Noir Fatale

by Larry Correia

  The Duchess’s form rapidly took on the gray, lifeless texture of the soul-reaped, and fell into ashes and ruin under the weight of her circlet. My first, frustration-born instinct was to slay the guards, but my promise to Yezzul stayed my hand. I fled into darkness, leaving the Duchess’s treasure behind.

  ✧ ✧ ✧

  Yezzul was not where he’d said he would be. Nor did he ever arrive.

  I could bore you with the remaining details of my escape from the palace, but you challenged me on my assertion, so I will only say that I had to improvise my escape, that it took days longer than planned, and that, despite numerous provocations and rather a bit more hunger than I was wont to suffer, I took no one’s life in my escape. I kept true to Yezzul’s request that I hold to Istar’s ways, even though I had failed to retrieve the circlet.

  No, the basis of my assertion follows:

  Hesh was high in the night sky, a full, deep red eye stalking her silver sisters by the time I returned to Yezzul’s hideaway. Something heard as I took position in the casement of his bedroom window gave me pause.

  Voices.

  A woman.

  And Yezzul.

  I Worked air and summoned the sounds to me. Such was easier than manipulating the tiny bones and viscous fluid of the inner ear with the Art.

  Yezzul’s moans proved him near the edge. The woman’s, too. I listened to them rut to completion, a small flame of anger lighting the deeps of my lifeless heart.

  “But how do you know she didn’t escape?” the woman asked, once the natural sounds of their entanglements had ceased.

  The quiet chuckle I so liked…then: “The Duchess employed three Select to protect her tomb. One of which, it was later discovered—from the Duchess’s own papers—was a necromancer of some power. So, even if Sunderhaven evaded all the obstacles I informed her of, I am confident the Duchess did for her.”

  “But the guards, they found no corpse.”

  “No. But they did find the circlet and there was dust and ash in the sarcophagus.”

  “Surely that only tells us that Sunderhaven fed from the Duchess?”

  “Not likely. All my research indicates that necromancers cannot feed from the bodies of those long dead. Something about the spirit having left the body completely.”

  “Oh? Where did you learn that?”

  “The Solamian Venator’s library had it.”

  “They let you see it?”

  “The temples have agreed that the witch hunters of all the gods, old and new, should coordinate their efforts. I passed on information to the Sun-God’s Own, they reciprocated by allowing me access to their collected wisdom.”

  “But we of the Crooked Path do not cooperate with those on the straight paths.”

  “That is a tradition of the faith, not a tenet. I broke none of Istar’s true tenets. Sunderhaven’s own greed is what did her in, nothing more. I did not betray her to the authorities.”

  “Still, a Shepherd of the Crooked Path should not be so cavalier of our traditions.”

  “I agree,” I said.

  I did not recall entering.

  I barely recall what the woman looked like as I crossed the carpets of his bedchamber. I remember cutting her screams short, just as I can savor, even now, watching the luster leave Yezzul’s shining eyes as I consumed his soul.

  Later, I returned to my senses in the midst of ashen carnage. I climbed from the window I had shattered and out into the light of Hesh. I would have cried had summoning tears from dead eyes not required more effort than it was worth.

  Turning my face up and glaring at Red Hesh, I asked, not for the first time, nor even the last, “Why?”

  The answer came in silence and from the dark corners of my black heart: I had, in my many turns, and no few Ages, come to believe I was immune to betrayal. That Hesh’s bloody-handed vengeance served me, not the other way round. I was, once more, being punished for my insolence.

  Some nights are made more difficult for an immortal monster.

  Still, I persist.

  Kuro

  Hinkley Correia

  A little before midnight on a cold, clear Saturday night in December, Kazue Hikubo should have been spending the night in the arms of a lover, taking in the Tokyo lights and dreaming about the future. Of course, he had neither a lover nor a future, but he had the lights and a half-finished bottle of scotch, so that had to amount to something. He sat in his dim office, with only his tiny desk lamp and the open window for illumination. His old radio in the corner picked up a local jazz station, the music soft and fuzzy with static.

  On a night like tonight, he wished he could be like damn near anyone else in this cold city and go to sleep pretending that demons and spirits didn’t exist. Unfortunately, he had a paycheck to earn, so here he sat, stuck at his desk, half-finished protection charms piled up on the side like overdue bills, threatening to fall off and scatter across the floor. He almost wished that they would, if only it gave him an excuse to put his job off for just a little while longer.

  Kazue had a love-hate relationship with his job. On one hand, he had been practically born into it, so he had to admit that he was pretty good at it. Tokyo generally didn’t believe in monsters, but that didn’t bother the monsters one bit. Most of the time, he could appease his clients with a simple protection charm that didn’t tax his abilities at all. Plus, actual supernatural cases often paid really well, if not by the client then by the Ministry of Supernatural Affairs. On the other hand, being born with the ability to see spirits and other people’s memories was torture on his social life. Normal people generally thought of him as either crazy or a fraud.

  He briefly wondered what would have happened if he decided to do what his brother did and run off to America. Misogi always had his head on right. Get away from the whole supernatural business, find a decent job that wouldn’t land him in an asylum. Maybe find a nice girl to settle down with and forget his past. Of course, Misogi didn’t have the family gift, which made it easier for him to escape. That and Kazue never had the talent for English that his brother did, despite all the phrases and mannerisms he had picked up from all the American TV he had watched over the years.

  Loud static burst from the little radio, startling the detective out of his tired thoughts about job changes and sensible hours. He stood up and cracked his knuckles before smacking the little machine. The static still continued, albeit a slight bit clearer, before he sighed and turned the volume down.

  In the racket, he almost didn’t hear the knock at the door. Kazue inwardly cursed. Had he really forgotten to turn off the bright neon OPEN sign in his front window? He decided to ignore it, hoping that whoever it was on the other side of the door would take the hint.

  No good, the knocking continued.

  “We’re closed.” He half-yelled, hoping that they would just go away and maybe come back in the morning.

  This didn’t work either, as the knocking quickly restarted. With a sigh and a grumbled stream of profanity, Kazue went to answer the door.

  He could tell from the oversized starlet sunglasses that she was going to be trouble. She had a certain air of sophistication: hair perfectly curled, makeup carefully done. If someone had told him that she had just gotten off the set of her latest movie, he’d be inclined to believe them.

  He stepped back to let her in and forgot to speak as he gestured for her to have a seat. Her designer clothes stood out against his second-rate couch. A woman like her belonged on the cover of a tabloid, not the office of some so-called supernatural detective, yet she seemed unphased by the mess of his office.

  The mystery woman opted to speak first. “You’re Detective Hikubo, correct? The psychic? My name is Tsuyu Kobayashi.”

  Kazue reclined back into his own seat across from her, barely containing his tired sarcasm. “That’s what it says on the front of the building. I can only assume that you’re here for something very important if you’re calling at this hour.”

  Tsuyu took a deep breat
h. “It’s my brother.” She spoke quietly, with an almost imperceptible stutter as she reached up to pull her sunglasses off. With her other hand, she swiped her gloved hand across the glistening line of tears that ran down her cheek. “He’s missing.”

  Kazue fought not to gasp as an ice pick pierced his chest. Suddenly, it didn’t matter that she had arrived in the middle of the night. She looked exactly like her. Same face, same lips.

  The only difference were the eyes. Tsuyu’s were dark, like two pools of ink. Shiori’s eyes had been gray, like the storm clouds over a snowy city. If he had been a little less sober, he definitely could have mistaken the two.

  Of course, he knew that Shiori was never coming back, but the resemblance shook him to his core.

  He wanted to help her, even though helping someone just because they looked like your ex-wife was probably a bad idea.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. How long has he been missing?” He spoke carefully, conscious of her feelings. If he was too blunt, it could upset her, making reading her emotions extremely difficult later.

  She pulled a dainty cigarette case from her purse and snapped it open before removing a cig and placing it between her lips. Like an old habit, Kazue pulled his lighter from his pocket and lit it for her. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that was a bad idea. His nieces from America were coming to live with him soon and one of them had asthma or something, but he just couldn’t bring himself to care in the moment. This woman seemed to steal all attention away from his other thoughts.

  Tsuyu took a long drag off her cigarette. “He’s been gone for four days. I tried contacting the police, but they just said that he would probably show up within the next few days. I keep trying to call him, but he won’t pick up.”

  “So why did you come to me?” That was the million yen question. Why come to a psychic when there were probably hundreds of detectives willing to take her case?

  “My older brother, Touma.” She pulled a photograph out of her purse and held it out to him. It trembled in the smoke-streaked air. “He was interested in the occult. I’m worried that he might have stumbled into something that he can’t handle by himself.”

  Kazue took the photo and gave it a good once-over. It looked like an ID picture. It was a bit hard to believe that this man and the woman sitting across from him were siblings. Touma was obviously middle-aged, with a small, squished-in face and a confused and annoyed expression.

  Kazue could easily imagine a guy like him pissing off some spirit.

  He looked back to Tsuyu, who teetered on the brink of tears again.

  This was a bad idea.

  She seemed so very sincere.

  “Alright, I’ll take your case.”

  ✧ ✧ ✧

  They decided to meet at Touma Kobayashi’s apartment first thing in the morning. Since Kazue had no idea what he might be facing, he opted to bring Shinrinyoku, glamoured to look like an umbrella, and a pocketful of banishing wards. That was one of the few perks of working with the Ministry of Supernatural Affairs: a weapon specially enchanted to deal with monsters and spirits. Shinrinyoku was a sasumata, a large pole with a forked end, used mostly to keep distance between himself and whatever was attacking him.

  The apartment building wasn’t that good, but it was cheap. Kazue had looked the place up before going to bed. In all honesty, it was probably considered a steal, despite all the wear and tear that it had been through. In his first few scans of the place, he noticed only a few security cameras, and a single sleepy security guard who hadn’t been working the night of the disappearance.

  The pair of them crossed the worn carpet of the foyer and headed straight for the one working elevator. Kazue punched the call button and glanced around. No cameras. It would have been easy to walk out of here unnoticed.

  “Do you come to this side of town often?” Tsuyu asked, her voice high and light, as if she were determined to be cheerful. Her hands still trembled, and Kazue could see her blinking rapidly as if she still fought not to cry.

  He shouldn’t have brought her…but she had the key.

  “Only for work,” he said, sounding shorter than he meant to sound. The elevator arrived and the doors slid open. He stepped inside and leaned back against the far wall, glancing around the interior as she stepped in with him.

  “My brother liked it here,” Tsuyu said, her voice quavering despite her cheery tone. “I was never sure why.”

  When they got off the elevator, Tsuyu immediately started walking down the maze of hallways, a determined look in her eye.

  “This is it,” she said, stopping before one of the identical doors that lined the corridor. She put the key into the lock and turned the knob with a satisfying click.

  “Let me,” Kazue said, stepping forward to enter before she could. She followed him in. Then, as he’d made her promise before they entered the building, she promptly sat on the couch to stay out of his way.

  Touma’s apartment itself gave a weirdly impersonal vibe. It felt more like an unused hotel room than an actual apartment. The kitchen was spotless, and there weren’t any dishes in the sink. Kazue could see hardly any personal belongings: only a few pictures of Touma with his parents and an older laptop.

  Kazue stood in front of the laptop and concentrated, reaching out with that sense he had. Memories pooled around the keyboard: strings of characters; images of screens; movement patterns of fine, typing skill.

  The detective leaned forward and typed in the passwords as they came. Sure enough, Touma’s social media sites opened up one by one.

  The man wasn’t particularly interesting on the internet either. He only rarely posted on social media and the occasional forum. The only place he seemed to regularly interact was an occult website. From what Kazue could read, Touma really was passionate about the supernatural. The detective briefly scanned the actual charms and phenomena just in case this turned out to be an instance of ritual gone wrong. Unfortunately, the worst that would happen if any of these charms had been done wrong was that the user would have bad luck for a couple of weeks.

  He glanced around the apartment again. “Hey, Tsuyu, does your brother always keep this place this clean?”

  Tsuyu was rooting through her purse before pulling out a lipstick and applying it. She was obviously trying to recall all the times she had been there. “As far as I remember, yeah. He usually works an eight-to-nine, and he works overtime a lot. I think it’s just because he’s never home.”

  Kazue concentrated again, pulling memories from the air around him. Touma Kobayashi wasn’t the kind of guy who was going to leave his mark on the world. He’d graduated in the middle of his class from a no-name school, working as a midlevel accountant for a big-name manufacturing company. No family outside of his sister, no real friends aside from the occasional drinking buddy from work, and his online presence suggested a definite lack of a girlfriend. It seemed he was yet another faceless salaryman in the sea of millions, destined to live and die and be forgotten within a few generations.

  Yes, Touma Kobayashi had never really left an impression anywhere that he had been, which meant that tracking him down was going to be a real pain in the ass. Kazue thrived off of being able to see other people’s memories. If no one had any real memories of the guy, he would never be able to figure out where he went.

  Kazue continued his search in the cabinets, looking for any kind of clue. Both the pantry and the fridge were almost empty, with the exception of various microwave foods and a jug of milk that was quickly approaching the expiration date. Inspection of the cabinets revealed one of them was completely filled with bottles of different kinds of alcohol, quite a few of them unsealed. It looked like Touma liked to drink.

  There were two logical possibilities: either Touma had been kidnapped, or he had willingly dropped off the face of the earth. Both raised more questions than they answered. If he’d been abducted, then that meant someone deliberately targeted him, and that he was in danger. On the other hand, if he was hidin
g, then he was probably in a lot of trouble with someone else. The two groups that immediately jumped to mind were the government or the yakuza. Either way, it meant way more trouble than Kazue was getting paid for.

  Well, wherever he was, he probably wasn’t dead. The apartment didn’t feel lived in, but the shadow of death hadn’t crept in yet. It always happened when someone—usually the owner or other occupant of the home—died, though if another person had been close enough with the rest of the family or had spent enough time there, it would affect the place, too. The feeling was also almost always immediate, forming as soon as someone found out or, in Kazue’s case, as soon as the person had died. Generally, the feeling would fade when someone new moved in, but in more extreme cases, the aura lingered, attracting other yokai.

  There was a loud crash from the next apartment, followed quickly by muffled cursing. The walls must have been pretty thin, meaning that if there was any struggle, someone definitely would have noticed. That ruled out any theory of Touma being forcibly removed. If he had been kidnapped, it probably didn’t happen here.

  Scanning the old energies, he made his way to the only bedroom in the tiny apartment. From everything he could sense, Touma was just following his daily routine the day he disappeared. There was no sense of urgency, except for worrying if the train would arrive on time. If anything, he seemed quite pleased with himself. Maybe he had done well at his job the night before. Either way, it was not the feeling of someone who knew he was in danger.

  The bedroom was tiny, like all the other rooms in the house. A queen-sized bed was squeezed in between a nightstand and the wall. The bed was impeccably made, sheets perfectly straight. Judging by the scent, they had been recently washed and not slept in. Kazue opened the nightstand drawer, praying that he wouldn’t find something awkward. Instead, he found a matchbook with the name “The Boiling Note” emblazoned on the front. Looking inside, there were seven matches in it, though it looked like there had been ten originally.

  It wasn’t much of a clue, but it was the only clue he had.