“What the!?” Katsuragi was staring at Hosuke’s back, his expression tightening.
Four red lines ran from Hosuke’s shoulders to his waist, each where a thin layer of skin had been stripped off. There was no doubt about it—they were bite marks.
2
Fuminari lay on the bed, hands locked under his head as he stared at the ceiling.
A small light provided illumination from the bedside. His thick chest rose and fell in quiet waves. He looked like a fallen boulder, one breathing in a slow rhythm. Ryoko Kitano lay there too, the left side of her face resting on the undulating rock. Her right arm was pale over his chest, curved at the elbow and not quite reaching the other side. Her breasts were pushed flat against his right flank. Her eyes were closed in an expression that had a childlike quality to it—natural, perhaps, for a woman to appear this way after giving herself to the rise and fall of a man’s chest. A sheet covered them to their waists, bunched up where their legs locked underneath. Ryoko shifted hers, seeming to enjoy the sensation of Fuminari’s legs.
He derived his own comfort from her smooth thighs, but he knew the time was near to bid the sensation farewell. The night before he had savored her flesh, laboring until he felt satisfied. Twice he had come inside her mouth, reaching orgasm without an erection. But he had not felt great pleasure. If anything it had felt like playing house. The same had probably been true for Ryoko. Despite the moaning and the orgasms, there was always the feeling that something was missing. An awkwardness. Still. He loved her, all of her—he loved even the awkward frustration, the sense of something not being there.
He knew he would be happy if they escaped together. No one would try to stop them, and he had plenty of money. But they were never meant to be together. They had been forced together, by an abnormal situation. Fuminari understood that well enough. He believed Ryoko would too.
Fuminari had killed, and not only when he had been given no other choice. The was a violence in his blood, and people died for it. Each time he killed, the extraordinary rush of adrenalin brought him heady sensations of pleasure and even arousal. And Ryoko had seen him do it, there was nothing he could do about that. If there had ever been a girl for him, it was probably Kumiko. With her, he could do whatever the hell he wanted. She would push a blade into the chest of a man he held down. He could see them bathing in blood gushing from the wound. They had done comparable things in the past.
But with Ryoko that could never be. Fuminari was watching Hanko. The scene of three nights ago, still fresh in his mind. Hanko—perhaps fate itself—had called out to him. And he knew exactly where his opponent was—this opponent that he had to kill.
So why the fucking around? Are you afraid?
His decision was made. He would make the first move, he would go in. Pain seared through the fingers missing from his left hand. The hand still locked underneath his head. You’d better be waiting Hanko, Fuminari thought. He would plunge his three fingers through Hanko’s chest, rip out the beast’s still-beating heart. He could picture it even now.
There was a crunching sound. His teeth clenched without his realizing. His face was the mask of a demon. He pulled his left hand out from under his head and brushed the palm over Ryoko’s hair. There was smoothness, followed by the warmth of her body. Her hand came around from his chest, coming to rest on his wrist, over her hair. His wrist was thick enough that her slender fingers reached only halfway around. She directed his hand downwards, opening her eyes. She took his three fingers into her mouth, one by one, gently pressing them against her teeth. Then she moved to the stumps of his missing fingers—the fingers Hanko took—and began to suck, licking over the gaps with her tongue. The illusory pain receded a fraction, then a new pain hit him twice as hard. He knew there was only one way to get rid of it for good.
He pulled his hand from Ryoko’s lips. She tried to pull it back, but he kept it moving. The movement was slow, but it communicated his intent clearly. Their hands slipped apart. He sat upright, Ryoko clung to him. He stopped for a moment, as though validating the strength with which Ryoko had thrown herself at him. Then he slowly lowered his legs to the floor, off the side of the huge motel bed. An incredible force, escaping Ryoko’s embrace. He got to his feet, naked.
“Are you leaving?” Ryoko asked.
Fuminari nodded, jaw fixed.
“There’s money here,” Fuminari muttered, looking at the table. The brown envelope. “Five million yen in cash, four deposit books.”
Ryoko just stared, saying nothing.
“There’s almost forty million in deposits.” Fuminari was pulling on his underwear while he spoke.
Ryoko’s head was shaking gently from side to side.
“I’m leaving it with you.”
Her face had become a child’s, ready to burst into tears.
“It should be enough to protect you. Make it your friend, it’ll be more comfort than me.”
“Fuminari,” Ryoko half-wailed.
“Listen to me now,” Fuminari started. “Use it to keep yourself mobile for half a year or so. Go abroad, maybe. Visit a load of places you’ve never been, anywhere that takes your fancy. If you still want to work as before, wait until afterwards. By then—at the very latest—everything will be settled. However this goes. Okay?
“Most likely it’ll be over a lot sooner. Just stay clear of keeping a fixed address for half a year, at least.”
“When will you be back for it?” Ryoko asked. “When…will you be back for all this damn money?”
“Someday.”
“When is someday!?”
“I’ve got around five million in cash. Maybe when that’s gone. Don’t worry, I won’t mind if you’ve already used the rest up.”
Fuminari’s heavy lips curled, forming a half-smile.
Ryoko watched the smile with teary eyes. Something was flowing up through them, some unbearable force welling up from inside.
“And where will you come to get it?” she shouted. “Where should I be when you need it again?”
“Anywhere dangerous men can’t reach you.”
Fuminari was already buttoning his shirt. Ryoko got off the bed and threw herself at him, pressing her cheeks against the part of his chest still peeking through the shirt.
“My name—Ryoko Kitano. Just remember my name, okay? You’ll find it…look through the women’s magazines. It’ll be there. Phone the editors…”
Fuminari took her shaking shoulders in heavy hands and embraced her with a tenderness greater than ever before. Then he pushed her slowly away. She looked up at him in tears. He let her go and resumed his task. She stayed quiet the whole time, just staring. He turned to face her as he finished getting ready. He placed a single, thick index finger below her pale chin and straightened her head. His lips came down slowly, then pulled away just as slow.
“I have to go now,” he said, “Biku’s waiting outside.”
Then he turned away.
3
Hosuke lay on the bed, eyes closed.
Sleep would not come. It was nine in the evening. In two hours he would have to get up and return to the room where Kukai waited for him. An hour after that, he was scheduled to make his second attempt at diving into Kukai.
He had to get as much sleep as possible, but he felt no tiredness. The adrenalin from noon was still there. Traces of fear, lingering on his spine—he had never been as scared. And most shamefully for a Psyche Diver, he had sustained physical injury in the process. But it was not the fear that was keeping him awake. More than fear or frustration, it was his excitement that denied him sleep. The thrill of anticipation, like thousands of prickling needles. He could hardly bear it.
Fascinating!
It was beyond mere fascination. He felt ready to piss himself. He had come back, escaped from Kukai with his life. He had been pale for a while afterwards.
“What do you want to do now?” Katsuragi had asked, staring at Hosuke’s back.
He had been asking if Hosuke would contin
ue with the plan, if he would dive again at midnight.
“I’ll do it.”
Hosuke’s reply had been simple. There was no way he could quit now. And even after what had happened, he was not without his own resources.
“And Kukai?” Kurogosho had asked.
“He’s alive. Kukai’s fucking alive!” Hosuke replied.
Kurogosho looked euphoric.
“And these marks on my back prove it. Dead men can’t pull off this kind of shit. That’s all I know right now. But listen, I won’t give up on this, even if it costs me my life. Kukai’s not just your problem anymore. I’ve got my own debt to settle.”
Hosuke said nothing else. He had taken some food, then crashed into bed.
Kukai is alive—it was not the truth, but neither was it strictly a lie. Hosuke had yet to work out the real answer. If what he had seen could be regarded as a life form, then maybe it was true that Kukai was alive. But it could just as easily have been death that he saw. Kukai was physically dead. Yet it was clear now that his mind—at the very least the space that had housed his mind—was still there. The classification of whether he was alive or dead seemed to hardly matter.
His pronouncing Kukai as alive was a trap, bait to tempt Kurogosho into diving Kukai. He knew they would have him killed if he quit now. Perhaps not immediately, they might torture him first. Then, once they had learnt of Biku and Fuminari’s plans, they would kill him. Even if he said nothing, they would kill him eventually.
But his safety was more or less guaranteed as long as he continued to dive, as long as he maintained that Kukai was alive. He finally managed to nod off, but he was woken almost immediately by the sense of someone nearby. He focused on the surrounding dark. There was someone there, silent behind the door.
“Are you awake?”
A whisper. A female voice. It had a hissing quality to it. Whoever it was, she was trying to stay quiet.
“Uh huh,” Hosuke answered.
“They’ll kill you, eventually. Regardless of whether you succeed or fail.”
“Sure. Who’ll take my place?”
“They’re attempting to make contact with a man in Brazil, Juta Busujima.”
“Huh.”
“I’ll let you in on a secret.”
“Go on.”
“Kurogosho. The man is worse than you imagine.”
“Doesn’t surprise me.”
The woman stifled a quiet laugh.
“Do you know where Yuko is right now?”
The words caused a shiver to run through Hosuke’s frame.
“Those bastards have done something to her?”
“…”
“Tell me.”
“She’s in your stomach,” the woman answered, slowly.
“What!?” For a moment, Hosuke could not understand what he was being told. It was hard to believe his ears.
“Did you enjoy your dinner three nights ago.”
The moment her voice reached his ear he felt his whole body begin to itch. His brain seemed to go into a violent spasm.
“The meat.”
The woman emphasized the last word. Hosuke felt a surge of unbearable emotion tear through him. He felt pain like something had gouged out his lungs. A groan caught in his throat, it was all he could do to stop himself from crying out. That had been Yuko...his chest screamed. She had been part of that unidentifiable mix of vegetables and meat.
A formal dinner of the goto and gokanro might have been in order, but we shall settle for substitutes in fear of offending your palate. Kurogosho’s words, before the dinner. But they had served the real thing. At the very least, part of the goto had been real. Why had he failed to notice? Why had he allowed them to be separated in the first place?
Because I was distracted—by Kukai.
I killed her.
He remembered the sensation of Yuko sleeping in his arms, the beating of her heart that told him she was completely at ease. He saw her taking his hard cock into her mouth. He saw everything.
“Kurogosho prepared the food himself. Renobo usually takes care of such things, but…”
“Did Enoh know about this?” Hosuke’s voice was hoarse.
“He argued against it, at least until you had completed your work. Kurogosho carried out his plan in secret. Although I’m sure Enoh realized the moment he ate the food.”
Hosuke ground his teeth so hard it felt his jaw might break.
“This place, it is a nest for the insane. I will tell you another secret—Kurogosho’s real name. It is Wanio Ishibashi. Do you know what that means?”
“Ishibashi?”
“Yes. Kurogosho is Renobo’s—Miwa Ishibashi’s—elder brother. Akio Ishibashi was their son.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Hosuke asked.
“I know you are planning something,” the woman continued in a low whisper, ignoring his question, “I want you to kill Kurogosho.”
“Jakou’in?” Hosuke said.
The woman said nothing. Then the sense of her presence began to fade. He heard muted footsteps. He was alone in the darkness. He bit down on his lips, wanting to smash his head against the wall. He felt the urge to tear himself—his stupid self—to shreds.
I killed her. I killed Yuko.
Blood trickled from his lips.
I ate her flesh and I didn’t even fucking realise it.
He wanted to wring his own neck.
Fucking moron.
He remembered his words as he held her in his arms—I won’t let anyone kill you. He was a bullshitter, a blathering dolt. Kurogosho. Hosuke felt a thirst for blood growing inside him, stronger than anything he had ever felt before.
“I will never forgive you,” he snarled.
Then, sobbing, “Sorry, I’m so sorry.”
He suppressed his inner-beast and howled instead through tears, his ordinarily warm features had become something hellish.
4
The path wound a gentle curve through the forest of birch and beech.
It was unpaved and narrow, built from exposed mud and rock. Grass curled up from the sides to meet at the center.
It was night. The Land Cruiser pushed forwards, the diesel engine rumbling deep, growling like a nocturnal predator. The all-weather tires chewed into the ground, crushing grass under the deep treads. The grass curled under the vehicle’s belly only to spring up again behind it, grazing the spare tire on the rear door and blocking the view behind them. The heavy vehicle continued to steamroll the tall grass, making its way deeper into the mountains. The nighttime forest spread out to each side.
Massive trees formed a canopy that hung suspended far above them. Occasional stars flickered through the vegetation, unseen inside the vehicle. They had been following the path for five minutes, ever since leaving the asphalt road that led to Lake Megami. The whole time the vehicle pitched wildly as it navigated the heavy grass. It took a sudden left, heading into the forest proper. Now there was no path at all. The thick beam of the headlights pushed through the trees, shouldering the dark away. Ten meters in and it came to a halt. The headlights went out, followed by the deep, thrumming engine falling quiet.
Darkness flooded in to reclaim space from the headlights. The dark forest seemed to push back, compress around the chassis as a heavy silence came down around the vehicle. A wind gusted through the upper-levels of the trees, yet the rustling of the branches seemed only to heighten the sense of quiet. It was like being submerged at the bottom of the ocean.
The driver-side door opened and a man got out. He was in black trousers and a black shirt. He alighted the vehicle and stood on the grass, his motions smooth and completely lacking in waste—graceful. It was Biku.
The passenger door opened and another man got out. He was shockingly large, in jeans and a khaki shirt. The shirt was big, but it could not hide the bulk of the man’s muscle. His body exuded an energy matching that of the darkness itself. His build was heavy, but he moved with incredible economy. It was Senkichi Fuminari. He was
not alone. There was a woman slung over his shoulder, an elderly woman—Renobo. She wore one of Ryoko’s dresses, laughing quietly to herself. There was a crossbow over Fuminari’s other shoulder.
The dark forest air was ripe with the pungent stench of vegetation. The smell was like sweat, something wrenched from the bowels of the flora. The two men closed their doors. They shared a glance and, without breaking silence, began to walk.
Their plans were already made. Fuminari led while Biku followed from behind. The forest floor rose in a gentle slope. They trekked through undergrowth scattered with hidden rocks, root colonies and fallen trees, always heading upwards. The two men displayed an easy familiarity for the terrain, using only torchlight to progress as they might if they were strolling over flat ground.
They were in an area of the forest located about one and a half kilometers from Kurogosho’s residence. Soon they would have to kill their lights. Then, they would have only moonlight to guide them. The ground was dotted with purple bellflower and columbine. Their trousers grew heavy from the knees downwards, becoming sodden as they walked through the dewy grass.
They came to a stop around half a kilometer from the residence. It was already decided that Biku would scout ahead while Fuminari hung back with Renobo.
Biku had memorized the building plan inside-out. The residence was surrounded by a wall of two-meters plus. Kukai’s sokushinbutsu was in a room on the first-level basement, near the southern-gate. Biku would first survey the outside and confirm that the exterior was in line with the schematics. Then, he would trace a full circle and confirm the positioning of any guards. Given the chance, he would climb the wall and venture into the grounds themselves. Biku hoped he might be able to get to Kukai, but neither of them believed it would be that easy. At the very least, he wanted to confirm that Kukai was still there. That was their goal for the night. Fuminari’s bulk meant that Biku was better suited for stealth. Biku suspected that Hosuke Kumon might be somewhere inside. He hoped he might make contact.
The Psyche Diver Trilogy: Demon Hunters Page 47