Tokyo Blood Magic (Shinjuku Shadows Book 1)

by Travis Heermann

  So she took a deep breath and allowed herself to become as still as water.

  “Good,” he said as he rubbed shaving cream over her almost naked scalp.

  Her thoughts flew down unfamiliar pathways. She wasn’t sure where her request to educate herself had come from, but it had risen in a barely controlled wave and wouldn’t allow her to keep silent. All of this was unfamiliar. The threatening presence of the six warriors behind her didn’t exactly put her at ease, but she was accustomed to being around such men. She understood them. But she had never encountered that kind of power in a woman before. One woman seemed to know Kenji, and there was something in her face that made Yuka wonder if they had been lovers.

  So many thoughts.

  The cold straight razor whispered across her scalp, shaving swaths as clean as a baby’s belly.

  The truth was, all of this felt unreal, as if she had just stepped into Jianghu. This was not the yakuza world, which was old, hidebound, traditional, an underworld that went back centuries and belonged exclusively to men. This new underworld existed in parallel, but even more secret. The weight of tradition was everywhere, seeping up out of the tatami itself, and she knew none of it. But there were women here, women of untold power. That alone gave her comfort that she might make a place among them.

  Her stomach rumbled. She hadn’t eaten since morning, and that had been a can of cat food. She realized with a pang of sorrow and anger that she didn’t even know what kind of food she liked anymore. All the time she had lost, all the experiences she had been denied. She grieved for that exploited girl, that abused woman. She had never been to a cinema. She had never gone on a leisurely walk with a friend. She had no friends at all, really. All the girls in all the clubs and brothels were but acquaintances. They came and went too fast to form any sort of lasting friendships. She had not eaten ice cream since she was sixteen. With Kenji. She had never gone sightseeing. She had never gone fishing or learned how to ride a bicycle. She had danced but never without fear of judgment and never without hyper-awareness of all the eyes on her. She had never read a grown-up book. She had gone shopping to please Habu but never to please herself. She had never listened to music that she chose.

  Her head felt cold and naked and raw, like after all those excruciating Brazilian waxes that Habu demanded.

  The tattooist gestured for her to lie face-down on a U-shaped pillow. Then he sat beside her and prepared his inks. She had spotted several colors in the box. Such a master was he that he did not even draw out the design on her skin. He would produce this tattoo from within his own experience and intuition like a master calligrapher.

  The man took a deep breath as if gathering his concentration. Through her essence pools, she felt the echo of his mahō begin to flow.

  “By the gods and buddhas!” he said under his breath. “Your Air essence is—!”

  “Gone, I know,” she said. “I had to.”

  She glanced at Kenji.

  “A brave thing,” the man said, nodding in understanding.

  Then he rested one hand against her pate, cradled the bamboo stick, tipped with a series of needles, across the crook of his thumb, and began to stitch the needles into her skin.

  The sting of tebori-style tattooing was like an old friend, but this was a whole new level of torment. With no fat on the scalp for cushion and an abundance of nerves, the needles felt like nails pounding into her skull. The ink was like squirting lemon juice into a million minuscule cuts. Her scalp was on fire.

  Stab-stab-stab-stab-stab-stab-stab-stab. Wipe. Dip. Stab-stab-stab-stab...

  Tears soaked the pillow cradling her face.

  But the pain reminded her that she was alive. Habu had not destroyed her. She was damaged but alive. And furthermore, she was still a Level Three witch and a powerful one, judging by the way the Chinese woman in the antechamber had looked at her.

  She had a place now.

  She had chosen it.

  It was not entirely voluntary, but she had chosen it.

  She had left behind Ukiyo, the Floating World, the world of red lights and gambling and dissipation. For good. What this new world held in store for her, time would tell.

  The stabbing of the needles crept across her scalp toward the back of her head. She presumed the characters resembled those she’d seen on the tattooist’s head, but she could not read those. But as the image took shape, an electric tingling spread across her crown, seeping into her, filaments of connection forming between the Brand and her essence pools, making her acutely aware of each place within her body and spirit that housed the elements of mahō. Her Awakened pools—Third Eye, Hara, and Root—thrummed and throbbed the strongest, with almost sexual pleasure, and three others seemed to be singing in harmony, open and receptive, like hatchlings. One remained quiet, still.

  For an hour she lay unmoving as endless tiny stabs stitched across her skull like crabs picking her flesh away. Then another hour. At least she thought so, as her mind went away for a while. And then something happened.

  Her Crown pool sprang wide, flooding all her pools with essence. It was like a portal had opened to a vastness she could not comprehend, to endless vistas of lethal cold and disintegrating heat, emptiness, enormous bodies dancing in harmonies of gravity, light, particles, and mahō essence. There were spirits, creatures, animals, humans, titanic entities of vast power and unknowable purpose—a universe teeming with life and yearning. And she, the tiniest of specks on the tiniest speck among the tiniest cluster of specks and on and on and on...

  She was a creature of Fire and Earth and Intuition. She might yet cast a great shadow upon this world. The prospect of it—the possibilities, the potential—fed her a spark of joy.

  She was a witch. How many other potential witches were out there, waiting for her to help them, to show them the way out of slavery? How many young women and girls might she save if she could burn the Black Lotus to the ground? She remembered many of the men who had brutalized her, those memories not hazed by drugs and alcohol. For them, there would be a reckoning.

  As possibilities opened up for her imagination, she could also sense great powers lurking beyond, through the connection her Brand gave her to the universe. Were those entities the Council? Would they be watching her? Certainly. As long as they didn’t mistreat her, she would follow their rules.

  The tattooist was putting his tools back into his box.

  Her scalp felt aflame, sizzling. Her nostrils caught a scent like ozone.

  A deep, male voice came from the dais. “You may rise, Yuka Nishihara.”

  Slowly, her head swimming, she pushed herself up and into seiza. Her soaked cheeks cooled from the drying tears.

  A woman with a Korean accent spoke from the dais. “Yuka Nishihara, we welcome you into our family.”

  “Thank you, Exalted Ones,” Yuka said.

  “Repeat this oath after me,” the Korean woman said. “I will act with honesty and integrity...”

  Yuka repeated the words.

  “I will respect the rights and dignity of all people...”

  It sounded like a lovely sentiment.

  “I will oppose all forms of corruption and exploitation...”

  Oh, she was going to do that with a vengeance.

  “I will protect the weak and the oppressed...”

  Tears began to flow. She now had the power to do that.

  “I will never reveal my true nature or the existence of the supernatural to non-magical beings...”

  Made sense.

  “I will behave with wisdom, honor, loyalty, and respect toward myself, my brethren, and the Gotairō...”

  Yuka repeated the words, unsure of what self-respect meant, but she would learn.

  “This oath I make freely and upon my honor...”

  It felt right.

  “And should I ever break this oath, may my life be forfeit.”

  A tingle went through her as she repeated this, but the weight of it settled into her like a foundation stone falling int
o place. This was real. This was happening. This was not a dream.

  The Japanese woman on the dais said, “We have decided to grant your request. You may return to the mortal world. We will check on you from time to time. When you are ready, you may return here and begin your study of the mahō arts.”

  Yuka bowed low. “Thank you very much, Exalted Ones.”

  The woman said, “Wong-san, you may escort her out.”

  Kenji bowed low, then stood, trying to hide his unsteadiness after two hours sitting in seiza. Yuka rocked onto her feet and stood. He led her through the six warriors, who parted to let them pass, through the antechamber with its incredible scrolls, to the normal-looking foyer, where he donned his coat and reclaimed all his weapons.

  He tried to meet her eye, but she kept her gaze downcast.

  On the rear wall of the genkan was a scroll painted with an elaborate gate surrounded by dragons, kirin, and phoenixes. “Just touch it here,” he said, pointing at the gate.

  She did, and with a rush of air, the two of them were standing behind a line of vending machines near an ancient temple she didn’t recognize. There was so much of Tokyo she hadn’t seen. Today’s trip to Shizuoka had been the farthest she’d ever gone from the city. She wanted to do more of that, see things, do things, smell things, eat things.

  “Can I walk with you for a while?” he said.

  No one had ever asked her that before, or anything resembling her permission. It would have felt good had she still possessed a heart.

  “Okay,” she said.

  They walked along a broad path toward the edge of the temple grounds. The night sky gleamed with lights. The sounds of traffic formed an underlying murmur. The air smelled of greenery and incense.

  He said, “What are you going to do now?”

  “First, go back to Ha—my apartment and get my things before the Black Lotus Clan puts a bounty on my head.” And then she was going to go back to Mt. Kunō and retrieve the Mirror of Destiny, which she had secreted in a different place. She saw no reason anyone had to know about that.

  “And then?”

  “I don’t know. I’m taking things minute by minute.” Habu’s wallet contained almost two hundred thousand yen. That was more than enough for her to buy a wig, and his safe contained far more cash, although she didn’t know how much. With her Third Eye able to look inside its mechanism, she was pretty sure she could open it.

  He nodded and sighed. Then a rush of words came out. “I looked for you. I mean, way back then. And always. I talked to your mother, but she wouldn’t tell me anything. I looked for years. I never really gave up. So, now, here you are. And I’m really happy about that. Maybe we could—”

  “No!” she said, maybe too forcefully. He flinched as if she’d struck him. “No, Kenji. I’m sorry. You don’t want me, not like I am now.”

  “Let me be the judge of that.”

  “No. I don’t want to argue.” And she wasn’t obligated to explain herself to him. She had been a slave her whole life, first to her mother, then to her father and the yakuza, and then to Habu. She would never be a slave again, not for him or anybody. “There’s too much to think about right now. I’m happy you’re okay. Thank you for saving me.” Now was not the time to tell him how often she’d thought about him, or that she still felt drawn to him.

  “You saved me, too!” he said. “I...I couldn’t stand it if you just disappeared again.”

  Neither of them could look at each other. Her scalp felt naked and raw. So did her heart.

  Finally, she said, “I think you’ll manage.”

  “But—!”

  “I have to go. See you around, tough guy.”

  Then she shoved her fists into her jacket pockets and walked away into the rest of her life, such as it would be.

  Epilogue

  DJANGO SAT AT A LOW table with the morning edition of Asahi Shinbun, one of Japan’s major newspapers, spread out before him. A clock on the wall of the kitchen told him it was morning, but he had been staying at the complex for a few days, throwing himself into study to avoid thinking about Yuka. There was no sunlight to be found in this subterranean sprawl, making it difficult to keep track of the time of day.

  With this right hand, he lifted a cup of green tea to his lips, but he sighed at how it trembled. His hand was soot-black, a blot that spread all the way to his upper arm, and worse, it was thin, withered, like an old man’s hand. Celestial essence could not entirely heal Habu’s deadly poison, it seemed. He had been trying to heal it fully with more Celestial magic, but without result, so he had taken to exercising it to try to rebuild its strength, lifting weights and doing sword drills. Losing the efficacy of his dominant sword hand...he didn’t like to think about it. He sipped the cup of green tea and read.

  The devastation atop Mt. Kunō had been covered up. The damage to the tomb and shrine complex and the murders of two Shinto priests were attributed to organized crime and the burgeoning gang war and became a moment of national mourning. The shrine was to be closed to the public until everything could be rebuilt and re-consecrated.

  The police investigation of Kenji “Django” Wong was quietly dropped. He had received a text from Sergeant Tokumaru to that effect the day before and a warning to stay the hell out of trouble.

  He had not seen Cat since that night on Mt. Kunō, but he had no doubt Cat was fine.

  The Council had sequestered themselves with the Yamabushi Scroll, and no one had seen them since. The Librarian had disappeared as well, leaving Django to rely on his meager research skills to sift through the occult library’s endless nooks full of ancient scrolls and books. As a new Level Four, he was hungry to study new abilities that were open to him. It assuaged some of the pain of Yuka’s abrupt departure.

  On that thought, he folded up the newspaper, tucked it under his arm, and headed for the Library. Maybe the Librarian would show up today. Django had so many questions stacked up to ask the odd old man.

  The Library was situated a number of branching corridors away and down a level. The hallways felt like traversing the halls of a medieval castle with nightingale floors, whitewashed stone walls, and lanterns to light the way.

  There were hallways in the complex that, the moment he set foot in them, gave him a powerful sense of unease or prohibition. Those passageways were not for him. He suspected those led to the inner sanctums of the Council members.

  He paused at the door of the Shrine Room, catching sight of someone unfamiliar in there. The Shrine Room was like a Hall of the Dead, a room full of altars to all the witches and warlocks who had died, going back fifty years.

  Django didn’t know all of Japan’s funeral practices, but in a mixture of Buddhism and Shinto, the spirits of the departed were mourned and revered in people’s homes throughout the country. Many homes had a cabinet or altar called a butsudan where photographs, favorite possessions, funeral urns, or memorial tablets of the departed were enshrined, along with incense and offerings of fruit, saké, or rice.

  The Shrine Room was full of them. The air was heavy with incense and dozens of burning candles. As an acolyte, one of his many chores had been to dust and clean everything in here. It was an all-day job. It had been a while, but memories of all those faces, those lives, and the questions he had had about them returned in a flood.

  A young woman wearing a beautiful kimono knelt before an altar Django didn’t recognize. She turned at the sound of his step, and her beauty set him back, even though she wore no makeup, her hair disheveled as if she’d just gotten out of bed.

  She gave him a quick smile. “Oh, good morning!”

  At the threshold, Django bowed in reverence to the spirits of the deceased, then entered. “Good morning. I was just passing by.” As was almost reflexive at this point, he opened his Third Eye to check her out...and saw she was not a witch at all, just a normal human.

  What the hell was a normal human doing here?

  “You look confused,” she said. “Don’t worry, I’m just visit
ing.”

  “You’re not a...witch,” he said.

  She sighed. “He’s trying to teach me, but I’m having poor luck, I’m afraid.”

  The photograph on the altar before which she knelt portrayed a beautiful young woman in traditional dress and hairstyle, about the same age as the woman before him, in her late twenties with big, soulful eyes and gorgeous lips. In the frame were embedded three small jewels, an amethyst, a sapphire, and an emerald, signifying her Awakened pools: Celestial, Water, and Heart.

  Something struck him, and he looked again.

  Then he stepped closer and looked again.

  He had seen the face of the woman in the photograph.

  The face of the onryō.

  Its awful voice raked across his memory and stood his small hairs on end. I see you, Kenji Wong.

  He asked, “Do you...know that woman?”

  “Only a little, but...” She seemed to be choosing her words carefully. “She killed herself. I’m here...praying to appease her spirit.”

  Such a strange thing to say. “Has she been haunting you?” The thought of having to face the thing again made his skin crawl.

  “No, not lately, not since...Ah, it’s nothing. I’m happy it’s over.” But her eyes told a much different story. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised about what happened. And I know I shouldn’t speak badly of the dead, but she was an awful, cruel, jealous woman.”

  Then a flash of insight came to him that almost knocked him over. “You...Is your name Uemura?”

  She smiled with surprise. “Yes, but you can call me Chika. How did you know?”

  He pointed to himself and raised an eyebrow. “Warlock.”

  She snickered. “Of course.”

  “I was the one who saved your daughter, Miwa.”

  Her eyes bloomed with shock and gratitude. She bowed low. “Thank you so much! I...I...Oh, it was so terrible!” Then tears impaired her ability to speak.

  “Is she all right now, little Miwa?” Django asked.