Authors: B. D. Heywood
Obeying his need to comfort the sobbing boy, Arisada cradled Nowaki, rocking him as the youngster begged his
senpai
to protect him from the horrors of his young life.
Afterwards, Nowaki burrowed exhausted into Arisada’s arms, the undeniability of his need overwhelming the older monk’s reticence. In the moment before sleep claimed them, Arisada professed his love for his young acolyte. However, when Nowaki woke at dawn still in the protective circle of his
senpai’s
embrace, the youth recoiled with shame. With a curse, he stormed out of the tiny room.
From then on, Nowaki had avoided Arisada whenever possible, and spurned any hint of affection from the older monk. Their voices filled with a harshness that almost, but not quite, obliterated the sound of their pain. Arisada became more brutal of the Nowaki’s training. He forgave no mistakes and wondered if he were seeking an excuse to kill the boy as punishment.
To deny his feelings for Nowaki, Arisada bedded others, hurried couplings, day and night. However, each time left him feeling hollow and sad—emotions deemed unworthy of a Sōhei warrior.
The breeze fluttered the sakuras above Arisada. A bird gave forth with a joyous, full-throated song, and brought him into his present. How much longer will we inflict this pain on each other, he despaired. Still, Arisada’s breath caught as the deep flush of love washed through him.
“No matter how you recoil from me, you are my
koibito
, my beloved,” Arisada ached to cradle Nowaki in his arms just for this moment. His long-suppressed desire emboldened him. He brushed his lips over the sleeping boy’s mouth.
The need to lay with the youth, to console and comfort him, to love him in all ways shuddered through Arisada’s thin frame. His cock hardened and tented the coarse fabric of his
fundoshi
. Horrified, Arisada scrambled to his feet, losing one of his straw sandals as he backed away from the youth and bolted for his sleeping quarters. Almost out of breath with fear and shame, Arisada propelled himself into his small cell. He slammed the door and barely made it to his night-waste bucket before his stomach expelled its contents.
Nowaki was an innocent. Arisada knew the youth’s bravado and rebellion masked the deep hurt of a young child who had felt nothing but abuse. Nowaki’s first intimate contact had been one of pain and degradation.
Arisada was Nowaki’s senpai, his teacher in all things yet, once freed of its shackles, his lust would murder the youth’s spirit. Arisada crawled over to the tiny statue of the Buddha Amida and prostrated, forehead to the cold, stone floor. He vowed that he would never cause a moment of suffering for Koji Nowaki. A samurai in ever fiber of his being, Arisada determined to suppress any love he had for the boy.
No matter the depth of his love, Arisada would never take Nowaki to his bed.
The Seattle Quarantine, 2024
Eight centuries ago, yet it may have well been last night. The diamond-sharp clarity of those memories never softened or faded with time. His yearning for the beautiful Nowaki, his friend, his lover, and, yes, his betrayer never abated. Over the centuries, the vampire had searched the faces of every youth he met. There had been thousands yet none held the
tamashii,
the spirit of his
koibito
.
Then mere days ago, almost at the point when Arisada despaired of ever finding that soul, he saw it shining from the emerald eyes of the young hunter fighting for his life behind a bar. Used the boy’s own delicious scent to find him, sparred with him with such beautiful symmetry that the vampire was not only roused but moved to tears. Never did he expect Nowaki’s new form to bear the
bushi damashi,
the spirit of the samurai. Perhaps Arisada was
baka,
an idiot. He foolishly believed Nowaki would reincarnate in the body of a vile criminal, someone Arisada could justify killing. But not in a boy who was as beautiful in body as spirit. A boy who bore honor with such grace and determination.
How the vampire wished to have never set eyes on Tatsu Cobb, never kissed him, pursued him, danced with him in the way of the sword. Never fallen in love with him.
“Oh you sweet, sweet boy. Why must I destroy you for the crimes of another?” Arisada moaned.
The tiny park was a solitary oasis in the dark. No one lived nearby to hear. Tonight, as thousands of nights in the past, Arisada howled his anguish up to the indifferent sky.
.
T
atsu shut off the Kawasaki, closed the fuel cock and dropped the motorcycle onto its kickstand. Hunched into his jacket, he cupped his last cigarette against the cold wind whipping in from the Bay. Even that first slow drag tasted like crap thanks to the putrid stink of effluvia from the nearby sewage plant. He shivered then glared at the leaden sky.
Kuso,
between the ceaseless rain and the stench of shit, he wondered why a normal person would even consider visiting this godforsaken city. But then Tatsu no longer considered himself normal.
Puffing slowly, he leaned on the bike’s seat and listened to the pings from his cooling engine. Considered the last few days. The canny Irishman had ambushed him. Stuffed in with the sandwiches was a greased-stained piece of paper with the words, “Don’t be a git,” and a phone number. It only took Tatsu a couple of hours after eating the food to Tatsu decide to look into the job offer. He might be a stubborn “git” but not to the point of outright stupidity.
When Tatsu called from the boarding house’s ancient phone, the Irishman answered with a cocky chuckle. Directions to the industrial park on the Southside were easy. “Jist look for the foundry, can’t miss it,” Bana assured. But weaving the bike through treacherous roads full of shattered concrete, wide fissures and treacherous potholes was a bitch.
Tatsu surveyed the massive structure, which sprawled over at least five square blocks. Several smokestacks, covered with grime and soot, reared a hundred feet or so above the roof. Tatsu smelled old fuel and human ashes. Diamond-plate covered every window. Wide, steel loading doors, at least six stories high, closed off one end. A set of double doors in a concrete-block wall at the other end looked to be the obvious entrance.
Did he really want this job? If he agreed to work for this company, would he become nothing more than a hired killer? What would that do to the legacy grandfather had entrusted in him? Would he be shirking his karmic path? Yet, his encounters with the vampire Saito Arisada—no, his feelings about Saito Arisada—were muddling his thinking, derailing his singularity of purpose. Without some help and reliable information, Tatsu knew he was
fakku,
fucked and then some. Maybe this Leper Colony was worth a shot.
It was too much for him to admit he was lonely and tempted by the prospect of making a friend.
He took a last pull on his smoke and flicked the butt into a puddle. An unconscious shrug moved his swords into a more comfortable position. He mounted the short stairs to the grimy set of doors that looked fused closed by rust. Still thinking he was about to make a huge mistake, he curled his fingers around one of the jagged, metal handles. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, the warning coming too late. The door jerked open so suddenly that he knew he’d been under surveillance since the moment he parked his bike.
“Bout fekkin’ time boyo,” Bana bellowed. He yanked Tatsu into a decrepit lobby with such force the handle sliced Tatsu’s palm. He felt the cut close even as Bana, chattering non-stop, dragged him down a narrow corridor.
“Major Blenheim is a real combat vet, member of the elite British Royals. Twenty years with Scotland Yard’s vampire-control branch. Course that was before Limey vamps got citizenship. ‘Es cleaned up messes in more Quarantine cities round the world than you or I’ll ever see. So look sharp, me lad, and don’t fuck up.” Bana’s babble alternated between outright admiration for his boss and admonitions to Tatsu to “look sharp.”
The Irishman rapped once on a battered wooden door but did not wait for a reply before pushing it open. He winked at Tatsu as he pushed him into a windowless office crammed with file cabinets and cluttered bookshelves. “Meet Major Blenheim, our head.” Bana waved needlessly toward the room’s sole occupant sitting behind a desk.
The man, dressed in black tactical gear, glanced up as the two entered. Tatsu guessed the Major around sixty although his trimmed mustache and intense dark-grey eyes lent his weathered face a fierce vitality. This diminutive figure reminded Tatsu of Grandfather Shiniichiro—a warrior who could see into the true hearts of men.
“Major, this ’ere is Tatsu Cobb, the kid I told you about,” Bana grinned with smug satisfaction and waved at two chairs facing the desk.
“
Hajimemashite
,” Tatsu bowed, offering the formal greeting between business associates. He took off his jacket then his harness, and held them in his lap as he sat.
“Welcome Mr. Cobb. Mr. Murtagh tells me you are interested in joining the Leper Colony?” The Major nodded to Bana. “Ask Mr. Cooperhayes to bring tea, thank you.” Bana muttered, “Sure, Guvnor,” and ducked through a second door.
“I shall be with you in a moment.” The Englishman turned back to his monitor until Bana barged back in with a mug of coffee in one hand and a bagel in the other. A tall, gaunt man carrying a tray followed him.
“This is Mr. Cooperhayes, my adjutant,” the Major said. “Mr. Cooperhayes, this is Mr. Tatsu Cobb.”
Tatsu fought the ingrained urge to rise and bow at Cooperhayes’ nod of acknowledgement. In silence, the adjutant placed the pot on the desk, poured two cups of tea, handed one to the Major and the other to Tatsu. When Cooperhayes left the room, he barely disturbed the air as he closed the door. Bana slumped into the second chair and began gnawing on his food.
The Major removed a single sugar cube from its bowl and dropped it into his tea. He took a long sip, as he regarded his visitor. His immediate thought was, “Too young.” Still, as a seasoned combatant, the Major recognized the warrior in this particular young man. It was enough to intrigue him.
“Mr. Cobb, I do not have a great deal of time. Because you saved Mr. Murtagh’s life, you deserve my courtesy.”
“
Domo arigatō gozaimasu
.”
The Englishman glanced at his computer. “In the past two weeks, you have killed nine vampires including four the other night defending Mr. Murtagh.”
Tatsu felt trapped, hot and a little panicky. He stared at the Englishman then at Bana who just shrugged. “How did you know?”
“It is my business to know, Mr. Cobb. Now, please, tell me about your first kill.” The Major pinned Tatsu with a hard stare. The youth’s face blanched.
The question chilled Tatsu yet he knew everything hinged on his answer. Only moments ago, he was convinced he was making a mistake coming here. Now, sitting before the compelling authority of this small man, Tatsu suddenly wanted in. He shifted in his seat, hesitated, unwilling to share that single horrific moment when he crossed the irrevocable line that separated him from humanity.
Then the details of the hideous fight poured out in a disjointed slurry of words, Tatsu told about stopping at an abandoned park just outside Grand Junction, Colorado. It was nearly midnight, and he was exhausted. The Drifter was running rough, the engine sporadically cutting out. He needed to adjust the carburetor for the higher altitude. He dug out his tools while waiting for the engine to cool.
The vampire came screaming out of the night. Without thought, Tatsu whipped his
katana
from its
saya
. His first strike was clumsy, only cutting across the cheek. The vampire screeched with rage. Then, mouth stretched wide, it sunk its fangs through the leather sleeve of Tatsu’s jacket and deep into his bicep.
Roaring with pain, Tatsu slammed the hilt of his sword into the vampire’s temple. The creature opened its mouth to scream, releasing its bite. Tatsu twisted the razor-sharp blade against the vampire’s nape, sliced once. The spine separated with an odd snicking. The body collapsed onto the carpet of pine needles littering the ground. It was only after the vampire’s head came to rest against the rear tire of his bike did Tatsu realize he’d killed a woman. He spent the next hour vomiting against a tree.
To the Major, there was no mistaking the horror of that defining moment, the tremor in the young man’s voice, the stare fixed inward to that irrevocable time and place. All good signs. Cobb may have thought he was a cold-blooded killer, but the Englishman could tell the boy was not hardened—not yet anyway.
The Major coughed once, a commanding sound that snapped Tatsu back to the present. He indicated Tatsu’s swords with a wave of his fingers. “May I?”
Tatsu realized the man was giving him time to compose himself. With a look of gratitude, Tatsu placed his sheathed weapons on the desk.
The Major slid the
katana
from the polished scabbard, admiration for the blade clear in his eyes. “These are ancestral, I presume? But no longer the original steel composition. It appears the metal has been altered.”
Although reluctant to reveal the blades’ secret, Tatsu’s respect for the Englishman compelled him to reply. “My grandfather had them treated with aggregated diamond nanorods. They won’t break no matter what I strike.”
“Thank you, Mr. Cobb.” The Major handed the swords back to Tatsu with a visible show of reluctance. “Your background?”
“Entered NMU at fifteen, accelerated program, plan was to finish my doctorate next year.”
“A doctoral program in what?”
“Urban-environmental engineering.”
“Quite impressive to obtain a Ph.D. at twenty-four.” Major Blenheim’s initial doubt began to dissolve as he considered the young man sitting before him. A deep determination reflected in that young face. Intelligence and integrity. That Japanese code of honor clearly driving the boy. And according to Mr. Murtagh, the youth killed with unparalleled efficiency.
“Military experience?” the Major asked. Tatsu hesitated.
“Go on boyo, open yer gob. Now’s yer chance.” Bana drove his elbow painfully into Tatsu’s arm.