Beautiful Death (10 page)
Tristan relaxed back into his chair with a sigh, again relieved to see how passionate Ash was in killing Malik. He was certain now, more than ever, that Ash would not cross him. And for the first time since the all the weird shit started happening, Tristan was hopeful to a life after vampires.
Ash’s expression softened. “There is hope for you, Tristan. Do not ever think otherwise.”
Tristan smiled back and Ash opened his mouth to speak again, but ended up wincing. He gave the vampire a questioning look. Pandora jumped out of her chair and padded to her master’s side, looking up at Ash expectantly.
“If you will excuse me, I must turn in for the day,” Ash said with a small tilt of his head.
Tristan looked past the vampire to the bank of windows that faced the front of the house and saw that the sun was coming up. He nodded to Ash as the vampire glided from the room in a shuffle of silk with Pandora trailing behind. Left alone in the quiet of the new day, Tristan ran over his conversation with Ash. Finally answers, though few and not nearly what he expected. Or that he understood any of it. Now all they had to do was find out what was so special about his bloodline.
What
he was. Oh right, and stop a nasty, insane vampire before it killed him. Sure, sounded easy enough.
THE late afternoon sun was warm on his back as he stood at his apartment door. There was a certain comfort in being in the daylight again, the old familiarity of warm life that he was quickly losing touch with. Tristan slid the key into the lock and was shocked to find it already open. He was sure he locked it when he left the other night for the club. The club... god, that night felt like eons ago. He sighed wearily and pushed open the door, letting the knob hit the wall. His apartment was a mansion at 18
jo
or about 320 square feet. He could see most of it from the front door. He groaned, gritting his teeth, getting a good eyeful of everything. The place was trashed. Question was, did he forget to lock up and punks steal shit or was it the vampires looking for him?
The last thought gave him a chill. He went in, kicking the door shut behind him and sighed again—what a fucking mess. The kitchen to his right, was untouched—how nice of them to leave his food alone. Stupid ass vampires
.
He stepped further into the main space, past the kitchen, toeing a lamp out of the way. Sofa cushions littered the floor. One had been ripped open and shredded, sending white stuffing and feathers all over the place like a bad art exhibit.
The cheap coffee table, which doubled for dining, was smashed in half. Broken glass from a cup he had left on the table crunched under his shoes into the tatami. He stopped at his computer desk and cursed at his destroyed electronics. His laptop had been knocked to the floor and broken in two, the monitor separated from the keyboard. His iPod, lying next to it, crushed.
“What did they think they would find?” he whispered to the empty apartment.
What if it wasn’t empty? What if they were waiting for him?
His palms were instantly clammy, pulse racing. He swiped his hands across his jeans as he spun in a tight circle, looking around with wide eyes. He made a full rotation before his gaze fell on the balcony window, the shades pulled wide open and sun shining in. Right, it was daylight. That’s why he ventured out, alone, because the vamps couldn’t follow him. The plan was to pop in and back before the sun had a chance to set, leaving him vulnerable again. He never considered himself as vulnerable, but his right arm bore that proof rather painfully.
Tristan took in a deep breath and forced his shoulders to relax. He came for that folder he kept with all the adoption papers he found after his parents died. He last saw them on his desk. The desk that was now spread across the living area. He groaned, dropping to his knees and started picking through the mess. After a few minutes of shuffling he found the folder, wedged against the shoji. He dropped the folder on a kitchen countertop near the door so he wouldn’t forget to take it back with him to Ash’s and then went to pack a change of clothes.
The apartment was divided by a thin shoji screen, making the bedroom nothing more than a shoebox. He stopped inside and looked around, anxiety taking hold again at the sight of what was once an orderly space. His bed—nothing more than a thick, full-sized mat pushed into the corner—looked like someone had tried to feed it to a wood chipper. Again, he was thankful that he hadn’t been home when they came for him.
He took a deep breath, willing his raging pulse to slow and turned to the closet. The doors were pulled of their hinges and the clothes were knocked off of their hangers, but appeared to be undamaged. His suitcase was on the top shelf where he had left it. He picked out several tops from the floor and made his way to the dresser, now on its side and spilling its contents. He packed enough for a week and turned to face the wrecked room, arms crossed despondently over chest. He was so not looking forward to cleaning the mess when he returned.
He dropped his arms to his side, frowning harder. Would he even return? God! His life was so fucked. What was he thinking coming here? Traveling halfway across the world after his adoptive parents both died a horrible death in a car crash that he couldn’t save them from, just to find a mother that gave him up as a baby. A twinge of regret and sorrow tightened his chest and he slumped back against the toppled dresser. Would he ever not feel guilty about their deaths? About not being able to help them? He was afraid the answer was no. He came to Japan to try and clean his life up, not further fuck it. He needed purpose and thought that in seeking out his birth parents, that would aid him in that, give him closure. Only, his birth certificate had just one name, his mother. His father? Who knew who he was or where. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, indicating where to find this mysterious sperm donor that helped create him—and maybe he was just that. Did his mother even know his father?
But it seemed his search brought him more trouble than he ever thought he’d find himself in. Because now he had vampires after him thinking he was some sort of threat. Not to mention a bodyguard who hid the fact that he was one of the monsters from Tristan for days. This same “monster” happened to be his only friend right now on top of that. And he almost died. Twice. Yep, moving all the way to here from Maryland was what got him into all of this shit to start with. No, on second thought, that was wrong. It was
that
night. It all started with the accident.
Life stopped after that seemingly random summer night. His broken leg slowed him down, but not nearly enough to keep him out of trouble—trouble he found no matter what continent he was on, apparently. Though the doctors kept telling him the bones healed incredibly fast, it felt like it took forever, stuck on those lousy crutches wherever he went. He never officially quit his job, but when he didn’t show up again, he was sure they got the idea. His friends stopped talking to him when the depression hit. Told him he was drinking too much, that he was overreacting. Some friends, huh? They didn’t have to watch their parents die right in from of them, unable to do a goddamn thing. Unable to save them.
But there was one friend. One he had hoped would stay with him no matter what he had done. No matter how bad things had gotten for him after the accident, he had hoped Gillian, of all his friends, would support him. She was his best friend, like a sister, yet more. She was the one he told everything to, the one he turned to when his own relationships went up in flames. He often wondered if both of their lives had been different, if the loss of his family hadn’t pushed them apart, if she might have been the companion for him. Turned out he wasn’t a good enough friend to her. To anyone.
Tristan’s family had always been small. There were no sisters or brothers for him growing up. Tristan was an only child. His mother, despite her profession, was unable to conceive. For as long as he could remember, he knew that his parents were not his biological parents, but it didn’t make him love them any less. Didn’t mean they weren’t his family. His Aunts and Uncles only ever talked to his parents to ask for money, the losers. His father, Spike, had been one of five brothers and two sisters, the last, so Tristan never knew his grandparents, both died before he was even born. His mother, Julia, her parents both passed within a year of each other about five years back. A war vet, later an alcoholic, Grandpa wasn’t a well man. A year after his death, Grams followed. She had been fighting breast cancer for years on and off but in the end it finally won. Tristan could remember his mother being so terrified of getting it too. She was certain it would be her fate.
Warm tears started to roll down his face, unbidden. He still heard her screams most nights. He saw a shrink, once. The smug asshole told him that the dreams would go away, eventually. But when? He thought about his parents every day, if only he could have saved them. Everyone kept telling him there was nothing he could have done, his leg was badly broken and it was impossible. He had a hard time buying that, he didn’t believe in the impossible.
A retched sob burst from him. It had been so long since he cried, really cried for his parents and now seemed like the moment to give himself over to it. Back pressed into the toppled dresser, he slid to the floor and shut his eyes tightly against the tears. He fell over to his side and wrapped his arms around his head, curling into himself. Minutes, hours, days passed while he lay there sobbing for his lost family and yet the weight on his chest didn’t ease with the passage of time and release of tears.
Something jarred his foot. Tristan jumped and sat up against the dresser, taking a corner into his back. “Ow!”
Ash was standing over him, arms crossed over his chest and an unpleasant sneer twisting his features. “Did you enjoy your nap, Tristan?” Ash said, punctuating his words precisely, lip curled back. Tristan blinked a few times at the menacing vampire and scrambled to his feet, a little dazed. Ash’s pale eyes followed him with a burning intensity. “You know, it was unwise to leave the house without me. Then I find you here asleep, after dark. What if a vampire had found you here alone? You could not even handle one jikininki—and they are daylight tolerant!”
Tristan looked around quickly, trying to gather his thoughts. Did he really fall asleep? If Ash was there then that meant it was... shit. Idiot. He had meant to be in and out of well before nightfall and before Ash would have even of known he was gone, but he fell asleep. Regardless, it didn’t give Ash the right to treat him like a kid. His anger started to well.
“Did you forget so soon what Aaron did to your body? That was just one vanilla vampire, a child! How can I protect you if you sneak away? Tell me, tell me how!” Ash didn’t yell often, but when he did, damn, it was intimidating. It wasn’t anything about his manner, and certainly not his height, it was those fangs.
But Tristan wasn’t afraid of him. He couldn’t be. “Look you grumpy ass, pretentious, lying vampire,” Tristan said, raising his voice and taking a step forward. “I appreciate that you saved my life and yeah, okay, maybe I even consider you a friend. So I appreciate what you’ve done for me. But Jesus Christ, Ash, you don’t have to talk to me like I’m some snot-nosed kid. I’ve been hiding in your house for days like a scared cat under the bed. I’m not an idiot or an invalid. I needed to get out and do something for myself for once.” He knew he was out of his element, but he had a hard time relying on anyone to do anything for him. He though Ash, of anyone, could understand that.
Ash dropped his arms and let out a soft sigh. “Did you find what you were searching for?”
“Uh, yeah,” Tristan said, eyeing him carefully, happy that they had at least stopped yelling at each other. If it came to blows, Tristan was sure he wouldn’t win in a fistfight against a vampire. Short or not. Though, he did owe Ash a bloody nose. He studied the vampire for a moment, wondering what he thought of that. When the other man made no motion to Tristan’s thoughts, he sighed and picked up his suitcase. “I came for my clothes—not that I don’t appreciate the ones you gave me, but it’s just nice to have my own things, you know? Oh, and I found the folder with the information about my birth mother. Masuyo, her name is Masuyo... uh, Uruwashi. The vampires or whatever had been here might have been searching for it too, but it fell behind the desk.”
“They were vampires. Jikininki leave a distinctive scent,” Ash said softly and then raised his voice. “May I see the information?”
Tristan nodded and walked out of the room to the kitchen. He picked up the folder and turned to find Ash had snuck up right behind him. Tristan jumped back, ass hitting the counter and gasped softly. “Christ dude, you’re too quiet,” he mumbled, giving Ash a dirty look. “Make some damn noise will ya? Wear a fucking bell or something.”
The vampire gave the tiniest of grins. Tristan sighed and handed Ash the folder. He flipped through it for a minute, stopping to read a page here and there. Finally, he shut the manila flaps and handed it back to Tristan without a word, jaw stiff.
“That good, huh?”
Ash shook his head, expression blank. “I can read kanji, but…”
“But what?”
Ash motioned for the folder again. He opened it across the counter and Tristan moved closer to look over his shoulder, hesitant, but drawn at the same time. He furrowed his brow when his stomach started to tickle. When Ash shifted his weight to his other foot, his loose hair brushed across Tristan’s bare arm. Tristan eyed the side of the vampire’s carefully blank expression while he flipped through the pages of the folder and wondered what it was about Ash that confused him.
Ash motioned to the page he had been searching for, pointing out the two kanji symbols. “Uruwashi,” he said, “can be loosely translated to ‘beautiful’ with a slightly different romaji—roman letter spelling, than what is offered here, inconsequential really. Either way of spelling is not a typical Japanese surname.” He flicked purple eyes up to Tristan for only a second. He was trying very hard to remain neutral but the tightness in his jaw betrayed his unease.
Tristan had to resist the urge grab the smaller man and shake the shit out of him. He was just so frustrated. And confused. And, yes, afraid.
“However, when you look at the kanji form of your surname, it holds a clear and different translation. Many surnames consist of several characters, such as yours here.” He pointed at the first symbol. “This one does in fact denote the meaning ‘beautiful’. However this one,” h
e pointed to the second symbol,
“
Shi,
signifies... death.”
