yeah, you enjoy! If you need an exit strategy, text me!”

  “Hai,” I sighed, “I’ll check in later. Jā ne!”

  “Bye, bye!”

  Pulling off my helmet, I took a moment to pull my ponytail back out from inside my leather jacket, and headed in to the garage.

  Imagine, if you will, your typical car and motorcycle repair shop. Okay, now imagine that it was geared more toward women than toward men, so slightly fewer skulls and a lot more flowers, but just as many dragons; with some pastel colors mixed in with all that black and red.

  Now, imagine that the owner is a Japanese woman obsessed with American culture, especially Christmas.

  The front of the shop was completely dominated by a huge pine tree that was just short enough for the cherubic angel perched on top—an angel, in a motorcycle shop owned by a Japanese Yōkai…what’s the world coming to? The tree itself was covered with blinking lights in every color of the rainbow, draped in glistening tinsel in silver and blue, and wrapped with ribbons and garlands. Somehow, despite all that, my mother had still found room to hang what had to be at least a hundred different ornaments, from glass balls to miniature Harley Davidson ornaments that she prized more than probably anything else in the world, except her own Harley, which she named Harley-kun, because of course she did.

  What did you expect from the yuki-onna, the snow-woman, who named her only daughter “Snow”? Creativity? That’s hilarious. No, really, it is.

  Okay, technically, my name means “Reason for Joy” if you read the kanji and know what they mean, but the most common meaning for “Yuki” is snow. Add in the fact that my last name, my clan name, is Shiro—meaning white? Yep, White Snow. Or, Snow White, if you’re American.

  I blame the Mouse.

  Right, let’s get back to describing the horror show I walked into!

  The Christmas decorations extended past the tree, pretty much into every nook and cranny of the shop, which normally consisted of little more than a counter, a cash register, and a few display racks, since Mom just custom ordered most things as needed. A few years back, she had managed to find a mannequin, dressed him in full Santa Claus outfit, and this time of the year, she pulled him out and plopped him on the classic 1977 FXS Low Rider Harley that had been one of Mom’s first custom motorcycles—the original Harley-kun.

  In the attached sidecar? Guess.

  If you guessed a Mrs. Claus mannequin, you’ve figured out my mother’s decorating style.

  In the garage itself, she at least kept decorations off the floor. Instead, the ceiling was crisscrossed with an entire universe worth of twinkling lights, all blinking in apparently random patterns; enough that Mom really should post an epilepsy warning right next to the other warning signs required by law.

  Some American pop version of Christmas music was blaring through the garage, and layered over that was the sound of a dozen women all shouting over one another. Yes, they could have turned down the music and talked in a normal volume, but no one was brave enough to touch Mom’s radio.

  Yet, despite the cacophony, the moment my booted heels hit that cement floor, every last one of them shut up and turned to look at me; and once again, I was left feeling like a tasty little rabbit who had bounced into a clearing filled with predators.

  Susanō-sama, I hate that feeling!

  “Well, I see you’re still in one piece,” my loving mother yelled in English over the music, pulling a cigarette from between her lips and giving an exasperated sigh, as if in disappointment I had survived my meeting with Amaya-sama.

  Waving her cigarette towards me, Shiro Saki, my loving mother, turned to face her younger sisters, Yume and Toa, and continued, “See, she’s alive, so you can put away the rocket launchers.”

  No. I wasn’t going to…

  “Rocket launchers?”

  My aunts both turned to give me identical innocent expressions, while my mother just gave me a sm
irk. The three of them standing together was kind of creepy. They all appeared identical, same facial features, same slender builds, but they each wore their hair and dressed completely different from one another.

  My mother, the eldest of the Terrible Trio, was taller than her sisters by about an inch, and she wore her bleached blonde hair in short spikes, mostly so she didn’t have to deal with it. She wore her typical uniform of mechanic overalls, grungy and grimy, covered with patches, with the front unzipped to reveal a red-nosed reindeer being ridden by a biker Santa Claus.

  Saki looked like a suburban housewife. Her hair just brushing her shoulders, wearing a heavy white sweater and slacks, a baby blue, fluffy, oversized coat hooked over one arm. Toa dressed like a high-level executive, with a white blazer and blouse, with black slacks and high heels that gave her the illusion of height.

  Behind them were my mother’s gang of hooligans, her bosozuko—motorcycle gang. They were all Yōkai, mostly independents and those who had been born to one of the lesser clans or tribes, and had banded together with my mom during her wild youth…which had apparently yet to end. The assortment of women all suddenly found other things to be interested in, studying the lights, their nails; two of them, whose names I could never be bothered to remember, went outside to smoke.

  Looking back at my mother and aunts suspiciously, I narrowed my eyes, trying out the “Mom Glare” that my grandmother usually gave them.

  Wait, speaking of my grandmother. Where was…?

  “Found it!”

  Emerging from a back-storage room, my little old grandmother walked out, a triumphant smile on her delicate face.

  My grandmother wore a proper kimono, as she always did. My obāchan was old-school Japanese to her very core. Her silver-white hair was pulled back into a neat bun, secured with a pale ivory comb carved to resemble a cherry blossom, revealing a face only gently touched by age. Her kimono was komon style in a dark, midnight blue sprinkled with tiny, delicate silver snowflakes, and dressed up with an obi, a brocade sash wrapped around her waist. Considering she ran a school for professional geisha, she took her image very, very seriously.

  The huge, American-styled rocket launcher—that probably dated back to World War II—that she easily carried rifle-style over one shoulder? So not the image she normally cultivated. And apparently, my mother hadn’t been yelling at her sisters, she’d been yelling at her mother.

  Blinking as she caught sight of me, Shiro Fuyu, Grandmother Winter, the eldest known yuki-onna and head of the Shiro Clan, dropped the rocket launcher and rushed over to me, her tall, wooden geta clacking loud in the resulting silence that followed the loud BOOM of steel hitting concrete.

  While everyone instinctively ducked-and-covered, though thankfully the rocket launcher wasn’t apparently loaded, I was engulfed in my grandmother’s embrace, surrounded by her cold, icy arms as she cuddled me against her chest and patted my back.

  I am not a tall woman. In fact, I’m considered fairly short, even for a Japanese woman. When I say that I’m five feet even, I may even be exaggerating by an inch or two, but since I refuse to actually get my height formally checked, all of my official documents just say 152 centimeters. My grandmother normally made me feel like an awkward giant, since she is the living epitome of the classic, refined elegance. Yet, her wooden sandals gave her an inch over me, even with me wearing my motorcycle boots.

  Yet, although she was dainty and probably older than Tokyo itself, my grandmother was one of the strongest people I knew. For a few, blissful moments, I soaked in the comfort of her presence, letting her frosty touch cool my normally “fiery” temperament.

  I do acknowledge the irony that for being a literal cold bitch, I have a rather hot temper.

  “Ah, my Yu-chan, I am so glad you are here,” my grandmother said, her voice clear and soft as she rocked me in her arms. “I have missed seeing you.”

  Wrapping my arms around her, I returned the hug. It was rare for her to openly display affection, though I had never doubted that I was her favorite grandchild—okay, I was technically her only grandchild, but that still made me her favorite! As the stereotype goes, the Japanese are not overtly demonstrative in public; we’re private by nature, and as Yōkai, we tend to take that to extremes sometimes.

  Chuckling, I inhaled the subtle scent of powder and incense that always surrounded my grandmother, and the faintest hint of the umeshu she preferred to drink, before I pulled back to look into her dark eyes, eyes just as dark as Amaya-sama’s, but where the Wicked Queen’s eyes were the dead black of a bottomless pit leading to eternal damnation, Shiro Fuyu’s eyes were the fathomless sky at midnight, encouraging you to look deeper in hopes of catching the twinkle of a distant star.

  Ignoring the strange tingle in my chest, I replied, “Thank you, Grandmother, I have missed you, too.”

  Hooking an arm through mine, my grandmother turned to glare at her daughters and the still milling group of Mom’s bosozuko. Giving them a disdainful sniff, she said, “I am taking my granddaughter to talk. You can join us after you girls clean up this place.”

  “But…” My mom dared to raise her voice, though she flinched away as grandmother’s eyes turned her way. “Yes, Mother. We’ll meet you as soon as we get done here.”

  “Don’t forget to put that away.” Grandmother waved at the rocket launcher that had rolled to a rest against one of the motorcycles currently gutted and awaiting repairs. Turning away, she leaned over to confide in me, “Your mother was always a messy child. She gets that from her father’s side of the family.”

  Yeah, considering my apartment? I must have inherited that trait from my grandfather, too, whoever he might have been, because my grandmother’s place? Immaculate.

  My arm firmly secured in her deceptively fragile grip, my grandmother led me out of the garage, her sandals beating out a disdainful commentary as they clattered an odd counter-harmony to an American pop singer warbling on about a “White Christmas” in the background.

  My grandmother is awesome, and almost as anti-Christmas as I was.

  We headed just down the block, to a small, hole-in-the-wall izakaya my mother and her gang frequented. One that didn’t have karaoke, thank Susanō-sama!

  As soon as we entered, we were quickly ushered toward the back, to a screened off area reserved only for “special” guests; in this instance, my grandmother. Even to the humans around here, she was something of a local legend. In her current “public” identity, she had opened an elite school for geisha, one that kept the old tradition of female “entertainers” alive.

  Now, for some of you, I need to clarify. Geisha are not prostitutes, they are entertainers. They’re hostesses, entertaining customers through classical Japanese music, conversation, performances, and yes, traditionally they performed while people were waiting to visit oiran, or courtesans, but geisha weren’t paid for sex, and many were young girls in training.

  Once upon a time, my grandmother was one of the foremost courtesans of the Edo period, the mistress of shoguns and emperors, humans and Yōkai. She was immortalized for her artistic abilities and her wit and grace more so than for her sexual prowess. This is a different era, however, so now she trained a new generation in ikebana, calligraphy, playing the shamisen and performing the sadō tea ceremony. She founded a school to teach these arts to new geisha, to try and keep the old ways alive.

  To say she’s not a fan of the “Westernization” of Japan was a bit of an understatement, but in her typical manner, she adjusted with the times, bending like the willow and flowing with the prevailing current.

  Granted, that’s her “day job,” and she’s made quite the lucrative business in not only training professional geisha but in providing them for businesses, parties, and events, as well as staffing her own traditional tea house both here in Tokyo and a small, exclusive onsen resort in Fujiyoshida.

  As the head of the Shiro Clan, she offered instruction in other, more subtle arts. See, the Kage no Katei, or the Kage no Buzoku if
you preferred the new school terminology, were mercenaries. Specifically, we’re all shinobi, or as you’d probably call us, ninja. Yes, really. Ninja do exist, just not how you commonly think. Every Clan that fell under the Kage banner were Yōkai that specialized in different types of guerilla warfare, and were all available for the right price.

  The Shiro Clan? Well, to put it bluntly, we’re supposed to be femme fatales. Black Widows. Well, traditionally, anyway. And yes, I use that word a lot. You’ve got to understand that tradition is very, very important here. The fact that my mother and her sisters broke with tradition? I’m pretty sure my grandmother still hadn’t forgiven them, which was probably why she spent so much time teaching geisha, so at least some of her old teachings would survive into the next generation.

  Me?

  Well, I’m not really good at that whole seduction and being nice thing.

  Shocking, I know.

  As much as it shames me sometimes, I am my mother’s daughter.

  Sigh.

  As I settled down on the tatami mat, kneeling beside the low table, my grandmother kneeling gracefully beside me, she waited for the server to bring a large, warm jug of sake. Once the paper screen had closed behind the server, my grandmother languidly flicked her fingers, cooling the air around us until it was as still and silent as a winter night.

  Pouring us both a glass, she handed me mine before picking up her own, then shot it like a sailor just given shore leave.

  “Ah ha!” she exclaimed in pleasure, before turning a steely gaze upon me. “Right, Yu-chan, now tell me what that fucking bitch has got you into now.”

  Chapter 4

  Yuki | Shibuya District, Tokyo, Japan | 2017年12月5日

  What do you do when your scary grandmother demands you tell her what’s going on? You tell her what’s going on.

  She listened intently, her face expressionless, as she sipped her next glass of sake more sedately than the first. My own sake sat cooling, mostly because I knew I was going to probably be up before the first streaks of dawn, but also because if I started, I probably wouldn’t stop until they had to wheel me on to the plane to America.