Soul of the Night

by Barbara Sheridan

  “You said that before, also.” Ryuhei’s pout deepened into a genuine frown of sadness. “Is the life of a farmer-sometimes-wanderer all that alluring?”

  Unable to answer in a way that would’ve been truthful to them both, Kiyoshi closed his eyes and suppressed a sigh. He felt Ryuhei’s lips brush against his cheek in a series of affectionate kisses.

  “We could wander together then,” the actor said. The heat of their passion colored his words, making each syllable sound all the sweeter beside the tenderness of what Ryuhei promised. “There’s no place I can call home for long, and I have no reason to stay here in Magome. If we’re both going to leave tomorrow not knowing where to go, then why not do so together?”

  The thought alone brought a smile to Kiyoshi. The actor continued to kiss him hopefully, persuasively.

  “Please stay with me.” Ryuhei enveloped Kiyoshi in an embrace. He burrowed his face into Kiyoshi’s chest, his eyelashes tickling the bare skin. “I mean what I say—that I’ve never enjoyed another’s company more than I have yours. Please.” The sincerity pouring from Ryuhei’s very soul dissolved any lingering reservations Kiyoshi had.

  Kissing Ryuhei’s forehead, he found himself murmuring his agreement with the actor’s pleas. “Yes,” Kiyoshi breathed. “I’ll stay with you, Ryu-san.”

  Sighing deeply, happily, Ryuhei relaxed in Kiyoshi’s arms. Together they fell into a peaceful sleep, their bodies as one on the bed.

  * * *

  San Francisco, 1872

  Ryuhei stared at himself in the mirror over the dresser. His hair was a mess, his clothes were wrinkled and worst of all, he was…sweaty. The cramped little room behind him was in just as bad a shape. It looked as though his traveling trunk had exploded in the center of the theater’s dressing room. Costumes, jars of makeup—a few vials of other vital, lubricous oils—were scattered across everywhere and everything.

  Ryuhei turned away from the mirror to take in the chaos around him. His eyebrow twitched.

  He’d rifled through every inch of this room, had even gone downstairs to the spice-scented closet where the costumes were kept in between performances. But there was no sign of it. His gold silk haori—his best piece of formal wear he’d brought with him from Japan—was gone. Stolen. And he knew just who the thieving little attention-whore was…

  “Hoshi, you bitch.” Ryuhei stormed out of his dressing room. Where was Kiyoshi when he needed him?

  * * *

  Kiyoshi’s sensitive hearing picked up the sound of Ryuhei’s tantrum long before the theater on the fringes of Chinatown came into view. His lover must be upset at their colleague Hoshi…again. Shaking his head and suppressing a smile, Kiyoshi paused to close his eyes and let the angry passion in Ryuhei’s words tickle his senses. These few years had been chaotic oft times and were he an average mortal, he might very well have left the overly dramatic Ryuhei by the wayside. But as it was, the depth of feeling the man put into everything he did intoxicated Kiyoshi each time they coupled and Kiyoshi dared to savor the sweetness of his companion’s blood.

  “Ah, there you are.”

  Kiyoshi opened his eyes as Akira took the steps leading down from the theater two at a time. “You’re avoiding the fussy dick, aren’t you?” the other actor asked with a wry smile.

  Akira Sounoichi looked especially tall in the western clothing he wore tonight, the linen pants accentuating his already long legs and trim waist. His white cotton shirt was open at the collar and he reached into the breast pocket of his coat to pull out a thinly rolled cigarette. With his hair cut short in the American style, he gave the appearance of a Japanese official sent to this country to work on some treaty or another. And by fussy dick, Kiyoshi knew exactly whom the man referred to.

  “I’m not avoiding Ryu-san. I just went for a walk.” Kiyoshi self-consciously rubbed at the corners of his mouth to ensure no traces of blood remained.

  “Ah.” Akira lit the cigarette and took a puff, his eyes shining. “Then you’re avoiding rehearsals with Hosh.”

  “Akira-kun, I would do no such thing.” Kiyoshi shook his head, declining the offer when Akira held out the cigarette. Ryuhei insisted those “damn things” would ruin his voice. Of course, Kiyoshi’s non-mortal body could never be ruined that way, but how could he explain that to Ryuhei? “If Hoshi-san wants to work on the act tonight, then I’d be more than happy to.”

  “Ha! The happiness won’t last long—Ryuhei’s in the middle of another tantrum.” Akira tossed the cigarette to the floor and crushed it under his foot. “Someone touched His Highness’ wardrobe.”

  By someone, Akira meant Hoshi. Kiyoshi sighed, knowing the worst of the evening had yet to start. “I’ll help Ryu-san find whatever it is.”

  Akira’s brow twitched. “Or not.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think Hoshi, uh, well… It’s difficult to say.”

  “Not really, I’m sure.” Kiyoshi’s eyes widened.

  Akira pursed his lips, then shrugged. “You may as well know before Ryuhei does. Hoshi took one of Ryuhei’s haori this afternoon. It accidentally fell into a vat of camphor oil and was ruined.”

  “Accident? Accident?” Ryuhei bellowed from the theater entrance, making Akira flinch. “There’s no such thing as an accident.”

  “You can deal with this, I don’t have the patience.” Akira gave Kiyoshi a weary look before deftly disappearing into the shadows.

  Ryuhei dashed down the theater steps. “Akira, come back here. Tell me where that thieving little bitch is so I can scratch his eyes out.”

  Kiyoshi shuddered from the wave of Ryuhei’s emotions that washed over him. He stepped forward and placed a hand upon Ryuhei’s back. “Ryu-san. Please don’t upset yourself. Hoshi’s not worth the effort.”

  Ryuhei spun, his eyes wide with shock, his mouth partly open in a gasp. “But you don’t understand. That bitch stole my haori. My gold silk haori. It was my favorite.”

  Kiyoshi nodded. “I know. It was a beautiful thing and you looked wonderful in it.”

  Deflated, Ryuhei plopped down onto the theater steps. “That bitch. He knew I wanted to wear it tonight. He knew I was planning a special evening for you to celebrate our debut in America.”

  “You were planning something for me?” Kiyoshi sat beside his companion. “A special evening?”

  “Maybe…” Ryuhei pouted as he rested his elbow on his knee and cupped his chin. “It’s not like it matters now.”

  Kiyoshi stared at the man with growing surprise. He patted Ryuhei’s thigh. “Oh, Ryu-san, you really did have plans.”

  Though he kept looking away towards the end of the street, Ryuhei shifted over on the step so his body pressed closer to Kiyoshi’s. “No, no. I don’t want your pity.” He stuck his nose in the air, but didn’t mean a word of it. Every line was delivered with his customary amount of proper drama while the emotions rolling off him were laced with a need for affection. “Maybe you should follow after Akira and go with him to that party where all the gaijin theater patrons are.”

  Kiyoshi shook his head firmly. “I don’t want to go with Akira.”

  “But kabuki’s the latest trend, you know. I’m sure you’ll have lots of admirers.” Ryuhei’s pout turned genuine. “Perhaps Akira will bed you at last. I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

  Kiyoshi touched Ryuhei’s cheek, coaxing him to turn his head. “But I don’t want him.” He took hold of the actor’s hand, brushed his lips along Ryuhei’s knuckles and flicked his tongue across them before pulling away. “You’re the only one I’ve ever wanted that way,” Kiyoshi said softly, trying to silence the tiny voice in the recesses of his mind that kept whispering Liu Sakurai’s name. These murmurs from the past…why did they come now, in this city?

  “You’re a silly boy, Kiyo-kun.” Ryuhei rubbed his thumb over the smooth skin on Kiyoshi’s wrist. Sighing, he collapsed back onto the steps and stared up at the black, starless sky. “Others want you that way. You’re young, talented, attractive
. You’ll realize all this for yourself soon enough.”

  Kiyoshi blinked. “Realize what?”

  Usually Ryuhei made himself clear when he threw a tantrum or sank into one of his attention-seeking moods. It suddenly occurred to Kiyoshi that this was neither of those episodes, and it left him puzzled.

  “No, no, it’s nothing,” the actor insisted. He made an oof sound and scrunched down the steps so the hard edge didn’t jab into his back.

  “The haori is easy enough to replace,” Kiyoshi said.

  “Oh, the damn jacket doesn’t matter,” Ryuhei grumbled. He waved his hand through the air. “The whole idea was silly to begin with. I just thought it might’ve been a nice way to pass the time if we had dinner near that prosperous area, Nob Hill, and then spent the night trying a western bed for a change.” He tilted his head to look at Kiyoshi. “You can laugh, go on.”

  Kiyoshi brushed a few wayward strands of hair back from Ryuhei’s handsome face. “Why would I laugh? We haven’t spent any real time alone without Akira or Hoshi in ages. And to be honest”—he leaned over and skimmed his tongue across the lobe of Ryuhei’s ear—”I would much rather postpone the meal and go straight to the nearest bed with you.”

  “Ohhh, such a tease you are, Kiyo-kun. Whatever shall I do with you?”

  “Anything you like, Ryu-san, as always.”

  Ryuhei’s expression lightened at last, a playful smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He touched Kiyoshi’s chin and drew him down into a kiss, his fingers stroking through Kiyoshi’s hair. Pleased, if not muffled noises passed between them as they embraced, then Ryuhei broke away.

  “Ow,” he mumbled, reaching behind him to rub at his back. “One thing’s for sure—a western bed can’t be any more uncomfortable than these steps.”

  Kiyoshi took his free hand and pulled him up. “Let’s go find that bed then.” He grinned. “There’s a hotel not far from here. I know the way.”

  Ryuhei’s smile faltered and he stopped. Kiyoshi tugged at his arm. “Ryu-san?”

  “Where have you been going at night?” the actor asked quietly.

  Taken aback for a moment, Kiyoshi stared at Ryuhei in silent surprise. “What do you mean?” He blinked, honestly confused. “We share the same room over the theater. As we have wherever we perform.”

  Ryuhei slipped his hand out of Kiyoshi’s grasp. “Sometimes I roll over on the bed and find your place empty, the futon long gone cold.”

  Kiyoshi exhaled slowly, while inside he groaned at his carelessness. “I get thirsty at night…” Which was not a lie at all. “So I go to get some water.” That was.

  Clever man that he was, Ryuhei clearly remained unconvinced. “There’s always a pitcher of water by the dresser. And you were never this thirsty before we left Japan.”

  A small whimper escaped Kiyoshi. He’d been able to restrain himself before coming to America, but since setting foot in this city his thirst for blood had been getting the best of him. Three times this week alone he’d snuck out to satiate his appetite, his desire too strong to resist. After tonight he knew the cause. It was the lure of the Chinese assassin Gobei had spoken of—the Poisoned Dragon.

  But he always waited for Ryuhei to be deep in sleep. He’d been certain he’d never be found out. Apparently, on at least one occasion, he hadn’t waited long enough to go slake his thirst.

  “Ryu-san,” he said weakly. Damn. They’d been together for so long and not once before had Ryuhei’s mortal heart ever sensed anything different about him. Not even after those weeks at sea when they, along with the other members of the kabuki troupe, left Japan for America, cramped together on that small ship with a hundred other passengers. Not even then had his secret been so at the brink of being exposed as he felt it was now.

  Some of the color left Ryuhei’s face as he surely took Kiyoshi’s silence to mean the worst. “You don’t have to explain yourself,” Ryuhei said with a limp shrug. “I know there’s someone else.”

  “What?” Kiyoshi’s chin almost hit the floor.

  “Does your other lover know about me, or are you better at keeping your secrets with him? Or her? That’s it, isn’t it? You’re throwing me over for a woman.”

  “There’s no one else, Ryuhei. There hasn’t been since we met. You know that.”

  “Do I?”

  “You should.”

  A silence like Kiyoshi hadn’t felt in centuries dropped between them and his heart sank within his breast. Before he could say or do anything, his sensitive hearing caught the sound of quick footsteps approaching. Heavy, American footsteps. “Someone’s coming. Maybe we should go inside and finish talking.”

  Ryuhei stuck his pert nose in the air. “Perhaps it’s your new friend.”

  “Ryu—”

  “Forgive me…gentlemen?”

  Chapter Four

  Kiyoshi turned and glared at the American dressed in a rumpled fawn-colored suit with a small, careworn bowler hat upon his head. “The theater is closed and we don’t open until tomorrow,” Kiyoshi practically snapped.

  The man cocked his head to one side and looked from Kiyoshi to the building just behind them. “Ah,” he said with a nod. “Ah, yes. I take it you gentlemen would be some of the performers or maybe stagehands?”

  “Stagehands?” Ryuhei’s mouth gaped open in shock. “What an insult,” he thundered in Japanese. “If this is your new admirer, I’m seriously offended you’d pick an idiot like him over me.”

  “He’s not my lover.”

  “So you’re not stagehands?” the American asked lightly.

  “No,” Kiyoshi said, his tone sharp. “We’re actors with the troupe.” Now go away.

  Kiyoshi focused his thoughts to a direct command, channeling them straight towards this intrusive newcomer. He rarely ever used his abilities as a kyuuketsuki to influence a mortal’s mind, but this wasn’t an ordinary situation. Pushing out with as much power as he could, he repeated the command.

  Go. Away.

  And yet the American stayed right where he was, feet planted firmly on the ground, oblivious to what Kiyoshi was trying to do. He smoothed down the front of his frumpy suit and patted the sides of his face. “Phew,” the man exhaled in relief and then chuckled. “I thought that with the way you were staring, my nose might’ve fallen off.”

  “Oh wonderful. A comedian.” Ryuhei sighed dramatically. “And a most unattractive one,” he added under his breath in Japanese, casting a disappointed glance to Kiyoshi.

  Kiyoshi grimaced and turned once more on the American. “Leave us.”

  “Well, now, I’d like to oblige, but you see I’ve been given this assignment. I’m Carl Gavin of the San Francisco Register and I’m supposed to do a feature on you all and your opening of this Kay Bookie theater of yours.”

  “Kabuki,” Ryuhei corrected with an annoyed expression. “The word is kabuki.”

  “That’s exactly the kind of honest, from-the-source information I’m looking for.” Gavin smiled cheerfully. “It must be somethin’ performing miles away from your homeland. How do you gentlemen like it here in San Francisco?”

  Ryuhei looked as if he might throw up or start throwing things. Or both. “I would’ve had a better time acting on the seat of a tired old ass than coming here,” he said acidly. “Are you going to put that in your story?”

  “Please, we’re not really in the mood to talk about this now,” Kiyoshi told the reporter. “Maybe some other evening.”

  Ryuhei shot Kiyoshi a glance both pained and furious. “Maybe after you’ve given him a shiatsu and sucked that barbarian-sized organ of his,” he muttered, thankfully, in Japanese. It didn’t keep an embarrassed blush from rising to Kiyoshi’s cheeks, though.

  “Let’s talk about something else then,” Gavin interrupted. “How about the dead bodies that’ve been turning up around here lately?”

  Ryuhei gasped. “Bodies? Dead bodies? Near here?”

  “Yes. Didn’t you hear any talk in the streets?”

  “We don’
t frequent the streets,” Kiyoshi said sharply. Once more he tried pushing out with his thoughts. Go. Away. Now.

  The man did not budge. He simply rubbed the back of his neck as if the hairs were bristling. “Well, rumor has it that them Chinaboys are after one another over this and that. But from what I’ve heard, those boys tend to take care of their own messes. Most of the time that is, unless I’m guessing they want to get a message across to their opponents.”

  Ryuhei whipped out a fan from inside the loose sleeve of his robe. “I don’t like the way this sounds at all.” He started fanning himself nervously, the gold silk flashing in the lamplight. “Vendettas, messes, killing…I saw enough of that in the civil war back home, thank you.”

  The sight of a drop of a blood alone made Ryuhei Nakamura queasy, and Kiyoshi knew that during the Bakumatsu, the actor had been more than content to stay as far away from any sights of bloodshed as possible. He might be temperamental and throw loud tantrums from time to time, but as a whole, Ryuhei was one of the most non-violent men Kiyoshi had ever known. For that reason among several others, Kiyoshi worked very carefully to keep the truth about himself a secret.

  “I’m not sure you folks have anything to worry about,” the reporter tried to assure them. “I told you—the Chinese just stick to themselves mostly. These assassinations don’t mean there’s a danger for you.”

  “Assassins?” Ryuhei squeaked. “There are assassins here?” His unease was now strong enough to tickle Kiyoshi’s supernatural senses—especially that of taste. If he were to sample some of the man’s blood at this very moment, the fluid would be deliciously flavored with Ryuhei’s fear.

  “If it doesn’t involve us, then why ask us anything to begin with?” Kiyoshi turned on Gavin. “We don’t need to be terrorized.”

  The reporter’s sharp eyes narrowed a bit and he rubbed his chin with his thumb and forefinger. “I didn’t know this would strike such a powerful chord.”