Leader of the Onryo.
I tilt my head slightly and offer a thin smile.
“I’m honored the Onryo came all this way for me.”
Her gaze doesn’t waver.
“We will see,” Tomoe says calmly, her voice carrying without effort, “if you are honorable enough forthe Onryo.”
A presence shifts on my level.
One woman steps forward from between the columns. All white. A fitted jumpsuit instead of a kimono, practical and unadorned. Bare feet. Katana already in her hands, blade angled down. She says nothing.
We circle.
The air tightens. Every sound sharpens. I can feel Tomoe watching, measuring every breath, every shift of weight.
The woman moves first.
Fast.
She doesn’t slash. She reaches. Hands going for my shoulders, my balance, my throat. Control before death.
I spin with her momentum, shrugging out of my jacket as her grip closes on leather instead of me. My hand snaps to her wrist in the same breath.
Steel flashes.
I wrench the katana free, step inside her reach, and drive the blade straight through her chest.
Her breath leaves her in a sharp, startled sound as the tip punches out between her shoulders. For half a second, discipline cracks.
Then she collapses at my feet, blood blooming vivid against white.
I don’t look away.
Above me, Tomoe studies the scene.
Then, just barely, her mouth curves.
“You, Saint James,” she says, “are honorable to battle the Onryo.”
She inclines her head in a slight bow.
Elevators begin to ding.
One.
Two.
Many.
Doors slide open along both levels of the atrium. Soft footsteps follow. Controlled. Measured. The whisper of fabric, the quiet draw of steel. They arrive without haste, without chaos, flowing into position like something practiced a thousand times.
I glance down at the woman at my feet, then back up.
“I thought thatwasthe fight.”
Tomoe’s faint smile grows, just a fraction.
