Celestial essence was the hardest to come by “in the wild,” he was discovering. An Awakened Celestial pool was extremely rare among low-level creatures and users, perhaps because it required cultivation of the spirit, mastery of the self, and openness to the cosmos, like the bodhisattvas themselves, to truly understand it. The Celestial pool was the gateway to the cosmos.
But he was tapped out again.
Near the bed, beside the condom dispenser, was a glass-front refrigerator filled with cans of chūhai, bottles of saké and wine, soft drinks, and edible sex accouterments. A bottle of cold saké to wash the taste of someone else’s death out of his mouth sounded pretty good.
So he cracked one and downed half of it—pretty good stuff. Then he sank into the luscious, bubbling embrace of the two-person hot tub, put his head back, and stared into the plastic palm fronds arched overhead. The hotel room smelled of sandalwood, jasmine, and flowery bubble bath.
As the tension of his muscles and bruises relaxed, his entire future stretched into a sea of chaos before him. This was uncharted territory. He rubbed absently at the ache in his forearm, probably a remnant of Yuka’s venom.
He could fight monsters. He could fight the yakuza. But could he fight Yuka? Could he kill her? He might hesitate at the crucial moment, and that would be the end of him.
He knew her.
Or did he?
How much control could the Black Lotus Clan exert? Only a powerful mahō user with an Awakened Sacral pool could dominate someone’s mind Dracula-style over the long term. The effects varied, depending on the strength of the target’s will, but the true personality always reasserted itself eventually.
Yuka was still only a Level One. A powerful Level One to be sure, but she was still only just coming into her true powers. She could not have done tonight’s massacre on her own. She had a handler, a more powerful witch or warlock, someone who could both keep her in line and supply true firepower.
They knew Django now, knew his (former) address. The only way they could have found him was with some powerful scrying. It took incredible skill or incredible luck to find one person in a metropolitan area of thirty-five million.
So how could he end this without killing her?
By taking out her handler and stealing her back from the Black Lotus Clan, that was how. He had seen the flicker of her desire to come with him. Hadn’t he? How willing an accomplice was she?
But her handler was at least a Level Three, possibly a Four. Could Django take out a Level Four? Only with the element of surprise and some serious luck. It was difficult to surprise anyone with an Awakened Third Eye, as it heightened the senses and, with enough practice, developed a danger-sense that worked against magic as well. A hunch told him this was the case. The most likely outcome was that a Level Four would cut him to ribbons, burn him to cinders, and eat his soul for dessert.
He needed better odds.
The only way to improve the odds was to level up.
The only way to level up was to hunt.
Whether he could level up in time to find Yuka was an uncomfortable question. Yokai were the easiest target—the powerful onryō notwithstanding—but running all over Tokyo killing sewer-dwelling tanuki and foxes, or vampiric kappa, or even yūrei, hungry ghosts, would take him a while. Supernatural creatures came imbued with mahō essence for him to absorb, but the amounts were usually small, at least in those he knew how to find, the minor ones who operated in the cracks of the human world. In the case of yūrei, the peril overshadowed the potential benefit—he could bring home a stray curse or four, and that was trouble he didn’t need. It would be a grind. And Yuka and her handlers clearly had an immediate agenda.
The presence in the mortal world of powerful monsters like the onryō, if left unchecked, would erode the barrier between worlds and allow more and more monsters to cross over. Humans were powerless to stop them.
He needed to sleep, but he was still too keyed up to succumb, too cognizant of the deadline the Council had imposed, so he sipped another bottle of saké, lay against the headboard, and paged through his mother’s old ninjutsu notebooks. Some of the pages had fragments of cracked, faded scrolls pasted to them. How far back they went, she had never told him, but some of them had to be centuries old. There was wisdom lurking in the old kanji scrawls. He was still shaky in his knowledge of kanji, especially old, handwritten forms, but fortunately his mother had translated most of these pages. The sight of her handwriting made his heart ache, but more than once he’d found a trick or idea for sneaking into secure locations or outwitting pursuit. He likened them to Sun Tzu’s The Art of War mixed with a manual on stealth and infiltration.
When your enemy is stronger than you, strike them where they do not expect and do the maximum damage you can.
The heart of guerrilla warfare.
And this was war.
The Black Lotus Clan had mahō users, and they were willing to use them more openly than ever before. What if Django hunted them? Just like in English, the Japanese had an expression, Isseki nichō. One stone, two birds. A sudden loss of a few of their precious warlocks like this morning’s assassin—who did not exactly grow on trees—might slow down whatever designs the Black Lotus Clan had for Yuka. Weaken them and slow them down.
So he would hunt Black Lotus warlocks and witches. Some old chivalrous streak made him reluctant to harm women, especially those who were likely to have been trafficked, victimized, and brainwashed by the yakuza from a young age. But that didn’t mean they couldn’t be dangerous. In modern history, the number of women who’d ever risen to power in the Japanese underworld could be counted on one hand. Organized crime was a man’s game, and in that world, women were either property or rewards. But if it came down to him or a hostile witch, self-preservation trumped chivalry.
He might also find a source of information on what they were up to with Yuka. Enhanced in-terror-gation might be just the trick.
“It just might,” Cat said from atop Django’s headboard.
Django leaped out bed, still naked from his bath, reaching frantically for weapons that were out of reach.
Cat licked his paw.
“How the fuck did you get in here?” Django yelped.
Cat gave him a disdainful glace that said, And you think I would tell you? “I thought you would like to know the location of a Black Lotus nightclub.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Shall we have a little gratitude, perhaps?”
“For what, breaking into my room and scaring the shit out of me?”
“I ‘broke’ nothing.”
“Sorry, I’m a little freaked out that a yokai just snuck into my locked hotel room. Do I need to destroy you for the good of the mortal world?”
Cat rubbed a paw over his ear. “May you have good fortune in that endeavor. Do you want to know where the nightclub is or not?”
“You’re wrecking my relaxitude.”
“That is not even a word.”
“You can do that in English.”
“No wonder everyone hates English.”
Django narrowed his eyes. He was still naked, his swords were out of reach, and his magic amounted to a few crumbs and used coffee grounds at the bottom of a trash bin. Even more plus, he couldn’t help a twinge of unease that Cat had just looked at Django’s junk like it was a cat toy.
“It’s called Moist Joy, in Ginza,” Cat said.
“Ginza again,” Django muttered. “I have a feeling I should move there for a while.”
“It would save you train and taxi fare.”
“What does a cat know about train and taxi fare?” Cat’s presence annoyed him. He didn’t want a sidekick, much less a supernatural one whose exact nature was being kept from him.
An even more disdainful glare. “Are you always this obtuse or just with me?”
“Tell me about Moist Joy,” Django said. “Any mahō around?”
“The place reeks of it.”
Django sighed and settled b
ack onto the bed. “I guess I won’t kill you today.”
“What am I, Scheherazade?”
“You’re pretty well read for a cat.”
“You’re pretty well read for a former criminal.” Cat stretched and yawned.
Django said. “Tonight then. You game?”
“For what?”
“An attack.”
“You plan to attack?”
“Are you going to back me up?”
“What about your friend, the cute one with the bad attitude?”
“I don’t want Xing involved.”
The cat jumped down onto the mattress, its size making a thump like a boulder. “I believe your plan to be wildly ill-advised.”
“So advise me, O Creature of Ancient Wisdom.”
Cat curled up next to Django’s feet and shut his eyes. “Alas, you have a scarcity of tuna.”
CLUB MOIST JOY WAS on the top floor of a brilliantly lit building in the heart of Ginza. As the elevator rose, the techno thump of the music grew louder. The moment Django stepped off the elevator, he was bathed in aquamarine luminescence. The walls of the club were lined with stylishly lit, vertical tubes of bubbling water, the color of which shifted subtly. He strolled toward the door guard, a burly man in a tailored suit and sunglasses, his hair slicked back with too much gel.
Django considered asking the guard if he felt like a walking stereotype but decided that it might get things off on the wrong foot. He needed to do what he came here to do, but with a minimum of mayhem. Too many civilians. Too little room to run.
After one look at Django’s voluminous duster, the guard said, “I need to pat you down.”
Django raised his arms to the sides. “Feel free.”
He was indeed carrying his swords, but the Shadow magic concealed them from mortal perception. This thug was not a warlock. It was automatic for Django to use Shadow to conceal his weapons anytime he went out in public. It made them invisible except to magical perceptions. He’d been doing this long enough that it took little energy, and after he enacted the concealment, the effect lasted for hours. If he were frisked, as occasionally happened, the frisker’s hands would subconsciously avoid touching them.
A day of rest, some meditation, and a couple of hot-tub soaks had gone a long way toward making Django feel normal. His pools were replenished. The swelling in his face was gone, as was most of the bruising, but he still had to be careful. Tonight he would simply case the joint unless a ripe opportunity presented itself.
The tunnel of cascading rainbow tubes led him to the bar area, beyond which lay the dance floor. A series of dimly lit booths surrounded the dance floor, and a raised dais, cordoned off by a red velvet rope, housed several luxurious couches—the VIP area. In the couches were a handful of men in silk suits that, without question, concealed bodies covered in irezumi. The entire club stank of sweat, gangster, and—Cat was right—mahō. It was like an electric tang in the air.
To normal humans, it probably felt like excitement, potential, the rush of attraction right before getting laid. If that aura was intentional, it was working, because a forest of raised arms and writhing bodies packed the dance floor, even this early in the evening, just before ten p.m.
He ordered a beer he didn’t intend to drink, refrained from berating the bartender over what they charged for it, then took it to a dim corner booth, where a twenty-something couple was about two-point-six minutes from needing a hotel room. Rather than trying to make himself heard over the pounding music, he gestured for them to take off somewhere to get down and dirty, an offer they accepted.
Sliding into the booth, he cleared his thoughts of memories of the last time he’d been in a club. His club life had been a somewhat crappy run lately.
He opened his Third Eye and scanned for magical auras. Most of what lay before him was a throng of horny club-goers, bouncing and bumping, grinding and gyrating, but the air itself held a kind of glowing haze of mahō-charged blue particles, swirling like pinprick fireflies invisible to the human eye. Charm magic. Everyone was just breathing them in.
The club was using magic to cement a loyal, abundant clientele who wouldn’t mind being charged quintuple for drinks. Incredibly unethical but amusing in its banal avarice. Grifters gotta grift. The real question was, where would they get so much mahō essence? Sustaining a spell like this over the long term required some serious juice.
Django had to admit the scenery was exceptional, but he couldn’t let himself be distracted. The hairs on the nape of his neck were waving like a wind-blown rice field.
Then from the crowd emerged a familiar face.
She spotted him at the same moment, the high school-age waitress from Hair of the Kitty, Kana. She was wearing more fabric than the last time he saw her, but not by much. He raised his beer in salute and gave her a nod to come over. She tucked her serving tray under one arm and approached.
“Nice to see you, Kana,” he said.
She looked alarmed this time, suspicious at seeing him again. “Hi. Can I get you a drink?”
“Got one.” He gestured for her to sit, but she shook her head. Then he laid his wallet on the table and her eyes flashed. He was a little surprised at the desperate avarice that flickered across her face, quickly concealed. “So you work here now?”
“They moved me over here.” She stood close to the table. There was a haunted darkness about her eyes now that wasn’t makeup.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes,” she lied.
He moved closer and gestured for her to lean in. “What do they have on you? I can help you.”
She flinched away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He raised both hands. “Okay, okay. Tell you what. I’ll come clean. You can judge me then. I lied to you the other night.”
“No kidding.”
“Yeah, me and Kimiko go way back. Her real name is Yuka. She was very special to me when we were teenagers.”
She stared at him pointedly but was caught by the questions beneath his story. “So you’ve been stalking her since then?”
“No! That’s not what I—” He sighed. “We were a thing.”
“And she dumped you?” She crossed her arms.
“No! Not that either. What do you think I am, some creepy sleazebag?”
“I see them every day. Got one of my own, an ex who won’t leave me alone.”
“It’s not like that. We were a thing. We were solid.”
“So what happened?”
“Black Lotus Clan. Her mom sold her into slavery.”
She cringed and shuddered. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Sound familiar?”
She nodded, unable to meet his gaze.
“Look, I can see you need help and that you’re afraid of getting in trouble. I want to help you. Tell me a few things and you can make a break for it before I tear this place to the ground.”
She laughed nervously, then noticed the seriousness of his expression. Her eyes bulged. “Oh, you’re serious.”
He shrugged.
“Are you a cop?” she asked.
“Absolutely not.”
“Another gang?”
“Strike two. Call me an independent operator.” He slid two ten-thousand-yen bills out of his wallet and placed them on the table. This was too important to be stingy. He could tell she had information on her tongue, waiting to come out; it just needed the right coaxing.
She eyed the bills nervously. He slid them toward her. She reached for them. He slid them away.
She swallowed hard and looked into the corner at nothing in particular. “I heard Habu telling the manager at Hair of the Kitty that Kimiko was going to work at a place called Lush. A brothel.”
“Not a soapland?”
“No, a full-on brothel. A nasty place. Kinky. Totally illegal.”
He moved the cash in a flat circle with his finger. “Since it’s illegal, you’d better tell me where it is. I doubt it shows up on a web search.”
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“Kabuki-chō.”
“No shit.” He tried to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.
“Well, where else would it be?”
“Good point. You’re gonna need to narrow it down.”
“I don’t know the address, but I know it’s somewhere near Robot Restaurant.”
Robot Restaurant was an extravaganza of tourist kitsch, complete with swarms of flashing lights, thundering music, and a rousing floor show featuring girls in silver lamé space costumes, taiko drums, and animatronic robots. He asked, “How near?”
“Maybe an adjacent building? Habu was bitching about ‘all the stupid fucking gaijin’ going in and out of there.”
“Thank you.” He slid the money across to her. She made it disappear. “How long have you been working here? See anything weird?”
She shuddered again. “I’ve been going back and forth between here and the Kitty for a couple of weeks. I like the Kitty better. The men stay in line, and this whole place gives me the creeps. The bartender scares me to death.”
He hadn’t noticed anything supernatural or unusual about the bartender. “The one working now?”
“No, the late-night one. His name is Taka. Comes in about midnight.”
“Why is he so scary? What’s he done?”
“I haven’t seen him do anything, but I’m pretty sure he could do something really, really bad. I’ve seen it in his eyes.”
“Just him? Anything around here stranger than him?”
“He’s enough.”
“You’d better bring me another drink.” It wouldn’t be good to arouse suspicion just yet. They’d been talking for too long. “And thanks.”
She shrugged.
“If I offer you a bit of advice,” he said, “will you take it?”
Tokyo Blood Magic (Shinjuku Shadows Book 1) Page 11
