Dearest Ryu-san…he wanted the change in subject even at his own expense. “All of our honored theater patrons can understand just the kind of spoiled brat we’ve been indulging backstage,” Ryu roared.
“Gentlemen, please,” Ume said.
Ryuhei raised his hand. “Please, dear Ume-san. You must forgive my obnoxious soon-to-be former colleague—”
“Obnoxious? I’ll show you obnoxious, you worn-out, old piece of shit—” Hoshi stomped his foot.
“Hoshi!” Akira tightened his grip on Hoshi’s shoulder.
“Let me go, Akira. I’ll scratch his eyes out.”
Ryuhei made a grand bow, then kissed Ume Yang’s hand. “Dear lady, do forgive me but Kiyoshi and I simply must go. You must come back to the theater before we leave San Francisco. As our guest.”
“I would like that.” Ume returned the bow with a graceful one of her own. “Thank you.”
Ryuhei took hold of Kiyoshi’s arm and spirited him out the front door. He briskly led the way until they were two streets away, where he stopped and leaned back against a building.
“Ryuhei. What is it? Are you ill?”
“No, but I need a drink.” He pointed to the small establishment one of the theater managers had taken them to when they’d arrived in San Francisco. “There.”
Kiyoshi tried not to notice the curious stares of the men inside at the sight of him in the woman’s kimono from last night’s performance. Ryuhei took a small round table in the far corner of the room and called out an order to the man serving another customer. When the bottle of wine was delivered, Kiyoshi poured and waited while Ryuhei tossed back the drink and then another.
“What is it, Ryu? Are you worried about Hoshi withdrawing the funding?”
Ryuhei looked at him with a mixture of surprise and…was that loathing? Of course it must be. What else could it be?
Though he hated to do it, had learned to automatically suppress it so long ago, Kiyoshi allowed his mind to open and reached out to read Ryuhei’s thoughts. “You think I did that? You think I killed someone with the fan?”
Ryuhei’s mouth fell open. He broke away from Kiyoshi’s gaze to stare into his glass. His hands started to shake so badly some of the wine sloshed over the rim of the cup. “I—you—” He stumbled with the words. “Did you… Can you read thoughts?”
Taking the glass from Ryuhei’s hand, Kiyoshi swallowed the lump in his throat. “But is it true? Is that what you think?”
Ryuhei gave a start, obviously frightened at hearing Kiyoshi’s unspoken voice within his mind, and pressed both hands over his mouth. “I don’t know,” Ryuhei whispered, shaking his head. “Forgive me, Kiyo-kun. I understand so little about what you are, only that this—this man’s blood—it changes you.” He dropped both hands to the table and reached for the bottle of wine.
Kiyoshi placed his hand over Ryuhei’s, stopping him. Ryuhei looked down, but Kiyoshi willed him to look up. He captured his mortal lover’s gaze and held fast.
“I did not do this thing. I did not leave you last night. But the one they call the Poisoned Dragon was there at the house. I felt him, heard him speak to Yang-san.” Breathing a dispirited sigh, Kiyoshi let Ryuhei’s hand go and finished his thought aloud. “Was the fan downstairs? Could he have picked it up for some reason?”
Ryuhei nodded. “I left everything in Ume-san’s drawing room to go upstairs with you. I was so careless…I didn’t even remember the fan.” A choked little sound worked its way out of his throat. “You really didn’t leave last night, did you?” His voice wavered.
“No,” Kiyoshi whispered. “I stayed for you.”
Ryuhei reached across the table and took Kiyoshi’s hands, lifting them to his mouth so he could kiss each finger. “Forgive me, Kiyo-kun,” he begged. “For doubting. For not giving more of myself to you.” Ryuhei moved one of his hands to his throat, rubbing the dark red bruise where he’d been bitten.
Kiyoshi pulled away, hating the monster that he was. What a fool he’d been to think he could be normal, that he could live amongst people again, even dare to love someone. “I should go. Go back to Japan, or perhaps just stay here in America, find some out-of-the-way place where I won’t be a danger to anyone.”
“No.” Ryuhei’s eyes went wide. “You can’t.” He cradled the other’s hand in his own, his thumb stroking across Kiyoshi’s palm.
The actor’s mind was a blur of confused and hurt thoughts. Kiyoshi tried to break the contact he’d created, but found he couldn’t close himself off to Ryuhei that easily. “It’s for the best,” Kiyoshi insisted, but how those words hurt to say aloud. “I’ve fooled myself into thinking I could belong here…anywhere…”
Ryuhei’s brow creased, his lips forming a frown. “At least try to come up with a better excuse than that weak one. Of course you belong here. Who else will stop me when I drink too much? Or keep me from strangling that bitch Hoshi?”
Kiyoshi grasped Ryuhei’s hand, a melancholy smile curving his mouth. “There isn’t any place I’d rather be, but I don’t want to put you in danger.” Especially from me. He wanted to say more but words eluded him, so he simply closed his eyes a moment and let all the emotion he felt for Ryuhei flow from the depth of his heart. He didn’t know if it would transfer as easily as his thoughts could, but he hoped it would.
Oh, Kiyo-kun. You have no idea how much you mean to me. I don’t think I can survive without you.
Opening his eyes, Kiyoshi gazed at his lover, but before he could form a thought, a familiar voice broke the calm.
“Well there you two are,” the reporter Gavin called as he barged towards their table.
“How in fuck—?” Ryuhei stared in shock at the reporter before sitting up straight and squaring his shoulders. “Gavin-san, please.” He held up his hand in a dismissive gesture as the reporter came to a stop at their table. “Maybe your body was at the breakfast table this morning, but your mind was elsewhere. Kiyo-kun and I have had enough headaches for one day, thank you.”
“But you two ran off pretty damn fast.” Gavin helped himself to an empty seat at the next table. “I didn’t get a chance to finish asking some questions.”
“And I’m sorry but you won’t have that chance now either.” Ryuhei stood. “We have things to do before rehearsal and—”
“Do you ever have anything to say?” Gavin focused on Kiyoshi, his sharp blue eyes narrowed and one eyebrow arched. “I noticed the whole time back in the house you couldn’t take your eyes off the fan.”
Kiyoshi glared at the brash American. “I have much to say to those I choose to converse with. I have little to say on this matter to you. Of course I was looking at the fan. I was as curious as anyone as to what was on it and how it came to be in such a state.” Now go away.
The reporter flinched. Kiyoshi had used as much force behind the unspoken command as he dared to without risking a permanent injury to the man’s consciousness, but it had almost no effect. The mortal must somehow be innately protected from Kiyoshi’s mental powers. The thought disheartened Kiyoshi greatly.
Gavin glanced down at his arms where the hairs on the back of his hands were standing on end. “Did either of you just feel something?” he asked distractedly as he rubbed his hands together. “It was like…” He stopped in mid-sentence and looked up at Kiyoshi, his frown deepening.
“Maybe it’s the guilt over the mess you caused earlier that’s gnawing at you,” Ryuhei blurted out. He skirted the table and tugged at Kiyoshi’s sleeve. “We should go, Kiyo-kun, before the rest of our day is ruined.”
“Did you do that?” Gavin asked, ignoring Ryuhei.
“Do what?” Ryuhei asked sharply, knowing full well what Gavin meant. He’d almost cried out at the force of Kiyo-kun’s unspoken command echoing in his head.
“I’m not sure what,” Gavin said, massaging the back of his neck. “But it was something. Something…not quite natural.”
His assessing gaze shifted to Kiyoshi, who remained silent and unblinking, and Ryuh
ei skirted to the side so he could block the reporter’s view.
“Such questions. I’m outraged,” Ryuhei huffed. But he reached up to touch the bruises on the side of his neck absentmindedly, nervously. The reporter’s sharp gaze followed the movement.
“What odd-looking marks.” Gavin frowned and took a step closer to get a better look. “How did you get those?”
“What?” Ryuhei’s eyes widened, but he took a step back when he realized what marks Gavin referred to. He tilted his chin up. “Gavin-san, I must insist that you get out of our way. We have no information for you. We were at the Yang house all night…in bed…together…fucking each other’s brains out to be exact.”
Everything in the restaurant came to stop around them—no one spoke or touched their food, even those waiting on the customers froze in place with their attention on the three men at the back table.
“Wha—? Gavin started to ask, a few moments behind understanding Ryuhei’s words than everyone else. “Oh…oh, well I…” Without having to look, Kiyoshi knew the man’s face had turned bright red. He could feel the rise in Gavin’s body heat even from behind Ryuhei.
“That was one of your questions, yes?” Ryuhei glowered. “‘Who was Kiyoshi with last night, and what was he doing?’ Well, now you know—me.”
“That’s, uh, actually not…” Gavin mumbled as he got up from his seat. “Maybe we can talk about this another time…”
“Oh, fine.” Ryuhei snorted and folded his arms across his chest, tucking his hands into the sleeves of his kimono. “You can ruin our day with your gruesome junk, but squirm like a silly virgin when we don’t give you the answers you want.”
The reporter rubbed the back of his neck again. Kiyoshi shifted to see past Ryu’s head and smiled to himself as he watched the man’s unease. “Well, um, well…I suppose I’ll let you gentlemen get back to…well whatever it is you need to get back to. I’ll stop by the theater for an interview soon.”
Ryuhei pushed past Gavin. Kiyoshi followed.
“Ryu. Let’s go home. I want to be with you. I want you to hold me and not let me go until we have to be on stage. I promise not to…hurt you in any way.”
Ryuhei stopped walking and turned to look at Kiyoshi. He touched the vampire’s cheek and smiled. “Anything for you, my love. Anything.”
* * *
Carl Gavin moved until he could see the pair through the small front window. There was something strange about those two beside their proclivities and he was going to find out what it was. That little one was…different…unusual. Not quite right somehow and Carl wouldn’t rest until he found out why.
Chapter Fifteen
Kiyoshi followed close behind Ryuhei as they cut through Chinatown to reach the theater. Before they turned onto their street, they stopped at a teahouse to buy some dumplings. “Now maybe we can enjoy a meal in peace together after all this,” Ryuhei said, lifting the lid off the box to smell the hot steamed buns inside.
But when they arrived at the theater, chaos greeted them.
The front doors were wide open. The pungent scent of camphor oil and turpentine streamed out of the building along with what appeared to be the entire crew of stagehands. A crowd of curious bystanders had gathered outside the theater to see what was going on. “Akira?” Ryuhei rushed forward, trying to push through people.
Akira stumbled out with the last of the stagehands. He coughed and fanned the air in front of him before grabbing some man in western dress from the crowd. “Ryu-san, we’re ruined,” he told the stranger, his words a bit slurred.
Ryuhei pulled him away from the confused-looking bystander and slapped Akira once on the side of his long face. “Akira, you’ve inhaled too much of those fumes. Come to your senses.”
“It’s Hoshi.” Akira slumped back against the building. “Everything’s a mess.”
The box of food fell from Ryuhei’s grasp. “What. Did that bitch. Do now?”
Akira coughed to clear his lungs. Once the coughing took hold it doubled him over for a time. He straightened, rubbing the center of his chest. “He had someone read him a review of the performance. It wasn’t very good.”
“Wasn’t very good?” Hoshi screamed from the threshold of the theater. All eyes turned to the stocky actor who stood glowering at them all like some fierce Japanese demon, his cheeks livid, eyes wide, hair a mess and sticking up at odd angles. “It wasn’t very good?” he shouted again. “It was humiliating. The man said he’d never seen such a ludicrous display of indecent emotion in public before.” Hoshi barreled down the few steps and came to stand before Kiyoshi. “And it’s all because of you, you little piece of talentless country shit.
“Oh, really.” Ryuhei turned on Hoshi, his eyebrow twitching. “There’s only one talentless shit here and it’s not Kiyo-kun.”
“Don’t you start up with me again.” Hoshi smacked his thigh with the rolled up newspaper he clenched in a sweaty fist. “You wouldn’t know talent if it came up out of the ground and bit you on the ass. Just listen to this—this…” He un-bunched the crinkled newspaper and stared at the sheet for a second in furious silence. “Fucking English,” he hissed. His face grew redder and he stalked over to Akira. “Read this. You”—he pointed to Ryuhei—”just listen.”
“Evening last, San Francisco was graced with a performance by a renowned kabuki troupe from Tokio, Japan. At least, San Francisco was supposed to be thusly graced. This reporter feels we were cursed with a group of wretched imposters.
“If, however this is the best of ‘esteemed and ancient entertainments’ the Mikado’s empire has to offer then perhaps our late Commodore Perry would have been wise to see that Japan had kept its door closed and thusly kept its insipid excuse for an entertainment inside its shores.”
The silence was amazing really, even the bystanders mutely awaited the next response. They didn’t have to wait long.
“Did you hear that?” Hoshi seethed, taking a step forward, small hands clenched into fists at his side. He poked Ryuhei in the chest. “And do you know why we were written of that way? Because of him.” He stuck his finger out at Kiyoshi then moved to poke Ryuhei again. “Because of him and you and your stupid, fucking, pathetic little lovers’ spat.”
Hoshi continued poking Ryuhei in the center of the chest hard enough to make the older actor step back with each glancing blow. “You are a disgrace. I don’t know why Akira and I put up with you. We’re leaving, do you hear. Le—”
The angry shouts turned to a whimper when Kiyoshi took Hoshi by the wrist. “Stop it,” he said in a low, menacing tone. “Stop doing that to Ryu-san or I will snap your arm like a twig.”
Hoshi’s mouth flapped open and closed, but nothing more intelligible than a few squeaks came out. He stared at his arm in Kiyoshi’s grasp, the color leaving his face as he started to shiver.
“It’s all right, it’s all right.” Ryuhei rushed forward, touching Kiyoshi’s shoulder. “There’s no need to be that way, Kiyo-kun. That’s just part of Hoshi-san’s charms.” There was a nervous edge to his voice even though he tried to laugh lightly, adding an unusual sharpness to the sound. He reached down to touch Kiyoshi’s hand and pulled away the instant his fingers grazed the cool flesh.
Gods! What was this power, this sense of viciousness he’d felt? Ryuhei gasped and shook out his hand. “Please let him go, Kiyo-kun,” he whispered. “Please.”
* * *
From a distance, Carl Gavin watched in amazement as the plump actor crumpled to his knees. From the force of that Kiyoshi’s grip? But it hardly looked like his fingers were even closed on the other man’s wrist. And Nakamura’s reaction—it was strange the way he jerked away as if burned. Or was that fear the older actor had shown?
“What the hell is going on?” Carl whispered under his breath, now totally convinced the answer was going to be more than he’d ever considered.
* * *
Ryuhei finished one last pass on the floor with the rag and sat back on his heels, panting. He wiped at hi
s forehead with the back of his hand and gave the stage a discriminating look. “Not too bad.” He sighed aloud. Especially for only one man’s work.
Before storming out with his suitcases in tow, Hoshi had left the theater practically in ruins. He’d kicked over props and spilled jars of paint and thinner all over the wooden stage. It was the same kind of treatment Ryuhei’s haori had received, and just thinking about the spoiled garment made Ryuhei’s temper flare all over again.
“Bitchy little brat,” he grumbled. As he straightened, his back spasmed and he winced. “Ow,” he whimpered, rubbing the sore muscles right at the base of his spine. Cleaning floors in the Japanese style—on hands and knees, racing along the wooden boards to give them a swift and even stroke with the rag—was fine when he’d been a young apprentice in Edo. It wasn’t such a good thing anymore.
Ryuhei stood, wanting a warm bath even if it meant trying to get into one of those cramped wooden tubs the westerners used. He longed for one of Kiyoshi’s long back rubs, the kind that worked out all the knots and stiffness from Ryuhei’s tired muscles. He’d always marveled at the strength in Kiyo-kun’s slender hands and small shoulders, now he knew where the young man’s strength came from.
“A kyuuketsuki,” Ryuhei whispered. A blood drinker. When he thought about it, he noticed things about Kiyoshi in memories past that he’d never concerned himself about before. How Kiyo-kun had suffered from sun sickness on long journeys between cities if they traveled in the summer and without a covered coach. How Kiyo-kun’s beauty had remained unchanged by time, something Ryuhei took as a blessing from the Gods. Little had he known.
But Ryuhei could never think of his Kiyo-kun as a demon, no matter what. Kiyoshi was a gentle soul, he never harmed anyone. And when he acted strange now it wasn’t by his doing, but because of whatever dark urges boiled in his immortal blood thanks to that cruel assassin. Worried, Ryuhei looked around the empty theater and wondered where Kiyoshi had run off to now.
Soul of the Night Page 11
