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Mai and Momo settled into the central row of the auction house, nestled beyond the low light's outer edge. Mai crossed her legs at the ankle. In the dark, she indulged in the sleekness of her pencil skirt and the warmth of Momo at her side.
Alongside the collection of legitimate paintings, Momo had submitted a single forgery. She told the same story as always: she recovered the canvas from obscurity during her travels. This time, it was in the style of Shima Seien.
None of their buyers had raised an alarm, but Mai figured it was only a matter of time. As much as she treasured this new life of globetrotting, she'd lived on less. It would all catch up to them, the assets would be seized, and they'd be on the run again. While Mai saw no point despairing over the inevitable, it was Momo she worried about.
To the untrained eye, Momo was the picture of professionalism. Head held high, blouse ironed. It was only in the tightness of her mouth that Mai saw the discomfort.
Mai pressed her shoulder against Momo's. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched the tightness melt away and chuckled to herself. So easy to please.
At this auction house, art was sold in reverse chronological order. As such, the final painting was Momo's untitled masterpiece. The auctioneer's assistant placed the frame on the wall under an amber spotlight.
Bids erupted among the crowd. The number climbed to a dizzying height. As a woman's voice pierced the noise like a sword strike, Mai felt a different thrill along her spine.
“Two billion yen.”
In a place specializing in obscurity, it wasn't uncommon to sense other sorcerers. Anything from rare alcohol to strange artifacts could be repurposed for jujutsu. Fortunately for them, the clan preferred to steal instead of bid.
Even so, Mai knew better than to turn around. That ice storm of cursed energy was legend enough. It brought Mai back to a time when her entire life was in the corner of a room, quietly listening to the men argue. A woman had dispatched two of their assassins and signed their corpses with her cursed energy.
Mai had been curious what sort of woman would be so audacious, but had never dreamed of meeting her. And yet, here Mai was, about to help defraud her.
If nothing else, Mai could slip in a layout of the Zen'in compound to sweeten the deal.
To Mai's utter joy, no one countered the woman's bid.
A wave of anticipation crested in Mai's heart. When the pair chose a private room in which to complete the sale, she turned to Momo with a twinkle in her eye.
“Have you ever heard of Mei Mei? That's who bought the last piece.”
Momo shook her head. “Never. Should I be worried?”
Yes and no. Mai took a moment to rephrase, not wanting to alarm Momo. A sly smile lifted the corners of her lips.
“She's the enemy of our enemy. I'll do the talking this time.”
Panic and curiosity warred on Momo's face, but she buried them under a placid expression. Mai was glad to see Momo following her lead—even if it was only on the surface.
The door opened once more, and in stepped Mei Mei. She brought an aroma of jasmine with her, a subtle delight to the senses. The perfectly-tailored jacket cinched at the waist with a gleaming, platinum belt buckle. As she approached the table, a crimson reflection bled out from under her stilettos. She surveyed the room, her gaze every bit as sharp as her cursed energy.
Mai smiled, gracious in the face of effortless intimidation. “Good evening. My name is Nishimiya Mai, assistant to the representative. May I have your name?”
“You can call me Mei Mei. It's a pleasure to meet you both.”
Over the course of her life, Mai had known only two other people who'd defied the clan and lived through the night. How exciting to finally meet a third.
As Mei Mei took her seat, Mai set the painting's briefcase atop the table and opened it for the woman's inspection.
“Is all to your liking so far?”
“Very much so. Up close, it's exactly as I thought.”
“I'm glad to hear that.” Mai locked the briefcase. “We sourced it from a hostel in Manchuria.”
Mei Mei cracked a smile. “Is that what you call your studio?”
Momo's next inhale caught in her throat.
Mai stepped into the silence before it grew to an unmanageable degree. “As I'm sure you're aware, Shima-san lived in Manchuria for a time.”
Mei Mei leaned into the chair's leather back. “I'm aware. I've been buying art for a long time, which is how I know this is something special.”
“Is that so?”
Mei Mei's smile took on a hard edge, like a pack animal that had found its fellows. “Yes. The only thing more valuable than a masterpiece is the artist who can make flawless reproductions. To that end, I'd like to propose a deal.”
Mai reached over to hold Momo's knee down to keep it from bouncing. “Go on.”
“The money's yours, regardless. Art takes skill, doubly true of forgery. In exchange, I would like the artist to join a venture of mine. We'll cut the head off the snake known as that damned clan, and I'll provide a proper front for these dealings.”
Mai's grin broke free of its professional confines. She turned to Momo, who looked to be trying her hardest to reconcile that they'd been caught and didn't immediately face blackmail.
Mai stood and motioned for Momo to join her outside. “Do you mind if we deliberate?”
“Not at all.” Assurance underscored Mei Mei's voice, as though agreement was inevitable.
For the first time, such an assumption didn't rob Mai of anything. This wasn't a demand for mindless compliance, but an alliance.
Once the door shut behind them, Momo let out a shuddering breath. “Mai…what the hell is going on?”
Mai laughed, light and disbelieving. “I think we've been invited to a show I've been dying to see.”
“Please take this seriously.”
“Oh, but I am.” Mai shook her head, willing the giddiness away. She dropped her voice to a whisper. “I think we should accept.”
Momo crossed her arms. “Why? If we're getting the money anyway, why take on a suicide mission?”
“Because she's taken down some of our fiercest clan members on her own, and she wants our help.” As Momo's arms dropped to her sides, taken aback by such a feat, Mai continued. “Momo, eveyone could finally be rid of them. Not just us. I still dream of the estate on fire, only to wake up and know that nothing's changed.”
Rage rippled under Mai's skin, an ocean dammed by gritted teeth. Over two decades of hatred was stored in her body, and it would not be denied its due.
Momo stepped closer, ever ready to stare into the depths of Mai's heart. “How do you want to play this?”
“I want us to go with her. She's already done the impossible once. Why not twice? Why not with us at her side?” She cradled Momo's hand in hers, then ran her thumb over the silver band. “They'll never see us coming.”
Momo sighed.
It would be so easy to read the look in her eyes as resignation. Not too long ago, Mai would have. Now, she knew it as faith. Faith she'd earned by understanding the world in which they lived—its traps and exploits, the limits of surveillance, and digging foxholes under an empire.
“Alright,” Momo said.
Mai could feel the expansion of her heart in real time. With her other hand, she cupped Momo's cheek. Through these points of contact flowed unending trust, the only emotion strong enough to quell the waters within.
They rejoined Mei Mei at the table, hands clasped between them.
“We accept,” Mai said.
“‘We?’” Mei Mei asked, a touch of humor trailing the end.
As for why, Mai figured it was how quickly they'd abandoned the “assistant” cover.
“Yes,” Mai confirmed. “Momo is the artist you want, but I'm coming with her.” She leveled a look at Mei Mei. “That's final.”
After initiation, not a second of their training went to waste.
Under Yuki's tutelage, Mai learned to efficiently gather her cursed energy. They began with meditation, granting Mai a profound awareness of where her body stored and embedded energy. For Construction, she drew from where it pooled naturally, averting the strain on her organs.
With practice, a couple short daggers a day were no problem.
It had taken Mai the better part of a week to make her trusty six-shooter, forming each piece in secret. The day she created one in an hour was momentous.
The gun was perfectly weighted, and smooth where one would expect a serial number. Mei Mei's grin rivaled the glint of the metal handle.
If Mai had shown this to any of the clan members, she'd have been turned into a factory. All she would have is the memory of sunlight as they pushed her body to new limits, determined to see how far she could go on fumes.
Instead, Mei Mei took them all out for a night on the town and presented Mai a velvet gift box. There would be more guns—just as there were more forgeries—but the first one belonged to Mai alone. She could do with it as she pleased, such as turn it into a cursed tool or simply admire it.
When she elected to keep it mundane, so as not to draw the clan's attention, Yuki volunteered for something absurd.
Yuki slammed her beer glass on the table and cackled, a frenzied edge to her voice. “I'd love to be your first moving target.”
Mai blinked once, twice, stunned by both Yuki's offer and her eagerness. She turned to Momo, whose shared confusion confirmed that Mai hadn't misheard.
“You want me to shoot you?”
“If you can. I won't go easy on you.”
True to her word, the following sessions almost made Mai wish they could go back to meditation.
Of course, Mai wasn't the only one being put through her paces. After a long day of getting close but never grazing her mentor, Mai went to the dance studio.
The air was alive with cursed energy. It arced over Mai's skin as though she stood amid a lightning storm. Utahime led Momo in a ritualistic dance to control her new Wind Daggers. Mai watched, entranced, as Momo matched the steps, formed the gestures, and evened her breath.
It's one thing to revel in her own power. It's another to see her lover embody it for herself. Momo's body was molding into a dancer's form, dense yet graceful.
The Wind Daggers moved in concert with her limbs, whizzing around the pair as they sped up. Loose strands of hair frizzed away from Mai's bob toward the whirlpool of energy. Mai constructed an alloyed dagger of her own, uniform in size to the ones in play, and let its handle be pulled from her fingers.
Momo drew it into her dance, the lines of concentration on her face giving way to a grin. Mai couldn't tell if each flourish was strictly necessary or a show for her in particular.
The moment the routine concluded, Mai clapped politely. She gave a bottle of water to Utahime before she left and one to Momo when she joined her on the floor.
After all this time, Mai still found it strange and wondrous how being next to someone had become as vital to her as her own breath. Of course, the answer was devastatingly simple. Momo wasn't any “someone.” She was the beloved Mai had never believed existed.
Although Momo didn't move, Mai felt her start to pull away. Her body had lost some of its trademark softness, and she was due for another reminder that's not where her worth is stored.
She laid Momo on the ground, guiding her in cooldown stretches. Mai rested her thumbs along lightly-defined muscles, grip sure and loving. As she held one position, Mai reached down and turned her head toward one of the mirrored walls.
Momo's eyes flitted about her form, too uncomfortable to find a place to settle. So, Mai decided for her.
She'd taken a liking to the sculpted look of Momo's calves. With the single act of kissing this part of Momo's body, Mai received two gifts: a gasp, and a rush of red across her lover's face.
Again, easy to please.
Slowly, with the aid of the stretches and Mai letting no inch of her go unappreciated, she felt Momo return to her body.
In her past life, Mai often severed the link between feeling and expression. Untempered pride overflowed from her, Momo relaxed further into her touch, and Mai saw yet again that the link had been worth the restoration.
Maybe love is taking turns pulling one another into new worlds. Walking with them on the other side, seeing them through the nadir, and tearing down any enclosure too small for their transformation.
Momo was the first to succeed in Mai’s life, so she couldn't repay that by letting her be the last.