“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 December 30, 2018
Somewhat unusually and not entirely to my satisfaction, the elderly Oguni rather than the younger and more hale Takani was the one dragged from bed to assist me once I’d made it to the clinic of my choice. Of course the man’s medical skills were not in question, and at that point my attitude was very much, ‘Any port in a storm,’ but I was conscious of some disappointment at not finding the woman there. Not only had I come to regard her as a useful ally, and someone to whom more details of the night’s events could be given than to the other doctor, she, as the examiner of all the bodies, was already involved in this affair, whereas the old man was not.
Thankfully I had no broken bones, though the damage to muscle and tendon was bad enough. Between the growing swelling that already constricted my movement in some areas and the pain throughout my body, it was more or less a miracle I’d gotten as far as the clinic in the first place. After a thorough and painful (though mercifully quick) examination, Oguni dispatched a preteen messenger — a great-nephew, I thought, awakened to act as the clinic’s errand boy and apparently not averse to the adventure — to rouse someone that worked at the closest icehouse and purchase a certain quantity for use on my various strains and bruises. Then Oguni declared that, though my life was in no particular danger, pressure, cold, and rest would be required in fairly copious amounts to ensure continued full function of limb — and he got to work with bandages.
The pain wasn’t the worst of it, nor the knowledge that I’d been brought so low by such an apparent amateur. It was the prospect of being forced to stay here with these constrictive wrappings on — the one around my left shoulder was already proving particularly troublesome — pressing ice over internal wounds and languishing in ineffectual stillness while the murderer I sought perhaps struck again. The doctor was already musing on the possibility that several days’ worth of motionlessness except for the gentlest of stretches would prove necessary for my complete recovery. And while I grudgingly agreed to be clinic-bound for the entire coming day, to anything beyond that I would not consent. I didn’t declare this aloud, but I was fairly sure the doctor recognized my resolve, for with a disapproving expression he merely tightened up some of the bandages, applied the ice more firmly, and recommended a dose of laudanum.
The latter I resisted at first, a little worried I might have been followed here and disliking the idea of being unconscious or, at best, hazy-headed if my attacker were to strike again; but eventually I gave in upon consideration that, if he should reappear, I would be in no condition to deal with him in any case, and therefore might as well take advantage of the analgesic and the assistance toward sleep while it was available.
Exactly how many hours I was unconscious I couldn’t be sure, but it was mid-morning when I awoke, groggy and breathing shallowly, to find Takani giving my throbbing wrapped injuries another once-over with ice. I wondered pointlessly if they’d replenished the supply or if this was about the end of it; I had a vague idea I had been iced continually as I slept, though that might have been a drug-induced dream.
“Stay still,” the doctor commanded, putting her free hand on my right shoulder to keep me from trying to sit up. “This round’s almost done.”
I attempted some deep breaths; somehow it seemed I couldn’t get enough air into my lungs, and this paradoxically made me crave a cigarette. My voice as a consequence sounded weak as I asked, “What time is it?”
“That doesn’t matter,” she replied firmly, “because you won’t be going anywhere or doing anything for several hours at least.”
I let out a faint breath that was the closest thing to a laugh I could manage at this point. “You are formidable, doctor.”
“That means a lot coming from you.” A faint smile showed on her face, but overall her expression was dark. She probably knew just as well as her associate did how soon I planned on rising and resuming my work, and that there was little she could do to stop it. And as if she didn’t want to hear me say so, she changed the subject by asking, “What happened to you?”
“I had a run-in with the man I suspect is our murderer. Can you send a message to the police station for me?”
She blinked, as if the seeming non sequitur took a moment to parse. Then she asked suspiciously, “What kind of message?”
“To bring my assistant here. If I’m going to be lying around uselessly all day, I can at least get something done through him.”
At this Takani seemed to relax a trifle. “Of course.” She let the cloth-wrapped ice (which had gradually been transforming into merely a wet cloth) fall into a bowl that sat nearby, and, taking this in hand, rose to her feet. “Anything else you need?”
“A package of cigarettes,” I deadpanned. She gave me a very severe look whose reproof lessened very little even when she realized I was joking, and left the room.
When the same boy as last night — if his meticulously wide-eyed enthusiasm was anything to go by, he had aspirations to the medical profession himself — had been brought in to receive a verbal message I wasn’t sure I could put to paper at the moment, then departed, Takani began cleaning up the melted remains, on and around me, of the morning’s icing process. The pain occasioned by the blows I had received was still somewhat numb throughout my body, consequent on the lingering effects of the laudanum, but I thought those effects also accounted for my inability to breathe quite properly, and I couldn’t decide how quickly I would prefer them to diminish. I was still groggy, too, but definitely didn’t want to sleep anymore; there were tasks to be set in motion, even if I couldn’t do them myself.
At length Takani remarked, “I suppose you’d rather not give me details of what happened last night, but it might be useful for me to know.”
“I don’t mind giving you details,” I replied in all honesty. “You’re not likely to get yourself killed doing something stupid with the information.”
“Another compliment!” This time there was definitely a smile on her face. “Though I wonder if that wasn’t really an insult aimed at somebody else.”
Since insulting Sanosuke in his absence only made me miss him to no purpose, and since speaking with these shallow breaths seems to render it wiser to limit my remarks to the more important ones, I got to the point. “A woman named Tomizawa Nori has been stalked lately, possibly by her missing fiancé, who may be the murderer I’m looking for.” I went on to describe with some specificity the events that had landed me here. As I spoke, I came gradually to adjust to the seemingly lower level of air entering my lungs, until my breathing and speech felt almost normal; meanwhile Takani, having finished her cleanup work, leaned against the counter and watched me, as she listened, with critical eyes.
“That’s interesting,” was her eventual remark when I had finished. “Strength and speed but no training or combative abilities?”
“Remarkable strength.” I made a small gesture to the numerous pressure wraps across my body, but quickly returned my hand to its prone position beside me when the motion proved uncomfortable.
“Well, we already knew he was very strong — assuming this is the murderer — based on what Tsukioka-san had to say after he was attacked… but who would have guessed, after that description, he would turn out to be so unskilled?”
I wanted to nod, but there was a spot on my neck and another on my face — already aggravated by the small movements of lip and jaw required for speech — that ached and stung and contraindicated the gesture. I wondered what these bruises looked like from the outside. Eventually I agreed aloud and elaborated. “Sometimes a madman may be superhumanly strong, and these murders certainly have seemed insane… but would a madman have the knowledge and precision required to drain bodies of so much blood and leave hardly any trace of what he’d done?”
“It’s possible…” She trailed off, the fingers of one hand tapping thoughtfully against the opposite arm. “If he’s a doctor or a scientist, that might explain both what he wants the blood for — or at least it would suggest a reason, if he’s conducting some kind of experiment — and also his lack of combat training. Do you know what your suspect’s profession was before he disappeared?”
“Merchant. He dealt in building materials. I don’t know that he had any connection with any medical or scientific profession. It’s not a bad theory, though.”
Mutely she shook her head. Then a long silence fell during which she seemed reluctant to leave the room but unable to think of an alternative. My guess was that, having examined the murder victims and assisted Tsukioka after his attack, she felt too caught up in this simply to walk away, but had no idea what else she could do. Fortunately, as I’d said, she wasn’t likely to plunge impetuously into danger trying to figure it out. It was nice to have someone so level-headed around. Though some part of me put in at this point that having a specific someone a little less level-headed around might have been nice too, in a different way.
The ensuing conversation, broken by wordless periods during which we both, presumably, contemplated the matter to minor effect and I tried to ignore my injuries, brought her up to speed on what details she hadn’t been acquainted with yet. It surprised me somewhat, but I found I really didn’t mind telling her everything about the case; evidently I considered her an even better consultant than I’d realized. Not that it helped. The point we kept returning to was the difficulty of reconciling any rational motivation for the murders with the amount of blood stolen from the victims. Under normal circumstances, reasons for murder were thick on the ground, and if the theft of blood was discounted it was no difficult matter to assign a motive to these crimes. But the theft of blood could not be discounted.
When Hironaku arrived, it was with evident and great reluctance that Takani vacated the room with the comment, “Call if you need anything; I won’t be far off.” I was tempted to tease her with another mention of cigarettes, but decided against it.
“Sir,” my assistant breathed in horror, wringing his police cap between hands that threatened to twist it out of all usefulness, “what happened?” He was looking me over with eyes as wide, and probably just as observant, as the messenger boy’s had been, and I reflected that whatever bruises were not currently covered in bandages must indeed be a sight to behold.
“I may have found our suspect.” And there may have been a touch of flippancy in my reply to his flabbergasted question and gaze.
“And he did this? To you?” Though Hironaku had never seen me so much as draw my sword, ever since being assigned to assist me he’d had an almost unaccountable regard for my strength and combative skill. I knew there were certain rumors that navigated the police force from time to time — quite ridiculous, some of them, though others were closer to the truth — about my history and abilities, and Hironaku must have been listening. His attitude at the moment, however, was more irritating than amusing. He needed to stop goggling at me and consider how to be productive.
I had barely started describing last night’s encounter for a second time this morning — and more sternly than I’d delivered my previous remark as I tried to get Hironaku to think rationally — when I heard a commotion outside the room. Takani’s provoked tone, though raised, was unable to hide another voice I recognized instantly, and I became more irritated than ever at my own immediate pleased reaction to the sound. Only moments later, despite the doctor’s attempts at preventing it, the door flew open, and my difficult-to-deal-with lover entered.
For a few moments I sat quietly in the bed and watched as three outraged people made chaos in front of me — Hironaku outraged at what he considered a gross invasion of an officer’s privacy by a random unrelated party and demanding the intruder remove himself immediately, Takani outraged at essentially the same thing and insisting I needed calm and quiet above all else, and Sanosuke outraged because… well, he was Sanosuke, wasn’t he?
The scene carried a certain entertainment value, especially as I observed the seemingly very effective man-handling abilities of the good doctor, but what humor I could draw from it quickly turned to aggravation as, despite her strength of personality, her strength of body proved insufficient to eject this latest visitor from the room. Hironaku’s comments accomplished little in that direction either, and Sano managed to advance halfway toward the futon with the two of them essentially in tow and no coherent dialogue among the three. So I snapped out an imperious demand for silence, and, despite the pain in my face in so doing, made it loud enough it could not be ignored.
Though he’d undoubtedly come because I was here, Sano didn’t seem to have looked very clearly at me up until this moment, and now his brows went down and his jaw somewhat slack as he took in the bruises and the highly bandaged shirtless upper half that showed above the blanket. “Shit,” he muttered, shaking off the others almost without effort or apparent thought and moving right up to the bed. “You…” He didn’t seem to know what to say, and eventually just added, “Shit,” again. Unlike Hironaku, he had seen me draw my sword, and was therefore fitter to assess the seriousness of this situation. Moreover, he had an emotional involvement that (I sincerely hoped) Hironaku distinctly lacked, which must make this scene all the more distressing to him.
However much I might have enjoyed hearing it, I didn’t allow him to express his concern — assuming he would eventually have been able to — since I was in turn a little distressed by the stricken look on his face and wanted to put things on a more businesslike footing. “What are you doing here?” I asked.
Immediately the outrage returned. “I saw that kid–” he gestured around– “he’s the one they always use around here for running errands and shit — going into the police station, and when I saw this guy come out and head straight for the clinic, I thought–”
In the middle of his second gesture, this one at Hironaku, I broke in. “And what were you doing outside the police station?”
“I was–” Sano cut his explanation short and glanced around. He was glowering, but when his eyes returned to mine I could see the dismay and worry not far beneath. And yet he still had the presence of mind to question silently whether I really wanted him to answer and, essentially, reveal all.
I found I didn’t care at this point. I was glad he was here, but I was annoyed he was here. I appreciated his concern, but not his storming in here and interrupting. And if he’d been waiting around outside the police station for me, possibly hoping to reassure himself with a sight of me alive and well… well, I appreciated that too… and it also annoyed me. This relationship of ours would be difficult to maintain if everything each of us did so continually aggravated the other. But I’d known that going in. The others in this room might as well know it too. I gave Sano an expectant and impatient look.
In response, Sano’s thunderous expression deepened, and he said loudly and with some defiance, “I thought you would come back to my place again after you were done for the night and get some sleep. So when you didn’t show up, I was worried.” His voice dropped to an unhappy mutter as he added, “Looks like I was right, too.”
The phrase ‘come back to my place again and get some sleep’ could potentially have been interpreted in a couple of different ways, but only at a stretch. The expressions on the other two faces in the room — Takani’s in particular — made an interesting picture. Hironaku had some strange larger-than-life impression of me, and if he thought me capable of romance at all, I doubted a former kenkaya fit his mental image of my type. And the doctor knew me to some extent, knew my history with Sano — including the stabbing — and knew Sano even better than that, well enough never to have seen this coming.
As I looked past him at the two gaping people just behind, Sano’s face slowly took on a pinkish hue. Though still angry, still deeply concerned about my condition, now he was also a trifle embarrassed. Well, he had been the one to insist on bursting in here and stalling a police discussion with personal concerns. Though as I saw him square his shoulders slightly, it occurred to me that, chagrined though he was, it wasn’t the disclosure he minded so much as the manner, completely out of his control, in which the information had come to light. I couldn’t say I disagreed.
“Well, as you can see, I took some damage last night, but I’m in no danger now. I was about to tell Hironaku what happened. If you sit down and shut up, you can listen too.”
Sano started in surprise. “You’re not going to kick me out of here?”
“Not if you can behave yourself,” I replied, gesturing to the spot beside my futon. I wasn’t about to admit I might not be physically capable of kicking him out of here at the moment.
Appearing simultaneously pleased and just as disturbed as before, he dropped to his knees beside me.
“Sir…” Hironaku’s voice was half curious and half protesting, with an overlay of doubt. Takani, on the other hand, remained silent. She seemed to have returned to relative placidity after the shock of revelation, but I doubted she knew what to say just yet.
I didn’t give her the chance to think of anything, nor Hironaku any response at all. I simply started again on the story of the skirmish I’d taken part in. After not too long, Sano reached for my hand, and I had to ponder briefly whether I would allow him to hold it. It actually wasn’t that difficult a decision, considering his presence really was a comfort and the others in the room now knew about our relationship. The young man was even savvy enough not to move my arm with the gesture, so I couldn’t complain.
When I’d finished the tale, Hironaku, who had gone a bit breathless without needing any laudanum, said what he’d obviously been longing to ever since the relevant moment in my discourse: “That matches the description we have of Shibue!”
“It does, but don’t get too excited; what I saw was so limited, it could match any number of descriptions.”
“It does seem like it must be Shibue, though, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” I admitted, “it does. We can’t assume, but that is seeming more and more likely.”
“And what about Tomizawa Nori?”
“I spoke to her immediately after my attacker disappeared. Based on what she said about her missing fiancé, I didn’t feel it was wise to tell her he’s under suspicion along with her brother; I just informed her that her stalker may be more dangerous than we had realized, advised her to increase her guard, and told her the police would be in touch. I think now, though, it would be safest to take her into protective custody. Even if this person who’s been watching her is her fiancé, we have no way of knowing what his intentions toward her might be. If he’s our murderer, it’s possible he’s less than entirely sane. I don’t want the woman’s dead body to be the next thing the doctor here has to examine.”
“Thank you,” Takani said quietly with a nod.
Hironaku glanced at her as if he’d forgotten she was there, but must have remembered me discussing details in front of her in the past, for he made no complaint. As if to compensate for that lack of complaint, however, his next glance was at Sano — who had, to his credit, been remarkably quiet throughout this conversation — definitely with some disapproval. But all he said was, “I’ll send someone over there.”
“Quietly,” I ordered. “Plain clothes. And tell her to keep her personal security guards at the house as if she’s still there.”
“Yes, sir. Do you want a police presence there as well?”
I paused for a moment before answering. I had been thinking about this, and, though I’d reached a decision, I wasn’t entirely satisfied with it. If Shibue or whoever he was realized Nori had left, he probably wouldn’t return to that house — assuming it was Nori drawing him there in the first place and not something to do with the building itself. Police walking the grounds would probably suggest Nori’s continued residence, which might invite the unknown man to attack again, which could allow him to be identified more specifically or even captured… except that the attacker I’d fought last night had been so reluctant to allow me, a single officer, to see him, it seemed highly unlikely he would be willing to approach a group of such. A smaller number on patrol might draw him in better, but the average police officer — or even two or three of them — wouldn’t stand a chance against the stranger’s strength and speed. A lack of police presence — using the security guards as bait, as it were — might make Shibue feel safer to approach, but might also, again, lessen the implication that Nori was actually still inside and simultaneously any desire Shibue would have to approach.
“No,” I finally said. “We’ll get reports from the guards if the suspect shows up there again.”
“We’re counting on private security?” Hironaku wondered skeptically.
“The security guards are only a precaution. I’m afraid Nori’s house is going to be a dead end to us after this.”
“And I want the observation of the Tomizawa brother tightened up. I want to know everywhere he goes, everyone he speaks to, and details on every member of his household. If he and Shibue are working together on these murders, they have to be communicating somehow.”
“So less focus on his business and more on his personal life?”
“It would be preferable to cover every angle,” I said with a sigh, “but we only have so many operatives.”
“I could–” Sano began.
I cut him off without even looking at him. “No.” Practically feeling his hand growing hotter in mine with his anger at having yet another offer of assistance rejected, I added quietly, “We’ll talk about it in a minute.”
Sano shifted, made a small grumbling noise, then subsided.
“Yes, sir,” Hironaku said belatedly.
“Send verbal reports with any updates to me here.” I sensed Takani tensing at these words, and guessed she wanted to reiterate just how long I needed to be receiving those reports in this location. Before she could, I added, “I’ll let you know when I’m at home again. It won’t be any earlier than tomorrow morning.” And at this the doctor’s lips and eyebrows pressed together, and she said nothing.
“Yes, sir.” Hironaku hesitated before turning to leave. “Any other orders?”
“Just be careful. Our suspect is incredibly strong, even if he lacks training. He’s been reluctant to let himself be seen, so try to keep to public places or groups, at least for now.” Hironaku was less relentlessly irritating than most of the assistants they assigned me for things like this, and I didn’t want to sacrifice him to the blood thief if I didn’t have to.
With another, “Yes, sir,” he bowed and left the room.
Takani watched him go, then slowly folded her arms and gave Sano and me a very calculating look that seemed to rest longest on our clasped hands. “Well,” she said at last, “as interesting as listening to police orders is, I think this development is even more so.”
Sano’s grin was somewhat sheepish. “Yeah, it’s kinda crazy, isn’t it?”
She shook her head with a wry smile, her eyes still roving over us both. “It certainly is. And I can’t decide whether to scold you about harassing my patient, or scold my patient about potentially hurting you.” And though she spoke lightly, I could tell she meant ‘hurting’ in the most serious sense. It was about the reaction I’d expected from Sano’s friends. God knew how it would be compounded when Himura eventually found out.
And what could I say to her? That Sano’s safety — physical and emotional (probably, by necessity, in that order) — had become one of the highest priorities in my life? I certainly didn’t plan on making avowals of devotion in this woman’s presence, for all I felt we’d become closer lately and today even something like friends. So what I decided on was, “Don’t worry; I’ll send him away if he causes any trouble.”
Seeming to accept this, at least for now, she laughed. “This is Sanosuke we’re talking about.”
“Hey!” Sano protested. “Saitou’s obviously been way more trouble than me today!”
“He has.” And Takani gave me a warning look I knew very well not to disregard. Her concerns were unfounded but understandable; I simply had nothing I was willing to say at the moment to refute them.
The doctor transferred her steely gaze to the young man beside me and said, “I suppose it’s all right if you stay with him, especially if that will encourage him to stay, but you might as well make yourself useful as long as you’re here. I’m going to send for some more ice.” And with that she left the room.
Not wasting an instant, Sano turned toward me, bent over, and kissed me — more gently than his abrupt movements had promised. It aggravated the bruises on my face, but I enjoyed it well enough. When he pulled away, he was scowling again. “You asshole. Why would you send for your stupid assistant and not me?”
“Who says I didn’t send for you? You weren’t at home for a messenger to find.”
Taken aback Sano wondered, “Did you?”
“No,” I admitted. “But I would have, after my work was done.”
Sano looked as if he didn’t know whether or not to believe me, but still, almost against his will, liked what he’d heard. “So you do want me around,” he said in a tone that was equal parts grumbling and flirtatious.
“Of course I do, ahou. How else could I warn you about this new danger?”
Obviously irritated at this implication that, rather than actually desiring him near me, I merely wanted to lecture him, Sano made a frustrated noise and flopped onto his side, propping himself up on an elbow. This allowed me to lie down more fully as well without him towering over me quite so much.
“I don’t want you testing yourself against this enemy,” I said wearily. “I want you to take the same precautions I gave Hironaku: keep to public places and groups as much as possible. I’m going to give the same advice to the staff here. Until we know more about this man and are able to plan an assault on him that won’t fail, I don’t want to give him another chance to get at anyone he thinks might be involved. Especially you.”
“You think he’ll come after me?”
“I have no idea. But if he didn’t know before which investigator specifically is pursuing him, he does now. That may make you a target. And he is very strong.”
“It’s kinda more you I’m worried about at this point. I can take care of myself–” and before I could protest, Sano added grudgingly, “–and I’ll take those stupid precautions — but you’re lying here wounded not in a public place or a group.”
“Then it’s a good thing I have you to protect me.”
At first his scowl deepened at the sarcasm I just couldn’t keep out of my tone, but gradually his face smoothed as he realized that, facetiousness notwithstanding, I was making a legitimate request. He sat up again and looked down at me. “You really want me to stay here with you.” His intonation had the disbelieving flatness of a statement rather than the rise of a question.
“You’re my precaution in this scenario,” I replied, instead of telling him I’d prefer him in that role than anyone else in the world, or something else similarly maudlin.
“Guess I’d better stay, then.” His put-on casualness was a sort of mirror to my professionalism: a mask over what he really meant. He lay back down, and this time didn’t prop his head up but rested on his outstretched arm. After a few moments he said, “But, damn, Saitou, you really know how to scare a guy. Coming in here and seeing you all purple-faced and shit…”
“Should I apologize?” I wondered sarcastically.
He chuckled unhappily. “Only, I didn’t think it was possible. The last time I saw you get your ass handed to you, it was by Shishio. I really don’t want to think you’re up against another Shishio-level enemy practically all by yourself.”
And yet again we were back to the idea of his helping me out on this case. He just wouldn’t let it go. And I was too tired and sore to debate any further at the moment. “Cheer up,” I said, sounding as worn out as I felt. “Maybe he’ll spontaneously combust.”
Somewhat mournfully still, Sano chuckled again.
No matter how much I would like to pretend otherwise, I’ve been dreading this. The aversion I’ve felt regarding Sanosuke from the moment he walked into this current life of mine is based not merely on the fact that he is a vampire, an obligate murderer, but also on the point about to be raised in this already ambivalent conversation.
“It’s gonna be up to you like always.”
“…someone I could be looking for.”
“You’re gonna have a choice to make here after not too long.”
I can’t ask him what happened next, can’t prompt him to continue his story as I did before. He’s going to tell me no matter what I do, and I don’t have the courage to speed that process. At the same time, I can’t stop staring, and I don’t think vampiric allure has anything to do with it. I may not want him to go on, but I won’t shy from that inevitability. Can he see the antipathy in my eyes as I look at him? I’m sorry for that.
He takes and releases a deep, preparatory breath, and I’m reminded so poignantly of his panic at finding himself unbreathing in those first moments when he awoke a vampire that I draw a sudden, quick gasp into my own, working human lungs without thinking.
“Saitou Hajime died in 1879,” Sano begins quietly at last. “Nine months later, in 1880, the same guy was born named Fernando in Brazil. It took me about sixteen years to find him, though; I was almost ready to give up, but that’s never been something I’m very good at.” A slight, wry smile touches his pale lips, but this time I can’t return it. It doesn’t touch his voice. “By then you were in Canudos and could have seriously benefited from super strength and immortality… but you still didn’t want it, even when I told you how you died before — I couldn’t do the giving-back-memories thing yet at that point. So you died again in 1897.”
“Canudos?” I echo.
“Look it up,” he replies, somewhat harshly. “You don’t need to remember all your past lives.”
I shudder. “No, I don’t,” I agree.
“But after that,” he goes on, his tone growing even harder, “I watched you die again in 1920, 1957, and 1980. I’ve watched you die five times, Saitou. Every time it’s because you refused to let me change you. Every fucking time. You could have lived, we could have been together forever, but every fucking time you said no. You just made me watch.”
The pain in his voice is beyond anything I can fathom, and contemplating what his existence has been since Japan is almost more than my mind and heart can handle. I can’t say a word.
“You always thought I’d get myself killed doing something stupid before I was twenty-five…” He laughs bitterly. “But Canudos… the Rif War… riots in Johannesburg… the fucking Persian Gulf… here I am a hundred and forty-eight, and you’re the one who can’t get through half a life.”
Still I’m unable to speak. What must he have endured, finding me again and again, helplessly watching me die time after time… what must he have suffered?
“It doesn’t have to be that way…”
And that’s what it comes down to: the same point, I suppose, it came down to every lifetime: my power to bring this series of tragedies to a halt, to end his suffering.
“And eventually I’m not gonna ask; I’m just gonna–“
It didn’t mean anything to me when I overheard him telling Takani this outside the convenience store, but now the chilling significance of the statement strikes me with cruel, inexorable force. Eventually he isn’t going to ask for my permission, whether I want him to save my life or not, whether I want to share his eternal fate. He’s simply going to force the issue the moment he finds me.
The deep and multifaceted horror I feel at this idea must show in my face, for his twists and hardens in despair and frustration as he looks quickly away from me. “I’m not strong,” he whispers. “You always said it back then, and it was true. I’m not good enough. I’m becoming just like the rest of them no matter how hard I try.
“I can’t stand to give you up, to let you live your own lives and go on without you… but time changes me, and every time I meet you again I’m a worse person than I was before. Someday the Sagara Sanosuke you knew in Japan will be completely gone, and all that’ll be left will be this monster who’ll turn you without thinking and keep you forever like a slave or a pet. And I know I should just walk out into the sun and end all this, but then I think about finding you again and I can’t do it.
“I still love you. I’ve loved every version of you, every time; there are things about people that don’t change no matter how many times they’re reborn, no matter what situation they’re born into or what kind of parents they have or how they grow up — and you’re always the same guy who fights to make things right, who fights until he dies to make things better for people, fights for whatever he believes in and somehow always manages to believe the right things. I’ll always love that. And I don’t want to hurt you, but one of these days it’s going to happen. And I don’t know what to do about it.”
Silence falls like a heavy weight. We’ve reached a juncture where I must speak, and can’t allow not having the faintest idea what to say to keep me from saying something. I open my mouth, but how can I express even a fraction of what’s going through my head?
I anticipated what the eventual primary topic of this conversation would be, and I recoiled… but I see now I was responding solely to the same abhorrence I felt at the time of my death in Japan: an aversion to the prospect of losing my humanity. Now as the full implications of the situation slowly dawn on me, my emotional reaction broadens immeasurably. Because whatever he is or is becoming, the fact that Sano never stopped searching the world for me crashes down on me like a weight as heavy as the silence, sending out ripples through all my other thoughts and feelings.
He never was, as he freely admits, very good at giving up, of letting go of the past; in fact I even wondered just a few minutes ago whether his continued insistence on wearing that aku ichimonji isn’t an indication that this aspect of his character hasn’t changed. But for that stubborn tenacity still to be in ascendancy over a century later? It’s enough to startle even someone that knew him intimately during his mortal life.
There is, however, a certain question I’ve been assiduously dodging the way I won’t allow myself to do with the offer he’s here to make, and only in this avoidance, this suppression of an important point, could I possibly be at all surprised at learning how devotedly he has sought me out over the years. He loves me. He said it himself, and it wasn’t as if I didn’t know it — but the true strength and depth of that love, a love that could keep him endlessly on my trail despite my inevitable reception of him every single time, is something I never recognized — and something that’s making my heart beat rapidly now.
His dogged disinclination to let go of the past cannot account for everything he’s done, and wasn’t I just recalling, with some sorrow at its apparent loss, his intense emotionality? That inability to let go could only send him on this hopeless eternal quest when combined with a profound and dedicated love — a love I underestimated, both in Japan and certainly here and now. Here, at least, because I wouldn’t allow myself to look at it squarely, because I didn’t — and don’t — want to face the related question, Do I still love him? In part because that question and its answer will make his offer all the more complicated to deal with in its turn.
“I’m sorry.” The words that eventually emerge from my open mouth seem ridiculously, agonizingly inadequate. Are they better than saying nothing at all? I don’t know. “I’m sorry it’s been so painful for you. I wanted to save you from…” Helplessly I pause. At the time I didn’t know what I wanted to save him from; plain death was the worst I could imagine. If I’d even dreamed of this possibility, of course I would have tried with all my power to guard him from it… but none of us had any idea. “…everything.” It’s true enough, if still ridiculously inadequate.
Though he accepts my statement with a nod, there’s a faintly afflicted expression on his face indicating he knows perfectly well, as I do, that we’ve slipped from the main point. “This wasn’t something you could save me from,” he says, lifting a ghostly pale hand. “Even if we’d known more about vampires at the time — or anything about vampires — there wasn’t a lot we could have done.”
“We could have stayed inside at night,” I suggest with a shake of my head. This is prompted by the back of that raised hand, which, from wrist to fingertips, is covered with an unexpected, familiar burned patch. That must have been there the whole time, of course — I specifically took note of the paleness of his hands the first night — but I didn’t notice it until it meant something to me.
“That wouldn’t have helped. Remember, I wasn’t a random attack.”
I frown. I do remember. Just as I remember the circumstances of that burn. “We’re lucky the sun didn’t kill you that first day.” I’m still staring at his hand where he’s lowered it to his leg once again. It’s easier than looking at his face.
“‘Lucky,'” he snorts. “Right.”
Taken aback by the bitterness in his tone but not quite ready to discuss the disturbing changes to his character, I remark instead, questioningly, “That still looks almost fresh.”
Sano raises the appendage a second time and gives it the type of nearly blank look generally used to examine an already quite familiar object. “Vampires may be a lot stronger than humans,” he says at last, “but we grow and heal a lot slower. It takes a lot of blood to get rid of something like this. ”
My emotions at this information are indescribable. He’s carried that mark for over a century when presumably he could have hastened the healing process by consuming more blood. He hasn’t given in yet. He isn’t a… Well, he is. He is a monster. No matter how he restrains himself, he’s still a vampire, someone who preys on his fellow man in order to survive. The urge that’s arisen within me — to go to him, to hold him, to kiss his scarred hand — is overwhelmed by the familiar cold reluctance.
Maybe he senses that resurgence of hesitancy, for he brings us back around to our earlier topic. “The point is–” He sounds unhappy and impatient– “this isn’t your fault, and you shouldn’t feel sorry about it. It wasn’t even my fault,” he adds with only the hint of a sour smile. “You did everything you could, and I was even ready to listen to you for once. How were we supposed to know stepping out to use the bathroom would get me killed?”
Again I shake my head.
He takes another unnecessary deep breath. “There’s only one part of the situation you have any control over. And I’m still myself enough to give you a choice, for now.”
“I know,” I murmur, averse to hearing him say it unequivocally but knowing he’s about to.
And he does. As he leans forward, my eyes are drawn inexorably from the sun-scorched hand on his knee to his chalky, earnest face — the face I so loved in a previous life. “Let me make you a vampire, Saitou. Stay with me forever this time.”
I wonder if in previous instances he framed it as a question rather than a command. It doesn’t much matter — except as an illustration of the gradual alterations he’s undergoing — because the answer is still no. Just as it was in Japan, just as it has been every time, just as it always will be. He must know, based on those aspects of my character that remain the same throughout every reincarnation, that I could never consent to become an undiscerning killer. In fact it hurts that he would even ask, continue to ask, as if that might change. But I suppose the idea of giving me up, giving up the only means he can think of to be with me for more than a single too-short lifetime, is just as horrific to him as I find the idea of indiscriminately murdering innocent people to meet my own selfish needs.
And how long can this cycle go on? Anguish, protracted on his part and brief but endlessly repeated on mine; rejection, turmoil, unwanted personal metamorphosis? Death after death after death? How long can he hold out? Next time — hell, perhaps this time — will my refusal of his plan be met with a snap of teeth and a return to that sensationless tunnel, at whose end in this instance will lie slavery and self-loathing? Or is he stronger than he thinks, and this process is destined to repeat far oftener than either of us can anticipate? Will I be stepping from my flying car onto the landing pad of my floating apartment in the year 2500 to confront a pale, unknown but unnervingly familiar visitor approaching me with an offer to which the answer will still be no?
I wonder what I’ve said to his question — or command — in the past. Not the purport of my reply, but what words and demeanor I’ve used. For I find that now, no matter how decisive my opinion, it won’t come out of my mouth. Just as I couldn’t bring myself to tell him I didn’t remember him, to crush his distant hope that something in me might have recognized my old love without his having to resort to vampiric tricks to restore my memory, I can’t straightforwardly tell him the method he has in mind for keeping us together forever is and must always be totally unacceptable. At least not now. Perhaps I do love him, and can’t admit it. I know, whatever my feelings, I don’t want to cause him further suffering. It seems so simple to say, “No,” and yet I find it’s something I have to work up to.
“I’m going to need some time,” I finally manage, “to think about this.”
He doesn’t complain, or demand to know how much time, or protest that it’s a really easy question — which it is — or give any of the passionate reactions I’ve stopped expecting from him but part of me yet craves. He merely nods. I get the feeling, however, he’s disappointed just as he was when I couldn’t offer any verbal reply to, “Do you remember me?” He undoubtedly knows what I’ll eventually say; it would require a flagrant repression of pattern recognition beyond even Sanosuke’s stubbornness not to be aware of that. As such, I may actually be prolonging his suffering exactly as I was reflecting I’d prefer not to in failing to say it candidly now… but still I can’t manage it. I’m simply incapable. He mentioned there are challenges he feels he’s not strong enough to meet — completely different than what I had in mind when I disparaged his strength in the Meiji era — perhaps without realizing that I too suffer from weakness in certain unexpected areas.
Another silence falls, this one unbearably tense. No, he didn’t ask how long I needed or complain about the ease with which I should be able to come up with an answer… but surely, underneath this wordlessness, he doesn’t believe the time I require will be a mere matter of seconds or minutes? That I’ll say what I have to say here on the spot? The thought almost makes me smile, incongruously in the midst of this painful drama, since it would be so characteristic of the old Sano. And I wish I could at least produce some timeframe, some estimated period during which I can hope to work up the nerve to give him the forthright answer that’s already in my head. But I can’t even do that much.
And after a while he demonstrates he is not, in fact, waiting for me to speak again. He abruptly leaves the sofa, prompting me to stand as well, and says, “I’ll come back tomorrow night and see how you’re doing.” And though his movement was startling, his words are a relief: that he didn’t declare he would return for my answer, only to check on me. He has some kindness and consideration left, whatever he’s lost.
It’s my turn to nod blankly, since I can’t think of anything to say or which of my many interconnected feelings to allow on display. And instead of trying to figure out how I’m going to tell him what I have to tell him, I’m staring at his familiar yet altered figure, his still-beautiful face, and remembering happier days.
Between one memory and the next, he’s gone. I actually hear the soft sounds of the door opening and closing this time, but I’m too caught up in emotion and contemplation to add this information to my dilettantish interest in how silently vampires do or don’t move. Without looking after him, my eyes in fact locked on the space where he previously stood, I remain motionless for several moments in my bright, empty living room. Then I step slowly to the sofa and sit down exactly where he sat. The abnormal chill in the slight depression is the only remaining sign he was even here.
I press my palm against the cool spot on the couch’s side where for a while Sano’s arm rested, thinking of that old burn and everything he said to me, everything he’s suffered, and everything I need to say to him. Presently I lean forward, removing my back from a cushion that’s already losing the elusive coldness of Sano’s presence under the influence of my own, and drop my head into my hands.
I couldn’t say I knew something was wrong, for no identifiable sense gave me any such information. Even the paranoia that must have generated the idea, based on an underlying and never-stilled concern about certain possible combinations of events, was not clearly apparent when I awoke. At first I recognized only the absence of Sano and the presence of a feeling that something was wrong.
Of course there were a number of possible explanations for his having risen and left the room, the most logical of which was a need to visit the toilet. Or he could be having a conversation with one of the doctors; he might even be assisting in some midnight business for which medical clinics were specifically prepared. He could have stepped outside for some air, or detected something unusual and gone to investigate. Though these last two options angered me just in considering them, since they would directly defy my edict (as would, technically, a visit to the outbuilding, but that at least was a necessary breach of the companionship rule), they were understandable and not unpredictable actions. And yet I felt something was wrong, to an extent that would not allow me to go back to sleep.
For one thing, I wouldn’t have awakened in the first place, in this hurt and weakened state in desperate need of rest, if he hadn’t been gone long enough for my muddled consciousness to sense it through my incoherent dreams. For another… well, I simply worried about him. I wouldn’t be content until I knew where he was, nor possibly until I’d given him another lecture on safety in the current scenario.
I looked around, feeling the immediate pain in my neck that came from turning my head. The examination room, lacking windows, was filled with deep shadow; in fact the only light filtered dimly through the door’s paper from the hallway where a single small lamp was kept lit overnight for the benefit of patients or staff needing to move around the clinic during the hours of darkness. I could see nothing with any clarity, but I could make out what I knew to be a jug of water and its accompanying cups on the counter — I’d made use of them earlier, and thus distinguished their shapes now — which eliminated ‘getting a drink’ as a possible motive for Sanosuke’s disappearance.
My entire body was ridiculously stiff and painful, and the muscular impulses required merely to sit up were agonizing. I rather expected the ever-increasing discomfort would go hand-in-hand with a similarly rising irritation, but found it was not so; that sense of something wrong, that irrational concern about my irresponsible lover, overrode, for the moment, most of the annoyance I might have felt with him. When I located him hanging around outside for no good reason, or whatever the case turned out to be, normal emotions could resume.
Walking was torture, and I had to take a minute or so to practice this activity I’d mastered thirty-five years ago to make sure I could do it effectively before I even considered leaving the room. Glad I was that I’d refused a further dose of laudanum and was alert enough for upright motion at all.
With Sano’s help and a great deal of inconvenience, I’d changed last night out of what I’d yet been wearing of my uniform into a yukata that had proven much easier to sleep in, and this garment should be sufficient for now. But I wanted my sword as a precaution, and couldn’t remember where it had ended up when I’d first come to the clinic early yesterday morning. If I couldn’t find it almost immediately, I would leave without it; I didn’t have the patience for a prolonged search. Upon sliding the room’s door quietly open and allowing a greater amount of light inside, however, I saw it lying neatly on the counter atop my folded clothing not far from the water jug. Since I was certain Sanosuke hadn’t folded the garments — and uncertain Sanosuke knew how to fold garments — I supposed I had Takani to thank for this.
I would prefer to brook the wrath of neither of the two doctors in residence, so I made an effort to move down the corridor as naturally and evince as little discomfort as possible despite the reluctance of my muscles to do anything I told them. But I hoped not to encounter anyone — except Sano — since the doctors, no matter how I moved, would definitely still scold me and cause delay thereby, and any other patient might be startled or even frightened at the sight of my bruises, my weapon, and my air of determination and concern. Fortunately, in this case my wish was granted.
At the side entrance there were a couple of pairs of geta, small and large, provided for anyone resident in the building and capable of using the external facilities rather than a bedpan, and into one of these I gratefully stepped. I didn’t know how many pairs were usually present or if any might be missing, but I felt this was the most logical direction in which to start my search. This impression was strengthened when I found the door unlocked and observed a hook beside it, where a key might have hung, empty.
I saw no one immediately outside, and silently followed the path curving around into the back. The night was neutral, as the previous had been, with only a faint intermittent breeze, and a scattering of small clouds blocked out the stars only in negligible patches. The rear yard, with its outhouse at the far end and a fenced-off garden seating area where patients could take the air, stood peaceful and quiet in the shadows, yet somehow my every step heightened the sensation that something was wrong.
A lantern’s bright spot showed the grain of the outhouse door even at this distance, but it was to darkness rather than light that my eyes were drawn. For between the clinic’s main building I’d just left and the outbuilding I’d thought to approach to check for Sanosuke, there stood a shed that must be passed to reach one from the other. An unassuming structure in the same style as the rest on the property, there was no reason for it to catch my attention… except that there was also no reason for its doors to be gaping open, a portal into deep blackness like a yawning mouth in its face, at this time of night and with no one around.
Though it seemed superstitious and nothing I would have liked to admit aloud, I felt as if my concerns and the impression of wrongness I was gripped with were all suddenly concentrated on this one spot, on the invisibility beyond those wide-flung doors. I felt as if I’d left my relatively comfortable futon in the examination room, abandoned my own injunction of keeping inside or to crowds as much as possible, forced myself through pain and difficulty to walk out of the building, specifically to come here and enter this shed and find what I would find there.
I checked the sword at my side. The tie of a yukata wasn’t the most convenient restraint for slinging a weapon, but it would do; I could draw at any time as long as my opposite hand was also free to steady the sheath. Then, without attempting to pierce the gloom within the shed with my naked eyes, I walked straight past it to the outhouse and reached up with perfectly steady hands to unhook its small lantern. Finally, without hesitation, I turned back and moved in the direction of the unknown.
My geta clattered somewhat on the step up into the little building, and the noise echoed like gunshots in the silent night. As a matter of course I thrust the lamp forward and took a careful look around at the entry, ensuring no ambush awaited me. All I could see, sharp yet indistinct in the minimal light, was the perfectly mundane accumulated storage of years, exactly what one would expect to find in such a place. And the disarray of much of it indicated, I thought, a recent struggle here, though not a particularly wide-ranging or long-lasting one — certainly not one as dire as what I’d gone through at Tomizawa Nori’s house. I moved forward across the cluttered floor toward the back of the building, the tapping of my shoes continually galling in this vacuum of sound, then halted when the light fell on… fell on exactly what I’d…
White cloth greyed with the dust into which it had fallen… tanned skin faded to pallor…
I wasn’t aware of how still I stood until motion beside me seemed blurringly fast: a rake, previously holding only precariously to its wall peg after whatever struggle had stirred the shed’s contents, now gave up the fight and fell with a clatter to the floor. And it didn’t actually fall any quicker than gravity dictated; it was just that my perception had slowed as it took in every horrific detail of the scene: the stiffness, the paleness, the awkward angle of attitude and limb…
The light shifted, and I found my previously raised arm, trembling slightly, sinking with its minimal burden toward a limp position at my side as if the lantern were simply too heavy to continue holding up.
Eventually, after how long I did not know, I tore myself from where I stood. With every forward step I took, I seemed to grow colder, less connected with my surroundings. By the time I fell to my knees beside him and set the lantern down, I was completely numb. I felt nothing, I heard nothing, I saw nothing but him. His face was placid; at least he didn’t seem to have died in pain. The wound on his neck was the same as all the other victims, but he lacked the appearance of emaciation most of those had exhibited. He didn’t seem to have taken any other hurt, besides hitting the floor in an uncomfortable position and achieving rigor mortis there.
Vaguely surprised by these detached reflections, I abandoned them for the moment as I reached out and brushed aside a haphazard lock of brown hair, touched his face.
Had I thought I had gone cold? It was nothing, nothing in comparison to this. He was stone; he was ice. As cold, predictably, as death.
Had I thought I had gone numb? It struck me like a sudden attack from a heavy weapon, perhaps like the one he had once carried but infinitely more enormous and impossible to parry or dodge. I shuddered, abruptly unable to breathe. Under that attack my chest was being slowly crushed, and a stabbing pain arose there and spread rapidly through me. The only clear thought in my darkened mind was that I was too late; I’d lost him. I’d failed and lost him forever. The entire world was shrinking, contracting like my faltering heart, narrowing until its full extent was my hand on his face and the overwhelming, inescapable fact that he was gone.
Death, in the abstract as well as in the specific reality of lethal wounds sometimes delivered by my own hand, had always been an inextricable part of my reality. Any samurai, any soldier, even a police officer in this new and tamer era lived with and embraced the possibility of dying at any time, and walked surrounded by death wherever he went and whatever he did. It was grim, unfortunate, but unavoidable — and when it came with honor, at times acceptable or even desirable.
Yet there had been instances when this inevitability for which I’d been prepared was more difficult to tolerate: Okita, my friend, lost not in the glory of battle but in a miserable sickbed as his once-brilliant body betrayed him; Yaso, my wife for a mere two months, cut down ignobly by some random killer on the streets of Gonohe; Ookubo, one of the few statesmen I had respected and admired, assassinated for daring to do his job. In these cases death was not so much a quiet, constant companion as a cruel and relentless oppressor.
But it had never felt like this before.
There had always been some degree of grief, of bitterness against the hand of the tyrant, of questioning what I could have done to prevent this, of bleak anticipation of what the future held in the absence of the deceased… but never such an overwhelming weight of unendurable pain. No experience in my life, no failure, no loss, nothing had ever hurt like this. His passions stilled, his determination defeated, his laugh silenced, his love extinguished, his prospects destroyed… I had failed him.
Then he opened his eyes.
I believe for a few moments my heart actually stopped. The hallucination, however, continued. He looked up at me with a gaze that was far too bright for that dim enclosure, and the new arrangement of his features was familiar. It was one that might previously have irritated me: a complacent, ignorant expression suggesting he hadn’t been paying attention, didn’t know what was going on, but was too lazy to be worried.
“Was a dream…” he murmured a little hoarsely.
And at the sound, I started to believe that maybe this was really happening. After having thought him dead, my reaction to finding him alive was every bit as earth-shattering. I still could not move or speak.
“Saitou…” Sano murmured, and sluggishly raised a hand to take mine.
His fingers and palm were frozen cold. Surely a living human body could not be that cold! I couldn’t reply.
Watching my face in the uncertain light, his took on a look of slowly growing horror and fear. “Saitou,” he whispered again, “what the hell is wrong with me?” It seemed a struggle for him to move, but also that his strength was gradually returning. The straightening of his awkwardly placed limbs seemed eminently unnatural, and he sat up woodenly, clutching at my hands, his glowing eyes wide and desperate. “I can’t breathe,” he said frantically. “S-Saitou…”
Finally I found my voice, but all I managed to say was, “Sanosuke.” At the sound he started and shuddered, clinging to my chest. I ignored the pain this caused; it was nothing compared to what I’d felt a minute ago, what in a way I still felt. I never would have thought to see him so frightened, but it made sense; his entire frame was infused with that impossible chill, and… he was right: he wasn’t breathing, except in quick bursts just before he spoke, as if the only air entering his lungs was doing so exclusively to push sound back out again. How this could be I couldn’t begin to fathom, but I had to set aside my own wonder and confusion in the interest of supporting my understandably agitated lover. “Calm down,” I whispered. “You’re all right.” Though this didn’t seem anywhere close to true.
“I’m not,” he protested, but I thought his desperation was calming somewhat. “I’m dying… I’m dead… I’m… I don’t know… ”
I put my arms around him despite the pain and the unnerving cold. “You’re not dying. You’re not dead.”
Sano still clung. “Then why the fuck am I not breathing?”
I thought his profanity was a good sign. Having no answer to his question, however, I prevaricated, “Have you tried breathing?” I was surprised I was breathing, in fact, surprised at my own ability to formulate coherent words. My chest still seemed incapacitated by the aphysical blow it had received at my original assessment of the scenario; my entire body still throbbed with shock.
“Why should I have to try to–” He interrupted himself by drawing in a shuddering gasp of air and letting it free. After a few more of these he muttered, “I don’t get it.”
“Neither do I,” I assured him, “but you are alive.” I said as much for myself as for him.
Perhaps a little uncertainly he nodded, released the front of my yukata at last, and looked around.
This caused my world to widen abruptly back out, and I recalled surroundings and a situation that had completely slipped my mind until this moment. I decided to decide later whether or not this preoccupation was a legitimate source of chagrin. “Can you stand?” I asked.
He took another deep breath as if desperate for air, and repeated his nod. That he believed himself capable of rising contributed to my ongoing sense of how close he might have come to never rising again.
As we both got rather unsteadily to our feet, I noticed but did not quite understand his change of expression; I hadn’t realized how intently I had my eyes, hungry for his every life-affirming movement, locked on him. He looked down at his hands, flexing them, and muttered, “Feels weird.”
“Weird?” I echoed.
“Yeah… I feel… stronger. Being dead should be a lot worse than this.”
“You’re not dead,” I almost snapped. I couldn’t deal with that idea right now, given how deeply it and its subsequent contradiction had shaken me.
“Yeah, maybe not…” He said it abstractedly, though, and not as if he really believed it, as he began a sort of self-assessment by feeling at various parts of his body. His movements had loosened up from the stiffness they’d originally carried, and he appeared to be unhurt, but his frown only deepened as he examined himself. His probing fingers kept returning to his neck as if he expected to find something there — and not the spot beside his trachea where he might have felt his only visible wound, but the back just beneath the shaggy ends of his hair. Finally, still flexing his hands as he had before and still appearing distressed and confused, he leaned against me and slowly dropped his face to my shoulder.
“What happened?” I asked as I wrapped him in my arms again, continuing to disregard the discomfort such close contact occasioned.
Against my collarbone his head shook slightly. “I don’t… I don’t actually remember. I feel like… a bunch of stuff happened, but…”
“It’s all right,” I assured him, responding to the trace of panic in his uncertain tone. “It may come back to you. We should go back into the clinic.”
“Right…” He lifted his gaze and looked around uncomfortably, then added at a mutter, “I must have been attacked.”
Grimly I nodded. Normally this would have been the perfect opening for a sarcastic remark, since it was very obvious he’d been attacked, but I wasn’t capable of it — or even remotely inclined toward it — at the moment. “Let’s try not to let it happen again.”
As we made our way out of the cluttered shed, after extinguishing the lantern I wasn’t going to bother returning to its place, I attempted to keep an eye out for any signs of the attacker in the immediate vicinity. I hadn’t sensed him when I left the clinic, and I sensed nothing now, but I would be damned if I failed Sano again. It proved difficult, though, with him clutching at me as we walked; it wasn’t that the pain was distracting — it was, but I’d dealt with worse — but that every particle of my being wanted to concentrate solely on him and the fact that he was alive. I wanted my arms to remain around him without release; I wanted to hold him so tightly he became a part of me, keep him so indivisibly close that nothing like this could ever happen again. Stunned and sore, I reeled from the back-to-back shocks I’d taken; Sano was supporting me every bit as much as I was him.
The horror of what might have been and the sense of deliverance from that possibility seemed to wash over me in waves, and a particularly strong instance of these contrasting emotions struck the very moment we’d made it back to our examination room — originally intended for my use with him only on the periphery, but now destined to be a medical haven for us both. I slid the door closed, plunging us into blackness, as soon as we’d stepped inside, ignoring the awareness that I mustn’t stay, that I needed to seek out a doctor. I couldn’t leave his side for even one instant just at the moment.
Succumbing briefly to that deep relief that shook me so intensely, I held him tight against me. My battered frame screamed in protest, despite his unnatural coldness almost resembling the ice that had been used on my bruises and strains more than it did a living human body, but I didn’t care. All that mattered was that he was here and relatively safe, that he wasn’t dead. I found myself trembling slightly, which was embarrassing, and breathing more unevenly than he was though no actual wound had been delivered to my chest.
“Hey…” he whispered, the uncertainty in his voice similar to that of his movements as his arms slipped upward in an invisible mirror of mine. “It’s… all right…” Evidently he hadn’t expected to be offering me comfort like this — possibly at any time in our lives, but especially tonight when he had been the one attacked.
“I know,” I replied in just as harsh a whisper… though I didn’t necessarily know. His arms were agonizing around my back, as if he were grasping me much more tightly than he needed to, but I didn’t mind. Anything to continue reassuring me he wasn’t dead.
How long we spent in that embrace, that consoling close connection that nevertheless postponed the night’s crucial next step, each of us struggling for different reasons to breathe properly, crushed together in the darkness and clearly unwilling to let go, I also didn’t know.
Through the blinds, out past the parking lot between the cars, I can see the horizon darkening. I’ve never been much of a sunset-watcher, and it occurs to me that I’m not really sure how long this basic daily occurrence actually takes. I suppose subconsciously, after thirty years — perhaps even sixty-five years — of seeing or at least being aware of it on a daily basis, I really am familiar with the length of time at this season between the disappearance of the sun and full darkness setting in, but consciously I find I haven’t a clue.
There are other things I don’t know: where he spends his days, how soon after dusk he awakens, how quickly he travels, how much residual sunlight in the atmosphere he can tolerate outdoors. I can make educated guesses, but they’re based on pop culture as well as information more than a century old — and, as I’ve already noted, someone can change a lot in that many years. Eventually I let the blinds snap back into place and compel myself to think about dinner.
The water in the pot is perhaps halfway to boiling point when I’m not so much startled as intrigued by the sound of the front door opening. My interest isn’t piqued by the same issue I’ve been pointlessly dwelling on — how quietly a vampire can or can’t manipulate objects in his environment — but by the fact that that door was dead-bolted. He doesn’t need to scan the room; his glowing eyes jump immediately to me even as he’s closing the entrance behind him, and he takes a seat at my small dining table without removing them from me. He’s dressed the same as last night and every night, and I reiterate to myself the theory that vampires don’t need to change clothing much.
There can be no such thing as an un-charged sight of him, and my brain teems even just with this glance. The way he looks at me recalls my realization yesterday of how much he must love me, which is still a diamond-hard awareness my musings glance off of, can’t get any purchase on — and that’s only the most basic level of my reaction to his presence. However, amidst all the complicated reflections and feelings half acknowledged, memories of the past and fears for the future, one interesting point stands out: I’m happy to see him. Uncomplicatedly happy that he’s here, that I can be with him again for a little while. I try very hard not to assign any interpretation to this.
Instead I remark, “That door was locked, you know.”
He glances over. “It probably still is.”
“You couldn’t open locked doors back in Japan.”
“I don’t know if I ever tried,” he replies, and I miss the nonchalant shrug that would have accompanied such a statement from him in the distant past. “But vampires are weird. Those of us who survive get all sorts of interesting abilities as we get older.”
“So I’m seeing.” I lean against the kitchen counter and watch him, content for the moment to do only that — to observe him, assessing as best I can, coming no closer but drawing no farther back. “And you obviously don’t have to be invited into someone’s home.”
He frowns slightly, and it’s an expression of thoughtfulness rather than unhappiness. “That one… used to be true. I think it still is, in some places. But even in the parts of Europe where it was the biggest problem, it was already fading when I got changed. I’m trying to think…” He shakes his head. “I don’t remember ever getting stuck at somebody’s door because of that.”
So fascinated am I at this unexpected description of the situation, it takes me a moment to realize my water is boiling. As I hastily tear open the side of the box and somewhat clumsily pour the dry noodles in while trying not to remove my eyes from my vampire ex, I ask in great interest, “Why? How does that work?”
Now he does shrug, though as casual gestures go it’s still pretty stiff and chilly. “Nobody’s really sure. The favorite theory — at least right now — is that, thanks to all the vampires in popular culture and everyone’s growing interest in them — I mean, we’d never heard of them, but Dracula was only twenty years later — society’s kinda given vampires a collective invitation in, so vampires don’t have to worry about individual invitations anymore.”
This is utterly engrossing, and if I’m stirring my noodles properly, it’s through muscle memory alone. “So… human collective consciousness affects what vampires can and can’t do.”
“Something like that. There’s a lot about us that isn’t really well understood. Nobody likes to call it ‘magic,’ but how else can you describe it?”
Magic. How else indeed? Looking at him like this, talking to him like this… remembering a previous life and our time together in it… reflecting on how surreal and difficult things have become… I can’t think of a better word. I shake my head slightly and ask, “Is anyone studying all of this?”
Sanosuke chuckles monosyllabically. “One thing you figure out pretty quick about vampires is that we’re really private. We probably don’t actually need to stay as secret as we do — it’d be easier to live openly with humans — but there’s this fear of ‘them finding out’ that kinda throws a wet blanket over everything we do. Most vampires aren’t down for being studied.”
I nod. “It seems like a…” I search for the right term, and settle on, “scientific shame… but I’m not a vampire.” And as I offer a shrug of my own, I realize I’ve said the wrong thing. Yesterday he told me he would come back tonight to ‘see how I’m doing’ — not to press the issue of his potentially life-changing wish — and here we’ve been having an interesting conversation on a relatively unconnected topic… I don’t think it’s wise to bring up points more specifically connected to that question I can’t answer yet. Deeming this an excellent moment to pay some real attention to the macaroni spinning in the hot liquid at my side, I turn toward it and stir more pointedly.
It seems to be with some difficulty Sanosuke avoids the segue I inadvertently offered him and says instead, “Ask Megumi about it if you’re really interested. She thinks it’s a scientific shame too.”
Directing my words into the steam rising before my face, I asked as casually as I can manage, “Am I likely to see her again?”
“I’m almost her only friend. As long as we’re in the same area, we’re gonna hang out as much as we can. She’ll probably show up here eventually too.”
His words give me a faint, shivering glimpse into the lonely fate of a vampire, a member of a ‘really private’ people — a people unwilling to be discovered by the majority of the population among which they exist, unwilling even to learn more about themselves if it means ‘them finding out.’ For a doctor, that must be almost unbearable. For anyone, that must be almost unbearable.
“Do you have other friends?” I can’t help asking, quiet and concerned despite the awkwardness of the question. It isn’t my place anymore to pry into his private affairs… though obviously he’d like it to be, which is part of the problem.
“No.” He doesn’t pause before saying it, doesn’t seem to be adding up or considering whether So-and-So really counts as a friend. Just a flat negative. “Other vampires don’t like Meg very much, and they know I created her… They’re mostly a bunch of assholes anyway, so I don’t really try with them.” And he doesn’t even mention the possibility of human friends.
This, I think, sheds some light (an inappropriate metaphor when discussing a vampire if ever there was one) on a couple of different points. If because of this prejudice against Takani and her vampiric creator — whatever that stems from — Sanosuke has formed no meaningful relationships, engaged in no emotional intimacy except with one person that evidently isn’t always around, for 130 years, is it any surprise whatsoever that he’s clung all the more tenaciously to his love for me? Is it any surprise that tracking me down and experiencing, even if only for moments in between lifetimes of suffering, what was perhaps the truest and deepest connection he ever felt has become his driving purpose?
Beyond that, is it any wonder he’s altered so much? On an endless search punctuated with disappointment and rejection, usually alone and with no prospect of any companionship, any uplifting interaction to reinforce his humane instincts, beyond brief contact with that single aforementioned friend — his only other options being ‘a bunch of assholes’ that don’t accept him in any case, is it any wonder he has, as he said himself, become a worse person? He claimed time changes him, but I think it may be more circumstance than natural progression.
And in a situation like this, is there any hope for the future — his or mine?
I can’t speak as unhesitatingly as he does; not only do these thoughts sadden and appall me, I haven’t had over a century to get used to all of this. So it’s a moment or two before I ask, “Why don’t they like her?”
“When she comes around, you’ll have to have her tell you all about it.”
I nod, accepting that this isn’t his story to relate, and silence falls. I don’t know what to say. Can I voice the ideas I just turned over in my head? Can I suggest that perhaps his tendency to throw himself so fully into everything has done him a disservice in this case? Because it seems there are other options, alternatives to living in a lonely echo chamber of the old emotions he can’t let go. It seems he needn’t have transformed into what he is today, if only he had ever been willing to think of something other than me and finding me again and continually making his horrendous offer. He could have saved himself, and perhaps he still can… but can I tell him that? I’m afraid I don’t know him well enough anymore; I may be mistaken in my entire assessment, and in any case I can’t voice it aloud.
Presently, with no apparent incitement other than the passage of silent time, I find him at my side. His quick, noiseless movement is startling, but at least the concept of vampires and their uncanny abilities has been specifically on my mind to prepare me for it. Now he looks into the pot on the stove and grimaces faintly at its swirling contents. “You and your gross noodles,” he comments.
Though his words make me chuckle, which is a relief in the present atmosphere, I’m distracted by his physical closeness. Though not quite against me, he is standing very near — near enough that I should feel his body heat, rendering its absence conspicuous. And though my right hand continues its mechanical stirring motion, the rest of me is frozen in indecision. I’d like to touch him, to connect with him a little, to reassure the part of myself that still thinks of this as impossible that it’s all true. 130 years ago, if we’d been alone like this and he so close to me, I would have reached out without conscious deliberation. It might have been a blatantly sexual gesture, or merely a playful one, or something gentler and more casual just to take pleasure in his presence… but even ‘gentle’ and ‘casual’ is far beyond me right now, and there’s a gulf between us that may never be spanned. I don’t like it. I still don’t know how I feel about him, but I don’t like it.
I do manage to respond to his comment, however, using the process of extracting a couple of macaroni from the water and letting them cool in order to test their softness as a mask for my discomfort. “These won’t be plain, though; they’ll have cheese on them.”
“Yeah… ‘cheese…'” He returns to the table — he really does move disconcertingly quickly — and resumes his seat. “Some foods I’m glad I never had to try.”
“You dodged a bullet with this one, then.” I set the colander in the sink and carry the pot to it. Over the ensuing waterfall I raise my voice to continue, “If you were human in this era, I suspect you’d eat nothing but macaroni and cheese.”
He laughs, and perhaps just a touch of the tension between us is dispelled. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”
“I know I am,” I murmur as I throw a quarter stick of butter into the bottom of the still-hot pan and let it start to melt. “If Kraft macaroni and cheese had existed in Meiji Japan, that’s all you would have eaten back then too.”
He laughs even louder this time, reminding me hauntingly of the old Sano. “OK, fine, when you sound that sure about it…”
I echo his mirth, then ask in some interest, “Is there any normal food you can eat?”
“Nothing at all, unless you count water. Not even raw meat.”
“What happens if you try?” It’s a rather disgusting topic, but apparently it doesn’t bother him, and I’m curious.
“It sits in my stomach and rots.” And with this matter-of-fact answer, the topic becomes even more disgusting. “And makes my breath smell really, really bad.”
Grateful I’m not squeamish, I even laugh a little as I wonder, “Worse than after drinking blood?”
“I guess it’s a matter of taste,” he admits, “but the blood at least gets absorbed. The food just sits around.”
“And your body really has no way of getting rid of it?”
“Oh, it does.” His tone is dark all of a sudden. “We can get most of our old functions working again temporarily if we drink enough blood all at once.”
“Oh.” I fall awkwardly silent, and for a moment the only sound in the room is the newly squishy stirring of macaroni now complete with sauce. I don’t really want to pursue this, but it’s something I feel I need to know. “And you never drink much blood all at once.”
“I only feed when I have to,” he confirms shortly. And another awkward silence fills the room.
Extracting leftover peas from the fridge, removing the Tupperware lid, and getting the microwave started gives me half a minute or so I can safely spend with my back to him as I ask what may be another unwelcome question: “And what about animal blood?”
“I wish,” he says fervently. “There’s another scientific shame for you: nobody knows why it has to be human blood.”
“That seems like something easier to study, though,” I muse, beginning to gather up accoutrements for my dinner — plate, fork, salt and pepper, napkin, Coke and cup with ice with which to drink it. “To determine what’s nutritionally unique about human blood…”
“I don’t think it’s that, though…” As I turn back toward him with utensils I plan to set down on the table across from him, I find he’s sitting less stiffly than he was when he first took that position: he’s got one foot up on the chair, white hands folded over the raised knee near his face, and his other foot kicking against the floor slightly. I like that; it reminds me of how he used to be. I realize belatedly that his tones have grown less cold, too, during the course of our discussion; is it possible that this vampire talk really has set him somewhat at ease? That would be ironic, considering how uncomfortable I feel.
“It’s another stupid ‘magic’ thing,” he goes on– “but don’t ever let any vampire besides me or Meg hear you use that word, I swear — because it seems like there’s something about the actual act of drinking blood from a human body that makes all the difference. Otherwise the ones of us who don’t like murdering people could just live off the rejects from blood banks. That stuff’ll keep you going for a while,” he adds in a distasteful sort of aside, “if you can stand the anticoagulant, but it doesn’t really satisfy you. And the longer you go unsatisfied…” His hands rise in a helpless gesture. “…the more likely you are to murder people.”
An unpleasant thought strikes me: is he perhaps growing warmer and less constrained this evening, more like his old self, because he’s getting the chance to educate me on being a vampire? He hasn’t brought up the big question even obliquely, but is this all really just a subtle training session of sorts for the future he has in mind for me? Perhaps he believes that if he simultaneously relaxes me into the concept and talks about it in a fairly down-to-earth manner, it will be easier for me to accept. If that’s the case… well, it’s not likely to make the thought of becoming a monster easier to accept, but it is a kinder way to accustom me to these ideas. For I’m not sure if I could have asked what I have tonight under many other circumstances.
Case in point, I wonder now, “Has anyone ever attempted drinking animal blood from a human? Pig’s blood from a human’s mouth, for example.”
He blinks in surprise, letting his foot down off the chair and staring at me. “I don’t know! I never have.” After a moment he lets out the heartiest laugh of the evening. “God, can you picture what a mess that would make? It’d be like a bird-mom giving her little babies food, except the food is blood, and no matter how careful you were, you’d end up with it all over each other — ’cause you’d only get a mouthful each time, so you’d have to keep coming back for more, and eventually the vampire and the human and the entire fucking room would just be covered in pig’s blood.”
“You could use a straw,” I suggest blandly, though it’s a struggle to keep a straight face.
And at this Sanosuke drops his head to the table and laughs until I’m sure he would be crying if he were still capable of it. It’s somewhat reassuring to realize vampires aren’t immune to a touch of hysteria when they’re highly amused during a situation of intense repressed emotion. I don’t hesitate to laugh along with him, through my macaroni and cheese, and for a minute or so everything is… not wonderful, not even good, but… OK. We’ve struck a balance. He’s a vampire; I don’t know how I feel about him; I’m still ill at ease and often horrified around him; but it’s good to be here with him.
And apparently he agrees, for eventually he chortles, “Oh, my god, Saitou, it is so good to be with you again.” And the smile on his handsome, colorless face is 100% my old Sano.
We continue the conversation — mostly about vampires, yes, but I don’t mind so much — for some time as I finish my dinner and clean up. He never mentions his desire to make me one of them, though I think on a couple of occasions he’s tempted to as he was earlier, and an odd feeling starts to take me. Sitting here across the table from him, talking over dinner, asking some decidedly getting-to-know-you questions… I almost laugh out loud when the realization hits me. But I don’t think we’re quite back to the point where explaining funny thoughts that pop up at random would come naturally just yet. So I merely keep up my end of the discussion, sometimes haltingly and never without effort, and remain privately of the opinion that this is without a doubt the strangest date I’ve ever been on.
“Well…” Takani sat back on her heels with an expression so baffled it hardly had room for the revulsion and pity lingering around the corners of her mouth and eyes. She made a helpless gesture. “You appear to be dead.”
“Told you so,” Sano mumbled. He hadn’t rebalanced himself enough to say it brazenly as he normally would, but merely that he said it at all was reassuring.
And I was certainly in need of reassurance. “How?” I wondered, trying not to sound as demanding as I felt of the doctor already mystified by this situation. “Why?”
She gave a slight shake of head indicative of continued bafflement and began to count on her fingers. “Very little heart activity, no respiration except when he’s thinking about it, unlivably low body temperature, almost no gut motility or salivation… He has none of the functions of a living body except for…” She threw her hands up. “…being alive!”
None of us knew what else to say. It was medically impossible, yet undeniably present in front of us — for Sano, undeniably present within his own body. And I wasn’t about to confess aloud that, horrified as I was at the concept of his being dead somehow, I was still intensely, overwhelmingly relieved he was alive.
We sat wordless for quite some time. The situation made for a significant distraction from the far more straightforward and comprehensible nature of my own form, but didn’t entirely erase my awareness of pain and difficulty navigating my wounds. But of course Sano’s condition concerned me far more, so for the moment my state seemed an irritant rather than a true debilitation. I stared at him with frustratingly exhausted eyes, simultaneously unable to look my fill at his moving and sometimes breathing figure and trying to solve the conundrum of what had happened to him.
Takani stared too. She’d done all the basic-level probing she was capable of, but, though she’d mentioned more in-depth testing before declaring him dead and falling as contemplatively silent as Sano and I had, she’d made the suggestion without much energy — not, I believed, out of any lack of interest in answers or determination to find them, though the sheer lunacy of the circumstances undoubtedly did present a barrier of sorts, but out of pure weariness. Earlier, when I’d recovered myself enough to seek her out, she’d informed me — with no reproach, merely as an explanation — that she’d only been in bed about an hour and a half after a late call to assist with a difficult childbirth.
And Sano, in as close to perfect seiza as I’d ever seen him, was staring as well: down at his unmoving hands, pale as the death I still wanted to deny, that gripped each other in his lap. How did it feel to hear with functioning ears, to process in an active brain that you were deceased? What was moving under his unusually calm exterior? I realized I wished Takani would go away.
As if reading my thought, she took a deep breath and looked around in a movement very much like shaking herself awake, tearing her eyes from Sano with the manner of one that hadn’t really been seeing what she was looking at anyway. With an effort she turned toward me. “This changes your investigation.”
“It does,” I agreed, taking a deep breath of my own; it aided in transition. “It suggests an explanation for why my opponent didn’t react normally to being injured during our fight.”
“Yeah,” Sano agreed, lifting one of the hands he was so fixated upon and clenching it into an experimental fist. “I don’t feel like I’d react much if you injured me right now.” The faintest touch of a smile appeared on his face. “Matter of fact, I dunno if you could injure me right now.”
“We’ll see about that,” I replied, trying for levity and largely failing.
Takani didn’t appear to approve in any case. “Whatever I can learn about your condition,” she said sternly, directing her words first at Sano and then at me, “may give us more information about the murderer.”
“Nice to know I’m a test subject for criminal investigation now.” Sano too was aiming at casual banter, and succeeding better than I had.
Takani reached out and poked the center of his forehead with a pointer finger. “Understanding what’s happening to you and how to treat it will be a secondary benefit,” she admitted facetiously. Then she yawned.
I took the opportunity to say, “You should go back to bed.”
Her face tightened with extreme reluctance. “It’s you two who should go back to bed,” she mused, sounding as if she were trying to convince herself, “but as long as my patients are asleep, I might as well be too…” Her concern for us both, but for Sano most specifically, and her professional interest in his state were abundantly evident. But so was her weariness, and probably my own — if not my intense desire, after her initial diagnosis, to talk to Sano privately.
“You can examine him further after we’ve all had some rest,” I told her firmly. “In the meantime, I promise to wake you again if anything medically interesting takes place.”
She tilted her chin upward and replied with mock haughtiness, “I don’t know if you would recognize ‘medically interesting,’ officer.” But it was only a joke, and she pushed herself to her feet the next moment. Neither of us rose with her, so she looked down imperiously as she added, “But make sure you do call me if anything changes.” At the exit she glanced back with a pensive, worried expression, clearly unsure she was doing the right thing in postponing further exploration… but eventually she did depart, closing the door behind her and leaving us to each other’s company in the brilliance of all the lamps she’d lit for her examination.
Slowly, in a movement almost as reluctant as Takani’s had been if probably for different reasons, Sano too finally got up, and went to deal with the obtrusive lights. I watched him carefully, unsure exactly what to say. His movements were fluid, easy, even natural, but there was something about them that made me feel cold. And his face, when he turned toward me again, appeared pensive but nothing worse, yet I shivered. He simply could not be as detached from this as his outward aspect suggested. I wasn’t certain how best to inquire, but between my wounds and the emotional battering I’d taken tonight, I was too hurt and exhausted to come up with any circumspect way of asking what I needed to know.
So I opted for bluntness. “How are you feeling?”
He paused in extinguishing the last lamp, visage averted from me and stillness uncanny. And the forced cheerfulness that emanated from him as he replied was like a blow. “I feel great, actually! I feel like I could run five miles without breaking a sweat. I mean,” he added with a stiff chuckle, “obviously I’m not really sweating right now, but the point is, I feel… probably better than I ever have. I don’t get it–” he shrugged as he put out the final light– “but it’s not bad.”
Still blunt, but finding it easier to make this specification in the darkness, I said, “I meant emotionally.”
For another moment he stood still, and I realized I’d neglected to draw Takani’s attention to the new and preternatural luminance of his eyes. I’d only noticed it vaguely myself, caught up as I had been with other concerns; now I focused on it, not as something I particularly liked or drew interest from, but as essentially the only object on which my own eyes were willing to settle and proof that he was looking at me as fixedly as I was at him. And in fact it was this topic, rather than any response to my question, he chose to bring up next: “I can see a lot better in the dark all of a sudden. It is really dark in here, right?”
“It is,” was all I could say. I didn’t have the heart to tell him his eyes were glowing, to add the question of what that might mean to the ever-expanding list. Not yet.
His black silhouette and those two points moved toward me, footsteps remarkably quiet across the floor, and I sensed him fall to his knees beside my futon. “Megumi was right: you should get some sleep.”
Though my body cried out in agreement, I refused to lower myself into a prone position just yet; I knew that when I did, unconsciousness would not be long in coming, and there were things needing to be said first. “Sano,” I insisted. “Are you all right?”
After the longest silence yet — so long, in fact, with that utterly motionless figure beside me, I might have believed I’d dozed off and missed his answer — he finally took one of the profound preparatory breaths I was already beginning to associate with speech rather than a need for oxygen with him. He probably didn’t require quite that much air, though, for the brief whisper he gave: “No.”
I sat up more fully and reached for him, and he came willingly into my arms. It shocked me all over again how cold he was, and the contact between us still hurt, yet I drew him against me and held him firmly. Apart from the chill, his body felt nothing but hale and strong, giving no indication of whatever turmoil lay within, but all that did was give me reason to cling tighter as if trying to get at that hidden interior.
I didn’t know whether it was the new closeness, or the intensity of my embrace, or my anticipatory wordlessness, or the concealing darkness around us that allowed him finally to elaborate. “I’m so fucking scared right now, Saitou.” He continued to whisper, as if any more volume might attract the attention of what he feared. “My body feels just fine — better than just fine — but I’m still dead. What if this is just… putting off really being dead somehow? When’s it gonna catch up with me? Am I gonna drop down dead all of a sudden — for real this time — without any warning? I don’t know what the hell’s going on, and I don’t really think Megumi can figure it out.”
The light of his eyes disappeared as he buried his face in my shoulder, and I felt my own body trembling as I held him. I couldn’t muster the energy, this time, to tell him he wasn’t dead; I couldn’t even tell myself that anymore. I did, however, have a train of logic I could use to reply to his primary concern. “The man who did this to you — Shibue or whoever he is — has been murdering people for months without any sign of weakening or dropping down dead all of a sudden. I don’t think you need to worry about that.”
“That’s… a good point,” Sano allowed shakily. “I have at least a couple of months, then.”
“And you should have more faith in Takani.” I was grasping at straws here trying to comfort him, but I supposed it was better than nothing. “Imagine what she’d do to you if she knew you didn’t think she could keep you alive. Or whatever we’re calling this.”
He gave a reluctant chuckle. “She might kill me.” It was dark humor, but it was humor. Something in him had eased a little — I couldn’t tell how I knew — so I was satisfied for the moment.
I pulled at him. “Lie down here with me. You may feel better than fine, but you could still do with some rest.”
He drew back a little. “But I’m freezing cold.”
“You’ll save the clinic on ice, then.”
He gave in, clearly craving the closeness, and stretched out against me, as comfortably as we could render the arrangement, on the futon not really intended for more than one person. And he was freezing cold, but my half-joking rejoinder also held true: though the pressure remained uncomfortable, the chill of his body felt actively good against my strained muscles and bruises. If I could fall asleep while a doctor rubbed ice all over me, I could fall asleep like this. I didn’t know whether he would be capable of it, and I didn’t like to abandon him in his current state no matter how much I’d managed to comfort him with my logic and weak humor, but I was about at the end of what I could handle for the night.
And in fact I very soon lost consciousness, and did not awaken for how many hours I couldn’t tell. My dreams during that time wrenched at my heart, appalling and tragic, half remembered and quickly fading upon awakening though they were, and it was with renewed poignancy and relief that I found Sano still in my arms, still cold and unbreathing and unmoving at my side, when I opened my eyes.
Clearly having roused before me, if he’d slept at all, Sano recognized my wakefulness immediately, drew aside, and sat up as if he’d been waiting to do so. The room, an interior chamber removed from sunlight by multiple filters, was only a little brighter now that it had been when I’d gone to sleep, but I thought I could make out the expression on his face: bleak, haggard, wearier than last night if that were possible, and reflecting deeper troubles.
“Did you sleep?” My question came a little hoarsely, and I had to clear my throat.
Sano shook his head, those newly glowing eyes swinging from side to side like carriage lanterns at a sharp turn. He pulled his knees up to his chin and wrapped his arms around them, appearing childish and forlorn and as if he wanted to ward off reality with this defensive posture. He inhaled, perhaps to speak, then merely let it out in a sigh.
I struggled upward more slowly than he had done, feeling my way through my injuries. I thought they were diminished somewhat since last night. I wanted to clean my teeth, to visit the toilet, to find some breakfast… but all of these needs paled beside that of attending to this wretched-looking Sano of mine. I would have reached out for him, inviting him again into my arms, if he hadn’t just pulled away from an embrace that had lasted presumably many hours already. So as it was, I watched, waiting for him to speak.
When he finally did, it was in a fainter voice than I’d ever heard from him, it too almost childlike in its uncertainty: “He broke my neck. He took me by surprise and hit me so hard…” He raised one hand to the back of the organ in question exactly as he had last night. “I couldn’t move. I was just paralyzed on the floor. I think something else was dislocated too, but it kinda didn’t matter right then.”
I merely continued to stare at him. There would be no purpose in commenting that his neck appeared unbroken and nothing on him seemed dislocated.
“He drinks blood,” Sano went on desolately. “That’s what happened to all the murder victims.” Now his hand crept from the back of his neck to the front where the two puncture wounds — long suspected to be the point where our unknown killer had drained the blood from the bodies — stood out copper-colored against the unnatural whiteness of his skin. “He bites you right here and sucks the blood right outta you.”
“But none of the other murder victims…” I had no adequate way to describe what had happened to Sano, so I merely gestured at him to indicate what I meant.
“That’s because I drank his blood too.” Now Sano hid his face between his knees, and the supreme horror of this part of the night’s story sounded strong in his voice. “I thought it was a dream, but… that’s how he made me like this: he drank my blood, and gave me his blood to drink in exchange. My injuries healed up completely, and now I’m like this. Because I drank his blood.”
I was simply out of consolation to offer, words or gestures. What could anyone say in response to that? With an inward steadying of self I tangented to the logistics of our situation. “How long have you remembered all of this?”
“It’s been coming back to me ever since I woke up in that shed out there.”
“But you didn’t tell me any of it last night.”
“It took hours to put all the pieces together.” Finally he raised his bright eyes far enough to look at me again over the curve of his kneecaps; I couldn’t read their expression. “Besides, I figured if I told you I drank some guy’s blood, you’d never get to sleep.”
That startled an “Ahou” right out of me, by which I meant — though I couldn’t say it in so many words — “I was supposed to be looking out for you last night, not the other way around.” It was very much like when he’d tried to comfort me in that desperate moment in the dark when we’d first entered this room; it was unfair that he, after what he’d suffered, should be the one to feel the need to offer support. It was just like him.
Now he lifted his face farther, high enough that I could see the slight smile on his lips. “More like ihou now, isn’t it?” — a terrible pun having to do with a relic of a dead person.
“Stop that,” I commanded, glad to find I could still feel irritable even under these circumstances; it normalized things somewhat.
His smile widened into a grin, the first real instance of that expression I’d seen from him since he… died. Finally he let go of his knees, stretching his entire body out alongside mine once again and staring up at the ceiling with a sigh. “Not looking forward to telling Megumi about the blood thing.”
“As eager as she is to find out more about your condition,” I reminded him, “you’re under no obligation to tell her anything.”
“Well, but she’s involved in all of this now; I feel like I owe her that much. Besides, it’s like she said last night: the more she can learn about me, the more we’ll know about the guy who did this.”
“Do you remember anything about him?”
Sano raised his arms to pillow his hands beneath his head in a gesture almost shockingly casual under the circumstances. “Not a damn thing, except what he did: nothing about what he was actually like.”
A long silence followed, less miserable and uncomfortable than any that had gone before. Sano was strong; despite his fear and uncertainty and disgust at what had happened and what might happen, he was recovering his confidence and presence of mind. I felt almost as much relief at this as I had at finding him alive in the first place, and touched to no small degree by the realization that it seemed to have been interacting with me that had helped him take this step. It seemed we really could get through this together, trite as that sounded.
Eventually I voiced something that had been on the periphery of my awareness since last night: “We can’t stay here. He was able to target you on your way across the back yard; our continued presence puts everyone in the clinic at risk.”
Sano nodded. “Maybe I really won’t have to tell her about the blood, then. She’s not gonna like it, though.”
“No.” I chuckled darkly. “Even if she weren’t already concerned for our health as a doctor and a friend, this will be a blow to her scientific curiosity. But it can’t be helped; we wouldn’t want a repeat of last night.”
He shuddered, the most human physical reaction I’d seen in him for a while. “Fuck, no,” he muttered.
Not particularly looking forward to rising and moving around, I stirred and said, “We should let her know as soon as possible, and then leave. We’ll go to my house.”
Sano turned a lopsided grin toward me. “Your house, huh? I guess that’s something to look forward to.” Then he added, “As long as you don’t mind having a blood-drinker under your roof,” in a tone that reminded me very much of the one he’d used once upon a time to confirm that I was married: would-be casualness barely masking a deep concern. I realized he’d mentioned the blood-drinking more frequently and more pointedly than he probably would have if he hadn’t been sounding me out for a reaction I hadn’t yet given.
The truth was, we had a lot to consider and discuss relating to Sano’s attacker and how the events of last night changed my perspective on the murder case and my professional plans — but postponing such discussion until a more private, secure, and leisurely setting still seemed the wisest course. So I wasn’t thinking about the seemingly perverted and decidedly unsettling answer to our long-standing question, ‘What does this murderer want with so much blood?’ And I was trying not to think about the ghastly scenario Sano had mentioned, of his having been forced to partake in our enemy’s gruesome predilection. But it appeared I needed to think about it, at least briefly, in order to reassure him.
“I don’t mind having you under my roof,” I told him firmly, “regardless of what some maniac with sharp teeth did to you.”
A faint hissing intake of unnecessary breath and its release with a more appeased sound was the only indication he gave of the relief I believed he felt. And after a moment he sat up again and turned away from me, apparently toward the clock on the wall; I couldn’t make out its hands in the dark room, but evidently he had no trouble telling the time. “Should be late enough to wake kitsune up by now,” he mumbled. In a fluid movement that illustrated just how hearty and strong he still felt physically, he jumped lightly to his feet. “I’ll go get her.”
Much more slowly and painstakingly, I moved to follow. “First walk with me to the outbuilding.”
In accepting the hand he offered to help me up, I couldn’t but sense his strength. And in the light from the hallway that spilled over him as he opened the door, I couldn’t miss the unquestionable apprehension in his face. “Bring your sword.”
I didn’t protest, despite how absurd the admonition might have seemed to an outsider, only moved to retrieve the article in question.
The Oguni clinic tended toward quiet and calm at most times of day, I’d already noticed, and hopefully Takani was yet resting; so it was both typical and desirable that we met no one in the corridor on our way. My movements still hurt considerably, but I could feel a definite improvement, and this allowed surer steps with less specific concentration than last night; I appreciated that.
Stepping into the same geta as before, I noticed the hook beside the outer door still empty; presumably this exit had been unlocked ever since Sano had left the building on the same errand that occupied me now. We should have considered that, I reflected uneasily, though admittedly we’d had good reason for distraction.
I gestured, pleased to find the motion not as painful as yesterday. “Do you have this key?”
“Oh, yeah.” As I turned to glance at him, Sano, just behind me, lifted a hand, ready to thrust it into his pocket, and the door slid open under the influence of my own. But his expression instantly twisted, altering horribly, as he gave a sudden unexpected cry of dismay and pain and staggered backward.
Occasioning some serious discomfort in my limbs — though by now I was rather accustomed to it — I hastily followed him the two steps he’d stumbled, heart racing as if to make up for the sluggishness of his and glancing around as if I weren’t fully aware of our solitude and expected to find some newly arrived enemy. Sano was clutching at one hand with the other, holding it so tightly against his chest that I couldn’t see what might be wrong with it; and on his face was a look almost more astonished than hurt, though the pain was evident as well.
“What happened?” I demanded, eyes again darting from him to find the answer. But the corridor was, as I well knew, unpeopled except for ourselves, bright in the sun that streamed through the exit flung open to the morning air.
“The– the light,” he gasped, and his words, like his face, seemed to hold more surprise than anything else. He finally released his tight grip in order to gesture almost desperately with his right hand toward the door and the rays streaming through it, and I was every bit as shocked as he to see what had happened to his left: it was covered from fingertip to wrist, on its outside face, with an angry redness, shining and blistered, a hideous welt at least six inches long. It was what I imagined a sunburn might progress to in a far hotter climate than this; it appeared agonizing, but, more than that, impossible to have happened in the mere moment the direct sunlight had spent on his skin. Impossibility, however, had been thoroughly negated where he was concerned.
Footsteps and voices sounded from different parts of the building, undoubtedly roused by Sano’s cry, but I didn’t know that I wanted anyone but Takani to see him. “Come back into the room,” I urged, taking him by the shoulders, disregarding the open door just as we’d previously disregarded its unlocked state. I couldn’t move him until he was willing to move himself, but that took only a moment; soon we were barricaded against prying eyes again in the examination room that had been my home for far too long, though it was only a matter of time before someone knocked.
Sano held his hand out from his body, wincing and hissing with pain, face screwed up so harshly I expected to see tears that, presumably, his eyes no longer produced. He couldn’t utter a word, he was evidently in such distress. Looking at the boils and flaming redness of his fresh wound, I couldn’t say I blamed him.
The implications of this event were so numerous, and potentially interacted so intricately with the other inferences Sano’s condition had raised about our unknown foe, my head was spinning trying to keep them all in the background where they belonged. I needed to help Sano; I needed to talk to Takani; I needed to get our plans for leaving back on track.
I didn’t need, right at this moment, to dwell on just how close I’d apparently come to losing Sano again, this time to the most innocuous of natural phenomena.
For some author’s notes on part 17, see this Productivity Log.