Slayer: Black Miracles

by Karen Koehler

  Kage smiled but it was not an evil smile. Evil one could talk to, even reason with to some extent. This was something else. Something worse. Something too old and broken to ever be called Evil. “I’m glad we’ve been introduced. Now you can die,” he suggested.

  “No.”

  “Let go,” Kage said conversationally.

  For a split second Kage’s suggestion made perfect sense to Alek and he nearly did so. He nearly let go, because letting go was what had to be done. Letting go was what knocked on his brain like something important he had forgotten to do. Then he remembered the fall would most likely kill him and he chose to hang on instead.

  “Fall.” Kage’s voice was like a hammer.

  “No,” Alek whimpered.

  Kage stepped on Alek's hands where they gripped the ledge like a pair of vices.

  Alek grimaced as he felt his finger bones grate under Kage’s heel. Agony zagged in random patterns up his arms and made the sweat break out all over his skin. He was going to fall now for sure, whether he did it himself or not. He was going to fall…unless he could distract Kage long enough to escape. And that meant going straight for the heart. “Like Takara, Kage,” Alek whispered, “...all tricks and no skill...”

  Rage turned Kage’s eyes blood red. He kicked Alek in the chin.

  Alek’s head snapped back and he nearly lost his hold on the fire escape. But the kick had the advantage that it cleared his mind as well and it was sheer stubborn will alone that kept his hands from spasming and letting go of the edge. He wish he knew how far down was; he wished he knew what was done there so he wasn’t liable to land on anything that would permanently damage him...

  Kage, frustrated beyond words, beyond all control, threw the boy down so he could grip the black ninja sword in both hands. He roared as he prepared to swing the sword.

  Of course he wanted Alek to hang on now. Hang on...so he would lose his head.

  Alek let go instead. A scream of wind rushed up around him as he dropped the ten or more stories to the alley floor below. He heard and felt Debra cry out inside his head. She didn’t like what she saw down there--and now, neither did he, and he regretted every letting go of the fire escape in the first place, until...

  ...until his coat caught on the head of a gargoyle waterspout. The leather held only a moment before shredding but it did its job nonetheless: his momentum was temporarily halted and he twisted like a cat in midair and tumble down onto his hands and knees just to the lee side of a wrought iron spoke fence at the base of the building.

  Iron. One foot in the wrong direction and he would have had nothing to worry about. Ever again.

  But there wasn’t time to contemplate that. Kage was still on the ledge.

  And Kage still had Danny.

  Drawing his sword, Alek threw it like a javelin at the dark figure standing at the top of the fire escape. Vampires and their kin had no special strength that he had ever known about or experienced. But one did not need strength where this sword was concerned. The Double Serpent Katana did as he wanted it to: impaling Kage through the middle and pinning him to the outside wall of the building like a bug on a board.

  Kage roared and released his hold on Danny. For a moment Danny looked bewildered by it all, but in mere seconds his good city-wrought survival instincts kicked in and he bolted for the open window into the apartment. Kage continued to struggle like an impaled insect, but his cries had fallen into low animal-like whimpers by then. His rage and pain were almost palpable on the dirty city wind. He gripped the sword in both hands, trying to pull it from the wall and from himself, but the sword was anchored solid by a force far greater than his own. It would not let him go until Alek willed it.

  It took painfully long time for Alek to climb the face of the building--by now he was getting very tired of all this endless excitement--but climb it he did, until he was over the ledge of the fire escape and facing Kage eye to eye.

  “You haven’t won,” Kage said, panted, strings of blood frothing from his mouth.

  Alek took the hilt of the sword in his hand. “If I let you go, you’ll go away?”

  Kage’s black eyes narrowed, bleeding. He knew he was defeated for the moment. Even a creature such as he was, with his terrible strength, would not be able to continue fighting with a sword wound as great as this through his belly. He would need to feed. He would need to recover. He said, “You have no idea what you have become involved in. You had better finish me off now because next time we meet, Slayer, I shall tear you apart for what you have done.”

  Alek eyed the vampire. “What I’ve done to Ashikawa...or what I’ve done to you?”

  For a moment Kage held Alek’s eyes. Despite what had happened two years ago, despite the bitter blood between them, he really did not want to kill Kage. And he knew why. Kage’s power, his influence, was legendary even among the masters. But it was more than that. Alek had accidentally started this conflict.

  This was not like fighting Samson or the hordes of other glory-seekers. He did not want Kage dead and Kage knew it, which was why he used his influence so sparingly. Vampires didn’t lie and manipulate. That was a fallacy. They did not make you do anything you didn’t already want to do--or anything you did not.

  Alek sighed. “Go home, Kage. I’m protecting Robin from your master.”

  And with that, he wrenched the sword free. Kage dropped forward onto his knees, doubled over in pain, perhaps waiting--maybe hoping?--for the coup de grace to fall upon him. Alek slipped back inside the apartment instead and locked the window. They would have their inevitable conflict but it would not be here and it would not be now.

  12

  Several hours had passed since dawn peaked. Kage was usually long asleep by now. It was not that he feared the sun necessarily, as his kind was reputed to do. It was not that he feared some kind of spectacular horror-movie death--but being what he was did have its disadvantages. His kind of people were extraordinarily sensitive to sunlight. Their skin cooked in it. But it was worse on the eyes. Sunlight could cause irreparable damage to their overlarge irises. Cataracts. Blindness, temporary or permanent, depending on the exposure. It had not been like that centuries ago. There had been a time once spoken of when his kind walked freely in the light No more. The humans had harmed the earth too badly for that to ever happen again. But through the goodness of his masters--how many had there been? Countless, surely--Kage had never had to worry about the sun. In the homeland, the Shoguns had allotted him massive underground apartments where he was shielded by stone and earth from the killing rays of daylight.

  Back then. When he had served them.

  Now he served the new Monarchy, the Yakuza here in America.

  But the Ryuujin was no different, no less good to him. He had built an enormous complex right under his own manor and annexed it to a long-dead sub line for Kage’s sake. Kage lived safely in a catacomb of cool, perpetually dark rooms full of the most luxuriant things the master could find. The master spared no expense on his behalf. He was given luxury, honor, and a plethora of men and women he could love, kill, eat or fuck according to his needs.

  Everything he could desire or wish for...and still he had failed the master. Which was why he could not now sleep. Instead he sat and stared at the walls. There were no rice-paper shoji screens here to separate the rooms as there were above. There were no tatami mats covering the floor. There were scented candles, but these Kage used for illumination rather than ceremony. He had electric lights, even modern conveniences, but he avoided such things with a religious paranoia he had never himself completely understood. Nothing of the homeland lurked here. Instead, he had decorated it in the Victorian style--an extravagant glory of heavy crimson drapes, brass furnishings, divans, and even a samovar, though it was of Middle-Eastern origin, not Asian. And, oh, how the Ryuujin found that perpetually amusing about him.

  Except now, as the master stepped into Kage’s quarters. He seldom encroached on Kage’s private domain, so Kage could feel the weight of his
master’s urgency and worry. He looked up but did not rise to stand before the master. For one thing, the master did not enjoy that. For another, he had little strength to do so. “You do me no honor, Kage,” the master said. “Hiding here. You make me think of Charlie.”

  “I have no honor. I failed you. I am nothing.”

  The Ryuujin sighed and it was the most terrible sound Kage had ever heard. The sound of his own soldiers falling in battle could not compare to it.

  “The Slayer is a worthy adversary, nothing more,” said the Ryuujin as he glanced at the portrait over the mantle and the bookshelves on the walls and the other big duffy Victorian things he couldn’t understand Kage’s affection for. “You will have another chance.”

  “He let me live,” Kage said. “You know what that means.”

  “This is America. It doesn’t mean anything.” The Ryuujin looked again at the portrait set above the mantel, as if drawn to it. It was set in an oval frame and surrounded by a pair of tachis, Japanese ceremonial long swords. It was the portrait of a young Asian woman on horseback, clearly an antique as the rest of the flat was. The woman was in a riding habit, proud, powerful, and eternal. Yet Kage sensed what the Ryuujin saw in it because it was his own sensation: grief, remembrance. Loss. Failure of the worse kind. Failure that had started with that woman. He turned to look at Kage, a question at the tip of his tongue. But the moment their eyes met, the master let the question drop. He must look a fright indeed for that to have happened, Kage reflected. His master had always been curious about the portrait.

  “Well, then,” said the Ryuujin. He lit a cigarette. He never did that unless his concentration was very deep. He was so American in his own way, even though Americanism repulsed him when he faced it in other Japanese. “Let me know when you are done feeling sorry for yourself. We have much to prepare for, and I need both you and Kurayami prepared for the coming war.”

  War. How many wars? How much loss? He almost felt compelled to ask the portrait.

  How many wars, Takara? How many masters before my honor is returned to me? How much will you demand of me?

  What a relief when the master left the flat at last. It was like a part of the failure leaving his miserable self alone. Touching his stomach to make certain the wound was healed enough for him to move, Kage made his sluggish way to the mantel. He had fed heavily in the last few hours--two women and a man, over six gallons of blood, so he felt much more himself, if not a little drunk. He hesitated a moment, then fell down upon his knees and stared long and hard at the portrait of the young woman.

  How many?

  “Will you not just forgive me?” he whispered with tears in his eyes.

  13

  “Kage is right,” Debra said, her expression dark and pensive in Robin’s hand mirror. “You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into. You certainly have no taste in women.”

  “Oh really?” Alek asked.

  Debra pouted. She had changed clothing somehow--Alek had yet to discover how someone who was dead could do that, never mind how someone who was dead could communicate with him from across the Web--and now she wore a sheer black negligee with puffed sleeves and a long lace bodice that revealed more than it hid. Her black hair was down, a wild tangle that made her seem young and innocent despite the scandalous gown. The Debra he remembered. She smirked as his thoughts touched her. Her eyes were a fiery brown tonight as always they were on nights of the Hunter’s Moon. Somehow or other--he didn’t understand it anymore than he did much else of it--she seemed more powerful on these nights. More real. In fact, on the second night of the Hunter’s Moon, when it was brightest and its power the most revealed, he dreamt of strange worlds and awoke in sweats with the insinuating feeling that he was being touched everywhere.

  Debra. Her games.

  Once he threatened to play them on her, but that did nothing but make her more mischievous. He had since given up. Nothing he had ever said had daunted her rapacious spirit in life, and the same was true now.

  He felt an invisible hand brush past his face and shush his hair back.

  “Debra,” he said, “stop.”

  Debra gave him her innocent-alluring look.

  Alek shook his head. “I’m just protecting her. No need to be jealous.”

  “Jealous?” Debra cried. This time her touch was hot and whispery, a sharp breath down the front of his shirt. He stood up, dropping the hand mirror to the sofa.

  Just in time. Robin was coming back into the living room with a small First Aid kit. She looked at him with some curiosity but said nothing about his somewhat besieged look. “I found some things in the bathroom. Let me see your

  hands.”

  “They’re fine,” he said.

  “Sit down,” Robin demanded. “I’m in Mommy mode. Let me see your hands.”

  Alek sat down and obediently showed her his hands. The skin on his palms had been scraped raw, but otherwise he had come away from his tussle with Kage with nothing but a few bruises and scrapes.

  “Anyway, this is the least I can do for the man who saved my son,” Robin said as she wiped his hands with antiseptic. It wasn’t necessary, this nursing, but if it made her feel better, then so be it. He watched Robin attend to him, fascinated by how her hands worked over him, how much care she took. Absently, he wondered if her touch now was similar to the one she would use with one of her clients. He watched her face, her perpetual little frown of concentration. When she caught him watching her he was not even aware of it.

  “You have nice hands,” she said, her fingers tracing the rough surface of one of them. “I like calloused hands. You must do a lot of…work.”

  He dropped his eyes.

  “You know,” she said, “in all the excitement I’ve completely forgotten to ask you what your name is.”

  “Alek,” he said. “With a ‘K’.”

  Robin smiled. “I like that. I guess I should tell you, it’s Robin with a ‘Y’.”

  “Robyn. Oh.”

  Her hands skated carefully over his palm, and then turned his hand over. “You look all right. I think you’ll live. Alek.”

  “Probably.”

  She smiled at him. Meekly. From beneath her lashes. Then she spotted the damp spot under his coat. Her eyes frowned that much more in concern.

  “It’s nothing,” he insisted, “Just a little scrape.”

  “Take off your coat. I want to make sure.”

  “I don’t think...”

  “Please.”

  He was about to protest further, and then realized it would probably not get him very far. He took off his coat. His silk dress shirt was torn and bloodied. But it all looked worse than it actually felt.

  “And the shirt.”

  He gave her a look.

  She said, “This is your Mommy speaking. Take off the shirt.”

  He unbuttoned the shirt without looking at her. Several of the buttons had popped, and one button was caught in the unraveling threads. He wound up ripping that one off too. Then he slid the fabric off his shoulders.

  For a moment she simply stared at him and he wondered if that was good or bad. If she liked or was repelled by what she saw. “It looks pretty ugly,” she said as she applied antiseptic to the scrape. It was a series of broad abrasions that crisscrossed his rib cage on the left side where he had made contact with the building in his ungainly fall from the fire escape. He hadn’t felt them until now...and now, well, he didn’t really feel them much anyway.

  “Looks can be deceiving,” he whispered.

  “I know.” She stared with rapt attention at his bare chest as she mopped up the threads of blood. No hair grew on his chest or stomach and never had. The only thing to shield him from her was the raven-black hair tangled across his shoulders and down over his skin like see-through lace. He blushed and surely she noticed the blood rising against his white skin. He felt very naked suddenly. Not like a Mommy was attending to him.

  “You should get some sleep,” he said.

  She
wore an almost reluctant expression on her face when she stopped and crumpled up the wad of cotton she had used. “Danny has the bed,” she said.

  He didn’t know what that meant, what she was asking, but the smell of the blood in the room, both his and hers, made him crave. After a moment he slipped on his shirt and got up and moved to his rocker in the corner. He sat down and ran his hands over the armrests, feeling the history of the wood while Robyn made up the sofa for sleep. She probably would have just crawled into bed beside Danny, but now she had made that statement about Danny having the bed, and what else could she do to avoid embarrassment?

  What else could he do?

  Sleep. He was not hurting anymore and with the distance between them the craving began to lose its power, but he was quite tired, and the sight of Robyn lying stretched out on the cushion did make him sleepy just to see it. It was morning and he knew Kage would not return until nightfall. For one thing, it was bright daylight out. For another, Alek had bled here, thereby marking the place and protecting it from entry by most creatures. Kage would not be able to enter here without considerable trouble. Alek didn’t know if Edward Ashikawa would send anyone else--maybe someone more human--after Robyn, but he hoped the Dragon King of the Yakuza was too surprised and troubled by Alek’s presence and reputation to try anything like that.

  In any event, he would be keeping his senses attuned to the whole area, just in case.

  Until nightfall. When he had his own plans.

  14

  It was kind of her to let him use her bedroom to meditate. It helped before a particularly difficult mission. Despite the fact that he still hated Amadeus with all his heart, Alek had to admit that the old Covenmaster had excellent techniques for controlling the craving. Breath. See the energy all about you. Concentrate on the energy. Alek frowned, his eyes sealed tight, teeth locked together. And sealed up in the darkness the way he was he imagined the energy all about his body like a fine white mist. He felt it pour from him and surround him and the sword he knelt in front of. He felt the energy swirl and mate with itself and in time increase in strength and density until it was like an invisible armor through which nothing could penetrate his inner peace.