Chapter 2: Introspection
I am falling into an ocean of sentiment and unraveling memory. I allow myself to plummet, daring myself to go faster, deeper into sturm und drang. The ocean is warm and cloying, like a languorous lover’s limbs. I am naked now, swimming in screeching scarlet and snarling orange. Light shards my skin, reviving me, consuming me, rippling across my senses and shooting out every orifice. I am the sacrificial lamb. I am baptized fire.
Under the bludgeonings of chance, my head is bloody but unbowed. A hand reaches out, disembodied at first. It links fingers with me, clasping mine strongly in a death grip. I am pulled toward a figure of light, bright, electric. Another hand appears. It caresses my psyche like static. It is sensual. It is pain. It is erotic. My loins tighten as does my skin. Every fiber of me sings for satisfaction. Light, bright, electric.
It pulls me closer. I am this figure. I am the light. Spark, flash. A thought, a noise. We meld, we are one. I sink into its essence. It kisses my voice, strangles my soul, makes love to me.
Ravenous creature. It is not gentle. I welcome the passion. It devours my mouth hungrily, rapes me with its scorching tongue. It tweaks my nipples, rakes down my naked chest, grasps my burgeoning need. It pulls and tugs and coaxes and demands. I am thought. I am noise. I am a screaming bundle of neurons and dendrites. I explode, my seed mingling with the torpid waters of this fiery ocean.
I hear a husky voice, then. So familiar, so evocative of remembered grief and deceit.
I am falling into an ocean. I cannot stop. Like a vagrant with only his blanket to hold, casting crumbs to pigeons that have not come, I wait in this stale sea for him. How must I scream the words to him? Blackened, ugly words of love of love of love of love.
I fall headlong into sky. Now I am floating in obdurate purples and implacable blues. He is there. He looks to me and I try to give to him. He looks and across the space of me and you. His soul. I try to show him the clouds and the horizon filled with painful colors but he looks and laughs. At my clouds.
And green eyes – green, so green! – stare sorrowfully at me before it is swallowed up by the vivid angriness of red and fire.
I shout my pain to an indifferent sky and then I burn, burn, burn…
Mitsuru awoke with a shudder, the last remnants of pain fading as he leaped into consciousness. It was the same dream, the one that stalked his slumber for the better part of this year. He didn’t understand it, could never make any sense of it past the anguish it caused him and the subsequent melancholia that followed.
This time, however, he refused to let himself slide into a morass of self-pity and helplessness. He felt content, having accomplished what he had set out to do the week before. He had killed. He had supped. And it had been good. That vengeance had played no small role in the feeding only served to make the event even more pleasurable.
The only thing that marred his satisfaction was the lingering unease he had felt when he had taken his latest victim. She had seemed so familiar: the way she inclined her head, her eyes as they shrieked at him when she saw his fangs. She had struggled, of course; they always struggled. And they always tried to fight dirty too. But Mitsuru was used to that by now and he was infinitely stronger than they. So the claws she had brought up to rake at his jugular had been impatiently brushed aside and she had succumbed to the weakness as the blood drained out of her.
It had been deliciously satisfying. Yet, with her last dying gasp, Mitsuru could have sworn she had whispered something. Something disturbing. It was impossible, and his mind refused to dwell on it. But since then, during times of vulnerability, like this time when he was bleary with sleep, his memory brought it stealthily to the surface.
She knew my name. She said my name. In that half-shocked, half-anguished way. She knew me and she was horrified at what she saw I had become.
At the time, Mitsuru had been too satiated and sleepy to do no more than let the body fall from his embrace and stumble drunkenly from the office. He was heady with the rich red blood coursing through his veins and all he wanted to do was find a safe place to savor the pleasure in peace.
A bit like a reverse hangover, that.
Now, however, Mitsuru had come down from his sanguinolent high and he knew he had to investigate this matter of the girl who had said his name. He wished he was less tired; his dream had effectively curtailed any semblance of rest that sleep usually afforded.
Ah, but if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.
Mitsuru grinned toothily to himself as he leaped from the second storey loft with unnatural grace and landed on the unforgiving concrete below. The empty warehouse stank of the fish and sewage that characterized Ports O’ Call Harbor, but Mitsuru didn’t care about mortal comforts. It was cavernous, it was abandoned and it was graced with enough boarded-up windows to make any self-respecting vampire giddy with relief. It suited his purposes beautifully.
So, beggars would ride, ne? Mitsuru asked himself mockingly, sliding on a pair of black gloves and walking toward the large double doors to open them. Then he headed for an unobtrusive corner of the building. I’d like to see a beggar on one of these.
The man almost purred in delight as he uncovered his pride and joy. The Ducati 996SPS, a magnificent specimen of speed and danger. It normally went zero to sixty in two seconds, but Mitsuru had manhandled an acquaintance of his to cut that time down to almost nil. It was good to have friends in low places. The bike was definitely not street legal and the cops would have a field day with him if they ever caught him. As if they could, of course.
Mitsuru gazed almost reverently at the motorcycle, admiring its blood-red body, the shiny chrome, the titanium wheels. It was pure conceit, really, that had made him purchase the vehicle. After all, why would a vampire want a mode of transportation that promised death once the sun came up? But Mitsuru had belligerently thrown caution to the wind. He’d always wanted a machine of this caliber – it was every boy’s dream. And who was he to deny that last piece of humanity in him?
Besides, I look damned good on this bike.
Swinging a leg over and flinging his long coat behind him, Mitsuru started the bike and revved the engine. The deep thrum and the throbbing between his legs gave the vampire a thrill unsurpassed by anything he had ever experienced. It was euphoric. And it was safe. The bike was an inanimate object, incapable of hurting him or causing him grief or murdering his soul…
Enough! Mitsuru ordered himself. No personal demons to haunt me tonight. I have work to do. Who was that girl? How did she know me and why do I feel this dread at the thought of her?
It has something to do with the dreams, his subconscious whispered to him. The dreams with those green eyes filled with unending sorrow and regret. Those eyes belonged to someone he once knew, someone who had hold of his mortal heart once upon a time. The dreams also had something to do with the burdensome conscience he sometimes developed when he hadn’t fed in a while.
Thinking is decidedly overrated, Mitsuru thought as he gunned the engine once more.
Banishing his disturbing ruminations to the deepest recesses of his mind, he hitched up the motorcycle and tore out of the warehouse in a screech of burning rubber. His destination was clear, as was his purpose. He tore through the docks, out toward the freeway and north to the financial district. Wilshire Boulevard was going to be empty at this time of night. And so would the building that housed Tezuka Enterprises. Mitsuru looked forward to it. He had answers to find.
~
Palm trees competed with telephone wires for space in the sable sky. The moon was obscured by scudding storm clouds. The cold December air chilled all the other motorists who dared crack a window open as they sped down the 10 FWY. Not so, Mitsuru. He reveled in the sharp bite of a California winter night. His long coat streamed behind him, as did his long blonde hair, confined though it was by the black silk thong. Nobody walked in L.A. because it was too much of a hedonistic pleasure to drive.
As he weaved his way past a lone car, Mitsuru glanced at his reflection in its dark panes of glass, and an errant thought passed through his mind.
Why can I see myself? I’ve always read that vampires don’t cast reflections, but I’ve never lost the ability.
Chalk that one up next to his collection of multitudinous unanswered questions. That mystery, along with the others he had amassed in the eight years since his turning. It was a thirty-minute ride from Long Beach to Los Angeles proper. Mitsuru decided to bide his time efficiently.
Let’s see, shall we? Question number one: who was the bastard who did this to me? Question number 1, subcategory a: why did the bastard choose me? Question number 1, subcategory b: why the hell do I care when I could be having a relatively peaceful and productive couple of centuries drinking the blood of innocents?
Ha! Which leads to question number 2: why do I care about the blood of innocents? Blood is blood, ne? Why am I constantly tormented by a nagging guilt? Why do I fight my nature?
Philosophical thoughts like that gave Mitsuru a migraine, so he stopped that line of questioning. He inhaled smog and car fumes and asphalt deeply, then tried again. Freeway signs whizzed past.
Question number 3: what’s the meaning behind those dreams? Why can’t I rid myself of them? Who owns those green eyes? And why do I feel like someone just gave me a swift kick to the gut whenever I consciously think about those eyes? Like moss, they are. Deep, emerald, soothing…yet filled with such great longing and hurt…
O---kay! That gives me a migraine too. Hell, if I don’t watch it, this all could be moot ‘cause I could just solve everything by killing myself like…this! Whoops!
Mitsuru clung to the Ducati as he viciously jerked to his right, masterfully avoiding the SUV that had seemed to magically appear in front of him. Going a hundred miles an hour in the dead of night was perhaps not conducive to serious contemplation. Had he still been mortal, with less than quicksilver-fast reflexes, Mitsuru surely would have dumped the bike and died instantly, his non-helmeted head spilling brains on the freeway. Vampires may be immortal but they were not impervious to violent death.
Question number 4 – do I dare? Yes, the road’s clear to the exit – so: who was that girl and how did she know me? And why am I suddenly fixated on women specifically from Tezuka holdings? Do I know Tezuka? Should I know him?
That last question truly baffled the creature. He had no recollection of what his life had been like before he had turned vamp. Oh, sure, he had a vague sense of what being mortal was like; hell, he had spent enough hours watching them and studying them and stalking them in the succeeding years since his turning. But his personal life was a blank. As if someone had taken a pound of C-4 explosives and decided to do some interior decorating in his mind. Sometimes stray memories would crop up – like the craving for a bike. Had he known someone with a bike? – but these memories came few and far between. What had been reoccurring, though, was that damnable dream and somehow, he knew it was the key to solving the mystery of his past.
But I can’t do anything about that now. It’s not as if psychiatrists hold after-hours sessions for creatures of the night. Let’s just take these questions one at a time, in order of easiest resolved.
And that meant the Tezuka employee. Mitsuru took the freeway exit at a modest 85 mph and grimly retraced his tracks from the previous week to the scene of the crime. Tonight, he would appease his hunger for information. And then afterwards, maybe he could get one of those really yummy café mochas from Starbuck’s.
~
Shinobu was having a cursed run of bad luck and he didn’t even know what he had done to deserve it. The young man had been in Los Angeles for close to two weeks now, and in that time, he had run into a succession of dead ends that made him grind his teeth in frustration. He had said that he would handle the matter alone and he’d meant it; he didn’t think he wanted to involve any of his associates at Interpol with something this personal. At the very least, one of his superiors would have seen fit to pull him off the case since it involved kin. But Shinobu had expected at least some cooperation from lesser officials, especially after he’d flashed his badge numerous times.
But, no dice. His first priority, of course, had been to examine the body, or, barring that, to peruse the coroner’s reports. But the body, having been identified by one of Igarashi’s supervisors, had been hastily shipped back to Japan for her family to bury on the same day Shinobu had landed at LAX. And the coroner in charge was always suspiciously unavailable every time the young detective had come calling.
The LAPD were surly and uncooperative, telling him in no uncertain terms that the case was outside Interpol jurisdiction. Shinobu had given up at the moment of resistance, knowing they were right and not wanting to arouse any more inquiries as to the connection between Igarashi and the other Tezuka murders.
The local press hounded him, but not because of the reasons he expected. Rather than trying to pry information out of him about the case, they dogged his every move for a chance to interview Shinobu Tezuka, heir to the insanely successful Tezuka Industries and very elusive, very available, very handsome bachelor. If he had to field any more sly questions about his favorite place for a romantic dinner, Shinobu swore he’d take a spork to those damned reporters’ eyes and spoon them out himself. With relish.
In desperation, feeling impotent at his lack of progress, Shinobu had buckled and cashed in a few favors. He needn’t have wasted them. The majority of the numbers in his black book were mysteriously inoperable and the few phone calls that did make it through the main office led to co-workers who were either on assignment or on leave. One secretary had even snidely suggested he go on leave too, what with it being so close to Christmas and all.
It’s a conspiracy, is what it is! And the old man expects a report at the end of the week.
Shinobu leaned forward, his hands gripping the edges of the fine porcelain sink, and stared at his reflection in the mirror, his face still lathered with shaving foam. Why I agreed to be on his payroll for this assignment still stymies me. I must have been distracted by other things. That, or on crack.
The man snorted at himself and picked up his straight razor to finish his ablutions. He ran the hot water, washed his face, then reached for the thick, white towel behind him. It was absurdly huge, long enough to wrap around his frame thrice over. And it was pricey, too. Shinobu had a lot of obscure knowledge tucked into his brain, the ability to recognize fine linens being one of them.
Ah, now I remember why I accepted Dad’s money. Luxuries abound when you have carte blanche with the Tezuka expense account.
Shinobu padded out the bathroom naked, still drying himself off with the towel. His bare feet made no sound as he sauntered to the oaken double doors of the wardrobe. He tossed the damp towel on the bed, pulled the wardrobe doors open, and stood in front of an array of designer clothing, freshly pressed by the Regent’s unobtrusive valets. He curled his toes into the lush carpet, savoring the sensual sensation. Due to the many years of being assigned to operations in the Middle East and various third world countries, Shinobu did not often find himself in situations that warranted first-class accommodations, so this time, he allowed himself to indulge in the comforts affluence afforded.
Penthouse suite, indeed. Dad’s going to have a conniption when I send him the bill. Wish I could be there to see it.
Chuckling wickedly, Shinobu chose a navy blue turtleneck and black wool slacks as his attire for the evening. He actually preferred lighter colored clothing but somehow, being away from Japan during the holidays had put him in a somber mood. Not that he had anyone to share the holidays with back home, but it was always comforting to be in familiar places during those times of the year when people insisted on peace, joy and good will to man.
I wonder how Shun’s doing? Wonder if he still talks to Hasukawa? I should visit him when I get back, see how the inn’s doing since his dad passed away.
Another nasty side effect of the holiday season was a tendency toward nostalgia. Shinobu shrugged into his clothes and gave his brain a mental shrug for good measure. In his present circumstance, burdened as he was with a fruitless case, he had no time for maudlin ponderings. Even as he remonstrated himself, though, a stray thought tripped impudently to the surface.
Next thing you know, I’ll be crying over an Asahi about Mitsuru…
Well, dammit! There it was. Shinobu had tried not to think about this part of his past ever since his father had mentioned it, had shoved thoughts of the golden-haired boy into a file cabinet and had sworn he’d locked it up good. Yet there it was again, teasing him, begging him to rifle through folders of memories. It had been eight long years since Mitsuru had exited, stage left, from his life, but his recollection of the boy – no, he’d be as old as me now! A man, then – was still fresh and sharp.
Sharp like shards of glass being force-fed down a recalcitrant perp’s throat. Shinobu mocked himself sourly. Ah, Mitsu. Are you really here in L.A., like the old man said? And should I care, if you are?
Although he did not have all the relevant information as to his friend’s sudden departure and subsequent silence, although he knew his father had something to do with it, although he ought to be an adult about all of it and just let it go, Shinobu still harbored a deep resentment and sorrow, all directed toward Mitsuru. Regardless of the circumstances that had driven him away, Shinobu was certain that, had he been in Mitsu’s shoes, he would at least have tried to contact the one person who meant more to him than life itself. Especially after eight long years.
There’s your problem then, Tezuka. Maybe Mitsuru didn’t love you as much as you love – loved – him.
{Ah, but if you truly loved him as you say, shouldn’t you have tried to find him? You are the Interpol ace, after all. You could have tried to find him, hear his side of the story, set things right.}
The phone works both ways. He knew where I was; I never really left Japan. Although I was off on assignment a lot, I still kept my home base in Tokyo. God knew where he’d run off to! He should have contacted me; it would have been easier for him.
{Petulance is a young boy’s luxury. And what makes you think he was in any condition to call you? Maybe he’d been injured. Maybe he’d been detained. Maybe he was stuck in the Congo somewhere with nothing but a book of matches to ward off man-eating gorillas.}
For eight years?
{It’s possible.}
Oh, shut up!
Shinobu irritably snatched his card key from the bureau and stalked out the room in a huff. He had work to do. He’d check out that bar that Igarashi’s co-workers had said she’d frequented. Maybe there’d be some leads there. If not, he’d at least be around people. Working on cases always invariably left him alone and brooding in hotel rooms. He needed to get out. And he’d really had enough with arguing with his conscience. He rarely ever won.