How had Kiyoshi become so skillful with so many languages? Another question Ryuhei couldn’t answer about his dearest. In fact, it had been one he’d never thought to ask before.
Ryuhei dropped his chopsticks onto his full plate and pushed away from the table. “Excuse me.”
Damn that reporter. Gavin was on his feet and ready to follow. “I was hoping I could ask you a few questions, Mr. Nakamura.”
“I told you, I don’t know where Kiyoshi is.” Ryuhei’s chest tightened and he gave a short warbled sigh.
“He ran away. And good for him,” Hoshi thundered. “He was out all night last night and hopefully all day today. Better to be alone than stuck with a selfish, spiteful old cow like you.”
“Your friend was out all evening?” Gavin practically dove for his notebook and pencil.
Oh, why couldn’t someone put a knife through Ryuhei’s heart and be done with it? “No,” he said bitterly. “He came back to me sometime after midnight after ‘walking’ and then left for good. Happy?”
“After midnight…he would’ve heard about the murders.” Gavin-san succeeded in shutting everyone up with that line. After a second or two of stunned silence, everyone rushed in.
“What murders?”
“Who died?”
“Where?”
“Will this scare away our money?”
Ryuhei, Gavin and the other two kabuki actors stared at the manager who’d spoken. The man pulled out a handkerchief and mopped his brow. “Uh, I mean, our audience…scare our audience away…”
“Kiyo-kun said nothing to me about that.” Ryuhei clutched at the hem of his haori and turned back to Gavin. “But why should he? It’s no secret the streets of Chinatown are full of gangsters; those are the ones involved in things like that. Kiyoshi wouldn’t be involved.”
“I didn’t mean to insinuate anything, Mr. Nakamura. I just thought your friend might have seen or heard something that maybe he didn’t think much of at the time. I spoke to the boys from the Chinatown patrol and they’re baffled. It seems at least one of the bodies disappeared.”
* * *
Kiyoshi could fairly taste the tension the moment he entered the door at the front of the theater. Ryuhei’s agitation reached out like wispy tendrils to clutch at his insides. Voices drifted from the back of the building as he walked across the lobby—Hoshi forever trying to take center stage, Akira parroting him, the Chinese who managed the place and the white man, that reporter Gavin.
Well, today the man would heed his mental prodding. Just the barest taste of the Poisoned Dragon’s essence was enough to heighten Kiyoshi’s psychic strength.
“Is there a problem?” Kiyoshi asked coolly as he entered the kitchen.
“Kiyo-kun,” Ryuhei gasped. “You came back.” His forehead was creased with anxiety, but his pouty lips curved up in a brief and obviously relieved smile. He continued in Japanese, whispering and glancing back to the reporter every few seconds. “This man keeps wanting to speak with you about some terrible murders that happened last night and I don’t know why. What if it has something to do with those awful men who accosted us here in the theater?”
Gavin scratched at the scruffy bits of beard on his chin. “There’s really no problem, Kiyoshi—did I get that name right? Hmm.” The man scrunched up his brows and started flipping through the sheets in his notebook. “That sounds so familiar to me…”
“You were here yesterday,” Ryuhei interjected. “And we’ve been saying his name all morning. Of course it must sound familiar.”
“Why are you so defensive, Ryuhei?” Hoshi said, boldly pushing himself into the small group. “What are you afraid of?”
Ryuhei stiffened, glad that the bitch’s English was so lacking, surely the reporter couldn’t make sense of it.
Why am I suspicious?
“I—I’m not being defensive,” he huffed, throwing his hands up in the air. “I just want some peace. Gods, how I suffer in this ridiculous ensemble.” He stole a quick look over at Kiyoshi. The bits of food he had managed to get down during breakfast fluttered around in his stomach.
The young man’s face was so…emotionless. Cold even. So unlike the Kiyoshi who offered comforting words whenever Ryuhei felt worn, or the Kiyoshi who returned his embraces as they slept in each other’s arms. Since they’d arrived here in America, things had been so different. Not just between them, but in Kiyo-kun himself.
Ryuhei already suspected another man, he was no fool. All these late nights, the weak excuses…it was obvious. But what if this new lover was dragging Kiyoshi into this bloody Chinese underworld? Yesterday, he’d been so bold with those gangsters. Ready to fight them even.
“I think you’re full of shit, Ryuhei,” Hoshi said smugly. “You know Kiyoshi’s leaving you and you can’t bear the thought. You have to find some way to explain it to yourself. Ha!”
“Shut your mouth, you fat cow,” Kiyoshi snapped, his eyes as narrowed and dangerous as they’d been when he stood up to the Chinese. “Or I’ll shut it for you.”
An icy finger slid along Ryuhei’s spine at those last words spoken with so much repressed rage he was certain this was a bad dream. That could not have been his sweet Kiyoshi speaking and yet one glance to the horrified faces of Hoshi and Akira told him this was all too real.
“Well, everyone seems to be on edge this morning.” Gavin broke the tension-filled silence. “Strange things going on around these parts, strange things.” The reporter paused and all eyes swerved towards him. “Tell me, gentlemen,” he said softly. “Have any of you seen any…monsters walking these streets at night?”
Any other time, that kind of question would’ve made Ryuhei laugh and dismiss the man as a superstitious or ignorant rube. He stared at Carl Gavin now with a mixture of curiosity and confusion. “A monster?”
The reporter cleared his throat. “For lack of a better word, yes.”
Hoshi and Akira burst into a fit of laughter. “The only thing monstrous we’ve seen around here is that hat he’s wearing.” Hoshi leaned against Akira’s shoulder and waved his hand in Gavin’s direction. “Tell him that.”
“Sorry.” Akira licked his lips and made a poor effort to control his smile while he spoke in English. “Maybe we’re not understanding the question right.”
Unperturbed, Gavin nodded and continued. “I was talking to some folks here in Chinatown who say, well, they say there’s a demon lurking around at night who steals bodies away.”
“And you think this is true? Oh, brother.” Hoshi laughed again. “Those are silly stories. Children’s stories, I tell you.”
As ridiculous as this new topic of conversation was, at least it had shifted away from the tongs and those terrible murders. Ryuhei’s sigh of relief was cut short when he put a hand on Kiyoshi’s shoulder. The younger man jumped under the touch, whipping about to face Ryuhei, all the color drained from his face.
“Kiyo-kun?” Ryuhei pulled his hand away, surprised and hurt that Kiyoshi had flinched so at the touch. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Kiyoshi turned his attention back to Akira and Hoshi who were still talking away.
Nothing. Another lie. Ryuhei’s chest tightened and he nervously stroked his fingers over the collar of his jacket.
“So you haven’t seen or heard anything unusual?” Gavin interrupted Hoshi, who was returning to his original topic of discussion concerning the theater and his own lustrous performances.
“No,” Hoshi huffed.
“What about you?” The reporter squinted at Kiyoshi. “You look like you might’ve seen a ghost right now.”
“It is as Hoshi said. Ghosts and demons are the stuff of children’s nightmares.” Without another word or parting comment, Kiyoshi turned and strode from the room, leaving Ryuhei feeling more alone than he had in years.
“This talk of monsters is foolishness, Gavin-san,” Ryuhei said once he was able to find his voice. “We would appreciate having you write your article informing the good people of San Francis
co about our performances and I’m sure Akira and Hoshi can give you all the information you need. You must excuse me. I’m not feeling well this morning.”
“Wait a minute—” the reporter insisted, but Hoshi’s intrusiveness came in handy for a change. The actor swooped in the moment Ryuhei turned away, positioning himself right between Gavin and any possible exit.
Ryuhei retreated upstairs, his steps growing heavier the closer he got to the top of the landing. Perhaps Kiyoshi was waiting in their room with that strange, loveless look on his face and more angry words to say. Even if that were so, Ryuhei would have the chance to express his regrets about last night and all the things he’d said.
Chapter Eight
Ryuhei opened the door with a timid little push. “Kiyo-kun?”
No answer.
The room was dark, the curtain having been drawn across the window and the candles having burned out in the early morning hours. Furnishings like the bed, trunk and vanity were discernible only as large obscure shadows. Carefully moving through the threshold so as not to bump into anything, he kicked off his zori and made his way to the bed.
Ryuhei pulled apart the drapes, flooding the room with light. Now he knew Kiyoshi had at least been here. The blue kimono the boy had been wearing was rumpled on the floor, the sandals tossed beside the material. The two bottom drawers of the bureau were pulled out, the clothing recently rifled through.
So Kiyoshi was leaving. Maybe this time for good.
Whimpering, Ryuhei bent over and picked up the rumpled kimono. He folded the silk with mournful sniffles as the tears welled up in his eyes. A deep brown, almost black stain marred the front of the clothing. Ryuhei frowned and rubbed his fingers across the splotch.
It was still damp. When he looked at his fingertips, they were stained red. He sniffed at them and dropped the kimono in horror.
Blood.
“Oh Gods—Kiyoshi.” Ryuhei covered his mouth with one trembling hand. “What have you done?”
“What exactly do you think I’ve done, Ryu?”
Ryuhei cried out and jumped. How had Kiyo-kun come up behind him that way? Where had he come from?
“You startled me, Kiyo-kun.” Ryuhei forced a smile. “My poor old heart isn’t able to stand such shocks, you know. You’ll have me gray before my time.”
“I think that time is closer than you like,” Kiyoshi said, reaching out to stroke his hand over Ryuhei’s unbound hair.
Ryuhei bit his lip and turned away. So that was it then. Kiyoshi was tired of him. Tired of being tied down to an old hag of a has-been kabuki actor.
“Baka, you don’t know anything being old,” Kiyoshi whispered.
Before Ryuhei could question how Kiyoshi had known what was in his heart, Kiyo-kun seized his shoulders, spun him around and backed him into the wall. Fear welled up in Ryuhei’s throat. He opened his mouth to cry for help but Kiyoshi covered his mouth with his own.
It was a crushing kiss, an angry kiss, but Ryuhei did not fight against it nor did he protest the way Kiyoshi yanked open his kimono and groped him through the fabric of his fundoshi. He allowed Kiyoshi to tear the loincloth from his body and though Ryuhei hated himself for it, he became aroused when Kiyo-kun turned him around and pushed him to bend over the five-drawer clothing chest.
When Kiyoshi dripped some oil between the globes of his rear then buried his hard cock to the hilt in one harsh thrust, Ryuhei pushed back into him, craving more, fearing it would be the last contact they’d ever share.
His open kimono bunched up around his shoulders, Ryuhei gripped the edges of the dresser as his entire body seemed to spasm around the hard, swelling cock within his passage. Oh, he’d taken Kiyo-kun deep within himself before, but today was nothing like their past romantic encounters. Kiyoshi had always entered with a sort of timidity, relying on Ryuhei’s soft moans of encouragement to guide the penetration.
Now their bodies crashed against each other as some kind of primal lust consumed them. Anger, maybe even desperation, seemed to motivate the powerful thrusts Kiyoshi used to come to a climax both wonderful and savage.
“Oh Gods…” Ryuhei cried out, his back arching up as Kiyoshi’s come burst out. He pressed against Kiyoshi and reached down to stroke his own throbbing cock, catching his hot spurt as he came to a head.
When Kiyoshi pulled away, Ryuhei slid to the floor, panting. He’d never been fucked so roughly—so coldly—by his lover before. As much as the lust had excited him, it also frightened him. Leaning against the dresser, he held his kimono closed and clutched at the silk with both trembling hands, not sure why he felt so unaccountably dirty.
“Kiyo-kun…where did that come from?” Drops of perspiration ran down Ryuhei’s cheeks as his tears had not very long ago.
“Didn’t you like it?” Kiyoshi sounded out of breath.
“When you force yourself on someone, it’s usually for your own satisfaction,” Ryuhei whispered.
“Satisfaction,” Kiyoshi replied in a dull tone, his expression cold and unfeeling.
Ryuhei averted his gaze, unable to take the pain this “new” Kiyoshi’s attitude brought him. Ryuhei looked up after a time, but Kiyoshi was gone. He’d left without uttering a word or making a sound.
He seemingly vanished as if Ryuhei’s peaceful years with him had all been a wistful dream.
The sun hurt Kiyoshi’s eyes, the top of his head, whatever bit of skin not covered by the long-sleeved yukata. Gasping in surprise and pain, he leapt back under the protective shade of the theater’s doorway before getting two steps from the exit.
What’s wrong with me? Kiyoshi demanded of himself as he pressed the back of his hand against the flushed skin on his forehead. The sunlight rarely affected him this way, certainly not after having fed so well so recently.
This problem wasn’t solely physical.
No matter how much he drank of blood or mortal wine, nothing eased the raging thirst making his throat dry and parched. He remembered the faint taste of the Poisoned Dragon’s blood that Chao had carried, and the saliva pooled in Kiyoshi’s mouth, his body craving more. Inside Kiyoshi’s heart a jumble of emotions fought for control. His mood spiked and then plummeted without warning, these quick changes brought on by the stress level of the situation. He glanced over his shoulder into the dark hallway leading back into the theater.
What just happened with Ryuhei—it felt like it could almost have been a rape.
Kiyoshi was angry with the old actor. Angry because of Nakamura’s suspicions and mistrust. Angry because he wasn’t as Kiyoshi was. Ryuhei would die, leaving Kiyoshi alone once again.
Kiyoshi dashed from the threshold at the back of the theater house, wanting to escape his thoughts as well as the sunlight. The opposite end of the alley was shielded by the awnings covering each window of the textile mill that occupied the corner building. Searching for someplace peaceful to rest until evening, he moved through the most shadow-filled corners of Chinatown.
“Kiyoshi-sama.”
Panting, Kiyoshi stopped by the back of a humble temple and glared at the shadowed doorway from which the hoarse voice had spoken. “Gobei.”
The ghoul’s pale head poked out from the black shadows, then darted back in. “Yes, yes,” he hissed. “Come in, quickly. Do you know where you are going?”
“Leave me alone.” Kiyoshi had to keep moving. He felt the urge from the tip of his spine to the ends of his already-extended fangs.
“You’re moving through Wong territory,” Gobei insisted. “But your tongue is compelling you, not your brain. You’ll be caught.”
Kiyoshi’s eyes widened in shock. Was that where he was going? When had he decided on a path?
“You’re off-color,” the ghoul continued. “Come in here.”
Kiyoshi approached the door, his feet crunching on the bones of fish that had been laid out in the alley for the stray cats. “Where am I?” he asked softly, stepping inside. The door led into a room barely large enough to hold three men standing shoulder-to-
shoulder, cramped with brooms, a pail and a few statues of Chinese deities so old and worn their faces were unrecognizable.
Gobei closed the door behind them, blotting out the last of the irritating sunlight. “This is the Tien Hau. The monks here do good work for the humans in this city.”
The ghoul shuffled around Kiyoshi, beckoning him to follow as they moved out of the tight storage room and into a hallway that also doubled as a schoolroom. Paintings of characters were pinned to the walls from the floor to a little more than halfway up to the ceiling. A few desks and backless chairs were propped up under the closed windows, the children who’d occupied them gone for the day.
“Do you live here?” Kiyoshi asked in amazement.
“When there’s a job for me to do, yes.” Gobei conspicuously flicked his tongue over the rows of serrated teeth that showed when he smiled. His grin dropped and he rubbed both of his knobby hands over his hairless scalp. “But today, no. They’re letting me hide—as you should be.”
“Why?” Kiyoshi licked his lips…so thirsty…
“Because you’re not acting well. And—” Gobei stopped in such a sudden way Kiyoshi knew there was more to say.
“It’s not just because of me.” Kiyoshi frowned. “Tell me what else.”
Gobei jumped at the harshness of his friend’s tone. “I was seen by a human. But he saw the body you left behind as well.”
“I didn’t…” But he had. He’d almost forgotten the man he’d killed last night, the one who’d been beating his woman. And then there was one he found that Chao… The man had carried the faintest trace of the Poisoned Dragon’s scent and Kiyoshi had been craving that taste so desperately…
“Ai-ya.” Gobei shook his head, his cry of disappointment rattling in his throat. “You can’t lie to an old friend, one who knows you too well. Baka.”
They reached the end of the hall and Gobei squatted low to the floor, raising a trapdoor by a thick brass handle. “That one’s blood has your common sense in a mess—you’ve never been so reckless before.”
Soul of the Night Page 6