Eternal Samurai (14 page)

“Petrol fulla shite, ’specially the black-market stuff.”

“Tell me about it.” Tatsu fastened the fuel line back onto its nipple, tweaked the choke and kicked the motorcycle over again. Another defiant backfire before the engine settled into a rough idle. Tatsu shut it off. Better save the fuel.

Bana pushed himself off the wall, sauntered over and handed Tatsu a paper bag. “Here, maybe this will help.”

If it was a vacuum piston kit, the man was a god. Tatsu wiped his hands on a rag before wrapping it around his tools and storing them in his saddlebag. He opened the sack. Two warm sandwiches nestled inside. Corned beef by the smell. Maybe Bana was not a god but pretty damn close at that moment as Tatsu eyed the mouth-watering offering. “Um,
domo arigatō
, Bana-san but you didn’t—”

“Course I didn’t, but you look like a starving rat. Hell, I swear you’re skinnier than last time I saw ya. Sides, I know where you can get top-grade gas fer free.”

Against his will, Tatsu gave the Irishman a hopeful glance. “Where?”

“My company, the Leper Colony.”

Tatsu felt his shoulders stiffen. “I don’t know.”

“A job would sure help yer cir … cum…stances.” Bana dragged out each syllable of the last word with a leer.

Tatsu stuffed the food inside his jacket, straddled the bike, and stomped down on the kick-start. The engine’s rumble almost drowned out his, “
Arigatō
, I’ll think about it.”

“Don’t think too long, boyo,” Bana yelled after him as Tatsu rode off. He knew the boy had talent, the kind of major talent he wanted at his back.

Just then, the retreating motorcycle belched a noxious puff of black smoke from its tailpipe giving the Irishman a mechanical “fuck you” finger.

A wolfish grin spread across Bana’s face and crinkles of amusement surrounded his hazel eyes.

“Yer a stubborn little shite but I’ll be seeing ya soon, boyo.”

.

Eight

S
o close, so dangerously close to a fatal slip. A slip made almost certain when his lips had fastened on Tatsu’s mouth in that long, delectable kiss. And the boy had responded to Arisada with such a sweet intensity—if only for a moment.

Arisada’s self-control, developed over centuries, had melted in the presence of Tatsu Cobb. He knew how reckless he’d been to court the boy’s attention much less reveal his identity last week in the dojo. No denying his motives—lust and love but those feelings warred with shame. Yet, he despaired. He could never take the boy as a lover.

The ache for Tatsu was a painful weight on his heart. And in his cock. He yearned to feel the youth’s core pulsing and wet around his member.
Hai, hai
, he thirsted to drive himself deep into Tatsu’s ass. Even more, the vampire needed to see the lust flare from those jade eyes moments before Arisada bit into that tender throat. Blind to all else but riding the crest of his orgasm, Arisada would drive his fangs into that vulnerable neck and drain the sweet, living blood.

Just like he had done countless times before.

Arisada detested the vile act of feeding. He recalled with horror the brutality of the first time the bloodlust possessed his body and senses. His first victim wailed for mercy. Arisada tore out the man’s throat.

For an unaccountable time, Arisada killed wantonly until a tiny shred of conscience triumphed. Never would he forget the serenity of that blessed moment when he connected with his
tamashii,
his soul. After that, there were many times Arisada wished for his own death. But he had already taken so, so many lives. In his remorse, he stopped feeding.

Ukita Sadomori, his
Seisakusha,
his creator, intervened. He ordered Arisada to live. And oath-bound, Arisada complied. He found a balance of sorts between his vampire instinct and his higher spiritual self. He took the lives of those who would never face justice—murderers, brigands and rapists. There were thousands of them down through the centuries. Still, with every death, Arisada begged for forgiveness from the Buddha Amida.

Now, in this modern era, no vampire needed to kill thanks to the indenture agreement. Some humans regarded indenture as an easy life. Many did not believe they would catch the virus. Some did not care. And some offered themselves solely for the sexual high.

Arisada’s soul rested no easier for it.

He cursed himself a fool as he drove to the indentured compound at Alki. It had been five days since he had fed. In his near starvation, Arisada knew his lust to couple with his victim would overwhelm him. The fucking was that of an animal in rut with no meaning and certainly no affection. That the human begged for it never justified the act.

Arisada spotted a young man—gawky, barely into his twenties—standing beside an open door. His posture indicated availability. Despite a smattering of acne and the fawning behavior common in the blood addict, the boy was pretty. His slim body and brown hair bore a slight resemblance to Tatsu.

The vampire approached the feeder and touched him on the shoulder. Although Arisada only chose men, not all were homosexual. A pleased exclamation escaped the man as he saw Arisada’s face. The vampire felt no vanity with this reaction to his beauty. Beauty was a curse. His he used as a weapon.

Although strung tight with fear, his body reeking from adrenalin, the young man slipped under the vampire’s thrall. Within seconds, the young feeder’s cock tented his pants. With fevered haste, his hands groped at his waistband, jerked down the zipper. He dug under his tattered briefs for his prick.

“Not here, your utility,” Arisada commanded. Still with his hand on his prick, the young man led Arisada into his single-room. As soon as the door closed, the vampire struck. Despite his resolve, Arisada lost all self-control as his starved body reacted to the first sip of the blood. The sexual hunger took him hostage.

As the vampire’s saliva entered his body, the young man yanked out his own swollen dick and began jerking off with frantic strokes.

Arisada pushed the man’s groping hand away from his dripping organ, and closed his own slender fingers over the hot shaft. He stroked the thick arc of flesh, once, twice before the sticky seed pulsed out. Then the vampire opened his own fly and pulled out his hard, angry prick. Blind to only his need, he smeared his organ with the young man’s sperm then spun the human around and slammed him face first against the wall.

The youth was riding his orgasm, his tumescent prick spurting with aftershocks. Arisada yanked the feeder’s jeans to his thighs, and thumbed apart the cheeks of his ass to expose the tight, dark entrance. The vampire rammed in his cock into the feeder’s rectum with brutal force.

The young man bucked back against him, crying his “Oh yeahs,” and “Fuck me’s” in the needy voice of the junky. He ground his ass against Arisada’s thighs as the vampire’s fingers dug into his hipbones.

“
Gomen, gomen nasai. Yurushite, yurushite,
” With each thrust, Arisada moaned against the young man’s neck. His grief-torn words begged for forgiveness. With an anguished cry, Arisada ejaculated filling the youth with molten heat. At the same moment, he viciously drove his teeth into the sweat-slicked neck.

The boy uttered no cry of pain. Arisada fed with great gulps, his teeth and lips bruising the tender skin. Sated, he pulled out of the still-quivering ass. The thick cream slithered down the insides of the man’s thighs.

Arisada laid his head on the young man’s shaking back for a few moments. When the youth turned around, he was alarmed to see red rivulets running down the vampire’s face.

“What is wrong?” the young man asked, touching trembling fingers to the blood-streaked cheeks.

“Nothing you could ever understand, youngster.” Arisada kissed the young man on his forehead. “
Arigatō gozaimasu
.” He thanked the feeder with an impotent gesture of gratitude. Then fled.

The youth would be dead within a day.

Hours later, Arisada walked along the tranquil paths of the Kuboto Garden. Beneath a rare cloudless sky, the half-full moon cast a pale luminescence over the delicate Japanese landscape. The Garden was his solace and his bane, a poignant reminder of a land lost in time.

Arisada’s refuge lay deep in a forested section of the Garden surrounded by Threadleaf cypress. Here was his secret place where he mourned Nowaki.

How he relished and hated his crystal-clear memories of his life at Mii-dera. A time when he was human, when he embraced the teachings of Buddha Amida and trained to be a Sōhei. His greatest joy came from that moment he fell in love. His greatest heartache from the moment his lover betrayed him.

Memories are supposed to blur with the passage of time, especially the long ages that mark a vampire’s life. But his vision of Koji Nowaki was as sharp as the blade on his
kotagiri
. Hundreds of years in the past, yet Arisada’s mind relived every moment, every nuance of the scents and sounds and feel of his time with his lover, his soulmate. His betrayer.

Relive it and weep.

The Temple of Mii-dera, Nipon, Spring 1175

Tension rippled through every Sōhei of Mii-dera. Every monk looked with apprehension at the arrival of the
zazu,
the abbot from Enryakuji, their sister monastery high atop Mount Hiei. It was no secret that the
zazu
coveted control over the immense yet independent monastery of Mii-dera. It was also no secret that Mii-dera’s current abbot refused to step down.

In the past, this concern had caused many violent conflicts between the two holy houses. Now as the New Year began, the question arose again. To counteract the threat, Mii-dera’s abbot was considering an alliance with the clan of Prince Mochihito. This decision would determine the future of Nipon.

These concerns filled Arisada as he hurried through the monastery’s vast grounds. At the age of twenty-one, he was a
gashira
, an officer in charge of training one-hundred foot soldiers. His status as their
sensei
made him responsible for gathering all novices to greet the visiting party. A display of strength was required, and all Mii-dera monks had been summoned to the great temple.

As usual, when military training was suspended, the acolyte Koji Nowaki was missing. Arisada wasted precious time searching through dozens of buildings on the vast temple grounds.

“He must be somewhere outside,” Arisada curbed his annoyance. Nowaki slipped away from his household duties as often as he could to enjoy the warmth of the new spring.

At times, Arisada wondered if the rebellious orphan would ever fully embrace the discipline of Sōhei life. The youth learned fast and was already leagues ahead of his class in nearly all fighting skills. Nowaki had sixteen summers, a man by all standards, but there were times like now when he acted more like a child. Although intelligent and fearless, Nowaki chaffed at the restrictions imposed by the Buddhist life.

The sun, almost at zenith, suffused the orchard with a pale radiance. The blossoms from the sakura trees drifted to the ground to form a carpet of pink over the tender new grass. The air was redolent with their delicate scent.

Arisada sighted Nowaki lying under a sakura. Always a strange choice to Arisada who knew the boy had hidden in branches of that same kind of tree while his entire family was butchered. On silent steps, Arisada approached the sleeping form. In the stillness of the moment, he knelt beside Nowaki, all urgencies forgotten. Arisada allowed the peace of the orchard to quiet his annoyance at Nowaki’s irresponsibility.

The older monk marveled how Nowaki-kun had grown in the few short years since he arrived to the monastery. The youth resembled an unbroken colt not yet tamed by life, full of wild energy. The boy’s exuberance often spilled over into little defiances like slipping off to doze under the cherry blossom trees when he should be cleaning the sleeping quarters.

One of Nowaki’s arms formed a pillow behind his head, the other rested on his chest, the long fingers slightly curled. Despite the chill in the air, Nowaki wore only a thin
kimono
. He had kicked off his straw sandals and undone his
obi
to let the garment fall open. Pink petals had drifted down to dust his body.

A thin shaft of sunlight filtered down between the tree branches. It lit Nowaki-kun’s face with a nimbus of golden light. The boy’s slightly parted lips showed the tips of perfect, white teeth. There was no tension in his face, just the sweet look of slumbering youth.

Four years separated their ages. Still, there was no mistaking Nowaki was at full manhood. Nowaki was now taller than Arisada with a lean body that moved with coltish grace. His frame carried a fine layer of muscle that more than hinted of the man to come. But it was the unalloyed purity of Nowaki’s sheer beauty that captivated Arisada’s heart.

The planes of Nowaki’s chest showed the promise of the muscles beneath. Arisada rubbed his hand over his own flat chest, knowing, with some regret, he would never be as strong as the youth. Nowaki’s skin was darker than his. Yet, golden glints tinged the pelt of brown hair dusting Nowaki’s chest and trailing down his ridged abdomen.

Arisada’s gaze followed the tantalizing concave of muscle down to the boy’s loins. Nowaki’s thin
fundoshi
outlined every curve and ridge of his sex, more arousing to Arisada than a view of the naked treasures beneath.

A lone pink blossom drifted down to settle on Nowaki’s forehead. Without thinking, Arisada reached out with trembling fingers to remove it. The gesture was an echo of his first caress when the boy came to him sobbing with fright and loneliness.

Arisada recalled that one precious time six months ago, when he held Nowaki in his arms. A fierce winter storm tore through the monastery as if every demon in Nipon sought to tear the place apart with supernatural forces. The wind howled through shuttered windows, making the candles gutter and cast eerie shadows over the walls. That night Nowaki had revealed the demons haunting his soul.

Why Nowaki’s defenses fell, Arisada would never know. The story poured out in a disjointed babble—the vicious mutilation, the murders, the rapes. The sheer helplessness suffered by an innocent who witnessed the slaughter of an entire village before suffering his own brutal violation. An all-too-common story, yet to Arisada, singularly heartbreaking when spilling from Nowaki’s lips.