They approached from opposite sides of the mat to the white lines that marked their starting positions. Both performed kiotsuke, stepping into position and bowing to each other, their naked swords carried on the left. As one, they each dropped into sonkyo, a straight-back crouch. They paused, a flicker of energy sparked between them, an understanding. Then with no outward signal they sprang up and apart raising their swords.
Tatsu opened with jodan-gamae, the sword raised above his head while the stranger countered with hidari seigan gamae, his sword pointed forward out from his belly. In quick succession, each opposed and defended with authoritative yet classical moves. Their weapons met, slicing in rapid succession upward, downward, side-to-side. Neither gained the advantage. Their slight difference in height gave Tatsu no advantage. As fast as Tatsu struck, the man countered with no effort.
Awe tinged Tatsu at the incredible strength, the speed of his opponent. The man’s strikes were delivered with a precise and a flawless grace. Chikusho, this guy was fast. So fast and strong as to be almost inhuman. Tatsu called on every ounce of skill he possessed. He knew he didn’t telegraph his moves, yet it seemed the man always anticipated any strike a fraction before and countered it with ease.
Thrusts at abdomens, cuts at head, neck, arms or legs were effortlessly met by counter cuts from above the head, from the side, upward from a crouch. They each offered the same attack and defense moves, sounding out the other’s strength and styles, searching for any weaknesses. There were none.
Each fighter mirrored the action of the other in split-second synchronicity. At first, they shouted before each strike. Then came that rare state when both fighters turned inward, into kami-hasso, and became one with the opponent’s mind and spirit. The dojo fell silent except for their measured breathing and the cry of steel against steel. Each fighter reached out with their senses in the samurai’s spiritual technique of kami-hasso, the technique of delving into the mind and the body of the other. Their energies met and melded into one as if both fighters were of the same spirit.
Tatsu admired how his opponent became a part of his environment. The stranger stepped on the mat as if he wished only to inflict the merest weight, like that of a butterfly, on its reed surface. With every flowing movement, the man’s clothing swirled around his body. Tatsu sensed the incredible strength in that compact body hidden beneath those rippling garments. Yet those slender hands wielding the iaito with such perfect control looked too pale to be Japanese.
Tatsu’s esteem for his opponent increased by the second. Bushi damashi, the warrior spirit of the samurai, burned deep within this fighter. The admiration brought a growing sense of intimate familiarity. Had they trained together as children in Nagasaki? The graceful figure was an enigma, a deadly enigma. Still, the man—every gesture, every precise move, every huff of breath, even his scent—was hauntingly familiar.
The man’s plaited hair licked the air like a flame. That beautiful braid, whipping back and forth with a serpentine virility, caught Tatsu’s gaze. Irrationally, he ached to stroke that silky length. Imagined it moving across his palm, the living thickness of it, the satiny feel, almost like hot skin over a pulsing, rigid cock.
The tiny distraction should have cost him the match. Why hadn’t it? Then Tatsu discerned an almost minute restraint in his opponent’s cuts. That puzzling reticence hurled a challenge more forceful than if the man had called him a coward.
“Fight honestly!” Tatsu cried.
The man answered with a short bark of a laugh from behind the menpo. All sign of hesitation vanished. He attacked with renewed ferocity. Within those first new strikes, the man displayed a mastery of the fighting secrets of the Seikanjito Shinden fighting sect whose secrets were never revealed to bugaisha on penalty of death. Ancient techniques that had been Shiniichiro Kurosaki’s legacy to his grandson.
A fierce exhilaration rippled through Tatsu. The man fought with the skill of Ojii-san, the last acknowledged sword saint and Shinden of Japan. This certainty filled Tatsu with a fierce joy. At last, a worthy opponent, a true warrior who could take Tatsu to that exhilarating edge, that moment of the death cut. Unbidden, a smile played over Tatsu’s lips.
“Wakatta,” the other man’s exalted laugh reflected a similar joy. The sound danced along every nerve in Tatsu’s body.
More determined than ever to win, Tatsu called on every iota of knowledge. He increased the speed of his cuts. The man countered with a poetic grace and incredible strength.
Neither gained any small advantage over the other. Both men accepted the power flowing from the other, allowed it to infuse a fierce joy into their fighting. The energy of their fighting coiled around them, shifted, and enraptured them in new meaning. Suku, the control and rhythm of their breathing, synchronized. Their moves evolved—touch by touch—into a dance filled with hidden desires.
Every strike and counterstrike delivered a subtle erotic promise. The whispering rustle of clothing promised tantalizing secrets of the body beneath. The teasing susurration of their feet moving toward and away echoed the tentative questioning of two new lovers. The glissade of blade sliding against blade became as a caress over quivering skin. The repeated ring of weapon meeting weapon spoke of the two bodies, the one driving into the other, only to break apart again. Each move flowed into them, through them, infused them with a primal hunger. This was not shinkendo. This was a dance, a beautiful, deadly dance, of raw lust. The longing of a man for another man.
Tatsu’s blood sang with arousal. The hairs on his arms lifted, his skin hummed. A shiver from his loins ran up his spine. He lost himself, taken by the wantonness of his need, sensing it was also that of the stranger.
“You feel it too? That need to be taken, to take,” the man whispered in a rich, sensual tenor. That voice sent a sweet thrill down Tatsu’s spine. He felt the man’s lust, that deep hunger. And for the first time ever, Tatsu was aroused … in the middle of a shinkendo match … by a stranger wearing a mask. Uncaring of its outcome, Tatsu rode a wanton high, letting the seduction consume him, letting the high course through every muscle, nerve and sinew of his body until it exploded in his brain. And his groin.
By the Gods, his cock was so hard it hurt.
“Fakku. Who are you?” Tatsu croaked in a vain bid to curb his almost blinding lust. Immediately, he regretted his question as the magic evaporated. His erection wilted. He lost the discipline of the sword, and his next cut met only air.
The stranger laughed a melodious seductive sound. Then he attacked with a flurry of unusual moves so fast one blurred into the other. Savage moves straight from the battlefield that pressed Tatsu into a floundering defense marred by anger.
“Emotion is foolish, young one,” the warrior laughed.
Young one? Tatsu’s face flamed with embarrassment. Kuso, he had just made a child’s mistake. He choked back his self-disgust, forced away his anger. He was damned if he lost to this mocking stranger. Tatsu dropped his weight forward, lowered his weapon diagonally across his body then slashed the blade upward with all the precision at his command. Before the sword reached its zenith, Tatsu reversed it in a curve toward his opponent.
The man responded with a quiet cry. He shifted his weight, turned his wrist, a slight flexion of a tendon as if to cut across Tatsu’s abdomen. Tatsu changed his balance, and curved the angle of his weapon to deflect the strike. Too late, he realized the man’s deception. With a continuation of the same delicate twist, the stranger flipped the iaito from Tatsu’s fingers. The sword spun away almost before his hand felt its absence.
Tatsu froze in disbelief. The last time he lost, he was nine years old. His face colored with humiliation. He dropped to his knees, bowed his head to the mat and slapped it in surrender. As he stood, Tatsu realized they had been fighting in complete darkness.
His opponent bowed low as if Tatsu had won the match. “Gomen nasai, that was not a fair move,” the man apologized. He placed the iaito back in its rack. Swept off his mask and bowed again.
Thrown off guard, Tatsu bobbed an automatic bow and replied, “Watashi wa Tatsu Cobb.” Then he looked up and froze. Before him stood the beautiful stranger from the alley, the man who’d saved his life. The man whose kiss haunted Tatsu’s dreams.
With unexpected hunger, Tatsu’s gaze swept over that exquisite face up to the beauty’s eyes. Almond-shaped eyes the color of the sun.
Before Tatsu took his next breath, the vampire stood before him, almost touching chest to chest. “Nowaki-kun, I have found you at last.” That throaty purr spread heat through Tatsu like his first heady kiss.
Arisada brushed a hank of wet, tousled hair from Tatsu’s forehead. His fingertips trailed warm and gentle down Tatsu’s cheek, the thumb grazing over shock-parted lips.
The feather-light caress on his mouth sent shivers of inexplicable desire rippling through Tatsu. That touch, so familiar, so welcomed, delivering the memory of a connection that Tatsu felt in every fiber of his body. He leaned into the seductive promise of those fingers. And spiraled into a flaming well of hunger for just that touch.
“Gomen nasai, yurushite, senpai,” Tatsu blurted not comprehending why he was asking for forgiveness. Nor the tears that stung his eyes.
Arisada’s palm caressed Tatsu’s cheek. “I have been searching for you for hundreds of lifetimes. Now, I find there is nothing to forgive, koibito.” With those words, Arisada damned his honor and his redemption. He cupped Tatsu’s face in both hands and stroked his thumbs over Tatsu’s tender mouth. “So beautiful, my koibito,” Arisada whispered.
The brush of those digits danced lightening over Tatsu’s lips. He fell into eyes that were taking on the deep burnish of a sunset. The warm puff of Arisada’s breath fluttered against his mouth as the vampire leaned in.
Cradling the back of Tatsu’s head, Arisada pressed his mouth against the boy’s soft and pliant lips in a tender kiss. To his surprise, those warm lips opened. The unexpected willingness of Tatsu’s response plummeted straight into Arisada’s cock. Arisada made a moan, thick with repressed desire, and slid his tongue inside that moist cavern. Tatsu’s taste was a delightful mélange of cigarettes, spices and human boy.
At the first touch of Arisada’s lips, Tatsu drowned under the waves of want engulfing him. His body flared with blind need. Never had a kiss felt like this—so full of love. So bright with promise. So right. With a tiny whimper, he opened his mouth and invited the vampire’s tongue deeper. He curled his arms around the vampire’s back and drew him tight, groin to groin. Heat pooled into Tatsu’s balls, his cock, his ass. Another moan rumbled deep in his throat as he felt the thickness of vampire’s erection press against his crotch. Desperate for something more, he ground against that hardness.
Tatsu feasted on that kiss as if starved for it. He drove his tongue into Arisada’s exotic mouth in a crude mating, a frantic slaving together of need. Mouth to mouth, exploring, savoring, remembering. With a heady urgency, the tip of his tongue traced the tender contours of the vampire’s palete—and rolled over the ridges housing the vampire’s fangs.
Revulsion tore through Tatsu.
“Get the fuck off me.” He pulled his mouth off that source of ecstasy, slapped his hands against the vampire’s chest and shoved.
Dismay and hurt flashed across Arisada’s face as he staggered from Tatsu’s blow. A sad, strangled noise slipped from his lips at the loathing contorting Tatsu’s face.
“What the fuck do you think you are doing?” He heard the disgust in his voice, not knowing if it was directed at the vampire or himself. He stepped back scrubbing his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Claiming a kiss from the one I love,” Arisada drew back, all sign of hurt gone.
“You are insane. You are a vampire, an animal, you can’t love.”
“Oh, you are very wrong. Vampires do love, often deeply, destructively. The passions we felt as human we feel now, perhaps even more because of what we have lost. Never underestimate our emotions, boy.” Arisada glared, eyes flickering red.
“You lie, you have no heart. You cannot feel what a human feels.”
“Feel this,” Arisada cried, grabbing Tatsu’s free hand and slapping the open palm against his chest.
The steady pulse of a heartbeat thrummed beneath Tatsu’s splayed fingers.
Before he reacted, Arisada crushed his fingers into Tatsu’s hair and fused their lips together in a brutal kiss. The vampire’s iron-will wavered. His fangs slipped their channels and caught against Tatsu’s bottom lip.
At that deadly yet intimate touch, revulsion tore through Tatsu snapping him out of his daze. Fakku, what was he doing? This man, no, this thing was kyūketsuki, a monster. A killer.
His body recoiled. He slammed his palm so hard against Arisada’s chest, the vampire staggered backward.
“Stay away from me. Next time I see you I will kill you.” But Tatsu’s anger got caught somewhere in the wild tingling of his lips from that bruising, bee-sting sensation of that kiss.
Arisada’s golden gaze darkened with sorrow. He raised his hand as if to brush his fingers against Tatsu’s cheek but stopped mid-way. Instead, he combed his hand through the sweat-drenched tangles of Tatsu’s hair then tugged off the hachimaki. Took a single step back.
Tatsu dropped the impotent iaito and spun toward the weapons stand. Before his hand touched his katana, the vampire stood at the dojo door. Arisada’s eyes never left Tatsu as he bent and picked up his katana. Then, to Tatsu’s astonishment, the vampire pulled the blade free, held it horizontally above his head and bowed—honor and respect from one warrior to another. In the blinding speed of an iaido master, Arisada snapped the blade into its saya and slipped it into his obi.
“We will face each other again. I promise.” Arisada lifted his hand holding Tatsu’s ragged bandana up like a trophy.
“Fakku!” Tatsu lunged, raising his weapon to strike. Halted mid-stride, stunned by the deep sorrow that flitted across the vampire’s face. Those golden eyes flared crimson. Then Arisada was gone.
Shouting for the creature to return, Tatsu shot through the door into the cold, deserted street. He stood transfixed, trembling. His mind reeled. He wanted only to hate this Saito Arisada, this monster, this evil made flesh.
“Next time, I will kill you.” Tatsu shouted into the empty fog-filled night. For a moment, his stomach heaved as he recalled the arousal that flared through his body. Had Arisada used thrall against him? Tatsu knew he was immune to it. But the alternative scared the shit out of him. No way was he attracted to a vampire, a kyūketsuki, his sworn enemy. No. Fucking. Way.
So why for that brief, insane moment did that kiss feel so right? Feel like the answer to every yearning he’d ever felt? Feel like it meant love? Kuso, kuso, kuso. Shit, shit, shit. He could not deny it. That flame of a balls-deep, cock-rearing need was tearing through his body and his senses.
He climbed the stairs to his apartment. He needed to forget this insane night. He placed the menpo, left in haste by the vampire, on the table beside his bed. Could not help tracing his fingers over the fine molded leather. It was beautiful and perfect, just like its owner.
He tried to call up the cold anger of his vengeance. Instead, the scalding heat of their kiss still lay on his lips as vivid as the moment it happened. His tongue rolled over his lips seeking any last vestige of the vampire’s taste.
As the tepid shower drizzled over his body, Tatsu stared down at his pulsing erection—the undeniable demand in its iron stiffness. He smoothed back the foreskin, saw a string of precum dribble off the end and mingle with the water. He jacked off with punishingly brutal strokes. An angry tugging and twisting of his sac. He drove three fingers to the last knuckle into his ass. His orgasm tore through him, rocketing hard and fast, slamming breath from his lungs and draining the strength from his limbs.
He collapsed against the tiled wall. The freezing blast from the now-cold shower shocked him back to reality. He shut off the creaky taps and
dried off with his single, ragged towel. With a strangled groan, he flopped onto his bed.
His loneliness was so deep, so ingrained that he never gave it thought. Now, it made itself known, reached out and tore apart his armor. He was starved for love. But if he allowed that hunger, that weakness, to overcome him he would fail his family, his lineage and dishonor all Ojii-san’s teachings. He would die first before that happened.
But having met this Saito Arisada, Tatsu was forced to accept even a kyūketsuki could tread the Path of the Samurai; honor a spiritual tradition as ancient as Nipon herself.
As such, this vampire deserved a death worthy of a true warrior. Tatsu would not hesitate killing Arisada if the vampire were the monster that killed the Cobb family. But Tatsu determined to make that death swift and honorable.
Yet, why did Arisada’s avowals of love echo over and over in his mind? Why had they pierced the center of Tatsu’s hungry heart. Beautiful, seductive words whose truth was hard and undeniable. As hard and undeniable as Tatsu’s now-hungry cock.
He forced aside his memory of the vampire’s his lips, the press of his body. His avowal of love.
The blood debt must be paid. There was no room in Tatsu’s life for anything else.
Not love. Especially not love.
.
Seven
“All right, all right, I’m coming,” Tatsu yelled as he crawled from the rumpled covers of his cot to answer the loud thumping at his door. A hint of light at his window told him he had slept less than an hour.
He shook off the fog of sleep. Chikusho, should he be angry or grateful that the incessant knocking had interrupted the dream? A wonderful, erotic dream that had left him with a raging hard-on coupled with a deep ache of loss. Except, strangely, the mouth of his dream lover felt and tasted like the lips of the vampire who had kissed him two nights ago.
Eternal Samurai Page 8
