Eternal Samurai (11 page)

“
Gomen nasai, yurushite, senpai
,” Tatsu blurted not comprehending why he was asking for forgiveness. Nor the tears that stung his eyes.

Arisada’s palm caressed Tatsu’s cheek. “I have been searching for you for hundreds of lifetimes. Now, I find there is nothing to forgive,
koibito.
” With those words, Arisada damned his honor and his redemption. He cupped Tatsu’s face in both hands and stroked his thumbs over Tatsu’s tender mouth. “So beautiful, my
koibito
,” Arisada whispered.

The brush of those digits danced lightening over Tatsu’s lips. He fell into eyes that were taking on the deep burnish of a sunset. The warm puff of Arisada’s breath fluttered against his mouth as the vampire leaned in.

Cradling the back of Tatsu’s head, Arisada pressed his mouth against the boy’s soft and pliant lips in a tender kiss. To his surprise, those warm lips opened. The unexpected willingness of Tatsu’s response plummeted straight into Arisada’s cock. Arisada made a moan, thick with repressed desire, and slid his tongue inside that moist cavern. Tatsu’s taste was a delightful mélange of cigarettes, spices and human boy.

At the first touch of Arisada’s lips, Tatsu drowned under the waves of want engulfing him. His body flared with blind need. Never had a kiss felt like this—so full of love. So bright with promise. So right. With a tiny whimper, he opened his mouth and invited the vampire’s tongue deeper. He curled his arms around the vampire’s back and drew him tight, groin to groin. Heat pooled into Tatsu’s balls, his cock, his ass. Another moan rumbled deep in his throat as he felt the thickness of vampire’s erection press against his crotch. Desperate for something more, he ground against that hardness.

Tatsu feasted on that kiss as if starved for it. He drove his tongue into Arisada’s exotic mouth in a crude mating, a frantic slaving together of need. Mouth to mouth, exploring, savoring, remembering. With a heady urgency, the tip of his tongue traced the tender contours of the vampire’s palete—and rolled over the ridges housing the vampire’s fangs.

Revulsion tore through Tatsu.

“Get the fuck off me.” He pulled his mouth off that source of ecstasy, slapped his hands against the vampire’s chest and shoved.

Dismay and hurt flashed across Arisada’s face as he staggered from Tatsu’s blow. A sad, strangled noise slipped from his lips at the loathing contorting Tatsu’s face.

“What the fuck do you think you are doing?” He heard the disgust in his voice, not knowing if it was directed at the vampire or himself. He stepped back scrubbing his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Claiming a kiss from the one I love,” Arisada drew back, all sign of hurt gone.

“You are insane. You are a vampire, an animal, you can’t love.”

“Oh, you are very wrong. Vampires do love, often deeply, destructively. The passions we felt as human we feel now, perhaps even more because of what we have lost. Never underestimate our emotions, boy.” Arisada glared, eyes flickering red.

“You lie, you have no heart. You cannot feel what a human feels.”

“Feel this,” Arisada cried, grabbing Tatsu’s free hand and slapping the open palm against his chest.

The steady pulse of a heartbeat thrummed beneath Tatsu’s splayed fingers.

Before he reacted, Arisada crushed his fingers into Tatsu’s hair and fused their lips together in a brutal kiss. The vampire’s iron-will wavered. His fangs slipped their channels and caught against Tatsu’s bottom lip.

At that deadly yet intimate touch, revulsion tore through Tatsu snapping him out of his daze.
Fakku,
what was he doing? This man, no, this thing was
kyūketsuki
, a monster. A killer.

His body recoiled. He slammed his palm so hard against Arisada’s chest, the vampire staggered backward.

“Stay away from me. Next time I see you I will kill you.” But Tatsu’s anger got caught somewhere in the wild tingling of his lips from that bruising, bee-sting sensation of that kiss.

Arisada’s golden gaze darkened with sorrow. He raised his hand as if to brush his fingers against Tatsu’s cheek but stopped mid-way. Instead, he combed his hand through the sweat-drenched tangles of Tatsu’s hair then tugged off the
hachimaki.
Took a single step back.

Tatsu dropped the impotent
iaito
and spun toward the weapons stand. Before his hand touched his
katana
, the vampire stood at the dojo door. Arisada’s eyes never left Tatsu as he bent and picked up his
katana
. Then, to Tatsu’s astonishment, the vampire pulled the blade free, held it horizontally above his head and bowed—honor and respect from one warrior to another. In the blinding speed of an
iaido
master, Arisada snapped the blade into its saya and slipped it into his
obi.

“We will face each other again. I promise.” Arisada lifted his hand holding Tatsu’s ragged bandana up like a trophy.

“
Fakku
!” Tatsu lunged, raising his weapon to strike. Halted mid-stride, stunned by the deep sorrow that flitted across the vampire’s face. Those golden eyes flared crimson. Then Arisada was gone.

Shouting for the creature to return, Tatsu shot through the door into the cold, deserted street. He stood transfixed, trembling. His mind reeled. He wanted only to hate this Saito Arisada, this monster, this evil made flesh.

“Next time, I will kill you.” Tatsu shouted into the empty fog-filled night. For a moment, his stomach heaved as he recalled the arousal that flared through his body. Had Arisada used thrall against him? Tatsu knew he was immune to it. But the alternative scared the shit out of him. No way was he attracted to a vampire, a
kyūketsuki
, his sworn enemy. No. Fucking. Way.

So why for that brief, insane moment did that kiss feel so right? Feel like the answer to every yearning he’d ever felt? Feel like it meant love?
Kuso, kuso, kuso.
Shit, shit, shit. He could not deny it. That flame of a balls-deep, cock-rearing need was tearing through his body and his senses.

He climbed the stairs to his apartment. He needed to forget this insane night. He placed the
menpo
, left in haste by the vampire, on the table beside his bed. Could not help tracing his fingers over the fine molded leather. It was beautiful and perfect, just like its owner.

He tried to call up the cold anger of his vengeance. Instead, the scalding heat of their kiss still lay on his lips as vivid as the moment it happened. His tongue rolled over his lips seeking any last vestige of the vampire’s taste.

As the tepid shower drizzled over his body, Tatsu stared down at his pulsing erection—the undeniable demand in its iron stiffness. He smoothed back the foreskin, saw a string of precum dribble off the end and mingle with the water. He jacked off with punishingly brutal strokes. An angry tugging and twisting of his sac. He drove three fingers to the last knuckle into his ass. His orgasm tore through him, rocketing hard and fast, slamming breath from his lungs and draining the strength from his limbs.

He collapsed against the tiled wall. The freezing blast from the now-cold shower shocked him back to reality. He shut off the creaky taps and dried off with his single, ragged towel. With a strangled groan, he flopped onto his bed.

His loneliness was so deep, so ingrained that he never gave it thought. Now, it made itself known, reached out and tore apart his armor. He was starved for love. But if he allowed that hunger, that weakness, to overcome him he would fail his family, his lineage and dishonor all
Ojii-san’s
teachings. He would die first before that happened.

But having met this Saito Arisada, Tatsu was forced to accept even a
kyūketsuki
could tread the Path of the Samurai; honor a spiritual tradition as ancient as Nipon herself.

As such, this vampire deserved a death worthy of a true warrior. Tatsu would not hesitate killing Arisada if the vampire were the monster that killed the Cobb family. But Tatsu determined to make that death swift and honorable.

Yet, why did Arisada’s avowals of love echo over and over in his mind? Why had they pierced the center of Tatsu’s hungry heart. Beautiful, seductive words whose truth was hard and undeniable. As hard and undeniable as Tatsu’s now-hungry cock.

He forced aside his memory of the vampire’s his lips, the press of his body. His avowal of love.

The blood debt must be paid. There was no room in Tatsu’s life for anything else.

Not love. Especially not love.

.

Seven

“A
ll right, all right, I’m coming,” Tatsu yelled as he crawled from the rumpled covers of his cot to answer the loud thumping at his door. A hint of light at his window told him he had slept less than an hour.

He shook off the fog of sleep.
Chikusho
, should he be angry or grateful that the incessant knocking had interrupted
the
dream? A wonderful, erotic dream that had left him with a raging hard-on coupled with a deep ache of loss. Except, strangely, the mouth of his dream lover felt and tasted like the lips of the vampire who had kissed him two nights ago.

Tatsu’s erection wilted as he hopped around on the cold floor. He pulled on his jock, grabbed his
tanto
as the flimsy door shuddered beneath another heavy blow.

“
Matte kudasai
, hold on, will you?” Blade poised to strike, he yanked the door open and stared dumbfounded at the strange man grinning at him. “Mr. Bana?”

“Course it’s me boyo, who else would it be? And bye-the-bye, me name’s Murtagh, Bana Murtagh. But Bana’s OK, just drop the Mister crap.” Bana didn’t waste a glance at the knife pointing at his chest, just pushed the tip aside and walked into the shabby, closet-sized room. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, hunched his shoulders in an exaggerated shiver. “Shite, it’s cold enough to freeze a whore’s tit in here.”

Bana noted those two swords—those amazing, deadly swords—lying on the narrow cot crowded under the window. A pair of worn motorcycle saddlebags leaned against the single wooden chair. In one corner, a rickety card table held a hot plate, dented saucepan, utensils, and not much else. A tattered drape hanging from a metal rod did little to shield the dingy bathroom beyond. The Irishman’s nose curled in an audible sniff. “This is a foin palace you’re livin’ in.”

Tatsu shrugged as he dropped the short blade onto the cot. He grabbed his wrinkled jeans from the chair and pulled them on. “It works for me.” He hadn’t chosen the boarding house for its creature comforts but because it was dirt-cheap and offered a shed where he could keep his bike out of the perennial rain.

Bana made a quick assessment of the kid’s near-naked body. A fine layer of muscle there. No wonder he wielded those swords as easily as if they were a set of chopsticks. And fekkin’ hell? Four distinct bite marks right alongside that Adam’s apple. Bana would bet his sainted mother’s silver crucifix those old scars were the legacy of a bloodsucker.

“What are you doing here?’ Tatsu demanded, the question muffled by the tee half over his head. He tucked it in, before turning to Bana, hands on hips, green eyes suspicious.

The Irishman had intended to deliver only his thanks. But those wounds on the young man’s throat changed his mind. There was a story here, and Bana’s nose itched with curiosity. Still, all of that would wait. He was hungry.

“Come on, breakfast’s on me.” Bana yanked open the apartment door and stepped into the hallway.

Tatsu stilled his protest. Instead, he pulled on his boots, strapped on his swords then shrugged into his jacket. The Irishman was the first friendly person he’d encountered in this hostile city. Best of all, Bana appeared sober. Sober might mean reliable information, especially from a man who kept an arsenal in his apartment.

They stepped from the lobby into a freezing drizzle. Tatsu hunched his shoulders as cold water ran down his neck and seeped under his collar. Almost in stride, they hiked down the steep hill in the direction of a row of shops. Beside him, Bana grumbled how it was always “bucketing in this fekkin’ town.”

“Where are we going?” Tatsu shouted over the gear-grinding clanks of the ancient garbage truck gathering refuse for Seattle’s methane plants. Bana did not bother to reply, merely continued his short powerful stride down the street—the set of his shoulders saying he was sure Tatsu would follow. Minutes later, the Irishman ushered them into the warmth of a hole-in-the-wall café filled with the hearty aromas of home cooking. Tatsu’s stomach grumbled and his mouth watered.

“Place doesn’t look like much but the breakfast here will warm the cockles of a man’s stomach.” Bana mangled the old cliché, hoping to make Tatsu smile. It didn’t work.

They hunkered down at a table at the rear of the cafe. Tatsu spun his chair around and straddled it to accommodate his swords. Bana unzipped his jacket letting it drop open, the butts of his two guns within easy reach.

Tatsu wondered if the Irishman didn’t care who knew about his firearms. Or perhaps there was another reason for the man’s casual disregard for the law?

“What’s yer name, boyo?” Bana peered around for the waiter.

“Tatsu Cobb.”

“Well, blow me. Yer only part Oriental. Coulda fooled me,” Bana was not shy about his opinions. “You ain’t got no accent. Where ya from?”

“Born in Nagasaki. Moved to the Pueblo Sovereign State, Santa Fe actually, when I was eleven.”

Bana whistled. “Rich turf. Lotsa money, lotsa sunshine, no bloodsuckers. And you left it fer this hellhole? Pretty daft thing to do.”

Before Tatsu thought of a response, the waiter placed a steaming pot of coffee and two mugs before them. The old man took their order, which Bana delivered rapid-fire as if he knew the menu by heart.

“How old are you anyway? Seventeen, mebbe eighteen? An’ no bullshit.” Bana rubbed his forefinger down the side of his nose. “I can always tell. Ya might say it’s a supernatural talent o’ mine.”

“Twenty-four.” Tatsu grimaced, anticipating the inevitable reaction. This time it was delivered somewhere in a string of Irish profanity.

“No shite? Bugger me. You look like yer still in fekkin’ high school.” Just then, their food arrived putting an end to the Irishman’s questions. Bana ate with noisy gusto, washing down his big bites with great gulps from his mug. But his shrewd gaze never left Tatsu’s face.