Drawn Together

by Z. A. Maxfield

  Drawn Together

  Z. A. Maxfield

  Dedication

  For Beverly Jensen, the Happy Assassin, who loved Rory and Yamane first and for all the fans who purchased this book over the years. I couldn’t do it without you!

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Epilogue

  Oh noes, it’s over!

  Join Club ZAM

  Also by Z. A. Maxfield

  About the Author

  Prologue

  It was a grim fact of life, Rory discovered as he wiped mustard off his hands with a napkin, that the further you disappeared into rural America, the less strange it seemed when you talked to your food. He’d just finished having a conversation with a gas station corn dog. Sure, he ate it while leaning up against his car in the back parking lot of one of the endless Stuckey truck stops along I-40, but still, talking to food was talking to food.

  Rory returned to the driver’s seat with a package of crumb doughnuts and the grim determination of someone preparing to perform a complicated Cossack dance. It wasn’t easy folding his over-six-foot frame into the Corona, and after four or five hundred miles, it completely lost its charm. Eyes on the prize, old son, he said to himself. Destiny is something to be grabbed at with both hands. She would be in Long Beach waiting for him. If he had the faintest inkling that this might not be the sanest episode of his life, he dismissed it curtly.

  The artist Ran Yamane, the love of Rory’s life, who created the visionary Sacred Princess Celendrianna, and also the adorable Snoggs characters of the cartoon of the same name, was in Long Beach, California, where at last he could meet her in person. Yamane’s characters were the touchstone of a fanciful adolescence and the unofficial immunization against a painful year recovering from one of the worst natural disasters on US soil. They were far more real to him than his work at the Ragin’ Cajun Bar and Grille and his classes at LSU. In his uncomplicated way of looking at things, he’d lost his house and all his worldly possessions, but that was no reason to give up his dreams. And when he dreamed, he lived in Ran Yamane’s world.

  That’s how Rory knew it was destiny and not chance when he read the Internet blog that announced an illness would prevent the creator of the manga, Prince of Flames, from attending this year’s Anime Expo in Long Beach, California. In her place would be the much- anticipated Western debut of the reclusive Ran Yamane, artist and storyteller extraordinaire.

  Ran Yamane. Even the sound of her name was like an alarm ringing in his heart. With each mile, with every lousy Stuckey truck-stop sandwich, he was that much closer to worshipping at the feet of his idol.

  Rory’s mother had been supportive of her son’s wild plan, asking him over and over had he hit his head on something.

  He’d left the former FEMA trailer with the promise that he wouldn’t do something so stupid he’d bring shame to all their ancestors. Although privately he wondered if that would even be possible. His boss, the owner of the Ragin’ Cajun, simply threw a wet and stinky bar rag at him as he made his all too hasty departure and said, “Don’t you never come back here.”

  Through it all, Rory’s unflagging optimism and good cheer seemed, even to his closest friends, to be partly pathological in nature. His Grandpère Claude summed it up with his usual bluntness: “That boy has gone three times around the river bend, and he’s not coming back anytime soon.”

  Let them laugh, thought Rory, as he practically flew his little car and all his worldly possessions toward his destiny. By New Mexico, he imagined how he’d meet Miss Yamane; by Arizona, he knew without a doubt that he could make her love him as much as he loved her. By the time he crossed the California border, he could see himself making her his on a moonlit, West Coast beach. After nearly fifteen hundred miles, he saw the outcome clearly, and all that was left was to convince his woman, Ran Yamane, that he was her man and she’d just better come with him right now.

  The first hint Rory had that things might not go the way he planned was the fact that, as far as he could tell, there was not one parking space left in Southern California. After paying eight dollars to park almost where he started, he slung his messenger bag over his shoulder and walked the long way back to the convention center only to find that there was a two-hour wait to get in. At least he had his cash, his laptop, his iPod, and the portfolio where he kept his carefully collected original drawings by his favorite artists.

  In it, he even had one of Yamane’s Snoggs, beautifully rendered, which he’d purchased from eBay. He had spent his last dime on that one and had eaten nothing but leftover hush puppies from his customers’ trash baskets at lunch for an entire week. Rory idled away his time in the line rehearsing what he’d say when he finally met his fantasy woman.

  After finally getting his badge, he went to a florist across the street from the convention center to purchase a bouquet of flowers. While waiting, Rory consulted the brochure regarding times and locations of different Expo events. A leaf of yellow paper placed inside as a last-minute addendum told him what he needed to know.

  Ran Yamane, creator of the Snoggs series and Celendrianna, Sacred Princess, would be signing autographs on the convention center floor in the Ravix Comi booth from one o’clock to five o’clock, after which she would participate in a discussion of sacred love in classic manga in one of the exhibit rooms. And after that, thought Rory, in an enviably single-minded pursuit of his dreams, she’ll be getting her lips bruised in the moonlight by yours truly.

  As Rory entered the convention center at last, he chanced to see his reflection in the glass doors. Though he could have wished to make a finer presentation, he felt he didn’t look too bad for all that. The dark red hair for which he’d earned the name Rory was on the longish side, but well trimmed and swung about his head when he moved, catching the light. He wore nice trousers and a white shirt that was as clean as it could be with the sleeves rolled up in the summer heat. His shoes were a little iffy, as they were a pair of plaid Vans that he enjoyed wearing for the brightness of their colors, but presumably Yamane would be sitting behind a desk and she wouldn’t see them right off the bat.

  As for his face, he had no way to judge but guessed others who saw him might have said they’d never seen a more earnest-looking boy in the flesh. If anything, that’s what made him look younger than his twenty-three years. He was the first to admit that four years at university and one in graduate school hadn’t done much to add sophistication thus far, and it wasn’t likely to happen in the next few minutes either.

  * * *

  To Ran Yamane, Rory looked to be exactly what he was: a completely deluded boy carrying a lovely bouquet of stargazer lilies and white roses. Which is why, when Rory finally arrived near enough to the front of the line to get an autograph, Yamane put his head in his hands and said, “Oh, crap, not
another one.”

  1

  Rory stood tapping his foot in line behind about a hundred others who wanted an autograph from the singular Ran Yamane. His trip to California and the complete dedication it required to drive fifteen hundred miles in three days made it the first opportunity he had to relax and just enjoy the pleasant sensation of inertia.

  In fact, in the fragrant, floral-scented bubble of space he was occupying, Rory took immense pleasure in imagining the moment when he would first see his idol. He imagined her shy surprise, and perhaps her humble acceptance of his floral tribute. From there, he would ask her to autograph his book and then his line drawing from eBay.

  Rory was certain she would remark on his accent, because thirty or forty minutes away from the bayou simply everyone did. While it made an excellent icebreaker, he didn’t like the way people thought it made him slow. On the other hand, it never failed to interest women, whether they thought he was slow or not.

  What that said about women, he didn’t know, but he hadn’t been too proud to use it to his advantage on more than one occasion. He could simply say, “Please allow me,” in New York City and open a door for a woman, and he wouldn’t have to look for a hotel room for the night.

  Behind his floral tribute, Rory was wondering just what he would do to attract Ran Yamane’s attention when he reached the front of the line. He could see her from behind; her long black hair hung in a loose braid down her back. She sat at a desk on a large platform three steps off the ground, flanked by two men standing almost at attention. She faced away from the line of autograph seekers. She chatted briefly with each person as she signed her name; then they moved on. Rory could see she wore some sort of long black coat with the collar turned up, so he was tormented by his inability to catch even a brief glimpse of her face.

  At last his turn came, and one of the men flanking her motioned for him to come up. He mounted the three stairs and went to stand before her. He took a deep breath and held his floral tribute out with a low bow. In the dark recesses of his mind, over the pounding of his heart, he thought he heard someone murmur something that sounded like “another one.”

  When at last he raised his head to look at the woman of his dreams, he froze with his mouth gaping open like a fish. Before him, with his arms folded demurely across his chest, was the most beautiful man he’d ever seen, but still, a man. Nothing less than a man, with a pitying expression on his face.

  “You thought I was a woman, didn’t you?” he asked. “I get that a lot.”

  The men next to Yamane chuckled, and one motioned with his head toward a pile of lovely floral tributes in a heap on another table, which was also stacked with stuffed animals and heart-shaped candy boxes like a vast pyramid made out of the dashed hopes of countless would-be admirers.

  Rory looked at his flowers. He looked back at Ran Yamane. As if the last fifteen hundred miles were a film going backward, he saw the whole thing slipping away from him.

  Yamane stood and leaned over the table. “Look.” He spoke with a soothing voice. “I know it’s a disappointment, but surely there’s someone else at this convention who would enjoy receiving flowers from a nice young man? I’ve seen no less than fifteen Princess Celendriannas. Maybe you could make a new friend.”

  Rory couldn’t speak right away. He waited for Yamane to sit back down and then wordlessly drew his portfolio out of his bag. “I bought this on eBay, sir, and I wonder if you would be kind enough to sign it for me.”

  “My,” said Ran. His pen stopped in midair. “That’s quite an accent you have. I presume you’re from the South?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Rory politely. He noted another one of his cherished notions was being destroyed before his eyes. His artist was as American as he was. “New Orleans. You’re American?”

  Yamane nodded. “My mother is Japanese, but I lived in New York with my father until I was in my teens. I now claim Japan as my home, and Ran as my surname, but I sound as American as…” The man trailed off and grew silent.

  “As what?” asked Rory, used to his accent being the subject of much conjecture. He frankly thought the man was rethinking saying, “As you do.”

  “I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, but this drawing isn’t one of mine,” Yamane said quietly.

  Rory digested this. “Are you sure?” He frowned, looking at the picture in question. “There’s no mistake?”

  “I’m sorry.” Yamane shook his head. “Did you pay for this?”

  “Not much,” Rory lied. “I got it on eBay.”

  “Here.” Yamane motioned to one of the men standing beside him to get him a book from a stack next to all the abandoned flowers. “Here, I’ll sign this instead. It’s a safe bet you don’t have this. It’s brand-new.” He slid his thumbnail into the top of the shrink-wrap covering the book and removed it. “What’s your name?”

  “Rory Delaplaines,” Rory answered, swallowing his disappointment.

  “Fine,” said the man as he autographed the book. “Thank you for your interest. I’m sorry I wasn’t what you expected.” He handed Rory the book and turned on a smile of such detached Asian politeness that Rory’s heart shattered into a million tiny pieces.

  “Thank you, sir.” He opened the book Ran Yamane had signed for him and gave himself wholly up to his quiet despair. It read, Best wishes to Laurie Dellplane from, and some kanji characters Rory could never hope to read. He felt tears sting his eyes and hesitated on the platform that had been his dream destination for half his life.

  Rory briefly studied the cover of the book he held in his hands. He felt an immense, almost consuming desire to convey what he was feeling to Yamane. He lowered his head again, holding the flowers out before him. If anything, his bow this time was deeper.

  “Excuse me,” Yamane said in a stage whisper. “What are you doing?”

  Rory didn’t lift his head. “Well, as to that, sir, after careful consideration, there is no one in the world on whom I can bestow these flowers but you.”

  “No,” Yamane said implacably.

  Surprised, Rory straightened. He leaned over to speak to Yamane quietly. “I’ve thought about this, sir, I really have. I came to venerate the artist who created the work I admire, and I simply must be allowed to offer this token of the gratitude I feel.”

  “Don’t you see I have enough flowers?”

  Rory frowned and felt himself dig in his heels a little. “That is why I don’t understand why you won’t take mine with a simple thank-you instead of giving me a hard time.” He pushed the flowers at Yamane. The men who’d been flanking Yamane stepped closer.

  “Your flowers were for a woman named Ran Yamane who does not even exist and into whose image you have been pouring fantasies from your fevered imagination.” Yamane pushed them back.

  “Well, of course they were!” Yamane blinked in apparent shock, and Rory gained the upper hand. He smacked the flowers against Yamane’s chest so the artist had no choice but to wrap his arms around them. “But it cannot be considered your fault that none of it was true. I love your work. I really, really love it.” Rory bowed again and took a deep breath.

  He continued. “I traveled a long way to get here. I left my home and my job and I arrived here this very morning with no plans, no place to stay, and nothing more than the cash it took to get in and buy some food. Whether you are a man or a woman, surely you can accept that graciously.” He remained with his head bowed, but he didn’t really know why except that maybe he was afraid if he lifted it he would see people laughing at him.

  “Hey, Forrest Gump,” someone behind him called. “You’re holding up the line; get a move on.”

  Rory stood and began to walk away. “Wait,” called Yamane, “wait a minute.”

  He said something quietly to the two men who stood next to him and motioned Rory to follow him. To the assembled crowd, he said, “I need a cigarette. I’ll be back in five minutes.” He mimicked smoking with his free hand. Holding his flowers against his chest like a shield, he
left the platform.

  Rory trailed after Yamane as he wove between exhibits and vendors of every kind. Where normally Rory strode briskly, he found himself taking smaller and slower steps than usual, noting that Yamane’s way of walking was rather furtive, even timid by comparison. When they reached the end of the convention center floor, Rory noticed they were headed straight for a burly security guard standing before a door that said NO EXIT.

  “Perhaps,” Rory said tentatively, slowing down, “this would be a good time to mention that I mean you no harm, and even had you been a woman, you would have been safe with me. I am not any kind of stalker so there’s no need to…”

  Yamane nodded to the security guard, who let him through the door. “He’s with me.” He gestured toward Rory behind him and went through to the brightly sunlit area behind the convention center.

  Rory followed him out.

  “You scared me; I thought you were going to have me arrested,” said Rory with a sigh.

  “Is there any reason why I should?”

  “No, sir, there is not,” Rory said, practically standing at attention. “I’m sorry we got off to a bad start. I was just rather surprised by you.”

  “And disappointed,” Yamane added.

  “Perhaps a little,” Rory agreed. He took that opportunity to look, really look, at the man standing before him. Yamane was a diminutive man, reaching no higher than Rory’s shoulder. He wore his long hair in a braid, but some wispy strands floated around his face in what seemed, to Rory, a rebellion against the man’s perfection. He wore a pair of black jeans and a white linen shirt buttoned all the way to the collar. Over that, he wore a long black overcoat made of some lightweight fabric, probably silk, which accentuated his shoulders and chest. Instead of buttoning down the center from a traditional trench coat lapel, this coat buttoned down the side and was held together by knotted black silk ropes, the style at once exotic and distinctly Asian in its design. His hands where they clutched his flowers were long-fingered and elegant, even though they bore ink stains from the marker he’d been signing autographs with all day. Rory had to give credit where credit was due; this was a very, very beautiful man.