Soul of the Night

by Barbara Sheridan

  “There is a man, a Chinese, I don’t know his name. He’s one of the tong men, a killer, savage and remorseless. I know that they call him the Poisoned Dragon. Oftentimes the blood of certain persons is intoxicating to kyuuketsuki like the finest sake to a mortal man. I’ve tasted his essence in some of the men he’s dealt with…it flavors their blood, I’ve found myself craving it… I can’t explain. I’m sorry.”

  “Ah! You can’t explain.” Gobei shook his head and scuffled around the cot until he was behind Kiyoshi and pointing at Ryuhei with a stubby gray finger. “Listening to you talk now to this one it’s easy to understand. Kiyoshi-sama has always liked mortals so much, yes? You even pretend to be one. But the essence of this Dragon brings out the worst of your desires as a kyuuketsuki, and because you’ve ignored them for so long, they overwhelm you now.”

  The ghoul’s observation sent a shiver of unease up Kiyoshi’s spine. “That can’t be true,” he insisted. “It’s only like rice wine…intoxicating, that’s all. I don’t lose control over myself.”

  “When those men came to the theater last night, you weren’t yourself, Kiyo-kun,” Ryuhei whispered.

  Kiyoshi’s stomach twisted. “That was different,” he said weakly. “They might’ve tried to hurt you.”

  “Ah.” Ryuhei looked down at his hands as they clutched at the edges of his jacket. “Then everything that happened in our room today…the way you behaved, those words you told me…that wasn’t meant to hurt.”

  Kiyoshi could find no words at all now so he remained silent, head bowed, a few stray tears falling from his dark lashes to his bent knees.

  Chapter Eleven

  Carl sat in front of the editor’s desk, his notes and papers scattered on the maple seat beside him. A sheet with about two paragraphs worth of material on the kabuki troupe was pushed far to the edge of the desk while his latest story was in the editor’s hands. Howard Albright’s gaze kept scanning over the paragraph at the top of the page, where Carl had written:

  Something more monstrous than the infamous “tong” hoodlums terrorizes the streets of Chinatown at night. Bodies, half-devoured and drained of blood, have been found in the back alleys behind Dupont Street. This is not the handiwork of rival underworld gangs, but of a mysterious creature that feeds on human flesh…

  After a few more minutes, Albright lowered the sheet back onto the desktop. The editor scratched his thick gray beard and stared at Gavin over the top of his spectacles. Neither man said anything until Albright broke the silence.

  “I’m still waiting for the punch line,” he said in his gravelly voice.

  Gavin cleared his throat. “It’s not a joke, Mr. Albright. I saw the devil with my own eyes.”

  “You probably saw the bottom of one too many a bottle of cheap bok jow while you were loitering around Chinatown last night.”

  Shaking his head, Carl moved to the edge of his seat. “Now that’s a perfectly rational conclusion to make, especially now that we’re in a modern age and don’t buy into superstitions as readily. But this, Mr. Albright, is real.” He rattled off the list of evidence—his own eyewitness account, the stories he’d gathered from those living around Chinatown who knew of the monster, the way the bodies had been secretly taken care of by the frightened Chinese men.

  Albright was less than convinced. “This is crazy, Gavin. I’m not printing this tripe until you’ve found some kind of concrete evidence.”

  “But—”

  “No buts.” The editor shoved the article back across the desk to Carl and took a cigar from the box in the drawer on his right. “And I still want that article on the Japanese theater stuff.” He pointed at Gavin with the end of the cigar before lighting it up.

  “The kabuki thing.” Carl sighed. “Maybe there’s someone else who could write it while I—”

  Albright interrupted with a loud snort. “You want me to fire you and hire another staff reporter?”

  “No.” Carl sighed again as he scooped up his papers.

  “Great. Now they’re having their first show tonight and I expect you to be there.”

  “Fine.”

  But when Carl left the office, he was already determined to find some evidence to prove his story about the Chinatown monster was true. What that was going to be, he still wasn’t sure. As he exited the front of the building he bumped into a short, plump man in a brown suit who was coming up the steps.

  “Gavin-san, konnichiwa.”

  “Mr. Nishikawa.” Gavin shook the hand of his translator. “I was just heading out of the office, I’m sorry.”

  Nishikawa nodded and reached into his briefcase. “Then I won’t take much of your time. These are the translations of tonight’s kabuki play for your article.”

  “Thanks.” Gavin forced a good-natured smile as he accepted the papers. Though, with these translations, he wouldn’t necessarily have to go to the performance and could spend that time looking for this Chinatown monster.

  “By the way, Mr. Nishikawa, could you tell me what this means?” Carl shuffled his papers around and pulled out the scrappy note he’d jotted down with what the monster had said. Nishikawa coughed and Carl got the feeling the Japanese man was trying to hide a smile over the poorly Americanized words Carl had written.

  “Were you at the playhouse today watching rehearsals?” Nishikawa asked.

  “I was.” Carl frowned, confused. “Why?”

  “This is someone asking for forgiveness from Kiyoshi, and he’s one of the actors, no?” Nishikawa said. “Kiyoshi-sama…the sama is an honorific.”

  Carl’s mind raced. “Is Kiyoshi a very common name?”

  “In Japan, not particularly. Here in America, less so.”

  “I’ll be damned…” Hadn’t the other actors said Kiyoshi was out all night? Hadn’t Kiyoshi himself seemed a little strange, even to the others?

  “I have to go.” Carl shook a mystified-looking Nishikawa’s hand. “But I will be at the playhouse tonight. Without a doubt.”

  * * *

  Daylight had come and gone and Ryuhei was as he had been since leaving the temple some hours earlier—seated on a small, hard chair staring out the window of his room, yet not seeing anything other than Kiyo-kun as he’d left him, kneeling on the floor, head bowed, blood still staining his lips and fingers.

  Kiyoshi, his sweet, loyal, passionate Kiyoshi was an oni, an immortal demon who could kill without a moment’s forethought.

  Ryuhei ignored the knock that sounded upon his bedroom door as he had the others throughout the afternoon. He heard the door creak open but did not look to see who it was.

  “Ryu-san,” Akira said softly. “Kiyoshi still hasn’t returned and you seem ill. Should we cancel the opening?”

  “No.” Ryuhei turned away from the window. “We have a duty to perform no matter the circumstance.” Such brave words…if only they eased the troubles in his heart.

  Akira diverted his gaze to the empty futon. “So it is true about Kiyo-kun…” He frowned.

  For a moment, Ryuhei feared Akira had learned about the kyuuketsuki. But he realized what Akira meant when Ryuhei saw the pity in the other actor’s eyes. Sighing, Ryuhei rose from his chair and started sorting through the costumes in the dresser.

  Akira took that as reply enough and rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “I’m sorry, Ryu-san.” There was nothing but sympathy behind his words. “I know how much he’s meant to you…” Thankfully, he let the remainder of his words trail off and Ryuhei was glad not to endure the lame condolences.

  Over their years together as members of this ragtag troupe, Hoshi had often inferred that one day either Kiyoshi would tire of Ryuhei’s temperament or that Ryuhei would have an affair, ending it all. The latter was a direct reference to the mistake that had ended Ryuhei’s career in Japan and an attack on the sincerity of the love he felt for Kiyo-kun. Hoshi said those things out of spite and envy, he was certain. But Akira never dismissed those inferences or tried to correct them, showing that, in some ways, he a
greed. And why not, if he was also one of the more popular actors in Edo at the same time Ryuhei was? All the rumors and stories had reached his ears just as surely as they had Ryuhei’s.

  Glad as he was that Akira had no clue about Kiyoshi’s secret, Ryuhei would’ve preferred not to hear the other actor’s sympathies. Ryuhei turned away when Akira opened his mouth to speak again.

  “We can cancel tonight, if you don’t feel up to it.”

  “I’m not ill, Akira-san.”

  “If you’re sure…”

  “I am.” Ryu gave him a brief smile before taking his costume for the evening and moving to the vanity.

  Akira knew better than to argue or press the matter, and added only that the curtain would be rising in about half-an-hour. The door clicked shut and Ryuhei stared at himself in the mirror. He could still only see Kiyoshi’s face.

  * * *

  Kiyoshi’s sensitive ears picked up the sound of a clock chiming the hour as he made his way from the Tien Hau temple, the little flesh-eater, Gobei, not far behind. With practiced stealth they clung to the shadows, pausing when catching the scent of humans in the vicinity.

  Behind one of the larger Chinatown buildings, a place called the Gingbo, Kiyoshi stopped dead in his tracks, his head swiveling to the left, tilting back, his nose catching and holding a very familiar scent indeed.

  The Poisoned Dragon. He was inside. Inside with another who carried a similar but fainter scent. Kiyoshi held his breath and closed his eyes to focus his concentration upon the sounds and smells of the two men engaged in sex. Sex and blood mingling together, being tasted, savored.

  Kiyoshi shuddered, a low moan escaping his slightly parted lips. Without thinking, he reached down to rub his palm over his swelling cock. Oh, he wanted them. He wanted them badly.

  “Ah! Kiyoshi-sama.” Gobei came up behind him, pushing Kiyoshi to continue going forward. “You must not stop. Keep going.”

  But the scent of the Dragon and his lover continued to drift his way on the cool night breeze. So many others in the Gingbo were indulging in sexual pleasures, but the passion radiating from those two men stood out against everything else in its sheer, vibrant potency. Another whimper passed over his lips.

  Gobei growled in frustration. “Not even the worst drunkard suffers for sake this way. Please, Kiyoshi-sama, you must go home before you do something stupid.”

  “You don’t understand. You can’t understand what he does to me.” His cock rock-hard now and aching for release, Kiyoshi plunged his hand into the folds of his kimono and loincloth. He breathed as deeply as possible, his free hand reaching out to touch the bricks of the building, intensifying the connection with the Dragon and his lover.

  Yes. Oh yes, he could feel them. He could feel the passion they shared, the animalistic lust that drove them not only in the bed, but the lust for the perfect kill that drove them through this life as paid assassins.

  Kiyoshi came hard, just when the Dragon did inside the willing hot body of his lover, but it was not as satisfying as it was for the mortal. His release was an empty one, leaving him feeling dirty beyond the sticky wetness coating his hand and the inside of his fundoshi.

  Kiyoshi slumped forward, his forehead resting on the bricks as the shame washed over him. Gobei tugged on his kimono back. “Kiyoshi-sama. Please hurry. Please go home where you belong.”

  Kiyoshi wrapped his arms around his waist and shuddered again, this time under the burden of his guilt. He couldn’t resist the allure of these two men and the desires they inflamed in his immortal body.

  “Go home where?” Kiyoshi leaned miserably against the cool bricks, hoping they could ease some of the burning in his soul. “I belong nowhere.”

  “You have that mortal man,” Gobei tried to offer as comfort. “He’s devoted to you until he dies, I think.”

  “Ryuhei.” Kiyoshi sighed, forcing himself to straighten and shut out the presence of the Chinese assassins within the building.

  But the flesh-eater was right. Despite his faults and dramatics, Ryuhei Nakamura had been devoted to him in every way since the day they met and that was quite the accomplishment for a man known throughout Japan for his promiscuity.

  Kiyoshi sighed again and looked down at Gobei before starting to walk once more. “But I doubt he wants me back. Especially now.”

  “You’re wrong, Kiyoshi-sama.”

  “We’ll see, old friend. We’ll see.”

  “Then don’t wait to see here,” Gobei insisted. “Go quickly. Back to the theater.”

  Kiyoshi nodded, wiping his hand clean on the front of his kimono. “I should take a bath and change these clothes.”

  “And ignore this Dragon. He’ll lead you to ruin.” Gobei furrowed his brow, the lines deepened and hardened by the black shadows.

  A girl stepped out of the Gingbo’s front doors and crossed the empty street. Unaccompanied by an escort, she could only be a prostitute. Gobei followed her with his gaze, shuffling around Kiyoshi to give the other a better view.

  “Maybe if you feed on someone else now, you can distract yourself…” The flesh-eater’s words trailed off.

  “No,” Kiyoshi said quickly. “It’s better if I don’t. I need to go back to the way I was in Japan.”

  * * *

  “What is he doing, Akira?” Hoshi whispered frantically behind his silk fan. They stood some distance behind Ryuhei, who had gone off on some tangent and deviated so far from the practiced play they had no idea how to follow his lead.

  “I don’t know, Hosh. I guess we just try to make it up as we go along the way he is.”

  “Oh, please,” Hoshi huffed indignantly, his painted face drawn into a sour expression. “Like this is the first time he’s been tossed aside by a lover. He’s stealing my chance to shine on stage tonight. And it’s out of envy he can’t play the role of Okaji. Make him stop.”

  “And lose face in front of the audience?” Akira held up his fan and glowered at Hoshi discreetly from behind the silk screen. “Just play along with it and for once stop being such a pain in the ass.”

  Hoshi returned Akira’s glare, but knew better than to argue. Hoshi moved away, his steps small and graceful as being the female lead demanded, to rejoin Ryuhei by the artificial trees representing sakura in full bloom.

  With another brief but livid glance back at Akira, Hoshi slipped back into the part of the teashop waitress, Okaji. “Kisen-san, the day is too lovely for such solemn thoughts,” he said coyly, adjusting his voice to sound more feminine. “A priest should have more appreciation for all the lovely things in his surroundings.”

  It was a good effort to resume the flirtatious banter the two characters were supposed to be engaged in. But in this performance of Kisen, Ryuhei had completely turned the playful lead around.

  “What good is beauty if there’s no one to enjoy it with?” Ryuhei was dressed in a white kimono and black hakama, the tie at his waist white as well. Simple attire for a kabuki performance, and his makeup only lightly applied. He’d dressed for a drama, not a lighthearted play.

  “I’m here to enjoy it with you, Kisen-san.” Hoshi giggled nervously and glanced at the audience. They were silent and unsmiling.

  “Another empty vanity,” Ryuhei called out softly. “Companionship without love…it only makes the loss feel worse with each past memory it invokes. I would rather the sakura be dead and the sky gray as in the worst of winters if only the one at my side now was the one I loved.”

  Hoshi held the fan up to shield his face and glared over at Akira waiting offstage. Help me, he mouthed.

  “Life is an empty vanity at times, is it not?”

  Ryuhei whipped his head around. Kiyo-kun looked absolutely breathtaking in the guise of a woman. Ryuhei pushed the glaring Hoshi aside and stepped forward, holding out his hand, beckoning Kiyoshi to come closer. “Life can be a cruel vanity with demons lurking where we least expect.”

  Kiyoshi reached for Ryuhei’s hand. “But cannot demons have a heart that can break?”
<
br />   “I cannot answer. Can anyone?”

  “Only those who believe in an undying love.”

  Ryuhei took Kiyoshi’s hand in both of his own and drew it to rest against his heart. “Some old fools lose their way as they walk this life and forget how to believe. Another vanity, this idea that age brings wisdom.”

  With a rustle of silk as the layered kimonos he wore brushed together, Kiyoshi stepped closer. The pink and gold embroidered cranes on the long indigo coat trailing behind him shone in the theater’s lamplight, as did the delicate glass ornaments tucked into his hair. He pressed close to Ryuhei, resting his head on the other’s chest.

  “So very true,” Kiyoshi said. “Even for those who would seem young on the outside.”

  “Then is everyone—mortal and demon, young and old—destined to be alone?” Ryuhei closed his eyes. “Say that I’m wrong, even if it’s the one answer that’s not true.”

  Kiyoshi touched Ryuhei’s cheek, silently begging him to open his eyes. “The truth is that you are loved beyond all measure and needed beyond all reason.”

  A collective gasp rose from the already stunned audience the moment the actors’ lips touched. When the kiss did not end but deepened in passion instead, an excited murmur spread amongst the crowd, igniting a swell of applause that went unnoticed by the reunited lovers.

  * * *

  Carl Gavin was at the playhouse as promised but he wasn’t in the audience. He was in the back, in the private quarters, making his way upstairs and to the actors’ rooms. Damn, they were all locked.

  From the hallway downstairs, the sound of applause drifted up to Carl. “Damn it,” Carl cursed out loud. He was running out of time before the show ended. For the sake of getting to the bottom of things, Carl decided certain liberties needed to be taken, even as a law-abiding citizen.

  The locks on the doors to the actors’ rooms were more for privacy purposes than any type of security. At the end of the landing, one of the theater workers had left a box of tools behind empty cans of oil and soiled rags. Carl found a straightedge carpenters used to score lines on wood before cutting, the long, thin piece of metal just perfect for slipping in between the edge of the door and the doorframe. He was able to unlatch the lock on the first room off the landing and hurried inside.