Blood Contingency

Blood Contingency

Part 1

I’m so rarely afraid of anything that when I do happen to encounter something that scares me, I hardly know what to do about it.

It would be easier to decide on a course of action if the source of my fear were something that might reasonably frighten a normal man — but this sudden, irrational wariness of the teenager leaning against the wall near my apartment door isn’t really something I know what to do with. I stop, under the pretense of checking something in the car before I get out, to examine the stranger.

About my height, though he’s slouching and that estimate could be off; a pale, Asian face with dark-lashed eyes; shaggy brown hair — I can’t tell how long, as it’s pulled back; seems fairly lanky, though not a lightweight; and could be anywhere from seventeen to twenty-two-or-three. He doesn’t appear threatening — at least not in any way I, as a cop, would normally consider threatening; there are, of course, any number of things that could be hidden under the jacket he’s wearing, but his bearing doesn’t suggest him ready to attack at any moment. So why does the very sight of him send a chill through my entire body?

Afraid I may be, inordinately and unusually so, but a coward I am not. I’ve already determined that he doesn’t mean to attack me, and, besides that, I’m wearing a bullet-proof vest and have a gun and a nightstick at my side. Closing the car door with no more firmness or haste than I normally use, I head up the sidewalk toward the building without hesitation. “Can I help you?” I ask the young man casually.

“I was waiting for you, actually,” he replies, and though on the surface his tone is equally casual, there’s something immovably… hard… in the voice… some cold note I can’t quite place, but which sends a slight shiver up my spine and puts me even more on my guard.

“And what can I do for you?” I ask, stopping before the stranger without a flinch.

He straightens up and pulls empty hands out of the pockets of his jacket. They’re unnaturally pale in front of the black leather and even the blue jeans they fall against as they drop to his side. He’s now looking me very intently in the face; I think that staring into his eyes, which are, like his skin, uncannily bright, might well and probably should increase the irrational fear, but somehow it doesn’t. In fact, the effect is rather the opposite.

“There’s a lot of things you could do for me, Joe,” he says after a long moment of silence. “It’s gonna be up to you like always, though.”

I wonder briefly if I’m being sexually propositioned, but dismiss the notion as implausible at best. Even the boldest prostitutes don’t wait for police officers outside their own homes and then make their advances in cryptic, stalker-like language — and this isn’t the neighborhood for it at any rate. It’s also far from the center of what little gang activity there is in this city, as well as the worst areas of drug-related intrigue. Thus I’m really at a loss what this young man who knows my name and address could possibly want from me here at night with empty hands and an aura of danger.

But, once again, I am far from cowardly. “I think you’d better tell me exactly who you are and what you’re doing here.”

He gives a wry smile — almost rueful, I think — and shakes his head. “You’ll find that out one way or another,” he says. “This is your first chance.”

“Are you threatening me?” I ask, my cool tone far from a reflection of my state of mind.

He shrugs. “Kinda. I’ll be back in a week.” And, replacing his hands in his pockets, he turns and begins to walk away.

I’m surprised and annoyed. That someone should show up like this outside my home, frighten me as nothing has for a decade, and then walk so carelessly away after making such incomprehensible remarks… it isn’t merely unsettling and bizarre, it’s irritating. However, as I’m opening my mouth to tell him to come back and explain himself, my entire attention is arrested by something — yet another inexplicably disconcerting object that really should mean nothing to me — something that sends another shiver up my spine.

There is a large symbol in white on the back of the stranger’s jacket: some sort of Japanese character, I think, though this is just my default guess because I happen to have a Japanese-American girlfriend. But something about it freezes me to the spot and silences whatever protest or demand I was about to make. It isn’t an innately frightening sign; it doesn’t convey any meaning to me whatsoever; it certainly does not, in its design or general aspect, have any sort of hypnotic effect; but somehow it’s riveting. Because it’s… familiar…?

When the young man’s back has disappeared from my sight around the corner, releasing me from the disturbed and absorbed contemplation of the symbol thereupon, my presence of mind returns instantly and informs me that it would be absurdly foolish to let him walk away like that.

However, darting around the corner with quiet, determined footsteps, I find the parking lot completely empty — empty, silent, and calm under the peaceful moon. My eyes stray from one part of my placid and familiar surroundings to the next, my ears straining for any sound out of the ordinary in the quiet neighborhood, for a good five minutes before I turn with yet another shiver and make my way back to the apartment.

Inside, in the comforting skepticism of an air-conditioned and linoleum-floored kitchen, I analyze the confrontation as I mechanically seek out something microwaveable for dinner. I’m realizing now, in even greater annoyance than I was feeling a few minutes ago, that I wasn’t really afraid so much as disturbed by the stranger’s aspect and presence. Something inside me doesn’t want to have anything to do with the guy, even look at him. Of course there’s a certain amount of fear involved in this, but the primary reaction was and is reluctance. As if I really do know, and disapprove of, who he is and what his appearance signifies. Which seems impossible, but there it is.

And then that symbol… what did it mean? And what did it mean that I found it so terribly fascinating that I couldn’t look away or say a word while it was in view? Turning from the busy microwave, I seize a paper towel and the nearest available writing utensil, and do my best to reproduce the image; having a good eye for detail, I think I’ve done fairly well, but it means no more to me now than it did then.

A glance at the clock confirms that it isn’t too late for a phone call, but I can’t decide for a moment whether or not that would be overreacting. Eventually I opt for better-safe-than-sorry and dial Renee’s number.

“You’re calling me on a Wednesday?” she greets me. “What’s the big occasion?”

Ignoring her sarcasm I command, “Grab something to write with.”

“OK,” she says gamely, then, a moment later, “Go ahead.”

I study the figure I’ve jotted down, realizing just how stupid this is going to sound. “Draw a tic-tac-toe board,” I begin.

“Is this our date for the week?” she wonders, but I can hear the scratch of a pencil.

“Yes,” I deadpan. “Now put lines across the top and bottom about the same length as the other horizontal lines.”

“OK…”

“Then add a wide letter U or smile underneath.”

“Oh, I see what we’re doing.”

“Do you?”

“Yes, but it’s not really a fair game… you don’t know any kanji, which means I never get a turn. Where are you seeing this one?”

I find myself oddly reluctant, suddenly, to tell her about the strange young man. Am I hesitant to admit how much he disturbed me? Though unsure if this is my actual motive, the impulse not to mention him is too strong to resist. So I put her off with, “I wasn’t finished.”

“Well, with dashes around and inside the ‘smile,’ and the sides of the ‘tic-tac-toe board’ closed off” — she obviously finds this quite amusing — “you’ve got ‘waru’ or ‘aku,’ which means ‘evil.'”

“Evil,” I repeat slowly. Somehow I’m not surprised. Then, in response to her expectant silence I explain, “I saw it on someone’s jacket and wondered what it meant.”

She laughs. “People wear kanji all over the place and have no idea what they actually say. At least it wasn’t a tattoo.”

“Or a shirt that says, ‘Let’s Begin To Love Myself Over Again?'” I can’t help bringing that up; I never can.

“May I remind you that that was a birthday present?” She’s laughing. “I didn’t buy it.”

“And yet you still wear it.” I really don’t feel like further banter, though, so before she can retort I add, “Thanks for the translation; I have to go.”

She must have observed that my tease was half-hearted, for after noting that I sound tired and promising to call me on Saturday for a date that will not involve tic-tac-toe, she lets me go.

I stand in the kitchen staring at the paper towel for who knows how long, eventually make slow progress with my warmed-up leftovers to the table, and turn on the TV. I don’t pay any more attention to the news than I do to my dinner, however. It’s irritating but predictable: I can’t stop dwelling on the stranger. He was giving me a chance… to do what? He’ll be back in a week… why? And what was it he thought I could do for him? It’s pointless to speculate; if he does come back, presumably I’ll find out… but I hate being left in the dark, sitting back and waiting for my turn to know until it’s too late for action.

Most engrossing, though probably not most important… why was I so perturbed by him? I didn’t know the meaning of the symbol on his back until after he was gone, so why did I find it so riveting, so nearly horrifying? But he probably couldn’t answer those questions even if I felt like making a fool of myself asking them.

The next question is why such a minor event is still bothering me so much now that it’s over. It’s understandably annoying that I was disturbed enough not to act as I logically should have, but why I should be feeling echoes of that agitation even now… why I should be feeling traces of some kind of superstitious premonition, as if that brief encounter was a herald of upheaval… why I should be feeling like there’s something I should remember but that’s just past the edge of my conscious mind… I don’t know. I don’t know if I want to know.

I’m certain that going to bed is not likely to improve my state of mind, but I’m not about to change my habits or disrupt my sleep schedule for some stranger who shouldn’t really be at all unsettling.

It was probably just a prank anyway, and I’ll never see the guy again.



2>>

Part 2

“Saitou,” she said. “With a mysterious, bloodthirsty psychopath murdering his way through Tokyo, I really should have been expecting you.”

“Good morning to you too, doctor,” I returned the greeting. “I’m not surprised to find you here.”

“No,” she replied sardonically, “considering I’ve managed to examine five of these things so far.”

I wasn’t about to mention how lucky I found these combined circumstances. I hadn’t yet had opportunity to examine much physical evidence, so I’d been less upset than I might have at another murder — and far from upset that Takani-sensei, who had no selfish motives or class biases and who knew me better than most, had once again been the closest doctor to the crime. The fact that the pattern had been significantly broken this time was another point in the incident’s favor.

Hironaku was getting excited over the signs of violence, which hadn’t been present at any of the previous scenes. He seemed to be missing the fact that, as usual, the victim had evidently gone peacefully without a struggle — that the smashed dishes, broken table, and dented wall had not been part of the murder — but he’d been with this case since the first corpse and had watched two other investigators make nothing of it, so his enthusiasm was reasonable. As subordinates went, he was a greater combination of tolerable and competent than most; I would probably keep him.

Takani was still kneeling beside the body, looking understandably disheveled. This certainly wasn’t the first time in the last few weeks she’d been summoned to an unusual murder scene in the early morning without even the consolation of being a police doctor. I wasn’t entirely without sympathy, but was still glad she and not some other physician was present.

A few drops of blood on the floor that had evidently come from the victim’s single wound were the only indication as to where the body had originally fallen and how it had lain. Apparently the wife, in her understandable but damnable hysteria at finding her husband the latest of possibly the most bizarre string of murders in Tokyo’s history, had dragged him out of place and might have caused more harm to the scene had her frantic screaming not alerted the neighbors and, subsequently, the police.

Only by chance had there been an officer in the vicinity at all; it wasn’t the type of neighborhood that got much attention from our upstanding and unbiased justice system. And that was the most significant deviation from the pattern here. The murders thus far had fallen into two categories: successful businessmen killed in their own homes, apparently by design; and unemployed lowlifes or homeless killed in the streets, apparently at random. This man had been an unemployed lowlife, yet, by all appearances, had still been specifically tracked to his home and deliberately murdered.

“What can you tell me?” I asked the doctor once I’d finished my methodical look around the room.

“He’s the same as all the rest,” she reported dully, “just fresher. Exsanguination and no trauma as far as I can tell. At least this time you found him soon enough for a proper autopsy.” The last remark was clearly made without much hope that she wouldn’t be the one performing it.

“Time of death?”

“He has no blood,” she reminded me flatly. “That throws everything off. Until the autopsy, I can only guess. Three hours ago, maybe more.”

I nodded as I stared down at the corpse. I hadn’t disbelieved the reports regarding the cause of death, but I hadn’t exactly believed them, either. Not until I’d seen it for myself could something so outlandish seem at all real. And I found myself a good deal more disturbed than I typically was at a murder scene. It wasn’t the abnormally pallid, dry-looking flesh and emaciated, slightly twisted frame that made it so much more horrific than usual… I’d seen bodies barely recognizable as such, turned inside out or strewn in pieces across large expanses, seen rooms so drenched in blood as to make me go temporarily colorblind. This was the exact opposite, and somehow just that… the mere absence, the complete absence of blood… that made it worse than all the rest.

Only the most puerile investigators jumped immediately to insanity as the likely motive for a crime, but this… this had the mark of a madman. Though still a madman with specific goals. The theory the previous investigators had been working with was that we had on our hands a disgruntled, jealous, overly ambitious businessman who’d hired an assassin to give him an edge and had set the killer on a few unrelated victims as well in order to cloud the issue. Not a bad hypothesis… but, typically, its flaws had either never occurred to my predecessors or had been willfully overlooked. Significant among these was a question they had entirely ignored: what would a businessman — or even an assassin — want with such a large volume of blood?

I’d been in town and on the case for several days now and still had no solid theories, and that was a deviation from pattern of another kind. Nothing we knew so far was remotely conclusive; indeed, every new clue we turned up seemed to point in a different direction from the last.

The final deviation was the witness. Every previous victim seemed to have been killed in complete solitude, and a few of them hadn’t even been discovered for days. But this man had been entertaining at the time of death — a guest who’d been knocked hard into a wall and fallen thence onto the table where the sake they’d been sharing had rested… but who might have seen something before that, who might be able to explain why a struggle had been necessary to subdue him but not the man actually being murdered.

I worked my way through the scene once more. I felt like I was missing something, or perhaps that some of this was making more sense to my subconscious than to the surface of my mind. Either way, I didn’t think I was likely to learn anything more from the room at the moment. “Let’s get him out of here. Takani-sensei, you’ll perform the autopsy?”

Hironaku looked at me askance but said nothing.

“Of course,” the doctor answered, heavily but unhesitating, as she rose. She wasn’t happy about this; it was rather outside the boundaries of what she usually dealt with, her connection to the Kamiya dojo notwithstanding… but she was resigned, and not lacking in the aplomb necessary for her profession.

I’d sent for a closed wagon to transport the body, and at my orders a few of the men who waited outside got the latter wrapped and loaded onto the former. “The wife was taken to the south station?” I asked another.

“Yes, sir.”

“Have arrangements made for her for the next couple of days, and one of you stay here to keep the curious off. I’m going to look this place over again after I’ve questioned the witness.” He repeated his acknowledgment, and I left him discussing with the others who would return to the station and who would stand guard.

“I doubt your ‘witness’ is going to have anything to say for some time,” Takani warned me quietly.

“On the off chance that he’s awake and coherent and happened to see something, I’m going to look in on him.”

She was giving me an odd eye, and it seemed she might have something useful to say, but eventually she merely shook her head and remarked, “I won’t have you jeopardizing his recovery.”

I had no answer for this, since each of us knew that, if it came to it, the other would press their side of the issue — and probably knew equally well who would prevail.

By the time I handed the doctor into the cab and took the spot beside her, Hironaku was already seated looking over his notes. While I preferred to keep my thoughts organized in my head where troublesome people couldn’t get their hands on them, I had to appreciate his dedication.

“This murder method…” he remarked as the carriage began to move, then abruptly glanced at the doctor. His expressive face was as plain as a direct question whether he should discuss his theories in front of her. She wasn’t looking at either of us. I nodded.

“It reminds me of some things yakuza bosses have done to scare their people into sticking with them,” he continued slowly. “Or something similar: someone trying to send a message to someone…”

“With as much specific aim as anonymously tacking signs up on lamp-posts,” I replied. “If it’s a message, it could be meant for just about anyone, and that anyone isn’t likely to step forward.”

He sighed. “In any case, we’re dealing with one sick bastard.”

“Or more than one,” I reminded. “Don’t get too caught up in speculation until after we find out what the other man knows.” Not that I wasn’t speculating. I just wasn’t doing it aloud.

With an expression of perturbation, Hironaku nodded. In actuality I feared he might prove a little too emotionally fragile to last long… He hadn’t shown signs of excessive brittleness, but he seemed the type that might crack all at once when things piled up. Still, someone relatively competent for a short while was better than someone hopeless I couldn’t get rid of. Perhaps I could increase his longevity by letting him handle most of the paperwork. That would be doubly useful.

“I do wonder why the other man is alive at all, though,” he murmured thoughtfully after several silent moments. “Our murderer has killed eight people so far… why not this other man?”

“If you’ll allow me to speculate…” Takani had looked up abruptly. “‘Your murderer’ seems to be interested in collecting blood, not committing murder.” It was only very slight, but in her voice was the tone of someone patiently explaining something obvious. Hironaku’s expression in response was slightly amusing; it seemed this thought really hadn’t crossed his mind. Maybe I wouldn’t keep him.

“If he was equipped to extract blood from only one man,” Takani continued, “and had no idea there was anyone else there until he entered…”

“Oh?” Now I was curious, and turned to regard her with a raised brow, wondering what she thought she knew. “Why would he assume his victim was alone?”

“Oh?” she echoed. I got the feeling she was somewhat darkly pleased at having information that I lacked. “None of your fine officers were able to identify the other man?” Finally I comprehended her earlier odd expression as she added pointedly, “I doubt anyone besides the victim knew Tsukioka-san was there, or would be there, at that time. He’s not the type to let people know what he’s planning.”

I nodded slowly. That complicated things.

Part 3

“…of all the stupid things. A degree in criminology, and they’ve got me hunting vampires.”

Overhearing this at the station the next day is not exactly comforting. Nor is the fact that I make mental connections as fast as I do.

“I don’t know what else to call them, though… I’ve never seen murders like this before, and neither have you.”

Curious as I am — and I am — I decide not to ask. Better not to know the details of this elaborate hoax. It isn’t my case anyway, and it certainly won’t help keep my mind off the strange, pale visitor of last night.

The latter, as I somewhat anticipated, is in and out of my head throughout the day. The same questions I’ve been asking about him all along arise and are steadfastly ignored while I get what I need to do finished. Even more assiduously I ignore the movie lines that keep popping up in my head trying to distract me… things like, “You know how few vampires have the stamina for immortality, how quickly they perish of their own will?” and, “The vampires didn’t realize you were following a human… did they?” and, best of all, “You’re not a full vampire until you’ve made your first kill. You were supposed to be mine… but I couldn’t…” Only then do I realize just how many stupid vampire movies I’ve actually seen. It’s very annoying.

I wonder how the stranger would react if he knew these thoughts. Vaguely putting myself in his place (assuming some sort of reasonable motive for the mysterious behavior), the idea is actually slightly amusing, in a god-forbid sort of way.

The question from last night that returns the most persistently is why this matter continues to bother me so much. Mere unusualness is not enough to justify this kind of devotion of thought. I try to tell myself that it’s the natural result of boring paperwork, that as soon as I’m out on a new case I’ll forget it entirely… but not even boring paperwork has ever led me to reflections this firmly locked on a seemingly unimportant subject before.

Eventually, thinking to drown the fixation with excess information, I give in and ask someone to enlighten me on the ‘vampire’ business. My precinct is given to gossip like some proverbial group of old women, so he’s only too happy to do so — and what I hear is no more than I expected: a couple of apparently-related killings by some unknown whose MO matches what one must assume a vampire’s would be if such creatures existed, right down to the presence of foreign DNA in the neck wounds. Predictably, keeping the press off the occurrences is taking up half my colleague’s energy at the moment.

For all our gossipy habits (and, yes, sadly, I’m forced to include myself in this description), the tales don’t leave the station; as such, the number of people outside the police force who are likely to know about this matter is small (for now, while the press is still in the dark). Therefore, little as I want to assume there are two similar hoaxes going on simultaneously in the same vicinity, I have to believe this is unconnected with my visitor — mostly because if the circumstances were connected, that complicates and darkens something I thought simply unusual.

Wait; similar hoaxes? Why, I wonder in annoyance, am I connecting them at all? Why has such a fantastic concept as vampires attached itself so tenaciously to the visitor in my head? Because he was pale, because he moved quickly and quietly, because I was disturbed by him? How utterly childish of me. Maybe I’ve been working too hard lately. I wonder briefly when I can next take vacation time. Renee would like that, anyway.

“I fucking hate vampires.”

I roll my eyes, and, with an effort of will, force myself to stop thinking about it. And once I’ve torn myself away, I manage, if not entirely without further struggle, to stay away for the rest of the day.

Leaving rather late, having lost track of the time in enthusiasm(?) for my paperwork, as is often the case, I find the parking lot dark and sparse when I finally emerge. Not even the faintest glow of sunset remains on the city-obscured horizon, and I parked in a spot where the lot lights don’t touch. It’s from the shadows near my car, which I haven’t quite reached, that a woman’s voice unexpectedly speaks: “You’ve been contacted.”

Simply because of the brazen oddity of the greeting, yesterday’s occurrence — and all related reflection — springs immediately back into my mind.

Stepping forward into the full light, she displays pale Asian features and bright eyes. When she catches sight of my face she stops moving. “Oh,” she says in a tone of understanding.

Two encounters with washed-out, glowing-eyed, cryptic Asians on two consecutive days is no coincidence — especially given the news, I can’t help but think — so I’m immediately tense, ready to make sure she doesn’t run off. “‘Oh,’ what?” I demand.

Her face takes on a sad expression. “He hasn’t reminded you yet.”

Assuming she’s referring to the young man, and considering he didn’t tell me anything, I have to assume she’s correct.

She looks even more somber at my silence. “I know you’re confused,” she says quietly, “and it’s going to get worse before it gets better. But I can assure you you’ll know everything in time.”

“Everything?” I echo wryly. “Not something I ever wanted to know.”

Her smile matches my tone. “And you won’t want to know most of this. But I’d like at least to assure you that we don’t have any criminal intentions towards you.”

I frown, unable to keep from becoming suspicious at this carefully-worded statement. “Who are you?”

She looks thoughtful for a moment, almost indecisive. Finally she says, “Megumi.”

A Japanese name, I know; Renee is a fan of some trembly-voiced singer called the same thing. That doesn’t tell me much, but it’s better than no information at all. “And your friend’s name?”

Another wry smile. “‘Friend?’ Hmm. Well, his name… I’ll leave that up to him.”

This is getting frustrating. I’m tempted to return to the prank theory, but there’s something about her that seems too serious to disregard. “And what do you want?” I wonder next.

“I want nothing from you,” she says, and her slight emphasis of the word ‘I’ again makes me frown.

“And him?”

“Again, that’s up to him,” she replies.

There’s very little more I can ask her, given that this is not an interrogation and she’s basically told me she isn’t going to tell me anything. And as the silence lengthens, she shakes her head and turns. I don’t feel I should let her walk away, but can’t think of anything to make her stay.

Then, as she puts her back to me but before her first few steps take her out of the ring of light, I see very clearly, slung over her shoulder, a sort of leather holster that contains, unless I’m very much mistaken, a neat row of wooden stakes.

By now even my better judgment is starting to give way, and only my desire to consider this a hoax allows me to keep doing so.

Part 4

Sagara answered after I’d knocked about four times, opening the door sluggishly and blinking at me for several moments. Then he scowled. Grunting, he withdrew, leaving the way free for me to follow. “I figure if you’re here to kick my ass,” he explained at a grumble, “you might as well do it inside where you won’t wake up all my neighbors.”

“How considerate of you,” was my reply as I shut the door behind me.

“Since when are you in town?”

“Since last week; I’m here for a case.”

“Then I guess I can forgive you for not showing up earlier to kick my ass.”

“Unfortunately, I have business other than kicking your ass today.”

It was the first time I’d been inside his home, and I found it a little neater than I’d expected… mostly because he didn’t seem to own very much. What he did have was enough, however, to provide sufficient clutter that his search for the upper garment he lacked was taking some time. “I thought all your Tokyo cases involved kicking my ass,” he said as he hunted.

“Hn.” I would have had a better reply for this, but I really was here on business — business he was probably going to find even less pleasant than his speculations. “Hurry up and get ready.”

He straightened, his gi in one hand, and threw me a black look. “Like I’m going to take orders from you.”

“You are if you want to hear what happened to your friend.”

The gi dropped to the floor. “Which friend? What happened?!”

“I’ll tell you on the way.”

Hastily now he recovered the article of clothing and shrugged into it, demanding, “On the way where? You didn’t come in a stupid carriage, did you?”

“No. Come on.”

He followed me out the door, not bothering to lock it behind us. Of course, I didn’t know if he ever bothered to lock it.

“Well?” he demanded as we started up the street.

“Have you heard about the recent attacks?” I began.

With a snort he replied, “You’re gonna have to be more specific than that… think about where I live.”

He hadn’t heard, then; he’d have known what I meant without any elaboration otherwise. “Eight people — so far — have been killed by having large quantities of blood drained from their bodies.”

“Eight?? What the fuck are you cops doing? Is one of my friends one of ’em?!”

One of his questions was a very good one, but not one I felt like addressing right now. “He isn’t dead,” I replied. “He was found unconscious next to the body of the latest victim. He’s the first potential witness to any of the attacks.”

Sanosuke drew a deep, angry breath. “You’re an asshole, you know that? Scaring the shit of out me like that for nothing.”

“It’s not nothing. His shoulder was dislocated, his arm broken, and he has a concussion.”

“My god, you are an asshole… Why the hell didn’t you say that before?”

“He’s also incoherent and won’t talk to me.”

“I fucking wonder why,” muttered Sanosuke. “So that’s what this is all about. You want me to help you question one of my friends because you can’t do it yourself. I’d never have known he was hurt otherwise.”

“I’m fairly sure you’re his only real friend, and probably as close to family as he has at this point,” I replied coolly; “you’d have been notified if he died.”

“Shit, it’s Katsu, isn’t it?” His tone had taken on an edge of much greater concern. “Why didn’t you just say so?” When I did not reply he went on in a surly tone, “So what do I get out of this?”

I raised a brow. “Safer streets?” I suggested. “The opportunity to talk to him at all?”

“Ch…” He’d only asked in order to be perverse, I was certain; we both knew he wouldn’t refuse to help in a situation like this. “Hurry the fuck up, then,” he added.

The only reason I hadn’t taken a carriage was that I recalled how difficult he’d been the last time I’d tried to get him to ride in one. The walk between the clinic and his neighborhood took more time than I really wanted to waste, but I’d decided that keeping him in a relatively compliant mood was probably worth it. Still, my impatience to get back and get on with things led me to accede quite easily to his demand that I ‘hurry the fuck up.’

Eventually he recognized the direction we were going. “So he’s at kitsune’s clinic?”

I nodded. “Takani has been lucky enough to examine most of the bodies so far, including this latest one.”

“No wonder I haven’t seen her around lately…” Sagara murmured thoughtfully. I was vaguely surprised at the implication that he saw her around enough to know the difference; I hadn’t thought they got along that well.

As we finally approached the clinic, I broke the silence again. “He has no reason to trust me. But if you can convince him he’s safe in telling you anything that might be related to this matter–”

“Dyou realize what you’re doing?” Sagara broke in.

I glanced at him with a raised brow.

“You’re counting on me,” he stated. Though his tone was nearly flat, it had the air of a defiant announcement. “I’m doing something important for you, and you’re trusting me to do it.”

“You’re the only one who can,” I replied, by which I meant (and he knew it) that if there had been anyone else, I wouldn’t have asked him.

His face darkened briefly, then cleared, and he grinned slightly. “I’m gonna take that as a compliment.”

“Do as you please.”

We’d reached the door, and here Sanosuke paused. “All right, so what am I finding out if I can?”

“Anything he remembers about the attack, anything he thinks might be related to it. The series of events, what the killer was like, and any guess he might have about why the killer chose that victim.”

“You don’t ask much, do you?” wondered Sagara sarcastically.

“I’ll be out here,” I replied.

He shook his head and entered the building.

It took much longer than I expected. Whether this meant Tsukioka had a lot of information to relate, or that he wasn’t lucid enough to relate it quickly, or that Sagara was dominating the conversation talking shit about me, I couldn’t guess — though presumably I would find out soon enough.

The lady doctor, who’d left to get some rest after the autopsy, returned while I was waiting. She didn’t look particularly rested, however; actually, I thought the darkness beneath her eyes was even more pronounced than before. But I restrained myself and didn’t speculate about nightmares or anything less appropriate that might have interrupted her sleep, merely nodded to her.

With a grim expression she glanced from the door to where I was leaning against the wall looking out at the yard. “You found Sanosuke?” she guessed.

I nodded again.

“You know I don’t approve,” she said flatly.

“And you know it’s necessary,” I answered in a similar tone.

She held my eye for a second and then replied more lightly, “I meant your smoking just outside my clinic.” Evidently she knew better than to argue further against disturbing her patient.

I smirked slightly, darkly, as I took another drag. “That’s necessary to keep me from going insane.”

“Yes, this case of yours is enough to have that effect on anyone.” She sounded simultaneously sympathetic and exasperated, though mostly tired. “Just don’t bring it inside.”

Again I nodded, and she disappeared through the door.

Eventually Sanosuke emerged. He was moving slowly, with an unusual restraint on all his limbs, as if he were a patient here and suffering from some invisible wound; but when he looked up and met my gaze, I could see in his face a deep anger just waiting to invigorate him against some unsuspecting target. Breaking eye contact, however, he sat down on the edge of the porch with his back to me.

After several long moments of silence he said abruptly, “He doesn’t know anything.”

I lit another cigarette and waited for him to elaborate. When he didn’t, I requested that he should.

“You can’t get much more specific than ‘nothing,'” he retorted, though I felt that, for once, he wasn’t really angry at me. He sighed slightly and went on. “He doesn’t know that the dead guy — Irutou’s his name, right? — had any enemies in particular. Apparently the guy was always going on about some big shot he used to work for named Tomizawa, but it wasn’t the kind of thing Katsu prints. But Katsu loves gossip whether he prints it or not, so it’s no wonder they were drinking together. Everything was normal, and then the next thing he knew somebody was knocking him into a wall.”

“What did he see?”

“Almost nothing, I guess… shadows… he said the lamp had gone out. Though apparently whoever attacked him moved really fast and was pretty normal-sized.” Sanosuke shrugged. “He doesn’t remember it very clearly, but it sounds like even if he did he probably didn’t see anything helpful.”

“So it seems,” I murmured thoughtfully.

“And that’s all he said.” This statement had a fatalistic edge to it, as if Sagara’s friend had died after saying all of this.

“How is Tsukioka doing now?”

Sanosuke made a noise like a snort or a grunt, bitter and angry, and said nothing; so I turned my thoughts to the minimal information he’d provided.

Though I did appreciate the artist’s remembering it, the name Tomizawa was not likely to be terribly useful. For though Tomizawa — whoever he was — might not be aware that the victim’s information on him wasn’t the sort of thing Tsukioka was interested in printing — thus providing a motive for the murder — that would not explain any of the other killings, the blood thing, or, most significantly, the fact that Tsukioka was still alive. Still, it was a name; I would have Hironaku look into it.

Sagara interrupted this brief reverie with the very stiff-sounding pronouncement, “Thanks for coming to get me.” Turning my eyes back to him, I could easily mark the further stiffness in his figure as he stared out across the yard at nothing.

“Don’t mention it,” I said.

“So this person,” he began again presently, in what I might have called a careful tone if I could have thought him capable of that.  “This person who hurt my friend… he’s killed eight people, right?”

As I realized why he was asking this, I was a little surprised at my own reaction: an abrupt sinking of heart.  I was certainly taking care as I replied, “That’s why I’m here.”

“Yeah, you always get to play with the psychopaths, don’t you?”

“The doctor made much the same comment.”  I was still wary, not daring to hope the danger had been averted.

And it hadn’t.  “So what do you know about the guy so far?”

“Nothing.”  Normally I wouldn’t be so quick to admit such a complete lack of results even on a case I had only very recently taken, but I didn’t want to give him anything he might see as a clue lest he… get in my way.

“Nothing?” he echoed suspiciously.  “You’ve been in town since last week and you just found a fresh corpse yesterday, and you still don’t know anything about the murderer?”

I must have been tired from staying up all night: his skepticism was slightly flattering; I wouldn’t have guessed he thought so highly of my abilities.  That didn’t change the situation, however, and I threw back his earlier words: “You can’t get much more specific than ‘nothing.'”

He rose and turned to face me, staring me in the eye much as Takani had earlier. But unlike her, Sagara had no issues with arguing. “You’re lying,” he stated flatly.  “You’d be way more annoyed if you really didn’t know anything.  You’re lying ’cause you think it’s none of my business.”

“It is none of your business,” was my cool response.  Of course he’d really only been skeptical because he didn’t want to believe I had no information.  “It’s police business.”

“Bullshit,” he said emphatically.  “You wouldn’t tell the families of the victims that it’s none of their business, and you said yourself I’m as close as Katsu’s got.”

“I would tell them that, if they were likely to get in my way.  But I’m not lying,” I added before he could retort.  “Whether you choose to believe me or not is your own business, but all I have at this point is speculation… and that won’t give you any skulls to crack.”

“Well…”  It seemed I’d convinced him, for his anger had cooled.  Or at least his specific annoyance at me had. “What do you speculate?”

He’d grown much stronger since our last don’t-get-involved argument, but somehow my desire for him not to get involved was also that much stronger.  And while I wouldn’t hesitate to lie to him to accomplish that, there was no lie in this situation that was likely to be as effective as the truth.  So I answered immediately, hoping to give the impression of compliance despite fully intending to give him more questions than answers.  “Your friend’s presence would complicate even the most straightforward investigation.  A political journalist doesn’t become a witness to a murder like this by coincidence.”

“Right,” Sanosuke muttered thoughtfully.

“But did they mean to leave him alive? If so, why?  Does he have some information they want to see published, or is there another reason?  If not, why do they want him dead?  Does he know something they don’t want to get out?  And why did he survive?  Is the murderer simply sloppy?”

My companion’s face was now very serious and contemplative, and, given that rare circumstance, I thought I could be forgiven for staring.  He didn’t seem to notice or care.  “I’m surprised you’re not in there questioning him to death,” he finally remarked.

“If he does know something that’s related to this, he’s not aware of it, or he would have told you; I’m sure he trusts you enough for that.  Our only option is to keep an eye on him in case the murderer really does want him dead.”

Sanosuke took the bait.  “Oh, believe me, nobody’s gonna touch him again,” he vowed darkly.  “And if somebody tries… well, I’ll solve the case for you.”

I gave him an assessing look, not because I was considering options but because I wanted him to think I was.  This should keep him out of my way at least for a while, let him think he was helping, and (I thought) put him in no more danger than he would already have been in.  I agreed with Takani’s assessment — the murderer, who was primarily after blood, hadn’t expected to find Tsukioka there and, in getting him out of the way, hadn’t cared whether he lived or died.

“Fine,” I said at last.

Sagara’s expression turned skeptical again.  “What, you’re gonna let me do that?”

“I can hardly keep you from hanging around your friend, and you’ll probably be a much more competent bodyguard than anyone I could assign from the police force.”

This time he frankly gaped.  “Did you just call me ‘competent?'”

“It was relative, but, yes, I believe I did.”

“Holy shit…”  He had looked down, and I might have been mistaken, but I thought he was blushing slightly.  I was probably mistaken.

Part 5

As early as the next day, I’m forced to think about the ‘vampire’ issue again. A new body has turned up, this one in a small grocery store dumpster used for the disposal of old frying oil. Cause of death was the same, but a little more care was given this time to the subsequent disposition of the corpse, and the shape of the container and the weight of the victim make it unlikely that only one person was involved in hiding the body… These facts make my colleague somewhat wary of assuming he’s even dealing with the same murderer. But how many murderers with vampiric aspirations can there possibly be in this city? And if one or more of the crimes was imitation, which was the original? Interesting as it is, I’m grateful this isn’t my case.

Unfortunately, this discovery has been largely publicized. Last night’s news (which I, regrettably, skipped watching) talked about it, for one thing, and before I get the real details at work that day I’ve heard of it from no fewer than three of my neighbors. Whether they’re trying to comfort themselves with the reminder that they have a cop in the near vicinity, see if they can be the first to tell that cop about a murder, or just garner my approval on the plans that are evolving in the area, I don’t know.

Because plans are certainly evolving. The murder wasn’t precisely in the neighborhood, but close enough that the families in my apartment complex are thrown into a subdued panic of carpool and neighborhood watch arrangements. I know that fervor will die down after a few uneventful weeks — possibly even a few uneventful days; it always does. People strive for complacency, after all, to the point of disregarding a real threat the moment they’ve ‘done their part’ to prepare for it.

Besides instilling in my neighbors the aforementioned paranoia, this affects my life by shutting down the closest grocery store, probably for several days. Which is why Friday evening finds me walking to a convenience store just around the corner, rather than wasting the gas it would take to drive all the way to the next-closest grocery store, in search of macaroni and cheese.

Renee would certainly tease me about venturing forth on foot in the middle of a murder scare to buy what she calls fake food, but the shopping I planned to do tonight now isn’t going to happen. Of course, I would have bought macaroni and cheese at the grocery store anyway; it isn’t an inability to cook real food that makes this item a regular in my kitchen, but rather a hypersensitivity to the pointlessness of spending much time or effort making anything complicated for myself alone.

The local juvenile-delinquents-in-training that are always at the gas station pretending to be some variety of hardcore, knowing me for a cop, slink off as I approach, leaving the exterior of the store vacant and silent. Silent, that is, except for a couple of voices I can just hear conversing quietly around the corner of the building. It seems an unlikely place for a drug deal — though god (and the entire precinct) knows that well-off neighborhoods like this can produce some phenomenally naïve dealers — but since it also seems an unlikely place for any entirely innocent conversation, I stop to listen for a moment before going inside.

“–know you were back in the country until today,” a woman is remarking in a chiding tone. “You need to get a new cell phone.”

“Yeah, in case you haven’t noticed,” replies a man’s voice, “I’m not in much position for a credit check, and the prepaid ones don’t cover half the places I go.”

Startled and experiencing abruptly some of the same agitation as a few nights before, I stiffen and listen harder. It’s that vampire boy.

I have no idea when I started thinking of him that way.

“There are channels…” Having identified the young man, it isn’t difficult to recognize the other as the woman who approached me last night. Megumi.

“Fuck them,” says the young man, dark and vehement.

“My thoughts exactly,” Megumi agrees.

“Besides, they’ve figured out my connection to you across the whole damn country by now; they wouldn’t do a thing for me.”

She laughs mirthlessly and then (to judge by her tone) changes the subject. “So do you have any idea who’s vagabonding around here?”

“No clue.”

“I thought the police might be farther along than they usually get when I felt the touch on one of them, but it was just…” Here she seems to trail off in some sort of hesitation.

“Yeah,” the other puts in abruptly, harshly. “Just him.”

Silence ensues, and lasts so long I think the conversation must be over. But then the young man goes on, now in a tone that sounds so close to tortured as to be entirely absorbing, “He’s a cop again, Meg. A fucking cop.”

“I know,” she replies quietly.

“And eventually I’m not gonna ask; I’m just gonna–”

“I know,” she repeats, interrupting. “I know.” Without missing a beat she goes on in Japanese, and he answers in the same language.

This transition doesn’t make their conversation any less comprehensible, but I have no doubt that I am the ‘fucking cop’ and that they’ve stopped using English because they know I can hear them. They know I’m here. I haven’t made a sound; I haven’t stepped forward or even moved; I feel I’m barely breathing in my efforts to catch every word… yet somehow they know I’m here.

Which means there’s no reason to keep pretending I’m not.

Walking quickly around the corner, I find myself in a sort of alley between the store and the car wash, the kind of place that seems to have been built deliberately for the kind of young men with nothing better to do that my approach spooked just a few minutes ago. It couldn’t have been constructed with much else in mind, given that it’s too narrow to house anything beyond a few large trash cans and a lot of grime.

And it’s empty.

That my first thought is, Of course it’s empty; they can probably fly, isn’t even my greatest source of chagrin; rather, it’s that it takes me nearly a minute to recognize that this was my first thought and react to it with proper disdain.

Normally this kind of stupid semi-subliminal fixation with an absurd idea would somewhat irritate but mostly amuse me; that I’m more disturbed by it than anything else in this situation suggests that it has taken far more hold of my subconscious than I really want to admit. It almost makes me angry to find myself searching the rooftops of the two buildings with my eyes, to admit thus that I don’t find it totally illogical to think the speakers might have escaped in that direction.

But, really, where they’ve gone is probably the least compelling question of the evening. Questions… I need more questions, don’t I? I feel like I should be writing them down, there are getting to be so many of them.

Beyond merely wondering at the meaning of that strange conversation, I wonder that I caught it at all. Either they deliberately allowed me to hear, or they didn’t notice at first that I was there. And since what I heard meant almost nothing to me, I have to assume the latter… and therefore that this place is a customary haunt for the young man. A block from my home.

So it appears that it isn’t his intention merely to give me an ultimatum and come back when the time is up; he’ll be watching me through this week of his. Why? Does he expect some specific reaction from me? Or is he just curious how I’ll behave under these strange circumstances? Perhaps I’ve become the subject of an undeclared, unethical psychological experiment, and there will be a reward once it’s all over if I get through with sanity intact.

Why does it bother him so much that I’m a cop, though, and what did he mean by ‘again?’ There was something in his tone as he made that remark that was completely riveting. Despite Megumi’s comment about the police being ‘farther along than they usually get,’ which logic suggests should be the most interesting part of the exchange, my mind keeps returning inexorably to the pain in the young man’s voice as he seemed to deplore my being a cop. ‘Again.’ It was the manner of one struck unexpectedly with a tragic memory, and I simply can’t think what it might mean.

If he really were a vampire… But I cut that thought off before it can bloom into absurdity. It wouldn’t provide an explanation anyway.

How long I stand in that little alley I’m not sure, but it must be quite a while; when I leave it I find that the loiterers have returned. And the irritation on my face must be rather severe, for at my appearance they scatter even faster than before.

It’s reassuring, at least, how easily I can transition from thinking about vampires to shopping for macaroni and cheese, as I’m fairly certain that means my subconscious really isn’t as convinced as some of my thoughts seemed to indicate it is; surely I would not be able so smoothly to return to the mundane of the familiar world if I truly believed I was being stalked by vampires.

I am being stalked, though, and what I should do about it (if anything) I don’t know. The woman assured me that they have no ‘criminal intentions’ toward me, but do I believe that?

“He’s a cop again, Meg. A fucking cop.”

Perhaps the young man has done this before to others — whatever it is that he’s doing — and I’m not the first policeman in his lineup. The anguish in his tone, though, which would seem to indicate that he finds it an unpleasant, even painful task to carry out makes that theory incompatible with ‘no criminal intentions.’ Other than this, I have no theories.

And why should I continue to theorize, when the issue is so obviously beyond my comprehension at this point? Personally, there’s nothing I can do about this: they are clearly capable of evading me with apparent ease; legally, I still don’t really have a basis for action, and in any event just the thought of the phone call to the precinct to report the supposed crime makes me almost shudder with chagrin; mentally, persisting in my speculations will get me worse than nowhere: if I keep up at the rate I’m going, I might well have some sort of breakdown before the week is over.

Presumably the latter will bring the answers I need. It had better, I find myself thinking grimly as I head back home with my pseudo-groceries. And despite the resolution I’m forming about this entire affair, I still have to force myself not to look behind me at every other step to see if I’m being followed. Not that I would probably see them anyway, even if they happen to be there.

Part 6

I wasn’t particularly given to discouragement, but to irritation certainly, and I was starting to become rather irritated with this case. A thorough retread of the scene of the latest murder and a similarly meticulous review of everything we knew so far had been completely unenlightening. I had to keep reminding myself that such a reexamination could never be a waste of time — given that sudden epiphanies about things like this usually arose from collected subconscious understanding — just to prevent myself from considering the entire day meaningless. Still, if Hironaku’s investigations into Tomizawa turned up nothing inspiring, I couldn’t help feeling I might as well not have gotten up this morning.

Ironically, this total lack of progress on my part did little to reverse my opinion of the prior two investigators of the issue; I was just as certain of their incompetence as I would have been had I shown up in Tokyo and solved the case overnight. Perhaps this was a double standard of sorts, but I honestly didn’t care.

Eventually Hironaku entered my office looking concerned. Though not an immediate source of worry since he often looked that way, this wasn’t terribly encouraging either; presumably he wouldn’t look that way if he’d had any success. “Well?” I asked.

He started his report standing at attention, and eventually in some annoyance I gestured for him to sit down. It seemed I’d been right about Tomizawa: at least on the surface, the man was utterly unconnected and uninteresting — though he was the same class of businessman as half of the victims. That wasn’t the inciting part of Hironaku’s account, however.

“There was something strange about everyone I talked to,” my dutiful assistant was adding after he’d given me all the facts. “I’m almost certain they’d all been questioned about this before, and not long ago. They seemed intimidated somehow. It looks as if we’re not the only ones investigating Tomizawa.”

I frowned. Although there were quite a few possible explanations for this (among them that Hironaku was simply imagining things), my mind for some reason jumped straight to one potential answer in specific and clung there. I couldn’t help recalling the furnace that had been Sagara’s eyes yesterday when he’d asked about the person who’d hurt his friend, and Tomizawa’s name had been the only thing like a clue that he’d had taken from that conversation. If he’d gotten started on it then, he could well have reached all of the people Hironaku talked to before the latter did. I wouldn’t have thought him that resourceful, but…

Well, it was still just a guess in any event. But, given Sagara’s tendencies to involve himself in anything that held the prospect of a good fight, to stand up for his friends to the point of almost suicidal recklessness, and to do exactly what I told him not to do, it wasn’t exactly unprecedented. And even if he wasn’t behind this, checking on him to make sure he wasn’t up to anything else didn’t seem overcautious.

Hironaku made his usual polite inquiry, “Sir?”

I stood up, apparently with some abruptness if Hironaku’s slight start was any indication. “Look into his business and see if he has any connection there with any of the victims,” I ordered; “we’ll drop this if he doesn’t. I’ll deal with the third party.”

Hironaku made a (rather annoying) curious face, but only said, “Yes, sir.”

Alternately relieved at having some kind of next step to take even if it had little to do with the actual case, irritated almost to the point of anger at Sagara for this as-yet-hypothetical behavior, I went first to the Oguni clinic to look for him.

The look with which Takani greeted me, however, was not at all promising, given that I hadn’t had a cigarette for hours and therefore knew her disapproval didn’t stem from that. A sort of flash of dark triumph showed in her eyes, though, as she seemed to consider something for a moment before saying anything. “They’re not here,” she finally announced.

I shook my head, annoyance and suspicions growing. “Why doesn’t that surprise me…”

“Sanosuke felt he could guard his friend better at his own home, or something like that,” she explained, sounding somewhat exasperated, “and wouldn’t listen to anything I said. It didn’t help that Tsukioka-san is just as reckless and pigheaded as he is.”

“Tsukioka may not be thinking clearly,” I reminded her.

She acknowledged the point with a nod; then that same triumph of a few moments before flickered again in her eyes as she said, “Which makes it entirely Sanosuke’s fault.”

That had been the only reason I’d mentioned it, so I merely nodded as well. Obviously she’d known I wasn’t going to be pleased about this, and was looking forward to having revenge for Sagara’s complete disregard of her concern for her concussed patient exacted through me. I had to admit, I was going to be glad to comply, since I was almost certain Sagara had moved Tsukioka to his own home so he could keep a more consistent eye on him during his comings and goings as he got in the way of my case.

“If you do go over there–” She pronounced this very casually, as if there were any question in the matter– “do make sure Tsukioka-san isn’t moving around too much, won’t you?”

“Certainly. And if you see Sagara before I do,” I added darkly, “don’t mention that I’m looking for him.”

“Certainly,” she echoed, her eyes flashing again.

I smirked slightly and left her.

It occurred to me to wonder, during my carriage ride from the clinic to Sagara’s neighborhood, why I knew where he lived at all. My ally the good doctor hadn’t needed to tell me his address yesterday, and futilely I tried to recall why I’d ever looked it up, an event which I thought had actually taken place the last time I’d been in Tokyo. It was lucky, given that circumstance, that he was even in the same apartment now as then. Not that any of it mattered; it was simply a natural train of thought consequent on going there for a second time in two days.

On reaching the disreputable longhouse, I lifted a fist to knock (pound, rather) on the patched door, but changed my mind as I remembered him neglecting to lock it on the way out yesterday. Testing, finding it unlocked again (or still), I entered without warning.

The place only had one room, so everything was immediately visible: Tsukioka on a futon in the corner, Sagara sitting next to him, apparently in the middle of a relatively quiet conversation and both foolishly drinking sake despite one’s wounded state. Sagara broke off whatever he was saying as I opened the door, turning and beginning an irritated demand, “And who the hell–” but stopped short when he saw me.

If he couldn’t tell by my face that I was upset with him, my practically slamming the door behind me would have made it evident. His tone was already defensive as he wondered, “What do you want?”

“I told you to stay out of this,” I replied stonily without preamble.

His undecided expression settling into a scowl, he growled back, “So? Like I give a shit what you tell me.”

All suspicions confirmed, I didn’t even bother to ask for particulars, but went on with the tactic I thought would probably be most effective. “While you’re out playing vigilante, interfering in police business, your friend here is likely to get assassinated.”

“Why the hell do you think we left the clinic? They won’t know he’s here–”

“Oh, of course,” I broke in with heavy sarcasm, “they’ll have an extremely difficult time guessing he’s gone to his best friend’s house. How long did it take you to come up with that brilliant plan, ahou?”

Sagara sprang to his feet, fists clenched. “Well, if they do come here–”

Again I interrupted; I was in no mood for excuses. “You’ll be out intimidating witnesses I’d prefer to have compliant? What’s your plan in that case, to have him blow up your apartment defending himself?”

“What makes you so sure they’re gonna come after him anyway?” Sagara took a step toward me, clearly ready for a fight. “You don’t even know what’s going on or who we’re up against or why Katsu got attacked in the first place. For all you know–”

“There is no ‘we’ in this, boy.” My own fists were clenched by now; if he wanted a pummeling, I was ready to give him one. “Nor are you in any position to be telling me what I do and don’t know about my own case.”

This seemed to anger him more than anything else I’d said. “So you were lying to me yesterday.” He was shaking his head slightly, and I thought that, for some reason, in addition to being irate, he was also maybe a little hurt. “My best friend gets half-killed, and you give me a bunch of bullshit to try and keep me from getting revenge. You are such a bastard.”

Absolutely nowhere was where I’d feared we might go with this, and those fears were justified more with every passing moment. It was interesting that Tsukioka wasn’t taking part in the exchange, though he was watching intently… perhaps he was still unwilling to talk to me, or maybe simply didn’t have the energy. At any rate, continuing my attempts at rational persuasion was obviously a complete waste of effort. “This is the last time I’m going to tell you without beating it into you,” I said in a tone of finality: “I don’t want you involved in this.”

Sagara’s flaring anger was almost visible in the air around him, and, as such, so was its unexpected cessation; it was like watching a fire die down as something seemed to strike him and he looked at me with a strange expression.

“‘I don’t want you involved,'” he repeated slowly, almost as if to himself, and then again, with heavier accents, “‘I don’t want you involved.'”

He was right; that had been an odd way to word it. This wasn’t his business, he was going to get himself killed, I didn’t need some idiot getting in my way, certainly… but to imply that I personally had some desire for him specifically not to be involved… It may have made my reply a little more caustic even than I’d intended: “Keep repeating it until you have it memorized, ahou, if that’s what it takes. Because if I get so much as a hint that you’re sticking your nose in my business again, I’ll break it along with the rest of you.”

Still he was giving me that look that I didn’t quite understand (or perhaps just didn’t want to), and either had no reply or was, for once in his life, restraining himself. But since the conversation was obviously over, I turned and left.

I’d really expected physical violence from that scene, and wasn’t entirely sure why it hadn’t turned out that way. On some levels Sagara was as incomprehensible as he was asinine, and I thought it was safe to say that I found him as aggravating as he obviously found me, for all I didn’t throw tantrums about it like he did. He was probably back there right now pouring out his irritation to Tsukioka the unfortunate captive audience, whereas nobody would be hearing from me about any of this.

Still, I was stalking away from his apartment with a severe scowl, cursing this maddening end to an unproductive day, Sagara for his stupid persistence, for his expressive face, for picking up on the fact that there might be reasons I wasn’t admitting for not wanting him involved, and for forcing me to say even that much.

Part 7

I’m struck, somehow, by the details of my surroundings. Or, rather, I’m struck by my attention to the details of my surroundings. For while the surroundings themselves are not entirely consistent — the settings alternating from one moment to the next — no matter where I find myself, I view the area with wearyingly, almost painfully precise, acute observation.

At times the stone walls of a labyrinthine cavern surround me. The rock is a dark, slightly warm-tinged grey, uniformly rough-textured, except where mineral deposits liven its surface with off-whites, yellows, and soft oranges in smooth streaks. Fantastically-shaped columns in all these colors rise like strange, unbearably slow-growing plants, marching away in infinite variety into the darkness not far to either side. The scene is lit only by a small flickering light like a fire of some sort; I think it must be an old-fashioned lamp or torch, though no such object is visible.

A web-like network of paths, smoothed to a dull shine by the passage of countless feet, oddly clean of debris and even dust, wind their diverse ways among pointed spires tapering to water-touched tips, boulders so large their full extent cannot be seen in the limited light, misshapen pillars that presumably reach the invisible ceiling, and sudden drops into abyssal darkness. On the rare occasion when the cavern roof dips low enough to be seen, I note that it’s as uneven as the floor, hung with lethal lengths of stone reaching their fragile points down toward me as if regarding me with the same minute attention I give to them as long as they’re in view.

The air is very still, damp with a cool wetness that makes me think somehow of clammy, unresponsive flesh, and faintly acrid. The silence breaks only to the echo of my footfalls and the occasional, distant sound of water dripping into some invisible pool.

At other moments, however, I traverse the claustrophobic corridors of some strange building or complex. The wood forming the old-fashioned paneling that criss-crosses the walls and ceiling is slavishly neat and well cut, and has a preternaturally even grain like the plasticky fake oak coating on cheap plywood furniture. There is a smell like that of fresh-cut wood, but beneath this lingers the same scent of acrid minerals and damp stone as the first setting, and I’m not fully convinced they aren’t actually the same place. The same mysterious light even accompanies me here as it does through the other locale.

Beneath the wooden decorations, the walls and ceilings are neatly plastered and painted, and I have a feeling that all of this covers hard cut stone. The hallways are eight feet wide and the ceiling precisely as high, and this, combined with their seemingly endless length into darkness and the suddenness of crossing ways’ appearance at either side, gives them an increasingly close and paranoid feeling in direct contrast to the cavern’s open moroseness. In fact, as I proceed, a sensation of discontent — of fear, even — grows steadily on me until the speed of my steps is almost double what it was when I began to explore.

Along with this comes, inexorably, the awareness that he is here. Exactly what connection this awareness has with the fear, the nature of the fear, or the continuing evolution of the fear, I can’t tell — but there’s undoubtedly a correlation.

Then, at times, I’m elsewhere; and, while I return continually to the two underground locations, and walk without destination there, this third option is never the same place twice, and my actions fit the circumstances. These scenes hold more narrative cohesion (within themselves, not with each other), as if they’re interpolations of clear but unfamiliar memory into an unsettling, nonsensical main story.

Like me, he’s moving alternately through the corridors and the cave; but whereas my progress is aimless and random, his is purposeful and directed. He’s coming closer. He’s coming to me.

Naturally this alters the nature of my own movement; it’s now as pointed as his. I don’t think I’m afraid of him, precisely, but I don’t want to meet him. And I am afraid of something. It’s a strange, almost giddy sort of fear, intoxicating and not all together unpleasant. In fact, it feels very much like the nervous excitement I remember feeling as a child playing hide-and-seek or certain varieties of tag. Here and now I find this reaction rather annoying, since I don’t consider this a game.

And he’s getting closer.

Heat washes over me even in the dead of night as I sit with my back to the low wall my compañones and I put together for defense. My gun propped at my side and the dull pain of a recent, treated injury throbbing in my left thigh, I remove my helmet and sponge the sweat off my face with a sun-bleached, fraying handkerchief, then return to eating the bitter pomegranate in my hand and occasionally chucking the seeds to a couple of nighttime crows.

He sits nearby, unconcerned with danger or cover, atop the stacked stones of the wall, wordless but speaking volumes with his presence. He’s clad like I am — like a soldier — but a single glance is enough to show that he’s not really one of us. His eyes glow faintly in the dark.

Evidently he knows the cave and the passages better than I do, for he subtly maneuvers me into one dead end after another. Every time I encounter one of these spots — where the path I’ve taken ends in a precipice or dives into a glassy pool, or the hallway I’m walking turns a corner that brings me abruptly face-to-face with converging walls — I’m forced to double back, and can feel the distance between us closing more rapidly. It can’t be long now.

Eventually I catch a glimpse of him leaving some spot I just traversed, and begin to run. It seems stupid, but I can’t stop myself; the agitation of the scene has approximately doubled at the sight of him, brief and unclear as that was — though he is not what I fear. Oddly, another sensation joined the fear at that moment as well: the feeling that, for all my reluctance to encounter him, still I want to. He’s only trying to get to me, after all… he’s been following me for so long… he must be so tired…

Mobbing the officials checking passbooks seems reckless, but if not now, when? Cries go up from all sides enumerating the grievances my people have suffered, and the entire busload of workers leaving the Bantustan for their daily toil surges forward. We have no cover, no weapons, and no great hope, but it seems we’ve chosen this time and place to take a stand as so many others have been doing over the years throughout the country we long to reclaim.

Through the chaos of shouting, the shots fired as the first police arrive, the crashing of cars and equipment beaten and overturned, only one thing remains constant: the light pressure of a cold hand on my elbow.

When next he catches up with me, I take a moment to look more closely at him before moving on. This steadier observation is no clearer, however. In direct contrast to the continually sharp detail all around me, he seems strangely blurred and imprecise. In fact, all I can make out of him most of the time is a vaguely human-shaped group of colors: brown, tan, black, white, red. As I begin running again — still unable to bring myself to endure an encounter — I reflect that the details are there; the problem is in my own eyes. Or, rather, in my mind — it’s almost as if something inside me simply refuses to recognize him.

Weariness has joined the other sensations with which I’m struggling, and my steps begin to drag. The burning sluggishness gradually suffusing my limbs only increases the other agitation, and heightens the awareness that it can’t be long before this all comes to an end. What end that will be I don’t like to think.

For maybe the hundredth time, I reassure my husband that we’re not sending military support against Iran and, in my position as solely an aide, I’ll be in little danger. The look on his face forestalls me reminding him, in this instance, that even should I end up in danger — even should the worst occur — I’m proud to face it while serving my country. Instead, I set down my carry-on and pull him to me for one last kiss before I leave for at least the next eight months.

And from across the terminal, I can feel him watching. I can’t see him and wasn’t aware until this point that he was here, but I know that gaze: focused and intense, bright brown like a bird of prey, unblinking.

Suddenly the boxy corridor draws up at a blank wall. For a moment my mind is equally blank as I glance from one corner to another, looking for a means of escape that does not exist, trying futilely to decide what to do. There is nothing to do. As I turn I hear his footsteps just around the corner.

Again his appearance seems to augment everything I’m feeling; now nearly in a panic and weary almost beyond endurance, I stumble back. I want to reach out to him; I wish I could pull him away from the terror that hovers around him like a cloud but is not a part of him. I do reach out, in fact… but only as I retreat. Unable to take my eyes off him in the grip of some sort of slowing paralysis, I move sluggishly from him, back, back, back… until I hit the wall.

There is nowhere else to go.

He steps toward me.

I wake up with a jerk.

As my harsh breathing and pounding heartbeat calm and the heat of nightmare fades in the cool normalcy of my dark bedroom, I stare up at the ceiling in some turmoil of mind. What the hell was that? I haven’t suffered from bad dreams since childhood, and why on earth should I be dreaming about him in any case?

Thanks to the haziness that surrounded him in those underground places, the majority of the dream, I don’t know how he looked there — though I’m certain his appearance was different than in what I’m pleased to call ‘real life’ — but I knew him beyond any doubt. It was the feelings that identified him: that fear, which, though prompted by his presence, was not specifically — indeed, was almost aggressively not directed at him; and the simultaneous sensation of strong sympathy…

I wish I had a name to call him by, even just in my own thoughts.

I know it’s simply the atmosphere — the dim light, the weariness of my body roused from sleep — but as I sit up with a sigh, I feel a nearly overwhelming sense of sadness, something severe that’s growing into what I might call misery.

This is very annoying.

As I rise and go in search of coffee — it’s early yet, but I might as well stay up, since I doubt I’ll get any more sleep — I count the days until the promised week will be finished and this will, hopefully, all be over. I base this hope, logically, on the idea that my current stress is caused by my lack of knowledge and combating desire to understand, and that once he’s explained the charade my life can therefore get back to normal. I base this hope, emotionally, on exactly that: hope. I’m not given to nightmares and confusion, and I don’t want to be.

Being forced to sit patiently — helplessly — and wait, sleepless and obsessing about the matter over coffee at four in the morning, isn’t helping. That young man is going to have a lot to answer for.

Part 8

“I feel like someone is… stalking me.”

I wouldn’t have heard this if I hadn’t been planning on spending only a short time at the police station that morning, since I was only in the habit of leaving my office door ajar under that particular circumstance. In fact, it was pure chance I was at the station at all; after two more days of absolutely no results on any front, I was utterly sick of the place.

“Someone has been following me,” continued the woman’s voice. She was undoubtedly talking to the officer whose desk was closest to my office door. “I tried to tell myself I was imagining things, but now somebody’s been inside my house… My brother tells me I’m being silly, but I’m very particular about my housekeeping and I know when something is out of place; I know when something is missing.”

The report I’d come here to consult locked back into my desk, I was moving toward the door when the next statement made me pause. The officer had asked politely for the woman’s name, and she replied, “Tomizawa Nori.”

Of course there were plenty of people in Tokyo called Tomizawa, but since it was a name of interest in my case I wasn’t going to ignore it. Positioning myself just inside the door, I listened now deliberately.

“Yes, my brother is Tomizawa Daitarou,” she went on. “I know he’s been in here a lot, but today I’m here without his knowledge. If he’d thought this was serious he would have come himself, and he won’t be happy I came… he doesn’t think anything is really going on. But, as I told you, I can tell.”

To his credit, the officer broke in at this point and attempted to get the information from her in a more organized fashion — but there was little more to be learned than her initial words had indicated. She kept mentioning her brother — who was, after all, the same Tomizawa that had employed the late Irutou — and I was amused to observe the mixture of emotions with which she spoke of him: though evidently proud of the relationship and happy to be associated with such a successful businessman, she just as evidently didn’t appreciate the way he at least attempted to run her entire life.

Interesting as this was, however, it was not useful. What did concern me was the basic fact: that someone connected to that single name Tsukioka had mentioned was being stalked none too subtly… and I was certain I knew by whom.

Now I was angry. Everything Sagara had done so far had been foolish and annoying, but at least it had made sense. This was just random and stupid, and now was causing the precinct pointless extra work.

I considered talking to the woman on the way out, but decided not to; it would be unwise to give her the impression that her brother was under any kind of suspicion — and further questioning in any other light would not make sense. Besides, I had other questioning to do.

Sagara was one of the few people I’d ever met that could make me genuinely angry rather than merely temporarily irritated. I didn’t like to think why this was, but it was a condition I could not ignore. And the ultimatum I would give him today was one he would not be able to ignore.

Stepping into his apartment, the first thing I saw was Tsukioka apparently hard at work, probably on his newspaper, at a dingy little table that stood on two legs, a large rock, and a piece of firewood. Though seeing someone so industrious under his own motivation — especially with the added inconvenience of a cast on his slung left arm — was good for my faith in humanity, none of this was particularly surprising: setting aside the condition of Sagara’s table, Tsukioka’s continued presence and improving condition had been reported to me by the lady doctor, who had visited daily as much at my request as out of her sense of professional responsibility. I thought she was still as annoyed with the two young men (particularly Sagara) as I was; she’d been happy to assure me that Tsukioka was recovering and hadn’t been attacked again.

Tsukioka looked up at me as I entered, his eyes dark and suspicious, and remarked, “In some cultures it’s considered appropriate to knock before entering.”

Ignoring this (not unintelligent) comment, I demanded, “Where is he?”

Tsukioka gestured, indicating the rear wall and, presumably, whatever lay outside. I stepped back through the door.

A dirty yard containing a privy separated the various buildings of this particular residential area, and here I found my quarry. Not expecting me and completely oblivious to my presence in the shadows just inside the entrance of the enclosure, he didn’t notice me until my hands actually gripped his collar. He gave a startled cry as I yanked him backward and stopped him from exiting the yard; I didn’t give him a chance for any further exclamation.

“I warned you to stay out of my business,” I growled, propelling him toward the nearest wall while his surprise still left him relatively mobile.

“What the hell are you talking about?” he yelped. Jumping back, away from me, regaining his balance and clenching his fists, he assumed what I thought he intended as a defensive stance. “I haven’t done a goddamn thing!”

“Tomizawa Nori,” I said, advancing. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”

He frowned, actually loosening his fists a trifle and straightening as he stared at me. “Who?”

“Don’t fuck with me.” I took the last few steps necessary to seize him again.

He struggled violently as I shook him, shouting directly into my face. “I don’t fucking have any idea who or what you’re fucking talking about!” He managed to land a blow on my chest, but it didn’t stop me from slamming him into the wall and holding him there.

“Don’t bother lying to me,” I hissed. “I don’t know what you think you’re trying to accomplish, but leave the woman alone.”

For a long moment, unmoving and almost limp, he stared into my face, his breath tangible against my lips, as wordless as if I’d actually stunned him — but I knew better; Sagara Sanosuke wasn’t stunned by such a small amount of rough handling. He was obviously trying to think of what to say next, whether because he didn’t feel he could keep lying and was deciding how much to tell me or because his anger had rendered him momentarily mute.

“I…” His brows lowered in an expression almost more of confusion than anger. “I’m not lying. I seriously have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Was it the unexpectedly grave tone? Was it the look in his eyes as he stared into mine? Whatever the reason, I believed him. More than that, I felt like I could trust him. Which was as stupid as it was unprecedented.

And yet it was an impression I could not dismiss. With bizarre suddenness I wasn’t upset with him anymore… further proof that I genuinely believed him, for whatever reason. With the anger gone, I felt only the weary frustration and confusion that were such an integral part of this case.

“Fine.” Why did my response sound so surly? More importantly, why did I seem to feel a certain comfort from his proximity, as if he were a shield against the aforementioned feelings? Why didn’t I let go of him, move away from him, once the word was spoken? He was staring at me now as if he wanted to ask the same question. Honestly I thought he knew the answer as well as I did, and the months of denial and repression were suddenly seeming like a profound waste of my time and his.

I saw the resolution half-forming in his eyes and the restrained tendency of his movement toward me. His dark brows jerked down and then up again as if he couldn’t decide, not merely what to do, but what to think or feel. After all, just a moment ago I’d slammed him into the wall and told him not to fuck with me, and now I was giving him some kind of look I surely never had before. But hesitancy did not become him.

Perhaps it was to teach him better, perhaps to overcome those of my own instincts that still thought denial was a good idea… whatever my motive, I pulled his body against my own and his face to mine so decisively that it could have been described as roughness.

It seemed a stupid moment for kissing, and yet I couldn’t help feeling a growing sensation of completeness… as if some fundamental desire like hunger or thirst was fulfilled after ages of abstinence. His form was hot against me, his lips eager, his arms around my neck. Clutching at him, kissing him hard, I felt inclined never to let go.

Which was all just really… stupid… at the moment.

I was supposed to be working; he was supposed to be staying out of my way… and if he hadn’t been harassing that Nori woman, who had? But I couldn’t take my hands off him; just at the moment, I couldn’t do without him. I’d been so frustrated lately; none of my efforts had been paying off… and the feeling of him so close, his compliance as I ground him against the hard surface behind, the desire I sensed in him… it was all going a long way to make things right.

It still seemed like a stupid moment for it, though.

Apparently I wasn’t the only one to think so. When I finally pulled my tingling lips from his just far enough to draw a deep breath, he did likewise and admitted a little shakily, “I’m confused.”

I gave a short laugh. “As opposed to…?”

“Hey,” he protested, “don’t go pretending you still think I’m the world’s biggest idiot when you just kissed me like you were going to eat me.”

“I’m fairly certain I can do both,” I replied. I wasn’t really clearly aware of what I was saying, though… His arms had slid to my back and tightened… I hadn’t realized until this moment just how much I needed a chance to think about something besides exsanguinated corpses and untrackable murderers. Needed a vacation of sorts from the realization that I was failing continually to do my job and live up to my own standards. Needed to feel a lithe, willing body in my arms and discuss the minutiae of how that came about and what was going to happen next as if it were the most important thing I had to deal with right now.

“And how ’bout an apology for just assuming I was doing whatever you thought I was doing when I wasn’t?” Without giving me a chance to reply to this demand, however, he went on. “How the hell did that turn into kissing me, anyway? I mean, I knew you didn’t hate me as much as you pretended, but how did we go from ‘I warned you to stay out of my business’ to your tongue in my mouth?” He wasn’t adjusting to this change of dynamic nearly as smoothly as his cavalier words suggested; most of his face had turned bright pink — except for his cheekbones, which were more of a bright red — and his tone was uneven.

Again I laughed slightly. “I don’t want to think about my business any further at the moment.” I’d moved my face back toward his, and now spoke almost directly into his mouth.

“You’re a strange guy,” he whispered, raising his chin so that his lips came again into full contact with mine.

Absorbing heat from his solid form, responding in kind to the increasing eagerness of his mouth and hands, it was easy to forget everything else I was supposed to be worried about. As such, it was also a very simple matter to pretend — for the moment, at least — that the pleasure I derived from the taste of his kisses, the rippling of muscle across the small of his back beneath his gi, and the pressure of his hips against mine arose purely from its fulfillment of my need for a distraction.

His next statement, when our lips parted again, was made in a satisfied, confidential murmur that I rather liked. “It’s always pissed me the hell off how much I didn’t hate you. ‘Specially back when you kept beating me up every day. Took me a while to realize you might be the same way.”

At this I couldn’t help chuckling again. “You’re under a number of false impressions.”

He jerked back — not far, but even half an inch seemed quite a distance when my arms were around him. Rather than confused, this time he looked wary and perhaps a bit unhappy. That was quite a confession he’d just made, after all, and my words could easily be interpreted to mean I didn’t really care about him at all in return. And while I wasn’t ready to admit (even to myself) the extent to which I did care, I didn’t want him under the impression that I was playing with him. Not that I didn’t still save my reassuring point for last.

“I only beat you up twice,” I began, withdrawing one arm and raising a finger, “so ‘every day’ is an inaccurate description. And I could beat you up again any time, so your implication that those days are past is also in error.”

He listened wordlessly, still with that guarded look, as I counted off these points that would normally have angered him. That they didn’t in this instance told me he was even more worried about my final point than I’d thought. Raising a third finger I finished, “And don’t assume my mental processes are the same as yours… I’m more the type to deny and ignore an illogical attraction than berate myself for it.”

His consternation melted away into an open, pleased expression that went a long way toward erasing my lingering uncertainty about taking this step. “That does seem more like you,” he admitted, grinning. Again he raised his lips to mine and kissed me slowly.

He was very good at that.

“So you gonna start calling me Sano now?” was the next important matter of business he felt the need to introduce as my hands went about a leisurely exploration of his body. “Or is it still going to be ‘ahou’ all the time?”

“It will still be ‘ahou’ whenever you deserve it,” I replied immediately. Since he really didn’t deserve it at the moment, though, I added experimentally, “Sano…”

Perhaps it was my tone, or maybe the breath of the word against his ear, but he shuddered tangibly, stiffening slightly against me and letting out a little sigh. I found this somewhat extreme reaction to that one simple word rather arousing, and it was the growing sensation of intense physical desire that reminded me of the specifics of our present situation. This was neither time nor place to give in to that sort of impulse.

“God knows what your friend is thinking by now,” I murmured after another kiss; they were becoming increasingly difficult to pull away from.

Sano started. “Oh, shit, that’s right.” He moved away from me now just as indecisively as he’d moved toward me earlier — torn, I thought, between worry that Tsukioka might come looking for him at any time and curiosity about just how far I was willing to go in the relatively public yard behind his apartment. “He probably thinks I’m dead,” he continued pensively, “and if he hasn’t come out here to check yet, he probably won’t…” I could almost hear the unspoken, “So we might as well keep making out,” at the end of this, and chuckled yet again. “Or maybe he did come out and check already.” He blushed slightly as he added, “I probably wouldn’t have noticed.”

This made me laugh outright. “Ahou,” I said, and pulled him back against me for one more — just one more — kiss. “Go back in. I have to get back to work.”

“Oh.” He stared uncomprehendingly for a moment as I began to straighten and smooth the uniform his searching hands had disarrayed. “I– What? No!” He scowled at me. “You can’t just leave right after you–”

“You have a houseguest and I have work to do,” I replied in what I’d intended as a cool, authoritative tone but that came out sounding somewhat fond and amused. “I hadn’t meant for this to happen just now.”

“You probably hadn’t meant for this to happen ever,” Sano grumbled. Brightening slightly he added, “But I was just too damn sexy for you to resist!”

I rolled my eyes and said again, “Ahou ga.” But I couldn’t help smirking a little, since his statement was essentially true. “My point is that I don’t have time for you today. I’ve already been here longer than I should have.”

“When will you have time?” he wondered, part eager and part suspicious.

“I don’t know. In case you’ve forgotten, there’s still a crazy murderer out there somewhere.”

“I’ve been trying to forget,” he muttered darkly — then, throwing me a piercing look, added, “for you.”

Surprised into momentary speechlessness, I stared at him. Sagara Sanosuke, exercising deliberate self-restraint? For my sake? At last I said, “Thank you.”

Now he was staring at me. He’d probably never expected that phrase from my lips. Not that it was the first unexpected thing he’d received from my lips today. “You’re welcome,” he said. He continued in a tone suggesting he spoke almost against his will, “But if I do find out who did that to Katsu, nothing’ll keep me from going after him.”

Fleetingly he had that hard, deeply angry look in his eyes again, and I realized that his willingness to sit quietly and stay out of my business was probably actually based more on having no idea where to look or what to do than respect for my warnings. This should have annoyed me, but its only real effect was to make me laugh again. I hadn’t meant for this to happen today, but if I’d realized how therapeutic it would be I might have initiated it long before.

“Don’t laugh at me!” he protested, glowering. “Just because you’ve got no friends–”

I interrupted him with the command, “Go back inside.” Laying my hand flat against his chest I advanced, pushing him backward with every step. He only gave way, I thought, because he wasn’t really angry with me just then. He still appeared too surprised at this new development between us for any other strong emotion. There seemed to be a sort of glow about him, too — a flush of the face, a brightness of the eyes, an energy in his movements even greater than usual — and I wanted nothing more than to drink it directly from his heated skin. But there would be time for that later.

All the way across the yard he walked backward, staring at me with those shining eyes, but after he’d tripped a third time and nearly fallen he finally decided to turn and walk like a normal person. This was probably more in response to my mocking expression than the stumbles themselves. Near his door he stopped and again gave me his full attention. “When will…” he began, but trailed off with a pensive expression suggesting he was as uncertain about exactly what he was asking as he was of my probable response.

I shook my head. “I’ll come find you when I know.”

At first he seemed annoyed at this evasive answer, but after a moment he grinned and replied, “You know what’ll happen if you make me wait too long.”

I grimaced, and it was only half facetious. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You better.” For an instant he flashed a smile at me that was astonishingly bright and evidently a good reflection of what was going on in his head — an open, guilelessly happy look that seemed to encompass not only his feelings for me, whose depth I had perhaps underestimated, but also the wholeheartedness and strength that were such an important part of his character — before turning away toward his apartment, leaving me staring after him with a heart pounding rather harder and faster than I was used to.

Part 9

In the midst of the turmoil my brain has been experiencing all week, it actually feels a little strange to be meeting Renee normally for a normal date as I might on any normal weekend. And I can’t decide whether a dose of such normalcy is more likely to be a good, healthy, grounding circumstance or only make things worse by contrast.

“Let’s go make fun of antiques on Old Center Street,” is Renee’s suggestion when I, unable in my distracted state to come up with anything acceptable, wonder what she wants to do. I agree readily, drawn somewhat out of my reverie by the pleasant idea. It’s interesting how many of our excursions start with “Let’s go make fun of–“

Old Center Street, the original main thoroughfare of the city, is relatively short and narrow by today’s standards, and features a lineup of old or at least old-style buildings that, this century, mostly sell useless and spectacularly tacky junk ranging in age from twenty to two hundred years. There are a few art galleries, pretentious jewelry stores, and hipster clothing shops tucked in among these, and Renee and I have made the tour a few times since we started dating. Added to the reliable entertainment furnished by the things people are willing to pay money for, a pleasant walk in nice weather is never unwelcome.

Whether or not it can distract me from vampires remains to be seen.

Renee is a corporate officer for a line of hotels, and it’s not unusual for any meeting between us to start with the details of her latest amusing and frustrating inspections. Her sarcasm is pleasantly familiar, but even the entertainment value (and outrage at the idiocy) of the employees that populate her buildings is difficult to concentrate on from the very moment she starts speaking.

I struggle to pay attention, to stay invested, as we amble along, but I find myself watching the shadows with a concentration of vision that renders my hearing a secondary consideration at best. It occurs to me after a while, only increasing my irritation with myself and the situation, that the sun is still up; why am I already looking around like this in the daylight? I’m no expert, but I believe the majority of vampire myth dictates death or injury as a result of UV exposure, and all my encounters with strange people thus far have been at night.

An antique store we’ve visited every single time we’ve come down here draws us in as usual, and the work-related conversation gives way to sotto voce commentary on the available goods and resultant assumptions about the mindsets of people in previous decades and centuries (as well as the mindsets of people willing to buy these things today at these prices). It is somewhat engrossing, I have to admit, and there are quite a few minutes — many of them stacked all in a row — inside the store during which I give not a thought to vampires or anyone masquerading as such. But the issue rises to the top of my consciousness immediately again when I step outside and observe that sunset it upon us.

“What are you looking for?” Renee eventually wonders, indicating that my attempts to at least keep my searching glances subtle, if I can’t eliminate them entirely, have failed.

“Nothing.” The idea of explaining does cross my mind, and in a serious way, but is dismissed after not too long. Aside from the irritating fact that I’m now operating under an assumption that I’m being constantly stalked, and therefore anything I say to Renee is likely to be overheard by one of those people, I also find I can’t be sure of her reaction. Would she worry about my state of mental health, or dismiss my fixation and concern as meaningless? Would she consider this a legitimate threat that requires an actual police response, or merely a dark practical joke? I don’t know, and it’s not a conversation I want to have. We’ve been dating for several months now, but apparently we just aren’t that close yet.

Neither of us is particularly demonstrative, so when she slips her hand into mine with a firm grip, I know it’s not a casual gesture, but a bid for my fuller attention. She’s a demanding person and often possessive, which I don’t mind in general because these are characteristics that we share, but right now her desire to be my sole focus, though totally understandable, is an inconvenience. And I find myself annoyed all over again at my supposed stalkers for their ruination, when I can’t even detect their presence yet and am only just assuming, of something as personal as a date with my girlfriend.

At this thought, a new (if interrelated) consideration arises within me: why am I allowing the behavior of others — in this case, merely their presumed behavior — to dictate my own? Am I not my own man, a responsible adult capable of decisions, motivations, and strength of character entirely unrelated to what those around me choose to do? Even if I am being stalked — and even if I am being stalked by vampires — that such a circumstance should ruin my evening out with my girlfriend only means I’m allowing it to do so.

It’s probable that my resolve regarding this matter has been weaker than it should have because I’m so unaccustomed to dealing with this type of distraction. When have I ever found something so gripping, so engrossing? I’ve had little practice keeping my head under such circumstances, so even where I feel I should excel based on my own natural propensities, I’ve been failing simply through lack of experience.

In order both to provide Renee with an explanation of sorts and to take control of my own experience and frame of mind, I decide to tell her about the murders. It’s not what’s really bothering me, but it’s connected.

“That isn’t your case, though, is it?” she wonders when, after glancing around to make sure no one detectable is listening in (I can’t do anything about anyone hypothetically lurking in the shadows), I’ve outlined what I know so far.

“No,” I reply. “But I’m sure you’ve heard about the latest murder. The body was found at the grocery store in my neighborhood.”

We’re walking along the lamplit sidewalk between stores, and she doesn’t slow as she gives me an appraising look. “Yeah, I did hear about that. It didn’t occur to me that was the one you shop at, but I guess it was.”

I nod. It’s possible she believes now — and my manner of presenting this would not have deterred the belief — that I have some level of interest in the case, possibly even some discomfort or concern regarding it, because of its closeness to home. Being so disingenuous with my own girlfriend may not be the optimal way of dealing with this situation, but it’s better than nothing, than not dealing with it at all.

That I’ve sunk to ‘better than nothing’ makes everything all the more galling.

“Someone’s obviously going out of their way to make these look like classic vampire attacks,” she muses, and I appreciate that she’s humoring me and engaging in conversation about this, even if vampires aren’t the topic I would really prefer at this time. “And you have to assume the average person doesn’t have the equipment or know-how — or patience — to drain large amounts of blood from bodies.”

I nod, trying to keep from glancing down the alley we’re passing as I do so. It’s getting darker and darker, and I’m not so much wondering whether one of those people is nearby as assuming they are and just wondering whether I’ll be able to catch a glimpse of them. This has gotten extremely stupid.

“That makes it seem less random, doesn’t it?” Renee goes on. “Somebody planned and bought equipment for this.”

Even as I’m agreeing with her and entering into a discussion of what equipment might allow the thorough bleeding of a human body through small wounds in the neck — and, though neither of us is anything like a medical professional, certain questions of blood pressure and the seeming difficulty of the task arise almost immediately — I’m remembering, with a bit of a chill, something I overheard that Megumi woman saying: “Do you have any idea who’s vagabonding around here? When I felt the touch on one of the police, I thought they might be farther along than they usually get.”

I’m coming to accept the fact that some part of me is taking the vampire idea entirely seriously, so it’s no surprise that that part feels some immediate, sardonic pity for my co-worker who isn’t likely to get anywhere on his case against a ‘vagabonding’ vampire. That same part of me wonders, furthermore, whether Megumi, with her holstered wooden stakes, is in the area to deal with the problem herself. If some vampires are the enemies of humanity and others are not, it seems the latter would feel a moral imperative to protect the weaker humans from the former. Somebody qualified had better be handling the matter, if the police are destined to fail at doing so, before more innocent people die.

Of course, maybe vampires simply don’t care about human murders. I’m pretty sure tracking down whoever is ‘vagabonding around here’ isn’t the reason the young man is present.

The rest of me, the part that believes itself the most rational and still insists that vampires can’t possibly exist, is simply more irritated than ever that I’m having these thoughts at all. It rededicates itself to the conversation with Renee, which may be about vampire attacks but is probably about the more human kind of monster the police are more accustomed to dealing with, no matter how much morbid know-how, patience, and purchased equipment they may have.

We look through a few shop windows as we carry our discussion onward, then cross the street and head back in the opposite direction, still leisurely doing the same, but make no move to further our original plan of browsing and deriving amusement from store contents. It’s as if we’ve come to an unspoken agreement not to get any closer to other people than we have to, whether because our conversation is confidential or because I’m still obviously distracted I don’t know.

And I wonder, as we walk, whether the growing sense that someone is watching us, listening to us, following us, is merely the inevitable result of my preexisting paranoia, or something more substantial.

Renee is too sharp for this. She knows perfectly well that I’m disengaged, even without my constant attempts not to look around trying to find the source of my suspicions. She knows I introduced the current topic of conversation in an attempt to keep up a real interaction with her, and she knows the degree to which I’ve failed. It’s no great surprise when, eventually, undoubtedly tiring of my half presence, she pulls my person two steps down the space between two buildings and my face down to hers for a kiss that’s far more pointed than passionate.

And now there can be no mistake: I’m certain I feel eyes on me, with every bit as much focus as Renee’s lips. It’s like a burning, not on the back of my neck since I can’t pinpoint any location so exact, but somewhere on my figure. And this time it’s undeniable.

As she draws away, Renee is giving me a piercing, calculating look. Clearly the purpose of that kiss was not to make another demand for my greater attention but to assess more precisely the lack thereof. And when I can’t help glancing around in a brief but undoubtedly quite visible (and futile) attempt at locating the fiery-eyed watcher whose scrutiny so intensified during the last several moments, my returning gaze finds Renee’s somewhat narrowed as she meets it.

“We should get going,” she says, and her tone is distinctly cool. I don’t think she’s necessarily upset with me, but she’s certainly not pleased with the situation.

I couldn’t agree more.

Part 10

I tried to insist I was surprised to find myself going to see Sano the very next day, but in fact it was no surprise at all: following yesterday’s unexpected, transformative encounter, I’d made little to no progress tracking down the murderer — still — and I found myself not only looking forward to having something else to think about, but actively yearning for his distracting company. Craving it. I knew I’d been long repressing an attraction to him, but I couldn’t help thinking it had broken out far more intensely than it probably would have if the dam hadn’t burst in the middle of a case like this.

This time I actually knocked, and relatively quietly too. The sun had only just disappeared behind the horizon, but I had no idea when Tsukioka was likely to be resting; no need to disturb him if I wasn’t here, for once, to wreak havoc of the peace of the household. Beyond that, I wanted Sano to come out here alone.

The way his face lit up when he saw who stood at his door was… not just gratifying, not just amusing and touching… it was exhilarating. And not simply because his face was so nicely shaped and that seeming inner light made him even more handsome and desirable; there was an answering spark in me, a flame fanned by the sight of him and his pleasure at seeing me, that was as galvanizing as it was confusing. I’d been away from him for months working in other parts of the country without any hint of discontentment; why did I find now, after barely a day and a half, that I missed him madly, was almost ecstatic to meet him again? It seemed I’d opened a greater floodgate even than I’d realized by admitting my interest in him. I would have to be careful.

This last thought, cold as it was and little quarter as I was inclined to give it right now, was reinforced by his manner of greeting me. After what had passed between us yesterday, I was expecting some enthusiasm, but I wasn’t expecting him to fling himself at me. He didn’t even bother to close his apartment door first.

Breaking the contact he’d initiated, not terribly happy with just how much I enjoyed the sensation of his breath against my face, I sighed, “You have absolutely no sense of discretion.”

“Never wanted one, either,” Sano replied lazily, grinning up at me.

I shrugged away from him, trying not to glance around to note the precise number and nature of passersby or neighbors who might have observed his attempted kiss. “Don’t get all over me in public.”

“That’s just like you.” Sano sounded annoyed. “We gotta sneak around. Keep things quiet. Don’t let anyone know that we might be human.”

“Who says I’m human?” I replied sardonically.

At this he appeared even more irritated, and, finally closing his apartment door, brought an accusatory expression toward me. “I’ve waited a fucking long time for you to get your head out of your almighty ass and pay some real attention to me,” he growled, “but no way am I going to do this if you’re going to be all embarrassed about me and pretend it isn’t happening.”

I wasn’t about to admit that he’d always had my attention, and to let him know that I didn’t think him nearly as worthless as he assumed I did would just be unsporting. “Good of you to realize how embarrassing it is for me to like someone like you…” I paused to admire the glow of anger in his eyes before continuing, “but that has nothing to do with it.”

“Well, then, what does?”

“I once stabbed you to make a point about the dangers of keeping people you care about around while you deal with serious situations.” Remembering the relative privacy we’d managed yesterday in the yard behind his apartment, I began walking in that direction.

Sano followed. “I thought it was to make a point about how Kenshin trying to protect people didn’t work.”

“It was a multi-pointed demonstration. What I mean is that it’s unwise for someone like me, someone in a position to have any number of enemies — especially right now when I have no idea who my enemy is — it’s unwise for me to publicize my close relationships.”

I thought he would protest further, but either he actually comprehended what I was trying to say or decided it wasn’t worth arguing at the moment. He only grinned complacently and echoed, “‘Close relationships…'” Then, the instant we were secluded within the yard that had been my destination, he was against me, pulling at me with strong hands mostly below the belt, dragging me into tight contact with him and leaning up to breathe into my ear, “You kissed me here yesterday, and it wasn’t even this dark out then.”

“And I would fuck you here right now,” I told him, almost growling in response to his groping hands, “if it were just a little cleaner.” My arms slid around him, reciprocating his suggestive gestures despite having just said that I didn’t intend to do what I was certain we both wanted.

His voice was husky and a little breathless as he said, “It’ll be really dark back here soon… You wouldn’t even notice how dirty it is.”

“I’d still be aware of it,” I said regretfully. “I’ve seen it in the light, and my imagination would make it worse when I couldn’t see it.”

He laughed, and the rich sound in the growing shadows was tinged with both amusement and a regret even stronger than mine. “It’s kindof insulting that you’d be thinking more about the walls and shit than me at a time like that.” His tone brightened as he added, “But it’s nice to know you do plan on fucking me sometime or other.”

“Right now is inconvenient,” I breathed into his neck.

Once again he didn’t protest when I expected him to. “Yeah, with Katsu here…” I could tell he was trying to stop pressing against me so meaningfully, stop grinding his hips against mine. He took a deep breath, drawing back slightly. “Well, at least kiss me.”

“Your self-restraint keeps surprising me,” I told him in perfect honesty. It wasn’t that I’d expected him to beg for sex right here and now — though, secretly, I might have liked him to — but neither had I expected this kind of forbearance from him, especially after I’d already been taken unawares by his consideration and constraint yesterday; I thought I’d reached my allotment for, oh, the next year or so.

“I think you’ll find I’m full of surprises,” he replied, and, despite his slightly flippant tone, I got the feeling he was quite serious; he was both chiding me for underestimating him and promising that there was more to him than he felt I was aware of.

He was wrong; I’d always been aware that there was an entire world beyond that shallow and careless exterior… but I’d certainly never let on that I knew, perhaps because I’d never before considered reaching into those depths and seeing exactly how far they extended. Now the thought of finding out everything that lay in that interesting space beyond the beautiful brown eyes unexpectedly caused me to shiver with an anticipation that, though it was not in itself physical, made me suddenly want to fuck him more than ever. Unfortunately, we’d already discussed and dismissed that possibility. So I just kissed him instead.

“You know, I honestly didn’t expect to see you again so soon,” he said eventually. “I figured I’d have to come looking for you and remind you I exist.”

After the consistency with which he’d returned to my mind even in the midst of the work I’d been doing, this idea was consummately absurd.

“What are you laughing about?” he demanded. “I’m serious. You think I don’t know your work’s more important to you than anything?” He added almost disdainfully, “I think I know you at least that well. Besides, aren’t you married? You probably already have shit to do after work.”

“Which is why I came here straight from the station today,” I replied with a touch of sarcasm.

“You are married, though, right? I thought Kenshin mentioned that sometime…” And now, though he was aiming for casualness, there was a certain concern in his voice as he essentially asked whether his involvement with me was causing infidelity on my part. Of course he wouldn’t like the thought of that. Neither would I.

“Technically, yes,” I answered. “It’s been more convenient not to divorce, but we’ve been separated for three years.”

On the east side of one of the surrounding buildings — Sano’s apartment, actually, if I was judging correctly — the shadows grew around us more quickly than in the rest of the yard. His shifting movement as he looked up at me, however, and what little I could see of his face told plainly that he was dying to ask why I’d split from my wife; he wanted reassurance that I was free to pursue whomever I preferred at this point, that this was all legitimate. Moreover, I thought, he wanted gossip.

“It was only natural,” I said, happy to give him what he wanted in this instance. “It was an arranged marriage. We never disliked each other, but there was never a strong attachment either.”

“No, no, no, you said that wrong.” I could hear the grin in the words. “You guys never disliked each other; therefore there was never a strong attachment.”

I laughed again. Trust him to put it like that.

Someone had entered the yard, no doubt on the way to the privy, and started at our presence. He couldn’t have gotten a very good look at us in the shadows, but whatever our low voices and close proximity to each other put him in mind of — a cop abusing his power, some kind of secret assignation, or the perfectly innocent (if fairly intimate) conversation it actually was — he hurried past with eyes averted.

Smirking, I went on in a quieter tone, “Tokio lives in Toyama with our three children. I don’t see them often, but we exchange a lot of letters.”

“Wow, three kids…” I wasn’t certain exactly what was in Sano’s tone. Jealously that I had three children with a woman he’d never met? Wonder at the fact that I was old enough to have three children at all? Or something else?

I decided to inquire. “Is that so unbelievable?”

“No…” He shrugged, biting his lip. “No, not really. It’s just… I mean… do you like them?”

So that was it. He still maintained some (probably more than a little) lingering suspicion that I was a heartless bastard, and was having a difficult time reconciling that with the idea of a fond father.

I chuckled again and, after the privy-using stranger had passed us once more and left the yard, started to do something I had never dreamed I might be even remotely inclined toward: tell Sagara Sanosuke all about my children.

It was, as the entire conversation had been, a profound relief. The topic was so far removed from the late local string of murders that I could almost pretend to forget the latter was taking place. Beyond that, I found myself enjoying the discussion for its own sake. I’d certainly never been one of those fatuous parents that rambled at length about every insignificant detail of their children’s lives, but my offspring were consistently fairly amusing and intelligent, for their ages, and I rarely if ever got the chance to talk about them.

Sano seemed more than a little intrigued — possibly because of that aforementioned lingering suspicion that no emotion so soft as fatherly affection could possibly exist in my heart, possibly simply because he liked children; whatever the reason, I appreciated his engagement and his interested questions.

I also got the feeling that he still wanted to do any number of obscene things to me right here and now, despite the unsexiness of our topic and the fact that we’d separated to a more reasonable distance for a conversation like this. And he was still restraining himself. The angle of his body, the pattern of his breathing, the way his eyes caught the occasional glint of light as they moved restlessly over me… these were the only symptoms he displayed, but they were clear enough.

This continued desire, the restraint, and even his evident absorption in a subject I hadn’t expected to engross him so readily made him that much more attractive to me as well. I was actually starting to consider lowering my standards of cleanliness and perhaps making use of this yard after all — despite the potential witnesses that occasionally passed through on their way to and from the amenities in back — when the conversation took a less pleasant turn.

It was inevitable, I supposed. Just because he’d refrained for a while from poking around in my business didn’t mean he’d forgotten about it, and I had mentioned that I sometimes described some of my simpler cases in my letters to my children. Even so, I could not but respond at first with an almost angry sigh when Sano asked how the murder investigation was going.

“That good, huh?” Though there was sympathy in his grinning tone, I still pinched his ass; it helped me resign myself to talking about this. “Hey!” he yelped, obviously having been expecting something else entirely from my moving close to him again. “What was that for?”

For no reason I could quite understand even in my own mind, I decided to confide in him. It was odd and seemed a little unwise, since, though things between us had changed, he hadn’t changed… but I wanted to trust him. I wanted someone to whom I could explain all my feelings of frustration and inadequacy regarding this case, and I wanted that someone to be him.

Fortunately, my good sense intervened. Maybe at some point I would be able to converse that intimately with Sanosuke, but that point was not the second day of our new relationship. Some things I would tell him; everything I would not.

“The name your friend provided may be of some use after all, but I’m still not sure yet.” Taking advantage of my regained closeness to Sano, I spoke in a low and guarded tone; I didn’t see anyone around at the moment, but this still wasn’t something I wanted to proclaim to the entire street. “Tomizawa fits the specific class that half the murder victims have been, and some of their deaths must have been advantageous to him in a business sense… but so far that’s all that links him to the crimes. Apparently he hasn’t changed his habits or acted at all strangely recently, and the people around him can verify where he’s been most of the time…”

“He hired an assassin?” Sano suggested.

“That’s the obvious conclusion,” I nodded. “The problem is that we’ve found no evidence of that yet… and he’s going to realize any time now, if he hasn’t already, that he’s under investigation, which will put him on his guard and may make evidence even harder to find.”

“Do you have to have evidence? Can’t you just go after him yourself?”

“I am authorized to carry out private executions,” I allowed, “but only when I’m personally convinced of someone’s guilt, and then only if the criminal seems likely to escape the law or cause serious trouble before he can be brought in. And I’m not convinced Tomizawa is our man.”

“Your job is so cool,” Sano murmured. He might as well have said, You are so cool,” for the tone he used.

I wasn’t about to admit how much his admiration pleased me; instead I just kissed him again.

“So what do you do next?” was his next question. He’d seemed reluctant to pull away from the kiss, and it was interesting that, even so, he’d gone right back to the topic of the murder case. Where the previous question hadn’t, this one set off warning bells.

“Keep investigating Tomizawa,” I replied, deliberately vague.

“And didn’t you say some woman with that name was being harassed? You thought it was me, but since it wasn’t, who was it? Is that part of this?”

I had long denigrated Sano’s intelligence, mostly for my own amusement, but in reality I’d been perfectly well aware that he was far from the idiot I always named him. And I knew perfectly well what the eager yet contemplative tone in his voice meant right now. Sternly I said, “I told you to stay out of this.”

“Yeah, and then you kissed me so hard it practically gave me a boner. Mixed messages, I thought.”

I couldn’t help smiling, but my voice was dark when I answered with words whose significance he had specifically comprehended only a few days before and that should mean even more now: “I don’t want you involved in this.”

The moon had risen as we talked, and now, by its light that intruded into our shadowy corner, I could clearly see the scowl on his face. “You still think I’m weak, don’t you?” He sounded more unhappy than angry, but the anger was building.

“Only relatively,” I said lightly, and even I didn’t know whether I sought to tease or reassure. Either way, he couldn’t doubt my complete seriousness as I went on, “But, Sano, this murderer is a monster. It’s my profession to deal with him. It’s not yours.”

“I used to fight — sometimes even kill people — professionally too, you know,” he tried, sounding surly.

“But not anymore. There’s no reason for you to be involved in this now.”

He pulled away, and the sudden absence of his warmth against me left a coolness even greater than physical contrast could account for. “I don’t need this,” he said quietly. “I don’t know whether you think I’m going to get in your way and fuck things up, or if you’re trying to pull a Kenshin and protect me, but either way, you don’t have to, because I’m not weak.”

I didn’t know if I was more annoyed at the suggestion that I was ‘trying to pull a Kenshin’ or the fact that he’d completely ignored the possibility that I didn’t want to see him used against me by the unknown enemy. But I couldn’t throw him on the ground and kick open an old wound this time to make my point. Well, I could — and would, if he made me angry enough — but at the moment it didn’t seem the optimal course of action.

Instead I said tightly, “Just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should. This is my job, which I’m going to do my way. It’s not your responsibility, and there’s no reason for you to get involved.”

“No reason except maybe I don’t want you involved with this monster either,” Sano shot back, “but since you have to be, it’d sure make me feel better if I could help.”

I stared down at him. It wasn’t that I couldn’t comprehend his frustration at the idea of being left behind or even the implication that he wasn’t strong enough… it was just that I hated the thought of him being exposed to a murderer who had, so far, drained all the blood from eight bodies… hated it even more than I’d suspected I would. And I appreciated his reciprocal desire for my noninvolvement — again, more than I’d suspected I would — but that didn’t change a thing.

“I’m sorry,” I said at last, “that I can’t take your feelings into consideration here.”

“Funny how you can take yours, though,” he said bitterly.

I was going to tell him that we couldn’t have it both ways. I was going to tell him that it made sense for him to be the one to give way in this scenario because I was assigned to this and he was not. I was going to tell him that it didn’t matter whether or not he was weak when the important factor was his level of strength relative to the anonymous murderer, and that was something we couldn’t know. I was going to tell him to stop being an idiot. I was going to tell him again that I was sorry. But I ended up telling him none of these things, because the irate, hurt expression on the face that caught the moonlight as he turned it up toward me suddenly affected me as it never had before.

“You know,” he said, “I’ve really been happy you came ’round tonight. But right now…” He broke off with a growl of frustration and turned away. Two steps from me he finished belatedly, “Good night,” unwillingly, as if he thought I didn’t deserve it but couldn’t bring himself to leave without it.

With very much the same attitude, I sent softly after him the only thing that was really available for me to say at that point: “Good night.” And though I was a little annoyed and more agitated, I refrained from adding, “ahou,” tempted though I was.

Part 11

On Sunday I allow a call from Renee to go to voicemail. It feels both rude and cowardly, but I don’t know what I could say to her. It keeps coming back to our degree of closeness and what I feel I can or can’t tell her. I have to admit I’d like to tell her about the strange things that have happened lately, the strange things I’ve been prompted to believe or at least start obsessing over, but I can’t foresee a good outcome to that venture.

Perhaps once this is all finished, when I know exactly what’s going on and can work from a position of understanding rather than confusion and doubt, Renee and I can have a long, elucidating conversation. Of course that’s assuming I do at some point discover what all of this is about, that it does end, and that I’ll have any desire whatsoever to talk about it by then. At the moment, my primary motivation for discussing it would be to gain insight and comfort in my confusion. In a more knowledgeable position I would not need either… and though I like Renee enough, and respect her opinion enough, to think I might enjoy hearing her take on this situation after it’s all over, will I feel the need to talk to her — or anyone — about it at that point? I’ve already established that I’m just not as close to her as I thought… it’s possible the urge won’t even arise.

Currently, I definitely don’t have anything reasonable to say to her, which is why I let her call go to voicemail. She’ll just have to guess where I am and what I’m doing that doesn’t allow me to take it. And since I do have a few errands to run, I have a legitimate excuse. Let her think I’m hooked up to headphones at the gym, or that I don’t get any reception at the cleaners picking up my laundry (which is true).

For never calling her back I have less excuse.

Sunday is difficult to get through for more reasons than that. Recognizing my own restlessness, I run not merely my usual weekend errands, but all the errands that could possibly need running — everything I’ve been looking for a convenient time to get done, regardless of whether today is actually a convenient time — but eventually, no matter how long I take, there are simply no errands left. Then, just as I feared, I can’t entertain myself for the rest of the evening via any conventional means. My mind wanders from television and from books with equal rapidity, and I can’t even pretend I don’t know exactly what it would rather concentrate on.

Eventually, in a move very uncharacteristic of me but that I’ve apparently been driven to, I spend the rest of the evening at the computer half-reading news stories, looking at memes that aren’t funny, and trying not to type vampires into any search engine or wiki. And I’m upset, still or again, at this commandeering of my attention by something I don’t even really understand.

On Monday, when it appears that the work to which I’ve dedicated my life is not going to be enough to occupy me fully in the face of this nonsense, I decide to take a different tack. Of course it would be optimal to do my job with as much devotion and concentration as usual, but since this clearly is not an option, I try to balance out the two things that are obviously going to be on my mind all day. Every time I start to get distracted thinking about the anonymous man or the woman Megumi and what I know — or guess — about them so far, I direct my thoughts into a very specific channel. As long as I’m essentially being forced to think about this, I might as well get some benefit from it.

So by the end of the day, piece by piece, I’ve come up with a narrative — a collection of theories, arising from everything I’ve observed and subsequent extrapolation, about what is going on and the intentions of the two strangers — working from a basis of belief that they are, in fact, vampires.

Entering into the thing so credulously is a sort of last resort, and obviously one I did not see fit to try before — mostly because I fear that, once I start acting as if I believe in this silliness, I won’t be able to stop. But I find that it does help keep my thoughts, if not entirely under my own control, at least organized. It strips away a layer of the unknown that is causing so much of my agitation, so I don’t have quite such an irritated headache when I at last head home, reviewing the story I’ve concocted during the workday:

Vampires have lived subtly among us for perhaps all of human history, their occasional public encounters with the living inspiring books like Dracula and the surprising number of vampire movies it’s turned out I’ve watched. Something in their nature — a lesser immunity to human weapons than popular culture indicates, maybe, or possibly just the fact that they’re vastly outnumbered — makes secret and probably quietly cooperative cohabitation safer and easier than continually preying on and being at odds with humanity, and ‘vagabond’ is the term vampires use to describe others of their kind that jeopardize the secrecy of their existence by indiscriminately murdering humans.

Megumi is a vampire-hunting vampire, appointed (perhaps only by herself) to track down such vagabonds and end the threat they pose to both human and vampire society. It’s a necessary function, but one that doesn’t make her very popular among her fellows. I wonder whether it’s defiance, or a natural sense of honesty, or some other consideration that causes her to wear her stakes openly the way she does. To humans she merely looks like a cosplayer, but to vampires it must be perfectly, disturbingly clear what she is.

Megumi has no business with me, and, though she feels sorry about certain aspects of this situation, sees no reason to interact with me. She would never even have approached me at all if I hadn’t had ‘the touch’ — presumably some smell or other sense that rubs off on a human after their first contact with a vampire. Which brings me to that other vampire.

The young man remains far more of a mystery than Megumi, and even in the midst of the faint relief this hypothesizing exercise is, it’s frustrating how little I’ve learned about him. Still, what I could come up with, I have.

He wants something from me — some interaction or information or recognition that he’s traveled internationally to obtain — and he believes there’s some chance I’ll realize what it is before he comes back. Both he and Megumi know me from before, well enough to recognize me in an instant, and the young man, at least, expects me to remember something from that ‘before’ as well.

Allowing for the reality of vampires demands, somewhat annoyingly, that I allow for the possibility of other supernatural elements of existence as well. As such, I see two possibilities for ‘before.’ The first is that my own awareness of some previous part of my life has been erased or rewritten — through some sort of supernatural brainwashing designed to force me to forget the existence of vampires, for example, or perhaps through repression of some traumatic experience. The second is that the two vampires, who could conceivably be hundreds or thousands of years old, somehow recognize me from a previous life. I’ve never subscribed to reincarnation theory — and, if I had, I would have assumed a degree of change in a person from one life to the next that would make a reborn soul impossible to recognize a lifetime later — but in already considering the seemingly impossible, I suppose it’s rational enough.

In either case, whatever happened ‘before’ is something he and Megumi took part in with me, and something he wants me to remember. If I haven’t remembered under my own power by Wednesday — one week from when he first approached me — he’s going to enlighten me. And then I’ll have a choice to make.

And some part of me does remember. It’s the part that disapproved of him so heartily at our first meeting, that plunged me into a dream I didn’t understand, that keeps dredging up fear over innocuous things and pity for someone I don’t know. But since that’s all it seems able to do, I think the chances of my remembering anything more, in any level of detail that would provide answers to current questions, are not great.

How much I actually believe of this scenario I’ve put together is dubious. However, having constructed the narrative, supplied as many answers as I possibly can, and ordered my thoughts allows me a good deal more relaxation and patience on Monday evening than I’ve had for several days. I can wait for Wednesday.

‘Waiting for Wednesday’ is the most thorough and accurate description I can come up with for the entirety of Tuesday. It doesn’t matter that I don’t consider myself flighty; reality is stronger than any self-satisfied preconception.

I suppose, though, this happens to everyone at some point. In everyone’s life there must be events that lead to frames of mind entirely at odds with their chosen methods of productivity; we are only human, after all. I can’t help thinking, however, to the detriment of any comfort this train of thought might otherwise have provided, that others ‘only human’ don’t have jobs quite so important as I do — quite so constantly involved with security and crime, life and death, even if I am only hammering away at paperwork at the moment; nor are they distracted and held back by something quite so nebulous, so possibly frivolous, as I am today.

The loss of a friend or family member… the consideration of a proposal of marriage, or perhaps excitement for the big day itself… nervousness about some major opportunity that could be lost as easily as won… all of these changes or choices would, I think, be perfectly justified in distracting someone from even the most important, meaningful, and engrossing of employment. And even in those cases it would still be better to try for investment in work, but anyone would understand if that proved difficult or impossible.

And what do I have? What remarkable, life-altering circumstances are keeping me from concentrating on working to protect and serve my fellow Americans? The prospect of meeting a near-perfect stranger I guess — I don’t actually know — will answer some questions for me.

So in addition to impatient, curious, distracted, and annoyed, I’m embarrassed as well. I might almost feel ashamed, but for that, at least, my self-confidence proves too strong. I know I’m not weak-minded, and therefore must assume that it’s logical for this strangely emotional and gripping situation in which I find myself to be distracting me as much as it is, that my current fractured frame of mind and resultant imperfect behavior is to some degree forgivable.

As I spend the majority of the day considering tomorrow’s possibilities in between everything else I should be thinking about more exclusively, I come to a dismaying realization that should have struck me much sooner in order for me better to manage my impatience: merely ‘waiting for Wednesday’ isn’t enough; it must, logically, be Wednesday evening, Wednesday after dark that I’m actually waiting for. Regardless of how much I believe in the whole vampire idea, my visitors have only shown up once the sun was down. I doubt, somehow, that before work is an option, and it was evening just as I got home when he appeared the first time. Which means I have one entire work day more than I was envisioning to get through.

With this in mind, I have little to say about Wednesday, and would have little excuse to make for myself if anyone were to wonder about my level of distraction. But either I’m hiding it better than I thought I was, or my co-workers figure everyone’s due a day or two of distraction now and then — an indulgence I might not allow them in return on as little information as they have here. Or perhaps they’re all too distracted themselves, what with a murderer likely to make national news (if the media gets hold of the details) running around our usually fairly peaceful little city. The number of people assigned to that case is growing, but I am, thankfully — or perhaps unluckily — not yet among them.

If I had to face the prospect of even one more day of this — of trying to concentrate on paperwork that consistently takes a second priority in my head to the aggressively more engrossing yet uselessly circular vampire thoughts, until I think I’d almost rather be on traffic duty than this; of listening to news and station gossip regarding the murders and wondering whether I might not soon be in a position of greater knowledge about this, whether Megumi really has anything to do with it; of feeling like a waste of public resources as my paycheck covers easily as much idle daydreaming (for lack of a better word) and subsequent irritation and ineffectual self-castigation as proper work — I might actually be tempted to call in sick. And this temptation, hypothetical though it is, annoys me more than almost anything else. I’ve never been even the least bit inclined to lie about my state of health to get out of work. I can’t help thinking all over again that the vampire boy has a lot — an ever-increasing lot — to answer for.

When at last I punch out for the day and try not to move with undignified haste toward the door and the parking lot, I finally abandon all attempts at not allowing this to dominate my brain. I’m wondering what his exact plans are, how exactly the evening is going to go. Megumi appeared at the station last week (though the sun was more completely down when I left that day), and the young man has shown signs of stalking me; I’m sure he knows where I work and could show up here easily if he wanted to. But somehow I get the feeling — I fact, in a way, I hope — he has more to say to me than can comfortably be said standing next to my car in a relatively busy lot.

The apartment again, then. That’s what I think I’ve subconsciously been expecting all along anyway. Perhaps he’ll be waiting outside the door just as he was in the previous instance. Will he expect an invitation inside? Perhaps he’ll require an invitation inside, if he really is a vampire. I do seem to recall hearing that aspect of the legend at some point.

So the last question I’m pondering as I head toward home, growing more and more agitated and anticipatory with every street closer I move, is whether or not I’ll be willing to extend that invitation.

Part 12

The personal conviction I’d told Sano I lacked in regard to Tomizawa was becoming more of a possibility. The farther we looked into his affairs, the stranger they seemed — and, while there wasn’t yet any definitive evidence linking him with the murders, certain facts that came to light appeared to make it only a matter of time.

Oddly, he didn’t seem to have observed that he was being investigated. With police spies prying into various aspects of his professional and personal life, the only likely explanations I could see for his evident indifference were that he was stupid enough not to have noticed, or secure enough not even to twitch under scrutiny. And judging by his confident, dictatorial personality, the latter seemed more likely.

Yet he should be worried. If he had any sense, he must be worried, since he did have at least one thing to hide. His sister Nori’s fiance, one Shibue Touru, had cleanly disappeared just a few months before, and Tomizawa had hushed it up. Apparently he’d told his sister he was working with the police trying to find Shibue — which was what she’d meant, that day she’d come to the station, in saying, “I know he’s been in here a lot” — but this was the very first the police had heard of the matter. And why would a man that had abetted a criminal in his flight (for this was, I thought, the most likely explanation for the circumstance) remain so completely unperturbed under police investigation?

In any case, after a few days of snooping, the missing Shibue became a suspect, more questions than only the aforementioned were raised, and I had a specific line of inquiry to pursue — which was all extremely satisfying in comparison to what had gone before.

It seemed to me that the unknown entity whose surreptitious presence and occasional forays into Nori’s house had sent the woman to the police in the first place might well be Shibue: the criminal on the run still missed his fiance and longed to see her, and occasionally also found it convenient to obtain supplies or temporary shelter in a home where, if he was caught, his presence would be far less likely to draw immediate police attention — since Nori was obviously completely ignorant of whatever her husband-to-be had done to force him into hiding.

So the next step was to see if I could manage to track down Nori’s stalker. I had to be the one to do it, since not one of the police agents available for my use did I trust with such a task. Hironaku was extremely disappointed, but he was also heavy-footed and absolutely out of the question. Besides, if I saw a chance to confront the unknown watcher and attempt to bring him in, I was going to take it, and I didn’t trust any of my subordinates with that task either.

Nori’s report had indicated she was primarily being watched at night (which seemed to contraindicate the possible other explanation that her overzealous brother had assigned her a bodyguard without telling her), so the next step must obviously be to mimic the watcher and quietly observe Nori’s home at night in the hopes of observing more than just that.

Here she was to have lived with Shibue, and it had been, I’d come to understand, set up with her brother’s funds as a would-have-been wedding present: a good-sized house in a neighborhood with more pretensions than real class but plenty of real money. As such, this was an inconvenient monitoring job with its large perimeter and number of sides to the building, but at least the resultant complexity — the necessity of regular surreptitious shifting of position in order to regularly cover the entire area — granted an interest to the proceedings that might otherwise have been absent.

And someone besides me was definitely watching the place, though whoever he was, he was too skilled to pinpoint right away. Starting just after full darkness had fallen, I detected some interest pointed toward the house from somewhere in the immediate vicinity, but it seemed to be quickly snuffed out every time I concentrated on locating it more precisely. In fact it took me the entire night to become convinced I wasn’t imagining things. Like Tomizawa himself, the anonymous presence was probably aware of and apathetic toward the police surveillance. Which brought up the bodyguard theory again but certainly could not confirm it.

By the time sunrise neared and the presence disappeared as subtly as it had been manifesting all night, I’d learned nothing definitive, only confirmed Nori’s suspicion of being watched. I had no clear indication of criminal activity here, nor that the watcher — Shibue or whoever he turned out to be — had any connection whatsoever with the murders. Nevertheless I felt I’d made progress; as previously mentioned, having what seemed like a clear path to follow, even if it turned out to be a tangent, made for a remarkable contrast in morale. I had a plan for the next night — possibly the next few nights, depending on how skilled the watcher really was — and no need to sit idly waiting for anyone else to bring me information.

This time, despite my improved mood, it was a bit of a surprise when I found myself heading in the direction of Sano’s neighborhood without thinking. After avoiding him for the last couple of days, my desire to see him certainly hadn’t diminished, but I hadn’t thought it particularly increased either. Evidently I’d been wrong.

Continually showing up at Sano’s home very clearly not on police business was hardly in keeping with the careful behavior I had recommended to myself the last time I was here, but somehow, despite being aware of that, the direction of my steps did not change. Indeed, with this on my mind, I thought they actually hastened, as if to say, “Well, if I’m going to do this, I might as well get it over with quickly.” Or perhaps just wanting to get to him sooner for his own sake.

This neighborhood was not the type to be busy at dawn, but still there were a few people about. It was the type of neighborhood to be wary of cops, and my uniform won me some looks suspicious and even bitter — proportional to the small number of pedestrians, quite a few looks suspicious and even bitter. But I ignored them and hurried on.

He was sure to be asleep; I couldn’t picture him up before about noon unless he’d never gone to bed in the first place. Of Tsukioka I was less certain, though I had to admit I was a little annoyed at the thought of his presence. It didn’t matter much, though, since all I planned on doing was quietly looking in, taking a brief glimpse that would, I hoped, tide me over until a more propitious time. Then I would hire a carriage home, sleep a few hours, and get back to work with whatever new strength that glimpse I was apparently so desperate for had afforded me.

The door still wasn’t locked; I was going to have to have a word with him about that. It was all very well and good that his entire neighborhood knew better than to trespass on the property of the former Zanza, but blatantly ignoring rudimentary safety precautions, especially with an unusually bloodthirsty murderer running around Tokyo, was idiotic. It even opened and closed quietly enough — with a careful hand — that it was unlikely to awaken a sleeper within.

And there was only one sleeper within. My surprised gaze immediately ran the length of the room, taking in the single occupied futon, the table that had been cleared of the mess of papers I’d last seen on it, the dishes left over from a meal for one. Tsukioka was gone.

I had come here to admire a sleeping Sanosuke possibly without even waking him, but now a certain amount of concern forced my plans to change. I doubted I would see signs of a peaceful solitary dinner near a soundly sleeping Sano if there had been an attack, and I also liked to think he would have let me know, but what had happened? Was it possible Tsukioka’s medical condition had worsened and he’d gone back to the clinic? Or… surely they couldn’t have been stupid enough to think all danger past and him safe to return home alone?

Despite fully intending now to wake Sano up, still I had to pause to admire him. He slept full-force, as it were, the same way he did everything else. In this case that meant he sprawled, ungracefully but probably quite comfortably, across a futon that didn’t look too intolerably filthy, with a blanket twisted around him in a manner simultaneously haphazard and precise.

It was as if he’d made an art out of sleeping, out of arranging that blanket to be tight where he wanted and loose everywhere else, out of pillowing one arm under his head and relaxing down onto it as if this was the most important thing he’d ever done and he was damn well going to get the most out of it… and yet it was only sleep, and nothing to be stressed about or given a great deal of thought. I didn’t know how he always managed to be so much of so many seemingly contradictory things… so intense yet so carefree… so aimless yet so decisive… so much of what annoyed me, yet so much of what I fiercely wanted…

His eyes opened while I watched him, before I had a chance to make any move to awaken him. He didn’t start or gasp or sit up abruptly, and I wondered if he’d sensed my presence in his sleep in order to be so unsurprised to find me actually there when he awoke.

“Hey,” he said, both tone and expression marking him groggy but pleased. “I haven’t seen you in two and a half days!”

“You were mad at me and I was busy with work,” I shrugged, unable to remove my gaze from his. In his current state, his eyes appeared simultaneously soft and bright, an interesting and compelling look.

“I’m always mad at you,” he said in tired protest, “and you’re always busy with work.”

I smiled. “Well, here I am now. Where’s Tsukioka?”

Blinking and yawning, Sano seemed for a moment unable to comprehend the change of subject. But finally the puzzled look slid from his face and he gestured vaguely with the bare arm he wasn’t using as a pillow. “Read that note on the table.”

I did so, unfolding a half sheet of paper that was covered on one side with smudged and indecipherable doodles and on the other with artistically messy handwriting.

It’s clear you need some privacy, and I think I would be more comfortable elsewhere anyway. Don’t worry about me; I’ll stay with some activist friends who have even better reasons to lie low than I probably do. Don’t let Takani-sensei worry about me either; the worst is over, as she ought to know. Try to keep out of trouble, though this new complication of yours makes that seem even more unlikely than usual.

He hadn’t signed it, but it wasn’t exactly a great mystery who had left it. Nor was what he meant by that last line. It was, to my memory, the first time I’d ever been called a ‘complication,’ but probably not entirely inaccurate. Honestly the note itself — or at least the altered situation it represented — was a bit of a complication, and I was suddenly rethinking my intentions here yet again, somewhat more pointedly than before.

As my eyes left the paper they immediately found Sano’s, and it was just as immediately apparent that he not only had the same thought I did, but read that simultaneous consideration in the shared gaze. I might have teased him by pretending to be unaffected by the word ‘privacy’ in that note or my reflection of a few minutes ago that his futon didn’t look too intolerably filthy… but he already knew we were both thinking the same thing, and the new edge to his smile clearly reflected his expectations for the scene.

Refolding with deliberate movements the liberating missive as I did so, I asked, “Do you ever lock your door?”

For half an instant Sano looked annoyed by my critical tone and confused at what he viewed as another change of subject, but then the probable motive behind my words registered and he went back to grinning in anticipation. His answer was, “Yeah… when I need to.”

“Then you do have a key.”

“Yeah… somewhere…” Though his previous statement had been vaguely flirtatious, Sano’s tone had now slipped into one of intense focus as he probably realized I wasn’t joking about wanting to lock the door — and that he was going to need to figure out where ‘somewhere’ was before any further progress could be made. With a comical level of concentration he finally added, “I think it was on the window-ledge.”

I found two keys side by side where he indicated, guessed correctly on the first attempt which one fitted the door, and wrestled the aged lock into granting us more privacy than even Tsukioka had with his departure. And apparently just the observation that my quest was nearing completion had been enough for Sano, as he hadn’t waited patiently for me at his end of the room. Even as I turned toward him, I heard his barefoot steps across the floor, then found insistent arms slipping around me and a hot body pressed to mine. My own arms rose to caress his back and pull him closer as his lips and hot breath and grazing teeth slid up my neck. Undoubtedly in response to cloth against his flesh, in between a series of nipping kisses just underneath my jaw, he murmured, “Take off those damn gloves.”

I chuckled and obeyed, not at all averse to following a direct order when the result was the beautiful feel of his skin beneath my naked fingers and palms. He’d begun grinding unrepentantly against me too, breathing somewhat harder near my ear, and the longing he thus displayed was in no way unreciprocated. “Now take off those damn clothes,” he whispered.

I let out a sighing breath and obeyed.

What was it about this stubborn, vehement, easygoing, infuriating person that had me so captivated? That made it so I could never get enough? That filled me with a tingling desire for him down into my bones? His physical passion and ability to respond to my own were not in any way surprising, but, though making love to him for the first time was a spectacular and deeply gratifying experience, there was more to it than simply satisfying my body… or even than a few hours of psychological rest from the demands of my work. Something about him specifically seemed to have a nearly supernatural power to enthrall, to draw me in and engage me as I hadn’t been engaged in a relationship for years, perhaps forever. And I couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was about Sano that I found so enchanting.

For that matter, I had no idea what drew him to me. We drove each other crazy in every possible way, and we’d been rivals at best when we’d first met… and yet here we were, content or even decidedly happy together in the morning sun through the shouji on his not-too-intolerably-filthy futon, sticky and cooling and calming after having demonstrated very clearly that any disliking we might have for each other ran parallel to, and perhaps less deep than, an emotional state that was very different indeed.

The weariness of having been out all night combined with the exertion just now had left my mind pleasantly foggy, and in the comfort of Sano’s embrace and bed I didn’t see much need to work at clearing it — and no reason I couldn’t rest here instead of heading home as I’d intended. I doubted Sano had been planning to get out of bed any time soon in any case, and I certainly didn’t object to a companion as long as he didn’t snore too loudly. Sano himself, however, seemed surprised at the sedentary tendency of my movements after we’d finished.

“You’re going to sleep here?” he wondered, his words close to my ear and still somewhat breathless.

Eyes closed, I replied, “Is that a problem?”

“No, not even a little bit! I just… figured you’d go home.” He sounded as if he couldn’t believe his luck, and I found I rather liked the implication of his happy astonishment that I would remain with him after sex.

“I was out all night.” If my words weren’t explanation enough, the weariness I couldn’t keep from them must have been.

“And I just wore you out the rest of the way, huh?” Had I ever heard him so pleased with himself before?

“Ahou.” But I didn’t bother to deny it.

He kissed me on the cheek and settled into restfulness against me. “I won’t move for a while, then,” he murmured. And I was unsurprised to find I liked the sound of that too — of his casual solicitousness, even if it was probably born in part of laziness and a preexisting desire to do exactly as he’d stated.

Just as I was ready to drift into very comfortable sleep, however, he made a lie of his promise by stirring again. In a slightly more alert and now faintly accusatory thoughtful tone he said, “But you know… I think you were trying to use sex to keep me from asking about your case and what you were out all night doing.”

This roused me slightly too. “If I thought I could use sex to do that, I certainly would try.” I interrupted myself by yawning, but he didn’t jump in, so I was able to finish, “I can’t think of a more pleasant way to keep you off the scent.”

He snorted. “Well, I guess I can’t really say, ‘Oh, don’t ever fuck me again, you sneaky bastard…’ but it won’t work, you know.”

“I thought it worked extremely well just now.”

This time he laughed. “Yeah, you’re right about that.” And he nuzzled his face into my neck. I thought he might drop it there and let me sleep, but that was no realistic hope; half a minute or so later he persisted. “So what were you out all night doing?”

I didn’t trouble my tired self trying to prevaricate. “I have a feeling Tomizawa may be involved with the murders, and whoever is stalking his sister along with him.”

“So you’ve been stalking the stalker,” he finished with satisfaction.

“Something like that, yes.”

“But you probably still don’t have enough evidence to just assassinate Tomizawa yet, do you?”

“Not yet, no.” And when in response to this he hmm‘d pensively against my skin, I added firmly, “Stay out of it, Sano.”

In frustration he said, “I could help you, you know.”

“And you know how I feel about that.”

We had started to move back into more upright positions as this threatened to turn into a more active discussion or even an argument, but now he buried his face in my chest as he said, “You made it pretty clear how you feel just a little while ago.” And though he said it at a mutter, it was one of embarrassment rather than annoyance or defeat as he referred to how I felt in a completely different context than the one I’d meant.

With a sudden unexpected pressure in the space just beneath where his forehead rested, I found my arms rising to draw him close again. Had I made it clear how I felt? Because I wasn’t sure I knew how I felt. In fact I’d rather been wondering the entire time — or, if I’d been avoiding the how, I’d at least been wondering why I felt that way. In any case, it seemed he’d taken some confirmation from my actions and attitude that I hadn’t, perhaps, intended to give… but that I didn’t, perhaps, mind having given.

Almost involuntarily I found myself saying softly, “I just want to make sure you stay safe.” And that it sounded so maudlin and trite under the current circumstances didn’t make it any less sincere.

He clenched the arm he had around me as he replied, in loving annoyance, “You asshole. What if that’s exactly what I want for you too?”

I didn’t know how to answer that — at least not without saying something I’d already said that hadn’t convinced him then and probably wouldn’t now — so I remained silent. He too said nothing more, as if he’d made or accepted some point — I couldn’t tell which. And despite the utterly inconclusive nature of the conversation, it seemed to be at an end, and we drifted to sleep in a surprisingly pervasive atmosphere of lingering contentment and satisfaction with the situation and each other.

Part 13

It neither astonishes me nor vindicates any concrete expectation that the area in front of my apartment is devoid of figure or motion; my thoughts on the matter have been such a mess that his presence or his absence there seems equally feasible. I unlock the door and enter, flipping switches in motions no different than usual, finding everything inside no different than usual. I hang up my jacket and keys, remove and put away my gear, and move toward the bedroom to shed my shoes and tie with no particular haste. The only thing setting this evening apart from any other is the fact that I’m not very hungry and therefore giving little thought to what I’ll have for dinner… and perhaps a heart-rate just slightly quicker, more anticipatory, than on most nights.

At the bedroom door, however, before I have a chance to reach for the light, I’m greeted by sight and sound simultaneously unexpected and exactly what I was waiting for: “Your week’s up.”

“I have to admit,” I say, going still in the entry to the room, “I’m not surprised to find you breaking and entering.” So much for needing an invitation.

He’s seated on my bed with his jacket lying beside him. I note systematically that he doesn’t appear to be armed: his short-sleeved dress shirt is open halfway down his chest, its white material too translucent to disguise much of anything underneath. His unearthly eyes seem to glow as he looks me up and down and gives a monosyllabic laugh that conveys no amusement whatsoever. Slowly he stands. “Do you remember me?”

I can’t look away. Even with the jacket removed, he’s exactly the same as a week ago, and yet there’s something utterly riveting about him that wasn’t present before. Can it be merely the fact that I’m anticipating an end to the confusion and perhaps the whole strange situation, that I’m eager for answers? No, it’s something more. In that inhumanly beautiful face, above that slender, muscular body advancing smoothly toward me, eyes like that are enough to nullify completely any concept of heterosexuality a man might have about himself.

That isn’t why I hesitate answering his question, though. Yes, I’m caught up, all of a sudden and for no reason I can pinpoint, in his mysterious attractiveness, but in addition to that I feel I do remember him. I can’t recall anything specific about him, but he’s so familiar I could almost… well, I don’t know what. I don’t know, and therefore I don’t know what to say.

He stops just in front of me, and it’s all I can do not to reach out and seize him. His eyes, holding mine, seem to convey an uncanny amount of emotion, but I can make little sense of the turmoil they reveal. He’s hopeful… darkly, hopelessly hopeful… but what else, I can’t tell.

The heavy silence doesn’t need much time to become oppressive, but somehow I feel that to answer, to crush that desperate hope, would be even worse. I don’t need to speak, however; he can tell just by looking that I haven’t remembered whatever he wants me to. Slowly his expression hardens, the hope dimming. “You never were much of a spiritualist.” It’s almost a mutter, equal parts disappointment and… fond acceptance?

Abruptly I want him… so clearly, so intensely I simply cannot restrain myself. I want to be with him, to be close to him, to touch him, hold him, make love to him, be one with him forever, and nothing else in the world seems meaningful or even real. My hands, almost of their own volition, move to clutch at him, to pull him against me, and through the incomprehensible haze of longing and desire that’s overtaken me I’m vaguely startled at how cold he feels. But should that really be a surprise at this point?

“Calm down.” His voice next to my ear is a whisper so husky it nearly qualifies as a growl. “I’m not seducing you today; I just want to make this easier.” I get the feeling — how, I probably wouldn’t know even if I were more lucid — that he wants me as much as I suddenly want him, but his frigid hands have taken hold of my wrists with shocking strength and kept them still. Cold breath moves along my neck, sparking an intense, prickling shudder through my entire body.

My instincts war within me: the more wary screaming to push him away, to break away myself, because when I feel his lips part against my skin I know what’s coming next; the more hedonistic replying that nothing that feels this good, that I want this desperately, can be bad; and the most logical replying that, while, yes, it can be bad, it can’t be that bad because vampires aren’t real.

They all snap silent as his fangs pierce my flesh. There is a stab of pain, a cold, tugging sensation followed by a slow spread of burning heat, and then… nothing.

I don’t know how long the blackness lasts; it could be moments and it could be hours. It’s like traveling through a tunnel, assuming there exists a tunnel that strips you of not only your sight but of every other sense as well as all presence of mind. On one side everything was, if not precisely normal, at least framed in a context I’m familiar with and could try to sort out eventually; on the other, as I emerge from the sensory deprivation, everything is chaos.

I remember. In a tumultuous rush, the living of an entire lifetime in an instant, I remember everything — Japan, my childhood, the wars, the Shinsengumi, my life as a spy, my wife and children, and Sano… Sano…. Sano….. I remember what happened to us, to him, to Takani, the bizarre events of those last weeks, what he did and what he wanted… I remember it all, and all at once; and as I struggle desperately to make sense of it, to calm and order my frantic mind, and most of all to reconcile it with America and the current millennium and everything I think I know about myself, I’m fairly sure I’ve gone insane. I’m probably babbling, too, out there in the physical realm that I’m barely feeling at the moment.

His arms are around me. That’s the first thing I realize as I begin to come to my senses. I’m sitting on the bed now, still in deep shadow in a room whose blinds are closed and lights turned off, and he’s holding me. The gesture is purely for physical support, and at the moment I’m so torn by various emotions and so lost in my fractured state of mind that I can neither enjoy nor wish to escape his presence.

“Sanosuke…” I gasp after who knows how long, calming further but still severely agitated. “How…”

“We live forever with people who live over and over,” he replies coolly. His arms drop from around my shoulders, and I feel very unsteady on the edge of the bed, as if I might topple and fall right off the world. “Eventually,” he goes on, “we get the ability to make you remember your past lives, if we want. Some assholes do it just to torture their victims, or make them feel like death’s better than the insanity of remembering everything all at once… but I’m not quite to that point yet. Though I did work pretty hard to perfect the technique.”

I don’t really hear his answer — don’t grasp his meaning just yet, at any rate; I’m still struggling within my head. It’s more than anyone should have to take in so suddenly, more than I can assimilate quickly or even, I fear, at length… the one thing I can think to do is try to ignore most of it and only give thought to what I absolutely have to. Though this is easier resolved upon than done.

At that moment I realize that what I’ve thought of as a ringing in my ears is actually a ringing in the room, and that the glow in my eyes isn’t just a remembered light from Meiji-era Japan. Not fully aware of what I’m doing, but glad to have something to cling to of the existence I thought I knew — my life, the ‘real world’ of my current consciousness — I reach clumsily for the cell phone that is the source of the sudden light in the room. How it came to be on the bed rather than in my pocket as it was before I’m not sure; perhaps that gives some clue as to how long I was in that tunnel.

It’s my girlfriend calling, but there’s no way I can answer in this state; she would think I’ve gone crazy, and I’m not entirely sure I haven’t. I can’t quite manage to reject the call, though, with fingers that aren’t obeying my commands very precisely just yet.

The next moment I’m on my feet, throwing the device back down on the bed, face aghast and a hand raised as if to ward off a blow. Above her number, naturally, her name appears… I seldom bother with individual ringtones, but I do keep everyone in my contacts organized…

Saito, Renee

“Oh, my god…”

I would declare this a coincidence — my reeling mind is already protesting that it’s a common enough surname — if not for the ensuing bitter statement out of the darkness near my nightstand: “Yeah, she called a few minutes ago too. Funny who fate decides to toss together, isn’t it? Though actually, far as I can tell, it’s people’s souls that find each other… someone you had some connection with in a previous life’s more likely to find you than someone you didn’t. This one’s less fucked-up than some I’ve seen… Yahiko and Chou ended up married a couple of lives down the line.”

I’m not sure whether it’s more startling to find that Sano is still here, that I’m apparently dating my own something-great-granddaughter, or that all of this is suddenly making so much sense to me. Yahiko… Chou… the names mean something, despite a large part of my mind wishing in a panic that they didn’t. And Renee is…

“I hope you’re happy,” I say in an effort to speed the process of regaining my mental stability, but unfortunately it comes out as something like a snarl. “I’ll never be able to look at her the same again.”

“Happy?” Sano wonders, skeptical and more bitter than before. “Yeah, right. But satisfied that I won’t have to watch you happily in love with someone else again? A little.”

“You’re not like I remember.”

“No shit. A hundred fucking fifty years’ll do that to you. Not to mention constant rejection.”

I sit down on the bed again, on the opposite side now from him, and lean my head in one hand. Though I open my mouth to speak, nothing comes out; I simply don’t know what to say next. I’m remembering his cold, blank face in that cellar, his despair when he awoke, and, most significantly, my own feelings at that time.

All the emotions from those days are coming back, slower than the memories but no less overwhelming. Sano… I… loved him… I loved him and I lost him… or perhaps he lost me…

Maybe I still love him.

God, that is just too much to think about at the moment.

“Rejection?” is what I finally manage to come up with. My tone still isn’t very steady, but I’m beginning to feel readier for a real conversation.

“I think you’ve had enough shock for one night,” he replies. Despite the slight sound of sympathy in his voice, yet it’s colder than anything I remember Sano saying back then; but I get the feeling this is normal for him now. ‘A hundred fucking fifty years’ indeed…

I turn to look at him. He’s standing with arms folded, watching me, the glint of his eyes in the darkness dimmer than it was before. “Sano…” I begin, though still with no clear idea what to say. I have two lifetimes now in which I can’t recall ever being so stymied.

“It’s OK,” he says softly. “You have a lot to think about. I’ll give you a few days, and then we can talk.”

“Sano,” I repeat, more decisively this time, standing and facing him. “I want to know–”

“Yeah, I’m sure there’s a lot you want to know,” he cuts me off brusquely — another tone I don’t remember hearing from him before. “But not right now. You’re gonna have a choice to make here after not too long, and you need to be in your right mind for a while first.”

“What choice?” I ask, though the thought that I really don’t need to is already stirring in the back of my head.

And he’s gone.

I don’t even hear the apartment door open and close. Apparently vampires have the ability to silence locks and latches in addition to their own movements. Or maybe he can turn into mist.

Oh, my god, he’s really a vampire.

Of course he’s a vampire. I was there for that. A hundred and thirty-some years ago.

I slump back down onto the bed and again put my head in my hands.

This is overwhelming and beyond agitating, and right now I don’t know how to deal with it. Two lives are suddenly jumbled together in my head, two different senses of self, and, though it’s all clamoring for attention, none of it is what at least part of me feels I should be thinking about. Not while considering the fact that Sano — Sano, whom I remember full well now, whom I loved — has been alive — undead, I suppose, is the correct word — for all these years and has sought me out after so long in another country, another era, another language, another ethnicity… for what?

Just as I was able to put together a set of theories about the situation over the last couple of days at work — a set of theories I’m now much closer to believing in their entirety, as far as I’m capable of thinking about them at all — I feel I can theorize with a fair degree of accuracy what he wants from me now, what choice I’m going to have to make. The look on his face as I died in his arms — the horror and despair and frustration — is such a painful and deeply ingrained memory I almost can’t believe I ever lost it, hundred and thirty-some years or no, and I know what it is he wants.

But I almost can’t handle thinking about my own death like that.

And… how many times must I have died since then?

With a deep, desperate breath something like a sob, as if my body wants to remind itself and my mind that I am still alive, I collapse onto my side on the bed, curling up and closing my eyes. The first two fingers of one hand have somehow found their way just to the left of my trachea as if I were taking my own pulse, running up and down over the two sore spots on my neck, feeling the dried blood there as if it’s brail spelling out a readable message. But it tells me nothing… nothing that isn’t totally overridden by everything else that’s bombarding me, that is.

Memories, many of them seemingly conflicting if not downright impossibly contradictory, shuffle like semi-transparent cards in front of my mind’s eye, overlaying each other and blending improbably together into an incomprehensible mass comprised of two childhoods, two young adulthoods, two manhoods, two different set of police protocol — oh, that’s annoying — two worlds in which I’ve lived, two languages I suddenly speak, two lifetimes’ worth of beliefs and attitudes and recollections. And Sano’s face is superimposed across the whole — Sano’s handsome, enthralling face in all its variety of expression: his sometimes goofy pleasure, his ready anger, his more serious moments still with eyes sparkling, all of it so easy yet so intense… even the more modern aloofness, coldness, bitterness… I can’t stop seeing them. I can’t stop thinking about him.

But I can’t think exclusively about him, no matter how much part of me wants to, no matter how much that seems the only way to stay sane at the moment. The rest of it simply can’t be ignored. It all has to be worked through before I can decide what I think about Sanosuke and what’s happening now, the turn things have taken. If I, Joseph, am going to get on with my life, Hajime will have to be integrated. And I, Hajime, am strong enough to deal with this without going mad. Obviously Sano thought so, or he wouldn’t have burdened me with a past incarnation; he did specifically say he wasn’t doing it to torture me. There’s some irony in this thought, but that’s thirty-five years into the story and has to be put off until I get back around to it.

For now, I’m starting on February 18, 1844. Not that I have any memories from quite that early, but I will work through this as methodically as I can from as early a point as is relevant. I will put it all in place so I can move forward and make the choice I have to make, possibly the most important one of my life. Of this life, anyway.

I already have the beginnings of a dire migraine, and a sense of sorrow growing in the pit of my stomach that’s more than a little like nausea. I suspect these symptoms will only worsen as I lie here thinking and remembering and sorting, and I’m certain that when I call in sick to work tomorrow, it may be Sano’s fault, but it won’t in any way be a lie.

Part 14

Rich people — at least those determined to make a show of their wealth — often purchased their own downfall in the form of extensive landscaping that provided cover for spying on or secretly approaching their houses. Tomizawa Nori’s home was not the first I’d encountered that made for ridiculously luxurious monitoring conditions. The perfume of flowers in the darkness might not be my favorite scent — since spending the better part of a day in bed with Sano, there was a distinctly more human smell or combination of smells that came immediately to mind at that thought — but I certainly preferred it to filthy back streets with full gutters.

Even this, however, could not erase the awareness that the criminal I sought — possibly the other clandestine watcher of Nori’s house I specifically awaited right now — was a thief of large volumes of blood, and I had never been able to figure out or believably speculate what he wanted it for. Considering this, even among the azaleas and young tulip trees, my mind seemed to conjure up the scent of blood to blend with that of the pleasant greenery in an ominous mixture. Takani — who thus far had been useful for more than merely her postmortem perspective on the victims she’d examined; I would have to keep her in mind as a consultant, when one was needed, for future cases — had been unable to come up with a use anyone might have for so much (if any) coagulated blood, and therefore assumed the stolen liquid had been put to its intended use immediately upon its withdrawal from the bodies… which meant the smell was entirely an illusion, as it seemed next to impossible that any actual blood was being stored at this location or any other related to the case… but the imagination was a powerful thing that could easily compromise the luxury of this posh spy job.

I was uneasy before that, however; the unreal combination of scents merely accentuated a preexisting mood. The other watcher had not, as far as I could tell, appeared yet, and it was later than I’d sensed him last time. Of course Nori hadn’t been able to say for certain whether she’d been watched every night, and I’d spied on her house just the once before — but I couldn’t help worrying that I had spooked the mystery man (if that was the right way to put it when he didn’t seem to have cared at all about my presence) and wouldn’t be able to get any information here. The eventual emotion distilled from this set of concerns was not so much agitation as irritation, since not only would that mean this was a dead end and I would return to having few or no leads, it might take several more nights of sneaking around this place before I would be able to determine for certain it was a dead end.

Just as I had on the previous instance, I was shifting gradually around the perimeter of the property, carefully keeping hidden but observing the house and its surroundings methodically from every angle. And I would have believed my concentration on the job — combined with irritation at the idea that this might be a waste of time and the agitation of the imaginary scent of blood and uneasy imaginings about what that blood could possibly have been wanted for — would keep me entirely occupied… but I had to admit that, after how events had run lately, I wasn’t actually particularly surprised to find myself thinking about Sano as I moved surreptitiously from one shrubbery to the next. That irresponsible idiot of mine must be rubbing off on me; this was no appropriate time to be dwelling on the taste of his lips or the stupidly amusing nature of his conversation or the unanticipated delight that arose within me when I considered that he was my irresponsible idiot.

Something compelled me almost overwhelmingly about the idea that I had (in a way) someone to go home to, someone I could seek out for comfort, companionship, and more after I’d wearied my body and mind on this or other professional pursuits. I felt almost giddy, like a child, at the thought of this change in my life and how ridiculously happy it made me. And, strangest of all, it was a new giddiness, a new happiness; I’d never been this way about Tokio.

No, I supposed, it wasn’t really strange. While Tokio and I had enjoyed each other’s company to some extent, and even enjoyed the sex that had produced our three children, we’d never had a passionate attachment. I’d never been overcome with thoughts of her and her charms while on a potentially dangerous assignment, and I’d never been ecstatic at the thought of going home to her. And what the difference between my attitude toward my wife and toward my new lover had to say about the true nature of my feelings for the latter — the ones he claimed I’d already displayed pretty clearly — was something I shied somewhat from thinking about. Anyway I shouldn’t be thinking about any of this.

Even as I forced the reflections away, though, and took a firmer hold on my current purpose, I was smiling.

The attack came from behind, but something so completely undetectable could have come from directly ahead and I might still have been oblivious until being hit by it — and to me this indicated that the attacker had only imperfect confidence in his abilities, believed he needed the added advantage of attacking from behind. In any case, I was knocked forward by a blow that, though it didn’t break any bones, definitely hurt as I went flying into a tree small enough to snap when my body smashed through it.

As quickly as I was back on my feet, spine aching after having bent too far in an odd direction, drawing my sword and whirling, the unexpected enemy made little more than a flash in the corner of my eye. I threw myself to the side, straight into a shrub that let off a strong but not unpleasant scent as I crushed many of its leaves and branches underfoot, and sensed I’d barely evaded another attack in so doing. The third blow I didn’t manage to dodge, however — it felt like an elbow that jabbed into the side of my neck just below my jaw — as again I failed, though not moving at all slowly, to face the enemy or determine what side he was coming from. And not yet having caught sight of him or any idea what to make of him except that he was startlingly fast, I felt my starting disadvantage as sorely as my aching back and neck and rattled head.

Crunching footsteps in the mulch, light and quiet though they were, gave the sole indication of his trajectory for the moment, and once more I threw myself instinctively in what I thought was the safest direction from his current charge. I couldn’t turn quickly enough to see him unless I could anticipate his movements, and I couldn’t anticipate his movements unless I could get a reading on his ki. And it was present — this was definitely the same interest I’d felt pointed toward the house last night — but in combat it seemed astonishingly weak and unfocused for someone so fast and strong. As such, I needed a very precise fix on what I was looking for before I could make any use of it.

As I worked on that, I took another blow: a tendon-straining punch to the left shoulder that, while painful, did allow me a blurred glimpse of its deliverer before he darted off behind me again. He appeared quite mundane in that unclear moment, and, though there could easily be — and probably was — more to him than one half glance could tell, still I was reminded of Tsukioka’s ‘pretty normal-sized’ attacker that ‘moved really fast.’

I’d nearly lost hold of my sword in the percussion through my shoulder, and shooting lines of pain ran down my arm, but at least I was starting to get a feel for the man’s motions and combative intentions. When next I turned, it was toward where I anticipated him moving to — and I was correct. He’d been drawing back a fist for another strike, but faltered when he saw me face him. The thrust of my sword wasn’t as graceful or correctly aimed as I would have preferred, but my arm still stung and throbbed and it was the best I could do. At any rate, the blade did manage to pierce his kimono just under his raised right arm — and, I thought, the flesh beneath — before he ducked away to the side again with a faint sound of tearing cloth.

Pretty normal-sized indeed. Of average height, somewhat but not remarkably fat, with a very traditional (for this era) cut to his black hair, wearing (as far as I could tell in the shadows) totally uninteresting clothing, the only things even a little noteworthy about his appearance — the ‘more’ I’d assumed there must be to him moments before — were a brightness of eye a little uncanny in the dark garden and an apparently pretty significant level of dirtiness — some of it, I was sure, dried blood — to his run-of-the-mill clothing.

And why should he be so reluctant to let me see him? His features gave me no new information as to his identity, and there had been no reason just now for him to back off from delivering the blow he’d been planning. My opinion of earlier strengthened: he lacked confidence in his own abilities, and probably didn’t want me to get a good look at him in case he felt the need to retreat and remain anonymous thereafter.

His next hit was similar to the first — what I believed was a shoulder-led body-slam aimed at my mid-back — but I managed mostly to dodge, and, though the displaced brunt of his momentum still caught me in the side and sent me spinning, I used that centrifugal motion to strike out against him, and this time definitely felt my sword connect with flesh. I might have made better use of the blow if I hadn’t briefly been so disconcerted by his complete lack of reaction to it. His body barely moved except, a moment later, to jerk free of where my nihontou stuck in his side; he certainly gave no pained vocalization of any sort. In fact, I realized suddenly, I couldn’t even hear him breathing, and surely it was unusual for someone — especially someone overweight — to exert himself so much so silently!

I was on the verge of panting and gasping. Another blow to the chest like that last one, off-center though it had been, would knock the wind right out of me, render me incapable of fighting and terribly vulnerable for at least several seconds. The stranger hit hard, and I found myself reflecting in no small amount of gratitude and relief, as I whirled yet again trying to find him before he could connect, on what a blessing it was that he used his body rather than a more conventional weapon. The very first hit would have killed me, I was certain, had he been wielding even just a dagger; it would have been instantaneous with a sword.

I didn’t have to wonder why he was thus unarmed, though, since the most likely answer was immediately apparent and fit right in with his weak, undirected ki: this man was no warrior. He probably had no idea how to use even the simplest weapon, and it probably hadn’t even occurred to him that he could try. Scantly as that seemed to fit with the incredible strength, speed, and endurance he demonstrated, or the extreme danger I now found myself in thanks to those attributes, I believed it. Here was someone with natural abilities such as I’d rarely seen, but little or no aptitude or training for combat, who’d been thrown into a combat situation for some reason or another.

And what that reason might be I pondered as I took a blow to the side of my stomach, above my right hip, that sent me sprawling again. Rising with a difficulty I tried to conceal, I managed to retaliate successfully, only to find the piercing point of my sword once more completely disregarded. But even with this remarkable capacity to shrug off what should have been staggering strikes, the man’s lack of confidence in his own skill combined with his reluctance to let me see him and clear lack of training made it seem even stranger that he’d attacked me at all tonight. Was he so desperate to see me out of the picture that he’d come up against me despite having little belief in his ability to succeed? He seemed wary or even frightened of me, and perhaps desperation alone had driven him to try what he felt was expedient but hazardous. And while normally I would have said he had good reason to be frightened and had made a fatal mistake in choosing to attack, in this case I couldn’t be so optimistic.

Because it only took a few more exchanges of hits to convince me I could not win this battle. My blows seemed to have no effect whatsoever, but I couldn’t take many more of his. And though I struggled to continue fighting steadily, to avoid showing how much damage his assault had done, eventually I must falter and render evident just how much he had the upper hand. And the instant his confidence improved and he stopped dancing around trying to avoid my gaze, he would end this with one decisive punch.

Of course the idea of ‘one decisive punch’, of undirected brute strength, the uncalculated application of force in the hopes of a good outcome without any real planning, must make me think, for a second and far more dangerous instance during this night’s work, of Sanosuke. He was just the type to plunge into a battle he wasn’t sure he could win, fists flying, recking very little of what wounds he received. But I had to do my lover the credit of admitting that, though at one point in his career he might have been similar to this flailing attacker — undoubtedly as an even younger man than he was now — he’d long since grown out of the combative niche this stranger currently occupied and probably always would.

And if I wanted to appreciate Sano’s ever-improving ability to give matters serious thought, to plan for things, to restrain himself — in fact if I wanted to appreciate anything about him again — I needed to find a way out of this battle as soon as I possibly could.

A fist to the side of my face that set the world spinning wildly interrupted my attempts at coming up with an escape route and nearly, I thought, fractured my cheekbone. I managed to stave off any follow-up by a stab directly into my opponent’s thigh, but he, as usual, simply drew back, seeming to ignore the wound completely, and dashed off to the side out of my sight. I fought merely to stay upright and unwavering as I turned yet again to find the man; as soon as the shockwaves through my head ceased, I would recommence trying to think of a way out of this.

But my opponent’s ki was suddenly gone.

Calm air, the sounds of night insects, the sweet smells of the garden around me, and, most of all, an abrupt complete lack of any discernable intent anywhere nearby… it was uncanny. I stood very still, reaching out with every sense that might give me some hint as to what my opponent was up to, and gradually my injuries began to assert themselves. At first I forced the pain and debilitation into relative invisibility, just as before, in case the unknown might be watching, only to determine eventually that he had simply disappeared. For now — however long ‘now’ might be — it seemed I was safe.

Lesser warrior that he was, he must have entertained the same idea I had — that this was a futile battle against a stronger opponent — and, unable to see his mistake, had made a judicious retreat. The wounds he’d taken from me must have done some damage after all — honestly I couldn’t see how they could have failed to, his lack of reaction or apparent weakening notwithstanding — and he, not knowing how close his victory lay, hadn’t felt he could take any more. My attempts at hiding just how badly I was faring had probably saved my life. I did not look forward to whatever he might try next to get me out of his way.

I needed a doctor immediately. Takani probably wasn’t going to be happy about this, but at least I’d managed to avoid delivering her another corpse. Reaching her at all in my current state might be a bit of a difficulty, however; I felt as if I’d been pummeled nearly to death, and, though nothing seemed to be broken — even my skin — my entire body throbbed with pain of various depths, and felt ridiculously weak, as if the first step I took might send me toppling into the dirt.

Hurrying footfalls, concerned voices, and lantern light were approaching up one of the nearby paved paths from the direction of the house, and I spent a moment trying to decide how (or whether) I should deal with the servants coming to see what in the world was going on in the garden. I feared there was little choice at this point, and at the very least I could benefit from their presence. Fortunately, I had a ready-made excuse for being here.

The first man to leave the walkway and round the shrubbery that obscured any view of me stopped short and gaped at the disheveled cop with dripping sword in hand, the absence of opponent or dead body or other indication of exactly what had gone on here, and the devastation to this area of the landscaping. Before he could even begin to pull himself together, a second man, this one bearing a drawn saber even a private security guard probably shouldn’t have been carrying, appeared at his side.

Covered though I was with growing deep tissue bruises and strained tendons in multiple joints, I managed to draw myself up to a straightness that was clearly imposing (it helped that I had the higher ground) and look down on the men with an air of command not inappropriate to my actual position as a representative of the police force and, by extension, the government. I withdrew a cloth from my pocket and began cleaning the blood off the blade in my hand, which gleamed portentously in the lantern light, with a movement far more composed than I felt. “One of you go find me a cab,” I ordered in a tone that indicated I was not looking for any argument. “And tell Tomizawa-san I need to talk to her about her stalker.”

Part 15

Was I really reassured at some point by my ability to buy macaroni and cheese after thinking about vampires? I underestimated the power of habit, the relentless tendency of the human mind toward normalcy. What I theorized on Wednesday evening — that Sanosuke must consider me strong enough to assimilate the memories of an entire lifetime without going crazy, or else he wouldn’t have restored them — might indeed be true… but in the end, I believe, far more than any strength of spirit I may or may not possess, it was that mundane human resilience in the face of the incomprehensible that helped me through the tumultuous task of integrating my previous incarnation into my awareness of self.

In fact I integrated Hajime — or perhaps I, being Hajime, integrated Joseph — so quickly, I probably could have worked the second half of Thursday. After the tangle of emotions and the migraine and the seemingly unconquerable confusion of Wednesday night, it was startling how rapidly my state improved, how neatly things settled into place in my head, after a fitful few hours of sleep and a cup of strong coffee. By lunchtime I was calm and collected, and relatively equanimous toward the two different identities I now have to work with.

Of course, no matter how shockingly easy it all turned out to be — and it is a shock every single time I consider how simply I’ve adjusted to such a huge and sudden load of new information about myself — everything is different now. Although from Thursday afternoon onward I’ve been able to go through my usual routine without much of a hitch, it’s been a bizarre exercise in acclimatization.

At work on Friday it was as if everything I did was for an audience — as if I was holding up the modern United States police and my involvement in it for inspection — except that audience, that inspector, was inside me. I’ve been gaging Hajime’s reaction to every aspect of my life, but they’re my own reactions. Everything seems new because I have a new perspective from which to view it, and even the old — the memories to which I now have access that were hidden from me before — becomes new again each time I recall something from my days in Japan and examine it in the light of my attitudes and experiences as an American with a somewhat different personality.

It’s been surprisingly undisagreeable.

Despite not feeling nearly as disturbed as I might have expected by being, in a way, two people at once, I’ve been keeping Hajime in the background, as far as this is possible, treating my former self more like an index of philosophies and information I suddenly have access to (and am free to disregard, if I wish, in making decisions) than anything that compels. This is not because I consider my Japanese life any less a part of me or any less worthy of being referenced in my choices going forward, but because that life has been completed, and my modern self, the life currently in progress, has a greater right to remain in the forefront and as undistracted as possible under the circumstances.

So I continue to identify as Joe, but that doesn’t mean I’m not Hajime underneath. Attitudes from those days bleed through, and I wouldn’t really want to stop them, even if some impulses I’ve had since recovering that part of myself have been unnecessarily harsh… arising from a hardness of character born of wars I fought in during that lifetime that gave me an edge beyond what I have now.

This all made for a work day yesterday even more distracted than Wednesday before Sano’s return, but, thanks to that aforementioned power of habit, I struggled through it. I have to admit, I’m glad it’s Saturday now, that I have Saturdays off work with my current schedule, and that Sano’s previous promised time of appearance was adhered to punctually enough that his current ‘few days’ can be taken at face value. Even allowing for variable interpretations of ‘a few,’ I’m expecting him as soon as the sun is down.

The waiting isn’t nearly as difficult as previously, because I’m not nearly so single-mindedly impatient for this meeting as I was for the last. There are points I want to discuss, yes, questions I want to ask… but one question — the biggest question — I’m afraid I already know the answer to, and I’m not looking forward to having it brought to light. And I want to see him again, yes, but simultaneously in a way I’d rather not. In fact I’m so conflicted about what I assume will happen this evening that every time I look at the clock I feel perfectly torn: how can time be passing so slowly and yet so quickly?

At least Renee appears to have given up calling for now. She’s persistent, but she also knows how to pick her battles, and must have realized we won’t be having a date this weekend. Does she realize we won’t be having a date ever again? Who knows? I’d have to speak to her to find out, and I’m just not ready for that. Less ready, in fact, than I was before, now I know she’s some manner of descendent of mine. It’s something I’ve been trying not to think about. As before, this seems cowardly… but trying to determine how to deal with the situation is necessarily a lesser priority at the moment.

My frame of mind, comprised as it is of desire, reluctance, and avoidance all vying for the same space, boils down to agitated impatience and inability to sit still, and the evening turns out much like Sunday’s: I can’t read, I can’t watch television, and I end up on the internet wasting time and trying to numb my thoughts with its banality. And I’m wondering, as I did on Wednesday, how exactly he’s going to do this. Will he knock on the door like a civilized person? As if Sano was ever a civilized person… Or will I find him in my bedroom again with no idea how he got there? I chuckle briefly as I consider that that’s a fairly good metaphysical summary of our relationship back in Japan.

It’s upon returning from a trip to the bathroom that I find him seated on my sofa, and I can’t help speculating on whether he’s really as stealthy as I’ve been assuming. I was, after all, extremely preoccupied when he left the other night; it’s possible the silence in which he did so was an illusion caused by my inability to recognize sounds just then. And now perhaps he waited until I was out of the room to enter — quietly but not actually silently — to preserve that illusion.

Looking at him, as it were, through two different sets of eyes at once — and far more self-possessed now, able to interpret coherently as I wasn’t on Wednesday night — I can see both the similarities to and the divergences from what he once was. Of course it’s all new to Joe, but what I notice from that perspective that contrasts with the old Sano therefore stands out all the more strikingly against Hajime’s intimate knowledge.

Visually very little has changed. He wears his hair longer now (and I do have to wonder how bodily development works in vampires), but before it constricts into a small, messy tail in back, it still pokes out wildly on top. His skin is significantly paler than in life, but it’s a paleness I had a chance to get used to before I died, so nothing unexpected there. Another unsurprising difference from his time as a human is the shining eyes… but in the light of my living room their independent glow is less distinguishable. And of course his clothing is unfamiliar, except as far as it’s the same jeans and button-up I’ve seen on him whenever I’ve met him here in the U.S. — it seems likely vampires don’t have much need to do laundry — but the same old kanji, perhaps representing the same old futile clinging to the past, decorates the jacket lying at his side.

No, the real alteration is in expression and bearing. Just as I observed at our last few meetings but didn’t properly recognize or process, there’s a coldness and hardness about the way he carries himself that is completely alien to the Sagara Sanosuke — even the undead version — I remember. He’s sitting in what should seem a perfectly casual position in the corner of the sofa, but there’s something uncompromising about the pose that I find chillingly foreign. And the lines around his eyes… there’s a bitterness, a harshness there that was never present before. There’s no trace of the joviality or even the anger, the lively passions I so loved in him once upon a time, in face or figure.

Originally I planned on taking a seat near him at the other end of the sofa. But in an echo of the repulsion I’ve felt toward him ever since he walked back into my world last Wednesday — a repulsion I now regrettably understand all too well — I stop in the middle of the room, staring fixedly at him in a mixture of desire to go to him and to get as far away from him as I can.

“Breaking and entering again, I see,” is how I greet him, and the sarcasm in the statement is all Hajime.

He just nods, and the difference in him is even more apparent. Back then, Sano certainly wouldn’t have hesitated to let himself into my home without permission if he felt the need to do so, but — I know this; I knew him — there would have been an emotional reaction to being found there. He would have grinned sheepishly, and (contradictorily) maybe a little triumphantly as well, when confronted with his intrusion. Any compunction would have turned to brazenness, and he would have followed his initial reaction with something flirtatious or suggestive. Or there might even have been anger at the idea that I could possibly object to his presence, given our relationship, or doubt its importance, given whatever reason he’d had for breaking in. He would never merely have nodded with such disinterested acknowledgment.

Furthermore, he’s here now after having done something he freely admits some vampires do specifically to torture their victims. I’m not entirely sure how I feel about having had those memories forced on me, but it was certainly a momentous ordeal that has reordered my entire existence… and yet Sano exhibits none of the uncertainty or guilt I know he would have felt in the Meiji era about approaching someone — especially someone he loved — on whom he’d recently inflicted pain and confusion and transformation for his own purposes. He should be hesitant, concerned, if he truly is the Sano I remember… but he isn’t. He’s sitting, unruffled and with no hint of tentativeness about him, ready to being a life-altering conversation.

And I can’t help thinking this change has occurred not because he’s outgrown the awkwardness of youth and gained a perfect aplomb, but because he’s shed many natural human emotions and reactions. Many of the things that made him Sano. Inadvertently at this thought — which is, after all, only a guess until I have more information — I shudder. For a few moments I can’t bear looking at him, so I move to fetch one of the chairs from my dining table and place it in a spot decently far from but facing him. Then I sit and force myself to meet his gaze once again.

“You’re doing OK with the memories,” he says, and it’s not a query whether I’m all right, just a cool observation.

I nod. I have no comment on that topic, at least not yet. And after all, it isn’t as if he asked a question I need to answer.

He mimics my nod, just slightly. “OK, then. You probably have lots of questions. Where do you want me to start?”

Dealing with this in an orderly fashion seems like the easiest way to keep my head on straight, keep from plunging back into everything that made Wednesday night so hectic. With that in mind I ask, “What happened after I died?”

He gives me a somewhat skeptical look. “That’s a lot of time to cover.”

“You covered a lot of time the other night as well.”

“Even that wasn’t this much. But let’s see…” He leans back, stretching out his legs to cross them at the ankles, and props one elbow on the sofa’s armrest, and the movement and pose are a shiver-inducing echo of my old Sano. So are the words that follow.

I’m reserving judgment on precisely how I feel about Sanosuke at the moment, suppressing Hajime’s profound emotions on the matter as best I can and assessing the vampire from Joe’s point of view. That makes it significantly easier to sit here listening to him speak, easier to attain some sort of impassivity about him and his story. How long I can keep it up I don’t know, but for now at least I’m able to take in what he says without too much intense reaction of heart.

“Your assistant — Hirotaka or whatever his name was — he was just sure Meg and I conspired to kill you and then ran off together.” Sano shakes his head with a smile both bitter and rueful. “I guess I can’t blame him for thinking that; what other explanation was there when you turned up dead, and me and Megumi missing? But seriously…” He laughs faintly, derisively.

“Meg stuck around in Japan for a while, trying to keep practicing medicine. She went to Nagasaki to avoid the heat in Tokyo, and dealt with mostly prostitutes and lowlifes and people who appreciated a doctor who only worked at night. But she found out pretty quick that vampires don’t make good doctors. I think she had some really bad experiences before she decided to call it quits. That was a huge blow to her. Being a doctor was what she always wanted. I don’t even remember how many years she wandered around the world just miserable before she found something else to do with herself.”

I nod my wordless understanding. Apart from feeling I have nothing useful to say in response to these unhappy details, anything I could say on the subject would lead into very uncomfortable territory, and in fact directly to the main reason Sano is here… a reason neither of us, I think, is trying to avoid, but that we’re working up to with a measured account of events in the order they occurred. So instead of commenting on Megumi’s sad fate, I ask, “And what about the rest of your friends? Tsukioka and Battousai and everyone? How did they deal with what happened?”

“I only kept up with them through letters after that.” Sano looks pensive, and there’s definitely some regret there. It’s no surprise he couldn’t interact in person with his living friends once he’d begun needing and craving their blood for his own survival, but it couldn’t have been easy for him to abruptly abandon every relationship he’d formed throughout the second half of his life. “Katsu literally sent me back a letter that was just four giant kanji ‘bakayarou’ when I first wrote to him, but after that we were OK. We wrote each other for a few years, but eventually his newspaper got him killed like we all expected.

“You know I still have a print he did? It’s probably worth a fortune these days, but I still hang onto it.” Sano’s glowing eyes turn distant as he says this, as if he’s seeing into the past. I wonder if that’s a skill some vampires actually have. “Anyway, I heard about him in a letter from Kenshin months and months after it happened: a politically motivated murder trying to send a message to anyone else with bright ideas about exposing dirty truths. It was inevitable, I guess, and I think he was probably happy enough to go that way — doing what he thought would be most helpful to the political situation in Japan — but he was the first. Besides you, I mean.

“And Kenshin… He knew Megumi and I didn’t murder you, of course. Actually he was just sure we were both killed by whoever got you. His response to my first letter was just stupid relieved. Kinda annoyed too — like he couldn’t hide it — that I took so long to reassure him. Just like someone else we knew once. Also I think he had to get the police chief — that guy who liked him so much; what was his name? — to make them stop harassing Kenshin and Kaoru about where Megumi and I might be hiding.”

“Uramura,” I murmur. It’s so strange to think that Sano and I have memories of the same set of days, months, and years, but where his must be a bit hazy at certain points after the passage of over a century, mine are relatively fresh and sharp, since they were the last things to occur during the time just recently restored to me.

Sano nods and moves on. “Kenshin never knew for sure about you and me. I’d have gotten around to telling him eventually, if, you know, we hadn’t both died. But I think he guessed. His first few letters were really… like he was offering condolences and support without actually saying it, even though I’m sure he didn’t like the idea of me being with you. He was always like that. He was a really good guy.”

Though Himura’s death hasn’t actually been mentioned yet, there’s a moment of silence between us that feels deliberate, like a respectful gesture. I always had mixed feelings about the man, and am neither surprised at nor can I disagree with Sano’s speculation about his lack of approval of our relationship, but looking back at him now through Joe’s eyes… and, if I’m to be perfectly honest, with Hajime’s grudging awareness of all the facts of the matter… he truly was exactly what Sano says: a really good guy. I wonder what form he currently inhabits, how his present life is going.

“Of course Kenshin and Kaoru got married eventually,” Sano continues at last, more lightly, “once they figured their shit out. Took ’em even longer to figure out birth control, though, because they just kept having kids. Whatever floats your boat, I guess.” He gestures uncomprehendingly in the air with one pale hand, and I can’t help a brief laugh. “I think Yahiko got tired of the constant baby-making, because he moved out as soon as Kenshin handed over his sakabatou. Into my longhouse, actually…” Again his look is distant, this time with a slight smile. No doubt we’re both remembering that longhouse and what were probably the happiest moments of the end of our lives.

“And Kenshin had to deal with a few more serious enemies before he gave his sword up. I didn’t get many letters from Kaoru, but she always gave me more details than Kenshin did — he would make it sound like it was nothing, but she was more worried about him after every different conflict. And eventually she turned out to be right: all that fighting and struggling to protect people without killing just tore him apart, and he died before he was even fifty. Kaoru lived to be seventy-something, with eight million grandkids, though. Yahiko married her oldest daughter eventually, but I didn’t write them many letters after Kenshin died.”

“And where were you writing letters from?” I know this will usher us into the story of the next hundred years, the real story Sano is here to tell, and drop us off at the doorstep of the question he’s here to ask, the offer he’s here to make. But that’s the point we’ve reached — everything has been laid out sensibly, and this is the next step; I’m as ready for it as I’ll ever be.

“Oh, all over the place. There wasn’t much reason for me to stick around Japan after you died, and a lot of good reasons to leave. Even if I wasn’t wanted for murdering a government agent, they held your funeral during the day, of course. I did hear eventually, from Kenshin, that a bunch of interesting people showed up — him, to begin with, and Chou, and some of your old Shinsengumi buddies who were still alive… You’d have been surprised how popular it turned out you were.”

The half amused and half dismissive hn sound that comes out of my mouth has nothing whatsoever to do with my current life.

“So at first I just wandered. Learned about vampires a bit more, figured out how to keep going without too many random murders. Thought about killing myself but never quite went through with it. I probably would have eventually, but then I ran into this kid — this really nice little eleven-year-old M?ori kid — in New Zealand. Before that I never thought much about what I believed about the afterlife — it was too painful, with all the people in my life who were already dead. But this kid… this kid was Sagara Souzou.

“It was such a huge shock; I had to stick around his village night after night after night until I could be absolutely sure I wasn’t imagining things, and they thought some evil spirit was haunting them or something.” He chuckles darkly. “They were right about that! But the point is, it was proof that reincarnation is a thing. That’s when I realized I had something to keep living for — though of course ‘living’ isn’t the right word.” He fixes me with a sudden direct gaze that, with the vampire brightness of his eyes, is startling and piercing. It’s almost hypnotic, like every glance of those eyes the other night. I can’t look away. “I realized,” he corrects himself, “I had something — someone— I could be looking for.”

Part 16

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.”

“Yes, sir.”

“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.

Part 17

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.”

“…constant rejection…”

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.

Part 18

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.

And then…

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.

Part 19

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.

Part 20

“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.

Part 21

Yes, there’s unquestionably a feeling of pleasure — delight, even, or joy — that comes with seeing Sano again. My memories of our time together in Japan have such a freshness about them, not to mention my feelings for him then, that how I feel now hardly seems relevant. This strikes me as a trifle unfair, but hasn’t the whole thing been?

Vampire ex or no vampire ex, my life goes on, and that means I need clean clothing for work I really do have to attend, and that means laundry must be done. The experience is undeniably different than usual with Sano hanging around making conversation, though. As if a long-lost friend has returned? Something more than a friend? Or something completely separate from that — a predator, a demanding stranger whose goals must perhaps make him an enemy, no matter how happy I am at his presence?

“Damn lotta laundry you got here all at once,” he’s commenting as I rotate the second load into my undersized dryer in preparation for filling my tiny washer with the third.

I don’t bother pointing out just how small the loads have to be thanks to the aforementioned diminutive nature of my laundry room, which is really more of a closet off my kitchen; I merely reply, in a tone of somewhat sarcastic accusation, “I usually only have one or two loads, but last week something had me too agitated to get a lot of my chores done.”

“Yeah, sorry about that.”

“Do you always approach me like that? So I’m miserable and confused for a week?”

The query restores the hard expression to his face, probably because it reminds him of just how many times he has approached me, whether like that or in some other manner, and his voice as he answers holds that cold unhappiness I’m getting used to. “I keep hoping you’ll remember me on your own.”

So my assumptions along those lines were correct. Finished starting the washer, I turn my attention to folding and hanging the still-warm contents of the basket I recently set atop the dryer. “You never were very good at pattern recognition.” My nonchalance is a deliberate contrast to his darkness and heaviness.

It seems to work, too, for he chuckles, only a little morose. “And I’ve seen a lot of patterns; you’d think I’d be better at it by now.” He’s leaning against the kitchen cabinets just outside the laundry room doorway, and at this he unfolds the arms he had crossed and places his hands on the countertop instead. “But, no… it hasn’t always been like that… You haven’t always been in a good position for me to give you a week.”

Every time I glance over at him, I find his gaze locked on me; I don’t think he ever looks away. Now when I meet his eyes briefly in asking, “What do you mean?” I find him staring as intently as ever.

“When you’re doing well… when you’re well-off… when you’re safe…” He shrugs. “Getting a week to try to figure shit out is a luxury. Sometimes when I find you, it turns out you’re in such a bad position I don’t even know if you have a week. I have to jump in right away and give you your memories back — or just tell you about everything, like in Brazil, before I learned how to do that. You may think it’s pretty bad this way, but it’s worse with no warning at all.”

I hang shirts in silence for a moment, then nod. I can’t quite bring myself to point out that not restoring my memories of a previous life, refraining from demanding I choose between hurting someone I once loved and becoming a monster, simply not approaching me at all might be even less unkind than either of those two options. It’s already obvious how impossible he would find letting me go, and I still haven’t confirmed how I feel about his return to my life, so bringing up the inappropriateness of his actions would only wound him. And even if he’s wounding me, I’m not inclined to reciprocate.

“I like to see you in a life like this.” There’s a forced sense of greater lightness to his tone as he says this, and I feel like we’re skirting he-wants-my-answer territory again. “I mean, you’re always in danger, but at least in a life like this it’s official. And obviously you make enough money to be comfortable… You can afford your gross-looking mac and cheese, and a washer and dryer in your apartment, and all that…”

Again I nod without a word, without bringing up the fact that my life has been decent and relatively uncomplicated… up until now.

In a way this exchange, in which everything each of us says or could say has the potential to hurt the other, is a mirror of many we had in Japan, where everything each of us said had a tendency to aggravate the other. Of course back then there was a specific subconscious reason to become agitated at the sound of the other’s voice; and here and now I’m far less willing to hurt Sano that I was to annoy him in those days… but the parallel remains. It’s a tense conversation even in its easier moments, hinting at possibilities I’m not eager to face.

Am I grateful for the interruption of a knock at the door? I wasn’t necessarily unhappy to be alone with him, but that tension was undeniable and not particularly enjoyable. I do worry a little, however, about who this might be. A neighbor coming to talk about local safety? Apartment maintenance appearing for an unusually late job? Renee wondering why I haven’t called her? None of these options is palatable, and the last is downright nightmarish, considering I still haven’t figured out what to say to her.

Whether or not he guesses my specific concerns, Sano obviously recognizes my uneasiness about the visitor, for he reassures me, “I think it’s Meg. Want me to get it?”

He’s offering to answer the door at my apartment just as he felt free to do at my house in Japan (though in that instance without asking). I’d like to say yes, but I’m not entirely comfortable with the idea, so I tell him, “That’s OK,” and move past toward the entrance.

And Megumi it is. Like Sano, she’s still wearing the same outfit I saw her in previously — the one that makes her look like a video game character — but unlike Sano, she gives an immediate smile when she sees me. “I thought I had the right place. May I come in?”

“She’s a better vampire than you are,” I throw over my shoulder into the kitchen. Then to Megumi, “Yes, come in.”

As she does so, she reaches out a startlingly cold hand and clasps mine, shaking it with contrasting warmth. “It’s good to see you again.” And I think she means it. I know she means, by ‘again,’ not a reference to our meeting in the police station parking lot some days ago but rather to however many previous lives she’s known me in.

I return the handshake and agree with her, every bit as sincere. I can’t help staring a little, though, and I hope she’s not offended. I simply don’t remember her as nearly this… beautiful.

Despite my relationship with Sano being the most meaningful of my Japanese life, the capacity for attraction to women was, I believe, just as strong in me as attraction to men. Whether the same is true in this incarnation I don’t yet know, but currently it’s the male side of things in question; I’ve never doubted I liked women. I’ve never had any problem recognizing and admiring female beauty. My awareness of Megumi’s was always somewhat abstract, given how thoroughly occupied my aesthetic appreciation of others was by Sano at the time… but I surely would have taken greater notice if she’d looked like this.

In the dark station parking lot it wasn’t nearly as evident, with my attention so caught up in the mystery of the situation, but here in the brighter lights of my apartment, up close, with the bafflement and confusion and frustration of that scene behind me, I can easily categorize her looks as ‘stunning.’ The precise perfection of her features, the luster of her hair, the curve of her figure… it’s almost unbelievable.

But as I stare I realize just as immediately that there’s something else different about her as well, something less pleasant: a sense of otherworldliness, of horror almost, that’s deeply repellent, perhaps especially so as it contrasts with her incredible beauty. It’s not the same feeling I’ve had about Sano — I still believe that arises more from the awareness of what he wants from me than from any kind of innate human fear of a predatory alien being… but the latter is exactly what I believe this reaction to Megumi must be. Sano I recognize as someone that at least should be human, but in Megumi my instincts see little to no humanity at all. Ironic, when Sano is the one most concerned with losing track of what he was. Unnerving.

“She’s a hotter vampire than me too,” Sano remarks, obviously observing my reaction.

I pause and give my two guests a back-and-forth comparative scan. And though my goal is primarily to bait Sano, and though there’s still something about him that has far more of a personal draw than Megumi, with all her astonishing loveliness, can command, when I nod and agree with him my statement is nothing but the truth.

Sano makes a snorting, huffing sound, and, while it sounds like a darker reaction than such a meaningless tease would have prompted in him back in the day, it’s a relatively lighthearted moment nonetheless — especially when Megumi seems to validate my facetious intentions by laughing in response.

Since I resumed my progress into the laundry room in order to finish up that chore before I sit down to have a proper conversation with Megumi, Sano’s face is out of sight; therefore I can’t be sure of the precise reason he targets her with his retort, “Yeah, Meg’s a walking stereotype these days.” Is he jealous because I indirectly called her hot? Or is he simply unable, at this juncture, to aim a snide comment at me?

I ask, “What stereotype?”

“Sano’s just jealous,” Megumi answers, “because he doesn’t look like a Hollywood vampire.”

“Oh, fuck that shit,” Sano grumbles.

As they then fall silent for a few moments, I prod, “That still doesn’t tell me what the stereotype is.” By now I can probably guess, but I’d rather have one of them elaborate.

Megumi does so. “Real vampires — most of us, anyway — look more and more monstrous the longer we survive, and all of us appear less and less human. Many vampire stories used to reflect this: we were horror story villains meant to inspire fear. But over the years the public perception of vampires has changed somehow, and now we’re portrayed as sympathetic villains or even heroes, and almost always superhumanly sexy instead of frightening.”

I nod my understanding, both of the phenomenon she describes and of the specific stereotype she therefore seems to embody. Why she’s evidently not included in the ‘most of us’ that look more and more monstrous the longer they survive has yet to be revealed, but everything makes sense so far.

“It’s bullshit.” Sano is still irritated. “Some of the old stuff used to be almost accurate, but these days people have this entire concept of vampires that’s 100% wrong. There’s nothing sexy about us, for one thing,” he finishes in disgust.

I glance over, giving him a skeptical look, unwilling to bring up aloud the way he somehow forced me to want him so desperately in order to ‘make this easier’ when he was restoring my memories of life in Japan.

“Well…” He obviously knows exactly what I mean with the expression, and has the grace to look a little sheepish. “Yeah, I mean, there is that. We’ve got a sort of sexual attractiveness we can turn on and off to help us hunt. But it’s not like we can take it any further than that; we can’t do any of that shit anymore — at least not without eating, like, three people first. And you can stop rolling your damn eyes at me, Meg; we’re not all born aces.”

“It’s certainly easier not to worry about the circulatory system that way.”

I believe I understood that exchange, though the reference to aces might have gone over my head if sexual or romantic orientation hadn’t already been at least a little on my mind. I never knew Megumi was asexual; as she says, it’s probably more than a bit of a blessing in her current form. I think back to my concerns about this specific topic in Japan, and wonder how sexuality in the long term is affected by becoming a vampire and the changes in bodily function that transition represents — by the apparent need to ‘eat, like, three people’ before attempting sexual activity. It seems insensitive to bring up, however, so instead I revert to what I previously wanted to know: “And how do you manage to look like a Hollywood vampire?”

“I’m a cannibal,” Meg replies easily. “I drink blood from other vampires, which heightens all of my abilities and makes me…” She gives a reluctant chuckle. “…sexier.”

“Yeah, she’s like a vampire squared.” I glance over in time to see Sano aim a blow, lightning-quick and totally unnecessary, at Megumi’s face and she, from where she’s seated at my dining table, catch it and throw it back with zero apparent effort.

“And you can survive that way?” I’m about done folding my laundry, and very interested in this new information.

“As long as I feed on non-cannibals. Which is a shame, really; if cannibals could all live off each other, we could leave humans entirely alone.”

“So why do you do it?” I hang the last pair of pants and emerge, deciding that, today at least, I’m not ready to put away my laundry (including underwear) in their presence. It can wait where it is until they’ve gone.

Megumi leans back in her chair with that outlandish undead fluidity and soundlessness I’m just about accustomed to by now. “Drinking the blood of other vampires gives me insight into their abilities and evolution, and helps me understand vampires as a species better. There are a lot of things about ourselves that we don’t understand, and cannibalism helps me study them.”

This starts to answer some of the questions I took from my conversation with Sano about the mysteries of vampirism, but not all of them. Before I can decide what to ask next, however, Sano responds to my assumption of the third seat at the dining table by lifting a pack of cards he’s withdrawn from somewhere and asking, “Wanna play?”

Since a card game — whatever card game — seems an optimal technique for staving off awkwardness among the three of us as we chat, I readily agree, and the next few minutes are spent going over the rules. This involves Sano writing out a list of scoring parameters on a piece of notebook paper I retrieve at his request, and I find myself inordinately interested in what his handwriting looks like in English and modern times.

I’m also intrigued by his reaction to his role as rules authority for the game. It’s only a reminder for Megumi, with whom he’s obviously played this before, but to me it’s all new, and Sano is surprisingly engrossed in — indeed, at times almost excited by — the simple action of teaching me how it works. He always did love to gamble, and, though we’re not wagering anything here and now, it seems games of chance still rank among his favorite pastimes. It’s yet another moment of Sano seeming like Sano, and my own engrossment in learning the rules is definitely enhanced by my pleasure at seeing this.

So here I am again hanging out with vampires — one my lover from a previous life, one the most beautiful woman in the world and yet so off-putting that my chair is decidedly closer to Sano’s side of the table — casually discussing the drinking of blood and other horror-movie concepts, this time without nearly so much discomfort as I experienced in the previous instance: I’m getting used to this. Exactly how used to it I can become remains a matter of question, along with a host of other things, but at the moment I’m relatively content just to play cards with a couple of friends without worrying about the fact that they are physically programmed — magically programmed? — to require the death of people like me for their own survival. Without worrying about how startlingly much I enjoy the presence of one of them when I’m not sure how I feel about him personally and he’s literally here to offer me a fate worse even than that aforementioned death.

Part 22

“You haven’t eaten anything in three days.”

“Yeah, well…” Sano sprawled on my living room floor in a pose that would normally have seemed easy, unconcerned. “I’m still not hungry.”

This wasn’t entirely unexpected. Takani had mentioned that Sano’s bodily functions seemed to have shut down; conceivably this lack of appetite was the new normal. However… “You may not feel any hunger, and it’s possible you don’t actually need food, but we don’t know that. To be on the safe side and make sure you don’t starve, you should come over and eat something.” My gesture at the table I’d just finished ladening with dishes was lost on his now-stubbornly-closed eyes. Would he even have entered the room if he’d known I was preparing a meal for two rather than one?

“I think the, uh…” He denied the sight of the ready table even more decisively by turning his back to it — and me — and propping himself up on his side facing the fireplace. His volume dropped a dreary step as he finished, “…the blood was enough. I don’t think I need anything else for a while.” And he let out a faint, unhappy sigh. It hadn’t been long, but he already hated mentioning ‘the blood’ more than I’d ever seen him hate anything during our entire acquaintance — my decisive ability to defeat him in combat, the Meiji government, and Shishio Makoto included.

In an effort to strike a balance between distressing him by belaboring the issue and yet, by necessity, insisting, I tried to approach the subject as matter-of-factly as possible. “We still can’t know that.” As I reiterated this idea, I dropped to my knees beside him and placed a hand on the shoulder that stood like the top of a bastion wall before me. I was more or less accustomed by now to the coldness immediately apparent through his upper garment, and left the hand in place, thumb sliding back and forth in a subtly caressing movement, as I continued. “We do know that something as simple as sunlight could kill you, and avoiding that is as easy as keeping you out of it. I won’t let you die of something as simple as starvation when avoiding that is as easy as having you eat occasionally, even if you don’t feel like it. So you need to at least try.”

“It’s you who needs to be resting,” Sano returned, trying a different tack still with his back to me, “instead of wearing yourself out making dinner for people who don’t want it.”

“Making dinner does not ‘wear me out,'” I told him with a roll of eyes. “I’m not the one whose recovery the doctor was worried about when we left.”

“Oh, yeah,” replied Sano in a tone even more sarcastic than mine, “Megumi wasn’t worried about you at all. You’re doing just fine. Obviously it’s way more important to harass me about food than take care of your own injuries.”

I wanted to say, “To me it certainly is,” but it seemed a mawkish sentiment (however true), so I avoided expressing it. I also didn’t comment on his apparent prioritization of my state over his own. Anyway I believed he was only using that as an excuse not to do something he didn’t feel like doing, and therefore preferred not to admit how much it touched me. Why he was so averse to eating I couldn’t be sure, but I also couldn’t simply let the matter go. Prepared to close the sub-topic with this statement, I said, “My injuries have healed exactly as much as they should have five days after being inflicted.”

“Oh, have they?” Sano sounded irritated, as if the claim were particularly childish and aggravating despite his being far more prone to such behavior. I was about to answer snappishly, but he pre-empted the intended remark. The flash of a glowing brown eye turning toward me provided scant warning before, undoubtedly to prove in a somewhat backward fashion a point about my level of infirmity, he had risen, twisting around to throw me none too gently to the floor and himself on top of me.

Like a convalescent gradually regaining full use of a damaged body — such as I was, in fact — Sano had been moving faster and faster since the incident in the shed. The difference was that he’d never slowed in the first place, never been an invalid working at a diminished level; so his increase in speed had put him above average from the very beginning of the process. By now his normal actions (when he wasn’t concentrating on maintaining a more standard rate of motion) were so rapid as to be startling, uncanny, inhuman. It provided further evidence that the enemy I’d fought a few days earlier — an enemy that, despite his lack of combat prowess, had demonstrated such lightning quickness that I’d been forced to try to anticipate where he might be next rather than tracking his movements as he made them — shared Sano’s non-dead state of inexplicably increased physical abilities.

And it was a good thing Sano, with his far greater natural talents and level of training, intended me no harm. For not only had he pressed me to the floor, pinned my arms, and straddled my hips in half a breath’s unexpected action, then when I immediately made an instinctive attempt at pushing back against his hold, the straining of my body beneath him had almost no effect on the arrangement of his above.

He had been, I believed, about to comment something to the purpose of, “See? You’re still in really bad shape; you should lie down and get some sleep instead of trying to force me to eat dinner” — but as he observed the difficulty, the near futility of my struggles against him (almost instantly discontinued though they were), his demeanor abruptly completely changed.

He didn’t seem to have felt much in the way of happiness since, to Takani’s distress, we had abandoned the Oguni clinic and come here for a more private and leisurely recovery, so his apparent glee as he crouched there on top of me was as refreshing to observe as it was surprising. He stared into my face with an almost disbelieving grin on his pale lips, shifting somewhat on top of me as if settling in, and finally murmured, “I really am stronger than you now, aren’t I?” And you would think he’d never received good news in his life prior to this; it was idiotic and nonsensical how happy the realization had made him… but also, perhaps, stupidly endearing.

“We’ll have to spar some time and find out for sure.” I said it with a wince that might have had a touch of the theatrical about it; I was distinctly uncomfortable, but probably wouldn’t have displayed it quite so openly had I not wanted to point out to him the foolishness of exacerbating my injuries in order to insist I take better care of them — especially if his new condition had indeed rendered him physically more powerful than I was.

Sano swore at my subdued indication of pain, and the wrestling hold ended as abruptly as he’d initiated it. As I sat up, sore, and rubbed at my right shoulder, I was interested to observe the mixture of emotions in his demeanor: sheepishness that he’d hurt me blended with a kind of grim satisfaction that he’d been right about my state of debilitation, and underneath it all the exhilaration that he’d somehow been granted one of his dearest and most pointless wishes: to be stronger than his longtime rival Saitou Hajime.

“Now will you come eat something?” I asked.

He gave a startled laugh at my persistence, and I knew I had him; the better temper he’d achieved thanks to the revelation of his superior strength seemed relatively tolerant of food he didn’t want. “All right, fine.” And he jumped to his feet almost quicker than sight, stretching a hand to help me up after him. “Now that I know I can force you to stay here until you really are healed.” Evidently there was more to his attitude than solely the desire to get out of an undesirable task.

We moved to the table and took our seats, and I told him, “I don’t plan on going anywhere for a while.”

Across the bowl into which I was dishing him a generous helping of rice, he eyed me suspiciously. “Really? ‘Cause when that messenger was here yesterday, it sounded like you were pretty anxious to go question that Nori woman again.”

Finished patting down the rice heap, I turned my attention to the vegetables and corrected his misapprehension. “I just wanted to know exactly how much she knew when Hironaku took her into custody. I don’t feel the need to talk to her again myself.” In reality, any number of things did have me pretty anxious to get out of the house, but not only was talking to Tomizawa Nori not one of them, what concerned me even more was keeping Sano inside, safe and quiet, for as long as possible. If he believed his continued presence here represented the sole barrier between me and the work currently being handled by my only questionably competent assistant… well, he was at least partially correct, and so much the better. We could be a check on each other, and both feel more secure because of it.

As I’d seen him do many times in the past, Sanosuke gathered up as big a bite as chopsticks would allow; he stuffed it into his mouth without any of the reluctance I’d feared he would continue to exhibit about eating. Satisfied, I started piecing together my own bite, only to be interrupted by a startlingly disgusted sound from across the table that caused me to look over again at my companion. An intense grimace, so puckered it would have been funny under other circumstances, had overtaken Sano’s face, and the chewing movement of his jaw as he struggled to finish what he had in there seemed almost tortured. At my inquisitive raising of brows, he shook his head minutely as if he had no strength to answer, and continued his apparently very difficult mastication.

Admittedly I hadn’t taste-tested the components of this meal as regularly as I usually did while cooking, anxious as I’d been to finish and get on to convincing Sano to join me (though little had I suspected how troublesome that process would prove), but Sano was the least picky eater I’d ever met in my entire life; it would take more than a slight carelessness in the kitchen to wring this type of reaction from him. I assumed, therefore, this had something to do with his new condition rather than my culinary skills. To test the theory, I took my own bite and chewed it thoughtfully; when its flavor and texture proved no better or worse than my usual efforts in this area, I swallowed and remarked with easy dryness, trying to keep the atmosphere light, “It’s not Himura’s cooking, I’ll admit, but it’s not that bad.” Not that I’d ever actually tasted Himura’s cooking, but I’d heard the rumors.

Sano finally managed to swallow his oversized mouthful, though his distorted expression barely untwisted in its wake and his tone had a pained groaning quality as he said, “Yeah… sorry… that was fucking awful.” He worked his lips and jaw as if trying to rid himself of the taste, emitting faint gagging noises, and swung his head rapidly back and forth. “I thought I could eat some of this just to make you happy, but there’s no way… I can’t take another bite… No wonder I wasn’t feeling hungry; that was like eating brick dust or some shit.” And he resumed his apparently futile movements aimed at ridding himself of an unbearable flavor.

This time I had to give in. He’d made the attempt; that was all I could ask. But the implication that he could no longer eat food intended for the living distressed me for more than one reason. Of course there was the obvious, looming question of what he would be required to subsist on if normal food was no longer an option — a question whose answer was likely to cause Sano disgust and dismay along the same lines as before. But there was also the fact that something Sano had always adored with a winning avidity and simplicity seemed now to have been taken from him, perhaps forever. And one of the few ways in which I was able to care for him — providing him with meals and ensuring he maintained a healthy diet — had now been taken from me.

But as I had been doing fairly regularly over the last few days, I tried to remain calm and rational about this and not show how deeply disturbing I truly found it. All I said was, “Do you want to try some tea to wash it down?”

He gave the kettle I had lifted a dubious look, but eventually said, “Yeah, might as well… It can’t taste any worse than this.” And after an almost clawing gesture toward his throat, he accepted the tea I poured for him, took a large gulp, swished noisily, and swallowed again. He rolled his eyes thoughtfully upward, working his mouth once more, and finally let out a relieved-sounding sigh.

“Better?” I asked with some curiosity. I hated to let slip that I found his condition interesting in spite of how much it upset us both, but that was the truth of the matter. Takani probably would have been even worse had she been here.

He nodded and lifted his cup again. “Still pretty disgusting, but nowhere near as bad.” And he took another drink.

The logistics of his nutritional situation as revealed by this event would, sooner or later, require discussion. Would he have to drink more blood? How soon was that need likely to arise, and how was it to be fulfilled? These issues were going to devastate Sano, and few of the facts that might come to light were likely to be any more pleasant in and of themselves than his inevitable reaction to them. As such, I preferred to put off the conversation as long as I could — at the very least until this scene with the disgusting food had become less of an immediate disagreeable presence in his head. Given the extreme reluctance he’d demonstrated over the past few days to touch on the blood-drinking at all, I believed he must agree with this unspoken decision.

Unfortunately I, not being dead, could not so easily do without this human-style food, needed to finish the meal on the table, and feared that might remind him of what we were postponing and render postponing it a meaningless exercise. If he decided to leave the room to avoid watching me eat, he was likely to brood pointlessly in another part of the house and keep the unwanted topic firmly before him. So, since I saw in this a service I could render him that yet remained to me, I considered how best to assist his frame of mind until the dark time when we would be forced to face the miserable topic.

Finally I decided to strike up a discussion of police work, beginning with (as most relevant to our current situation and most on my mind) what Hironaku’s messengers had told me he’d discovered so far about Tomizawa Daitarou’s movements, but fully intending after not too long to segue into other cases I’d dealt with in the past that wouldn’t be quite such a blatant reminder of what had happened to Sano during the course of this one.

To whatever degree aware this was a deliberate tactic, Sano accepted the distraction, and seemed… not exactly happy… but at least content with the subject I’d raised. His un-life had become an unpredictable fluctuation of mood that I didn’t know how to deal with in the long term, but at least in the short term we were staying on top of things. Barely. At least he remained here with me and didn’t go torment himself somewhere alone, as he’d shown a pathetic inclination to do occasionally over the last few days.

A worrisome aspect of the conversation, however, unrelated to his mental state in the aftermath of the attack, was that as we spoke, casually and mostly about business long concluded, he yet gave subtle indications of still wanting to be involved in my professional affairs. This elicited in me the same reaction as it always had: a mixture of poignant pleasure at the closeness or sought-after closeness the desire exhibited, and exasperation, even frustration, at his impractical stubbornness. But these feelings seemed shallow in comparison to the underlying, overwhelming consternation now accompanying the idea. Sano in his current state would be physically unstoppable should he decide to insist on taking part in the current case, and I doubted my ability to reason him out of it — especially after all the effort it had taken merely to convince him to try something to eat.

And how could I bare to him the extent of my horror at the thought of his being hurt further? How could I tell him that I feared it might break me to see it, to come so close to losing him again? That I knew it would break me if I did lose him after all this strangeness and pain?

I couldn’t. I simply didn’t have the words. So I merely continued with what I could say, doing my best to keep him occupied and relatively optimistic, until long after I’d finished eating, and dishes, leftovers, table, and cushions had all gone to their proper places. Dawn would break after a short while, which meant bedtime was nearing; it might not have been too bad a moment to bring up the hateful subject that must eventually be broached, to get it over with and then allow Sano to cleanse his mental palate with sleep perhaps more effective than tea had been at a similar task — though not positively unwakable, Sano had already shown a propensity in this new form to sleep particularly hard during our new daylight downtime… but my efforts at keeping him contented seemed to have been so successful, I couldn’t stand to sabotage them. There would be time for the conversation tomorrow, our moods perhaps strengthened by some rest.

The latter was not the only bedroom activity I could think of that might improve our outlooks and brace us for what was to come. In fact a physical demonstration of our feelings for each other, which I believed had only intensified during this disaster, seemed an extremely desirable step. But no sexual activity whatsoever had taken place between us since we’d come to my house; I’d barely even kissed him. In some dismay I considered again the shutdown of bodily functions Takani had mentioned that had already been so discouragingly manifest this very night, and wondered whether Sano was capable anymore of feeling sexual urges or acting upon them if they arose… and whether he ever would be again.

Considering the matter dourly as we undressed for bed, he baring an expanse of grayish pale skin that showed only the slightest hint of the golden tan it had once worn, I reflected sadly that there might be an emotional element to it as well. Satisfied as he seemed to go to sleep for the day pressed up against or even embracing me, perhaps he wasn’t prepared to resume the greater intimacy we’d had before his disaster. And I wondered, as with the physical element, whether he ever would be. He’d seemed ready enough earlier to throw me on my back in a different type of interaction; would that other sort of freedom with me ever return?

And if the answer was no, that meant yet another thing Sano sincerely enjoyed that had been taken from him by that man we were trying to track down. It meant yet another way my relationship with him and our mutual happiness had been damaged, possibly beyond repair. It meant, I reflected as I gathered him into arms clutching with a fierceness that no longer threatened to harm him but that I still tried to conceal, a distressing tendency in my thoughts — not hitherto unknown but never approved of — toward a desire for revenge rather than justice.

Part 23

The game I’m setting out to play with Sano and Megumi seemed complicated at first description, but turns out to be relatively fast-paced and simple enough that I’m not likely to need constant reminders of most of its procedures. And after a few rounds to get the hang of it, conversation unrelated to the game starts up again in and around our turns, and I’m able to resume the interesting topic where it was left off. “What do you hope to learn about vampires by drinking their blood?”

“I have a number of specific questions I’d like to find answers to,” Megumi answers, “but I’d settle for ‘everything.’ Sano, I’ll trade you two tens for that eight.”

Sano agrees, and as the trade takes place I ask, “What questions?”

“About special vampire powers, for example.” Takani studies her cards. “Why do we develop these special abilities as we get older? And why does the lineup of available powers seem to be changing? Does either of you want a five or a king?” Once she’s traded away her five and been forced to put up with the king since neither of us wants it, she goes on without prompting. “Sano has the ability to restore people’s memories from their past lives, and that’s an ability specifically useful to him. But did his need for a power like that have anything to do with gaining that power? And is that why certain other powers seem to have been phased out over the years — because vampires simply don’t find them useful anymore?”

“I dunno… being able to turn into a bat would be pretty badass.” Tone almost completely unaltered, Sano immediately goes on, “Saitou, I’ll take both of those off your hands, but all I got’s a jack.”

Suddenly I have multiple ideas to deal with at once. I find, for one thing, that I wish he wouldn’t call me ‘Saitou.’ I don’t say so right now, however, since I’m too much arrested by his tone in mentioning the concept of turning into a bat (which is a pretty cool idea, I have to admit) — the same tone he used to discuss an aspect of the game, which I’ve already noticed is something he seems to be specifically relishing. Obviously there are multiple sides of reality besides just me that interest him, things he can enjoy if he allows himself to… although perhaps only in my presence.

I also have the game to think about, and accept the proposed trade somewhat distractedly. Then I have to figure out what to do with the jack, and don’t end up asking anything about bats until halfway through Megumi’s turn and some further exchange. “Badass, yes,” she says, “but how useful, exactly?”

“It’d always be useful to be able to turn into some small flying thing to get into places. And if you could spend the day as a bat, that could solve all sorts of problems with the sun and worrying about people finding you and shit.” At a mutter Sano adds, “Think I’ll take both of these… and… your turn.”

“It might be a useful power, but do people think of it that way? In modern times, when you think, ‘I need a safe place to spend the day where people won’t find me,’ is your next thought, ‘If only I could turn into a bat?'”

I chuckle at the suggestion as I watch her somewhat elaborate turn, and finally ask, “So some vampires have been able to turn into bats?”

“Some of ’em still can,” Sano confirms when Megumi proves a little too distracted at the moment by her layout of cards to answer immediately. “Just older ones, though.”

“And what about wolves?” I ask after making an offer — eventually rejected — for Megumi’s two aces. Probably more appropriate for her to keep them anyway. “Can any of you turn into wolves?”

“You would think of that,” Sano says with a dark grin. For a second time I don’t remind him that I’m not exclusively Saitou, only acknowledge his point as he goes on to remind me of a rule I’d forgotten as I attempt to cash out some of my cards.

It’s Megumi who actually answers my question: “That’s another old power, and I have a theory about that one. Society has so separated the concepts of vampire and werewolf that vampires have lost the ability to turn into wolves because it’s perceived as belonging to a different species entirely.”

Somewhat drowned out by Sano’s sound of triumph as he trades in a ten-card stack for points, I ask, “Do werewolves exist, then? Separate from vampires, I mean?”

“They do. And how they’re connected to vampires, if at all, is another one of the things I’d like to figure out. Did modern vampires and werewolves evolve out of the same monster, and separate gradually into two categories over the years because of people’s perception, or were we two separate things from the start and just happened to have some similarities for a while?”

“Looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you, then.” It’s really just a polite remark; though this is all very interesting, I don’t know what else to say.

“Your turn,” Sano tells her.

Megumi stares at her cards with a pensive frown, and eventually, laying down only sluggishly the ones she intends to play, remarks, “I know a lot of this seems frivolous…” Perhaps, though I didn’t intend it, my comment came across as somewhat critical. “But answering some of these seemingly less important questions may help me understand the bigger ones: why are we like this? What power causes us to become undead, and allows us to survive apparently against all the laws of nature? And is there any way for us to continue surviving without committing murder?” She looks up at me with serious glowing eyes from the cards she’s just turned over. “You’re working on fives; do you want this?”

Once again I make what may or may not be an advantageous trade without giving it much thought, dwelling as I am on the simultaneous conversation. What my mind is caught up with now is a comparison between the lives (if that word applies anymore) and purposes of Sano and Megumi. For each of them has a purpose, a goal or set of goals that drives them, but while Megumi’s has to do with truth and understanding and potentially helping others, Sano’s is and has always been small-scale and essentially selfish. I wonder what kind of strength it takes to keep hanging on decade after decade with only a personal desire and no prospect of doing any good in the world; I don’t wonder at Sano’s bitterness, nor at the apparent honing of his selfishness to the far sharper point I’ve felt from it lately than I was ever aware of in Japan.

And of course very little has changed besides that since I knew them before. Megumi was always determinedly humanitarian and purposeful, whereas Sano, though he performed the good of which he was capable when opportunities arose, was always fairly aimless. In fact I think it was in part his lazy approach to morality that drew me to him: it was nice to take a break, without actually letting go of any fundamental rightness, from the driving need to be changing the world, and Sano certainly represented that.

These days, it seems, the two of them have taken their natural propensities one step further: instead of merely saving and bettering the individual lives she comes into contact with through her medical practice, Megumi is bent on saving humanity from vampires and saving vampires from themselves through her research; and Sano, instead of merely freeloading alongside those he loves and enjoying their company (sometimes at the expense of their comfort and convenience), is continually seeking out the one person he loves most in an effort at promoting that old way of life he so misses at the expense of that person’s peace of mind or even happiness.

I can’t help thinking that perhaps Sano would be better adjusted now, abler to deal with the inevitable, if he had ever developed a sense of purpose beyond seeking me throughout endless lifetimes. His lack of large-scale drive seems another aspect of his original character, along with his inability to let go, that has made the situation particularly harrowing for him. I also can’t help admiring Megumi for her continued desire to work hard for humanity’s sake as best she can even under these difficult circumstances. And this time when I remark, “Those do seem like questions worth answering,” I’m careful to offer the comment in as sincere a tone as I can manage.

“She probably wouldn’t be a cannibal for anything less,” is Sano’s remark.

“Well, it is nice being the strongest vampire around most of the time.”

Sano grumbles, “You just mean it’s nice being stronger than me.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I mean,” she says complacently.

“Do either of you want these?” I ask. “And what’s wrong with being a cannibal?”

I make a trade with each of them, and Megumi explains. “You’ve heard of prion disease in human cannibals? Well, being a vampire cannibal has had strange effects on me that I don’t understand any better than a lot of these other aspects of vampirism. You can see, for one thing, how much less human I look than Sano even though we’re the same age. For another, though I am stronger and faster than most other vampires–”

“Vampire squared!” Sano puts in as he shuffles the discard pile into what I believe is our final draw pile of the game. He sounds almost annoyed, evidently seeking the reaction he didn’t get with the first instance of this joke.

Megumi allows a smile, at least, as she continues. “I have less and less specific control over standard vampire abilities such as the allure Sano mentioned that gets used for hunting, and I’ve never developed any extra special abilities at all.”

“That’s why she doesn’t think being able to turn into a bat would be a useful skill,” Sano says to me, and even in his conspiratorial tone there’s still some of the usual darkness. “It’s just sour grapes because she doesn’t even have the option.”

“At least I look like someone who might be able to turn into a bat,” she replies. “Are you going to use that four or just sit there staring at it?”

Sano grumbles something about ‘fucking Hollywood vampires,’ and throws the four at her without asking for anything in exchange. And as I watch her casually pluck the spinning card from the air and add it to one of her piles, then commence her own turn, I reflect that perhaps Sano is actually jealous to some extent of Megumi’s incredible beauty. Maybe he feels a supernatural boost in attractiveness would be enough to carry his point with me, to get me to give him the answer he wants, make him just desirable enough to provide the final convincing factor. It’s horrible to be thinking of him so exclusively in terms of how he relates to me, but this is the only explanation that comes to mind for his attitude in referring to ‘Hollywood vampires.’

Certainly having no desire to ask this outright, and therefore deciding to change the subject, as I take the next turn I ask, “Is cannibalism the reason other vampires don’t like you?”

Megumi glances and Sano, acknowledging that he was probably the one to give me at least the beginnings of that idea, and nods. “Vampires hate cannibals almost as much as Sano hates Twilight.”

My mouth quirks upward at the comparison, but it’s in a serious and somewhat reluctant tone I reply, “A stigma against cannibalism is understandable even among murderers.”

“I’ll trade you two fours for that queen,” Sano offers. This time, not nearly as distracted as in previous instances, I take a look at his piles and make a tactical decision to decline the exchange. Evidently still unable to be rude to me in reply, however facetiously, Sano resorts to saying something startlingly profane about Twilight under his breath to express his annoyance.

In response to Sano’s behavior, Megumi grins. They remind me of a close brother and sister, and I especially appreciate the way Megumi knows just how to draw out aspects of the old Sano that are clearly still in there despite the overlay of a century’s worth of bitterness. Her words are not exactly cheerful, though. “It doesn’t help that I’m also a vagabond-hunter. I track down and kill vampires who aren’t being careful enough, who are threatening to expose our existence to the world.”

This is something that, without any input from Sano, I had already guessed about her, and it’s pleasant to be confirmed in my theory even if I made it simply to distract myself on a bad day.

“That makes me the sort of garbageman of the vampire world,” she goes on: “it’s an absolutely essential job that nobody respects or is willing to pay much for. Vampires hate vagabond-hunters, especially successful ones like me, so it goes with being a cannibal extremely well: I’m largely hated for both of the things I do, but tracking down vagabonds provides me with vampires I can cannibalize for my research, which I consider just as important as executing the worst of the murderers.”

I nod my understanding, though the gesture doesn’t convey my admiration. I can see the need for better understanding of what these people are in order to improve their conditions. I can see the need for a vagabond-hunter, and the convenience of how she’s set up her situation. It seems she’s taking a dreadful risk on a regular basis when her continued cannibalism has effects she doesn’t yet understand, but if she believes the research she can accomplish this way and the potential good it may be able to do for humans and vampires alike is worth taking that chance, that’s a choice — a courageous, terrible choice — only she can make.

I understand, at least to some small degree, for I too have a subject of research whose pursuit may well involve a direct personal risk. As in the comparison I drew earlier between Megumi’s sense of purpose and Sano’s, my research probably seems much more selfish and limited in scope than hers, but I find I’m no less serious about it. Because I want to understand Sano: the way he is and why, how deep the changes run in him that have been taking place since our deaths in Japan, and most of all whether there’s the possibility of his being happy — remaining a relatively good person who can be satisfied with himself — in this impossible situation he’s created and with the answer I’m inevitably going to give him. I’m determined to find this information even if my continued proximity to him in seeking it is tempting fate — tempting him, rather, to forget about consent and take what he wants as he’s well capable of doing.

And why am I so determined?

Is it because I love him?

I still have no answer to this question, but I don’t shy away from the question itself quite so hard as I’ve done on previous days. In fact, as I watch him finish up the last turn of the game and cash in his remaining piles to add to his final score with a simple glee apparently born of a surety of having won that I can’t be certain is overconfidence — a glee that reminds me more than ever of those wonderful old emotions he used to display so readily — I concede to myself that the idea of being in love with him isn’t nearly so monumentally intimidating as it was the first time I asked myself about it.

“Twenty-six,” he announces, having counted his score pile and slammed a triumphant pale hand down onto it.

“Twenty-two,” is Megumi’s defeated acknowledgment.

“Twelve,” I admit.

“Damn, Saitou! I’d have thought you’d be better at this!” At this openly teasing expression of surprise — the first time Sano has broken the barrier and spoken to me in such an easy manner during this lifetime — even Megumi chuckles a little.

I’m not entirely without competitive instinct; I’m almost tempted to protest that, for my first time playing this particular game and as distracted as I was by various circumstances, it’s really not such a bad score. But I prefer not to make excuses — they only make you look pathetic — and therefore remain silent.

Sano has been gathering the cards, and now holds up the deck a second time with a glint in his eye beyond the actual literal glow. “You want to try again?”

I glance around, then briefly down at my watch. I do have chores to finish, and haven’t eaten dinner yet, and there’s work in the morning. But somehow none of that seems to matter. And it isn’t merely because Megumi has interesting information and Sano is a newly embarked-upon project; it’s because I enjoy their company. Whether I love him or not, I’m glad to have Sano around, and I’d rather he didn’t leave just yet.

“If you two are ready to lose this time,” I say.

Megumi grins. Sano grins — which was what I hoped for. The night progresses.

Part 24

The note read, I don’t know exactly where you live, but this concerned young policeman does. Don’t think I’m unwilling to track down my patients at their own homes or anywhere else if they won’t come to me for their follow-up exams. And I had to admit, it was nice to have something to laugh about, not to mention very desirable to have something to share with Sano that might cheer him up a bit too.

“Guess we better go see her,” was his response to her message. And though he sighed after he said it, undoubtedly not looking forward to hearing more about his condition and having prying questions asked, the tone of his words, at least, was amused.

In the small handful of days since the question had arisen in my mind about what Sano must subsist on now, I hadn’t worked up the fortitude to ask it aloud. Since he had reported no sensations of hunger (or, as it might turn out, thirst), I’d concentrated instead on my continual efforts to improve his attitude and on the news my subordinates regularly brought me. As I returned to fighting trim, my impatience to get back onto the case personally increased alongside my fitness, but I found my priorities divided. Sano’s physical safety concerned me less than it previously had, but his mental state had become far more precarious, and anything I could do to help him struck me as the most desirable course to take.

At the moment, though, the only course to take led to the Oguni clinic. We certainly didn’t want the doctor getting herself in trouble by demonstrating further how involved she was in our affairs, and I absolutely believed what she said about coming to find us; so we would have to go see her. Therefore, the moment the sun had set sufficiently to render walking abroad safe for Sano, we headed that direction. About halfway there I gave in and hailed a late-prowling cab, satisfied at least that I could make it half the distance on foot; and Sano was kind enough not to complain, though his claustrophobia regarding carriages did not seem to have diminished with his transformation.

“Good evening, officer-san, Sanosuke-kun,” Oguni himself greeted us when we arrived at the quiet clinic. “Megumi mentioned you might be dropping by this evening.”

“Did she,” I wondered with flat amusement.

“Yes, and she asked me to send you in when you got here. We’ve both been busy writing up notes on all these influenza cases lately, but she’ll be happy to see you in her room.”

Observing that we did seem to have interrupted him in his work despite the hour, I assured him of our familiarity with Takani’s room and that he need not trouble himself. Then, as we headed down the hall in the direction we unfortunately knew all too well, I requested elucidation on the cause of the wry, almost wistful grin on Sano’s face.

“You gave me that polite act exactly once,” he explained, “and then never again.”

“You never do much to merit politeness.”

“Least it means I’m in your inner circle by now… the people you don’t bother faking with.”

“You’re in an exclusive circle.” I would have gone on, but at that moment, having reached the door to Takani’s room, I paused for Sano’s knock.

“All right, kitsune, here we are!” His tone was put-upon, but his grin from a minute ago had only grown more solid, and lent some joviality to his assumed annoyance.

And at about that moment I began to feel uneasy. Did I sense something amiss through the door? Or was it merely that everything had been so uncertain lately? In any case, I gave the doctor less time to respond than I normally would have before calling a second greeting. “Takani-sensei, are you in there?”

Either Sano sensed something too, or he picked up on my worry, for his face was dead serious and, not even giving her as long as I had, he pulled the door open.

At first the signs of invasion were minimal, as was to be expected: if too much furniture had been tossed around, the noise would have alerted others in the building. But following a small trail of scattered objects around the corner from Takani’s sitting area into what might be thought of as her office and bedroom beyond disclosed a despoiled desk and set of shelves, a chaos of fallen or disarrayed items — among them an unsheathed tanto — and the woman herself on her back in the midst of it.

As quickly as I moved, Sano was kneeling at her side literally faster than I could see, sweeping books and papers carelessly away to make room for himself and disentangling a towel or other cloth that had wrapped around one of Takani’s legs apparently as she’d fallen. I knelt opposite him and fixed my gaze on the doctor’s white face, but not with much hope.

“Is that you two?” Her eyelids dragged open, but the slow, rolling motion of her eyeballs didn’t indicate much clarity of vision.

“Yeah, it’s us,” said Sano hoarsely. “What the fuck happened here?”

With the shallowest of breaths, even that obviously painful, she answered without strength or volume. “He knew I sent a note. He was afraid you would be staying at the clinic again. Then he’d never get the information he needed. He had to get to me first.”

“He must have been just here.” Sano looked around wildly. “If we’d been five minutes faster– Gensai doesn’t even know anything happened!”

Takani’s eyes closed again, but her lavender-tinted lips still seemed capable of some speech. “Didn’t want to scream. Nobody here could have fought him. They would have died with me.”

This was why I wanted people — especially people I cared about — out of the way in such dirty business. Doctors were often forced to get involved, but it had been foolish of me to start considering this one a friend, to allow anyone to see we’d become close enough that she might be expected to have information. She’d known the risks — of her profession in general, of treating patients like me and Sanosuke, of responding to me lately with apparent similar feelings of friendship — and she understood every bit as well as I did the desire to keep innocent others from becoming entangled in a mess she felt she couldn’t turn her back on… but that didn’t make this any less tragic a sacrifice.

And it was a sacrifice Sano evidently wasn’t ready for. So agitated I could see him trembling, he demanded in a fainting tone, “What did he do? Where are you hurt? How can we help?”

Takani let out the lightest pained sigh. “He wanted to know where Tomizawa Nori is. I don’t know, but he wouldn’t believe me. Kept hitting me. Broken ribs… moderate to severe internal hemorrhage… nothing to be done.”

Eyes wide as dinner plates and fists clenched, Sano jumped to his feet. “But Gensai…!”

I said his name softly. I wished I had some comfort to offer my lover, who would suffer a greater loss than I would in this scenario, but death took everything — even words from the mouths of the living. All I could advise was, “Do her the credit of believing what she says.”

At some point I’d taken Takani’s hand, but I only became properly conscious of its cold clamminess now when she exerted the slightest pressure to recover my attention. “Listen, Saitou… 165cm… 80kg… wide, thick eyebrows… early receding hairline… kuroboku-stained clothes…”

“It’s impressive you managed to take in so many details of the man beating you to death.” I clasped her hand, which had gone limp again after that one tiny squeeze, in both of mine. “Otsukaresama.”

Recognizing this for the farewell it was, Sano dropped to his knees again and pounded on the floor with a fist that sent shockwaves through the boards and my body. “No,” he half roared. “I won’t fucking accept that! You can’t– just because it’s bad doesn’t mean–”

Takani let out a faint huff that might have been something like a laugh. Again with what effort I could not guess, she opened her eyes, perhaps for the last time. “I was… looking forward… to studying your condition… further…” Though clearly unable to smile, the tone of her ever-fainter voice was halfway there.

Again Sanosuke stood with lightning quickness, but now his expression had entirely altered. His eyes had gone wide again, and his brows down, and he shook his head as if in denial… but watching him, I felt a chill. This wasn’t horror at Takani’s fate, nor denial of what lay in front of him. He was contemplating something desperate that appalled, perhaps even sickened him, and it took the briefest moment to realize what it must be.

I can save you,” he whispered. “I know how.”

Uncertain, uneasy, I asked, “Would it work?”

“I don’t–” He looked at me desperately, as if begging for answers. “My neck was broken, and… but then she’d be like this… but if she’s dying…”

I could do nothing but shake my head. I had absolutely no answers for him.

He dropped yet again to his knees and gave Takani’s shoulder a little shake. “Megumi, I can– I can save you.” His voice choked as if with tears, but his face remained dry, tormented, dead in color but alive with sentiment. “I can make you like me, and that should heal your wounds — least that’s how it worked for me — and then you can study yourself all you want, but you’ll… you’ll probably have to…”

Her head had rocked slightly with the shake, but her eyes did not open again. She breathed out a lifeless, delirious “Yes, please” that might after all only have been a sigh, then stilled again.

Sano’s face was even more haunted than before as he looked back up at me, and by now he was beyond words, though I recognized what he wanted to know. My own voice came out rough and quiet as I answered, “She’s too far gone to understand what you’re asking her. You’ll have to do it without her consent, or let her die.”

At the last three words, his face twisted into a nearly unbearable mask of pain and uncertainty. Letting go of someone he cared about, giving up on a cause, not taking every last measure of which he was capable in an effort he supported, was a trial too great for my Sanosuke… and yet he didn’t want to force upon her the inhuman condition with which he was afflicted. He’d probably never been so torn, and it broke my heart in turn to see it and be able to do nothing. It was a decision he had to make.

And once he made a decision, he acted upon it without further hesitation. Sitting up straight, his face smoothing into a less convoluted expression of determination, he took a deep breath. Meeting my eyes he said, “Go outside. I don’t want you to have to see this.”

Aching for him and the disgust he felt at his own intentions, I replied, “Only if you really don’t want me here. If you do, I’ll stay.”

His lips writhed around his attempted answer, but he couldn’t speak. He merely nodded, his expression conveying a desperate gratitude I would have done just about anything in the world to excite. Then, looking quickly away, he bent forward, reached down, and took Takani into his arms. Her head fell limply to one side as he cradled her upper back and settled her, reclining, onto his lap. His eyes taking on an even brighter glow than I’d yet seen and a startling flash coming from bared teeth that appeared longer and more pointed than before, he bent and fastened his mouth on her pale neck.

Only for Sano would I have watched such a display. It was monstrous, the way he sucked at her, the way her body had stiffened as he began to drink, and it sounded obscene. Bile rose in my throat and my stomach twisted, and intermittent shudders would not be repressed… but I sat firm, observing all remaining color ebb from the doctor’s exposed skin. She seemed likely to become a desiccated husk in no time at all, drained just as all those corpses had been. It had affected me before, but now it almost hurt to consider this type of end for a vibrant, brave, efficient human being, friend or otherwise.

“Sano,” I urged at last, my voice husky and low. “The next step?” I feared he was taking too much of her blood, and there would be no life left to revive with his own if he didn’t get on with it.

He made no answer, however, nor any shift of body, only continued his repugnant sucking. In this, I believed with sinking heart, our unspoken fears were confirmed: blood was life to him now, sustenance of which he’d been entirely deprived since his transformation, and he couldn’t bring himself to stop while it still flowed.

As close as I knelt to him, it was no difficulty to wind up and punch him in the shoulder, where once I’d stabbed him, with all my strength.

He toppled and slid, the figure of Takani falling bonelessly on top of him, and a snarling noise told me he’d disengaged from her neck even before I could see it when he sat up again. He shifted backward into a more active kneel, pulling the woman’s body halfway behind him with one possessive hand as if she weighed nothing at all, and raised the other hand as if to return my blow. His lips, running with blood, twisted into a snarl, and his eyes were feral for one long, breathless moment before he seemed to shake himself, breathing hard, and recognize me. And then the abrupt agony in those eyes was equaled only by the agony in my heart in response.

He looked as if he wanted to speak but didn’t know what to say, or perhaps lacked the power to say it. And in any case, I didn’t want him to bury himself in shame; once he gave in to that emotion, it would be a long uphill battle compelling it to release him. So I spoke instead, urging, “You have to finish it. Do you want my sword?”

Sano let out a faint, desperate laugh, and whispered harshly, “So damn practical,” even as he shook his head. Glad I’d diverted him at least somewhat from a detrimental frame of mind, I watched as he lifted his right wrist and raked his teeth across it with careless violence. Blood welled and ran down his arm, spattering across him and the objects on the floor as he moved once more toward Takani. He easily adjusted her position, smearing her with red as he did so, and soon the oozing liquid was flowing into her mouth.

I found the sight easily as distressing as the previous — perverted and inhuman and disgusting — and as I forced myself to sit still and calm and be a strength for Sano if I possibly could, a chill like icy water began to spread through my own body, as if my own veins were running cold.

Sano had undertaken this hideous task to try to save a friend. Whether or not he’d made the right choice in so doing, he was motivated by determination, mercy, and love. Yet Shibue — for I no longer had any doubt, after Takani’s description, about the murderer’s identity — appeared not to have acted on sentiments so noble. And he and Sano were now, after all, the same kind — the same kind Takani would become very soon if this process worked the way Sano believed it would. All three of them would be blood-drinkers; all three of them, presumably, would require something essential to the lives of others in order to maintain their own, regardless of what morals they took into their state of life or death.

Had Sano become a monster? Was he turning Takani into one before my eyes? Was I allowing evil to be born right in front of me because of my attachment to Sano?

The mere need for something combined with the capacity to take it did not make someone evil. But I’d seen how rapt Sano had been a minute before… I had no doubt that if I hadn’t been here to stop him, he would simply have killed her. Was it possible for someone to exist like that without committing murder, or was Sano destined to tread Shibue’s path?

And if he was, did I have the strength to do what was necessary? If it came to a choice, could I make the correct selection between Sanosuke’s life and Aku Soku Zan?

I rather doubted it.

In the near silence of the scene, the very disquieting noises from within Takani’s body were easily audible. And it wasn’t merely the occasional gut sound that made being in the presence of the dead so disturbing to some: there was a creaking, as of something all through her tensing, tightening; and a sound like boiling water, as if the blood Sano returned to her were indeed changing into a different state. And after several minutes, there came from her chest a startling cracking — ribs repairing themselves? — and her entire form straightened almost imperceptibly as if she were unconsciously correcting her posture in this prone position.

Her emaciation had faded; though her skin remained white as chalk, her lips a pale purple where they weren’t covered in blood, she now appeared more like a corpse awaiting cremation than a recent murder victim. In a way, she looked very much like Sano. She certainly looked like Sano had when I’d found him in the shed, and, for all I wanted her to live, that thought could give me no pleasure.

How Sano knew or thought he knew he’d done enough I couldn’t tell, but eventually he lifted his hand from near her face and drew it back, dripping blood down her chin and neck and chest. He started picking at the red wrap he always wore around his left wrist, and when I realized what he intended I spoke.

“Ahou…” I had to clear my throat. “We’re in a doctor’s office. There are plenty of actual bandages around.”

“So damn practical,” he whispered again, and distractedly began searching. I lifted a hand to stop him and then carried out the task myself, quickly sorting through the items that littered the floor nearby until I located a roll of bandages. I reeled out what I deemed a sufficient length and tore it free, then handed it to him. And as I did so, he continued speaking in a voice hardly louder than the previous whisper:

“I don’t think it’s going to bleed long. My heart… it got my heart going again to drink… It was pretty strong for a minute there… but I can feel it slowing down again. Thanks.” And he began to wrap his wrist.

If drinking some blood restarted his heart beating (implying that the rest of the time, whatever blood his body possessed was, what? resting motionless in his veins?), would a large enough quantity of blood restore all his bodily functions? Essentially restore him to life? Was that what Shibue sought, secondary to whatever Tomizawa Daitarou had assigned him? Evidently it hadn’t worked even after quite a few victims. I wondered if this had crossed Sano’s mind as it had mine.

In any case, the information Megumi had provided might help me pin the murderer down at last, and that she’d made the effort to convey it as she died was worthy of deepest respect. It wasn’t every murder victim that had the opportunity to avenge themselves. I only hoped she wouldn’t wake up now in her righter mind and resent what Sano had done. I didn’t know if he could handle that.

Perhaps it was time to find out, for Megumi stirred slightly where Sano had laid her. Her chest did not rise — evidently it was normal for people in this condition not to breathe spontaneously — but her fingers twitched, and before her eyes even opened, one hand had risen to brush hair from her face and blood from her chin.

I stood, and Sano’s gaze snapped over to me in startled dismay. I told him, “I’ll give you a few minutes.”

“You don’t have to.”

I regretted the necessity, and regretted the secret relief I felt at the idea of taking a break from this situation, but meant it when I said, “You’ll need to discuss things only you two can understand. I’ll wait outside the room.”

He stared for a moment, then seemingly required some effort of will to nod. “Thanks for staying this long,” he mumbled as he turned his face away. Then, even more softly, “Thanks for stopping me.”

“Of course.”

And as I moved quickly toward the door, I heard Megumi’s voice asking in quiet confusion, “Sanosuke? What just happened?”

Part 25

Sitting beside Sano on the sofa has become, by now, routine. I may still shy away from what he represents, what he wants in the long-term, but at his mere physical presence I no longer balk. I’m confident at least that he won’t attack and turn me right this moment; and his personality and character, and the changes therein, still fascinate me. Whether or not he’s truly beyond hope, whether he might retain some chance at happiness and (relative) morality, and what role I and Megumi have in the process of his reclamation, I long to discover.

Originally we were playing some old copy of Trivial Pursuit that Megumi dug up somewhere, with the finicky plastic pie pieces and everything, but, after she and Sano tied twice in a row, it devolved into their flashing trivia questions at each other in such quick succession it’s almost too fast to hear. Only now does it occur to me how many books you have time to read, movies and TV shows you have time to watch, and museums you have time to visit when you’re immortal — on top of whatever you’ve experienced firsthand. And I’m so comfortable at this point sitting around playing family games with a couple of vampires that I actually find myself complaining.

“You know this is less fun for the odd-man-out who hasn’t lived a hundred and fifty years?”

Meg laughs. “Sorry. We got carried away.” And she reloads the game components into the box with white-flashing hands in about two seconds.

“I’ll beat you next time, though,” Sano says with a competitive grin.

“I’ll beat you both at that card game,” I assure him. “It would be nice to know what it’s called.”

“I don’t actually know.” Sano joins me standing and heading toward the kitchen table. “I learned it from a werewolf in Frobisher Bay, like, thirty years ago. Then I tweaked the rules some, and I always just call it ‘that game.’ Not like I have a lot of people to play it with.”

Deciding not to dwell on his terminal loneliness and the effect it’s had on him, I state lightly instead, “You’re going to have to tell me about werewolves.”

But as he sets up the new game as quickly as Meg dismantled the old, and both of them start in on a description of werewolves and what is and isn’t known about them, I’m distracted by my phone lighting up yet again. This is the fourth time Renee has called today, and, though I turned off both sound and vibration much earlier, the alert that still appears on the screen causes guilt to weigh more and more heavily on my heart.

As Hajime, I wouldn’t have had a hard time coming up with what to say, and wouldn’t have been afraid to say it. I managed my relationships with the wives I had in that life reasonably well, after all. But I’m not entirely Hajime, and my former samurai straightforwardness blended with the cunning of a spy is of less use here and now. I don’t want to hurt her, but I can’t formulate an explanation for the circumstances rational enough to convince her of its truth and render our remaining interactions as smooth as possible. And every minute I put it off makes it less likely I’ll be able to do anything of the sort.

Self-castigation and a feeling of confounded helplessness notwithstanding, I manage to start the game and drag my mind back to it for a while. Sano and Meg resume their discussion of werewolves, and the night moves on with a certain amount of interest and entertainment. And as the hours pass, the chances of Renee calling again diminish, which is one benefit of having nocturnal friends. I’ve been up late far too often in recent days, and it has to start taking its toll sooner or later, but, even in her desperation to talk to me, Renee won’t risk waking me up.

But then my phone glows again. With a deep breath I look down, and note that it’s a voicemail. This is the first time she’s left me a message, and I reach for the device as I let the air out of my lungs as silently as possible. I glance back up at Meg’s neutral expression and the faint crease between Sano’s brows, and tell them, “I’d better listen to this.”

Swiftly Meg rises. “I’ll get out of earshot, then.” I wonder how far away that is for her.

“No, don’t–” Sano begins, and Megumi jerks to a standstill. “Sorry, sorry. I mean, why don’t we make sure Saitou doesn’t want us around before just running off?”

I frown. The truth is that I would prefer neither of them listen to this, but I fear what it might do to Sano to push him away — especially when the matter touches him so closely, even if it’s really none of his business. But I don’t like to evict one and permit the other.

“I’ll go,” she says with a reassuring smile — or as reassuring as that gesture can ever be on her too-perfect lips. Unexpectedly, she bends down and gives me an ice-cold kiss on the cheek. Then she punches Sano hard in the arm as she walks past him, and she’s gone.

Rubbing at the injured spot, Sano turns to face me again. “It’s OK if I stay, right?” His modern coldness gives the impression less of a request than of a command.

I nod. And since he’s going to hear it all anyway, I set the phone on speaker as I dial in to voicemail.

Joe, I know something’s wrong. It isn’t like you to ignore me. I didn’t think it would happen like this, because I know you’re better than this, but I’ve been worried about our relationship for a long time. You’ve never seemed ready to take things to the next level with me, and lately — even before you started ignoring me — I’ve gotten the feeling your heart’s not in it anymore. But I love you, Joe, and I want to make this work. If you’d just tell me what’s going on, we can still try. Or if you really do want to break up, I’d still like to be your friend and support you. But you have to talk to me.

After pressing 9 to save, I hang up and stare at the phone on the table without taking in any of its details. That Sano is doing the same I can tell from the corner of my eye, but I don’t look at him, and he makes no sound. That was… such an unusual message. Not one drop of sarcasm, barely any disdain, open emotional talk… not at all like Renee, who’s never seemed inclined to discuss our relationship. The cues she gives have always been subtle and usually unspoken. If she has worried for some time, did it take this crisis to force the confession out of her? Otherwise, why is she suddenly willing to bare her heart like this?

And I still don’t know what to say to her.

At a loss, I dial in again and replay the message. Her language is direct, personal but not overly sentimental — which is like Renee — and I notice she’s used the least affection form of ‘love’ when she declares her feelings for me… and that’s the answer.

“It’s in Japanese,” I say aloud in some surprise.

“Yyyeah,” Sano confirms, bemused.

Now I can’t help but smile as I hang up on voicemail once more. “She assumed I wouldn’t understand this.”

“Why would she say all that shit if you wouldn’t understand it?”

“One mystery for another. I haven’t been talking to her, so she left me a message in Japanese trying to get me to call back. It’s pretty clever.” I was underestimating her. That’s the Renee I know and… love? In the least affectionate form of the verb? I swallow hard and close my eyes as I leave the table, and my phone, behind.

“So what are you gonna do?” Sano wonders, somewhat demandingly, from behind me.

“I don’t know.” I sit down hard on the sofa, and find him beside me before I’ve completely settled. But all I can say, again, is, “I don’t know.” Uncomfortable as I feel dating someone I know is my own descendant, the more I consider cutting her out of my life, the more reluctant I find myself.

“You–” He reaches out a pale hand to touch my arm, hesitates, and then, when I don’t pull away, places it there with a restraint I didn’t expect. It’s trembling slightly, and colder than ever through my sleeve. And in his face there’s torment, less skillfully repressed than the strength of his hand.

“I know what you’d prefer me to say to her,” I tell him, cautious.

“I wasn’t gonna say it,” is his fierce, bitter response. Jealousy seems to darken his face, though in reality it’s as bloodless as ever. His fingers clench a bit more tightly on my arm, and he holds the pose for a moment, seeming to struggle within himself. Silently I’m doing my best to encourage him, because this emotion — which can only worsen with time — must certainly be one of the obstacles he needs to overcome if he wants to remain a decent person, or at least a decent vampire. And something inside me seems to untwist in relief when he relaxes a trifle and says in a tone less harsh, “I’m not qualified to give love advice. I’ve only ever had one boyfriend — that I remember — and you saw how that went.”

I breathe out a weak chuckle, and am surprised to find it followed by another, stronger, and then another. Soon Sano and I are both laughing ridiculously at what was, after all, a fairly morbid statement. As unexpectedly as Megumi’s earlier kiss — to both of us, I think — I lean into him for a hug and laugh on his cold, stiff shoulder for a moment. At first he goes motionless, and his laughter dies abruptly, but then he draws in a gasp and clutches me with bruising tightness. When I move to pull away, he clings only for an instant before letting go, and the darkness is gone from his face.

Memories of physical contact with Sano in another life bombard me, and my heart stutters into a higher gear. Am I tempted? I won’t deny it. The idea of being with him like that again prompts far less awkwardness and discomfort in me than it did before. But do I love him? I still don’t know.

Clearing my throat, I look away from the hope and desire and underlying acquisitiveness in his expression, and shift the subject. “So you said I’ve been in love with people in past lives?”

He lets out his gasp of a moment before somewhat raggedly, and at first appears to struggle once more, this time for an evenly delivered answer. “You… yeah, you were. You carried around a love note from some girl you left behind in Spain, and showed it to me every time you thought I was getting pushy… and then you had a wife in South Africa, who I didn’t really meet… and a husband in the States…”

An image returns to me of an airport terminal, a lingering kiss goodbye, and jealous eyes on me like those of a bird of prey, and I snatch at the memory and his last words. “I dreamed about him. My – husband.” The word tastes unfamiliar in this context, but not necessarily unpleasant. “After you showed up, but before you gave me my memories. I had a very confused dream where I saw…” Thinking back to it, its events become clearer and clearer, but only up to a certain point. “I saw past lives. I saw my husband, and our goodbye at the airport before I went to Iraq.”

“You– what!?” Sano leaps to his feet, for a moment every bit his old impetuous self. “You dreamed about previous lives before I gave you any memories back?!” The look on his face is divided between astonishment and excited delight. “That means you’re — you’re getting better! You’re figuring it out!”

“I didn’t enjoy it,” I tell him quietly — though I am, merely for these few seconds, enjoying his happiness. “It took place mostly in Shishio’s fortress. It was very chaotic. Not knowing what any of it meant made it into a nightmare.”

“I’m sorry, but, but, but this is great!” He shakes exuberant fists in the air and spins around on one heel. “It means you’re kindof… assimilating…” And he trails off at the serious expression on my face. “I’m sorry,” he says again. “Just…”

“Tell me about my husband,” I request. I know the subject must bother him, but I suspect getting him to talk about it is a step in the right direction. Wrapping past pain in an ever-thickening layer of jealousy and anger isn’t the way to deal with it. And I don’t want him dwelling more than he needs to on the idea that our souls are becoming more tightly linked with every passing lifetime, no matter how it pleases me to see him so simply happy again.

“Do you just want the memories?” he asks, a little sourly.

And again, I’m tempted. The condition I considered earlier — having more experiences than the average person to draw on for knowledge and wisdom — comes before me again with tantalizing promises. But even after so many days, I’m still fighting to deal with one previous lifetime’s worth of experiences and the little memories that pop up out of nowhere at inopportune moments and have to be worked through. Besides, the point is getting him to talk. “I think you just want to bite me again.”

The look he gives me is slightly suspicious, but perhaps my statement — which, despite its deadpan delivery, might be considered the tiniest bit flirtatious — strikes him pleasantly, for he resumes his seat at my side and takes a deep enough breath for extended speech. And a story unfolds of a college football coaching assistant, injured during his own time on the defensive line and unable to join the armed forces as he’d long wished, who won the heart of one Peggy McClendon with his fun-loving ways and infinite devotion. And Sano, in describing him, sounds not so much jealous or bitter as forlorn, maybe even nostalgic. He respected that man. He respected my love for him, because he saw why I felt the way I did. It hurts to watch him, but this is a remarkably good sign. I’m starting to feel the first hints of hope.

I’m also curious. Once he’s finished his description, I prompt, “So I’ve been attracted to men in more than one lifetime.”

The hunger springing up in his eyes tells me this may be a dangerous topic. “You were bi as Peggy, though you guys were monogamous, so…” He shrugs, and the gesture isn’t as casual as he’d probably like it to be. “When you were Yaro, you never showed any signs that I saw, but you were pretty damn busy speaking out against apartheid everywhere it wouldn’t get you killed… I mean, it eventually did, but… Anyway, as Aliásar, just from the way you looked at the other guys in camp, I thought you could’ve probably been into them, and you reacted way better than I expected when I told you my story — you just didn’t buy the vampire part — but then you died.” He shrugs again, and it’s more helpless this time.

“And the life that came after Japan? In South America?”

“Yeah, as Fernando…” He reaches a hand up to scratch the back of his head, and I wonder if he actually itches or if this is merely an echo of a long-ago gesture of the living Sano. “You were really young? And really gung-ho about getting yourself killed. I think you just weren’t really into it that time around.”

I chuckle faintly. “And I’ve been Japanese, Brazilian, Spanish, South African… What was Peggy?”

“White,” Sano replies, more easily now. “Probably had some Irish or Scottish in her, with a name like that, but I never found out for sure.” He looks me up and down, and, though there’s the customary expression of longing in the gaze, it’s more assessing than anything. “And now you’re… Puerto Rican?”

Impressed at his discernment, I nod. “I seem to have gravitated toward Latino.”

Sano shrugs. “I got no explanation for that.”

As so often happens these days, I find myself emotionally drained. Having my curiosity satisfied is bittersweet, and trying to navigate Sano’s convoluted frame of mind at the same time is nerve-wracking. But I can’t bear to abandon this conversation with Sano relaxing and enjoying it again. “It’s very interesting, though,” I say, then fight to come up with another question or remark to keep the discussion going.

I’m not fast enough. Sano’s face darkens again. “…but none of this is helping you figure out what to do about your girlfriend.”

With a sigh aimed more at my inability to manage his mood than at the purport of his statement, I admit the truth of this.

Very seriously he begins, “Look, Saitou–”

“Call me Joe,” I interrupt, ironically in a more Saitou-like tone than anything else I’ve said this evening.

For an instant he appears purely surprised and hurt. Then his lips and brows tighten into darker lines, and his words come out like ice. “It’s harder every time I see you with someone. But she’s safe for now.” He rises from the sofa, stiff as rigor mortis. “Do what you want with her.”

Quiet but firm, I tell him, “That may just mean taking her up on her offer of friendship.” Since I’ve blown my chance at continued conversation on a more pleasant level, the truth is the next best option. And his form seems to soften just perceptibly at my statements. “You’re friends with Megumi; I can be friends with Renee.”

“Megumi is literally a blood relation.” Sano still has his back to me, but his tone also has softened a trifle.

“But I’m her friend too. It would be unfair of you to be jealous of Renee but not of Megumi — and every other friend I have.”

He takes a deep breath, very deliberate as all his deep breaths must be, then lets it out gustily. “You’re right,” he says, turning. “I have to try to be reasonable.”

“Never an outstanding skill of yours,” I reply in Saitou’s tones with a grin, “but it’s good that you’re willing to try.” And I mean that very deeply. Perhaps to emphasize the fact, I get to my own feet, step forward, and put my arms around Sano again. “Thank you,” I murmur. And I’m not entirely sure what I’m thanking him for. Probably for the optimism I’m truly beginning to feel.

He may not be sure either, but the embrace melts him. Once more he clutches at me as if letting go means ceasing to exist, though he says nothing. I can only hope this will serve to give him strength — strength to do what I’m sure he still knows is right, strength to resist becoming something neither of us wants.

This time when I pull back, there’s more than a moment of tenacity on his side. But he does let me go, and looks at me with a mixture of emotions on his cold face. “I’ll… let you decide what you’re gonna do,” he almost whispers, and suddenly he’s at the door.

“Good night,” I reply at about the same volume. Then, in a preternaturally abruptly empty apartment, I mimic my movements of several days ago and sink back onto the sofa to put my head in my hands.

So we’ve definitely progressed to hugging now.

Part 26

My mind jumped back to the time when I’d taken a carriage, along with a suspicious Himura and a rebellious Sanosuke, south from Kyoto in a desperate hurry. Grim at what we’d already learned, intensely concerned about what we might find (or fail to find) in Osaka Harbor, uncertain about Battousai’s likely level of cooperativeness, and trying not to think too much about the young man on the roof, I’d been as uncomfortable then as I’d believed I ever could be. Yet I hadn’t considered Himura a friend. I hadn’t considered Sanosuke a lover. I hadn’t considered either of them a monster. Tonight’s carriage ride was far worse.

Megumi hadn’t said a word to me, nor shown any readable expression beyond profound pensiveness. When I’d suggested she relocate to my house for safety and convenience, she’d merely nodded as if her thoughts were elsewhere — as well they might be. What she and Sano had discussed behind closed doors I couldn’t guess any more than what excuse she’d made in the note she’d left for the other doctor. Now nobody spoke, and the silence crowded against me like a host of invisible foes. I found the horses’ hoofbeats, the creak of the carriage, the low and occasional sounds from the midnight city, even my own soft breathing unusually agitating.

Sano looked at our friend, when he believed she couldn’t see it, with haggard glowing eyes in which guilt, despair, and supplication appeared equally evident. His clenching hand gradually tore the marks of his fingers into the leather seat. I didn’t dare ask what either one of them was thinking and feeling after what had happened. I had stood by Sano during a soul-rending moment, and would have thought we’d be more emotionally intimate thereafter, but I didn’t dare ask. And I wasn’t close enough to Megumi — and perhaps never would be — to intrude where she didn’t choose to volunteer.

When we alighted in my neighborhood after a painful eternity in the cab, Megumi still said nothing, nor did she look around to take in details of the unfamiliar place. I paid the driver, then pushed past the others toward my door. I felt stiff and worn out, my physical condition only contributing to my underlying unhappiness. As I ushered them inside, I resisted a pressing and uncharacteristic urge to speak.

Finally, though, someone else did. The doctor glanced at my entranceway where she removed her shoes, and the living room into which she continued, and said quietly, “I need to be alone.”

Again I walked past her, swallowing what I would rather say as I reached for one of the doors off the main chamber. “The bedroom is yours as long as you need it.” My voice emerged like an alien being.

After gathering up a random armful of clothing and a spare blanket, I bowed slightly over my burdens and left her with her thoughts. The door slid to behind me, and seemed to close me out not only from the woman but from my mental turbulence concerning her. Both were still present, but it felt as if a weight on my mind had been eased slightly.

The other, interconnected and far heavier weight had seated himself in what had become his usual spot near the cold fireplace. When my eyes fell on him, having laid what I carried across a chair, my heart gave a dizzying throb of sorrow and pity. That he’d put his back to me indicated no readiness for discussion, but this silence couldn’t continue. I just didn’t know where to start.

Finally, “Did you remind her about the sunlight?” I asked, in a far harsher tone than I’d intended.

His reply was equally rough. “Shit, how stupid do you think I am?” His volume dropped, though, as he added, “Course I reminder her about the fucking sunlight.”

“Did you tell her…” And even after so long, I still lacked the strength to finish the question, “Did you tell her she’ll have to drink human blood to survive?”

“I told her everything I needed to,” he whispered, and fell silent again.

“Sano…”

He drew his knees up to his chest and hugged them.

I went to him and dropped down, putting my arms around his cold body and clutching at him. He uncurled a little, and let his head fall back onto my shoulder, but said nothing.

“Sano, please…” Was I begging? I might have been. He and the circumstances had brought me this low. I felt as if a door lay between us just as it did between me and Megumi, though in this case doing nothing to mute my consternation and sympathy and desire to be of use. I would never understand what he was going through, neither in his half-dead state nor in having made the decision he had regarding the doctor. But if he would open up on these topics, I might be able to help him work his own way through. He’d always been so open…

Abruptly he twisted in my embrace, returning it and knocking me down. He held my waist and back and buried his face in my chest, a cold presence near my quivering heart, and stilled again. He said nothing yet, did not even breathe, but at least I could tell he wanted me there.

I struggled against thinking I was losing him again, that my relief at finding him alive though dead had been premature and eventually unjustified; but I began to feel trapped in that perspective as in a cell against whose walls I raged like a madman. That this growing system of helplessness and anxiety and sadness would sooner or later seep into every other aspect of my life, most particularly affecting my work performance, I could not deny, and the awareness only tied my hands more tightly. It was one of the dangers I’d once tried to warn Himura against, and in neither case had the foreknowledge made any difference. At the time he’d done a poor job disinvolving his friends from the hazardous fight against Shishio, but I thought I could forgive him now for countenancing them when they’d followed anyway.

Hours must have passed in the uncomfortable position Sano had forced on us, and maybe I dozed despite the angle of my body atop his right arm, for eventually, when he pulled away and sat up, allowing me to do the same, the shouji informed us the sky outside was lightening. Sano looked around discontentedly, then down at himself. I’d cleaned the blood from his face and neck before leaving the clinic, but a great deal had dried on the borrowed garments he’d been wearing all night (which had caused our cab driver to look at us askance). Now he frowned at it, and, instantly on his feet, had shed both kimono and hakama quicker than my eyes could follow.

I rose more slowly and painfully, and returned to where I’d set the extra clothing. I would move it all into the office later; for now I dug through the pile to find Sano a yukata, which I tossed to him without a word. Then I searched deeper for a replacement kimono for myself, since I hadn’t escaped the disaster without bloodstains either.

When my lover, looking a little easier in the clean cloth, saw what I was doing, he demanded in the most Sano-like tone I’d heard from him in a while, “Where do you think you’re going?”

As I changed, I explained. “Now I do need to talk to Tomizawa Nori. I’m convinced Shibue is our enemy, but I need confirmation — and any information she can give me about where he might be hiding during the day.”

“You promised you’d stay here,” Sano said flatly, “and let Hiro-what’s-his-name handle things.”

“The situation has changed.”

With a mirthless laugh at this understatement, Sano reminded me, “Earlier tonight you couldn’t even walk all the way to the clinic. You’re still in bad shape.”

“I’ll take a cab.”

“Of course you will… but…” His wrathful tone came close to breaking; it seemed he too had been pushed almost to the point of begging. He wouldn’t give in, though, and was falling back on anger to hide his distress.

It touched me deeply, and it hurt. So, instead of pointing out that Shibue couldn’t move against me while the sun was up, I said, “I’ll stay here until you fall asleep.”

Sano’s glowing eyes seemed to request a greater concession than he would ask for aloud — greater than I could make, and he knew it. He turned away from me, and busied himself with moving the room’s single screen in front of the eastern shouji, pushing all the remaining clothing off the chair onto the floor and arranging it into a longish heap like a bunker, then digging out the spare blanket. Though he could tolerate the indirect sunlight filtering into the house, he liked to have that last extra layer of protection; he said it helped him sleep better. Now he threw himself down again, and patted the tatami beside him with a stubborn expression.

I felt the ghost of a smile on my lips at that look, and sat down against him. Immediately pulled recumbent, I found myself under the blanket on my side facing him. He didn’t put his arms around me this time, but raised one to prop his head and huddled the other against my chest. I brought one of my own up to hold his hand, at which he breathed and sighed, and then lay still staring into the two glowing brown circles just before me.

It didn’t take long for his grip to slacken, the circles to disappear, and that slumber like a second death to slip over him — but long enough for me to retread the same harrowing thoughts as before again and again with an actual physical pain in my heart. When I found myself threatening to join him, I released his hand and rolled away out from under the blanket. He made no move, no sound, which gave me more than a slight additional pang as I stood and headed for the door.

For the use of several types of people related to our business, including those in protective custody, the police maintained what appeared to be a square of small apartments intended for single workers or couples without children. I’d stayed there myself when I’d first transferred to Tokyo, before Kawaji had decided he wanted me in the new capital on a more permanent basis, and I knew the place well. Now I used the discreet back entrance on an adjoining street, and found in the courtyard, as expected, an unassuming gardener-handyman doing some sort of leisurely and probably unnecessary maintenance on his rake in the absence of anything else to keep him looking busy.

He didn’t recognize me at first — semi-retired elderly operatives with assignments like this could hardly be expected to know every face in the precinct — but when I quietly identified myself, he gave a nod of confirmation. “You must be here for Tomizawa-san, then,” he murmured.

“Only for a conversation.”

He nodded again, and withdrew from a deep pocket a set of keys. “She’s in number four,” he told me as he removed the one I needed.

Early though it was, I let myself into Nori’s temporary home. The tenements with neighbors on both sides had almost no windows, but before I could even produce a match, I heard one strike in the next room. No wonder, I thought, if she’d become a bit jumpy and easily awakened. The light through the shouji increased.

After very little shuffling, the door slid open, and Tomizawa Nori’s yukata-clad figure appeared in the opening. Her eyes wide and cautious, the sunkenness of her cheeks emphasized by the dimness, her long brown hair in two braids that fell across her shoulders and made her appear very young, she stared at me for a protracted moment before seeming to realize who I was.

“Fujita-san!” She moved quickly to place the lamp she held on the table, and came up to me beseechingly. “How much longer do I have to stay here? Nobody can tell me, but you ordered this, didn’t you?”

“You must remain under police protection until we’ve dealt with your stalker. I need to discuss that with you, and you should prepare yourself for some unpleasant news.”

She took another step toward me, hands clenched. “Is it Daitarou? Is he all right? Is he in danger?”

“Please have a seat.” I gestured at the table. “What I have to say may be worse than that.”

She obeyed, shifting the lamp to a better position and almost tipping it in her agitated haste. I took the place opposite her, and watched her twisting her hands so they turned white before forcing herself to lay them flat on the table. I’d considered on the way here how to present this, but it was with some heaviness that I began.

“I’ve been tracking a serial murderer, Nori-san. This man has an unusual physical condition, an illness of sorts, that requires him to drink human blood to survive, and he has already transmitted this condition somehow to two of my assistants. A doctor I work with has been studying it, but we don’t fully understand it yet.”

She had shuddered at ‘drink human blood,’ and now stared at me, mouth slightly open but evidently incapable of speech. Undoubtedly every possible application of this information to herself, her stalker, and her brother was running through her head.

“I believe,” I went on quietly, “that this murderer is your missing fiance, and that your brother is hiding him.”

She gave a sobbing gasp, her hands flying to her face so only her black eyes remained visible. She’d impressed me, when I’d met her before, with her practicality and strong will, and she convinced me completely now by not growing faint or beginning to wail. Incoherent noises like attempts at speech mingled with effusions of horror came from behind her hands, but she remained straight where she sat. I let her take her own time overcoming the initial shock, and eventually she managed, “But… but Shibue-san couldn’t have… killed anyone! He wouldn’t, but… but he really couldn’t! He’s never been in any physical shape to…”

“His new condition grants him additional strength and speed, probably transferred somehow from the blood he steals. And in fact the desperate need for blood may push him to greater exertion than anything else.”

She shuddered again, but her hands sank slowly from her face. “So if he… if he does…” She swallowed hard. “…need blood to survive, he might not have wanted to kill anyone. If he’s been doing it to survive… he can’t be held entirely responsible, can he?”

By refraining from answering this question, I allowed her to hope. “The man in question is 165cm tall, weighs approximately 80kg — overweight — has wide, thick eyebrows, and an early receding hairline. When he attacked me, I observed he was unskilled in combat, but still presented a threat because of the unusual strength and speed I mentioned. When he attacked my assistant, he had kuroboku stains on his clothing.”

“That’s Shibue-san,” she whispered. “He always hated the idea of learning to fight… He…” Distractedly she began connecting ideas, slowly working her way aloud (if still in a very subdued tone) through what she knew. The only somewhat useful or confirming facts she produced were that her brother was very controlling, and might want to assist and protect Shibue as much out of a desire to keep the situation under his eye as for his sister’s sake; and that Shibue, a modest, diffident man, always did everything Daitarou told him to.

Somewhat to my surprise, I found this conversation a relief. Despite the crimes’ bizarre features, discussing them with Nori was proceeding like any other questioning of a witness. My harried mind took refuge in the routine, and it soothed me so much that the tediousness of her putting her thoughts in order hardly aggravated me. I wouldn’t have attempted to hurry her in any case, since I wanted her to believe there might be a chance at saving Shibue’s life if he could be found. Pressing her would probably tip her off to the likelihood of my seeking him for a very different reason, and prevent her from sharing any ideas she might have on how to locate him.

Finally she looked up at me again with an expression of deep concern and sorrow. Earnestly she asked, “Do you think he can be cured?”

“I don’t know,” I answered truthfully, and allowed her to see a fraction of my own worry on the subject when I added, “and the same goes for my two assistants.”

“How did he… where did this ‘illness’ come from?”

“I don’t know,” I repeated.

But with a chill I realized that I did. I hadn’t considered it until this very moment… The circumstance I’d been dreading had come upon me without my even realizing it: my personal preoccupations had interfered with my ability to do my job. I should have thought of this at least seven days ago. I should have realized that, unless there was some improbable accidental method of contracting the non-dead condition Shibue suffered, there must have been someone else in Tokyo to drink his blood and feed him theirs. Someone perhaps still in Tokyo. Carefully regulating my tone, “What,” I asked, “was the date of Shibue’s disappearance?”

“Between May 14th and 17th,” she replied promptly.

Long before the first murders had come to light. I would need to compare exact dates, but this might mean that the unknown someone, if they existed and had remained in the capital, covered their tracks much better than Shibue had been able to. My chill persisted. This previously unconceived-of enemy might prove far more dangerous than Nori’s fat fiance, and someone against whom we should have been preparing (if any preparation were possible) earlier than this.

But finding the murderer I knew existed must be my priority at the moment. So I said, “In any case, he can’t be allowed to continue killing people.”

“No,” she whispered, and fell silent.

I felt I had her on my side now, and that her pensiveness pertained not to whether she should confide in me, but rather to everything she knew that might contribute. This guess was confirmed when she suddenly lifted her head and met my eyes again as if she’d just remembered something. “Daitarou purchased a tea farm in Nerima in December, and I think the soil there is kuroboku.”

“I don’t recall any tea farm among his businesses.”

“I think…” She frowned; obviously this had only ever been discussed in passing between them. “I think he was planning to experiment with modern methods of producing tea that will save money. He would have kept it quiet, and not attached his name to it, to prevent theft of his ideas.” I nodded, and we stared at each other. Eventually she added, “I hope he won’t be in trouble for hiding Shibue-san…” And at an even quieter murmur, “I suppose I see why he didn’t tell me…”

On this point I deemed it best to hold my peace. The outlook was dismal for both men; but whereas Shibue might be considered not in his right mind, Tomizawa Daitarou had evidently been selecting targets for his would-be brother-in-law to serve his own selfish ends.

Observing my unwillingness to answer, her voice small and restrained, she tried, “What will you do if you find Shibue-san?”

“That depends on how Shibue-san reacts to being found.”

And all in an instant, she broke down. Tears began to pour from her eyes, her lips and jaw trembled and seemed hardly capable of their natural functions, and her posture fell apart as her breaths came in heaves. “F-Fujita-san, please… you can’t know what it’s like to love a man and–and lose him j-just when you thought… and then discover you h-haven’t really lost him, but now you have to–to live in fear of losing him again! Please don’t take him away from me again!”

…to live in fear of losing him again…

So stunned, so overwhelmed was I by her words, I couldn’t have told her even if I’d wanted to how acutely, how precisely, I did know what that was like. I couldn’t even offer her a handkerchief as a good sympathetic interrogator would have done. I simply sat there, dumbstruck, while she wept in front of me.
I believed I had everything I’d come for, and more. New paths of investigation had opened: new work, new worries, new action to set in motion at the police station, where I must go from here. If this final blow, delivered in all innocence by a woman that shared my peculiar situation far more than she realized, was blinding me now to other questions I should ask her, I couldn’t possibly recognize that until later, after the shock had receded; and for the moment, I only wanted to get away.

With a great effort, I stood. She looked up at me, face blotchy and pathetic. “Nori-san,” I said, in a voice as hard as stone, “I will do everything in my power to ensure no one else is lost.”



<<25

When I originally started writing this story approximately forever ago, what are now odd- and even-numbered parts formed the halves of chapters. Eventually I decided I liked it better this way, since previously there was some implied connection between the specific events in the halves of each chapter, and I didn’t like giving that impression.

The idea to have the modern parts in present tense was also a later decision. I think it’s an interesting way to differentiate the timelines and the narrating voices.

A problem that started early and that I struggled with throughout this story was to keep both halves interesting without either one getting ahead of where I wanted it and revealing information I wanted very specifically timed. Hence scenes like Part 7 that are basically filler, though I tried at least to make sure they entertained and provided some food for thought.

For some author’s notes on part 11, see this Productivity Log, this one for part 12, this one for part 13, this and this one for part 14, and this one for part 15. For part 17, see this Productivity Log, this one for part 18, this one for part 19, and this one for part 20 and the title illustration. For part 21, see this Productivity Log, this one for part 22’s notes, and this one for part 24. Where are the notes on part 23? I don’t know. Evidently I didn’t make any. How will you cope??

Forgivably Wrong

Forgivably Wrong

He had to get just one good look at the author in order to assure himself he was imagining things. Because it wasn’t possible… there was simply no way…

When Detective Saitou gets a chance to meet his favorite author and learns something very unexpected about him, resisting his fanboyish impulses is suddenly the least of his concerns.

Forgivably Wrong

Technically Saitou could have taken the interstate one exit farther and gotten onto Coolidge Boulevard some distance closer to the station, but the highway ahead had appeared a little congested, and he had plenty of time for the longer stretch on the slower street since he’d left for work rather early. There had been no real reason to leave so early, but, having finished breakfast and finding he had nothing remaining to do at home, he’d decided he might as well head on in.

A mass of balloons, including two huge ones floating high up on long cords, decorated the front of the bookstore on the north side of Coolidge, and Saitou recalled it was the 18th. That event he’d seen advertised so much lately was today, wasn’t it? He probably wouldn’t even have remembered if he hadn’t happened to come this direction due to traffic. And he probably wouldn’t even have looked at the store closely enough to be reminded if not for the eye-catching balloons.

Lately he’d been considering purchasing an e-reader of some sort. It would be more easily carried around with him than most books, and provide more options at any given moment as well. The question then remained whether he wanted a dedicated e-reader with limited other functionality or a tablet with the option for an e-reader app. And right now, when he’d left for work rather early for no particular reason and had plenty of time, seemed like not a bad moment to just step into the bookstore and examine the options they had. Not, of course, with any intention of getting involved in the book-signing that was, quite coincidentally, going on in there simultaneously.

But it would probably be pretty crowded, wouldn’t it? The e-reader display, he remembered, stood precisely at the center of the store, undoubtedly also where the event would be set up… it might be a little difficult to reach the sample devices without getting involved in the signing… Maybe he should wait for some other day.

But today was when he happened to have time to spare. Some other day he might not. There was no logical reason not to go in there right now. He changed lanes so as to turn into the shopping center immediately ahead.

The Yuki Tomoshiro series had probably only even grabbed Saitou’s attention originally because it was about a Japanese-American police detective struggling against prejudice in the system. It wasn’t as if it was spectacularly good or anything. The prose was nothing brilliant — this wouldn’t be ranked among the classics or studied in prestigious schools — even if it did have a refreshing directness and emotionality to it without being at all pretentious. The police procedure was never 100% accurate, though admittedly what the author got wrong he at least got forgivably wrong. And the cases Yuki worked tended to be overblown and improbably adventurous much of the time, as if the author had watched a few too many crime dramas for inspiration — though, yes, that did make for the most entertaining stories. So Saitou wasn’t sure how it had become his favorite series.

Honestly he couldn’t say for certain it was his favorite series. It just hit pretty close to home; that was all. And, although the personal interactions unrelated to the cases were consistently the weakest parts of the writing, there had been hints in the latest book that Yuki might, after some wrestling within herself, start dating her precinct’s female civilian administrator. No matter how long Saitou himself had been single, a gay Japanese-American police detective struggling against prejudice in the system hit even closer to home.

He couldn’t say he entirely approved of the author’s pen name, however. Though some part of him secretly rather liked the uncompromising ‘斬’ — and he knew this was the intended spelling because the kanji were given in the author’s extended bio on the official series website — it did seem melodramatic. Still, most American readers wouldn’t recognize this — the books were written in English and set in the U.S., after all, and name kanji didn’t really enter into it except as trivia for sharp-eyed and perseverent fans — and Saitou wasn’t ignorant of the need for a catchy pseudonym. Still, he couldn’t help shaking his head a little at the huge banner on the store’s outer wall proclaiming, Book Signing Today with Zanza Sagara, Bestselling Author of the Yuki Tomoshiro Series.

Saitou had heard rumors (well, read online) that Sagara was a native of this city. Of course he didn’t really care where some random author lived, but once or twice when he’d been bored he’d tried looking it up more definitively. That had never succeeded — the guy kept pretty quiet about his personal life — but Saitou supposed, if Sagara really did live around here, it would explain why this generic bookstore with nothing special about it got the preference over classier venues for the author’s very first (Saitou was fairly sure it was his very first) public appearance, especially so soon after the release of the latest installment in the series.

The book had been out for so little time that Saitou hadn’t even finished it yet, and the envisioned greater ease of getting the rest of the way through it on an e-reader rather than lugging the new-release hardback around was one of the reasons he was considering purchasing such a device. And surely he could slip in and through the Sagara crowd, take a look at what the store had to offer, and get out without too much inconvenience.

If Saitou had been on an earlier shift rather than in at 11:00 these days, he wouldn’t have needed to worry about this event; as it was, the signing seemed to be in full swing as he made his way inside. Cheerful chatter filled the big room, which subsequently lacked its usual library-like feeling; and, as he’d anticipated, a crowd bloated the central open space. It was difficult to tell with shelves and a lot of people in the way, but he thought the table where the author sat conversing and autographing stood on the left, so he circled immediately around to the right.

He couldn’t help noticing, as he gave the crowd a wide enough berth that he wouldn’t be mistaken for someone trying to get in line, that nobody else in here looked like a cop. Of course some of them might be — it wasn’t as if he knew every last member of the police force, and there was no single defining characteristic that made cops immediately recognizable even to others of their kind — but at the very least no uniforms or visible badges showed in the group. Probably for the best, then, that Saitou didn’t plan on approaching Sagara; he didn’t really fit in with this crowd. It did prove a little difficult to squeeze between it and the e-reader display, though; he was forced to excuse and explain himself far more frequently than he would have liked.

But eventually he maneuvered into a position from which he could make a leisurely examination of the electronics. He was actually fairly close to the author’s table here, as it formed a right angle with this display and Saitou was at the end closest to the corner. That didn’t matter much, since his back was turned on the unrelated business and he stayed right up against the e-reader collection so as to keep from interfering with the autograph line.

Disappointingly, there were far fewer options than he’d expected; in fact the space was mostly taken up with different colors of the same model, as if prospective purchasers needed to test each color separately to find which would work best. Though at least one of the choices they had for sale looked fairly promising, Saitou was annoyed enough with the silly setup that he stood still for several moments listening to the group immediately behind him and one particular voice, somewhat difficult to make out among the rest of the chatter, that he believed to be that of the author.

Suddenly that voice rose in a much louder, jovial remark to whomever was at the front of the line, followed by a hearty laugh, which rendered its sound much clearer… and more recognizable. Saitou went absolutely still against the e-reader display, abruptly listening significantly harder to the next statement, sinking back down to a more normal conversational volume though it was. He knew those tones. He knew that laugh.

Because he wasn’t here to meet Sagara or particularly curious what he looked like — the dust jackets and websites were remarkably devoid of photos — Saitou hadn’t attempted to get a glimpse of him through the milling bodies; and every time he had happened to glance in that direction, nothing at the author’s table had been visible. But now he not only turned and craned his neck, he pretty quickly began pushing his way through the crowd without any excuse or explanation this time. The outcry his passage caused did little to drown out the sound of the voice he’d locked onto, nor make him any less horrifically suspicious. He had to get just one good look at the author in order to assure himself he was imagining things. Because it wasn’t possible… there was simply no way…

It was possible, and there was a way. Saitou broke free of the crowd and barely stopped himself from ramming his thighs into the table, on which he laid his hands for support in his sudden, utter shock and disbelief.

*

Knocking on doors was tedious but necessary, an endless repetition of the same questions and answers that, after a while, blended together so he had to struggle to remember which floor he was on and who’d told him what. Of course he would assess any unusual demeanor for anything beyond run-of-the-mill discomfort with talking to the police, and he would make a note of any useful or even just interesting information… but that was assuming anyone had an unusual demeanor or any useful or even just interesting information. Obviously they did often enough to make this a productive way to spend his time… but it was never often enough to make this a fun way to spend his time.

Perhaps this was why he noticed that someone seemed to be watching him even sooner than he otherwise might have: it offered some potential for engagement that this part of his investigation otherwise painfully lacked.

Of course there were not infrequently gawkers at any active police work (even when ‘active’ was a dismaying misnomer), and most of the time they offered far more sources of annoyance and interference than of fascination… but Saitou was pretty good at interpreting the feeling of eyes on him, and the current set seemed to carry something subtly different than the usual gormless curiosity or deep mistrust with which he was usually watched while on duty.

Then, the hallway walls in this particular apartment building were relentlessly white and plain — and it wasn’t even an off-white, but an unfinished pure lack of color except wherever it was dirty — and the carpeting a utilitarian grey that did nothing for overall appeal. The bland brown of the doors was equally neutral, so the whole place had a drab, dull feeling that made Saitou wonder how anyone ever agreed to live here. Crisp colors stood out against all of this just as obtrusively as a seemingly intrigued contemplation stood out against the insipidity of this part of his investigation, caught his notice with just as much promise.

The watcher was a young man half visible around the corridor’s far corner, casually observing Saitou approach slowly, one door at a time, toward his end of the hall. His red hoodie, unfaded black jeans, hair of a brown much less lackluster than that of the doors Saitou was knocking on — even the bright green of the apple he was eating — rendered him distinctive initially, but when Saitou fixed him with a pointed and assessing look, his face and figure had that effect perhaps doubly so.

During the run of any investigation, Saitou, naturally, saw a lot of people, and throughout his career as a whole encountered a pretty decent cross-section of the city: citizens of every race, economic level, type of self-presentation, and apparent degree of sanity. He was required to assess them, to pinpoint any aspect of personality or behavior that might be indicative of something he wanted to know, so of course he concentrated minutely on many of their personal attributes. Despite this, however, rarely did any of them really grab his attention. They were all vastly different, but in a way they were all the same: they did nothing for him; they were all numbers to crunch, essentially, puzzle pieces to fit into appropriate spots and then leave there.

So when someone did stand out to him, did catch his attention as something other than a number to be crunched, the very fact that they did so made them even more obtrusive. And as such, this young man seemed to shine like a beacon at the end of the hallway, simultaneously difficult to look away from and perhaps a little blinding. Saitou paused in his work, motionless before the next door he needed to knock on, and simply stared, wordless.

The most pertinent point had to be the young man’s excessively good looks, as well as a sort of overall contradictoriness that gave an immediate and perhaps unfair impression of perverseness of character. His face appeared young and fresh, with a touch of the feminine to its prettiness, but bore a scattering of stubble and a broadness of jaw that helped him retain a look of masculinity despite this. His hair had obviously had gel applied in order to be styled into that wild set of spikes, but, despite this deliberate effort, the overall effect was one of carelessness, of indifference to physical appearance and purely accidental handsomeness as a result. And though the baggy sweat-shirt hid upper body details, the jeans fit closely enough to indicate the excellent shape of groin and legs. He was more than just eye-catching; he was enticing, appetizing.

And there was also his race. Of course the city’s Japanese population was such that Saitou felt no surprise at finding them wherever he happened to be, but Japanese heredity yet made for an automatic source of greater interest. To run into someone this attractive that also happened to have the same descent as Saitou’s — and who seemed to be looking at him with some kind of unusual fixedness — was far more rare.

When the young man observed Saitou’s riveted gaze, he abandoned his position at the hallway’s corner and came ambling down toward him, still eating his apple in careless motions that implied he wasn’t worried at all about what this cop in his apartment building might think of him hanging around watching — and also demonstrated a flexibility of lips that Saitou’s hedonistic side (not nearly as smothered as it usually was, for some reason) took special notice of. He came to stand casually near Saitou, finishing his snack and looking the detective up and down without compunction.

“Can I help you?” The officer’s words came out dry as paper not only because he wondered what the kid was up to, but because he was dissatisfied with himself for how pleased he was to see him at close range.

The young man shrugged. “I heard there was a cop in the building, so I figured I’d come down and see.”

“Is there a problem with me being in the building?” In response to that carelessness, Saitou’s tone was even drier than before.

“Nah. I like cops.” He gave Saitou a grin that was both cheeky and damnably attractive, then went on to say something rather shocking: “We just don’t usually get the sexy ones around here.” He eyed Saitou again without a trace of hesitancy — indeed, with a cockiness and self-assurance that seemed to suggest the perfect naturality of flirting with someone without checking on their orientation first. His grin took on a satisfied edge as he finished his second once-over, but then he shook his head. “Sometimes I feel like I should move somewhere with higher rent… maybe then I’d meet more hot cops. You know… richer neighborhoods getting more police attention and all that.”

This statement troubled Saitou largely because it was probably true. The young man might be gorgeous, but in practically leading with a jab like that he was simultaneously frustrating. So, rather than trying to decide whether or not to respond to the flirtation — which, under some circumstances, he might have done — Saitou replied in a tone now more disdainful than dry, “Could you afford higher rent?”

The stranger scowled. “Why would you assume I couldn’t? I probably make more money than you do. I’m just…” He was either embarrassed to admit this or (which seemed more likely) scrambling for an excuse. “…stuck in a long lease I shouldn’t have renewed.”

Saitou glanced around — at the disgusting carpet, the scuffed walls, the terminally bland colors — intending the message, “If you make so much money, you’re an idiot to stay in a place like this.” Evidently he’d gotten his point across, since when his eyes returned to the handsome youth, he noticed clenched fists. (Where the apple core had gone he didn’t know.) What he said aloud was, “I’m Detective Saitou, RCPD. I need to ask you a few questions.”

“Here?” the young man wondered.

Saitou raised a brow. “Unless you’d prefer I arrest you for obstruction of duty and then question you…”

“That sounds like fun. But, nah, I got work to do. No time for an arrest today. What I meant was, here, in this hallway? You don’t want to come upstairs to my apartment? It’d be way more… private in there.”

“I do not require privacy to ask everyone in the building the same set of questions.” Again Saitou might have responded to the flirtation instead of making such a businesslike and acerbic statement, but he really did need answers.

“Huh,” said the young man, sounding disappointed. “Hot, but not a lot of fun. OK, so what are your questions?”

“What’s your name?”

“Ooh, questions about me personally.”

“No, idiot, I just need to know who you are in case I decide to arrest you later for annoying me.”

The young man relented with good grace. “Well, I’m Sanosuke Higashidani.”

“It must be fun navigating American life with a name like that,” Saitou murmured as he noted it down in his phone.

Sanosuke sounded rueful, with a touch of actual exasperation, as he replied, “Yeah, well, we can’t all have sleek, snappy names like ‘Saitou.’ Unless we use pseudonyms.”

Saitou smirked. “And which apartment do you live in?”

“4305.” Sanosuke jerked a thumb upward to indicate the third floor above them. “Wanna see it?”

Making a show of ignoring the second half of that answer, Saitou quickly ran over the building’s layout in his head. “So the windows of your apartment must be on the east side, looking out over the side parking lot.”

Sanosuke considered for a moment. It was sometimes surprising how little oriented people were within their own personal spaces. “Yeah, that’s right. It’s a pretty boring view, now I think about it.”

“I can’t imagine there are many interesting views from the windows of this apartment complex.”

Sanosuke seem to recognize that the officer was again prodding him subtly on his choice of living accommodations, for he frowned. Somewhat defiantly he said, “Well, if you’re wondering whether I’ve seen anything interesting out my windows lately, the answer is no.”

“I wonder if you would recognize something of interest even if you saw it.”

The frown deepened into a scowl. “What, you think I’m too stupid to know something suspicious when I see it? This is about those burglaries, right? You probably think it was an inside job, and want to know if anybody who lives around here’s been acting weird or coming and going at weird times.”

“‘Inside job?’ Somebody’s been watching too many police dramas.”

“No such thing as watching too many police dramas,” Sanosuke replied immediately. No wonder he claimed to like cops. “And the answer’s still no: I haven’t seen anybody suspicious around here lately.”

“What times of day are you usually at home and awake?”

“Wondering about my sleeping habits, huh?” He tried to say it suggestively, but it sounded more stupid than flirtatious. And when Saitou only looked at him, he answered the question. “My schedule’s really random. I’m just as likely to be up all night on the computer and sleep all the next day as the other way ’round. Except sometimes I take my laptop to a restaurant or something and work on shit there for a while. So I’m in and out a lot too.”

People took a bizarre amount of pleasure, Saitou had noticed, in talking about the mundane minutiae of their personal lives. They might be a little uncomfortable answering police questions, but once they got started about their boring schedules, many were willing to go on at tedious length. Sanosuke had actually been more concise than most — probably because he didn’t really have much of a schedule, as he admitted himself — and the unpredictable nature of his activities spanning all twenty-four hours of the day made him almost an ideal potential witness, except…

“If you’re working at your computer most of that time–” Saitou believed himself very generous with the term ‘working’ here– “you probably don’t see all that much out your windows even when you are home.”

“No,” Sanosuke said regretfully, “I don’t. And my computer desk faces away from the patio door.”

Saitou nodded, and moved on. “Since you’ve lived here, how often have apartment complex employees or maintenance people come into your apartment?”

Sanosuke tilted his head, simultaneously cheerful and pensive. “You do think it was an inside job.”

He was right, but Saitou wasn’t about to admit it. Apartments like this were very difficult to break into, and that several of them had been lately suggested someone somewhere had access to keys. “How often?” he repeated.

Still appearing somewhat triumphant at his supposedly correct analysis, Sanosuke replied, “A bunch of times. For a while, every time I took a shower — naked, in case you’re interested — it leaked into the bathroom of the person downstairs. Took ’em forever to figure out what was wrong, so some maintenance guy was in and out of here probably five times, and one of the apartment managers came to look at it once too.”

“Can you describe them for me?”

“Maintenance guy was about my height,” Sanosuke said promptly, almost professionally; “narrow build, kinda like yours, but with a little more fat on him; Caucasian, at least mostly, and at that point he had a fading sunburn; long face, bit of a double chin, thin nose, acne scars, labret piercing; ears stuck out pretty far, and he had one of them pierced too; brown hair, not as dark as mine, with–”

“All right.” Saitou raised a hand to stop him. He didn’t actually need all these details, just enough to pinpoint which maintenance guy it had been — and what Sanosuke had already said tallied with what he’d heard from other apartment-dwellers about the one named Jeff. He was, however, more than a little impressed at Sanosuke’s eye for detail and conciseness of description, though he didn’t plan on saying so. “How about the apartment manager?”

“Her name’s Vivian Something. She doesn’t work here anymore; I think she moved. But she’s a Black woman with–”

“Since you know her name, I don’t need the description.” Saitou had heard about Vivian Something (it was Stetson, in fact, at least up until her recent marriage) from other residents as well.

“OK,” Sano shrugged. “Where’s your partner, by the way?”

Saitou raised his eyes from where he’d been making another note, and raised a brow at the young man. “Asking stupid people boring questions is hardly a task that requires two officers. She’s busy with a different aspect of this case.”

In response to this, Sanosuke seemed to go very rapidly through three distinct emotional states, and the one he ended on surprised Saitou a little. “I’m not— you know, this could be way less boring if you– so your partner’s a woman?”

“Is that a problem?” Not entirely sure why Sanosuke had asked, Saitou gave this response very coldly indeed.

“No, it’s great!” The enthusiasm in Sanosuke’s tone was another surprise. “She wouldn’t happen to be Japanese too, would she?”

Saitou hesitated, but since he saw no reason not to give this information he admitted, “As a matter of fact she is.”

“And I bet you two got partnered up because you’re the only Japanese cops in the precinct.”

Not only did Saitou feel disinclined to comment on this probably true assumption, they were getting off track. Why did he feel as if the tables had turned and he was suddenly the one being interrogated? “And what about your vehicle? Or do you take the bus everywhere?” He really had nothing against public transportation; the disdain with which he spoke the word ‘bus’ merely aimed at prodding Sanosuke away from his untoward queries.

It worked. It seemed pretty easy to bait this young man, and Saitou definitely felt he had the upper hand while they discussed comings and goings in the parking lots and what cars and trucks Sanosuke recognized as regulars around here. But Sanosuke recovered himself enough to resume his previous demeanor of simultaneous obnoxiousness and far-too-tempting flirtatiousness during the next topic. All in all, Saitou felt like they came out of the questioning approximately even — and that was both unprecedented and irksome.

He didn’t suspect the young man of anything except extreme nosiness, and perhaps an unexpected interest in Saitou, and it was the latter suspicion combined with Sanosuke’s undeniable allure that kept Saitou from telling him off. But he wouldn’t go so far in the other direction as to leave a business card with the guy; alluring or not, Sanosuke was also pretty aggravating. When they eventually parted — Sanosuke, presumably satisfied about the presence of a cop in his building, back to whatever apple-eating idling he’d been doing before some gossipy neighbor had informed him of the circumstance and sent him down here; Saitou to continue door-knockings destined to be even more tedious and uninteresting than ever now — he watched the handsome figure disappear around the hallway’s corner with ambivalent feelings, wondering whether he would encounter him again during the course of this case, or perhaps in some context besides criminal investigation. If he did, it would be through no fault of his own.

*

“What the hell…?” No great shock, honestly, that he’d somehow gotten past the officers in the dining area; they’d only just barely gone out there to keep an eye open for customers trying to enter. “Well, no wonder a guy can’t get any pizza, with all these cops running around the place.”

It wasn’t necessarily startlement that kept Saitou silent for a moment or two longer than he normally would have been, though there was some of that too; it was more the combination of surprise at seeing this person again so unexpectedly with the abrupt reminder of how ridiculously attractive he was. And since Saitou was thus momentarily speechless, Tokio answered:

“Got the wrong stereotype there, don’t you?”

Trying to fight off a grin in order to maintain the facetious expression of concern he wanted, Sanosuke’s face writhed comically for a moment. Stupidly, this didn’t make him any less handsome. “Oh, crap, don’t tell me Krispy Kreme’s been hit too!”

Tokio rolled her eyes. “Why don’t you go check for us?”

Now Sanosuke’s grin conquered the look of false consternation and spread wide. “But I wanted pizza today, not donuts.” Then, seeing Tokio was about to dismiss him in a more official capacity, he added quickly, “Besides, I was an invaluable witness at y’all’s last case; I can probably be useful here too.”

Undoubtedly never having seen Sanosuke before, Tokio turned toward Saitou with elevated brows, and Saitou broke his silence at last with, “He lives in the Hammock apartments. And ‘invaluable’ is a gross exaggeration.”

Sanosuke appeared annoyed, but rallied quickly and said, “Hey, just because you turned down certain parts of the offer doesn’t change its overall value.” His grin, which had darkened somewhat in his irritation, now brightened as he added in a more jovial tone, “But seriously. How you doing, Detective Saitou, RCPD? Single? You never did call me.”

Tokio’s brows lifted even farther.

“What are you doing here?” Saitou asked the question flatly, feeling he did fairly well at hiding how amusing he found this kid.

“Well, I wanted pizza. Looks like I got a crime scene instead.” And it couldn’t be more evident that Sanosuke considered this an excellent trade. He did a little dance of childish excitement and anticipation as he looked around the chaotic kitchen, causing the laptop bag slung over one shoulder to bounce alarmingly against his hip, and punched one fist into his other palm, smiling broadly and lopsidedly the entire time. “I mean, check it out: there’s fresh bullet-holes in the walls and everything!” And his grin only widened as he noted this fact that many another person might comment on with fear or dismay. He paused, though, as he turned to gaze delightedly at the signs of the few shots that had been fired not long before and added, “Except that one above the grill; that one looks older.”

Of course the eyes of the two cops snapped immediately to the spot in question, then to each other. Then Tokio started searching for something to stand on. They hadn’t even really begun examining this room yet; the questionable employees had only been escorted out minutes before. But it was possible — Saitou didn’t like to admit it, but it was possible — the evident age of one of several bullet-holes decorating the kitchen walls might have escaped them where this apparently sharp-eyed idiot had been able to point it out immediately. And it might even provide useful facts, depending on which bullet matched which gun.

As he watched Tokio go about her examination, Sanosuke’s expression of pleasure intensified; he obviously reveled in having stumbled upon an interesting crime scene as well as in what he’d cleverly noticed there. But Saitou wasn’t going to put up with his nonsense this time. “You need to leave,” he said sternly.

Before Sanosuke could even begin to protest, as Saitou was certain he would have done, Tokio said in a mischievous tone, “Oh, I don’t see why he can’t stick around. He is an invaluable witness, after all… and this bullet-hole is definitely old.” She’d dragged a greasy chair from just outside the restaurant’s small office over to the grill and begun examining the place carefully without touching it. Now she held out a mute hand requesting implements, which Saitou hastened to provide.

Into the ensuing silence Sanosuke remarked easily, “So you must be the partner. Saitou mentioned you last time.”

“Only because you brought her up,” Saitou reminded him.

The aforementioned partner, though she didn’t look away from her task, gave every indication of great amusement and a strong likelihood of going into Tokio Mode. Now she said, in as casual a tone as Sanosuke had used, “Yes, I’m the partner. Someone has to keep this crooked cop in line.”

The responding expression of glee Sanosuke turned toward Saitou did not bode well, but at least he seemed to recognize this particular statement as a teasing remark rather than taking it at face value. “So maybe you can tell me, since he never bothered to: is he single?”

Saitou braced himself for Tokio’s answer, and therefore was prepared when she said, “Of course he is.” Out of the side of her mouth, as if he weren’t standing immediately to her left, she added in a stage whisper, “He’s a virgin.”

Sanosuke looked Saitou up and down, then let out a patently disbelieving chuckle. And Saitou had to admit to a certain amount of disappointment, despite how stupid the conversation already was, when the young man’s next question, still directed at the more cooperative Tokio, was, “And what about you?”

She adored talking about herself, especially in Tokio Mode, so she answered with no trace of hesitation. “Single, or virginal?”

Impish, Sanosuke replied, “Both.”

“Neither. I have nine children; I’ve been married for ten years.” In fact the closest she came to being a mother was forcing Saitou to look at funny pictures of her nieces and nephews sent by her brother in Montana; and, though she’d been married throughout most of her twenties, had divorced her husband three years ago.

Nine?” the young man echoed, startled out of his casual flirtatious demeanor. Though he’d recognized her earlier statement as untrue, evidently she’d taken him in with this one. “How old are you?”

“You should know it’s rude to ask a woman that,” she chided. “But I’m twenty-six.” In fact she was thirty-two.

“You’ve been married since you were sixteen?”

She redirected the course of the questioning. “I notice you don’t ask how old Saitou is.”

“I’m almost afraid to ask now.”

Finished prying the bullet from the wall and sealing it in an evidence bag, Tokio jumped down from the chair. “Well, he’s only forty-two,” she assured Sanosuke. In fact Saitou was thirty-six. “That’s not too old for you, is it?”

“No,” Sanosuke said thoughtfully, apparently adjusting his perspective but not necessarily disappointed. “No, it’s not. But you — you make enough money as a police detective to support nine kids?”

This unexpected question was evidently a welcome challenge, and Tokio, in fine form, didn’t miss a beat as she replied, “My husband won the lottery a few years back, so we have more money than we know what to do with.” She rolled her eyes as she added, “He bought an entire stable outside town last year so he could get a pony for every single one of our children, including the baby.”

Now Sanosuke looked as if he finally began to suspect the veracity of Tokio’s words, and didn’t know quite what to do about it. Accusing a police officer of straightforwardly lying to your face was always a tricky business, after all; that was part of why Tokio Mode worked so well in the first place.

But Tokio had a dual purpose in this instance, and didn’t allow Sanosuke time to reply to the pony comment. “But maybe it wasn’t so much my income you wanted to know about?” She threw Saitou another sidelong glance. “I ain’t sayin’ you a gold-digger, but why did you want to know?”

Sanosuke laughed. It was unfair what a nice laugh he had. “Well, I really was curious, but, you know, it is useful — like if you want to go out to dinner with somebody or something — it’s kinda nice to know what they’re used to. Like whether you can get away with cheap-ass pizza places that apparently have secret crime going on in the back room at the same time–” He pronounced the word ‘crime’ with satisfaction verging on delight as he gestured around at the kitchen in which they stood– “or whether, like, a Red Robin is a better price range, or if I need to spring for some fancy-ass steak place where it’s forty dollars a plate.”

Tokio’s satisfaction too seemed to be on the verge of delight, and Saitou could practically hear the gears grinding in her head as she came up with some elaborate description of what type of dates he enjoyed going on. But there was more a pressing concern at the moment, and Saitou himself spoke up for the first time in a while: “It’s interesting you’re talking like you have money when you’re still dressed like that.” (This wasn’t actually the pressing concern, just something he felt he had to bring up first.)

“Like what?” Sanosuke demanded, looking over his jeans and layered T-shirts before turning challenging eyes under lowered brows on Saitou.

The latter pressed on without elaborating on that particular topic, however: “But what I really want to know is why you think ‘secret crime’ is ‘going on in the back room’ here. Despite the old bullet-hole, a scene like this–” he imitated Sanosuke’s gesture around them of a moment before– “would seem more indicative of an isolated incident, don’t you think?”

Now Tokio also appeared more focused on the interloper, for reasons other than that she loved messing with people. She said nothing, though, waiting for Sanosuke’s answer (and probably still contemplating her fiction about her partner’s ideal date and holding it in reserve for a better moment).

“This place always seemed sketchy,” Sanosuke shrugged. “Especially the guys in back, if you ever saw ’em. They made such good pizza, though,” he added with an unrepentant flash of teeth.

“And you didn’t report this?” Saitou’s words came out darker and more cutting than they needed to be because he was vexed both with Sanosuke’s flippancy and his own amusement at it.

“Oh, yeah,” the young man said with a roll of eyes, “like I’m gonna call you up and say, ‘Hey, this pizza place I do my work at sometimes has a bunch of really twitchy employees, and I think their food license is outdated.'”

“It would be an excuse to call,” Tokio pointed out.

“Huh.” Sanosuke acknowledged this with a thoughtful twist of lips, probably trying to decide whether having an excuse to call would be worth the hell Saitou would undoubtedly give him in response to that idiotic ‘report’ — and whether it wasn’t more likely Saitou would simply hang up on him (about which Saitou himself wasn’t entirely sure).

“Tell us about the twitchy employees,” Saitou commanded, hiding his precise facial expression by digging for his phone and stylus and opening the note-taking app he primarily used.

“OK, well…” Sanosuke launched into a detailed account of what he’d noticed about the pizzeria’s employees and their comings and goings. Though he could only guess — and did, with possibly problematic canniness — at what had been going on around here, his information served to enhance the impression Saitou and Tokio had of this place: that if you knew the right way to order and had the cash, you could get a side of stolen iPad with your breadsticks; and, just as the last time they’d met, Saitou was grudgingly impressed at Sanosuke’s eye for detail and his ability to collate the information he observed.

And it was clear Saitou wasn’t the only one when Tokio, about halfway through Sanosuke’s description, leaned over and said very unsubtly to her partner, “Kid’s got good instincts.”

Saitou restrained himself from nodding, and didn’t look up from his notes even when Sanosuke broke off to retort, “‘Kid?!’ We never talked about how old I am!”

“Old enough for Saitou,” Tokio said airily. “That’s all that’s important.”

As the banter continued and Saitou tried with varying degrees of success to get actual information out of this alternately obstructive and entertaining young man, he also tried with varying degrees of success to push away thoughts of how (he was tempted to say ‘conveniently’) well Sanosuke got along with his partner, how unexpectedly useful his powers of observation and recounting might turn out despite his simultaneously being completely in the way, and how damned attractive he still (in fact now more than ever) was.

*

Saitou had only planned to have one last, quick look around the bloody crime scene for the satisfaction of his own inquisitiveness before leaving it to forensics and heading down to the end of the alley where Tokio was already busy taking statements; but as his eyes had risen from the pocked and stained asphalt surface on which he stood, past the rusty dumpster and collection of plastic trash cans that surrounded it, and up the dirty brick walls of the buildings that loomed over him to either side, he discovered he wasn’t going to be able to walk away just yet.

“What are you doing?” he asked the young man squatting on the lowest level of the decrepit fire escape and peering down through its railings. His tone wasn’t accusatory or demanding or even particularly surprised; somehow he felt he should have expected to find Sanosuke there.

“Ogling your crime scene, of course,” the latter replied easily. “And you, maybe.” Even more so here than when Saitou had originally met him, he seemed to shine brilliantly, ridiculously visually appealing and desirable in contrast with the dilapidation and grime and evidence of murder around him. He was also, and for reasons beyond his mere presence where his absence would have been more appropriate, still annoying. “And before you say I’m not supposed to be here, there’s people watching from up there too–” He jabbed a finger skyward, indicating two figures peering down from the fire escape’s fourth platform– “and you should really start at the top.”

They’re not ogling me, though.”

Though Saitou had said it at a mutter, Sanosuke obviously caught the statement, for he grinned. “They are if they have any brains!”

There was some impulse to return the expression, but Saitou resisted easily. “What are you doing here?” he asked again, grim.

Sanosuke’s eyes shifted from where they’d been wantonly traversing Saitou’s figure to the ground nearby where a splatter of red was drying to copper. And though his tone didn’t sound quite as dead serious as Saitou’s had, he still spoke levelly. “Got a text from a friend saying something was going on — police and stuff.” Next he indicated behind him with a thumb. “The guy in this apartment was nice enough to let me come out here and have a look.”

Of this Saitou could not approve. “In other words,” he said cuttingly, “you’re sitting up there like a vulture waiting to feed off of someone else’s death. Crime dramas aren’t enough for you anymore, so you have to get your fix by dogging the police trying to see the real thing.”

Sanosuke sprang to his feet, barely missing knocking his head against the metal stairs upward behind him. “Don’t act like you know what my motivations are.” Fists clenched and eyes flashing from on high, he appeared more lively and enticing than ever — but Saitou feared he could no longer look at him in the same light. “I admire you, OK? And I don’t just mean your long sexy legs. You cops trying to figure shit out and make sure situations like this get resolved, trying to make sure it doesn’t happen again — just because I want to watch your procedure and see how it’s done doesn’t mean I’m disrespecting that poor guy who got killed!”

Saitou stared up and Sanosuke stared down for a long moment, and something in the officer gradually relaxed. It was an unexpected relief, actually, to find himself believing the young man’s words. Even if his presence here and irrelevant curiosity was a little tasteless, Sanosuke truly didn’t intend any disrespect. Even if he was still a dumbass. Saitou probably shouldn’t have been so pleased.

Possibly sensing the change in atmosphere despite Saitou’s continued silence, Sanosuke added at a grumble, “And don’t talk about crime dramas like they’re worthless. Nothing wrong with getting some entertainment out of crime, since it has to happen anyway. Besides, they make people think, don’t they?”

“I’m not sure they make people think about anything useful.” Saitou’s tone had eased as his attitude had. He wasn’t about to offer an apology for having misjudged, but in a slightly more conciliatory manner he did add, “I do enjoy some crime dramas, though.”

Anger seemingly in full recession, Sanosuke dropped back into the same crouch as before; it allowed him a closer view through the railings of the narrow street beneath him. And his tone too had lightened as he replied, “We should read some together sometime,” with an incongruously suggestive smile.

“‘Read?'” Saitou echoed in surprise. Literature was not the medium he would have expected Sanosuke to propose.

“Yeah, you know, like… Barnes & Noble and chill.”

Saitou laughed. He couldn’t help it. He sobered quickly, though, shaking his head and making the scan he’d come here for in the first place. When he glanced back up at the fire escape, he found Sanosuke watching him intently. “You’re not likely to see a lot of procedure here today. The team’s going to get started soon, and you’re going to be asked to leave.”

Sanosuke merely shrugged. “At least I got to see you.”

“Do you want to join the police?” Saitou wondered, ignoring this latest bit of flirtation. “Is that what this is about?”

“No. What?” Sanosuke seemed inordinately surprised at the question, as if the idea had never occurred to him and he was a little incredulous it had to Saitou. “Actually I’m an–” But he stopped when Saitou’s phone warbled thrice in quick succession.

I see you gossiping over there, Tokio had sent from the alley’s entrance. The second message read, Is that that kid from the pizza place? Followed immediately by, If you’re not going to help me take statements, I hope you’re at least setting up a double date with him and someone for me. She had a remarkable gift for never letting on that she was texting while busy with something else.

I’m taking HIS statement, Saitou replied, and proceeded to do so. “How long have you been out here?” he asked as he returned his eyes to Sanosuke, who he knew had not been stationed on the fire escape for any significant span but who, with that unexpected detail orientation of his, yet might have noticed something useful.

In order to look at his watch, Sanosuke pulled back the sleeve of his hoodie. It was the same he’d been wearing the first time Saitou had encountered him, the one whose bright red looked so good with his brown eyes and dark brows. “Twelve minutes,” he answered in the more businesslike tone he used to give solicited information, “and we’ve been talking for three.”

His statement about where we’ll all be going out to dinner tonight? Tokio wondered. I never did get a chance to tell him what your dream date would be like.

“So you didn’t see anything here.” The body would have been gone by the time Sanosuke emerged from the apartment, it seemed.

“Thought you weren’t supposed to frame it as a leading statement like that,” Sanosuke said with a crafty smile. Observing Saitou’s impatient expression he added, “No, sorry, I didn’t see anything here except the neighbors upstairs.”

“We’ll have to talk to them,” Saitou confirmed. He paused for a moment in order to send, If YOU want to go to dinner with him tonight, I’ll give you his number. Then he asked aloud, “Who was the friend who texted you to come here?”

And as Sanosuke described his acquaintance and the circumstances under which the guy had noticed the gathering police — all perfectly, dully innocuous — Tokio replied, So you DO have his number.

May I remind you someone has died here. Saitou wished he could send a stern expression in some manner other than by using emojis, which he found stupid and counterproductive.

“Are you texting your partner at the same time you’re questioning me?” Sanosuke asked with uncanny acumen. “Say hi to her for me.”

“May I remind you someone has died here?” Satisfyingly, Saitou was now able to employ the stern expression.

“I know that.” Sanosuke stood straight again, looking around once more at the taped-off area. His bearing and faint frown indicated he truly was taking this seriously, despite any little indications to the contrary. It was an almost police-like attitude of Life goes on in spite of everything that struck Saitou as odd and more than a little fascinating coming from someone that had expressed surprise at the idea of his wanting to join the force.

Did that kid kill him? was the next text from Tokio, and Saitou stifled a sighing laugh. It wasn’t as if they didn’t pretty typically use gallows humor and fake flippancy in most situations like this, after all. Life went on in spite of everything; Sanosuke couldn’t really be blamed for exhibiting some levity even in the wake of a murder when the cops did the same thing. Actually it stirred up a sense of camaraderie between them that Saitou would rather it didn’t, and made the idea of spending time with him — in some situation besides the somewhat ridiculous ones in which they’d met so far — seem all the more appealing.

“You guys’ll figure it out,” Sanosuke went on in a lighter tone. “By dinner time, maybe? Then you can meet me somewhere. Do you like pizza? We never established that last time.”

Thinking he really should give his partner Sanosuke’s number, since the two of them were so eager to have dinner somewhere tonight, Saitou instead pocketed his phone in some irascibility without responding to Tokio’s latest, which was, In any case, say hi to him for me. And tell him I own this entire city block. In fact she didn’t even own her car. He did not relay the greeting of either one of them.

“Or you could come to my place — you remember where I live, right? — and I’ll cook us dinner. And then breakfast tomorrow,” Sanosuke finished with eyebrows pumping.

Saitou rolled his own eyes at the impudence that could flirt so blatantly while overlooking the tragic and gruesome. Simultaneously, though, it made for another nice contrast. “I have no more questions for you,” he said shortly. “You’d better clear out.”

“OK, fine.” Sanosuke’s tone was one of mingled regret and frustration, with just a touch of defiance thrown in; Saitou, having turned away and started walking, couldn’t see his face, but he believed the obnoxious kid was torn between respecting the crime scene and annoyance with Saitou for not responding to his amorous efforts. He was also probably, based on what Saitou knew of him so far, trying to concoct one last snappy statement, whatever its purport. After all, the chances of their meeting like this ever again — by coincidence while Saitou was working — seemed infinitesimal, so if he wanted to change the nature of their relationship, this was pretty much his last chance.

The only thing he came up with, however, before (if the sound of rough hinges and the closing of a door was any indication) also turning and leaving, was a shouted, “Call me!”

And Saitou didn’t necessarily know that he would. But the temptation was definitely there.

*

He’d been wrong. So very wrong. He imagined a number of shapes lying on a table — perhaps a table like the one at which he now stood — onto which a fist had just slammed down hard — harder than his limp hands had helplessly come to rest on this one — and the shapes jumping into the air and falling again all scrambled into an entirely new pattern. Everything was different now, and a lot of facts bore considering in quick succession.

Zanza Sagara, quite possibly Saitou’s favorite author, had suggested they read together.

Zanza Sagara, Saitou’s favorite author, had asked if Saitou was single.

Zanza Sagara had called Saitou ‘sexy.’

Zanza Sagara, historically so repressive in keeping his personal life separate from his professional, had actually, at one point (Saitou realized now), been on the verge of crossing the line and mentioning to some random guy he was flirting with that he was an author of detective novels. On the verge of letting Saitou in on that secret in order to make him understand why he was so interested in crime scenes.

Zanza Sagara had cared that much what Saitou thought.

Given that there were seven books in the Yuki Tomoshiro series, that they’d been released over the last decade, and that no preteen had written any of it, Zanza Sagara had to be at least ten years older than that fresh face of his indicated. And he really did live in town… in fact Saitou knew exactly where he lived… He knew where he had, at least up until its closure a few months back, worked on his novels while eating cheap pizza. He knew what color most flattered his eyes, and it wasn’t the sage green of the tie-less button-up he currently wore.

Now the author looked over at the sudden movement through the crowd and abrupt appearance at his signing table, and his jovial face broke into a wide grin. And why was Saitou so damn pleased at that familiar expression? Yes, this was Zanza Sagara, his favorite author, but it was also that dumbass kid he’d never quite been able to bring himself to reprimand properly for being obnoxious and obstructive, because he was so very, very distracting.

The two were merging irrevocably in Saitou’s thoughts, however. His favorite author was taking on the undeniably gorgeous looks and compelling aura of the dumbass kid, and the dumbass kid was revealed to have the intelligence and creativity to write a series of books Saitou hadn’t been able to put down. It frustrated and disconcerted him. He didn’t know what to do.

“Saitou!” Zanza jumped up, knocking his folding chair over with a clatter and appearing overjoyed — which still, aggravatingly, provoked a similar response in the officer. The author’s surprise at seeing him faded quickly as he added what would have been incongruous with that emotion: “You made it!”

The crowd, previously discontented at Saitou’s rude intrusion, seemed to relax and accept his presence much more readily as the person they were all here to see reacted so favorably to it. There was some shifting — these were probably bookstore employees and maybe an agent or publisher’s representative standing near the author, and some looks of slight confusion passed among them as Sanosuke seized Saitou’s arm and dragged him around the end of the table to stand beside him. Saitou, still shell-shocked and not sure how to react, went unresisting.

“Guys, this is Detective Saitou, RCPD!” Sanosuke announced. He draped an arm around Saitou’s shoulders in a manner so far from platonic that Saitou marveled there wasn’t a chorus of titters from the assembly, and fitted himself against Saitou’s just slightly taller form as if he’d been designed for that space. It was obnoxiously comfortable, and Saitou had to actively fight the urge to slip his own arm around Sanosuke’s waist. “He helped me with some accuracy checks in this latest book…”

Perhaps this statement was true in a sense, but it certainly made it sound as if Saitou had provided a lot more directed information and critique than had actually been the case. It also, somewhat to Saitou’s chagrin, gave him a little thrill, as if he really had been involved in the production of the most recent installment of his favorite series. He shouldn’t be feeling so much excitement about this; Sanosuke just wanted to get into his pants, right?

Though was that idea really so bad?

“…and he’s going to be my consultant for all the rest of the series!” Sanosuke finished, and Saitou had to clench his jaw to keep it from dropping open. There was no doubt the sly young author meant what he suggested, but in addition to that a twist to the sound of ‘be my consultant’ implied so much more than just police-picking details in future books (itself a delightful prospect). The arm around Saitou’s shoulders tightened, and the warmth all along his side seemed to squirm just slightly closer. “Right, Saitou?”

“You shameless idiot,” was what Saitou wanted to say. But under the gaze of a hundred expectant fans (among whom he reluctantly had to number himself), with the prospect in mind of getting a glimpse not only at Zanza Sagara’s work in advance but also at his writing process as it took place, and with a very desirable person he hadn’t wanted to admit he would like to get to know better in a couple of different senses pressed covetously up against him, all he could manage was, “Of course.”

That this bargain had been struck only this moment, and perhaps somewhat under the duress of an unexpected public appearance, it seemed a fair amount of the audience recognized, and there was some laughter interspersed among the applause that followed, but nobody seemed to object. Sanosuke gave his possessive arm another squeeze, then looked around for the chair he’d knocked over so as to resume his celebrity activities — but not until after granting Saitou a very private and evocative grin that promised a host of interesting possibilities for the future.

Well, Saitou was thoroughly embroiled now, but he found he didn’t mind so much. Anticipation and curiosity filled in the gap between astonishment and annoyance at today’s unanticipated events, and looking forward through a disbelieving haze that fully obscured what on earth might happen from here — not to mention the necessity of staving off Tokyo’s inevitable curiosity about his inevitable preoccupation — would undoubtedly occupy his work shift to a lesser or greater extent.

He’d been wrong about the diminutive likelihood of ever meeting Sanosuke by coincidence again; he’d been wrong about the minuscule probability of the young man’s getting what he wanted. He’d been wrong about his real level of interest both in Sanosuke Higashidani and Zanza Sagara, and as such could never have imagined the direction this day would go when he’d decided, under the pretense of having nothing better to do and unrelatedly wanting to look at e-readers, to stop by this bookstore to catch a glimpse of his favorite author. He’d been wrong about a fair few things, it seemed.

Perhaps forgivably wrong, though.

This fic, which I’ve rated , is dedicated to Yaoibutterfly, because one time when they were telling me about a story idea they had, my brain tangented and came up with this thing. For some author’s notes, see this Productivity Log.

The Solution

The Solution

The funny monotonous humming, alternately amusing and irritating, that Chou used to pass the time while he worked broke off suddenly, and Saitou glanced from where he sat in his own office to the tank-like outer area housing Chou’s desk. Based on the new ki discernible there, Sano had arrived on the scene. Now they would distract each other and get zero work done for an incalculable period of time; they always did.

After the rude greetings in jovial tones that could have misled anyone about the relationship between these two, Sano asked, “Saitou around?”

And Chou immediately replied, “Nah, he’s not here yet.” And though this might have been a deliberate lie — especially in light of the further conversation — Saitou thought it not unlikely the broomhead really was unaware of his presence; he’d entered his office at a moment when Chou had stepped away, and he wasn’t making a lot of noise in here.

“Damn,” was Sano’s response to the news

Saitou could hear the lazy grin in Chou’s tone as he said, “Well, no wonder he wouldn’t come in when you’re gonna be here.”

And the identical expression must have been on Sano’s face as he replied, “He’s probably just trying to spend as little time with you as he possibly can.” Though if Saitou had really been forced to decide which of them annoyed him more, he would probably have had to flip a coin. He wouldn’t truly have bothered trying to avoid either of them, though; the occasional annoyance was just part of the deal.

Chou replied, “Hey, he’s glad to have me. He was doing all this shit alone before; he’s never had an assistant he could trust.” And the listening Saitou had to admit this was true; he’d never told Chou it was the case, but evidently the broomhead had figured it out on his own.

“I do good work for him too!” was Sano’s defiant response. “I’ve turned up loads of important information for him.” Which was also true — Sano had a gift for reading a crowd, a room, or a witness that spoke to a highly developed, if largely subconscious, analytical ability Saitou greatly valued. He was far more intelligent than many would have guessed. And where Chou was conspicuous both visually and in a sense of showmanship he simply couldn’t abandon, the roosterhead, despite his almost equally ridiculous clothing and hair, could fit into many an unexpected group and winnow out of it whatever Saitou needed to know.

“Yeah, too bad you have to leave writing it up to me, since you’re so damn hopeless at that.” There was that grinning tone again: a surprisingly un-biting tease that was also perfectly accurate — Chou, far more meticulous and systematic than many would have guessed him, had a talent for police paperwork that Saitou also greatly valued. Where Sano was semi-literate, sometimes completely inarticulate, and certainly disorganized, Chou had raised the efficiency of Saitou’s operation to a degree the wolf had never anticipated when he’d begun working with him.

Sano pointed out, “But at least I’m behind him with all his goals. I even totally forgive him for stabbing me when we first met, ’cause it was all for justice and shit.”

“I’m totally behind him too,” Chou protested, though his tone turned to more of a grumble as he went on. “I actually follow laws now, and I never kill anyone except when I need to for work.”

Though unsure whether he was more exasperated at the description of his personal policies as ‘for justice and shit’ or Chou’s long-suffering air of martyrdom, Saitou had to admit (to himself; he never would have said it to them) that he appreciated the sacrifice and change in lifestyle enacted by each for his sake. Sano could still be cluelessly trailing Battousai around and getting nothing done, and Chou could have run off long ago to murder people and steal their swords, yet they were both here dedicating at least some of their not inconsiderable energy to helping him make a difference in the government and the country.

“Way to be totally morbid about it!” If Sano’s laughter was any indication, however, he had no real objection to Chou’s references to his homicidal past. “See, I’m happy all the time–” Saitou didn’t really think this was true, though he did find Sano’s intense and often rapidly shifting emotional state compelling– “and he needs that. He isn’t happy nearly as much as he should be; he needs someone cheerful around.”

“He sure as hell need a distraction sometimes,” Chou agreed. “It’s just this endless grind for him, and he’ll never be able to deal with all the corruption. But that’s where I come in! He likes hearing about my swords, and that helps him think about something else for a while.”

The idea as stated was not entirely correct; it wasn’t so much that Saitou specifically enjoyed hearing Chou talk about his ever-expanding collection as that he was amused and grudgingly impressed by Chou’s unfailing interest and extensive knowledge. And it wasn’t impossible that he did need cheering and distracting more — and more frequently — than he would be willing to admit. It displayed a greater degree of thoughtfulness than anyone could have expected of these two — and certainly more than Saitou was accustomed to having in his life — that Sano and Chou recognized this.

But he couldn’t be entirely pleased at the thought, nor at what he was overhearing. They were confirming, out there, what he’d long quietly and somewhat worriedly believed: that their desire to impress him went beyond the professional. That they weren’t merely ‘behind him with all his goals.’

“I’m distracting too, you know!” And was that ever right! Sano had such a vibrant, entertaining personality that Saitou had never been satisfied — had never been able to stop dwelling on him — until he’d secured him to his employ. The same thing could be said of Chou, however — there was a reason he’d snapped him up the moment he learned about the broomhead’s amnesty deal, after all — so if he’d had to choose which of the two was more distracting, he would have to bring out that coin again.

“I’m never scared to say exactly what I think about him right to his face,” Sano went on proudly, as if this was a mighty accomplishment rather than a childish and somewhat annoying behavior prone to getting in the way of business.

Sardonically Chou replied, “Yeah, too bad ‘what you think’ and ‘how you feel’ are two different things.” And they both sighed. After a long, pensive silence during which Saitou didn’t even pretend to be working rather than following the drama going on just outside his office with an avidity he wouldn’t have wanted to admit to anyone, Chou spoke again. “And I think he likes me being kinda roundabout. Makes conversation interesting, you know?”

It fascinated Saitou that they neither ever denied the other’s claim — that by neglecting to argue Chou had tacitly admitted Sano’s presence was cheering, and Sano that Chou’s conversation was interesting. The two were a volatile, possibly explosive combination, but for all that not, Saitou believed, incompatible. The issue was that they hadn’t realized their chemical compatibility; each had another mixture in mind. And he didn’t necessarily object to that idea, except for one glaring problem.

“You don’t need to do anything to make conversation with Saitou interesting,” Sano said. “It already kinda… crackles… if you know what I mean.”

Chou sounded as if he did know what Sano meant as he replied regretfully, “Yeah… He’s sexy as shit.”

And there was the glaring problem.

I can barely look at him without getting into an argument,” Sano mused, “and he treats you like the worst kind of peon… I wonder which is better.”

“Or… Juppongatana or Sekihoutai — which is worse?”

Sano gave a surprisingly mirthless laugh, and another silence followed.

Presently Chou said, “You know he’s got files on both of us, right?”

“Does he?” Sano wondered in surprise. “I mean, of course he would, but I never really thought about it…” And temptation already sounded strong in his voice even just with this beginning of an idea.

“Not like they’d tell us which of us he’d rather get horizontal with, but it might be interesting to see what he does have to say about us.”

Saitou barely had time to reflect that he’d rather not ‘get horizontal with’ either of them — or anyone, which was precisely his dilemma in this situation — when the sound of Chou’s chair scraping across the floor indicated he had more important things to think about. Not that he was likely to be the one flustered by the revelation that he’d overheard their entire conversation, just that things would probably come to a confrontation now and he needed to be prepared for his part.

The door burst open with the impetuosity of movement exhibited by both of his assistants, so it was impossible to say which of them had done it, and they piled into the room.

“Discuss me in my absence all you want,” Saitou said from where he sat at his desk, “but prying into my files is going too far.”

Though his words had been cool, they seemed to have just the opposite effect on the faces of his subordinates. He found it was a fairly attractive shade of red on both of them.

“What the serious fuck?” Sano demanded. As was often the case with him, the emotions of the situation (regardless of what they specifically were) caused his hands to ball into fists as he took an angry step forward. “How long have you been here?”

“Really, ahou, what kind of question is that? I know it was an engrossing conversation, but do you really think I could have sneaked past you at any point?”

“You’re a damn sneaky bastard,” the roosterhead shot back, “so maybe!” His face had gone even redder. Chou, more circumspect (just as he’d said a minute before), stayed silent, but Saitou thought he too was blushing a little harder at this clear indication that the wolf had been there all along.

“It is my office,” Saitou pointed out.

“So then you probably heard all that shit we were saying out there.” The nonchalance Sano attempted at this juncture was far too little too late, but it was funny he was trying.

“You were talking rather loudly. It’s been difficult to get any work done in here.” Which was true, but not for the blandly insulting reason Saitou implied.

“So there’s no point pretending!” After a deep breath and never breaking eye contact with Saitou, Sano demanded, “Which one of us do you like better?”

“You hired me way earlier,” Chou hastened to remind his boss, speaking for the first time since entering the room. “You musta liked what you saw in that jail cell.”

“Yeah, but he met me earlier than that.” Sano addressed Chou rather than Saitou in order to argue the point more directly. “He liked what he saw on the dojo steps!” And Saitou almost couldn’t believe this was devolving into, ‘Well, I saw him first.’

“Yeah, but then he stabbed you.”

“He left you in the jail cell.”

Saitou didn’t even bother trying to keep the amusement from his tone as he asked, “Can’t you idiots think of a better way to solve this than trying to determine which of you I’ve abused less?”

“Yeah!” Sano took another vigorous step forward, raising his fist as if for a fight rather than what he was about to suggest. “Yeah, I can! All we gotta do is each of us kiss you, and that’ll clear everything up!”

“You think so?” Now Saitou was on the verge of laughter, though he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with the idea. Kissing he didn’t mind so much — he was lucky Sano hadn’t demanded, in that straightforward way of his, something far more inappropriately intimate to prove this point — but he couldn’t be confident the demonstration would have the desired effect.

But Chou was grinning, the expression devious and anticipatory. “Yeah, that’s perfect. Good idea, tori.” And Saitou thought he could read the true thoughts behind the approving words: Chou too doubted the efficacy of this plan for actually determining which of them Saitou liked better, but was totally onboard with any course of action that would win him a kiss he hadn’t otherwise expected to receive.

Saitou looked back and forth between their agitated but eager faces, and found a smirk growing slowly on his own as he thought he began to see the formula laid out before his mind’s eye. It was still a volatile situation, but he believed he knew now how to work his way through it. Finally he said, “All right.” Then he raised a gloved hand to stop Sano’s immediate impetuous advance. “On one condition.”

Sano and Chou shot each other an almost conspiratorially nervous look, then turned their eyes back toward Saitou in mute curiosity.

“For every kiss I give either of you,” Saitou told them calmly, “you to have to kiss each other first.”

Chou’s left eye popped open in astonishment, while Sano’s response was a hoarse, “…the fuck?”

Saitou’s smirk widened. “You heard me. Get to it.”

The immediacy and lack of complaint or question with which they obeyed was not only flattering — they wanted to get at him quicker — but also promising — they truly didn’t mind this. And he had to admit, it was even nicer than he’d expected to see them together like that. They seemed to fit remarkably well, and know instinctively what motions of lips and tongue — because, oh, yes, there was tongue involved — would be most enjoyable. It lasted a lot longer than even Saitou had anticipated, and certainly, based on their expressions when they broke apart, longer than its two participants had guessed it might. They stared at each other — Chou’s left eye, Saitou noted, still wide open — in bafflement and perhaps a growing mutual awareness for several long seconds after the kiss ended.

Saitou was more than satisfied. If they could get some of what they needed from each other and the rest of what they wanted from him, perhaps there was a solution to this problem after all. And perhaps they too were beginning to recognize that.

But they were also still desperate for the answer to the original question. In entertainingly similar movements, they shook themselves as if discarding, at least for the moment, the revelation that had just began to dawn, and turned toward Saitou almost in synchronization. “Well?” Sano demanded, and Saitou thought the redness of his face arose now from more circumstances than before. “That’s one! So who’s first?”

“Who, indeed?” Still smirking, Saitou reached into his pocket and pulled out a 10 sen piece. Without bothering to declare which of them he’d assigned to which side of the coin, he sent it spiraling into the air with a flick of his thumb. Three pairs of eyes watched it rise, flashing, and then begin to descend.

This story, which I’ve rated , is dedicated to plaidshirtjimkirk because it was directly inspired by their ficlet Tough Love. For some author’s notes, see this Productivity Log.

This story is included in the Saitou & Sano Collection ebook (.zip file contains .pdf, .mobi, and .epub formats).

Naked Rooftops

Naked Rooftops

He was a little miffed at the drunken mercenary that had somehow, beyond all reason, tempted him into doing this right in the middle of an undercover assignment.

After (what should have been) a pretty simple assignment takes an unexpected turn, an ambiguous couple in an unusual situation must work out how they got here and what to do next.

Naked Rooftops

Saitou hadn’t expected Zanza to have such ridiculously, compellingly smooth skin. Marked though it was, here and there, with scars of various sizes (and apparent levels of direness of the original wound), even these were unexpectedly smooth and more or less begged to have a tongue run languidly over them, one by one, for the rest of the evening. Saitou definitely hadn’t been expecting that urge. But honestly, Saitou hadn’t expected a fair number of things about this day.

Zanza, whose ridiculously, compellingly smooth skin had barely started to cool from the intense heat of a few minutes before, also hadn’t yet fully stilled, squirming against Saitou as if determined not to allow the sensations to fade. He’d thrown a leg across Saitou’s, hugging him with the lower half of his body if not quite as insistently as earlier, pretty tenaciously yet. It wasn’t a terribly convenient arrangement of limbs, but Saitou was disinclined to move — and he hadn’t expected that either. He wasn’t sure how he felt about all of this.

Well, he was absolutely certain how his body felt about all of this. It had been a while since he’d had sex, and a much longer while since he’d had sex that enjoyable, and every millimeter of his frame — from a scalp that still tingled faintly where Zanza’s fingertips had threaded through his hair against it, to lips throbbing and swollen after the pressure of unrestrained kisses, to the groin with its residual pulsations of the pleasure it had recently experienced, to the bare toes that hadn’t stopped curling luxuriously in the warm air — every last part of him gloried in the memory and aftereffects of the activities just concluded.

But as for his mind… In the more logical thoughts — the ones not caught up with how excellently Zanza’s well muscled yet delightfully limber body had accepted Saitou’s own and how close to perfect that experience had been — he was a little miffed at the drunken mercenary that had somehow, beyond all reason, tempted him into doing this right in the middle of an undercover assignment.

He had recognized kenkaya Zanza almost immediately when that young man, with his obtrusive kanji-marked attire and absurd hair, had made his way over to where Saitou sat very unobtrusively, ostensibly minding his own business and reading the news, at a small table with a good view of the inn’s dining room and bar, but he hadn’t had any idea what the young man might want. At first, of course, he’d considered the possibility that his cover was blown and someone had sent this darling of the violent Tokyo underworld after him — not that it would do them much good — but he’d dismissed the suggestion quickly as a little too random and unlikely. That was ironic in hindsight when what had actually transpired had turned out to be a good deal more random and unlikely.

The mercenary’s eyes had been bright with drink, and he’d smelled not unpleasantly of sake as well. He’d moved with the faintly exaggerated swagger of a person whose confidence is in no way impaired for all his abilities might be, and, though he’d looked like an idiot, he’d looked like an affable and very visually appealing idiot. For this reason Saitou had not objected to his taking the opposite seat uninvited — and also because objecting might have drawn attention to him (which Zanza, of course, with his mere presence, had already been threatening to do).

“Hey.” As drunken greetings went, Saitou supposed, Zanza’s could have been a lot less articulate, though not much more trite. “Haven’t seen you around here before.”

Naturally Saitou had been in Polite Mode at the time, and therefore only smiled and lowered his newspaper. “Oh? Are you here often enough to know the difference?”

“Enough to know what-all hot older guys hang around the place.” The grin Zanza had flashed him was disarming, flirtatious, and intoxicated all at once.

Saitou had laughed — out loud but not loudly — at the idea that he was a ‘hot older guy.’ Given that Zanza definitely qualified as a hot younger guy, however, he’d had to admit to himself some sense of the flattery in the statement. “This is an inn,” he’d said with low-key sarcasm. “There are reasons other than ‘hanging around the place’ drinking yourself stupid for someone to be here.”

Zanza’s grin had turned sneaky. “You away from home on business, then? Away from the wife for a while?”

“That’s right.” Saitou had been amused at both the suggestiveness in the question and the truth beyond what Zanza could know in the answer.

“Well, business is always better with sake, so lemme buy you a drink. I mean, put you a drink on my tab.”

Unable to keep from chuckling at this blatant admission of impecunity, Saitou had also been unable to come up with any reason to give for refusing — and, again, not wanting to do something that might cause Zanza to direct the room’s attention toward them, he’d gone ahead and accepted the offer. Besides, his target (a secretary suspected of making a quiet trade in classified information and with probably no upstanding reason to be spending so many long weekends at this inn away from his boss in the Ministry of Finance) hadn’t yet appeared on this particular evening in the dining room to be observed; Saitou had figured that being engaged in drinks and conversation with someone at his own table — someone over whose shoulder he could still easily watch the entire gathering, even if that someone was an absurdly dressed mercenary — might be a decent way to avoid suspicion.

The arrangement had turned out to be less than optimal, which perhaps he should have expected. Zanza hadn’t exactly been quiet to begin with, and each drink had seemed to drain from him further ability to be so. And every time he’d laughed — which had happened with increasing frequency as their surprisingly entertaining if equally stupid conversation had unfolded — it had been louder than the previous instance. Additionally, the ridiculous flirtation hadn’t stopped, and the drunker Zanza had become, the more suggestive his remarks — and the more suggestive his remarks (especially with his volume increasing), the more they’d attracted the attention of people at nearby tables. The fear that Zanza might make an even louder fuss if Saitou attempted to chastise or dismiss him had remained firmly in place, however.

At least the secretary had not yet shown up at that point. Saitou had considered his options, and the idea of taking Zanza upstairs to the room he’d rented — something Zanza had been hinting at all along and eventually had switched to openly demanding in increasingly graphic terms — had at the time seemed like the best plan. Now, in hindsight, Saitou wasn’t so certain he’d truly lacked a better option, and wondered if he hadn’t been — and wasn’t still, perhaps — a bit muddled by alcohol. He’d discarded, whenever the mercenary had looked away for even a moment, most of what Zanza had insisted on having brought to the table, but some of it had, by necessity, gone down his throat.

And he’d really felt that taking Zanza upstairs would be the best solution to his problem. Of course nearby diners, who’d been aware whether they’d liked it or not of the kenkaya’s desires, would probably laugh behind their hands at Saitou for giving in — but wouldn’t that just make him look less like someone here to spy on someone else? No, it had certainly made sense at the time.

He’d fully intended to knock Zanza out immediately they got up here. He wouldn’t have been able to go back down to the dining room right away, of course, but he hadn’t planned on putting up with a drunk and amorous — and, overall, very loud mercenary for very long, whatever he’d chosen to do thereafter.

And then…

He wasn’t honestly sure what had happened then. No matter how many times he traced the actual events, there was a disconnect in there somewhere that made it impossible to find a logical path from ‘intending to knock him out’ to ‘very enthusiastically fucking him.’

No matter how closely the police kept tabs on people like kenkaya Zanza (and that closeness already varied depending on how dangerous to public order the person in question really seemed), there would always be plenty of areas left uninvestigated. Naturally, therefore, Saitou was ignorant of personal details such as Zanza’s sexual habits and what he did between fights. Even not knowing, however, the officer had assumed without question that the flirtation at the table had been nothing serious. There was simply no way someone as attractive and flamboyant as this kid was really interested in an unhandsome older man that, as far as Zanza could believe at this point, held no compelling position and had no noteworthy experiences or abilities.

So perhaps it had had something to do with surprise at the apparent sincerity and definite eagerness with which the kenkaya had kissed him the moment they’d reached the upstairs room that Saitou hadn’t pushed him away as he’d planned. He hadn’t previously believed himself so susceptible to that kind of enthusiasm.

And here he was naked, very satisfied physically, annoyed mentally but unsure to what degree, with a very attractive young man cuddling up to him as if ready for a highly contented nap against his bare skin. There wasn’t time for that, of course; Saitou should get up, get dressed, and go back downstairs, since, as pleasant (in some ways) as he couldn’t deny this interlude had been, he did have actual work to return to. But was he going to be able to get Zanza to leave in any subtle fashion? Hell, was he going to be able to get Zanza to leave at all? He wouldn’t be surprised if, the moment he alluded to this evening’s next step, the young man started insisting they go for a second round. And after what had already happened, he might not be terribly surprised if he wasn’t able to decline the suggestion.

So in a continued mixture of bodily comfort and psychological dissonance, he tried to decide exactly what words to use to get himself out of this situation, and in what frame of mind he needed to be well entrenched to avoid further temptation.

*

Everything was going not only precisely according to plan but also far and away better than Zanza had expected. When had he last experienced this fantastic level of afterglow? When had he last been this happy about cuddling some guy he’d just met for more than twenty seconds after sex ended? When had he last been this pleased, in general, about the outcome of an encounter?

In the world he inhabited, sex was something you did the same way you used the latrine — every bit as clean, elegant, and fun to think about afterward. You had to do it, had to get it out of the way, and sometimes, if you were lucky enough to arrange circumstances optimally, it was even enjoyable (or at least satisfying) in the moment… but when it was over, you moved on until you found yourself really needing that release some other time. And he’d thought today’s instance would run exactly along those lines.

In fact he had expected even worse. He’d been certain the guy he’d been sent to seduce would turn out to be ugly as hell and thoroughly unpleasant. Then he would have been forced to decide whether or not to go through with it. Threats to his life didn’t scare him all that much, but it would have been risky, he believed, to decline this job. At the same time, he hadn’t been eager to try to seduce some ugly old man. So he hadn’t really wanted to be pushed into that decision.

But then Fujita had turned out to be… well, ‘just fine’ had been the kenkaya’s initial thought: in exactly the right age category (ten to twenty years older than Zanza) and with a striking face that was, if not necessarily gorgeous, unexpectedly fascinating. Zanza hadn’t been able to make out details of his figure at first in the decorously low-lit dining room, except that clearly the man was as lean as he’d been told, but on the whole he’d decided he didn’t at all mind. So he’d approached… and then, to his further surprise, during the course of their conversation, ‘just fine’ had gradually improved to ‘very fine’ as Fujita’s features and what Zanza could now see of his body grew on him — until eventually the mercenary was ready to label his target quite, if unconventionally, handsome. Instead of the grueling task he’d been half expecting, it had been remarkably easy to get into his role of drunk, bored, and horny.

And then the sex had been amazing. That was another thing about sex in the underworld: it was solely a means to an end — orgasm, mostly — not a pursuit in itself, and as such required a minimal amount of talent. For all Zanza might pride himself on his flexibility and stamina, being good at sex was a secondary if not tertiary skill set in his sphere. But, damn, this guy…! Or had it been more a combination than an individual thing? A very happy meeting of bodies, preferences, and abilities that came together remarkably well?

In any case, Zanza was considering very seriously whether, after not too much longer, he might not suggest they go for a second round. In fact, something in the back of his head that was getting louder by the moment was considering, with an increasing level of seriousness, whether or not he really wanted to collect payment for this job — thereby, most probably, destroying all chances of ever meeting this guy Fujita again on amicable terms — or whether, regardless of the promised amount, it wouldn’t be a better long-term plan to abandon it and instead try to find out whether said Fujita guy might not be amenable to some sort of arrangement having to do with future encounters like today’s on a regular basis.

He believed, after all, that Fujita had enjoyed this every bit as much as he had — and everyone needed a break from work now and then, right? (Or maybe slightly more often than ‘now and then.’) For his own sake, Zanza, of course, was always happy with anything distracting, anything that could get his thoughts off of what he lived to forget. He doubted this Fujita had such traumatic motivations, but that didn’t make the sex less fun on its own… Could they go somewhere with this?

At that moment, beneath Zanza’s still-searching hands and against his still-squirming body, Fujita stiffened abruptly. He pushed himself upward into a seated position so quickly his suddenly rising shoulder almost knocked the kenkaya even sillier than the rest of his body had rendered him by different methods. Zanza was sent sprawling to the side, off the edge of the futon onto the much cooler floor, as Fujita struggled to his feet. And then the door to their right burst from its tracks and into two or three pieces under the blow of a large hammer-like weapon carried by one of the several men — too many to count just now — that poured into the room before the door’s clattering pieces had even hit the floor.

Though it did take half an instant for Zanza to get his bearings, still an ambush like this was nothing unusual in his life or even something he particularly disliked. Indeed, the unexpected nature of such an attack added a piquancy to the resulting skirmish that he usually rather relished, even if he was a little angry simultaneously at his enemies’ underhanded methods. He would have been glad to fling himself, lack of clothing notwithstanding, against the swordsmen now arrayed before him and that guy with the interesting mallet thing — except they weren’t alone. As gunshots sounded deafeningly closely to Zanza’s ears, he reflected first that firearms were a really tacky way to change the dynamic of a battle and he didn’t like them much, and second that, while, yes, it would have been fun to rumble with the more traditionally armed enemies in the room, Fujita had the right idea in scrambling for its only other exit.

There wasn’t time to grab anything; there wasn’t time to consider anything except escape from the pistols suddenly aimed at them. So when Fujita crashed through the light wood and rice paper of the closed window to land precariously on the narrow strip of third-floor roof separating the wall from a drop to the street twenty-some feet below, and Zanza followed closely at his heels, it was unarmed, almost completely unattired, and with bullets whizzing past their heads and even, at times, grazing their skin.

Zanza thought his mostly bare feet had a better grip on the tiles of the slanted roof than his shoes would have, but that was small consolation. As he followed Fujita at a run away from the window they’d just burst through, he was uncomfortably conscious of the flapping of his only-recently-flaccid penis with every jarring step, as well as of the fact that their attackers hadn’t given up: further gunshots accompanied swearing and straining and then clattering footsteps behind them, and it was a downright miracle neither of them had been hit yet; he attributed it to the unexpected chase across unusual terrain and the deceptive light and shadow of dusk.

But now the sound of gunfire came from somewhere beneath him and to his right as well. Risking a very quick glance in that direction, Zanza thought he saw running figures down on the ground tracking their progress across the roof and sending up the occasional shot. Of course whoever these people were would have backup outside the inn as well, just in case their quarry escaped somehow — and of course that backup had been on the alert.

To his dismay (and also perhaps a bit to his excitement; peril always made a day more interesting), Zanza saw ahead of them an open space: Fujita, running in front, was approaching the edge of the rooftop, which, instead of turning the building’s corner, just ended with the wall and left that side of the inn a flat expanse from street to summit. They couldn’t go much farther in that direction. Except Fujita wasn’t slowing. In fact his feet, even barer than Zanza’s, pounded with greater speed and intensity as he neared the brink. The area below was relatively narrow — particularly with the walls of this business and the next closing in to make it little more than an alley — but still it had to be at least fifteen feet between this roof and the slightly lower one across from it. Was the guy completely crazy?

Well, to be honest, Zanza kinda liked completely crazy. So when Fujita did indeed push off the last inch of the inn’s third-floor roof and go flying, with no great grace but impressive speed and accuracy, across the gap, Zanza could do nothing but admire and imitate. And maybe his jump was even less graceful, and not quite as efficient, as that of his companion, but he doubted he would even have tried it in the first place if Fujita’s movements hadn’t conveyed so much confidence in its success.

Their destination roof was the highest point of the opposite building, the latter being only three storeys tall, and tiled with wooden shingles rather than ceramic. Fujita, to curb his momentum, had dropped into a splay-legged crouch, and Zanza was forced to do the same rather earlier than he would have liked to keep from running smack into the other man. A number of splinters pierced his skin simultaneously in various places, and this combined with the fading shockwave of having made contact with a hard surface after such a long jump without shoes made him grunt aloud. But he couldn’t pause to assess his many minor injuries: Fujita was already rising, and so must he — the gunshots from behind had not ceased.

Erratically along this new roof they ran, Zanza at least feeling very exposed without a fourth storey wall to hug for some minor protection or illusion thereof, to the sound of chaos and the continual awareness of bullets breezing past. There were, however, no more footsteps on their level — on the ground far below, yes, but not up here — indicating that the completely crazy fifteen-foot airborne street-crossing had been beyond the courage or perceived abilities of their pursuers. And when their zig-zagging path took them up over the decorative ridgepole into a half-run-half-slide down the other side, the gunfire from behind them on the third-floor level ceased entirely, indicating they’d passed from line of sight.

When Fujita, still in the lead, approached the lower end of this side of the roof, however, gunshots erupted toward him yet again, and he jerked away so hard and suddenly that he fell into a sitting position on the shingles, then scrambled further upward so he ran into Zanza, knocking him onto his ass as well. “Get back,” he commanded, rather unnecessarily, as more bullets flew from the street below. Together they fumbled their way up the roof some distance into the shadow of a sort of turret offset the middle of the building, an octagonal structure just wide enough for them both to hide behind. Fujita, from his crouch, craned his neck to scan the area, while Zanza merely sat down with his feet against the turret and let out a long breath. The sake in his belly had been churned into a slightly ill sensation as he ran, but at least he also felt, with so much adrenaline onboard, relatively sober.

“If they’re not on all sides of the building already,” Fujita muttered, gazing meticulously around with a scowl, “they will be too soon for us to get anywhere.” The nearest end of the roof appeared to overlook a yard of some description — it was difficult to tell from this angle — and didn’t seem to offer any avenue for escape; the opposite end or up over the ridgepole again was the direction from which they’d come, where gunmen waited; the low end, the side they’d just approached, was obviously out of the question.

Bending to pick a splinter out of the flesh of his left calf, Zanza wondered, “So what do we do, then?”

“We wait.” Fujita abandoned his half-standing position for a seated one similar to Zanza’s. “With this kind of commotion in the streets, the police won’t take too long to show up; our would-be assassins will run off or get themselves arrested, and we should be safe to find a way down.”

Zanza stared at him. “Seriously, that’s your plan?”

Fujita was still gazing around critically at nearby buildings. “There aren’t a lot of places they could fire at us from, and that’s assuming they can access any of them quickly enough in the first place. If they aren’t sure exactly where we’ve gone, they might not even try.” He tapped the wooden siding his foot was resting against. “We’re lucky this turret doesn’t have windows, or they’d already be halfway up here by now.”

“But, seriously, you want to just wait here to get rescued?” Zanza wondered with increasing skepticism. “By the police?”

Fujita turned narrow, irritated eyes on him. “I don’t want to, no. If you have a better idea…?”

Zanza’s mouth, which had popped open immediately and unthinkingly for a retort, closed gradually. He didn’t have a better idea. If it had been anything but guns

Fujita nodded in a fairly annoying That’s what I thought type of gesture, and they both fell silent.

So this was interesting. Why it was happening was a great big mystery at this point, as was the identity of their pursuers and even which of them was the intended target. The only absolutely certain thing must be the purpose of those attackers: murder, plain and simple. Zanza had been on the receiving end of that purpose plenty of times, regardless of how well it worked out for the instigators, but he couldn’t think of a single entity — individual or group — that was both upset enough with him to wish for his death and well enough staffed and armed to have attempted it in this manner. And who exactly was this Fujita guy, after all, if he was the target of this well staffed and well armed attack? Did it have something to do with whatever he’d been working on at that inn that Zanza had interrupted in order to seduce him?

This thought — of that inn room and what had taken place there — reminded Zanza of something he hadn’t considered until now, and his mood rapidly changed from one of interest and energy (and admittedly some aggravation) to one of extreme frustration and even more aggravation. Finally, as the transition completed, he made an irate noise and slammed a fist into the roof beneath his buttocks. “Dammit! Fucking dammit!”

“Quiet down,” Fujita commanded harshly, startled. “What is wrong with you?”

“My clothes!” Unable to express his sudden anger any other way, Zanza pounded on the roof again. “They’re gonna get destroyed or stolen or something!”

“That’s hardly worth drawing attention to our position for.”

“But I don’t have any other clothes! And you know how expensive that gi was to get made? I’ll have to go back for a-fucking-nother one now!”

Fujita took him by the arm and shook him roughly. “Listen to me, you idiot,” he said in a low tone, close enough to Zanza’s ear for his breath to be somewhat distracting. “I don’t care if you live or die out here, but for the sake of my survival, I would appreciate it if you’d shut the hell up.”

“You didn’t care so little if I was alive or not when you were fucking me,” Zanza spat back.

“Yes, but I only fucked you in the first place to get you to shut the hell up.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I only had sex with you ’cause I was going to get paid for it, because otherwise I’d be pretty pissed you said that.” Actually Zanza was stung by the remark, but not about to admit it.

And at his words Fujita looked a little surprised, perhaps even a little annoyed. “When did kenkaya Zanza turn whore?” he wondered, and Zanza realized belatedly that he might believe the statement to have meant the mercenary expected to be paid by him — which would carry some unfortunate implications Zanza had certainly not meant to make.

Still, it was quickest and easiest to quote, “‘Everyone is a whore for the right price,'” and leave it at that.

“That sounds just like something my wife would say,” Fujita muttered, now clearly more irked than ever.

The words hit Zanza like a cannonball as all the circumstances of today and yesterday suddenly came together into a startling picture he hadn’t seen perhaps because subconsciously he hadn’t wanted to see it. “Shit…” he whispered as the certainty grew within him that he was right, that he’d been a fool, that he’d been used.

Fujita had glanced again toward the street and back, and when he caught sight of the expression on Zanza’s face his own darkened into one of suspicion and concern. “What is it?” he demanded.

Zanza was going to have to tell him; he couldn’t think of any other way. And Fujita, pinned down naked by surrounding gunmen on a third-floor rooftop, probably deserved the truth in any case. With a deep breath and a hard swallow, he began — in a much quieter tone than he’d previously used — to explain.

*

If the exterior of the house and its landscaping hadn’t indicated just how rich this person was, the furnishing and decoration inside would leave no doubt in any visitor’s mind — and Zanza got the feeling that was their purpose. Surely actual Europeans didn’t stuff every last corner so full of rickety undersized tables and shelves of vacant-eyed figurines and plates and things, or paper all the walls quite so relentlessly in so many ugly patterns, or put up ornate-edged mirrors in every available space? But honestly he didn’t know for sure, and the point was that this person he’d been summoned off the street to talk to had lots of money, the desire to show it off, and presumably a need for a mercenary for some task or other.

The very courteous servant that had originally hailed him and then led him here, a pretty young thing in a dark western-style gown with an apron and white cap, now ushered him through a door into a large, sunlit room just as tackily and profusely decorated and furnished as everything else Zanza had seen here, then bowed herself out. And the kenkaya was left facing the employer the girl had been sent to bring him to.

She was in her mid-to-late thirties and dressed exactly as Zanza would have expected in this setting: in a frilly frock of western design that bared a certain amount of cleavage and anything of her arms not covered by the lacy shawl draped across them. The ruffles of her seemingly excessive skirts, a delicate shade of pink that complemented her skin tone excellently, spilled over the sides of the divan around her. She was handsome, especially with that hair so artfully arranged in a high bun from which black ringlets fell in a shining mass, but nothing stunning, and in fact Zanza rather thought the surrounding show — the carpets and furniture and clothing — was intended to enhance what nature had provided. She certainly made a striking first impression, in one way or another.

“Good afternoon, kenkaya Zanza-san.” She greeted him in a polite, cultured tone with no hint of a foreign accent — however she dressed and decorated, her voice and features proved she was Japanese underneath. “Thank you so much for agreeing to come speak to me.”

“Uh, no problem?” Zanza, moving forward to stand nearer where the woman sat — ‘presided over the room’ might be a better description of what she did — wasn’t really sure what to make of all of this.

“Please have a seat,” she added. The gesture by which she indicated a nearby stiff-looking chair facing her divan was more a mandate with an overlay of elegance than real graciousness, but polite nevertheless. “Wine?”

Zanza sat, as adjured, on the extremely ugly and (it turned out) rather uncomfortable chair, and glanced at the servant whose presence in the room he hadn’t noticed until now: a tall, thin man in a western-style suit standing at a table that held a narrow bottle and two stemmed glasses on a silver tray.

“Sure,” he said. “Why not?”

Though his hostess smiled her amusement at his attitude, the servant did not react at all, only poured a generous measure of dark red liquid into each glass with stony indifference. When he handed hers over in a gesture that was half bow, she said something condescending in a language Zanza didn’t speak and couldn’t identify (not that he was an expert). The man murmured something subservient in reply and, after giving Zanza his glass with a fractionally shallower incline of his upper body, silently left the room.

The woman’s eyes followed her servant out the door, then returned, slightly narrowed, to look at Zanza. “Now that we’re alone…” She didn’t finish the statement, just lifted one eyebrow and took a sip of her wine.

Still not certain how to interpret this scene, Zanza lifted his drink and inhaled its scent. He’d never had wine before, and it smelled weak and fruity compared to his usual fare. Still, free alcohol was free alcohol. He mirrored the woman’s sip.

“Good?” She looked up at him coyly from over the rim of her own glass.

For a moment Zanza debated how to answer, which was a little unusual for him. He preferred straightforward dealings, didn’t like this kind of posturing, and the fact that he was considering his words at all arose only from the dual awareness that there was more to this woman than just a lot of money she might be willing to offer him for some potentially interesting gig and that it wasn’t impossible she was flirting with him right now.

So what could he say? That, though it had a flavor a lot classier than anything he’d ever drunk, the wine wasn’t really to his taste since, other than alcoholic concentration, he was largely indifferent to the components of a drink? That, regardless of what scant purpose there was to this indulgence beyond becoming incoherent and forgetful, he had sometimes wished, recently, that he could share drinks with someone that actually mattered to him instead of an endless succession of fellow lowlifes he might be beating up later and the occasional prospective employer — and that the setting in which she had offered this particular beverage only drove home the idea that here was yet another of those he really didn’t care about and never would? That he would prefer she abandon this coy restraint and lay everything out?

He forced himself to be relatively polite, however, and said, “Yeah, it’s all right.” Which wasn’t technically a lie. But he really would demand she get to the point if she put it off much longer.

Her smile widened. “It’s a vintage I’ve always enjoyed — rare, yes, and very expensive to import all the way from Italy, but, you know…” She leaned forward, and her smile and tone turned conspiratorial, though her big brown eyes remained merely calculating. “I never mind going to some trouble to get exactly what I want.”

“Uh-huh.” Zanza swallowed the rest of the wine in an undignified gulp just to get it out of the way, then looked around for some place to set down the glass. Finding none within arm’s length, he kept it in his hand, and fidgeted with it as he demanded, “Are you trying to seduce me or something?” Honestly he could think of many far worse reasons to be invited off the street into such a nice house by such a polite servant to meet such an impressive lady, but it seemed strange, and he’d rather get the objective of this conference into the open.

The woman gave a laugh that, like many of her other mannerisms, seemed to be unyielding solidity covered in a layer of friendliness. “Of course not!” she said in an almost merry tone. “I know perfectly well you prefer taking it rough from older men.”

At the incongruous and very surprising sight and sound of those details emerging from that perfectly painted mouth, that ostensibly entirely proper personage, Zanza’s face went hot and red. He had to clear his throat twice before he was able to speak. “Well… yeah… that’s totally true… but, you know, we take what we can get…” Looking at the wainscoting, the ugly wallpaper, the bric-a-brac on the shelves in the corner — anywhere but at her — he went on to admit, “And it’s actually… kinda hot to think about some mysterious older woman spying on my sex life.”

Again she gave that comradely laugh with the steel beneath it. “I was spying on your sex life because I was looking for someone with that specific preference. You have quite a reputation, Zanza-san!”

“I dunno whether that’s a compliment or not,” Zanza muttered.

“I’d like you to seduce someone for me,” she said, finally, bluntly getting down to business.

He returned his gaze to her in order to give her a skeptical look, and found her sipping her wine again with thick lashes downturned. “You, uh, know I’m not a whore, right?”

Still smiling, she replied dismissively, half into her glass, “Everyone is a whore for the right price.”

A trifle annoyed at the sound of superior worldly wisdom in her tone, Zanza wondered somewhat sarcastically, “Izzat right? And what’s the price today?”

Without batting an eye as she met his, she told him.

It was lucky Zanza had drained his drink, since he promptly dropped his glass at this juncture. It thumped onto the thick carpet and rolled under his chair and out of sight; he couldn’t expend much effort searching for it, because he was too busy gaping at the woman. “That’s… that’s a pretty right price,” he conceded at last.

She nodded. “As I said, I never mind going to some trouble to get exactly what I want.”

“But why…” Zanza was still so staggered by the quoted sum that his statements continued to have large gaps in the middle. “Why me? Why not… an actual prostitute or something?”

“The target is an exceptionally strong warrior,” she explained, “and very touchy. If you’re not careful, he may become violent. A fragile little prostitute would never do.”

“All right…” Zanza had to admit, his interest was piqued — and not just because of the astonishing promised payoff. “But why do you want this guy seduced at all?” He asked more out of curiosity than a need for information about a prospective job.

With the first frown he’d seen on her face — indeed, it was a rather disconcerting transition between the polite but private look to this dark, almost hateful scowl — she replied in a measured tone that reminded him of calm waters atop a viciously strong undercurrent. “Have you ever met someone, Zanza-san, who considers himself so far above you it’s impossible even to have a conversation with him? Someone who, though he might have been born into the same level of society you were and has done significantly less with what his parents gave him, holds himself superior to you in every way? Who looks down on everything you do, everything you are?”

“Course I have,” replied Zanza immediately, half a grin twitching at his lips while the other side threatened to pull down into a scowl much like hers. “So this guy’s a high-and-mighty ass, is he?”

She nodded, and went on emphatically. “I want to put a dent in his self-righteousness by proving he’s not above a one-night stand with a total stranger of just the type he thinks he’s so much better than.”

Zanza returned her nod, and his version was one of understanding. He did get the feeling, though, despite how sensible he found her explanation, that she had more reasons for seeking his compliance than she’d stated aloud. The reason she had given was enough for him — he was completely onboard with sending that kind of message to some holier-than-thou bastard — but at the same time he wondered what she wasn’t telling him and whether this whole thing was really a good idea. Sometimes just the passion with which someone wanted something done was a decent indication of how foolish the undertaking might be. Zanza didn’t fear danger, of course, but there were other discomforts in the world that he often preferred to avoid, and intrigue could certainly be one of them.

The woman, evidently no slouch in the reading of face and bearing, clearly picked up on the uncertainty in Zanza’s. “Obviously this is very different from the type of work you usually do.” She’d returned to her friendly, professional tone with that timbre of command in its background. “Naturally I understand your reluctance — I don’t want to push you into something that would make you uncomfortable. Please remember that I sought you out because you seemed specifically suited for this job, but if that turns out not to be the case, I would never want to inconvenience you.”

Again Zanza found himself waiting for the point. And when he said nothing, she got to it. “You’re welcome to approach him where he’s currently working — of course I’ll give you all the details you need — and decide then whether you want to go through with it. Come back here afterward, either to collect your payment or let me know I need to find someone else.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Zanza replied slowly. It did, too. It was already his policy to request payment after the service was performed, since he normally didn’t have a fixed rate. In this case it made even more sense. But something still felt off.

“That way you can make up your mind when you have all the information,” she pressed, looking at him earnestly.

And Zanza decided it didn’t matter much what she was hiding or what kind of life she led beneath this veneer of European sophistication. Everyone had their secrets, right? What mattered was this job with the prospect of a high distraction value and a ridiculous amount of compensation that would keep him in sake and under a roof for many months to come.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll at least have a look at the guy.”

*

Saitou wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting when Zanza had given that stricken look and started his rambling narrative of the events of yesterday, but it hadn’t been what he’d actually gotten. And he certainly hadn’t been expecting to find himself far more entertained than annoyed by the stupid story, and even less put out with Zanza personally.

One item of special (if peripheral) interest was the fact that Zanza, on seeing him, had decided to go through with the assigned seduction. Of course there had been a large amount of money involved, which might have rendered Saitou more attractive — attractive enough, anyway — in the mercenary’s eyes, but Zanza had obviously had misgivings about the whole thing even with that money in mind, and it interested Saitou to know his allure had tipped the scales.

“So I guess,” Zanza was finishing up bitterly, “the real reason she wanted me to seduce you was so you’d be distracted and easier to kill. And she sure didn’t give a shit whether I died at the same time. She never was planning on paying me, I bet… I should have known… it was stupid to think anybody’d ever offer that much money for that kind of job. I was such a dumbass!” And he rammed a fist downward just as he had when lamenting the loss of his clothes, though this time he stopped short of actually pounding on the roof.

“She manipulated the fuck out of me…” He paused, and his anger seemed to abate slightly as he realized he’d inadvertently made a pun. “Literally,” he added, with half a grin — while the rest of his face still appeared irate — and even reddened a touch as he went on, “and don’t get me wrong — it was damn good sex… but I can’t believe she made such a fool out of me! Are you really married to that nightmare?”

Saitou had to admit, he appreciated that description of their sexual encounter. He wondered a little both at this appreciation and at his reflections regarding Zanza’s assessment of his attractiveness. It was odd that these things seemed to matter to him; had his ego been in need of a boost lately, and then this gorgeous idiot had shown up at precisely the right moment to stroke it? Saitou supposed it wasn’t hugely important, except as far as he should probably give some serious thought to how pliable he was when promising lips demanded they go up to his room.

And, gorgeous or not, Zanza was an idiot. Who walked blindly into an unfamiliar setting at the bidding of a total stranger? Well, someone completely confident in his own abilities, Saitou supposed. It fit with Zanza’s level of strength. But who discussed business with someone whose name he hadn’t even bothered asking? Not that Tokio’s name would have done Zanza much good under the circumstances, but still… who accepted a job completely different from what he usually did at only a few minutes’ notice? Though Zanza had obviously been at least slightly confused and discomfited by the atmosphere in that house, the one Tokio so excelled at cultivating. The whole thing had been stupid… but perhaps not as stupid as it could have been.

And Zanza obviously had some intelligence hidden in there somewhere — or at least some good instincts — that hadn’t been completely blinded by all of Tokio’s posing. He must, to have been able to question the situation even after the offer of that much money. Though the staggering amount itself, as Zanza had even admitted, should have been a tipoff that all was not right, many a mercenary more financially secure than this young man might still have had his head turned by the mere number.

In addition to this, Zanza obviously had a streak of pride, beyond what his class or lifestyle promised, that had been genuinely wounded by Tokio’s machinations. And there was also the excellent sex and the unneeded but not unwelcome ego-boost to consider.

Zanza probably deserved the truth.

Saitou gave a quick look around at the growing darkness, and, when he still spotted none of their enemies in any of the places he’d determined they might seek to occupy in order to get the drop on their targets, began a carefully curated story that would tell the mercenary what he needed to know.

*

The walk home seemed obnoxiously longer than usual this evening, something Saitou attributed mostly to vexation with his current work pursuit. Small fry employed by the criminal organization that had recently come somewhat hazily to light were thick on the ground, which should have been encouraging… but so far they’d proven every bit as useless as they were common and easy to arrest.

The one Saitou had just been interrogating even believed himself a big-shot of some type, arrogantly maintaining his own importance farther into the interview than they generally did… and yet he, like everyone before him, knew nothing about anyone or anything in the organization above a certain level beyond him. This group was not only pretty good at smuggling, hosting rigged games of chance, the occasional assassination, and intimidating business owners into highly suspect and very imbalanced ‘deals,’ it was also frustratingly efficient at sealing off data within certain portions of its faculty — the specific portions Saitou was attempting to access, or at least learn something about.

But he was beginning to doubt he would ever move beyond these meaningless conversations to where he needed to be if he was going to get anywhere against the upstart yakuza. Not one iota of useful information, not one tiny fact about their upper-tier superiors could he extract from these evidently expendable thugs… and, confident in his own interrogation techniques, he believed it was because they truly didn’t know, thanks to the caution of those same superiors, rather than that they were holding out. He was inexpressibly weary of the redundant exchanges, and if he never again in his life had to see one of the simplistic eight-pointed snowflake tattoos they all wore so proudly to indicate their membership in an organization they didn’t know how little they actually knew about, it would be too soon.

As he approached his apartment with thoughts far more fatigued than his body, due to his unproductive evening, he was briefly startled at seeing light through the windows. But it was no surprise whatsoever, upon entering, to find that the source — in her extravagant way she’d lit every lamp — was his wife. After all, though he might be paid a visit by thieves or assassins, they wouldn’t turn the lights on. And it wasn’t as if he had any other friends that might wait for him inside.

Not that Tokio counted as a ‘friend.’

“Your place being fumigated?” he suggested as the sarcastic explanation for why she was here rather than at her far larger, more opulent, and arguably more comfortable house across town.

She’d made herself at home, as she did whenever she exercised her legal right to invade his space, by dragging the chair from his desk into the main room near the stove — she boycotted seiza and yokozuwari, largely due to her couture — and helping herself to one of his spare cigarettes, which she smoked in a long holder. This she took from her lips as she answered, presumably because the coy smile she affected would have been marred by its presence. “Does a woman need an excuse to seek out her handsome husband?”

“Hn.” When Tokio acted like this, not one single word out of her mouth could be believed, so pursuing the matter and trying to find out why she was truly here would be futile and demeaning. Saitou didn’t care much, however, since, whatever she was scheming, he mostly just wanted her gone.

He had to admit, privately, that it would be nice to believe she really had come to spend time with him. Well, not necessarily Tokio herself, but somebody he wasn’t quite so disdainful of. It would be nice to have somebody he wasn’t quite so disdainful of that he could trust and connect with; in that case, he would be quite happy to come home to an unexpectedly occupied apartment and flirtatious behavior. But Tokio, who had always been vindictive and underhanded, was probably present because she needed to keep her head down in the wake of some less than entirely ethical business transaction, and her presence, whether she knew it or not — and it wasn’t impossible that she did — served to exacerbate the absence of anyone else’s.

“But you’re just home from work for the night!” she said, giving a good imitation of caring concern — or at least concern with an iron ulterior motive — and jumped up from the chair. “Here, sit down… let me take your jacket.”

Since he did, in fact, want to remove this garment and have a seat, he let her play her little game. Most nights there was no one to hang up his jacket and set his sword on the stand and fetch him his newspaper, so her showing up every once in a while to do these things for him was really just a reminder of what a mutually supportive relationship they’d never had even back when they’d lived together. She was obviously bored.

“Have you eaten?” she wondered with the same false solicitousness as before.

Saitou merely grunted an affirmative, glad this was the case. He wouldn’t have wanted to sit down at floor level for a meal with her standing triumphantly above him. It was bad enough to have her hovering over him in this chair. But as he unfolded the newspaper she’d put in his lap, he made a concerted effort to pay it some actual attention — and her less or none. Eventually she must get tired of annoying him and go find some other place to lie low.

Her next move to get his attention was to reach right into his field of vision and place a cigarette to his lips. He accepted it, and her subsequent lighting of it, without a word. In addition to enhancing, by contrast, the awareness of his usual aloneness, this behavior aggravated him — and she knew it — because he didn’t like being babied; he preferred to perform tasks with his own hands rather than relying on those of others as she was so fond of doing back at her mansion packed with servants.

“Oh, my,” she remarked next, bending across him to read the paper over his shoulder so her long shawl slid half off her back to trail onto his arm. “How dreadful! They planned to burn the palace?” But her tone was far from horrified; rather, it sounded intrigued and maybe even somewhat pleased.

“They deserved the pay they were demanding,” Saitou couldn’t help but reply, especially in response to her gleeful-onlooker tone. “But the method they used–”

He had glanced to his left, irritated, hoping to give her a disapproving glare but finding himself looking down her cleavage instead. Even more irritated, his eyes slipped from the undesirable sight that she, knowing his disinterest in her person, had undoubtedly deliberately placed in his view, and onto her left arm now bare of the shawl that had previously obscured it — and the tattoo on her inside forearm, just south of the elbow: a highly complicated eight-pointed snowflake.

He jerked away from her and to his feet, staring at this far more elaborate version of the yakuza design he’d been getting so tired of lately. Just for now, he was so surprised that he could make no further move.

She was surprised too, straightening and staring back briefly in confusion before glancing down to see what had caught his attention. When she found what the disarray of her shawl had revealed, and clearly realized that he had recognized it, she pulled the garment quickly back into place with a movement far less suave than hers usually were. She must not have been aware of his efforts to track down the organization she belonged to — perhaps an inverse of the information moratorium that had been so plaguing him was inadvertently in effect as well — or she would never have left the mark so easily exposed when coming here; this must be as much of a shock to her as it was to her husband.

Abruptly she turned on her stockinged heel and ran for the door.

*

Everything made sense now, though that didn’t change the way Zanza felt about most of it. Having slept with an undercover cop or whatever Fujita was — and having enjoyed it so damn much — did make him faintly uneasy, but he could decide later on the finer points of his attitude toward that revelation.

For the moment, newly disclosed government agent Fujita was coming to the end of his story with, “She managed to cover her escape with a pistol — she seems to have them in no short supply — and kept me far enough behind for her to jump into a cab eventually.”

“Damn,” Zanza said wonderingly. “That’s one hell of a thing to find out about your own wife.”

“It gets worse.” Fujita’s tone was grim. “Eventually I discovered she actually runs the organization.”

Zanza laughed in frustration. “Well, that’s no surprise now…”

By this time their rooftop hideaway was lit only by moon and stars, but these were bright enough to show clearly Fujita’s nod. “I’ve been trying to track her down and dissolve her organization ever since, though I’ve never seen her in person again and she’s changed houses. And she’s sent multiple assassins after me. I hoped to make significant progress while she was in Europe not long ago, but she had things locked up too tight. She’s back now, and back to her old tricks.” A sardonic expression took his face as he added, “This latest attempt at killing me is more elaborate than usual, though, and she may have overreached… We’ll see who gets arrested down there, and what they can tell us.”

“You know…” Zanza looked at the other man pensively. “She obviously, definitely wanted to kill you… and I’m sure she’d have been happy if it worked… but I bet the reason she claimed she wanted me to seduce you was true too. A sort of backup, right? She said you were so high-and-mighty and self-righteous, and she wanted to prove you could be dragged into having sex with some random lowlife. So even if she didn’t manage to kill you, she’d still have that to hold over you.”

Fujita gave him an assessing look and finally said, “You read her well. I think you’re exactly right.” His thin lips twisted into a smirk as he added, “But she chose poorly if she wanted to find someone I would be ashamed of having sex with.”

While specifically pleased at the implication that Fujita didn’t regret having slept with him even under these strange circumstances, Zanza couldn’t help pointing out with a shrug, “I am kindof the dregs, though. I thought she chose pretty well.” For both of them, he did not add aloud.

“Tokio would assume you’re in the criminal class I would automatically look down on.”

“Well, I’m not exactly the most law-abiding citizen,” Zanza admitted uncomfortably, unsure why he was saying it but feeling he had to be open about this. “I fight people for money… sometimes even kill ’em.”

“I know what you do,” said Fujita somewhat dismissively. “And I also know you never attack anyone who can’t fight back, and that your targets are primarily from your same walk of life. You’re a complete waste of talent, and, yes, often on the wrong side of the law, but you’re practically a clean-up service for us. Criminal, perhaps, but nothing like Tokio and her ilk, who wreak havoc on the economy and victimize the community indiscriminately. She thinks your lack of money and class make you someone I’d be ashamed to associate with, but you’re certainly a better person than she is — and I’m married to her.”

Zanza wasn’t sure whether to laugh or get angry or just gape in baffled admiration. This guy, who evidently in one capacity or another worked for the government Zanza loathed above all things, had some seriously solid principles in there. Despite having come to doubt everything that woman had said to him, the mercenary realized he’d still been subconsciously clinging to her description of Fujita — her husband, had he known — as inappropriately condescending. Turned out maybe that wasn’t entirely the case. Still… “So you’re all right with me and what I do?”

“No.” Fujita fixed him with a stern look, gold eyes glinting in the moonlight. “If I met you in another context, where I had certain knowledge you were breaking the law, I might not just arrest you; I might kill you.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Zanza scoffed. He had to admit, though, that look — especially combined with the body he’d come to some extent to know in the last few hours and the skill and determination Fujita had demonstrated during much of that time — was pretty damn convincing, and might have been, to someone less confident in his own abilities than Zanza, frightening.

“In any case, I don’t choose to do things I’ll be embarrassed about afterward, so that aspect of Tokio’s plan was destined to fail regardless of whom she chose to send.”

“Weeelllll…” Zanza grinned ruefully. “You are hiding naked on a rooftop waiting for the police to rescue you. I mean…” He reached over to pull a splinter from where it was marked in the darkness by a tiny trickle of blood on Fujita’s thigh. “I got no problem at all with you being naked up here with me, but I figure it’s gotta be pretty embarrassing for you…”

“It is extremely annoying.” Unexpectedly, Fujita returned the favor, reaching out to grasp between his nails and draw out a large splinter whose tip was the only thing visible in the side of Zanza’s right buttock; it was practically a pinch to the ass. “Some of it.” He looked at the splinter briefly, abstractedly, before flicking it away. “But it’s one of the risks of the job.”

Zanza burst out laughing. “That’s a really weirdly specific thing to have to be prepared for when you get into a job!” And to his surprise, Fujita joined his mirth for a moment. This made it easier, once they’d fallen silent again, for Zanza to break down and admit, “I’m kinda embarrassed. I’m fucking Zanza, man, and here I am on a roof I can’t get down from without getting shot with no fucking clothes on! I’m sure she wasn’t even thinking about embarrassing me or anything, but she sure as hell twisted me right around her stupid finger.” He growled his increasing frustration with the woman and the circumstances.

Fujita sounded both amused and somewhat reassuring when he replied, “This situation doesn’t change anything. I’m not going to stop working against her.” And though the combination of those two tones made him come across as distinctly patronizing, it seemed clear he did understand Zanza’s desire for revenge on his wife.

“Weren’t you on some other job at that inn, though?” Zanza wondered. “You probably need to get back to that first.”

Fujita frowned. “I’m afraid that setup will fall apart after this. If the man I was there to watch believes that inn is a place where people get attacked in their bedrooms, he certainly won’t hang around there much longer. I’ll have to start all over with him. But after that, I’ll be right back on Tokio’s trail.”

“You know…” It was exactly the same pensive look as when he’d said these words before, but this time Zanza couldn’t help a flirtatious touch to it and to his tone, despite the pragmatic nature of the offer he was about to make. “I’m a mercenary… Normally it’s fighting, yeah, but I’m ready to do all sorts of dangerous shit for pay… and I happen to know where at least one place she operates out of is, since I was just there yesterday…”

Though dry, the other man’s voice, Zanza thought, also held a hint of incongruous flirtation as he replied, “After what she offered to pay you, I doubt I could afford your services.”

“Actually I’m available at a newly discounted rate,” declared the grinning Zanza. “The chance to get back at a mob boss who made me look like an idiot and some really good sex is all it’d cost you. Oh, and a new gi.”

With an almost languid movement, Fujita rose partially up again into a crouch, peering around the side of the turret and down as far into the lamplit street as he could from this awkward angle. As he settled back into his seated position beside Zanza he said, “No sign of the police yet.” He turned toward the mercenary, and, though he appeared exasperated with the situation as a whole, there was a faint smirk on his lips. “It seems we have plenty of time to reach some kind of reasonable arrangement.”

This story is dedicated to plaidshirtjimkirk (WordPress / Ao3), whose enthusiasm was a delight and whose fic on the subject was top-notch back when we used to do this Saitou & Sano thing.

For some author’s notes on this fic written not longer after it was, see this Productivity Log. I’ve rated it .

This story is included in the Saitou & Sano Collection ebook (.zip file contains .pdf, .mobi, and .epub formats).

His Own Humanity: Guest Room Soap Opera

His Own Humanity: Guest Room Soap Opera

Part 1

The amount of work available to an exorcist at any given time was completely unpredictable. Hajime could — and sometimes did — go weeks without hearing from anyone, and feel grateful that he had another source of income a little less fickle. And then, because that was the way the world moved, he would get multiple requests for help in a single day, and send a fifth call to voicemail because it came in the middle of the fourth. This was satisfying, and, as he connected to listen to the message the last caller had left, his mood was complacent as he looked forward to an upcoming week of work.

“Good morning, Mr. Saitou. This is Bridgestone Gains at U.S.Seido.”

Hajime stiffened. It had been an ongoing relief not to hear anything from Seido for the last five months, but just under that relief lay always the awareness that it wasn’t impossible that he might. He’d been keeping his ears open for any news about the yakuza that might concern him, such as any hint of haunting of premises or possession of persons — since, after the service he and Sano had rendered them back in March, any subsequent necrovisual problems were sure to prompt Seido to contact no one but him — but as yet hadn’t heard anything to worry him. He’d carefully kept himself from anticipating never having to deal with them again, and was glad now that he hadn’t allowed hopes to arise that would have been dashed today.

“It has come to my attention,” Gains went on, “that the police want to question you.”

Hajime’s frown deepened. This was news to him, and hadn’t been one of the reasons he’d conceptualized for Gains to be calling him.

“They can be so inconvenient…” The old man’s voice was easy and fairly cheerful, so very different from how he’d sounded when Hajime had interacted with him before. “Especially when there are important parts of your life they just wouldn’t comprehend.” Gains chuckled. “It’s like a drama class exercise just talking to them! I very well understand the position you’re in: even if you had nothing to do with the young man’s disappearance, there are a lot of questions you’d rather not answer. I have certainly been there.”

Disappearance? Hajime made a sudden gesture of understanding.

“So I thought you might appreciate a place to stay for a while. I can offer you somewhere to relax and be sure nobody will bother you until a more convenient time… after all this business with your missing client has been sorted out, for example. It’s an extremely comfortable suite with everything you could need, and there’s more than room for two, if you wanted to bring your partner.”

Now Hajime smiled grimly. Apparently ‘this kind of queer bullshit’ wasn’t so much a problem in this context. He’d known at the time that the homophobic sentiment had been a subconscious one brought out by Gains’s shade-induced anger, something he wouldn’t have verbalized under normal circumstances, but it was still darkly amusing to hear him now offering Hajime a sort of luxury vacation or retreat with his presumed gay lover.

“So call me back and let me know whether or not this would help you out. The offer stands as long as you need it.” Gains left his personal cell number, something Hajime assumed not a lot of people were allowed — his initial call had come in from ‘Restricted’ — and said a friendly goodbye.

Pensively Hajime saved the message, hung up, and pocketed his phone. He had a lot to think about all of a sudden.

So Gains was keeping an eye on him, was he? Looking out for him, apparently, and minutely enough that he knew about things like related police agendas before Hajime himself did. What a lovely thought. Who didn’t want a mob secretary peering silently over his shoulder?

That was all Hajime had time for before his phone vibrated again. If this was Gains with a second try, he was just going to have to leave another message, because Hajime definitely hadn’t decided on a response yet. It was with some reluctance that he withdrew his phone once more and looked at it, but then he answered quickly when he saw the caller’s name.

“Someone is leaking police information to U.S.Seido,” was how he greeted his friend.

“What?” demanded the startled Chou. “How do you know?”

“Because I just got a call from Seido about the police wanting to question me.”

“Shit. Even I just heard about that.”

“I assume this is about Quatre Winner?”

“That’s right.” Chou sounded distracted now; he was probably running through various co-workers in his head, trying to decide who he thought was passing information to the local yakuza. “Yeah, Winner senior reported Winner junior missing, and you talked to the son the last day he was around, I guess? The guys on this just want to ask you some questions — you’re not a suspect or anything — but I figured you’d still want a heads-up before they showed up at your door.”

Hajime thanked him with genuine gratitude. And when Chou said nothing in response, Hajime added a little impatiently, “You do remember I can read minds? If you want to know who’s spying on the police, we can come up with a way to find out.”

“Yeah…” said Chou slowly. “I’m not sure I do want to know. You know we don’t touch Seido unless we absolutely have to.”

“You’d probably be better off knowing anyway.”

“Yeah…” Chou said again. “Yeah. I’ll let you know if I want to set something up.”

“And let me know if you hear anything else about me.”

“Right. Or if that Winner guy turns up.”

“I’ll probably hear about that before you will.”

“What, from Seido?”

“God forbid.”

Chou laughed darkly. “Well, try not to get yourself killed by the mob, OK? I’m already working on a shit-ton of paperwork.”

“I’ll make it as complicated as possible just to keep you late.”

“Yeah, you have a nice day too.”

“I’ll talk to you later.”

Hajime re-pocketed his phone and cast a calculating glance around. He barely noticed, though, such details of the room as Tokio asleep on the couch or the DVD’s of the series he and Sano were currently watching strewn across the coffee table. He had a decision to make, and it needed to be made quickly.

Of course there was the option of just letting the police talk to him. He wasn’t a criminal, after all, and had no reason to fear the law. But the possibility that the specific officers that came to talk to him would happen to be aware of magic and would understand what was going on did not strike him as great — and otherwise, explaining that, carrying a sword, he’d talked to Winner junior the last day he was around because he’d been hoping to exorcize angry supernatural energy from him might provide a reason to fear the law.

If his last few months’ independent study of communication magic had progressed in that direction, brainwashing the police into believing that the completely unsuspicious Hajime Saitou had nothing useful to tell them would have been quick and convenient… but that had never been a technique that interested him much, so he hadn’t looked into it.

Conceivably he could make something up the normal way, invent some other, less magical reason to have visited that Winner Plastics office last week — but if he was going to mislead them, why bother having the conversation at all? They had a job to do, and the missing young man needed to be found in any case (not least so he could be exorcized); rather than complicate things (and probably get himself in trouble later for obstructive behavior), it seemed better to avoid the questions entirely, to fade out of sight until the matter had been resolved.

But did that mean taking Gains up on his offer? In some ways it was tempting — it would certainly be a very neat solution to the problem, and Hajime had to admit to some curiosity about the kind of accommodations Seido would provide — but in others it made his skin crawl. He couldn’t imagine accepting what was essentially a friendly favor from a mob secretary. And yet how would it look to Gains if he refused? U.S.Seido was an organization that needed to be dealt with carefully, and he certainly didn’t want to stir resentment by appearing antagonistic toward them.

What inoffensive excuse, though, could he offer Gains for not accepting? Where else could he go? Of his three friends, one lived across the country, one was the cop he’d just talked to, and one was likely to be visited at home by police looking for Hajime should Hajime not be immediately locatable; he couldn’t stay with any of them. And a hotel would probably not satisfy Gains — why pay for an impersonal room when Gains was offering one much more convenient and luxurious for free? And if Seido people continued watching him, engaging a hotel room and then claiming he was doing something else seemed unwise.

This was irritating. Just when Hajime had been anticipating a happily busy week, something like this had to come up. Now, no matter where he stayed, he would probably have to put off the appointments he’d made, leave people hanging that really did need his help, and probably lose business because of it. Quatre Winner had chosen an inconvenient time to disappear.

It undoubtedly hadn’t been his fault, though: his was a particularly severe case, and the young man couldn’t really be blamed for rash actions under the influence of that anger. Furthermore, the artifact possession added an interest to the situation that made it impossible for Hajime to be annoyed with Quatre personally, despite any inconvenience he might have caused.

And these thoughts had given Hajime an idea. He scrolled through his contacts to the B’s. Then he couldn’t help gazing, motionless, at the name for a moment with an echo of the wonder he’d felt at their first meeting; it seemed impossible that he should really have this person’s number. He remembered hearing him described in college as ‘an immortal magical superhero who can do pretty much anything’ — and now he was about to casually call him. Suggesting to such a person such an imposition as he now had in mind displeased him, but alternatives were scarce.

“Hello?” came the tired voice from the other end.

“It’s Hajime. I understand that boyfriend of yours is missing.”



2>>

Part 2

Sano stared down at the message again in puzzlement and perhaps a bit of annoyance. Can you feed the cats? it said without a word of explanation. And though he’d written back, Sure, why? a good thirty minutes ago, word of explanation was still lacking. At least Hajime had said ‘can you,’ and ended the text with a question mark, rather than making it an order.

Tokio and Misao wouldn’t be expecting their dinner for another hour or so, which gave Sano some time to make plans before he headed over there. Not that his plans took terribly long: he wanted to know what was going on, why Hajime had texted him such an unexpected request and then started ignoring him, and that meant camping until the exorcist came home and explained himself. Sano would only be working on homework (and then probably video games) for the rest of the evening; he might as well do that at Hajime’s house. He was pretty sure he’d left his physics textbook over there the last time he’d used it anyway.

So he packed up what books he did have as well as his 360. This, of course, meant taking his own car, since he wasn’t going to haul around an X-Box on the bus, but he tried not to grumble too much when the circumstance couldn’t be avoided. At least tomorrow’s bus ride to school from Hajime’s house wasn’t a bad route, and quicker than from his apartment.

Misao jumped up his leg and climbed to his shoulder the moment he was inside the door. She always seemed aware, somehow, when someone was approaching the house, and Sano wondered a little whether she had some kind of divinatory ability Hajime knew nothing about. Though with Hajime, it was more likely that he knew perfectly well and just hadn’t mentioned it. He had, after all, gone almost half a year without deigning to tell Sano that he believed him capable of subconsciously using every different branch of magic. Sano still wasn’t quite over that yet.

“Hi, Misao,” he greeted the little cat as she sniffed at his face. “You hungry?”

She replied that she was, and that he should definitely give her a lot of the wet food she liked so much.

Sano laughed, and didn’t bother responding except by heading into the kitchen. Walking with Misao on his shoulder was always something of a challenge — especially because, even in the few months he’d known her, she’d increased in size, and eventually probably wasn’t going to be able to ride up there anymore. At the moment, she splayed out and dug claws into Sano’s flesh. He’d gotten used to this by now, and resigned himself to its effects on his shirts.

As he entered the kitchen, Tokio gave him an indifferent-sounding greeting from where she stood beside her food bowl. Sano bent to retrieve her water dish, at which point Misao jumped down. As he then moved to grab the other one and rinse them both out, he asked, “Do you guys know where Hajime is?” He might have said something like, “Where’s the uncommunicative bastard who normally feeds you?” but had learned that the cats didn’t do very well with sarcasm. In any case, they didn’t know where Hajime was, so it mattered very little how Sano referred to him.

He went through the somewhat complicated process of doling out a specific amount of dry food alongside a specific amount of wet food for each of the animals, then stood back against a counter while they ate. His eyes were turned toward Tokio’s almost manically quick gulping motions, but he wasn’t really watching; he was puzzling, somewhat annoyed, about Hajime.

It wasn’t as if Sano wasn’t a regular fixture of this house these days, well known to the cats and well versed in their care. It wasn’t as if he minded. He would do much more than just feed the familiars for his friend and sometimes professional partner, provided Hajime asked at least relatively nicely… but where was Hajime? Normally a request for Sano to feed the cats came when Sano already knew what Hajime was about. Though admittedly, now that he thought back on previous instances, this had always been because Sano had known beforehand where Hajime would be rather than because Hajime had actually told him at the time of the request.

Assuming that standing around being frustrated and curious would get him nowhere, he wandered into the den and set up his X-Box. To assuage his annoyance, he would play some Madden for a bit before starting his homework. Hajime, though he sometimes watched a game with a compelling atmosphere, could work up no interest in Madden, so it was better to play it when he wasn’t around in any case.

Then a couple of hours passed without Sano realizing, and the next thing he knew, it was 9:30 and he hadn’t actually started his homework and Hajime had never appeared. Swearing for multiple reasons, Sano pulled out his lovely phone and texted, Seriously where the hell are you? making sure to spell all the words out properly so Hajime would not completely disregard the message. Of course he might — today’s precedent suggested he would — completely disregard the message anyway.

Then, reluctant but aware he needed to hurry, Sano turned his attention toward his books.

The next morning, at what felt like a hugely early hour on a day when he didn’t have to work at oh-dark-hundred, he was partially roused by Misao attacking his feet. It took several instances of him shifting so she fell off the couch, her jumping back up, and him grumbling at her to stop before he reached a greater state of consciousness and realized that it must be breakfast time for the cats. Which meant Hajime must never have come home, since he would have fed them by now.

He dragged himself up and into the kitchen, where Tokio was waiting looking reproachful. Waking sluggishly as he moved, Sano set out food and water and gave slow thought to his day. He needed to check his phone for any response to yesterday’s texts, then get ready for school. Maybe Hajime would answer him or come home while Sano was nicely distracted in class. Assuming class was able to distract him at all.

As he was heading back to the den, however, to look at his phone, the doorbell rang, so he turned again in the opposite direction.

To his surprise, it was two police officers. And if the unexpected advent of badges and uniforms at such an early hour hadn’t startled him, “We’re looking for Hajime Saitou” certainly would have.

“What?!” After this outburst and the jump that accompanied it, Sano shook himself. These guys didn’t appear stern or combative — in fact they seemed fairly friendly — but, well, cops were cops. And the fact that they’d shown up here right after Hajime’s already aggravatingly mysterious disappearance was worrisome. He apologized for his reaction, then added, “Hajime better not have stabbed someone.” Though not a joke the officers would fully understand, this might at least make him appear a little less wary.

“I don’t think so,” one of them smiled. “We just needed to ask him some questions; he’s not in trouble.”

This was probably all the information they would relinquish about what they were here for, so Sano would have to deal with the situation based on only that. If Hajime wanted him to relay some specific story or something, he should have left better instructions than, Can you feed the cats?

Sano stepped aside and said, “He’s not actually here right now, but you guys can come in if you want.”

At that moment Misao, from beside Sano’s leg, yowled up at the officers, greeting and demanding attention.

One of them smiled and stepped inside, crouching to the cat’s level to pet her as Sano moved back to allow him to do so. “Well, hey, there,” the cop said. “What a pretty baby!”

Misao remarked that, while she often wondered what non-communicative humans were saying to her, she was well aware that it probably wasn’t anything she would really care about. Sano thought he might tell her sometime and see what she thought about being a ‘pretty baby.’

“So Mr. Saitou isn’t home,” the second cop, less interested in meeting the cat, remarked. “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“No idea.” Sano looked around for the inevitable appearance of Tokio, and followed her movement toward them as soon as he saw where she was. “He hasn’t answered any of my texts.” This was true, but, without mentioning the original Can you feed the cats?, didn’t give any indication that he was aware Hajime was up to something odd. He shrugged. “He never tells me where he’s going, but he usually doesn’t stay out all that long.”

Now the cat-friendly officer had transferred his attention to Tokio, and said from his crouched position, “So you think he might be back here later?”

“I really don’t know,” Sano answered. “I’m heading off to class pretty soon here, so I won’t be around, but you guys could come back and check.”

The officer nodded as he rose, and at the same moment Sano darted to catch Misao around the ribcage before she could bolt out the front door — something she knew she wasn’t supposed to do but apparently couldn’t resist trying. “Nope,” he told her. She protested, squirming, in his arms.

“Are you his roommate?”

“Nah, just a friend.” Sano tried not to sound bitter; no reason to indicate to the police that he wished he were, in fact, a very specific type of roommate, more than just a friend. “Sano Sagara.”

The first cop nodded, while the cat-friendly officer smiled and said, “Well, we’ll get out of your way. Thanks for your time.”

“Yeah, no problem.” Sano was wrestling with Misao, trying to encourage her up onto his shoulder rather than any other direction, and didn’t look at the face of either policeman.

“Have a good day,” the first said as the two men turned and walked down the front steps.

Sano closed the door behind them, ceasing his struggle with Misao, who batted vengefully at his ear and then started to slide down his arm so she could jump to the floor from a slightly lower altitude. Sano turned to face the house with a frown, looking slowly back and forth between the two cats and feeling the frown grow into a scowl.

“What the hell do the police want with Hajime?” he wondered aloud.

Neither cat entirely understood him, but they picked up on the fact that he was simultaneously angry and concerned, and that both emotions were, to some extent, aimed at Hajime. Misao, losing track of her annoyance about being prevented from leaving the house, wondered whether Hajime was all right; while Tokio, in her superior way, asserted that Hajime was a very effective and powerful being that probably didn’t need anyone to worry about him.

He could hear the alarm he’d set on his phone going off in the next room; he didn’t really have time to pursue this issue right now if he wanted to get to class on time. He made a frustrated noise, which startled Misao, and headed for the den.

Well, if he put off showering until tomorrow, he would have a few spare minutes right now. He decided right away to take this route, and thumbed through the contacts in his phone looking for a specific one.

Though he’d spent some time with Chou and did have his phone number, Sano couldn’t remember ever having called him before. So far they’d gotten along in that way people did where it wasn’t obvious whether or not they actually liked each other, and in fact it could easily be inferred that they didn’t; Sano wasn’t sure what the case actually was, nor how Chou would react to a call from him, but he wasn’t about to refrain when Chou might have some answers.

“Well, this is new,” was how the cop greeted him. “Don’t think I’ve ever heard from you before.”

“Yeah…” Sano wouldn’t have minded some banter with Chou — the guy was kinda fun to mess around —
but it was more important to seek information. “Have you heard from Hajime? Do you know where he is? And why are your buddies coming around bugging about him?”

“He didn’t tell you?” Chou sounded amused.

Sano made a frustrated sound.

Chou laughed openly. “You guys are a trip.”

“So do you know where he is?” wondered Sano impatiently.

“Nope.”

“But obviously you knew he was going somewhere,” Sano insisted, very impatient. “And what do the cops want from him?”

“I don’t know if I should tell you that kind of thing.” Chou’s languid tone was clearly calculated to annoy. “I’m not really supposed to, you know?”

Sano tried very hard to keep from rising to the bait, because the more calmly he could deal with Chou, the sooner he could find out what he wanted to know. “Probably not,” he agreed, sounding annoyed despite his efforts. “But it wouldn’t kill you.”

“Might lose me my job, though.”

Sano took a deep breath. “Come on, you know it won’t. I don’t know where he is, and some cops showed up at his door looking for him and didn’t tell me why.”

“Well, he runs around doing weird shit,” Chou replied lazily, “so that’s no surprise.”

“Seriously,” Sano growled. “If you know where he is, tell me.”

“I already told you I don’t know.”

“What do you cops want with him?”

“Can’t tell you that.”

“Did he tell you anything?”

“Obviously he didn’t tell you anything.”

With a loud sound of irritation Sano said, “Fuck you!” and hung up. He probably shouldn’t have done that, but he felt like Chou had been deliberately giving him crap and wouldn’t have provided any answers even if he happened to have them. So he went to get ready for school.

On every break during and between the two classes he had that day, he texted Hajime continually. Finally, as he prepared for work, he called. Hajime had never once broken his promise to answer whenever Sano called, and in return, in a sort of unspoken covenant, Sano had refrained from abusing that promise: instead of bothering Hajime whenever he felt like hearing the guy’s voice, he only called when he had a legitimate reason to.

And it was not because he felt his current worry about Hajime’s whereabouts and safety wasn’t a legitimate reason that he had not yet called in this scenario, but because he dreaded initiating the first phone call that would not be answered, dreaded pushing Hajime to break that promise. It felt as if they were progressing toward some sort of crisis… perhaps one that had been long in coming. And now, as his call went directly to voicemail for the first time he could remember, there was a palpable painful clenching of his heart. Agitated, he shoved his phone back into his pocket and headed for the Panda.

He couldn’t bear to try again that day — try calling, anyway; he kept texting at every available opportunity. When he returned to Hajime’s house that night, he tried not to rush inside in the hopes that Hajime might be there, but was still disappointed when he wasn’t. So he just apologized to the cats for the lateness of their dinner and went to bed on the couch in the den again.

Tuesday was much the same, except that he gave up texting about halfway through the day. But by the time he was done with school and work, he was so desperate for answers that he cast about for anything else he might do to get some. He scrolled, aimless and agitated, through his phone contacts again, trying to think who might know anything about what was going on, and stopped at the name of a new friend. It was a long shot, he supposed, but by now he would try anything.

Duo had informed Sano that the number he’d given him was actually his boyfriend’s, since he didn’t currently have a phone of his own, so it was no surprise that it took several rings to get an answer — the taciturn Heero had probably seen the caller name and handed the phone over. And when Duo’s cheerful voice finally answered, Sano got right to the point:

“Hey, this is going to sound weird, but have you heard from Hajime? I haven’t seen him in a couple of days, and weird shit’s happening.”

“He didn’t tell you where he was going?” Duo wondered, sounding immensely curious.

“So you know where he is.” Sano’s irritation at the déjà vu the conversation thus far impelled didn’t allow Duo a chance to reply, as he then burst out with, “No, why should he tell me where he’s going? I’m just the friend who can feed the cats when he’s got something else to do, and talk to the police for him, and go fucking insane worrying about him! Why should he tell me anything?”

“As far as I know, he’s perfectly fine.” Duo’s tone of reassurance sounded no less curious and interested than before. “He’s staying at Trowa’s new house.”

“What?” Sano was so surprised that he’d already followed this up with, “Why?” before the very obvious answer — to keep away from the police — occurred to him. That they’d even met one of the biggest celebrities in the magical world was already hard to believe; that Hajime was staying at his house was next to impossible.

“The security guard at the office last week got his name when he came in,” Duo was answering, “and then when it turned out Quatre had disappeared, she remembered Hajime was there the last day anyone saw him, so then when Mr. Winner called the police, Hajime’s name came up.”

“Oh.” So Quatre failing to show on Friday had been upgraded to a disappearance, had it? And the police wanted to question Hajime about it, and Hajime didn’t want to have to explain that he’d been visiting Winner Plastics to perform an exorcism — yes, officer, I’m perfectly serious; no, sir, they’re just normal cigarettes. It all made sense, even if the involvement of Trowa Barton — the real Trowa Barton — still seemed improbable. But, “Why the hell couldn’t he have told me that?” Sano demanded of no one.

“He wanted you to be able to convince the police that you really didn’t know where he was?” Duo suggested.

“You know,” Sano replied sourly, “I might think that might have been his reason if it wasn’t so totally normal for him not to tell me things. You don’t happen to have Trowa’s address, do you?”

“Going to go give Hajime a piece of your mind?”

“Yeah.”

“Man, I wish I could see that,” lamented Duo. “Hang on.”

Once he had the address and an admonition to ‘break a leg’ that Duo might or might not have known he would be at least a little tempted to take literally, Sano set out with grim purpose. Now he was glad he’d driven to Hajime’s house, since it meant he could (assuming his car would start) head straight to his next destination without working out an unfamiliar bus route and nursing his impatient irritation for however long that would take.

His curiosity about Trowa Barton was mostly referred, but that didn’t mean what he did feel was weak or transient. He was very interested in seeing this new house, since that would indicate Trowa’s financial situation. What kind of money did a super-powerful immortal magician make? What kind of home would he live in? This was secondary to Sano’s feelings in relation to Hajime, however. He was incredibly annoyed with the guy for letting him worry and not telling him anything about what was going on; and in addition to the annoyance, some of the worry still hung around as well for good measure.

The house turned out to be a nice, decent-sized one in a nice neighborhood, with the forlorn look of a newly purchased home. Sano hoped Duo had given him the right address, because he didn’t hesitate to park in the empty driveway and march right up to the door. And perhaps it was rude, but he first rang the doorbell and then knocked — just in case. After not too long a wait and the sound of footsteps descending a staircase inside, the door opened to disclose Trowa Barton, and suddenly Sano was a little embarrassed.

“Hello,” said Trowa. He didn’t look terribly surprised to see someone he’d barely met on his doorstep — he mostly looked tired and unhappy — but Sano had already noticed that his wasn’t the easiest face to read. In any case, Sano had already knocked, trespassing on the property of the Trowa Barton with a minimal acquaintance with the man and a demand that really had nothing to do with him. It wasn’t going to get any less awkward and embarrassing no matter what he said. He cleared his throat, preparing to explain himself.

“You’re here to see Hajime, I assume,” said Trowa in the interim.

“Yeah,” Sano replied, the word emerging hoarse and abashed.

“Come in,” Trowa said unenthusiastically. This only made Sano feel more awkward, but what other option did he have? He must reassure himself that Hajime really was all right before anything else — and if that meant inconveniencing the Trowa Barton, that was what he would do.

Silently Trowa led him up the stairs to the balcony overlooking the entry, onto which three second-floor rooms opened. Two of them were open, and beside one Trowa stopped. Before he pointed down past the second (a bathroom) to the last, closed door, Sano had a chance to see into this first room to note the full bookshelves and paper-littered table within. He wondered what Trowa was working on — the mystery of his missing possessed boyfriend, perhaps — but he didn’t have time or inclination to pursue that curiosity very far at the moment. He said his embarrassed thanks and moved toward the final door.

Here he didn’t bother knocking; he was too worried and annoyed. And though one of these states decreased as he entered and observed Hajime, obviously just fine, seated with a book on an air mattress — the only furnishing in the bare room — the other increased exponentially. Hajime’s phone lay atop a small suitcase, plugged into a charger at the wall beside him, clearly powered off. Moreover, the expression the exorcist turned toward Sano, though slightly curious, was otherwise perfectly calm.

“You complete dick,” was how Sano greeted him, letting the door fall from his hand as he stepped forward.

“Hello to you too,” Hajime replied with a faint smirk, setting down his book.

“Yeah, fucking hello! Good to see you’re not arrested or committed or dead in a ditch somewhere!”

As he got to his feet and stepped off the air mattress, Hajime asked, “Did you really think any of those options were likely?”

Sano threw up his hands in irritation at Hajime’s obtuseness or whatever it was. “I didn’t know what was likely! How could I possibly have known?”

“This situation isn’t nearly as dramatic as you seem to think it is. There was no reason for you to be so worried.”

“What the hell is wrong with you? A client disappears — our client — and you don’t tell me, and the police think you’ve got something to do with it, and you don’t tell me, and then you fucking disappear, and all I get is Can you feed the fucking cats? until the fucking police show up looking for you, and I have no idea where you are or what to say, and two fucking days pass, and you might be in some serious fucking trouble, and you expect me to be not even a little bit worried about this?”

“You’re dragging it out far past its logical end point. Once you found out where I was, you could have stopped worrying.”

“Yeah, maybe, if I wasn’t in love with you.” As these words burst out, unexpected probably to each man in the room, Sano’s heart gave a heavy throb and started to race even as the temperature of his entire body abruptly rose. He plunged on. “Don’t you get that? I love you, so I was fucking worried even after I knew where you were, OK? I love you. You probably don’t want to hear that, but I’ve damn well said it now.”

Hajime nodded slowly, his expression having turned somewhat dark. “And I suppose you expect it to change something.”

“You know…” Sano clenched a frustrated fist. “I didn’t mean to say that. I didn’t come here to talk about this. I came here to make sure you were OK. But now I see you’re goddamn fine, let’s talk about this.”

“All right.”

“So, yes, I expect it to change something when I tell you I love you! I’ve been waiting months to say it, trying not to, wondering what I should do and what’s wrong with you or what’s wrong with me that nothing’s happening, and now it slips out because I’m just that pissed, and, yes, I fucking expect it to fucking change something!”

“Sano. You’re at my house three or four days out of the week, and when your car won’t start you spend the night. And I don’t think most of your textbooks have seen the inside of your apartment for months.” Hajime’s tone held no remonstrance, only perfect seriousness. “I’m not sure what you want to change.”

Taken aback by what seemed a rather strange argument, Sano had no idea what to say next. Was Hajime really unsure what Sano wanted, or just playing stupid to try to avoid the point? Well, that had been the question all along, hadn’t it — had Hajime always been aware, and just opted to be an asshole about it, or was he actually genuinely ignorant? This certainly wasn’t the first time Sano had wished he could read Hajime’s thoughts, but it might be the most intense instance of that desire.

“You’re right,” Hajime said with a faint sigh. He looked simultaneously a little annoyed and somewhat defeated. “I shouldn’t avoid the point.”

“No, you shouldn’t!” Sano seized on the concession as if it were a life preserver and he drowning. “And if you know you’re doing it, you’ve probably known all along, you bastard, haven’t you?”

“That you want a romantic relationship?”

“God, it sounds so… formal… when you say it like that…” Sano shook his head, looking away from Hajime just for a moment as he dealt with the feeling of awkwardness that wording had instilled in him. Hajime and his professionalism…

“How would you prefer to put it?”

“I don’t know… it’s not like that’s not perfectly accurate… but I don’t feel like it covers everything.” Sano’s gaze rose again to Hajime’s steadily somber expression, and he took a step closer. “I want you to want me around!” He sounded almost desperate as he began his list. “I want to feel like, even when we’re annoying the hell out of each other, we’re still happier there than anywhere else. I want to hear you say you like me. I want–”

“I do like you,” interjected Hajime calmly. “Though I’ve never been entirely sure why.”

“I know! I mean, I can tell. You’re a jerk, but somehow I always feel like you do like me. It seems like you do like having me around, and you practically treat me like family… I’m pretty sure I’m closer to you than your actual family is, anyway… It already feels like we are closer than friends, but… but not quite…” Again he shook his head, and took another step toward Hajime. Though he would rather fling himself across the remaining space, he didn’t dare take more than one slow step at a time, as if he feared Hajime would run from him if startled.

“And I want something physical too,” he went on, “and it seems like you wouldn’t even mind that, except nothing ever actually happens. It was, what, like, a week and a half ago when I fell asleep pretty much right on top of you, and you didn’t move me for the whole second half of the movie, and when you did get up… I mean, you kinda suck at being gentle, but you were with me…”

Hajime, frowning faintly, said nothing. He’d agreed to talk about this, but hadn’t actually done much talking thus far.

Sano took a deep breath. “I don’t think we can keep having this both ways. Me liking you and you ignoring it, I mean. This is driving me crazy. We’ve been hanging out forever; I’ve had plenty of time to get over you and just settle down to being friends or whatever, so I think if that was ever going to happen it would have already. I can’t stand wanting you and not having you and at the same time not being able to get over you. I can’t keep going like this. I can’t be just your friend anymore. It hurts too goddamn much. But you’re not into guys,” he speculated, as he had speculated all along, “or you’re not into me, or you’re not…”

Still Hajime said nothing. It fit the pattern so well it made Sano want to scream and punch the bastard in the unmoving mouth. If he would just say something, just explain himself even a little…! That all of Sano’s emotion toward this man, built up to such a strength over the last few months, was not worth a single word of explanation, cut deeper even than the rejection he’d been fearing.

Again he threw a hand up in despairing helplessness, and it came down to clutch at his bowed face, covering his closed eyes. “I can’t figure you out. I’ve never been able to, and you just won’t tell me no matter what I say, and you know what? I can’t do this anymore. I thought it might work, but obviously I was wrong. I mean, I am an idiot. You’re always so fucking happy to remind me of that, but never…”

He shook his head, dislodging the hand, and turned away before he opened his eyes again so as to avoid looking at Hajime even one last time. “I’m done.” Turning fully toward the door, he repeated, “I’m done. I’m glad you’re OK, and I’ll feed the cats, but let me know when you’re coming home, because I don’t want to be there. Just… Bye.” And though it felt akin to tearing himself from something to which he was physically attached, breaking himself mercilessly open in the process, he started to walk away.

Part 3

Hajime had known this day would come. He’d been bracing himself for it for months. He’d watched Sano’s infatuation stubbornly refusing to fade, and known that Sano would eventually demand more than he could give. And that when he refused, Sano would walk away forever, unable to continue wanting without being able to have. Hajime had known all this would happen, and believed himself ready for it.

What he hadn’t known was that it wouldn’t go that way at all.

“Sano, come back.”

What he hadn’t known was that he wouldn’t be able to let Sano go, no matter what it took to hold onto him.

“Come back.”

What he hadn’t known was that the desire not to hurt Sano and the inverse of wanting to make Sano happy, not to mention the unexpected awareness that his own complacency was somehow inextricably involved with this as well as with Sano’s mere presence in his life, would be too much for him; that watching Sano walking away forever was simply more than he could stand, would take hold of him and force him to offer what he’d thought he could not give. He hadn’t known that he’d never really known how much Sano meant to him and what that realization might impel him to do. He could never have been ready for this.

“If all of that’s what you want, you can have it.”

Sano had paused to look back over his shoulder at the first call, and turned slowly at the second. Now, his expression of near torment unchanged, he stared at Hajime in wariness that bordered on complete disbelief.

Hajime attempted to smirk, and knew it wasn’t working very well. “Change your Facebook status to ‘in a relationship with Hajime Saitou’ if that’s what it takes to make you happy.”

“You know how I feel about Facebook,” said Sano’s mouth; his expression said something more along the lines of, “That type of sarcastic bullshit is especially fucking annoying right now.” But he took a step away from the door back toward Hajime.

“Then at least you can text it to all your friends: ‘I finally got Hajime to go out with me.'”

“They’ll never believe it. Kaoru thinks you’ve been trolling me this whole time and you’re really secretly married or something. Katsu thinks you’re stringing me along to make sure I keep helping you with shades you can’t deal with.” Sano sounded extremely suspicious even as he took another step closer. “Are you serious about this?”

Excising sarcasm completely, with all the earnestness he could command, Hajime said, “I’m into you. I’m happier with you around even when you’re annoying the hell out of me. I’ll even give you something physical.” It surprised him to find that it was, more or less, all true. “What else was there?”

“You really are serious.” This half whisper still didn’t sound entirely convinced, and Sano looked wary.

“Come here.”

Before Sano could obey (or indicate that he wasn’t going to), they were interrupted by a knock. Soft though it was, it caused the imperfectly latched door to swing slowly open, revealing the owner of the house lowering his hand. He looked even more haggard than Hajime had seen him yet, and the exorcist realized with a stab of chagrin that Trowa might well have overheard much of their conversation. It hadn’t exactly been quiet, nor the door completely closed.

“I’ll be out for the next few hours,” Trowa said flatly — though there seemed to be both a touch of weary resignation and a subtle sort of accusation to his tone. “If you need anything from me, call my cell phone.” He didn’t give them a chance to respond, but turned away so abruptly it was as if he didn’t want to look at them for one instant longer. Even as he started walking up the hall he was muttering a spell, and presently the sound of his voice and footsteps cut off all at once.

Into the ensuing silence Hajime murmured, “We’ve just embarrassed or annoyed Trowa Barton — the Trowa Barton — out of his own house.”

Sano stared out of the room, mouth slightly ajar. His head was unguardedly busy with a rather comical equation between this scene and Forrest Gump dropping his pants before the president, and simultaneously hoping with a fervent, almost magical intensity that somebody somewhere had the wherewithal to mend Trowa’s mood before he decided to come back and get revenge for this. When Hajime cleared his throat, wanting to get back on track no matter how humiliating the prior circumstance, Sano moved quietly to close the door — properly this time — and turn toward him.

And then, because it was expected of him and what the situation called for, Hajime kissed him.

Sano, who leaned into Hajime and wrapped insistent arms around his neck, probably wouldn’t have liked to know what Hajime was thinking as he went about this task: how in the world had kissing become a thing people did? What couple first decided to press their mouths together, writhe their lips against each other, and tangle their tongues in this more or less nauseating fashion? How had such an unpleasant and unhygienic activity become a sign of mutual esteem?

He already knew, from experiences such as Sano had mentioned a minute ago involving close proximity on the sofa, that Sano’s body operated at a slightly higher temperature than most people’s. He could have guessed that Sano would taste like Chinese food, though he hadn’t guessed and would rather not have known, since what someone’s mouth tasted like should be, in Hajime’s opinion, exclusively that someone’s business. But at least Sano seemed to be enjoying this. However he felt about kissing, Hajime did enjoy Sano enjoying something. And it couldn’t last forever in any case; there was more conversation to be had.

“But, seriously, why now?” This came out in a near whisper as Sano withdrew, apparently with some reluctance, from Hajime’s lips and looked into his eyes, but the rest of the demand rose into more of a rant. “It’s not like it’s been a big mystery all along that I wanted you like this, even though I’ve been trying to be subtle about it — I mean, more subtle than I usually am about things — because it seemed like I got better results when I wasn’t outright flirting or whatever… but I think it’s still been pretty obvious. But you’ve been ignoring it all along, I have to think on purpose. So why’ve you changed your mind now?”

“Because I don’t really do this ‘relationship’ thing. But for you I’m willing to make an exception.” This fragment of the real explanation might be misleading, but at least it was true.

Sano let out a breathy laugh that was more indicative of surprise than anything else, and there sprang up out of nowhere a horizontal pink patch stretching from one of his ears all the way around to the other. “Really?” As he searched Hajime’s face, clearly wondering whether the words were a lie meant to placate and distract him, this pink stripe intensified and spread. “Just for me, huh?”

Solemnly, Hajime nodded.

Though it hadn’t actually been a lie, it did appear to have placated and distracted Sano, who now, instead of asking why Hajime didn’t really do this ‘relationship’ thing, leaned up — almost sprang up — and kissed him again. The new volume of blood in his face seemed to have perceptibly increased the already high temperature of his lips, which was interesting; that, combined with an accompanying interest in the ferocity of Sano’s movements brought on by the intensity of his emotion, made the action less tedious and distasteful than before. There was something about the fierce demonstration of Sano’s desperate pleasure at being the exception that rendered that demonstration, if not precisely enjoyable, at least acceptable to its recipient.

This time when Sano withdrew, the expression he turned up toward Hajime had a touch of something that seemed almost like drunkenness about it; and the idea that Hajime specifically was a sort of intoxicant to him… well, that wasn’t so bad either.

Leaning forward again, Sano ran moist lips across Hajime’s face to his ear and half whispered, “You’re going to fuck me now, right?” And before Hajime could even draw breath to answer, Sano reiterated, “Right?” in a tone that made it clear he was accepting no refusal. So like Sano to discount entirely the possibility that agreeing to enter upon a romantic relationship did not equate to being immediately ready for sex.

“If you insist,” Hajime replied. Deciding that this wording sounded almost as reluctant as he actually was for the proposed activity, he added, “I’ll do whatever you want.” Which he really would, even if it killed him. He did feel the need to remind Sano, however, “Don’t forget we’re in someone else’s house, though.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever forget that.” Sano drew back once more, embarrassed and determined. “And if I told Katsu I finally hooked up with you in Trowa Barton’s house, he’d laugh my ass right out of the room. But you know what? I don’t fucking care where we are. You’re going to make up for all those months you made me wait and jack off all the fucking time without having any idea how you’d actually do it if you were really there.” He was grinding against Hajime now, his words coming in a breathy growl. “You’re going to make me come hard enough to make up for trolling me all this time.”

Unsavory as was the scenario Sano described and the pictures beginning to bleed through from his eager imagination, not to mention the stirrings of reaction in Hajime’s own body to the grinding, Hajime couldn’t help but be somewhat amused by his new boyfriend’s wanton phraseology. “I told you I wasn’t trolling,” he murmured, “but I’ll see what I can do.”

Sano stepped back and threw a calculating look around, and at the idea Hajime was hearing pretty clearly from his head the exorcist said his name in a sharp, remonstrating tone.

“What?” Sano demanded. “I want you to fuck me for real, and Trowa Barton’s as gay as all fuck.”

“He’s not likely to have any–” Hajime began, but Sano had left the room before he could finish the sentence. With a sigh, he reseated himself and began to remove his tie while he waited for the younger man’s return.

He wasn’t sure what he’d gotten himself into by agreeing to this. It wasn’t, after all, just a one-time occurrence: he couldn’t grit his teeth and get through the coming sexual scene and then be done with the whole thing. A relationship meant a long-term commitment to a way of life and a set of behaviors he’d never planned on having to deal with again. He didn’t know if he would be capable of it and hadn’t merely put off the time when things would fall apart.

But he felt no temptation whatsoever to go back on his word. His realization and ensuing statements had been completely true: he couldn’t let Sano go. Whether he could return the love Sano claimed to feel for him, whether he could maintain the sort of interaction Sano wanted, whether this whole thing he was entering upon wasn’t or wouldn’t become an elaborate deception, he didn’t know, but he did know that Sano was important enough to him that he was perfectly willing to move out of his comfort zone to make sure he kept Sano in his life.

And that apparently meant he would be having sex with Sano in Trowa Barton’s house, of all places, on an air mattress he’d purchased on the way over when said Trowa Barton had informed him of a nearly complete lack of furniture. Well, he could grit his teeth and get through that, in the interest of knowing what he would be up against in the future. Though presumably, in the future, the severe embarrassment of being at Trowa Barton’s house would be absent.

Emotional scenes tended to break down Sano’s mental defenses, so Hajime picked up on the success of Sano’s venture before the younger man made it back to the room with a bottle of what appeared to be actual lube designed for sexual purposes. Based on what Hajime had understood of Trowa’s current circumstances — the burning of his previous house and the absence of his boyfriend since before the occupation of this new one — he really hadn’t expected Sano to find anything of the sort here… but he supposed that not only wasn’t it even a little of his business, he should also be glad of it, since it would (in more senses than just the literal) help things go more smoothly now.

Sano, certainly pleased about it, held up the bottle with a wickedly smug arrangement of lips and brows — which look, however, changed rapidly to one of slightly irritated disappointment. “You already took off your tie,” he protested as he again made sure the door was completely closed behind him and moved forward with no hesitation. “I wanted to do that!”

Hajime had read this desire in Sano’s head on a couple of previous occasions, and if he’d remembered it today, he might have allowed Sano to live out that peculiar little fantasy. Instead, as Sano dropped to a crouch and began to puzzle with spiky boots, he said, “Maybe next time.”

The thrill these words gave was just as evident in Sano’s thoughts as from his deep but sharply indrawn breath. And if Sano was really that happy at the prospect of removing Hajime’s tie… well, that was no difficult indulgence to offer him. Certainly easier than the probable sequel.

Sooner that could have been expected given the numbers of buckles and laces involved, Sano kicked his absurd footwear aside and began crawling across the air mattress toward Hajime. He came to rest — though ‘rest’ was a very inaccurate term — on top of the older man, legs straddling hips, fingers immediately busy with shirt buttons, and lips seeking out Hajime’s again. Hajime responded as best he could, running his own hands up Sano’s sides, considering reciprocating on the undressing front, and trying to ignore how uncomfortable Sano’s resumed grinding made him feel. At least Sano’s choice of pants today was not as dangerous as the boots; this could have been a good deal more uncomfortable.

Though the sexual stimulation frankly irritated, it wasn’t necessarily unpleasant to have Sano’s body against his in a more general sense and to explore it with his hands. He could appreciate the casual muscularity, the admirable symmetry, the warmth, without too much trouble — but far more than that, he could appreciate the eagerness Sano displayed that was very clearly directed specifically at Hajime. It was, he supposed, only natural to respond positively to someone else’s adoration of and desire for you, even if those feelings were somewhat alien, difficult to understand, and probably impossible to return. He slid his hands under Sano’s shirt.

Eventually, after further kissing and grinding that Hajime was struggling to deal with, some tugging manipulation of clothing, and some squirming that, at least on Sano’s side, was calculated to move things along, they were fully horizontal and closer to naked. And even nakedness was nothing particularly onerous… it was what people would insist on doing with it that galled. In this situation, however, Hajime was forcing himself to acclimatize.

Actions that further reiterated Sano’s eagerness to be with him bore a certain unexpected charm. It was palpably awkward that Sano, who had shifted half off of Hajime onto his side in order to reach a lubed-up hand down the back of his own loosened pants, was groaning as he presumably prepared himself for penetration; but the way Sano simultaneously rolled his shoulders toward Hajime as if trying to hug him even when that was impossible, trying to stay close and inclusive, and mouthed his arm and chest in tickly, moist, almost desperate kisses showed just how much Sano associated with Hajime the pleasure he was actually giving himself, how good it was to be here with him.

And though, when that was finished, the strong fingers that found their way past Hajime’s zipper and clasped the erection there made Hajime want to push Sano off of him and walk away, the satisfaction evident in Sano’s thoughts — as if he’d just attained some long-sought goal — mollified the older man somewhat. He allowed himself to be stroked into greater hardness, heard his own breaths coming less evenly as moments passed, with solid forbearance, because it was what Sano wanted, because Sano obviously wanted it so much.

This was, after all, not about getting through something unpleasant; it was about giving Sano what he wanted. Making Sano happy… which, in turn, for some inscrutable reason, made Hajime happy. As such, Hajime needed to start tailoring his own actions toward optimal enjoyment for Sano. So he rolled over on top of him and tried both to engage Sano in the kind of kiss Sano had thus far been the one to initiate, and to ignore that they were now right at the edge of the air mattress and liable to fall off at any time.

The latter circumstance was rectified after not too long when they were forced to separate, panting, in order to remove their remaining garments. Had Hajime been in the frame of mind he believed generally accompanied this sort of activity — the hazy, lust-driven mood that filled Sano’s head like a hot, oily mist — he had to think it would have been disrupted by this awkward procedure. Apparently this was no problem for Sano, though he did laugh rather charmingly at the flopping removal of pants and underwear before making a grotesque sound of anticipation at the sight of Hajime’s exposed erection.

And then he was sliding close against Hajime again, encouraging Hajime on top of him and lifting a bare leg up over Hajime’s back. Though not unwilling to take charge once more, ready to grind for a while and tolerate Sano’s noises in response before getting on to the actual penetration, Hajime very much wished for a couple of condoms at the moment. He wondered whether there hadn’t been any wherever Sano had found the lube, or whether Sano simply hadn’t considered them important. He rather doubted he could have brought himself to explore Trowa Barton’s taste in condoms in any case, and supposed this was just another part of the sacrifice he was making… and perhaps a sign of how far he returned Sano’s trust.

Sano was kissing him at random, much in the same manner Hajime was thrusting against various surfaces lower down, and the young man’s current thought was perceptible in his mind — with accompanying visuals and sharply anticipated sensations — before it emerged as a muffled, breathless verbal demand against Hajime’s neck: “Come on, I am so fucking ready to go.”

“Are you?” — an inane question, and perhaps a reflexive attempt at putting off the big moment.

In response, Sano only groaned at first, scraping his teeth against Hajime’s skin as Hajime’s penis scraped against the space between his buttocks and picked up some of the apparently excessive lubricant that had been applied to the area. But then he managed, “Fuuuck meee,” in a tone equal parts silly insistent drawn-out vowels and growling desperation.

“All right.” Hajime found himself in the odd position of being rendered increasingly uncomfortable by the demand and simultaneously unable to keep from smiling. Sano could be winning and entertaining even at such a moment; nobody else in the world, probably, could have pushed Hajime into doing this.

It was a dozen years since the last time he had done this, and, though he’d never anticipated doing it again, he remembered well enough, and it wasn’t exactly rocket science in the first place. With one hand supporting his weight on the air mattress and the other on his erection, he guided himself to Sano’s anus and pushed inward. He might have worried a little about hurting Sano with his unlubricated penis, but evidently Sano had used a gallon or so of the stuff on himself and felt nothing but thorough enjoyment at the entrance.

“Oh, fuck, Hajime,” he groaned, clutching at the man above him and thrusting upward to hasten the process. Whatever he said next was too inarticulate to interpret, but the flood of mental adoration that poured from him was perfectly comprehensible.

Here was the remembered slimy tightness, and, as Hajime began pumping in and out, the stimulation grew steadily enough to make him believe he could probably orgasm eventually — which, despite his achievement of an erection, had been a matter of question. Perhaps he was aided by the awareness of how Sano would be likely to react if Hajime wasn’t able to maintain and enhance his arousal during their very first sexual encounter.

To his own surprise, however, Hajime found himself distracted from such gloomy thoughts when he was actually, after a few minutes, somewhat enjoying the experience.

He didn’t like the way Sano’s fingers dug desperately, bruisingly into him; he didn’t like the way Sano’s body writhed beneath him, always straining for more, more intense sensation; he didn’t like the animalistic timbre of the noises that broke from Sano’s trembling lips… and yet he loved the message all of these combined to send, which was echoed emphatically in Sano’s mind: that this contact, this apparent proof of Hajime’s returned regard, was practically everything Sano had ever wanted, that some profound and very specific need was being gloriously, perfectly fulfilled by Hajime’s actions right now.

Mentally, Sano was giddily, overwhelmingly happy; physically, as he rose toward his sexual climax, still he was already satisfied as he had never been before. And to make him feel these things, to see himself as their sole and exclusive cause, Hajime too was happy and satisfied. It almost completely overrode his disgust at the expanding tension in his groin. This awful friction, these awkward movements, the suffocating smell of sweat and pre-ejaculate — none of it was too high a price to pay to make Sano feel this good. And that was something of a shock.

Sano’s groaning whispers might have been repetitions of Hajime’s name, and then again might have been as meaningless as they sounded. Even his thoughts were becoming little more than a mess of positive emotions thrown over and over at Hajime like a tangled ball of yarn in a soft, absurd, repetitive beating. Sano was drawing closer and closer, and something attempting to shout louder than the chaos in his head, still struggling for coherency, urged him to wait for Hajime, to try to achieve that romanticized and highly improbable mutual orgasm.

“Don’t hold back,” Hajime murmured, and kissed him. Not only had he no desire to draw this out more than necessary, he also looked forward to Sano reaching his peak for more reasons than just that it would be the penultimate milestone on this ambivalent road.

Again Sano groaned, in another apparent attempt (failure) at saying something intelligible, and was clutching even more greedily than before; in fact he’d wrapped both legs around Hajime’s waist for an awkward entwining that would have been logistically inconvenient had the air mattress not deflated slightly and put them in a sort of trough that was perfect for their present positioning and movements.

Hajime supposed he should have been paying attention to things like hip angle and what specific arrangement of bodies Sano enjoyed most, so as to make this even better for him, but that kind of nonsense really was asking too much of him during their first sexual encounter. It also didn’t seem to matter; as Sano’s clinging kept Hajime in such close, swift-moving contact with himself at every moment, it was evidently enough. He stiffened, arching upward, crying out, spasming in his pleasure.

The mental feeling of Sano’s orgasm wasn’t nearly as interesting as Hajime had hoped; instead of a burst of joy to correspond with the burst of bodily ecstasy, it was a white blankness that, while certainly happy, was more distracted by the physical than involved with it. Even so, he was pleased to have induced such feelings in Sano.

The latter now loosened his grip, grinning slackly up, gripping with his legs yet but content to lie back somewhat and let out another string of breathy vowels in time with Hajime’s continued thrusts. His eyes, bright even in the shadow Hajime cast over him, blinked only occasionally to interrupt their rapt stare at Hajime’s face. They were such a rich shade of brown, these eyes, sparsely lashed but perfectly shaped, and Hajime did not at all mind returning their gaze as he tried to finish up this business. Sano was still so happy.

He’d also tightened abominably around the foreign organ inside him; Hajime remembered this increased pressure as one of the worst parts of being the penetrator in anal sex, and hoped he could get through it. He believed, inexpert a judge as he must be, that he was fairly close to his own orgasm but that concentrating on it would be counterproductive. So he concentrated instead on the returning order in Sano’s mind, the untangling of all those positive emotions and the straightening out of all those happy thoughts — none of which suffered any diminution for their increased clarity. He let Sano’s happiness wash over him and distract him from everything, and eventually the moment came.

He couldn’t quite help a deplorable grunting sound, but did manage to withhold any indication of his distaste at both the sensation and the positively gruesome awareness that he’d just shot semen up into Sano’s rectum. Then he took a deep breath and stilled, forcing himself not to pull out so quickly that his discomfort would be evident in the movement. Simultaneously he was congratulating himself on surviving this ordeal.

But the ordeal hadn’t quite ended. Sano was petting his hair and neck, still breathing loudly and happily, and Hajime was pricklingly aware that one of those hands of Sano’s had, not long ago, been exploring regions significantly less hygienic. In fact a general desire to make use of the bath in the next room was growing with shudder-inducing quickness and intensity in Hajime. A cigarette would be delightful as well, but he had neither any with him nor permission to smoke in this house. With an iron will he restrained his urge to get up and leave.

He did, however, ease his penis out from where he felt it should never be (but where it would undoubtedly spend some time in the future), slide his arms around Sano again, and settle into a more comfortable position. Some standards of cleanliness (no petting of hair with fingers that had recently occupied anyone’s ass!) would have to be established for future encounters, but at the moment he wasn’t going to ruin Sano’s enjoyment of the scene.

And his own, really. This hadn’t been so bad. Well, it had been bad, but not intolerably so, and its wonderful aspects had at least balanced if not outweighed the horrible. At the moment Hajime was actually fairly content; if he could ignore the discomfort of what people that liked this sort of thing called ‘afterglow’ and of his awareness of sexual fluids potentially leaking or smearing onto his proposed bed for the night, he even enjoyed lying here with Sano in his arms feeling Sano’s intense satisfaction and anticipation of times to come.

“I hope that made up for the trolling,” Hajime murmured at last.

“Mmm, not really.” Sano stretched, rubbing his body languidly against Hajime’s as he turned his face toward him. “But it was a good start.” And he kissed Hajime just as languidly. This prevented him from finishing his statement verbally, but Hajime caught, faintly, the remainder of it in his head, around which the shields had been gradually reforming: I mean, it was really good, but it only lasted, like, ten minutes or something, and I bet we could go twenty times that long.

Thankfully Sano hadn’t said this aloud, since how to respond would have been an unpleasant mystery Hajime might not have been able to solve. He was impressed with himself for managing to orgasm after only, like, ten minutes of stimulation, and simultaneously appalled at the idea of having to attempt to put up with sex for twenty times that long. And what else would Sano demand of him? He would probably want to do the penetrating on occasion, and then there was fellatio and anilingus and god only knew what. Well, Hajime would just have to draw a line somewhere.

But it wouldn’t be a line debarring sex entirely. He wouldn’t deny Sano that. And maybe this wouldn’t have to be as much of a deception as Hajime had been fearing. He had, after all, legitimately enjoyed some aspects of tonight’s encounter, and felt he could manage to make sex with Sano a part of his life. He could and would do what was required to keep Sano with him, to keep Sano happy.

Finishing at last the lingering kiss that had allowed Hajime time for all these thoughts, Sano drew back a bit and sighed contentedly. “Yeah,” he said in a luxuriating tone, “I think I could stand to do that a fucking lot from now on.”

And he undoubtedly didn’t recognize the complete lack of facetiousness in Hajime’s reply, “I think I could too.”



If you’re curious where Trowa went when he left the house, see Consummate Timing.

Part 4

The most infuriating thing was that then Sano had to go home. Back to Hajime’s house, anyway. He’d run off in such an outraged state of worry and confusion, he hadn’t given any thought to the cats’ dinner — and if he had thought about it, he would never have guessed that a situation might arise wherein he would be tempted to put off returning to the hungry familiars in favor of having sex with Hajime again. And then maybe again.

The other problem was that Hajime pretty clearly didn’t take much pleasure from the fact that they’d celebrated the upgrade to their relationship in somebody’s guest room — especially given who that somebody was — and probably wouldn’t have been willing to have sex again (and then maybe again) in that venue in any case. Though he’d seemed ready enough to cuddle Sano on the air mattress for a good long time, he’d also seemed to want a shower very much as well. Evidently he was going to be a fastidious lover; Sano couldn’t say he was surprised.

And the cats still needed to be fed. This and the awareness of morning class (for which all his things were at Hajime’s house) had forced the very reluctant Sano out.

Despite the severe annoyance of having to drive home, Sano barely remembered the drive home. There had probably been stoplights and other motorists and… gasoline… and stuff. Obviously his car had started without too much trouble. Hopefully he’d worn his seat belt. It was all more than a bit of a blur. At the moment he was standing in Hajime’s kitchen, not quite sure how he’d arrived there, watching the cats eat food he wasn’t quite sure when he’d given them, grinning in a mixture of dreaminess and triumph and savoring the last of the sensations fading throughout his body.

“For you I’m willing to make an exception.”

The sensations in his heart weren’t fading.

He was tempted to do what Hajime had suggested and text an all-caps, possibly multi-message announcement to everyone that had ever put up with his complaints about his lack of progress in this area — or even actually sign onto Facebook for once and change his relationship status. But he held off for the moment. He was thinking about Hajime’s lips on his neck. He would, of course, relate the gleeful news to his friends after while, and rejoice in so doing and in their reactions, but right now it was too close, too precious to share with anyone.

“I’m into you. I’m happier with you around even when you’re annoying the hell out of me.”

It wasn’t as if Sano had never been in a relationship before, never believed himself in love before. But he’d never had to wait this long for someone he liked this much, and he’d never had anyone make so much of a concession for him. Though it hadn’t been overtly stated, he thought he had the answer to the question he’d been silently asking for so long: his interest had been ignored all this time because Hajime disliked relationships.

That… that Sano really should have predicted. Hajime had moved to a different country to get away from his family and admitted, as far as Sano knew, a total of two friends. Maybe two and a half. And yet, when push came to shove, he would go against his own evidently fairly strong disinclination and accept Sano as his lover. Make an exception just for Sano. Who knew perfectly well that Hajime Saitou wasn’t much given to making exceptions.

“Don’t hold back.”

If he concentrated, he could still call up the sensations of Hajime touching him, kissing him, fucking him… he could still smell him. Of course this might have something to do with the fact that he was in Hajime’s home, but the memories were so visceral it seemed like more than merely that.

A shower here to supplement the handwash Hajime had insisted upon at Trowa’s house might have been a good idea, but that scent Sano swore he could still detect all over his own body was, at the moment, something he could not bear to lose. Besides, such considerations barely registered through the preoccupied felicitous haze in which he currently operated. Maybe tomorrow. For now, happily brazen, he stripped off his clothing for the second and less interesting time tonight and, after a trip to the toilet that was as far as he was willing to recognize mundanity, crawled into Hajime’s bed.

With hands behind his head on the pillow, he stared up toward the ceiling, but his line of sight was broken by memories like visions that arose in front of his eyes: Hajime’s expression when he called Sano back, having finally made the choice to accept him in full spite of his own habits… Hajime waiting for him on that air mattress, having done the unthinkable and actually removed that uptight tie of his… Hajime’s gorgeous eyes boring into Sano’s from above as he finished inside him, having just made him come if not quite hard enough to make up for all the lonely masturbation at least pretty damn satisfyingly.

“I do like you.”

“You really do, don’t you?”

Misao, who had curled up beside Sano on top of the blanket at some point completely unnoticed by him, wondered now what he meant. He reached down to pet her, scratching her head absently as he replied that he hadn’t been addressing her.

He’d begun mentally reliving the entire evening, in the level of detail with which only that kind of exquisitely indelible event can be recalled — earlier, more aggravating parts not excluded — and gotten as far as the extremely embarrassing entrance of Trowa, when noise arose from the pocket of his pants on the floor.

The tone he’d set for text messages from Hajime, a cheesy harp sound that had come pre-loaded on the phone, had felt appropriate not even remotely for Hajime’s personality but for the silly sense of romantic longing it seemed to convey. Hearing it now, Sano let out a cry of triumph and joy. He would have to change it — he would definitely change it to something more befitting his official boyfriend — but at the moment it carried vindication of his long wait and congratulations for tonight’s events.

Misao expressed annoyance at being disrupted from her comfortable position as Sano scrambled up and leaned over the side of the bed to find his forgotten phone, but his placating reply trailed off into distraction as he unlocked the device and read the message Hajime must have sent once he was done with his much-desired shower:

Thanks for the 67 texts. I apologize for being inaccessible. It won’t happen again.

The same stupid grin Sano was pretty sure he’d been wearing since he’d left Trowa’s house now widened perceptibly as he typed, I can forgive you for just about anything right now.

So if I wanted to stab you again… Hajime suggested.

Sano wished he could convey an eyebrow vigorously pumped, or at the very least a licentious tone, with his reply, Depends on what kind of stab we’re talking.

Idiot, Hajime sent.

Sano flopped onto his back again, laughing out loud in his delight and then continuing to grin up at the phone he now held above him. This is so high school. Where you go to a friend’s house whose parents aren’t home so you can fuck and YOUR parents won’t know, and then you go home before curfew and text about it all night?

Somehow I’m not surprised you were doing that kind of thing in high school.

And YOU weren’t? Immediately he’d sent this he rethought it. No, of course you weren’t, kouhasan, why would I even ask.

Idiot. Sano had liked being called ‘idiot’ by Hajime (some of the time) for quite a while, since it had often seemed, counterintuitively, a sign of friendship. But he’d never thought he would come to love the sound (or in this case the look) of it quite this much.

Idiot’s going to sleep in your bed by the way

Feel free.

Mentioning the bed had raised a question. Also by the way, why Trowa Barton’s house? If you went to a hotel, we could be fucking again right now.

No, we couldn’t. You wouldn’t have found me at a hotel.

Not with you not answering your damn phone!! So you went to TB’s house SO I could find you?

No, it was because Gains from Seido called and offered me a place to stay while the police want to talk to me. I had to be able to tell him I was already staying with a friend.

On reading this, Sano sat up again, giving the not-so-good news the first frown he’d worn since before Hajime had kissed him. He supposed Hajime’s choice made some sense, under the circumstances… though he could already think of other options that might have been more convenient. At some point he would have to ask Hajime why Trowa Barton’s house in particular had seemed the best place to go. Not right now, though; anything to do with Seido was a spectacular buzz-kill. So the only remonstrance Sano offered at the moment was, You should TELL ME about shit like that instead of making me worry.

Are you saying you’re dissatisfied with how tonight has turned out?

Haha no. Now he was able to smile again, and to pet Misao when she crawled into his blanketed lap. The message he then composed one-handed would certainly have made him blush if he’d been saying it face-to-face, but in writing seemed calmly straightforward: I hope you’re happy with it too

Hajime’s reply was gratifyingly immediate: I am.

I meant when I said I love you, Sano told him.

This time the response was not quite so quick. I hope you know that saying that puts you at risk of not having it said back.

Sano didn’t stop smiling at this, but he felt the expression go a bit wan. He hadn’t really expected Hajime to pour out his heart or whatever… but he wouldn’t have objected. Well we already figured out that you suck at telling me stuff.

And yet you love me anyway.

Here Sano made an indignant sound, which was echoed by the cat in his lap at his cessation of caresses. He didn’t resume just yet, though, since he wanted both hands to hasten the composition of his protest. Hey, it is completely unfair to say you can’t say you love me and then turn around and give me shit about saying I love you.

Your definition of “unfair” is so elastic.

Sano wasn’t sure how to reply to this, and a little annoyed at the turn of the conversation — which feeling threatened to translate to dismay under the current circumstances. But he’d barely resumed petting Misao, and hadn’t yet decided what to say, when another message arrived:

Sano, it is very important to me to have you in my life.

Just as if Hajime had actually been in the room speaking aloud, Sano could hear the words in his boyfriend’s deep voice, Japanese accented, perfectly serious, devoid of any of the sarcasm that often colored it. And while not a declaration of love, still the statement meant the world to him. He wondered if Hajime knew just how much it meant to him.

I guess that will do for now, he sent. Then, staring at the words, he found another frown on his face as he decided he was not at all satisfied with that reply. Wow, that looks so cold, was his addendum. I mean I’m really happy to hear that, it really IS good enough for now. After another moment’s thought he added, REALLY good. And then, REALLY REALLY GOOD.

Does each “REALLY” have a cumulative effect? Now it was amusement Sano could hear in Hajime’s words as easily as if he’d actually been there.

Yes, 10x, he replied at once.

So is that 100x or 1000x good?

Again Sano laughed out loud. Now YOU’RE being an idiot

You must be rubbing off on me. Maybe this isn’t such a good idea.

DON’T YOU DARE, Sano texted fiercely, replying with very serious insistence to what he believed (hoped!) had been only a facetious threat.

All right, fine, Hajime answered. But I AM going to stop texting you so you can go to sleep. I know you have class in the morning.

First tell me I won’t wake up and find out this was all a dream.

You tracked me down intending to (try to) beat me up, then embarrassed the hell out of me in front of Trowa Barton. That sounds more like a nightmare to me.

While this was actually a fairly reassuring response to Sano’s demand, part of it had to be picked at. What’s that (try to)?

Consider the last time we fought. Actually consider every time we’ve fought.

You’re a bastard.

And you still claim to love me.

Sano wondered if this teasing regarding his professions of love was going to become a problem. At the moment it didn’t significantly bother him; in fact he was glad of the banter, and glad to have his true feelings out in the open at last… but if Hajime kept it up, it might become somewhat painful. It seemed to imply a real disdain for the emotion, which in turn implied that not only was whatever Hajime felt for him at this point not love, it might never be.

But Sano refused to think about that right now. And in fact the next message from Hajime, on the heels of the more worrisome one, distracted him: Go to sleep. I’ll call you in the morning. What time do you want to wake up?

It was exactly the promise Sano needed, and probably the only thing that could get him to abandon this conversation instead of continuing literally all night. Seven, he replied.

I’ll talk to you then. Good night.

Good night. There was something oddly and delightfully intimate about exchanging these wishes after what had evolved between them. Even via text, ‘good night’ meant something different now. It meant what Sano had always wanted it to mean.

He wondered, as he set his phone on the nightstand and then lay down again, how long Hajime would stay at Trowa Barton’s house — how long it would be before Sano could make the use of this very bed that he’d yearned to since March… undoubtedly, somewhat depressingly, not until some new development occurred in the situation with Quatre Winner. Between now and then, it seemed unlikely that any further sex could occur between him and his lover. Indeed, Sano wasn’t sure he could bring himself even to visit Hajime at that place, could manage to look Trowa Barton in the face any time soon after having searched his sparse bedroom for lube and actually found it.

But knowing that Hajime did care about him, knowing what had already passed and what would come to pass, made him strong. Phone calls and texts, probably limited to off-hours when the police weren’t likely to try calling, would do for a while. Sano, it is very important to me to have you in my life, he felt, would make him remarkably patient.

Again absently, he petted once or twice the cat that had settled against his stomach when he’d turned onto his side. He’d believed he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep with so much to think about, with the memories of this evening still so strong and the scent of Hajime still so perceptible around him, but found as he closed his eyes that he was surprisingly drained — a good kind of drained that seemed ready to pull him straight into placid depths.

And, though in his startlement at the unaccustomed ringing of his phone at 7:00 in the morning he did not immediately recall how beautifully everything had changed, it all came rushing back to him when the first thing he truly comprehended upon awakening was a beloved voice saying, “Good morning, idiot. It wasn’t a dream.”



<<3

I’ve rated this story .

His Own Humanity: Fast Decisions

The Wal-Mart electronics department was a stormy sea of temptation in which Sano, when foolish enough to venture there, not infrequently foundered. The broad ‘electronics’ heading simply held too many items he would be more than happy to own for him to approach even such a homogenized selection as this without going into a sort of trance in which all thoughts of prudence or the need to eat for the next month were swallowed up in the desire to shoot enemy soldiers and/or aliens underscored by some badass guitar.

Today, however, he had a specific and reasonable purpose — even an inevitable, necessary one — and hoped to avoid spending too much on anything he didn’t need by concentrating hard on what he actually did.

His cell phone provider was cheap in every sense, and the part of the rack that bore their logo had the smallest variety of phones of any of the assembled companies — but they had, at least, finally acknowledged modern times with a single smartphone option, and over this Sano lingered longingly. It looked a bit outdated compared to those from other providers — though still five or six times more expensive than the plainer phones from this provider — but in any case it had to be worlds better than the device Sano had come to replace, which was by this time not so much on its last legs as ignoring its vestigial organs in favor of a sidewinding slither.

Of course he always had the option of switching providers. It would be more expensive per month, but also nice to have voicemail included in the plan rather than as an add-on, as well as, probably, some other little features he’d been entirely doing without all this time… and then he could get a much prettier smartphone than this one here. Like one of the new iPhones made with indestructible helicopter fiberglass or whatever. He could see what that Angry Birds thing was all about.

But did he really need to see what that Angry Birds thing was all about? And aside from games he could play anywhere, how did a smartphone actually compete with the less intelligent kind? Of a phone, after all, he only required standard communicative functions, and that purpose had been adequately fulfilled by a much crappier one this whole time. What use could he possibly have for a smartphone?

Stupid question. A smartphone was a little computer, and nothing like a computer could ever be a bad thing to own or a waste of money, right?

But if he wanted to buy a new computer, wouldn’t it be better to buy an actual new computer?

This train of thought was, presumably, the reason he found himself looking at laptops when he’d come to find a new cell phone. His desktop occasionally crashed for no apparent reason, and some games the video card in particular just couldn’t handle. It would be nice to be able to take notes at school in a more organized fashion, too.

But it wasn’t strictly necessary. He hadn’t made any real attempts to do anything about his current computer, and a system restore — a much less expensive option than an entirely new machine — might solve its solvable problems. It seemed extravagant to buy a new computer outright when the old one still functioned at a high level. And he needed a phone in any case, and certainly wouldn’t get a laptop and a smartphone.

On the other hand, laptop prices had come down drastically in the last few years… four or five hundred dollars would give him the chance to stop rocking XP Professional and finally try out that copy of The Saboteur he’d never gotten to work, and then he could grab the least expensive phone his current provider offered and come out of the shopping trip not too much poorer.

Who was he kidding? Four or five hundred dollars poorer when he’d come in planning on a twenty dollar phone?? Also, if he did decide to switch providers — which seemed like a good idea, on the whole — that would cost him extra to get started too. And he might still actually want a more advanced phone than the least expensive one available. More than twenty dollars, sure, but less than four or five hundred.

But it still seemed silly to buy a miniature computer instead of an actual computer. And he wanted a laptop.

But he didn’t need a laptop.

“If you know you don’t need a laptop, walk away from the laptops. Don’t stand here staring at them like some broke idiot who’s wandered into a bar hoping someone will buy him a beer if he just looks thirsty enough.”

“I wasn’t doing that!” Sano turned to face the suit-coated man that had appeared unexpectedly at his side. “I wasn’t doing that at all!”

“Close enough.” Hajime, obviously picking up on Sano’s brainwaves, couldn’t possibly miss the rush of joy that always filled the younger man at the sight of the older; but in this case, before Sano’s effort at keeping his thoughts in check (an automatic response to Hajime’s presence) took hold, there must also be a rush of annoyance as the exorcist moved to stand between him and the computers on display. “You clearly have no idea what it’s like to be a communicator,” Hajime went on, putting a firm hand on Sano’s shoulder. “It’s bad enough that I have to hear irrelevant thoughts from half the people around me… then someone like you comes along and starts broadcasting his problems.”

Though Sano immediately protested that he hadn’t been broadcasting, he allowed himself to be directed — almost pushed — away from the laptops and back toward the cell phones.

“I could hear you from all the way across the store.”

Sano grumbled something mostly indistinct, but he did recall what his mental state had been before Hajime popped out of nowhere. Though not about to admit it, perhaps he could see how he had maybe been broadcasting just a little. That it seemed to have summoned Hajime, though, like a genie at the rub of a lamp, wasn’t likely to make Sano think too badly of the activity.

“You were radiating indecision like a criminal who wants to get caught so he can get help. So here I am to rescue you from your complete lack of self-control.” With the final shove necessary to reposition Sano before the rack he’d originally been examining, Hajime also came to a halt. “There doesn’t seem to be any good reason,” he continued in a businesslike tone, “for you not to switch carriers and buy a reasonably priced smartphone if that’s what you want. In this society a reliable phone with reliable service is not a luxury; it’s a necessity. As long as you know you’re up to the monthly bill and won’t let the phone get damaged so you have to replace it.”

“I’m pretty sure I wasn’t broadcasting, ‘Hey, Hajime, come over here and lecture me,'” Sano muttered.

“I’m not lecturing.” That Hajime released Sano’s shoulders at this point was a mixed blessing. “I’m reminding you of what you already know. Make up your mind about your new phone and then come find me in grocery.”

Sano felt a little thrill at the command, as it pretty much guaranteed this chance meeting would lead to them hanging out. And though that was a fairly standard result of a chance meeting between them, with Hajime chance meetings weren’t so plentiful, nor friendly declarations of such low value, that Sano could fail to take pleasure from them. So, much more gleefully than before, he turned his attention seriously back to the rack he’d come to examine.

All of a sudden the choice of carrier and model didn’t seem nearly as complicated as it had a few minutes ago. In fact, it was now perfectly obvious which company would be the best option and which smartphone he wanted. And though veiled laptop desires still danced, sparkling, at the edge of his awareness, they no longer significantly tempted him.

It turned out he had no need to go find Hajime in grocery. The process of obtaining the fixed attention of an employee qualified in the workings of cell phone accounts, then waiting while that person set him up with a monthly plan and initiated a port process, necessitated a longer time spent in the electronics department than Hajime could possibly take looking for and even purchasing food and whatever else he needed throughout the store. He rejoined Sano just as the latter had finished setting up an automatic recurring payment on his debit card and was receiving lengthy and repetitive instructions on how the service switch would progress over the next twenty-four hours.

And as Sano, ridiculously pleased at his new acquisition and excited to play with it extensively, finally turned away from the counter to the sound of the employee’s polite goodbye, Hajime asked with just the tiniest touch of impatience, “Do you need anything else here?”

“Nope, this was everything.” Triumphantly Sano held up the box containing his new phone.

“You came in your own car?” And when Sano confirmed this, Hajime replied, “I’ll bring you back here later to pick it up, then.”

Under some circumstances, Hajime’s dogmatic assumptions about coming events, what people around him would do, irritated the hell out of Sano. But he could never be annoyed by the assumption that the two of them would be spending the evening together. And anyway he would only be exploring his new phone all night regardless of where he was. He did wonder a little, though, how Hajime would react if he told him he had somewhere else to be.

“We can’t finish season two if you’re not going to be paying attention.” Hajime, now sounding somewhat amused, had clearly foreseen Sano’s primary activity this evening. Without divination, even.

“You’re right,” Sano admitted regretfully. “It’ll have to be something else.” And his inevitable preoccupation ruled out a number of options — any show he particularly cared to see, all games of any type — but Hajime never had a problem finding something to do while Sano hung around pointlessly. That this was the case blatantly delighted Sano.

“The movie I just rented is supposedly extremely funny,” Hajime informed him, lifting a shopping bag through which the shape of a DVD showed vaguely among the obscure purchases. “We’ll see if it can distract you from your new toy.”

“More like I’ll be distracted watching you,” Sano retorted as he waited for the click of lock to let him know he could climb into Hajime’s car, “to see if you’ve grown a sense of humor lately.” Since Hajime generally seemed to enjoy laughing at what he considered folly in Sano more than at anything else. Which Sano actually didn’t mind much.

Whatever Hajime said in response was largely inaudible between the crackle of his shopping bags settling into the back and the closing of one door before he opened the other and took his seat behind the steering wheel, but, judging by a familiar tone, Sano thought it must be some variation of, “Idiot.”

Only belatedly, as they left the parking lot, did Sano realize his old phone was due to stop working any time and the new one might require some figuring out. With this in mind, the text he immediately sent might have been just a little more hastily composed and poorly spelled than usual, but he believed his friend would get the gist of it.

Sensing a mental outreach from Hajime as he would detect something he didn’t want to collide with in the dark, Sano glanced over at the other man and remarked, “You know I’ll tell you what it says if you ask? You don’t actually have to intercept them.”

In a tone that acknowledged the truth of this Hajime replied, “And you don’t have to cancel all your other plans every time you run into me.”

Sano grinned crookedly. “You were the one who just decided I’d be going home with you without even asking.”

“I assumed you’d tell me if you had other plans.”

There were a few things Sano could say in response to this. Unfortunately, “You really think you’re not first priority?” was probably too much of a come-on, which type of remark always seemed to irritate and put off Hajime. And, “Funny how you assume I’ll tell you things when you suck so much at doing that,” might well start an argument Sano’s good mood wouldn’t tolerate at the moment. So what he decided to say was, “It wasn’t really plans, just ‘we’ll hang out if nothing else comes up.'”

And then Hajime did that mixed message thing where he seemed silently pleased that he counted as ‘something else coming up,’ but would obviously get miffed and more offensive than usual if Sano were to make some leading comment about this pleasure.

Never before had Sano gone this long liking someone without saying something openly about it, and he often wondered whether this indicated an interest stronger than or different from any previous crush, or that the two of them simply weren’t meant to be more than friends. Because two months was an extremely long time not to raise the issue definitively, especially with someone he saw in person with tolerable frequency; and it just wasn’t his style to wait around hoping for the development of reciprocation from someone already aware he was interested.

Admittedly logic (something that, whatever Hajime had to say about it, Sano did regard) was on his side in not behaving in a manner that would push Hajime away while he waited for the jerk to return his feelings or at least explain why he never would… but it couldn’t last forever. A sense of novelty hung about this unusual patience and forbearance, but even that couldn’t maintain his silence indefinitely. And Sano was watching with some fascination, with a sense almost of detachment as if he were outside the situation, to see how long it would take him to snap and demand Hajime like him the way he liked Hajime.

In the meantime — and this was undoubtedly the only reason he’d held out for so long and had any hope of continuing to do so — he could still enjoy the exciting and not infrequently aggravating company of a man he should probably consider himself lucky to have even as a friend.

*

Not entirely to Hajime’s pleasure, Sano was sitting there thinking about their relationship again. He did that for at least a few minutes, if not off and on the entire time, whenever they spent time together; and though he appeared aware that bringing it up aloud would be counterproductive, and though it didn’t agitate his companion enough to make avoiding him a better option, Hajime still disliked it.

The eventual decision that to state bluntly his total disinterest in romance would probably drive Sano away unhappy, and that Hajime hated that thought, had involved them in a sort of waiting game: Sano waited for Hajime to suddenly feel like falling into bed with him, and Hajime waiting for Sano to get over his infatuation. The wild card of Sano’s impatience would force both of their hands sooner or later, since Hajime was never going to feel like falling into bed with Sano, and then everything would probably be ruined; so Hajime had been working to resign himself to the fact that this friendship was a temporary arrangement. And in response to this knowledge, there might have been some of the dictatorial assumptions Sano always accused him of: he wouldn’t waste chances to be with Sano while he still had them.

Thinking-about-relationship time ended when Sano’s friend returned his text. Incoming messages were much more difficult than outgoing ones, since, if you weren’t reaching unceasingly to catch anything that appeared, you had to know when they might be coming to know when to reach at all — it took a lot of practice to get any warning of an approaching message, and Hajime didn’t quite manage to read this one. Sano’s reply, an affirmative in all lower case, was easy enough, but gave no clue as to the question it answered.

Once again Sano noticed what Hajime was up to. “I think I’m starting to see how you do that.” He’d tilted his head as if a different neck angle served his magical senses better. “Sometime when you’re not driving, you should text me and see if I can grab it.”

Thinking this worth immediate pursuit, Hajime pulled so abruptly into a turn lane pointing toward a gas station that Sano made a surprised noise. Soon he had the car in park and his cell phone out. He would be interested to see whether or not Sano really could do this trick without ever being specifically shown how.

Sano held his old phone closed before him, staring at it with an amusing degree of concentration, as Hajime sent his first message, and frowned slightly with effort as Hajime sent his second. His mental nets were perhaps a little too intense, certainly very unsubtle, but he did seem to have the general idea of how this worked. After an unusually long time, the dilapidated phone chimed only once. Still frowning, Sano opened it, compared the text with what he’d picked up magically, then waited impatiently for the other to arrive. As he realized the transition of service was probably just taking effect and had robbed him of the second message, at least for the moment, his frown deepened into a scowl even as some of his previous excitement about the new phone reappeared to mix with the annoyance at having the experiment interrupted.

“I think I got both of them,” he said at last. He threw his old mobile a dirty look. “But I only know for sure I was right about the first one.”

Hajime, who had already repocketed his own phone, moved to leave the parking lot. “And?” His first message had asked, Why were you worried about spending a few hundred dollars on a computer anyway? The second had added, You can’t have spent all the money Gains gave you already. Now that he was satisfied on whether or not Sano could teach himself to intercept text messages mentally, he wanted answers to his other questions as well.

“Oh.” Sano cleared his throat. “I kinda… gave half that money to Kaoru.”

It took only a moment’s consideration for Hajime to reply, “I can’t say that comes as a big surprise.”

“It just seemed too unfair.” And Sano’s quick response just seemed too defensive. “Sure, we did Gains a favor, and it was a pain in the ass — and the shoulder — but it was his boss’s fault her husband died and her life got fucked up. Why should he just give us money?”

Hajime chuckled. “Your logic’s a little flawed, but I’m sure she appreciated it.”

“My logic’s just fine,” Sano insisted. “You’re just a jerk who wouldn’t ever think about someone needing money in a situation like that.”

Hajime believed Sano’s defensiveness resulted from an internal battle between concern for Kaoru and old indoctrination that money was to be retained as long as possible at all costs. That Hajime found Sano’s hang-ups about money entertaining and more or less adorable would be taken exactly the wrong way by Sano, the exorcist knew well, and he didn’t plan to mention it. Instead he said, “Just because I have no interest in being her friend — especially since you seem to have that base covered — doesn’t mean I have absolutely no sympathy for her or her situation.”

Sano gave him a disbelieving look. “Yeah, but I don’t think you would have given her any of your share.”

“Which would be normal behavior. You went above and beyond in your usual extravagant way; don’t expect the same of me.”

“I don’t,” Sano muttered.

“But in any case, even with just half the payoff left, you should still have plenty of money. Why was the computer such a problem?”

“Because I’m trying to save that other half,” said Sano irritably. “You fancy exorcists with your inheritance and stocks and house that’s already paid off and shit might not know what it’s like for poor college students who work at a cheap-ass restaurant.”

Hajime, not bothering to point out either that his house was not, in fact, paid off, or that Sano’s plurals were getting a little confused, merely laughed at him again.

Though he opened his mouth to continue, Sano reclosed it as he seemed struck by a thought. In pensive silence he turned to his phone packaging, then the puzzle of how the battery and back cover went into or onto the device; and, though a certain interested part of his attention was genuinely caught up in getting the thing powered on, a large part of his consciousness seemed to be grinding away furiously at whatever had just occurred to him. Curious though he was, Hajime continued the drive toward his house in equal silence and relatively solid patience.

Finally, as they entered Hajime’s neighborhood, Sano said, “You know what I should do…” His tone sounded distracted, and light from the new phone glittered in his eyes, but he went on almost immediately: “I should have you hold onto all the money I’m trying to save. That way, whenever I wanted to spend some of it, I’d have to tell you what I wanted to buy, and then you’d give me hell about it; and plus even if I still decided to go through with it, it would be a huge pain to get the money back to my account. So I’d really have to want whatever it was, and it would force me to really think about it.”

Normally Hajime had a prompt reply for anything Sano said, even if only “Idiot,” but this one required an unexpected amount of thought. In continued silence, therefore, he pulled into his driveway and shut off the car. Then he turned toward Sano. The latter appeared to have his full attention on the phone in his hands, but this did nothing to lessen the impression of sincerity in the proposal he’d made. He really had just thought of this idea, given it perhaps a minute’s contemplation not undivided with more frivolous thoughts, come to a conclusion, and presented it immediately to the other party involved. Perfectly simply.

Whatever nickname Hajime chose to give him, Sano was not actually unintelligent. And that an intelligent person could reach and divulge such an important decision so quickly without seeming to worry about it at all was… well, stupid. But in a way it was also impressive. And something about such an alien manner of seeing the world, of thinking about things, fascinated Hajime, too. Stupid, impressive, fascinating… it was almost Sano himself in miniature.

He must also consider the issue of Sano’s apparent level of trust. Though Hajime remembered with unusual clarity the unhesitating way Sano had told him, “You wouldn’t have done it if you didn’t think you had to,” in regard to a certain fairly serious injury a couple of months back, he hadn’t properly recognized, even then, to what degree Sano trusted him. At the moment he had not only the evidence provided by what Sano had put forward, but a mental sense of that confidence not terribly difficult to pick up on now he actively looked for it.

Of course Hajime had no intention of betraying or taking advantage of Sano in any way — and didn’t anticipate any unless in the unlikely event there arose some moral demand superior to that of not betraying or taking advantage of a friend — but despite Sano’s trust in him being (probably) perfectly justified, its level after this amount of time seemed easily as precipitously attained as Sano’s other choices. Simultaneously, though… no matter how silly it was and no matter how logically Hajime argued against the sensation… he liked it. He wasn’t sure if anyone had ever trusted him to that degree, and that Sano did specifically and recognizably pleased him.

Perhaps equally pleasing was a sense almost of domesticity about the suggested arrangement — the idea of stronger ties to Sano and perhaps a lesser degree of brevity to their friendship than Hajime had previously been assuming. Unfortunately, despite the allure of these concepts, he couldn’t fail to recognize their other implications as well. Domesticity did rather go hand-in-hand with romance, or at least often formed its natural result, and there was an almost marriage-like quality to this type of financial cooperation. Entering into this agreement would not have to indicate increased interest in a romantic relationship on Hajime’s part, but that indication would undoubtedly be fabricated by the eager Sano. And it was this more than any other consideration that determined Hajime against the idea.

“No,” he finally said. “No, I don’t think so.”

Raising his eyes from his phone and appearing to realize for the first time that the car had stopped, Sano gave Hajime a petulant look. “Why not?”

“You don’t really need my help with this. You’re perfectly capable of controlling your own spending habits.” Not that the idea had been entirely unreasonable… but it also wasn’t necessary, and could be dangerous.

“Hey, you just swooped in to rescue me from buying a laptop,” Sano reminded him with some defiance.

“You wanted someone to swoop in. What you really wanted was for someone to swoop in and give you permission to do what you already wanted to do but knew you shouldn’t.”

“But I got you instead.” Whether Sano considered this better or worse — or simply different — than whatever rescue or justification he’d subconsciously desired was not evident. “What do you think I would have done if you hadn’t come along?”

“I don’t know what you would have done. But I know you could have made the right decision even without me.” Hajime said this fairly casually, but Sano would know just how seriously he meant it. Sano’s trust, and the satisfaction the offer thereof had unexpectedly raised in Hajime, deserved that serious response. More typically shallow interaction could resume afterwhile.

“Really?” One corner of Sano’s mouth and part of each of his eyebrows rose, apparently almost against his will, to change his somewhat annoyed expression into a dubious half grin. “Because I’m pretty sure you said I have a complete lack of self-control.”

“Your self-control is fine. When you’re not being too lazy to bother with it.”

“Well, then,” Sano demanded, both gratified and irritated, “why won’t you help me with my laziness?”

“I will.” It had occurred to Hajime that, though he couldn’t respond the way Sano wanted, he also couldn’t respond to the not-entirely-unreasonable idea and the pleasing indication of trust with cold and complete refusal. “But not the way you suggested.” He spent a lot of time shooting Sano down, but at the moment it needn’t be to such a depth as was often the case. He could return haste for haste, and hopefully keep from injuring his friend more than necessary. “Here’s my offer: whenever you’re tempted to buy something stupid you don’t need, call me.” He gestured to what Sano held. “You have a phone that should be reliable at any time of day, so you’ll have no excuse not to. Call me, and I’ll tell you exactly what I think of whatever you’re planning.”

“So you’re saying… I’m allowed to call you any time of day.” Sano’s tone was almost perfectly flat but for the tiniest hint of skepticism. “Just… call you whenever. Doesn’t matter what time it is.”

“Yes.” Perhaps this had been a bit impetuous, and perhaps that worried him slightly, but Hajime held steadfastly to his stated purpose.

“Just so we’re clear: ‘any time of day’ means any time of day?” Now a feeling of impending… something… colored Sano’s voice.

“Yes.” And perhaps Hajime hadn’t entirely considered the possible ramifications of this course of action… but that was the price of fast decisions. Sano probably didn’t appreciate Hajime’s willingness to pay that price for his sake, and would only have taken it the wrong way if he’d known.

“So, like, three-in-the-morning any time qualifies as ‘any time?'” It was glee building up in there, taxiing toward a runway Hajime could practically see behind Sano’s eyes.

“Yes.”

“All twenty-four hours? For real?”

“Yes.”