“Do I get one of those too?” I asked, raising an eyebrow. “You know, since I saved you from that psycho-lady?”
The man scowled. “You didn’t save me from anything,” he snapped. “I was working, and you screwed everything up by screaming like a little girl!”
“You would have screamed too if someone who had their face slashed open smiled at you!” I protested.
“Except I didn’t.” The man smirked. That stupid curve of his lips made my heart flutter, and a weird sense of déjà vu rippled through me. Slowly, I took him in, trying to figure out who I was dealing with.
A modern version of Sessue Hayakawa, I thought as I looked him up and down. He had the same intense stare, strong jaw, and sensual lips that had made Hayakawa one of the first male heartthrobs in Hollywood during the silent film era. But unlike Hayakawa, he had shoulder-length hair that he pulled back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck, he dressed in modern clothes, and his eyes were a bit larger.
Those eyes were magnetic—they were the kind of eyes that could hold a woman’s attention whether they sparkled with laughter or darkened with brooding anger. The kind of eyes that pulled you right in and made you feel as if he could see every inch of your soul.
And so what if he looks like a celebrity hottie? I scolded my fluttering heart. That doesn’t mean he has the right to manhandle you.
Depends on what kind of manhandling we’re talking about, a wicked voice in my head said. I shoved that voice back into the dark depths from whence it had come and finished my perusal.
He stood a good six inches taller than me and was dressed in a black button-down that strained against his broad shoulders, jeans that hinted at powerful thighs, and a pair of black boots that looked like they could do some serious ass-kicking. A clunky-looking keychain hung from a lanyard attached to his belt loops, and though I was curious about that, it wasn’t nearly as interesting as the rest of him.
“Are you done staring yet?” the man asked, a hint of dry humor in his voice.
I frowned at him. “What’s your name, anyway? The least you could do after almost getting me killed is tell me who the hell you are.”
“Getting you killed?” he sputtered. “Why, you—” He stopped himself, clearing his throat. “You’re getting us off track.”
“Didn’t realize we had an agenda.” I folded my arms across my chest and leaned my hips against the table behind me.
“Fine. My name is Raiden Takaoka, of the Takaoka Shaman Clan.” His eyes narrowed. “We’re the only shaman clan in America, or so I thought. Which clan are you from?”
“Shaman clan?” I echoed. “Is that some kind of joke? I’m not from any clan.”
Raiden rolled his eyes. “Everyone of Japanese descent is from some kind of clan. What’s your name?” A suspicious glint entered his eyes. “You look familiar for some reason.”
“Aika Fujiwara.” You look familiar too, I thought, but I didn’t say it out loud. Frowning, I mulled over his words. Sure, maybe back hundreds of years ago Fujiwara had been a clan, but I didn’t know much about my family history. As far as I knew, I’d been born and raised here in America.
My father had died when I was little, and my mother had never remarried, so she’d raised me on her own. An unexpected pang of sadness hit me as I remembered how, when I was little, my mom had always stared at the picture of the two of them she’d kept by her bed before she turned in for the night.
She prayed for his soul every night, hoping that he had found peace in the afterlife. And I could tell from the look in her eyes whenever she talked about him that she was still deeply in love with him. She often said that if the cancer did take her, at least she would get to see him again.
“Are you all right?” Raiden asked, as my eyes began to sting. His gaze softened with concern, ruining my preconceived notion about him being an overbearing asshole.
“I’m fine.” Embarrassed, I tried to blink the tears back, but one slipped down my cheek. Angry, I swiped at it. “Why are you asking me about my family anyway?” And why was I getting so emotional? Was the recent incident with my mother bringing all these feelings back to the surface again?
“Because I wanted to know if you were from a shaman clan, since it’s obvious you can see spirits,” Raiden said matter-of-factly, as if crazy talk weren’t spewing out of his mouth. He leaned against the back of a steel refrigerator, studying me with eyes so dark they were nearly black. “I’m not familiar with the Fujiwara name, but it’s possible you could be from some obscure shaman clan that died out somewhere.”
My skin went ice-cold. “Spirits?” I echoed. “You’re trying to tell me that thing was a ghost?”
Raiden nodded. “The Kuchisake-onna,” he said. “I didn’t expect to see her around here, but I guess she migrated over somehow. I had hoped to capture her, but you screwed it up by screaming your head off when she took off the mask.”
I glared, about to protest, when suddenly the memory that had been niggling me earlier burst forward. I’d read about the Kuchisake-onna in a Japanese fairy tale book my mother had given me when I was ten—far too young, to be honest, because some of the tales were pretty gruesome.
The Kuchisake-onna was a woman whose face had been slashed open by her husband after he found out that she’d cheated on him, and she’d returned as a vengeful spirit to torment him. She carried a katana, and always either wore a mask over her face or covered it with a fan or scarf. The tale went that when she came across a man, she would ask him whether or not she was pretty. If the man said yes, she would take off her mask and ask him again. If he answered no, or screamed, she’d slash him from ear to ear so that he’d resemble her. If he said yes, she’d walk away…only to follow her victim home and brutally murder him that same night.
A win-win situation.
“How exactly were you planning on subduing her?” I asked. “Since the Kuchisake-onna kills regardless of your answer?”
“Ah, so you are familiar with the tale.” Raiden’s eyes glinted with something like approval. “There are ways to get around it by giving confusing answers that are either yes or no. The plan was to catch her off guard and use one of my own spirits to help subdue her. But I hadn’t gotten to that part yet.” His lips thinned. “She’ll probably kill someone else tonight.”
Guilt swamped me at the idea that the crazy, sword-wielding woman was still out there because of something I had done. “I just don’t understand how she can be a ghost,” I protested. “Aren’t ghosts non-corporeal?”