Yashakiden: The Demon Princess, Volume 2 (15 page)

“You're trapped, Setsura.” The voice of what had been Kusama reverberated from somewhere in the blue room. “This bar is sealed. Secret Chinese technology from four thousand years ago. Give it up. It's a crime not to do what the Master says.”

Setsura searched for the source of the voice but couldn't find it. The strange blue haze muddled his sense of direction. He couldn't even locate the source of the light.

For now, his enemies consisted of the two men. Plus the “master” and the china dolls. Setsura opened his right hand.

A gray object tumbled through the mist, hit the floor with a hard thump and rolled next to his feet. A metal tube the size of a large egg. A fuse smoldered.

Setsura covered his face with the sleeve of his slicker. This civilian-use device was not as powerful as a military-grade hand grenade. But at point-blank range the shock wave and shrapnel could take out three grown men. There was only one Setsura, not to mention the bomb was sitting there at his feet.

With a roar, the slicker flew upwards like paper trash caught in a stiff wind and crashed onto the floor a good yard away. Ruby-red beams pierced the motionless silhouette.

“Did we get him?”

“Got him.”

The question and answer came from the vicinity of the counter. A moment later Kusama and his partner grunted painfully. They stood up as if yanked forward, clutching their necks and shoulders. A leg buckled. A hand fell off. A thigh split halfway up like a ripe peach.

The wooden tables and the backs of the chairs cleaved apart without a sound, as if touched by an invisible psychic knife. The work of Setsura's devil wires gliding silently through the air. Smooth as glass, the head of one dropped off. The other limped toward the door, dragging a leg spouting blood.

A single layer of skin held together Kusama's shoulders. Blood gushed from both thighs. Dragging his foot out of the hole in the floor dug by the grenade, he fixed his shining red eyes on the immobilized Setsura. Through the door spread out the city of Shinjuku.

Limping and staggering in the opposite direction from the red-light district, Kusama scrambled toward the vacant lot several blocks away. He rushed the razor wire dotted with “No Trespassing” signs. His big body convulsed and smoked. The fence was electrified as well.

The big man roared. Ignoring the violence to his body, he pressed himself against the wire. The chain links tore apart. He broke through.

Bathed in moonlight, black steeples soared skyward. Leaves rustled. A grove of trees, each fifteen to twenty feet high, twenty to thirty inches in diameter. A small wood in the middle of the entertainment district.

Another black shadow fell across the black land. An artist belonging to the extreme realism school would be overjoyed at the sight. The black trees had taken root in solid concrete.

Spurting fountains of blood, Kusama approached one tree and said, “All is as you ordered, Master. The other one is dead, but that is just as well.” Only the wind silently answered from the grove. The big, blood-spattered man spoke all the more earnestly. “That means I have you all to myself.”

After a long silence, a woman's dazzling voice descended upon him. “Are you saying that Setsura is dead? Which one of your holes is spouting such nonsense?”

“No, I'm sure—”

“Then who is that standing there?”

Kusama turned toward the sound of something slicing through the air. A flash of silver light streaked from the treetops and was swallowed up in one corner of the chain link fence. A normal person could not have seen a thing in all the darkness, but even without night vision equipment, Kusama could see the most beautiful woman in the world standing there.

The silver comb arced toward his carotid artery. Setsura batted it away as he might a spinning top and calmly walked toward them.

“A slight blunder. But I couldn't be happier, Setsura Aki. I will dispose of you before my Master's eyes.”

The once friendly voice roiled with villainy and bloodlust as he greeted the approaching shadow.

“One more time.”

The silver comb burned through the air, skimmed Setsura's neck, cartwheeled past him, turned back on its original course and was sucked back into the canopy of the tree it'd come from.

Setsura glanced at the collar of the slicker. “Cutting corners there, Mephisto,” he muttered, an attitude that might be considered ungrateful, considering that the slicker Mephisto had given him had protected him against laser beams and the shock and shrapnel of the grenade—even if the flash of the silver comb had carved a sizable notch in its collar.

“Back at the bar, this comb cut through my devil wires as well. From what Mephisto tells me, besides
Master
you also go by
Shuuran
.”

“Well, well. This is correct. The second most beautiful man on the planet knows my name. I am honored.”

“Are you here alone?”

“Aside from my servant, yes. Look what you've done to your friend. And then let him escape in order to find out where I was. That's not very nice, you frighteningly beautiful man.”

“My friend is dead,” Setsura said softly. “What you see here is a hell beast that has assumed his appearance. I do him no favors by letting him live.”

Beneath the moonlight, three chimeras stood their ground. Only one should be human, and yet the demon vibes freezing the gloom were all far beyond the human.

At the same time, a figure wearing black Chinese robes appeared in front of the Aki Senbei shop in Yonchome, West Shinjuku. A small koto hung from his shoulder. The faint, fleeting sound floated on the passing breeze.

The koto called
Silent Night
.

“Where is
your
master?” Setsura asked, facing the tree. “It's about time we formally met. Her address and telephone number, please?”

“It is etched upon my heart,” came Shuuran's voice amidst the rustling canopy of the dark tree. “If you want it, you must take it from me. Before the day dawns.”

“Then that is what I will do.” Setsura walked quietly to the tree.

Kusama stepped forward. “I'm still here,” he growled like a wild animal. His fangs glittered.

“That is not necessary,” said Shuuran.

A flash of silver cleanly severed Kusama's stout neck. His head popped up into the air, followed by a fountain of blood. Setsura didn't spare a second glance as his friend collapsed onto the ground. Instead he faced the treetops from which the silver comb had flown.

“These trees that spring from concrete are a natural treasure here in Shinjuku. They cannot be stripped bare of their leaves. Either you come down here or I will come up.”

She didn't answer. Setsura felt a strange presence. Several of them. He glanced sideways at Kusama's corpse. A black substance like tar poured from his neck, spreading out in a growing puddle. Many small shapes and figures bobbed on the surface. Clay dolls.

“I used my own blood to start with,” Shuuran laughed in her high voice. “But having run out of useful things to do with your friend, his will do. Think of them as your kindred spirits.”

Before Setsura could dodge out of the way, the things born of living blood flew at him as one. Each mouth boasted a shiny pair of fangs. Unable to find any blood vessels, they had proved ineffective on Doctor Mephisto. But Setsura—

He could feel the thrall of excitement radiating from the treetops. The dolls paused with their fangs in his neck and cast their eyes at Shuuran's face high above.

“Oh, look! The children are confused. That bite in the bar was effective after all.”

Setsura nonchalantly fastened the lapels of his coat.

“Ha! That makes my word your command.”

Her voice floated down from above. Several yards in front of him, a young woman in Chinese dress quietly alighted on the ground. She straightened, casting off beams of moonlight. Her arms were bare to the shoulders. She beckoned to him.

“Come.”

The bronze bracelet around her wrist sang out in a small, clear sound. As if a slave to her words, the beautiful, magical being called Setsura Aki stepped forward. Shuuran grinned from ear to ear. It was hard to imagine that such a refined and innocent countenance could take on such an appearance, even for a vampire.

Her glittering, fiery crimson eyes—her nostrils flaring with each ragged, panting breath—the greediest, most vulgar face in the world. She beckoned more forcefully.

Setsura walked straight towards her. Then he stopped, like a beautiful doll disobeying the yanked strings of his puppeteer. A look of consternation crossed Shuuran's face.

“As I might have expected. I have been alive for four thousand years and you still defy me. Princess curses you. Kikiou fears you. Now I understand. Sir Ryuuki is also in danger. Here and now I will sweep away every reason for their distress.”

Shuuran proceeded forward, her right hand stretched out in front of her. She looked like a large cat on the prowl. Setsura didn't move, like a mouse frozen in place, as if he did not possess the means to escape those fangs and claws and resistance was useless.

A dark line appeared through the palm of Shuuran's hand, separating the bent barbs of her fingers down to the wrist. Then the line reached further, from her wrist to her elbow to her shoulder.

At the same time, the invisible brush drew similar dark lines across her throat and waist. Her hand split lengthwise like a stick of kindling struck by a sharp axe. Her neck and torso neatly bisected like sliced cucumber, the line spreading out like spilt ink.

But Shuuran continued on as if impervious, the fierce look of pain rising to her face only after passing through the hidden spider's web.

“I don't believe it—the threads—stretched there—” The words emerged from her mouth in a bubbly, bloody froth.

“A cocoon,” Setsura helpfully explained.

He'd spun it to protect his frozen body, the same way he had in the hospital to fend off the assault from Shuuran's master. The difference in effectiveness came down to the difference between master and servant. The exception being that in order to draw Shuuran closer, he had to feign obedience to her commands.

“And will you die like that?” The black-clad, half-human genie called Setsura addressed the lurching vampiress, a touch of compassion in his voice. “I do not believe so. But its effects will surely be felt. There are many things I wish to ask you. Why don't we go back to my shop and talk it over?”

“You beautiful, foolish man. I am not dead yet.”

Shuuran pressed her split-apart hands against her throat and abdomen. They were sliding off each other like a stack of slippery plates. It wasn't necessary to note the tide of blood pouring out from between the sections to conclude she had been bisected where she stood. Trying to literally keep herself together, a wicked smile rose to the pitiful girl's mouth.

“Do you think nothing this bad has ever happened to me before? Do you think I've never died before? Four thousand years is a long time. Live and let die—die and let live. And as long as I live, I shall never obey you. You are the one who must obey me. Come—”

No matter how often she repeated herself, Setsura retreated instead, shaking free of the spell.

“You cannot resist me. You cannot escape.”

Painting thick ribbons of blood on the concrete, Shuuran pursued him. Even given her immortality, she exhibited a life force and implacable will that was stunning to behold. She chased him as Setsura glided backwards like a skater on smooth ice.

“Look, Sir Ryuuki,” said Shuuran, as if trying to convince herself. “I will eliminate the cause of your grief.”

Her blood-filled eyes observed as the black figure came to a halt. He stopped beneath the tallest of the trees.

“No, you cannot escape.” She drew up next to him. She was a big game hunter whose terrifying confidence never wavered while tracking down the prey.

A round lump no bigger than a baby's head rolled up to her like a snowball. Shuuran stared at it, wide-eyed, as more appeared, one after the other, enclosing her in a kind of igloo.

“Tonight, the treasure of Kabuki-cho has proved very useful indeed,” Setsura mused profoundly. He juggled a white fruit plucked from the tree behind him in his right hand.

Shuuran stood immobilized on the spot, locked in. It was almost as if the “Tree of Kabuki-cho” had borne its fruit in anticipation of this day. Setsura had cast around the demon vampiress a wall of peaches, peaches that were said to extend the life of all living things and exorcise all impurities.

Yonchome in West Shinjuku. Fifty yards from a
senbei
shop—whose owner was as famous for his looks as his rice crackers—was a small playground. Though a relatively safe location, come night, the roving demons would increase in number. However, if appropriately armed, it was not impossible for a person to enjoy the cool of the evening.

One such man noticed the impressive figure sitting on one of the park benches. His eyes were drawn to the odd object this person was holding. A small koto. This musical instrument alone was enough to prompt him to summon the rest of the civilian patrol. They surrounded the bench.

Tied in a topknot, his long hair hung down to his shoulders. A healthy-looking Chinese man with pale skin. The patrolmen felt cold chills run down their spines. For no particular reason, they sensed this was a recent resident of Demon City.

“G'night. Sure is hot, huh?”

“That a koto?”

“Can't sleep either? We're with you on that. Hey, why don't you play us a tune?”

For a minute, the man didn't move or speak. Then he applied his fingers to the strings. The civilian patrol reacted with applause and shouts of approval. His melancholy voice drifted up into air bathed in moonlight. It wasn't a melody they knew.

He played a song and sang about a faraway place, about an old regime even father time had forgotten, at the ends of an earth whose life and death the gods of history didn't know.