Page 141 of Tsumiko and the Enslaved Fox
So he tuned out the intangible plucking, pretending nothing unusual was happening. Passive. Patient. Relaxed into a nearly meditative state, he didn’t immediately register any problem. But the bond was still intact enough to alert him. The feeble spike of pain was little more than the prick of a thorn, but he recognized its intent.
His mistress needed him.
“Michael,” Argent warned. “Something is amiss.”
“Nearly there.” Michael didn’t open his eyes. Concentration creased his features, but he calmly inquired, “Tsumiko, what are you feeling?”
“I’m fine.”
Argent begged to differ. Although she seemed calm, sweat sheened her brow, and her heart had begun to race. “She is lying.”
Michael grimaced. “Argent, I’ve loosened three of the four anchors, if you pull away, I think you can slip free.”
But when he eased back, she whimpered.
“Should it give her pain?” Argent asked sharply.
“I don’t know.” Michael’s concentration wavered, and they exchanged a worried glance. “Try again. But slowly.”
Argent knew they all wanted the same thing, to spring the catch on a centuries-old lock, but again, Tsumiko gasped.
“Wait, wait, wait!” ordered the reaver. “Tsumiko, you have to let him go.”
“I will,” she promised.
Michael was clearly perplexed, but Argent grit his teeth and strained lightly away. He achieved a little distance, but Tsumiko’s soul moved with him. One jerk, and he could pull it free, like a pearl from its shell. Right along with the meat, for her soul would be forfeit. Consumed. By him.
“No more,” he growled. “This will kill her.”
“It’s okay.” Even his half-hearted attempt left Tsumiko waxen and quaking, yet she insisted, “He should be free to choose.”
Argent was horrorstruck. What might happen if she ordered him to pull free? Acting quickly, he pushed Michael clear and pressed a hand over Tsumiko’s mouth. “Not a word,” he hissed.
She sobbed and swayed, then collapsed in a dead faint.
“What happened?” Michael whispered.
Argent bared his teeth at the man, not that he deserved any recrimination. But the implications of their attempt were staggering. The only way he could have ended his enslavement here was to take Tsumiko’s life. And she would have let him.
The cost was too high.
“Icanchoose,” snarled Argent. “I have chosen.”
. . .
Late that same evening, Tsumiko was still unconscious. Argent slumped in a chair at her bedside, silently coaxing her to draw strength from his presence. Tending was the only apology he could offer. And the only comfort he could find.
A light rap sounded on the window, which opened a moment later to admit Gingko. “Hey, Dad,” he whispered. “Something happen?”
Argent rolled his eyes and led the way into the hallway. Once the bedroom door was firmly shut, he inquired, “Are you in the habit of entering Tsumiko’s room through the window?”
“Guess so.” He wriggled bare feet on the floorboards. “She needed a friend; so did I. Isn’t that okay?”
With a sigh, Argent walked to the kitchen. Gingko radiated tension, and Argent resisted the urge to pry. Drawing on what little calm remained in the aftermath of Tsumiko’s close call, he busied himself making tea.
“Say, Dad,” Gingko began, voice tight. “I have this problem.”
“And you are bringing it to me?”
