With equally reverential movements, Zhang pulled from his back a white wooden stake. Yakou took it with both hands. Switching to a backhand grip, he chanted a curse of the night that only their kind understood.
Zhang retreated a step. The blade of his short sword glittered in the faint light. He concealed it behind him and waited.
Yakou would strike first, driving the stake through the heart. Then Yuen would immobilize the body by pinning the vampire through the abdomen to the bottom of the casket. Finally, as the coup de grace, Zhang would sever the head with his short sword.
“Who are you?”
The strength of demonic force in the voice—spilling as if from cracks in the casket—checked the advancing Yakou.
“You killed my grandfather on a hill in Toyama. This isn’t the time for you to be taking a nap.”
He sensed a breath being taken.
“I see. You are the Elder’s grandson. They say your name is Yakou. And you came all the way to see me. You do know that there are traps everywhere?”
“I’ve known all along,” said Yakou, adjusting his grip on the stake.
A quiver transmitted down the shaft from his hand, the thin sliver of wood inexorably devouring the outpouring waves of his power. But the movement was so slight it drew no attention to itself. Not even his fingers moved.
“I’m leaving. We shall see if your stake is quicker than I am.”
In the same breath—the lid of the casket flew open with great force, with great intention—and flew end over end at Yakou’s face.
Yuen’s iron lance and Zhang’s short sword stopped it. Skewered down the middle, the lid split in two, revealing the white figure rising out of the casket.
A scream shattered the air like a sonic boom—the frustrated cry of the woman in white—and Yakou’s roar as he soared over her head and buried the stake into her heart with all his might.
Chapter Four
The two of them seem to freeze in the air—in reality, only a split second elapsed—in a kind of embrace. Then a red flower blossomed across the back of her white gown.
A moment later, their two bodies thumped down into the casket like two sides of beef.
“You—and—that—fucking—Doctor Mephisto—” She spat out the curses as she reached for Yakou’s throat with her claw-like hands.
Yuen’s iron lance—sending the spasms of her death throes through the gossamer-clad body—finally brought that action to a halt. With a single blow, it nailed her torso to the bottom of the casket and to the marble platform below it.
Roaring with the ferocity of a wounded beast, she grasped the steel bar with both hands and tried to pull it out. The metal seared her palms. The incandescent energy pierced her hands. It combined with the lifeforce pouring from the hole in her chest and raced through her body, shattering her nervous system and freezing her frame in a tattered rigor mortis. The lance didn’t budge.
“Hiii—” A fountain of black blood followed the high-pitched scream that burst from her mouth. A heavy sound struck the bottom of the casket. All other sounds ceased except for the breathing of her assassins, who otherwise had no need to breathe.
They looked with emotion down at the tattered clothing and gray residue in the casket. “Envious?” Yakou asked.
“A little,” Yuen answered.
Zhang said solemnly, “We long for death but lack the courage to die. I have to believe that one day the Reaper will come for us, too.”
“Let’s go.”
The three turned toward the door. A black silhouette stood before them. It was Kikiou.
“Dying once wasn’t enough?” Yuen asked, no hint of surprise in his voice.
“Do you know how many times we have died?” Kikiou said breezily. He was the same size as before, his voice the same, but the fierceness of the qi surging from his entire being induced in Yuen and Zhang waves of unease.
“Look.” With his staff, Kikiou pointed behind them.
After exchanging glances, the three assassins turned to see. A woman was standing next to the casket. The elegance that defined the meaning of “princess” graced her features. On her face was a bewitching smile.
“A pretender,” Yakou muttered.
“Exactly. The real Princess was otherwise engaged this evening.” He laughed. “As you don’t have long to live, there’s no sense in denying you the truth. She is visiting the girl whose blood she took at Mephisto Hospital. Takako Kanan.”
A touch of color rose to Yakou’s refined face. His subordinates had taken Takako from the hospital and were now guarding her. They were the best of the breed. But they couldn’t be expected to stand in the way of someone who had so easily killed his grandfather.
“Yes, it is as you fear,” Kikiou said, as if reading his mind. He smiled derisively. “None of our enemies has ever prevented a visit from her. A man surrounded himself by a thousand warriors. A man buried himself in a cave deep underground. They sought the sanctuary of priests and popes, of princes and kings. All that stood in her way died.”
“And what became of them?”
“Some are spared. The remainder die ordinary deaths. Not everyone who gives Princess his blood meets with her approval. In the bowels of the earth or at the bottom of the sea, they await her visit—never knowing the outcome—dreaming dreams from which they never wake. From among their number only two have been chosen.”
“Ryuuki and Shuuran.”
“Oh? You know them?”
“Where are they now? I don’t sense them here.”
“If you desire an introduction, I’ll leave a note. He departed to confront Setsura Aki. As I haven’t heard from him since, he has undoubtedly blundered again. But not to worry. The assassin of all assassins accompanies Princess. Once Setsura has been drawn out by the bait that is Miss Takako, the outcome I desire will finally be realized.”
“Not if I can help it.”
Yakou’s two subordinates took up their positions to the right and to the left. Into the blue, bottomless darkness seeped a bloodlust as pointed as the merciless cold of the Arctic Ocean.
That night, Doctor Mephisto canceled all of his appointments and holed up in his underground laboratory. Though that was what he called it, the hospital staff and patients alike referred to it as the “Resurrection Room.”
Most of the miracle drugs that saved their lives—that earned Mephisto Hospital the moniker of the “Devil’s ER”—emerged from behind this steel door that no one else had seen.
But there was something off about Mephisto this night. His countenance was as comely as ever. His manner as elegant as ever. And yet something wasn’t quite right.
He was just about to open the door when he glanced behind him. That demonic gleam in his eyes meant that the laboratory was a dangerous place indeed this night.
No record existed of what was kept in that room.
Mephisto only had one objective in mind. Ignoring the potted plants, the bottles filled with specimens, he crossed the room and headed for one particular corner. He reached inside his cape and took out a large key. The gleaming black skeleton key must certainly match some old lock that secured the most abominable of secrets.
No keyhole was visible. Instead, Mephisto pressed the key against a point in the “wall” and turned it to the right. A portion of the wall silently slid up, approximately six feet wide. It rose up and up until it was lost in the darkness.
The “door” revolved smoothly, exposing the glass-walled interior. If the glass shelves had been any more transparent, the mountain of bottles stacked on them would appear to be floating in the air.
Mephisto remained still for several long minutes. The Demon Physician hesitated before the immense rows of glass shelves, along the surface of which ran a series of “X” marks. Inscribed on two crossed bronze panels was the following statement:
In joy and dread, I seal away these medicines. A curse on he who violates my will.
(signed)
– Doctor Mephisto
&nb
sp; To be continued.
Afterword
I humbly submit to you Yashakiden: The Demon Princess, Vol. II. It’s guaranteed to contain twice the intensity and excitement as the first installment. Vampires are indeed a captivating subject. They first entranced me, not in books, but at the movies.
Unfortunately I missed the theatrical debut of the Hammer Films masterpiece, The Horror of Dracula (1958). Many years later, a movie revival in my hometown left the black-clothed form of the peerless Dracula actor Christopher Lee imprinted upon my mind.
This movie gets the credit for the black slicker worn by Setsura Aki and the black Inverness coat worn by Gento Rouran in The Demon King.
Fearing he was being typecast, Lee didn’t appear in the sequel, The Brides of Dracula (1960). Instead, David Peel took on the part of the vampire Baron Meinster, facing off against the critically-acclaimed Peter Cushing, who reprised the role of Dr. Van Helsing.
Peel was then in his forties, but thanks to the power of makeup, portrayed a man in his twenties. Many critics pointed to the missing gravitas that Lee had brought with him as a major flaw in the sequel, but this is nonsense. Both were equally talented and right for the part, as was Terence Fisher’s direction.
More than anything, Hollywood special effects magic—vampires changing into bats, reflections not being seen in mirrors—even as implemented by Hammer Films, made for a movie worth watching.
But the scariest moment—more than Baron Meinster himself—was watching the Baron’s mother approaching Helsing from behind, her fanged mouth covered by a handkerchief, as he enters the castle to investigate. Then, after being bitten during the big action scene at the castle, Helsing cauterizes the wound with a red-hot poker.
Terrific scenes come one after the other. The solemn, somber music as Helsing presents the crucifix to the Baron is splendidly done.
Critically ranked along with those two films is, of course, the legendary Bela Lugosi in Dracula (1931). Back when I was going through my own “goth” phase in junior high school, I was just dying to see it. Perhaps granting my wish, the Shock! series of short films debuted on television (it was either the NET or NTV network).
I was happily rendered utterly incapable of studying, watching movies like the never-before-seen Lon Chaney, Jr. classic The Wolf Man (1941), Frankenstein Meets the Wolf Man (1943), Dracula’s Daughter (1936), witnessing Bela Lugosi face off against Boris Karloff in The Black Cat (1934), Son of Frankenstein (1939), and more.
Watching these silver screen gems was like having a full-blown film festival in my living room.
Bela Lugosi’s Dracula was included in this series. In the amazing opening scene, shot on a huge set, Dwight Frye as the lawyer visits Dracula’s castle. Lugosi in his black coat and white vest was a revelation as well. But what really sent a shiver down my spine was the dubbing job done by Genzou Wakayama.
Perfect casting. By comparison, Masaaki Yajima’s dubbing of Lon Chaney, Jr. in Son of Dracula (1943) sounded too young and too mellow. It made Dracula sound like Robert Vaughn as Napoleon Solo in The Man from U.N.C.L.E.
In the United States, Lugosi is still remembered for his role as Dracula. To varying degrees, subsequent generations of actors have tended to rely on prosthetic fangs and red contact lenses and the inevitable disintegration scene. Compared to this dependence on special effects, Lugosi alone approached the role with only the five human senses as his raw materials.
But from my perspective, that aura of dread never rises to the degree that Lee communicates (albeit these were black and white films). When making his moves on a woman, Lugosi could be eerie and lascivious, but never grabs me by the throat. Something seems to be missing.
In that department, John Carradine as the slender, aristocratic Count Dracula in House of Dracula (1945) is much preferred.
Fans of westerns should recognize Carradine as the gambler Hatfield (cast alongside John Wayne) in John Ford’s defining work, Stagecoach (1939). Carradine worked energetically into his eighties making B-grade horror flicks, but perhaps that early role came the closest to Bram Stoker’s original vision.
When Carradine, sporting a luxurious head of hair and wearing a black cloak and silk hat, spells out Dracula’s origins to Dr. Franz Edelmann (played by Onslow Stevens), you can cut the brooding tension in the air with a knife.
Incidentally, Stevens had a lead role in Gordon Douglas’s cult classic Them! (1954), alongside the great James Whitmore. Whitmore plays a police detective who discovers a colony of giant ants while investigating the disappearance of a little girl. Stevens is the army general sent to exterminate them.
I remember working as a Telex translator not long after the Montreal Olympics when his obituary came over the wires. Reading it struck in me a deep sense of nostalgia.
Actors like Frank Langella as Dracula look more like elementary school principals. What’s that all about? Zero sense of menace or majesty. Jack Palance played Dracula in a 1973 version. The same Palance who played a merciless gun-for-hire in the western Shane (1953), which is at least in the right dramatic ballpark.
These casting decisions say a lot about the mind of the American female moviegoer. A Dracula character incorporated in the script in order to instill a sense of fear or awe can come across in Japan as silly, not at all “Dracula-like,” or even the acme of absurdity.
The audience turnout for Love at First Bite (1979) made the point rather vividly. I attended the Langella film and there were maybe two other people in the theater. But Love at First Bite played to a packed house. On top of that, every time George Hamilton pulled a sad face, practically every woman in the place swooned.
When analyzing what women see in men, I concluded that it really is all about the face.
Well, that era has come and gone. At one end of the spectrum, today’s vampires come across as rather fey, such as Fright Night (1985) with Chris Sarandon; or at the other end as violent juvenile delinquents, such as Kiefer Sutherland in Lost Boys (1987).
Nevertheless, I’m not the only one concluding that nobody has bested Christopher Lee’s interpretation of the vicious, violent Dracula. Now with uncut editions available, I encourage everyone to give The Horror of Dracula another viewing.
This movie was the wellspring of an impressive number of fundamental elements found in the present-day genre. A stake being driven into a woman’s body, the spurting of blood, smoke curling up from the scorched flesh when a crucifix is pressed against the vampire’s skin—they all originated in this movie.
Well then, check out Yashakiden: The Demon Princess, Vol. II and see how I’ve revived them here.
Hideyuki Kikuchi (while watching Son of Dracula)
September 19, 1989
Yashakiden: The Demon Princess, Volume 2 Page 18