“Hey!” From far away on his right came a familiar voice. Realizing it was Kongodai, a rare look of delight rose to his otherwise languid face.
Though he hadn’t spun his titanium threads in that direction, forty or fifty yards before and behind him he recalled two pine trees at an angle to himself. Tying the trees together, Setsura shifted the threads until he and the voice were directly aligned, then returned to his hand.
He ran along this slender new path. The sky sang out above his head. A moment later, streaks of smoke bursts from fists, the devil wires rising up to meet the darts falling down on him.
His ten fingers spun their own kind of magic, swatting away the rain of darts while snagging dozens of them and snapping them back up. Humming through the air, the darts were sucked back into the sky from whence they came.
Followed by a scream. Not the usual kind of ear-piercing scream. Without a sound, not disturbing the mist. But it was a cry, as if the atmosphere itself had shouted it out.
The earth trembled. Setsura didn’t have time to transfer to another thread and was tossed into the sky. A sound like fingernails on a blackboard—the devil wires stretching to the breaking point. The air shook, on the scale of a natural disaster.
The mists tore apart. Surging green hills appeared like waves on the sea. The surging crests beneath his feet bounced him like a trampoline. In the air, Setsura saw gravestones growing out of the earth. So Sejika wasn’t lying after all.
He wound a wire around the cemetery’s gravestones and sinking pine trees and perched on one and then the other like a hopping bird, then pulled on the thread in his left hand. Takako sprang up from where she was lying on the ground, riding on the wire.
“We’ve repulsed the first attack. What about the second?”
As soon as he got on top of the tree, he wrapped a wire around a branch and swung down like a pendulum and flung himself toward the forest. Letting go at the crest of the arc, he cast out another and transferred to it. An onlooker would have only seen the two of them dancing through empty space.
Nothing was amiss in the forest. The strangeness seemed confined to the rolling hills. “I wonder what happened to those bodyguards,” Setsura muttered with a touch of concern.
The shuddering sky had broken the thread connecting himself and Sejika. The rest was up to fate.
The most likely explanation suggested that “something” in that piece of land—or rather, a region of this world—was at the root of it. Not that this “something” ruled over it, but that this “something” was the land. When Setsura sent the darts flying back to where they’d come from, that “something” had felt the pain.
If Mephisto were here, he’d deliver a lecture on the subject. “It is called the Landlord,” said a voice beneath his feet.
Speak of the devil—not believing his ears, Setsura looked down at the white doctor standing beneath the tree.
“What are you doing here?”
“Quite the spectacle,” Mephisto said, placing a hand against the trunk. “You seem in good spirits.”
“I was until you showed up.”
An almost evil smile came to the physician’s face. “I have been observing you up and about. My diagnosis is that you ruptured the Landlord’s eye.”
“That territory is its world, including the air above,” Setsura said, recalling that he’d flung the darts back into the sky.
“Exactly. A demon of the old school. It leases what is in the land.”
“Hence, the Landlord. And what does it lease?”
“Itself.”
“Itself?”
“See for yourself.” Mephisto gestured at the seething ground.
“Holy cow,” Setsura said in blank surprise.
The green hills had transformed into a wasteland of red dirt, dead still except for a few withered shrubs swaying here and there in the wind.
“Left in the wake of the Landlord’s departure. In short, it breathes brimming life into the lodging earth.”
“Sounds like a certain doctor I know,” Setsura quipped as he surveyed the scene before him. “I don’t imagine you came here alone. Where are Princess and that traitor? You may beg off, but if you’re helping to conceal the prime minister, I won’t be so forgiving.”
From the utter lack of intensity in the conversation, they could have been chatting over tea. But as far as Doctor Mephisto was concerned, saying such things in such a manner was Setsura’s raison d’être.
“Making your life miserable is Princess’s hobby alone. I have nothing to do with it. Neither does Yakou.” A stray strand of his hair got caught in the breeze. Mephisto raked it back with his fingers.
“And where is she?” Setsura asked in a suddenly surreptitious voice.
“I don’t know. I was at the manor house. She invited me to come and see something spectacular.”
“Then she’s still in the manor house?”
“I do not know.”
“There’s still that favor I asked of you,” Setsura said with a smile.
“What would that be?”
“This girl, of course.” Setsura indicated Takako, sitting on the branch next to him. “She still hasn’t transformed completely into a vampire. Her eyes turn clear from time to time. At this juncture, it should still be possible to treat her.”
“I can say after I have examined her,” said the Demon Physician.
“The sooner the better.”
“Agreed.”
“And if she complains, I’m sure you’ll have a good excuse.”
“Not even Heaven may lay a finger upon one of my patients.” He may have turned into a vampire, but Doctor Mephisto remained very much Doctor Mephisto.
“Much appreciated.”
Setsura gave Takako’s shoulder a slight push. She slipped off the branch and slowly alighted on the ground in front of Mephisto.
“Leave it to me.”
Thousands and tens of thousands of people visited the old government office building in Shinjuku to hear those words. He reached out. His cape spilled like a clear stream down on top of her. Enfolded as if in a cocoon, Takako’s expression took on a rapturous glow.
“My long-lost patient. I will examine you most carefully.”
Setsura raised a hand. “She’s all yours.”
Entrusting the vampire Takako to the vampire Mephisto—that could be called a profound sort of trust. Through the branches, Setsura watched as the white-clad figure disappeared among the trees.
“That’s a relief,” he said, pressing a hand against his abdomen, as if doing his best to convince himself. “Though I do have to wonder.”
A more honest emotion perhaps. Setsura directed his gaze away from Mephisto and to the ruined village. The final battle would take place there.
“Hey,” a voice called out, in the vain hope that somebody else might hear him.
The mist had begun rising to the treetops where he was standing. Now it flowed like a dream toward the village. This manhunter had to figure out how to save the owner of that voice, Prime Minister Kongodai.
Fresh blood welled up. As long as he kept wielding his devil wire day and night, the flesh was never going to heal, the blood was never going to stop.
“Ouch, that stings.”
Showing no other evident signs of pain, the young man in black swung down into the center of the mist.
Part Two: Ring of Fire
Chapter One
“Where are you going?”
The voice was right next to him. Though he clearly understood that, it could just as well have descended from the heavens or welled up from beneath his feet—a dire and mysterious voice luring his mind into stupefaction and turmoil.
“To the manor house,” Mephisto answered shortly.
“To do what?” Walking along beside him, Princess peered at Takako’s face.
“I promised Setsura I would restore this girl to human form.”
“Can you do such a thing?”
Princess shifted her gaze, fille
d with curiosity, to Mephisto. Since her reign as vampire queen began—or perhaps because of it—no vampire had, by itself, reassumed human form. Hence her great intrigue.
“I cannot say for now,” said Mephisto, as a doctor—as the Demon Physician—a decidedly qualified answer.
“You cannot,” said Princess, her eyes brimming with an indescribable light. “Don’t you think that tens of thousands have also attempted it in the past? Some have succeeded, but not through the healing arts. A stake through the heart of the vampire who sucked their blood, the head cut off. Ha! Can you kill me, Demon Physician?”
“That is something a doctor cannot say.”
Mephisto looked down at Takako. With a jerk, she wrapped her arms around his neck. A moment later, they snapped off cleanly at the elbows and dropped to the ground.
Blood sprayed across his white cape. Takako screamed. Raising her hands against her will, Setsura’s invisible threads had sliced off her arms. Without so much as a blink, Mephisto placed his hands over the severed limbs. The fountains of blood ceased. So did Takako’s screams.
With a simple touch, he had staunched the blood and quelled the pain.
“Oh, so you care enough to also make use of your qi?”
“Not to the same degree as Kikiou. But it is within a doctor’s province. We must, however, remain cruelly unbowed by sentiment.”
“Hoh. It seems that making this girl human again will hardly tax your talents. Then neither should replacing an arm or two. But if you like, I will happily lend a hand.”
“Then why don’t you?” Mephisto said.
He stepped forward and seized Princess’s right arm. The way she pulled back reflexively, she must have felt something—with a single twist of his wrist, her arm broke like a branch.
“Nice one.” Cradling the broken limb, Princess smiled.
“This is not to say what is in your heart is any great mystery to me, but I promised Setsura that not a finger would be laid upon my patient. Having broken that promise, the price must be paid. It is you towards whom I must remain cruelly unbowed by sentiment.”
Princess’s hand slipped out of Mephisto’s grip. Not because he released it, but with a simple flick of her wrist. She touched the elbow with her free hand. With an audible pop, the fracture healed.
“No matter how great the Demon Physician may be, he cannot overcome my powers of regeneration. Is this the price you spoke of?”
“Think of that as a passing hello.” Mephisto nodded gracefully and strode off.
For the woman left behind, no experience could have been more ominous. What possible price might the Demon Physician exact? As she watched the man in the white cape walk away, the face of the beautiful vampire queen broke into a broad smile.
“Demon Physician’s revenge. How dreadful it must be. But I remain indestructible.”
The most important thing to this woman was life itself. A vampire was already dead. Was such a life the life of the living dead, or could it be called the personification of death itself?
“Damn it, Setsura, you’ve made your way through. Now the real show begins. I prepared that village especially for you. Make the most of the delights awaiting you. I’m sure you’ll be the life of the party.”
There in the midst of the deep green world, Princess threw back her head and laughed. The contours of her face bathed in light, this seemed the pure laughter of an innocent child.
That night, a great commotion filled the skies above Shinjuku. The police and ward helicopter patrols all scanned the earth with one particular objective in mind.
Among them was a Shinjuku police patrol jet helicopter called “Night Moon.” It was flying from West Waseda to Kikuicho and Bentencho. Passing through the air above Haramachi, a strange sight appeared in the pilot’s night scope.
Here and there in Shinjuku remained scattered blocks of ruins. In one corner of one of them, in a field twenty yards in diameter, burned a bright flame. What caught the pilot’s attention was the nature of the fire. The people lying there had beer bottles in their hands, and more were scattered about.
A bunch of ordinary drunks, obviously. But this fire—a bonfire? It was a sweltering night in August.
The pilot hovered a hundred feet above the ground and zoomed in with the undercarriage camera. The image on the screen magnified. A second later, the detail sharpened and filled in.
He knew at once what this “fire” was: a nuclear reactor. The automatic safeties should have kicked in once an out-of-plumb condition was detected, but this must be an aftermarket model, with crap specs to match.
“Shit, these drunks are really getting out of control. I can’t believe they busted up a nuke. What do you want to do?”
The gunner in the back seat tapped the pilot on the shoulder.
“What?”
“Those aren’t shadows beneath them. That’s blood.”
“No way.”
“Definitely blood.”
“Now what?” asked the pilot. In two-man situations like this, the gunner had command authority.
“Call it into the ground troops. Until they arrive, let’s maintain this position. Hail ’em on the speakers.”
“Roger.”
The helicopter’s external speakers blared out: “This is Shinjuku police helicopter Night Moon. We’re observing you from above. If anybody’s alive down there, wave a hand or something. Our cameras will pick up any movement.”
By that point, the specifics of the slaughter were showing up on the screen. From their clothing, they seemed to be vagrants. There were eleven of them. Four were women. Three were children. Dead as nails.
“That kid is face up. Throat’s been cut.”
“What the hell went on here?” asked the pilot, having radioed the situation into headquarters. He swallowed the bile rising in his throat. He took note of an oddity. “Hey, not much blood on the women.”
All the rest were lying in pools of blood large enough to be mistaken for shadows.
“Vampires—those Toyama bastards.”
“Naw. They all got blown to kingdom come. Vampire or nutball, what we got here is serial killer stuff. The other seven weren’t killed for their blood, but after the fact.”
“Hells bells.”
“I’m turning her around.” The pilot regripped the joystick. “Let’s widen the search. Look at the kid. Blood’s still flowing. The perp’s got to be in the vicinity.”
“Okay.”
“We catch up with him, you’d better arrest him on the spot. Or I may just blow him away.”
“Roger that.” The gunner nodded, not letting go of the firing controls.
The tightly-contained roar of the engine slanted down against the asphalt as the pilot initiated a widening right turn.
“Got him!” he called out.
A naked man was walking north on one of the streets leading out of the ruins. He was carrying a musical instrument that looked like a koto in one hand. Not all that unusual a sight for Shinjuku. But based on the situation and the circumstances, the pilot knew in his gut it was him.
A searchlight shot out from the undercarriage of the helicopter and enveloped the man. “Hey, naked guy, stop right there and raise your hands!”
According to regulations, the pilot made the command in measured tones. The man came to a halt. His skin glowed white within the ring of light. Not a blemish marred his skin. Only his hair was singed, but in a way that suggested the stylings of some avant-garde fashion model.
He didn’t plant his arms against the wall on the right as ordered, but lifted his face toward the helicopter.
“Fucking A—” the gunner groaned.
The pilot had the same reaction. Though the man’s mouth was painted with black blood, his symmetrical face—a match to his equally proportioned body—managed a balance of grace and ruggedness. The black stain from his throat to his chest, however, created a sight that was anything but refined.
Like a man who had just indulged himself beyond his own abili
ty to believe, the eyes looking up at the helicopter were empty voids.
“Son of a bitch looks like he just stuffed himself to the gills.” The gunner growled like a tiger. “After what he did to that kid, he deserves what’s coming to him.”
“A chameleon’s gonna be here in another minute, and a patrol car’s on the way. Hold it together. Let’s not add to the body count.”
The eyes of the pilot gazing down through the polarized glass were no less filled with loathing. A deep and abiding hatred of crime and criminals—that was the “first principle” drilled into the heads of the Shinjuku Police Force, the “Demon City Cops.” The kind of take-it-easy attitude towards lawlessness tolerable outside this city was impossible inside it.
Gangs with guns buried in their guts wired to their autonomic reflexes that would unload on a cordon of cops when they raised their hands to surrender—
Mad bombers who’d wire the scene of the crime to explode when law enforcement arrived, taking out the evidence and the cops in one fell swoop—
Assassins who targeted cops as a specialty, the hairs on their bodies turning into needles that could kill with a hug, passing themselves off as dancers in strip clubs and aphrodisiac bars—
Serving alongside a veteran for a week turned the sweetest greenhorn into an ogre when it came to the criminal element. Either that or end up in the morgue or in a padded cell. That’s what it meant to work the Shinjuku beat. No exceptions.
To live or die—for any cop, that was what it always came down to in the end—but inside and outside the ward, the results could be a world apart. Outside the ward, a cop had his life to lose at worst. In Shinjuku, his soul was on the line.
This time, though, whatever the men in the sky wanted, it would have to yield to the suits getting out of the Pulsar parked across the street from the suspect.
A chameleon—back in the day, a “police car in disguise”—was a stock model used by plainclothes detectives to patrol the streets camouflaged. The name came from the infamous Demon City Chameleon that could slip among the populace, a wolf among the sheep, taking on the appearance of its surroundings, then discarding them in a flash to reveal its ravenous nature.
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