by Nick Lake
‘If we believe Lord Tokugawa,’ said Hiro.
‘Well,’ said Taro, fear coiling in his belly at the idea of facing a dragon, and underwater, too. ‘That’s just wonderful.’
CHAPTER 24
THE PLAN WAS to rest for a few hours, and then leave at the Hour of the Tiger, well before dawn, giving them time to sail back to the mainland without burning Shusaku. The monks had given them rooms in the complex, and Taro waited till the others were heading for theirs before saying that he was going for a walk alone, to clear his head. Hiro and Hana looked at him strangely, but Shusaku waved him off.
Leaving the buildings behind, he followed the hillside down towards the sea. The tide was in – less of the torii gate was visible above water now. There was a smell of salt and burning driftwood on the air, which reminded Taro of home. As he walked, he startled a rabbit – and remembered when he had shot one, with his bow, on the day that ninjas came to his little village and his life changed forever.
This one he didn’t shoot. Instead he leaped forward, moving more quickly than any human ever could. He cleared a dune, two dunes, and launched himself into the air, landing on the rabbit as it tried to dive into its hole. He lifted it to his mouth and bit into it, going for the jugular so that it slackened immediately, as the lifeblood pumped into him. It didn’t taste as good as human blood – it was marred by the flavour of grass – but it was nourishing, it made the night sizzle with clarity.
Coming to the sea, he let his cloak fall to the ground, then waded out. The water was cool and slippery against his skin, the moon making shifting skeins of light on its surface, a gleaming tapestry. A couple of small fishing boats were tied up at anchor.
He walked, slowed by the resistance of the water, to the torii.
Then, taking the Buddha ball in his hand, he pitched it into the water. He was glad to see it go as it sank. With the exception of allowing him to save Hana, the ball had brought nothing but bad luck and misery into his life. Lord Oda’s voice, Sato’s past, the flooding... It was bad enough that Taro was someone who spread death everywhere he went. The last thing he needed was an object that would not let the dead stay dead. Little Kawabata had been right to put as much distance as he could between him and it.
He stood for a moment, listening to the soft clapping of the water against the legs of the gate.
Was that another sound? He turned, looking around him. It seemed to him that he had heard a movement, somewhere out there in the darkness. He closed his eyes, listening. It had sounded like movement in the scrub that covered the dunes – he was three tan from the shore here, but his vampire hearing was sharp as a katana’s edge.
Nothing.
Dismissing it as another rabbit, or something in the water or the wind, he turned back to land, then waded to the shore. Wrapping his cloak around him – the night air chilled him – he took the path back up towards the temple complex. He was about to slide open the shoji door that led to his room when he stopped, going dead still.
There was someone in there. He could hear them breathing. Shallow breaths, frequent. As of someone nervous – an assassin, maybe, waiting for his victim. He leaned back, studying the paper. Yes – a shadow, person-shaped, just behind the door.
Slowly, slowly drawing his concealed sword, he put a hand on the frame of the paper screen. Then he drew it open left-handed, spinning into the room with the blade out in front of him.
‘Taro!’
Hana stood in front of him, hands on her mouth. Gradually he took in the scene. She had pinned up her hair and done something to the exquisite bow of her lips – something that added gloss, and colour. She wore the same kimono she had been travelling in, but it was tied loosely, her throat and the swell of her chest visible.
‘I—sorry,’ he said. ‘I thought you were an intruder.’
‘I suppose I am,’ she said. She smiled slightly, lowering her hands. He was punched, hard, with the realization of how beautiful she was. It was something he tended to forget when he wasn’t with her. Her face would dissolve, grow vague and ghostlike in his memory. Then he would stand in front of her and he would see the curve of her cheekbones, the perfect brushstrokes of her eyes, and it would stop his breath in his chest.
‘I forgot about your vampire senses,’ she said. ‘How on earth did you know there was someone in here?’
‘Your breathing,’ he said. ‘It’s... louder than usual. Even now. Like you’re scared, or something.’
‘Not scared,’ she said.
He looked at her, felt himself flush. ‘Then...’
She didn’t answer that. ‘When we saw the abbot, did you mean what you said?’
‘About giving him the Buddha ball?’ He kept his face straight for a moment as she glared. Then he laughed. ‘Yes, I meant what I said.’
‘You know I don’t need money, don’t you? Or land.’
‘I know you think so.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘I am not so sheltered as you think.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘No?’
She laughed and beckoned him forward.
Their lips met, and the world fell away from around them, as in a moment of enlightenment. She touched his cheek. He gazed into her bottomless eyes, feeling that there was nowhere he would rather be.
‘You’re beautiful,’ he said.
She shook her head matter-of-factly. ‘No. My nose is crooked, and my teeth are too small.’
He laughed, and she frowned at him – as far as she was concerned, he knew, this was the simple truth. She was not playing at false modesty; in fact, there was nothing false about her, and never had been. She didn’t know she was beautiful – that was one more thing he loved about her, along with her ability to fight, her sense of humour, her humility. She had no vanity whatsoever.
‘You never wanted what your father wanted, did you?’ he asked. ‘To marry some daimyo. To be a lady.’
‘Never.’
He smiled. How could he be this lucky? How could there be a woman in the world so amazing as she, and not only that but interested in him – a peasant, and a vampire?
Hana was looking at him with a curious expression, however. She glanced from him to the door, then back again. ‘What were you doing out there?’ she asked.
‘Something I should have done long ago.’
Understanding lit her eyes – he thought she had understood a while ago, actually. ‘You threw it away, didn’t you? The ball?’
‘Yes.’
‘But what if you need it? I don’t like to think of you unprotected.’
He laughed. ‘I’m a vampire. My best friend is the strongest person I know. Shusaku has killed more people since he became blind than most Sword Saints manage when they can see. You’ – he tapped the hidden sword strapped to her leg – ‘are a little more than you appear. I don’t think I need any more protection.’
‘You would never be protected enough, if it was up to me.’
‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Are you telling me you like me?’
She pushed his chest. ‘Idiot,’ she said. ‘I can go if you like.’
‘Never.’
He leaned forward to kiss her again. As he did so, she caught his hands and put them on her waist. ‘I was thinking...’ she said. She cast her eyes over to the bed on the floor.
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
An eternity later, he traced his finger along her collarbone. He was moving slowly, awash in a warm sea of pleasure. Her breathing was even quicker now, and there was a low sound in her throat; he thought it was the best sound in the world. A light was building up behind his eyes, which were closed – it was like there was a sun rising in his head, or stars, thousands of stars.
Darkness outside him, stars inside him.
Then a flash – a moment of nothingness, followed by a rocking explosion of red behind his eyelids, and suddenly he could see every vein and capillary in them, was conscious of the blood everywhere inside him, pushing and receding like a tide, filling eve
ry part of his skin and body.
A scent filled his nostrils, an irresistible scent, the iron of weapons mixed with a note that was like nothing so much as life itself, warm and vital. His teeth were long and sharp in his mouth.
It took him a moment to realize that his eyes were open now, because the same redness that had flooded his mind had filled the room, too, so that it seemed it was an underwater hall, he and Hana floating in crimson liquid. She was looking up at him through it, mouthing something, but it was impossible to hear her underwater, in his ears was nothing but the pound and rush of his blood-tide. Her eyes were wide open, terrified. He was paying no attention, though, because that scent, so delicious, so unbelievably delicious, was coming from her—
No, it was her, it was flowing through her; what he was smelling was her very essence, the ebb and flow that kept her alive. He could see the artery fluttering in her neck, blue below the alabaster of her bare skin, and it struck him how close that artery was, all the time, to the outside wall, how it cried out to be punctured, how a person was made so vulnerable by the presentation of their neck to the world.
Not that he thought any of this, in any real sense. He was lost – he was a hawk, diving on a mouse, he was a shark in a sea of red.
He leaned down – she struggled, trying to push him away, but he was stronger than her, oh so very much stronger. He opened his mouth, and when it touched her warm neck he bit down, hard.
Her blood burst into him, and now the red sea was not just in the room, it was inside him, the feeling one of total ecstasy. He had the sensation of drinking life itself. He had thought that he would marry Hana, but that idea – which came to him as a wordless picture, of two people standing on the ramparts of a castle – seemed ludicrous now. So much better to draw her into him, to absorb her, to have her always in his blood, the pulse of his heart speaking in her voice.
Somewhere far away, someone screamed.
CHAPTER 25
Earlier the same night
HIRO FOLLOWED AT a safe distance, as Taro made his way down to the sea. Hiro had a good idea what his friend was going to do – he had observed the heartsickness in Taro ever since they saw the damage the floods had done. He knew Taro. He knew how the guilt of a thing like that would gnaw at him, drive him mad, even if he understood perfectly well that he had only done what seemed right, to try to bring water to those who were thirsty.
That was Taro – always his own worst enemy. What Lord Oda had done to him – almost killing him, murdering his father, sending Kenji Kira to destroy the prophetess and then Heiko – would never compare to what he did to himself, by refusing to forgive himself for killing the daimyo.
If Hiro had killed Lord Oda, he would be glad, and proud. Taro, on the other hand, saw it as something to be ashamed of.
So Hiro was sure that Taro would rid himself of the ball, especially now that it seemed the monks did not have Kusanagi, and so Taro could not possibly swap the ball for the sword. The thing was that Hiro was convinced Taro might need it again some day – hadn’t it been passed down to him, by the ama who first recovered it from the sea? Wasn’t it part of his birthright – of his prophecy, of his destiny?
Yes. Hiro was not prepared for his friend, in his constant guilt, to cast away something that might save him in the future.
And so he crept through the bracken and grass on the high dunes, ducking down low when Taro loosed his cloak and waded into the sea. When Taro reached the torii, Hiro edged further round the bay to get a good look. Sure enough, Taro took out the ball and threw it out to sea.
At one point, Taro stiffened and began to look all around him, suspicious.
Hiro dropped to the sand, feeling it working its way into his clothes. The smell of it was of sunshine and salt. He stayed there for a moment, and when he raised his head again Taro was coming back to shore.
When he was sure Taro had gone, he stood and went down to the beach. The coldness of the water, which quickly gave way to a wonderful, smooth sensation, was like a slap followed by a kiss. He felt that he was melting into the world, as he walked out into the black bay, towards the gated shrine that rose from the water.
Reaching the gate, he measured five paces from it, going out to sea. The sand dipped here; the water deepened quickly as he went, till it lapped at his chest. His chest wasn’t used to it – this water, unlike that which surrounded his legs, was cold. It was as if the sea had welcomed him, but only up to a point. It was not his friend, this deeper water.
Suddenly Hiro was aware of how dark it was, and how he was out in the sea, all alone.
The moon gazed down at him dispassionately.
He dug his fingernails into his palms and cursed. Then he took a deep breath, before diving into the dark water.
It closed over his head as if he had never been there.
Hiro opened his eyes, but it made little difference. Even at this depth, no more than the height of a man, he could see almost nothing. The sea rumbled in his ears, a constant sucking noise. He ran his hands along the bottom as he kicked with his legs. What was he doing? Taro was the diver. Not him.
His hand brushed something rubbery and soft, which skittered away – he almost screamed, his mouth filling with water. He was on the surface again in moments, lying on his back, coughing. He wished, fervently, that he were back in his bed, on dry land.
He lay there a moment, then he rolled over and dived again. This time he had not been scouring the bottom long when his hand touched something hard and round. He clutched at it – almost lost it, as the smooth glass shot from his fingers – then grasped it with both hands. He kicked up to the surface and thrashed inelegantly until he could stand again.
He looked down at the Buddha ball – he could almost have kissed it.
Arriving back at the beach, he was suddenly conscious of a presence beside him.
‘Yes,’ said Shusaku. ‘I thought he would throw it away too. But it seems you were quicker than me.’
‘I lived in a hut with him and his mother,’ said Hiro. ‘I know when he is really going for a walk and when he isn’t.’
Shusaku nodded, handing Hiro a dry cloak. ‘Or maybe I just waited, because I didn’t want to get wet,’ he said.
Hiro sighed. ‘Cursed ninjas,’ he said. He handed the ball to Shusaku. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘You look after it. I don’t trust myself with it.’ Then he paused. ‘But don’t go controlling Taro with it.’
Shusaku looked as wounded as was possible for a man with no skin worth mentioning. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ he said.
At that moment, the night was rent by a woman’s scream.
‘That’s coming from the monastery,’ said Hiro, goose bumps on his flesh.
‘Yes,’ said Shusaku. ‘And the only woman there tonight is Hana.’
They ran.
CHAPTER 26
TARO FLEW THROUGH the air backwards, hitting the wall hard with his back. He slumped to the ground, winded. He had bitten his lip when his head struck, and now his mouth was full of the taste of his own blood, as well as...
Hana’s.
Oh, gods.
He could see her lying on the futon bed, very still. Blood covered her chest and neck, a black stain in the half-light. Shusaku stood over her – it must have been he who threw Taro across the room. Suddenly the blood in his mouth was slick and revolting, rotten. With a bang, Hiro crashed through the shoji screen, his hands balled into fists. He gaped open-mouthed at Hana on the bed, then staggered back when he saw Taro against the wall, lips stained with blood. Taro wanted to say something to him, but found himself incapable. He addressed himself to Shusaku instead.
‘Is she... ?’ he asked.
Shusaku touched Hana’s wrist. ‘No.’
Just then Hana’s eyelids flickered open, and there was an answering movement in Taro’s chest, as if his heart had stopped beating when he saw her lying there. He had done that – he had lost control of himself, fed on her. He was shaking, he realized.
He was
a monster, and getting rid of the Buddha ball was not going to change that.
‘If she was injured, I would give her some of my blood,’ said Shusaku. ‘But seeing as you have bitten her, it would only turn her if I did.’ He looked at her. ‘You wouldn’t want that?’ Taro cursed himself. A vampire could feed without making his victim into a vampire – but if a person who had been fed on were to drink any vampire blood, they would turn. Taro had effectively closed to Hana the only avenue that might quickly save her.
Hana shook her head. She didn’t seem able to speak.
Shusaku got an arm under her neck and another under her legs. ‘Come,’ he said to Taro. ‘Others will have heard that scream.’ He still hadn’t met Taro’s eyes, and Taro was afraid of what would happen when he did. Hiro had gone, Taro didn’t know where. He must have stepped outside into the cool night air, to clear his head; either that or he had decided he could no longer be friends with a monster.
Taro would understand that.
Shusaku led the way out of the room, beckoning for Taro to follow him, still without looking at his young companion. Taro levered himself dumbly to his feet, mind blank with shock. He had nearly killed Hana. He kept saying it to himself, over and over, in the hope he would believe, or understand it. She might even – he realized with horror – still die.
Outside he saw torchlight, before he heard the shouts. A handful of monks, accompanied by more samurai, were spreading out before the house. Taro was immediately conscious of how this looked. Hana, draped over Shusaku’s back, bleeding. The blood around his mouth.
‘Kyuuketsuki!’ said one of the monks, pointing at Taro.
That was the only word that was spoken – Buddhist monks were ever warriors. The monks held heavy staffs; the samurai, swords. They charged forward together, for the moment concentrating on Taro, though a couple hesitated, staring at Shusaku – trying to work out if he was an evil spirit too.
One of the samurai was very close to Taro already. His blade was out; he would have speared Taro through the heart, ending him at that moment, but there was a snapping twitch of movement from Taro’s left, and the samurai tripped, went flying. Hiro – who had stuck his leg out at the right moment – gave Taro an inscrutable look, then turned to face the other samurai. Taro leaped over the downed man, stealing his sword simultaneously, suddenly ready to fight. For himself, he didn’t care if he lived or died. But he would not see Hiro killed.
