Tokyo Blood Magic (Shinjuku Shadows Book 1)

by Travis Heermann

  “Born in America.”

  Onye grinned and shook his finger at Django. “I thought your Japanese have American accent!”

  “Linguistics adventures aside, Onye, I’m looking for something special tonight.”

  The man smirked. “What kind of special? Schoolgirl?”

  “Nah, I don’t dig on kids,” Django said. “Something more...adult. The kind of thing that’s hard to find. You know, a little on the wild side.”

  Onye narrowed his eyes and nodded sagely. “How wild?”

  “A little leather, a little latex.”

  “Aha, my friend! Now you are talking!” But then Onye ground to an expectant pause.

  Django patted the pocket where his wallet hid, but he didn’t pull it out. “Uh, so is this your street corner?”

  “Yeah, why you ask?”

  “I don’t want to pay for information that’s no good.”

  “My friend, my information is always good.” Onye waggled his eyebrows.

  “How long you been in Japan?”

  Onye looked around. “You’re not Immigration, are you?”

  “Do I look like a government official?”

  Onye chuckled. “About a year and a half.” That was about a year and a quarter longer than any tourist visa, and Japan didn’t give out work visas to street workers. Here Onye was, washed up from Nigeria in a xenophobic country that liked black immigrants even less than white ones, but Django didn’t get a grifter vibe from him. His aura indicated a basic level of honesty, plus some caution fighting with hints of desperation.

  “You want to see something really cool?” Django said.

  “What?”

  “I am, in fact, cosplaying right now.” He raised his hand and gathered his Fire mahō until a six-inch flame appeared in his palm. This was a little trick he’d learned with Touch of Fire, summoning Fire but withholding the weapon.

  Onye’s eyes bulged.

  A side effect of this little trick was that Django’s eyes started to glow yellow. It didn’t improve his vision, but it gave the world a false-daylight cast.

  Onye’s eyes widened still further. “Oh my god! How you do that?”

  Django waggled his eyebrows. “A magician never reveals how it’s done.” Never mind that he’d just broken one of the Council’s central rules: never reveal magic to the mundanes. But sometimes rules were made to be bent.

  “That was amazing!” Onye said with a huge grin.

  “Is it worth a tip?”

  Onye guffawed again, then went serious. “No.”

  Django considered punching him really hard.

  Then Onye laughed and chucked him on the shoulder. “I’m just messing with you! There’s a kink place in the SūPa Building. Couple doors down from Robot Restaurant.”

  “What’s it called?”

  “Rasshu, I think” Onye said, speaking the Japanese phonetic approximation of Lush.

  “Thanks,” Django said and slipped him a couple thousand yen, about twenty bucks.

  A few minutes later, he stood out front of the SūPa Building, a run-down, five-story concrete block with one entrance and two elevators. Its innocuousness blended perfectly in a neighborhood where certain activities preferred to be left unnoticed. The foyer was a mess of old and new paper bills for clubs, escorts, and pachinko parlors plastered to crumbling paste-board paneling.

  But the elevator doors had no buttons, only magnetic swipe slots, so he went to seek another way in. Outside he found an exterior fire door that probably led to a stairwell, but it was firmly locked.

  He pulled his tantō, his dagger, from his boot, took a moment to focus on summoning the Sunblade, channeling Fire energy into the steel, making it sharp enough to cut almost anything. The gap between the door and frame was wide enough for him to slip the blade in above the latch. Then a sharp downward shove sliced through the steel bolt like a laser cutter. A quick check of the alley revealed no witnesses, so he swung the door open and went inside, where he found a stairwell. The stairwell smelled of mildew, mukadé, and roaches.

  Best to start at the top. That was most likely where he might find information. Lower floors were likely to be crawling with goons. So he stole up the stairwell to the top floor. As he moved up the stairs, the arrhythmic pounding of dark, grinding dubstep filtered through the walls, vibrating the steel steps underfoot.

  The door leading to the sixth floor was silent. Django sent his Third Eye through it and found a hallway with doors on either side. The hallway’s dim, moody lighting suggested this might be where the brothel’s “business” was conducted.

  He eased through the fire door into the hallway and ghosted along. Listening at each door revealed that most of them were occupied, and based on the tenor of the voices, each offered a different flavor of sexual kink. Voices drifted into the hallway in all stages of foreplay, arousal, climax, and afterglow.

  At the far end of the hallway stood the elevator doors, but there was also a broad staircase curving downward. From below came a pulsing explosion of blacklight and laser flashes. Wildly arrhythmic music bubbled up the stairs.

  A woman—wearing nothing except a fox harlequin mask, thigh-high black platform boots, and black latex tape “X”ed over her nipples and remarkably hairless groin—rounded the corner, coming up the stairway. She spotted him and kept coming. She smiled. “Looking for someone?”

  “Maybe,” he said.

  She laughed. “If you’re not sure, this isn’t the place for you.”

  “Maybe I just need a little help deciding.” BDSM had never been even a curiosity for him, but he was having difficulty taking his eyes off the fox goddess standing before him. Her supple curves, unusually full-figured, bathed in the unnatural, pulsing light, all but slivers of it on full display, were stunning.

  She took firm hold of his lapel and tugged him upstairs. He allowed himself to be led and then shoved into one of the empty rooms. The walls were painted black, lit with hidden blacklights. Chains and...other things hung from the ceiling and walls. A rack of whips, handcuffs, ropes, riding crops, feather ticklers, and several things he couldn’t decipher hung near the bed.

  He hadn’t come in here looking for sex, much less this kind, but the way she moved—dear gods, the way she smelled, a heady mix of jasmine and spices—was suggesting he should rethink his plans.

  “Look, I’m not so sure about this,” he said. He needed to stall for time. The effect she was having on him might mean they were using mahō here, too, just like at Moist Joy. Her aura revealed her to be a normal human, albeit an exceptionally beautiful one, but to his Third Eye, her skin held a strange, sparkling sheen. Mahō-laced perfume or some other sort of body cream—or lubricant—might explain her incredible allure. Then again, maybe he was just horny and she was naked.

  She took down a shiny black cat o’ nine tails and slapped it against her palm. “Strip.”

  He smirked at her. “I’m not so sure you’ll like what I have under here.”

  She cocked her hip like a .44 magnum. “Shut up, slave! Strip!”

  He couldn’t help chuckling, but he stood and revealed the swords under his duster.

  She hesitated only a second. “You have pretty toys. Now, strip! I won’t tell you again!”

  He stepped close to her, took hold of the cat o’ nine tails, and eased it out of her grip, looking down into her beautiful fox eyes.

  “Uh, I don’t really do submissive,” she said, finally shaken out of her role.

  He didn’t know whether it was curiosity or concern over thoroughness that made him slip off her mask, but he was not disappointed. She was perhaps a little older than he was, with a face so beautiful it knocked him off course again, but she was not Japanese. She looked Indian, with huge, brown eyes, and full, pillowy lips.

  He cleared a lump from his throat. “I think I’m in the wrong business.”

  “What’s that mean?” She was getting suspicious. “What business are you in?”

  “I’m looking for someone.”


  She stiffened and stepped back, her body tensing. “Are you a cop?”

  He pointed to his katana. “Cops haven’t used these in a while.”

  “What are you then? Yakuza?”

  “Strike two. Look, I’m not here to hurt you or anybody else. But if you scream, things are going to get ugly mighty fast.”

  “How ugly?”

  “How are you with the sight of blood?”

  “You mean those are real?” she said, pointing at his swords.

  “As real as those.” He glanced pointedly her breasts. She’d stood close enough a moment ago for him to know without question that they were all natural.

  She smiled a little at that, proudly.

  “Look,” he said, “all I need from you is a little information, and then I’ll be gone from your life as if I’d never existed.”

  She crossed her arms. “What is it?”

  “I’m looking for my friend Yuka. She goes by the name of Kimiko now. Lots of irezumi on both arms. One of them is a snake.” He watched her carefully for any spark of recognition, but she might as well have been still wearing her fox mask. “Do you know her?”

  “You know how many guys come in here all love-sotted and deluded?”

  “It’s not like that—”

  “Oh, come on. It’s all over your face.”

  This set him back a step. Was it so plain even to a stranger? Then again, her business was reading men like manga.

  He said, “I’m just worried about—”

  “I’ve heard that one, too.”

  “So she does work here.”

  “She is not a woman you want to fuck with.”

  There were too many double meanings in that sentence. “Is she here now?”

  “I don’t know. She’s not one of us.”

  “Then what is she?”

  “She’s one of our bodyguards.”

  “You mean in case somebody gets out of line?” Django asked.

  She nodded.

  “How does she know when there’s trouble?”

  “I don’t know. They don’t tell us about the security system, but it’s there. Somebody might be listening right now, even watching. You planning on causing trouble?”

  His alertness spiked. “No, like I said. But I have to find her. Lives are at stake. Hers, mine, a lot of people. Maybe even yours. This is like a shinkansen going off the rails.”

  That got her attention. She hugged her arms tighter and glanced at the door.

  “Because I like you, I’m going to give you a heads up,” he said. “Did you know this place is owned by the Black Lotus Clan?”

  “It’s gotta be owned by somebody.”

  “Did you know the Black Lotus Clan hit a Sumiyoshi-kai headquarters last night? Killed everybody, including a mob lieutenant.”

  Her eyes bulged and she turned pale. “Are you Sumiyoshi-kai?”

  “No.”

  “Another clan?”

  “No. I’m a freelance operator. Yuka is my friend and I want to help her. Maybe we can stop a bloodbath.”

  The woman sat down on the edge of a low sawhorse with a black leather saddle sporting a rather unique “saddle horn.” She hugged her knees.

  “What can you tell me about the Black Lotus?” Django asked.

  “I just work here,” she said, her voice full of fear. “I assume everybody who’s not one of the girls is a gangster, but everybody keeps their mouth shut and goes about their business. So I do my job and I make good money. Most of the time it’s fun.”

  “Do you know a guy they call Habu?”

  “One scary motherfucker. Tall and skinny. The kind of guy you want to avoid. It’s just a vibe he has. He has long hair, wears it in a ponytail. He’s got this lean and hungry look like his mama never fed him enough. Gaunt. I’ve seen him and Kimiko together.”

  “Together how?” He couldn’t hold back the frown.

  She snorted and gave him an I knew it smirk. “Hard to say around here.”

  His frown deepened. He’d been hoping for a more definitive answer.

  “In that way,” she said, “they’re kind of a matched pair, Habu and Kimiko. That woman creeps me out.”

  “Tell me where to find her.”

  She shook her head. “She could be anywhere. This place is full of hidey-holes. I’ll bet we can bring her running. All I have to do is scream.”

  “That would be a bad idea. Remember that ugliness I mentioned?”

  “Then it seems we’re at an impasse.” She got up and threw on a sheer silk robe and belted it around her waist.

  He could search this entire building with his roving Third Eye, but that would take time.

  That’s when the thunderous chatter of a submachine gun ripped through the air outside.

  Chapter Fifteen

  THE DOMINATRIX GASPED and said, “Is that what I think it was?”

  Another blast of gunfire, punctuated by male and female screams.

  Django nodded. “Hide behind your bed. Can you crawl under it?”

  “No.”

  “Then lie on the floor and hide.”

  He took a deep breath and sent his Third Eye through the door toward the noise.

  Down the hallway, down the steps, into the club, into the carnage.

  The club was not a place for dancing as much as it was for watching dancers in bondage costumes perform in wrought-iron cages suspended from the ceiling. The patrons and their prospective sex partners were arrayed around a series of plush divans. Blood everywhere. Four suited goons deployed across the club floor, their hands full of H&K MP5 submachine guns, spewing bullets and splattering patrons and prostitutes alike. Screaming. The gunsmoke-filled air turned the flashing lasers into planes of light that obscured vision like walls.

  Four more gunmen stepped from the second elevator and fell in behind the first wave. Black Lotus guards leaped into action, sticking to cover and returning fire with semiautomatic pistols.

  Django returned his full awareness to his body. “It’s a retaliation,” he told the woman. “I’ll bet they’re Sumiyoshi-kai.” He drew his sword. “We need to get you out of here.”

  She jumped up again. “What about all the girls?”

  “I’ll see what I can do. Hang on a minute.”

  He sent this Third Eye out again, this time checking the stairwell he’d used to get in. At the bottom of the stairs were two yakuza goons with MP5s waiting to cut down anyone who came out that way. Two guys he could handle.

  Stepping into the hallway, he caught several doors open with terrified faces peeking out. Upon seeing him, they slammed shut again. He said to the woman, “There are two of them at the bottom of the back stairs. Give me about thirty seconds to take care of them, then get everybody out and follow right behind me. Can you do that?”

  From the wall, she took a corrugated steel paddle, shaped somewhat like a miniature cricket bat, clutched it in both hands, and nodded resolutely. As he checked the hallway one last time, she whacked him on the ass with the paddle. It stung. “Would have been fun,” she said with a smirk.

  “I don’t doubt it,” he grinned back. “Now, watch your own ass.”

  He ran down the hallway toward the stairwell door, eased it open silently, and stole through. In the dimness below, two shadows waited. His duster fluttered around him like raven’s wings as he rushed down the steps. Then one of the gunmen stepped into the stairwell and sent a spray of 9mm bullets up toward him. He hugged the doorway to the third floor. Sparks flew from the steel stairs, and his ears rang with a high-pitched din.

  Then he pulled a choke bomb, homemade in an eggshell, just like mother used to make, and dropped it down the center of the stairwell, running down the stairs alongside it. It hit the bottom and exploded into choking smoke that drove the gunmen out of the stairwell into the alley. Then he charged from the final landing with his Sunblade slashing. His stroke split an MP5 in half, along with severing one of the gunman’s hands and several fingers from the other. The second
gunman was still coughing from the acrid smoke. His spray of bullets punched holes in the building. Django was upon him in one step, splitting his skull like a melon.

  Flicking the blood from his blade, he returned to the door and yelled up. “This way’s clear! Hurry!”

  A herd of bare feet thumped onto the steps, trundling down. In the meantime, Django seized the shirt of the injured gunman and shook him out of his fit of screaming. “Who are you? Who do you work for?”

  The gunman took a moment, then spit in Django’s face. Django clubbed him with his sword hilt, knocking him unconscious.

  Amid the gunfire echoing down the stairwell, an unexpected noise brought Django around. The sound of a lion or tiger’s roar, real as could be. Screams followed from the throng coming down the stairs.

  He hooked the dominatrix’s elbow as she emerged, coughing from the smoke. “You don’t keep any wildlife up there, do you?”

  “Not of the animal sort, no,” she said, eyes watering.

  The flow of sex workers and patrons through the door ceased. It was a motley assortment of masks, leather, chains, latex, and bare skin. The men, most of them middle-aged and older, covered themselves with pillows, sheets, and fuzzy robes.

  “Is everybody out?” he asked.

  “I got everybody I could find,” the woman said.

  Django ran back upstairs, activating his Shadow Veil as he went. Halfway up, he met a geeky kid in an Akira T-shirt, blue jeans, and thick glasses.

  The kid’s face was milk white and sweating, but at the sight of Django’s poised blade, he flinched and cowered. “Shit, man! I’m just the D.J.!”

  Django gestured past. “Get the hell out of here.”

  Then he hurried up to the top floor, where the sound of another deep, rumbling snarl was punctuated by a gurgling scream. He slid into the hallway and toward the club stairs like a ghost, hugging the wall. The music had died. All of the hallway doors were open and the rooms empty.

  Still in concealment, he sent his Third Eye roving down the staircase toward the club floor turned abattoir. Gunsmoke filled the air, but the lasers and pulsing lights had gone dark. All that remained was a smattering of blacklight from hidden fixtures that had survived the hail of bullets.