Soul of the Night

by Barbara Sheridan

  Kiyoshi took the entire thick, firm length inside himself, his muscles clenching around the hot organ. Spasms of pleasure raced up his spine and he placed both hands on Ryuhei’s chest to feel the heat steaming off the man’s body, the blood pumping through his veins.

  Ryuhei’s hands shot up to grip the sides of Kiyoshi’s hips. His fingers slipping on the sweat-glazed flesh, he coaxed Kiyoshi to rise up and then sit back down in a steady rhythm. His cock eased into the stretched opening, sliding up into the clenching passage only to slip back out. Even coated with the salve, Ryuhei’s cock caused so much friction, sending wave after wave of pleasure through Kiyoshi.

  Blood rushed to Kiyoshi’s groin as his cock once again swelled to another full erection. Ryuhei released Kiyoshi’s hips to wrap his hands around the engorged shaft, rubbing and gently squeezing the cock until thick opaque fluids oozed out of the sensitive slit on the head.

  Moaning, Kiyoshi pressed down with his lower body in time with each of Ryuhei’s upward thrusts, Ryuhei’s cock pushing deeper and deeper. Ryuhei gasped, his cries more like whimpers as he kept up the ever-increasing passionate pace of their lovemaking.

  “Inside of me…” Kiyoshi clutched at his mortal lover’s shoulders for leverage as he rocked back and forth with his hips. “Come inside of me.”

  Ryuhei didn’t stop stroking Kiyoshi’s cock, not even when he reached his peak and his seed erupted inside of Kiyoshi’s passage to ease the burning friction at last. Kiyoshi came again, splattering through Ryuhei’s fingers as his fangs pierced through his gums with a painful stabbing sensation. Blood filled his mouth, making him thirsty for more that wasn’t his own.

  He collapsed on top of Ryuhei’s heaving body, another kind of orgasm racking his body. Whimpering, shivering, he nuzzled against the side of Ryuhei’s neck, licking at the salty flesh and tasting the blood pumping under the skin.

  Kiyoshi didn’t realize when his kisses changed into a bite. He was just aware that Ryuhei’s life filled his mouth the same way his lover’s come filled him now. It was so sweet, this thick, metallic-tasting fluid and the love he could taste within it. He didn’t guzzle the blood, but instead lapped leisurely at it to savor each drop.

  Ryuhei pressed a hand to the back of Kiyoshi’s neck. He choked out Kiyoshi’s name before another moan tumbled from his lips. His cock hardened again still buried deep inside of Kiyoshi. He climaxed once more, come bursting from his head as his heart pumped more blood through the bite on his neck.

  “Oh, Gods! Kiyo-kun, I’ve never felt this way. Ohhh…” The actor’s voice trailed off and he squirmed, his fingers stroking through Kiyoshi’s hair. He grew silent and stiffened a bit, tentatively touching the side of Kiyoshi’s face. “Kiyoshi…please…don’t hurt me…don’t….kill me…”

  The words sliced through Kiyoshi’s heart like a samurai’s sword, cleaving it in two. He jerked his head back and watched the blood oozing from the small punctures on Ryuhei’s neck. The delicate pale skin was beginning to bruise. He was so mortal, so frail…

  Tears trickled down Kiyoshi’s flushed cheeks. “I would never hurt you, could never kill you…”

  The voice of his once beloved Liu rang in Kiyoshi’s ears. You could and you might. Especially the way this fascination with the Poisoned Dragon affects you. You’re a killer, dai-dai. A killer just like me. It’s what we are, now and forever.

  “Oh, Ryu, forgive me, forgive me.” Kiyoshi leaned forward and licked the wound, knowing his saliva could help it heal. He scrambled off the stunned Ryuhei and grabbed the white under kimono and the simple tie to close it, throwing them on haphazardly. “Please forgive me…I do love you.”

  Rubbing the side of his neck, Ryuhei sat up slowly. “Wait,” he called out weakly. “Don’t go.”

  Another stab cut through Kiyoshi’s heart. Had he drained that much blood to leave Ryuhei so weak? He wiped away the fresh tears stinging his eyes. “I have to.” His voice trembled. After what he could’ve done…

  “Don’t go to him.” Ryuhei was still trying to rise out of the bed. He rested his hand on the night table to steady himself. “Please, Kiyo-kun,” he begged. “Don’t go to that man. Don’t leave me for that assassin.”

  Ryuhei stumbled and Kiyoshi rushed forward to catch him, fearing he would fall to the floor. “Ryu-san!”

  The actor wrapped his arms around Kiyoshi’s neck. “Promise me you won’t go looking for him if you leave me, or I won’t get you back, will I?”

  Kiyoshi held Ryuhei close, the man’s fear washing over him like a cold, numbing rain. “I wasn’t going to look for him. I want nothing to do with him,” Kiyoshi assured his lover, wishing he could be so sure in his own mind.

  Ryuhei pulled back and cupped Kiyoshi’s cheek with his hand. “Stay with me. Please. You didn’t hurt me. I was being an old fool. Stay with me, kimi. Stay always.”

  “Oh, Ryu.” With the pad of this thumb, Kiyoshi smoothed away the lone tear siding down his mortal lover’s cheek before he kissed him tenderly. He tilted Ryuhei’s face, looked at the small punctures on his neck and kissed them gently, satisfied that they were healing quickly. “I love you with all that I am, Ryuhei. I always will.”

  Ryuhei smiled and Kiyoshi saw the exhaustion creep into his eyes. “Then let’s go to sleep, Kiyo-kun. I want to wake up in your arms.”

  * * *

  Long past midnight, a clock chimed somewhere in the house. Although the sound was faint for mortals’ ears it was enough to rouse Kiyoshi from his light sleep. The sound of someone coming up the stairs and two going down brought him fully awake. He untangled himself from Ryuhei’s limbs and eased out of bed to have a cup of the jasmine tea long gone cold.

  The small handleless cup fell from his hand when something prickled his senses. He whipped his head around to make sure the sound of the cup hitting the carpet hadn’t disturbed Ryuhei.

  His heart hammering within his chest, his mouth watering and fangs hurting his gums, he pulled his kimono tighter around him, crept to the door and out into the hall. He fell back against the wall, a cold sweat breaking over his cool flesh. He picked out the sound of the hushed men’s voices in the entry hall downstairs. One of them, this evening’s host, Yang-san and the other…the other…the Poisoned Dragon himself.

  The assassin’s scent and power wafted up from below, covering Kiyoshi, clouding his senses, making him tremble with a craving like none he’d ever known. He clutched at his stomach. It ached to be filled with the man’s blood, his semen, his everything.

  Moving of their own accord it seemed, Kiyoshi’s feet carried him to the edge of the landing. He grasped the banister, the surface of the polished oak nearly cracking under the pressure of his fingers. He leaned over the railing, listening to the hushed voices below and not understanding a word.

  His attention was captivated by the boiling emotions that flowed from the Dragon—such anger, such violent and blazing passion. Oh for just a small taste… Salivating, he took a step down onto the staircase.

  No. Kiyoshi gasped, rushing backwards from the stairs until he felt the wall against his back once more. He pressed his hand to his mouth and took several long, low breaths to steady himself.

  In the room behind Kiyoshi, Ryuhei sighed in his sleep, the bedframe creaking softly as he rolled over. Kiyoshi pushed away from the wall and slipped back into the room, closing the door behind him and locking it as though that could keep the warring desires in his soul at bay. Climbing back into the bed, he curled up next to Ryuhei and tried to focus on his lover, and only his lover. Ryuhei’s scent, his even breathing, the warmth rising from his uncovered skin…

  Ryuhei turned over again, unaccustomed to western-style beds and restless in his sleep. He draped an arm around Kiyoshi and murmured drowsy words of love, though not even half-awake.

  Kiyoshi clung to his lover and to the calming warmth of the half-formed words. He closed his eyes and fought the hunger pangs knotting his insides. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He belonged here. With Ryuhei. Only Ryu
hei.

  In time he made out the sound of a door closing and slowly felt the strongest lure of the Dragon fade into the distance with the man’s departure. He heard his host come up and return to his own room.

  It seemed an eternity, but gradually the craving for blood faded and Kiyoshi snuggled closer to Ryuhei. This was where he belonged. This mortal man’s love and calming influence was all he needed.

  * * *

  “Another one.” Carl knelt beside the man’s body while the policeman who’d discovered the corpse held a lantern overhead. The flickering orange light bounced off the fog creeping around them, giving the whole back alley a disturbing, haunted air.

  “What’s that?” The policeman bent over to take a closer look, scrunching his thick, red eyebrows. “These types of fellows end up dead all the time, I’m afraid. They get involved with these gangs, you see, and then end up this way. It’s a damn shame.”

  “Bring the light closer,” Carl said through clenched teeth. It was more than a damn shame for young men like this one to live and die this way for the sake of the tongs. But this one had met an especially cruel death.

  The black material of the man’s tunic covered most of the blood, but Carl could still smell it—pungent, metallic and everywhere. A spray of the fluid clung to the wall above where the body was propped up against the damp bricks. The man’s throat was gone, replaced by a wide, gaping slit that had torn practically through the entire neck. How the head had remained attached was something Carl couldn’t begin to guess.

  Both of the man’s eyes had been gouged out, leaving streaks of more tacky blood on his pallid cheeks. From one empty socket, an oriental fan jutted out and Carl reached over to take it.

  “Fuck!” the policeman swore as the body slumped on its side, the head falling away from the neck at an awkward angle.

  Carl unfolded the fan and stared at the gold silk. Chinese letters were still visible where the blood hadn’t soaked through.

  “Christ.” The policeman shook his head, looking at the fan instead of the body. “I can’t read any of their letters, but I can recognize some of the symbols the gangs call themselves by. That’s nothing I’ve seen before, that I can tell.”

  Carl had already started to suspect this wasn’t a typical murder associated with the rival Chinese gangs. His reporter’s instincts had picked up on it the minute he left the theater to try and find whatever party the actors were headed for. Instead, he’d felt compelled to join this policeman doing rounds through the district.

  “I have a translator who might be able to help.” Carl stood, wrapping the fan in a handkerchief. “Mind if I keep this?”

  “Suit yourself. It’s just another dead Chinaman.” The policeman sighed, altogether too indifferent for Carl’s taste. “They usually sort this out themselves. But the newspaper loves these kinds of stories to keep their readers, eh?”

  Carl pursed his lips together. “Something like that.”

  He left the policeman to take care of matters, already thinking about where he could find Nishikawa.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Nishikawa sat at the table in his sleeping yukata, his appetite none the worse for wear even with the dull throb of a headache behind his eyes from too much sake the night before. But Ume-san was too fine a hostess and her wine too good to refuse, as was the company. A headache in the morning was a small price to pay for such a well-enjoyed evening.

  One of the cooks entered the dining room with a fresh pot of sencha to put down at the table. As Nishikawa set aside his chopsticks to pour himself a glass of the fragrant tea, another household attendant paused in the doorway to announce there was a visitor to see Nishikawa.

  “He says he is a client of yours.” The Chinese attendant spoke in English and wore western slacks and a tweed vest. A worker for Ume-san’s husband, no doubt. “And that you’re helping him translate the kabuki plays. He says it’s urgent.”

  Surprised, Nishikawa frowned. “Send him in.”

  The attendant disappeared and returned a few moments later with the reporter in tow. Nishikawa rose and greeted him with a short bow.

  “Gavin-san, good morning,” he said. “This is a strange surprise.”

  “Sorry to bother you here, Mr. Nishikawa.” The reporter paused, then awkwardly gave a half-bow himself. “But I didn’t think this could wait. When the managers at the theater told me you might be here, I came straight over.”

  “You look as though you haven’t slept all night.” Nishikawa offered him a spot at the table, knowing Ume-san’s hospitality would easily allow

  for a new guest even in light of another’s boldness in acting the host. “Would you like some tea?”

  “Actually, I’d rather you translate this if you can.” Gavin-san withdrew a long item wrapped in a handkerchief from his pocket and placed it on the tabletop.

  Nishikawa opened it and gasped. “What happened to this beautiful fan?” He stared at the silk and shook his head. “Half the poem has been ruined as well.”

  “You can read Chinese then?” Gavin-san asked hopefully.

  “Yes, but this is kanji.” Nishikawa sighed. “And it’s a tanka—Japanese poetry. It’s a story of two lovers, but most of it has been ruined by the—what is this anyway?”

  “The writing is Japanese then.”

  Nishikawa nodded. “But what are these stains?”

  “Looks like dried blood to me,” Gavin said quietly.

  A loud gasp caught their attention as Ume’s other guests came in from the garden. It was the kabuki actors Hoshi and Akira. “Oh! Do get that vile thing away. How can we possibly enjoy the fine meal Ume-san promised us with that there…wait a minute.” Hoshi poked Akira. “Isn’t that one of our onnagatta fans?”

  * * *

  “Oh Gods,” Ryuhei groaned as he and Kiyoshi stepped into the corridor outside their bedroom and heard the unmistakable grating sound of Hoshi’s voice. “Why is that cow here?”

  “I imagine Ume-san asked them to stay as she did us.”

  “Let’s just sneak out the kitchen door.”

  Kiyoshi shook his head. “No. You need a decent meal. You still seem rather weak and pale.”

  Kiyoshi lowered his head in shame. Ryuhei tilted it back up with a gentle press of his fingers and rested his forehead against the shorter man’s. “It isn’t your bite that made me tired. It’s the marvelous fucking you gave me.”

  “Ryuhei—” Kiyoshi’s protest was cut off by the press of Ryuhei’s lips.

  From below, a loud knocking disrupted their perfect quiet moment and it was Kiyoshi’s turn to groan at the sound of the American reporter’s voice. “What does he want?”

  “Probably to report on the performance last night.”

  “Maybe we should go out the back way.”

  “Nonsense,” Ryuhei said, grabbing Kiyoshi’s hand in his. “Let’s face our annoying demons head-on and put them behind us for the rest of the day.”

  “Demons?” Kiyoshi’s shoulders slumped forward.

  Ryuhei stared at him in mock horror. “Of course. We have the worst one in our midst right downstairs.” He made a face in the direction of the bottom of the staircase. A cry rose out of Hoshi from somewhere in the dining area, a high-pitched little wail that made Ryuhei think of when cats accidentally land in a puddle of water. He pulled Kiyo-kun close from behind, pretending to hide behind him.

  “Be careful—the bitch either wants to feed or mate.” Ryuhei giggled playfully. “Neither would be pretty to see.”

  Kiyoshi focused on keeping calm and not allowing the Dragon’s lingering presence to stir up his vampire urges once again. When they entered the dining room all heads turned their way and Hoshi pointed. “Kiyoshi was using that fan last night.”

  Kiyoshi looked from Hoshi to the reporter who held his fan—a fan now caked with blood and alive with the Poisoned Dragon’s power.

  Beside him, Ryuhei gasped. “Gods!” He tightened his hold on Kiyoshi’s hand and pressed his other hand to his thro
at. Quickly enough, he recovered and his gaze swept around the room to take in everyone who sat at the table. He forced out a light burst of laughter.

  “But that’s a mean joke, Hoshi-san,” he admonished lightly. “Taking a fan that looks like one of Kiyo-kun’s and ruining it that way with ink.”

  Hoshi’s face turned red. “Idiot. That is Kiyoshi’s fan and that’s not ink—it’s blood.” He arched an eyebrow at Ryuhei and smirked with some sort of inner satisfaction.

  What little color was left in Ryuhei’s complexion drained away. Kiyoshi felt his lover’s fingers grow cold and begin to tremble against his palm. “That would be terrible.” Ryuhei swallowed. “Thankfully, that’s not Kiyo-kun’s fan. I burned his in a temple last night before the party as an offering of thanks to the Gods. Surely we are not the only Japanese in San Francisco, are we, Nishikawa-san?” Ryuhei asked the translator.

  “Obviously not,” Ume Yang added from behind him.

  Nishikawa nodded. “I have seen fans like this. I believe there’s a Japanese merchant over on—”

  “There,” Ryuhei interrupted, pointing an accusing finger at Hoshi. “Now stop with your lies. You’re just jealous of Kiyo-kun and have been from the start. I should throw you out of the company on your fat ass.”

  “Oh really.” Hoshi pushed up from the table, his hands balled into fists at his side. “You can try. Without my family’s financial support, this fucking little joke of a theater troupe wouldn’t even exist.” He stuck out his pointed chin and skewered Ryuhei with a positively vile look. “So go ahead—kick me out on my ass. You’ll be selling yours on the street in a week just to make enough money to buy a one-way fare back to the backwater shit towns in Japan you came from.”

  Akira stood, patting Hoshi on the shoulder. “Now, now, Hoshi. Let’s not say things we’re going to regret later.”

  “No, I’m glad he said it,” Ryuhei shouted. He glanced over at Kiyoshi, relief visible in his eyes despite what Hoshi had said.