Soul of the Night

by Barbara Sheridan

  Kiyoshi batted Ryuhei’s hand away and pulled him into a crushing embrace. His scorching kisses and the sharp nips of his teeth made Ryuhei shudder with a mix of lust and fear. He was barely aware that Kiyoshi was stripping him and shoving him to the floor, rolling him over and jerking his hips until he was kneeling, his forehead pressed to the jostling floor of the locked train compartment.

  “Relax,” Kiyoshi growled as he positioned himself.

  Ryuhei was only too aware of the burning of his sensitive flesh as Kiyoshi thrust into him—without benefit of the lubricating oils they’d always used.

  His hands tightening into fists on either side of his head, Ryuhei cried out. He’d been taken roughly before when he was still a popular actor in Japan, much in the same way. Pinned to the tatami by some of his more aggressive lovers, he’d taken their hard, coarse thrusts only to spread his legs wider to feel them penetrate deeper. Love hadn’t mattered then—only lust. Like now.

  The first of Kiyoshi’s hot spurts eased the friction and Ryuhei pushed back. The swollen cock slipped further in, filling the contracting passage with its entire length.

  Wincing, Ryuhei grunted as Kiyoshi started pounding into him with a relentless rhythm. Another burst of thick fluid came inside of him, and he writhed under the force of Kiyoshi’s passion.

  “More…” he panted. Gods, what was he saying—no, demanding? Ryuhei arched his back until he felt Kiyoshi’s heaving breath on the back of his neck. “Don’t stop,” Ryuhei moaned.

  A throaty laugh echoed behind Ryuhei and Kiyoshi grasped his hips harder, plunged in deeper. His vampire lover’s breath was hot against Ryuhei’s neck, the words slithering into his ear. “You’re as much an animal as I am about some things, you can’t deny that.” Kiyoshi suckled his neck, his teeth nipping but not breaking the skin. “Don’t ever deny me, Ryuhei.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Because you can’t.”

  Kiyoshi laughed and snaked a hand around to grope at the sensitive bulge between Ryuhei’s legs. With a few strong pumps, Ryuhei spurted into Kiyoshi’s taunting fingers.

  “I would never want to,” Ryuhei groaned through his teeth. But his words only made Kiyoshi laugh harder and a piece of Ryuhei’s heart broke. He loved Kiyo-kun no matter what, even this way. Somehow, the poison that infected Kiyoshi’s mind had to be beaten.

  Blood…that was the only answer…

  “You’re just too much, Ryu-san,” Kiyoshi mocked with another harmless, teasing nip to the back.

  Ryuhei’s head swam with countless hazy images and remembered sentences from the time that man’s blood had inflamed Kiyoshi before.

  “If the Dragon’s does this to you, could someone else’s help calm you?”

  “I don’t know,” Kiyoshi whispered. “I don’t dare ask such a thing. It’s too dangerous, especially now…”

  “Then you think it would help.”

  “Perhaps.”

  And it had helped. He had helped and his Kiyoshi had been his gentle lover once more.

  “That man you killed,” Ryuhei panted. “If you thought his blood was better than sake, why don’t you taste mine?”

  A sound like a purr tumbled from Kiyoshi’s lips, vibrating the skin at the nape of Ryuhei’s neck.

  “Be careful what you say, Ryuhei, I just might do it.”

  “I want you to.”

  “But you fear me,” Kiyoshi teased, sliding his hot tongue around the lobe of Ryuhei’s ear.

  “I love you. You didn’t hurt me before, you won’t now.”

  “But I’m different now, didn’t I just prove that?” he asked, squeezing Ryuhei’s balls until he cried out.

  “I-I trust you, Kiyo-kun.”

  “But do you trust me with your life?” He squeezed again, twisting the sensitive sac of flesh.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Ryuhei whimpered and squirmed underneath Kiyoshi, his cock hardening again despite his fear. The compartment spun out of focus around him and he felt nothing but the insistent pressure gripping his balls and igniting his desire all over again. That hazy dreamlike quality returned to his senses and he realized it was Kiyoshi’s essence drowning out his very consciousness.

  “I-I trust you…with my life,” he whispered hoarsely, fighting to stay awake. “I’m not afraid.”

  Kiyoshi snickered. “Not even to die?”

  “Not even to die,” Ryuhei lied. He was terrified of losing his life, but he was more frightened to lose Kiyoshi to the madness poisoning his blood. The kyuuketsuki laughed, and Ryuhei feared his thoughts had been read. But Kiyoshi leaned close and flicked his tongue along the edge of Ryuhei’s ear.

  “Let’s find out how true those words are.”

  Kiyoshi entered him again and though it was painful, it was much less so than before. Ryuhei found himself pressing back into each languorous thrust. He whimpered as Kiyoshi licked his back and shoulders and suckled at his neck.

  “Yes, Ryuhei, give me all your passion. I want to taste it.”

  Ryuhei clamped his eyes shut and gave himself over to the sensations the vampire roused within him. He groaned when Kiyoshi pulled out of him, and Ryuhei looked around, frightened that he’d find himself alone. But no, Kiyoshi was there, sitting back on the seat and crooking his finger, a wicked gleam in his red-tinged eyes as he stroked his rigid cock with his free hand.

  Ryuhei went to his lover, straddled his lap and impaled himself upon the hard flesh, throwing his head back when Kiyoshi gripped his hips and moved him effortlessly up and down his length.

  Moaning loudly each time he was emptied and suddenly filled by that engorged cock, Ryuhei wrapped his arms around Kiyoshi’s neck and clawed at the back of his kimono for leverage. Wet with perspiration, his fingers slipped uselessly on the silk and he arched forward until Kiyoshi’s head was pressed to his chest. His own kimono rolled off his shoulders as he heaved against his lover, his body quaking and cock aching to be jerked in the same crashing rhythm.

  The sharp sting of his lover’s fangs scraped against Ryuhei’s flesh right below his left nipple. He jerked upright, his hands snaking through Kiyoshi’s dark, tousled hair. But there was no blood. Kiyoshi still would not break the skin.

  “Oh, Kiyo-kun—” Ryuhei’s pleas were cut off by the press of Kiyoshi’s lips. His tongue invaded Ryuhei’s mouth as his body did the same and Ryuhei could taste the lingering metallic flavor of blood.

  Ryuhei whimpered and Kiyoshi groaned into his mouth before pulling away. He slipped a hand between them and pumped Ryu’s cock. “That’s it. I can taste the heat in your blood. It will be so very much sweeter when you come.”

  Every muscle in his body ached, but still Ryuhei struggled to meet the demands of his lover. With each breath, he cried out Kiyoshi’s name until his voice was raw with the effort. The surge between his legs intensified—his cock rigid and balls aching. Kiyoshi’s tugs became harder, more forceful.

  “Come already,” Kiyoshi taunted a moment before semen burst from the tip of the swollen head.

  Spent, Ryuhei pitched forward with another moan. He braced himself on the back of the seat and his fingers discovered one of the nails still embedded in the wood. He pried it out with the last of his failing strength and pushed the tip against his lip to reopen the two puncture wounds.

  The salty taste of his blood filled his mouth and he dropped the nail. Ryuhei grabbed either side of Kiyoshi’s head and pulled his lover into a kiss, praying the whole while that his blood would repair the damage to Kiyoshi’s soul done by the Poisoned Dragon’s blood.

  Kiyoshi sucked in his breath when Ryuhei’s hot blood passed his lips. It burned his tongue but not in the way the assassin’s blood had in San Francisco. It was a searing warmth, but was also gentle and seeped inside, flowing, making him crave more.

  “Oh, Ryu,” he said, pulling away, his fingers stroking the soft skin of the actor’s neck.

  “Take me, Kiyo-kun. Let me help you. Please.”

  “I’m beyond redemption. The
hunger is too much. I feel it deep in my belly.” He tried to push Ryuhei off him, but the actor refused to be moved.

  “Take it,” Ryuhei pleaded. Hearing his Kiyoshi’s sweet familiar voice gave him strength to stay straddled on his lover’s waist. He captured Kiyoshi’s lips in another kiss, working the other’s mouth open so the blood could trickle inside. “Come back to me, Kiyoshi,” he murmured weakly.

  “Ryu, no—”

  “Yes.”

  Kiyoshi murmured something unintelligible before deepening the kiss. Ryuhei was lost in the swell of love flowing between them and was barely aware of the prick of Kiyoshi’s fangs upon his shoulder. Ryuhei writhed on Kiyoshi’s cock still buried to the hilt within him as the sucking aroused him again.

  The passion gripped Ryuhei as well and he stroked himself to a quick climax.

  Kiyoshi jerked away, blood upon his lips, his tongue swirling out to catch it all and clean his fangs in a swift fluid motion. The strange red fire was back in his eyes.

  “I love you, Ryuhei. Too much.” He forced Ryuhei from him and was gone before Ryuhei could grab his kimono and stand.

  Ryuhei stumbled out of the compartment, the soreness in his body making itself known. He called out for Kiyoshi to stop, though it was already too late. “You can’t go.” His voice cracked and tears streamed down his face. “Kiyoshi.”

  He’d brought Kiyo-kun back to his senses only to make him flee in shame. Ryuhei rubbed his face dry with the back of his sleeve, cursing himself for making another mistake. Even Kiyoshi mad with that terrible man’s influence was better than no Kiyoshi at all.

  The train screeched loudly and Ryuhei was thrown forward as the train came to a shuddering stop. Other passengers peered out of their compartments with puzzled looks. The train wasn’t scheduled to reach its stop until morning…

  Gasping, Ryuhei pulled himself up. The body. He’d been so lost with Kiyoshi he’d forgotten about it. The conductor must be stopping the train to hunt for the killer and turn the body over to an undertaker. Ryuhei dashed down the length of the car, desperate to find Kiyoshi before he got off the train or was somehow caught by the conductor.

  Ryuhei fought his way through the awakened passengers and ran from car to car, then out to the platform only to be stopped by a local lawman. A thick-headed local lawman who could not understand him through his accented English.

  They shoved him into the depot and placed him on a small locked room where other men came to interrogate him—one a Chinese interpreter.

  “I’m Japanese, you fools. And I need to get back on the train.”

  They apparently took his agitation and desire to leave this place as a sign of guilt. They insisted on escorting him to a jailhouse just west of the station—and by insistence, they threatened to have Ryuhei bound at his wrists and ankles. Ryuhei’s misery worsened with each step away from the train station, his desperation tempered only by the understanding that if he struggled, he could be held here in the god-forsaken town for who knew how long.

  “My father was just a harmless old man,” a man cried out from within the rickety-looking jailhouse. His voice cracked, strangled with grief that made his accent seem heavier than it might have otherwise. “My family runs a small textile business—don’t you dare brush this off as a tong incident.”

  “Quiet down.”

  “No,” the man insisted. “My father’s killer has to be found. Please.”

  Ryuhei swallowed the bile burning in his throat. As the sheriff pushed him up the steps, he saw the Chinese man leaning against the deputy’s desk, not bothering to conceal the tears of grief running down his cheeks. He was dressed in a western-style shirt and trousers, so different from the dress of a rail worker.

  “Mr. Fahlong.” The deputy gave Ryuhei and the sheriff a glance as they entered. “We’re doing all we can.”

  The Chinese man turned to face the door. He was maybe thirty years old at the most. Along with the suffering and anger evident in his face, the look of utter loss in his eyes broke Ryuhei’s heart. The murdered man on the train…it was this man’s father.

  Kiyoshi had caused this anguish.

  “Who is that?” Fahlong stared at Ryuhei. “I thought I saw a man dressed like that near our compartment before my father vanished.”

  “Just someone we need to talk to.” The sheriff pushed Ryuhei into the room and gestured to the deputy. “Take the Chinaman out.”

  “Does he know who my father’s killer is?” Fahlong resisted being dragged out. He grabbed at the front of Ryuhei’s kimono. “Do you know what happened? Please.”

  “I’m sorry.” Ryuhei’s mouth quivered. “I-I don’t know anything.”

  Long after the deputy had shoved Fahlong out the door, the young man’s expression of utter devastation continued to haunt Ryuhei all through his own interview.

  After a few more questions, the sheriff finally agreed to contact the theater in San Francisco. By the time telegraphs were sent to the American promoters back west who’d arranged the kabuki tour, the train was ready to depart.

  The fool of a sheriff and the town’s mayor kept Ryuhei back, trying to lavish apologies on him for the inconvenience.

  “I have to go.” He rushed past them and through the depot to the platform, pushing his way through the crowd of townspeople who’d come to watch the excitement despite the late hour.

  “Ryuhei.”

  Ryuhei stopped, turned and followed the flash of blue so similar to Kiyoshi’s kimono. He ran around the side of the depot but found nothing. The train pulled out and he sprinted towards it, stumbling, falling and picking himself up as the train gathered speed. He ran alongside shouting, but no one paid any attention.

  “Ryuhei!”

  That time he realized the sound of Kiyoshi’s voice was inside his head and he looked up. Kiyoshi lay on the roof of the speeding train, lifting a hand in farewell.

  “I’m sorry, Ryu. It’s better this way.”

  “No, it’s not!” Ryuhei stumbled on, almost tripping on the tracks. The train careened away faster than he could ever hope to reach it, the love of his life fading from view into the night.

  “It’s not better at all,” he cried out desperately…uselessly. His voice couldn’t reach the train any more than he could. Ryuhei sank to his knees, choking on the dust left in the train’s wake and on his tears. “Kiyoshi.”

  No reply echoed in Ryuhei’s mind or heart. Kiyo-kun was gone.

  Never before had Ryuhei felt so entirely alone.

  After trudging back to the platform, Ryuhei dropped onto a narrow wooden bench. He remained there all through the night and into the following day until the next train from San Francisco pulled in carrying Hoshi and Akira, who coaxed him into joining them in their compartment. Ryuhei barely heard Hoshi’s constant prattling and complaining about their experience in California and his complaints for the degradation that surely awaited them back East.

  Ryuhei showed no more liveliness than an animated puppet until they reached the first town outside California and the buzz of gossip drifted in through the partially opened compartment window.

  “Nastiest thing I ever did see the way that Chinaman was all battered up from falling out the train. If you ask me, he was probably pushed, bruises all over his face and back. It were a right mess. Ain’t even worth burying if you ask me.”

  “Where are you going?” Akira asked, running after Ryuhei when he bolted from the compartment. “We’re only staying a few minutes. You’ll get left behind again.”

  Ryuhei paid no mind to his friend as he plunged through the car and out to the platform to find the men who’d been talking as they ferried baggage. Agitated, he prattled off in a mixture of Japanese and English until he got control enough to ask slowly where the Chinaman’s body was, as his Japanese friend was missing and he feared for his life.

  One of the train workers gestured off-handedly to a wooden building across from the depot station. A crooked sign hung in front of the porch’s open door, words in
different languages painted on the knotty wood. A number of people crowded the tight little porch in a line, some Chinese, others Mexican. It was a station for immigrant workers or visitors.

  “They took the body in there to figure out what to do with it.” The train worker tossed in another piece of luggage and went back to his work with the others, though they kept a curious eye on Ryuhei as he hurried off to the station.

  Inside, the crammed room was hot and stuffy. Shouts back and forth in mixed tongues drowned out any hope for a normal conversation and Ryuhei forced his way to the front of the line. The official at the counter listened to his story and, visibly happy that the body might be taken from his custody, hurried Ryuhei to the back of the station.

  Ryuhei’s stomach clenched when he saw the body covered with a sheet as it lay on a table in the backroom. The sickeningly sweet scent of decay hit Ryuhei the moment he entered the room and he fought the urge to be ill. That can’t be Kiyo-kun under there.

  “Is this your friend?” the official asked with a hint of sympathy as he pulled back the cloth.

  Ryuhei pressed the back of his hand across his mouth to hold in the cry of relief. “No.” He shook his head. The man on the table was dressed in the black loose-fitting garb most of the Chinese who worked on the railways wore, a long braid of hair trailing off the edge of the table.

  “That’s good news for you then.” The official pulled the cloth back over the body, but not before Ryuhei could make out the two puncture wounds on the battered neck right along the jugular.

  He was able to maintain his composure until he left the station, then doubled over outside as he retched. The stench from the body would not leave his nostrils. As relieved as he was that Kiyoshi was not the one lying there, it troubled him to know the cause of the man’s death.

  Kiyoshi had killed him. Another murder. The memory of Fahlong suffering in his grief back at the last train station cut through Ryuhei’s heart. Could it still be the influence of the Dragon’s blood? Had Kiyoshi been changed permanently? At least they both seemed to be traveling on the same route.