Dying Bites: The Bloodhound Files-1 (13 page)

Just not at one in the morning.

Sapporo itself is full of neon and skyscrapers, the streets crowded with tiny vehicles with smoked-glass windshields that make it impossible to see into them. From the inside looking out, the glass makes the neon a little dimmer, the shadows a little deeper; it doesn’t seem to bother our driver, though. I guess supernatural beings have more acute senses. It’s just one more reminder that this world isn’t designed for my kind.

I wonder what’s happening, back in my own universe. Is there a massive manhunt going on for a missing FBI agent? Is CNN providing hourly updates? Or has Cassius pulled something devious, leaving behind a dead doppelgänger or using magic to cover up my disappearance? That train of thought leads to other stations, including the idea that
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maybe he just had me completely erased from my own reality. It wouldn’t take much, really; I don’t have a lot in the way of family or friends. Both my parents are dead, I’ve been engaged to be married once (wish he were dead) and spent most of my time at work alienating my co-workers (who would probably cheer if they thought I was dead). Tanya, my one good friend, would definitely miss me—but she’d get over it. Tanya’s a social butterfly, and while she’s sweet, her memories are short. Give her a year and she’ll have a new best friend.

I make an effort and focus on what Tanaka’s saying. He’s set up a meeting with the local oyabun, the head of the Yakuza family that runs things in the city. He tells me this is considerably higher up the chain of command than he expected to deal with, and warns me to be careful.

“Don’t worry,” I say. “I’ll be extremely polite. And you’ll let me know if I make any serious blunders, right?”

“If such a thing happens,” he says, “you will not need me to tell you.”

“Terrific.”

He’s nervous, and it’s not just my inexperience with proper protocol that’s bothering him.

“You’re not happy with that arrangement. Tell me why.”

“It is most unusual for an oyabun to deal directly with those of lower rank—especially a human. It is . . . troubling.”

“I’ll be fine. Human or not, I represent the NSA, and by extension the U.S. government. The fact that the local boss wants to see me is a good sign—either he wants something or he has something to trade. Either one could be useful.”

He nods in assent, but he’s still worried.

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The cab takes us to a neighborhood I recognize, even though I’ve never been there before and can’t even read the street signs. I don’t have to; the groups of young, toughlooking guys hanging around doorways, the run-down look of the many bars that line the street, the overall feel tells me where I am. This is the rough part of town, where the more respectable citizens come to buy whatever they can’t get legally.

“Stay close,” Charlie says as we get out of the cab.

“Don’t fastball anyone unless I say so, okay? We’re here for information, not confrontation.”

“I’ll keep that in mind when you’re down a quart.”

Tanaka accompanies us inside. The place is long and narrow, with a dark oak bar stretching down one side and booths separated by rice-paper screens along the wall. It’s dimly lit by red paper lanterns overhead and candles on the tables. A bald, obese man with thick, rubbery lips is tending bar, his white apron splotched with vivid crimson stains. Aside from him, the place is empty. We sit down in one of the booths.

“Is this where Miyagi worked?” I ask.

“No. This is merely a workingman’s bar. They mostly serve animal blood mixed with warm sake.”

“Yeah? Wouldn’t that clot?”

“It is diluted with anti-coagulants.”

“How about the booze? Technically, alcohol is a poison—it shouldn’t affect pires, right?”

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“Magic is used to fuse the life essence of the blood with the alcohol—it allows for an intoxicating effect.”

Hmm. So a vampire can be drugged—I’ll bet that’s how the killer subdued his vic at McMurdo Station and maybe Keiko Miyagi, too. “Tanaka, did your people do a toxin screen on Miyagi’s remains?”

“There was no point. They had decomposed to little more than an inert liquid.”

“Yeah, but the bloodstain on the floor hadn’t—it was generated by her injuries before she expired. Get Eisfanger to run some tests on the samples he took, okay? I’m looking for a strong sedative or hypnotic.” Telling Tanaka that makes me feel better; when it comes to old-fashioned forensics, at least I know the rules.

“I shall do so.”

The bartender comes over to our table. He’s got a thick roll of fat around the base of his skull, like his neck used to be three feet long until someone sledgehammered his head down to its current height. His eyes are puffy, suspicious slits. He grunts a few words in Japanese and jerks a thumb like a sausage toward the back.

I nod and we all get up. Behind a curtain at the end of the bar there’s a narrow hallway with a bathroom to one side. At the end of the hall, a dented metal fire door is propped open. I let Charlie go through first.

There’s a long, black limo parked outside in the alley. A gull-wing door hums opens like a mechanical mouth, an invitation to be devoured. We accept.

The interior of the limo is empty, a smoked-glass partition separating us from the driver. The door closes itself with a soft chunk and the limo glides down the alley as smoothly and quietly as a shark.

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I take a deep breath and let it out. “Okay. Here we go. . . .”

The car drives for at least an hour. I don’t know the city at all, but that doesn’t matter; we get on some kind of freeway and head for what I assume are the ritzier suburbs. By the time we get there, we’re practically back in the Hidakas, or the foothills at least. The limo turns off the freeway and onto a private road, which winds through woods and up to a tall chain-link security gate. We pause there while the driver identifies himself, then roll through when the gate slides open.

The driveway is almost as long as the road leading to the estate, and ends at an honest-to-God castle: tall, white stone walls with guardhouses atop each corner, and a huge, red-lacquered gate that currently stands open. We drive inside and park in the courtyard, in front of a five-story pagoda-roofed tower. L-shaped wings connect to the tower at either side, enclosing the courtyard in a deep U with the tower at the bottom.

I can’t see any guards. That worries me.

The limo door swings up and we get out. It occurs to me, somewhat belatedly, that I don’t speak Japanese. I hope I can count on Tanaka to translate; I really don’t want to negotiate with a Yakuza boss through charades. I try to imagine what that would look like and almost burst out laughing—I have a bad habit of thinking wildly inappropriate things when I’m nervous.

The driver stays where he is, invisible and anonymous. The limo door swings shut at almost the exact second the front door to the tower opens, giving me the eerie sensation that I’m on some kind of automated ride. Enjoy the Fabulous Yakuza Blood Flume—you will have happy much good time! No refunds!

Shut up, brain.

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To my surprise, it’s a woman who comes out to greet us. She’s dressed in a loose silk robe of brilliant blue, her glossy black hair in a ponytail and her feet bare. She smiles and says in perfect English, “Welcome. This way, please.”

She turns and goes back inside. We follow.

The interior is minimalist, sparse without being stark. The floor is darkly varnished wood, the walls white and unadorned. Two terra-cotta statues of warriors stand on either side of a polished wooden staircase that leads upward, but the woman doesn’t take it; instead, she goes to the left and through another door.

Long corridor, doors on either side. No windows. One piece of art, a bronze sculpture of a man in full samurai armor, his sword held in striking position, the blade level with his eyes.

Large door at the end of the hall, looks like teak. The woman pushes it open without knocking, motions us inside. She stays in the hall, closes the door behind us so gently it makes no noise at all.

It’s a study. Leather-bound volumes line bookshelves, a large globe in one corner, heavy drapes closed behind an enormous desk. The chair behind it is empty, the surface of the desk bare. Flames crackle in an enormous fireplace that dominates one side of the room, silhouetting the man who crouches there, adjusting a log with an iron poker. He finishes what he’s doing, then straightens up and turns to face us.

He’s a slight man, a little over five feet tall, balding, his remaining hair worn long and loose. He’s dressed in a black silk kimono with a scarlet dragon on the back, and brown leather slippers.

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Tanaka bows from the waist. The other man doesn’t respond, which I figure is a calculated insult. Tanaka begins to say something in Japanese, which the man cuts off with a wave of his hand.

“You do not belong here,” he says, looking straight at me. He sounds more regretful than annoyed.

“I was invited,” I say.

“To this house, yes. To this world, no.”

“That’s my problem. Yours is entirely different, and considerably more urgent.”

“Oh?” His voice is mild. If I had to guess, I’d say he learned his English at Oxford.

“Yes. The U.S. is investigating a string of international killings. The latest victim worked for you. I need to know why she was killed.”

“How is that my concern?” He holds the poker as if it were a walking stick, both hands clasped on the end of the handle, the tip resting on the floor.

“Because I’m not from here and I don’t care how many people I upset to get to the answers I require. That could cause you a great deal of unpleasantness.”

“I see. And if you were to learn the facts behind the demise of this presumed employee, you would simply go away.”

“I might.”

“I doubt that.” He smiles. “However, I’m being rude. My name is Isamu.” Isamu bows his head, ever so slightly. “And you are Jace Valchek, are you not?”

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He says something in Japanese to Tanaka, then laughs. I let it pass. Isamu ignores Charlie completely, which somehow irritates me more.

“Yeah. So how about helping us out, Isamu? After all, it was one of your own that got killed.”

“She was a person of no consequence. Were this a family matter, I would deal with it myself; but as the persons responsible are outsiders, I am willing to let outsiders eliminate the problem.”

Persons? “Thank you,” I say cautiously. “What information can you give us?”

His answer surprises me. “I can tell you who killed her—and why.”

“And in return?”

“We will discuss that later.”

Tanaka switches to English and interjects, “We will not enter into such an ill-defined agreement—”

It’s my turn to cut Tanaka off with a gesture. I agree with him, but I want to hear what Isamu has to say. “I’m listening.”

He turns back to the fire and places the poker back in its stand. “The blood trade is very important to my people, not just for reasons of profit and influence—though it generates both—but for reasons of tradition. The sakazuki ritual is how members of a clan declared loyalty to their leader; in times past, the oyabun symbolically shared his blood by sipping from a cup of sake and then passing the cup to his second-in-command.”

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His chuckle is a small, dry rasp. “Once we became kyuuketsuki, that ritual changed. Now, we drink human blood mixed with sake. The vintage and quality of the blood is important, as a sign of both respect and status. They say that humans will never become extinct in Japan, because then the gokudou will have nothing to drink.”

He pauses, as if waiting for me to comment. I don’t. After a moment, he continues.

“Human blood commands a very high price in Japan. Fresh is always best, of course, so the local supply is much coveted. Clans guard their sources jealously, perhaps even with a bit too much zeal.”

“You keep them prisoner.”

He shrugs. “A valuable commodity must be protected, sometimes from itself. To produce a fine wine you must tend the soil, nurture the grapes, choose the correct time for the harvest. Sometimes you must add things to the equation; other times, you must subtract.”

“You take away their freedom and their blood. What’s left?”

He meets my eyes and smiles. I realize that, unlike Tanaka, I can’t read him at all . . . and then I start to understand what he’s talking about.

There are all kinds of things a human dairy cow doesn’t really need. Eyes. Ears. Hands

. . .

A quick glance at Tanaka’s face is all the confirmation I need. The horror in my eyes produces only a satisfied nod from Isamu. “Efficiency is something of an obsession with my countrymen. How to generate the highest-quality product at the highest volume?

There was much experimentation in diet and exercise regimens. To an outsider these
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experiments might seem cruel, but they were being done in the interest of the greater good.”