The Invoker: A Lawson Vampire Novel 2 (The Lawson Vampire Series)

by Jon F. Merz

  I breathed easier.

  "I am indebted to you for your intervention. I owe you a debt – what we call giri, that I don’t think I can ever repay."

  "It’s not necessary to repay me."

  He cocked an eyebrow. "But you understand what I’m saying."

  I nodded. I could tell him a million times that he didn’t owe me a thing for saving his life and it wouldn’t matter. According to Japanese culture, he owed me his life. And he would probably spend the rest of his life attempting to repay that debt.

  Unsuccessfully.

  He went on. "As you no doubt ascertained, I am rather well known in this restaurant."

  "I assumed you were a regular here."

  "I am. True, their chef is a master, and his delicacies would draw anyone. But I am known here, not for my constant patronage, but because of my work."

  "Your work?"

  He leaned back and the flush of alcohol faded. Instead, a veritable cloak of honor seemed to drape his body. "I am a swordsmith."

  I exhaled in a rush. The Japanese revered their swords as if they were part of their very souls. And the men who crafted the blades usually occupied a post of great prestige. I tried to maintain my composure, hoping about what might come next.

  "My swords are very famous. I come from a long line of such artisans. My family has practiced and perfected its technique dating back almost six hundred years. Nowadays, the wait for one of my blades is so long, I fear I will never be able to complete them all before my death." He smiled. "Although, thanks to you, there will be a few more completed now before that happens."

  He called for more sake. The owner of the restaurant, despite the late hour, appeared and refilled both our cups. My host took a long sip, then smiled. "I will make you a sword, henna gaijin. A very special sword. There will be no other like it in the world. And when it is done, you will know that I have poured much of my life and soul into its creation. As you did for me tonight, so too will I do for you."

  I breathed again. "I cannot thank you enough for such a generous offer. I am honored that you would consider me worthy of one of your blades."

  He bowed. "The honor is mine."

  I shifted. He looked at me, cocked an eyebrow. "You want to ask me something? Please do so."

  I hesitated. "Please don’t misinterpret me, but would it be possible to have you make me a wooden sword instead of a steel blade?"

  "A bokken?" He tilted his head. "That is an unusual request. What would you do with such a sword? Practice?"

  "I would have more need of a wooden sword than a live blade. And I would be honored to carry one of your creations into combat."

  He smiled. "Miyamoto Musashi, one of our most famous swordsmen, is said to have killed many of his opponents with a bokken, do you know that?"

  I wondered if old Musashi ever battled vampires. The thought brought a smile to my face. Probably not. I simply nodded. He smiled again.

  "Very well. You will have the finest bokken in Japan. But I insist on also making you a live blade. If not a katana or a wakizashi, then a tanto. You may find this piece useful for your work as well."

  Knowing the effectiveness of a good blade in decapitation, I agreed.

  We parted ways that night. He with my address and I without ever knowing the name of the great swordsmith who had taken me to dinner.

  Three months later, I received a package at my house in Boston. Inside, in delicately wrapped silk and oiled paper sat my two weapons. The bokken had been carved from the hardest wood known to man, lignum vitae, but it looked as flexible as a spring willow branch. It felt light, but supple, as if it had a spirit of its own embedded in it.

  Power flowed from it, and after a few test swings, I knew I would treasure the wooden sword forever.

  The tanto blade glistened from the thin layer of oil still coating it.

  Truly, they were exquisite weapons.

  As far as I was concerned, the swordsmith had certainly repaid me for my actions that night on the subway train. No amount of thanks from me would ever release him from his debt, however, because he would always feel that he had not done enough.

  Still, I used the return address on the package to send him a proper thank you note. A letter appeared within two weeks.

  In tentative English letters, his senior student wrote and told me the old man was dead. He was ninety-five years old that night on the train. He didn’t look a day over seventy. When he told me that he would put his life and soul into the weapons, I didn’t pay much attention to it. But looking back, I often wondered if perhaps he used up the rest of his own vitality making those weapons.

  Maybe someday I’d be able to ask him.

  I hefted the bokken again in the Nepali night. It still felt good to hold. Power seemed to ripple up my arms every time I held it. I stood and did a few quick cuts with it in the air, watching the glint of the fire bounce off its oiled length.

  I sighed.

  - then stopped

  - abruptly

  Because close by, somewhere beyond the range of the fire, something moved in the cold darkness of that night.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  I breathed.

  Slowly.

  Beyond the fire I could sense movement.

  But whatever moved in the darkness knew the lay of the land because they made no noise at all. If not for the sudden change in the air, I might not have even noticed it.

  Given the amount of loose rocks that would go skittering and clattering if you stepped on them wrong, whoever or whatever moved in the night was a pro.

  No doubt.

  And that made me very nervous.

  The fire crackled and popped as another piece of dried wood split and fell further into the flames. Shadows danced around me as I casually reached for my tanto. The bokken sat ready in my right hand.

  I wondered if my weapons would work on the Yeti Tiny told us about yesterday. I took another breath. I didn’t smell anything.

  Being by the camp fore put me at a definite disadvantage.

  Whoever was out there could use the fire to see exactly what I was doing. On the other hand, I had no night vision whatsoever since I’d been staring into the fire for most of the night.

  I couldn’t see beyond a few feet of darkness.

  I edged closer to the tent. Wirek’s snores cut through the night air and I prayed at any second Tiny would emerge, completely disgusted with the sleeping conditions and offer to relive me. That would be good.

  Very good.

  And of course, it didn’t happen.

  I felt somewhat ridiculous standing there with a knife in one hand and the bokken in the other. I thought I must have looked like some bad samurai to whatever was out there.

  I hoped again it wasn’t a Yeti.

  I remembered reading reports that they sometimes came down into the valleys and harassed villagers and campers. And the last thing I wanted on my hands was a dead abominable snowman.

  Something moved to my left.

  I turned.

  Something moved on my right side.

  I turned again.

  Double shit.

  Now there appeared to be more than one.

  After a long day of riding, the last thing I wanted to do was face multiple attackers in the Nepali countryside without a gun.My options weren’t really options at all

  I could yell and try to wake up Tiny and Wirek for help. But I doubted they’d be able to mobilize all that fast. I could charge into the darkness and try to figure out who was stalking us.

  Most likely I’d die.

  Or I could wait.

  Possibly all night.

  My so-called choices evaporated when a maroon-robed bald man suddenly materialized by the fire eight feet from me.

  Well, materialized is a weird word. He had walked into the circle of light from the fire but he’d done it so smoothly and quietly that I hardly even noticed.

  He stood there looking at me.

  He looked like a monk.
>
  Then he looked at the weapons I held. He seemed almost amused by the bokken.

  He kept his hands folded in front of his groin, with his feet shoulder-width apart. Something about the way he stood reminded me of some old martial arts stance I’d seen ages ago. But I couldn’t place it.

  He stood there waiting.

  Just waiting.

  Only eight feet separated us. Easy striking range for the bokken and the tanto. Still, something about the way this old man stood, something about the energy emanating from him, it all told me I’d be a fool to attack him.

  We watched each other for five minutes.

  I tried to relax.

  My arms grew stiff.

  He seemed to smile then.

  I wondered what the hell amused him, but in that tiny fraction of time when my mind relaxed, something came up behind me and clocked me.

  And even as I fell to the ground, strong arms caught me, cushioning my fall. Other arms grabbed the bokken and tanto. I sensed scurrying feet rushing into the campsite.

  But still no noise.

  Then everything went black.

  Black as the damned night.

  *** *** ***

  "Well, well, well, look who finally decided to join the world again."

  My tolerance for sarcasm is usually low when I’ve been snookered. The expression on my face must have conveyed a distinct lack of fondness and admiration for Wirek, who was leaning over me when I opened my eyes.

  He pulled back. "Oops, I guess Lawson’s not in too bright a mood."

  "I wonder why."

  That remark came from Tiny. I looked and saw he was sitting on what might have been hay. Motion rumbled up from below me. I blinked and saw that we were in some kind of wagon with bars on it.

  "What the hell happened?"

  Wirek frowned. "You tell us. We woke up like this a few hours ago."

  "There was a monk-I think," I said. "Last night, by the fire. I sensed movement on the periphery of the camp. Then this little old guy appeared in the camp. We had a staring contest. The next thing I know someone clocked me from behind."

  "I thought Fixers were incredible fighters," said Tiny.

  "Who told you that?"

  "Everyone believes it." He frowned. "Staring contest? Hmph. Some fighter."

  "Yeah, well, they got us, too," said Wirek. "And without a fight."

  "What about our stuff?"

  "Probably along for the ride. I don’t think these guys would leave it behind."

  "Who the hell are they?"

  We looked at Tiny who frowned. "Don’t ask me. I haven’t got a bloody clue."

  "I thought you knew this country backwards and forwards."

  He shifted. "Well, obviously I have not heard of any bands of monks traveling around and kidnapping trekkers, otherwise I probably would have said something."

  Wirek whistled. "Guess Lawson isn’t the only one feeling chipper today."

  I examined the bars. They were made from what looked like high-quality steel. I rattled them. They didn’t budge.

  "Don’t bother," said Wirek. "Tiny and me had a go at ‘em earlier. They’re solid."

  I slumped back. "Any idea where we’re headed?"

  "Hopefully up to Mustang," said Wirek. "But I can’t be sure."

  "We are still headed northeast," said Tiny.

  "How’s that?"

  He pointed at the cloth covering the wagon we rode in. "See the way the sun hits the canvas? That shows our direction. I’ve been plotting it since I woke up." He sighed. "We are still headed for Mustang. And Lo Monthang most likely."

  I looked at Wirek. "You said there were temples up there, right? Two of them?"

  He nodded. "Yeah, old ones. Hundreds of years old, but I never heard of those monasteries having monks like this. What’s your estimation of their skill?"

  "Well, they sure put one over on me. And they grabbed you two without waking you up? That’s got to count for something."

  "I thought you studied martial arts," said Tiny, glancing over. "Didn’t you even put up a fight?"

  I sighed. "Yeah, I study. I’ve studied for years. But that doesn’t mean there won’t always be someone out there who’s a helluva lot better than I am."

  He frowned again. "Maybe I should have kept watch last night."

  Wirek shook his head. "You can’t blame Lawson. He did his best, believe me, I know him. If he says he was taken out by professionals, that’s exactly what happened."

  I rubbed my neck. "Good solid hit, too. They knew just where strike me."

  Wirek looked. "Nice bruise. Who do you think these guys are?"

  I shrugged. "I don’t know much about Nepali martial arts. Or monks who practice for that matter."

  "I’ll bet these aren’t Nepali monks," said Tiny. "I’ve never heard of Nepali monks that would do this. And since we’re still headed to Mustang, then they are most likely Tibetan monks. Possibly they are former Khampa."

  I looked at Wirek again. "Those guerrillas you told me about."

  "Freedom fighters," said Tiny. "There is a difference."

  "What if they’re not Khampa?" asked Wirek.

  "Then they are possibly warrior monks," said Tiny finally. He looked at me. "If what you say is true, then they may be from a secret sect I have heard of only in whispers."

  "What kind of secret sect?"

  "They have many names, none of them are usually correct. I have heard them called dop dop fighters, the Lion’s Roar sect, and so on. But most of the few people that have ever run across them have only called them one thing: deadly."

  "Great." I laid back down in the hay. "That’s just fucking great." I didn’t have time to be dicking around with a sect of warrior monks. Not with Jack’s life dangling by a thread. Not with Arvella planning something decidedly nasty for a night or two from now. The timing couldn’t have sucked worse.

  Tiny scooted over. "Sorry. I shouldn’t have said some of those things a few moments ago."

  "Forget it. I’m just as upset."

  He looked at me and grinned. "Wirek’s right about one thing."

  "Yeah? What’s that?"

  Tiny pointed. "It is a real nice bruise."

  Under us, the wagon wheels continued to bump and roll along. We were setting a good pace, though and elsewhere I heard the footfalls of more horses.

  I asked Tiny. "Are we in some kind of caravan?"

  He nodded. "I make perhaps a dozen horses in total. If we are setting the same pace we set the past few days, we should be in the Mustang province by now. And we may well reach Lo Monthang by this evening."

  "What time is it, anyway?"

  Tiny showed his wrists. Wirek grinned. "They took our watches. And anything else that might be conceivably used against them I gather."

  "So, why kidnap us? Why go to the bother of having to herd us like this?"

  Wirek shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine, Lawson. Maybe we violated some kind of cultural taboo."

  "Don’t be ridiculous," said Tiny. "We violated nothing. After all, I would know if we had done something the locals might find offensive. We have been most respectful." He scratched his armpit. "No, this was a simple snatch. What we used to call in the army a cosh and carry."

  "Sounds Brit all right," I said.

  Tiny nodded. "I participated in several of them. Steal into the enemy lines, grab one of their top people and get back to the good guys before the bad guys even know we were there. Very effective."

  "I guess that just leaves us with more questions, then," I said. "But most importantly is why we’ve been snatched."

  Wirek laid down in the hay. "We’re not going to figure it out in this wagon, that’s for sure. Might as well rest up in case we have to take action when we do stop. An old guy like me needs his rest."

  Tiny looked at me. "You know what that means."

  "Yeah. It means you and I are going to be lulled to sleep by the horrendous noise he makes when he snores."

  Wirek flipped his middle fi
nger up at me. "Go to hell."

  "I’m sure I’ll be there soon enough, Mr. Chainsaw."

  But despite the fact that Wirek immediately fell asleep and began snoring, the rhythm of our bumpy ride soon lulled Tiny and I asleep as well.

  I hoped when we woke up that things looked better than they did just then.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  When the wagon finally stopped, darkness seemed to be seeping back into the sky. The interior of the wagon was darker than outside.

  In the dim light, I could see both Wirek and Tiny sitting up, alert. We were ready for action.

  The canvas tarp that covered the wagon was yanked off.

  Only then did we finally see who our hosts were.

  The first face I saw belonged to the old monk who had stepped into the fire light back at our camp. He peered close to the bars, scrutinizing us each in turn and then smiled at me. He turned to a younger monk and nodded.

  The younger monk unlocked the back of the cage and gestured for us to get out. I went first, followed closely by Tiny and then Wirek. After being cooped up all day long, my legs buckled at first as blood rushed back into them.

  I finally stood and it felt good to do so.

  The old monk smiled again and then cleared his throat. "Welcome to Vajra."

  His English sounded perfect. I looked around. The temple or monastery we were in looked as if it had been made from mud brick hundreds of years ago. Tiny and Wirek scanned the courtyard. High brick walls enclosed the inner courtyard on all sides.

  Tiny spoke first. "Are we in Lo Monthang?"

  The monk nodded.

  Tiny frowned. "I know of only two temples up here, Jamba and Thubchen. Where is this one located?"

  "Close by to the other two, although you would never notice it. It is better that way, we think. After all, if word got out of our existence, there would be repercussions."

  "What sort of repercussions?" I asked.

  The monk smiled. "Some of our…friends to the north might decide to suddenly come south and visit us. That would be bad."

  "Friends to the north? You mean the Tibetans?"

  "No, we are Tibetan. I mean the Chinese."