Yashakiden: The Demon Princess, Volume 2 (7 page)

The old man gladly invited him in for a look. The merchant found himself in another world, in a room filled with rare furniture. Drinking wine finer than any he'd known back in his world, he looked outside the room. Lakes and forests and mountains filled the earth and sky to the distant horizon. This world was indeed complete in every way.

The merchant recognized the old man as a wizard, and sojourned with him deep in the mountains in order to learn the secrets of his craft. But he was never able to master the dark arts and eventually had to leave. He never saw the old man again.

Hence the origins of the so-called “universe in a bottle.”

These four demons came from epochs much older than the sources of such stories. So their ability to employ such secret arts was hardly surprising.

Setsura got out of bed. Mephisto said, “If you intend to leave the hospital, you should at least get an examination first.”

“Forget it. It'll be evening soon. That's
their
time. My job is finding out where they are.”

“Have any clues about where they are?”

“I would if these were the usual suspects.”

Mephisto looked out the window as Setsura pulled off the hospital gown. “So we're going to have more invalids on our hands,” he muttered under his breath.

Setsura retrieved his clothing from the sterilization closet. He stopped and glanced over his shoulder. He'd never heard Mephisto refer to his patients and cases as anything but. Ryuuki's penetrator
qi
was something else indeed, worming inside the body, casting a shadow over the handsome doctor's vocabulary.

Mephisto took note as well. “Not that
my
caseload will be increasing. This city may be appropriate to their needs, but that doesn't mean they are appropriate to this city. If they aren't eliminated quickly, Shinjuku will be steeped in blood.”

“No matter whose blood they drink, they won't become any more talkative. We've got to do something before the mayor flips out and orders the chief of police to launch a vampire hunt. You need to develop the equivalent of a vampire mosquito net, or some kind of blood serum that can counteract being bitten.”

“I am working on it. What about the Elder's funeral? He obviously thought highly of you. It should begin at the Toyama housing project soon after sunset.”

“I'll see you there.”

“Good luck.”

Setsura paused at the door and glanced at the window. The one man in this city more attractive than himself stood there motionless, as if projecting his own gloom over the metropolis.

Setsura got in touch with Yoshiko Toya as soon as he got home. He had several sources on retainer, but none of them had anything. One said he should ask Toya. But she didn't have any information at her fingertips about new Chinese in the city.

The sky grew a deeper shade of blue. Impatience was darkening his own face about the time Toya called him back. “I forgot something,” the heavy voice said. “You asked about anybody familiar with Chinese traditions and legends. There is a man. In Arakimachi.”

“His name?”

“Toujuurou Niwa. Sixty-nine. Professor emeritus at Waseda University. His specialty is ancient Chinese history.”

“Sounds rather run-of-the-mill.”

“And yet you had to ask me.”

This reminder was accompanied by a grunt and a belch. Out of politeness, the telephone connection was always blamed for such noises. But it happened when meeting her in person too. Considering her general girth and physique, the observer was less liable to laugh than to gape.

“Got it,” he said, the dumpling-like face of the information peddler popping up in the back of his mind as he spoke. “So what about him isn't so run-of-the-mill?”

“Twenty-five years ago, not just his college but the profession as a whole hounded him into an early retirement. The Japanese Historical Society, the Ancient History Research Association, the Federation of Chinese Historical Literature Collections—they all gave him the boot. The guy got himself involved in some real funny business.”

“Like what?”

“That'll cost you another twenty.”

Toya struck a hard bargain, and did it with a smile on her face. She was fat as a pig and as miserly and hard-nosed as Scrooge. But it wasn't her extraordinary intelligence-gathering skills—that meant she'd never go begging for work—it was the comical way she waddled around that earned her the title, “Lard of the Dark.”

“Deal.”

“Much appreciated.” A belch.

“No problem.”

“The professor specialized in the underside of ancient Chinese history. Legends, fairy tales, magic. Ghosts and goblins, that sort of stuff. Nothing unusual about that alone. But the goal of his research was to prove that it was all
real
. Though even that's not so far out there. Except in the middle of one conference, he pulled off a stunt that sent the old-school types right over the edge.”

“Which was?” The darkening world outside the window cast shadows across Setsura's face.

“Magic,” Toya said breezily. “Sorcery. Before an assembly of dignitaries and blowhards, he gave a demo in the Chinese black arts. They probably thought he'd pull a rabbit out of a hat or something. Not the real damn thing. The conference room erupted in pandemonium. According to the minutes, two people there died of shock.”

“So they kicked him out. Hardly unexpected in the outside world.”

“That's for sure. A performance like that would win him a standing ovation here.”

“He got a family?”

“He lives by himself. He was married, but his wife died ten years ago. All his kids live in the outside world. And he's since gone a little nuts.”

“What's his address?”

She told him, and he thanked her and was about to hang up.

“Hold on a second.” She cut another one.

“Yeah?” He waited but Toya said nothing. “Something you ate disagreed with you?” he joked.

“Mmm. So something happen that you're not saying?”

“Why would you think that?” It occurred to Setsura that he might be laying on the unflappable attitude a bit thick.

“No idea. The intel I'm seeing and hearing isn't any different from before. The craziest shit in the world could be right over the horizon and this city just shrugs it off. Frankly,
that's
what scares the crap out of me.”

“Huh.”

“Still, it's my job to know everything that's going down that's connected to this city. Problem is, that's the
only
thing I've got a handle on. There's plenty I'm clueless about. What kind of hair gel the guy in the house next door uses? What he eats for breakfast? What's happening on that level is completely off my radar screens. And right now, it's happening everywhere in Shinjuku. You get my point?”

“What
is
your point?” Setsura asked, still in his laid-back tone of voice.

“I'm not so sure myself. Maybe it's because I'm getting more intel than usual. Maybe it's because I'm getting less. Maybe it's because I'm getting reports all telling me the same thing. Maybe it's because the nights are longer and darker than usual. Maybe it's because the days keep getting shorter. Or maybe I'm just beat. The only thing I do know is that I've caught a constant case of the creeps. There's a curse on this place.”

“This
is
Demon City.”

Toya was quiet for a minute. “Good to hear,” she said. “Good to hear. At least you're the same as always. Just as I expected. You're a citizen of Demon City. It's in your bones. When the apocalypse comes, I'm sticking by you.”

“Fine with me.”

“Helps me sleep at night.” Her voice was filled with trust. “I have no idea what's going to happen next, but whatever it is, you'll think of something. Hang in there, okay?
Urp
.”

She said goodbye and hung up.

Fifty yards from Aki Senbei was a side street that was always dank and dark even in the middle of the day. An old man in a long gray robe stood at the back of the street, eyes closed. He held a rusty, dented funnel in his parched right hand. The narrow end was pressed against his ear.

If one in the thousands of passersby on the main thoroughfare had stopped and taken note of the old man's strange behavior—had glanced at the funnel and seen that it was pointed at a small
senbei
shop—what he was up to would still remain a puzzle.

“Three eight Arakimachi—” mumbled the deeply creviced, glistening, leech-like lips. “Once Ryuuki showed he couldn't get the job done, I set out at once. Still, I didn't think Setsura would return home so quickly. My listening device couldn't penetrate the walls of the hospital. It's much more useful here.”

Based on the old man's running self-commentary, he'd tailed Setsura from Mephisto Hospital. Contrary to appearances, an evil killer instinct suffused every fiber of this particular senior citizen. For he was none other than Kikiou.

After setting up the new safe house, he'd set out in the middle of the day to bring down their most dangerous enemy, Setsura Aki.

Feeling a presence behind him, Kikiou spun around.

In a deep, dark corner of the street where the sun didn't shine and not even the people who lived there were curious about exploring, two points of light stared back from the inky shadows.

The growl that issued forth was suffused with echoes of hunger. With an eerie smile, Kikiou casually approached this monster—that was born and grew up in an eternal night.

The listening device had not only intercepted Setsura's voice, but Toya's as well. Now he stashed it inside his robes and reached into a burlap bag dangling from his shoulder. By the time he'd retrieved the object, the ravenous eyes were a mere three feet away.

He tossed the object. To normal eyes, it seemed to melt into the gloom and disappear. It was a small square box a little over an inch square. It emitted a low sound as it fell to the ground.

The two points of light started, and backed up several steps. Kikiou took another object from the bag and transferred it to his mouth.

It was like the thing that Mephisto had put into his mouth at their manor. The mouth of the porcelain jar was capped with a metal ring and lid. A metallic pipe jutted out of the lid.

Kikiou sucked on the short end of the pipe, drawing in his cheeks. And then blew it out. Without a sound, a mist covered the ground between himself and the beast. It formed into the shape of an umbrella about eighteen inches in diameter and fell toward the strange box.

Something quavered in the midst of the impenetrable darkness. An ear-piercing screech rang out. The creaking of a hinge. A wondrous aroma filled the shadows.

The nose-wrinkling smell of a fresh slaughter—not at all appealing to the human senses. The cloud of scent expanded. Less than two seconds later, the pair of eyes changed. The ferocity melted like snow in summer. Eyes brimming, their owner slowly crawled up to Kikiou. The small box was the only thing between them.

And yet before the fourth footfall, the glowing eyes suddenly disappeared. And then the rest of the creature's body—whose presence suggested it must be quite large—vanished as well. It was as if some large thing had suddenly emerged between the man and the monster and swallowed it whole.

“
Kiii—
” screeched the hinge. With that, every other sound died as well.

Several minutes later, Kikiou emerged from this forgotten little alleyway—avoided even by the residents of the neighborhood. Under the bright sunlight, he examined the little box with an air of satisfaction. He flashed a smile in the direction of Aki Senbei and set off towards Shinjuku Station at a brisk clip.

In this dark alley, abandoned by humans for several years now, a scrambling horde of little shadows greedily devoured the desiccated corpse of the large cat that had appeared there several minutes before.

An intense, foul mood filled the room, made all the more claustrophobic by the listless purple dusk. The silk pavilion and the statue clothed in leaves of beaten gold created a bright slash across the permanent twilight—that hadn't changed since ancient times.

Everything appeared warped, and wavered as if viewed from the bottom of a deep column of water.

This was the personal quarters of the Demon Princess. Behind the curtains was her pool of blood. The sound of water died away. A thick streak of fresh blood covered the green marble floor from the edge of the pavilion to the golden statue.

The reason for the bronze incense burners lining the wall was obvious—to mask the smell of blood.

The sturdy figure stood in front of the statue. He was naked. No matter how licentious the woman, the beauty of his body alone would captivate her before any sexual passions could be aroused.

It was difficult to imagine soft entrails contained in such a hard body. Peeling back the skin would surely reveal massive muscles attached to a groaning steel frame, a creation of the gods.

This was Ryuuki.

Witnessing the horrible sorrow engraved on his elegant face, instead of asking when or how it came to be there, the onlooker would simply look away. This was the countenance of a man who spent his whole life trudging across a deserted, desolate, windswept field.

His eyes, wide open, were fixed only on the blue light.

“It won't get better,” came the woman's voice at his feet, words rent by fury and violent distress.

Ryuuki didn't move. A white hand thrust up around his knees. The fingers spread apart and trembled. The sound of her voice—the anger or the hatred—dictated that these trembling fingers must not be touched. The hand pushed out from between the tightly knitted, scale-like gold leaf of the statue.

“Why won't it return to the way it was? I steep myself in the crimson bath, I secrete myself inside the sarcophagus, but the scars on my face do not heal. My eyes do not see.”