Working alone in the theater while Akira tried to bring Hoshi back and the theater managers visited theater patrons in an effort to undo the damage done by the horrible review, Ryuhei had been too distracted to notice when Kiyo-kun had slipped out. After what had happened out front, Kiyoshi had seemed ashamed and reserved though Ryuhei had assured him things were all right. No harm had been done. After all, Hoshi had still been able to take his luggage and storm out of the theater.
But Kiyoshi had avoided looking into Ryuhei’s eyes, nodding half-heartedly at whatever was said in an effort to cheer him up. He’d offered only a weak smile when Ryuhei touched his chin and kissed his cheek, telling him that all would be fine.
“I’ve ruined the troupe.” Kiyoshi had looked down at his sandaled feet again. “Hoshi will never come back and we don’t have the money to hire the stagehands we need.”
“But that’s the good thing.” Ryuhei chuckled despite the seriousness of the situation. “Just the thought of the bitch not returning is a dream come true.”
That had wrested a little laugh out of Kiyoshi, and he’d pulled out of Ryuhei’s arms to rearrange the seats Hoshi had tossed about in his tantrum. Then Ryuhei had turned his attention to the other cleaning chores that needed to be done, his dull human senses missing his dearest’s escape.
Ryuhei crossed the stage, still rubbing his lower back. Should he go searching for Kiyo-kun? There were still a few hours before the show tonight—if there was going to be one, that is—there was time.
* * *
Making use of the vampire sense he so often suppressed, Kiyoshi wandered the busy streets of San Francisco unnoticed, or barely noticed by those whose innate sense of perceptions were stronger than most. When darkness fell, Kiyoshi once again found himself within the boundaries of Chinatown in general and in the domain of the Poisoned Dragon specifically.
Kiyoshi sensed them long before they stepped into the sparse pool of yellow light from the streetlamp. The flame flickered, bathing them both in a wavering shadow. One tall and thin, the other a little shorter, trim but slightly broader in the chest and shoulders. Both had dark hair cut fashionably in the western way, the taller was Chinese from the look of him, the shorter Japanese. He was the one at the party, the Poisoned Dragon’s lover, his partner in bringing death to those who opposed their tong.
Kiyoshi’s attention swung back to the taller man, the Chinese, the Poisoned Dragon himself, and he shuddered. Oh, the man was incredible. They both were, actually. The perfect team, both consummate predators in their own right.
Such deadly control they radiated, so many degrees of passion passed between them as they spoke in hushed tones and brushed against each other while approaching the restaurant. Kiyoshi knew from glimpsing their thoughts that the establishment fronted a gambling den run in competition to the Wongs. Too often, this young, rival clan had interfered in the older family’s affairs and the two men had been sent to handle the situation.
Guards for the gambling den appeared from the darkness surrounding the restaurant. The Poisoned Dragon and his younger partner whipped out razor-sharp knives from their suit jackets and slit the men’s throats without hesitation. Kiyoshi shivered as the power of the two assassins swept over him. They were magnificent in their savage beauty, their dark eyes narrowed, flashing with danger, their well-toned bodies moving with graceful stealth. They were glorious angels of death and Kiyoshi shuddered once more, reminded of the fierce master who had created him and Liu.
Blood dripping from their blades onto the cobblestones, the Dragon and his disciple entered the restaurant. A thunderous clatter arose from the top floor and broke the still night. Window glass shattered and a body hit the street with a dull thud. Another followed, and another. Innocent kitchen workers streamed from the back of the closed restaurant.
A bleeding man stumbled from the front of the building and ran in Kiyoshi’s direction. The vampire seized him with blinding speed and dragged him to the shadows, tearing into the gash already at the base of his neck. The stark fear roused by the Dragon made the man’s blood utterly intoxicating.
The man went limp and Kiyoshi fell back against the wall, sliding down until he crouched. He wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of one hand and closed his eyes as the heady euphoria coursed through him. Another bone-chilling scream echoed across the empty street and Kiyoshi longingly watched the shadowed figures move in the broken windows of the gambling den. Oh, what might it be like to drink the blood of the Poisoned Dragon himself?
Kiyoshi closed his eyes again and savored the excitement churning through his veins. His body tingled, his hands trembled and his knees nearly gave out as he finally pulled himself to his feet a moment before the Dragon and his lover came out with a young woman in tow. Kiyoshi melted back into the shadows as they hurried past across the way and disappeared around a corner.
He wanted more. He craved more.
* * *
Gavin had wanted to spend the remainder of his afternoon poking around the offices of the Six Companies, the association of Chinese businessmen who’d played a part in bringing the Nakamura kabuki troupe to San Francisco. When he’d tried to ask Nishikawa some questions, the translator was more than a little perturbed at Carl for the scene at the theater patron’s house. Carl had tried to explain it away as a misunderstanding. At least that hadn’t been as embarrassing as the encounter in the restaurant afterwards—something Carl made certain not to mention to Nishikawa. Nonetheless, the translator was reluctant to share any more information on the troupe, save that he knew Akira Sounoichi had been a well-respected narrator for a kabuki theater in Edo while Ryuhei Nakamura was once the greatest of actors to grace the stage. But Nishikawa knew nothing about Kiyoshi Ishibe or the one who simply called himself Hoshi, and promptly told Gavin to look elsewhere for the information.
Though he would have liked to visit with the men from the Six Companies, Gavin found himself pulling a punishment detail courtesy of Albright for having used Nishikawa’s synopsis of the play as his report and review while the other publications in the city wrote scathing articles lambasting the troupe for not following the prescribed script past the first few minutes of the play.
Well, he couldn’t really complain. As far as punishments went, this could be far worse. He might have been sent home for a few days without pay, but instead was relegated to his editor’s sister to clear out the room of a recently deceased boarder of hers. A British chap who was quite the bookworm and who had more tomes and periodicals than he had clothing or other possessions. As Gavin skimmed through one of these magazines, Mrs. McCleary excused herself to check on the dinner preparations in the kitchen.
Though many pages of the periodical seemed to have run afoul of a rodent, the remaining pages were more intact and the first full page caught Carl’s eye. It was the opening of a story called Carmilla, a tepid melodramatic bit of stuff that no less pulled him in to turn page after page.
“I’ll be damned,” Carl whispered. He crossed the room, stubbing his toe on a box full of assorted dust-coated knick-knacks, but managed to hop his way over to the oil lamp on the cramped little desk. Carmilla was no ordinary frivolous tale. The author wrote of strange creatures that hunted in the night, draining the blood of their victims…something Carl found altogether too familiar.
Holding the article up to the lamplight and suppressing a chill, he reread the last section that had caught his attention:
He said that the patient was suffering from the visits of a vampire! The punctures which she described as having occurred near the throat, were, he insisted, the insertion of those two long, thin, and sharp teeth which, it is well-known, are peculiar to vampires; and there could be no doubt, he added, as to the well-defined presence of the small livid mark which all concurred in describing as that induced by the demon’s lips…
The first dead body Gavin had found had had strange marks on his neck just like the ones described in this tale. Last night’s victim had been too brutalized to n
otice any such damage, but Gavin had the gut feeling he would’ve seen them there as well. And the actor—Nakamura—didn’t he have strange marks too?
Obviously Nakamura was as alive as he himself, but…
But it will, in these cases, husband and protract its murderous enjoyment with the refinement of an epicure, and heighten it by the gradual approaches of an artful courtship. In these cases it seems to yearn for something like sympathy and consent. In ordinary ones it goes direct to its object, overpowers with violence, and strangles and exhausts often at a single feast.
“And there’s one thing—one person—tying them all together.” He rubbed his forehead as he rolled the magazine up. “Kiyoshi Ishibe.” Nakamura’s admitted lover.
“Mr. Gavin, I don’t hear those boxes bein’ moved out and it’s almost dinnertime,” Mrs. McCleary called up the staircase. “Don’t expect me to feed you if you’re going to take all night about things.”
“Eh, just a moment,” he shouted back. At the rate things were going, it would take him all night to finish up this room. Mrs. McCleary’s boarder had been one of the worst packrats Carl had ever seen, and that was saying something, considering all the odd trinkets and newspaper clippings he kept himself.
He moved to the window, shoving it open and testing the lattice that clung to the side of the building. Cleaning house would have to wait. The night only lasted a few hours and this was a large city. If he wanted to find this supernatural hunter—this demon—there was no time to lose.
Chapter Sixteen
Kiyoshi trailed the carriage, darting past the people walking the streets and alleys of Chinatown. He was fully aware of their stares but paid no heed, for he was too beside himself to concentrate on cloaking his presence from their senses. “Out of my way,” he spat in Japanese, bumping aside one particularly slow-moving man.
“What the—Hey! Hey!”
Growling, Kiyoshi shook off the man’s attempt to grab the wide sleeve of his haori. He was losing the Poisoned Dragon’s scent.
“Mr. Ishibe!”
The man’s familiar voice froze Kiyoshi. The reporter. Gavin.
“Hey now, what’s got you in a tizzy? You all right there, Mr. Ishibe? You look a bit peaked. You having a cold sweat? Maybe you’re coming down with something serious.”
Kiyoshi jerked back when the reporter attempted to touch his forehead. “I’m fine,” he said, averting his gaze. “I’m in a hurry that’s all. I’m late for the performance. Excuse me. Please.”
“I’ll walk with you then. I need to do a new review—”
“No,” Kiyoshi shouted, pushing out with both his voice and mind. “You’ll only slow me down.” With that he dashed into the nearest alley.
“Wait.” The reporter stood on the pavement, stunned. He shook out his arms and head to rid himself of that strange stab of pain in his temple, then ran after Kiyoshi. “Wait!”
The alleyway wrapped around a row of three-story buildings and Carl lost sight of the street behind him. There were almost no windows facing into the alley, so hardly any lamp or candlelight spilled into the shadow-filled lane. He pressed on, squinting into the dark, murky corners for any sign of movement.
“Mr. Ishibe,” Carl shouted. The cry echoed in the empty alleyway. “Nakamura was lying, wasn’t he? That was your fan stained with blood—the blood of your victim.”
Kiyoshi’s sensitive hearing picked up the reporter’s accusation and he froze. The fool. He had nothing to do with any death, certainly not with the fan. It was the Poisoned Dragon’s doing but it was putting him, more importantly, it was possibly placing Ryuhei at risk as well.
He had to get back to the theater, to make it seem as if nothing was amiss.
* * *
Ryuhei leaned out the doorway in the back of the theater and held a candle to shed some light in the dark alleyway. Two stray dogs with splotched coats trotted past, sniffing around for scraps of food. At the end of the lane, two men were boarding up the windows at the laundry with wooden slats that fell into place with forlorn-sounding bangs. But no sign of Kiyo-kun.
He stepped down and into the alley. Some of these shadows were very dark after all. Too dark for a single candle to penetrate from far away, even. Maybe Kiyoshi lingered there, enjoying the darkness and night air. All the old stories Ryuhei had heard told of how kyuuketsuki were fond of shadows and the night, among other things…
“Like human blood,” he whispered to himself, kicking at a program from last night’s performance that someone had discarded. “Maybe it does go down like sake. Who could resist drinking blood then?”
His breath caught when he heard the unmistakable sound of wooden geta sandals clacking along the ground as someone hurried into the alley.
Kiyo-kun.
Ryuhei wasn’t sure if he should be relieved or frightened, for his lover’s face was taut with strain and his eyes were wild and fairly glowing red in the darkness.
Kiyoshi stopped abruptly in front of Ryuhei, his eyes even more frightening up close. “That fucking reporter was following me. He accused me of that murder, the man who had the fan stuck in his eye.”
Startled by the barely controlled rage in Kiyoshi’s sharp tone, Ryuhei took a half-step back. “No,” he gasped out, his fear melting into worry. “But after what I said today in the restaurant, I thought he’d stay away for a good while.”
Kiyoshi turned to look over his shoulder at the way he’d come up. “He should keep to his own business, the old fuck.”
Ryuhei frowned and looked around the empty alley to make sure it still was empty. “Please, Kiyo-kun, keep your voice down,” he whispered, blowing out the candle. In the almost complete darkness, Kiyoshi’s eyes glowed like two smoldering embers. “What if that man followed you here?”
He started to ask where Kiyoshi had been that the reporter had found him, but thought better of it and bit down on his lower lip. He reached out with his free hand and gently squeezed Kiyoshi’s shoulder. “Come inside and if he looks for you at the theater I’ll say you’ve been out all evening.”
Kiyoshi hurried inside, forgetting to kick off his sandals until he was halfway to the stairs. He stopped, turned and kicked them off so violently one almost caught Ryuhei in the head. Instead, it struck the wall above his shoulder, leaving a gash in the plaster.
Ryuhei trembled, his hand raised to his throat. “Kiyo-kun, please. Try and remain calm. That man will not bother you here. I won’t allow it.”
“You can’t stop it,” he snapped, hurrying up the stairs.
Ryuhei followed, hesitating at the bedroom door that stood ajar, one hinge bent from the force with which Kiyoshi had pulled it open.
Ryuhei closed the door as best he could and leaned back against it. “Kiyoshi. What happened this evening? Where were you?”
Kiyoshi spun and glared. Ryu swallowed hard.
“I was out. I took a walk. That’s all I did.”
Ryuhei closed his eyes a moment and licked his parched lips. He saw the faint stain of red on his lover’s mouth, a few telltale spots of dried blood on the black fabric of his kimono. “Please don’t lie to me. I deserve that much respect.”
“What are you trying to insinuate?” Kiyoshi was suddenly right in front of Ryuhei. He’d crossed the distance with such speed Ryuhei’s mortal eyes had never even registered the movement. “You’re no better than that fucking reporter.”
“Kiyo-kun, you’re not thinking clearly. The things you’re saying, that tone…” Ryuhei exhaled slowly, trying to keep his voice even.
“You’re the one talking stupid. I don’t have to explain anything to you,” Kiyoshi snarled. He actually bared his fangs at Ryuhei, the sharp tips glinting in the light from the lantern hanging above the doorway.
But instead of feeling fear, Ryuhei’s pulse quickened with anger. “How can you say that to me?” He stood straight. “To protect you, I lied and put myself—my honor—at stake. And I worry for you.” Ryuhei frowned and stepped forward, no longer intimidated by Kiyos
hi’s rage or the dangerous light flickering in his eyes. “You can read thoughts, my ass. Do you know how scared I am that this assassin’s blood is driving you mad? That one day I’ll never see you again, either because you’ve left me or because you’ve been killed by the Gods know what?” Ryuhei’s voice trembled with anger. “I don’t want any more lies, Kiyoshi. The worst one being that you say you love me, when everything you’ve been doing proves you don’t.”
Kiyoshi snarled again, wanting very much to—rip through Ryuhei’s throat.
This assassin’s blood is driving you mad.
It was driving him mad. It was making him think things, do things, feel things he hadn’t in how many centuries? Not since the very first killing spree with Kuro and Liu. Kiyoshi held up his hands, and staggered back until he bumped into a lacquered chest. “I don’t want to be this way. I don’t like it, but I can’t stop it.”
“I’ll help you. Tell me what to do.”
“I don’t know.” Kiyoshi shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Ryuhei moved into the room, dropping his unlit candle to the floor. “There has to be something,” he insisted, his face drawn with concern. “Whatever it is, please tell me.”
“I don’t know,” Kiyoshi cried out in frustration, almost on the verge of tears. He wrapped his arms around his waist and doubled over. “Ryu-san, you don’t know what it feels like inside me…how it hurts…”
Ryuhei took Kiyoshi by the shoulders. “It’s in the blood, yes?” Cupping Kiyoshi’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, Ryuhei gently encouraged him to look up. “If the Dragon’s blood does this to you, could someone else’s help calm you?”
“I don’t know,” Kiyoshi mumbled, closing his eyes, trying his best to draw in the quiet strength of his lover. He opened his eyes, feeling the sting of guilty tears. “I don’t dare ask such a thing. It’s too dangerous, especially now…”
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