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Chapter 37

Darkest Before Dawn

Not knowing when the dawn will come
I open every door;
Or has it feathers like a bird,
Or billows like a shore?

~Emily Dickinson

"Hey, newbie!" As if there were no chunks of masonry, no great holes in the road, no bandages wrapped thick around one leg, Yoruichi jogged toward her. "So, what'd you think?"

What did she . . . gods, there was smoke and dust and bursts of fire in the dark and the groaning of the wounded and screaming horses and it had all happened so fast that Tatsuki had barely seen a thing despite trying desperately to follow the action.

When the golden-eyed woman had looked right through her act and called her out for being madly in love with her friend who never once thought of Tatsuki romantically, she'd been hurt and wary. But she had eagerly taken the offer to train with the woman; the Shihoin name was well known even in the tribe. It had been an eye-opening experience, to say the least.

Yoruichi had been a surprisingly good teacher, a bit rough but not as bad as the tribal warriors, and much more willing to suffer through showing Tatsuki various techniques again and again. Hours of hand-to-hand practice, dozens of bruises, and she felt almost better. Then, Yoruichi's husband had shown up. Another hour, yet more bruises, and finally she was able to breathe without thinking of what she had lost. She hadn't expected to see the famous duo again and had jumped at the chance when a woman in the black assassin garb invited her to join the Shihoin clan in some mysterious battle.

"What do I think? What do I . . .? I have no idea." The woman stopped in front of her, one hand on her hip, cocked her head and grinned. The entire night was . . . these fighters . . . Yoruichi and Kisuke were . . . "Amazing! I've never seen anything like it, I mean, I could hardly see your fight thanks to that carriage. What a terrible place to leave me, really, like I need protection or something."

Laughing as if she had no care in the world, the blood and smoke stained assassin flung an arm around her waist and pulled her over to sit on one of the knee-high sandstone walls that lined the road, holding in precious soil for the wide-canopied shade trees. Tatsuki let herself be guided, sitting with the small, strong hand still nestled between her ribs and hip. The excitement of witnessing the battle, that's all it was, racing heart and heated cheeks were just from the excitement.

"You do need protection, newbie." She opened her mouth to protest but didn't get the chance. "You know I'm right. Tribal fighters are strong, fearless, that's why we recruit them from time to time. But you learn to fight using brute force and numbers, just charge in and cut down anything in your path. Hell, you lot would call what we do . . ."

"Witchcraft," she said firmly. That had been her first thought, fighters seeming to vanish and reappear, fire and smoke and noise. But she watched closely. It was all tricks.

"Exactly. Your Kenpachi and the hundreds before him wouldn't approve. They don't like clever fighters; it means a young or small or female warrior could beat a big, bad brute. Can't have that, can we? Ruins the whole power structure that puts them on top. So, label it sorcery and make it taboo, ingrain respect for nothing but swinging a sword. You, my dear, need to learn to fight using this," two fingers double tapped right in the center of her forehead. The other hand was still at her waist, thumb making idle circles that were, well, confusing. She'd thought it just banter before, the little comments and compliments from both of them. Now, she wasn't sure at all.

"Ah! Found where the all the pretty girls are."

Kisuke wasn't a big man. Solid, taller than Tatsuki certainly, but nothing like Kenpachi or most of the tribal fighters that mocked her for being small. But when he settled right next to her, pressed against her from hip to shoulder, he felt quite large, large enough to make it impossible to breathe. Especially when he leaned closer, crowding practically into her lap for a mercifully brief but not at all chaste liplock with his wife right in front of her blushing face.

"Didn't catch one, did we?"

Kisuke sighed and then grimaced. "Nope. Almost got the big guy, but he already had some traps set. The little one that talked to your brother vanished while I was looking right at her. Neat trick, that. Still might find the other one. You got a good hit or two in there, he was definitely bleeding. Trackers are on it, but he moved fast, downhill. I suspect it was deliberate, the wounded bird act to lure us attention from the chicks. Might have been one or two more on the perimeter. They're long gone by now."

"Well, that's going to be fun to tell the king. Guess I'd better get my widow's veil out."

"I sent a message; told him I was still hunting them down. Should buy me one last night in between your legs. Oh, sorry, how is your leg?"

A very shapely, very strong leg was tossed over her lap, black tights scrunched up to the knee over white bandages. Her eyes traced the dark skin until the man's large, callused hand took over her attention as it caressed the leg. Gods, she wasn't sure if she was fighting down panic or arousal, but gods help her.

"You know one thing I can't figure about you, newbie?" Yoruichi continued as if her leg wasn't heavily pinning hers, as if her husband wasn't plastered up against Tatsuki's side, acting casual. "You had the balls to declare yourself a warrior. Now, maybe it wasn't because you love to fight. Maybe it was to stay free instead of being turned into a broodmare at 15. Whatever the reason, you don't strike me as one who doesn't sell themselves wholly to an ideal. And yet, you're no desert warrior. You didn't dedicate yourself to fighting. Perhaps you should have."

"Are you . . . recruiting me?"

"Hmm, not quite. Not that I wouldn't love seeing you in black, but you already have a place."

"No, I don't. I can't . . ."

"You can't leave her if there is any chance she'll need you, for anything. You know that."

She did know that, heartbreaking as it was. A thousand times Tatsuki had told herself that being Orihime's friend was enough, more than enough. But she'd been clinging to the dwindling hope, watching what had only been a mirage fade until nothing was left but empty sands.

"It's alright," the woman's thumb was pressing circles against her rib while the man's hand slipped down from his wife's knee and brushed against Tatsuki's thigh. "I appreciate that kind of devotion. Kisuke and I can make you so much more useful to your princess. No strings attached, no price asked. And if you like, we may be able to help in other ways."

Well, that certainly answered the question pushing against the back of her teeth. She was practically wrapped in the two of them now, and it was a strangely wonderful place to be trapped. It wasn't the first offer she'd had. There were rare exceptions like Orihime, noble girls kept locked up and guarded to be sold and traded between powerful men. For most of the tribe sex was common, casual, and free, even more so than in Las Noches. Tatsuki wasn't a virgin; she'd tried it out once with a woman when she couldn't take the constant unrequited intimacy of being Orihime's companion. It had been nice, more than nice, but it hadn't helped with the longing and had made her feel strangely guilty around Orihime for weeks. Well, there was no point trying to save herself for the woman she loved anymore.

She looked at the leg still draped over hers and thought of how beautiful Yoruichi was, grinning as she jumped into the battle without any visible weapons other than a body and mind trained to kill. She'd never thought much about men, but training with Kisuke hadn't been anything like getting repeatedly beaten and mocked by the 'trainers' of the tribe. Those men only tried to break her, as they did every young warrior, male of female. No, Kisuke had paid attention, watching her with an almost embarrassing intensity, reading her body and teaching exactly what she needed to know. He wasn't like any man she'd ever met.

The training she definitely wanted. As for the other offer, it might not be a bad idea. It would certainly take her mind off Orihime for a while.

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

It was the distant sound of shouting that woke her. A sleepy groan, a twist of her hip to try to find at least one comfortable spot on the thin mattress, and the noise was already fading away. Orihime was exhausted, so tired that she'd fallen asleep on her feet while the healer took her weight on steady shoulders, guiding her stumbling to the very same room Toshiro had recently lain in. He was fine, she reminded herself as she struggled to clear her mind so she could sleep again. Toshiro was fine, and Loly's friend would be fine now, too, more or less.

It had been fascinating, even as she was horrified by the injury, fascinating to feel the healing of the other wounds and then the careful killing of some flesh to save what could be repaired. Unohana had done it without hesitation, guiding their joined awareness to sever skin and blood vessels, isolating the salvageable from the irreparable and then destroying the ruined eye. Orihime had held herself steady, observing, learning, providing solid support. Later, she had realized what it meant, exactly how dangerous and powerful this gift of healing could be. A skilled mind could provide gentle infusion of energy to encourage healing, precise application of concentrated energy to force healing quickly, or bursts of energy that could disintegrate, scar, injure, kill. So easily.

No stranger to raucous warriors carrying on through the night, still Orihime jumped when a series of loud bangs began in the distance, one two three, then something closer, close enough to cause a tremor through the floorboards. She scrambled to sit up, find her slippers, standing as more explosions sounded, further away again. Rushing toward the door, she paused, remembering that she was now Princess of Las Noches. The wrinkled and blood-stained dress she couldn't do much about, but she ran her hands through her hair, wincing as her fingers tangled and pulled. The attempt to regain some dignity was a failure, long hair knotted and clumped with sweat and sleep.

One step more toward the door was all she achieved, something else pulling hard on her hair, yanking her head back. Her guardian had enjoyed threatening her; Orihime recognized the cold pressure against her neck, the flat of a knife. Instantly, she stilled, knowing that tensing or pulling away would press her throat into the sharp edge, experience making her loosen instead. Knees and back bending, she would have fallen backwards but for the sudden support against her spine, the fist with her hair wrapped in it pushing up between her shoulder blades.

"Are you Momo?"

Momo? The healer had shown her the girl, scared little thing trembling as Unohana stood over the bed, clinically describing the deep burns and cracked skin. She'd been brought in by some soldiers, found in the desert. Orihime had tried to win her over with kind words and smiles when Unohana encouraged her to examine the fresh, tender skin. All she got were little flinches and tearing eyes.

"No, I'm not."

"Your name."

It was a female. Short. The fist against her back was small. She moved her arms out slowly, trying to stay as balanced as possible while bending backwards.

"Orihime. What's yours?"

There was a moment of silence followed by a derisive snort.

"Listen to you. Next you'll offer me tea. You're either real brave or real stupid, princess. I'm guessing stupid. Shoulda lied about your name."

"Well," she kept her tone as light as possible given the strain on her neck, "you were either here while I was sleeping and I didn't even see you, or you somehow came through the door and got behind me in the two seconds I closed my eyes. Either way, I'm pretty sure I can't do anything to stop you hurting me. Doesn't seem very smart to be rude, then."

"Maybe not all stupid, then." The knife moved, but Orihime was too busy regaining her balance as she was shoved forward to react. Then the knife was back, the point digging into the small of her back, her hair still held tight. "Tell you what, you keep being polite and take me to where she is. No one will question the princess, right? Don't even try to lie now, I know you recognized the name."

Outside, there was more commotion, but not nearby. The infirmary remained quiet. Whatever was going on, and it probably had something to do with the woman behind her, she doubted Unohana would allow panic even if the palace was burning down. Out there in the quiet, the healed but still dehydrated and traumatized girl was hopefully sleeping.

"I won't help you hurt her."

"I'm not gonna hurt her, you dolt. I . . . dammit . . . I don't need this, shut up and move. We run into anyone else, you play your part, princess. Make it believable. Otherwise, I got no reason not to put this knife in your spine to distract them."

"I understand. You're here to help her. Aren't you?" The knife twisted slightly, she knew the point was cutting her skin but she couldn't feel it at all, heart and mind racing as she reached for the door handle. "That's good. She's a foreigner. Nothing good will happen to her here. I'll cooperate."

"I said shut it. Only speak if you have to."

She finally got a look as her attacker let go of her hair and stepped close beside her, and she barely kept from staring as they entered the main room of the infirmary. It was just a girl, very blue eyes, glitter on her cheeks and in her light brown hair, and most surprising of all decked out in a dress with tight white silk top and fluffy pink skirts. Though, if her quick glance was right, the skirts were not as voluminous as they once were, layers torn off leaving ragged bits of taffeta hanging.

Another prick of the knife and a faint growl prompted her to keep moving. The infirmary was dark, only the small candles lit along the walls. It was so very quiet. There were four patients here, including the girl, and always there was at least one night attendant. Not all of them could be sleeping peacefully through the commotion in the palace.

The reason became clear as they approached the bed nearest the open area of the infirmary. The privacy curtain was nothing but thin linen, the sudden light of a lantern clearly showing the figure straightening and then pulling that curtain aside. She froze, too surprised for a moment to say anything, let alone come up with some lie about the stranger beside her despite the prodding of the knife.

"Good morning, your highness. Thank you for escorting our guest."

The healer was calm, the demure smile in place. Orihime envied the woman. Not only for the nerve, but for the apparent foresight. The infirmary was silent because it was empty. And there was a knife threatening to sever her spine.

"Oh. This is my um, friend . . .."

"No need, highness." The blue eyes were focused solely on the girl close beside her. She didn't dare turn to look. "You can't be a Senjamaru, not with your size and coloring. I assume you are from Seireitei? That's certainly a relief."

"Who the hell are you!"

"Oh, that doesn't matter, really. What matters is that the sister of Lord Toshiro is not here, and you will not find her without my help. Fortunately, I'm quite willing to negotiate."

Sister? Toshiro's sister?

"Negotiate? How about hand the girl over now or I take her after I kill your new princess?"

The matronly smile didn't falter as shoulders shrugged.

"Her royal highness is as much a liability as an asset." She couldn't help frowning at Unohana, fighting the feeling of betrayal, but the healer didn't even glance at her. "My apprentice, on the other hand, is highly valued. And he is no longer safe here thanks to your foreign lord and this one's ungrateful savage of a husband. You will take him with you. You will deliver him safely to your peaceful land where a boy with a heart can survive."

"Oh I will, will I?"

"Yes." She barely turned her head, mindful of the knife and the tension, but resolved to do something to help. Whether Unohana truly meant what she had said about Orihime didn't matter. The healer owed her nothing, and the so-called apprentice was more like a son to the seemingly callous woman. If there was one thing Orihime understood, it was the need to protect those close to one's heart.

"Yes, you will. And you, or Seireitei if you prefer, will have the Princess of Las Noches in your debt."

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the healer finally look at her, momentary shock breaking through the impassive mask. The stranger's eyes narrowed, teeth worrying bottom lip. There came another loud set of bangs, renewed shouting out in the hallways. Then the incongruously innocent, glitter-laced head nodded sharply.

"Fine. Fine. If only to get me out of this madhouse sooner. But don't you think I'll forget, highness," the title dragged out like a hiss, "you'll pay that debt someday."

"Excellent." The healer clapped hands softly in front of her with a wide smile and a cheerful voice. "You don't look large enough to carry one of them, even though they are both rather small. But I assume someone who managed to invade Las Noches will be able to figure something out. I've taken the liberty of sedating them both for your convenience. Come along."

Finally, the knife pulled away from her skin and now she could feel the sting as the adrenaline began to ebb. The small invader stalked after the healer, mumbling "Fuckin' desert, crazy fuckin' barbarians," leaving Orihime standing on suddenly weak legs.

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

Ridiculously large and soft, the canopied bed swallowed him, providing a perfect cocoon to ignore the muffled commotion that continued in intermittent bursts for at least an hour. It didn't help him ignore the lurking shadows that had followed him, assassins in every corner of his room. Not his room. Nothing was his. No privacy, no rights. He needed to not forget these facts in the din of riotous thoughts. He had done all he could, perhaps more harm than good. Now, he had no choices left, no options that didn't depend on other people and circumstances that were far out his control.

All this helplessness could not stop him from worrying, running over past events and future possibilities again and again as he lay in his silly costume, face-down in a nest of luxury. And worse than all of it was when he realized that he had been shifting around, trying to find some hint of clove and musk that was achingly absent from the clean sheets and fresh pillows.

Mornings in Seireitei were blue, the black of night giving way to indigo and ever lightening into a pale, lazy dawn. He must have slept, overwhelmed mind shutting down and escaping into oblivion, for when he opened his eyes it was to the strange colorless gray of the desert's predawn through the parted curtains of the bed. And to a form perched on the edge of the bed, face shadowed, silhouette not matching any of the persons his bleary mind tried to identify.

"Good morning, my lord." Unfamiliar voice, male. He scrambled up and gathered his legs under him, ready to . . . what? Fight, flee? Did it matter?

"Sorry to wake you, I'm sure you could use a few more hours after last night. But I do need to speak with you quite urgently."

"Who are you?"

The man sighed. Toshiro's eyes had adjusted, mind waking, and he could make out shaggy light-colored hair, unshaven scruff, dark eyes maybe brown or gray or hazel. He didn't think he had seen the man before.

"Hardly matters, my lord. Sure you'll find out if you really want to, so the name's Urahara. Now, you don't have time for small talk so just sit and stay quiet like a good slave, alright?"

His lips curled in distaste but he said nothing, trying to calm the pounding of his heart from being ambushed in his own bed and the pounding in his head from stress, drink, lack of sleep, despair.

"Good boy. This is just advice, mind you. I'm not stupid enough to give you an order. You've proved your loyalty, and I don't fancy pissing off the prince or the king. But if you're smart, you'll listen. Someone is likely to question you today. Might even be me. It's not every night we get foreigners invading the very capital. Here's my advice. You didn't talk to anyone about anything more important than . . . I don't know, shades of lip gloss or sizes of pricks or whatever whores talk about."

"How dare you! Get . . ."

Before he could finish his outraged order, the stranger had moved, faster than Toshiro could follow. Before he could draw breath, his back hit the headboard, a large palm pressed hard over his mouth, firm grip on his jaw, the weight of the man pinning him back.

"I said quiet."

The lilt of humor and threat was gone, the voice flat and somehow deadly with its complete lack of emotion. Gray. The eyes were as gray as the desert just before dawn, slicing back and forth watching as sharp terror seized him. He froze, staring and unable to struggle. Unknown second ticked by as Toshiro focused entirely on forcing breath through his nose, dragging air across skin that did not smell of clove and did not belong this close to him.

That monster Kenpachi hadn't made him feel so irrationally afraid and small. The bitch Soi-fon hadn't made him feel this helpless, this ready to swallow his own tongue to keep from screaming. His captor in the blackest of moments had not made him want to find a dark hole to tuck himself into and never come out.

The hand drew away, gray eyes narrowing. Something within them shifted from anger to . . . pity? It was a godsend, humiliating enough to snap him out of whatever that inexplicable dread had overcome reason. He hadn't been hurt, he could still see at least one of the guards without taking his eyes off the man, and wasn't that interesting, the assassin wasn't even looking let alone moving to help.

With another long sigh, the attacker retreated slightly and dropped his penetrating gaze. It was nearly a physical sensation of being released, and Toshiro could think again, the inexplicable fear retreating with each inch of space between him and the stranger.

"Calm down and listen. I was told you weren't a fool, all recent evidence to the contrary."

His glare was wasted, but he was relieved that he could feel angry again. That still left him in a dark bed with a strange man that sent chills of warning down his spine.

"Better. As I was saying, don't admit to anything. You never spoke to any of the Shihoin. You've never heard of Visored. You have no idea who attacked you or why, you're just grateful that your guards were there to save you. Got it?"

Defiantly, he raised his chin and slowly spoke.

"It won't work. Too many people know, including Ichimaru."

The man grinned and leaned away, giving him welcome distance to breathe.

"Haven't learned anything, have you? Of course, the spymaster knows. The king surely knows. Probably a half dozen nobles have some version of the truth, though they never get it quite right. None of that matters. They don't care if you lie. They expect it. You just have to tell the right lies. In this case, that you are a vapid whore with no sense in your pretty little head. Definitely no knowledge of politics and intrigue. Not such a hard sell."

Gritting his teeth at yet another humiliating insult, Toshiro held his tongue while the man backed off the bed. He had no reason to trust this Urahara character, and plenty of reason not to. Lying to Ichigo wasn't even a remote option. Lying to the king . . . his gut told him that would be the last of a long line of mistakes. The best he could hope for is that they wouldn't ask.

"Well, it was just lovely chatting with you, my lord. Do try not to get killed today and perhaps we'll have a chance to become better acquainted."

The tone was once more teasing with an undercurrent of menace as the stranger faded into the gloom beyond the bed curtains. But there was enough silver light creeping in the high slit windows for him to see that the other shadows were still present, at least three of the assassins, all with eyes focused on the intruder, all with heads ever so slightly bent in deference. Suddenly, Toshiro was very glad he'd kept his temper and his tongue in check for once.

"Oh, pardon me, miss."

The stranger was gone in a swirl of black and green, leaving him staring through the gauzy curtains at Kiyone. She, in turn, was standing just beyond the open door, staring gape-mouthed after the departing man. He didn't even have the energy to call out to her as the seconds stretched, feeling almost numb under a layer of physical discomfort.

"Was that . . . eeep! You scared the shit out of me!" This to the killer who was far too tall and burly to move silent as death to close the door behind the servant girl. Somehow, the entire tray she was carrying did not fall to the floor, merely a loud clatter that made him wince.

"I guess that was who I thought it was."

Kiyone recovered herself admirably, one slow look around the room pausing at each of the three, no, there was a fourth, thin and still in the corner to his right, assassins. Toshiro didn't bother moving or speaking as she fussed about, moving books and laying out a meal on the desk as usual. He only watched her out of vague curiosity as to why she was here when the sky had barely broken from iron gray to the color of summer storm clouds. What was more interesting was the way the shadows behaved, one obviously, overtly watching her while the others blended into each corner, almost invisible once they stilled. Their eyes didn't still, glinting in the faint light as they constantly scanned the room.

Was this his newest version of hell? What would he have to give up to at least banish them back to the hallway?

"What are you still doing in bed, my lord? Oh! And what are you wearing? We don't have time for this. Go get cleaned up. You may not even have time to eat."

With a long sigh, he let his head fall back and thump hard against the headboard. Whatever drama she was going on about, he just didn't care. He's forced to care when the impertinent girl huffs her way over and clambers right onto the bed, the second invader this morning, and grabs his arm to tug.

"Come on! The princess shouldn't be kept waiting."

His body automatically responded, shuffling forward, albeit not far before he pulled against the insistent hands. Orihime was the head of his household, after all. More importantly, he liked her immediately and hasn't had any reason not to grow a little fond after their few interactions. The dinner with the royal household had been solid proof that she was more than just a pretty face.

"What?"

Well, he couldn't be expected to be articulate when his head was pounding and he lacked the will to do more than breathe.

"Honestly, my lord," she tugs again, exasperation in her words and her eyes. "I sent word an hour ago that her highness has changed your breakfast appointment to a hunting trip. Won't be a long one, though, riding out this late. You'll be lucky to make it outside the walls before it's too hot to keep going."

Without willing it, he'd found himself on his feet and being pulled along behind her. He figured it was a good sign that he didn't question why this was the first he was hearing of the day's plans. And an even better development, he wasn't irritated or embarrassed to have this scene witnessed by the four assassins. It meant he was becoming resigned to his future, and surely that would be less painful than continuing to struggle against fate.

"Oh, almost forgot your bag. You left it at the party, my lord. Sure you'll be needing it for the hunt."

She stopped by the desk and picked up a canvas bag that he had never seen. It looked worn, but of good quality, big enough for several large books with a long leather strap to sling over a shoulder. Said bag was shoved into his hands as she pushed him into the bathroom.

"No time for one of your long baths, my lord. Just get cleaned up." The door shut, but she raised her voice while he stood dazed. "I'll get layers of riding clothes ready. It's cold out there now, but you'll be glad to be properly prepared. Now, hurry or you won't get a chance to eat something."

Curiosity reignited, he took the bag over to the wide stone counter, wincing as he caught his reflection. The skin-tight costume wasn't terribly mussed, but the wings were ruined, fine wires twisted and sapphire gauze hanging in shreds. His hair had been loaded down with glitter, color, some kind of gel that made the already odd spikes stand high. Now, all that product made a nest of clumps with tufts sticking out in various directions, a fine compliment for his smeared make-up.

He forgot the disaster in the mirror when he opened the bag and pulled out the contents. Flint and a serviceable knife, unlike the decorative one lost somewhere on the floor near his bed. Two empty waterskins of leather soft enough to be rolled tight. Several loops of wire and a handful of stakes, he had used similar snares for small game. A bundle of thin jerky strips wrapped in oilcloth. A metal tin, he didn't open it but assumed it would be salve for wounds or to protect skin from the sun. A black cloth he unfolded and held up at various angles until he figured it out, a linen wrap that would provide perfect cover in the dark desert night. And a thick stack of papers. Before he opened one just far enough to confirm, he knew they were the maps of safe routes leading to shelter and water in the open desert.

The little flame of hope was cruel. The items were quickly packed away. He would have to find a way to safely dispose of them or send them back out with Kiyone without raising suspicion. There was no way he'd be able to use this great gift, he knew that. There was nowhere to go when Momo's life was hostage to his good behavior.

And with that faint temptation to run anyway fresh in his mind, he looked at his reflection again and was utterly ashamed.

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

Two more palace slaves hovered in the door, waiting, well trained but annoying the piss out of her with the delays. She waved them in, glaring while they carefully placed yet another silver tray on the overladen table. Honestly, twenty couldn't finish this meal laid out for two. Her mistress was famous for excess, just another reason to despise the woman.

A brief yelp drew her eyes to the bedroom door. She smirked, not having any sympathy for the other servant, a spiteful girl from minor nobility who had mocked Loly since her first day in the palace. Shutara had dismissed Loly with a backhanded slap after she had spilled extremely expensive perfume on the mistress' robe, making her trade places with the less experienced girl. It was what Loly had planned, well worth the latest bruise. Shutara's pride would make her put up with any ineptitude rather than call Loly back in to help her primp for the king.

The first hint of gold was creeping in the windows, the swift desert sunrise was only minutes away. She hissed at the slow slaves, chasing them out and locking the door, then resting against the ornately carved wood while her heart raced. She chewed her lower lip, doubting again, wide eyes watching the bedroom door. Then she remembered coming into this very room, cursing at the broken crystal littering the floor, gasping as she spotted the pale hand just visible right there, behind the table groaning under the weight of silver, porcelain, and a fortune of rich food. Menoly had done nothing to deserve the beating, and of course she wouldn't have fought back. If it weren't for the princess, her friends might not be alive now, all thanks to her bitch mistress.

Determination renewed, she rushed forward. Shutara always sat just beyond where the light from the window would reach, knowing the slight shadow suited her dark hair and eyes. She plucked the larger crystal glass out from the line of three. There would be dark red wine even at breakfast, as always. Loly had heard this left no taste, but she wouldn't chance it with water or juice. She set the glass on the small serving table where her actions wouldn't be obvious if either door opened and folded the polishing cloth again and again. A second cloth was laid out next to it, on top of a square of waterproofed leather. Some of the liquid would seep into the cloth, but she knew it took only a trace to be deadly. Just a trace was needed inside the glass. But also just a trace through that cloth onto her skin and it was the end.

The vial was so small, deceptively harmless looking, plain glass barely as long as her fingernail with a plain iron cap. Her hand shook as she reached to twist off the cap, and she stopped to breathe deeply, nearly dizzy with how fast her heart was beating. Another deep breath, and she moved as quickly as she could, twist the cap and set it aside carefully, so carefully. Pick up the glass and tip the tiny bottle, twist the stem, watch one drop slide down the crystal, another, another. Careful, careful, turn the glass and let the clear streams thin to near invisibility.

Only a faint tremor shook her hand as she placed the glass down again, she was proud to see. Her right hand was even steadier as she gingerly laid the empty and still extremely dangerous vial next to the little cap on the towel. The polishing cloth was next, layers wrapped around two fingers. It couldn't be avoided. Shutara would notice any tiny imperfection, including the faint streaks left by the poison. As quickly as she could she wiped the inside of the glass and yanked her fingers out, panting as she let the contaminated cloth drop on top of the vial.

It was done.

She stared at her fingertips, waiting for pain that didn't come. A sigh of relief and she took another polishing cloth, picking up the glass by the stem and returning it to the table, perfectly in line and perfectly shining. Now, all she had to do was wrap up the cloth, vial and cap within the leather and bury it in with the trash. It was still a risk, should anyone think to look for evidence. Loly had accepted the consequences, the chance she may die instead while handling the poison, the chance that the sorceress-princess may not be able to protect her or may not even want to if her guilt was discovered.

Soon, her bitch of a mistress would appear to inspect the room. Soon, the king would arrive along with his servants who would take over while she waited in the corner on her mistress' whim. Soon, they would lift their wine glasses as their meal was consumed. Soon, anyone who cared about the bitch's painful death would realize how many opportunities there had been for the king's servants to add poison, or the cooks, the slaves carrying the food, the slaves who handled the ingredients. Soon, the world would be rid of Shutara Senjumaru.

oooooooOOOOOooooooo

Gin hadn't slept. Of course, he hadn't. Time was limited. They only had the stolen hours because he had decided to play dumb to the drama playing out in the city. He had every excuse, the extravagant party, his important guests, and the credible chance that even he would be caught unaware by forces as powerful and secretive as the Shihoin assassins and the fabled Visored. It was worth the tiny insult to his pride if anyone believed the lie. It was worth it to stay awake, propped on one elbow over the gorgeous woman sprawled face down, snoring lightly into the pillow, tangled sheet around perfect legs not managing to cover her more perfect ass.

His hand skimmed up the curve of butter-soft skin, into the deep dip of her back, up to rest where it could ride the waves of her deep breaths, disturbing strands of gold that skittered down to reveal the red imprint of his teeth on her shoulder. He remembered that quite clearly, grinning at his own folly. Who would believe that Ichimaru Gin could be so overwhelmed that he had to muffle his voice to keep from screaming with the effort to last just long enough to feel her completely lose control? And lose control she had, but even that wasn't as good as the moment he had been fantasizing about and denying himself for months, that perfect moment when he slid home into her. Home. Gin had fucked hundreds of women and nearly as many men, nobles, slaves, whores in at least seven kingdoms. For months he'd kept his hands off her, trying to stop himself from becoming attached, trying to figure out what it was about this woman that made him think of her glorious cunt as home.

Perhaps it was the honesty of her, a bizarre kind of innocence. Innocence. In the top whore of the top whorehouse in the city of sex. Ha! But the word suited her better than any other he could find. Other professionals, the good ones, could make you believe that they wanted you, but only if you bought into the fantasy. Since clients came in looking for an experience rather than true love, the fantasy sold easily. But Ran . . . she enjoyed herself and didn't need to fake it. Somehow, she found something desirable in each and every man and woman, the old, the ugly, the mean, the stupid, she found something in each of them to make her smile real. She looked at them and saw them and then she took her pleasure as she delivered them paradise. It was why she was the top, why clients came back to her like zealots to the altar.

He had fallen for it. He had become obsessed with her body said to him 'I know what you are, I know your darkness, and I truly want you.' He'd never expected it. Plenty of partners wanted him. Wanted his influence, his money, his mercy, sometimes even just his body. Some were turned on by his reputation; some were terrified even as they submitted. But no other had that slight smirk of knowing. No other eyes looked straight into his until they had no choice but to roll back in ecstasy.

Still, he would have been able to resist. Yes, he'd been a bit jealous that lesser men and women were given that same honor. Jealous, when she was at his beck and call. Until he had watched more closely, spending rather more time in the hollow wall of her room under the guise of his usual quality checks, observing her with a variety of clients. And he noticed something that kept him awake for weeks until he finally had no choice but to declare her not for sale. She didn't look any of them in the eye, not for more than a few seconds at a time. She didn't stare like she was trying to dig into their souls. No, she only did that to him.

His remembrance was interrupted by knocking on the sitting room door, as he expected. The sunrise was a bit more than an hour away. They were slow to fetch him. He stayed where he was, bare back facing the open bedroom door they had been too preoccupied to close, and stroked down to splay his long fingers across the plump hill of her buttock.

The choking noise behind him made him smile. He hadn't scripted it, had in fact predicted that Iba would be on duty. The man must have gotten drunk, or had taken one of the whores, dumping the duty on Hisagi. Poor thing.

"Well?"

"The . . . uh, the king, he . . ." a deep breath, "Sir, the king sent for you."

He was about to roll over and get up, giving the man a view of the goddess in his bed, when a sleepy, slurred mumble completely wiped the guard, the king, the rest of the world out of existence.

"Uwah, someone get the kitten out of the punchbowl!"

Surprised into a genuine chuckle, he leaned forward to kiss the cheek painted with smudged stripes. She was still drunk, no doubt.

"Don't worry, love. I'll rescue the kitten."

Her hand, her lovely hand newly decorated with the Ichimaru crest lifted and ungracefully smeared across his face twice, an unintelligible mumble falling out of pouty lips before the hand fell again. He shook his head, utterly besotted and bemused to be so.

Another strangled sound of distress from elsewhere recalled his attention, and he quickly moved, stood naked apart from the streaks of makeup from her elaborate costume that she had rubbed all over him. For once, watching the guard flinch and then look away with a sickly expression that made him fear for his favorite hand-woven silk rug, Gin felt just a hint of sympathy beneath the glee of crushing every dream the tattooed fool ever had. The man couldn't help but fall in love with what was his. No man could resist.

"That's it? Go on, then, unless you want to stare at your future Lady all day."

Hadn't occurred to the guard, had it, that he would soon be bowing to Rangiku and following her commands? It was hard to tell if the thought caused misery or relief. A bit of both, he guessed as the guard paled further, bowed, and made an unsteady exit.

Enough fun for now. His king would be impatient, waiting with sword drawn as the noise and news reached him, waiting for whoever had the nerve to come after him. Oh, he would be so very disappointed when no challengers sought him out. Gin didn't often get a chance to ruffle the king's feathers. Perhaps he would not pretend ignorance of the night's remarkable events, just to see how pissed Aizen could get before showing it. He grinned. More fun to be had, after all.