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The double gates opened for him, and Hiromasa caught up his wide sleeves as he stepped over the threshold. In the garden, a female shikigami waited amongst a scattering of violets, her expression polite but blank.
Hiromasa glanced towards the house. “Is Seimei at home?”
The shikigami made a gesture he couldn’t interpret then turned away.
Hiromasa trailed after her and tried again. “Seimei? Is he here?”
She looked over her shoulder and gave him a pretty smile that could mean anything, and he sighed. He wished she, or any of the other shikigami he saw occasionally in Seimei’s home, would answer his questions. Even a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ would suffice. But all they seemed to do was giggle and smile – or at least, the female shikigami did.
He couldn’t imagine why Seimei put up with it. Or rather, he could imagine why, but chose not to let his thoughts wander in that direction.
The shikigami led him through the gallery, her tread silent and her movements graceful. He admired the artful arrangement of her hair, dressed at the crown with a multitude of glittering pins, the length flowing in a straight, glossy mass down her back to coil onto the sweeping hems of her robe. Today, in deference to the heat, she wore an unlined gown of pale pink silk patterned with chrysanthemums.
Hiromasa looked at the shape of her body, aware of the gentle sway of her hips and the pale skin at her nape. Her scent, something flowery and undemanding, tickled at him. He wrinkled his nose and turned his gaze to the veranda.
In the usual place sat a sake jug and two cups. A blue fan splashed with gold lay half open and abandoned near the outermost pillar, as if its master had dropped it as he sprang up to attend to some urgent matter. Of Seimei himself, there was no sign.
Hiromasa sighed. “Where is he?”
The shikigami turned and gestured towards the sake. She smiled again; her eyes alight with a knowledge she didn’t seem prepared to share.
“Very well. I’ll just wait here.” Hiromasa edged towards the sake jug. Shikigami made him nervous, and besides, the day was warm and he was thirsty.
She dipped her head and giggled. The sound drew his attention away from the sake, and he glanced at her. Between her plump, berry-red lips he saw the tip of her tongue, then the gleam of her teeth. Only women of Seimei’s magical construction would defy the convention of carefully blackened teeth in favour of the coarse, natural shade, as white as animal fangs.
Curiosity made him bold. He glanced around and took a step closer. She watched him, still smiling. Her teeth were so white, like pearls. Fascinated, Hiromasa moved closer again. What would it feel like to touch a shikigami, to kiss one, to trace his tongue across those white teeth?
Her dark eyes gleamed. She seemed to know his thoughts, and taunted him.
He reached out, wary and tentative. As soon as he’d raised his hand, he let it fall. Hiromasa swallowed, gathered his courage, and tried again. Excitement beat through him and he held his breath, his fingers unfurling towards the shikigami’s pale face.
“You don’t need to be so hesitant. She won’t bite.”
At the sound of Seimei’s voice behind him, Hiromasa jumped back with a yelp. As he attempted to put a respectable distance between himself and the shikigami, he almost tripped over the trailing hem of his cloak.
The shikigami laughed at him, not even raising her sleeve to hide her amusement.
A blush burned its way across Hiromasa’s face as he struggled to regain his composure. He turned to Seimei. “I wasn’t… I didn’t mean any harm.”
“Curious people never mean any harm.” Seimei crossed the veranda, an open scroll in his hands, and seated himself against the pillar beside his discarded fan. He’d unfastened the sleeves of his hunting-costume. Beneath it, he wore deep blue silks layered with white and azure. He arranged the scroll across his knees and gave it his full attention.
Hiromasa looked at him for a moment. He disliked interrupting Seimei at his studies. Perhaps he should make his excuses and leave his friend in peace. Undecided, he glanced at the shikigami. She giggled and preened. Hiromasa felt better for her simple attention, and smiled at her.
“Ask permission before you touch her,” Seimei said.
With a frown, Hiromasa faced Seimei again. “Ask her, or you?”
“Really, Hiromasa.” Seimei looked up from his reading, his eyebrows quirked. “Her, of course.”
“Of course,” Hiromasa muttered beneath his breath. He turned back to the shikigami and bowed to her. “Lady, may I touch you?”
The shikigami giggled again and gave him a look he would have described as flirtatious from a human woman. It seemed enough of an affirmative. Encouraged by it, Hiromasa shook back his sleeves and reached out.
This time he felt no excitement, his emotions tempered by Seimei’s inhibiting presence. The curiosity remained, but now it was intellectual knowledge he craved rather than that of the senses.
Hiromasa murmured when he touched the shikigami’s cheek. She felt warm and vibrant. Her skin, free of powder, reminded him of the texture of orchid flesh, delicate and smooth, yet without the fragility of a flower.
She lowered her head and pressed against his fingers. Hiromasa cupped her face, his breath catching. Her lashes swept down and he felt the heat of her skin. Could shikigami blush? It felt like it, even though he could discern no change in colour on her pale face. Fascinated, his gaze dropped to her mouth. Her lips parted, pouted. Now she no longer resembled a flower, but a woman allowing a seduction.
Exhilaration quickened his pulse. Hiromasa moved closer, lifting his free hand to grasp the shikigami to him. It wasn’t enough to touch; he wanted to embrace her. She raised her head and gave him a hazy look of arousal, permitting him everything.
A heartbeat later, the shikigami folded in on herself. Her eyes widened in a brief, startled expression, and then she became a paper doll fluttering away from him.
Hiromasa followed her, his gaze fixed to the tiny white shape as it floated to the floor near Seimei’s bare feet.
“Now is your curiosity satisfied?” Seimei asked, his voice slightly arch.
“Yes.” Hiromasa knelt on the mat, still looking at the paper doll. He rubbed the pad of his thumb across his fingers and smiled. “She felt so soft! Not at all like I’d imagined.”
Seimei regarded him with amusement. “I suppose you thought she’d retain the texture of paper.”
“Paper!” Hiromasa poured sake for them both and sat back, turning the cup in his hands. “Not like paper. I thought she would feel different, though. Different to a human woman, I mean. I thought her skin would be cool, like a demon’s flesh.”
His thoughts clouded as he remembered the feel of Sukehime’s cold skin when jealousy and fear had turned her into a demon. She’d died in his arms, warm and feminine and human, but the memory he retained was not of the lovely young woman she’d once been, but the vengeful demon her emotions had made of her.
“Shikigami are not demons.” Seimei spoke abruptly, as if he was also recalling Lady Sukehime’s death. He took a sip of sake and resumed his reading.
Hiromasa leaned against the pillar behind him and gazed out at the garden. The day was languorous. The flowers drowsed in the heat, their heads heavy. He couldn’t even see Mitsumushi. He glanced sideways at the paper doll. Seimei had trapped it beneath his foot, his toes holding down the little figure by its sleeve.
The sight unnerved him. Hiromasa asked, “Where do they come from?”
“They’re around us all the time.”
“I didn’t mean that.” Hiromasa looked at him. “Their likenesses. Where do they come from? Does an azalea flower shikigami always have the same face and figure? And the ones you create from the paper dolls – they have no distinguishing features in their paper shape, so how do you make them look as real as women at court?”
Seimei marked his place on the scroll with a finger. He raised his head, a half-smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “That seems like a very roundabout way of asking me if my shikigami are based on real women.”
Hiromasa blushed. “Are they?”
“Perhaps.”
“Seimei!”
Seimei laughed and continued reading.
For a moment, Hiromasa debated the wisdom of prolonging the conversation. Since he had never claimed to be wise, he continued, “I ask only because it would make sense if they looked like women you’d known before.”
With a snap, the scroll rolled itself up. Seimei put it to one side and gave him an unreadable look. “Before what?”
Hiromasa wilted a little beneath his gaze. “Before me.”
“Ah.” Seimei pursed his lips slightly. “I remember telling you once why I have the shikigami.”
“Because it’s convenient.” Hiromasa had never forgotten the first day he’d set foot in this house. He hesitated before he added, “And you keep them around for your… personal needs.”
Seimei gave him a sharp glance. “Yes.”
The interior of his cup suddenly became very interesting. Hiromasa studied it with careful attention, admiring the colour and shine of the glaze, the reflection of light on the sake. He waited for Seimei to say something more, afraid of what he would hear but wanting to know all the same.
He darted a quick glance at Seimei and saw him pick up his fan. He closed it and ran his curled fingers the length of it, stroking his thumb over the tight-folded tip. He opened it halfway, drawing out the stiffened paper with slow deliberation.
Hiromasa felt flustered. After all this time, he didn’t know how Seimei still managed to reduce him to foolishness with just a simple gesture. Hiromasa cleared his throat, determined to regain the advantage. “There are rumours at court about you and your shikigami.”
“Oh?” Seimei’s eyebrows lifted. “So few people see my shikigami that I have to wonder who instigated these rumours.”
Hiromasa hid his wince. He’d walked into that one. He gulped all of his sake and poured a fresh cup. “They say you have relations with them.”
There. He’d said it. Hiromasa waited, his body tight with tension.
Seimei chuckled. “Why do some people feel the need to invent silly stories to justify the asking of a perfectly reasonable question?”
“Because some people don’t answer perfectly reasonable questions.”
“No. Perhaps I don’t.” Seimei’s eyes gleamed. “But perhaps I would answer if you were to admit your curiosity, prurient though it may be…”
Hiromasa slammed down his cup with enough force to slop sake over the sides. He wiped his fingers on his hakama, using the gesture to calm his shredded nerves. “Very well, I admit it. I want to know. Do you sleep with your shikigami?”
Seimei flicked open his fan to its full extent and hid behind it, laughing.
“Seimei!” Dismayed, Hiromasa took refuge in bluster. “That is not an answer.”
The laughter ended in a soft chuckle. “Why do you want to know?”
“Because…” Hiromasa stopped himself. He couldn’t tell Seimei the real reasons: Because I don’t want to think of you touching the shikigami the way I touch you; because I’m only human and they’re gods, and I’m afraid I can’t compete; because I can’t bear the thought of you with anyone else but me.
Worried that the lengthy pause would give him away, Hiromasa said, “Because I want to know what it’s like to – to sleep with a shikigami.”
“Indeed.” Seimei moved the fan to one side, his expression sober. “Well, Hiromasa.”
“Yes?”
Seimei lifted his foot and retrieved the paper doll. He held it out, balanced in the centre of his palm. “Take it home with you and find out for yourself.”
Hiromasa recoiled. “I don’t… I mean, it’s not necessary…”
The gold smudges on the fan flashed as Seimei waved it in a gentle rhythm. Cupped safe in his hand, the paper doll fidgeted in the tiny breeze.
“Minamoto no Hiromasa turning away the chance of pleasure? I’m surprised. Especially as a shikigami requires no gentle wooing, no flattering poetry, and will make no demands on you the next day.” He gave Hiromasa a sharp, glittering look. “Some might say a shikigami was the perfect bed-companion.”
“You’re being too cruel, Seimei.”
“Am I?” He set the fan in his lap and leaned forward to blow on the paper doll. It skittered forward as if dancing, then tripped gracefully and fluttered from his palm.
Hiromasa snatched it before it could drop onto the floor. He righted it and pushed the doll away from him. “It was wrong of me to ask you such a personal question.”
Seimei made an amused sound.
“Can we talk about something else, please?”
“Certainly. It was not my decision to discuss sexual relations with shikigami.”
A blush rose to his face, but Hiromasa refused to respond to Seimei’s gentle baiting. Instead, he changed the subject. “Did you hear about the spirit haunting the drum tower near the southern gate?”
“Of course. I told it to go there.”
“You…?” Hiromasa stared at him until Seimei raised his eyebrows and smiled. Perceiving a joke – or perhaps it wasn’t, Hiromasa often couldn’t tell – he laughed and allowed himself to relax.
The rest of the afternoon passed pleasantly in conversation and silence and drinking. The heat grew intense, then lessened with the approach of evening. The flowers shook off their torpor and reached upwards, greedy for the softer light and the cool breeze. Mitsumushi ventured out into the garden in human form, her white outer robe whispering over the paths as she walked.
At length Hiromasa gave a sigh. “Well, Seimei. I should go home now.” He paused, letting the silence settle around them. He waited for an invitation to stay. Although the afternoon had been too warm to make love, the evening would be perfect. He hadn’t come here to bed Seimei, but the sweetness in the air from the waking flowers made him long for the generous, sensual affection of a lover’s touch.
Hiromasa waited a moment longer, but Seimei gave no indication of sharing his desire. He seemed wholly unaware of the delicate hint, picking up the scroll beside him and turning back to his reading.
Disappointed, Hiromasa rose to his feet and fussed with the folds of his cloak. “Goodnight, Seimei.”
“Goodnight, Hiromasa.” He didn’t look up.
Another pause, and then Hiromasa accepted his dismissal. He turned away, his footsteps slow and grudging as he walked towards the gallery. The polished wooden floor retained the heat of the day, and he lifted his bare feet in haste.
“Hiromasa.” Seimei summoned him back, his voice smoky. “You forgot something.”
Puzzled, he swung around. “I did?”
Seimei indicated the paper doll. It stood upright, its arms raised.
“Oh.” Hiromasa gazed at it, then at Seimei. “But… no. Thank you. It’s quite all right. I don’t need to know.” He resumed walking.
“You will only have this opportunity once,” Seimei called, a thread of laughter in his voice. “And what an opportunity it is!”
Hiromasa stopped, needled by the comment. Without turning around, he snapped, “Sex is sex, Seimei. It doesn’t matter with whom or what. It’s still just sex.”
As soon as he’d said it, Hiromasa wished he could take back his words. He closed his eyes, appalled by his insensitivity. Before he had the chance to form an apology, Seimei stood and walked towards him. The unfastened sleeves of his hunting-costume trailed behind him, the raking early evening light catching on the patterned white silk.
Hiromasa looked at him, helpless. To his relief, it appeared that no offence had been taken at his idiotic remark. His expression as blank as the paper doll he held, Seimei leaned closer and tucked it inside Hiromasa’s cloak.
“I don’t…”
Seimei put a finger against his lips, and Hiromasa fell silent.
“Take it.” Seimei’s tone was soft, emphatic. He held Hiromasa’s gaze as he stepped back. “Shikigami know your greatest desires. That is what makes them the perfect bed-companions.”
Hiromasa stared at him. His greatest desires. He groped for the paper doll and imprisoned it, crumpling it within his hand. He swallowed, crushing the paper tighter, and forced a smile to his lips. “Goodnight, Seimei.”
“Goodnight.”
The evening air cooled his burning skin. Hiromasa stumbled through the shrubs, his hand still clutched tight around the paper doll. He ignored Mitsumushi’s cheerful call of farewell, intent only on leaving Seimei’s garden.
As soon as the double doors to the estate swung shut behind him, he breathed out a sigh and pulled his hand from within his cloak. His servants busied themselves with the ox-cart, giving him time to examine the paper doll. It seemed harmless, sadly crumpled and creased. He felt guilty for damaging it, then reminded himself it was only paper. On its own, without Seimei, it had no magic. It was just a cut-out figure. It was nothing.
Hiromasa threw it onto the road. He climbed into his ox-cart then pulled back the curtain and peeped out. The paper doll lay in the dust, a forlorn shape. A breeze tickled over it, making it flitter. Its arms seemed to lift towards him, as if imploring him to come back.
He let the curtain drop. It was only a paper doll.
Hiromasa arrived home in time for the evening rice. He ate from habit rather than hunger then retired to his private rooms. On his desk, letters awaited his attention. He chose one at random, attracted by the colour and texture of the paper. The message it contained was commonplace, an invitation to dine with a fourth rank nobleman who had a young and allegedly pretty daughter. The request seemed unworthy of the paper it was written on, and he dropped it onto his desk with a sigh.
His elderly chief manservant shuffled into the room and stood behind the concealing drape of the standing curtains. “Lord, your bath is ready.”
“Very well.” Hiromasa took off his court cap and placed it on top of the abandoned letter. He stood, and the manservant came closer to help him out of the soft folds of his robes. It was an impersonal service, something Hiromasa took for granted. His thoughts fixed themselves elsewhere, and his manservant had to speak to him several times before his attention snapped into focus.
“Lord?” The manservant held up the crumpled, dusty form of the paper doll.
Hiromasa jerked backwards. He exclaimed, his breath hissing out in a short burst, and then he snatched the paper doll.
The manservant looked puzzled. “What is it, lord? Maybe a charm from the yin yang master?”
This gave Hiromasa pause. He didn’t know what magic Seimei had wrought upon the shikigami. The fact that it had managed to follow him here, that it had crept into the breast of his robes, suggested it had more power than he’d expected. Troubled by its presence, he held it by its wide sleeves and stared at its blank face.
An idea came to him. He crouched, cleared off his desk, and prepared ink. Taking a sheet of thin, pale green paper, he wrote: You are too generous. He didn’t frame his message with a poem. Seimei had no need for poetry.
Hiromasa blew across the wet ink. When it was dry, he rolled the paper doll inside the letter and twisted both ends.
“Honeysuckle,” he said. “Fetch me a whole twine of honeysuckle.”
The manservant went outside and returned bearing an armful of the golden and pink flowers. They’d opened in the heat, their perfume evening-sweet, staining the air around him. Hiromasa selected one too many blooms and attached them by their curling tendrils to the letter.
He called for a pageboy and instructed him to run at once to Seimei’s residence before the city gates closed for the night. “Put this letter into his hands,” Hiromasa said. “There will be no reply.”
The pageboy took the letter with a doubtful glance at the profusion of flowers. As he carried it away, Hiromasa called after him: “If Abe no Seimei is not at home, toss the letter over the wall of his estate.”
Satisfied with his plan, Hiromasa continued readying himself for his bath. Dressed only in his under-robe, he entered the bathing room. The servants retreated behind screens, murmuring to one another as they unfolded drying-cloths and fussed with fresh garments. Hiromasa slipped out of his robe and climbed into the tub, sinking into its hot embrace with a sound of pleasure.
Rose petals floated on the surface of the water. He stared at them. It was customary to perfume a bath with fresh or dried flowers, but now all he could think of were shikigami. What if the rose petals became women? He pressed against the side of the tub, his pulse accelerating more from panic than heat. His limbs weakened, the water dragging him down. A pink petal drifted towards him, closer and closer…
With a cry, he splashed water at it. Instead of driving it back, the motion brought the petal closer still. It stuck to his arm. Hiromasa peeled it from his skin and flung it to the floor with a hiss of disgust.
No doubt attracted by the noise, his servants peered around the edges of the screens. “Lord,” one of them called after a brief pause, “is there a problem with your bath?”
“Yes! The rose petals!” Hiromasa drew his arms across the surface of the water, scooping up the petals and scraping them over the side of the tub. “Get rid of them!”
Two servants hurried forward. One cleared the wet petals from the floor, while the other stood like a heron, making sharp, snatching motions at the water to catch the rest. Only when every last petal had been removed from his bath did Hiromasa relax.
His chief manservant approached the tub, a comb in one hand. “Afraid of rose petals, lord?”
The old man had been with him since Hiromasa’s childhood, which gave him a certain freedom of speech, but now Hiromasa scowled. He did not have to explain himself to a servant. Instead, he leaned back against the side of the tub and let the manservant unbind his hair.
He sank lower into the water until it touched his chin. His hair furled down around his shoulders, still slick with the oil used to dress it and damp with moisture from the bath. The manservant began to comb it out with short, smooth strokes.
Hiromasa ignored the few tugs at his scalp. He sat motionless, absorbing the steam from the bath. Sweat ran into the corners of his mouth. The heat blurred his vision like tears. Somnolence settled over him.
He should not have spoken to Seimei so rudely. It was not just the subject of the shikigami that made him regret his words. In truth, whom Seimei took to his bed was none of his business. The shikigami conversation had been bad enough – but to compound that error with an insult… that was unforgivable.
It had also been a lie. Love was different with Seimei. Sex was different with Seimei, exciting and unexpected, inventive and emotional. Schooled in the ways of polite lovemaking, told that the pursuit was more intriguing than the capture, Hiromasa brought all his preconceptions to bed with him. Seimei, wild, untrammelled, half animal, taught him an appreciation of pleasure and showed him that, with some lovers, the capture was merely the start of the pursuit.
But sometimes he wished for something more. Sometimes he sensed not a reticence, for Seimei could never be reticent in bed, but a distancing between them, even when they were joined. In those moments, Hiromasa felt lonely. His courtly notions of sharing seemed inadequate, and he felt as if somehow he was cheating Seimei, taking his generosity and repaying it in the most superficial manner.
With Seimei, Hiromasa longed for constancy and dreaded it at the same time. At court, opportunity waited behind every screen, peeped over every fan. To refuse such offers would be rude, a flouting of convention, yet no matter how many women he satisfied, still his satisfaction came from only one man. He saw jealousy in others, but had never suffered it until he knew Seimei. He wanted to tame the untameable, understand the unknowable; yet such thoughts frightened him.
He had never felt confusion before he knew Seimei. Perhaps he had never really known desire before Seimei, too. This was why he feared what the shikigami would offer him. His greatest desire was also his greatest fear.
A sharp pull at his hair shocked him out of his reverie. He snarled, his reaction angry enough to make the elderly manservant step away. Hiromasa ducked beneath the water, washing away his thoughts. He stayed under, his eyes open, until his chest felt tight; then he surfaced, gasping, his eyes closed.
“Lord,” murmured the manservant, coaxing him back to the side of the tub.
Hiromasa obeyed, his mind quiet now. He let the old man wash his hair and comb it out again. As his body softened into relaxation once more, a small commotion at the door drew his attention.
“What is it?” he called.
Voices whispered, urgent and uncertain. When Hiromasa repeated his question, the pageboy crept around the screen and knelt, his hands pressed against his chest. His breath wheezed; the lad must have run back from Seimei’s house.
Hiromasa gave him an encouraging smile. “Did you deliver the letter?”
The pageboy dropped his gaze and addressed the floor. “Lord, the gate was shut. I knocked, but no one came to answer me.”
Water splashed as Hiromasa moved. “And then?”
“I did as you commanded, lord. I threw the message over the wall.”
“Good.”
“But, lord… something else…” The boy raised his head. He looked terrified. “When I returned here, I found the letter pinned to the door.”
A sound like the wind through empty branches passed between the servants. Even the chief manservant paused in dressing Hiromasa’s hair and muttered something.
Hiromasa stared at the pageboy. He laughed. “Come, lad. You’re making a joke, yes? Letters do not deliver themselves. You didn’t go to Lord Seimei’s house, did you? You had the message with you all this time. What was it – you were distracted by a lady, perhaps, or one of your friends wanted your company…”
The boy shook his head, tears brimming in his eyes. “No, lord! I did as you asked: I took the letter to the house of the yin yang master and threw it over the wall. The guards at the gate will tell you – one scolded me for being outside after sundown. I came back and found the letter here. On your door.”
He reached inside the breast of his robes and pulled out the letter. Hiromasa signalled, and the boy came forward, proffering the message. His hands trembled.
Hiromasa took the twisted green paper, heedless of the blossoming patches of damp from his wet fingers. A sprig of violets had replaced the honeysuckle. When he lifted it to his nose, the memory of the honeysuckle’s fragrance still clung to them, overlaying the subtle scent of the violets.
He discarded the flowers and unfastened the letter. The paper doll was missing. Beneath the line he’d written was Seimei’s response, in elegant running script: I insist.
Hiromasa sat back in the tub, the message clutched in his hands. Water splashed. The ink blurred and spread, blossoming in the wet paper. He crushed the letter into a ball and threw it aside. “No, Seimei. This time I’m not playing.”
He dismissed the pageboy, then rose from the bath and allowed his manservant to wrap the drying-cloth around him. The other servants slid out from behind the screens, bringing with them a selection of robes. Mindful of the warmth of the evening, he chose the pine-leaf green combination in gossamer and figured silks.
As his manservant finished dressing him, one of his mother’s sharp-tongued maids entered the room and spoke from behind her fan. “Your guest is waiting, lord.”
“Guest?” Hiromasa raised his eyebrows. “I’m not expecting any guests.”
“Oh, but surely…” The maid paused. She seemed flustered. “The lady wearing the chrysanthemum robe. I took the liberty of sending refreshments…”
Hiromasa bolted from the room.
The shikigami rose to her feet when he strode into his sleeping quarters. A dish of small delicacies sat untouched in front of her. Despite his anger, Hiromasa was diverted – did shikigami need to eat? He pushed away the thought and faced her.
With the blinds already lowered and the standing curtains arranged to give him privacy, the room seemed small, filled with shadows. Perhaps he should have called for lamps, but of course the servants would expect him to enjoy this tryst in half-light and darkness. After all, it was not necessary to see what one was doing.
The shikigami smiled, as lovely and bewitching in the deepening twilight as she’d been in full sunlight on Seimei’s veranda. Unable to stop himself, Hiromasa went closer and touched her, just as he’d done then: stroked her cheek, caressed the silk over one shoulder with the lightest gesture.
He stepped back. “I don’t even know how to address you, lady.”
Her smile warmed, but she remained silent.
Hiromasa turned away. He crossed to the thin curtains concealing his sleeping mat and touched them, feeling them flutter beneath his fingers. “Please don’t be offended, lady, but… this isn’t what I want.” He sighed, both weary and relieved. “My greatest desire, he said. Well, so much for that. Even Abe no Seimei can get things wrong.”
He chuckled, more at himself than at the shikigami. He faced her. “You should go, lady. You’re…”
Hiromasa stopped. The lady in the chrysanthemum robe had gone. In her place stood Seimei.
He wore only three layers of silk, the same white and red robes he’d worn that day in Izumo village. Without the long ceremonial hakama and the gauzy white jacket and train, he looked almost as he’d done before he’d effected his transformation to represent Ame no Uzume.
Hiromasa swallowed. “Seimei?”
No response. Silence pooled between them.
With a shaking sigh, Hiromasa realised his mistake. The real Seimei would not appear before him half-dressed like this. It must be the shikigami, adapting to his thoughts – to his greatest desire.
The breath caught in his throat. Hiromasa stumbled backwards, raising his hands as if to protect himself. He halted, bemused by his own reactions. Why should he be afraid of his greatest desire? If this was a shikigami, his only purpose was to bring Hiromasa pleasure. He would anticipate his every wish.
Hiromasa straightened, his confidence returning. He moved towards the Seimei-shikigami and examined the floor with care. He needed to be certain. After walking all the way around the shikigami, he couldn’t find the paper doll anywhere; therefore, the paper doll now stood in front of him in Seimei’s shape.
The shikigami looked at him, a hint of placid curiosity in his eyes. This more than anything else convinced Hiromasa that the shikigami couldn’t be Seimei. The real Seimei would have laughed at him by now.
Pleased with his reasoning, Hiromasa folded his arms and surveyed the shikigami. The robes lay snug against Seimei’s body, displaying a splash of red at the throat and inside the wide sleeves. The sash wrapped tight around his narrow waist, the silks drawn close across his thighs. Without the formal outerwear, Seimei looked vulnerable.
Impressed at the creature’s ability to present him with exactly what he’d always wanted, nevertheless he felt a flicker of disappointment that the ideal wasn’t yet complete.
“Seimei,” he said, savouring the name. “Take down your hair.”
A ripple of amusement seemed to stir Seimei, but before Hiromasa could focus his suspicions on it, the moment passed.
Still silent, Seimei lowered his gaze as he reached up to unfasten his topknot. The tie came loose. He shook his head and his hair spilled down over his shoulders. Strands of smoky black brushed over his face and caught on his mouth.
He looked up and fixed his gaze on Hiromasa. For a moment he looked wild, and Hiromasa swallowed hard. Then Seimei smiled and stroked his fingers at the edge of his mouth, freeing the strands of hair. The tip of his tongue touched his lower lip, the gesture almost flirtatious.
Hiromasa stared. He remembered the female shikigami and her white teeth. Perhaps all shikigami had beautiful, seductive mouths. They did not speak, but their lips still promised pleasure.
Seimei took a step towards him.
“Seimei.” Hiromasa backed away. He hadn’t expected the shikigami to take an active role in this. Nervous anticipation tightened his belly as he catalogued all the secret desires he’d been harbouring ever since he and Seimei became lovers. Which one would the shikigami choose?
Hiromasa felt hot and flustered. He trod on the end of one of the bed-curtains, the fabric slippery between his bare feet and the polished wooden floor. He wobbled, unbalanced for a moment, and clutched at the curtain, hiding behind it. He watched, half-veiled, as Seimei prowled towards him, chin down, gaze intense.
A soft sound escaped Hiromasa’s throat. It made Seimei stop and lift his head, his eyes widening briefly. Hiromasa had the sudden impression that he was being hunted. The idea made his mouth dry, and he swallowed hard. He retreated, not turning his back, and put the space of the bed between them.
The curtains stirred and drifted at his movement. Hiromasa gave a small laugh, an exhalation part excitement and part panic. The sheer silk clouded his reality, made this seem like a dream. He felt safe behind the curtains, buoyed by the confidence of an illusion. “Seimei!” he whispered in challenge. “What do you want?”
“Want,” said the Seimei-shikigami, the word a purr.
Hiromasa blinked. Why hadn’t he thought of that before? Seimei’s male shikigami did talk. Not much, but enough, even if it was in imitation of another’s words. Conversation seemed safe; Hiromasa wanted to prolong the moment, to spin out his arousal just a little while longer.
“Seimei.” He touched the sheer curtain with both hands, excited by his own brazenness. “Come here.”
Seimei paused, as if deciding what to do. Hiromasa expected him to dart around the outside of the bed, and readied himself to run in the opposite direction. Then the shikigami snorted, sounding so much like the real Seimei that Hiromasa felt his doubts resurfacing.
All thought fled as Seimei took his fan from his sleeve and used it to part the curtains on the opposite side of the sleeping mat. He slipped inside, letting the fabric flutter behind him. Shadows wove around his body and wrapped into his hair, as if he brought the twilight with him.
“Hiromasa.” His tone was playful. He opened the fan and half hid behind it, his eyes gleaming. Carefully, he moved around the sleeping mat as if dancing, his feet light, barely even touching the floor.
The curtains shivered as he brushed against them. Hiromasa felt the fabric ripple beneath his fingers. He knew he should step back to encourage pursuit, but he stood still, waiting, trusting the thin barrier of the remaining curtain to protect him.
Seimei stood before him, the curtain and the fan separating them. Hiromasa couldn’t meet his gaze, afraid of the demand he read there. He stared at the fan, blue with splashes of gold. A shock went through him – the shikigami had taken Seimei’s favourite fan. Or was it simply an illusion too, and the real fan was with the real Seimei?
Hiromasa frowned, bewildered. As if sensing his confusion, Seimei lowered the fan and took a step closer to the curtain. They touched. Seimei lifted his chin, his gaze fixed on Hiromasa’s mouth. The thin fabric still hung between them. Hiromasa didn’t know what to do, whether he should move back or sweep aside the curtain or…
Seimei kissed him. A gentle kiss, a smudge of pressure through the sheer silk. Hiromasa drew in his breath, startled. Seimei kissed him again, demanding a response. The silk shirred over his lips and came away damp.
Hiromasa didn’t like the barrier between them. He tried to tug at the curtain, but Seimei made a negative sound and kissed him a third time. Hiromasa followed his lead, parting his lips to the kiss. Seimei licked at his mouth, wetting the silk further. Hiromasa tasted the grain of the fabric. It rubbed against him, denying him the taste of Seimei.
Impatient, he tried to grasp Seimei through the curtain. He heard the snap of the fan closing, and felt it prod him away. Hiromasa backed off a little, until Seimei held the fan upright. He stopped, watching the fan. It dipped sharply, the command unmistakable.
Hiromasa obeyed, sinking to his knees. His pulse beat loud in his ears, the darkness edging around him and making him feel too warm, too aware.
Seimei knelt on the sleeping mat. He opened the fan and beckoned with it, drawing Hiromasa closer with a series of long, slow motions. Hiromasa shuffled towards the curtain, wondering if he could lift it and crawl inside. When he put his hands on the fabric, the fan stopped moving.
Hiromasa glanced at Seimei. “I want to touch you.”
The gold on the fan seemed to shimmer. The shikigami smiled, foxy and certain. “I will touch you.”
The fan lowered, caught the ends of the curtain, and raised it. Hiromasa watched the sheer fabric inch upwards, staring at Seimei as he removed the veil between them. Soon he could wait no longer. Ducking his head, Hiromasa crawled beneath the curtain and knelt with Seimei on the mat.
The fan dropped to the floor. The curtains fell back into place, stirring the shadows around them. Hiromasa felt suffocated by the closeness. He tried to assert himself. “Now,” he said. “Now, Seimei, you are mine.”
“Mine,” repeated the shikigami, but his tone was different, the inference different.
Arousal lit through him. Hiromasa reached out and pulled at the front of Seimei’s robes, trying to loosen them. He stared at Seimei’s throat, so pale even in the twilight. He wanted to kiss him again.
Surely he was obvious. Seimei anticipated him, kneeling forward. The outer robe fell open across his thighs, revealing the red silk beneath. Hiromasa touched him, greatly daring, first his leg and then his neck, his hair, the side of his face. He felt different to the female shikigami, his skin not as delicate but still so warm, so alive.
“Kiss,” said Seimei, and it was a command.
Again Hiromasa obeyed. Unfettered by the silk, Seimei’s kisses were soft, dizzying. Hiromasa swayed into his arms, cut by an aching sharpness, a pain so sweet it ceased to be pain.
When they parted, Hiromasa whispered, “Say my name.”
Seimei looked at him. “Hiromasa.”
He gasped, feeling the power of it strike through him. “Again.”
“Hiromasa.” This time, Seimei said it in a different tone: softer, deeper.
“Please.” Hiromasa felt dazed. “I need you.”
Seimei laughed. His eyes flashed, hot with desire as he undressed Hiromasa. His hands caught in the layers of figured and gossamer silk, his fingers touching and caressing naked skin as it was revealed.
Swept along, transfixed, Hiromasa gasped when Seimei unfastened his under-robe and trailed kisses along his collarbone. Hiromasa let his head tilt back, clinging to the shikigami with a whimper as he felt Seimei kiss over his chest to graze a nipple with the edge of his teeth.
Hiromasa’s cock throbbed, full and hard. He rubbed against Seimei, willing to go further, to learn more. He held his breath as Seimei pushed him back against the discarded clothing. Hiromasa squirmed, inhaling the smell of him; no longer the light flowery scent the female shikigami had worn, but now deep and masculine, almost feral. It smothered him, stole his breath. Fox in rut, he wanted to say, but when he opened his mouth, the only sound to emerge was a moan of need.
Seimei balanced his weight over him, pinning him down. Hiromasa went still, unable to decide whether to submit or struggle. A sudden fear made him tremble. For all his experience in lovemaking, he was new to this, his body untried in this particular act.
As if he could read his mind, Seimei made a soft, reassuring noise
Hiromasa exhaled a panicked breath. Seimei felt warm and strong on top of him. Their bodies aligned, rocking against one another, Hiromasa’s erection dragging at Seimei’s silk-clad thighs. The reality of his surrender, the heat and smell of it, made Hiromasa crave more. He forgot his fear and focused on pure sensation.
He watched as Seimei slid a hand the length of his body. Hiromasa became aware of his skin, his shape. He thought he knew himself, but now it felt as if he was being remade, given a new form mapped out by pleasure.
He squirmed beneath the shikigami, shameless with need. Seimei rolled them onto their sides, facing one another. He kept hold of Hiromasa, not permitting him to wriggle free of the embrace. Even in the semi-darkness, Hiromasa saw his smile; saw the warm, affectionate expression in his eyes. In that moment, he looked almost human.
It was so unexpected that Hiromasa gasped. Had he been wrong? Perhaps this wasn’t a shikigami at all, but the real Seimei. The thought made him shiver. He couldn’t give so much of himself to Seimei. His lover had to be a shikigami, a perfect fantasy that wouldn’t judge him, smirk at him or tease him when daylight came.
His doubts retreated. Hiromasa made a sound of desperation when Seimei touched his cock and caressed the weight of his balls. Hiromasa nudged closer, hips rolling, his breath panting from him in sharp, staccato bursts. Seimei seemed to know exactly how to touch him. The shikigami’s hand slid below his balls, stroking at the sensitive patch of skin behind.
Hiromasa cried out, pressing nearer. He closed his eyes, gritting his teeth on the sensation building inside him, drowning in pleasure. He felt Seimei dance his fingers delicately over his arse, cupping and squeezing. With a groan of need, Hiromasa turned onto his belly, silently asking Seimei to cover and claim him with his body.
Seimei murmured, his voice a ticklish caress on the back of his neck. “Hiromasa.”
He kissed the nape of Hiromasa’s neck, licking at the muscles worn tight with tension. Hiromasa groaned as he felt a hand slip lower; as strong, determined fingers slid between his buttocks. He didn’t trust himself to speak, afraid of what he’d say, but a steady stream of helpless, hungry sounds tumbled from his lips as he begged for more.
Silk whispered. Fabric slipped against the back of his thighs as the shikigami loosened his clothes. Seimei slid a hand beneath Hiromasa’s hips and circled his cock in a tight grip, forcing him to raise himself higher in offering.
He gasped, his anxiety returning when he felt Seimei’s hot, hard erection against his naked skin. He felt a warm smudge of wetness and jerked his head up, his heart hammering. His hands curled into the pile of discarded clothing, clutching tight.
Seimei moved over him, the head of his cock nudging between Hiromasa’s buttocks. Hiromasa bit back a moan, only to squeak at the feel of something cool and liquid smoothed over him – oil, he supposed, although where the shikigami had summoned it from he didn’t know and didn’t care.
Hiromasa mewled when Seimei squeezed his cock. He bucked upwards and felt the shikigami’s erection press against him. “Oh, Seimei,” he groaned, the words forced out of him as Seimei entered his body with two sharp thrusts.
Flattening his hands on the tangle of his clothes, Hiromasa pushed back against the intrusion, spreading himself wider. He breathed, concentrating on the new awareness of his body, until Seimei nudged deeper with a rumble of satisfaction.
The sensation stunned him, robbing Hiromasa of speech. It felt uncomfortable and strange, stretched and burning, but the discomfort was somehow exciting. He turned his head to one side and glimpsed the concentration on Seimei’s face; saw the long spill of sweat-dampened hair over loosened robes of white and red.
His heart contracted in fear and desire. “Seimei…”
“Hush.”
Seimei began to move, cautious and gentle at first and then with increasing ferocity. Hiromasa surged back to meet each thrust, encouraging more, harder, deeper. The shikigami tugged at his cock, the motion without any of the elegance he knew from the real Seimei – but Hiromasa didn’t care. It felt good, his body shaking, his breath panting out of him. Sweat stung his eyes. He closed them; wanting to feel, not see.
Seimei set a relentless pace, forcing them both onwards. Hiromasa hadn’t expected to feel so full, so vulnerable, so out of control. Pleasure dragged at him, made him heady. He gasped, tensing his body around Seimei’s cock and hearing him growl, feeling him react.
The thrusts steepened. Hiromasa yelped as liquid heat filled him. Seimei’s hand tightened around him. The pleasure intensified as he rode out the shikigami’s orgasm, and then he was coming, his seed pulsing out of him in a sudden rush.
Hiromasa slumped forward, shuddering with the aftershocks. He felt sticky wetness over his belly and thighs. It smeared into the fine silks beneath him. He didn’t care. His thoughts chased dizzily around his head as he groped towards reason.
He’d feared losing himself to Seimei. Now he knew he feared the impossible. He could never lose himself when Seimei offered only completion.
Hiromasa gasped, his heart pounding so fast he thought he must be near death. He lay still, fractured with pleasure, and floated. Distantly, he was aware of Seimei moving from him. He heard a gentle sigh and the susurrus of silk. Seimei lay on his back beside him. He radiated warmth, his skin damp with sweat. Hiromasa turned towards his heat, fitting tight against Seimei’s body. He mumbled something and grasped at Seimei’s hair, urging him closer.
Seimei chuckled. “Hiromasa,” he murmured, his voice tender, “is this just sex?”
The words had meaning, but his mind couldn’t focus on them. Hiromasa tried to fight against the sensations clouding him, tried to remember where he’d heard that phrase before. His head swam, tip-tilting into exhaustion.
“Seimei,” he whispered. He closed his fingers tighter around the length of hair, pressing it to his cheek. It felt soft, animal. He sighed. “Seimei…”
Sleep took him with more delicacy than his lover had shown him.
When he woke next morning, Hiromasa searched beneath the stained and tangled layers of his robes for the paper doll.
He searched in vain.