by Kim Newman
As Dorakuraya turned to the altar, Kostaki realised why he stood so straight. A sword was sheathed against his spine.
‘Him, he just found,’ said Dorakuraya, indicating his brother-in-darkness, who grunted without complaint. ‘The wretch Kichijiro wasn’t a suitable bodyguard, so Father Rodrigues sought out this ronin and turned him. He is always Thirty Something. Thirty Dung Beetles, Thirty Peach Trees, Thirty Satisfied Courtesans, Thirty Bloody Graves. He was conscientious, putting his sword between our father and those who would stop him… until the European coin was spent. Then, Rodrigues was unprotected. From me.’
‘Nemuri beheaded our father-in-darkness,’ said the samurai, addressing Kostaki directly. ‘A clean killing. Honourable vengeance. For crimes against us, and against all humanity. The priest murdered us both and raised us from death as slaves. And worse than slaves.’
Dorakuraya – Nemuri, his brother-in-darkness called him – flashed fangs.
‘He betrayed this one’s mother too,’ continued Komori, jerking a thumb at Dorakuraya. ‘And took it as his duty to commit many crimes. Before every sin, the Father would pause… to give Deus, the Christian god, an opportunity to speak out, to stop him. If God spoke to him, the Father would show the mercy of Abraham, reward those he had intended to harm, and devote his life to good works. Just a whispered word on the wind… and many would be spared, saved. Many he was about to outrage mistook his pause for a hesitation. Maybe, they thought, the monster would be moderate – would not burn, torture, ravage, drink blood. That hope was a sharper cruelty, I think, than he intended. Deus was always silent. The Father pressed on with his own pleasures – not that he got joy from them. He transgressed over and over again in a holy quest, seeking a sin so great that God was forced to talk to him. You would have liked the Father, I think.’
Kostaki doubted that. But he knew the silence of God.
‘Father Rodrigues was a great man,’ said Dorakuraya. ‘The vessel that bore the sacred blood to the East. That was his true holy cause. He came not in the name of Deus, but of Dracula. Without him, this would be wilderness. The only vampires here would be poor, childish things… goblins such as you’ve seen in the Temple of Ice. But fathers must fall so sons may rise.’
At that, Komori spat blood.
Dorakuraya twitched with distaste.
The brothers-in-darkness were an odd pair. Their father had done more than make vampires of them. He had forged them into swords. One straight, one curved – both honed sharp. Perhaps he really was Dracula’s get. In Kostaki’s experience, the Prince didn’t have to be present to cast a shadow over everything. Sebastian Rodrigues must have been truly dead for hundreds of years… but his little brood still clung together. They couldn’t go two minutes without mentioning him.
‘We are true vampires,’ declared Dorakuraya. ‘You are our kinsmen.’
Kostaki admitted Dorakuraya and Komori were what Europeans recognised as vampires. Not yōkai, but nosferatu. The bloodline was hardy indeed to take root in stony ground. Like Christianity, their vampirism had survived hundreds of years of persecution in the land of the rising sun.
For all Dorakuraya’s prissiness and Komori’s slovenliness, both were warriors. That martial aspect was another Dracula trait.
‘Nemuri will try to enlist you in his crusade,’ said Komori. ‘If I were you, I’d keep out of it. You may prefer to keep your heads fixed to your shoulders.’
‘My brother is fleshly,’ said Dorakuraya. ‘Obsessed with his comforts—’
‘Which is why you find me wallowing in luxury.’
‘Too lazy to fight for our cause.’
‘When Nemuri says “our”, he stretches the word. Later, once you’re ashes, it shrinks again and he says “my”. Causes make me itch.’
Kostaki suspected everything made Komori itch.
An idealist and a cynic. Or a fanatic and a realist. Had Kostaki and Dravot found a mirror in this church? If so, he was chilled to admit he preferred Dravot’s reflection to his own. He trusted Komori, who was barely civil, over Dorakuraya, who greeted them as long-lost relatives.
Outside, things howled in pain and anger.
‘Listen to them,’ said Dorakuraya, eyes flashing green-gold. ‘The children of the night – what music they make.’
‘Sounds more like dogs fightin’ to me,’ said Dravot. ‘I likes a tune you can march to, you know, or wring out of a squeeze box.’
‘The only music Nemuri likes more than dogs fighting is dogs dying,’ said Komori.
The commotion was near the church – on its doorstep. A knocking and rattling came. Kichijiro tried to hide in a confessional used as a privy. Dorakuraya lashed out with his scarf. Weighted in the Thuggee manner, it whip-snapped against the Renfield’s head.
Whimpering, Kichijiro ducked under the black curtain.
Kostaki looked at Dravot. The Sergeant had his hand inside his coat again.
Komori fiddled with his belt. One of his blades slid a few shining inches out of its wooden sheath as if by accident. Dorakuraya wound his white scarf back around his neck, and gripped his sword.
Kostaki realised his hand also hovered near his carrack.
The racket outside turned to a piteous keening. Something not an animal, or not entirely an animal, was wailing. And making a concert of it.
The Renfield blundered out of the vestibule. He pulled the curtain behind him, clumsily tugging it off its rail.
Cold wind blew into the church.
The door was open. A small, white-faced – masked? – woman squatted on the step, swaddled in a padded robe. Her glossy hair was piled in an arrangement of spheres with needles stuck through them. Her eyes were glass buttons with horizontal slits for pupils. On her cheeks were scarlet dabs. Grooves cut into her skin from the corners of her mouth.
‘Monster, give me my child,’ someone screeched.
The high-pitched voice came not from the woman but from under a black blanket spread out behind her like a train. A small human shape lay on the steps, one arm buried in the woman’s robe.
The woman’s mouth clicked open. She was a doll.
The puppeteer made the figure crawl forwards. The chin hung idiotically, showing black wooden teeth. The eyes rolled on nails.
Porcelain hands clapped to the doll face.
‘Monster… my child…’
Dorakuraya looked, with irritation, to Komori – who shrugged.
Like Dorakuraya, with his ‘children of the night’ speech, the doll – who spoke in accented English – was quoting. An extract from Jonathan Harker’s Transylvania journal. This was a long way to come for a marionette travesty of Bram Stoker’s suppressed book.
Terrified, Kichijiro threw the curtain over the doll. Muffled, it continued to bleat about its child.
The puppeteer stood, and the curtain hung over his blanket. He – if the sexless figure was a he – was a black version of the pantomime white-sheeted ghost.
The puppet head peeped out from a fold of cloth, mouth clicking in disapproval.
‘Get you gone,’ said Dorakuraya.
To emphasise the point, he drew his sword as if sliding it out of his spine. It came free in one smooth, easy move. The steel, slightly oiled, glistened in the firelight.
The puppet head craned, glassy eyes surveying the church. Kostaki had an urge to cut the doll’s head off and the operator’s hand with it.
Another puppet – on the puppeteer’s other hand – emerged. This one wore a red-lined cape and was a European vampire, with widow’s peak, spade beard and prominent fangs.
‘I am… Dracula,’ came a low, resonant voice. ‘You think to baffle me, you – with your pale faces all in a row like sheep in a butcher’s. You shall be sorry yet, each one of you!’
Kichijiro couldn’t have been more frightened of the real Dracula.
Dravot was laughing, though he’d also drawn his revolver. Komori and Dorakuraya held their blades up. As did Kostaki.
This was not a door-to-door entertain
ment.
From behind the black-draped puppeteer peeped a small figure Kostaki knew at once wasn’t another doll. A little vampire with many layers of ruffled skirts, a bodice embroidered with purple skulls, and sleeves of frill upon frill. He got an impression of huge coal-black eyes and a red bow in a mane of springy ringlets.
Dorakuraya also saw her – and hissed.
Kostaki had an uncomfortable sense of being in the middle of something he couldn’t hope to understand.
The puppeteer, still draped head to foot, shambled into the church. Dolls bobbed along in front of the figure, heads turning eerily in unison. Ridiculous, but not amusing.
Both heads tilted back, like baby birds opening mouths wide to be fed. Broad knives extended from their bodies.
Dorakuraya planted his feet firmly and began to move his sword in a circle until it was raised above his head. Steel shimmered as the samurai cut through the air. The knife-head dolls jabbed and Dorakuraya sliced at the puppeteer’s covered head, skipping past while whirling fast to slash. He should have cut through the unseen figure’s windpipe and spine…
The dolls laughed.
The cloth parted where the sword’s edge touched. The human hump collapsed, taking the puppets with it. The curtain and blanket flattened and wrinkled on the flagstones, as if no one had been there.
The bats in the eaves squeaked and flapped.
Dorakuraya lifted the curtain with the end of his sword and whipped it away. The puppets lay, abandoned. The vampire doll was cracked across the face. The grieving mother had choked on her knife.
‘Nemuri makes enemies,’ Komori observed. ‘That’s what comes of nominating yourself as the Dracula of Japan. Others take offence.’
‘The child?’ Kostaki prompted.
‘Tsunako Shiki,’ said Komori, ‘a pet of Yuki-Onna, the Snow Queen. Tsunako loves toys, dolls and conjuring tricks.’
‘An ungrateful whelp,’ said Dorakuraya, with feeling.
‘Little madam could do with a beltin’,’ said Dravot.
Komori nudged the mother puppet with his toe. A beetle crawled out of a cracked eyehole.
Lady Geneviève had mentioned Yuki-Onna. A Japanese elder – effectively queen of all yōkai, but absent. Evidently, she had loyalists and partisans.
Something hissed through the open door. Kichijiro yelped and held up his hand. Embedded in his palm was a sharp metal star shape.
Shadow men dropped from the ceiling, disturbing clouds of bats.
They moved vampire-fast and wore black wrappings. Hoods showed only their eyes. They were silent, but the bats made a lot of noise.
Dorakuraya spun again, making a circle with his blade. The shadow men danced about him as if he were a deadly maypole, staying beyond reach of his sword-tip.
Kostaki heard a child’s laughter. Bats flapped against his face and flew out of the church. A shadow came at him, darting from side to side – or was it two shadows constantly exchanging places?
The church was full of shadow men.
Ninja. Geneviève had mentioned them too. A kind of warrior monk – Buddhist Templars? Known for quiet, skill and near-supernatural abilities. Like vanishing suddenly, appearing in puffs of smoke, mule kicks, steam piston thumps, snake-swift reflexes and – it seems – puppet theatre. If the troupe wanted a music hall career, the acrobat act was a better bet than the ugly ventriloquist dolls.
Dorakuraya scythed through encircling shadows. His sword slid across bleeding flesh. Shadows fell and tumbled out of his range.
Komori made ostensibly clumsy passes, but ninja dropped to their knees around him. He fought like an unpredictable drunkard. Very dangerous.
‘’Ave you noticed?’ said Dravot. ‘These fellahs ain’t botherin’ us.’
Two shadows collided in front of Kostaki. He was pushed backwards by palm strikes. His chest was hammered. Geneviève had warned of the ninja vampire-slaying technique – a quick punch to break ribs, then a fond embrace. Sheared bones turned to heart-transfixing stakes.
‘Sorry I spoke,’ said Dravot, trying to find a target.
‘Don’t shoot,’ Kostaki said. ‘You’ll hit someone.’
‘That’s the general idea of shootin’, Brother Taki.’
‘I mean you’ll hit me.’
‘Didn’t do me much good the last time.’
‘Didn’t do me much good either.’
‘I said before and I say again, if I’d known you was a Brother of the Craft, I’d ’ave let you be and shot the other fellah—’
The ninja leaped around them. Kostaki was half-right: they weren’t attacking him and Dravot, but were trying to keep the Europeans separate from Komori and Dorakuraya.
Fed up with all this nonsense, Dravot got a grip on the barrel of his revolver and used the handle as a club. He connected solidly with a cowled head. A ninja tumbled face-first into a mess of kindling and cobweb.
His comrades paused in their activities and looked at the Englishman.
‘What?’ he asked. ‘Not cricket?’
Something flashed across the church – another throwing star stuck in Dravot’s cheek. It missed his eye, but his wound wept blood. Dravot was obviously too annoyed to feel the injury as more than a flea bite. He flipped his pistol and fired above their heads.
Ninja scrambled to get up and get back. Even the ones Dorakuraya had caught with his full moon cut were merely scratched. Their black tight-fitting clothes showed wounds and gashes. They didn’t bleed.
The ninja didn’t stay still long enough to be distinguished one from another. Fast as vampires and rapidly healing, they weren’t undead – or even yōkai. This was some other trick.
The shadow warriors were another variety of puppet. And Kostaki knew who was out there in the fog, giggling as she tugged on the silk-thread strings.
Another cousin to the nosferatu. A nuisance and an ungrateful whelp. There was a story here. Was Tsunako Shiki another sprig of the Rodrigues’ bloody family tree? Or perhaps the once-pampered get of this pair of ronin? Such parentage arrangements seldom lasted.
Dorakuraya and Komori stood, back to back, swords raised, snarling like tigers.
Suddenly, the ninja were gone.
Dravot whistled and looked about. He holstered his gun.
‘What was that all about?’ he asked.
Kostaki shrugged.
Dorakuraya and Komori were gone too. They had their own ninja tricks.
‘It’d be an ’elp to ’ave a programme so we knew all the players straight off,’ said Dravot.
Kostaki sheathed his sword with a click.
Even Kichijiro had made himself scarce. Kostaki picked up the bloodied star-knife he’d pulled out of his hand. It was six-pointed.
‘You ain’t goin’ to lick that,’ said Dravot. ‘You don’t know where the fellah’s been.’
Kostaki flipped the star to Dravot, who caught it.
‘It’s called a shuriken,’ Kostaki said.
‘Been takin’ lingo lessons with the fair mademoiselle?’ Dravot examined the thing, licking his lips.
‘You already have one,’ Kostaki said. ‘On your face.’
Kostaki pointed to his own cheek. Dravot felt around the star, his eye rolling to look at it.
‘So I ’ave, Brother. Thanks for mentionin’ it.’ Dravot plucked out the shuriken. His wound closed but his face was still bloodied. ‘Steel, not silver,’ he said. ‘There’s a lucky thing.’
‘They’ll be making them of silver soon enough.’
Dravot experimentally threw the stars one after another at the vertical beam of the inverted cross. Both bounced rather than stuck.
‘There’s a knack to this,’ said the Sergeant. ‘Years of practice. I could trounce ’em in any pub at a throw-the-darts tourney. And they could never ’ope to match my mastery of the ancient mystic art of shove ’a’penny.’
Kostaki wasn’t convinced about that. Ninja probably shoved sharpened ha’pennies and played the game to the death.
The little gi
rl’s laugh sounded again. It was picked up and carried by the bats, which were clustering again in their roost. Not a real child, Tsunako was one of those poor, often vicious souls turned before they could grow up.
‘Don’t that give you the ’orrors?’ Dravot commented.
Mirthless laughter was sad more than frightening. But Kostaki had concerns about the war they had just wandered into. It would not profit them to get involved in local disputes, especially before – as Dravot said – they knew who the players were. Komori mentioned Dorakuraya’s crusade and Dorakuraya spoke of ‘our cause’. Neither gave specifics.
As they looked up at the ceiling, a horsehair trunk abandoned among the broken pews popped open. Tsunako Shiki sprung up in a froth of petticoats and a cloud of paper butterflies, hands out like a conjurer expecting applause. She tilted her head to one side and then the other, and showed a fanged Cupid’s bow smile.
Kostaki and Dravot looked at the vampire girl.
She tumbled out of the trunk and rolled across the flagstones, then scrabbled on her tiny hands and feet, moving swiftly towards them.
Kostaki flinched, expecting an attack. She put her arms around his legs and pressed her curls against his thigh.
‘I think she likes you,’ said Dravot. ‘You always was a devil with the girlies, Brother Taki.’
Kostaki still expected a sting – teeth sunk into the meat of his leg, or snapping metal traps in her hair. But Tsunako looked shyly up at him and blew a kiss.
Then, she let him go and flew backwards and upwards, disturbing the bats. The colony took flight and rushed at Kostaki and Dravot with scything wings. They waved their hands, sweeping the squeaking, flapping creatures away.
By the time the bats were out of their hair, Tsunako Shiki was nowhere to be seen.
On reflection, Kostaki was more worried by her hug than he would have been by a bite. Tsunako was a human doll. Kostaki did not play with dolls.
‘Mercies that she’s gone,’ he breathed.
‘Our ’osts have abandoned us too,’ Dravot said.
‘We should get back to the temple,’ said Kostaki. ‘We’ve left the others alone too long.’
‘The ladies, eh, Brother Taki? I’m sure they can fend for themselves.’
