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  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

  2932 Ross Clark Circle, #384

  Dothan, AL 36301

  Soul of the Night

  Copyright © 2007 by Barbara Sheridan and Anne Cain

  Cover by Anne Cain

  ISBN: 1-59998-372-9

  www.samhainpublishing.com

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication January 2007

  Soul of the Night

  Barbara Sheridan and Anne Cain

  Dedication

  For Tiffany, who loves these kabuki boys as much as we do. We’re grateful for your friendship and encouragement always.

  Chapter One

  San Francisco, Lunar New Year, 1872

  Fog, thick enough to make the cold cling to one’s clothes and skin, blanketed the dark alleys bordering the bay. Almost hidden by the fog, a short manlike creature wandered the empty streets. He traced a zigzagging path across the cobblestones, cutting through the dense whiteness despite the poor visibility. Every few steps, he stopped and sniffed the air before shuffling on.

  There.

  He paused, sniffing again to be sure.

  Death.

  The ghoul’s squeal echoed in the alley. With the ocean so close by, the salt in the air sometimes overpowered the more subtle odors. But the sweet, tangy scent of flesh just beginning to rot somewhere up ahead was unmistakable. He dashed forward with more speed than any onlooker would have given his short, disproportionate legs credit for. At the end of the alley he found his prize, three men buried under the fog—their throats slit.

  These three dead men worked for one of the tongs near the docks. He recognized the characters painted on the weapons strewn on the ground beside the dead bodies. The one who had killed them had been ruthless—the knife wounds on their bodies, deep and long as the blade, cut purposefully through the flesh and sinew. The killer’s anger was obvious in each ugly line.

  This was the work of the Poisoned Dragon…

  Gobei squealed again and knelt down. His excitement dwindled to disappointment as he examined the bodies. Blood, still warm, pooled in their dead veins—the corpses were a bit too fresh for his liking. Gobei licked his lips and sighed as his stomach protested with a loud grumble.

  “These won’t do at all,” he complained.

  “Don’t worry, my friend, you won’t go hungry tonight,” the vampire Kiyoshi said, stepping from the deepest of the shadows on Gobei’s right. “There’s another tong man over in Fish Alley. One who won’t be missed, especially by the woman he beat to death.”

  “Kiyoshi-sama.” The ghoul’s mouth twisted into his equivalent of a smile. The kyuuketsuki looked exactly as Gobei remembered from years past in Japan, with those rounded cheekbones and delicately arched eyebrows that matched the natural grace radiating from the vampire’s every movement. “When did you come to San Francisco? Are you still with the theater troupe?”

  Kiyoshi looked past Gobei to the bodies on the ground, his sharp eyes seeing through the fog with no trouble. He offered no answers to the questions, his interest focused on the dead men. Gobei moved aside to give him a better view.

  “You can feel his power, can’t you?” Gobei licked his lips and started to rub his hands together. “The one who did this.”

  “Yes, I can feel it,” Kiyoshi whispered, crouching down to touch one of the dead men’s throats. Bringing the sticky fingers to his lips, Kiyoshi flicked his tongue over them.

  Gobei laughed, his voice raspy like the sound of dead leaves rustling across stone. He’d known the boyish kyuuketsuki for many years now, long enough to understand his tastes and appetites. Young… Gobei chided himself for using the word; Kiyoshi was perhaps older than Gobei himself, and the ghoul had seen far more seasons than this city of San Francisco had. Eternally youthful, eternally beautiful in their terrible nature…such were all blood-drinkers. “Kiyoshi, now you’ll be fascinated with this Dragon until you taste his blood personally,” Gobei taunted in good humor.

  Watching as the vampire bent to lap at the dead man’s blood, Gobei’s stomach gave another loud rumble. He shuffled away, his hunger outweighing the desire to talk more with his friend.

  “Where did you say that corpse was?” he asked, still rubbing his hands together hungrily. “Fish Alley?”

  He walked down the alley without waiting for a response, then called over his shoulder. “It’s good fortune finding each other in the New Year, Kiyoshi…”

  Lost in thought, Kiyoshi eyed the three bodies as he licked the traces of blood from his lips. It was faint but he could taste the essence of the one who’d killed them. Savage and beautiful, so reminiscent of the man from long ago, the samurai who’d whisked him and his adopted brother from their quiet village and into this endless life of bloodshed.

  Good fortune. Kiyoshi repeated to himself. Had he ever had that? Not really. Not as the weak son of a low-level samurai who had to work the land like a common farmer to provide for his little family. Good fortune certainly hadn’t been on his side the night the one called Kuro entered his and Liu’s lives.

  Kiyoshi closed his eyes to clear his thoughts before he stood. He didn’t want to think of those times. Kuro and Liu were gone, his brother as dead to him as the Sengoku generals who’d terrorized their humble province back in Japan.

  Like the little ghoul Gobei, Kiyoshi soon disappeared into the shadows and made his way towards the Barbary Coast. All things told, good fortune had managed to grace his long life once. It led him to a prosperous village miles outside of Edo and to the humble little inn where a member of a ramshackle theater troupe was giving an impromptu “performance”.

  Good fortune had indeed led him to his Ryuhei.

  * * *

  Japan, 1864

  “This is such an insult,” a thunderous voice cried out, followed shortly by the crash of shattering glass.

  Huddled under a thick cloak to ward off the last rays of golden sunlight cutting through the hills beyond Magome village, Kiyoshi stopped outside the dusty little inn where the uproar continued. Well, it seemed like an uproar compared to the peace and quiet he’d encountered throughout the rest of the town. Truthfully, it was nothing more than two men shouting and more broken pottery as one of them threw another piece against the wall.

  “I’ve never been more offended in all my life. You call this sake? This is just piss-water you’ve left out in the sun.”

  Ah. An upset patron. A very upset patron. Kiyoshi cocked his head to one side and listened carefully.

  Dutifully, the innkeeper tried to assuage the enraged man. “I’m sorry it’s not to your liking, sir.” He sounded tired. No, bored. That would be a better way to describe the flat tone. “We have other casks of sake in the cellar that might be of higher quality.” Yes, there was definitely a hint of sarcasm to the ryokan owner’s voice.

  “I’ve come three times this week and tried three different vintages. They’re always cheap and terrible.”

  “Maybe it’s not the sake that’s cheap, but the customer,” the innkeeper’s wife grumbled. Kiyoshi heard the unmistakably irritated tone of her voice from where he stood
outside. Her words were soon followed by the sound of shattering glass as the patron threw another sake cup against the wall.

  “What have I done to deserve this?” he wailed, on the verge of tears. “I come here looking for a decent meal, some good sake, and this is what I get? You want to pick my pockets too?”

  “Of course not, sir.” The innkeeper sighed. “The shame is mine for not serving better—”

  “No—save your excuses.” The patron stood with a rustle of material. “I’m leaving.”

  Sure enough, the man burst out of the inn wearing an expression of wounded pride. His high, striking cheekbones were colored a shade of pink that made Kiyoshi wonder just how much sake he had tried before deciding how terrible it was.

  “Why do the Gods punish me so?” he cried out dramatically at a passerby who politely bowed in acknowledgment and scurried away.

  “You.” The man pointed at Kiyoshi quite boldly. “If you’re a wandering musician, stay away from this establishment—they have no appreciation for fine culture and artists.”

  “I’m a simple farmer as most are around these parts.”

  The man seemed to wilt like a fresh-picked flower set out in the sun, his delicate-looking lips turned down in a pout. “Oh Gods, this is what I’m reduced to, acting for a bunch of inbred farmers who wouldn’t know culture if they were drowning in it.” His slim shoulders slumped and he dragged himself down the paved dirt street. “Oh Gods…” he sighed again.

  Kiyoshi watched, then found himself following, though he usually preferred to keep to his own company whenever possible. The man’s inner turmoil heated his blood, sent it coursing through his veins enough for Kiyoshi to pick up the sweet scent on the cool evening breeze.

  They made their way down the dirt road, passing a few vegetable stands and some rather suspicious smelling carts of “fresh” fish. The man darted around the corner at an ink shop and stopped alongside the wall. Kiyoshi heard him waiting on the other side, his body pressed against the building, the stiff knot at the back of his belt scraping the dry wood. Curious, Kiyoshi poked his head around the bend.

  “You are following me,” the man cried. “Why would a farmer follow me? Gods! The yakuza sent you.”

  Kiyoshi shook his head. “No.”

  The man squinted at him and then his eyes widened in dismay. “Oh no,” he moaned. “Then he sent you. Oh Gods, I’m going to be assassinated in a backwater village by a boy no older than my last kooken.”

  “No one sent me,” Kiyoshi assured him. “I was just curious. You’re an actor.”

  If anything, the man became more dismayed. “The best to ever grace the stage.”

  Humility clearly wasn’t his strong point. But then again, he’d had rather a lot to drink. The rich, earthy scent of sake filled his blood.

  “Do you…enjoy kabuki?” the man asked hopefully.

  Kiyoshi nodded and bowed to the stranger. “I have seen a few performances in Kyoto and Edo, both times the lead actor was incredible. He was so graceful and so engrossing in the part he played.” Kiyoshi paused. “I believe his name was Nomura—no, Nakamura. Yes, it was Nakamura.”

  The man gasped, his delicate hand flying to his throat. “Oh, you’re just saying that to make me feel better, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  The man touched Kiyoshi’s sleeve, then pulled back. “When did you see these performances? Do you remember the plays performed?”

  “I saw the first about ten years ago in Kyoto and the second a few years later in Edo. It was the same play actually—The Love Suicides at Sonezaki.”

  The man whimpered and slumped back against the building. “It was me you saw. I debuted in Kyoto ten years ago. I took the theatrical world by storm and look at me now. One stupid mistake and I’m a wanted man suffering though bastardized Noh drama for illiterate inbreds who wouldn’t know an onnagata from a jar of rice powder.”

  “You were wonderful,” Kiyoshi recalled. “I didn’t recognize you now, I’m afraid.”

  “How could you?” Nakamura gave a depressed sigh, looking down at himself. “I’m wasting away, fading into nothingness along with my career, my art, my dreams…”

  While the actor continued listing the many things he expected he would soon lose, Kiyoshi listened with growing interest. It was obvious Ryuhei Nakamura exaggerated his grief, his words and manners dripping with theatrics. But the bottom edge of his yukata was soiled with dust from the road, and the midnight blue color of the linen had faded to a dull, dreary gray. His long black hair was pulled away from his face and carefully gathered with a red cord at the base of his neck, but without any sunflower oil to keep the delicate strands from getting tangled.

  Kiyoshi frowned. “You really must be in a mess.”

  Nakamura stopped in mid-sentence and buried his face in his hands. “Finally, someone who understands.” His shoulders started to shake like he might be crying, but Kiyoshi couldn’t smell any salty tears.

  “Are you sure you’re not an assassin?” Ryuhei asked, peeking through his fingers. “It’s better if it ends now, you know, before the loneliness kills me…”

  “I wouldn’t be a very good assassin if I admitted it, would I?”

  Ryuhei gasped, then shrank back against the building, his gaze darting as if seeking an escape route.

  “I was joking, Ryu-san. I am but a simple farmer and sometimes a wanderer.”

  “Truly?”

  “Yes.”

  Nakamura relaxed, but his blood still rushed with the power of his fear. Kiyoshi licked his lips even as he reminded himself that he had no cause drinking from a human until the deprivation weakened him.

  No matter how thrilling it was.

  Chapter Two

  “I can’t offer you a feast, Ryu-san, but if you have no plans I would be honored to have you dine with me,” Kiyoshi asked.

  Ryuhei’s face brightened. “Oh, really? Why that’s so kind of you. I—no, I just can’t.” He sighed heavily and turned to walk away. “I couldn’t possibly burden your hospitality, especially with good sake being so hard—and expensive—to come by.”

  Kiyoshi removed a string of coins from within his sleeve and counted off a good number of them. “There’s more than enough here for a decent bottle or two and still have enough for steamed pork buns.”

  That seemed to do the trick. Nakamura furrowed his brow and put the back of his hand to his forehead, as if coping with some tremendous internal struggle. He sighed, and rather dramatically at that. “I’ll take your invitation only because I don’t want to insult you.”

  “Thank you.” Kiyoshi bowed and tried not to smile.

  Ryuhei did smile though, touching Kiyoshi’s shoulder when he rose from the bow. “I certainly didn’t expect to make such a lovely new friend here in Magome,” Ryuhei said warmly. “What’s your name? And aren’t you a little hot under there? It’s really a warm evening.”

  “Kiyoshi. My name is Kiyoshi Ishibe.” He slipped out of the cloak and draped it over his arm. “I don’t mind the heat, but the sun bothers me at times, so I try to keep covered.”

  Ryuhei brushed a slender fingertip across Kiyoshi’s cheek and Kiyoshi felt himself leaning into the touch. He was certain he heard Ryuhei purr like a contented cat.

  “Yes, with such fair skin I can see why you avoid the sun. I’m the same way, you know. After all, my looks are my fortune—or rather were…” He sighed and dropped his arm.

  Kiyoshi smiled. “I think the years have been most kind to Ryu-san.”

  Nakamura looked up and met Kiyoshi’s steady gaze. Kiyoshi felt the man’s passion begin to stir and heat his blood much as his fear had earlier, only now the scent was more fragrant and far more alluring.

  “Shall we go?” Kiyoshi asked.

  “Oh yes, of course.” Ryuhei nodded. He smiled coyly and bowed his head politely, though his gaze traced a path along Kiyoshi’s body. “Anywhere you choose, my friend. Just not there,” he hastily added, gesturing down the road to
the inn. “Really, the owner has no idea how to treat a customer, and certainly not one as esteemed as me.”

  Kiyoshi nodded in agreement. “I would feel so ashamed to give them my business after that outrage.”

  The response appeared to satisfy Nakamura immensely, who headed off in the opposite direction of the inn with a smile.

  “I feel the same way,” Ryuhei said. “There’s another ryokan right off the bridge on the road that leads to Edo that looks far more hospitable. And if we should need to rest after our meal, I’m sure they’d have a room available…” He giggled softly as Kiyoshi fell into step beside him. “Wouldn’t that be nice, Kiyoshi-kun?”

  “Yes,” Kiyoshi agreed, paying more attention to Ryuhei himself than what the man said. He admired the way Nakamura took care not to plod through the loose dirt, and the graceful movements of the actor’s hands as he gestured while talking. It was unusual to see such elegant movements in mortals, affirming why Ryuhei had been such a popular and talented actor.

  “Oh, Edo.” Ryuhei’s cheer dwindled a bit. “Now there was a city with plenty of lovely places to spend the night. And just as many lovely people to spend those nights with.”

  Kiyoshi watched as a bit of sadness deepened shadows he hadn’t noticed earlier under the actor’s eyes. Whatever had happened in Edo to spoil Nakamura’s career on stage was still painful for the man to address, and Kiyoshi resisted the urge to inquire more. All of Ryuhei’s emotions had carried such degrees of passion so far that Kiyoshi realized he wouldn’t be able to bear sensing Ryuhei’s sorrow.

  So, he smiled gently and gave a short, respectful bow. “I’m sure you had quite a long line of admirers waiting for your attention, Ryu-san.”

  “Well, I don’t like to brag…” Ryuhei brightened.

  But of course he did. Kiyoshi contained a laugh and simply smiled and nodded. But he had to admit he wouldn’t have minded being one of Ryuhei’s “special admirers”. Gods, how long had it been? It seemed like ages since he’d let himself get close to anyone in any way. Not since Liu left him half dead so many years ago…