by Eden Crowne
It took me a moment to process. My party was Friday, the seventh. What happened to Saturday? I missed an entire day. Oh spit! I would call Savan. He would know what to do, he could explain what happened. Speed dialing, I waited to hear his voice, that deep, rich accent telling me everything was okay. He'd make it better; he loved me. The cell phone at my ear babbled something in Japanese. Sobbing from the pain and maybe something more, I tried Savan again. And again. And again. Then Vanessa's number, then Anders, Stephanie, all of them. The babbling was a recording. The identical recorded response at each number. The pain in my heart flared again and I sagged against the seat.
What was going on?
Chapter 17
Lonely Hearts Club
Nauseated, dizzy, head pounding, I made it home with just a few yen to spare. Shedding my clothes on the way through the apartment, I staggered into the bathroom and turned the shower on full blast. Through the rising steam, I cautiously took a look at my body in the mirror. I didn't really want to look myself in the eyes. Not yet. So I kept my sight focused from the neck down. Nearly every inch of me was covered with intricate symbols and some sort of archaic writing that twisted and turned in marvelous patterns. The change from “happy party goer” to “confused victim of a tagging event” was just too much for me to deal with. I could feel my body shutting down.
Future Lexie could worry about it.
I stepped into the shower, letting the hot water run over my aching body. It took an entire container of liquid soap and several washcloths, plus what felt like the top layer of skin, before I managed to scrub all except one of the symbols off. A small, intricate design about the size of my fist directly over my heart remained stubbornly unaffected by soap and water. Cursing, I began to suspect it might be a different sort of ink altogether.
“God damn him!” I shouted at the bathroom tiles. “God damn him to hell!” I think I meant Julian Lake, though at that point, I couldn't be sure.
Belatedly checking, I found Dad wasn't home. Probably seeking consolation in the arms of his blond girlfriend. I curled up into a tight little ball of anguish and tried to cry. It was just too much effort and I drifted off to sleep for several hours. When I woke up, I tried again to contact my friends. No one answered. Dragging my laptop from the bedside table, I opened the net. Emails bounced back; every one.
Dimly I heard the heavy front door close.
After that, there was a lot of yelling in the style of: “Where were you? How could you? I was frantic!” The yelling turned into a rant that spanned the whole range of drugs, sex, alcohol, school and “your future.” The one relevant item – being mind-raped by a beautiful gang of sociopaths – was not included in his list of present or future transgressions.
Honestly, I had never seen him so overwrought, at least with me. The World Bank and European debt were the only things that brought on this sort of rage usually. Perched on the kitchen stool, I let the words wash over me until he ran out of steam.
He stared at me; I stared at the floor. Finally, in a very different voice he said, “I waited for you to come home. I made your birthday dinner.”
It wasn't until then I noticed the decorations on the dining room table, balloons and streamers, candles, china and silverware in place. Dad always cooked for me on my birthday. I'd completely forgotten to tell him I was spending it with the Club. Birthday dinner at home was our little tradition even before Mom left us. The past two years it had been grilled vegetables for starters with foie gras – grilled as well – then beef bourguignon and lots of crispy French bread to soak up the gravy. My dad was actually a good cook, he just seldom took the time anymore. For so many other things as well.
Looking from the table to him and back again, I knew there was no way to apologize. I tried to work myself up into a vicious, “a little effort on your part does not make up for all the days, weeks, months you ignore me” rant. I just couldn't manage it. Right now, I felt bad about a great many things.
“You know, Dad, a good stew always tastes better after a day or so.”
“Are you hungry?”
I nodded.
He busied himself in the kitchen and in a short time, we were sitting at the table. It was then I saw there were unopened cards and two little packages from Brianna and Isobel.
“When did these come?”
Dad was digging into the foie gras and had a generous portion along with several grilled asparagus on the way to his mouth. “Middle of the week. I figured you were waiting until your birthday to open them.”
I hadn't even noticed they'd arrived.
“Oh wait, what am I thinking?” He set down the fork and walked swiftly into the kitchen. There was some rustling and a pop! I knew what that sound meant. He handed me a champagne flute.
“A toast to Lexie!” he said triumphantly. “On her seventeenth birthday!”
He clinked my glass. I felt the world tilt and then it wasn't my father standing in front of me. Instead, I was ringed by members of the Club, their beautiful faces twisted, the snake in the barman's hands writhing and squirming in its death spasms as the blood dripped into my glass. I ran from the room, sick to my stomach.
Around two a.m., I slipped away to search for them. I had to take money out of my dad's wallet for a cab. He always left it next to the mail in the kitchen. Of course, I couldn't find them or anyone I knew. We had been to so many places, I couldn't even remember half of them. Tokyo has more than twelve million people, it's pretty easy to lose yourself. Around dawn, I crawled back into bed. Nightmares haunted me. Waking, sweating and dry-mouthed, I opened my eyes to see the members of the Club around my bed. They looked down at me through the eye holes of their brightly colored carnival masks, the ribbons beckoning like spectral fingers. As I watched, their eyes shifted to black. Their smiles were full of fangs. Vanessa turned her grotesque, grinning bat's face to mine and leaned close. I screamed.
This time I really woke up.
My room was empty.
Sweating with fear, I realized I really was alone.
Chapter 18
Contents May Have Shifted in Transit
I skipped school. How could I not? Dad always left before me. I pretended to get up and get ready and then just went back to bed. Actually I threw up, then went back to bed. Everything hurt. My head, my stomach, even my skin ached. I wanted, needed to see Vanessa and Savan and my other friends. Inside me, there was a gnawing physical as well as emotional longing to hear their voices, to see and touch them. I felt sick and weak and absolutely awful inside and out.
The day looked sunny so why couldn't I seem to get warm? Shivering, I pulled on jeans, socks, and two sweaters. Okay, time to approach things logically, backtrack to Friday. Shinjuku. That's where I should start.
Step one: Find the Reaper place.
My debit card was running on empty after recent shopping sprees. I had a thousand yen, about ten dollars, in my wallet. No taxis today.
Later, stepping off the green train line that sped around the center of Tokyo, I dived into the flood of people going every direction at once at massive Shinjuku Station. Bobbing along, it was like trying to keep my head above water in a flash flood. Shinjuku was made up of several wildly different elements. Elegant department stores and branches of Tiffany and Gucci lined several broad avenues. A sharp turn down one of the side streets, however, and it became a walk on the wild side.
Kabukicho.
Here the red light district turned into a maze of alleys, winding through the highs and lows of human morality, branching off into the murky runoff from mainstream life.
On the night of my birthday, we were in a rather bad neighborhood, even for Shinjuku. Vanessa called it “the cheating side of town” because of the number of pay-by-the-hour love hotels, a designation that pretty much explained itself. I found my way back to the general area we were in but could not, no matter how hard I tried, remember our exact route to the Reaper.
I asked everyone I could find. Despite the sleaziness o
f the neighborhood full of bars, strip clubs – straight and gay – porn shops – ditto – and things I didn't even want to know about, I met with nothing but politeness. No leering looks, no, “Come here little girl, I've got what you're looking for,” come-ons. Stares, yes, more from curiosity than anything else. Japanese seem to take the concept of hospitality very seriously, especially with foreigners. They figured I must have some strange, unfathomable, foreign girl reason to be there. Not once on that long, crazy afternoon as I walked the place up and back, one desperate block at a time, was I frightened of the people around me. The Japanese I met tried their best to understand my babbling. Every single person I attempted to speak with were at the very least polite, if only to wave me off. I doubt I would have met with the same reception all alone in the back streets of my hometown, Los Angeles.
Wandering the little streets and up and down tiny cramped staircases, I tramped. Neon signs and signboards proved no help. The intricate Japanese characters turned each one into a work of art – though they were advertising God knows what services – all totally incomprehensible. Once off the main boulevards, there were no sidewalks. Buildings faced directly on the street and pedestrians played tag with cars, trucks, motorcycles, bicycles and each other. It was early in the afternoon and the area was still repairing the ravages of last night's revels while simultaneously gearing up for the evening to come.
After at least three hours of pointless wandering, I didn't know if I could go on. Every block I walked looked like where I had been that night, or five minutes ago, or both. On yet another nameless side street, I attempted to speak with an elderly woman hosing down the road outside what looked like a noodle shop. Inside the little restaurant, an equally elderly man scrubbed at a bleached wooden counter. The woman listened patiently, doing her best to puzzle through my talk of 70s music, snakes, Blue Oyster Cult, blood, and bars. Though she might not understand the nature of my words, she quickly summed up my emotional state. “Had I been hurt?” She wanted to know. “Robbed? Did I need the police?”
At that point, standing next to a large pile of smelly garbage that a very small, blue garbage truck was rolling up to, the only thing I was certain I had been robbed of was my dignity. It must have been a game after all. A sick, psychotic game of some kind. But, I reflected, I knew I hadn't been raped. Emotionally bruised; not physically violated. I hadn't been robbed either. Or kidnaped. Misplaced maybe. What was the payoff in the “dupe and confuse Lexie” scheme, if not money or sex? The pain I was in wasn't exactly physical in origin, more a visceral aching that seemed to bleed from every pore. And I wanted to see Savan so very much.
The elderly woman in the apron insisted I come and sit at the counter while she spoke rapidly to the man. In a moment, a hot cup of brown tea appeared and both urged me to drink. The drink of hot, bitter tea helped remind me not everyone had a hidden agenda. As the old couple talked over my head, getting the shop ready to open, I thought on what I knew about the Club. The man interrupted just once to hand me a bowl of steaming noodles in rich broth. Smiling kindly, he urged me to eat. At first I thought I might be ill. After just one bite, my stomach reminded me it hadn't had food in far too long and demanded more. The noodles and tender roast pork tasted wonderful. I said so and the couple smiled. The elderly lady nodded and patted me on the back in an encouraging way.
Around sips of the rich, meaty broth, I thought on my relationship with the Club members. I had never been to any of their homes, I knew no addresses. Wait, Anders. That very first meeting at the Conrad, he'd given me a card and I gave him mine. Well, I'd scrawled my number on a napkin. It was here in my wallet still. I looked at the address. Ginza. The other side of town and a world away from here.
Bowing to the old couple, I pulled out my wallet to pay for the meal, only then realizing all I had was about six dollars and change in yen.
The old lady, smiling, pushed my money away, shaking her head and speaking quickly and firmly. I might not understand the words, but the concern from these complete strangers for the crazy foreigner girl – me – was so obvious. My eyes prickled with tears. Pulling a little packet of tissues from her apron pocket, the lady dabbed at my cheeks. I bowed my way out, thanking them again and again. They bowed in return and waved me off.
Ginza was elegant and sophisticated and very expensive. Old school Tokyo. Very different from where I had just been. Broad boulevards lined with beautifully constructed buildings and sparkling store windows. Slogging there on the subway, I showed the card to a policeman at the tiny corner police station right on the main intersection of Ginza Boulevard. He pointed across the street. Peering over the hundreds of heads bobbing along in the crosswalk, all I could see was a department store.
I shook my head, “No.”
He nodded his. “Yes. Mitsukoshi Department Store.”
Walking across the street, I stood staring at the two big stone lions flanking the entrance. They looked down at me dispassionately and seemed to be thinking they would never have fallen for such a stupid trick. Anders' address was a lie. Everything the Club had given me were lies. Could the things the boy with silver hair said...could some of them possibly be true?
A wave of dizziness swept over me and I fell, suddenly, to the sidewalk at the store entrance. Several people and one of the women in uniform from the information desk inside rushed over. Helping me to my feet, they led me to a chair. The information lady fanned me with a folding fan and one of the other women held my hand.
Savan, Vanessa, Stephanie, Cameron, Lilly, Anders; I thought I knew them. It seemed I didn't know anything at all. Waving aside the help of the store employees, I dragged myself to the sidewalk and stumbled down the stairs to the subway. There was barely enough in my wallet to cover the fare back. Slumped in a corner seat of the subway car, my mind spun in dizzying circles of despair. What was happening? What had already happened? The ride home seemed interminable, the walk even more so.
Outside my apartment building stood the English boy with silver hair. He was dressed simply in loose jeans and what looked like a faded black T-shirt under a dark brown military-cut leather trench coat with deep pockets.
“You couldn't find them, could you?” he said as I approached.
Standing in front of him, facing that fierce stare, I began to cry. I hadn't cried one tear since waking up nearly naked in his apartment. Now I couldn't keep them back. Crumpling in upon myself, I seemed to have no control. I crouched there in front of the apartment building, my bent body reflected in the spotless glass of the lobby and sobbed, letting the tears course down my face.
“No use crying now, stupid girl.”
Weakness washed over me again. I felt myself fall.
In a blur of motion, he scooped me up, holding me effortlessly in his arms. His eyes lost that frightening glitter, though his lips were pressed together in a hard line.
“It's happening already,” he seemed to say more to himself than me.
Chapter 19
Sociopath to Enlightenment
“What is?” I stammered. “What's happening?”
He looked up, brows drawn, scanning the street. “We need to get inside.”
I sagged into his embrace as he carried me through the entry doors, keying in the number I mumbled to him. The building caretaker stared at us through the little sliding glass window of his office. Mr. Walters, the house husband downstairs, with both kids in an oversized double stroller, plus the poodle, were waiting for the elevator. The doors opened and without a word, Julian Lake pushed by the entire group and stepped in. As the doors whooshed shut, I saw all of them, even the poodle, staring at us.
Once inside the apartment, he navigated his way to the living room and laid me carefully on our straight-edged couch. I watched wearily as he walked around the living room and dining room looking very intense. For all I knew, that was his only expression. It was the only one I had seen except for that frighteningly fierce stare. Glaring at the windows, he seemed to come to some decision. From one
pocket, he took out what looked like an indelible marker. I watched numbly as he swiftly wrote – drew? – on the big picture windows, making complex symbols in a large star pattern, repeating it once, twice, and then one more time on each of the floor-to-ceiling panes. I noted in a detached way that each was just a little different from the other and that they looked very much like the symbols scrawled all over me the other day.
Standing back, he surveyed his work. “There, that should keep them out for now.”
“Keep who out?” It was hard to talk, the words more like a croak.
“The Others. The servants of the Club. Though they can still see you, the spell will mask my presence.”
I was so tired, I wanted to close my eyes and fall asleep, I didn't even ask him to explain.
“I'll make you something, you need to keep your strength up.”
Disappearing from my line of sight, I heard him moving purposely around the kitchen. There was a clatter and rattle of the fridge and cabinet doors and drawers opening and closing, followed closely by the sounds of chopping and water running.
“Do you have a blender?” he called.
