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An hour later, Lavinia had finally found the strength to return to her laptop, weary but alive. Looking over her shoulder in case, yet again, she found a demon perched there, she breathed a sigh of relief and went back to the data stick.
It was no exaggeration on Ingrid’s part to say that the person in question—the one that was supposedly embroiled in this seedy mafia business—was a complete mystery to the judge. Among the files the Vulpo had left were a dozen or so images of a rather plain, wholly unassuming Perro man. Lavinia could have bumped into him on the street and immediately forgotten his face. What made him so special?
Her mouse flitted across the screen and opened more photos. One produced a newspaper article. The headline read, BREAKING BREAD: inside the new cafe that's making waves in Nuova Volsini! On the surface, it appeared to be another easy story of a hopeful immigrant who opened a small business and achieved a modicum of success. You found them in every corner of Terra, and Siracusa was no exception. Further down the article was an image of the owner: George Bradshaw, 62, Columbian, Perro. He looked no more assuming on the front page than he did 12 images ago. Lavinia almost felt bad for not finding him more interesting, but as she read more it all started to click. Bradshaw was ordinary, and it was his personal mandate that his business be conducted the same way. His ordinary cafe, the aptly named “George’s”, promised that, no matter where—or who—you were from, you were just as ordinary as the rest of them when you paid for your sandwich.
Lavinia opened another file. It looked like one mafioso’s hacked texting history. The judge paused briefly to catch her breath. The breadth of Ingrid’s network was truly intimidating. The evidence here was staggering, but more shocking was what it revealed. To no surprise, in a city already relentlessly chasing it, nobody liked Bradshaw’s gesture of peace. It seemed every wise guy around wanted him bumped off. He was an old coot with stupid ideas and a loud voice. He chased out anyone who made so much as a scowl at another patron. And he actively spurned the Famiglia’s every attempt to make an ally of him. By all rights, his fate should have been sealed when he finally insulted the last family head. And yet, business kept on.
Perhaps he had earned their respect. Perhaps he amused them. Whatever the case, Bradshaw had been marked, in no uncertain terms, a VIP. He was to be left unmolested and, so long as he kept his nose strictly in his own business, his shop would receive the highest, most fragile honor the city could afford: neutral ground.
Lavinia gawked at the texts, incredulous. “Neutral ground,” she whispered. “Incredible.” She was the slightest bit jealous. If Nuova Volsini could only be designated as some random, peculiar sandwich shop, would it have similar luck? The answer came all too quick as the judge opened the last file folder and was reminded that Bradshaw’s luck had recently run out.
There were only two files: another hacked conversation, and a single, blurry video. The footage appeared to be a group of mafiosos jamming Bradshaw into a car before driving off into the night. The messages were short and disturbingly vague:
Get some men
Don’t tell the boss
If the old man won’t do it we’ll make him do it
Dump your phones
Outside, the delicate pitter-patter of rain against the windows had turned ugly, rattling off like bowfire. A lance of lightning winked in the distance, and the rumbling thunder swept over the city. As a storm began brewing in Lavinia’s heart, she closed the laptop and went back to bed. As anxious as she was, she needed some sleep. This case would have to wait until morning.
As she slipped under the covers, she felt an arm underneath her where she laid back. It curled and gently pulled her into Matoimaru’s chest, now returned to its normal scale. A simple trap, one she should have seen coming, but not one she felt compelled to escape. She realized for the first time that this was actually happening. She was here, back in Siracusa, where the mud was always threatening to rise up and drown a bleeding heart. Where good intentions led you down a dark road with no escape. And where the pouring rain almost made you forget the light of day. She was here, and so was Matoimaru: her light, her hope, and her virtue. She knew it in her heart; every time she came back to Nuova Volsini, she was stronger than before, but now? With her?
She was invincible.
Closing her eyes, she nuzzled herself into Matoimaru's bosom and drifted away, thinking how quiet the storm was and how loud the Oni’s heart.
* * * * *
Knock knock knock.
The Lupo’s upper ears turned reflexively in the direction of the noise. The sound barely registered enough to rouse her awake.
Knock knock knock.
It sounded again, more insistently, and this time was enough. Lavinia blinked slowly as she opened her eyes, the gray glow of rainy daylight blurring her sight. Matoimaru filled her vision once she could finally see, naked but for her pride, and still very much asleep. The Lupo smiled and prodded at a yawning cheek. “Time to stop dreaming,” she whispered. From somewhere outside, she caught a whiff of something tasty and licked her lips.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
“Alright, alright,” Lavinia mumbled, sitting up. She started buttoning her shirt, ready to apologize to whoever was at the door. She was about to say more, but the words died in her throat when she heard the handle turn. She froze, an expression of scandalized horror on her face as she realized the woman beside her was still completely naked and, from the waist down, so was she. She abandoned the shirt and pulled the covers up to her chin.
“Lavinia?” Luna gingerly stepped in. “Someone’s here to see you.”
“R-right. Of course. Tell them I’ll be down in a minute.”
“I made some biscuits to go with your coffee.”
“Grazie, cucciola.”
“Does your, um, friend, want some biscuits?”
A bead of sweat ran down Lavinia’s bright red cheek and she grimaced a smile. “Mhm,” she grunted, nodding.
* * * * *
Luna sat meekly on the couch, doing her best to look straight ahead.
It was difficult. Lavinia had brought a strange woman home in the night and, with only a quick, unceremonious breakfast to introduce themselves, were separated immediately. The judge was now entertaining her important guest in the office while Luna and Matoimaru sat across from each other in the living room. Though they both waited quietly for Lavinia’s return, the Lupo’s mind was bursting with questions. She tried not to stare but couldn't help stealing a few glances.
She’d never seen an Oni before. Come to think of it, she couldn’t recall ever seeing a Sarkaz before. The last time she saw someone with such majestic horns, it was from a group of passing Leithanien tourists. Or maybe they were business folk? She couldn’t recall. Either way, they didn’t seem very nice.
Nothing like this one.
Matoimaru happily devoured two plates of biscuits and toast, and squealed happily as she sipped away at a dark, smokey coffee. Every cook should be so lucky to have a customer so easily pleased, thought Luna.
“So…how do you know my—I mean—Lavinia?”
“Why, we both work for Rhodes Island. We often work the same missions together.” Matiomaru made a few grand gestures with her arms and began waxing poetic. “I am the sword and she is the shield. Together, we dispense justice wherever it is needed!”
Luna stifled a laugh. “You sound like a character from an opera. Nobody talks like that anymore.”
The Oni gave her a sidelong glance and grinned. “Maybe that’s the reason I’ve come here: to be someone’s hero, like from the stories of old. What do you think, little Luna? Do you need a hero?”
“No. I’ve already got one.”
Matoimaru’s horns dipped to one side. “Oya? Who?”
A little color came to the girl’s face as her cheeks flushed red. She brought up her legs and hugged her knees. Then, she smiled, and began to describe the strongest woman she’d ever known. She stood proud and unwavering in the face of the mafia’s games. She fought for what was right and never lost sight of herself. A Lupo’s Lupo. The one ray of sunlight she could count on being there, no matter how dark the days got.
And they were dark.
She told Matoimaru about her late father, a man who lived a life of mediocrity, bowing down to the famiglia until the end, when he really tried to do something good. She told about a life that was turned upside down in an instant, and a world that came crashing down around her. It was so heavy, so oppressive. It wanted—it needed—to swallow her whole, and make her just another victim in the long, storied history of Siracusa’s crimes. But she was there. Her hero. The woman who promised her a better life, and to do right by her. The woman who made no assumptions, asked for no compensation, no price to be repaid. A woman who was like a sister, a mother, a protector, and whatever else she needed in order to live and thrive in the first “free” den of wolves.
“She’s my—”
“Everything,” Matoimaru finished. “Yes. I feel the same way.”
Luna paused for a moment, taking in the meaning of what the Oni was saying, and what it meant for the both of them. “Are you two in love,” she asked.
Matoimaru didn’t immediately answer. She opened her mouth, but caught herself before it was too late. It was such a blessed, impulsive thing for her to shout out her love at any given time, but this time, for this audience, she thought a different answer was appropriate. She was reminded of her own mother.
“Have you ever touched an Oni’s horns before?”
“Um…no, I guess.”
“Here.”
Matoimaru adjusted her posture towards Luna and slowly bowed her head forward, lowering her great crown to within the girl’s reach. Reverently, she touched the antler-like horns, gliding her hands along their smooth, stoney exterior. For one head, it seemed like there was so much of the stuff.
“What do you think?”
“They’re beautiful,” Luna gasped. “How do they get so big?”
“Let me tell you a story,” Matoimaru said. Sitting back up, she stroked her horns proudly. “In my village, there is a legend about this very thing. You see, once Higashi was nothing but mountains. Mountains everywhere, as far as the eye could see!” She swept an arm in front of her and the billowing sleeves of her robe fluttered like the curtains before a play. “And the great Mountain god—a Kami—looked at what she had made and was proud. But…there was a sadness as well, for though she had made something truly beautiful, she had no one to share it with. The River Kami were in the waters far below, and the Grass Kami danced along the countryside, heedless of what happened above.
“‘Is there no one who will appreciate what I have done,’ she said. ‘Who will I give these mountains to, now that I have made them?’ And she knelt down and wept, for she realized she was alone.”
“W-what happened next?”
Matoimaru suddenly leapt from the couch and kneeled on the floor. Reaching up with both of her arms, she made a sort of curtain out of her sleeves, hiding her horns. Then slowly, carefully, she brought her hands down, revealing their points. “The Mountain Kami’s tears went into the ground and turned to seeds, from which a great red maple tree sprouted, with thick roots, and branches pointed and high. It said ‘Do not cry, dear Kami. For your love of the mountains, the mountains will love you back. For you, a people, so you will never be alone.’ And the tree stretched out a branch like a hand to the weeping Kami, and when the Kami reached out and took it…” Matoimaru paused as she slid off her sleeves, revealing her bare arms. “…the tree was gone, and there a man stood. His roots had become his arms and legs, his great trunk had become a body, and his many pointed branches had become a head with a wondrous crown of horns. He was the first Oni, and he loved, and was loved by, the Mountain Kami.
And true to his word, their love birthed a people that would forever love the mountains. My people,” she said, beaming. “And it is why our horns grow so big and so high. They are always reaching towards the highest peaks, where our love is found. They are…a product of that love.” She reached up and gently caressed one of her horns, a tear welling up in her eye. “To be loved by one of my people is to be given these horns, as I have to Lavinia. I will hold them high for her. I will tend to them for her. And, if need be, I will break them for her, because anybody that wishes to do her harm must first go through me!”
Luna gawked, speechless, eyes wide as saucers. Unable to form a proper expression of thanks, she did what any Siracusa at the theater would do. She began clapping.
Matoimaru bared her teeth in a joyful smile. “Does that answer your question, Luna,” she asked, beaming.
The young Lupo nodded hurriedly.
The Oni chuckled.
The handle turned.
“Gracie, signor,” said Lavinia, holding the door open. “I'm sure you can find your way ou—” She cut herself short as she attempted to take in the strange sight of Matoimaru seated dramatically on the floor and Luna still reflexively clapping, albeit quietly. They both waved awkwardly. The judge attempted to keep her cool, to maintain a sense of decorum, but it was her guest that broke the stalemate first.
“Well,” huffed the portly Feline, “I had heard the rumors, but paid them no mind.” He chuckled. “I think you’ve done very well for yourself, Judge. Look how well your wife gets along with your daughter. Hah! You’ll make a fine family yet,” he added, winking supportively.
Lavinia froze. She wanted to reply but couldn’t form the sounds. In that moment, it was as though every word from every language had left her. Linguistically, she was alone. Emotionally, she was ready to explode. Matoimaru had never seen her go such a shade of red before; she almost thought she could see steam coming out of her ears. In the meantime, the well-dressed feline had long since bid his goodbyes, promised to call again, and left the house.
As the judge’s eyes leapt hurried between Matoimaru and Luna, searching for an answer, the young Lupo grinned awkwardly and, also reddening, said, “so…if I’ve got two moms now, does that mean I get twice as many gifts for my birthday next week?”
Even with the Oni’s speed, she had only just enough time to catch her lover before she hit the floor, collapsing from the sudden, exhausting flood of emotion.