Dying Bites

by DD Barant

  “Next one goes between your eyes,” he says. “Drop her or I drop you.”

  Tanaka’s rage is like molten metal flowing down his arm, through my throat and into the base of my brain. The wind howls through the broken window like a crazed beast. If he doesn’t let go in the next second I’m going to empty the clip into his skull.

  He lets go. I hit the ground on rubbery legs and topple over backward, springing up again instantly. Tanaka has backed away, already changing back, though much slower. His immaculate black business suit has ripped at the shoulder seams, and several buttons have popped off his shirt.

  “I apologize,” he says as soon as his mouth can form words again. He has to speak loudly to be heard over the rushing air. “I am not used to being challenged by . . . one such as you.”

  “You mean a woman?” I say, trying to get my breath back.

  “No. A human.”

  “Get used to it,” Charlie says. He’s lowered his arm, but he’s still playing with the oversize ball bearing.

  “If you will excuse me?” Tanaka mutters, his head bowed. His body is trembling. “I would like to . . . reorganize.”

  “Go ahead,” I say. “Don’t forget to comb your hair.”

  He retreats to the door at the far end of the car, his gait shaky, and goes through it. I nod at Charlie and say, “Thanks, but I had the situation under control.”

  “Yeah? Thropes and pires tend to forget how easy humans die—they usually slash first and make up later. Figured you’d rather have your head than the apology, but hey—you’re the boss.” He pushes back the sleeve on his right arm, revealing a leather tube strapped to his forearm. He pushes the ball bearing into the end of the tube, which is obviously spring-loaded.

  “You really are a gun,” I say. “How many shots does that thing hold?”

  “Twelve per side.”

  “Per side? So you’re double-barreled, too.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Never mind. Solid silver?”

  “Nah, too expensive. Silver sheath over an iron core.”

  “How much stopping power?”

  He pulls the sleeve back down, smooths the fabric carefully. “If I want something to stop,” he says, “it stops.”

  “Can’t dispute that. Looked like you really shook him up, too.”

  “Doubt that was my fault. Changing that quick takes a lot out of a thrope; I’ve seen some keel right over.”

  Like adrenaline shakes in a human, but probably worse. “All right,” I say grudgingly. “Good job, I guess. But next time, wait until I ask for your help, okay?”

  “It’s your funeral.”

  Charlie drops into a nearby seat, tilts his fedora over his eyes, and reverts to being an inanimate object. I sit down myself, thinking about what just happened and how it’s probably going to make my job harder.

  But that’s not all I’m thinking about. During the confrontation, on some level I knew Tanaka wasn’t going to hurt me—because what I felt beneath his rage was something else entirely. Something just as dangerous, and just as intense.

  Something just as passionate . . .

  “Please,” Tanaka says. He’s changed his clothes—into a suit that looks exactly the same—and seems much more composed. We’re talking on the upper deck of the train’s observation car, a streamlined Plexiglas dome that would let me appreciate the beauty of the landscape we’re speeding through if it weren’t heavily smoked and night hadn’t fallen. All I see is my own reflection and the impression of darkness streaming past.

  “You’ve already apologized,” I say. “Forget about it.”

  “You deserve an explanation.”

  “You’re right, I do. Got one?”

  “As I told you, my government finds the subject of the camps distasteful. The practice of ketsueki gouin—blood drinking—is an equally sensitive topic. I do not wish to impede your investigation; I was simply trying to spare my employers further embarrassment.”

  “Sure. Because if our guy follows his pattern, this next killing is going to be on the Internet pretty soon, and Japan isn’t exactly Stone Age when it comes to technology. You know, I’m starting to think this is exactly what the killer wants.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Let’s just say that there are political considerations in at least one of the other killings. I think this guy wants more than just attention—he wants outrage. Not sure how the Australian vic fits in yet, but I’ll bet the location turns out to be more important than the victim. He’s using the murders to focus public awareness on something he thinks is important.”

  “The plight of his race, perhaps.”

  I glare at him. “You think? I mean, ‘his race’ is only on the verge of extinction. ‘His race’ is basically used as either raw material or gourmet meals for yours.”

  “We are not solely to blame.”

  “No, the bloodsuckers are just as guilty. Lucky for you, our boy believes in spreading the blame around. And in case you’ve forgotten, Tanaka, ‘his race’ is also ‘my race.’ ”

  “I have offended you again.” The regret and shame in his voice is real.

  I sigh. “No, that’s okay. Look, this is difficult for both of us. I know what it’s like to have the brass leaning on you. But we both have the same objective in mind—to catch this guy, and stop the killing. Right?”

  “Yes.” He pauses. “I will do my best to provide you with uncensored information. Will you trust me on this?”

  I want to ask him if I have a choice—but instead I say, “Yes. But withhold something from me again and I’ll show you just how dangerous a ‘human being’ can be.”

  “I understand.”

  All things considered, he takes his reaming-out with good grace, which gives him high marks in my book; in my experience, men have a hard time apologizing, let alone admitting they were wrong—or maybe that’s just the ones I work with. Or sleep with.

  Or both. Which is a very small group under the heading “Roger” and the subheading “Complete and Total Bastard.” There are additional sub-subheadings, but they’re not worth repeating unless I’m about to shoot something.

  Roger. As in “affirmative,” if what you’re affirming is that you can give someone your heart and he can throw it in a wood-chipper while you watch. As in “the Jolly Roger,” the skull on the pirate flag with the big white grin, almost as big as the one on my ex’s face when he dumped me and stole my promotion. As in to give someone a good Rogering, as the British say—which he did to me, in more ways than one.

  The memory of his body that suddenly surges into my mind is just as sharp as that of his betrayal. His skin, his smell, his taste . . . I shake my head and try to focus on what Tanaka’s saying.

  “—the blood bar she was employed by. I will make enquiries, and determine which shateigashira is responsible for the blood trade in her area.”

  “I’m sorry? I don’t know that word.”

  “It refers to the leader of a criminal gang—or, more precisely, to a level of management in a much larger organization.”

  “Which organization?” I ask, though I’m pretty sure I know the answer.

  “The illegal blood trade is very profitable, and counts high-ranking officials among its participants. In Japan, there is only one organization that dares to involve itself in such matters.”

  I’m really hoping the answer has something to do with the Sailor Moon Fan Club. No such luck.

  “The Yakuza,” Tanaka says.

  The Sapporo station is as busy and crowded as the mountains were empty, Asian men and women dressed mostly in black. They hurry from one platform to the next, clutching briefcases and newspapers and manga, talking on cell phones or sipping from large paper cups with red plastic lids. I wonder what’s in them—the cups, not the commuters.

  I guess it doesn’t matter. One will be in the other, soon enough.

  Tanaka hustles Charlie and me out through the crowd and into another taxi, while Eisfanger stays with the t
rain. If what Charlie told me is accurate, then almost all the people around me are pires, as indestructible and immortal as Cassius. I look for signs of ageless wisdom or invincibility in the faces around me, but all I see is a kind of cold, ruthless efficiency; no one seems to have a cold, or be half-asleep, or look drunk. It doesn’t mean anything, of course. It’s only a rushed first impression, a bunch of strangers on their way to work, seen through a foreigner’s eyes. I might get exactly the same feeling in the same train station on my own world.

  Just not at one in the morning.

  Sapporo itself is full of neon and skyscrapers, the streets crowded with tiny vehicles with smoked-glass windshields that make it impossible to see into them. From the inside looking out, the glass makes the neon a little dimmer, the shadows a little deeper; it doesn’t seem to bother our driver, though. I guess supernatural beings have more acute senses. It’s just one more reminder that this world isn’t designed for my kind.

  I wonder what’s happening, back in my own universe. Is there a massive manhunt going on for a missing FBI agent? Is CNN providing hourly updates? Or has Cassius pulled something devious, leaving behind a dead doppelgänger or using magic to cover up my disappearance? That train of thought leads to other stations, including the idea that maybe he just had me completely erased from my own reality. It wouldn’t take much, really; I don’t have a lot in the way of family or friends. Both my parents are dead, I’ve been engaged to be married once (wish he were dead) and spent most of my time at work alienating my co-workers (who would probably cheer if they thought I was dead). Tanya, my one good friend, would definitely miss me—but she’d get over it. Tanya’s a social butterfly, and while she’s sweet, her memories are short. Give her a year and she’ll have a new best friend.

  I make an effort and focus on what Tanaka’s saying. He’s set up a meeting with the local oyabun, the head of the Yakuza family that runs things in the city. He tells me this is considerably higher up the chain of command than he expected to deal with, and warns me to be careful.

  “Don’t worry,” I say. “I’ll be extremely polite. And you’ll let me know if I make any serious blunders, right?”

  “If such a thing happens,” he says, “you will not need me to tell you.”

  “Terrific.”

  He’s nervous, and it’s not just my inexperience with proper protocol that’s bothering him. “You’re not happy with that arrangement. Tell me why.”

  “It is most unusual for an oyabun to deal directly with those of lower rank—especially a human. It is . . . troubling.”

  “I’ll be fine. Human or not, I represent the NSA, and by extension the U.S. government. The fact that the local boss wants to see me is a good sign—either he wants something or he has something to trade. Either one could be useful.”

  He nods in assent, but he’s still worried.

  The cab takes us to a neighborhood I recognize, even though I’ve never been there before and can’t even read the street signs. I don’t have to; the groups of young, tough-looking guys hanging around doorways, the run-down look of the many bars that line the street, the overall feel tells me where I am. This is the rough part of town, where the more respectable citizens come to buy whatever they can’t get legally.

  “Stay close,” Charlie says as we get out of the cab.

  “Don’t fastball anyone unless I say so, okay? We’re here for information, not confrontation.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind when you’re down a quart.”

  Tanaka accompanies us inside. The place is long and narrow, with a dark oak bar stretching down one side and booths separated by rice-paper screens along the wall. It’s dimly lit by red paper lanterns overhead and candles on the tables. A bald, obese man with thick, rubbery lips is tending bar, his white apron splotched with vivid crimson stains. Aside from him, the place is empty. We sit down in one of the booths.

  “Is this where Miyagi worked?” I ask.

  “No. This is merely a workingman’s bar. They mostly serve animal blood mixed with warm sake.”

  “Yeah? Wouldn’t that clot?”

  “It is diluted with anti-coagulants.”

  “How about the booze? Technically, alcohol is a poison—it shouldn’t affect pires, right?”

  “Magic is used to fuse the life essence of the blood with the alcohol—it allows for an intoxicating effect.”

  Hmm. So a vampire can be drugged—I’ll bet that’s how the killer subdued his vic at McMurdo Station and maybe Keiko Miyagi, too. “Tanaka, did your people do a toxin screen on Miyagi’s remains?”

  “There was no point. They had decomposed to little more than an inert liquid.”

  “Yeah, but the bloodstain on the floor hadn’t—it was generated by her injuries before she expired. Get Eisfanger to run some tests on the samples he took, okay? I’m looking for a strong sedative or hypnotic.” Telling Tanaka that makes me feel better; when it comes to old-fashioned forensics, at least I know the rules.

  “I shall do so.”

  The bartender comes over to our table. He’s got a thick roll of fat around the base of his skull, like his neck used to be three feet long until someone sledgehammered his head down to its current height. His eyes are puffy, suspicious slits. He grunts a few words in Japanese and jerks a thumb like a sausage toward the back.

  I nod and we all get up. Behind a curtain at the end of the bar there’s a narrow hallway with a bathroom to one side. At the end of the hall, a dented metal fire door is propped open. I let Charlie go through first.

  There’s a long, black limo parked outside in the alley. A gull-wing door hums opens like a mechanical mouth, an invitation to be devoured. We accept.

  The interior of the limo is empty, a smoked-glass partition separating us from the driver. The door closes itself with a soft chunk and the limo glides down the alley as smoothly and quietly as a shark.

  I take a deep breath and let it out. “Okay. Here we go. . . .”

  The car drives for at least an hour. I don’t know the city at all, but that doesn’t matter; we get on some kind of freeway and head for what I assume are the ritzier suburbs. By the time we get there, we’re practically back in the Hidakas, or the foothills at least. The limo turns off the freeway and onto a private road, which winds through woods and up to a tall chain-link security gate. We pause there while the driver identifies himself, then roll through when the gate slides open.

  The driveway is almost as long as the road leading to the estate, and ends at an honest-to-God castle: tall, white stone walls with guardhouses atop each corner, and a huge, red-lacquered gate that currently stands open. We drive inside and park in the courtyard, in front of a five-story pagoda-roofed tower. L-shaped wings connect to the tower at either side, enclosing the courtyard in a deep U with the tower at the bottom.

  I can’t see any guards. That worries me.

  The limo door swings up and we get out. It occurs to me, somewhat belatedly, that I don’t speak Japanese. I hope I can count on Tanaka to translate; I really don’t want to negotiate with a Yakuza boss through charades. I try to imagine what that would look like and almost burst out laughing—I have a bad habit of thinking wildly inappropriate things when I’m nervous.

  The driver stays where he is, invisible and anonymous. The limo door swings shut at almost the exact second the front door to the tower opens, giving me the eerie sensation that I’m on some kind of automated ride. Enjoy the Fabulous Yakuza Blood Flume—you will have happy much good time! No refunds!

  Shut up, brain.

  To my surprise, it’s a woman who comes out to greet us. She’s dressed in a loose silk robe of brilliant blue, her glossy black hair in a ponytail and her feet bare. She smiles and says in perfect English, “Welcome. This way, please.”

  She turns and goes back inside. We follow.

  The interior is minimalist, sparse without being stark. The floor is darkly varnished wood, the walls white and unadorned. Two terra-cotta statues of warriors stand on either side of a
polished wooden staircase that leads upward, but the woman doesn’t take it; instead, she goes to the left and through another door.

  Long corridor, doors on either side. No windows. One piece of art, a bronze sculpture of a man in full samurai armor, his sword held in striking position, the blade level with his eyes.

  Large door at the end of the hall, looks like teak. The woman pushes it open without knocking, motions us inside. She stays in the hall, closes the door behind us so gently it makes no noise at all.

  It’s a study. Leather-bound volumes line bookshelves, a large globe in one corner, heavy drapes closed behind an enormous desk. The chair behind it is empty, the surface of the desk bare. Flames crackle in an enormous fireplace that dominates one side of the room, silhouetting the man who crouches there, adjusting a log with an iron poker. He finishes what he’s doing, then straightens up and turns to face us.

  He’s a slight man, a little over five feet tall, balding, his remaining hair worn long and loose. He’s dressed in a black silk kimono with a scarlet dragon on the back, and brown leather slippers.

  Tanaka bows from the waist. The other man doesn’t respond, which I figure is a calculated insult. Tanaka begins to say something in Japanese, which the man cuts off with a wave of his hand.

  “You do not belong here,” he says, looking straight at me. He sounds more regretful than annoyed.

  “I was invited,” I say.

  “To this house, yes. To this world, no.”

  “That’s my problem. Yours is entirely different, and considerably more urgent.”

  “Oh?” His voice is mild. If I had to guess, I’d say he learned his English at Oxford.

  “Yes. The U.S. is investigating a string of international killings. The latest victim worked for you. I need to know why she was killed.”

  “How is that my concern?” He holds the poker as if it were a walking stick, both hands clasped on the end of the handle, the tip resting on the floor.