Demon Deathchase

by Hideyuki Kikuchi

  “It seems it was worthwhile waiting here to get some rest and lay an ambush. I will make this your grave . . . ”

  And, with that muttered declaration of war, Caroline scanned the surrounding machinery, nodded once, then approached one of the devices. Rust coated its surface, and a number of jumbled pipes ran out of it. Caroline laid her hands on one of those closest and nestled it lovingly to her cheek, but, before long, her expression grew terribly lurid. Her mouth opened. Inside, her mouth was the same bloody red as her lips. Two of her canines were exposed, and, when they came in contact with the rusty pipe, the tips sank effortlessly into the metal.

  Slowly, twin streams slid down Caroline’s luscious throat, leaving a damp trail as they coursed to her ample bosom. The beauty’s throat pulsated, and she drank as if ravenous. Over and over, gulp after gulp.

  Before long, Caroline pulled back, and the fluid leaking from the holes mysteriously stopped. The Barbarois woman stepped away from the machine like a petal drifting off in the breeze. Showered with sunlight, her red tongue played along her lips. “Ah, that’s what I like,” she purred. “Now listen well to what I have to say.”

  The machine moved. Painfully slow. Its five fingers clawed at the sand. Each digit at least a yard long. Measuring thirty feet overall, the device she’d chosen was a robotic forearm that’d been broken off at the elbow.

  —

  Dhalted his steed. The arm was sixty feet away. It was like an exquisite piece of sculpture; even the shapes of the muscles and the lines of blood vessels remained discernible through the rust.

  While the great machine battles had primarily been contests of combat ability, a sort of conflict between bizarre aesthetic sensibilities had also existed. In response to the geometrical orderliness of their rivals—epitomized by designs that were conglomerations of planes and spheres simplified to the extreme—some uncouth machines had taken the imitation of the human form to a level of beauty and perfection surpassing even the classic artistry of antiquity. Whether or not true “artists” existed among the machines, they not only accurately reproduced human hair on their androids, but every last pore as well.

  Unofficial historical accounts kept by the Nobility reserved a special place for the earth-shaking contest between Apollo, with a thirty-foot sword in hand, and Hercules, armed with three hundred feet of spear. The surpassing destructive power unleashed in their clash changed the shape of mountains, wiped away valleys, and stopped the course of rivers. Had the limb now blocking D’s path belonged to one of those famed combatants, or was it a remnant of some nameless Goliath?

  A figure in blue frolicked on top of the wrist. The morning breeze rustled her golden hair and bore the aroma of her sweet perfume. Only D could detect something else. The foul stench of blood that drifted with it. “I am Caroline of the Barbarois,” she said. “And I can let you go no further.”

  In D’s pupils, which reflected only a void, the woman’s image laughed coldly. Her body swayed wildly. The arm beneath her feet jolted as it changed direction, pointing toward D. Power coursed into the fingers, and they dug into the soil. Once they were embedded, the arm used them as a fulcrum and started to slide forward like an inchworm. It moved roughly, but with surprising speed.

  D was motionless. Perhaps the surreal phenomenon of this rusted arm coming to life had robbed him of his nerve.

  When the arm had come within fifteen feet of him, spread its fingers wide, and slammed against the earth, D charged on his horse. The colossal arm hung in midair. It’d sprung into the air from the force of the fingers striking the ground. D might’ve discerned the time and location of impact from its position, because, as the titanic arm’s ten-foot-wide palm made the earth tremble, he slipped out from under it by a hair’s breadth.

  The fingers slammed shut, tearing up soil. Turning toward D, it lifted just its wrist until it was perpendicular to the ground. The fingers were still clenched. When it flopped forward, it opened them at last. A brown mass flew straight for D and his horse, more than sixty feet away. That distance rapidly diminished.

  Perhaps feeling the air pressure to their rear, D tugged the reins to the right. As his horse went a few lengths in that direction, the mass dropped at its feet. It was the soil itself, the same soil that’d been gouged out by the fingers—a fitting projectile for a colossal arm.

  Catching the shock wave on its flank, the horse lurched to one side. D danced through the air. Like a veritable mystic bird he flew, landing in a spot some five yards away. His horse regained its balance and dashed back to him.

  The colossal arm set its sights on D. It came after him with terrific speed, making the earth tremble. A black fingertip passed right before D’s eyes as the Hunter leapt backward. His stone-cold face remained impassive as a cloud of sand struck it.

  “What’s the matter, Hunter?” Caroline laughed charmingly from atop the arm. “Can’t do a thing, can you? You see, this arm has joined the ranks of the undead.”

  Hard as it was to believe, the arm did have a power plant in the wrist, and it ran on gasoline. And Caroline had sucked some of the remaining fuel from the pipe. This “vampire” had taken what was akin to the “blood” of the colossal arm. Those bitten by the accursed demons became demons themselves. But it hardly seemed possible that the same abominable rule would extend to a mechanical arm.

  The colossal forearm was now one of the living dead, a corpse that moved in accordance to Caroline’s will. It didn’t seem possible that even D could repel these attacks forever, when one followed another with such blistering speed.

  In accordance with instructions from Caroline, the arm had chased D right over to the horizontal wreckage of a gigantic torso. Though the body was toppled, the side was still easily thirty feet high, a distance even D couldn’t possibly jump.

  “Are you finished, Hunter?” Caroline asked, tittering uncontrollably. “The sword upon your back—is it a mere affectation?”

  With his rear blocked off, D appeared unable to do anything, and the wrist rose up over his head. A black brilliance surged up from the ground, slipped between the fingers crushing down now like an avalanche, and settled on top of the mechanical arm.

  “What?!” Caroline exclaimed. D’s coat flashed elegantly right in front of her as her eyes widened in amazement.

  “Now we’re even,” the Hunter said softly.

  Thinking to say something in return, Caroline took a few steps back—toward the elbow—as if she’d been pushed back by some unsettling emanations invisible to the eye. The colossal arm stopped dead in its usual inchworm pose. Beads of sweat rose on Caroline’s brow. The beads immediately grew larger, coursing down her paraffin skin. The sunlight made the wet streaks glitter like quicksilver.

  Both of D’s arms hung naturally by his sides.

  Various ideas whirled through Caroline’s head. There wasn’t enough room to flee. And the first time they’d met, Caroline had realized this youth wasn’t the sort who’d spare her because she was a woman.

  D took a step forward.

  “W . . . wait,” Caroline said desperately, humiliated by the way her voice quavered. “Even if you slay me, Mashira still remains. Wouldn’t you like to know about his powers?” Cornered now, it was the best plan her brain could conceive. For a warrior, learning the abilities of the next opponent they’d meet in combat was more important than anything else. This offer would sway him without fail.

  D advanced another step.

  “Wait, just wait.” Caroline waved her hands and leapt back a few yards. So, this youth gave no consideration to knowledge that might give him the advantage in battle? I’m going to die, aren’t I? Caroline thought. Here, on this man’s sword . . . Caroline gazed absentmindedly at the youth in black raiment approaching her. A strange feeling welled up in her breast. I want to be slain. I want to feel this gorgeous man stab into my bosom. The ecstasy of death enveloped Caroline in its rapture.

  D’s movements ceased. Letting out a low moan, the figure in black fell to one knee.


  Not knowing quite what’d happened, Caroline instinctively went into action, seeking life instead of death. The colossal arm flipped over, leaving the two of them to drop through thin air. Still, D managed a spectacular landing before one of his knees buckled again. The colossal arm fell toward him. There wasn’t enough time to get out of the way.

  D’s right hand blurred. It looked like it smoldered. There was a flash of silver that intersected the fingers crushing down on him like an avalanche of digits. With a tremendous crash, the foot-and-a-half-thick middle finger fell behind D, and everything else from the wrist forward twisted back. Black streams of machine oil poured down from the wound-like rent in the metal.

  At the same time, Caroline landed on the opposite side of the road. She pressed down on the fingers of her right hand and grew pale. There was a thin vermilion line around the base of them.

  D leapt. His cyborg horse was under him.

  “I’m not letting you get away, Hunter,” Caroline cried out. With streams of black oil trailing from it, the trembling hand went into a deadly pounce.

  D was moving at a gallop. Could he escape?

  The colossal arm went after the horse and rider. Flames suddenly blossomed from the mechanical wrist, traveling all the way to the elbow. Melting in the heat of a nuclear missile—which could reach a hundred thousand degrees—the abhorred demon arm collapsed to the ground as little more than a burning log of steel.

  The smoke trails of five missiles hung in the air. From back down the same road that’d brought D, there reverberated the sounds of a nimble engine. The low-profile vehicle with huge puncture-proof tires was, needless to say, the battle car. And Leila was at the wheel.

  After killing that master of the shadows, Bengé, Leila had wrangled herself a scouting mission by saying she couldn’t help wondering what their foes were up to. When she left, she said she’d be right back, but an hour had passed, then three. She’d gone searching for D.

  Her brothers said the freaks were probably lying in wait for him. They laughed about how sweet it’d be if they all killed each other. And the more Leila thought about how likely they were to be right, the larger the face of that gorgeous young man so full of the void loomed in her heart. That’s just because he saved my life twice, she thought. But Leila had never been given to thoughts about repaying debts before. If she collapsed from hunger and someone gave her food, she’d have had no compunctions about pulling a knife on her savior to steal the rest from him. That’s simply how Leila—and all of the Marcus clan—did things. The very concept of returning a favor was alien to them. But as Leila held the yoke of the battle car and ripped through the morning air, her heart held the closest thing to it.

  The instant she entered the ancient battlefield and saw the colossal arm chasing D, it was a movement of her heart rather than her conscious will that made her press the firing button and launch those miniature nuclear rockets. She didn’t know that the colossal arm, writhing in pain from the loss of a finger, couldn’t have caught up to D at the speed he galloped.

  Stopping alongside the arm, which had ceased moving and spouted lotus-red flames, she scanned the area with her sharp gaze. She was searching for Caroline. But the freak was nowhere to be found. With a disappointed cluck of her tongue, Leila stepped on the gas.

  —

  Having ridden hard for about two miles, D veered off the road and into the forest. A horrendous torpor was sweeping over him. It was the sunlight syndrome, a condition unique to dhampirs. Inheriting half or more of a vampire’s characteristics as they did, dhampirs could move about by day without concern, but that was not without its drawbacks. While they remained oblivious, a tenacious form of fatigue was building in their half-immortal flesh from the merciless rays of the sun. For dhampirs working as Hunters, the most dreaded aspect of this affliction was that the symptoms manifested without warning in the form of a sudden feeling of exhaustion and ever-increasing lassitude. It was painfully clear what would happen if someone were to suffer an attack of this while locked in deadly battle.

  D’s narrow escape couldn’t really be called a retreat or a defeat. In fact, it was only thanks to D’s superhuman strength that he was able to get himself in the saddle. But, when he got off his horse deep in the forest, D’s gait was somewhat troubled.

  The ground here was shrouded by multicolored flora and teeming with insect life. D knelt down and started to scoop at the dirt with a knife he pulled from his combat belt. Earth and moss flew with his intense movements. In less than three minutes, he had hollowed out a depression large enough for a person to lie in. With just the lightest shake of his head, D quietly entered the hole. Once he’d used his hands to pull the dirt around him onto his body, he laid back.

  The reason vampires in legends of antiquity carried coffins filled with soil from their homeland was not merely because the grave they should’ve occupied offered them the most serene sleep. Actually, their kind had discovered in ancient times that Mother Earth would draw out the fatigue that accumulated in their bodies and instill them with new immortalizing energy. And D was following their example.

  “Heh, this is a fine mess,” D’s left hand snorted. “Hell, even I can’t tell you when the sunlight syndrome will strike. The fact that you’re tougher than the average customer only makes matters worse. What’s it been, five years or so?”

  The voice from his hand must’ve been talking about how long it’d been since the last attack. Usually, those dhampirs who’d inherited the greater part of their disposition from the vampires went an interval of about six months between outbreaks of the symptoms. Using the date and time of the last one as a rough base, they’d hide themselves for a month before and after the next expected attack, avoiding all combat during that time. These precautions weren’t solely out of fear of reprisals from the prey they chased, but also to avoid attacks from their business competitors. There were always plenty of scheming cowards looking for a larger share of the Hunting business, and they’d keep elaborate records of the dates their rivals had attacks, then try to learn their whereabouts before the next one was due so they could do away with them. Needless to say, in D’s case, he’d have to guard against a fierce onslaught by Caroline and her cohorts.

  “Well, looks like we’re on vacation for a while. Good luck,” the voice said. But by the time these carefree comments rose from his left hand, D’s eyes were already closed.

  JOURNEY'S END

  CHAPTER 5

  —

  I

  —

  While D and Caroline’s deadly encounter was unfolding on the ancient battlefield, Mayerling’s jet-black carriage was parked on the shore of a lake some forty miles away as the crow flies. The sky was clear and blue, the trees by the shore benefited from the abundant water, and rainbows seemed to spring from every leaf and twig. Far off, a blue mountain range capped with white snow stretched into the distance, and golden birds skimmed the peaks. As scenery went, this was a truly beautiful and placid tableau.

  As he watered the horses on the lake shore, a serious expression flitted into Mashira’s wicked visage, as if he were mulling something over. He’d been that way since a short while earlier—when he’d parted company with Caroline. Now, waiting for the horse to finish drinking, he seemed to be gazing intently at the ugly face reflected in the water. Finally, after some minutes of rapt concentration, he muttered, “Okay,” and slapped his hands together. Following that, he stooped to pick a number of the white flowers blooming by the shore. As he started walking toward the carriage parked a little way off, a charitable expression, strangely free from worry, arose on his face.

  He tapped on a window with shades tightly drawn, and a voice over an intercom answered with an inquisitive, “Yes?” At this charmingly plaintive voice, he stopped the unconscious licking of his lips, and, in an amiable tone, he replied, “I was wondering if you wouldn’t like to open the window and get a breath of fresh air. The sky is blue, the water clear, and the whole place is filled with
the sweet scent of flowers. Though milord Mayerling slumbers, I believe you have nothing to fear so long as Mashira is here.”

  There was no reply. Behind the window, she must have been hesitating.

  Perhaps seeing some spark of hope, Mashira said as buoyantly as he could, “Here, look how beautiful the flowers are. The ground’s completely covered with them. If you’re that worried, just open the shade and drink in their color if you will.”

  There was silence again, and, just as he was deciding his ploy wasn’t going to work, the black shutter shot up smoothly. Seeing her innocent face quietly peering out like a moonflower, Mashira smiled inside.

  How can I get her to come out here? That’s the question that’d wracked his brain since before they had arrived at the lake. He’d considered a number of options, but, in the end, he decided to exploit the feelings she was bound to have as a young human girl. Even if she was with her boyfriend, even if he’d expressly told her not to go outside, there was no way a maiden of her tender years wouldn’t want a breath of fresh air after being cooped up in a carriage for days. After all, the darkness was no place for a human to live. Ever since Mashira had taken Mayerling’s place at the reins at dawn, he had schemed of using the girl’s humanity to his advantage. Planning ahead, he took the carriage off the road and steered it to this remote locale.

  “Say, how do you like these?” Mashira quickly thrust the bunch of flowers he’d concealed behind his back against the windowpane.

  The girl’s eyes became terribly blurred, and her white hand reached out. It bounced off the windowpane in vain.

  “What are you waiting for? What’s the harm in merely stepping out for bit of fresh air?” And then Mashira became even more empathic. “The flowers are in bloom, birds are singing, and when this place seeps into your pores and makes you even happier, milord Mayerling is certain to thank me for a job well done. And of course, the purse for our contract might gain a little weight, as well. Think of it, if you will, as your way of helping out one poor bodyguard.”