Chapter Twelve
Theoretically, the plan was good.
In practice, Carl found there were a few stumbling blocks. He had no idea which room belonged to which actor, and if any of the notes or letters on the crowded vanity tops could’ve helped him figure it out, they were written in Japanese. If he’d been hoping to find some kind of evidence that an actor here had ties to the Chinatown devil, he wasn’t finding anything.
No clothing with blood on it, no human bones stashed amongst the drawers of makeup, nothing.
But in the last room he figured he had time to check, he paused to give a quick look through the contents of a large traveling trunk the room’s occupant had left in the middle of the floor. One of the things inside was a Japanese musical instrument that reminded Carl of a guitar. But when he plucked the strings, the twangy sounds it made were nothing like the western version.
“Another dead-end.” He sighed.
Outside the room, someone was trudging up the staircase with loud steps, shouting angry words in Japanese. Gavin slipped out of the room, barely having time to close the door behind him as the actor who had accosted him at breakfast appeared at the top of the landing.
Damn! There was nowhere to hide.
The actor stopped at the head of the stairs and gaped at him. With a strangled cry, he rushed forward and bowed deeply, then lifted his head and began rattling off—something—in a mix of Japanese and English so heavily accented and mispronounced that it may as well have been Japanese too.
Gavin looked around nervously for any excuse to escape.
“Uh,” he stammered, rubbing the back of his neck as he held up one hand to try and calm the actor down. “Really, I know you must be tired after the show…you don’t have to, uh…” Carl had no way to finish that sentence since he had no way of understanding just what the hell the man was trying to say in the first place.
* * *
Ryuhei couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a finer performance. Not since before his scandalous affair forced him out of Edo. Nor could he remember the last time he’d been happier, and that was even longer ago still.
He looked over at Kiyoshi, who stood by his side, still dressed in costume and looking more beautiful than anything or anyone ever had or could. Reaching out, Ryuhei took the other’s hand in his and gave it a squeeze. Kiyoshi tilted his head up from behind the gold silk fan he was half-hiding behind, turning those large, soulful eyes to meet Ryuhei’s. Overcome with affection, Ryuhei leaned in and softly pressed his lips to Kiyo-kun’s for a gentle kiss.
Another burst of excited murmurings and applause erupted around them. Ryuhei eased away from Kiyo-kun, bowing towards the theater patrons who had remained behind after the rest of the house had emptied out. The group had surrounded Ryuhei and Kiyoshi at the left wing just off the stage before the two actors could retreat to their private rooms.
“Wonderful performance, Nakamura-san,” said a familiar, plump Japanese man in a western suit standing at the forefront of the group, bowing profusely. “I’ve never seen such a take on Kisen like that before, it was quite a treat. And your stage partner—just a splendor to watch.”
Ryuhei returned the bow, savoring the moment. “The pleasure is ours, Nishikawa-san,” he said humbly, squeezing Kiyoshi’s hand once more. These patrons were all native Japanese living in this country now for various reasons, each one pleased and excited to have this taste of their homeland.
“This theater has some very prominent supporters here in the Chinese community.” Nishikawa smiled. “The wife of an important businessman happens to be Japanese and she wishes to celebrate the appearance of fine kabuki acting here in America with a party. The entire troupe is cordially invited.”
“That would be lovely,” Ryuhei gasped out and grinned at Kiyoshi. The young man returned his smile weakly as he stepped back a bit.
“Wonderful.” Nishikawa clapped his hands together. “We can all go in the same carriage.”
“Ah.” Ryuhei’s smile wavered a bit. “That’s all right. Please, give us a while to prepare. We’ll take another coach a bit later on.”
Disappointed but understanding, the theater patrons left the address to the Yang’s house written on a slip of paper. Ryuhei pulled Kiyoshi with him as he made his way into the backrooms offstage. He didn’t know what to say at first, only that his heart was still too overflowing with happiness that Kiyo-kun had returned. Even after all he’d learned about his companion, that hadn’t changed the love he felt for him.
“We don’t have to attend that party, Kiyo-kun,” he said gently, taking Kiyoshi’s hand in both of his. “We can just stay here tonight, or go somewhere alone. Anything you like.”
Anything you like.
Kiyoshi wanted nothing more than to be in Ryuhei’s arms and held so tight the lure of that assassin couldn’t reach him or turn him into the monster his dear Liu had become, but no, he couldn’t be selfish. Ryuhei was glowing and receiving the appreciation he had been denied for so long. Kiyoshi couldn’t take that away from him. He wouldn’t take that away from him.
“We can go to the party.”
“Excellent!”
Ryuhei’s smile fairly lit up the darkened backstage area and Kiyoshi gave himself over to the crushing embrace and penetrating kiss of his mortal lover.
When they parted, Kiyoshi ran one delicately powdered hand across Ryuhei’s cheek. “What of Akira and Hoshi?”
“We’ll send word that they can come along when they’re ready.”
* * *
It struck him the moment they alighted from the carriage, and once their host and hostess came to greet them, Kiyoshi’s head spun. These people, this woman—the Japanese married to the Chinese businessman had a tie to the Poisoned Dragon.
Kiyoshi was barely aware of speaking and thanking them for this honor. He allowed Ryuhei to sweep him inside and introduce him around to the assembled guests. It was the final guest, however, led over by their hostess, who made Kiyoshi’s pulse quicken to an alarming rate. The Dragon’s scent, the man’s very essence, was all over this young man—within this young Japanese man. Oh Gods, he was the one from that building. He was the Dragon’s lover.
“Nakamura-san, Ishibe-san, please allow me to introduce my son, Toshiro Itou.”
The young man reached out to shake Ryuhei’s hand in the American fashion but Kiyoshi folded his own hands within the sleeves of his kimono and simply bowed instead. He didn’t trust himself to touch the boy. It would be too much. Entirely too much.
“I don’t mean to be rude, but I hope you’ll excuse me,” Toshiro said. “I have to meet with someone. I hope to watch one of your performances before your troupe leaves San Francisco.” He bowed to them, then slipped away. Kiyoshi watched the young man and allowed his ears to pick out the traces of conversation he had with their host in the home’s foyer.
“Toshiro. Don’t forget you have that job to take care of later in the week with the Wah Ching.”
“We’ll handle it like we always do.”
“The Elders expect nothing less.”
So this young man and the Poisoned Dragon were lovers, and partners for the Chinese tongs as well.
Kiyoshi wanted to see them, watch them together…
“Kiyo-kun. Kiyo-kun, did you hear me?”
“I’m sorry, Ryu, I didn’t.”
Ryuhei frowned and guilt stabbed at Kiyoshi’s heart. “Ume-san wishes us to adjourn to the dining room for some refreshments.”
Forcing a smile and nodding, Kiyoshi laid his hand upon Ryuhei’s arm and let his lover lead him away.
* * *
At the first opportunity, Kiyoshi slipped out into the small garden area of the house. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t be here in this place where the Poisoned Dragon’s presence was so strong. He took a deep breath and held it, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, his mouth clamped shut as he willed his fangs to stop prickling his gums, begged his mouth to stop watering at the craving for the myst
erious tong assassin.
His stomach ached. His palms were growing damp. He wanted to find that young man he’d glimpsed when they arrived, he wanted to drain the man, taste the essence of the Dragon in his blood.
He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t remain here a moment longer, but he had to. He had to do it for Ryuhei. Kiyoshi glanced over his shoulder long enough to catch sight of his lover. Ryuhei was in his element at last, truly where he belonged, surrounded by admirers, the center of attention and adoration. This made Ryu happy and, no matter how awful it was for Kiyoshi, he wanted his lover to have it, wanted to be nearby to share it with him.
Kiyoshi forced himself up the short garden path to return to the house through the glass-paned doors on the veranda. Ryuhei was sitting on the divan, fanning himself with Kiyoshi’s gold fan as he laughed and talked with the other guests. The lady of the house wore an elegant kimono of black silk and violet blossoms, though the beauty of her dress paled in comparison to her own loveliness and graceful movements as she served the actor another glass of sake.
Some of the men in attendance were not mere theater patrons. The scent of dried blood under their fingernails tickled Kiyoshi’s nose, letting him know they were also members of the tong. Gods…would everything remind him of what he most desired and feared? He turned around, prepared to disappear through the doors once more.
“Ishibe-san,” the hostess called out to him. “Please join us for some wine.”
Ryuhei snapped the fan shut and looked over his shoulder from the empty spot on the divan beside him to the doorway where Kiyoshi was standing now. A worried look crossed his face. Kiyoshi had been quiet enough to slip away without being noticed and it obviously fretted the other actor.
“Or at least to share in some of your company.” Ryuhei’s lips turned down in the faintest hint of a pout. “Only for a short while, Kiyo-kun.”
Kiyoshi came forward and sat beside Ryuhei, allowing his hand to slip between them on the seat and clutch at the fabric of Ryu’s fine silk haori as though it were a lifeline anchoring him to some shred of humanity. He would not become like Liu. He would not live for the kill.
Another one of those all-too-rare smiles spread across Ryuhei’s face, crinkling the faint lines around his eyes. He put his hand over Kiyoshi’s on the hem of his haori and tilted his head to one side to rest on the top of Kiyoshi’s.
“The sake will taste better now that you’re here with us,” Ryuhei said. Some of the other guests nodded and agreed with politely cheerful responses or compliments for Kiyoshi’s performance in the play. But Ryuhei’s happiness was deep and genuine, radiating from the center of his being, as was his concern for Kiyo-kun. He reached for his glass on the low table in front of the divan and poured some more of the liquor.
“A little drink is good for almost any trouble.” Ryuhei offered the tiny cup to Kiyoshi.
He accepted the small cup of sake with a quaking hand and drank it quickly, waving off another. “Thank you, no.”
“You look ill, Ishibe-san. Shall I send for a doctor?” Ume Yang asked.
“No, I’m tired, that’s all.”
“We can go then,” Ryuhei said.
Kiyoshi turned to face his lover. “You stay. You’re having a wonderful time. You need to stay. I’ll be all right.”
Ryuhei shook his head. “We go together—” He broke off as Akira and Hoshi arrived, Hoshi announcing their presence in his usual loud way. “Oh, Gods.”
Their hostess motioned for her husband to greet their new guests, then addressed Kiyoshi and Ryuhei again. “We have a spare room. You’re more than welcome to spend the night. You can go rest and Nakamura-san can stay here a while if he likes before joining you.”
“I don’t wish to impose—”
“It’s no imposition. I would be honored.” Ume bowed and excused herself to have a servant make the room ready.
Bitter after having his spotlight stolen from him at the play, Hoshi was doing his best to steal the attention of everyone in the room. Kiyoshi was glad for it as all the guests were temporarily distracted and their collective gaze was now on Hoshi and Akira.
“Kiyo-kun, we should go.” Ryuhei’s smile was gone, replaced instead with a worried little frown. He caressed the side of Kiyoshi’s face and his frown deepened. “Do you have a fever? Your skin feels so flushed…” One of Ume-san’s other guests—one of the tong men—crossed behind the divan, buttoning up his coat before stepping out into the garden. The moonlight glinted off the edge of a hatchet as the weapon was discreetly concealed underneath the coat.
Ryu-san had seen it as well. He looked back at Kiyoshi and shivered. “Is it that…the assassin?”
When Kiyoshi did not immediately answer, Ryuhei placed a hand on his throat and swallowed. “Is he here?” he asked quietly, his eyes wide with fright and worry.
Kiyoshi shook his head and Ryuhei gave a short sigh of relief. He stood from the divan and helped Kiyoshi do the same. They slipped out of the drawing room unnoticed, but in the hall they met with Ume.
“The room has been made ready,” she said, a small crease marring her perfect brow. “Are you certain you don’t need a doctor, Ishibe-san?”
“I’ll take care of him.” Ryuhei thanked her with a deep bow, never letting go of Kiyoshi’s hand. Kiyoshi clung to the warmth in that gesture, in both spirit and body.
Chapter Thirteen
Upstairs, Kiyoshi threw himself into Ryuhei’s arms the instant the door closed behind them. “Hold me, Ryu. Don’t let me go. Please don’t let me go,” he begged, pulling Ryuhei’s head closer to his. He kissed his mortal love with a fear-edged passion, his fingers tangling in Ryuhei’s hair, pulling it free from the ties that bound it into a traditional topknot. “Love me, Ryuhei. Please.”
Deep, vibrating sounds worked their way out of Ryuhei instead of words. He slid his hands up and down Kiyoshi’s back as they embraced, his lips caressing Kiyoshi’s earlobe and cheek before trailing down to press over his mouth. The contact felt so good—it helped to ease some of the hunger the Dragon’s blood had stirred, gnawing at Kiyoshi’s belly. There was only goodness in Ryuhei’s passion, nothing like the dangerous fires that burned inside the assassin and threatened to destroy everything Kiyoshi tried to be.
But the conflicting desires were too much. Kiyoshi clung tighter to Ryuhei, his cock hardening even as his entire body began to quake.
Ryuhei pulled out of their kiss, gasping, his loosened hair cascading down to brush along his shoulders. “Kiyo-kun,” he panted, wrapping his arms around Kiyoshi’s trembling form. “It’s all right.”
Dear Ryuhei. The actor showered kiss after kiss on Kiyoshi’s neck and shoulders, slowly pulling open the kimono and the undergarments, the shitagi, to reveal the bare skin underneath. With deft precision he undid the obi and assorted cloth and strings binding the elaborate garment shut. Ever the connoisseur of fine clothing, Ryu took the heavy kimono and laid it gently across the back of a wide chair. Kiyoshi couldn’t help but smile at the gesture. He drew Ryu to him for a slow kiss before giving himself over once more to his lover’s skilled hands.
Off came the shitagi and the various bindings until Kiyoshi stood naked. In his haste to dress for the performance, he hadn’t even bothered to put on a fundoshi and this brought a quiet chuckle from Ryuhei as he skimmed his hand over Kiyoshi’s hardening flesh.
Kiyoshi whimpered and shivered as the heat of Ryuhei’s passion flowed from his hand through Kiyoshi’s wanting body. Ryu turned him to face away and stroked Kiyoshi’s chin until he looked up to see the mirror across the way. “Gods, you’re beautiful,” Ryuhei whispered, dragging his lips across Kiyoshi’s shoulder while his strong hand found Kiyoshi’s rigid cock. With maddening slowness, Ryu pumped him with one hand, resting the other on the side of Kiyoshi’s trim waist to hold him firmly so he could feel the rise of Ryuhei’s own cock through the layers of silk he wore.
“I want you, Ryu. I want to feel you in me,” Kiyoshi pleaded.
“Soon,
kimi, soon,” Ryuhei said, kissing his neck. “First I want you to come for me. I want you to see what I see when you do.” Ryuhei stroked harder, while his other hand slipped around to fondle Kiyoshi’s rear, massaging the tight opening and the swell of his sac.
Kiyoshi thrust into Ryuhei’s hand, his gaze glued to the mirror and his own expression as well as Ryuhei’s. The desire shot through him with each firm stroke of Ryu’s hand and he felt his natural bloodlust rise with it. He clamped his jaw shut and concentrated on his reflection of the pleasure his lover brought him with each loving touch. He cried out Ryuhei’s name when he came, his body quaking from the force of the climax.
He grabbed Ryuhei’s hand, brought it to his lips and licked his own salty fluid away. Then he pressed Ryu’s palm to his flushed cheek. “Fuck me, Ryuhei. Please.”
Once the actor shed his clothing, he and Kiyoshi tumbled to the bed in a tangle of arms and legs, their bodies touching anywhere and everywhere possible as they kissed and caressed like they did the first time they were together. Stopping only long enough to catch his breath, Ryuhei laughed softly as he reached over to the nightstand to retrieve the small stoppered bottle of camellia oil their hostess had so thoughtfully provided.
Kiyoshi snatched it away and rose to his knees. He kissed and licked a path from Ryuhei’s soft lips across his toned chest and flat abdomen until he came to the thatch of springy black curls edging Ryuhei’s groin. Holding Ryuhei’s erect cock with one hand, Kiyo dripped the oil over the swollen head with the other. Kiyoshi straddled his lover and leaned in for a kiss, positioning himself as he did so. “I love you, Ryu, now and always,” he whispered before impaling himself with an urgency that made them both gasp.
Soul of the Night Page 9
