by Nick Lake
He wanted Kenji Kira dead.
The greatness of dharma wanted Kira dead. It was filling him up like a drinking bladder, pushing him beyond the boundaries of the human, or the vampire.
He was becoming the Death-of-Enma.
He looked down and was shocked to see how far below him Taro was, cowering, covered in a fine spray of blood. He wanted to tell the boy not to be afraid, but he couldn’t find the words, or even the voice. He was just pain and anger, spreading to fill the vastness of hell’s vaulted space. He reached behind his back and caught the last of his skin, ripped it off with a flourish. He felt the rushing sensation of air against him, shooting up – the height of the palace roof at Edo now, as his growing finally began to slow.
He took a step towards the three figures before him, heard it as an ordinary footstep, but saw Taro cover his ears, tiny Taro all that way below him, face screwed up. He was a giant, then; his step was painful to the ears of smaller creatures. He didn’t want to think about that. He kept moving forward now, though softer, anxious not to hurt Taro – something he would never want to do.
Horse-head went down on one knee, head bent, and then Ox-face did the same. Shusaku smiled. This was good. As for their disloyalty to the order that should prevail in death, well, he would deal with them later.
Kenji Kira, to give the man his due, drew a sword like a toothpick and came at him, stabbed his weapon into Shusaku’s leg. Shusaku bent down, caught the blade between finger and thumb, and tore it away, flicking it over the demons, far into the air of hell. He focused his qi on his throat, on his voice. He spoke, and saw Kira close his eyes against the gale from his mouth, his hands up to his ears.
‘SAY HER NAME AGAIN,’ he said.
Kenji Kira was shaking, like an autumn leaf in the breeze. He mumbled something.
‘LOUDER,’ said Shusaku.
‘M-m-m-Mara,’ said the o-bangashira of Lord Nobunaga no Oda’s armies, the once-proud military leader, through lips that were green with mould, and he said the name as if he were begging for his life.
In another life, in another time, Shusaku might have offered the man seppuku, as befitted a samurai of his rank. Not here. Not now. Not now that he knew what Kira had done. He picked the man up, lifted him till he was level with his own face, so high up. Kira was whimpering, or screaming, it was hard for Shusaku to tell – all sounds seemed small and far away.
‘I WAS GOING TO USE MY TEETH FOR THIS,’ he said, as if Kenji Kira could possibly understand what he was saying, and then he tore the man – or whatever Kenji Kira was – in half.
He half flinched, expecting blood, but there was none, just a kind of black oozing. Kenji Kira’s torso, head, and arms wriggled; like a worm, his legs did the same. Shusaku tore the legs apart, the head from the body, the arms, throwing pieces of the former hatamoto to the ground. They squirmed; he stamped on them, picked them up, ripped them into smaller pieces. He was lost to himself for some time, whatever had poured into him taking over; he was just a force of destruction, in the shape of a giant person, stripped of skin.
Eventually the bloodlust, the sakki, faded, and he came to himself to see small parts of Kenji Kira all over the ground. He felt himself shrinking again.
When he was almost Taro’s size, he noticed that his skin was growing back, his tattoos creeping over his body to join at the chest and waist, as if writing themselves onto him. His burns, from when he’d almost been killed by the sun at Lord Oda’s castle, were gone now, however – he was shining and new.
Taro was shaking his head in wonderment, in horror.
‘I knew you could do it,’ the boy said.
Shusaku looked at the tatters and shreds that had been Kenji Kira, at the kneeling figures of the servants of Enma. ‘But what do I do now?’ he asked.
Taro smiled. ‘You’re Enma, aren’t you? You rule death.’
‘I... do?’
‘You do. Look at them.’ Taro pointed to the kneeling demons.
‘But what about... us? If I stay here, I will not see you again.’
‘Yes, you will. One day.’
He heard the catch in Taro’s voice and understood. ‘Oh, Taro,’ he said.
‘We all must die,’ said Taro. ‘Even death.’
Shusaku looked around at the misty grey realm that was hell. He felt terrified, unequal to the task. ‘But ruling death, Taro... I wouldn’t know where to start.’
Taro, that incredible boy, walked calmly towards Horse-head and Ox-face, beckoning for Shusaku to follow. ‘I would start by getting back all those who escaped from here,’ he said. ‘Like the ones who attacked us that night. Gather them up, bring them back to death. Then you can worry about the rest.’
Shusaku smiled.
The boy was right, of course. That was what he should do. He would go out into the human realm and take back all those who had got free when Kenji Kira was ruler here. He would set things back the way they should be. He would reverse the rot that had started in Kira’s flesh, before spreading out through the world, through more than one world, through the realms of samsara.
Taro was right.
Bless the boy.
CHAPTER 42
TARO OPENED HIS eyes on a black world.
The sun was long gone, a sliver of moon hanging in its place. A few stars sparkled through the clouds. The sea was an expanse of rumpled cloth, darker than the sky. The horizon no longer looked very far away. Taro remembered when he and Hiro had been desperate to leave this place, to go and seek adventure in the wider world. Now he wished he had been able to stay. If he had never met Shusaku, he would not have to miss him, which hurt like the long ache after a gut punch.
He got up, his legs stiff, and made his way back over the dunes towards the village. The scents were those of home: salt air, pine needles, smoke. Under them all was the seaweed smell of the sea. He didn’t just wish he had stayed two years earlier. He wished he could stay now. But Kusanagi was light and perfectly balanced at his side – now that he had it he could no more resist the call of Edo, of the dragon of the land, than he could unlearn the smell of cedar sap over salt water.
Arriving at the village, he made straight for his mother’s hut. There was a flickering light glowing inside. He had the impression of being a ghost, come back to visit its relatives on obon, except that obon was still a month away or more. He opened the door. Inside, Hana sat by the fire. He was reminded of the night his father was killed, when he came home to see his mother sitting in much the same place. Only now it wasn’t his mother. Now it was the woman he loved, who would never love him.
‘Hiro is gone,’ she said, without looking up.
‘Sorry?’
Her long eyelashes rose. ‘You were looking for him, I take it?’
‘Ah... no. I was looking for you. Wait. He’s gone? Gone where?’
‘I don’t know. He didn’t say. Just talked about finding his own life.’
‘When did he leave?’ Taro asked. He had a terrible sinking feeling. He had felt so betrayed – still did, a little. But since he had seen Kenji Kira finally die, after finding the Buddha ball floating in the ocean, unharmed, he had begun to feel that it was his destiny to hold it. Perhaps Hiro had been right to go after it. Perhaps he had been doing what he thought was best, for Taro.
Curses.
‘Two days ago, I think,’ said Hana.
‘Two... days?’ He stepped towards her. This explained the stiffness in his limbs, the hunger inside him.
She stood, backing away from him.
‘You don’t have to be afraid of me,’ he said.
‘I’m not. I’m afraid of me.’
‘You’re... I don’t understand.’
She pulled up her hair and touched her neck, still covered by the makeshift scarf. He was overwhelmed by a rush of desire for her but pushed it down. He could see the delicate shadow of her collarbone and wanted nothing so much as to kiss it. He noticed that she had changed into a fresh, plain kimono. He wondered who had given it to her. She
had such deep, dark eyes, in the firelight. He felt he could fall into them. That he already had. ‘I can feel my blood, singing out to yours,’ she said. ‘That’s what makes me afraid.’
‘I love you, that’s why,’ he said.
‘No. You turned me. That’s all.’
His breath was shaky in his chest. She was looking at him like he was a thing to be despised, and he couldn’t bear it. He wanted to turn round and go out of the door, never come back, but he couldn’t live without her, he knew that.
‘Whose blood will I drink?’ she asked, as he stared at her.
‘Whose...’
‘Blood. It’s what I live on, now, isn’t it? Tell me, Taro. Who should be my first victim? The priest? Or one of the children? I imagine they are easier to trap. To fool.’ The bitterness in her voice was like a blow.
‘Hana, you know me,’ he said. ‘I’m not like that. If you come with me, I could show you how to hunt, how to take deer and—’
‘I thought I knew you,’ she said. ‘Then you bit me. You turned me, after I asked you not to.’
‘You were dying.’
‘I would have been better dead.’
He looked down, stung. ‘You’d rather be dead than be like me?’
She met his eyes. ‘Yes.’
‘Please. Please come with me.’ Shame was hot in his stomach. He was begging her not to leave him. It was pathetic. Shusaku would be disgusted. But he couldn’t just lose her; it was unthinkable. He was dealing with the worst of all ironies: She was right there, two tan in front of him, but she might as well have been on the other side of the world. A week ago she would have married him. Now she was beyond him utterly, and he would never have her.
‘I won’t,’ she said. ‘I will never follow you again. You revolt me.’
‘You don’t mean that.’
‘I do.’
He touched his cloak. ‘I didn’t want to do this,’ he said. ‘Remember that. Remember I didn’t want to do it.’ Then he took out the ball. He couldn’t lose her. He wouldn’t allow it to happen. He would not lose another person he loved. Not after his father, and his mother, and Shusaku, even Hiro. She would understand, maybe, one day. He hoped she would.
‘Taro, no,’ she breathed.
He ignored her. Holding the ball, he allowed himself to drop through star-spangled sky, then to rush through blanketing mist and cloud. He roared down over the sea, the blackness racing upward to meet him, to embrace him.
He opened his eyes and was in the ball and in the world at the same time. He let his mind reach out, let his blood reach out. He could feel Hana, pulsing before him. He could hear the particular accent of his own blood inside her, speaking his soul, melding it with hers, making a rhythm of their two heartbeats inside her heart, a duet.
It wasn’t enough.
Above it all, a high-pitched threnody: he could hear and taste and smell her hatred for him, spreading through her like a black cloud. He almost reeled, but he stayed firm. He could make her love him.
Reaching out to his blood, he commanded it. Hana stepped forward. He walked her towards the door, opened it, and made her go through. Outside on the path he stood behind her. It was easier that way; he didn’t have to look at her face, the expression on it. He forced her up the path, towards the Edo road.
Her footsteps on the shingle of the path were a sigh, the soft sound of his soul dying. He felt a physical effort that was nothing to do with controlling her body. His teeth were gritted, his fists tensed. It was hurting him, doing this to her. But what choice did he have?
Then he heard it, above the sound of her footsteps. They had left the last of the village huts behind them and were almost in the forest.
She was sobbing.
Horrified, he stopped. What was he doing? This was madness. He sent out a message to his blood in her – made her stop also.
‘You can make me go with you,’ she said. ‘But you can’t make me love you. And as soon as you fall asleep, I’ll be gone.’
He knew she was telling the truth. He could feel it in her bones, in the beating of her heart. She could not lie to the vampire who had turned her, not when he was holding the Buddha ball.
The Buddha ball.
Closing his eyes, he dropped the ball to the ground, releasing her.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I just didn’t want to lose you. It’s like... like a hole, inside me.’
‘There is a hole inside me, too,’ she said. ‘It wants to be filled with blood.’
He took a breath, steadied himself. ‘I’m sorry about that, too.’
‘I know you are. It’s not enough.’
He stooped and picked up the ball again, put it away inside his cloak. Kusanagi sat on his other side, warm against his hip. ‘What will you do?’ he asked. ‘My mother’s hut is yours, if you want it.’
‘Thank you.’ He could see what the words cost her, even without the ball that allowed him to know her inner workings, her heart’s particular rhythm. ‘I think I’ll stay in Shirahama a while. Where else do I have to go?’
‘And blood?’
‘I’ll tell the priest what I am. Maybe he’ll help me.’
‘Or he may throw you out. Or kill you.’
She shrugged. ‘I’m prepared for that.’
It was then that he understood, really understood, how much he had hurt her, how much he had failed her. He quailed. ‘Turn away,’ he said. ‘Turn away so I can’t see your eyes.’
She did, looking towards the forest. From the way her body tensed, he imagined that she must think he was going to kill her – maybe she even wanted it. He didn’t look at her again, though.
He ran, pouring all his vampire strength into the action, and flowed past her to disappear into the forest. He heard her heartbeat fade, then disappear, behind him.
CHAPTER 43
Some distance from Shirahama
Later that evening
HIRO CAME DOWN from the mountain pass into a high valley that was bathed in starlight. He was riding. He’d had money for a horse – Shusaku had made sure to distribute gold coins among the four of them, sewing them into clothing, hiding them in small pockets. It had been one of the ninja’s mantras. You can never have enough hidden money, and you can never have enough hidden weapons.
So he’d traded a couple of the gold coins for the second-strongest horse in the village before leaving. Taro had gone out to sea and there had been some kind of battle, he’d heard. The sea burned, according to those who had seen it. After, he had half expected that his friend might seek him out, tell him about it. Show him Kusanagi. But when he asked, he was told that Taro was on a rock, meditating.
Meditating!
Hiro had always perceived emotions as colours, and right now his were a swirl of red and blue. He was ashamed and sorry, certainly, for betraying Taro. He had not meant to. He had only recovered the ball because he thought Taro might need it later, might have been acting too hastily, but of course Taro would never believe that. Or maybe he did believe it and he didn’t care. He cared only that Hiro had lied to him. Taro could be inflexible like that, a harsh moral judge.
Which explained the red in Hiro’s feelings – the anger towards Taro, who had cast him aside like a broken chopstick, and whose first act upon finding the legendary sword wielded by Susanoo himself was to go off on his own to meditate.
Well, let him stay on his own.
Alternately fuming and cringing with guilt, Hiro kept the horse to a steady trot, following a traders’ path through a thin wood. From up here he could see the whole valley spreading out below him – the rice paddies, shelving down from the low flanks, the villages, quiet under the dark vault of heaven. Far on the horizon were the foothills, rising up, of the mountain range that would lead him eventually to Mount Hiei and the sweet oblivion of the monk’s existence. The mountains themselves were lost in the blackness of the sky.
As he watched the hills, another emotion poured itself inkily into the palette of his feelings – a grey
one, this. Sadness.
A tear threatened to form, and he rubbed his eyes angrily, a flash of red in his head. He had to fight away the sadness. It reminded him too much of the truth, which he was trying to avoid by riding away: he loved Taro. He owed him his life. Taro had saved him from a shark, when he was just a boy. He would lay down his life to save Taro, would do it over and over again if he were asked. This was why he had gone to find the ball that Taro had thrown away. He thought it might help his friend, in the long run. And now he was cast out because of it. Now Taro, who was the person he cared for most in the world, hated him.
Hiro spoke a curse word, loudly, into the shadows of the forest. He spurred the horse and speeded up to a canter. In this manner he rode down into the lower part of the valley. A couple of times, he thought perhaps he heard another horse; hoofbeats on the moss of the forest floor, over to the east. But when he stopped his horse, he heard nothing. Lost cattle, maybe, or wolves. The thought of wolves made him ride even faster.
He was riding through the second village, the path a little muddy underfoot now, when he saw the red lanterns of an inn. He slowed. He had been riding two days, and already one whole night had slipped by without sleep. He still had money, left over from the purchase of the horse. Maybe a room for what remained of the night...
As he considered, a figure stepped out from under the nearest lantern. Hiro’s horse reared – he just clung on, whispering to it, stroking its neck, as it whinnied and stamped. When the horse was still, his hand went to the short-sword at his side.
‘Is that how you greet an old companion?’ said the figure.
Hiro peered into the gloom. The figure took another step forward, the light from the lantern illuminating its face. ‘Jun?’ said Hiro, surprised.
‘The same.’