Soul of the Night

by Barbara Sheridan

  “The play,” Ryuhei stammered. “We have to finish it first.”

  “Yes, please.” Hoshi moved beside them and held up a silk fan to hide his face, which was contorted with rage. “How nice of you to remember the performance before running off to fuck somewhere.”

  Kiyoshi fixed Hoshi with such a glare, the bitch actor shrank back. Ryuhei touched Kiyoshi’s hand, diffusing Kiyoshi’s anger. Less agitated, though still hungry, Kiyoshi was able to force himself back into his role as the female lead.

  Carl Gavin viewed the strange goings-on with rapt interest. There was something not right with that Ishibe and now Carl was more certain than ever that the man was the demon responsible for the recent deaths. He was exactly like that vampire in the story.

  No doubt about it—Ishibe had some kind of hold over Mr. Nakamura. Carl would never claim to be an expert on kabuki theater, but there was no denying the change in the actor’s attentions. From the moment he went on stage, Nakamura had been steering Ishibe through almost every line, filling in spots where the other had left off in a distracted haze. Something—or someone—up in the balcony had Kiyoshi completely enthralled, and his performance was suffering.

  But the moment Nakamura stepped between Ishibe and the view of the balcony, his whole demeanor changed. He ignored the rest of the stage, his gaze locked on Ishibe and…his, well, certain masculine attributes were obviously excited. Carl coughed nervously and made a point to look away from the front of Nakamura’s costume.

  His eyes fell on Ishibe once more. The young man was beautifully disguised as a woman, his soft, rounded cheeks glowed in the gas light as Nakamura pulled him back to the middle of the stage and away from the wings. Knowing what he knew now, it was difficult for Carl to believe that someone so innocent in appearance, so graceful in movement, could be…

  “A monster,” Carl whispered grimly. But even in Carmilla, that was the method used by these strange creatures to entice their prey. The old man Carl had spoken with in Chinatown only confirmed it. These chiang shih—vampires—could seduce a mortal and garner his or her loyalty while they gorged their unholy appetite for blood without remorse.

  One of the other actors began singing a traditional Japanese song within the play and the audience applauded, cheerfully unaware of what lurked on stage. Nakamura kissed Ishibe briefly on the cheek before joining in the song, the gesture so full of affection that Carl’s heart sank. He looked down at the bundle in his hands, unwrapped the black cloth from around the lacquered box and slipped his hand under the lid.

  The charms inside weren’t meant to kill, but to capture. Carl couldn’t bring himself to do anything so drastic, but if he could just stop the vampire from taking any more lives and get the proof he needed to show the editor at the Register that creatures of the night did in fact exist…

  “Damn,” Carl swore under his breath. Nakamura kept throwing wary glances in his direction and guiding Ishibe as far from this end of the stage as possible.

  The performance drew to a close and Gavin fingered the paper charms he’d tucked into his pocket, watching as Nakamura kept taking steps to lead that monster Ishibe to the far side of the stage. There was no telling what the vampire had in mind to do to Nakamura once they were alone.

  “Dammit, man, I’ll save you from yourself if it’s the last thing I do,” Carl muttered as he ducked behind the painted backdrop to get to the other side of the stage before the play concluded.

  A few stagehands were running back and forth, among them the two theater managers. Carl darted around them, ducking under props and the heavy sandbags used to weigh down the pulleys on the curtain. One of the actors stormed through a part in the curtain, shouting in Japanese and broken English above the audience’s applause and the noise backstage.

  “Oh no.” Carl recognized Hoshi even under the makeup. Before he could dodge the loud-mouthed brat, Hoshi blocked his path and started flailing about.

  “Gavin-san, don’t tell me you saw this terrible performance tonight of all nights.” The rest of his words were a garble of poor English and what Carl was certain were Japanese profanities. The curtain flopped open as the crew moved a prop off stage and Carl caught a glimpse of Kiyoshi retreating into the far wing with Nakamura.

  Ignoring the indignant shouts from the spurned actor, Carl rushed past Hoshi and raced for the far wing. He crashed into a stagehand and a box of empty oilcans clattered to the floor. “Sorry, sorry.” Carl turned away from the mess. Just up ahead, Ishibe had paused, distracted by the crash.

  “Mr. Nakamura—wait.” Carl dashed forward, one of the paper charms in hand.

  Chapter Twenty

  “The fool wants to capture me like a fucking animal.”

  A menacing growl rumbled in Kiyoshi’s chest and Ryuhei let go of the grip he had on his vampire lover’s hand. “I’ll hold him off. You go to our rooms to get changed and wait for me there.”

  Kiyoshi slipped away before the words had finished passing from Ryuhei’s lips. He dashed upstairs with the speed of his kind, stripping away the layers of costume and makeup in mere blinks of an eye. But he didn’t wait for Ryuhei. He hurried back out to the narrow corridor that led to the theater’s upper tier.

  Kiyoshi lingered in the shadows, lured by the scents of blood and passion, anger and longing that came from the two assassin lovers. So it was the younger one who’d survived. Kiyoshi shivered as the young man passed by so closely. Other mortals, tong men by the look of them, followed and once they’d gone, Kiyoshi stepped through the balcony curtain. He touched a pale hand to his head as it swam from the bloodlust sweeping through him.

  Oh, the scent of the Dragon’s spilled blood was intoxicating, and his heart was still beating, barely. The assassin wasn’t ready to let go of life just yet. Kiyoshi advanced, bent and lapped at the blood oozing from the dying man’s abdomen.

  The moment the thick fluid touched his tongue, a jolt cut through Kiyoshi’s body. Oh, the taste. It burned as it trickled down his throat, the tips of his fingers and toes—even his cock—tingling with the power of it. So enraptured were all of Kiyoshi’s senses, he knew of nothing else but the blood on his tongue until it was too late.

  The Dragon suddenly jerked forward, crying out with pain and fury. He caught Kiyoshi off-guard, grabbing his hair and jerking his head up.

  Kiyoshi gasped in surprise, catching a glimpse of the assassin’s wild eyes. Savage instinct alone controlled the man, his jaws clamping down over Kiyoshi’s exposed throat. The bite sawed through the flesh, blood gushing out of the wound. With another cry, the assassin fell back to the floor, spent.

  Kiyoshi pressed a hand to his bleeding neck and surrendered to his own instincts. He lunged for the man’s throat to finish the Dragon off once and for all.

  * * *

  “Oh Gods,” Ryuhei moaned, slumping back against the door when he saw the disarray of the empty room. Changing out of his stage costume as quickly as he could, Ryuhei grabbed the packed valise and hurried back downstairs only to be confronted once more by an agitated Gavin.

  “Stop! Right there,” Ryuhei bellowed, surprising himself by the strength and urgency he projected. He raised his arms on either side of him and barred Gavin from going up the stairs. The reporter skidded to a stop.

  “Mr. Nakamura, get out of the way,” he pleaded.

  “Absolutely not.”

  “This is a matter of life or death, can’t you see that?”

  “I know it is,” Ryuhei thundered, pulse pounding in his ears. Of course it was a matter of life and death, hadn’t it always been? Kiyoshi was everything to Ryuhei—a companion, a lover—the very reason he’d found to keep waking each dismal morning after his disgraceful exile back home. Now this reporter had somehow learned of Kiyoshi’s secret and thought himself some kind of protector or demon slayer—someone who could rid the world of a devil. Ryuhei choked. “He’s not a demon, no matter what you damn well think.”

  Gavin tried to push past. Ryuhei blocked his path again. “Stop th
is, Gavin-san.”

  “Mr. Nakamura, please. You don’t understand—”

  “I understand everything. You will not capture Kiyoshi. He is nothing that you imagine. Now leave us. We have a train to catch.”

  “But, Mr. Nakamura, he has you under some spell. You aren’t thinking clearly.”

  “I am thinking quite clearly—” Ryuhei broke off when Gobei dropped down from the rafters above the stage. He waved his stubby arms through the air. Ryuhei jabbed a finger in Gobei’s direction. “There. There’s your demon.”

  Gavin spun, muttered an exclamation and rushed after the little flesh-eater who disappeared behind a packing crate.

  Ryuhei dashed to the narrow stairs and went up to the balcony, calling Kiyoshi’s name.

  “Kiyoshi, where are you?”

  No. Not Ryuhei. Not now. Kiyoshi gasped, blood spraying from his parted lips. The Dragon lay on the floor, still at last after a few more stubborn spasms. A crimson stain spread on the carpet underneath the body with all the blood Kiyoshi had not been able to drink. No one could endure such a loss of life-giving fluid.

  Kiyoshi blinked wildly. Just now—had the Dragon flinched? It was a fluke. It had to be. The assassin couldn’t survive. The Poisoned Dragon was dying.

  Ryuhei called out again, closer this time. “Come on, Kiyoshi. We must leave for the train depot, now.”

  It was a fluke, Kiyoshi told himself again as he backed out of the curtained box and wiped his mouth, his hands. The wound on his throat was already healing. But the Dragon wasn’t healing.

  Kiyoshi had ensured the man’s demise by drinking so much of his blood. It was over. Kiyoshi hadn’t made this assassin the same as what he was. The Poisoned Dragon was dead.

  His lungs burning for air, Carl Gavin raced after the little devil. The creature darted from shadow to shadow among the assorted props and ducked under stage ropes that tripped Carl’s longer, clumsier legs. Though the devil had disproportionate limbs, it somehow managed to keep just two or three steps ahead of Carl, always out of reach.

  With a hoarse cry, it dashed through a curtain on Carl’s left and scurried across the stage. Carl launched himself forward, sliding on the waxed floor and finally managing to snag hold of the creature’s costume.

  “Got you,” Carl gasped out.

  “Let go. Let go, you stupid mortal.” The devil whipped around with teeth bared, jerking back and forth so violently Carl could barely keep his grip.

  “Christ!” It was the same gruesome face Carl had seen that fateful night in the alley weeks ago. He dropped the box he’d been holding and it clattered open. The paper sutras fluttered out and Carl snatched one of them up. Making sure the side with the painted Chinese writing faced the demon as he’d been instructed, he pressed the charm against its skin.

  “Ahh!” the devil wailed and tried to pull away, its face contorted with pain. “Let go. Let go. Let go.”

  “No.” Carl shook his head, though truthfully he felt almost sorry for the creature the way it was carrying on. “You’re the one who’s been terrorizing this town.”

  “No, he hasn’t, my friend.”

  Startled, Carl turned to face the man who’d spoken. It was an old monk, dressed in robes, a string of lacquered beads wrapped around his thin wrist knobbed with arthritis. The lines on his face deepened as he frowned sadly at Carl.

  “Who are you?” Carl’s eyes widened.

  “Please let him go, Mr. Gavin.”

  Startled again that the old monk knew his name, Carl released the demon before he could think better of it. The creature’s wails stopped and it scurried around to hide behind the monk, muttering what sounded suspiciously like curses in Chinese.

  “Thank you.” The monk bowed gratefully.

  “But—” Carl stared, completely dumbfounded. “Isn’t that the demon that’s been killing in these parts?”

  “Many creatures murder in these streets.” The monk sighed. “Not all of them being demons, as you say. Gobei and the other you sought, Kiyoshi, they are not the monsters you believe.”

  “How do I know what you’re saying is true?” Carl asked bluntly, realizing it was a pointless question. Everything about the monk radiated a sense of pure honesty and goodness. There was no reason to doubt. “So, Mr. Ishibe…?”

  The monk nodded. “He will be gone soon and no more trouble to you, Mr. Gavin.” Gobei peered around the monk, skewering Carl with a nasty glare. The monk laughed softly, though the sound was tired and heavy with whatever burden he bore. “Gobei, too, won’t be a bother.”

  “Who are you?” Carl looked over at the monk.

  “My name is Denghui. I’ve dealt with the many evils that cross between our worlds longer than you have, Mr. Gavin. And there’s more left yet.” Again, he gave that strange, weary smile.

  “What’s going on?” Carl gathered the sutras and tucked them back into the box.

  “Your part is done for now, my friend. But I’ll ask you for one thing—those charms.”

  Carl held the box out to Denghui. “These? I got them from another man I met in town who was quite well learned in folklore. He said they would work on demons.” He gave Gobei an apologetic, if not wary, look.

  “Yes.” Denghui nodded. “They’re quite powerful, but maybe too much so.” He took the box, opened it and dropped something inside that rattled around as he muttered a chanting prayer.

  “They will work better now.” He handed the box to Gobei, who was able to reach in and not be hurt by the charms anymore.

  “I’ll be damned,” Carl murmured under his breath. The creature took one of the charms and whatever it was the monk had dropped in, then disappeared under the stage curtain.

  “Will you write your story, Mr. Gavin?” Denghui asked.

  “Not sure yet,” Carl answered honestly. “It’s not something I’m going to ever forget though. I think I need to keep investigating.”

  The monk turned away, heading back into the theater. “Then we may meet again if the Gods are merciful with me tonight. Goodbye, Mr. Gavin.”

  Carl nodded and stepped off the stage. When he looked behind him, Denghui was gone, though he could still hear the old man’s slow, shuffling steps. He didn’t want to give up so easily but knew he had no choice. This situation was in the monk’s hands now.

  “Other demons, eh?” Carl pondered as he left the theater, closing the door behind him. There was going to be another story to write soon enough. He was sure of it.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Kiyoshi.”

  “I’m coming, Ryu-san.”

  Ryuhei was racing from one balcony to another, ripping open the heavy drapes at each stop. Kiyoshi stepped out of the box and clutched the curtains shut behind him.

  “I’m here,” he panted heavily as Ryuhei rushed up to grab his shoulders. The touch made Kiyoshi gasp, his senses ablaze from the intoxicating power of the blood. Ryuhei’s anxiety and passion hit him with the force of a powerful blow and he threw back his head, crying out in a mixture of pleasure and agony.

  “Don’t…touch me.” Kiyoshi writhed out of Ryuhei’s grip, looking away from the man’s soulful brown eyes so full of confusion, worry and pain. How very mortal those eyes were. Laughter spilled from Kiyoshi’s lips, flecks of blood splattering on the back of his hand as he covered his mouth.

  “We don’t have much time.” Ryuhei swallowed. “We have to go now.” He grabbed Kiyoshi’s sleeve. “Now. Please. Gobei won’t be able to distract Gavin-san for much longer.”

  “As if I give a fuck,” Kiyoshi snarled. He flashed his bloody fangs and shoved past Ryuhei. “He’s been a bother far too long. It stops now.”

  “Kiyo-kun. No.” Momentarily frozen, Ryuhei was torn between looking into the curtained box and following Kiyoshi—or rather the demon that looked so much like his Kiyoshi.

  Whatever might be behind those drawn curtains, Ryuhei knew deep in his heart it couldn’t be good. The situation quickly becoming more and more desperate, he flew after Kiyoshi.
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  “Stop,” he shouted for the second time that night. He took the steps two at a time, racing to catch up with Kiyoshi. “You can’t do this, this thing you have in mind.” All the moisture was gone from his mouth.

  “Oh, really?” Kiyoshi froze at the bottom step, his fangs glinting wickedly as he sneered.

  “He means well.” Ryuhei tried to swallow. “Gavin-san thinks he’s up against a monster.”

  How Kiyoshi covered the distance to suddenly loom in front of Ryuhei was beyond his ability to comprehend. “What if he does face a monster?” The kyuuketsuki laughed.

  “You’re mad,” Ryuhei whispered.

  “Perhaps I’ve always been.”

  Kiyoshi ran through the narrow corridors at the rear of the theater, Ryuhei close behind. A jumble of small crates blocked the way and Kiyoshi leapt. But he came crashing down when a dark shape darted out and tackled his ankles.

  “Gobei,” Ryuhei cried out.

  Kiyoshi growled like an animal, the little flesh-eater straddling his chest. Ryuhei ran up to them.

  “The reporter is gone and Kiyoshi-sama is safe at last,” Gobei grunted as Kiyoshi thrashed about, clawing at something on his forehead.

  “Oh Gods,” Ryuhei gasped. The ghoul had affixed some type of paper prayer charm to Kiyoshi’s head—with a small iron nail.

  “Give me the one that fell—hurry.”

  “What?”

  “The sutra, fool. He’s strong. One isn’t enough.”

  Hand shaking, Ryuhei picked up the paper charm from the floor and held it out to Gobei.

  “Don’t hurt him,” he begged when the flesh-eater stuck the charm with the nail in the center of Kiyoshi’s chest. Kiyoshi gave a shuddering scream and collapsed back to the floor, his eyes rolling back into his head.

  “You killed him.” Ryuhei covered his mouth with a shaking hand.

  “No, Kiyoshi-sama is a powerful one. He’s only unconscious. That carriage is waiting. Throw this coat over him and let’s get him in it before he awakens.”