Blood and Chrysanthemums (19 page)

This road,

I have long been told,

Man travels in the end—

Yet I had not thought to go

Today or yesterday.

—Tales of Ise

Ardeth made it to the airport with twenty minutes to spare, but it took her almost that time to find the private loading area. Down a long corridor, she saw Akiko’s black-clad figure collecting her briefcase and suitcase and so she ran, ignoring the stares her speed must be attracting. She caught up to the Japanese woman at the door that led to the tarmac. “I changed my mind,” she managed to say, and for the first time saw the young woman smile.

Ardeth had never been on a privately hired flight before. She and Akiko were alone in the passenger section; there was no crew but the pilots. If she still had mortal needs, they certainly could have been met, for there was a sizeable bar and a galley kitchen on board. It was the first glimmer she had of what this other vampire, Sadamori Fujiwara, might be. Was it possible that he fit the stereotypes as she and Rozokov did not? Rich instead of poor, powerful instead of hunted. And if he fit those stereotypical images of the vampire, did he fit the others—cruel, demonic, amoral—as well? A mental shudder passed through her and she was suddenly glad she was returning to Banff, if only because she could not bear to think she might have betrayed Rozokov to face an enemy alone.

Akiko vanished for a few moments and returned bearing a teapot and two tiny porcelain cups. “Would you like some?” she asked as she poured the aromatic liquid into her cup. “Fujiwara-san often enjoys a cup.”

Ardeth nodded and watched her pour. Her fingers were short but somehow graceful, bare of ring or polish or any adornment. She had shed her loose coat and was dressed in a short red top and skirt that fell almost to her ankles, which were covered by black boots. Curious, and grateful for any thought that distracted her from their destination, she asked, “How did you come to work for a vampire?”

“My family gave me to him when I was five,” she answered and then her lips quirked a little in amusement. “Don’t look so shocked, Ms. Alexander.”

“Ardeth, please.”

“Ardeth,” she acknowledged with a nod. “The village in which my parents lived was on land that had long been part of the Fujiwara estates. There was an ancient honoured tradition of offering children to serve the lord. Of course, no one knew that it was the same lord through all those centuries.”

“But to give you away . . .”

“They were well compensated, both with money and with honour. It was illegal, of course, but when has that ever stopped anything? I was fortunate. Fujiwara-san saw that I was cared for and educated. I have no regrets.”

“What do you do?”

“I run his household. I do the things he cannot do in the daylight. I am also his personal bodyguard.” She smiled a little and Ardeth knew her disbelief had shown on her face. “If you were mortal, I could kill you with my bare hands.” She took a sip of the steaming tea.

“Why does he need a bodyguard?”

“He is the
oyabun,
leader of a
yakuza
organization. He is very wealthy.” She smiled. “He is also a vampire.”

“And that doesn’t matter to you?” Ardeth asked. Vampires in books and movies often had human servants but usually they ran to bug-eating madmen. It was not something she had ever imagined in her own life—the possibility of finding someone else she would trust that much seemed too remote to contemplate.

“No. He is Fujiwara-san. That is all that matters.”

There was another question, of course, but Ardeth was too polite to ask it. Still, she couldn’t help glancing covertly at Akiko’s wrists as she poured herself another cup of tea. She thought she could see the ghost of tiny scars on the pale skin . . . but it might have been her imagination. “If it would not trouble you, would you tell me how you became a vampire? It was very recently, I understand.”

“Does it matter?” Ardeth asked as she tried to decide whether it would trouble her or not.

“You are one of my master’s kind. It would interest me to know about it,” Akiko replied, and Ardeth did not miss the change in Fujiwara’s status from employer to master.

“I had a choice between being killed and becoming a vampire. It didn’t seem like a hard choice at the time,” Ardeth said at last, wanting somehow to answer her question but knowing that to tell the whole story would indeed trouble her. “What about you? Do you want to become a vampire?”

The woman stared into her teacup for a moment then looked up. “I do not think so. Of course, I say this because I am young and not facing death. What I might say then, I don’t know. Still, I don’t think it is my karma. Do you understand?”

“A little,” Ardeth acknowledged, trying to remember what she knew about Buddhist beliefs. Is this my karma then? she thought with a touch of absurd humour. I must have done something terrible in my last life. It it’s true, then what will I be in my next life, whenever that comes?

“You have not touched your tea,” Akiko observed. “Have you fed?”

For a moment, Ardeth was too surprised by her matter-of-fact tone to answer. “No,” she admitted at last.

“Do you need to?”

What was she offering? Ardeth wondered. Did her mysterious master have the plane stocked with bottles of blood? Or was she to obtain it the old-fashioned way? Do I need it? More important, do I want it?

“I’ll manage,” she said at last and Akiko returned her attention to her teacup. “If I couldn’t . . .” Ardeth began, unable to bear the mystery.

“I could provide it for you. Fujiwara-san said to ensure your well-being.”

“I suppose you’ve done it before.”

“Of course. From the time I came to womanhood.”

“Were you frightened?” Ardeth asked, before she could stop herself.

“Yes. But Fujiwara was very kind. He wrote me a poem, just as he had done for the court ladies when he was a young man, and sent it to me with a cherry blossom. I was still so frightened, I hid in the garden. I thought he would be angry with me but . . .” She smiled softly and for a moment, Ardeth thought she saw her blush. “He is very old but still very . . . young. You understand?”

Ardeth thought of Rozokov the first time she had voluntarily given him her blood and, for a moment, the memory held nothing but pleasure, unclouded and uncomplicated. “Yes. That I do understand.” She dragged herself away from the memory and made herself take advantage of the other woman’s own reverie. “How old is he?”

“Very old.” The woman’s smile stayed but her eyes were suddenly alert again.

“Are you sure you can’t tell me why he wants to meet other vampires?”

“I told you, Ardeth. He is old and wishes to see those of his kind.”

“Did you tell him about Rozokov?”

“Of course.”

“Has he talked to him?”

“I do not believe he has spoken to him, no.”

“But he has contacted him?”

“I believe that might be so. Fujiwara-san knew that Mr. Rozokov would no doubt be as wary as you yourself are. He had thought of a way in which he could introduce himself and so set your companion’s mind at rest. Now,” Akiko set down her teacup, her movement brisk and businesslike again. “We will reach Calgary in a few hours. I have made reservations for us at a hotel there so that you may sleep until this evening, when we go to Banff. Now, if you forgive me please, I will rest for a while.”

“Of course.” Ardeth watched her collect her bags and vanish into a cabin at the back of the plane. Everything Akiko had told her suggested that there was nothing to fear from Fujiwara. Her respect, even love, for him seemed genuine. But she had been raised to serve him, had known no other kind of life. Ardeth had no doubt that she would kill for him . . . lying for him would be as natural to her as breathing.

She shifted to look out the window of the plane. Through the shredded clouds beneath them, she could see faint pinpoints of moving light and realized they were the headlights of a car. Her forehead against the window, she watched the car move through the dark farmland below them, heading towards the west.

Dimitri Rozokov sat in the back seat of the limousine, watching the forest flicker past through tinted windows. The sun had vanished behind the western peaks an hour ago. The car had arrived half an hour later, nosing up the narrow alley like a wide black shark. A dark-suited driver, his features half-hidden by the shadow of his cap, had emerged from the car. “Mr. Rozokov?” he had asked in a quiet, accented voice, and when Rozokov nodded, he had bowed slightly and opened the back door.

For a moment, Rozokov had paused, the dark mouth of the limousine’s back seat seeming suddenly like a plush-lined trap. Then, forcing his unease to yield to his curiosity, he had bent his head and entered.

It was quiet in the back of the car. The hiss of the tires was the only sound. There was an opaque panel between the back and front seats of the limousine and the only clues to their progress lay out the side windows. Rozokov had no idea where they were; his knowledge of the local geography was limited to the town and the forests he could travel on foot.

The uneasiness moved in him again. Old voices of caution, distressingly familiar, disturbingly seductive, whispered regrets and warnings. Why had he agreed to this? To travel to an unknown destination in a manner over which he had no control? To go without weapons or plan or even knowledge into a situation that could be dangerous, could be fatal? On the strength of a diary he could not even be sure that he believed?

There had been no entries after the one that chronicled the day of death and devastation in the summer of 1945. Rozokov’s knowledge of the Second World War was limited. He knew of it as he knew of most events of the century through which he had slumbered in an abandoned Toronto warehouse—from Ardeth’s stories, told to him in the long nights in the asylum. History had been her way of holding on to his sanity and of holding off her own fear. It had worked, for a while at least.

His reading since their escape had revealed that Japan had recovered from defeat and destruction to become a major force in the world. Rozokov ran one hand idly across the thick nap of the interior upholstery and considered the fully stocked bar across from him. It certainly seemed as if the vampire, if he existed, had recovered as well. Cars such as this one did not seem to be common in Banff.

There were no diary entries after that terrible day in August . . . but there had been a note. Written in the same elegant hand as the diary, it had been pressed between the final pages of the book. Automatically, he put his hand on the pocket of his coat and felt the outline of the book beneath his fingers. He did not need to read the note again to know what it said.

My friend,

Please forgive this unorthodox method of contacting you. If you have read this diary, you know that we have things to discuss. It would do me great honour if you would consent to meet with me tomorrow night. My car will call for you shortly after dusk.

I look forward to our acquaintance.

Sadamori Fujiwara

Could I have refused, Rozokov wondered? If I had decided to be out when his driver came, would that have ended the matter? But the questions were academic, he knew. He could not have refused to come. His curiosity was too great. As well, if Fujiwara represented a threat, he could not make it go away by ignoring it. If he was in danger, it was better that he know it, and his enemy, now.

He thought of the questions he had asked himself the previous night, sitting on the landing. The diary had answered none of them, though it had strengthened his unconscious belief that it could only be the work of a true vampire. Whether that vampire still existed was another question that had no answer.

His mind insisted upon conjuring up disastrous consequences to his decision to accept the strange invitation. He could find himself captive to a new power planning to exploit him, whose headquarters lay in Tokyo instead of Toronto. He could find himself in conflict with another vampire, forced to decide whether to stand his ground or yield and leave. But he could not leave Banff, he acknowledged with rueful honesty, not while there was still a chance that Ardeth might return.

The memory of his other musings flashed through his mind. Not conflict but communion. Not questions but answers. He pushed the thoughts away for they were, in their own way, more terrifying than those of betrayal and violence.

He looked out the window again and saw nothing but the passing forest and the dim, dark lines of the mountains against the darker sky. All this pondering and worry would bring him no closer to the answers. Only the wheels of the car could do that. He just had to let them. With a faint smile, he relaxed back into the soft luxury of the seat and watched the road flow past the window.

Half an hour later, the car turned. The trees seemed to shift suddenly closer as the road narrowed. Faint lights appeared through the trees, then a building slid by. Rozokov had a brief glimpse of heavy log construction and a small collection of cars lined along one side. The car continued on and the lights were swallowed by the forest again. At last, the limousine slowed and stopped. He felt the car shudder slightly as the front door closed, then his own door opened.

He stepped out into the cold autumn air. The building before him was either a large house or a small lodge, he decided. Round logs, stained a rich rusty red, formed the walls. The peaked roof showed green when the light from the doorway touched it. The two large windows on either side of the door were curtained but leaked a faint golden glow.

The car door thudded shut behind him and the driver stepped in front of him, gesturing for him to follow. He walked up the stone pathway, aware of the shelter the scrubby evergreens that lined it would provide to any attacker. Surely such a crude attack would not suit a mind that could concoct that diary, he reminded himself. Surely another vampire would not need to crouch in the bushes like a cheap assassin.

They reached the door without incident. The driver opened it and ushered him inside. The interior of the house was the same rich colour as the exterior. The two-storey hallway was lit by a great chandelier formed of dark twists of polished wood. A Persian carpet lay in jewel-toned splendour on the gleaming floor. The wall of the stairway ahead of him was lined with carved and painted masks of an origin Rozokov did not recognize.

The driver led him down the hall to stop outside an open door. “Mr. Fujiwara is waiting for you,” he said, bowed briefly and then walked back towards the entrance. Rozokov watched him go, waiting for the heavy wooden door to close before he turned his attention to the half-open one in front of him.

He could hear the crackle of a fire and see the shadowy dance of flames on the wall. His mind reached into the room and felt life but nothing more than that. No shadowy thoughts, no vague emotions as he could often sense from mortals. That in itself was significant, he decided. He extended his search to the house and felt no presence beyond the one that waited in the firelit room.

There now, he told himself severely, recognizing the action, however sensible, for the stalling technique that it was. You have taken all precautions you can. There is only one way to discover the truth.

He put his hand against the door and pushed it open.

He saw the room itself first. A great granite fireplace dominated the far end, its mantel spreading from wall to wall. Two winged chairs stood before it, sheltered by a heavy leather couch protecting them from the rest of the room. More masks lined the walls, their strange painted faces watching him. Heavy curtains of dark green hung along the wall opposite him. They did not quite meet and through the gap Rozokov could see the faint outlines of his own reflection in the glass of the doors they concealed.

A man rose from one of the chairs. Rozokov looked at the broad face, at the dark eyes webbed with faint lines, at the set of the compact body. He felt the weight of the other man’s scrutiny in return, the curious gaze taking in his own appearance and seeking their own set of clues.

There are no outward clues, he thought distantly. You cannot look at us and say “this is a vampire” or “this is not.” You know or you don’t.

“Thank you for coming,” Fujiwara said after a long silence.

“I could hardly decline,” Rozokov pointed out, moving around the great couch. “I needed to know whether the diary was true.”

“And do you?”

“Yes. I was fairly certain that the diary was written by a vampire. I was not so sure that the person who sent it to me was one.” Fujiwara smiled a little, his head making a small nod of acknowledgement.

“Quite reasonable, given your recent experiences.” He gestured to the chair. “Won’t you sit? I suspect that we shall have a long evening.”

Rozokov settled into the chair and watched Fujiwara do the same. He found that he was relieved to be sitting. The height that should have given him confidence in the face of the much shorter Japanese vampire only made him feel awkward. He looked at the firelit face. There was no sign of his true age in his features or his bearing, but for a moment Rozokov saw something in the black eyes that made him shudder. He is more than four hundred years older than I am. I have been alive barely more than that, if you discount the century that I slept.

“You have questions, no doubt. How I found out about you perhaps.”

“I would like to know that, yes.”

“Dr. Takara was employed, albeit reluctantly, by one of my employees.” Rozokov felt a momentary pang of sorrow. He had not thought that she would betray them. “You must not think that she is to blame. She is a most interesting young woman,” Fujiwara continued, sensing his thoughts. “She resisted the considerable pressure of my employee and lied to him. She told me the truth only when she discovered what I was.”

“How did you find out where I was?”

“I do not think I should answer that question yet. Later would be better.”

“What happened to you since the war?”

“I went back to being a bandit.” Rozokov’s surprise must have shown on his face for Fujiwara smiled, the expression making his disturbingly ancient eyes vanish into creases of amusement. “Japan was in ruins. My wealth was gone. Equally important, the old ways had at last begun to vanish forever. The American occupation put an end to them. I did not know how much I had relied on the old codes, on my old status, until they were gone. But there was one part of the society that changed much more slowly, clinging to the old ways that they romanticized with the conviction only possible of those who did not live them. Through them, I had discovered a way to gain back wealth, which offers its own protections, and surround myself with a loyal army. Are you familiar with the
yakuza
?” Rozokov shook his head. “They grew out of the bandits and gamblers of the nineteenth century. They are Japan’s underworld, officially prosecuted but publicly accepted. After the war, there were many ways to make money: the black market, protection, prostitution, spying on the communists for the Americans. So that is what I did. For forty-five years I have been the
oyabun
of the Makato-gumi
yakuza
.”

“Surely it is dangerous to be one thing for so long,” Rozokov observed and Fujiwara nodded. “And to be in such company.”

“No honour among thieves, as your Western saying goes? There is little honour anywhere these days. For many years, the
yakuza
have espoused the old samurai codes, even if privately they do not live up to them. They swear loyalty to me and the organization. They vow to preserve my life before their own. Once in a while, one still cuts off his finger if he offends me. But progress touches even thieves. You are correct, it is no longer safe for me. It is time for a change.”

“Is that why you contacted me?”

“In part. Also to warn you. But mostly because I have lived a very long time and never seen another of my kind. You have read my story. Would you honour me by sharing yours?”

Rozokov looked at him for a moment. There were questions he still needed to ask. The words about a warning sounded their alarms in his head. He should be sure of the situation before he indulged in reminiscences.

But in all the world there was only one person who could understand his story. He had shared the past with Ardeth in the asylum, had indulged in wild dreams of sharing the future with her as well. Yet with all the will, imagination and love in the world, she could never understand him as Fujiwara could. Fujiwara was the only one who would need to ask no questions, who would make no judgments.

The other vampire waited patiently. The great age in his eyes was no longer frightening.

Rozokov began to speak.