Chapter 12
Chapter twelve
Whiplash
Kenji
No. Not this, Tora. Anything but this.
All the loving warmth of the ballroom had died at my back, leaving me inwardly shivering in cool air thick with incense and wax that clawed at my throat.
The band went silent.
The violinist returned with the saddest melody that pierced my chest and twisted between my ribs.
Dark notes.
Gutting rhythm.
Fully stripped bare.
Too raw.
Too real.
The bow dragged across the strings, drawing blood.
Flaying.
Severing us.
This is not okay.
My gaze found the horizon of flame first—a long unbroken line of candles burning along the base of a black silk wall. The tiny fires glowed within the haunting darkness of that space.
Then my gaze climbed.
Pictures.
Faces.
All dead.
Lit from behind.
Glowing in gold frames against black silk.
I recognized all of them, even the ones for the Claws. Because when Hiro first brought them to me with the idea for us to truly form an indestructible beast. . .I took the time to learn their wounds.
My eyes moved along the wall.
Kaede's dead grandfather smiled back at me. An old man in a charcoal haori, silver hair combed back. The photograph captured him mid-laugh. Kaede’s mother had left him with his grandfather before he could even form a memory of her face.
The grandfather had raised him alone in a house full of books and tea.
He had taught Kaede to draw. To read three languages.
To sit still long enough to let the world reveal itself.
He had died in his sleep when Kaede was thirteen and Kaede had found his body in the morning.
Tea still warmed on the stove. Kaede had burned the tea set that day and never touched tea again.
Where did she get this picture?
An odd thing happened, I began to smell tea brewing around me. The scent curled through the air in soft spirals—warm, floral, and sweet. The aroma deepened with each breath. Heat gathered low in my chest.
I shook my head and went to the next photo.
Daisuke's baby sister.
A little girl.
Three years old.
Round cheeks.
Two front teeth showing in a wide grin.
In the image, she held a stuffed rabbit by one ear, and the rabbit dangled against her white dress.
Daisuke had been five years old the night his father came home angry about a debt and beat his mother, him, and his sister.
They all took it like they usually did, but it was his little sister that would never rise again. The little girl had just remained on the floor with a purplish bruise on her forehead and the rabbit next to her feet.
The police took in the father the next day and his mother had never been the same. A year later she sold him to an illegal textile factory where he worked most of his childhood.
Hiro told me that later Daisuke had finally forgiven his mother and father.
I hadn’t.
Neither had Hiro. . .who secretly had them both killed.
Darkness poured over me.
My right hand curled around the ghost-weight of a stuffed rabbit by one ear. The fabric wasn’t there, yet my fingers felt the worn plush and the faint give of old stitching beneath my grip.
Tightening my hold on nothing, I looked at the next picture.
Toma's family.
His parents, him, and his ten other siblings. Their mother behind them, hands on the oldest daughter's shoulders. The father to the side in a cheap suit, standing stiff and looking angry.
Through the years the siblings had faced all kinds of tragic deaths due to their father’s brutality and torturous basement punishments. Suicides. Drownings. Drug addictions. Fatal abuse from spouses.
Toma was the final survivor of a broken home.
I looked at Toma's sisters and brothers' faces and my ears filled with the sound of siblings too afraid to sleep. I heard their shallow, uneven breathing. Their whimpers and rustling of thin blankets as they tossed and turned too terrified to let slumber take them.
Tora. . .this was not necessary.
The next picture was of the twins' mother.
My heart seized in my chest.
She smoked a cigarette and cruelly grinned at the camera. She had the twins’ sharp cheekbones and black hair cut, but hers stopped at her jaw.
They’re going to be angry for this.
Tobacco smoke threaded through my lungs like the evil woman had lit that cigarette right in front of me. I could taste the bitterness of her toxic love and how it had been edged with ash and abuse.
It was hard to swallow as I turned and shuddered at the next picture.
Nura.
Fuck. My brother’s heart is going to break again. Why, Tora?
Nura was beautiful in this image. I could tell she didn’t know she had even been photographed. Her focus was on something in front of her. Yet, her dark brown skin glowed in the soft lighting and there was this beautiful smile.
My own chest tightened around a sob that wasn't mine to release. Still, the rawness of it all pressed upward anyway.
Making me ache.
Scraping against my ribs.
My throat actually burned with the effort of holding it back, of keeping someone else’s sorrow from spilling through my mouth.
What was your plan, Tora? Cruelty or mercy?
And my Tiger kept on twisting the knife in my fucking chest.
The next picture was Hiroko.
I frowned.
She stood in a leather kimono with a wicked smirk and a large whip in her hand. And I heard that whip crack in the air with a merciless snap that echoed long after the sound itself had faded.
A sting spread across my hand.
I looked down at it, but saw no wound.
Sighing, I looked at the next picture and touched my chest.
Mother.
Suddenly I smelled jasmine tea and swallowed down the delicate sweetness. I heard my mother’s soft humming—always a quiet melody mingling with the porcelain teapot’s gentle clicking as the lid tapped against the rim.
I could see and feel the warm steam curling upward and carrying the floral fragrance of her memory.
In the picture, my mother wore a pale blue kimono and her long hair was pinned back.
And because my Tiger must have enjoyed being cruel to us, she’d placed a picture of my brother Jobon next to her.
The Wolf.
I trembled.
The sword who never hesitated.
I recognized this one from his last birthday party. My brother, Jobon wore a black suit and was laughing, probably at something Hiro had said. Only Hiro could make him boldly laugh in that way.
And then I heard my brother’s sword slice into his enemies.
Wet sounds came at a brutal rhythm of steel meeting flesh over and over.
I saw the red blood dripping down the blade and pooling at his feet.
I breathed the scent of death that clung on Jobon’s fingers even when he’d spent several minutes scrubbing them clean.
I closed my eyes.
I don’t want this.
I didn’t know how long it took me to open my eyes again, but when I did. . .I took in the last picture.
Reo's mother.
A small woman with dark hair pulled back and gentle eyes.
She was Thai and had worked as a maid in a luxury hotel in Bangkok. Reo’s father had been a Japanese business man who traveled to Bangkok a lot. She became his secret mistress, and he’d had kids with her and kept them in Thailand away from his wife and kids in Tokyo.
That was until Reo’s mother grew sick and passed on Reo’s eleventh birthday. The man was forced to deal with his kids and brought them to Japan, but under the guise of. . .new young servants to work in his house with his real family—a wife, two daughters, and three brothers.
Reo could never tell his half-siblings that he was their brother. All he could do was serve. He did so dutifully, sleeping in the servant quarters, mopping and cleaning his siblings’ bathrooms, and washing their dirty clothes.
Even now. . .after I’d killed his father. . .that secret remained.
I thought about how Reo always kept a bottle of his mother's favorite perfume on his nightstand. We never talked about why he did it, but after a few months he would always need to buy a new one.
Reo was using it in some way.
I often imagined he sprayed the fragrance in the air before he went to sleep and thought of her when he closed his eyes.
Perhaps, the scent would linger in the darkness and give him some sense of peace. And maybe in the morning, he would wake to a room that smelled like his mother. . .and that would comfort him too.
I smelled that scent now and fisted my hands at my sides.
Whiplash.
That was the word for what I had experienced. The only word my mind would hand me. Minutes ago, we’d all been laughing, drinking, and eating.
It had been joy.
And then the curtains opened and the emotions quickly reversed.
Just like that.
Like a car hitting a wall at full speed. The body going one direction, the world going the other, and the soft tissue between them tearing because flesh was not built to change direction that fast.
Within me, joy and grief collided inside my chest. Laughter still caught in my throat while sorrow crawled up to meet it. I could feel both at once—the aftertaste of cherry sake on my tongue and the smell of wax in my sinuses.
My Tiger had put a dragon’s claw into the center of my ballroom and then opened graves toward the back.
What did she want my men to do?
One by one, climb into them?
Bury themselves into the grief of old things that should be forgotten?
So much anger pulsed within me that my breathing had gone uneven.
Nyomi left my side and got in front of us. “Tonight. . .we not only celebrate life. . .but. . .we remember our dead.”
We all remained frozen.
The violin wept.
The flames on the lit candles swayed.
“This is a space for you to. . .release anything you want.” She scanned all of our faces. “If you feel the need to. . .go ahead and go up to the altar.”
No one moved.
“Light a candle,” she continued. “For the people you’ve lost.”
Kaede shifted his weight to his other foot.
“Take your time.” She slowly nodded. “Speak to them. I believe they can hear you. Pray to them. I believe they would be soothed.”
The line of my jaw twitched.
“If you. . .need more. . .” She pointed to the side. “There are monks here to guide you.”
I snapped my head toward the edges of the space, and there they were. Five fucking monks wearing robes and standing just beyond the candlelight.
My stomach turned.
I put my gaze back on my Tiger.
“Alright.” Nyomi placed her hands behind her. “We can begin.”
Absolutely not. Sorry, Tora, but we’re not doing this.
And then my Roar moved.
I gritted my teeth.
Reo walked past us and began muttering words.
Is he speaking Thai?
Without any hesitation, Reo walked straight to his mother’s picture, lowered to his knees, picked up the matchbook, and struck.
I swallowed.
More Thai flowed from Reo as he lit the three candles on her altar. Once done, he brought his hands together in front of his chest and continued to whisper.
I drowned in discomfort, not used to seeing him like this. It made me turn away.
Kaede stepped forward next and gave the rest of us a quick nervous glance.
No. Don’t do this.
Kaede’s shoulders were tight and his jaw set as he slowly headed over to his grandfather’s picture.
I let out a long shivering breath when Kaede reached the altar and dropped to his knees.
When he lit the candles, his fingers shook.
I have to stop this.
Toma went next at this awkward pace where he kept his gaze on his feet. And when he reached his family's frame, his shoulders rose and fell in breaths that came too fast. His hands opened and closed at his sides.
He didn't light the candles, but he did fall to his knees.
Daisuke was already moving, heading to his baby sister like a man approaching the most sacred and dangerous object in a space. It took him no time to light the candles and when he did, he didn’t lower to his knees. He simply held his hands to his chest as tears left his eyes.
I turned to Nyomi and sneered.
She widened her eyes.
Meanwhile the twins looked at their mother’s picture, yet didn’t go up. One dragged his fingers through his hair like he was trying to pull himself out of his own skin. The other stared without blinking, eyes fixed and hollow, as if looking too closely might make her disappear for good.
Neither reached for the other like they usually did.
Neither spoke.
There was no synchronization.
In this moment, they were individuals processing in different ways. The mirror that had held them together since birth held them apart now. Each one was trapped on his own side of something they had always shared.
Grief didn’t split between them—it multiplied, doubled back, and left them unable to bridge it.
Seconds later, they turned and left the space.
Nyomi parted her lips and watched them walk away.
The violin’s sad melody continued.
Only two of us had not moved—Hiro and me.
Nyomi walked toward us.
I looked at my Tiger and hot rage rose through me.
Tora. Why? We were having fun.
She looked at Hiro.
I looked at him too, and what I saw almost knocked me to my knees.
My brother was shaking. Tremors in his shoulders and hands. His fucking mouth open like he wanted to scream. Those damn diamond fangs quivered too.
No. He’d been happy, Tora. . .and now. . .it’s ruined. . .
She got closer to him.
Hiro held up his hand. “Don’t touch me. . .not right now. . .”
She slowly nodded. “Okay.”
Hiro trembled as he looked at Nura’s face. “W-where did you get that picture?”
“Reo gave me his helper, Ali today and Ali was able to find some footage of Nura when she worked for you all. And there he—”
“I’m taking that picture with me tonight.”
“Good.” She nodded. “And uh. . .”
A tear spilled from Hiro’s eye.
I bit my lip and looked away.
“And. . .” Nyomi cleared her throat. “I have a locket on your nightstand with this same picture inside.”
A sob left Hiro that crushed me.
Shattered everything within.
Next thing I knew, Hiro walked by us and went to Nura’s image.
He continued to sob.
My brother.
The most dangerous man I knew.
Sobbing.
Spit trailing from his mouth.
Knees crashing to the ground.
And the sound that came out of him was a gutting noise pulled up from beneath his bones, a sound flesh should never be able to make without tearing first. And it was forced out of his mouth in uneven fragments.
There was no control in it. That sound just harshly scraped the air, dragging my brother into madness.
No.
My chest cracked open behind the sternum, and I fucking wanted to kill someone just to make it stop. There should have never been a moment where my brother was unmade in front of everyone who loved him.
The monks rushed to Hiro. One lit the candles to honor Nura. The others grabbed Hiro to hold him up and he shook against them.
Goddamn it.
I sneered and turned to Nyomi.
She stepped in closer. “Kenji—”
"Why the fuck would you do this?" I tried to keep my voice down, but I was close to yelling.
She blinked.