Plagued: Book 1 (36 page)
Authors: Eden Crowne
Contents May Have Shifted in Transit
I skipped school. How could I not? Dad always left before me. I pretended to get up and get ready and then just went back to bed. Actually I threw up,
then
went back to bed. Everything hurt. My head, my stomach, even my
skin
ached. I wanted,
needed
to see Vanessa and Savan and my other friends. Inside me, there was a gnawing physical as well as emotional longing to hear their voices, to see and touch them. I felt sick and weak and absolutely awful inside and out.
The day looked sunny so why couldn't I seem to get warm? Shivering, I pulled on jeans, socks, and two sweaters. Okay, time to approach things logically, backtrack to Friday. Shinjuku. That's where I should start.
Step one: Find the Reaper place.
My debit card was running on empty after recent shopping sprees. I had a thousand yen, about ten dollars, in my wallet. No taxis today.
Later, stepping off the green train line that sped around the center of Tokyo, I dived into the flood of people going every direction at once at massive Shinjuku Station. Bobbing along, it was like trying to keep my head above water in a flash flood. Shinjuku was made up of several wildly different elements. Elegant department stores and branches of Tiffany and Gucci lined several broad avenues. A sharp turn down one of the side streets, however, and it became a walk on the wild side.
Kabukicho.
Here the red light district turned into a maze of alleys, winding through the highs and lows of human morality, branching off into the murky runoff from mainstream life.
On the night of my birthday, we were in a rather bad neighborhood, even for Shinjuku. Vanessa called it “the cheating side of town” because of the number of pay-by-the-hour love hotels, a designation that pretty much explained itself. I found my way back to the general area we were in but could not, no matter how hard I tried, remember our exact route to the Reaper.
I asked everyone I could find. Despite the sleaziness of the neighborhood full of bars, strip clubs – straight and gay – porn shops – ditto – and things I didn't even
want
to know about, I met with nothing but politeness. No leering looks, no, “Come here little girl, I've got what you're looking for,” come-ons. Stares, yes, more from curiosity than anything else. Japanese seem to take the concept of hospitality very seriously, especially with foreigners. They figured I must have some strange, unfathomable, foreign girl reason to be there. Not once on that long, crazy afternoon as I walked the place up and back, one desperate block at a time, was I frightened of the people around me. The Japanese I met tried their best to understand my babbling. Every single person I attempted to speak with were at the very least polite, if only to wave me off. I doubt I would have met with the same reception all alone in the back streets of my hometown, Los Angeles.
Wandering the little streets and up and down tiny cramped staircases, I tramped. Neon signs and signboards proved no help. The intricate Japanese characters turned each one into a work of art – though they were advertising God knows what services – all totally incomprehensible. Once off the main boulevards, there were no sidewalks. Buildings faced directly on the street and pedestrians played tag with cars, trucks, motorcycles, bicycles and each other. It was early in the afternoon and the area was still repairing the ravages of last night's revels while simultaneously gearing up for the evening to come.
After at least three hours of pointless wandering, I didn't know if I could go on. Every block I walked looked like where I had been that night, or five minutes ago, or both. On yet another nameless side street, I attempted to speak with an elderly woman hosing down the road outside what looked like a noodle shop. Inside the little restaurant, an equally elderly man scrubbed at a bleached wooden counter. The woman listened patiently, doing her best to puzzle through my talk of 70s music, snakes, Blue Oyster Cult, blood, and bars. Though she might not understand the nature of my words, she quickly summed up my emotional state. “Had I been hurt?” She wanted to know. “Robbed? Did I need the police?”
At that point, standing next to a large pile of smelly garbage that a very small, blue garbage truck was rolling up to, the only thing I was certain I had been robbed of was my dignity. It must have been a game after all. A sick, psychotic game of some kind. But, I reflected, I knew I hadn't been raped. Emotionally bruised; not physically violated. I hadn't been robbed either. Or kidnaped.
Misplaced
maybe. What was the payoff in the “dupe and confuse Lexie” scheme, if not money or sex? The pain I was in wasn't exactly physical in origin, more a visceral aching that seemed to bleed from every pore. And I wanted to see Savan so very much.
The elderly woman in the apron insisted I come and sit at the counter while she spoke rapidly to the man. In a moment, a hot cup of brown tea appeared and both urged me to drink. The drink of hot, bitter tea helped remind me not everyone had a hidden agenda. As the old couple talked over my head, getting the shop ready to open, I thought on what I knew about the Club. The man interrupted just once to hand me a bowl of steaming noodles in rich broth. Smiling kindly, he urged me to eat. At first I thought I might be ill. After just one bite, my stomach reminded me it hadn't had food in far too long and demanded more. The noodles and tender roast pork tasted wonderful. I said so and the couple smiled. The elderly lady nodded and patted me on the back in an encouraging way.
Around sips of the rich, meaty broth, I thought on my relationship with the Club members. I had never been to any of their homes, I knew no addresses. Wait, Anders. That very first meeting at the Conrad, he'd given me a card and I gave him mine. Well, I'd scrawled my number on a napkin. It was here in my wallet still. I looked at the address. Ginza. The other side of town and a world away from here.
Bowing to the old couple, I pulled out my wallet to pay for the meal, only then realizing all I had was about six dollars and change in yen.
The old lady, smiling, pushed my money away, shaking her head and speaking quickly and firmly. I might not understand the words, but the concern from these complete strangers for the crazy foreigner girl –
me
– was so obvious. My eyes prickled with tears. Pulling a little packet of tissues from her apron pocket, the lady dabbed at my cheeks. I bowed my way out, thanking them again and again. They bowed in return and waved me off.
Ginza was elegant and sophisticated and very expensive. Old school Tokyo. Very different from where I had just been. Broad boulevards lined with beautifully constructed buildings and sparkling store windows. Slogging there on the subway, I showed the card to a policeman at the tiny corner police station right on the main intersection of Ginza Boulevard. He pointed across the street. Peering over the hundreds of heads bobbing along in the crosswalk, all I could see was a department store.
I shook my head, “No.”
He nodded
his
. “
Yes
.
Mitsukoshi Department Store.”
Walking across the street, I stood staring at the two big stone lions flanking the entrance. They looked down at me dispassionately and seemed to be thinking they would never have fallen for such a stupid trick. Anders' address was a lie. Everything the Club had given me were lies. Could the things the boy with silver hair said...could some of them possibly be true?
A wave of dizziness swept over me and I fell, suddenly, to the sidewalk at the store entrance. Several people and one of the women in uniform from the information desk inside rushed over. Helping me to my feet, they led me to a chair. The information lady fanned me with a folding fan and one of the other women held my hand.
Savan, Vanessa, Stephanie, Cameron, Lilly, Anders; I thought I knew them. It seemed I didn't know anything at all. Waving aside the help of the store employees, I dragged myself to the sidewalk and stumbled down the stairs to the subway. There was barely enough in my wallet to cover the fare back. Slumped in a corner seat of the subway car, my mind spun in dizzying circles of despair. What was happening? What had already happened? The ride home seemed interminable, the walk even more so.
Outside my apartment building stood the English boy with silver hair. He was dressed simply in loose jeans and what looked like a faded black T-shirt under a dark brown military-cut leather trench coat with deep pockets.
“You couldn't find them, could you?” he said as I approached.
Standing in front of him, facing that fierce stare, I began to cry. I hadn't cried one tear since waking up nearly naked in his apartment. Now I couldn't keep them back. Crumpling in upon myself, I seemed to have no control. I crouched there in front of the apartment building, my bent body reflected in the spotless glass of the lobby and sobbed, letting the tears course down my face.
“No use crying now, stupid girl.”
Weakness washed over me again. I felt myself fall.
In a blur of motion, he scooped me up, holding me effortlessly in his arms. His eyes lost that frightening glitter, though his lips were pressed together in a hard line.
“It's happening already,” he seemed to say more to himself than me.
Sociopath to Enlightenment
“What is?” I stammered. “What's happening?”
He looked up, brows drawn, scanning the street. “We need to get inside.”
I sagged into his embrace as he carried me through the entry doors, keying in the number I mumbled to him. The building caretaker stared at us through the little sliding glass window of his office. Mr. Walters, the house husband downstairs, with both kids in an oversized double stroller, plus the poodle, were waiting for the elevator. The doors opened and without a word, Julian Lake pushed by the entire group and stepped in. As the doors whooshed shut, I saw all of them, even the poodle, staring at us.
Once inside the apartment, he navigated his way to the living room and laid me carefully on our straight-edged couch. I watched wearily as he walked around the living room and dining room looking very intense. For all I knew, that was his only expression. It was the only one I had seen except for that frighteningly fierce stare. Glaring at the windows, he seemed to come to some decision. From one pocket, he took out what looked like an indelible marker. I watched numbly as he swiftly wrote – drew? – on the big picture windows, making complex symbols in a large star pattern, repeating it once, twice, and then one more time on each of the floor-to-ceiling panes. I noted in a detached way that each was just a little different from the other and that they looked very much like the symbols scrawled all over me the other day.
Standing back, he surveyed his work. “There, that should keep them out for now.”
“Keep who out?” It was hard to talk, the words more like a croak.
“The Others. The servants of the Club. Though they can still see you, the spell will mask my presence.”
I was so tired, I wanted to close my eyes and fall asleep, I didn't even ask him to explain.
“I'll make you something, you need to keep your strength up.”
Disappearing from my line of sight, I heard him moving purposely around the kitchen. There was a clatter and rattle of the fridge and cabinet doors and drawers opening and closing, followed closely by the sounds of chopping and water running.
“Do you have a blender?” he called.
“Cabinet under the sink.”
Hauling myself off the couch, I stumbled in towards the kitchen and sat slumped in one of the high counter chairs. He was chopping and peeling fruit with great dexterity, the knife flashing this way and that in his hand with the same intense look on his face as when I woke up. Maybe fruit made him angry as well. Tossing what looked like strawberries, bananas, blueberries – we had blueberries in the fridge? – and I'm not sure what else into the blender, he topped it with a fat dollop of plain yogurt. I didn't know we had that either. Reaching into his pockets, he pulled out a number of little containers. Metal? Glass? It was hard to tell. They were no bigger than his thumb, each twisted and turned in sparkling spirals, little works of art. Very carefully and deliberately, his brows drawn in concentration, he took tiny pinches of powder from each one, mumbling under his breath as he did so. One of the vials contained a scarlet liquid, he emptied this one entirely into the blender. It ran down the sides like blood and I shivered.
“So, Gordon Ramsay, what are those?” I pointed to the ornate containers.
“My own, um, stock shall we say? Think of them as energy boosts. Like at the juice bars.”
He went back to the fridge, peering inside. “Too bad peaches are out of season. You searched for them.”
It was a statement, not a question.
“Peaches?”
He gave me a sour look, “No, not peaches.”
“Oh, right.” Sighing, I admitted it. “Last night and most of the day today. I went everywhere. No one had seen them, no one would tell me anything. I don't suppose you know where that Reaper bar is?”
“Not today. The entrance shifts position.”
“I'm not even going to pretend I understand what that means.” I paused, my voice trembling. Don't cry damn it. “Around four this morning I thought I caught a glimpse of Vanessa getting into a taxi on the other side of Aoyama Boulevard with someone I didn't recognize. When I called her name, she stared as though I wasn't even there.”
“Because you are not 'there.' Not anymore. You have served your purpose or been served up to it.” He gave a harsh laugh. I didn't get the joke.
With a flick of a switch, the noise of the blender made conversation impossible for a few moments. Pouring the mixture into a glass, he handed it to me from across the counter.
I pushed it away.
He pushed it back. “Drink.”
“I'll be sick.”
“No, you won't. This will give you strength. What I've added, the ingredients from my stock, they're special. Trust me. I'm a professional.”
“Professional what?”
He raised one eyebrow and gave me a knowing look. “There now, the saucy Alexandra begins to rise from the ashes of her pity party bonfire.”
His words, that superior British tone, irritated me. “You don't know
anything
about me.”
Saying nothing, he handed me the glass again. Sniffing cautiously, I found the drink had a complicated smell, that was the only way I could think of describing it. I took a sip to humor him. The flavor was...was what? Not exactly blueberries or bananas, though I saw him toss those in. I took another taste. Surprisingly delicious, it tasted like... I considered the flavor. Like a summer day, all blue skies and sunshine. The flavor grew as it ran over my tongue, filling my mouth, throat and whole body with delight. It was one of the most amazing things I had ever tasted. Gulping down the thick concoction, I held out the glass for more. With a smug, I-told-you-so smile lurking at the corners of his beautifully curved mouth that I chose to ignore, he poured in the rest.
For a while he just stood there, saying nothing as I finished the drink, savoring every drop. Afternoon darkened to evening, Tokyo Tower shone in its familiar place through the middle of the living room window right where it should be. It was only me who had tilted off center.
“This is a game, isn't it?” I said finally, breaking the silence. “Just a sick psychological game.”
“When you woke up in my flat, I told you the Club was ever so much more than that.”
“
Gawd
, don't start with that soul stuff again,
please
.
” I rubbed my aching eyes until I saw stars, the rush of images from the past few months playing like a movie, scrolling across the back of my eyelids. My awful first day at school; the aching loneliness that set me on this path. Vanessa, Anders, the people I thought were my friends. Savan. Especially Savan. His hand in mine, his kiss at the Cherry Blossom Ball. I could still feel the contours of his face under my fingertips, the texture of his skin as though I was actually touching him. The words,
those
words.
“
I love you, Alexandra
.”
He said them, I didn't imagine that. How could he not have meant it? Why would someone say that and lie? I kept rubbing until it stung; I wanted to rub until my eyes bled, bleed the images out. Two hands on my wrists pulled my fingers away, pushing them down to my side.
“Stop. You'll hurt yourself.”
Where his hands touched mine an undercurrent of energy popped and sizzled. He was very close. So near I could smell the scent of him. Unlike his sunny drink, he smelled like a moonlit night in winter, sharp-edged and cold. I realized I felt the same sort of vibrant quality from him as the Club members. They buzzed with life and vitality, like a live electrical current, sparking and jumping over the bland, mundane lives of other people. Julian Lake had that same energy running through him though the current was icy cold rather than burning hot. He was beautiful, just like all the Club members. I felt awkward and gawky under the scrutiny of that deep green gaze.
“Time is our enemy. The ceremony they performed on you is everything I said. They are stealing your soul. I am going to help you fight to get it back.”
I was about to tell him,
again
, to stop this ridiculous line of conversation when his body went rigid. Head snapping up and around, he stared at the windows. Gripping my wrists so hard I gasped, he whispered, “Something has found us, stay still.”
Before my astonished eyes, he faded to shadow as though he'd stepped behind a dark curtain. I still felt the pressure of his hand on my arm. Squinting my eyes, I could barely make out a dark form. Letting go, the shadow flowed silently across the room to the big picture windows, two of which led onto our terrace. I swiveled around trying to follow. One of the doors slid partially open and the shadow was gone.
A minute passed and then another while I sat frozen to my seat, staring at the windows, trying to process what was happening. With a rattle and a
thump
the terrace door slid open further and something appeared to fall inside. Julian shimmered into shape, the shadow slipping from him like a black cloak. He was struggling with someone. No, not someone, some
thing
. It was wrapped in darkness just as Julian had been. The darkness wriggled and squirmed until it, too, came into focus. I saw wings and a long tail that snaked up to wrap around Julian's throat.
They fought in complete silence and I had no idea what to do except sit at the kitchen counter and stare. Falling over the coffee table, they bit, kicked and punched each other back and forth across the floor. The
whatever
nearly got away from him at one point, scrambling on all fours. Julian dived after and they scooted on one of my dad's smaller, handwoven Persian throw rugs. We hadn't gotten around to taping it down yet. Arms flailing, Julian and the
thing
slid under the dining room table in a tangle with the chair legs. Rolling out from underneath, they came up hard against the wall near me causing a large painting to fall. I jumped right into the fray then, grabbing the picture just in time to keep it from crashing down. Clutching the frame to my chest I had to leap, literally, over the two of them as they rolled back, clawing and punching furiously. A cup and saucer on the coffee table clattered to the floor, shattering. Setting the painting down on the couch, I was barely in time to rescue one of Dad's ornate Chinese porcelain lamps as the two of them got wound up in an extension cord.
“Stop breaking things!” I shouted.
Both of them surged to their feet. In some sort of judo-like move, Julian twisted his body to grab the creature, flip it over his shoulder and down to the floor. He dropped on top, one knee pressing into its back. The tail and wings clasped in one hand and pulling at his belt with the other, he gasped, “Help me with this!”
“With what?” My voice came out in a sort of frightened screech.
The thing under Julian screeched back.
“My belt, pull the strep.”
I was still holding onto the lamp. Setting it back on the side table, I cautiously inched closer to grab hold of one end of the belt, only to drop it. A charge like the worst static shock of all time shot through my fingers up into my arm and shoulder.
The creature struggled wildly.
“Alexandra!”
Grabbing on and gritting my teeth, I pulled. The belt looked like some kind of braided leather cord, wrapped several times around Julian's waist. It slid off and I handed it to him. One-handed, Julian deftly twisted the cord around the wings, tail and wrists of the thing. I rubbed my stinging palms up and down the sides of my jeans. The darkness had melted away from the creature revealing something out of
a horror movie.
Scaled, horned, fanged and clawed, it squealed and squirmed, obviously in pain. If the cord was zapping it like it had me, I would be squealing too.
“This is a Fudo cord,” Julian said very calmly, as he knotted it several times. “An ancient Japanese method of binding supernatural creatures. Made from the skin of vanquished demons.”
Skin? I rubbed my hands more rapidly up and down my jeans.
“Did you kill them yourself?” I said with false lightness.
“Yes, I did actually. A few weeks ago.”
I looked at him appalled.
“And skinned them,” he added, giving the cord a last, sharp tug.
I didn't think a person could actually
feel
themselves turn green. I was pretty sure that was the color of my face at that moment.
“Here, grab these and hold on.” He thrust two large, triangular metal objects he clipped onto loops at the ends of the cord into my hand. “Don't let go!”
I looked at the struggling creature. I must be having a psychotic breakdown.
“Take them!”
I took both ends, not knowing what else to do. It's not like I could run away, this was
my
apartment. Though they buzzed a bit, the metal tips did not seem to pack the same electrical punch as the rest of the cord. Julian quickly reached into one pocket and pulled out an object that looked like some random bits of wire and string wrapped around a stone medallion and tied together to a leather strap. Wrapping the strap over one wrist, he took the cord back from me.
The creature hissed out a stream of words, none of which I could understand.