by Rhys Ford
It was always odd coming back here as a cop. I’d run some jobs through the area when I was a teen, and while some of the players had changed since then, the landscape had not. Jimmy’s Ramen House was still on the corner, its black wooden slatted doors shut tightly against foot traffic and guarded by a thick-necked Odonata wearing an ill-fitting gray suit and missing three of his meaty fingers. He watched us as we passed by, but I didn’t make eye contact. I didn’t have to. The copper-green facets of my eyes in my mostly human face told him all he needed to know. He knew who I was, and he braced his shoulders when we went by.
The narrow street was pretty, bathed in muted watercolor-wash lights. The buildings’ walls were cast in the warren’s blue-tinged shadows, but splashes of brighter colors dappled the storefronts. Red-orange lanterns and yellow neon streamers pushed the cobalt back, washing the walls and cobblestones in sunset and purple tones. There was as much Japanese influence as Chinese in this neighborhood, doorways half covered with grungy noren and framed by stone figurines massive enough to jut into the already tight walkway. Murmurs of conversation seeped out from open windows, but it was hard to make anything out past the rattle of old air conditioners working extra hard to move the warren’s stagnant air.
I had to step carefully past a cut-through window advertising salted cod blocks because of a stream of dirty water trickling down the side of the building and into the street, but Trent splashed right through it, muddying his no longer bleach white sneakers.
“People are watching you,” Trent muttered, coming up close behind me. “Not me. You.”
“Yeah, I know.” I didn’t like the looks of a guy standing under a pink neon splash of kanji promising massages and good conversation. He stiffened when Trent drew up to me, and his hand twitched, but he caught himself before reaching for his waist. Covering the motion by lifting his hand up to straighten his collar, I spotted the red kitsune crest tattooed on the inside of his wrist. “Give me some space. You’re making people nervous.”
“I don’t—”
“We’ll talk about it later, okay?” I sounded as reassuring as I could, but to be honest, I was more intent on reaching our destination than soothing Trent’s nerves. Something was going on in the warrens, in Chinatown, actually. My gut was telling me trouble simmered in the air around us, but other than the coiled tightness in everyone we walked past, I couldn’t tell what the problem was. “We just need to get inside.”
An orange traffic cone sat at the end of the side street. It’d been there for as long as I could remember, or maybe it was simply replaced any time it looked worn. I’d never thought much about it, but there it was, an odd beacon of tangerine in the blue dankness.
An old-school round red door took up most of the wall at the street’s end, nonsense kanji running around its arched iron inlay. Enormous foo dogs sprawled on either side of the door, their tongues curled up over their noses, and the right one’s ear was docked, a gold ring piercing its tuft. They were ancient watchers, squat bodies and dense, but I’d seen them run down a man who mistakenly thought he could stab a whore he’d purchased for an hour. Their bright blue manes curled down over their pure golden eyes, but they saw everything happening in the street beyond.
And if by some off chance they missed something, their keeper would have them up off the ground and onto their prey before the next flicker of neon.
Yokugawa had been guarding the front entrance of Kingfisher’s nearly every time I’d approached the red door. He dwarfed his dogs, and when he leaned forward to sniff at my face, he blocked out most of the light around me.
“What the fucking Hell?” Trent gasped. “Dear… gods.”
“It has been a long time since I’ve seen you, Tombo.” His breath was rank, pushing out of his nostrils, and the air fluttered my hair. Tilting his ruddy ox head, he eyed Trent, flexing his muscles in a display of dominance and warning. “And you’ve brought… what to us?”
“A partner. My new partner.” I turned to introduce Trent, who was a bit white around the eyes. “Trent Leonard, I am giving you the pleasure and honor of meeting Yokugawa of the Chiba district. Yokugawa, this is Trent Leonard, my new partner.”
I didn’t blame Trent for blanching. Gozu were rare and people-shy, but Yokugawa wore his difference proudly, perhaps even defiantly. Easily seven feet tall and muscled thickly, he wore next to nothing when he stood guard, simply a loincloth to advertise his brawn. He didn’t need to. Anyone taking one look at his heavily sculpted body and broad taurine head would think twice about challenging him. Well, anyone sober. There’d been plenty of inebriated people who’d thought to take down Yokugawa in a fight, and as far as I knew, every single one of them ended up as a smear on the street.
“Are you taking him inside?” Yokugawa barked, and the dogs lifted their heads, mildly concerned for a moment, but then rolled back over to continue their nap. “She won’t like it.”
“She’ll be fine,” I reassured him, but I wasn’t too sure she would be. I’d never brought another cop here. But I ached from the explosion, and we needed information. “It’s nothing much. Just need to talk to her.”
“If she tells me to kill him, will you stop me?” His nostrils flared again, and I gave Trent credit for not reacting.
“I will have to, Yoku.” I held my hands up in apology. “He’s my partner. For what it’s worth, I will regret killing you. What will become of the dogs? I can’t take them. I have a cat.”
It took a second before my words hit Yokugawa’s sense of humor, but eventually they did, and he burst out in a rolling laugh hearty enough to rattle the doors down the street. Slapping my back, he nearly slammed me into one of the dogs, and I coughed, losing my breath and gaining probably another five bruises.
“Okay, I will let you in,” he announced, then placed a massive hand on Trent’s shoulder, patting him gently. “You come in too.” Reaching down, Yokugawa grasped the front door’s iron ring and pulled it open, revealing the chaos and noise beyond. “Welcome to Kingfisher’s, little man and Tombo. Try to stay out of trouble. She’s still a little mad about what happened the last time.”
Ten
THE FIRST time I’d walked into Kingfisher’s, I was about nine or ten years old.
There were a lot of reasons I shouldn’t have been there, and my age was probably the second to last item on a long damned list, but I always remembered how I’d felt when I first walked through that red door: like I’d bitten off a lot more than I could chew and my throat wasn’t wide enough for me to swallow it down.
Much like how Trent looked as soon as he passed over the threshold and took in the insane circus known as Kingfisher’s.
I’d never seen the place empty, its chairs upside down on the tables and the floors being mopped. I don’t know when the main floor got cleaned, but it never looked anything but pristine. Sleek black marble walls reflected the crystal chandeliers hanging from the twelve-foot-high gold-embossed ceilings. The carpet was a deep lush red dotted with yellow peony medallions, and shoulder-high partitions inset with screens in the same rich ebony as the walls separated the tables. A wide, sweeping staircase led to the upstairs rooms, private areas where business could be done without anyone overhearing a deal or selling their souls to a devil they hoped would never collect—but always did.
But what really made Kingfisher’s awe-inspiring were the men and women gliding between the tables, delivering drinks and affection with a potent freedom guaranteed to knock the wind out of whoever hired them for the hour.
The air ran rich with the scent of champagne, whiskey, and fine food. A soft murmuring chatter ran low beneath the clink of silverware and crystal. A long bar along the far side wall was in the weeds with a small gathering of businessmen wearing suits I wasn’t sure I could even afford to look at, much less wear. The bartender, a petite narrow-faced brownie, slung frothy drinks with a jaded insouciance gained from years of hearing sob stories and cheesy come-ons. About four foot three, she stood on a platform built up be
hind the bar. I knew this because I’d once been tossed over the top of that bar and hit my chin on the metal grid risers the staff laid down when the brownie poured.
A sylph strolled past us, his rolling-hip swagger and black leather pants accentuated by the sway of his double-scalloped opaque ivory wings. Pale to the color of bleached bone, his skin caught every bit of light licking at his bare face and muscled chest. Teal strands streaked his long, wild white hair, framing his strong vulpine face and bringing out the Bay-green tints in his narrowed ocean-blue eyes. He threw us a cocky smile as he turned to step down onto the main floor, his wings sweeping around to create a sunshine and washed cotton–scented breeze.
I heard Trent gulp, and if I didn’t already know how much of an asshole Ghost was, I’d probably have stepped off the landing and followed him straight into Hell.
Most of the household were common faerie, but there were a few who wore their fae blood in the curve of serpentine tails or glistening spangles under their pale skin. All were beautiful stained glass and powder, mandala–patterned wings sweeping up in glorious displays of mottled colors and glittery translucents. They were heartbreakingly gorgeous, some baring skin while others showed very little, but all were dressed for one purpose: the seduction of the senses. And standing at the entrance, drinking in the spectrum of saturated artistry made of flesh and sex, Kingfisher’s was an awe-striking experience, no matter how many times I walked past that heavy door.
“Holy… crap.” Trent’s hushed whisper joined the murmur running through the enormous room. The stoic badass demeanor he’d worn since I met him cracked a little bit under the sheer force of sex, desire, and decadence in front of us. “They’re….”
“Yeah, they’re all fae.” I cocked my head, taking one last good, hard look at Ghost’s ass. “That is trouble. Watch yourself if you wander over there.”
“I was going to say gorgeous, but….” Trent’s face shifted, hardening to a wary poise. “Everyone who works here is… faerie.”
“Or at least close enough to count. Roll your tongue back into your head, partner. We’ve got a woman to see.”
THE CROWD was a bit thicker than it looked, and it was tricky to maneuver around some of the more boisterous parties. I was steering Trent toward the bank of corridors to the left of the bar, but it was difficult. Ghost was a distraction. I couldn’t see him, but I knew he was around, lingering and being… Ghost-like. I nodded hellos at some of the staff I knew personally, sending a wink to a froth-haired pink faerie whose dress seemed more of a hint of gossamer than actual fabric. I lost my partner to a quick-handed feu follet for a moment, her low, seductive chuckle tickling my ears as I dragged him away from her cloying embrace.
“It’s illegal to hire only faerie,” Trent grumbled from behind me. “Not that there’s anything wrong with being fae, it’s just—”
“Humans work here too,” I corrected. “It’s just not… look, we have more important things going here than labor violations. Kingfisher’s sells a fantasy. Just like a casino or one of those amusement parks where they make really short people dress up as bobbleheaded furry creatures. You hire who fits the part. Now how about if you act like… no, don’t act like a cop. Just… follow me, okay?”
Someone’s elbow hit my ribs, and I was swiftly reminded I’d been blown to kingdom come earlier that afternoon. Combined with the fall off the benevolent society’s roof, I was a walking disaster. Pain blossomed along my kidneys, and a pulse began in my temples, pounding a light salsa beat into my brain. I wanted to throw up, and then after I swallowed, another tap made my eyes water to the point of tears.
I knew better. I’ve always known better. I’ve walked the spiderweb of my existence since my first breath and didn’t see an end in sight because when being my father’s son no longer mattered, my world would become so complicated, walking across the street would be an exercise in logistics. Still, I couldn’t help but mutter a curse when I was jostled trying to pass a small crowd of men.
“Shit, that hurt. Watch it.”
Kingfisher’s stopped.
All of it simply… stopped.
The man who nudged me was familiar. Or at least his type was. I knew the smell of him—the look of him—the greasy feel of his smile smearing itself over his pockmarked face, and despite the expensive cut of his navy blue suit, he felt cheap. He stank of the tonic he used to slick his black hair, his breath permanently scented with the odor of bottom-shelf scotch. Shorter and stockier than his colleagues, he was hunched over at first, cackling loudly in a mean-spirited glee. But when he pulled his shoulders back to stand up straighter, I still had a good six inches on him, although there was a puffiness to his spirit and he inflated it to make himself look larger than he was.
The baku inked on his neck was visible despite the tightness of his white collar, and a bit more of his chest tattoo was visible beneath the thin fabric where it wasn’t doubled over for a lapel or placket. His markings were for show, crudely done and badly lined, dug into his body with all the care someone would use to pick out a crouton from a salad buffet. He spit some harsh out in ghetto Japanese, dealing me an insult my mother would have felt if she’d been alive.
Then he saw my face and turned whiter than Ghost.
He kept turning, shifting his shoulders, and his narrowed eyes widened until I thought his eyelids would rattle back like old paper window shades. Kingfisher’s remained quiet and still, a ripple of silence deepening with every hesitant breath. For a moment I thought he’d bow.
I could see his hesitation, so I reached over and patted him on the shoulder and murmured, “No worries. It’s fine. We’re just going around.”
The pockmarked man flinched when I touched him.
“Ah, excuse us. Just coming through. I’m fine. Just surprised.” There were so many lies on my tongue I was surprised I didn’t choke on their weight while I circled the group, nodding as pleasantly as I could to the others. Trent moved in, broad shoulders angled to cut himself a path through the loosely packed bodies, and his eyes were moving again, dancing and hitting on each face in the crowd.
Breathing began again. So did small movements, then the too loud chatter of people trying desperately to fill a void with all they had inside of them, even if it was inane nonsense, anything to blunt the razor-sharp edge in the air.
Then as I took a step forward, someone in the small cluster of tattooed suit-wearing men said in a guttural Japanese, “After you, Betobeto-san.”
This time the silence came with a scuffle of feet and a hushed ocean of apologies, emptying the space around a hard-faced kid with a gold tooth.
Before the quiet was anticipation. This time it was deadly.
It was funny how the oddest things stood out during moments when everything hung in the balance. Sounds were probably the most notable because, in the held-breath quiet, the room was still… loud. The crystal chandelier above Trent and I creaked when a blast of cooled air hit it, its thick black fabric cord twisting about in the hole through the light fixture’s gold anchor in the ceiling. A subtle shush-chiming whispered around me, the off-sync chords and violin-string plucks of wings being ruffled and rubbed.
I didn’t know how much Japanese my partner knew, but he probably at least caught the tone of the insult, because Trent was a statue made of flint and gold. I could see him out of the corner of my eye, standing a few feet away and as rigid as stone. He resonated danger, guarding my flank as if we’d known each other through many lifetimes instead of just a few handfuls of hours and a couple of disasters. All I had to do was reach out, call to him or give him a nod, and I knew he’d ignite a firestorm of reckoning.
In the space of a heartbeat, the primal animal in me saw Trent Leonard with his gilded Viking strength and qirin-scarred face and knew he’d have my back if I needed it. I’d never known that. As much as I’d loved John, he’d been useless in a fight, a mediator of soft words and thoughtful gestures. It was a different kind of partnership we were forming, one literally forg
ed in blood, fire, and potential violence.
It was… nice. And at any other time, probably a bit of a turn-on, but the middle of Kingfisher’s, a declared sanctuary shared by the yakuza and triad families, was probably not the best place to rain down Hell and brimstone on a snarky piece of shit who had less sense than a sucked-dry juice box.
Still, some things couldn’t go unremarked. That was just how things were done in order for everyone to survive in the détente created by my grandfather’s insanity.
I sought out the one who’d tried to shame me. He couldn’t have been more than twenty, a cocksure kid with a few thin hairs sprouting from his sloping chin. He looked more kappa than human, a sad genetic stamp one particular family in Japantown was known for. I vaguely knew his cousin, or maybe it was his uncle, a bulge-eyed, flat-nosed man who’d weaseled his way into my paternal family’s inner circle. The uncle-cousin had that same smirk the brash asshole challenging me couldn’t keep from curling his upper lip.
Staring him down for a second, I waited for him to get uncomfortable, and when he shuffled his feet, the rest of the men bled off into the background, leaving the young thug standing alone under the pool of light coming from the squeaking chandelier.
“You’re not going to be so tough when Uncle dies.” He took the first jab, a glancing blow meant to rattle me. “We’ll see how untouchable you are then, Tombo.”
It wasn’t the first time someone’d tossed that in my face, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. The uncle part. Not the Tombo. Everyone seemed to call me that. The uncle bit. It was a bit of trouble I couldn’t afford to borrow. Not now. Maybe not ever. There were too many factors—too many people—with a stake in that game, and I’d spent most of my life battling against becoming one of its pawns.
But here was this scraping of a street tough, someone without any weight to him, attempting to drag me into the family’s crap as if he could accomplish where the more powerful failed.
