She took another swing at the stranger that went wide when he ducked and he countered, delivering a hard blow to Shizuka’s plexus.
“Hey!” Tristan shouted at him, stumbling to his feet again. “The hell is wrong with you… hitting a girl?”
Tristan threw his own punch that never made contact. He wasn’t sure how, only that the stranger was holding his fist in a cold, hard hand, blinking at him. “That is no woman.”
He said that before too, didn’t he? Tristan jerked his hand back, glanced at Shizuka then back to the man. “You’re a bit of an asshole. Or fucking blind.”
The other man gave a small nod. “I accept the former. However, the latter is far from the truth. It is you who is blind.”
“What the fuck are you talking about? You know what, I don’t give a shit. Come on Shizuka, I’ll take you home.”
“Stop!” The man darted out and grabbed Tristan’s wrist when he reached out to the woman. He started to argue, ready to punch the short shit’s lights out when there was a loud laugh echoed in the alleyway. They pair stopped grappling and looked up.
Shizuka looked… different, though Tristan wasn’t sure exactly why right away. “And that is not man.” She laughed again. “I think animal. Hai, hai, inu-chan…”
“Yogore,” the man hissed back.
Shizuka burst into laughter. Her flesh rippled from top to bottom and the smooth porcelain was replaced with dark, shriveled leather. The surface flaked, sending leaves of dead flesh to the ground like dirty brown snow. Voids opened, revealing knots of raw muscle and dark jelly. Silken black hair came off in thick clumps, taking chunks of scalp with it to fall to the pavement with a wet, sticky noise that echoed off the close walls.
As her body changed, so did her voice. Her laughter turned shrill. The short little black dress sagged on her frame as dark fluids poured out from under it and down spindly legs. She started to wobble on her feet, splashing up dark liquid as she took tiny steps to steady herself in her high heels. Finally, it was clear she couldn’t stand in those dangerous shoes anymore. She kicked them off, sending them towards the club exit and stepped bony feet into the body fluid collecting under her in a murky pool.
“Oh my god,” Tristan whispered and sucked in a sharp breath, catching a whiff of decay. He gagged and stumbled backwards until his back hit the dumpster, jabbing an elbow against the side. He sank to the ground against the bin, cradling his elbow to his chest, though the pain wasn’t enough to matter. Nothing mattered now except for the awful thing standing before him that he knew as Shizuka. The stranger made no movement that Tristan could see from his low seat. Somehow though, he knew the guy wasn’t surprised. That he knew exactly what this woman was.
Monster…
The man sighed, shaking his head and reached inside his cape. “I had preferred that it not come to this.” The soft reverberation of metal rubbing against something solid sounded from under the fabric moments before the katana that Tristan felt earlier emerged.
Shizuka’s laughter finally subsided as she rolled cloudy brown eyes down to look at the others. She grinned broadly showing the muscles of her jaw in thick leathery strands. When she spoke again, it was the voice of a cartoon snake, all hiss. “Silly toy for silly—”
“Damare!” the cloaked stranger shouted and darted forward, blade aimed right for Shizuka’s head.
Totally thrown off guard, lost and confused, Tristan gave a small cry and jerked back in shock, hitting his head on the dumpster. He lifted a fist and banged it into the side. He was angry that he hadn’t high-tailed it out of there while he had the chance. He was angry that all he could do was sit there and watch, trapped between a stinking dumpster and a man with a sword fighting a zombie.
A fucking zombie.
He thought briefly of getting up, trying to sneak away. Maybe of evening helping the guy he was ready to punch out only minutes before. But he fell into a trance, staring at the spectacle before him. It was a dance these two performed. Somehow, despite one being short, the other short and dead, they both moved with a delicate grace, and it was completely mesmerizing. He was shaken out of the trance though when Shizuka landed a hard blow to the man’s stomach that made him give a low groan and shudder. But, he didn’t go down.
Zombie Shizuka stepped back, shifting into a stance that would have been appealing if she had her skin. Her chin started to jiggle in a movement that was the beginning of her trying to speak, but then her lower jaw fell off. The man gave a crude grunt and a little leap, aiming for Shizuka again with that sharp, shiny blade. But he was swinging at empty space. The blade whipped through the air, pulled downward as gravity brought man and metal back to the earth. The tip chipped into asphalt with a loud metal ting. Tristan had only a moment for his lethargic brain to think about why it was wrong before the man spun on his heel, lifting the sword towards Tristan.
He put his hands up. “Whoa, hey—”
Shizuka appeared between them and reached out, grabbing the man by his neck with those disgusting decomposed fingers. He let out a long breath and lowered his arms, letting them hang lifelessly at his sides as she held him in place. The sword almost slipped from his fingers, but he didn’t seem to notice one way or the other. There was no fear in his eyes as a dark, closed-mouth smile curled his lips, not quite reaching those pale eyes.
A blaze of bright metal flashed up past Shizuka’s side and the arm gripping the stranger’s neck was suddenly on the ground. Shizuka wailed and reached for him again with her remaining arm as he jumped away. His toes barely touched asphalt and then he was airborne again moving towards Shizuka. Towards Tristan. Tristan sucked in a sharp breath through clenched teeth when the guy suddenly appeared directly in front of him, toe to toe. The young man stared down at him, calm and relaxed as if he had been there all along. As if there wasn’t a zombie trying to kill him.
Tristan blinked up at him for the longest ten seconds of his life, not a single tangible thought making its way to the surface to help guide him to something close to sane. He finally tore his gaze from the stranger. Shizuka was standing behind him with her back to the others. Tristan looked up to the man again, confused and whispered, “What happe—”, but never got to finish his question. Shizuka’s head broke away from her neck and hit the ground with a loud crack. Seconds later her body crumbled to the ground with a heavy weight that said she was more than skin and bones. The stench of death doubled as a breeze brought Shizuka’s scent to the others. It seemed to seek Tristan out, tickling its way into his sinuses, making the back of throat itch. Tristan’s stomach tightened and the blood drained from his face so fast it made him dizzy.
The cloaked man blinked slowly, his eyes coming into focus on Tristan’s. Expression utterly blank, he gave his blade a quick flick at his side. Tristan flinched at the sudden movement and wished he hadn’t. Expression still impassive, the stranger flung his long hair over his shoulder, turned away, and brought his sword down onto the mass of bones and rotted flesh that was once Shizuka.
The first piece of zombie was tossed over Tristan’s head to the dumpster and a warm glob of something squishy, wet and stinking of rot fell to his forehead and stuck. That was all it took. Tristan’s stomach twisted and he scrambled to his knees, retching on the pavement.
When his stomach was empty of all of its contents Tristan sat back on his heels, his back to the guy. He took in a deep breath past his burning throat and hung his head in hopes to ease the pounding. He could hear the cutting of rotted flesh and bones. He wasn’t ready to turn around and see that again. Not just yet. He sighed, shutting his eyes and his head spun again. When he opened his eyes, something to his right caught his attention in a dark corner between the dumpster and a wall. Stomach spinning, head feeling even worse, he decided standing wasn’t an option at the moment and pushed to hands and knees to crawl forward a few paces.
“Oh shit!” he screamed and fell back onto his ass, damp gravel cutting into his palms.
“What is it?” the zombie slaye
r asked, annoyance lacing his words. The cracks of breaking bone echoed loudly off the walls as he deftly finished his work.
A new nightmare, the crumpled body of a naked woman shoved in the corner like a pile of trash. Her stomach cavity had been ripped open and emptied, leaking stinking bile and other vital liquids on to the pavement. The edges of the hole were torn and jagged like an animal had at it with its teeth. Bloody scratches ran down the length of her face stopping at lips frozen in a frightened scream. Two dark, cavernous holes stared blindly up at nothing where her eyes had been ripped out.
“Ther—there’s a dead girl back here.” He didn’t think he even spoke loud enough for the guy to hear. He swallowed hard against the tang of his regurgitated dinner and alcohol. He was sure he was going to lose it again. God, what was wrong with him? He never got sick from just drinking. And as his head spun he was sure the reason had more to do with Shizuka than he realized.
“Ah yes, I had almost forgotten about that. The jikininki I just disposed of did that. It needed the—” He paused and Tristan looked over his shoulder to him, disgusted. He was twirling his hand in a small circle like he was searching for the appropriate word. Finally he settled on, “Sustenance, from that poor soul there to appear as the exquisite woman she was.”
“I—I don’t understand...”
“I know.” He strolled forward, boots silent on the pavement, and extended a hand.
Tristan gave the pale hand a long, slow blink and whispered, “You askin’ me for a dance again?” A heavy, dark fuzziness was creeping in on the edges of his vision. He shuddered, suddenly cold and let out a long sigh. “You’re pretty sweet, for a weird lookin’ dude.”
The “weird lookin’ dude” gave a dismayed sigh. “Come, we must go.”
Tristan met those strange eyes and gave him another long look. “Go... with you? Why?”
The offer of a hand was rescinded with a scowl. “Did you not figure that much out?”
Tristan shook his head, immediately regretting it. Thick lace covered his vision, blurring everything and he swayed, even though he was seated firmly on the ground.
“That jikininki knew me,” he said, voice steadily rising, “but it was summoned to hunt you.”
Tristan could only manage to answer with a long, drawn out, “Oh.” Someone was looking for him? That was nice. He dropped his face into his hands and toppled over. Something dark and warm was coursing through him. He was certain of it now, that he’d been drugged. It was whispering promises of sweet sleep to him. His eyes had shut, though he couldn’t remember when. He was losing against the drug. It was better to not fight it anyway.
“Who—what… ?” He couldn’t even finish his sentence. What was he even trying to say? Guess it wasn’t important.
“Everything is okay,” came the stranger’s creamy smooth voice, like a distant whisper. It was strangely comforting. “I am here now to—” His voice broke. “Just… sleep.”
Tristan let out a long groan, the drug finally claiming victory over him. He thought he heard the stranger again in his last twilight of consciousness whisper something about ashes.
2: Low Place Like Home
WELL, it wasn’t the first time he’d woken up in a strange place. It was, however, the first time he’d woken up to that smell. Jesus, it was like stale alcohol and dead meat left out in the sun for too long. Even in his fog, Tristan was conscious enough to hope it wasn’t him. His right hand hurt, pins and needles. The rest of him was cold and stiff like he hadn’t moved in a while. God, he hoped he was still wearing his clothes and had both his kidneys.
“Ohhh,” Tristan moaned. “Fuck me...” He lifted his tingling hand to ease the discomfort and frowned, realizing his wrist felt damp. And his head was killing him. Whatever he’d been drugged with left a bad taste in his mouth and cotton in his head. While he was deciding on bothering to open his eyes and get up or just doze back asleep, there was a noise in his ear, someone clearing their throat with a great deal of annoyance. He had a pretty good idea of who it was and opened his eyes, slowly turning his head.
Tristan was sitting in the passenger seat of his little sports car. In the driver’s seat was his new sword wielding, zombie killing friend and he didn’t look very happy. The feeling was mutual. But despite his distaste for his new “friend”, Tristan figured the guy could at least tell him what the fuck was going on. Maybe he hallucinated the whole night. Wouldn’t that have been a relief he knew wasn’t likely.
While the two stared at each other, Tristan realized he didn’t feel right. Besides the fact that his body ached, there was something not drug induced happening in his middle. This warmth, tingling that started just at his navel and reached lower. And no, he wasn’t going to puke again—how fucking embarrassing was that?—and it wasn’t nerves. It was reminiscent of the tingle in his hand from losing circulation, only… Only, this felt good. Like aroused, good.
God.
His new friend opened his mouth to speak but Tristan interrupted. “You can lose the press-on fangs already, dude. And, seriously, what’s up with the contacts? Purple, really? Super manly.” Sure, Tristan was being childish, petty, but he’d had a pretty rough night.
The man snapped his mouth shut and touched fingers to his lips. In a huff, he climbed out of the car without saying a word and slammed the door behind him to leave Tristan groaning and clutching his pounding head.
That proved one thing, that Tristan was not hallucinating.
“Damn,” he sighed. After a moment of gathering himself, he chanced getting up. The overhead light was nearly blinding, the outside air colder than he remembered. He smacked his lips, his mouth tasted tart. His body was stiff yet he felt disconnected from it. He’d definitely been drugged, question was, with what? Guess it didn’t really matter anymore—he was still alive. He stood out of the car to his full height and swayed when his vision went blurry for a moment. He reached out and rested his forehead on the edge of the car roof between his hands for a moment, trying to catch his breath in long, slow mouthfuls.
The crunch of gravel behind him made Tristan look up. It was still dark out, but the sky was starting to bleed faint orange where the sun awakened for the day. There were dark cutouts in the background, trees against huge mountains that hovered overhead. Except for the large, single story home and the car port further down the driveway, there was nothing else in their secluded little part of Akita. No homes, no lights, no cars. No one. They weren’t even near the city anymore. Oh yay, just him and the weird dude in the cape.
“Hey,” Tristan called out, immediately regretting it as his eardrums rebelled against the noise of his own voice. “Where the hell did you bring me?” The Bates Motel?
The stranger didn’t even bother looking back. He just went inside, leaving the front door open behind him. Tristan scoffed and looked to his car. He was seriously considering just leaving. But the need to know who—what Shizuka was, was stronger than his other wants. God, could he even call her Shizuka? Did zombies have names? Everything in the club alleyway really did happen, right? The annoying guy with the cape was real enough anyway. And he had Tristan’s keys.
“Bastard,” Tristan grumbled and stopped to take one last calming breath, to no avail. He groaned and went inside. He stopped when he found his host standing just inside, one step up, arms crossed over chest and wearing a glum expression. After a moment of staring, his dark expression broke as a slight smile slipped through. “Come in.”
And then the other man was turning away, leaving Tristan to scramble after him. “Hey,” he shouted, stomping across the rich ebony stained bamboo floor as if he intended to dent the wood. “You and I have a few things to clear up and then I’m out…” He turned a corner and froze, the rest of his words instantly forgotten. The home may have been traditional Japanese on the outside, however it was anything but inside. There were no tatami, no bamboo and paper doors or exposed beams. Instead, the dark wood flooring from the entry and hallway extended into the large rectangul
ar room, spotted with only a few simple rugs where it mattered. The entire wall directly opposite of the doublewide doorway they entered from was covered in books; floor to ceiling, nothing but books. Most were leather bound and very, very old by their worn and wrinkled bindings.
Floor length windows dressed in delicate, dark red silk framed the bookshelves. To the left, nestled before a bank of windows facing the front of the home was a grand piano. The sheen was so perfect, so smooth you could see the reflection of the room in its high, black gloss. To balance the room, the other end was dominated by a slate-front fireplace. A frameless abstract canvas hung over the mantel of the great fireplace. The art was dark, mainly black, mixed with hues of blue, gray and streaks of red. Tristan frowned up at the piece, not recognizing it and unable to make sense of what the splashes of muddy colors were portraying only that it added to his already gloomy state. Two high back and plush armchairs cozied up to the front the fireplace. Tristan could almost picture his strange host sitting there with one of his antique books, wearing reading glasses and one of those heavy embroidered robes with an ascot tucked inside, drinking 50-year-old scotch. Pretending to be all grown up.
Tristan stepped farther into the warm room and his eye was immediately drawn to a well-stocked wet bar on the right-hand wall, the fireplace end of the room. He almost didn’t realize he was licking his lips, transfixed on the bottles of liquid. God he could really use the drink right about then too. Then again, when couldn’t he? A round silver clock ticked away the minutes over the bar. A quick glance confirmed what he had suspected outside; it was practically dawn. He’d lost more than seven hours.
Eyeing his strange host, Tristan decided to restart their conversation, maybe with something less aggressive than before. The guy did save him after all. That earned him at least five minutes of niceties, even if they tasted bad on Tristan’s tongue. “Did I hear right before?” His host, who’d gone to stand at the fireplace to look up at that macabre painting, turned and gave Tristan a questioning look. “Your name is… Ash?”
Beautiful Death Page 2
