My voice is nepenthe to the hunter, drowning his fear, his grief. Worries drift beyond the horizon, carried by my dulcet words, compelled by the oni spirit’s guile. My pleas cannot be resisted, though there is no coercion. The hunter divulges all that is asked without contrition nor the regrettable intrusion of conscience. Everything that is offered is offered freely.
And this hunter has much to offer.
He relates his story as an emancipator, freeing the world of a demonic threat; freeing the vampires from their own corruption. His crusade is against evil in its most obscene form, and therefore, the integrity of his methods is unequivocal. There exists no unjust punishment for the perverse. There can be no mercy for the damned.
He tells me of his first hunt. His bared teeth offend as he smiles widely, each tooth tinged a pale yellow.
His age at the time of the hunt is indeterminate, insignificant. He is old enough to consider himself a man yet far too young to accept the responsibility. To him, independent thought is but a restatement of his elders’ beliefs in his own words. Independent action is merely choosing when to enact their will.
Their will for his first hunt was the destruction of two vampires seeking sanctuary in an abandoned building. He was one of a group of five hunters who set upon the vampires during the early morning hours, a time when the first rays of the sun intrude upon the world, eclipsing the cool void of the night. The hunt progressed smoothly, routinely. They caught the two unaware, and they exploited the vampires’ surprise. The young hunter was not even given a chance to engage the enemy. The affair transpired too quickly. Before he could act, their hearts had been pierced, their heads severed.
The disappointment in the hunter’s voice as he laments his impotence during the hunt is undeniable, and appalling. His tone changes, though, as he proceeds to chronicle his evolution as a hunter.
He progressed rapidly from the untested youth to the seasoned killer. Soon, he hunted alone, seeking out the vampires where they hid, unleashing his justice in a reckless fury, attacking the vampires before they could react. At first, he kept track of each kill, noting the where, the how, and the when. Eventually, after years of battling the demon plague, there were too many to be easily counted. His methods became refined, perfected. His success for each new hunt was guaranteed.
For a moment, I see myself in him, but only briefly. My revulsion resumes. I do not seek the destruction of his kind, as he does mine. I am not an indiscriminate murderer.
The hunter admits that his success did not come without ramifications. He and his kind posed such a threat to his enemies that they began to unite, to rally. They began to organize and prepare themselves to battle. The hunters had begun a war. The vampires were determined to see it to its end.
If only they had unified earlier, perhaps many of them could have been spared. These vampires of which the hunter spoke did not seem to be kyūketsuki. The oni spirit within us seems always to draw us together, even bringing me to the Kuroiwa clan, though I was not one of their own. Those of which the hunter spoke seemed scattered and aimless until the common threat of the hunters forced union, synergy. The way he described them—so foreign, so Westernized—these were not my kin.
Never before had I considered there to be vampires who were not kyūketsuki. From where would originate if not from Onikokuou and Nozomi? Perhaps they were an offshoot long forgotten, transformed and abandoned long ago by our ancestors. I consider the riddle of their existence only briefly before the consequence of this other breed of vampire settles in my mind. This hunter has not previously encountered the kyūketsuki. This hunter would have no information on Tomo.
As my hope fades, the hunter offers something I had not anticipated—something I could never expected to hear. Having given me his history, the hunter proceeds to relate the events prior to the most recent hunt. The hunter tells how he was invited to the hunt by an old acquaintance who promised a great cleansing of our kind. This had been the hunter I assassinated last night. He shared that, inexplicably, one of my own had contacted him. One of the kyūketsuki had shared with him the location of our lair. That same kyūketsuki had provided the photograph of Tomo.
Were I not confident in the influence of the oni spirit over the hunter, I would deny his words, condemn him as a liar. But I know what he says to be true. As Koumori had suspected of me, one of our own has betrayed us to our enemy. I suddenly feel very weak. The fatigue of the last day is augmented by the horror of my discovery. I sense that my control of the oni spirit begins to slip. I have expended so much energy. Before I release my hold, though, I call upon the strength, the discipline, the anger of Mukade. I feed on her fury. I yield to her nature. I maintain dominance over the oni spirit.
It is then that Tatsu’s voice cries out, though she sounds so distant to me that I can scarcely hear her. At first, her words are indistinct, but they soon coalesce in my mind. Flee, Mukade! Okāsan comes! I heed the warning. I must leave. But I am so tired, so weak. I realize there is only one way I can procure the strength to escape.
Before I drain the hunter, I let the illusion disappear. My face no longer speaks of peace. I reveal to the hunter the face of vengeance. The face of justice. The face of Mukade.
In moments, the hunter lies pale, bloodless . . . and alone.
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