He chewed his tongue and drove the Caddy down Lincoln Avenue
with Rich and Xav. Rich was in the passenger seat beside him, Xav in the backseat. Fuck but Rich should have been busy trying to stanch the flow of blood running like a bitch from his nose and Xav should have been working on repairing his busted nunchaku. Instead the two of them just sat there like retarded kindergarten kids, watching him. Waiting for him to say something. Jesus, but they knew about the banpaia, even if they had never actually seen one in action before. What did they expect him to do?
“I’k neva seen anyfing like tha,” Rich muttered through his mush-mouth.
“Wipe your fucking blood up, you’re getting it everywhere!” Charlie barked.
Rich sniffed. “Awkay...Sheezus...what the hell was that?” He found some fast food paper napkins lurking under the seat and used them to mop up some of the spillage. He did it mechanically, as if he were still in shock from the fight.
Yeah, some fight.
“I don’t know what the fuck that was,” Xav admitted meekly from the back seat.
Charlie thumped his hands against the steering wheel. “It was fucking the Easter Bunny. Didja see the pointy ears?” Christ, he so wanted to haul out and bang Rich in the face, except that would make him bleed more over his good leather interior.
“Yeah, he had pointy ears all right,” Xav said. “Pointy teeth too.”
“And a great big pointy sword I’m gonna shove up your asses if you don’t shut the hell up!”
They were his soldiers. They shut up. But the driving-silence made everything worse, because now, as Charlie glided up the white gravel driveway of the Ryuujuu, the House of the Dragon Lord, he had to think about what he would say to Mr. Ashikawa. He played out a half dozen scenarios in his head--hell, his crew would back up anything he said--but what was the point when they were arriving empty-handed? Mr. Ashikawa just wouldn’t buy it, whatever he said. He wouldn’t care. He would only see that they had failed. They had gotten into it, almost gotten the bitch, and then got the shit beat out of them by a stranger from out of fucking nowhere! By a goddamn banpaia, no less! Shit, he knew plenty were out there--Mr. Ashikawa had warned him of that and Charlie had been around Kage long enough for it not to bother him too much--but what was the chance of him and the troops running into one of the motherfuckers in that blind alley?
The suits that worked for Mr. Ashikawa took the Caddy from them and left Charlie and his crew to creep into the mansion like criminals. He couldn’t tell if the suits were passing looks between themselves--too many pairs of shades stared back at him--but he could imagine. Dark suits, pressed shirts and ties, shined shoes, and combed hair. Like good little choirboys, all of them, except they all moved liked natural-born killers. In the foyer, his boys gave him a look like a farewell--or maybe the look you give a dead relative during a wake—just before he detached himself from the safety of their numbers and went to pay the proverbial piper.
Charlie chewed his tongue until he tasted blood. It wasn’t a good day all around, his fung-shui totally blown to hell, and he knew it the moment he ran into Kage in the hallway outside Mr. Ashikawa’s office. Christ, but he hated these banpaia.
It was like being in the alley again with the other one, except Kage was vastly different--and yet, not. He was much smaller than most other men, but that wasn’t something you noticed. Instead of disappearing in a room like a lot of small men do, Kage seemed to fill it. Right now he was doing his usual Kage-thing, which was doing nothing at all--just standing there outside the door of Mr. Ashikawa’s office. A human being would look sloppy and bored. Not Kage. Kage didn’t wear human that well. Instead he stood at complete attention, his hands in the pockets of his long leather coat and his head canted to one side, eyes seemingly trained on the pattern of the red and gold wallpaper. He too wore dark shades, but for a much better reason. It was said if you looked into the eyes of the banpaia Kage you would fall into the black sleep and never again be awakened. It was ridiculous, stupid Japanese legend shit. Charlie only wished he would convince himself of that fact one of these days.
Kage made no indication that he was aware of Charlie’s approach, yet he said in a low, whispery voice that rode Charlie’s hackles like an electrical storm: “The Ryuujin is taking a meeting.”
“Yeah...okay, fine...” Yeah, he could come back tomorrow. That was not a problem.
Kage looked at him. Kage looked through him. “Do you have the woman?”
“Had the woman. Lost her.” Charlie was about to say more, to start the process of weaving together the story that might or might not save his ass, but a single look from Kage silenced him.
“The Ryuujin will not be pleased.”
No shit.
The fear, the tension in the air, the banpaia, and the fact that things existed that had no right existing--all these things suddenly seemed too much and Charlie had to make a conscious effort right then and there not to bolt for the nearest door. “Hey, man,” he said, raising his hands in a kind of hopeless defense, “No one fucking warned me about tall, dark and dangerous.”
Kage’s eyebrows bobbed up. He looked generally interested--a first for him. He looked about to ask something more of Charlie but opted to knock politely on the door of the office instead.
“Come,” Mr. Ashikawa called in Japanese.
Kage opened the door, waited as Charlie skirted past him without touching, and then proceeded to follow Charlie inside the office. Only when Charlie had found the courage to approach Mr. Ashikawa’s desk--he was indeed in a meeting, albeit of the Net variety--did Kage close and discreetly lock the inner office, sealing everyone in like victims in a tomb. This time, unlike others, Kage did not wait outside but chose to listen to the flow of conversation between Charlie and the Ryuujin. That was odd.
Edward Ashikawa looked up from his laptop, took in Charlie’s disheveled, battleworn appearance, and seemed to come to some instantaneous conclusion. He then looked past them to where his loyal pet banpaia stood near the door. Kage shook his head. Ashikawa nodded and looked again at Charlie.
“How did she escape?”
It was as if he somehow knew what had happened. On more than one occasion Charlie was sure things passed between Mr. Ashikawa and Kage that he was unaware of. Odd things. Things not like talk but like feelings. He thought about Rich and Xav and wished he was with them, cruising in the Caddy and looking for a drugstore or deli to knock over or babes to pick up. He wished he were anywhere but here right now. But because he was not, and because he knew he had to say something, he shrugged and said, “Seems there’s more than one Kage out there.”
Now Ashikawa looked generally interested.
Kage spoke up. “There was interference, Ryuujin. A slayer appeared to protect the woman.”
How the hell did Kage know it was a slayer?
“Oh. I see.” Mr. Ashikawa took off his glasses and closed down his laptop.
Charlie felt his heart sink. But it wasn’t fear; it was much worse than that. Mr. Ashikawa was his tether here in America, his fucking sensei. And Mr. Ashikawa taught that when you fail your sensei you fail yourself. You have no honor. And a man with no honor is a man with no life.
“Tell me about this other banpaia,” Mr. Ashikawa said.
Charlie chewed some more on his tongue. Now was not the time to fall apart. In solitude and silence, yes, but not here. “I have never seen him before, Ryuujin. He was tall and very lean. Black hair to his waist. Dark eyes. He moved like an animal, Ryuujin. And he had an unusual sword.”
“Tell me about the sword.”
Charlie shivered at the memory. The banpaia lost in its personal rage...like a machine. “It was a katana with a white jade hilt like two asps.”
Again Mr. Ashikawa looked past him. Again he sought something from Kage.
Kage nodded. “Two asps. The sword of the Slayer.”
7
“Tell me about the Slayer,” The Ryuujin said when he had dismissed the boy.
Ka
ge went to the wet bar in the office and poured the Ryuujin a scotch. After decades of service to the Dragon Lord of the Yakuza it was entirely unnecessary that the Ryuujin speak his needs verbally. Kage could read them. More, they were his own needs. It was like the scotch. The desire for the drink was Kage’s own, though logically it could not be.
Kage served the Ryuujin his drink on a silver serving dish.
It was similarly unnecessary that the Ryuujin ask about the Slayer. Kage knew of his interest because the Ryuujin’s interest was his own, though in reality the being whom the streets called the Slayer was of reluctant interest to Kage. The Ryuujin simply chose to verbalize many of his needs. As a human, such things were a comfort to him. As a comforting thing to the Ryuujin, such things became important to Kage.
They were bound, after all--in blood, in life, and possibly even in death.
“The Slayer,” said Kage. They spoke English now, but they also spoke on a much deeper level of understanding. “His name is Alek Knight, and he was the first acolyte of Amadeus and heir to the seat of Covenmaster of New York City. Two years ago he suffered the sins of what he became and betrayed his Coven. He slew several prominent slayers, among them Robot, Aristotle and Takara. His master was his last victim.”
“That is the basic analysis,” the Ryuujin said as he sipped his scotch. “What is your personal opinion?”
Kage thought about that a moment. “He is a twin, therefore he is dangerous and unpredictable.”
The Ryuujin went to look through his great picture window at the deceptively serene night city lurking under the dark. “Tell me about this.”
“His sister crossed over to the other side of the Web, yet she can speak to him still and direct his actions. Because of her death, he believes all slayers are his enemy.”
“And all other banpaia?”
“He is not a banpaia, my Ryuujin, but something wholly new and different. He is...a dhampir.”
The Ryuujin looked over his shoulder. “I am not familiar with that word.”
“It is a rough Bulgarian word to describe a creature which is the result of a banpaia coupling with a human female.”
“I did not know that was possible.”
“Under the right circumstances...yes.”
“Kage...”
“No, Ryuujin. I am of pure breeding.”
The Ryuujin shook his head. “I find it odd we never spoke of this.”
“It was...unnecessary information, until now.”
“I agree.” The Ryuujin turned around, still cradling the untouched drink in the center of his palm. He was a small man, like Kage, but much more muscular. Well into his sixties and he had the face and body of a man in his early 50s. Many believed Kage to be the son, Ashikawa the young father, when in fact Kage had lived his master’s life many times over. Some of the Ryuujin’s seemingly endless vibrancy was due to the strict fitness regiment he kept, but most of it was the work of Kage’s alien blood on his master’s mortal cells. Still, even Kage’s age-defying blood could not remove the worry and years from the Ryuujin’s eyes.
Kage felt that worry burrow a smoldering hole through his heart. He loved the great Dragon Lord, loved him in too many ways to count, in ways scarcely explored by most mortals--and even fewer immortals. It was a love of common blood, love of self-preservation and survival, and yet love of something else, something greater, vaster, and more perfect than himself. The love one had, perhaps, of a god. “You look unwell, my Ryuujin. Perhaps I could persuade you to partake of my life?”
The Ryuujin swirled his glass of scotch but did not drink of it. “Too many years, Kage,” he said. He looked up. “Kage, tell me, what does time mean to you?”
As always, Kage was tempted to lie if it meant comforting his Ryuujin. As always, he chose to be truthful instead. “Very little, I’m afraid.” After a moment’s hesitation, he chose to take the initiative and approach the great Ryuujin without invite. When they stood with only the glass to separate them, Kage unsheathed his katana. The Ryuujin made no move to discipline him in any way for his actions, so Kage offered his master his sword.
After a moment, the Ryuujin took it.
Kage knelt down and turned his head aside. A moment later his master discreetly nicked the underside of Kage’s chin with the painlessly sharp edge of the katana. When the black blood began to well up--it did not take long--Kage felt his master’s hand on his chin, felt his master’s mouth on the wound, taking. In most cases such exchanges caused a particularly powerful and sometimes dangerous sexual throb in one of Kage’s kind, except that Kage had learned the discipline to curb such awry emotions. He had done so for years. He was not an animal because he chose not to be.
He waited until the Ryuujin had taken what he wanted, what he felt he needed, and then, when his master’s mouth was gone, Kage rubbed a bit of his own saliva into the wound to speed along the healing. The Ryuujin told him to stand up. He did so. The Ryuujin gave him back the katana and Kage sheathed it under his long leather greatcoat.
“This dhampir disturbs me,” the Ryuujin said.
Kage had seen his master fight in Seoul. He had seen Edward Ashikawa tear the face off of another man with a fistful of ground glass. He had seen Edward Ashikawa break the necks of two of his own hired men when they had sold out to Tong in Chinatown. Once, when he was younger and working for his father, he opened fire on a church to show a group of black gangbangers that had taken refuge in it that there was no part of this city that he did not own. He was a savage. He was a warrior. He feared nothing, outwardly. He only spoke so openly now about his fears because he knew he would not be able to disguise his worry from Kage. And he was correct. “I should not have sent the boys for the girl,” he said.
“They were the only ones capable of finding her in this city. You did what you had to. In any event, the more experienced men would have had no better luck with the Slayer than they. If anything, the Slayer might have killed them all.”
The Ryuujin frowned. “Doesn’t matter anymore. I want you on the job now.”
“I will do it,” said Kage.
“But you don’t want to. I can feel it.”
Kage hesitated. And then, with head bowed: “I would prefer not to.”
“I sense no fear from you, yet you are reluctant. Should I ask why?”
“You know I will answer any question of yours put to me, my Ryuujin.”
There was a moment of indecision on the Ryuujin’s part. Then he said, “Find the girl and get from her what I need. When you have it, kill her. If the Slayer intervenes, kill him as well. If he gives her up willingly, then you and he can work out whatever arrangement makes you both happy, according to the rules of engagement of your kind.”
“Your will is, as always, my own,” Kage answered.
The Ryuujin narrowed his eyes. Again he sensed the untruth in Kage’s response, but this time he said nothing more about it.
8
Her name was Robin Wright and she was a nineteen-year-old runaway from Lodi, New Jersey. She had arrived in the city five years ago, but it seemed much longer, somehow. As if she had always been here, doing this. The streets had a way of educating you in a hurry, and Robin took a crash course. She came to escape a religiously fanatical father and the undying memories of a dead mother. Like most young runaways, Robin found herself at a dead end, penniless, homeless, hopeless, with nothing to offer the city for barter for her survival but her body. She slept in a churchyard the first night and sold herself the second night in order to get up enough money for a loaf of bread, a bottle of whiskey to stay warm, and a room in a dilapidated motel.
She wasn’t stupid or oblivious to what she was doing. Her father had taught her all about the wages of sin and all that. But how could she go home after what she had done? Her father had locked her in a closet once for two whole days after she used a spew of profanity on him. She was afraid. He would know she had ruined herself. He would check. And he would probably kill her.
All she had left
was to tough things out, try to make a life for herself, so all this was a dark memory one day. Anyway, she was used to her father’s hands on her. This was no different. She would simply lie back on a bed somewhere and pretend she was elsewhere until it was over. It wasn’t so hard. Not really. It was survival. Survival of the fittest. The only difference between the slag of degradation her endless stream of faceless men inflicted on her body and her father was that she wasn’t judged and punished as a sinner afterward.
Well, most of the time she wasn’t.
Some did try to punish her. Some got downright nasty and slapped her around or pulled out a knife and threatened to cut her apart like the deserving whore she was. After one such encounter too many--she still had the scars on her arms to prove it--she decided to get protection.
By then she had worked the streets long enough to become familiar with some of the other girls. They told her she was crazy to work freelance, that it was too dangerous, that sooner or later she would wind up dead. Not even the tough young transvestites on Tenth Avenue
worked by themselves. They told her she’d be wise to choose her own pimp, that something so sweet and young as herself wouldn’t go unnoticed for long and she could end up the slave of some sadistic freak. Not that all pimps weren’t sons-of-bitches who treated their women like shit, but some were decidedly worse than others. A girl needed protection. Sure, she’d be another man’s property, but the upside to that was that your owner protected you. One of the older girls, a veteran of the streets at eighteen, generously offered to set her up with the “master” as she jokingly called her pimp.
Slayer: Black Miracles Page 3
