Toru regarded him through the eyeholes of his mask. Tadasu Fumihiro was forty-two, a former student. He had watched Tadasu grow since his teen years, mentoring him through the levels of the Kakureta Kao as it struggled back from extinction. He had earned the position of temple guard but showed promise of so much more, which was why Toru had selected him for a mission so critical to the future of the Order.
"You must stay close to this. The Order is depending on you to guarantee its future. If this man finds it… you know what must be done."
"I do, sensei. I shall not fail."
"I have faith in you. And good news for you. Shiro has located the final ingredient for the ekisu."
After regaining the sacred scrolls, Toru had sent out the Order's acolytes and any guards who could be spared—and who could show their faces—to scour the city for the ingredients to make the elixir that would create the Kuroikaze—the Black Wind.
Tadasu grinned and bowed to the acolyte half his age. "Most excellent!"
Shiro returned the bow. "I am honored to be of service."
Tadasu's hair was longer than Shiro's, but the two were so similar they could have been father and son.
Tadasu said, "This means that the Order can once again wield the Kuroikaze!"
Toru hoped so. He knew of only one way to be sure.
"Yes. Even as we speak, the ekisu is being prepared in accordance with the instructions in the scrolls. We must test it as soon as possible. For that we will need a shoten. The two of you go, search the city. Find someone sickly, someone with low vitality, and—most important of all—someone who will not be missed."
He followed the pair out of the classroom and returned to his quarters. He locked the door and removed the embroidered red silk mask from the folds of skin the surgeons had created in the four corners of his face. This had been done when he'd entered the Fifth Circle of the Kakureta Kao and took the Vow of the Hidden Face. No one ever again would see his face.
The Fifth Circle… where he had gained the folds and lost his testicles. A small price to pay, hardly a price at all, especially considering how long ago he had sworn off pleasures of the flesh.
As a sensei, he would not be allowed to progress beyond the Fifth Circle for many years to come. He needed all of his senses to be an effective teacher.
He stepped to the open window and let the breeze caress his face. Even though it carried a faint, sour tang of garbage, it felt refreshing. Yes, he'd made the vow, but sometimes he became weary of looking at the world through two eyeholes.
He stared across the flat lowlands and highways to the huge mounds of the Fresh Kills landfill surrounding the Order's temple.
Temple… a term used loosely in this case. Toru had seen photos of the beautiful five-story pagoda in the heart of Tokyo that served as home to the Kakureta Kao until the World War II fire bombings. People high and low had feared and venerated the Order. And then it had been destroyed.
Even after all these years, the Order remained a mere shell of its former self. This old, boxy, two-story schoolhouse on condemned ground was all it could afford. The toxins supposedly had been cleared but still no one wanted to live here. But the Order cared naught about toxins, and the building's bargain price was all their depleted coffers could afford.
How the mighty had fallen.
But the Kakureta Kao would regain its former status. The Seers said so. And they said that New York City was where its resurgence would begin.
Toru hated this barbaric country whose commercialism had reached across an ocean and tainted his homeland's culture. But he believed the Seers. As did the Elders. And so here the Order would stay.
But the Seers had said the Kakureta Kao would not rise unless it regained the scrolls and the blade that had caused their downfall. The scrolls they had, but they must control the blade if they were ever to regain their ancient status.
Blume's.
Dawn was in total heaven—six floors of paradise on Fifth Avenue. She'd spent the entire afternoon here. She'd never been able to afford Blume's on her allowance and what she'd earned at the diner.
With Henry never far away, she'd touched, caressed, tried on, and bought—on Mr. Osala's dime, of course. She'd even gone to the designer floor, intending to see how far she could push this free ride—to find the limit of Mr. Osala's largesse. A sales clerk named Rolf had shown her around, but when she saw the prices, she'd lost her nerve.
The things she'd ordered would be delivered.
She also enjoyed the sidelong glances from the other shoppers at her pak chadar. Kind of cool, in a way, like playing hide and seek, or spying. She could see their expressions but they couldn't see hers. She'd totally stuck her tongue out at a couple of old biddies and they hadn't a clue.
Better fun was raising a ton of eyebrows when she'd picked out a skimpy scarlet teddiette and taken it to a dressing room. Not like she'd had any intention of trying it on, let alone buying it; she'd just wanted to set tongues a-wagging. And she had. She'd heard the sales desk buzzing as she headed for the changing area.
She dragged Henry up to Fifty-seventh for a late-afternoon snack—totally tricky with the veil.
After that Henry informed her that it was time to go.
Bummer.
As they waited for the car—Henry had been adamant about using it instead of a cab for the short trip—Dawn saw a scruffy-looking man pasting a Day-Glo orange flyer on a nearby wall. The bold black letters caught her eye.
She stepped closer and saw someone was offering a five-thousand-dollar reward. It listed an 800 number.
And then she saw the name: DAWN PICKERING.
And then she saw the picture: hers.
"Oh, my God!"
The guy turned and gave her a quick up-and-down inspection. He had scraggly hair and needed a shave. He squinted at her, scowling. A button in his shirt read, ASK ME ABOUT THE KICKER EVOLUTION.
"Yo. You mean, 'Oh, my Allah,' right?"
Fighting waves of shock and nausea, Dawn pointed a trembling finger at the flyer. "Wh-who's looking for that girl?"
The guy's eyes narrowed. "Why? You know her?"
With no thought on her part, a reply leaped from her lips. "No. No, of course not. It's just…" Think, Dawn. "Was she… was she like kidnapped or something?"
"Or something. All we know is she's gone. She's out there alone and afraid and we want to help her."
That sounded memorized. "Who's 'we'?"
"Why, the Kickers, of course." He held up the back of his hand to show her the little stick figure tattooed on the thumb web. "We're out here just doing our part."
Dawn stifled a gasp. Jerry had had one of those.
"What are you going to do when you find her?"
"Return her to her home and protect her."
"From what?"
"From anything that wants to hurt her and her baby."