Back From the Undead: The Bloodhound Files

by DD Barant

  Not because it’s trying to distance itself, though. It’s to leave room for the arches—each one a classic Japanese tori, like an angular upside-down U with two beams across the top, the top one slightly bowed and the ends sticking out to either side. There are a long line of them, at least twenty, painted bright red and about ten feet high, placed directly next to one another so they form a kind of squared-off tunnel that leads all the way to the shrine itself.

  I pause at the first one. It’s flanked on either side by two white statues of some kind of animal; the sculptures are so stylized it’s hard to tell what they’re supposed to represent. Might be a wolf, might be a cat—hell, with that tail it could even be a squirrel. I shrug and walk under the first arch.

  Either there’s some kind of magic at work or the acoustics are cleverly designed, because by the time I’ve taken a dozen steps the noise of the city has faded away to nothing. I can smell the first faint tickle of incense, something that reminds me of cherry blossoms. Each of the toris has a line of intricate kanji symbols painted down the vertical beams.

  The arches end at the foot of a staircase, an ordinary set of wooden steps leading upward and onto a porch. More of the same statues on either side of the doorway, with incense burning on top of them. I go inside.

  The interior is small and spare. White paper lanterns hang from the ceilings. The shrine itself looks like a dollhouse-size temple, a miniature pagoda with its own set of steps sitting on a waist-high platform of dark, polished wood. Vases with sprays of green foliage sit to either side, and kanji-covered banners hang down from the walls behind it. A tiny set of red toris like the ones I just walked under march up the miniature steps. I seem to be the only one here.

  I stare at the shrine for a long time. I realize I have no idea how to do this, of what to say or even how to begin—and considering how important protocol is in Japanese culture, I’d better do it right the first time. There are times you can get away with being a wiseass and times you can’t, and asking cosmically powerful beings to do you a favor is definitely in the can’t column.

  “You seem to be having trouble,” a voice says behind me.

  I turn. There’s a monk standing there in a crimson robe, a pire with snow-white hair tied back and a little white beard. It’s unusual to see pires that appear old, but I guess even the occasional senior citizen got turned back in the day. This one smiles at me and asks, “First time here?”

  “Yes. Guess it shows, huh?”

  “A little.” His tone is gently amused. “Do not be nervous. Inari, for all her power, is a gentle spirit. She rarely turns away those in need.”

  “Well, that’s good, because I’m definitely a gal in need.”

  “Perhaps I can help. What is it you require of her?”

  “More of these.” I hold up what I’ve been clutching in one hand ever since I walked through the door: my last bullet.

  The monk bends forward slightly, studying it. “Most curious,” he says. “What is it, a talisman?”

  “I guess. A talisman of high velocity. Mainly, though, it’s a weapon. Normally I have a bunch of these, but I’m down to my last one—and they’re strictly one-use only.”

  “I see. You cannot obtain more?”

  “No. I could make them myself—but there’s a powerful spell preventing me. That’s what I was hoping Inari could help me with.”

  “Ah. You require her assistance as the benefactor both of warriors and of those who work metal.”

  “Pretty much, yeah.”

  The monk frowns. “While Inari does offer her help to many—and her presence is most often felt in the heat of the forge or of battle—she does not involve herself with sorcery. That is the domain of other gods, and even gods must respect propriety.”

  “What? But—okay, I’m a little lost here. I thought sorcery was pretty much what all this was about.”

  Now the monk looks offended. “You are most assuredly mistaken. Prayers and spells are not the same thing. One is respectful; the other demands. Lower spirits may be compelled or bribed, but a goddess such as Inari is above such crudeness. She cannot help you in regard to a mere enchantment.” He says the last word like it tastes bad and he wants it out of his mouth as soon as possible.

  “Hey, there’s nothing mere about this spell, okay? It’s been around for centuries, it affects every single person on the planet, and most people didn’t even know it existed until I showed up.”

  His white eyebrows go up. “That sounds most implausible.”

  “If you think that’s implausible, take a look at this.” I take my gun out of its holster and show it to him.

  “What is this?”

  “It’s my weapon. It’s extremely powerful. With the proper ammunition, it can kill a pire, a thrope, or a bull moose from a hundred yards away … but that’s not the best part. The best part is that—despite how deadly it is—you won’t take it seriously. You can’t. I can demonstrate it to you right here and now, and you’ll still think of it as some sort of unreliable gimmick. That’s how the spell works.”

  He regards me seriously for several seconds. “You can prove what you claim?”

  “Sure. Just follow me out to the alley.”

  “Very well.” He motions me toward the door.

  I choose one of the Dumpsters as my victim. This bullet isn’t one of the special silver-tipped, carved teak bullets I normally carry; it’s unaltered, a .454 round designed to deliver around sixteen hundred pounds of foot-pressure to its target.

  I make sure the Dumpster doesn’t hold any sleeping drunks first, then stride back to where the monk waits skeptically. I really hope this is worth using up my last shot.

  “Okay,” I say. “Let’s be clear. Would you agree that a weapon that can put a large hole in that Dumpster from this far away is a force to be reckoned with?”

  “I suppose I would.”

  “But once you see it, you won’t. You’ll think it’s a fluke, or a trick, or just meaningless. You’ll rationalize it away. No matter how hard you try, you won’t be able to think of what I’m about to show you in anything but negative terms.”

  “Proceed.”

  I turn, raise the Ruger, and fire. I guess I should have warned the monk about the noise—the Super Redhawk roars like an angry grizzly when I don’t have Eisfanger’s magic silencer on it. The Dumpster bucks like it was kicked by an elephant and rolls back a good six feet. There’s now a baseball-size hole in the side.

  I lower the gun and glance at the monk. His eyes are open a little wider, but that’s about the only sign of surprise. His eyebrows slowly lower as the expression on his face changes.

  “That is…” He stops. I wait for it.

  He tries again. “It is most…” He trails off.

  It’s all I can do to not blurt out Ludicrous? Absurd? Stupid? and every other synonym for ridiculous I can think of, but I don’t want to influence him. I can tell the enchantment is doing that all on its own.

  “Very interesting,” he says at last. “It is as you said.”

  “I’m impressed. Most people get stuck in denial.”

  “I am more aware than most people.”

  Well, he’s got me there. “So you see my problem? The reaction you’re having is the same one every person on Earth has to my gun. It’s so powerful it’s even started to affect me. So who am I supposed to go to for help?”

  He meets my eyes. “You,” he says softly, “are not of this Earth. Are you?”

  “Well … technically, no. But I’m not a supernatural creature, either. I’m from a parallel world, an alternate Earth. That’s where my weapon came from, too.”

  “And you cannot return?”

  “No. If I could, I wouldn’t have to worry about ammo. Or a whole lot of other things.”

  He nods. “This spell. It is not sorcery—it is kamiwaza, the work of the gods.”

  “Well, great. That means Inari can help me out, right? This is on her level.”

  “I am afraid she can
not. As sorcery is beneath her, this is surely above. She will not interfere in the affairs of other gods—not at the request of a mortal.”

  “No, no—the spell wasn’t cast by a god. It’s this one guy. A shaman. A really powerful one, sure, but just a man—”

  He cuts me off with a curt wave of his hand. “It matters not. Perhaps he is a god in mortal guise, or perhaps a god is working through him. Whatever the details, Inari will not involve herself, of this you can be sure.”

  I sigh and holster the Ruger. “Chain of command, right? Don’t bother the brass with the problems of the troops. Thanks anyway.”

  I’m halfway down the alley when he calls out, “Wait.”

  I turn back. The monk motions me to return, and I do.

  “Inari cannot help you,” he says, his voice low, “but perhaps another can.”

  “Who?”

  “As one shaman has caused your problems, would it not seem wise to call upon another to solve them?”

  “I’ve been down that road. The spell screws with everyone’s perceptions, shamans included. You can’t fight a problem if your brain keeps insisting there isn’t one.”

  “You most assuredly can, Agent Valchek. One can learn to fight anything—even the wind—with the right teacher. I know such a person. Should they agree to help you, this enchantment would simply be another opponent for them to face.”

  “And you think they could beat it?”

  “They have never known defeat. It is more a question of whether or not they could be convinced that the challenge was worthy of their time.”

  Sounds like the monk is talking about some kind of martial artist shaman—which is a pretty good description of some Shinto priests I’ve met. Well, why not? Maybe it’s possible to just pound a spell into submission. “So who is this person? How do I get in touch with them?”

  The monk shakes his head. “You do not. They guard their privacy jealously. But I know of a place they can be found, at certain times; should you go there, they might be willing to speak to you. I will attempt to contact them in advance, to let them know of you and your quest. If they are agreeable, they will approach you and let you know.”

  “And if they aren’t?”

  “Then you will never see them.”

  I shrug. What do I have to lose? “Okay—where and when?”

  He tells me. I do my best not to wince. He cautions me to come alone, and I assure him I will. Then he turns and goes inside the temple, and I walk back the way I came.

  I’m a block away from my hotel before I abruptly realize I never told him my name.

  But he knew it anyway.

  FOURTEEN

  Apparently, the favorite spot for this mysterious kick-ass shaman to hang out in is a graveyard. At three in the morning.

  I’m sitting on a gravestone, kicking my heels against the polished granite and wondering if I’m even in the right area. The monk told me to come here but didn’t specify any particular plot or mausoleum, and this place is huge. It’s illuminated by a moon a little past half full, and the gently rolling terrain seems to go on forever. I’ve been passing the time by reading tombstones, trying to decipher if the grave holds a thrope, a human, or a pire.

  MISSED AND CHERISHED BY HIS PACK. Definitely a thrope.

  BELOVED CHILD OF THE MOON. Ditto.

  TAKEN FROM US TOO SOON. Could be either, but the dates are an undead giveaway—thropes don’t live for six hundred years. “Too soon?” I mutter. His relatives have either a black sense of humor or an overwhelming one of entitlement. I’m also surprised they even bothered with a plot—after six centuries, there couldn’t have been much left of a pire but dust. Maybe they buried him in a vacuum cleaner bag instead of a coffin.

  TOO GOOD FOR THE HORRORS OF THIS WORLD.

  That one stops me. A woman named Caroline Meyer, only thirty-seven when she did the Last Tango. Human, almost certainly, and a little too close to my own age for comfort. I decide to take a little break from my reading and pay more attention to my surroundings.

  Which are still as deserted as they were before. I can hear traffic in the background, though—there’s a major street that runs along one border, just out of sight on the other side of a hill—but other than that it’s … well, dead.

  But not spooky, weirdly enough. In a world full of vampires, werewolves, and golems, a graveyard seems sort of mundane—like a campground, or a Motel 6. If something were to suddenly stagger from one of the tombs, my first thought would be, What, the poor guy can’t afford a place with central heating?

  But that doesn’t happen. I’m starting to think I don’t meet whatever standards this super-shaman has for taking on a challenge, or maybe that he—or she—just isn’t interested in helping out a human being from a neighboring dimension.

  I wonder again about the monk knowing my name. Did it mean something, or was it just some sort of minor magic trick guys like him use to seem impressive and all-knowing? Was the monk more than he appeared to be, or just a show-off?

  The terms monk and show-off didn’t really go together. And identifying me wasn’t really a minor trick, either; knowing someone’s name was a big deal in magic, even I recognize that. So what—

  “Urrm,” someone says beside me.

  I snap my head around. There, one grave over, perched on a headstone much like I’m perched on mine, is a skeleton.

  A rather strange-looking skeleton, actually. It seems a little lopsided somehow, like maybe it was taken apart by one person and put back together by a passing group of drunken stuntmen with a grudge against osteopaths. Its bones are different sizes and in different stages of decay: Some are a bright, polished white, while others are chipped and yellowing. Its eyeballs sit in their sockets like marbles guarding the entrance to two little caves. It cocks its head at me and grins in a completely involuntary way.

  “Hallo,” it says. It has a very strange accent, like a Swede doing a bad impression of a Russian.

  “Uh—hello.”

  “I think that maybe perhaps you are waiting for me, yes?”

  You’ve got to be kidding … “Uh, no, no. I’m just waiting for a bus. Do you know if the Number Eight runs past midnight?”

  “Hah! You are making with the jokes, now! That is humorous and also being funny!” It points at me with a hand missing two of its fingers. There’s something strange about its head that I can’t quite put my finger on.

  “Yeah, yeah, okay. The monk sent you, right?”

  “Indeed! You are needing my help, is that not correct?”

  I sigh. “I guess … wait. Are you just here to take me to someone else?”

  “You mean like a guide, what with all the leading and pointing you in the right directions?”

  “That’s what I was getting at.”

  “And maybe even taking you someplace and not showing you how to be getting lost?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh. Then, no.” It indicates itself with a bony thumb. “Myself am the one, baby! I and me alone, with the else of nobody!”

  “Oooookay … and what, exactly, are you?”

  Who knew it was possible for a fleshless skull to look hurt? “Whaaaaat? How can you be not knowing of the glory of my being who I am? I am Gashadokuro.”

  “Right. What the hell’s a Gashadokuro?”

  “It is being a fearsome creature made of the bones. Special bones, only.”

  I nod. “Uh-huh. What kind of bones, the ones that didn’t pass quality control? Bones you found at yard sales? Cheap off-brand bones made in Taiwanese sweatshops?”

  He doesn’t have eyelids, but I swear he blinks. “No. Is made from people who have died from the not eating.”

  I lean a little closer and squint. “Sure. Except they aren’t all even bones, are they? That’s the handle of a tennis racket in your thigh.”

  “What? No, is just deformed. From the nastiness of the starving to death.”

  “And your skull. It’s made out of plastic.”

  “That is mo
st scurrilous lie!”

  “I can see the seam from the mold. And a little embossed merchandising symbol.”

  His shoulders droop. He heaves a sigh. “Is true. Is not easy finding bones of people who starve until they dead. Not now. Why can’t Gashadokuro use bones of people with bad hygiene? Or bones of people who talk in movies? Then I could be being mighty fearsome, you bet. Instead, me is being stuck with anorexics and people who get lost in woods.”

  Probably not a lot of those, either, in a world full of pires and thropes—and lems don’t even have bones. I feel obscurely sorry for the guy. “That sucks, it really does. But, uh … what about me?”

  He perks up. “Are you planning on the starving and the dying?”

  “What? No. I meant my problem—”

  “Too bad. I am thinking you could be losing some of the weight.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Fasting! Is great idea! Easy, too—just to be not eating. Anyone can be doing, even fat cow like you!”

  I can’t believe I came out to a deserted graveyard at three in the morning in order to be insulted by a thrift-store skeleton. “Look, bonehead, I’m not fat. Not that you’re much of a judge, anyway—to you, everybody must look overweight, right?”

  He sighs, a long, reedy wheeze. “Is true. Fleshy, fleshy people, everywhere. I am thinking you are all disgusting, if truth being told. But that is being Gashadokuro’s problem, not yours. Your problem very different, yes?”

  “Yes. I need—”

  He holds up a finger bone. “I am knowing already. You are needing Gashadokuro’s specialty in one area of the particular.”

  He hops off his gravestone. One of his ribs is loose and clatters against another when he moves. “Not to be worrying. I will be helping, in most glorious and spectacular fashion!”

  “Terrific. So you can tell me how to beat this spell and make more bullets?”

  He glances at me with eyes that roll around like ball bearings in a shot glass. “What? No. I am to be biting your head off.”

  “You’re going to what now?”

  He shrugs apologetically. “Bite your head off—it’s what Gashadokuro does. Aren’t you knowing anything?”