Eternal Samurai

by B. D. Heywood

  He unsheathed the Ikkansai, held it up so the light bounced from its lethal blade. “Ah, the incomparable Ikkansai. He slipped his thumb along the blade. Blood welled. Languorously, Ukita sucked the cut clean as he stared at Tatsu. His yellow eyes turned an ugly vermillion “Arisada must believe it will save you.”

  “You don’t know shit.”

  The kyūketsuki grabbed Tatsu by the hair and jerked his head down so they were eye-to-eye, feral red staring into seadark green. “I smelled him on you the moment you entered the tunnel. You are beautiful, I give Arisada that much. Did you enjoy his mouth around your cock? That tongue of his is very talented. Did he make you scream?”

  “Well, it’s my turn to make you scream,” the vampire hissed. “Since you stole my Primary from me, I will take you from him. I know he has not fucked you. You’re still alive. The virus in him is lethal. Mine too.” He released his punishing grip and placed the Ikkansai beside his own sword. “You know he will come for you. When he does, I will kill him.”

  “Asshole, you’re wrong. We fought. There is nothing between us.” Please, please, Arisada, don’t do that. Don’t throw away your life, Tatsu prayed.

  “Seems you don’t know my Primary as well as you think. His foolish, romantic heart will not let you to die. I made sure he knows of your capture.” Ukita removed his sword and obi, folded the silk sash and placing the weapon on top. With languid grace, shrugged out of his elegant clothes, dropping them to the filthy floor with careless disregard. Sadomori stripped off his fundoshi. He stroked his cock, the gesture made obscene by the absence of expression on his face. The pale organ stayed soft.

  Tatsu snorted with derision.

  Anger flickered across the vampire’s face before he turned to light more candles. The intricate art covering his back jumped and rippled in the flickering light. Dozens of scenes merged into each other in a kaleidoscope of colors. Yet the layers of ink failed to disguise the ugly ridges of keloid that crossed from shoulders to waist.

  The sight of those scars shredded Tatsu’s mind. “You fucker! You slaughtered my family.” He jerked at the chains, twisting around in a futile attempt to reach the vampire.

  A malicious smile creased Sadomori’s lips. “Interesting how the wheel of life revolves. I would never have dreamed you were the same little nezumi who escaped me in Nagasaki.”

  “Why?” Tatsu croaked, slumping against the torturous drag of the chains.

  “That mons you wear on your breast is the reason, boy. The crest of Kurosaki no Gitako, once my beloved Emperor. He betrayed me and annihilated the Ukita house. By the time I discovered it, I was oni, a demon, unable to father children. I vowed to wipe the Kurosaki name from memory. I thought my fukushū complete fourteen years ago but that meddling fuck of an old man interrupted. At least my sword took his life.”

  A biting laugh erupted from Tatsu’s split lips. “You failed. Grandfather lived.”

  “No matter, I have you now. I shall slice that cursed badge from your body with Arisada’s own sword.” He glared at Tatsu through eyes turned scarlet with rage. His fingers clamped down on the top of Tatsu’s head forcing it down in the direction of his crotch. Sadomori’s organ hung soft and unstirred between his thighs. “But first I will fuck you.”

  Tatsu wrenched his head up and spat in the vampire’s face. “Not with that limp dick. You are okubyomono, a coward. You’re—” The vampire’s fist sent him reeling in the chains.

  Sadomori wiped Tatsu’s spittle from his cheek and smeared it on his now-stirring cock. He sauntered behind his prisoner, trailing his fingers over the straining muscles of shoulders.

  Tatsu suppressed a shudder of revulsion at the touch of Sadomori sharp nails trailing over his body. Risked another blow with his sneer of “You mean you are an impotent fuck.”

  “Interesting, your defiance excites me.” As if entranced, Sadomori traced over each knob of Tatsu’s spine down to the clenched buttocks. He grasped each cheek and forced them apart. “Now, this is a delicious sight,” he purred and jabbed one thumb deep into the tight opening.

  Tatsu twisted away, ignoring the pain in his rectum.

  “Struggle all you want, my lovely boy. It just excites me more,” the sadist whispered. He gave a quick lick over the tender skin behind Tatsu’s ear before driving his fist against that same spot. Stunned, Tatsu collapsed against the tearing pull of the chains.

  “Pity, I do not have more time for foreplay,” Sadomori mused as he pawed Tatsu’s glutes. He licked his pale lips at the sight of that dark hole. The vampire sniggered, a sick, demented sound. He rubbed the head of his prick against the young hunter’s hole. But his member refused to harden.

  Sadomori opened the satchel and pulled out a long, leather whip tipped by steel. Tiny needles embedded into the tightly braided thong glinted wickedly in the flickering flames.

  “This is Senkirikizu, the deliverer of a thousand cuts. Such an elegant instrument of death.” The old kyūketsuki stroked the handle as if it were his cock. “I shall flay you alive. You will scream for my mercy. Then I will tell Arisada of your cowardice before I kill him,” he purred and strolled behind Tatsu.

  “Go to hell,” Tatsu spat, steeling himself against that first lash. He did not fear death, but to break and grovel before this vile monster, to bring shame to his family name, filled him with terror. Never by all kami would he allow that to happen.

  Sensing Tatsu’s resolve, Sadomori flicked the whip, kissing Tatsu’s ass with a touch as light as a breeze. The delicate brush left a scalpel-thin cut. The boy, every muscle rigid, did not flinch. The vampire grunted, almost with satisfaction. “Admirable self-control. Let’s see how long it lasts.”

  A scorching arc of fire across his shoulders followed Tatsu’s, “Fuck you!” The whip kissed his back again. He ground his teeth against any outcry, refused to thrash against the chains.

  Lash after lash, each one landing a hair’s distance from the last, flayed his skin with the delicate touch of an artist’s brush on canvas. Dimly, Tatsu sensed the blood and sweat running in ropy rivulets down his buttocks and thighs. He took his mind deep into tanden, moved beyond the torture. But how long before his body went into shock?

  The flogging was not the worst of the torture. Between each lash, Sadomori described in excruciating detail his sexual torture of his Primary. How Arisada, drenched in blood and come, begged for the humiliation. Described the pain-driven writhing of that lean body, the musk of his sphincter, the rich taste of his spunk.

  The repulsive voice painted images so degrading that Tatsu wept for his beloved. He forced his mind to recall that vision of Arisada, hair radiant beneath the moonlight. Tatsu infused that moment into his very being, giving it the power to fortify his spirit. But his love for Arisada was not enough.

  As that lash landed, stroke after stroke, Tatsu murmured his prayer, offered his soul to the kami of fukushū in payment for granting him revenge. And the kami answered. It roared into Tatsu like a dragon. Filled him with its strength. Forged his pain into a weapon that became part of his ki.

  An incandescent rage burned through Tatsu. With supernatural strength, he gripped the chains, pulled himself erect and roared his defiance.

  Sadomori gasped with disbelief. The whip stuttered and missed. The boy should be nothing more than sobbing and begging shell, stripped of his humanity as his body was stripped of skin. But this human scrap was not only alive, but uncowed.

  Sadomori jabbed the whip handle into the cleft between Tatsu’s bleeding buttocks. He twisted it. “I should castrate you for loving that monk. But this will have to do.” With a vicious jab, he drove the thick leather rod into Tatsu’s sphincter.

  Tatsu bellowed. He bucked, twisted, tore at the chains. Continued to roar as he took the violation, changed it, forged it a weapon.

  Almost blind with rage, the Daimyō flung the whip aside and strode in front of Tatsu. No creature, human or vampire, had ever endured this much from his hand. Pure, unalloyed hate radiated from the boy�
�s green eyes.

  Dread rippled through the ancient kyūketsuki. For the first time in millennia, he saw the certainty of his own death in the eyes of another.

  The vampire covered his fear with a semblance of a snarl. “Wakatta, it looks like the little nezumi bit his tongue.” His foul breath washed over Tatsu’s face. He grabbed Tatsu’s chin, and licked the blood and spit from his lips. Then, he twisted Tatsu’s head sideways with a brutal wrench. Struck hard, burying his fangs in the soft jugular where the life pulsed strong and rich.

  With every ounce of strength he had, Tatsu drove his knee into the vampire’s crotch.

  Sadomori screeched, and reeled back, clutching his injured testicles. His face contorted with pain, breath ragged and short. “You will pay for that,” he shrieked. He snatched up his nodachi, spun and drove it with incredible force toward Tatsu’s breast.

  Tatsu stared straight into those demented, scarlet eyes and accepted his death.

  A muffled boom rocked the tunnel. The floor heaved. Sadomori stumbled, his sword slicing along Tatsu’s ribs.

  The vampire lowered his weapon. “Looks like this will have to wait. I believe your lover has arrived.”

  A second explosion, louder and closer. Giant cracks snaked across the wall, showering them with chunks of concrete Choking smoke billowed into the chamber almost obscuring the five vampires who burst into the chamber.

  “Daimyō, hunters are attacking. Vampires are with them,” they all shouted at once.

  “Cowards, why are you wasting my time?” Sadomori screamed. His hand swept four of them. “Summon every kyūketsuki. Kill the human vermin.” They ducked their heads in frightened acknowledgement and dashed away.

  The Daimyō barked at the huge bull that had remained. “Take this little rat to the roof. I’ll meet you there.” His insane laughter receded down the tunnel.

  Tatsu’s shoulders screamed as the bull released him, jerked his arms behind him and tied his wrists. The monster tossed him over his wide shoulder like a sack of rice. Acrid waves of bile flooded Tatsu’s mouth each time his head slammed against that meaty back. Dimly, he heard the sounds of fighting as they climbed the tower stairs.

  When they reached the roof of the observation deck, Tatsu was dropped to his feet. His knees buckled and he staggered, fighting the nausea from his bruised insides. The bull kicked open a door with a crash. He slapped Tatsu between his shoulder blades, propelling him onto the moss-covered slope of the dome.

  Tatsu stumbled, fighting for balance on the slippery curve of the halo. Under his bare feet, patches of rust and slippery mold formed a psychedelic collage on the torn metal of the dome. A freezing wind soothed the blaze across Tatsu’s ravaged skin. His vertigo passed, vision clearing. He looked up at the clear, obsidian sky, the glints of stars, the moon dancing silver across the water of the Sound. Far off, he saw the checkerboard pattern of the city’s lights. The city about to die.

  From hundreds of feet below came the distinct chatter of the Israeli automatics, the booming of a shotgun, the shouts of men, incomprehensive and indistinct. Tatsu’s heart surged with hope.

  Sadomori stepped through the door dressed in the traditional robes of the samurai. An elegant sleeveless outer coat with wide, stiff shoulders, draped over his black samurai’s garb. His obi, embroidered with the mons of the Ukita clan, held a long nodachi. In one hand, he carried the Ikkansai; the steel biocontainer in the other. He set the case with its lethal cargo against the wall of the scorched spire.

  The ancient kyūketsuki acted as if the battle below was of no concern. Instead, he stared with a predatory lust at Tatsu’s genitals. That enviable cock, now tucked up from the cold yet still substantial, those large testicles. “Pity to kill such a gorgeous boy,” he said to himself.

  “You are insane. Killing me I understand, but why everyone in the city?” Tatsu tensed to moved his feet into combat stance. The bull tightened his grip on Tatsu’s neck and jerked him off balance.

  “Why? I would think it is obvious. I require an army. Young, new-made vampires bound solely to me. Soon, this area will be mine.”

  “No way. Hear that below? Those are my friends. They’re gonna eat your vampire army alive and spit out the fangs.”

  “Ignorant whelp. You think that pathetic human rabble can stop me? This is not the first time I’ve conquered a land. Who do you think led the Mongols? Who do you think was the prince of that confused little country in Eastern Europe? None can stop me.”

  “Yarou. Bastard. I will.” Tatsu threw his cold conviction at the arrogant vampire.

  “I seem to recall only a few minutes ago that I had my way with you. Hardly a position of strength, my dear boy.”

  “You call shoving that silly toy up my ass, having your way. I’ve taken butt plugs twice that size,” Tatsu taunted. “You are eta,” he spat out the vilest insult to any Japanese. Eta. Outcasts who touch offal and animal skins. Reviled as unclean. Ignored as if they had no existence.

  The insult made Sadomori recoil with shame and fury. With visible effort, the old vampire regained control and strode to the edge of the dome. He squatted on his haunches, the Ikkansai resting across his knees. His nostrils flared, testing the air.

  “This night is perfect, soon the wind will be in the right direction.” He smirked as he rose and faced Tatsu. “But we still have time to play. How elegant. Arisada will be here shortly. He will witness my handiwork before I take both your lives.”

  At Sadomori’s nod, the bull freed Tatsu’s arms, bowed then lumbered back down the stairs. Tatsu massaged his wrists, desperate to bring feeling to his numb hands. He ignored the bone-deep chill on his naked flesh.

  “Like I said, konjo nashi, Tatsu jeered to distract the vampire.

  Sadomori expelled a cold, pitiless laugh. His thumb pushed the nodachi a mere inch out of its saya, ready to draw. “Ignorant whelp. I have the balls. I will enjoy ripping yours off much like I did to that whore Fukashima. The one who calls himself Fornax.”

  Tatsu’s genitals hiked up in a blinding, primal hate. Jigoku somehow, someway he had to kill this monster. He focused on the treacherous curve of the dome, looking for any advantage. If nothing else, he would throw the psychotic vampire off the roof even if he had to go with him.

  The Daimyō snorted at the hate rolling from the boy. He indicated the dome’s edge with a casual wave. “Perhaps I will throw you off this roof. Fittingly dishonorable, neh? But I will wait. My Primary climbs this tower even now.”

  He brayed with laughter at the dismay in Tatsu’s jade eyes as they flicked toward the door. “You fear for your lover’s life. Wakatta. I’ll give you a chance to save him, you little izumi.” Without warning, he tossed the Ikkansai toward Tatsu.

  In one flowing, lightening move, Tatsu caught the spinning sword, pulled it free from its black lacquered sheath. Power flow into his body. Arisada had given him this weapon just for this. For revenge.

  Before Sadomori drew his next breath, Tatsu lunged, slicing the vampire from shoulder to hip. The kami of vengeance bellowed its approval.

  Instinct and supernatural reflexes saved Sadomori from that death cut. Unscathed, he danced back and drew his sword before Tatsu brought his blade down again. With a scream of rage, the Daimyō launched a furious counterattack, plying the heavier nodachi as if were as light as a fan. Their swords clashed, sending sparks to be snatched away in the wind.

  Tatsu sought the kami-hasso, the spirit, of his sworn enemy. Found it in the way kyūketsuki shifted his body, moved his feet, held his blade. In the evil cunning in his scarlet eyes. That knowledge flowed into Tatsu’s ki. His entire life’s purpose came down to this one fight. The honor of the Kurosaki house—and yes, his love for the kyūketsuki Saito Arisada—all rested on the next few minutes, perhaps the next few seconds.

  They fought across the slippery curved dome. The unending rings of steel on steel drowned out the sounds of the battle below. Left, right, left, pressing each other across the expanse of the halo. And all the while
, Tatsu prayed Arisada would not come through that door.

  Sadomori expelled a guttural bark of astonishment at the boy’s knowledge of the most ancient ways of sword fighting.

  “So, you stole the secrets of the Seikanjito Shinden?”

  “No, I learned them from the kensei Shiniichiro Kurosaki. My Grandfather.”

  For a moment, Sadomori recoiled. Then his scream of “Kurosaki scum!” shattered his restraint. But before his sword moved, Tatsu attacked. With blinding fast cuts, Tatsu drove him until his foot rested an inch from the dome’s edge.

  The cunning old kyūketsuki rallied. “Stupid boy, You think to trick me?” In a blur of speed, his sword flashed back and forth, forcing Tatsu to retreat toward the center of the halo.

  Silence enveloped them save for their panting and the ring of steel against steel. Tatsu did not sense the passing of time, just the execution of every cut, delivered with only one intent—kill this monster. Yet, he knew his tortured body was failing. Sweat poured off his skin, flooded his eyes, made every step wet and treacherous. His lungs heaved in an effort to gain air. Every muscle, deep in oxygen debt, burned with pain. The Ikkansai fought him, its weight dragging against his arm.

  He considered the unthinkable—he was going to lose.

  Soft and dreamlike, he heard the voice of Ojii-san. “Sukun, remember the four principles.” The foundation of every samurai’s faith: Eye, footwork, courage, strength.

  Those four simple words sent power surging through Tatsu’s exhausted body. He risked everything in one radical move. A move he learned from Arisada. He stepped under the high sweep of Sadomori’s blade. Singlehanded, Tatsu cut his sword upward, blocking the nodachi. His other hand, fingers folded into a wedge, drove into the vampire’s chest with enough force to stop the heart.

  For a heartbeat, Sadomori faltered, fanged mouth agape, seeking to pull air into his punished lungs. Then he rallied. With a great sucking gasp of air, he raised his sword, legs braced. Brought the blade down in blur.