“Miscalculation!” Agamemnon harrumphed and turned away to shuffle off. “It had nothing to do with calculations, computing—contrivance. Foresight! Now that’s what was lacked here. Younglings and their narrow sight.”
“Pardon?” she snapped.
“Your miscalculation had nothing to do with masses, meeds—measures… this man’s different. But you already knew that, Chrysanthe. We all know that, universal truth.”
Everyone was now staring at the old man as if he’d sprouted a third head, the second being the nest of salt-and-pepper hair atop his head in the shape of the Tower of Pisa. Tristan was sure he heard an animal moving around in there. “You know me?”
“Heavens me and by the Goddess, everyone knows you, Tristan of the Blum, Tristan of the Uruwashi. The last Uruwashi, death raven. Bonny, bewitching—Beautiful Death.”
Tristan lowered the gun and flicked the safety back on but didn’t bother to put it away. He felt better with it in his hand, especially since he was, obviously, getting better at a quick draw and remembering to remove the safety. He wouldn’t make that mistake again, not like in France.
“What the fuck is going on?” he asked, looking to Chrysanthe and Silas. When he met eyes with the elf, the other man sneered, clutching his jaw where he’d taken the hit.
Good, Tristan thought.
“Why did you almost kill me and who the fuck is Stuttering Steve here and why does heavens me and by the Goddess, everyone know me?”
“Agamemnon!” the old man corrected from the back of the stuffy room.
“Wait, what?” Tristan spun around to look at the old man but there was no one there, just the noise of someone digging around in metal pots. “Isn’t that some guy in mythology? Like… something to do with Troy?” He hadn’t really heard it the first time the old man said it, but now he was sure he knew that name.
“Not myth, absolute, actual—authentic!” The man scoffed. “American’s, so ignorant.”
“Tristan I—” Chrysanthe took a step back when Tristan spun to face her again. “I truly am sorry. I hadn’t meant for you to—”
“Die? No, ‘course not. Then I wouldn’t find that nameless man for you.”
The old pythia’s head popped up from behind a table. “Man? What man?”
Chrysanthe looked upset and nervous as she fiddled with the folds in her skirt. “I really hadn’t meant for it to go so far. I only meant for a mild persuasion, but you’re not normal, Tristan. There’s something very wrong with you.”
Sure, blame it on the Uruwashi.
Silas grunted a noise that might have been a laugh, though his companion was being deadly serious.
“I’m only half Uruwashi.” He made it a statement because, despite what Yuki may have guessed or not guessed, he was sure of it. He had to be sure about something in his life.
“Funny, flaky—fool! Of course you’re not just Uruwashi. You’re much myriad, multifarious—more than that. Everyone knows that.”
Not everyone. “Everyone who?” Tristan asked as he slowly moved through the mess towards the old pythia. “The vampires?”
The old man was still out of sight but Tristan could hear where he was as he continued to dig for whatever it was he was looking for on the floor behind that table. “Vampire? No, no, they care only about blood. And sex. Pythia, we charge, consternation—care about… the world, know everything’s that meant to be known in it.”
“Because of Lilith?”
“Lilith!” The old man popped up, startling Tristan. He’d added to his beehive hairdo a set of welding goggles. A long pipe with something dark smoldering in the bowl hung from his mouth, clutched between yellow teeth. “How is the old girl? I haven’t seen her in anile, antiquated—ages!”
“Blind and mute.”
“Oh.” The pythia frowned and it seemed to pull his whole face down with it. All those wrinkles gathered in his chin. “Oh, I see. So it’s her time, is it? That’s a shame.”
“Do you know what else I am?”
Agamemnon narrowed gray eyes on Tristan, smacked his cracked lips around his pipe. “Regardless of my knack, ken—knowledge, I couldn’t tell you. Wouldn’t, in fact. No, no, a pythia’s job is to tell what they see, not seek to tell.”
“But you see what I am, don’t you?”
The old man looked confused a moment, those gray eyes nearly hidden behind his caterpillar eyebrows studying Tristan deeply. “No. Not spy, spot—seen.”
Behind the two, Chrysanthe was nervously wringing her hands together.
“Chrysanthe!” the old man suddenly shouted.
She started. “Yes?”
“Show me.”
Chrysanthe reluctantly weaved her way around towards Agamemnon.
“Now, wait a minute,” Tristan snapped as the old man seemed to have forgotten him and dig around the table again. “Do you know what I am or not?”
“Young man.” Agamemnon stopped fussing about the table, hands resting on top as he glared at Tristan through those eyebrows. “Do you know what happens when you piss off a pythia?”
He flinched back a step. “N—no.”
The old pythia lifted his chin. “Then stop pissing me off. Wrist is fasten, forged—fixed. I’ve no more business with you.”
Chrysanthe chuckled and came around from behind Tristan, shoving past him to go to the old man. “This here.”
“Let’s see now…” Agamemnon took the paper and opened it, turning it to the right and then the left. Upside down and righted again. Grunted. “Your art’s just as bad as before,” he muttered in ancient Greek.
Chrysanthe, not so old, didn’t understand some of the words but understood enough to laugh. As the two fell into soft conversation in Greek, Tristan huffed and turned away, looking around the dimly lit room. He still felt a little sick and his throat hurt. But more than that, he felt frustrated. The old man was off, there was no doubt about that, but Tristan was sure he knew exactly what Tristan was. Maybe he was the only one. It seemed so in Tristan’s desperation anyway. He’d have to find a way to talk to the old man alone.
He was leaning over a small table near the front of the room, trying to get a better look at the slimy green thing in the bubbling water tank when he felt someone very nearby. The soft murmur of voices told him that the pythia’s were still in deep conversation. That left the elf. Tristan turned to glare at him and was, again, startled by the strange color of his eyes. But more than that, the elf at some point since Tristan put his back to him, had taken off his hood, showing a thick shock of bright fuchsia with contrasting bronze colored hair… made entirely of feathers. No wonder the man smelled like a moulting bird every time Tristan was near him.
“Shit!” Tristan hissed under his breath as he flinched and ended up elbowing a glass jar. It crashed to the floor. The others stopped talking long enough to look up and then went back to their conversation as if nothing happened.
Tristan frowned at the mess but had already decided there was no way he was touching it. Besides, there was probably something down there already to eat it if the scurrying of claws meant anything.
“What?” he snapped to hide his jittery surprise.
Silas only watched him with those brilliant colored, half-lidded eyes. And that hair to match… was it even real? Tristan had this crazy urge to touch it and shoved his free hand into his pocket to keep it to himself.
“You got a problem?” Yep, he was feeling indignant. Wasn’t he usually?
The elf made no move and Tristan harrumphed at him, going about being nosey again, picking up a page here, a weird looking tool there, smelling the plants, dried and living. It was amazing the old pythia could find anything with the place in such a state.
One thing in particular caught his attention, a paper, medical article actually. “The Future of Humanity: The “Vampire” Gene” by Doctor Everett Davies, followed by a whole slew of acronyms Tristan didn’t know. Sure, the word vampire was in quotes, but something about it made him think it was less than m
etaphorical in its use. He tried to skim the article but past the title, everything was so convoluted with medical jargon that he couldn’t understand it.
Silas, ever the vigil, hung close behind Tristan, never taking his bright fuchsia eyes off the American. Tristan was good at ignoring pests, even if they were taller than him.
He was just making his way back to the two pythia when Chrysanthe suddenly said, “Right! Off we go then.”
“I thought we were here for a reason?”
“Reason? You need reason enough more than saving your life?” Agamemnon said.
Tristan stopped, staring at the dirty old man. “You—”
“Of course I knew you were converging, closing—coming. Just who do you think I am, boy?”
A filthy old man, that’s what.
The look on Tristan’s face said it all and Chrysanthe giggled, while the old man scowled. “Should be nicer to those who see an unfortunately timed death and stall, stay—stop it.”
Tristan shot Chrysanthe, who wasn’t giggling anymore, a look. That’s right, she almost killed him. Not on purpose but he wouldn’t forget that. “You’re right. Thank you, Agamemnon. I’m in your debt.”
“Nonsense, just don’t demise, depart—die before fulfilling your fate.”
“And how exactly will I know when it’s fulfilled if I don’t even understand it?”
The caterpillars that were the old man’s brows rose high to show that his eyes were in fact more than just specks of grey underneath, big and round and full of knowledge. “You’ll know. Whole world will know.” With that, the old man put his back to the group as he fussed about to start a new spell.
As they were leaving, the old man called out, “It’s dusky, dim—dark. There’s a resort just down the street, on the water. Tell them I sent you, get a deduction, diminution—discount.”
Chrysanthe smiled. “Thanks again, Aggi. You really saved our hides.”
The old man looked up and frowned. “Didn’t do it for you.” He grunted, shaking his head and turned away again. The others all exchanged looks and shrugs before leaving.
The old man harrumphed, throwing plants around haphazardly as the front door slammed shut. Within moments, the door in the back that lead up to his private sleeping room creaked open with a fright-house slowness.
“You almost told them,” the commanding male voice said. The pythia stiffened, refusing to look back at his guest. “But you did well, I’m pleased.”
The old pythia let out his held breath, finally chancing a glance back. His guest was looking tired these days, his tall frame hunched over his cane, but Agamemnon knew that despite his age, he was strong and keen.
“Was he the one?” Agamemnon asked and then winced, realizing he shouldn’t have asked. It wasn’t his business. He was only supposed to do exactly what he was told to, not ask questions. But when he looked up, the other man wasn’t staring those midnight blue eyes into his, so full of wrath and contempt. No, in fact, his guest was smiling big, showing off bright white, perfect blocky teeth that didn’t look right on a man of his age.
The guest inspected a red apple he’d picked up off the table. It was perfect and smelled sweeter than it should have. Polishing it on his cotton dress shirt, he proclaimed, “He’s exactly as I’d hoped.”
Agamemnon grunted a laugh and then tensed hard enough to drop the herbs in his hands when the other man burst into laughter, cutting off his own. He’d have been less on edge if the man had hit him instead.
“You don’t agree?” the other man asked around a bite of apple.
Grey eyes wide, showing a lot of white, the pythia spun faster than his age should have allowed him to. “N-n-nnno. Of course, he’s—”
The guest put his hand up, smiling warmly. “I understand. He’s a little rough around the edges… he’s American after all, but he’ll come around. I’ve no doubt of the possibilities he’s yet to achieve.”
The look all over Agamemnon’s wrinkle-etched complexion said worlds about doubt and the other man laughed softly.
“When it’s all said and done, I trust that he will be exactly how he was designed, a transcendent monster.”
5: Karmacoma
JUST when it looked like they were about to settle in for the night, Chrysanthe announced that she was going out. Alone. But, oh, Silas was going. Silas always went. Basically, Tristan was being ditched. And guess what, there were no more ferries to the mainland today, had to wait until noon tomorrow. He was trapped on a fucking island with nowhere to go.
This is bullshit!
He couldn’t believe this was all happening. Ash being taken captive. He himself taken captive, because what else could he call his situation? It wasn’t like he meant to be stuck with these two, almost accidently killed by one. So, even as exhausted as he was, he wasn’t really in the right state to sleep. And if he wasn’t going to sleep then he’d do the next best thing, something he hadn’t done in ages and ages: Drink. No, not just drink, get toasted—or as close to drunk as his physiology would let him. Sometimes he really hated that it took so much effort to get loaded. Damn vampire genes.
The resort’s bar was real nice, a whole wall of glass windows to show off a dark view of the ocean. Tristan had lost track of the days since he stopped working well over a year ago now and apparently today was the weekend. There was a live band playing Blondie cover songs. They weren’t bad, but Tristan’d rathered something loud and loathsome at that moment. Like White Zombie. Yeah, that felt like his mood at the moment.
And that brought Tristan to his next annoyance. That guy, there, two seats over. He’d been staring at Tristan since the moment he stepped into that bar. Another drink, maybe less, and Tristan was going to go over there and tell him off. But then, he didn’t have to. The person sitting between them got up and the man moved closer.
“I’m sorry,” the man said by way of greeting. “I realize I’ve been rude and staring. I don’t mean to, but I… have we met before?”
Tristan hadn’t even bothered to look up and really see the guy. Didn’t give a shit. “Don’t think so.”
“No, I think we have. We must have.” The man sounded confused.
“No unless you’ve been in Paris recently.”
“Paris? No, not recently. In fact I just left Japan, that’s where I’m from.”
“Yeah?” Now Tristan was mildly interested. “Anywhere near Akita?” Would explain why the guy thought he knew him. His current apartment was on the outskirts of the real touristy area, but he usually was the biggest American. And the most permanent. Everyone knew (of) him.
“Osaka.”
Tristan grunted in answer and tapped his drink when the barkeep looked over. Next to him, his “friend” got a refill too. Great.
“What’s the tattoo?”
Tristan looked at his right arm, the one clutching his drink. He’d been wearing long sleeves that started the day as rolled up and were now halfway down his forearms. Only the top half of “Beautiful” was showing and a length of scar that stopped at his wrist.
“Looks like… rei?”
He put his drink down and turned to look at the guy. He’d heard it in the man’s slight accent, but he was still surprised to find this guy to be Japanese. Hm, but not one-hundred percent, not with those hazel eyes.
Hey, but he was an Asian… The Asian? What were the chances that this was the guy Chrysanthe was looking for? No, impossible. Besides, the ditz and the mute were out getting him now. The old stinky pythia told them where to find him, apparently. Guess Tristan wasn’t needed after all. So why was he still hanging around where they could easily find him?
“Uruwashi, actually,” Tristan said, pronouncing it finally as it was meant to be. His months in Japan weren’t for nothing. He would never let on, but he’d learned quite a bit of the language. It was nice to pretend he didn’t understand and laugh to himself about the things people said about him. It was especially useful around Yukihime, but then, he suspected she already knew everything she
said wasn’t so foreign to him anymore. If Ash’d caught on too, he couldn’t tell.
Tristan pulled back his sleeve to show the full tattoo and the other man’s eyes widened, lips parting. Uruwashi with two i’s could mean simply “beautiful” with one complex character. But add another, simpler kanji to the back end of that and it took on a much darker meaning.
The man stared at it a moment, swallowed dryly and looked up, meeting Tristan’s deep blue eyes. “Why would you put something like that on you? Do you know what that means?”
“Beautiful death,” he answered. There was no harm in spelling it out. Not like anyone would ever believe what the Uruwashi really were. “It’s ah, a long story.” He turned back to his drink.
The other man was silent for a time before he said anything again. “You know most American’s go for destiny, love, fate… kinder things.”
Tristan laughed. “Yeah? Well, I guess that means I’m not a kinder thing.” Hint hint, piss off, man. Leave me to wallow alone.
“Mamoru. Takeuchi Mamoru.”
Tristan let out a little sigh and put his drink down to extend his hand to his left. “Tristan.”
Mamoru took his hand with a smile. “Nice to meet you, Tristan.”
“Hajimemashite, Takeuchi-san,” he muttered in return.
The other man gave a little exclamation. “Yare! Anata wa nihongo o hanasu.”
“No,” Tristan answered drowsily into his drink. “Not really. Just enough to be polite.” Because he was all about being polite.
“Sō ka,” Mamoru said, still smiling. “You speak well though, very good pronunciation.”
“Thanks.” Oh hell, he couldn’t believe he was about to voluntarily engage. “So, you’re from Osaka?”
“Born, yes. My family moved to American shortly after. I grew up and married there.”
“Oh yeah?” Tristan said, thinking maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea. Good way to kill time anyway. “Where abouts?”
“Maryland.”
“No shit.” Small world. “Me too.”
The other man laughed. “No shits.” He laughed again before sobering up with a dejected sigh. “I wasn’t a good enough husband or father though. I’ve got a daughter, she’s about your age, I’ve missed her growing up.” Mamoru got quiet for a moment before asking, “You married?”
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