Durarara!!, Vol. 3 (Novel) (14 page)

Anri felt a breeze blow through the visor of her helmet. She looked out at the scene.

It’s Kida
, she realized, noticing that he was staring right at her. She looked away. Hopefully she had mistaken someone else for her friend, but the face she’d just seen was too much of Masaomi Kida to be a coincidence.

The black helmet completely covered Anri’s face, but she couldn’t help the terrifying feeling that he was going to realize who she was.

The moment she turned her eyes away from him, she saw something else, something that completely overrode her own fears.

It was the dull silver gleam of a metal pipe, hurled directly at the motorcycle carrying her and Celty.

Look out.

Madness trained in their direction.

Weapon hurled in their direction.

Anri’s reflexes took over in the face of these two simultaneous volleys, driving her into motion. Normally, the sight would be pushed back into the picture frame—but realizing that Masaomi was just nearby left her mind unable to perform that act in the moment.

Instead, her body acted without her.

Her arm throbbed, and the cursing voices that rang throughout her heart bellowed in one loud voice.

In her haste to not spend an instant of time listening to them, Anri yanked the throbbing in her arm directly out of her body, all at once.

It
slid right into Anri’s hand at the same time that it ripped through the sleeve of her jacket in one smooth motion.

At the exact moment that the metal pipe bore down on Celty, she turned
it
onto the projectile without thinking, and…

It
might as well have been a stage magician trick.

As the bike sped away, stones, umbrellas, lumber, and scrap material flew through the air at it. Most of the junk hit nothing but air or other projectiles, unable to handle the acceleration of the motorcycle—but a few of them were perfectly placed to intersect the bike’s path.

But just as the first pipe was about to collide with it, a metal sound reached the boys’ ears.

Twing.
The sound of something freezing instantly. Or perhaps endless mic feedback compressed into a single moment.

What they saw next was two halves of a metal pipe floating in midair.

Next, a stone heading for the motorcycle crumbled into dust, disappearing amid the rain.

In what little time they had to wonder what was happening, a flying piece of wood provided the answer.

It
was in the hand of the girlish figure on the rear seat of the bike.

A long, sharp cylinder that gleamed in the little amount of streetlight illumination that reached the factory.

“A…katana…?” Masaomi heard someone say.

That word brought a fresh image to the mind of everyone present.

The slasher.

They saw clearly that the figure sitting in the rear was holding a katana.

Stunned by the sudden appearance of this deadly weapon, all the boys stopped throwing objects and scrambled away from the path of
the bike. When the person in the rear seat noticed this, she slid the katana away somehow, in the same magician’s way that she produced it.

Before the boys could regain their footing, the black motorcycle picked up speed, attempting to break its way right through one of the exits.

It roared.

It
roiled
.

Dancing along with the whinnying of the engine.

Drops of black shadow mingled among the spray of the rain.

The rising shadow seeped back into the motorcycle and its rider.

Black mist enveloped both person and bike, giving it the momentary appearance of one giant creature.

It leaped in time with another bray from the engine—just as the headless horse had moments earlier.

Seated on its back was a girl, her face hidden by a pitch-black helmet.

A headless horse ridden by a girl with a silver blade.

Such an image was not their intention, but as they rode through the darkness, they created the very picture of the headless dullahan from the fairy tales.

The boys didn’t even have the wherewithal to throw objects anymore. It seemed to be dawning on them that perhaps just
letting them go
was the safest plan of action.

“Can a katana…actually cut a steel pipe…in half?” someone murmured, picking up a piece of the severed pipe. The boys around him examined the shockingly clean cut—and began to pray in earnest that the Black Rider left them in peace.

Now that no one blocked its way, the motorcycle rode along the path of shadow it had created for itself toward the exit of the factory.

The few guards still standing there had no way to stop the speeding bike. The black
thing
simply turned its back on the helpless youths and vanished, the same way it had entered—without a sound.

The scene was completely silent except for the soft pattering of rain, as if nothing had ever appeared.

Amid the rain, Masaomi had a thought.

It wasn’t just Masaomi. Most of the boys in the gathering reached one solid conclusion from the event they’d witnessed.

Their heads were churning with a deluge of information.

The rumor that the Black Rider was one of the Dollars.

The slasher, who still hadn’t been caught.

The suspicion that the slasher might also be a member of the Dollars.

And the intruder who had been snooping around after them.

An intruder swinging a katana.

And the Black Rider swiftly coming to the intruder’s rescue.

Masaomi didn’t know if his conclusion was correct or not.

He didn’t even know if he should hope that his guess was wrong or be certain that he’d finally nailed down a proper opponent.

But there was one thing he was sure of at last.

No matter what he thought personally, there was no way to maintain complete control of his followers after what they’d just seen.

“Hey,” he said, soaking in the rain.

“Wha…?” responded a young man at his side.

“Do you know what a dullahan is?”

“Uh. Umm…nope.”

The kid still hadn’t recovered from the shock of the experience. It was all he could do to summon that response, his face ghostly.

Masaomi quietly continued, “A dullahan’s a headless knight on a headless horse who visits the homes of those who are about to die. I guess you might call it a Grim Reaper of sorts.”

“Uh, okay…”

In contrast to the serenity of Masaomi’s voice, the youths around him looked more concerned than ever. He ignored their consternation. “That’s just something I heard from Yumasaki when he got all worked up about it a while back.”

He did not elaborate on that thought, retreating within his own mind.

But if that monster is one of those things…does that mean one of us is supposed to die soon?

Shit…that’s not ominous at all.

Several minutes later.

“I wonder why,” Masaomi muttered as he stared up into the rainy sky, the chaos of the earlier scene morphing into solid tension that gripped the group. “Why would I suddenly feel like I wanted to see Saki at a moment like this?”

His thought was swallowed by the rain. No one answered him.

The memories of the girl in the hospital reverberated within Masaomi. He also thought of a pair of other figures, two of his classmates. But they were the people he wanted to see
least
at this moment in time. The images of Mikado and Anri melted into the rain.

Only the picture of Masaomi’s former lover remained in his heart.

The rain buzzed onward, showing no signs of stopping.

Masaomi strode slowly, eyeing the wall of the ruined factory. His comrades had covered it with their own graffiti and meaningless scribbles. Surrounded by tags and pieces of varied designs was a hastily scribbled message done in yellow spray paint.

THE BLUE SKY IS ALREADY DEAD.

“The sky is dead.”

It was a phrase used as the slogan of the Yellow Scarves Rebellion in real life, the movement that kicked off the beginning of the
Romance of the Three Kingdoms
epic about ancient Chinese history.

Masaomi hadn’t imagined that any of his rough-and-tumble companions knew that phrase. He recognized it, but only because he’d read a manga about the
Romance of the Three Kingdoms
story.

He looked back up at the sky, sensing that the string of events that had just happened was setting something into motion.

“Well, it’s not blue,” he snorted ironically in an effort to bottle up his honest emotions, his eyes open to the sky despite the falling rain. “But it’s not yellow, either.”

The rain buzzed onward, showing no signs of stopping.

Fshh, fshh, fshh, fshh.

A few minutes later, somewhere in Tokyo

Celty rode the route to Ikebukuro, spattered by the rain.

The girl clinging to her back did not speak, either because she knew
Celty was driving or for some other reason. Celty chose not to pry. They maintained their silence as they rode through the rain.

So, what to do now?
Celty wondered.

The circumstances were clearly too serious to simply drop her off at her home and leave. Celty might not have anything to do with the situation, but Anri was not a stranger. She was not such a pragmatist or head-in-the-sand pacifist that she would ignore the girl’s plight.

If anything, Celty did not help others out of calculating self-interest—she would extend a helping hand to anyone she saw who needed one, regardless of if she had a reason.

She wasn’t omnipotent, so there were times—as with Shingen—when she had to pick and choose.

I guess I could bring her home with me…and kick Shinra out so she can change.

Should she buy Anri a fresh change of clothes, then? She couldn’t give the girl Shinra’s clothes, and the ones that Shinra bought Celty and asked her to wear were bizarre, creepy things like swimsuits, maid outfits, and single button-up shirts with nothing else.

Fortunately, she did have the twenty thousand yen she’d confiscated from Shingen not long ago. She thought she remembered that there was a Uniqlo nearby and sensed around to get a grasp of the area—when her mind caught a glimpse of white.

Even with the umbrella, there weren’t many people who would venture out into Ikebukuro wearing a white lab coat. As soon as she picked up the white gas mask peeking out around the umbrella, Celty increased the speed of her motorcycle just a bit.

That sly rascal.

She could block his path in an acrobatic manner, but Celty wasn’t agitated enough that she’d forget the presence of Anri behind her. Instead, she killed the engine sound and snuck up on Shingen as he tread on the sidewalk, casting ropes of shadow that tangled up her target’s left foot and the nearby guardrail before he was aware that she was there.

“Wha—?!”

Shingen lurched forward and nearly fell. When he noticed Celty standing in his way, his panic was clear even through the gas mask.

“Ce-Celty!”

Looks like he was slipping away from the apartment to go somewhere else.

Celty cracked the knuckles of both hands, delighting in her good fortune.

She considered beating him to an immobile state, then taking him back to the apartment with Anri. The horsepower of the black bike—an evolution of an actual headless horse—easily surpassed those of regular motorcycles its size. She could fashion a sidecar made of shadow, which would be enough to carry heavy objects like that and was one of the reasons Celty was so suited for courier work.

The sidewalk was empty up ahead, so she stopped the motorcycle there for the moment and showed Anri her PDA.

“Sorry, give me a minute.”

As Anri blinked in surprise, Shingen spat disgustedly. “Damn, you really can do anything with that shadow of yours! Don’t you ever feel a bit guilty or self-conscious about having such a ridiculous trick up your sleeve? And who’s that with you?”

He struggled against her binding shadow, trying to escape, before giving up and questioning the girl still sitting on the rear of Celty’s bike.

“That doesn’t matter. Are you ready for this?”

Celty advanced on Shingen, still cracking her knuckles. Anri watched with curiosity and raised the thin shadowy visor that narrowed her vision to get a better look.

“Oh…?” Shingen murmured, noticing the distinctive round glasses visible through the gap in the helmet. “Are you…?”

The next moment, that thought spilled out of his mouth. “Are you the daughter of Sonohara-dou?”

“Huh?”

Sonohara-dou.

That was the name of the place where Anri had lived, the antiques shop that her parents owned and managed. A sudden shock ran through Celty’s body.

Oh no!

Celty knew the truth.

She knew that the Saika that had made its home in Anri was originally owned by Shingen.

Somewhere in what she presumed was her brain, she recalled what Shinra had said.

“He actually owned it until a few years ago, when he sold it to an antiques trader he knows. I believe the trader’s name was Sonohara.”

After that, Celty had contact with Anri on several occasions, learned that the girl’s parents had died in a slashing incident in the past, and assumed that there were complicated circumstances behind that. But she had never asked Anri about it directly.