Greg had no idea. Well, that was not entirely true. It was more like he did not understand. He was certain that whoever had killed Yuki was a vampire. What he did not understand was why.
What was even worse, he knew, was that he would have to report it to Akuma soon. It would still be a few days as of yet before Akuma could be contacted by cellular phone. Perhaps, in that time, Greg would have an explanation.
Why would a vampire kill another of its kind? he wondered to himself as he stood in the basement. He watched two of his subordinates clean the remains of Yuki's gore from the walls and floor. He could still sense a lingering presence of the vampire. Whoever they were, they were very powerful. Quite probably very old, he figured. Certainly it was no one in his little realm.
And, what was even more puzzling, was that whoever killed Yuki had killed the watcher at the door by snapping his neck. That just didn't fit at all. A vampire should have bled the human. A vampire would not have been able to pass up the opportunity to drain the human's blood.
And there again, whoever did it took the human Michael Stone. What was he, some kind of damn trophy or something? Greg just did not understand.
But if he had only stretched out with his juvenile vampire senses, he would have known. The answer to his questions was less than ten miles away.
--
Anita watched him. She saw the way he looked at her. Inwardly, she smiled. She knew it was no trick of her vampiric powers that caused men and women alike to want her. Anita possessed a natural beauty. Her long, raven-black hair flowed gently over her shoulders, laying tantalizingly across the swell of her full breasts. Her milky skin glowed of its own accord, however enhanced by her vampire blood. She was wearing black tonight, a low-cut dress that clung tightly to her until her waist, then hung excitingly over her hips. She gave a little smile.
The American business man got up and crossed the floor of the small hotel bar. He sat down beside Anita at the bar. They made small talk for a moment, and as she expected, the man invited her up to his room. He would never know that she had implanted the suggestion into his mind herself.
They had scarcely gotten inside the door when Anita felt his hands on her hips. She leaned against him, rolling her head across his chest, turning around slowly, rubbing her hair against him. She nuzzled against him now, sliding her cheek against the fabric of his suit, her hands undoing his tie. And then, her lips were against his neck, her mouth opening, her tongue tracing, as the sharp fangs extended from their places in her upper gum.
She laughed at the irony of the situation. The man was nice, and somewhat respectful. And, she had placed all kinds of erotic thoughts into his mind. Hmmf, he thought he was going to get a blowjob.
Anita bit him instead.
And she drank.
When she was finished, she carried him to the bed. She waited with him until his wound had begun to heal. She had not taken much blood. She only drank what she needed. One last probe into his mind, and she impressed upon him a night's drinking. He would remember nothing of her.
--
Michael Stone's movements were almost impossible to see. His arms were but a blur, even to Osato's experienced eyes. Stone stepped and kicked, then began to move again, his hands forming the blocking and striking techniques from the animal-based forms of Shaolin kung fu. When he was finished with the set, Michael turned to Osato and bowed.
The old samurai master nodded. He approached Stone and withdrew from his obi a long katana, sheathed in a heavy wood scabbard. He handed it to his pupil, bowing his head as he did.
Stone smiled. "Arigato, Sensei," he said. Michael looked the sword over in his hands, running his fingers over the braided hilt and the small, ornamental menuki dragons. He touched the tsuba, feeling the small handle of the kozuki dagger hidden within the gaurd. Michael bowed deeply. Master Osato had just given him a dai katana, the longer and heavier battle sword of the samurai.
The old man smiled back. "Try to keep this one, son," he admonished. "They are not easy to come by."
Stone cast his head down in shame. He had lost the sword that he had carried for many years. It was one of the first that Osato had given him, long ago. Fortunately, his old katana was not a family sword. Stone knew it had been crafted by a Japanese swordsmith in the old way, with the high-carbon steel blade folded many hundreds of times. However, it was without fancy adornments. It was fashioned for killing, like the dai katana that Osato had just given him.
If it had been a family sword that had been taken from him, then Stone would have been required by the code of bushido to commit seppuku.
"Draw with me," Osato told him. The samurai master began to draw his own katana, and Stone followed suit. They then began a duet of a kata from iaido, the way of the sword.
Stone's subconcious mind controlled his movements. He was scarcely aware of his drawing and cutting with the new sword. He hardly sensed the zip of the razor sharp blade as it sliced through the air. His muscles determined the difference in weights of the swords, and he adjusted his arcs and cuts to take advantage of the dai katana's power. His live mind, however, was thinking. Plotting. Examining and rearranging. Even after they had finished the kata, both Osato's and Stone's bodies glistening in the dojo lights, he continued going over the plan in his mind. It would take some skillful infiltration, and perfect timing, but it could work.
"Vengeance is a powerful fuel for an all-consuming fire," the samurai master said. The words snapped Stone out of his meditation. They were seated side-by-side on the tatami mat, seated in the seiza meditation posture. Stone turned his head to look at his teacher.
"It's necessary, Sensei." Stone's voice was low as he spoke. "These are killers. And they are dangerous. I fear that this is only a cell, one of many branches of whatever kind of organization that Akuma has. It must be taken out."
"Hai," Osato said. "I agree, Michael-san." The old man turned to look his student in the eyes. "But, we have already lost one warrior. I do not wish to lose another."
Michael could no longer meet his master's gaze. He already held himself personally responsible for Mariko's death. Even though he told himself that there was nothing that could have been done, that she knew what she was doing, and that the factors involved were out of his control, the part that made Michael utterly human carried a pain of guilt for it.
