Chapter 4: Okāsan

In the presence of Okāsan, I kneel and present my sword. It is the custom of Kuroiwa warriors when returning from a mission. If Okāsan believes my efforts to be adequate, I will be told to rise and secure my weapon. If she deems I was unsuccessful, the sword that failed to defeat our enemy will slay me instead.

I have been waiting for several minutes to be acknowledged by Okāsan. I know this delay in addressing me is intended to be a lesson. She is aware that I did not return promptly from my task, so she is prolonging my judgment. Behind me, Tatsu leans against the wall, appearing relaxed and ignorant of the severity of this ceremony. As a Kuroiwa warrior, though, she realizes its importance all too well.

Okāsan watches over our territory, seeking out invaders; precursors to danger. Those eyes have seen the beauty and tranquility of the Japanese countryside. They have observed the sun set over Mount Fuji, the sky red like the lava churning in its belly. They have witnessed the extravagant beauty of the Kinkaku-ji. Those eyes have also looked upon the comfort women and their disgrace. They have surveyed the devastation of a global war. They have beheld numerous battles, the story of which are told in the scars of her body.

But I know the eyes of Okāsan do more than perceive the world around her. When becoming one of the kyūketsuki, the previous life is lost. All the cares of the living are said to be drained from us when we are first bitten, and we replace those cares with the power of the kyūketsuki as we drink the blood of the one who transforms us. When I gaze into Okāsan’s eyes, though, they tell the story of all she has seen, and I know that she continues to claim the joy and the pain of her human life as her own. I long to tell her that I continue to feel, too. I feel the hope of finding a love and a life long lost. I know the way of the kyūketsuki too well, though. I have seen the consequences of expressing human sentiment.

“So, you have finally returned to report, Mukade.”

I continue to kneel, eyes cast downward.

“Yes, Okāsan.”

“And what is your report?”

I am certain she already knows I have been successful in my task. Her demeanor—calm, casual—informs me of that.

“The hunter has been taken care of.”

Okāsan does not respond for a moment. I feel her eyes on me, though I continue to bow my head.

“Rise, Mukade.”

I do as she demands, slinging my sword across my back once again. I stand, unmoving.

“Is that all you have to report?”

“Yes, Okāsan.”

“Did you search him?”

The fire inside me grows stronger, like the flickering flames in the barrel. Like the bubbling lava of Mount Fuji. I can feel the heat beneath my skin, spreading up my neck, through my ears.

“Yes, Okāsan.”

“What did you find?”

I wonder if I can cheat those eyes. If I attempt to mask the truth—to stow away the image of Tomo and my continued love—will I succeed? Does she perceive the fire that threatens to consume me as I stand before her? If I were one of her own, a kyūketsuki of her own making, her dominion over me would not allow such deceit. I am not one of her own, though. I am not a true member of the Kuroiwa clan. I am a guest intent on excusing herself before she overstays her welcome.

“He had nothing, Okāsan. No clues to tell if there are more like him or why he is here.”

Okāsan approaches me. If I dared look into those eyes now, what story would I read in them? I am too frightened of what it might be to risk a glance.

“So, you found nothing on him? Nothing at all?”

“No, Okāsan.”

I don’t know how much longer I can stand under that gaze. My muscles are turning to ash. Soon, I must collapse.

“You are dismissed, Mukade.”

I thank Okāsan, then turn to leave. I tell myself that I have enough strength left to walk out of the room without stumbling, without giving any indication of my lie. I know now that I must leave soon. I cannot trust my strength to endure more of Okāsan’s questioning if she becomes suspicious of me.

Tatsu’s eyes on me as I leave are nearly as palpable as Okāsan’s. I do not betray that I am aware of her scrutiny. I continue on and out the door, shutting it securely behind me.

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Chapter 3: Sanctuary

In Japan, the Kuroiwa clan numbered nearly one-hundred, all of them changed by Okāsan. Those were the days in which the clan felt strong, invincible. Those were the days before the war, and the aftermath. And those were the days before mankind realized his fear and sought to destroy the kyūketsuki. By the time they arrived on American shores—after fleeing hastily from their homeland, desperate to survive—only eleven of the Kuroiwa clan remained.

Now, so many decades later, the clan has grown only twofold, still but a tiny tribe compared to what it once was. Okāsan states that we must remain small, mobile. We must not attract attention to ourselves. We must not face extinction.

Currently, we are hidden in an abandoned part of the city. We only exist in legend and the stories of drunken vagrants. And in the will of the hunters.

But for now, we are safe.

Okāsan expects prompt action. She will be standing alone, high above the streets, her eyes scanning the city, anticipating any danger. She expects to soon know whether our safety has been comprimised. She anxiously awaits Mukade’s return.

But I am now not Mukade. I am Ai Ōnishi, and I am feeling the pain of a lost love.

There are occasions when I separate myself from the other kyūketsuki, when I climb above the streets to sit alone. To reflect. They do not understand my need for isolation, but in many ways, they do not understand me. They attribute it to my being the only one among them not to be turned by Okāsan. In their eyes, I am but a guest of the Kuroiwa clan, and one day, I will overstay my welcome.

When I reach my sanctuary, the small piece of this disintegrating neighborhood I claim as my own, I pause. More than ever before, I yearn to be left with my thoughts. To have the wind and the stars be my only companions. To have the solace of quiet introspection. But my sanctuary has been invaded. I am not alone.

“I think I am beginning to understand why you spend so much time here, Mukade. It is peaceful, isn’t it?”

Tatsu speaks without turning, without regarding me. She continues to stare out at the ruined city that surrounds us.

“You know, Mukade, you would be a much more effective assassin if you did not insist on wearing those boots of yours. They are not made for stealth.”

Tatsu stands and approaches me. She is the favored of Okāsan and the deadliest assassin of the Kuroiwa clan. She fought alongside Okāsan during the genocide in Japan, when man sought to annihilate the kyūketsuki. She watched dozens of our kind dismembered, burned, and tortured. She fled her homeland and all traces of her human past. She helped rebuild the clan in America.

She found me, frightened and newly transformed, and offered me a home.

I bow my head to her. “If such a small impediment prevents me from slaying a lone hunter undetected, then I am unworthy of your training.”

“So you have taken care of the hunter?”

“Yes.”

Tatsu smiles. Occasionally, I read approval—even alliance—in that smile. Other times, I fear it presages my destruction.

“You are aware that Okāsan is waiting for your report.” She smiles again. “But I know you, Mukade, better than you are aware. Take your time alone. Just be careful you do not keep her waiting too long.”

Tatsu’s arm grazes mine as she walks past. Then she is gone, and I kneel on the metal grating and attempt to resume my earlier thoughts.

Above me looms a building with large, dark windows. Behind one of those panes of fogged, cracked glass stands Okāsan. Her eyes are on the city, seeking out danger. My thoughts are on Tomo, and the danger of my continued love for him.

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Chapter 2: Photograph

For my return home, I choose the darkest, most isolated alleys.

For the kyūketsuki, the shadows are among our closest allies. They cloak us from the eyes of the living, who fear what hides within them. They protect us from the awful sun, whose light weakens us. They aid us in the hunt for food, blinding those who walk during the day.

Tonight, they are my confidant, for there are none of my kind with whom I can share my thoughts.

As ordered by Okāsan, I removed the threat of the vampire hunter. My actions were swift, my aim perfect. I was upon him, draining him, before he could react. My bite paralyzed him, sapped his strength. When he was empty, I released him, and he fell slowly onto the cracked asphalt.

If he had been a normal man, I would have returned to the shadows as soon as the feeding concluded. This was a vampire hunter, though. This was someone who had come within days of finding us. Within days of forcing us to once again abandon our home. Because of the threat they pose, Okāsan demands that the bodies of hunters always be searched, to discover what they know. To uncover their secrets.

But this hunter had no secrets of his own to share. Instead, he carried one of mine.

I stop by a burning barrel. The street person who started this fire flees at my approach. He knows it is better to face the cold than one like me. I stare into the flames. They jump and twirl and grow and falter. They give light and warmth. I cross my arms over my chest and try to remember what it was like to be cold. What was it like to need the comfort of a warm fire?

What was it like to be human?

It is the question I dare not utter but to the consuming flames and the empty shadows. I am one of the kyūketsuki, and the ways of the living are no longer mine. When I chose this existence, I forfeited such concerns. To try to think as a human is to guarantee my undoing, either under the stroke of a hunter or by the will of my own kind. I no longer share the needs of humanity. There is no place for a warm fire among the kyūketsuki. It fends off the shadows that keep us safe.

Yet tonight, I feel at one with the fire. Inside, I am burning as well.

In the flickering light, I take out the one secret the hunter carried with him. It is an old photograph, worn with age.

How the hunter managed to obtain this picture, I cannot guess. I am equally unsure of what his plans for it may have been. All that I do know is that it is dangerous. This photograph could be the harbinger of my destruction.

How easy it would be to drop it into the barrel and be rid of the hazards it portends. But I know that will not extinguish the fire within me that seems to be expanding, racing along my veins, searing my flesh.

That would not erase the image of Tomo.

How long has it been since I imagined him this way? Young. Handsome. Loving. This photograph had worn the decades better than the image of Tomo in my own mind. He had become indistinct. A phantom.

After transforming me, Tomo disappeared. No one knew where or how. He was lost; therefore, I was lost. Not only was he my lover in life, but he was my master in death. And he was gone.

But he was not destroyed. As I stand in the light of the fire, the burning inside me rivaling that of the barrel, I know he still walks somewhere in the shadows. He is my master, and the tie between us tells me that.

This burning is not the strength of that tie, though. As I tuck the photograph away, keeping it safely close to me, I know this feeling to be human. This is the burning that a young Ai felt for her Tomo. This is the burning that caused her to drink Tomo’s infected blood.

I make a decision to allow the burning within me to continue. I will uphold a promise made decades ago, whatever doom may come.

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