Blood and Chrysanthemums (20 page)

The sign for the Banff exit flared briefly in the car’s headlights then vanished. Ardeth looked at Akiko.

“We’re not going to Banff, I assume.”

“Fujiwara-san is staying at a lodge some distance from town. We will meet him there.”

“Will Dimitri Rozokov be there?”

“I don’t know,” Akiko answered with a brief glance her way. “Truly, Ardeth, I don’t.” She refused to say more than that and Ardeth resigned herself to unanswered speculations.

It was reasonable to assume that he would be there. She had better be prepared for that. She had to know what she would say and how. Remote but not unfriendly, that was probably the best way to go. A carefully constructed facade to conceal her true emotions. It would be simpler, she admitted to herself, if she knew what her true emotions were. Hope and anger, bitterness and longing all seemed to compete for dominance, each surfacing in confusing sequence.

Whatever else happened, she did not have to stay here. She was coming back to see Fujiwara, not Rozokov. If there were no answers, she would move on. She would forget Toronto, forget Banff. She would head west to Vancouver and find a new life there, free of all her pasts.

That resolution held her steady until Akiko finally stopped the car in front of the remote lodge. The mechanics of unloading the car and helping with the luggage were temporary distractions but at last they were inside the quiet hallway. Ardeth shivered suddenly. Rozokov was in the lodge. The sense of his presence was like the brush of an unseen hand on her arm, the sound of a distant but undeniable music.

Akiko set down her bags. “Come with me,” she said and started down the hall as if confident Ardeth would follow.

She did, of course. She was down the hallway and through the open door into a firelit room before she had time to regret her compliance.

There were two figures by the fireplace. The one sitting in one of the large, wing-backed chairs smiled as he turned towards the doorway. In the first glance, she took in nothing but the smooth black hair, the wide, handsome face, the formal grey suit. Then she felt the weight of the personality behind the smile, the aura that seemed to surround the short, stocky body that rose from the chair.

For a moment, she saw nothing but Fujiwara. Then Akiko moved, stepping into the room, disturbing the tableau that had occupied that long, frozen moment. Ardeth noticed that the chair across from Fujiwara was empty except for a shapeless grey mass that suddenly resolved into an abandoned coat. Finally her eye found the other figure, standing by the fireplace. She had known he was there all along, she realized, but had surrendered to the power of the Japanese vampire’s presence to avoid acknowledging it. He had half-turned from his contemplation of the flames and was looking over his shoulder at her.

Remote but not unfriendly. The words echoed mockingly in her mind. As if it could ever be so simple between them. As if she could ever look at the narrow bones of his face and the pale grey depths of his eyes and feel anything without intensity. Love, hate, rage, desire—it did not matter. She felt them all, beyond all reason.

She swallowed hard and heard Akiko speaking in her native tongue, the words incomprehensible. Fujiwara replied as she went to him and bowed. “Dimitri, please meet my assistant, Akiko Kodama,” he said, as if he sensed nothing of the tension that Ardeth felt hovering in the air. Akiko bowed to the dark figure silhouetted against the fire. Rozokov’s head bent in response.

“This is Ardeth Alexander,” Akiko said, and it was too late to retreat, to hide in the shadows of the doorway. Ardeth felt herself drawn forward, her feet taking her around into the circle of light the other three seemed to occupy. Her hand moved by itself, extending to Fujiwara. His fingers were short and strong. He bowed and she found herself echoing the motion.

“It is a great pleasure to meet you. To meet one so young. I am honoured that you agreed to come.”

“If I didn’t, I’d always have wondered. . . .” she found herself saying, then closed her lips tightly, afraid of what she might reveal next. Fujiwara turned his head, looking at Rozokov.

“You see how I found you?”

“Not exactly.” His voice was cool and even. As distant as one of his stars, she thought, whose heart died a million years ago. Unbidden, the thought came that this frosty remoteness was her fault, that the atmosphere until her arrival had been much different. They had much more in common with each other than with her. For a moment, she wanted to leave them to each other. To leave and never look back. But she needed to talk to Fujiwara. She had as much right as Rozokov to be here. She was not obligated to make it easy for him . . . it certainly wasn’t easy for her.

“Dr. Takara led us to Sara Alexander who led us to Ardeth. Who, I must explain, took the precaution of confirming my existence with Dr. Takara before she told Akiko where to find you.”

“So you went to Toronto then.” This was directed at her and Ardeth forced herself to look at him. He didn’t seem to be angry at the revelation, merely interested. After a moment, she nodded. “How are Sara and Mickey?”

“Fine.”

In the silence, Rozokov moved abruptly, stepping away from the fire to sit back into the chair. Ardeth saw Fujiwara glance at Akiko then heard the woman’s retreating footsteps. “Would you care to sit down?” the vampire asked politely and Ardeth felt herself nod dumbly and sink back onto the cool leather of the couch. Fujiwara resumed his own seat and, for a long moment, there was no sound but the crack of a log shattering in the fire.

“How old are you?” Ardeth asked at last.

“I was reborn in 1045,” Fujiwara answered without offence. “And you?” Ardeth resisted the impulse to look at Rozokov.

“Six months ago. Why did you want to find me . . . us?”

If he found her abruptness disconcerting, he did not show it. “As I said to Dimitri, I am very old and have never met another of my kind. I could not let this chance go by.” A smile edged his mouth for a moment. “Might I be permitted to ask you why you came?”

“As I said—if I didn’t, I’d always have wondered.”

“Wondered what?”

“Whether there were other vampires, besides us. What they were like. How they lived.” As she said the words, his own finally penetrated her consciousness, distracted as it was by Rozokov’s silent presence. “I have never met another of my kind. . . .” It doesn’t mean anything, she told herself fiercely. Just because he doesn’t have that answer doesn’t mean he doesn’t have others.

“I regret that I cannot tell you any story but my own.”

“You never created any other vampires?”

“No. It took me many years to determine what I was, for my people had no vampire myth to tell me. Then it never seemed safe. It is dangerous to create others who might make mistakes and endanger you both. As Dimitri said,” he smiled in Rozokov’s direction, “most people who wish to be vampires are not the type of people with whom you would want to spend eternity.”

“You were never even tempted?” Ardeth persisted.

“Oh yes. But when I did find someone with whom I could have shared my life, she died before I could change her.”

“I’m sorry.” The response was automatic, the standard words of sympathy that convention dictated whether they made sense or not. Ardeth felt a moment of embarrassment, mingled with genuine sadness.

“Thank you,” Fujiwara said seriously, as if her words had not been a cliché. “It was over three hundred years ago . . . but I still think of her.”

He had been alone for almost a thousand years. Is that what will happen to me? Ardeth wondered. She could not imagine a life that long. Was it the years that caused the subtle air of sadness that she could sense beneath his composure? Or was it something else, something darker? Something like loss. Something like loneliness.

“You also said you had a warning for me,” Rozokov put in suddenly. Fujiwara looked at him and nodded. Ardeth, drawn from her disquieting reverie, watched the old vampire’s face.

“Havendale was not the only party interested in your discovery. My lieutenant also learned of your existence, through one of those tasteless films in which you were forced to participate. Without my knowledge, he threatened Dr. Takara and placed her inside the laboratory. Since the fire at Havendale, he has been searching for you.”

“Without your knowledge?” Ardeth asked and he shrugged.

“For a time. I eventually discovered what he was doing and followed his investigations for my own reasons.”

“Why is he interested in us?” Rozokov’s question drew another faint smile.

“I think it would be best if we asked him,” Fujiwara said quietly, and, from behind her, Ardeth heard the heavy thud of the front door closing.

This was not the way Takashi Yamagata had imagined it would be.

He had been educated to consider all eventualities of any plan. He was good at it and at remaining flexible, ready to take advantage of any opportunity. Yet despite his impartial analysis of all the logical scenarios, he had inevitably been drawn to one or another of them. For a time, he had believed that his transformation would come from a vial of blood or serum, secretly obtained by Dr. Takara from the Havendale laboratory. With Havendale’s demise, he was prepared for the negotiations required to persuade the foreign vampire, willingly or otherwise, to bestow the gift on him. And there was the oldest dream of all, the dream of the moment when he would see the offer of true kinship in his
oyabun
’s eyes.

Only in these last days, since he had discovered that Fujiwara knew about his schemes, had he imagined it would end like this. The
oyabun
sitting in the chair that looked so much like the throne of a Western prince. The foreign vampire seated across from him. Yamagata had only seen him in the snuff films. Now he was barely recognizable as the creature in those videotapes. His longish grey hair was brushed back instead of tangled across his brow. The face looked composed and human rather than like a gaunt, demonic skull. But there was no question as to his identity, for he had some of the same look as Fujiwara in his eyes, some of the same gravity of Fujiwara in his bearing.

At the edge of his vision, there was another presence. For a moment, he thought the cap of black hair belonged to Akiko, then realized the features beneath the hair were undeniably Caucasian. Perhaps the other vampire’s servant, he thought and dismissed her.

He walked to the space between the two chairs and bowed automatically to the
oyabun
. Fujiwara did not seem surprised to see him. He knew I had spies, Yamagata acknowledged. Or else he allowed Kojima to tell me where he had gone. “My second-in-command, Takashi Yamagata,” Fujiwara said after a moment. There was no question what the introduction required. Yamagata bowed carefully to the
gaijin
vampire. “This is Dimitri Rozokov, the man you have been searching for.”

“Mr. Yamagata.” The voice was quiet, faintly accented.

“Mr. Rozokov,” Yamagata countered, keeping his back stiff as he met the pale grey eyes studying him. Behind him, he heard the crunch and squeak of leather and allowed his attention to shift enough to realize that the vampire’s servant had risen. He saw her dark figure move to lean against the wall, just at the edge of the range of the firelight.

He took the opportunity to move back and sit in the centre of the couch. The relief at having his back covered momentarily made him forget that the only true dangers in the room sat in front of him.

“Did you come alone?” the
oyabun
asked in Japanese.

“I brought four men with me. They are waiting outside.” He told the truth automatically, regretted it, then decided with relief and self-contempt that there was no danger in sharing the information. Fujiwara would have expected it of him. “You should not have come alone.”

“Do you suppose I am in danger from this man? From my brother-in-blood?” He had switched back to English again and Yamagata forced himself to concentrate. He knew English well, had been educated in it, but it was still a foreign language. And he had not known it for as long as Fujiwara had.

“You could not know that in advance. That is why you should have let me contact him first, as I planned to do.”

“Is that what you planned to do?”

“Of course. I did not wish to involve you until I was certain that this man was . . . one of your blood. I was tracing his whereabouts.” He bowed his head a little. “As you know.” He, Yamagata thought in despair, knows that you are lying. Did you truly believe that you could deceive him? But if he did not acknowledge any other truth, if he stuck to his tale, could the
oyabun
act against him? Of course he can, he mocked himself. You swore an oath of absolute loyalty to him. He can do whatever he wants.

Yamagata had a choice. He could maintain the fiction of his motivation no matter what the question and trust the
oyabun
would, in the end, choose to overlook his actions. Or he could tell the truth and take a chance that he might still achieve his goals. Either choice could end in death.

“Takashi.” The name, spoken in that low, familiar voice, dragged his reluctant gaze back to meet his
oyabun
’s eyes. “Has your life in the Makato-gumi been satisfactory?”

“Yes.”

“Has it not brought you education, power, wealth?”

“Yes, it has.”

“Have I not trusted you beyond all mortals except one? Have I not made it clear that you are to command the organization when I choose to leave it?”

“Yes.”

“Then why are you lying to me?”

“Because you are lying to me!” The words came out before he could stop them, and for a moment he was horrified by the naked emotion in them. Inside him, something cringed and cried, longing for the safety of mute surrender. Yet there was another part of him that seemed to rejoice as it thrust aside the automatic reflex of submission. It is begun, he thought wildly. All the pretence is done, all the masks are gone. Now all that matters is how it ends.

“Lying to you?”

“Do you think that I don’t know you? After all these years in which you have been my only teacher, my only father? I know you better than you realize. I know that you are planning to do something, something drastic. You trusted me with everything else: the gang, the money, your secret. But you would not trust me with this.”

“What secret do you believe I have kept from you?”

“You are going away.”

“But you knew that. Why else would I have raised you to be my successor?”

“Oh, you haven’t made any secret of the fact you’re planning to ‘retire.’ But you didn’t tell me that you weren’t coming back. At least, not in my lifetime.” He hoped for a strike with that. Nothing stirred on the surface of the calm features, but the silence lingered so long it seemed unbearable.

“Did I tell you that I would?” The words went through him like knives, sharp with betrayal.

“You said I was your heir. That if I earned it, it would all be mine.”

“It will be.”

“Will it? Were you planning to do it before you left then?” He kept his voice level, as calm as Fujiwara’s, and was rewarded by the faint drawing together of the black brows. Could it be that he had never suspected? Or was this conversation only the playing out of a pointless ritual before the
oyabun
decided his fate?

“Do what, Takashi?”

“Make me like you.” Yamagata felt as if another barrier inside himself fell away with the words. In all his months of careful plotting, of secret scheming, he had never said them out loud. He saw the fire spark in the foreign vampire’s eyes as he leaned forward and heard the faint indrawn breath from the woman against the wall.

“Takashi . . .” The
oyabun
’s voice was quiet, compelling. “I promised you my empire. I did not promise you my curse.”

“A curse.” Yamagata laughed humourlessly. “If it is a curse, surely it’s my duty to share it with you. But you cannot make me believe that your centuries have been painful for you. You are not a coward. If your life was cursed, you would have ended it years ago.”

“Do not make judgments on things about which you know nothing,” Dimitri Rozokov said softly and Yamagata looked at him.

“I know more about it than you would guess. But tell me, have you ever done what my
oyabun
has done? Taken a boy and raised him, given him a place of honour, made him believe you trusted him? Made him believe he was like a son to ensure he obeyed you and then took away the one inheritance he wanted?”

“No,” the vampire answered after a long moment and Yamagata’s heart hammered with the sudden hope that this stranger his
oyabun
valued could be enlisted to take his side. “I have never allowed any mortal close enough to me to believe that.” Hope turned to confusion. The words seemed to deny that he could be persuaded but the sad tone suggested otherwise.

“I regret if I ever led you to believe I would leave you anything but my mortal empire,” Fujiwara said. “It was not my intention.”

“Wasn’t it?” Yamagata asked and, after a moment, he saw the vampire’s head bow.

“Perhaps . . . once I had allowed you to know what I was . . . I pretended I did not know what you hoped. I let you believe it.”

“Because it made me obedient. And trustworthy.”

“I am not a fool,” Fujiwara countered with a touch of asperity. “I required obedience and loyalty. But I would not have let you know anything at all if I did not believe you had those virtues already. Takashi, I am leaving you an organization worth millions. I am leaving you my respect and my regards. Be content.”

“What does it matter to you if I become like you? Do you suppose I will do something foolish to expose the fact that we exist? Do you think I am so unworthy?”

“No. In all my years, there have been only two people I thought of transforming. One of them was a woman I loved deeply. You are the other, the only other in a thousand years. There was a time I longed for a son as much as you long to be one. Perhaps that desire made me misjudge what I could do. But I have thought long about this. No matter how much my life has mattered to me, I am an unnatural creature. I am disharmony and danger. You know how I live. I exist through trickery and lies. I protect myself by preying on society and by exploiting the honour of men like you. I will not perpetuate this curse. I will certainly not perpetuate it by cursing
you
, my son.”

Yamagata looked at the implacable face and narrow, unreadable eyes. He had gained nothing by his outbursts, by the painful revelations of his true feelings. All the things that he admired in Fujiwara conspired to deny him. If the old man was resolved, he would not allow him to break his own vow. Even the love the old vampire felt for him, which should have been one of his most powerful arguments, now kept him from his goal. Still, he tried again. A simple plea this time, without anger or accusation. “Father . . . I ask you . . .”

“No. I will not do it. Do not ask me again.” Fujiwara sat back in his chair, shoulders squared, back straight. Yamagata knew there was only one question left to ask. There was no room left for subterfuge or cunning. If he could not get the answer he needed, here in this room, he would never have it. If he failed here, he would have to abandon his dream. If they believed he pursued it, neither of the vampires would ever allow him this close to them again.

“Do you forbid it?”

For a moment, there was silence. Yamagata saw Rozokov glance at Fujiwara, but the
oyabun
’s gaze did not move. At last, Fujiwara shook his head. Yamagata looked at Rozokov.

“I have been searching for you for a long time. You know what I want. Will you do it?”

In the silence, Yamagata felt his heart pounding. He has not refused you outright, he told himself. He can be persuaded if it is done properly.

“Why should I?” the foreign vampire asked at last, his voice betraying neither sympathy nor anger.

“Why shouldn’t you? I am no threat to you. Even my
oyabun
admits I’m worthy of it. You only have to change me and I will be gone from this country forever. I won’t ask anything else of you, ever.”

“Ever is a very long time. And I repeat, why should I?”

“I’m a wealthy man. Name your price and I’ll pay it.”

“I have only changed one other person. I think that is more than sufficient for me. I am sorry, Mr. Yamagata.”

“You haven’t thought about it. Please, let’s go somewhere private and talk about it. . . .” Yamagata began desperately. If he could get Rozokov away from Fujiwara, surely he could convince him. What difference did it make to the
gaijin
vampire anyway?

“I am sorry. . . .”

A feminine voice sounded suddenly, the words lost in the overlap of his plea and the vampire’s refusal. Yamagata looked about in confusion. The dark-haired woman had moved away from the wall and into the firelight. “I said I’ll do it.”

“Ardeth!” The shock in Rozokov’s voice confused Yamagata.

“What do you mean?” he asked, truly looking at her for the first time. Not pretty, not soft, he thought with automatic evaluation, but something else. Something more.

“I mean if you want to become a vampire, I’ll make you one.”

“You?” he asked in bewilderment. Her laugh was a brief, bitter bark. Yamagata saw the firelight turn her eyes into sparks and embers. He caught his breath.

“Who do you think is his other creation?” she asked mockingly. “Well, do you want to do it or not?”

“Ardeth, you can’t . . .”

Yamagata watched her swing around as Rozokov rose. “Why not? Do you think you can decide for both of us? Do you forbid me?” There was derision in her voice but underneath it, he heard a pain that seemed strangely familiar. He had only to wonder what had put it there, then she was standing in front of him, her hands on her hips. With terrible fascination, he looked up the length of her body. She was all in black. Against it, the narrow oval of her face and the long column of her throat seemed shockingly white. Images flashed through his mind, a tangle of childhood tales of demons and adult icons of pornography.

She held out her hand.

At the door, she looked at him. “Do you have a knife?”