He looked for a sign of agreement from his guest seated across the table. He received none.
“I guess if the good Doctor wanted something better, he could manufacture a perfect pair of vocal cords himself.” His intention was to enliven the mood, but he paled as soon as he spoke, hearing the mocking tone in his words.
“Perhaps we shall listen to something else for the time being.”
A voice like deep water spilling over polished gems. A voice that made the two scantily-clad hostesses on either side of him catch their breath.
Had the voice belonged to a statue, then its sculptor must have given up his soul to carve something so beautiful. A corner of his white cape was draped over his right hand, which contained all the powers of the demon world. It was said that he could cure any disease with nothing more than a rusty knife.
A physical beauty that caused, from a single glance, a paralyzing sense of emptiness akin to death. That was why he was called “Doctor Mephisto.”
The Demon Physician.
“What do you mean by that, Doctor? You don’t want to listen to the blues anymore?”
“I’m not really sure myself,” the Doctor answered this time.
“Huh,” the man responded in confusion. His attention turned to the brandy snifter sitting in front of Mephisto. “Hey, what’s going on?” he shouted. “His glass isn’t topped off!”
The hostesses flanking the Doctor normally would have attended to the task. Neither of them moved a muscle. As soon as they’d sat down next to the electrifyingly attractive doctor, the two had fallen under the spell of his indescribable unearthly presence.
“That’s fine,” Mephisto said softly. “Drinking isn’t my forte.”
“Oh, come on,” the man said, waving his hand dismissively.
Three empty bottles of cognac were lined up on the table. The best spirits from the outside world. They were rare as hen’s teeth in Demon City, costing a good five hundred thousand yen apiece. Mephisto’s handiwork, downing what he’d been offered.
Marveling to himself, the man produced a new bottle. “Bottoms up, Doctor.”
Mephisto didn’t refuse. He raised the empty glass to receive the smoky golden liquid, and then downed it in a single gulp. Without taking a breath or wiping his mouth. Not leaving a single drop behind. Almost as if the alcohol had sprung into his mouth of its own accord.
“That’s one hollow leg you have,” the man said with honest admiration. “Your cheeks aren’t even flushed. Incredible! Doctor, I’m telling you, when the time for hospital expansion comes, just give me a shout. I may not look it, but I can get my hands on unlisted properties that never show up on the market.”
He wasn’t lying. A real estate broker who’d made Shinjuku his home turf, his Kabuki-cho offices had a hand stirring every pot in the ward, from the grubbiest shack to the coveted ruins of the Self-Defense Forces buildings.
His wife had been stricken by a malignant tumor. After his personal doctor and shamans declared her condition hopeless and threw in the towel, he’d brought her to Mephisto’s hospital. Mephisto cured her in ten seconds. The little party he was throwing tonight was his way of expressing his gratitude.
“Say, Doctor, girls aren’t your thing?”
The man cast a quick glance at the cordon of women surrounding them. The best nightclub in Kabuki-cho, stocked with the prettiest women money could buy, and none of them were getting the job done. Tell one to pour a drink, and it’d go all over the table. Crack a joke, and they’d just sit there and stare into space.
The man had kept his temper in check only because he knew they were acting that way because of Mephisto.
Maybe they were intimidated by his looks, or some other obstacle prevented them from getting up close and friendly. As much as he needled, pushed and shoved, they wouldn’t press any closer. But they didn’t stand up and walk away either. They just sat and stared at him like beings possessed. It made the man shiver.
“You like women?” Mephisto asked.
“Of course!” From his wife down to a college coed, the man had four lovers.
“To me, everyone is the same. I feel that way especially after an operation.”
“You do have a point there.”
“If the insides are the same, all that’s left to choose from is the outward appearance. Do you understand what I’m getting at?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“When there is no need to willingly choose that which is ugly, then this is what remains.”
Mephisto lightly stroked his cheek with his left forefinger. When he did it, it didn’t seem off-putting at all. No one would disagree with his assessment.
“That means that—guy or girl—you’re fine with them as long as they’re pretty? Not to be crude, but you’re saying you play for both teams?”
The man flashed a smile, then froze. The eyes of the women flanking Mephisto rolled back. The taut unearthly aura flowing around Mephisto suddenly snapped.
“D-Doctor—”
The room fell silent. The man’s eyes focused on Mephisto’s face, which shone with a brilliant white light in the darkened room.
“Pretty?” he probed. “Has the human race devised a more miserable standard of description? Are you incapable of imagining the existence of a beauty that you yourself remain unaware of? Have you not ever felt that way? Such stale adjectives are suited only for those who know nothing of vistas that the stunted human brain cannot fathom.”
From far away, applause beat against the man’s eardrums. The singer was mounting the stage again.
“Nevertheless, the female sex is undeniably an object of enormous fascination. You could even call it an imperative—from a doctor’s perspective.”
Mephisto gracefully opened his arms and wrapped them around the hostesses at either side. At the same time, as if escaping the ghostly spell, the dazed expression on the man’s face returned to normal. But his eyes still stared.
Mephisto’s fingers slowly crawled across a white shoulder. Ahh! the woman gasped.
“Fair skin, a generous distribution of fat, internal organs in good health—nevertheless, unawares, without lifting a finger, they will rot away beneath spotted, aging skin—the epitome of transience.”
Mephisto’s hand reached the woman’s breast that was pushing out of the top of her dress, a dress slit far up the thigh. The man gaped as Mephisto’s fingers sank into the soft, white flesh without denting or creasing the skin, like a craftsman driving in a nail.
“What a waste,” said Mephisto with complete sincerity. “An utter waste. Mothers who have reared their children and women who will never give birth—to them, what good are these but to tempt men? They need simply say the word and—gone. And given in exchange, a meaningful and purposeful life worth living.”
“A bit over the top, aren’t you, Doc? They’re just boobs.”
The mood in the nightclub abruptly changed. A noisy rustle rose from one end to the other.
“What’s that voice saying?”
“No, what’s that sound?”
The audience commotion drew the man’s attention toward the stage. Mephisto stared intently at his glass. A small, strange tragedy was about to be born.
The singer pressed her hands against her throat. Gasping, unable to breathe, the air squeaked out of her lungs in an asthmatic scream. She writhed, her mouth open, a hoarse cry drawn out of her body like a thin thread. Finally the sound welled up and spilled out.
Zaa— Zaa— Zaa— Zaa—
The sound caused more confusion than terror. A sound nobody had ever heard before.
Zaa— Zaa— Zaa— Zaa—
The sound of onrushing water.
From the lips of this blues singer, said to be second in talent only to Shinobu Kaze, poured a sparkling sweet sound, like a melody played on a koto. A gorgeous timbre. A sad song. And an expression of unmitigated joy.
The audience forgot the extraordinary sight of the bewitched performer and sank into a collective trance.
“Come,” said a man’s voice.
And in that instant, the singer cried out.
A silver shaft as wide as her mouth sprang from her throat and smashed into the audience, scattering screaming patrons and sending a shower of splinters flying in all directions.
A column of bone-chilling cold water.
The white shadow made its way like a phantom through the fleeing customers. Everybody knew the exquisite young man cloaked in the pure white cape, but the purpose of the brandy snifter peeking out from the seams of the cloak was a mystery.
The singer bent backward, and then pitched forward. The water arced forth from the depths of the sea and channeled through her throat. It didn’t touch the floor.
Doctor Mephisto stood directly in front of the onrushing waters.
The night’s incident was destined to become one more curious case in the medical files of the Demon Physician. Even before that, the story would take on a life of its own, another chapter in “the legend of Doctor Mephisto.”
Every drop of water gushing from the singer’s lips was sucked into the glass Mephisto held in his hand.
Chapter Two
Zaa— Zaa— Zaa— Zaa—
The sound coursed along Fifth Street.
“What the hell is going on?” the bartender wondered. He stood on the stoop and peered at the waters swirling beneath the steps.
“The taxi!” the boyfriend wailed. “Where’s my taxi!”
“Button it,” said Setsura Aki. The reverberations made him think of winter frost. The bar was wrapped in silence. “Can’t you hear it?” Setsura pressed. “Can’t you?”
“Not at all,” the bartender answered.
“Not at all,” the boyfriend echoed.
“I can.”
Setsura slid off the stool. He went to the window and slid it open. The expected wave of heat did not sweep through the opening. Instead, he breathed out white mist. He could see his breath. When the road became a flowing river, the heat had turned to a bone-chilling cold.
“All will bow their heads and wait,” Setsura intoned, staring intently at the rushing waters before his eyes. “Even the heat. Obviously somebody is putting on a production. But who is directing the play?”
Born in fire to reign in ice. And somebody was arranging a coronation ceremony behind the scenes.
The bartender craned his head. “I hear it,” he said in a small voice.
“I hear it,” the boyfriend said.
From the far reaches of the river in the direction of the Hilton Tokyo, a sweet and painful melody accompanied the eerily approaching world that flowed towards them.
The sound of a koto.
“They’re coming,” Setsura Aki said. “Just like in the legends.”
At the same moment, he couldn’t have known that those same words were being repeated in the corner of a nightclub in Kabuki-cho.
The sound drew closer. And something else as well. The bartender began to shiver, and it wasn’t just because of the cold.
Setsura saw it first, emerging from the depths of the darkness. A black ship glided toward them. The oddly raised bow of the boat appeared first. Two masts. The sails were furled. An old and weathered hull.
Not steel. A wooden ship, not one from this era. Ten oar holes dotted the hull at the waterline. Wooden sculls stuck out of the holes, hovering horizontally over the surface of the water.
“There are people there,” Setsura heard the bartender say behind him.
The silhouettes of three people on the deck. Three people who looked back at them.
On the left was an old man with white hair and beard, thin as a crane. Next to him was a girl. She still had youth left in her. Her luxurious black hair was tied up in buns behind each ear. Her large eyes flitted about her surroundings, taking it all in.
The third person had a young and graceful countenance. Between his full eyebrows was a small dot, like an embedded pearl. All of them were decked out in Chinese clothing gorgeously woven with threads of silver and gold. All their eyes focused on Setsura.
The girl disappeared. She’d left to fetch somebody.
The sound of the koto ceased.
The girl returned with a new person. It was as if a halo of light had blossomed between the girl and the old man. That was how radiantly attractive this new woman was. On a par with Setsura, with Doctor Mephisto even.
Her black hair fluttered gently to one side in the wind, casting a shadow across her snow-white skin and white robes. Standards of beauty changed with the years, with the eras, and from country to country. But the beauty of this woman—no older than twenty—was eternal and immutable, surpassing every possible expectation.
The sound of the koto rang out. Setsura couldn’t see her hands, but they must have been playing the music.
Their eyes met for several long seconds. The ship crossed from right to left, from the heart of darkness toward the heart of Shinjuku, where some rough beast was waiting to be born.
Setsura silently watched as the ship slowly slipped by.
The koto sounded again. A voice like a silver bell began to recite a poem. Setsura translated the ancient language in his head.
Crossing the waters we’ve crossed before
Seeing the flowers we’ve seen once more
Spring breezes along the riverbank roads
Before we know it, we’ve made our way home
The verses wafted through the frozen night air, evaporating as they reached his ears. These four strangers were right now sailing to Shinjuku.
Setsura looked at the quiet moon high in the night sky.
“That’s a nice smell,” the bartender mumbled to himself. “Perfume? From what country?” He wiped his face with his hands.
Setsura noticed it as well. The heat was making a comeback.
“The water’s retreating,” the bartender observed.
Without a second glance at the sparkling wet pavement, Setsura shut the window and returned to the counter.
“What happened just now?” the bartender asked. “It’s like being inside a living dream. That happens a lot around here, you know.”
“Maybe so,” Setsura said, grasping his glass of tea. “But there are dreams we’re better off not seeing. Dreams that should not become real.” He drained the remainder of the tea.
The boyfriend cried out, almost on the verge of tears, “Hey, hey, where’s the taxi?”
Michio Hyuuga couldn’t settle down. The sense of unease carved a hole in the pit of his stomach. Combined with the tightness around his ankles, it made his insides feel like a loose sock full of rocks. He had no idea why. He cursed and swore, but venting didn’t do him any good. All he could do was throw up his hands in exasperation.
He wanted to talk it over with somebody. He had—albeit vaguely—a candidate in mind. A real egghead. A straight dealer with a well-established reputation. And having real muscle at his disposal couldn’t hurt. The problem was, for an ordinary working stiff, getting in good with a guy like that was way out of his league.
But nothing ventured, nothing gained. Hyuuga was in agony. The sweet music strummed in his ears. A guitar, he thought.
He looked around. Grubby little shops, with doors and windows shuttered. He seemed to have wandered down a back alleyway. No streetlights, but the moon shone brightly overhead. His shadow was clearly outlined at his feet.
In front of him, another shadow approached. Hyuuga raised his head and started a bit.
A young girl dressed in a cheongsam bowed to him, her sleeved hands clasped in front of her chest. She smiled. In the dark, her crimson lips took on an adorable hue.
Hyuuga shook his intoxicated head and thought through the situation. He was on a Kabuki-cho side street. Though the main thoroughfares were relatively safe, the back alleys required a lot more diligence. Especially at this hour.
He wasn’t particularly worried about stumbling across the odd cat-eyed snake or man-eating rat. The regular “monster eradication campaign” had
swept through the Kabuki-cho district two days ago with poison gas and flame throwers, and that generally kept the critters out for the better part of a week. Besides, today was his day off, and he owed himself a drink or two.
The girl was either a pickpocket or a prostitute. He didn’t have much cash on him and wasn’t in the mood anyway. So either option was a non-starter.
“What’cha want, little lady?” Hyuuga asked, trying to keep it polite.
She didn’t answer, smiled sweetly again, and then casually leapt into the air. She didn’t even crouch and jump. Hyuuga automatically craned his head back and felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck.
“Hey, you—” he said.
A pale hand appeared to the right side of his face. The forefinger pointed forward.
“What are you doing—?” He didn’t finish the question. He gaped in astonishment. He was walking, and not of his own accord. “H-Hold on a second. Hey—you—”
The finger before his terror-stricken eyes flexed at the knuckles, now pointing to the left. He noticed the black maw of an alley opening like a mouth. He was turning into it.
When the silhouette emerged from the side street and walked towards her, Hisako Tokoyoda nonchalantly pointed her handbag in its direction.
She’d found the “armored handbag” at the Hanazono Shrine discount bazaar. It turned out to have more capabilities than its price suggested, and Hisako was delighted with her find.
The handbag held a .25 caliber Colt pocket auto with an eight-round magazine. The safety release and trigger were operated by a single lever. Plenty of capacity and not too bulky. These days, bullets of that caliber made for self-defense were mostly high-velocity explosive rounds. At short distances, one would drop a sumo wrestler.
The muzzle jutted through a slit in one end of the handbag. Hisako pointed it at the approaching figure, proud of her ability to keep her cool.
She still wasn’t over the shock of getting assaulted by magical forces earlier that evening at the nightclub. But she should come out of it unscathed. In any case, she’d take a sick day, drop by the hospital tomorrow, and everything would soon return to normal.
Yashakiden: The Demon Princess, Volume 1 Page 2
