Kiai! & Mistress of Death

by Piers Anthony

She glanced at me sidelong over one breast; my angle of vision from the bed made this a remarkable effect. Black of iris behind purple of nipple. "Didn't they, Jason?"

  "No! LSD is manufactured in the modem laboratory."

  "The priests had many things. Their secrets are not all known, even yet."

  She believed, or wanted to believe, in her Indian heritage. There was no hard evidence the Maya had had anything like Kill-13, and the notion was dubious at best. But that hardly mattered. The present-day Indians in Central America certainly could have something to do with poppies, coca and peyote. And maybe LSD, or worse. I knew that at least one mushroom-related drug was so strong that it emerged virtually undiluted in the urine. So the tribesmen would drink the urine and get high all over again. And in Central America such drugs were not only smoked, but chewed and even drunk as tea. Something natural very well might have a similar effect to LSD.

  The Mayan region of Central America was Pedro's domain. He could indeed know something about it; he had a finger in many lucrative and quasi-legal pies. If he were sick, he could have sent Amalita with the news, not trusting the mails or telephone. I doubted it, but it was possible.

  "All right," I said. "What's your news?"

  She was now completely nude. Where were the hospital nurses? Even a floor sweeper would be welcome now!

  She lifted the sheet of my bed and eased herself under the cover beside me, her long leg sliding along my thigh. I could smell the woman-odor of her, distinct from the perfume. "It has been a long time, judoman," she said.

  "Not that news!" I wailed as her lithe torso snuggled up against me. I reached for the emergency buzzer.

  "No one will answer," Amalita murmured as she wriggled even closer. "I made a small gift to the boss nurse."

  I froze, aghast. "You bribed the head nurse?" But of course she had; such things were nothing to her.

  The oldster cackled. "Wait'll I tell my grand-children! They sure don't make men like they used to! In my day I'd a had her laid and paid before the—"

  "Paid!" Amalita flashed, facing me. "You expect to be paid?"

  That shut up even my obnoxious roommate.

  I grasped at the straw. "Not a bad idea," I said. "You're a multi-million dollar heiress these days. How much is it worth to you, Señora Pedro?"

  But she was not to be baited out of her hot-blooded mission. Her hands ran knowingly over my body. "It is worth some information about the drug of thirteen deaths," she said. "About its source, perhaps."

  I had to bite. "You know its source?"

  "Not exactly," she demurred, moving against me like a great friendly python. She knew exactly how to do it. She must have had good practice recently, for she had not shown such talents in Nicaragua. Had Pedro hired experts to tutor her? His illness might have made him slow to respond.

  "What do you know?" I demanded.

  "A name, perhaps." Impatient, she squirmed about and climbed half over me. "Remember how it was, how we did it before?" she whispered as her breasts slid across my chest. "I was so young then, and you were the first."

  I remembered. I hadn't even known it was her that time, it had been dark and she had covered her face. In fact I had thought I was dissipating Pedro's jealousy by taking an anonymous woman. But clever Amalita, substituting in the dark...

  She was a desirable woman, no doubt about it. But far more trouble than any woman was worth, as I kept reminding myself. Her husband Pedro seemed farther and farther away. "What name?" I asked desperately.

  "One kiss," she said, bringing her angelic face up to mine. She did not wait for my acquiescence.

  "Look, Amalita," I said, my lips moving against hers. "Apart from everything else, I got kicked. In the crotch. Hard. They did surgery. The bandages just came off today."

  "Oh, let me see!" she exclaimed. "I will kiss it well again."

  "For God's sake, no!" I squawked.

  "Now Jason," she said reasonably. "That is why I came to help you. I knew you needed me."

  "You came here because I was kicked?"

  "I will give you the name. Of a man to see about the drug. But I could have telephoned to tell you that. What I bring to you in person no telephone can do."

  "That's for sure!" the oldster agreed. "Not even one of them banana phones, though I bet you could try."

  "Try it on yourself!" I yelled at him.

  "What is this banana phone?" Amailta asked.

  "Never mind! I'm probably impotent! The last thing I need is—"

  "The first thing you need is!" she said with certainty. "You must do it now, or the nerves will atrophy and then it will be nevermore, and such a waste! So love me, Jason; I do for you what you did for me. I awaken you to new potential. I make you a man, as you made me a woman."

  That made me pause. I didn't want to be impotent, and there could be something in what she said. Muscles atrophy with disuse, especially after injury.

  I had suffered a serious blow, in more than one sense. How could I know whether any part of my manhood remained? The doctor thought it would work out, but surgery is never certain in a matter like that. If my crotch was numb now, would it ever change completely?

  Still, this was not the occasion to find out, and Amalita was not the girl to experiment with. I had betrayed Pedro once, unwittingly; I would be doubly criminal if I betrayed him again, knowingly.

  "Give me the name and get out," I said gruffly.

  She had a temper, and now it flashignited. "Jason Striker, I am not your wife! You cannot order me about!" And her fingers curled, their long nails like claws. I thought of Andy's eyes, and wondered momentarily how he was doing. And that cooled me somewhat.

  "Not my mistress either," I said.

  Those nails went for my face. I was ready for that. I grabbed her wrist, and we struggled under the covers in silence. It was not that I was weak or she strong; apart from my injury my health seemed good, though I still tired easily. But my will power was weakening, for I was profoundly uncertain of my continuing masculine ability. Why not test it out, since she had made it so convenient? Because of Pedro. Her husband and my friend. Yet—

  "Wait a moment," she said abruptly. "I cannot make love with a full bladder."

  I was as glad as she for a pretext to end this struggle. "There's a bathroom down the hail," I said. All I wanted was to get her out of my bed and out of my room; I'd have a nurse in there before she returned.

  Amalita got out, but did not leave. She reached into the bedside stand and drew out my bedpan.

  "Hey!" I cried. "That thing hasn't been emptied yet!"

  She peered into the pan. "You think I am blind?" She sniffed. "Or numb in the noise? But never mind; our urine shall merge first, then our bodies." She took it to the corner and squatted over it.

  "You can't use it here, in plain sight!" I protested.

  "Why not?" the old man asked, his eyes shining as he watched her. "Nothing gets it up like watching a shapely nude pissing!"

  I shut up, realizing that this was another aspect of Amalita's seduction strategy. Some men are stimulated by the sight of a woman urinating. She was stopping at nothing.

  I forced my eyes off her—and saw a shape in the doorway. Two shapes. Male. In robes. Doctors?

  They came quietly to my bed, perhaps assuming I was asleep. The robes opened, and I saw the weapons.

  They were demons.

  One was wounded, the same one I had seen in bed down the hall. His arm was in a cast, but his other hand carried a long, sharp pair of hospital scissors. He must have raided the nursing supplies. The other seemed to be a fresh demon; he uncoiled from his waist a length of telephone cable, copper wire with black rubber insulation, flexible but heavy and tough as hell.

  I had no time to think, but somehow realized instantly that the healthy demon had sneaked into the hospital with a dose of Kill-13 for his injured companion, and the two of them had then come to finish the job on me. I was in trouble.

  I was not about to yell for a nurse now. Hospital
personnel would never comprehend the situation: two fanatic addicts out to kill me while a naked woman squatted in the corner. If a nurse tried to mix in, she would get herself killed. I had to deal with this myself, and silently.

  Furthermore, the demons would want it silent too. So would Amalita. We were all united in this, for widely divergent reasons. I wanted to protect lives and avoid embarrassment; the demons wanted to kill me and get away; Amalita wanted to make love, and no doubt the old man wanted to watch it all, like a living X-rated movie put on just for him.

  But I had no time to meditate on this understanding, for the battle was on.

  The demon with the cable advanced on my bed, his hand lifting for a devastating strike. I grabbed at my top sheet, seeking to throw it over him, if I had time. Naturally it caught on the bed, making my attempt useless.

  The other demon held back momentarily, ready to stab with the scissors the moment his partner had set me up for it. His broken arm would not pain him now that he was in his Kill-13 fit, but it remained a disadvantage, hence his caution. Demons were not, after all, berserkers; they could bide their time when they needed to.

  I was hung up on the sheet, trying to yank it loose while the demon prepared for a killing blow. Amalita was the first to act. In one quick motion she stood, scooped up the bedpan, and hurled it at the leading demon. The heavy metal hit him on the back of the head, making him fall to his knees in a shower of warm urine. The other demon got splashed too, and so did I.

  "What a shot!" the oldster in the other bed chortled. "Crap all over you!"

  The demon swept the bedpan away, then flipped something at the old man, supposing him to be another enemy. An object the size and shape of a large brown carrot flew through the air and struck him in the face, splattering like dough. Fecal matter from the pan.

  At the same time, the second demon lunged for me with the scissors. But the diversion had given me time. I used my pillow as a shield. The scissors ripped through it, but did not reach me. I kicked with both feet at his middle, shoving him back.

  I jumped from the bed, but got entangled again in my own sheets and fell to the floor. Some fighter I was turning out to be!

  The demon stabbed again with the scissors, but was hampered by the cast on his arm. I rolled on the wet floor, trying desperately to free myself from the sheet before I got stabbed. He kicked at me with his bare foot. Fortunately he was not trained for this, and did not know how to really hurt me. But he did score to my chest, midsection and thigh. My groin felt the shock, putting me in severe pain.

  Then one of my hands felt a different kind of cloth. It was Amalita's blouse or halter—I still wasn't clear what that transparent bit of material should be called—and I grabbed it. There was elastic in it somewhere, so I stretched it almost as tight as her bosom had, and snapped it at him. It wasn't much of a weapon, but I wasn't in much of a shape to quibble. The end flicked against his skin with stinging force. Even a handkerchief, properly snapped, can be effective, and this had bits of metal in it. Fasteners or a zipper. I let him have it in the face, repeatedly, not letting up. He was unable to fend it off, because one arm was immobile and the other held the scissors. Finally I scored directly on his left eye.

  Demons don't feel much pain, but this was more than pain. His eyeball burst, and the fluid ran down his cheek. He dropped the scissors and put his hand to his face.

  I rushed him, thinking I could put him away now. I was wrong. He was half-squatting, bending over with his face in his hand as I came at him, and he hit me savagely with his cast.

  The blow caught me on the hip. Something cracked. I hoped it was the cast. It was a terrific wallop, catching me entirely by surprise. I kept underestimating these demons!

  He raised his cast to finish me off. I did a backward somersault and landed crouched on my feet—a spectacular but common judo maneuverand it felt as though I had ripped out my own crotch. Oh, that surgery!

  My action surprised the demon, so that he did not follow up immediately. His mistake! I launched myself in a half-tackle that caught him on the hip, under the cast. It lifted him up and threw him back against the open window—and suddenly he was gone.

  Five stories down.

  Meanwhile Amalita was occupying the demon with the cable, bless her! She was no frail flower to sit out the action numbed with terror. She followed the thrown bedpan and leaped naked onto the demon's back just as he made his throw at the oldster. Her weight made him fall on his face. She grabbed his cable-arm and did a reverse jujiga-tame, the "crossmark hold." She lay on her belly with his arm trapped between her thighs, both her hands holding on to his wrist. She pulled on the arm, trying to dislocate the elbow. He was immune to the pain, and stronger than she. He fought out of it, rising to his knees and lifting his arm. She rode it up, and just as he seemed about to break free, his elbow dislocated and the cable fell from his fingers.

  The fight was not over. Amalita tried to hit him with her fist as they both stood up, but he blocked it with his bad arm and backhanded her across the face with his good one. She almost fell, realizing that she could not match a man, particularly a demon, at his own type of fighting. He cared nothing about her splendid nudity, and neither pain nor injury would distract him from his intent.

  So she switched to her own type of combat. Her braid was a good yard long, weighted at the end with a heavy metal ornament, a replica of the Aztec god of war. She flicked that braid across his body like a weighted chain, whipping him with surprising force. Her breasts danced with the impact of her body motions as the ornament cut into his chest, arms and face.

  But demons are not much for masochism, however attractively packaged. He grabbed hold of her braid and hauled her forward and down, and he fell on top of her. She bit the hand holding her hair, forcing him to let go before the very tendons were chewed through. Then she squirmed around to get above him, her braid trailing under his shoulders; it caught there, holding her back and preventing completion of the maneuver.

  She tried to achieve a leg lock, pulling his foot up with her ankle braced behind his knee, but couldn't get the leverage required. In a moment he would wrestle her around, and then he would have her.

  With a fit of inspiration she caught the other end of her own hair and jerked it up around his neck. She looped it tightly and hauled back on it. The demon was held in place by the partial leg lock, and was unable to throw her off his back. As that braid constricted about his throat he turned purple—even his eyes!—wheezing for air. His tongue protruded; his good hand clawed at his throat. But he could not get a purchase on that slick braid. And so he died, suddenly, in the way that demons do. They have little reserve for recovery; all their energies are expended in the activities of the moment.

  All this had occurred in almost complete silence, and it ended as suddenly as it had started. I watched as Amalita's demon made his last gasp. The oldster was wiping stinking matter off his face. I went to the basin and washed off my face and hands. "We must hide him," Amalita said, indicating the demon on the floor.

  I slapped water across my eyes, but it didn't help. I had over-extended myself; I need a lot of rest in a hurry. "Hide him where? The hospital will never understand."

  "Put him back in his bed. Who will know?"

  "It's the wrong demon!" I said, exasperated.

  "Let them explain it," she said.

  The notion was ridiculous, but I could not think of anything better. The police would make their own kind of investigation in due course, and the hospital would keep mum, so as not to disturb the other patients. So maybe Amalita's simple logic sufficed for the occasion.

  I carried the demon to the other demon's room and made him comfortable in the bed. What a surprise awaited the next nurse. I staggered back, so tired I could hardly find my way, but relieved to have made it without attracting more notice. The demon threat was over for now, at least here in the hospital; I was just lucky they hadn't come upon me sleeping. And they would have, if it hadn't been for Amalita. She had
saved my life a couple of times today. Next time I saw her, I would have to thank her. I climbed into my bed, puffing up the wadded sheets. There was urine and dirt on them, but I lacked the energy to object. Ah, rest!

  Arms grasped me. I jumped with alarm.

  "You conquering hero!" Amalita murmured. "I am yours!"

  Oh, good God! I had thought she had gone home. She was still naked, still hot, with none of her ardor diminished. What a creature of passion.

  I was tired, but not in that fashion. "To hell with it!" I growled. I owed her something, and I knew what she wanted—and the truth was that I wanted it too.

  I crushed her in my embrace, hurting her. She writhed and groaned, loving it. I suppose that to her, sex wasn't natural unless it had some pain in it. That was why she had married a man like Pedro. The preceding fracas had only made her more eager. We struggled in a physical connection rather like that of combat.

  Her breath was hot upon my shoulder, and her hips moved to bring me in and force my response. Slowly, slowly my passion reached down from my brain and funneled into my groin; the nerves might be damaged, but they were functioning.

  It was too slow for her. She had to help me some; but of course she liked that too. Her fingers grasped, massaged, kneaded, shaped, hardened and placed. I felt like a sculpture, fashioned by her hands—but when she was finished I was as hard as stone.

  She sat upon me. Her braid fell across my chest. It conjured an awful vision. "Please..." I said. So she loosened her hair, and it fell in a fragrant curtain over my body and face. Much better. Still the sensation was dim, as though there were still a bandage on my genitals, preventing completion. Amalita worked indefatigably to force performance. There was a tantalizingly slow culmination, with very little pleasure, and some pain for me. It was almost as if I were ejaculating blood. I was afraid I was hurting myself. I hardly enjoyed the sensation.

  But the issue had been decided. I remained a man.

  CHAPTER 5

  KOBI CHIJA

  As soon as I was safely out of the hospital, I got on the trail. The doctor had told me to rest a few more days. "Some very strange complications have happened to some of the other patients," he said, and I knew he meant the dead demon. But rest simply wasn't possible. Not with the searing memory of six dead students, one blind, and several others mutilated for life. My karate class was finished, and I didn't feel up to facing my judo classes yet. I had to do what I could to wipe out Kill-13 now.