“Filthy Kyuk.…” Grandfather Shiniichiro’s blessed, beautiful voice ripped through the blindness of Tatsu’s terror. The terrible scream of rage sounded like it was ripped from the depths of the old man’s soul. Another shout, this time the full battle cry of a Kurosaki samurai. The whistle of steel cutting through air.
The monster gave an inhuman shriek of pain and fury. That terrible vice left Tatsu’s throat. Another screech of agony, this time drowned out by Grandfather’s victorious cry.
A rank, cloying fluid gushed over Tatsu’s face, ran into his silently screaming mouth and down his throat. He choked, coughed, but still the vile liquid burned its way into his insides. Abruptly, that crushing pressure lifted from Tatsu’s body. Crashing and more cries followed by the tearing of a paper wall. Then silence.
Tatsu curled into the tight ball of a terrified infant and buried his head in his arms. Kachan, kachan, his gibbering mind screamed for his mother. Why didn’t she answer?
Above him, the harsh sound of ragged breathing changed into strangled sobs—a brittle sound like the splintering of glass. Trembling hands lifted him. His shattered mind recognized Ojii-san’s strong, sinewy arms as they curled around him. Those arms clutched him hard against a bony blood-drenched chest. Grandfather’s chest from which Tatsu heard harsh wheezing breaths, a heart pounding too fast and too hard. Tatsu felt a curious hitching movement. So strange, Grandfather was rocking him as if he were a baby.
“Su-kun, Su-kun.” Tatsu heard the endearment crooned in a broken voice. Heard other words that made no sense.
The abyss beckoned. All Tatsu had to do was step into it. He stepped. Silence and darkness enfolded him. The deep, black hole took his pain and his childhood. And for the next thirteen years he lived with no memory of that time save a sickening cloying smell that haunted him in his nightmares.
The Seattle Quarantine, 2024
“Real sorry ’bout yer family. Fekkin’ filthy, murdering bloodsuckers.” Bana’s voice jerked Tatsu back to the present. He dragged his attention back to the Irishman.
“So yer lookin’ fer a bit of revenge?”
A terrible grief crossed the lad’s face. Those remarkable green eyes glazed with unshed tears. Then like a freezing storm, the expression turned cold.
“The police ignored the evidence, concluded my father murdered his family then committed suicide. Brought shame to our name because Dad was gaijin, an outsider. My grandfather kept a journal, wrote that a kyūketsuki, a vampire, killed them. But vampires don’t exist in Japan.”
“Why here?”
“In his last entry, Grandfather had one sentence written in Kanji … um Japanese. Ojii-san believed the kyūketsuki was in Seattle.”
“Kew … kooo …what the hell’s that word?”
“Sorry, it’s pronounced cute-ski. Japanese for vampire.”
“Shite. Jist bloodsuckers by another name. Lotsa them came here few years back especially after yer country started exterminating them. Any luck?”
“No, couple of leads but they fizzled. Looking for you hoping you can give me some information.” Tatsu was ashamed to be admitting to this almost stranger that he’d run out of options. He pulled out a cigarette, lit it, inhaled letting the rush of nicotine dull the desperation that threatened him.
“What makes you think I’d know shite?”
“Why did those vampires jump you?” Tatsu countered locking gazes with Bana.
“Wrong place, wrong time, I guess. Vampires are always looking for an easy meal.” He frowned. “And you never explained to me about that last bloodsucker. Shite, ya musta moved like grease through a goose to frost his clackers that fast.”
“Instinct. Almost didn’t realize I killed him until it was over.” Tatsu shrugged, grateful Bana had missed Arisada’s timely appearance. But why was he protecting the vampire? Only because the flame-haired creature had kissed him—twice. And those kisses had stirred something deep within him that he thought he’d never feel again.
“Luck o’ the Irish, I’d say. Cept you’re a Jap.” Bana chuckled at his own humor for a second, then pinned Tatsu with a glare. “But enough o’ that. Sounds like you’re at a dead end. Maybe the bloodsucker ain’t here. Maybe’s he’s dead. A bastard like that is bound to pile up a few enemies.”
“He’s still alive.”
Bana heard the utter conviction in Tatsu’s voice. “Stubborn little bugger, ain’t cha?” He was pleased that Tatsu ignored the insult. Better and better. With those icy nerves, the kid might be someone he could use. “So, boyo, what are you going do if you find this monster?”
“Force him to tell me why. Then kill him.” Behind his answer lay all the conviction of his samurai heritage. Still, he suppressed a shudder at the fear he’d not already met but kissed the killer. Yet, the warmth filling his groin told him his so-called revulsion was a lie. Arisada had declared his love and kissed Tatsu with such passion to make Tatsu forget all about fukushū. Within those golden eyes, Tatsu had seen gentleness, and a deep, ancient sorrow. That lambent gaze did not reflect the cruelty of a killer.
Bana’s scoffing laugh drew the startled glances of other customers. He reared back in his seat and grinned. “Sorry, boyo. But yer gonna force a bloodsucker ta spill his guts? What, hack off his body parts one by one?”
Tatsu shot him a chilling look. “I’ll do what I have to.”
“Seems ya might need some help with that.” The canny Irishman was not fooled by the implacable stare in those clear, green eyes. Plenty of courage there, but Bana also recognized a deep-seated remorse. “Lots ’a folks think offing bloodsuckers is a good thing. Still, me nose tells me killing doesn’t sit so easy with you,” Bana probed.
Tatsu’s lips thinned against a reply. The Irishman’s comment hit too close to his truth.
“Shite, no law says you can’t defend yourself.” Bana signaled for more coffee to cover his unexpected insight into this young man’s private hell. “This city was doing all right before the truce was broken. Now, bloodsuckers are hunting humans sometimes fer food, mostly fer sport. I’d sure watch my back, boyo. Once they get yer scent imprinted on their wee brains, they won’t stop until yer dead.”
“Is that what happened to you?”
“Mebbe.”
Tatsu tried another track. “Do you hate them?”
“Bloodsuckers? Yeah, many folks got reason to hate ’em boyo. Just don’t care to share mine. Hate takes a lot out of a man but it won’t leave ya until done is done. Some more than others.…” Bana trailed off suddenly remembering what brought Tatsu to Seattle. “So, tell me where those scars on yer neck came from?”
Tatsu bristled. “Are you going to give me any info or do I just thank you for breakfast and leave a tip?”
Bana recognized the youth’s edginess. He’d been there himself for more years than he wanted to remember. “Calm down, I got me reasons fer askin’. There’s only one thing that leaves the kinds o’ marks you got.” He traced the four new wounds above the collar of his heavy sweater. “You got bit, got real sick but didn’t turn, right? Now you’re different, bit faster, bit stronger, maybe not quite human. Who knows?”
Tatsu shrugged, glared into those probing hazel eyes. Bana was right. Maybe his speed and strength just came from his training. Maybe not. He’d always known he was different, and his sexual orientation was not it. There was no way a vampire had bitten him.
“No kyūketsuki dares live in Japan. It would be hunted down and executed.” Tatsu made no apologies for the actions of his native land that happened years before he was born. “New Mexico is safe. Not like here. Although it seems most of the people here aren’t scared.”
“Oh, they’re scared a’ plenty, boyo. Make no mistake o’ that. But life goes on. In fact, it’s because of the vampires many of ’em stay. Folks can support their families by indenturing themselves to the Clan fer five years. Sort of like a human grocery store. Sure, it’s a crapshoot if they get the bug. But what are they gonna do when there ain’t nothin
g else?” Bana noted the restless shift of Tatsu’s shoulders, realized the boy was about to leave. Time to spring his offer. “Speaking of money. Looks to me like you’re skint considering the dump you’re living in and the way you scarfed that food. Want a job?”
Tatsu’s eyes lit with interest. The coincidence of the offer was uncanny. “What are you talking about? I don’t need a jo—”
Bana cut him off with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Jist listen for half a mo’. I’m sorta in the security biz, get paid to kill the thing you’re hunting.” The Irishman winked and shoved the final bite of his bagel into his mouth. A sliver of whitefish dangled from the corner of his lip. He didn’t notice, continued talking around the food.
“City ain’t got the readies to handle the upswing in vampire attacks. So, my company was hired. Vamps are our specialty. We’re real covert. My boss is very selective about hirin’ new recruits, but I’m thinkin’ to meself you’d fit in right smartlike.”
The kid also had another quality that would make him one hell of an asset to the company, but Bana was not about to mention it.
The job offer tempted Tatsu. But shimatta, damn it, working for a company meant rules and restrictions. He had only one purpose for being here. Once that was done, he was gone. Not back to New Mexico, nothing waited for him there. Maybe Japan, find his mother’s family if any remained alive. He sighed and shook his head. “Sorry, Bana-san. I’m just looking for info. Give me that and we’ll call it even.”
“Yer a goddamn fool.” He chewed furiously for a moment before swallowing the doughy lump. “Okay, boyo. Information it is. Best guess, there’s mebbe a couple of thousand vampires living here. Ghetto was named Tendai fer some godfersaken reason by the Master. Brought a whole bunch of Jap vampires with them. Him and his second-in-command are a couple o’ sadists. Killed the old Master by choppin’ off his head. Sorta like you.” Bana laughed.
“What are their names?”
“Want ’em Japanese style, last name first, eh?”
“Hai, dozo, please.” Tatsu hid his annoyance. Dragging information out of the Irishman would test the patience of the most enlightened Buddhist ryoko.
Bana’s grin revealed a touch of pride as he recited the correct order of the names. “Clan leader’s Ukita Sadomori. His Primary is Saito Arisada. Know ’em?”
Tatsu hid his dismay. He’d met—hell, he’d kissed—the very same Saito Arisada the night before. And during their jigeiko match, the vampire had shown his true spirit—the spirit of a kensei. A sword saint. Not exactly the beliefs of a vicious killer. But then Tatsu reminded himself that killers could be extremely cunning.
“Just because I’m from Japan, doesn’t mean I know every name. What’s a Primary?” Tatsu took a sip of coffee, the action used to hide any reaction to mention of Arisada.
“A Primary is the first human a vampire turns. Get bonded, ya might say. These two are always in bed together, ya might say,” he leered.
“Couple other things ta put in yer noggin. When they use that thrall shite on folks, it’s all over. Told it’s something to do with pheromones. A bloodsucker wants to fuck every time it feeds. The bulls are worse than the fems. Sometimes it only takes one fuck, and a human gets hooked on vampire mojo. Like an addiction.”
“Hai, hai, I know that. What about these leaders?” An odd excitement quivered in Tatsu’s gut.
“They’re very old, mebbe the oldest that we know of anyway. Sadomori cut the heads off the city negotiators and dumped the bodies on the courthouse steps. Sadistic arsehole. Prolly his Primary is as bad but we don’t hear much about him. He keeps to the shadows, sneaky sod.”
Tatsu changed the subject. No need to appear too eager about Saito Arisada. “So, is being in this security business the reason those vampires jumped you? They must have known you were armed, they can smell guns.”
Bana evaded the question. “Smart fer a raw kid. Sometimes a couple try to get lucky, or so they think. Them the other night behind the Whore weren’t so lucky, eh boyo?”
“Wakarimashita.”
“Dunno what you meant by that. My Japanese ends at sushi.”
“Sorry, I just mean I understand. Old habits die hard.”
“Gotcha. Now, how about that job offer, boyo?”
Tatsu shrugged, rose and pulled his jacket on over his swords. “Arigatō, er … thank you for the meal and the information but I’m not interested in a job.” Perhaps he was baka, an idiot, by refusing. Yeah, he was hitting dead ends at every turn, and nearly broke. But the offer could be more of a complication than he was prepared to handle.
Undaunted, the Irishman slid a grubby piece of paper across the table. “Your choice but it’s the dog’s bollocks. If you change your mind, call me.”
Just to be polite, Tatsu stuffed it into his pocket. “Thanks again for the breakfast.”
“Sure boyo. Consider us square.”
“Square? Breakfast, even one with real salmon, is a small price for a life,” Tatsu snorted.
“Lives ain’t got much value in this city, kid. Don’t forget it.”
“Thanks, I’ll keep it in mind.” Tatsu zipped up his jacket and stepped into the rain. Back in his squalid room, he looked at the name on the scrap of paper, The Leper Colony. What kind of screwball name was that? No address, only a phone number scribbled on the back. The last thing Tatsu wanted was to be a part of any vigilante-for-hire organization. Still, without money, his hunt would end here, probably before he found the killer. With a regretful sigh, he took out a cigarette. Only three left.
The Kawasaki hated the city’s weather as much as its owner. Half a block from home, the bike died. Tatsu crouched beside it, cursing the motorcycle as much as the cold drizzle seeping under his collar. He tweaked the choke then pressed the starter button. The engine turned over once, coughed, but refused to start. Kuso, he was going to have to push the damn thing up the rest of the steep hill to the boarding house.
For four years, the Kawasaki had been reliable if cranky transportation. Now, the bike’s 1,500-cc engine ran with all the power of a two-stroke lawn mower. At the very least, it needed new spark plugs and the carburetor rebuilt, probably new rocker arms and the valves ground. It ran so rough Tatsu’s butt turned numb after a few miles.
He pressed the ignition again. The motorcycle backfired, spewed a gout of oily smoke from its tailpipe and died.
“Sounds like you got water in the tank.” The Irish lilt held a slight mocking tone. Surprised, Tatsu looked up. Only three feet away, Bana stood dry and smug inside a doorway.
“What are you doing here?” Tatsu pulled the fuel line loose.
“This is my neighborhood, boyo. Remember?” He waved a half-chewed sandwich in the direction of the Drifter. “Need help?”
Tatsu tapped the fuel line. “I’m good, thanks.” He did not mean to sound ungracious, but his voice vibrated with frustration. He was in no mood for any wise-assed remarks. He was tired, cold and hungry. Seeing Bana reminded him that their breakfast was three days gone, and all he had left at home was some ramen noodles and a little rice. Still, transportation not hunger was his problem. The night before, Tatsu rode ten miles out to the defunct airport chasing a rumor that ran out about the time the bike did.
“Petrol fulla shite, ’specially the black-market stuff.”
“Tell me about it.” Tatsu fastened the fuel line back onto its nipple, tweaked the choke and kicked the motorcycle over again. Another defiant backfire before the engine settled into a rough idle. Tatsu shut it off. Better save the fuel.
Bana pushed himself off the wall, sauntered over and handed Tatsu a paper bag. “Here, maybe this will help.”
If it was a vacuum piston kit, the man was a god. Tatsu wiped his hands on a rag before wrapping it around his tools and storing them in his saddlebag. He opened the sack. Two warm sandwiches nestled inside. Corned beef by the smell. Maybe Bana was not a god but pretty damn close at that moment as Tatsu eyed the mouth-watering offering. “Um, domo arigatō, B
ana-san but you didn’t—”
“Course I didn’t, but you look like a starving rat. Hell, I swear you’re skinnier than last time I saw ya. Sides, I know where you can get top-grade gas fer free.”
Against his will, Tatsu gave the Irishman a hopeful glance. “Where?”
“My company, the Leper Colony.”
Tatsu felt his shoulders stiffen. “I don’t know.”
“A job would sure help yer cir … cum…stances.” Bana dragged out each syllable of the last word with a leer.
Tatsu stuffed the food inside his jacket, straddled the bike, and stomped down on the kick-start. The engine’s rumble almost drowned out his, “Arigatō, I’ll think about it.”
“Don’t think too long, boyo,” Bana yelled after him as Tatsu rode off. He knew the boy had talent, the kind of major talent he wanted at his back.
Just then, the retreating motorcycle belched a noxious puff of black smoke from its tailpipe giving the Irishman a mechanical “fuck you” finger.
A wolfish grin spread across Bana’s face and crinkles of amusement surrounded his hazel eyes.
“Yer a stubborn little shite but I’ll be seeing ya soon, boyo.”
.
Eight
So close, so dangerously close to a fatal slip. A slip made almost certain when his lips had fastened on Tatsu’s mouth in that long, delectable kiss. And the boy had responded to Arisada with such a sweet intensity—if only for a moment.
Arisada’s self-control, developed over centuries, had melted in the presence of Tatsu Cobb. He knew how reckless he’d been to court the boy’s attention much less reveal his identity last week in the dojo. No denying his motives—lust and love but those feelings warred with shame. Yet, he despaired. He could never take the boy as a lover.
The ache for Tatsu was a painful weight on his heart. And in his cock. He yearned to feel the youth’s core pulsing and wet around his member. Hai, hai, he thirsted to drive himself deep into Tatsu’s ass. Even more, the vampire needed to see the lust flare from those jade eyes moments before Arisada bit into that tender throat. Blind to all else but riding the crest of his orgasm, Arisada would drive his fangs into that vulnerable neck and drain the sweet, living blood.
Eternal Samurai Page 10
