Yashakiden: The Demon Princess, Volume 2 (18 page)

Setsura glanced to his right and left. On his right, the twisted trunk of a tree clawed toward the sky. A willow. Its roots were covered with human bones. These were the accumulated results of people who'd been dumped there. From the tattered remains of the clothing, interlopers from some time ago.

Setsura had no interest in them.

On his left was a brick wall. Draped across the top of the wall was a black shadow. A round, fat black cat.

“Freelancing again, Toya?” Setsura asked, calling out the name of the most rotund information broker in Shinjuku.

The cat scowled and disappeared behind the wall and out of view. An unfamiliar noise rushed toward him. It sounded like the roar of the ocean. A white, surging tide sprang into view at the end of the street.

“Well—” said Setsura in a tired voice.

The ocean wave rushed at him, sparkling in the sunlight. He had no time to escape and nowhere to run. He stood there and was engulfed in white.

A moment later, he was standing alone on the cobblestones, the crash of the waves still echoing in his ears. That was all. Not a spot of wetness remained on the street. There wasn't a damp hair on his head.

“Interesting guest,” came a hoarse voice above him.

Setsura looked up. The owner of the voice alit on the limb of the willow. Its carnivorous eyes peered down at him. A raven.

“People who visit during the day, who don't have an appointment, will trip that tripwire. Those who intend no harm to this city block or its residents won't get much more than a good scare or a fainting spell. That bunch from the Czech Secret Service, though, they scared easy.” The raven jabbed its beak at the tangled skeletons around the base of the tree. “The muddy currents swallowed them up and they drowned there. Much to the delight of the neighborhood dogs and rats.”

“Good job,” Setsura complimented the bird while suppressing the creeping chill in his gut. “By the way, any other tripwires?”

“That depends on you. A brave heart, not alarmed by that little performance—you don't strike me as a dangerous type. Where are you headed?”

“Show me the way and I'll tell you.”

The bird opened its mouth and cawed like a normal bird. Then it said, “These days, you can't let down your guard even for ordinary citizens,” and took off.

Beating its wings vigorously, it crossed the sky above the street. A dozen feet ahead of him, it paused and looked back at him.

“The house of Miss Galeen Nuvenberg, if you don't mind.”

Giving no sign whether it comprehended him or not, the bird resumed its forward flight and continued leisurely down the narrow main street.

A girl of seven or eight with golden locks greeted Setsura at the door of the small stone house.

The combination of the pink gloss of her skin, eyes reminiscent of the clear blue sea, and the purple satin dress was so endearing as to drive the most austere man to thoughts of abduction. At the same time, she had about her an ethereal, detached essence that calmed the animal spirits.

“It's been a long time,” Setsura smiled.

“Welcome,” she said with a bow. The golden wave of hair swayed on top of her head.

She gestured for him to come in. The black bird followed after them and alighted on the hearth above the fireplace. The girl didn't object. The air was cool. The floor and walls and ceiling were made of stone. The light shining through the windows was filled with the cold clarity of a winter sun.

She offered him one of the chairs around the wooden table. “I'm sorry, but all I have is tea. Grandmother is in the hospital.”

“Yes, I know. Right now, she can't move a muscle. I came here to ask you something.”

“What's that?”

“Do you have any fears of being overheard?”

“There is nothing to worry about.” She followed Setsura's gaze. “I've been observing you since you left the bus stop. I sent it to meet you.”

The bird held a wing in front of its beak and cleared its throat with a self-important air.

“I'm not sure that feeding a raven's ego is a wise thing to do.”

“I agree,” said the girl, returning the bird's look. The black bird turned the other way in a huff.

“I'm sorry, but could you draw the curtains?”

“Haven't you just woken up?” With a soft, metallic click, her lips turned up in a smile. She was a doll.

Setsura looked over his shoulder. The curtains were drawn across the window. The room was dark. The brass lamp fixture in the ceiling cast off a dull light. He retraced his thoughts. Had it been like this all along? Without another word, with his left hand he turned down the collar of his shirt.

“This is what it comes down to.”

“I know.”

“Can it be treated?”

“The extent of the wound must be ascertained. It will take time—and will not be painless.”

“I'm fine until sundown.”

“That will do,” the girl said, closing her eyes and nodding in a manner that suggested a thorough knowledge of the subtleties of human existence.

“Strange things have been happening of late outside the neighborhood,” said the raven in a papery voice. It was still perched on the hearth. “I thought perhaps—and then it became quite obvious—it must be
them
.”

“Strange things?” Setsura queried, feigning ignorance.

“Yes. I see the unseen flying through the sky. I hear the unheard. Humans don't understand how to use their eyes or ears.”

“That's the kind of thing Grandma likes to say,” the girl grinned.

The bird ignored her. “One night, I watched a woman go into a house in Yocho. Half an hour or so later, she came out with a man. He had marks on his throat like yours.”

“I didn't know you were a peeping tom. When Grandma gets better, she'll have to gouge out one of your eyes to teach you a lesson.”

Setsura asked, “Why were you observing that house?”

“It's the house of the Chief of Police. They toss out the most delicious leftovers in the trash.”

“And what happened after that?”

“You really want to know?”

“Sure.”

“It'll cost you.”

“Spell out your terms.”

“Let me think about it,” the bird said curtly. “But more importantly, let's not delay treatment. What I saw was barely a scratch, but I could tell the curse was already coursing through his bloodstream.”

“Good idea,” the girl nodded. “This way.”

Setsura got to his feet. She led him down a narrow hallway to a room further in. She pushed on a steel door set into the stone wall on his right. The heads of large rivets dotted the rusty red surface. The long-unused hinges groaned as the door opened inwards, exposing a dark, rectangular space.

The illumination from the hallway revealed a stone staircase. “Come along,” the girl said.

“What about a light?”

“I have it here.” She held up the silver candlestick holder.

The blue candle cast off a wan glow. The melting wax dribbled down and wound around the silver shaft of the holder. Without a moment's hesitation, the girl disappeared into the darkness. Setsura chased after the small halo of light.

“Have you been to the hospital?” he asked, as they plunged deeper down into the chilly gloom.

“Yes. Yesterday evening. Doctor Mephisto said you had just left.”

“And how is she doing?”

A faint smile bubbled to the girl's lips. The gap between the substance of the question and Setsura's voice must have struck her as odd. Whatever pressure he was working under, he sounded like he was pretty out of it. To put things baldly, like he'd stumbled out of bed. Considering the state he was in, this said a lot about what the “normal” him was like.

“I couldn't say. But if he comes up with an effective treatment, you ought to try some too.”

Setsura stood next to the girl. He didn't know how far they'd descended. Based on the length of their conversation, more than ten seconds couldn't have elapsed. But they'd walked down more than a hundred steps.

The faint halo of light revealed a subterranean scene entirely appropriate to this neighborhood and this house. The black stone arch holding up the ceiling, the stone sarcophagus resting on the stone floor—Setsura could make out similar objects residing in the chambers bored into the far wall.

“Over here,” the girl beckoned.

“An underground graveyard,” Setsura said, making note of vases inlaid with gold and silver tucked into holes in the arch.

“Yes.”

“And the contents of those vases would be—?”

“Yes. Hearts.”

“Whose?”

“I do not know. I suppose they belong to Grandma and me. Can you see well enough?”

“More or less.”

“And where it's pitch black?”

“Less. The candle helps.”

“My hands have been empty for some time now.”

The girl was suddenly right in front of him. She pushed on a steel door. A beam of dim light cast a blue glow across Setsura's face. The light burning inside the room wasn't likely an ordinary incandescent bulb.

“You use this room often?”

“What makes you think that?”

“The hinges didn't creak.”

“I treat people now and then. People with the same illness as you. Not all of the residents of the Toyama housing project are blessed with sufficient self-control. Even there, none of the victims had become a vampire irreparably. They are all recuperating in their homes.”

“You have that effective a cure?”

The girl didn't answer. She pointed at the bed that stretched toward the back of the rather large room. “Wait there while I prepare for the examination and treatment. Based on your ability to see what should not be visible, your transformation has already progressed to a significant degree. Still, the wound seems fairly shallow.”

“Her sire is a four-thousand-year-old vampire.”

“That being the case—” Her tone of voice suggested she didn't disagree with the relevancy of the observation. She walked to the wall on her right where an array of strange metal instruments was hanging.

Setsura sat down on the bed. It was hard as stone but had the necessary amount of give. The blankets were folded up at his feet.

Kii—kii—
squealed the wheels of a cart the girl pushed up to the bed. An odd device sat on the cart. “Lie down,” she said. Setsura complied. “Turn your head. I will examine the wounds.”

A mechanism consisting of a cylinder and squarish object. Clear plastic tubes coiled around it like snakes. Here and there knobs and valves poked out at odd angles. It looked like an antique contraption from a long-gone, steam-powered era.

“Why didn't you check yourself into Mephisto Hospital?” she asked, picking up a tube capped at one end with a needle-like, tapered metal ring.

“Let's just say something doesn't feel right.”

“Such as?”

“Such as that hospital director having an odd air about him, like he's being torn by internal struggles.”

“You don't say—”

Setsura felt the metal ring pressing against the wounds in his neck. “The son-of-a-bitch visited the vampire's lair. Stuff must have happened there.”

He was the only person on the face of the earth who referred to the Demon Physician as a “son-of-a-bitch,” though that didn't make his soul any more transparent.

“Was his blood taken?” The frightening possibilities of the question did not at all match the look on the doll's face.

“I don't get how doctors think at all. That quack in particular.”

“You do have a point.” She withdrew the “needle” from the pair of wounds.

“How is it?” Setsura asked, rubbing his neck.

“How is your appetite?” The tube she was holding had turned black. Setsura's blood.

“I don't have one right now.”

“Did you eat last night.”

“Yeah.”

“Trouble sleeping?”

“No.”

“Dry throat?”

“A little.”

“Anything you want to drink? Be honest.”

“Nope.”

“What's your reaction when exposed to sunlight?”

“I get cold.”

“How cold?”

“Goose pimples.”

“You should have come here earlier.”

“Is it too late?” Setsura asked impatiently.

“No. There should still be time.”

“So you can treat me?”

“No.”

In response to this matter-of-fact statement, Setsura stared off into space.

“Please don't give up hope. At the end of the day, there is no cure for somebody whose blood has been taken by a vampire. If they want to return to their human state, they must destroy the vampire that drank their blood. However, if the vampire loses interest after that, the victim can continue to maintain her humanity and go on living in…in proportion to the number of times her blood was taken.”

“So a person takes on more of a vampire's characteristics if his blood is drunk twice rather than once, three times rather than twice—”

“Yes. That's the gist of it. Though simply judging the degree of transformation according to the frequency and volume, it is possible to wrongly conclude that transfusions and the administration of antitoxins could bring about recovery. This bit of blind faith sprang up in Europe during the Middle Ages and still carries considerable weight. It is a fundamental error. In purely substantive terms, vampirism itself cannot be cured. A victim becoming a creature of the night all depends on the degree of the curse they bear.”

Setsura forgot about the severity of his own physical condition and focused his attention on the lecturing doll. The countenance of the striking young woman took on the grave demeanor of a professor.

Setsura said, “But according to Mephisto, some time ago, vampires came to Shinjuku that were not members of the Toyama clans. Fortunately, they were stopped before the victim transformed into a vampire. All the blood in her body was drained and transfused, and she now leads a normal life.”