Falling Through Glass Read Online Free PDF Page B

samurai, she realized—lowered his sword a bit. “Then perhaps I’ll smash your mirror and make you my slave.”
    “No!” she shouted, rearing back. “Please don’t break it. How will I get home if you break it?”
    “You mean how will you capture my soul if I break it?”
    “No—”
    A pounding on the other side of the shoji door leading out of the room interrupted her.
    The samurai went to the door, but his gaze never left Emmi. He slid the shoji open a few inches and glanced out. “What’s the problem?”
    “Fujiwara-san! You must leave at once! Downstairs is crawling with rebels. I recognized one of them from the other night.”
    The samurai muttered an obscenity, then sheathed his katana and stalked back across the room. He grabbed Emmi’s arm and jerked her to her feet.
    “What are you doing?” she shrieked.
    “Quiet! I’m not leaving you until I find out what you are.”
    He pulled her forward.
    She pulled back. “The mirror. I need the mirror.”
    “No.”
    “Fujiwara-san. Please hurry,” the samurai’s friend pleaded in the doorway.
    The sound of men’s raucous voices echoed from the direction of the stairs.
    The samurai grabbed the mirror with his free hand while the other still grasped Emmi’s arm.
    “Matsuyama, this way,” Fujiwara instructed as he led the way to a secret door and passage hidden within the wall in the adjoining room. He pulled Emmi in after him.
    Her body shook with fear, but she let the samurai drag her along the narrow, dusty corridor. She stumbled on the long hem of her kimono and fell forward. Her hand collided with the small bones of some long-dead creature whose skeletal teeth cut into her flesh. The man behind them, Matsuyama, tripped over her, and his foot connected with her ankle.
    “Oww!” she cried out.
    “Quiet!” Fujiwara ordered, pulling Emmi to her feet and continuing.
    She limped along as best she could, ignoring the grumbling of Matsuyama behind her. At last the dusty corridor gave way to fresh air. They were outside in a darkened courtyard of some type, where the samurai had the decency to pause… At least until he barked more orders. He set the mirror on the ground.
    “Straighten yourself! Stand up straight!” He yanked Emmi’s hands from her middle and grabbed for her wide silk obi. “Slide this around.”
    He froze when he saw a blood smear on the obi. He took hold of Emmi’s hands. There, on her left palm, were two gashes from the teeth of the dead whatever.
    He surprised Emmi by taking a handkerchief-like cloth from the sleeve of his haori jacket and wrapping it around her hand. He finished adjusting the obi to his satisfaction and pulled the edges of her kimono closer together.
    “What are you doing?” she asked when the samurai began combing his thick fingers through her hair.
    “Making you presentable,” he said. He set to braiding her hair. He turned to the man who’d accompanied them. “Your chopsticks.”
    Matsuyama grimaced then pulled two gold-trimmed, black-lacquered chopsticks from the sleeve of his own jacket.
    Emmi was at a loss. These guys carried more junk in their sleeves than she did in her backpack.
    “Oww,” she said when the demon-hating samurai twisted her braid and jammed the chopsticks into the hair to hold it atop her head.
    He reached down to retrieve the mirror then propelled her toward a gate in the courtyard fence.
    “Where are you taking me?”
    “You’ll find out when we get there.”
    “But—”
    “Quiet,” he said roughly as they exited into a narrow side street.
    Patches of wetness lingered on the ground, suggesting it had rained earlier. Was this part of the movie backlot? It didn’t look familiar, and there should have been lights and clean-up people at the very least.
    The farther they traveled, the more afraid Emmi became. This wasn’t a movie set. This was a real street. These were real, solid, complete buildings. What had happened? Where was she?
    The old Kyoto from the movie they’d