Brink of Dawn (A Chosen Novel Book 2)

by Jeff Altabef

  She doesn’t dare call out for help. How did they find me so soon?

  “The Seeker will be here in a minute. Don’t move. It’ll be easier for you this way.” He strokes her cheek with the back of his free hand, as if they were intimate friends.

  She recoils from his frigid touch, but there’s no place for her to turn. Adrenaline floods her body—they can’t take her. She has to escape before the Seeker comes.

  Her voice sounds more confident than she feels. “And here I thought you were just a jerk.”

  He grunts and glances at a text message on his phone, which gives her the opportunity she needs.

  She moves fast, knocking away the knife with one hand and with the other blasting him in the throat with a miniature Taser, which she had grabbed from the bag at her feet.

  His eyes go wide and his body convulses as fifty thousand volts shoot through him. When the charge ends she shoves him off the seat with a thud, grabs the bag by her feet, and jumps to retrieve her backpack from the overhead luggage rack.

  Creepy Guy moans and grabs one of her sneakers. “Come here, you wench! You’re worth a lot of money—”

  She kicks him in the face and blood gushes from his nose.

  He releases her foot, wipes his face, and stares at his blood as if there’s no way it could be his. “You little—”

  Akari doesn’t wait to hear what he says. She bolts off the train, her heart racing.

  Creepy Guy scrambles to his feet behind her.

  The clock on the neon board reads twelve forty-two in the morning. Dozens of people meander about, yet the vast concourse looks almost empty.

  She surges forward while Creepy Guy staggers into the doorway after her, unsteady on his feet.

  Two police officers chat with a lone cashier at a small kiosk. She spins the other way and sprints outside— police will only complicate things for her, and things are complicated enough already. They can’t protect her anyway.

  Creepy Guy runs after her, only a few steps behind.

  She can almost feel his hands around her neck, so she pumps her legs faster, jumps over the curb, and weaves through traffic. A horn blares behind her and a colorful string of curses echo off the surrounding buildings. When she reaches the other side of the street, she glances over her shoulder.

  Creepy Guy picks himself off the concrete, sneers at her, and limps after her, his expensive suit pants now torn and bloody.

  She turns and runs faster than she’s ever raced before. Cars and pedestrians blur past her, air comes in gulps, and sweat coats her body as she switches streets at random. When she thinks she’s gone far enough, she stops and looks for signs of Creepy Guy.

  The street is clear.

  She lost him.

  Akari slows her breathing, shifts her backpack on her shoulders, and really looks upon Tokyo for the first time. Tall glass buildings tower over her while bright neon lights promote everything from Coke to sushi bars.

  Her skin suddenly turns clammy and her head swims as the buildings start to close in on her. She squints her eyes and they begin to move. She starts to assign them personalities, which of course is truly idiotic. Her breath comes in gasps as her legs wobble.

  She bites her lower lip, closes her eyes, steadies her breathing, and silently curses herself for being so stupid. Really stupid. With Creepy Guy somewhere nearby, she doesn’t have time to waste, and these buildings will not harm her. Eventually air comes smoothly, her strength returns, and the panic attack fades.

  When she opens her eyes, the buildings have returned to their true form, although one particularly tall glass office tower catches her eye. It reminds her of a headless samurai warrior, and for a brief moment she almost slips back into the panic attack, but she shakes the image from her head.

  She needs to find Ueno, or Old Tokyo as the locals call it. Having memorized an old map her grandmother had given her, she knows where she is and where she needs to go, so she moves quickly, alert for trouble on the nearly deserted streets. When she enters the outskirts of Old Tokyo, the neighborhood becomes decidedly less friendly with graffiti-marred buildings, trash littering the ground, and tight, winding streets. A row of restaurants, bars, and nightclubs are all still open, and music gusts onto the street in bursts whenever doors open.

  Her destination appears in the middle of the chaos: The Twisted Samurai Swords.

  The three-story building stands out from its glass neighbors—a plain, light blue stucco structure with a red door, clay roof, and slanted eves over the windows. A bronze plaque above the door shows two samurai swords with different handles and blades twisted around each other, enclosed in a circle. Underneath the sign a wooden board says, “The Twisted Samurai Swords—A Hostess Bar Established in 1810.”

  She smiles to herself. Grandmother didn’t mention it was a Hostess Bar. Does she know? Answers wait for her inside, so she steels her nerves, walks up the stoop, and opens the door.

  A breathtakingly beautiful woman stands in the dimly lit hallway. Her long black hair is spun in an odango bun and secured by a porcelain and jade comb. A shiny black belt cinches a tasteful, sleeveless black dress around her thin waist.

  “I’m here to—”

  The hostess lifts her hand and speaks in a slow, precise, aristocratic voice. “I know why you are here. Let me look at you for a moment. No talking.”

  Heat flushes Akari’s face as the hostess gazes at her for a few appraising moments.

  “You’re pretty enough. You have a beautiful round face, pleasing features. Maybe a tad short, but your eyes are absolutely stunning. You can do a lot with eyes like that. I don’t know why you’ve cut your hair so short—it doesn’t reach your shoulders. Still, wigs can fix that. I hate using them because so much of what we do is illusion in the first place, so why add to the list, but in your case I would make an exception.”

  Then she frowns. “But you’re too young. What are you, fifteen?”

  “I’m sixteen, but I’m not here for a job as a hostess—”

  “Of course you aren’t, dear. We never hire hostesses. We make hostesses. It takes years of study to become a hostess. You’ll have to come back when you’re eighteen. You can apprentice then.” She turns up her chin and waves her hand at Akari, dismissing her by flicking her long fingers toward the door.

  Akari crosses her arms over her chest and sighs. “I’m here to see Madam Kiko. My grandmother sent me.”

  “Now is not a good time. Madam Kiko likes to mingle among the clients. You’ll have to come back in the morning. She doesn’t like to be disturbed while she’s working.”

  “I can’t come back later. She’ll want to see me. Tell her that Akina Kato sent me, and that it’s time.”

  A sparkle twinkles behind the hostess’s eyes as she nods. “You should have said that in the beginning, dear. Follow me.”

  She locks the front door and glides up a staircase, her posture perfect, only two fingers sweeping against the cherry wood handrail. She reaches the second floor and stops in front of a blue door. “Go inside and Madam Kiko will join you shortly. Don’t touch anything.”

  Akari steps into the small office, which is elegantly appointed with a round yellow and red Asian rug, a small oak desk that looks extremely old, and a samurai sword in a glass case that hangs on the long interior wall. Three bonsai trees sit on the desk with short incense sticks burning next to them. The smell of sandalwood wafts to her in a light, pleasant cloud. The office isn’t what she expected, but then again, she really didn’t know what to expect.

  She swings her backpack off her shoulders and checks to make sure everything is still inside: two pairs of jeans, a few shirts and other items of clothing, her small bag with the origami creatures, a packet of paper, a sharp three-inch fishing knife, and the crystal hilt of a sword. She has no idea how the sword works, but even now she feels a dark presence, as if it’s calling her, reminding her of a responsibility she’d rather forget.

  Frowning, she removes her prize possession: a yellowed
photograph curled at the edges. Three people smile in the picture: her mother, father, and grandmother. Only her grandmother is still around. Her mom died during childbirth, and the ocean swallowed her father when she turned six. She never thinks of him as dead; that would be too hard. Lost is much better. If he’s lost, he might simply find his way home and return one day.

  As she tucks the photo into her back pocket, the door opens and Madam Kiko enters. She’s styled her hair in the same decorated odango bun as the hostess, but she uses a more expensive gold and emerald comb to secure it. Thin and short, she wears a traditional black robe with a floral band around the waist.

  Akari’s gaze returns to her face, and butterflies swirl in her stomach. She looks like Grandmother. Well, not exactly. Her grandmother has a darker tan and more wrinkles around her eyes and forehead, but other than that, this woman is her grandmother.

  Madam Kiko smiles, her eyes pointed daggers.

  “Who... are you?”

  “I see my sister never mentioned me. It’s not surprising, really, as I’m the black sheep in the family, and my role in the Order requires secrecy. The farther removed I was from you both benefited all of us, although I would have thought she would have said something before you left. I hope she doesn’t still hold a grudge against me all these years later.”

  “Grudge?”

  Kiko shrugs. “It’s not important, just a misunderstanding with her husband before they were married.”

  Akari’s mind spins. So many lies. What’s one more? Why should she expect anything else? Now the roles are reversed. She knows the truth, or at least more of the truth than her grandmother and great aunt, and it’s her turn to stay silent—the only merciful thing to do.

  Kiko lifts her hand, palm up, arm steady. “I believe you have something for me.”

  Akari studies her great aunt’s small, delicate hand. With each step she plunges toward an uncertain future where she’ll have to be strong, stronger than she has ever been before. She slowly removes a small bronze token from her front pocket. It matches the placard outside on the wall—two different samurai swords twisted together and enclosed in a circle.

  Kiko closes her hand around the coin. “It’s unfair, isn’t it?”

  “What’s unfair?”

  “This whole situation, really. My sister doesn’t understand that. You’re thrown in the middle—so many lives at stake. The world’s balance teeters and everything rests on your thin shoulders, but you are Chosen.”

  Kiko glides toward the glass case that contains the samurai sword, swings it from the wall, and reveals a wall safe behind. A few moments later she holds a small bamboo box in her palm, the twisted samurai swords engraved on the lid. “This is for you.”

  “Do you know what’s inside?”

  She shakes her head. “The Order has kept this secret for over two hundred years. No one is allowed to open it but the Chosen.”

  Akari takes the box and tucks it into her backpack. It doesn’t weigh much, but it might as well be a heavy chain that wraps around her neck and chest, and squeezes the air from her lungs. “What should I do?”

  Her great aunt gently grabs her by the shoulders. “You must do what’s right. No one can help you now. It’s up to you.”

  Akari nods, although she knows differently. Others will help—three other Chosen. “A Seeker knows I’m in the city. One of his followers tried to grab me from the train. It’ll be dangerous for you here.”

  “Don’t worry about me, dear. I assume Akino left your village when you did?”

  “Yes, but I don’t know where she went.”

  “Good, that’s for the best. You should go now. It’s not safe here.”

  Akari retraces her steps from the hostess bar and stops in the middle of an empty street under a flickering streetlamp. She retrieves the box from her bag and leans against the side of a rundown restaurant that’s closed for the night.

  What’s inside? For two hundred years, this secret has been kept. Her hand trembles. She doesn’t know what to expect—another strange crystal maybe, or a potion with information about the enemy, or more powers to help her defeat the monsters who want to enslave the world.

  One swipe with her fingernail breaks the wax seal, and she opens the lid. She shakes the box and two dozen polished diamonds of varying sizes roll around. It’s a small fortune—enough to run, to start over, away from her destiny.

  She slides the box into her backpack and hears a bottle shatter down the alley. Her heart races as a shadow moves in her direction.

  Kiko’s words ring in her ears. It’s not safe.

  Has the Seeker found me already? Is the end here so soon?

  More noises, but this time they come from in front of her. Two men enter the alley, both wearing jeans, one with a plain blue T-shirt and the other in a white tank top. Both have bulging muscles and look to be in their early twenties.

  She spins and finds the original shadow closing in on her. The murky figure has a smooth dome for a head and wears a crooked grin on his ugly face.

  She’s trapped.

  The two men in front of her stop twenty feet before her. Tank Top speaks first. “What’s a pretty young thing like you doing out on our streets alone?”

  Akari smiles and almost laughs out loud with relief. These are ordinary thugs, not the enemy she fears. Her pulse returns to normal. “Your streets? I must have missed the sign. I’ll make you a deal. If you guys turn and leave me alone, I’ll let you go unharmed.”

  Tank Top points to a tattoo of a fire-breathing dragon on his arm. “You see that, little girl? We’re Yakuza. No one works these streets without our permission. You’re going to have to pay a price.”

  “Right! You’re no more Yakuza than I am.”

  The notorious gangsters never flaunt their intricate tattoos. These are ordinary, dimwitted, second-rate thugs who like to prey on girls.

  Tank Top’s eyes narrow and his face burns crimson. “I’ll show you who’s Yakuza.”

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Akari shrugs and tightens the straps on her backpack to secure it on her shoulders. “It’s going to be hard for you to explain to your buddies how a sixteen-year-old girl whopped you, but it’s your call.”

  Baldy laughs from behind her. “I like her. She has fire. I can’t wait until we break her.”

  Akari stretches her back and feels energy flow around her. She directs it to her arms and legs and a familiar power fills her body. “Well, let’s get it over with then. I don’t have all night.”

  Time slows.

  Tank Top darts forward and aims a front kick at her chest, but she easily sidesteps him and sweeps his leg out from under him.

  The second guy tenses to throw a looping punch, but she rams her elbow into his face, busts open his nose, and he collapses on the ground.

  Tank Top struggles to get up, but she stomps down hard on his head and hears his jaw break.

  When she whirls, Baldy stands frozen. “How’d you do that? No one moves that fast.”

  Akari shoots him a wicked grin. “I’m not done yet.” She focuses her attention on the alley behind him, feels power channel from her body, and pictures flames. The air starts to crackle and spark, and small flames swirl in a circle.

  Baldy’s face turns ash-white. “You’re a witch!” he shouts, then jumps through the crackled air and sprints away.

  “I’m not a witch, you idiot. I’m....”

  I’m what?

  She kicks a bottle as the shimmering air and the meager flames she had managed to conjure vanish. “I’ve got to do better than that.”

  Before she moves on, an explosion rocks the night air and shakes the ground. She runs toward the blast.

  As flames lick the outside of the Twisted Samurai Swords Hostess Bar, she pulls an airplane ticket from her pocket: Tokyo to New York City JFK.

  She’s made her decision.

  The world turns gray and then black. I wake with a start and bolt upright in bed. Morning light streams through t
he thin drapes, and it takes me a moment to remember where I am. All the trashy hotels blend together, and we pulled into this one late after we left Roy’s.

  Troy stirs in the bed next to mine. “Are you okay, Jules?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Did you have another vision?”

  I nod and rub sleep from my eyes. I won’t be able to go back to sleep now, another morning ruined.

  “Was it a good vision or a bad one?” He calls my dreams visions, believing they’re sent to me by the Great Wind Spirit to help me sort through events.

  I know they aren’t dreams. These are weird glimpses into the minds and experiences of the other Chosen, but they probably have nothing to do with spirits. Still, I don’t argue with him about it. If it makes him feel better to think the Wind Spirit sends me visions and she’s on our side, I’m not going to ruin it for him. Besides, I don’t know the Wind Spirit isn’t sending me these images. It is possible.

  “A good one, I think.”

  Now relaxed, he drops his head against a pillow and falls back asleep.

  I wrap my arms around Troy’s waist as we ride his motorcycle, a royal blue 1980 Honda CX he found in a junkyard and restored after six months of hard work.

  “Check out the skyline!” he shouts.

  “Pull over.”

  He swings the bike onto the shoulder of the New Jersey Turnpike right after we pass a sign for the Lincoln Tunnel, and a steady stream of cars whiz past us. We pry off our helmets and my long hair falls freely down my back.

  A slate sky, heavy with moisture, drapes over tall buildings and I feel oddly disappointed. Maybe it’s the foreign looking city or the dreary sky, but a bout of homesickness rifles through me for the first time since we left Arizona.

  My voice has a melancholy lilt to it. “It’s not what I expected.”

  “It’s not a great view and we’re still far away. Once we get closer, the buildings will look much bigger.”

  “It’s not that. They’re plenty big enough. They just feel kind of... hollow—not as beautiful or inspiring as the red rocks back home.”