Soul of the Night

by Barbara Sheridan

  Wait—footsteps. Before he could voice the sigh welling up inside of him, Carl heard the distinct flop, flop, flop sound of damp, soft-soled shoes on the cobblestones. The steps came to a stop in the dark alley off to Carl’s right, followed by a dry, wispy cry of happiness in some oriental language.

  So he wasn’t too far from Chinatown after all, Carl noted with relief. The person in the alleyway was probably an old man making his way home through familiar streets. With some luck, the old fella might know just enough English to get Carl back on the right path to Palo Alto.

  The old man started making some rustling noises, and Carl used them to help him navigate the dark alleyway. As he approached the low-standing, obscure little shadow that was all he could make of the old fisherman crouched by the side of the building, Gavin slipped in a puddle of water. He caught himself on a rusty gate that almost gave way with a loud creak. The old man fell silent and Carl cursed.

  “Damn, I’m sorry.” He straightened up and fished in his pockets for some matches. “Didn’t mean to startle you there, sir. See, I’m lost and I was wondering if you could help me find my way back to town.” He struck one of the matches on the side of the brick building and the old man vanished as soon as the light went on.

  Instead, Carl Gavin found himself staring into the ash-colored face of a red-eyed devil no taller than a child.

  They both shrieked at the same exact moment.

  “Holy shit!” Carl dropped the match and it went out in the puddle of water with a disheartening pfft.

  “Kiyoshi-sama, washiwa shireta,” the creature cried out, its voice garbled and thick like it had something inside its mouth. It started running.

  Carl fumbled for another match, but by the time his shaking hands managed to get the end lit up, the creature was gone. Carl dashed after it before common sense could get the better of him, and he nearly fell again on that same slippery spot. With a sick feeling in his stomach, he realized the water he was standing in was too red to actually be water. Looking back to where he’d first seen the creature, Carl now saw the body of a dead man propped up against the building—half-chewed around the neck and shoulder area.

  The screams had woken up some of the folks in the building and a few lamps were lit, illuminating the alley at last. More screams followed when the people saw the mauled corpse and pretty soon the alley was filled with frightened but morbidly fascinated onlookers. Now that he had better light, Carl mustered up the courage to inspect the dead body closer.

  Carl leaned forward and poked at the man’s head with the tip of his pencil, hoping he could expose the wound at the side of the neck a little more to see it better. Of course, the head flopped towards the gap where it had no support to keep it in place. It could only have been a handful of hours since the man was killed, if even that much—the body still hadn’t had a chance to stiffen up. But on this un-chewed side of the man’s neck, there was a strange mark. Carl frowned.

  It looked like two pricks had been made into the skin with a sharp needle, about an inch and a half or so apart. A bit of dried blood had caked over the two odd indentations.

  “Don’t touch that.”

  Startled, Carl pulled away. A Chinese man with a long gray queue and black nightshirt held up a lantern to the dead body. “Or the ones who sent this man to the underworld will come for you.”

  “What are you talking about?” Carl’s eyes widened and he furrowed his brow. “You know who did this?”

  “Not who—there are plenty of things around here with nothing human about them.” The old man gestured to the body and two younger fellows came around to start wrapping the corpse in a white linen sheet.

  “Wait. What about the police?” Carl tried to stop them.

  The old man shook his head adamantly. “There’s nothing they can do. This isn’t the first body we’ve found like this, and it won’t be the last. Now move aside so we can take it away before the demon gets angrier.”

  The men carried the body off to God knows where. Carl managed to convince the old man to show him back onto a familiar road, and he headed straight for his office at the Register, knowing he wouldn’t get a bit of sleep tonight.

  There was suddenly a more interesting story than the kabuki show or even the Chinatown tongs.

  Carl was writing the lead paragraph in his mind as he wound his way though the foggy streets. He stopped short when he heard a shout and the sound of footsteps in the distance. They seemed to pass right by him but he wasn’t able to make out a person. He followed the jumble of Chinese voices up ahead and paused to peek around the corner of a building. One man was yammering and clutching at his neck while two others looked on.

  The bleeding man held a knife and Carl was certain he caught the sight of blood on the blade. The men jabbered some more, then began to drift away as the injured man grumbled in a mixture of Chinese and English.

  The fucker bit me.

  * * *

  “Who were you with?”

  Kiyoshi stiffened, then slipped the rest of the way under the blanket hours after he’d snuck away in search of the Poisoned Dragon. “I was alone,” he said, settling himself on his side to watch the stiff set of Ryuhei’s back and shoulders. “I just wanted to walk.”

  “You could have walked with me. The way we used to do back in Japan.”

  With the faintest rustle of silk, Ryuhei turned to face him, the pale moonlight from the window barely illuminating his face. What the light didn’t reveal, Kiyoshi’s own heightened senses did. Ryuhei had been crying. Crying because of him.

  “Don’t be angry with me,” he whispered, reaching out.

  Ryuhei pulled away. “Don’t patronize me.”

  “I’m not.”

  “The fuck you’re not.” Ryuhei got out of the futon and jerked on his sleeping yukata, angrily knotting the obi sash at his waist. “Leaving in the middle of the night to go only the Gods know where.” Ryuhei’s voice wavered. “To be with who knows who…” His hands balled into trembling fists at his sides and he stormed across the room to the traveling case tucked under the vanity. “And after you’d promised. Why did you even bother? Why?” Ryuhei dragged the trunk into the middle of the room, flinging open the lid and letting it hit the wood floor with a loud bang.

  “Ryuhei, please.” Kiyoshi sat up on the futon, bringing his knees up to his chest. He rubbed the side of his neck where the nearly healed gash made by that Chao’s knife itched maddeningly. “Please stop.”

  “Oh, of course,” Ryuhei spat viciously. “This is my mistake, isn’t it? ‘Ryu-san is just throwing a fit, as usual. Typical Nakamura—doesn’t he know his time for stage theatrics has come and gone, the old fool?’ Oh, that’s what everyone says, I’d be a complete simpleton not to know it.”

  He pulled out a jacket from the trunk and roughly tugged it on. “But I did make a mistake in thinking you felt differently. Now I know you call me a fool behind my back like everyone else does.”

  Suddenly Kiyoshi was there, as if transported by magic. Ryuhei gave him an indignant look and tried to walk away, but Kiyoshi’s grip was more powerful than Ryuhei could have imagined. He found himself being turned around and pulled into a crushing embrace.

  “Don’t do this. Don’t imagine things that aren’t true. I would never call you a fool. I have always admired you. Always.”

  Ryuhei remained stiff, refusing to follow his instincts and hug Kiyoshi back. “You admire me. Hrmph. Wonderful. That’s just the type of affectionate word that gets it up for me.” Ryuhei snorted, his body still unyielding in Kiyoshi’s arms. “In Edo and Kyoto I had thousands of admirers too, most of them wanting a taste of my ass or dick more than anything. I guess I can still hump well enough to retain at least one of them.”

  Kiyoshi pulled back. “Why are you talking like that?” he said softly, his lower lip quivering.

  “Because it’s true.” Ryuhei’s voice cracked. “I don’t want your pity or your admiration.”

  Kiyoshi dropped his arms to his sides
and took two steps back. “Then what do you want? Do you even want me or am I filling in until you’re a star again and something better comes along?”

  “Shouldn’t I be asking that question?”

  “Should you?” Kiyoshi asked before grabbing up his kimono from the bench where he’d left it folded. He put it on, slipped into his sandals and left.

  For several achingly long seconds, Ryuhei stood there panting and feeling like he might throw up. Then he gathered himself and stormed to the open door.

  “Go! Run to your secret lover,” Ryuhei shouted into the hallway, though there was no sign of Kiyoshi. “Don’t forget to tell him how much you like deceiving and manipulating the men you fuck.”

  Oh, that was quite cruel. Ryuhei’s heart sank the moment those nasty words spilled from his mouth. But he pictured Kiyoshi in the arms of another, and his temper flared up enough for him to bang the door shut and give the bottom panel a kick for good measure.

  Returning to the vanity, Ryuhei slammed his palms on the varnished surface. All the little knickknacks and bottles of makeup and ointments rattled. A glass jar of oshiroi was dislodged, and though Ryuhei tried to catch it, the glass slipped through his fingers to shatter on the floor.

  “Oh no,” Ryuhei moaned softly. He dropped to his knees and tried to scoop as much as he could of the creamy white stage makeup into what was left of the jar. In America it was so hard to come by good theatrical makeup, Kiyo-kun had been so careful to secure the best before leaving Japan.

  A sob broke out of Ryuhei. Followed by another and another as he gave up trying to salvage the mess he’d made of everything.

  Wiping at his wet cheeks, Ryuhei looked up at his sad reflection in the vanity mirror. Thin—but nonetheless evident—lines showed under his eyes, and his once perfect black hair had flecks of silver every few strands. Ryuhei felt each one of his thirty-eight years in his body, his back protesting when he tried to roll back and tense up his shoulders to give himself the streamlined look all onnagata had to master if they wanted to impersonate a woman effectively on the kabuki stage.

  He would never be a star again, Kiyoshi was wrong about that. Ryuhei’s time had come and passed, his career shortened by his arrogance and vices. Too much sake. Too many lovers. At the peak of his success, he’d made more money in one night of indulging theater patrons than he did in a week of play performances. One time, a samurai had even traded his katana—his very soul—for a night in the great Nakamura’s bed.

  Where were they all now? No one had stayed by his side when he’d been forced out of Edo in disgrace after his last disastrous affair with the daimyo, of all people. No one cared…only Kiyo-kun…and somewhere along the line, Ryuhei had fucked that up.

  “It was never meant to last anyway.” Ryuhei dried his eyes on his sleeve. “I am an old fool.”

  Especially now. Ryuhei trudged to the window and pushed it open. He leaned out, letting the damp fog bathe his hot, tear-streaked face. “Oh Kiyo-kun,” he whispered. “You made me feel so wonderful from the day we met. What’s happened?”

  Chapter Seven

  The voices in the adjoining room woke Ryuhei from his fitful sleep early.

  “I knew this was a mistake. I knew it, but did any of you listen to me? Did you?”

  “Calm down, Hoshi. You’ll wake the others.”

  “What others? Kiyoshi left last night. Twice. Didn’t you hear him? Oh, no, you didn’t—you were snoring too loudly.”

  “You are such a pain in my ass, Hosh. Why do I bother?”

  “Because you like being in my ass, dearest. That’s why.”

  Ryuhei groaned and pulled the blanket over his throbbing head. Gods, why was he cursed with such a troupe of fucking misfits? He poked his head from beneath the covers, then reached out and groped for the sake bottle propped against a small lacquered box. There was barely enough liquor left to wet his parched mouth. He sat up, throwing the bottle against the wall through which he could hear Hoshi and Akira having their morning sex romp. The thumping next door came to a quick stop. Footsteps thundered up the hall, followed by a loud pounding on Ryuhei’s door.

  “Nakamura.” It was Hoshi. “Get out here, you.”

  Ryuhei scowled at the door, but refused to get up. The bitch could holler all he wanted. Preferably until he turned red in the face and passed out from expelling too much hot air.

  No such luck to be had, however. Akira’s deep voice drifted through the closed door as he soothed Hoshi. It was the same kind of assuaging tone he’d used back in Japan to convince Ryuhei to start the troupe in the first place. Ryuhei scowled again.

  “You’re so right, Akira,” Hoshi said a little too loudly and sweetly to be anything but waspish. “He must need his rest after all that hard work it took last night to drive away Kiyoshi. Enjoy that nice, big, empty futon, Ryu-san.”

  “Enough,” Akira said. “The theater managers are downstairs waiting to have breakfast with us. That’s a little more important than these silly games.”

  “Yes,” Hoshi agreed. “We don’t have time for this nonsense.”

  Ryuhei snorted as the two men stomped back down the hall. He tried to go back to sleep, but the sounds coming from the city street below wouldn’t allow it. Rolling out of the futon with a depressed sigh, he pulled the same haori he’d taken out of the trunk last night on over his sleeping robe. He trudged out to join the others at breakfast, more than a little hopeful he would see Kiyoshi there.

  He paused at the bottom step of the staircase, surprised and annoyed to see the reporter from yesterday poking around the backrooms of the playhouse. “What do you want?” Ryuhei jutted his chin out. “The theater’s closed.”

  “Morning.” The man tipped his hat at Ryuhei, but his manner was distracted. The American looked as if he’d had just as rough a night as Ryuhei. “I was hoping to talk to someone here in the theater about something that happened yesterday evening.”

  Oh Gods. Ryuhei panicked. Americans cared about the gossip surrounding his love life?

  “I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” he gasped out, indignant. “As if that’s the first lover’s quarrel to ever happen in the theater.”

  The reporter gave him the blankest look Ryuhei’d ever seen on another man’s face. “I’m talking about the murders.”

  “Oh. Oh.” Ryuhei’s eyes widened. “Did you say murder?”

  “Not far from here at all, either. There were a lot of strange things happening last night.”

  The last bit of Ryuhei’s appetite for breakfast melted away, and he gripped his jacket shut with a trembling hand. All he could think of were those terrible Chinese men who’d tried to assault him and Kiyo-kun.

  “That’s horrible,” he said, forcing himself to remember the reporter’s name. “But what would anything like that have to do with us in the theater, Gavin-san?”

  “I just want to know if you folks might’ve seen or heard anything…odd.” He looked around, obviously on edge. “Where’s your friend?”

  Ryuhei shook his head. “I don’t know. Kiyoshi…left. Early this morning. I’m hoping he’s at breakfast.”

  An odd look appeared on Gavin’s face that didn’t sit well with Ryuhei at all.

  “Mind if I join you for the morning meal then?” the reporter asked.

  “That should be fine,” Ryuhei said quietly. What was going on?

  Hoshi and Akira were in the kitchen area and once Hoshi—that bitch—found out Gavin was a reporter, he dominated the man’s attention as best he could with his lack of decent English skills.

  And yet Gavin’s gaze kept shifting Ryuhei’s way as if he desperately wanted to draw him into a conversation. A private conversation no doubt. Ryuhei had had more than enough experience with those types of “I want you alone” looks to decipher this. Thankfully, Gavin’s expression lacked the extra sexual edge that would have made Ryuhei’s breakfast churn in his stomach if he’d done more than pick at the food on his plate.

  Hoshi cleared his throat
. The hacking was loud enough to make Ryuhei wonder if the bitch was trying to cough up a hairball like one of the cats scuttling around in the alley behind the theater. It certainly got the attention of the reporter who half-stood from his seat to see if Hoshi might be choking.

  “Oh, no, no.” Hoshi flashed Ryuhei a smug smile. “I’m fine. But, Gavin-san, did you write that last part down?” He tapped the edge of the reporter’s notebook with his finger in a series of persistent jabs.

  Gavin pushed up his bowler’s hat to scratch at his receding hairline. “I might’ve missed it.” He nodded apologetically. With good reason. Even if Gavin hadn’t been so distracted, he wouldn’t have been able to understand a smidge of the garbled, bastardized English Hoshi was so damned proud of.

  “Everyone else does.” Ryuhei scowled, no longer able to bite his tongue. “You’re blowing so much hot air on the table our meal doesn’t have a chance to get cold.” He perked up a little, somewhat cheered that his English was about ten times better than Hoshi’s.

  And you can thank Kiyo-kun for that.

  Kiyoshi, where are you?

  His usual amusement with baiting Hoshi wasn’t even entertaining him this morning and Ryuhei simply sat there toying with his food.

  Hoshi launched into a tirade of curses and insults. At his side, Akira tried to calm the angry little man down while the theater managers—two well-to-do businessmen from Peking who were already nervous about trying to make a success out of a Japanese play in a primarily Chinese community—started shouting and pointing their fat fingers in Ryuhei’s direction. Ah well, he was the troublesome one, wasn’t he? It was always Kiyo-kun who diffused these types of situations with his mastery over Mandarin and Cantonese as well as Japanese.