“You always thought I’d get myself killed doing something stupid before I was twenty-five… but here I am a hundred and forty-eight, and you’re the one who can’t get through half a life.”
A modern-day American cop isn’t sure what this unnervingly familiar vampire wants from him, until Sano reveals the tragic events of a past life and his undying connection with a Meiji-era Japanese cop.
This story was last updated on May 12, 2019
On Sunday I allow a call from Renee to go to voicemail. It feels both rude and cowardly, but I don’t know what I could say to her. It keeps coming back to our degree of closeness and what I feel I can or can’t tell her. I have to admit I’d like to tell her about the strange things that have happened lately, the strange things I’ve been prompted to believe or at least start obsessing over, but I can’t foresee a good outcome to that venture.
Perhaps once this is all finished, when I know exactly what’s going on and can work from a position of understanding rather than confusion and doubt, Renee and I can have a long, elucidating conversation. Of course that’s assuming I do at some point discover what all of this is about, that it does end, and that I’ll have any desire whatsoever to talk about it by then. At the moment, my primary motivation for discussing it would be to gain insight and comfort in my confusion. In a more knowledgeable position I would not need either… and though I like Renee enough, and respect her opinion enough, to think I might enjoy hearing her take on this situation after it’s all over, will I feel the need to talk to her — or anyone — about it at that point? I’ve already established that I’m just not as close to her as I thought… it’s possible the urge won’t even arise.
Currently, I definitely don’t have anything reasonable to say to her, which is why I let her call go to voicemail. She’ll just have to guess where I am and what I’m doing that doesn’t allow me to take it. And since I do have a few errands to run, I have a legitimate excuse. Let her think I’m hooked up to headphones at the gym, or that I don’t get any reception at the cleaners picking up my laundry (which is true).
For never calling her back I have less excuse.
Sunday is difficult to get through for more reasons than that. Recognizing my own restlessness, I run not merely my usual weekend errands, but all the errands that could possibly need running — everything I’ve been looking for a convenient time to get done, regardless of whether today is actually a convenient time — but eventually, no matter how long I take, there are simply no errands left. Then, just as I feared, I can’t entertain myself for the rest of the evening via any conventional means. My mind wanders from television and from books with equal rapidity, and I can’t even pretend I don’t know exactly what it would rather concentrate on.
Eventually, in a move very uncharacteristic of me but that I’ve apparently been driven to, I spend the rest of the evening at the computer half-reading news stories, looking at memes that aren’t funny, and trying not to type vampires into any search engine or wiki. And I’m upset, still or again, at this commandeering of my attention by something I don’t even really understand.
On Monday, when it appears that the work to which I’ve dedicated my life is not going to be enough to occupy me fully in the face of this nonsense, I decide to take a different tack. Of course it would be optimal to do my job with as much devotion and concentration as usual, but since this clearly is not an option, I try to balance out the two things that are obviously going to be on my mind all day. Every time I start to get distracted thinking about the anonymous man or the woman Megumi and what I know — or guess — about them so far, I direct my thoughts into a very specific channel. As long as I’m essentially being forced to think about this, I might as well get some benefit from it.
So by the end of the day, piece by piece, I’ve come up with a narrative — a collection of theories, arising from everything I’ve observed and subsequent extrapolation, about what is going on and the intentions of the two strangers — working from a basis of belief that they are, in fact, vampires.
Entering into the thing so credulously is a sort of last resort, and obviously one I did not see fit to try before — mostly because I fear that, once I start acting as if I believe in this silliness, I won’t be able to stop. But I find that it does help keep my thoughts, if not entirely under my own control, at least organized. It strips away a layer of the unknown that is causing so much of my agitation, so I don’t have quite such an irritated headache when I at last head home, reviewing the story I’ve concocted during the workday:
Vampires have lived subtly among us for perhaps all of human history, their occasional public encounters with the living inspiring books like Dracula and the surprising number of vampire movies it’s turned out I’ve watched. Something in their nature — a lesser immunity to human weapons than popular culture indicates, maybe, or possibly just the fact that they’re vastly outnumbered — makes secret and probably quietly cooperative cohabitation safer and easier than continually preying on and being at odds with humanity, and ‘vagabond’ is the term vampires use to describe others of their kind that jeopardize the secrecy of their existence by indiscriminately murdering humans.
Megumi is a vampire-hunting vampire, appointed (perhaps only by herself) to track down such vagabonds and end the threat they pose to both human and vampire society. It’s a necessary function, but one that doesn’t make her very popular among her fellows. I wonder whether it’s defiance, or a natural sense of honesty, or some other consideration that causes her to wear her stakes openly the way she does. To humans she merely looks like a cosplayer, but to vampires it must be perfectly, disturbingly clear what she is.
Megumi has no business with me, and, though she feels sorry about certain aspects of this situation, sees no reason to interact with me. She would never even have approached me at all if I hadn’t had ‘the touch’ — presumably some smell or other sense that rubs off on a human after their first contact with a vampire. Which brings me to that other vampire.
The young man remains far more of a mystery than Megumi, and even in the midst of the faint relief this hypothesizing exercise is, it’s frustrating how little I’ve learned about him. Still, what I could come up with, I have.
He wants something from me — some interaction or information or recognition that he’s traveled internationally to obtain — and he believes there’s some chance I’ll realize what it is before he comes back. Both he and Megumi know me from before, well enough to recognize me in an instant, and the young man, at least, expects me to remember something from that ‘before’ as well.
Allowing for the reality of vampires demands, somewhat annoyingly, that I allow for the possibility of other supernatural elements of existence as well. As such, I see two possibilities for ‘before.’ The first is that my own awareness of some previous part of my life has been erased or rewritten — through some sort of supernatural brainwashing designed to force me to forget the existence of vampires, for example, or perhaps through repression of some traumatic experience. The second is that the two vampires, who could conceivably be hundreds or thousands of years old, somehow recognize me from a previous life. I’ve never subscribed to reincarnation theory — and, if I had, I would have assumed a degree of change in a person from one life to the next that would make a reborn soul impossible to recognize a lifetime later — but in already considering the seemingly impossible, I suppose it’s rational enough.
In either case, whatever happened ‘before’ is something he and Megumi took part in with me, and something he wants me to remember. If I haven’t remembered under my own power by Wednesday — one week from when he first approached me — he’s going to enlighten me. And then I’ll have a choice to make.
And some part of me does remember. It’s the part that disapproved of him so heartily at our first meeting, that plunged me into a dream I didn’t understand, that keeps dredging up fear over innocuous things and pity for someone I don’t know. But since that’s all it seems able to do, I think the chances of my remembering anything more, in any level of detail that would provide answers to current questions, are not great.
How much I actually believe of this scenario I’ve put together is dubious. However, having constructed the narrative, supplied as many answers as I possibly can, and ordered my thoughts allows me a good deal more relaxation and patience on Monday evening than I’ve had for several days. I can wait for Wednesday.
‘Waiting for Wednesday’ is the most thorough and accurate description I can come up with for the entirety of Tuesday. It doesn’t matter that I don’t consider myself flighty; reality is stronger than any self-satisfied preconception.
I suppose, though, this happens to everyone at some point. In everyone’s life there must be events that lead to frames of mind entirely at odds with their chosen methods of productivity; we are only human, after all. I can’t help thinking, however, to the detriment of any comfort this train of thought might otherwise have provided, that others ‘only human’ don’t have jobs quite so important as I do — quite so constantly involved with security and crime, life and death, even if I am only hammering away at paperwork at the moment; nor are they distracted and held back by something quite so nebulous, so possibly frivolous, as I am today.
The loss of a friend or family member… the consideration of a proposal of marriage, or perhaps excitement for the big day itself… nervousness about some major opportunity that could be lost as easily as won… all of these changes or choices would, I think, be perfectly justified in distracting someone from even the most important, meaningful, and engrossing of employment. And even in those cases it would still be better to try for investment in work, but anyone would understand if that proved difficult or impossible.
And what do I have? What remarkable, life-altering circumstances are keeping me from concentrating on working to protect and serve my fellow Americans? The prospect of meeting a near-perfect stranger I guess — I don’t actually know — will answer some questions for me.
So in addition to impatient, curious, distracted, and annoyed, I’m embarrassed as well. I might almost feel ashamed, but for that, at least, my self-confidence proves too strong. I know I’m not weak-minded, and therefore must assume that it’s logical for this strangely emotional and gripping situation in which I find myself to be distracting me as much as it is, that my current fractured frame of mind and resultant imperfect behavior is to some degree forgivable.
As I spend the majority of the day considering tomorrow’s possibilities in between everything else I should be thinking about more exclusively, I come to a dismaying realization that should have struck me much sooner in order for me better to manage my impatience: merely ‘waiting for Wednesday’ isn’t enough; it must, logically, be Wednesday evening, Wednesday after dark that I’m actually waiting for. Regardless of how much I believe in the whole vampire idea, my visitors have only shown up once the sun was down. I doubt, somehow, that before work is an option, and it was evening just as I got home when he appeared the first time. Which means I have one entire work day more than I was envisioning to get through.
With this in mind, I have little to say about Wednesday, and would have little excuse to make for myself if anyone were to wonder about my level of distraction. But either I’m hiding it better than I thought I was, or my co-workers figure everyone’s due a day or two of distraction now and then — an indulgence I might not allow them in return on as little information as they have here. Or perhaps they’re all too distracted themselves, what with a murderer likely to make national news (if the media gets hold of the details) running around our usually fairly peaceful little city. The number of people assigned to that case is growing, but I am, thankfully — or perhaps unluckily — not yet among them.
If I had to face the prospect of even one more day of this — of trying to concentrate on paperwork that consistently takes a second priority in my head to the aggressively more engrossing yet uselessly circular vampire thoughts, until I think I’d almost rather be on traffic duty than this; of listening to news and station gossip regarding the murders and wondering whether I might not soon be in a position of greater knowledge about this, whether Megumi really has anything to do with it; of feeling like a waste of public resources as my paycheck covers easily as much idle daydreaming (for lack of a better word) and subsequent irritation and ineffectual self-castigation as proper work — I might actually be tempted to call in sick. And this temptation, hypothetical though it is, annoys me more than almost anything else. I’ve never been even the least bit inclined to lie about my state of health to get out of work. I can’t help thinking all over again that the vampire boy has a lot — an ever-increasing lot — to answer for.
When at last I punch out for the day and try not to move with undignified haste toward the door and the parking lot, I finally abandon all attempts at not allowing this to dominate my brain. I’m wondering what his exact plans are, how exactly the evening is going to go. Megumi appeared at the station last week (though the sun was more completely down when I left that day), and the young man has shown signs of stalking me; I’m sure he knows where I work and could show up here easily if he wanted to. But somehow I get the feeling — I fact, in a way, I hope — he has more to say to me than can comfortably be said standing next to my car in a relatively busy lot.
The apartment again, then. That’s what I think I’ve subconsciously been expecting all along anyway. Perhaps he’ll be waiting outside the door just as he was in the previous instance. Will he expect an invitation inside? Perhaps he’ll require an invitation inside, if he really is a vampire. I do seem to recall hearing that aspect of the legend at some point.
So the last question I’m pondering as I head toward home, growing more and more agitated and anticipatory with every street closer I move, is whether or not I’ll be willing to extend that invitation.
The personal conviction I’d told Sano I lacked in regard to Tomizawa was becoming more of a possibility. The farther we looked into his affairs, the stranger they seemed — and, while there wasn’t yet any definitive evidence linking him with the murders, certain facts that came to light appeared to make it only a matter of time.
Oddly, he didn’t seem to have observed that he was being investigated. With police spies prying into various aspects of his professional and personal life, the only likely explanations I could see for his evident indifference were that he was stupid enough not to have noticed, or secure enough not even to twitch under scrutiny. And judging by his confident, dictatorial personality, the latter seemed more likely.
Yet he should be worried. If he had any sense, he must be worried, since he did have at least one thing to hide. His sister Nori’s fiance, one Shibue Touru, had cleanly disappeared just a few months before, and Tomizawa had hushed it up. Apparently he’d told his sister he was working with the police trying to find Shibue — which was what she’d meant, that day she’d come to the station, in saying, “I know he’s been in here a lot” — but this was the very first the police had heard of the matter. And why would a man that had abetted a criminal in his flight (for this was, I thought, the most likely explanation for the circumstance) remain so completely unperturbed under police investigation?
In any case, after a few days of snooping, the missing Shibue became a suspect, more questions than only the aforementioned were raised, and I had a specific line of inquiry to pursue — which was all extremely satisfying in comparison to what had gone before.
It seemed to me that the unknown entity whose surreptitious presence and occasional forays into Nori’s house had sent the woman to the police in the first place might well be Shibue: the criminal on the run still missed his fiance and longed to see her, and occasionally also found it convenient to obtain supplies or temporary shelter in a home where, if he was caught, his presence would be far less likely to draw immediate police attention — since Nori was obviously completely ignorant of whatever her husband-to-be had done to force him into hiding.
So the next step was to see if I could manage to track down Nori’s stalker. I had to be the one to do it, since not one of the police agents available for my use did I trust with such a task. Hironaku was extremely disappointed, but he was also heavy-footed and absolutely out of the question. Besides, if I saw a chance to confront the unknown watcher and attempt to bring him in, I was going to take it, and I didn’t trust any of my subordinates with that task either.
Nori’s report had indicated she was primarily being watched at night (which seemed to contraindicate the possible other explanation that her overzealous brother had assigned her a bodyguard without telling her), so the next step must obviously be to mimic the watcher and quietly observe Nori’s home at night in the hopes of observing more than just that.
Here she was to have lived with Shibue, and it had been, I’d come to understand, set up with her brother’s funds as a would-have-been wedding present: a good-sized house in a neighborhood with more pretensions than real class but plenty of real money. As such, this was an inconvenient monitoring job with its large perimeter and number of sides to the building, but at least the resultant complexity — the necessity of regular surreptitious shifting of position in order to regularly cover the entire area — granted an interest to the proceedings that might otherwise have been absent.
And someone besides me was definitely watching the place, though whoever he was, he was too skilled to pinpoint right away. Starting just after full darkness had fallen, I detected some interest pointed toward the house from somewhere in the immediate vicinity, but it seemed to be quickly snuffed out every time I concentrated on locating it more precisely. In fact it took me the entire night to become convinced I wasn’t imagining things. Like Tomizawa himself, the anonymous presence was probably aware of and apathetic toward the police surveillance. Which brought up the bodyguard theory again but certainly could not confirm it.
By the time sunrise neared and the presence disappeared as subtly as it had been manifesting all night, I’d learned nothing definitive, only confirmed Nori’s suspicion of being watched. I had no clear indication of criminal activity here, nor that the watcher — Shibue or whoever he turned out to be — had any connection whatsoever with the murders. Nevertheless I felt I’d made progress; as previously mentioned, having what seemed like a clear path to follow, even if it turned out to be a tangent, made for a remarkable contrast in morale. I had a plan for the next night — possibly the next few nights, depending on how skilled the watcher really was — and no need to sit idly waiting for anyone else to bring me information.
This time, despite my improved mood, it was a bit of a surprise when I found myself heading in the direction of Sano’s neighborhood without thinking. After avoiding him for the last couple of days, my desire to see him certainly hadn’t diminished, but I hadn’t thought it particularly increased either. Evidently I’d been wrong.
Continually showing up at Sano’s home very clearly not on police business was hardly in keeping with the careful behavior I had recommended to myself the last time I was here, but somehow, despite being aware of that, the direction of my steps did not change. Indeed, with this on my mind, I thought they actually hastened, as if to say, “Well, if I’m going to do this, I might as well get it over with quickly.” Or perhaps just wanting to get to him sooner for his own sake.
This neighborhood was not the type to be busy at dawn, but still there were a few people about. It was the type of neighborhood to be wary of cops, and my uniform won me some looks suspicious and even bitter — proportional to the small number of pedestrians, quite a few looks suspicious and even bitter. But I ignored them and hurried on.
He was sure to be asleep; I couldn’t picture him up before about noon unless he’d never gone to bed in the first place. Of Tsukioka I was less certain, though I had to admit I was a little annoyed at the thought of his presence. It didn’t matter much, though, since all I planned on doing was quietly looking in, taking a brief glimpse that would, I hoped, tide me over until a more propitious time. Then I would hire a carriage home, sleep a few hours, and get back to work with whatever new strength that glimpse I was apparently so desperate for had afforded me.
The door still wasn’t locked; I was going to have to have a word with him about that. It was all very well and good that his entire neighborhood knew better than to trespass on the property of the former Zanza, but blatantly ignoring rudimentary safety precautions, especially with an unusually bloodthirsty murderer running around Tokyo, was idiotic. It even opened and closed quietly enough — with a careful hand — that it was unlikely to awaken a sleeper within.
And there was only one sleeper within. My surprised gaze immediately ran the length of the room, taking in the single occupied futon, the table that had been cleared of the mess of papers I’d last seen on it, the dishes left over from a meal for one. Tsukioka was gone.
I had come here to admire a sleeping Sanosuke possibly without even waking him, but now a certain amount of concern forced my plans to change. I doubted I would see signs of a peaceful solitary dinner near a soundly sleeping Sano if there had been an attack, and I also liked to think he would have let me know, but what had happened? Was it possible Tsukioka’s medical condition had worsened and he’d gone back to the clinic? Or… surely they couldn’t have been stupid enough to think all danger past and him safe to return home alone?
Despite fully intending now to wake Sano up, still I had to pause to admire him. He slept full-force, as it were, the same way he did everything else. In this case that meant he sprawled, ungracefully but probably quite comfortably, across a futon that didn’t look too intolerably filthy, with a blanket twisted around him in a manner simultaneously haphazard and precise.
It was as if he’d made an art out of sleeping, out of arranging that blanket to be tight where he wanted and loose everywhere else, out of pillowing one arm under his head and relaxing down onto it as if this was the most important thing he’d ever done and he was damn well going to get the most out of it… and yet it was only sleep, and nothing to be stressed about or given a great deal of thought. I didn’t know how he always managed to be so much of so many seemingly contradictory things… so intense yet so carefree… so aimless yet so decisive… so much of what annoyed me, yet so much of what I fiercely wanted…
His eyes opened while I watched him, before I had a chance to make any move to awaken him. He didn’t start or gasp or sit up abruptly, and I wondered if he’d sensed my presence in his sleep in order to be so unsurprised to find me actually there when he awoke.
“Hey,” he said, both tone and expression marking him groggy but pleased. “I haven’t seen you in two and a half days!”
“You were mad at me and I was busy with work,” I shrugged, unable to remove my gaze from his. In his current state, his eyes appeared simultaneously soft and bright, an interesting and compelling look.
“I’m always mad at you,” he said in tired protest, “and you’re always busy with work.”
I smiled. “Well, here I am now. Where’s Tsukioka?”
Blinking and yawning, Sano seemed for a moment unable to comprehend the change of subject. But finally the puzzled look slid from his face and he gestured vaguely with the bare arm he wasn’t using as a pillow. “Read that note on the table.”
I did so, unfolding a half sheet of paper that was covered on one side with smudged and indecipherable doodles and on the other with artistically messy handwriting.
It’s clear you need some privacy, and I think I would be more comfortable elsewhere anyway. Don’t worry about me; I’ll stay with some activist friends who have even better reasons to lie low than I probably do. Don’t let Takani-sensei worry about me either; the worst is over, as she ought to know. Try to keep out of trouble, though this new complication of yours makes that seem even more unlikely than usual.
He hadn’t signed it, but it wasn’t exactly a great mystery who had left it. Nor was what he meant by that last line. It was, to my memory, the first time I’d ever been called a ‘complication,’ but probably not entirely inaccurate. Honestly the note itself — or at least the altered situation it represented — was a bit of a complication, and I was suddenly rethinking my intentions here yet again, somewhat more pointedly than before.
As my eyes left the paper they immediately found Sano’s, and it was just as immediately apparent that he not only had the same thought I did, but read that simultaneous consideration in the shared gaze. I might have teased him by pretending to be unaffected by the word ‘privacy’ in that note or my reflection of a few minutes ago that his futon didn’t look too intolerably filthy… but he already knew we were both thinking the same thing, and the new edge to his smile clearly reflected his expectations for the scene.
Refolding with deliberate movements the liberating missive as I did so, I asked, “Do you ever lock your door?”
For half an instant Sano looked annoyed by my critical tone and confused at what he viewed as another change of subject, but then the probable motive behind my words registered and he went back to grinning in anticipation. His answer was, “Yeah… when I need to.”
“Then you do have a key.”
“Yeah… somewhere…” Though his previous statement had been vaguely flirtatious, Sano’s tone had now slipped into one of intense focus as he probably realized I wasn’t joking about wanting to lock the door — and that he was going to need to figure out where ‘somewhere’ was before any further progress could be made. With a comical level of concentration he finally added, “I think it was on the window-ledge.”
I found two keys side by side where he indicated, guessed correctly on the first attempt which one fitted the door, and wrestled the aged lock into granting us more privacy than even Tsukioka had with his departure. And apparently just the observation that my quest was nearing completion had been enough for Sano, as he hadn’t waited patiently for me at his end of the room. Even as I turned toward him, I heard his barefoot steps across the floor, then found insistent arms slipping around me and a hot body pressed to mine. My own arms rose to caress his back and pull him closer as his lips and hot breath and grazing teeth slid up my neck. Undoubtedly in response to cloth against his flesh, in between a series of nipping kisses just underneath my jaw, he murmured, “Take off those damn gloves.”
I chuckled and obeyed, not at all averse to following a direct order when the result was the beautiful feel of his skin beneath my naked fingers and palms. He’d begun grinding unrepentantly against me too, breathing somewhat harder near my ear, and the longing he thus displayed was in no way unreciprocated. “Now take off those damn clothes,” he whispered.
I let out a sighing breath and obeyed.
What was it about this stubborn, vehement, easygoing, infuriating person that had me so captivated? That made it so I could never get enough? That filled me with a tingling desire for him down into my bones? His physical passion and ability to respond to my own were not in any way surprising, but, though making love to him for the first time was a spectacular and deeply gratifying experience, there was more to it than simply satisfying my body… or even than a few hours of psychological rest from the demands of my work. Something about him specifically seemed to have a nearly supernatural power to enthrall, to draw me in and engage me as I hadn’t been engaged in a relationship for years, perhaps forever. And I couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was about Sano that I found so enchanting.
For that matter, I had no idea what drew him to me. We drove each other crazy in every possible way, and we’d been rivals at best when we’d first met… and yet here we were, content or even decidedly happy together in the morning sun through the shouji on his not-too-intolerably-filthy futon, sticky and cooling and calming after having demonstrated very clearly that any disliking we might have for each other ran parallel to, and perhaps less deep than, an emotional state that was very different indeed.
The weariness of having been out all night combined with the exertion just now had left my mind pleasantly foggy, and in the comfort of Sano’s embrace and bed I didn’t see much need to work at clearing it — and no reason I couldn’t rest here instead of heading home as I’d intended. I doubted Sano had been planning to get out of bed any time soon in any case, and I certainly didn’t object to a companion as long as he didn’t snore too loudly. Sano himself, however, seemed surprised at the sedentary tendency of my movements after we’d finished.
“You’re going to sleep here?” he wondered, his words close to my ear and still somewhat breathless.
Eyes closed, I replied, “Is that a problem?”
“No, not even a little bit! I just… figured you’d go home.” He sounded as if he couldn’t believe his luck, and I found I rather liked the implication of his happy astonishment that I would remain with him after sex.
“I was out all night.” If my words weren’t explanation enough, the weariness I couldn’t keep from them must have been.
“And I just wore you out the rest of the way, huh?” Had I ever heard him so pleased with himself before?
“Ahou.” But I didn’t bother to deny it.
He kissed me on the cheek and settled into restfulness against me. “I won’t move for a while, then,” he murmured. And I was unsurprised to find I liked the sound of that too — of his casual solicitousness, even if it was probably born in part of laziness and a preexisting desire to do exactly as he’d stated.
Just as I was ready to drift into very comfortable sleep, however, he made a lie of his promise by stirring again. In a slightly more alert and now faintly accusatory thoughtful tone he said, “But you know… I think you were trying to use sex to keep me from asking about your case and what you were out all night doing.”
This roused me slightly too. “If I thought I could use sex to do that, I certainly would try.” I interrupted myself by yawning, but he didn’t jump in, so I was able to finish, “I can’t think of a more pleasant way to keep you off the scent.”
He snorted. “Well, I guess I can’t really say, ‘Oh, don’t ever fuck me again, you sneaky bastard…’ but it won’t work, you know.”
“I thought it worked extremely well just now.”
This time he laughed. “Yeah, you’re right about that.” And he nuzzled his face into my neck. I thought he might drop it there and let me sleep, but that was no realistic hope; half a minute or so later he persisted. “So what were you out all night doing?”
I didn’t trouble my tired self trying to prevaricate. “I have a feeling Tomizawa may be involved with the murders, and whoever is stalking his sister along with him.”
“So you’ve been stalking the stalker,” he finished with satisfaction.
“Something like that, yes.”
“But you probably still don’t have enough evidence to just assassinate Tomizawa yet, do you?”
“Not yet, no.” And when in response to this he hmm‘d pensively against my skin, I added firmly, “Stay out of it, Sano.”
In frustration he said, “I could help you, you know.”
“And you know how I feel about that.”
We had started to move back into more upright positions as this threatened to turn into a more active discussion or even an argument, but now he buried his face in my chest as he said, “You made it pretty clear how you feel just a little while ago.” And though he said it at a mutter, it was one of embarrassment rather than annoyance or defeat as he referred to how I felt in a completely different context than the one I’d meant.
With a sudden unexpected pressure in the space just beneath where his forehead rested, I found my arms rising to draw him close again. Had I made it clear how I felt? Because I wasn’t sure I knew how I felt. In fact I’d rather been wondering the entire time — or, if I’d been avoiding the how, I’d at least been wondering why I felt that way. In any case, it seemed he’d taken some confirmation from my actions and attitude that I hadn’t, perhaps, intended to give… but that I didn’t, perhaps, mind having given.
Almost involuntarily I found myself saying softly, “I just want to make sure you stay safe.” And that it sounded so maudlin and trite under the current circumstances didn’t make it any less sincere.
He clenched the arm he had around me as he replied, in loving annoyance, “You asshole. What if that’s exactly what I want for you too?”
I didn’t know how to answer that — at least not without saying something I’d already said that hadn’t convinced him then and probably wouldn’t now — so I remained silent. He too said nothing more, as if he’d made or accepted some point — I couldn’t tell which. And despite the utterly inconclusive nature of the conversation, it seemed to be at an end, and we drifted to sleep in a surprisingly pervasive atmosphere of lingering contentment and satisfaction with the situation and each other.
It neither astonishes me nor vindicates any concrete expectation that the area in front of my apartment is devoid of figure or motion; my thoughts on the matter have been such a mess that his presence or his absence there seems equally feasible. I unlock the door and enter, flipping switches in motions no different than usual, finding everything inside no different than usual. I hang up my jacket and keys, remove and put away my gear, and move toward the bedroom to shed my shoes and tie with no particular haste. The only thing setting this evening apart from any other is the fact that I’m not very hungry and therefore giving little thought to what I’ll have for dinner… and perhaps a heart-rate just slightly quicker, more anticipatory, than on most nights.
At the bedroom door, however, before I have a chance to reach for the light, I’m greeted by sight and sound simultaneously unexpected and exactly what I was waiting for: “Your week’s up.”
“I have to admit,” I say, going still in the entry to the room, “I’m not surprised to find you breaking and entering.” So much for needing an invitation.
He’s seated on my bed with his jacket lying beside him. I note systematically that he doesn’t appear to be armed: his short-sleeved dress shirt is open halfway down his chest, its white material too translucent to disguise much of anything underneath. His unearthly eyes seem to glow as he looks me up and down and gives a monosyllabic laugh that conveys no amusement whatsoever. Slowly he stands. “Do you remember me?”
I can’t look away. Even with the jacket removed, he’s exactly the same as a week ago, and yet there’s something utterly riveting about him that wasn’t present before. Can it be merely the fact that I’m anticipating an end to the confusion and perhaps the whole strange situation, that I’m eager for answers? No, it’s something more. In that inhumanly beautiful face, above that slender, muscular body advancing smoothly toward me, eyes like that are enough to nullify completely any concept of heterosexuality a man might have about himself.
That isn’t why I hesitate answering his question, though. Yes, I’m caught up, all of a sudden and for no reason I can pinpoint, in his mysterious attractiveness, but in addition to that I feel I do remember him. I can’t recall anything specific about him, but he’s so familiar I could almost… well, I don’t know what. I don’t know, and therefore I don’t know what to say.
He stops just in front of me, and it’s all I can do not to reach out and seize him. His eyes, holding mine, seem to convey an uncanny amount of emotion, but I can make little sense of the turmoil they reveal. He’s hopeful… darkly, hopelessly hopeful… but what else, I can’t tell.
The heavy silence doesn’t need much time to become oppressive, but somehow I feel that to answer, to crush that desperate hope, would be even worse. I don’t need to speak, however; he can tell just by looking that I haven’t remembered whatever he wants me to. Slowly his expression hardens, the hope dimming. “You never were much of a spiritualist.” It’s almost a mutter, equal parts disappointment and… fond acceptance?
Abruptly I want him… so clearly, so intensely I simply cannot restrain myself. I want to be with him, to be close to him, to touch him, hold him, make love to him, be one with him forever, and nothing else in the world seems meaningful or even real. My hands, almost of their own volition, move to clutch at him, to pull him against me, and through the incomprehensible haze of longing and desire that’s overtaken me I’m vaguely startled at how cold he feels. But should that really be a surprise at this point?
“Calm down.” His voice next to my ear is a whisper so husky it nearly qualifies as a growl. “I’m not seducing you today; I just want to make this easier.” I get the feeling — how, I probably wouldn’t know even if I were more lucid — that he wants me as much as I suddenly want him, but his frigid hands have taken hold of my wrists with shocking strength and kept them still. Cold breath moves along my neck, sparking an intense, prickling shudder through my entire body.
My instincts war within me: the more wary screaming to push him away, to break away myself, because when I feel his lips part against my skin I know what’s coming next; the more hedonistic replying that nothing that feels this good, that I want this desperately, can be bad; and the most logical replying that, while, yes, it can be bad, it can’t be that bad because vampires aren’t real.
They all snap silent as his fangs pierce my flesh. There is a stab of pain, a cold, tugging sensation followed by a slow spread of burning heat, and then… nothing.
I don’t know how long the blackness lasts; it could be moments and it could be hours. It’s like traveling through a tunnel, assuming there exists a tunnel that strips you of not only your sight but of every other sense as well as all presence of mind. On one side everything was, if not precisely normal, at least framed in a context I’m familiar with and could try to sort out eventually; on the other, as I emerge from the sensory deprivation, everything is chaos.
I remember. In a tumultuous rush, the living of an entire lifetime in an instant, I remember everything — Japan, my childhood, the wars, the Shinsengumi, my life as a spy, my wife and children, and Sano… Sano…. Sano….. I remember what happened to us, to him, to Takani, the bizarre events of those last weeks, what he did and what he wanted… I remember it all, and all at once; and as I struggle desperately to make sense of it, to calm and order my frantic mind, and most of all to reconcile it with America and the current millennium and everything I think I know about myself, I’m fairly sure I’ve gone insane. I’m probably babbling, too, out there in the physical realm that I’m barely feeling at the moment.
His arms are around me. That’s the first thing I realize as I begin to come to my senses. I’m sitting on the bed now, still in deep shadow in a room whose blinds are closed and lights turned off, and he’s holding me. The gesture is purely for physical support, and at the moment I’m so torn by various emotions and so lost in my fractured state of mind that I can neither enjoy nor wish to escape his presence.
“Sanosuke…” I gasp after who knows how long, calming further but still severely agitated. “How…”
“We live forever with people who live over and over,” he replies coolly. His arms drop from around my shoulders, and I feel very unsteady on the edge of the bed, as if I might topple and fall right off the world. “Eventually,” he goes on, “we get the ability to make you remember your past lives, if we want. Some assholes do it just to torture their victims, or make them feel like death’s better than the insanity of remembering everything all at once… but I’m not quite to that point yet. Though I did work pretty hard to perfect the technique.”
I don’t really hear his answer — don’t grasp his meaning just yet, at any rate; I’m still struggling within my head. It’s more than anyone should have to take in so suddenly, more than I can assimilate quickly or even, I fear, at length… the one thing I can think to do is try to ignore most of it and only give thought to what I absolutely have to. Though this is easier resolved upon than done.
At that moment I realize that what I’ve thought of as a ringing in my ears is actually a ringing in the room, and that the glow in my eyes isn’t just a remembered light from Meiji-era Japan. Not fully aware of what I’m doing, but glad to have something to cling to of the existence I thought I knew — my life, the ‘real world’ of my current consciousness — I reach clumsily for the cell phone that is the source of the sudden light in the room. How it came to be on the bed rather than in my pocket as it was before I’m not sure; perhaps that gives some clue as to how long I was in that tunnel.
It’s my girlfriend calling, but there’s no way I can answer in this state; she would think I’ve gone crazy, and I’m not entirely sure I haven’t. I can’t quite manage to reject the call, though, with fingers that aren’t obeying my commands very precisely just yet.
The next moment I’m on my feet, throwing the device back down on the bed, face aghast and a hand raised as if to ward off a blow. Above her number, naturally, her name appears… I seldom bother with individual ringtones, but I do keep everyone in my contacts organized…
“Oh, my god…”
I would declare this a coincidence — my reeling mind is already protesting that it’s a common enough surname — if not for the ensuing bitter statement out of the darkness near my nightstand: “Yeah, she called a few minutes ago too. Funny who fate decides to toss together, isn’t it? Though actually, far as I can tell, it’s people’s souls that find each other… someone you had some connection with in a previous life’s more likely to find you than someone you didn’t. This one’s less fucked-up than some I’ve seen… Yahiko and Chou ended up married a couple of lives down the line.”
I’m not sure whether it’s more startling to find that Sano is still here, that I’m apparently dating my own something-great-granddaughter, or that all of this is suddenly making so much sense to me. Yahiko… Chou… the names mean something, despite a large part of my mind wishing in a panic that they didn’t. And Renee is…
“I hope you’re happy,” I say in an effort to speed the process of regaining my mental stability, but unfortunately it comes out as something like a snarl. “I’ll never be able to look at her the same again.”
“Happy?” Sano wonders, skeptical and more bitter than before. “Yeah, right. But satisfied that I won’t have to watch you happily in love with someone else again? A little.”
“You’re not like I remember.”
“No shit. A hundred fucking fifty years’ll do that to you. Not to mention constant rejection.”
I sit down on the bed again, on the opposite side now from him, and lean my head in one hand. Though I open my mouth to speak, nothing comes out; I simply don’t know what to say next. I’m remembering his cold, blank face in that cellar, his despair when he awoke, and, most significantly, my own feelings at that time.
All the emotions from those days are coming back, slower than the memories but no less overwhelming. Sano… I… loved him… I loved him and I lost him… or perhaps he lost me…
Maybe I still love him.
God, that is just too much to think about at the moment.
“Rejection?” is what I finally manage to come up with. My tone still isn’t very steady, but I’m beginning to feel readier for a real conversation.
“I think you’ve had enough shock for one night,” he replies. Despite the slight sound of sympathy in his voice, yet it’s colder than anything I remember Sano saying back then; but I get the feeling this is normal for him now. ‘A hundred fucking fifty years’ indeed…
I turn to look at him. He’s standing with arms folded, watching me, the glint of his eyes in the darkness dimmer than it was before. “Sano…” I begin, though still with no clear idea what to say. I have two lifetimes now in which I can’t recall ever being so stymied.
“It’s OK,” he says softly. “You have a lot to think about. I’ll give you a few days, and then we can talk.”
“Sano,” I repeat, more decisively this time, standing and facing him. “I want to know–”
“Yeah, I’m sure there’s a lot you want to know,” he cuts me off brusquely — another tone I don’t remember hearing from him before. “But not right now. You’re gonna have a choice to make here after not too long, and you need to be in your right mind for a while first.”
“What choice?” I ask, though the thought that I really don’t need to is already stirring in the back of my head.
And he’s gone.
I don’t even hear the apartment door open and close. Apparently vampires have the ability to silence locks and latches in addition to their own movements. Or maybe he can turn into mist.
Oh, my god, he’s really a vampire.
Of course he’s a vampire. I was there for that. A hundred and thirty-some years ago.
I slump back down onto the bed and again put my head in my hands.
This is overwhelming and beyond agitating, and right now I don’t know how to deal with it. Two lives are suddenly jumbled together in my head, two different senses of self, and, though it’s all clamoring for attention, none of it is what at least part of me feels I should be thinking about. Not while considering the fact that Sano — Sano, whom I remember full well now, whom I loved — has been alive — undead, I suppose, is the correct word — for all these years and has sought me out after so long in another country, another era, another language, another ethnicity… for what?
Just as I was able to put together a set of theories about the situation over the last couple of days at work — a set of theories I’m now much closer to believing in their entirety, as far as I’m capable of thinking about them at all — I feel I can theorize with a fair degree of accuracy what he wants from me now, what choice I’m going to have to make. The look on his face as I died in his arms — the horror and despair and frustration — is such a painful and deeply ingrained memory I almost can’t believe I ever lost it, hundred and thirty-some years or no, and I know what it is he wants.
But I almost can’t handle thinking about my own death like that.
And… how many times must I have died since then?
With a deep, desperate breath something like a sob, as if my body wants to remind itself and my mind that I am still alive, I collapse onto my side on the bed, curling up and closing my eyes. The first two fingers of one hand have somehow found their way just to the left of my trachea as if I were taking my own pulse, running up and down over the two sore spots on my neck, feeling the dried blood there as if it’s brail spelling out a readable message. But it tells me nothing… nothing that isn’t totally overridden by everything else that’s bombarding me, that is.
Memories, many of them seemingly conflicting if not downright impossibly contradictory, shuffle like semi-transparent cards in front of my mind’s eye, overlaying each other and blending improbably together into an incomprehensible mass comprised of two childhoods, two young adulthoods, two manhoods, two different set of police protocol — oh, that’s annoying — two worlds in which I’ve lived, two languages I suddenly speak, two lifetimes’ worth of beliefs and attitudes and recollections. And Sano’s face is superimposed across the whole — Sano’s handsome, enthralling face in all its variety of expression: his sometimes goofy pleasure, his ready anger, his more serious moments still with eyes sparkling, all of it so easy yet so intense… even the more modern aloofness, coldness, bitterness… I can’t stop seeing them. I can’t stop thinking about him.
But I can’t think exclusively about him, no matter how much part of me wants to, no matter how much that seems the only way to stay sane at the moment. The rest of it simply can’t be ignored. It all has to be worked through before I can decide what I think about Sanosuke and what’s happening now, the turn things have taken. If I, Joseph, am going to get on with my life, Hajime will have to be integrated. And I, Hajime, am strong enough to deal with this without going mad. Obviously Sano thought so, or he wouldn’t have burdened me with a past incarnation; he did specifically say he wasn’t doing it to torture me. There’s some irony in this thought, but that’s thirty-five years into the story and has to be put off until I get back around to it.
For now, I’m starting on February 18, 1844. Not that I have any memories from quite that early, but I will work through this as methodically as I can from as early a point as is relevant. I will put it all in place so I can move forward and make the choice I have to make, possibly the most important one of my life. Of this life, anyway.
I already have the beginnings of a dire migraine, and a sense of sorrow growing in the pit of my stomach that’s more than a little like nausea. I suspect these symptoms will only worsen as I lie here thinking and remembering and sorting, and I’m certain that when I call in sick to work tomorrow, it may be Sano’s fault, but it won’t in any way be a lie.
Rich people — at least those determined to make a show of their wealth — often purchased their own downfall in the form of extensive landscaping that provided cover for spying on or secretly approaching their houses. Tomizawa Nori’s home was not the first I’d encountered that made for ridiculously luxurious monitoring conditions. The perfume of flowers in the darkness might not be my favorite scent — since spending the better part of a day in bed with Sano, there was a distinctly more human smell or combination of smells that came immediately to mind at that thought — but I certainly preferred it to filthy back streets with full gutters.
Even this, however, could not erase the awareness that the criminal I sought — possibly the other clandestine watcher of Nori’s house I specifically awaited right now — was a thief of large volumes of blood, and I had never been able to figure out or believably speculate what he wanted it for. Considering this, even among the azaleas and young tulip trees, my mind seemed to conjure up the scent of blood to blend with that of the pleasant greenery in an ominous mixture. Takani — who thus far had been useful for more than merely her postmortem perspective on the victims she’d examined; I would have to keep her in mind as a consultant, when one was needed, for future cases — had been unable to come up with a use anyone might have for so much (if any) coagulated blood, and therefore assumed the stolen liquid had been put to its intended use immediately upon its withdrawal from the bodies… which meant the smell was entirely an illusion, as it seemed next to impossible that any actual blood was being stored at this location or any other related to the case… but the imagination was a powerful thing that could easily compromise the luxury of this posh spy job.
I was uneasy before that, however; the unreal combination of scents merely accentuated a preexisting mood. The other watcher had not, as far as I could tell, appeared yet, and it was later than I’d sensed him last time. Of course Nori hadn’t been able to say for certain whether she’d been watched every night, and I’d spied on her house just the once before — but I couldn’t help worrying that I had spooked the mystery man (if that was the right way to put it when he didn’t seem to have cared at all about my presence) and wouldn’t be able to get any information here. The eventual emotion distilled from this set of concerns was not so much agitation as irritation, since not only would that mean this was a dead end and I would return to having few or no leads, it might take several more nights of sneaking around this place before I would be able to determine for certain it was a dead end.
Just as I had on the previous instance, I was shifting gradually around the perimeter of the property, carefully keeping hidden but observing the house and its surroundings methodically from every angle. And I would have believed my concentration on the job — combined with irritation at the idea that this might be a waste of time and the agitation of the imaginary scent of blood and uneasy imaginings about what that blood could possibly have been wanted for — would keep me entirely occupied… but I had to admit that, after how events had run lately, I wasn’t actually particularly surprised to find myself thinking about Sano as I moved surreptitiously from one shrubbery to the next. That irresponsible idiot of mine must be rubbing off on me; this was no appropriate time to be dwelling on the taste of his lips or the stupidly amusing nature of his conversation or the unanticipated delight that arose within me when I considered that he was my irresponsible idiot.
Something compelled me almost overwhelmingly about the idea that I had (in a way) someone to go home to, someone I could seek out for comfort, companionship, and more after I’d wearied my body and mind on this or other professional pursuits. I felt almost giddy, like a child, at the thought of this change in my life and how ridiculously happy it made me. And, strangest of all, it was a new giddiness, a new happiness; I’d never been this way about Tokio.
No, I supposed, it wasn’t really strange. While Tokio and I had enjoyed each other’s company to some extent, and even enjoyed the sex that had produced our three children, we’d never had a passionate attachment. I’d never been overcome with thoughts of her and her charms while on a potentially dangerous assignment, and I’d never been ecstatic at the thought of going home to her. And what the difference between my attitude toward my wife and toward my new lover had to say about the true nature of my feelings for the latter — the ones he claimed I’d already displayed pretty clearly — was something I shied somewhat from thinking about. Anyway I shouldn’t be thinking about any of this.
Even as I forced the reflections away, though, and took a firmer hold on my current purpose, I was smiling.
The attack came from behind, but something so completely undetectable could have come from directly ahead and I might still have been oblivious until being hit by it — and to me this indicated that the attacker had only imperfect confidence in his abilities, believed he needed the added advantage of attacking from behind. In any case, I was knocked forward by a blow that, though it didn’t break any bones, definitely hurt as I went flying into a tree small enough to snap when my body smashed through it.
As quickly as I was back on my feet, spine aching after having bent too far in an odd direction, drawing my sword and whirling, the unexpected enemy made little more than a flash in the corner of my eye. I threw myself to the side, straight into a shrub that let off a strong but not unpleasant scent as I crushed many of its leaves and branches underfoot, and sensed I’d barely evaded another attack in so doing. The third blow I didn’t manage to dodge, however — it felt like an elbow that jabbed into the side of my neck just below my jaw — as again I failed, though not moving at all slowly, to face the enemy or determine what side he was coming from. And not yet having caught sight of him or any idea what to make of him except that he was startlingly fast, I felt my starting disadvantage as sorely as my aching back and neck and rattled head.
Crunching footsteps in the mulch, light and quiet though they were, gave the sole indication of his trajectory for the moment, and once more I threw myself instinctively in what I thought was the safest direction from his current charge. I couldn’t turn quickly enough to see him unless I could anticipate his movements, and I couldn’t anticipate his movements unless I could get a reading on his ki. And it was present — this was definitely the same interest I’d felt pointed toward the house last night — but in combat it seemed astonishingly weak and unfocused for someone so fast and strong. As such, I needed a very precise fix on what I was looking for before I could make any use of it.
As I worked on that, I took another blow: a tendon-straining punch to the left shoulder that, while painful, did allow me a blurred glimpse of its deliverer before he darted off behind me again. He appeared quite mundane in that unclear moment, and, though there could easily be — and probably was — more to him than one half glance could tell, still I was reminded of Tsukioka’s ‘pretty normal-sized’ attacker that ‘moved really fast.’
I’d nearly lost hold of my sword in the percussion through my shoulder, and shooting lines of pain ran down my arm, but at least I was starting to get a feel for the man’s motions and combative intentions. When next I turned, it was toward where I anticipated him moving to — and I was correct. He’d been drawing back a fist for another strike, but faltered when he saw me face him. The thrust of my sword wasn’t as graceful or correctly aimed as I would have preferred, but my arm still stung and throbbed and it was the best I could do. At any rate, the blade did manage to pierce his kimono just under his raised right arm — and, I thought, the flesh beneath — before he ducked away to the side again with a faint sound of tearing cloth.
Pretty normal-sized indeed. Of average height, somewhat but not remarkably fat, with a very traditional (for this era) cut to his black hair, wearing (as far as I could tell in the shadows) totally uninteresting clothing, the only things even a little noteworthy about his appearance — the ‘more’ I’d assumed there must be to him moments before — were a brightness of eye a little uncanny in the dark garden and an apparently pretty significant level of dirtiness — some of it, I was sure, dried blood — to his run-of-the-mill clothing.
And why should he be so reluctant to let me see him? His features gave me no new information as to his identity, and there had been no reason just now for him to back off from delivering the blow he’d been planning. My opinion of earlier strengthened: he lacked confidence in his own abilities, and probably didn’t want me to get a good look at him in case he felt the need to retreat and remain anonymous thereafter.
His next hit was similar to the first — what I believed was a shoulder-led body-slam aimed at my mid-back — but I managed mostly to dodge, and, though the displaced brunt of his momentum still caught me in the side and sent me spinning, I used that centrifugal motion to strike out against him, and this time definitely felt my sword connect with flesh. I might have made better use of the blow if I hadn’t briefly been so disconcerted by his complete lack of reaction to it. His body barely moved except, a moment later, to jerk free of where my nihontou stuck in his side; he certainly gave no pained vocalization of any sort. In fact, I realized suddenly, I couldn’t even hear him breathing, and surely it was unusual for someone — especially someone overweight — to exert himself so much so silently!
I was on the verge of panting and gasping. Another blow to the chest like that last one, off-center though it had been, would knock the wind right out of me, render me incapable of fighting and terribly vulnerable for at least several seconds. The stranger hit hard, and I found myself reflecting in no small amount of gratitude and relief, as I whirled yet again trying to find him before he could connect, on what a blessing it was that he used his body rather than a more conventional weapon. The very first hit would have killed me, I was certain, had he been wielding even just a dagger; it would have been instantaneous with a sword.
I didn’t have to wonder why he was thus unarmed, though, since the most likely answer was immediately apparent and fit right in with his weak, undirected ki: this man was no warrior. He probably had no idea how to use even the simplest weapon, and it probably hadn’t even occurred to him that he could try. Scantly as that seemed to fit with the incredible strength, speed, and endurance he demonstrated, or the extreme danger I now found myself in thanks to those attributes, I believed it. Here was someone with natural abilities such as I’d rarely seen, but little or no aptitude or training for combat, who’d been thrown into a combat situation for some reason or another.
And what that reason might be I pondered as I took a blow to the side of my stomach, above my right hip, that sent me sprawling again. Rising with a difficulty I tried to conceal, I managed to retaliate successfully, only to find the piercing point of my sword once more completely disregarded. But even with this remarkable capacity to shrug off what should have been staggering strikes, the man’s lack of confidence in his own skill combined with his reluctance to let me see him and clear lack of training made it seem even stranger that he’d attacked me at all tonight. Was he so desperate to see me out of the picture that he’d come up against me despite having little belief in his ability to succeed? He seemed wary or even frightened of me, and perhaps desperation alone had driven him to try what he felt was expedient but hazardous. And while normally I would have said he had good reason to be frightened and had made a fatal mistake in choosing to attack, in this case I couldn’t be so optimistic.
Because it only took a few more exchanges of hits to convince me I could not win this battle. My blows seemed to have no effect whatsoever, but I couldn’t take many more of his. And though I struggled to continue fighting steadily, to avoid showing how much damage his assault had done, eventually I must falter and render evident just how much he had the upper hand. And the instant his confidence improved and he stopped dancing around trying to avoid my gaze, he would end this with one decisive punch.
Of course the idea of ‘one decisive punch’, of undirected brute strength, the uncalculated application of force in the hopes of a good outcome without any real planning, must make me think, for a second and far more dangerous instance during this night’s work, of Sanosuke. He was just the type to plunge into a battle he wasn’t sure he could win, fists flying, recking very little of what wounds he received. But I had to do my lover the credit of admitting that, though at one point in his career he might have been similar to this flailing attacker — undoubtedly as an even younger man than he was now — he’d long since grown out of the combative niche this stranger currently occupied and probably always would.
And if I wanted to appreciate Sano’s ever-improving ability to give matters serious thought, to plan for things, to restrain himself — in fact if I wanted to appreciate anything about him again — I needed to find a way out of this battle as soon as I possibly could.
A fist to the side of my face that set the world spinning wildly interrupted my attempts at coming up with an escape route and nearly, I thought, fractured my cheekbone. I managed to stave off any follow-up by a stab directly into my opponent’s thigh, but he, as usual, simply drew back, seeming to ignore the wound completely, and dashed off to the side out of my sight. I fought merely to stay upright and unwavering as I turned yet again to find the man; as soon as the shockwaves through my head ceased, I would recommence trying to think of a way out of this.
But my opponent’s ki was suddenly gone.
Calm air, the sounds of night insects, the sweet smells of the garden around me, and, most of all, an abrupt complete lack of any discernable intent anywhere nearby… it was uncanny. I stood very still, reaching out with every sense that might give me some hint as to what my opponent was up to, and gradually my injuries began to assert themselves. At first I forced the pain and debilitation into relative invisibility, just as before, in case the unknown might be watching, only to determine eventually that he had simply disappeared. For now — however long ‘now’ might be — it seemed I was safe.
Lesser warrior that he was, he must have entertained the same idea I had — that this was a futile battle against a stronger opponent — and, unable to see his mistake, had made a judicious retreat. The wounds he’d taken from me must have done some damage after all — honestly I couldn’t see how they could have failed to, his lack of reaction or apparent weakening notwithstanding — and he, not knowing how close his victory lay, hadn’t felt he could take any more. My attempts at hiding just how badly I was faring had probably saved my life. I did not look forward to whatever he might try next to get me out of his way.
I needed a doctor immediately. Takani probably wasn’t going to be happy about this, but at least I’d managed to avoid delivering her another corpse. Reaching her at all in my current state might be a bit of a difficulty, however; I felt as if I’d been pummeled nearly to death, and, though nothing seemed to be broken — even my skin — my entire body throbbed with pain of various depths, and felt ridiculously weak, as if the first step I took might send me toppling into the dirt.
Hurrying footfalls, concerned voices, and lantern light were approaching up one of the nearby paved paths from the direction of the house, and I spent a moment trying to decide how (or whether) I should deal with the servants coming to see what in the world was going on in the garden. I feared there was little choice at this point, and at the very least I could benefit from their presence. Fortunately, I had a ready-made excuse for being here.
The first man to leave the walkway and round the shrubbery that obscured any view of me stopped short and gaped at the disheveled cop with dripping sword in hand, the absence of opponent or dead body or other indication of exactly what had gone on here, and the devastation to this area of the landscaping. Before he could even begin to pull himself together, a second man, this one bearing a drawn saber even a private security guard probably shouldn’t have been carrying, appeared at his side.
Covered though I was with growing deep tissue bruises and strained tendons in multiple joints, I managed to draw myself up to a straightness that was clearly imposing (it helped that I had the higher ground) and look down on the men with an air of command not inappropriate to my actual position as a representative of the police force and, by extension, the government. I withdrew a cloth from my pocket and began cleaning the blood off the blade in my hand, which gleamed portentously in the lantern light, with a movement far more composed than I felt. “One of you go find me a cab,” I ordered in a tone that indicated I was not looking for any argument. “And tell Tomizawa-san I need to talk to her about her stalker.”
Was I really reassured at some point by my ability to buy macaroni and cheese after thinking about vampires? I underestimated the power of habit, the relentless tendency of the human mind toward normalcy. What I theorized on Wednesday evening — that Sanosuke must consider me strong enough to assimilate the memories of an entire lifetime without going crazy, or else he wouldn’t have restored them — might indeed be true… but in the end, I believe, far more than any strength of spirit I may or may not possess, it was that mundane human resilience in the face of the incomprehensible that helped me through the tumultuous task of integrating my previous incarnation into my awareness of self.
In fact I integrated Hajime — or perhaps I, being Hajime, integrated Joseph — so quickly, I probably could have worked the second half of Thursday. After the tangle of emotions and the migraine and the seemingly unconquerable confusion of Wednesday night, it was startling how rapidly my state improved, how neatly things settled into place in my head, after a fitful few hours of sleep and a cup of strong coffee. By lunchtime I was calm and collected, and relatively equanimous toward the two different identities I now have to work with.
Of course, no matter how shockingly easy it all turned out to be — and it is a shock every single time I consider how simply I’ve adjusted to such a huge and sudden load of new information about myself — everything is different now. Although from Thursday afternoon onward I’ve been able to go through my usual routine without much of a hitch, it’s been a bizarre exercise in acclimatization.
At work on Friday it was as if everything I did was for an audience — as if I was holding up the modern United States police and my involvement in it for inspection — except that audience, that inspector, was inside me. I’ve been gaging Hajime’s reaction to every aspect of my life, but they’re my own reactions. Everything seems new because I have a new perspective from which to view it, and even the old — the memories to which I now have access that were hidden from me before — becomes new again each time I recall something from my days in Japan and examine it in the light of my attitudes and experiences as an American with a somewhat different personality.
It’s been surprisingly undisagreeable.
Despite not feeling nearly as disturbed as I might have expected by being, in a way, two people at once, I’ve been keeping Hajime in the background, as far as this is possible, treating my former self more like an index of philosophies and information I suddenly have access to (and am free to disregard, if I wish, in making decisions) than anything that compels. This is not because I consider my Japanese life any less a part of me or any less worthy of being referenced in my choices going forward, but because that life has been completed, and my modern self, the life currently in progress, has a greater right to remain in the forefront and as undistracted as possible under the circumstances.
So I continue to identify as Joe, but that doesn’t mean I’m not Hajime underneath. Attitudes from those days bleed through, and I wouldn’t really want to stop them, even if some impulses I’ve had since recovering that part of myself have been unnecessarily harsh… arising from a hardness of character born of wars I fought in during that lifetime that gave me an edge beyond what I have now.
This all made for a work day yesterday even more distracted than Wednesday before Sano’s return, but, thanks to that aforementioned power of habit, I struggled through it. I have to admit, I’m glad it’s Saturday now, that I have Saturdays off work with my current schedule, and that Sano’s previous promised time of appearance was adhered to punctually enough that his current ‘few days’ can be taken at face value. Even allowing for variable interpretations of ‘a few,’ I’m expecting him as soon as the sun is down.
The waiting isn’t nearly as difficult as previously, because I’m not nearly so single-mindedly impatient for this meeting as I was for the last. There are points I want to discuss, yes, questions I want to ask… but one question — the biggest question — I’m afraid I already know the answer to, and I’m not looking forward to having it brought to light. And I want to see him again, yes, but simultaneously in a way I’d rather not. In fact I’m so conflicted about what I assume will happen this evening that every time I look at the clock I feel perfectly torn: how can time be passing so slowly and yet so quickly?
At least Renee appears to have given up calling for now. She’s persistent, but she also knows how to pick her battles, and must have realized we won’t be having a date this weekend. Does she realize we won’t be having a date ever again? Who knows? I’d have to speak to her to find out, and I’m just not ready for that. Less ready, in fact, than I was before, now I know she’s some manner of descendent of mine. It’s something I’ve been trying not to think about. As before, this seems cowardly… but trying to determine how to deal with the situation is necessarily a lesser priority at the moment.
My frame of mind, comprised as it is of desire, reluctance, and avoidance all vying for the same space, boils down to agitated impatience and inability to sit still, and the evening turns out much like Sunday’s: I can’t read, I can’t watch television, and I end up on the internet wasting time and trying to numb my thoughts with its banality. And I’m wondering, as I did on Wednesday, how exactly he’s going to do this. Will he knock on the door like a civilized person? As if Sano was ever a civilized person… Or will I find him in my bedroom again with no idea how he got there? I chuckle briefly as I consider that that’s a fairly good metaphysical summary of our relationship back in Japan.
It’s upon returning from a trip to the bathroom that I find him seated on my sofa, and I can’t help speculating on whether he’s really as stealthy as I’ve been assuming. I was, after all, extremely preoccupied when he left the other night; it’s possible the silence in which he did so was an illusion caused by my inability to recognize sounds just then. And now perhaps he waited until I was out of the room to enter — quietly but not actually silently — to preserve that illusion.
Looking at him, as it were, through two different sets of eyes at once — and far more self-possessed now, able to interpret coherently as I wasn’t on Wednesday night — I can see both the similarities to and the divergences from what he once was. Of course it’s all new to Joe, but what I notice from that perspective that contrasts with the old Sano therefore stands out all the more strikingly against Hajime’s intimate knowledge.
Visually very little has changed. He wears his hair longer now (and I do have to wonder how bodily development works in vampires), but before it constricts into a small, messy tail in back, it still pokes out wildly on top. His skin is significantly paler than in life, but it’s a paleness I had a chance to get used to before I died, so nothing unexpected there. Another unsurprising difference from his time as a human is the shining eyes… but in the light of my living room their independent glow is less distinguishable. And of course his clothing is unfamiliar, except as far as it’s the same jeans and button-up I’ve seen on him whenever I’ve met him here in the U.S. — it seems likely vampires don’t have much need to do laundry — but the same old kanji, perhaps representing the same old futile clinging to the past, decorates the jacket lying at his side.
No, the real alteration is in expression and bearing. Just as I observed at our last few meetings but didn’t properly recognize or process, there’s a coldness and hardness about the way he carries himself that is completely alien to the Sagara Sanosuke — even the undead version — I remember. He’s sitting in what should seem a perfectly casual position in the corner of the sofa, but there’s something uncompromising about the pose that I find chillingly foreign. And the lines around his eyes… there’s a bitterness, a harshness there that was never present before. There’s no trace of the joviality or even the anger, the lively passions I so loved in him once upon a time, in face or figure.
Originally I planned on taking a seat near him at the other end of the sofa. But in an echo of the repulsion I’ve felt toward him ever since he walked back into my world last Wednesday — a repulsion I now regrettably understand all too well — I stop in the middle of the room, staring fixedly at him in a mixture of desire to go to him and to get as far away from him as I can.
“Breaking and entering again, I see,” is how I greet him, and the sarcasm in the statement is all Hajime.
He just nods, and the difference in him is even more apparent. Back then, Sano certainly wouldn’t have hesitated to let himself into my home without permission if he felt the need to do so, but — I know this; I knew him — there would have been an emotional reaction to being found there. He would have grinned sheepishly, and (contradictorily) maybe a little triumphantly as well, when confronted with his intrusion. Any compunction would have turned to brazenness, and he would have followed his initial reaction with something flirtatious or suggestive. Or there might even have been anger at the idea that I could possibly object to his presence, given our relationship, or doubt its importance, given whatever reason he’d had for breaking in. He would never merely have nodded with such disinterested acknowledgment.
Furthermore, he’s here now after having done something he freely admits some vampires do specifically to torture their victims. I’m not entirely sure how I feel about having had those memories forced on me, but it was certainly a momentous ordeal that has reordered my entire existence… and yet Sano exhibits none of the uncertainty or guilt I know he would have felt in the Meiji era about approaching someone — especially someone he loved — on whom he’d recently inflicted pain and confusion and transformation for his own purposes. He should be hesitant, concerned, if he truly is the Sano I remember… but he isn’t. He’s sitting, unruffled and with no hint of tentativeness about him, ready to being a life-altering conversation.
And I can’t help thinking this change has occurred not because he’s outgrown the awkwardness of youth and gained a perfect aplomb, but because he’s shed many natural human emotions and reactions. Many of the things that made him Sano. Inadvertently at this thought — which is, after all, only a guess until I have more information — I shudder. For a few moments I can’t bear looking at him, so I move to fetch one of the chairs from my dining table and place it in a spot decently far from but facing him. Then I sit and force myself to meet his gaze once again.
“You’re doing OK with the memories,” he says, and it’s not a query whether I’m all right, just a cool observation.
I nod. I have no comment on that topic, at least not yet. And after all, it isn’t as if he asked a question I need to answer.
He mimics my nod, just slightly. “OK, then. You probably have lots of questions. Where do you want me to start?”
Dealing with this in an orderly fashion seems like the easiest way to keep my head on straight, keep from plunging back into everything that made Wednesday night so hectic. With that in mind I ask, “What happened after I died?”
He gives me a somewhat skeptical look. “That’s a lot of time to cover.”
“You covered a lot of time the other night as well.”
“Even that wasn’t this much. But let’s see…” He leans back, stretching out his legs to cross them at the ankles, and props one elbow on the sofa’s armrest, and the movement and pose are a shiver-inducing echo of my old Sano. So are the words that follow.
I’m reserving judgment on precisely how I feel about Sanosuke at the moment, suppressing Hajime’s profound emotions on the matter as best I can and assessing the vampire from Joe’s point of view. That makes it significantly easier to sit here listening to him speak, easier to attain some sort of impassivity about him and his story. How long I can keep it up I don’t know, but for now at least I’m able to take in what he says without too much intense reaction of heart.
“Your assistant — Hirotaka or whatever his name was — he was just sure Meg and I conspired to kill you and then ran off together.” Sano shakes his head with a smile both bitter and rueful. “I guess I can’t blame him for thinking that; what other explanation was there when you turned up dead, and me and Megumi missing? But seriously…” He laughs faintly, derisively.
“Meg stuck around in Japan for a while, trying to keep practicing medicine. She went to Nagasaki to avoid the heat in Tokyo, and dealt with mostly prostitutes and lowlifes and people who appreciated a doctor who only worked at night. But she found out pretty quick that vampires don’t make good doctors. I think she had some really bad experiences before she decided to call it quits. That was a huge blow to her. Being a doctor was what she always wanted. I don’t even remember how many years she wandered around the world just miserable before she found something else to do with herself.”
I nod my wordless understanding. Apart from feeling I have nothing useful to say in response to these unhappy details, anything I could say on the subject would lead into very uncomfortable territory, and in fact directly to the main reason Sano is here… a reason neither of us, I think, is trying to avoid, but that we’re working up to with a measured account of events in the order they occurred. So instead of commenting on Megumi’s sad fate, I ask, “And what about the rest of your friends? Tsukioka and Battousai and everyone? How did they deal with what happened?”
“I only kept up with them through letters after that.” Sano looks pensive, and there’s definitely some regret there. It’s no surprise he couldn’t interact in person with his living friends once he’d begun needing and craving their blood for his own survival, but it couldn’t have been easy for him to abruptly abandon every relationship he’d formed throughout the second half of his life. “Katsu literally sent me back a letter that was just four giant kanji ‘bakayarou’ when I first wrote to him, but after that we were OK. We wrote each other for a few years, but eventually his newspaper got him killed like we all expected.
“You know I still have a print he did? It’s probably worth a fortune these days, but I still hang onto it.” Sano’s glowing eyes turn distant as he says this, as if he’s seeing into the past. I wonder if that’s a skill some vampires actually have. “Anyway, I heard about him in a letter from Kenshin months and months after it happened: a politically motivated murder trying to send a message to anyone else with bright ideas about exposing dirty truths. It was inevitable, I guess, and I think he was probably happy enough to go that way — doing what he thought would be most helpful to the political situation in Japan — but he was the first. Besides you, I mean.
“And Kenshin… He knew Megumi and I didn’t murder you, of course. Actually he was just sure we were both killed by whoever got you. His response to my first letter was just stupid relieved. Kinda annoyed too — like he couldn’t hide it — that I took so long to reassure him. Just like someone else we knew once. Also I think he had to get the police chief — that guy who liked him so much; what was his name? — to make them stop harassing Kenshin and Kaoru about where Megumi and I might be hiding.”
“Uramura,” I murmur. It’s so strange to think that Sano and I have memories of the same set of days, months, and years, but where his must be a bit hazy at certain points after the passage of over a century, mine are relatively fresh and sharp, since they were the last things to occur during the time just recently restored to me.
Sano nods and moves on. “Kenshin never knew for sure about you and me. I’d have gotten around to telling him eventually, if, you know, we hadn’t both died. But I think he guessed. His first few letters were really… like he was offering condolences and support without actually saying it, even though I’m sure he didn’t like the idea of me being with you. He was always like that. He was a really good guy.”
Though Himura’s death hasn’t actually been mentioned yet, there’s a moment of silence between us that feels deliberate, like a respectful gesture. I always had mixed feelings about the man, and am neither surprised at nor can I disagree with Sano’s speculation about his lack of approval of our relationship, but looking back at him now through Joe’s eyes… and, if I’m to be perfectly honest, with Hajime’s grudging awareness of all the facts of the matter… he truly was exactly what Sano says: a really good guy. I wonder what form he currently inhabits, how his present life is going.
“Of course Kenshin and Kaoru got married eventually,” Sano continues at last, more lightly, “once they figured their shit out. Took ’em even longer to figure out birth control, though, because they just kept having kids. Whatever floats your boat, I guess.” He gestures uncomprehendingly in the air with one pale hand, and I can’t help a brief laugh. “I think Yahiko got tired of the constant baby-making, because he moved out as soon as Kenshin handed over his sakabatou. Into my longhouse, actually…” Again his look is distant, this time with a slight smile. No doubt we’re both remembering that longhouse and what were probably the happiest moments of the end of our lives.
“And Kenshin had to deal with a few more serious enemies before he gave his sword up. I didn’t get many letters from Kaoru, but she always gave me more details than Kenshin did — he would make it sound like it was nothing, but she was more worried about him after every different conflict. And eventually she turned out to be right: all that fighting and struggling to protect people without killing just tore him apart, and he died before he was even fifty. Kaoru lived to be seventy-something, with eight million grandkids, though. Yahiko married her oldest daughter eventually, but I didn’t write them many letters after Kenshin died.”
“And where were you writing letters from?” I know this will usher us into the story of the next hundred years, the real story Sano is here to tell, and drop us off at the doorstep of the question he’s here to ask, the offer he’s here to make. But that’s the point we’ve reached — everything has been laid out sensibly, and this is the next step; I’m as ready for it as I’ll ever be.
“Oh, all over the place. There wasn’t much reason for me to stick around Japan after you died, and a lot of good reasons to leave. Even if I wasn’t wanted for murdering a government agent, they held your funeral during the day, of course. I did hear eventually, from Kenshin, that a bunch of interesting people showed up — him, to begin with, and Chou, and some of your old Shinsengumi buddies who were still alive… You’d have been surprised how popular it turned out you were.”
The half amused and half dismissive hn sound that comes out of my mouth has nothing whatsoever to do with my current life.
“So at first I just wandered. Learned about vampires a bit more, figured out how to keep going without too many random murders. Thought about killing myself but never quite went through with it. I probably would have eventually, but then I ran into this kid — this really nice little eleven-year-old Māori kid — in New Zealand. Before that I never thought much about what I believed about the afterlife — it was too painful, with all the people in my life who were already dead. But this kid… this kid was Sagara Souzou.
“It was such a huge shock; I had to stick around his village night after night after night until I could be absolutely sure I wasn’t imagining things, and they thought some evil spirit was haunting them or something.” He chuckles darkly. “They were right about that! But the point is, it was proof that reincarnation is a thing. That’s when I realized I had something to keep living for — though of course ‘living’ isn’t the right word.” He fixes me with a sudden direct gaze that, with the vampire brightness of his eyes, is startling and piercing. It’s almost hypnotic, like every glance of those eyes the other night. I can’t look away. “I realized,” he corrects himself, “I had something — someone— I could be looking for.”