(fic) Man-Eater 12/? - PSoH
Mar. 12th, 2007 04:03 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
yellowhordeDisclaimer: I don't own Petshop of Horrors and I make no money from this or any other fanfic I write.
Pairings: Leon x D
Category: Supernatural/Drama
Rating: R
Warning: Shonen Ai/Yaoi.
Title: Man-Eater
Notes: Sequel to 'Denial', which is set before Volume 9's fourth chapter, Dynasty
Kuan Yin made his way down the hospital corridor, the heels of his leather boots ringing hollowly against the freshly waxed floor. Bright yellow cautions signs in both English and Spanish had been scattered strategically along the wet-looking tile by the custodial staff. And if you didn’t understand either language, there was always the universally recognized picture of some scrawny stick figure frozen forever in the act of falling.
Being the cynic that he was, Kuan Yin believed that the primary reason for the signs was not for the benefit of any unfortunate, illiterate sons of bitches that may slip and fall on the slippery surface. Rather, he suspected that the real reason they put out so many damned signs was to cover their asses in case of a lawsuit. Americans seemed to love a good, frivolous lawsuit almost as much as they loved their greasy burger joints. But, hell, the signs were fucking everywhere and as far as he was concerned, if people were stupid enough to ignore them and then fell and broke their fat asses, they had it coming to them.
‘At least they would already be in a hospitable,’ Kuan Yin thought and laughed briefly at his own wit, then grimaced when a twinge of dulled pain raced up the side of his mutilated face. He brought his hand up and gingerly touched the cotton and gauze the nurse had applied to his face after the doctor had finished stitching him up.
‘Thirty-five stitches, could you fucking believe this shit?’
Anger, warm and glowing like banked coals stirred by a poker, coiled within the depths of his being. This anger, naturally, was directed toward Count D, who had been the reason he needed stitches in the first place. But a small portion of that anger he directed at himself. He had underestimated the Kami, but it would not happen again, he vowed.
He was glad he had chosen to come to this particular hospital. Centered deep in an area known for its gang violence, there had been only a few questions asked as to how he had come by the wound on his face. He lied to the bored-looking woman manning the desk, and said that he had gotten into a tiff with a rival gang member. His story was accepted at face value as he knew it would be. The staff didn’t take sides in the various gang wars that flooded them with casualties, they just patched them up and sent them on their way, hoping desperately that they were civilized enough to keep their grudges and feuds out of their halls. Most of the time, they got lucky in this regard. Other times they were not so fortunate.
The nurse, an young, tired looking blond with washed-out blue eyes and a knock-out body, had given him some sort of shot before the doctor had began suturing the wound, humming tunelessly beneath his breath. His grey eyes bulged like a beetles behind the lenses of his horn-rimmed glasses and his hair was thinning on top. Like many middle aged men, he had made the unfortunate mistake of trying to cover it up with a comb-over. As far as Kuan Yin was concerned, it didn’t do one damned thing to disguise his balding dome, all it did was draw attention to it.
After a few moments he hadn’t been able to feel any pain, but he had found it more than a bit disconcerting that he could feel the tug and pull of the needle as it was inserted into then pulled out of his skin, dragging thread in its wake. To take his mind off what the doctor was doing to his face, he focused his attention on the very impressive cleavage of the nurse as she handed the doctor various unseen implements of torture. The white buttons of her nurse’s smock strained to contain her bounty and looked like they were waging a losing battle. Hell, they might pop at any given moment. Idly he wondered if they were real and decided that he didn’t really care one way or another. Tits were tits, after all. Though, as his father had been fond of saying, “More than a mouthful was a waste, really.”
After he was stitched up, the doctor left, presumably to make his rounds, leaving the buxom nurse to clean up the mess. As she gathered up instruments she informed him that he would need to come back in five to seven days to get the stitches removed. Her blue eyes, faded as a favorite pair of jeans, twinkled and there was the faintest hint of a blush on her cheeks. She had obviously been aware of his roaming eyes and didn’t seem to have any objections.
“You may experience numbness around the cut for several months.” She continued, offering him what was probably meant to be a reassuring smile. “Healing will continue for six to twelve months. You’ll need to apply sunscreen to your face several times a day to prevent pigment changes.” Her words were clinical, but she took hold of his hand and held it between her breasts in a gesture that might have been more motherly concern than come-on, but he doubted it. “If your scars appear too obvious after this time, you may want to consider seeing a plastic surgeon.”
Kuan Yin didn’t say anything to this because right now, in his current predicament, facial scarring was the least of his concerns. He had failed in his mission. He knew it, and soon his Lord would know, from his own mouth. There was no way in hell he was going to leave such things to his subordinates, that lazy pack of good-for-nothings. That wouldn’t look good at all and it wasn’t his style. Still, his Lord did not take a favorable view of those who failed him. If he managed to make it to the dawn alive and one piece, he would consider himself among the truly fortunate.
Now, he reached the exit with the nurse’s name and telephone number, scribbled on the back of a prescription pad, stuffed in his pocket. Maybe if his Lord didn’t kill him for fucking up, he’d give her a call and find out for himself whether those luscious melons of hers were the real deal.
‘Margaret. Who in their right mind gives a beautiful woman like that such a dopey name? She looked more like a Marilyn to me,’ he thought absently imagining the weight of her formidable breasts nestled in his hands, their pink nipples firmly erect and jutting between his groping fingers.
Pushing his way through the glass and brass revolving door, he found himself outside in a nearly deserted parking lot. He managed to cross the acres of cement to his car without getting more than the soles of his boots wet, despite the various puddles from a brief burst of rain earlier. Streetlamps lit the parking lot, forming bright circles of light under which several late model vehicles were gathered. His car, though, had been parked on the very far side of the lot, in a protective swath of dark shadows. No one would be dumb enough to break into it, and those that might be, wouldn’t live long enough to regret it.
Digging into the pocket of his leather jacket, he withdrew his keys. Their almost merry jingle seemed very out of place here in the dark and shadows, impossibly cheery and very annoying. He inserted the proper key into the lock, turned, and opened the door. Wearily, he sank into the leather upholstered driver’s seat and swung his long legs into the car before pulling the door shut. All thoughts of the nurse’s (‘Margaret,’ he remind himself, ‘her name is Margaret’) breasts vanished. The dark and silence descended around him and he rested his forehead against the steering wheel. It was late and he was tired. His body was heavy with the need for sleep, but it would be hours more before he saw his bed, if ever…
The silence was abruptly shattered by the insistent ringing of his cell phone. His was not the popular ring tones so many seemed to enjoy, but the regular, old fashioned sounds of a ringing telephone. A telephone, even a cell phone, he always believed, should sound like a telephone or what was the fucking point? He dug into his jean pockets and put the phone to his ear.
“Zhang here,” As he listened, irritation crept into first his face then his voice as Craig’s voice crackled the connection. The last time he had seen him, he had been unconscious in that stinking alley, taken out by a young man nearly half his age. “Where the fuck have you been you piece of shit?”
He listened to Craig babble his excuses and worthless apologies as the fingers of his left hand rubbed small circles along his throbbing temples. The fingers of his other hand gripping the phone tightened, showing white moons at each knuckle. Once upon a time he had had high hopes for this man, but his performance tonight had been less than stellar. Pathetic would be a better word to describe his bumbling efforts. Looks like he just might have to get rid of him and find a new right hand man. God knows there were plenty of men who wanted the job.
“Look,” he finally snapped, cutting the other man off in mid-blubber, “I don’t need any more of your pathetic excuses right now. Okay? Did you at least manage to get the offering?”
Relief flooded through him when Craig confirmed that, yes, he did indeed have the offering, he had, in fact, gotten it earlier that same day before their disastrous attempt at ‘questioning’ the Count. And that was good, that was, in fact, wonderful because, quite frankly, they would have been fucked without it. Totally fucked. His death grip on the phone eased and the thumping of his head became almost bearable, at least the pain faded enough for his mind to finally kick it into high gear. He even managed a half twist of a lip that may have even passed for a smile. Perhaps he could find a way to smooth things over with his Lord and convince him that, despite his, no, their failure, he could still pull this operation off.
“Get the offering and meet me at headquarters immediately. Got that?”
Without waiting for response, Kuan Yin disconnected and pocketed his cell phone. Reaching over, he popped open the glove compartment and groped inside. His fingers wrapped around a glass bottle and he pulled it out. It was a half finished bottle of Smirnoff Triple Distilled Premium Vodka No.21. He held it the bottle of clear liquid, so it caught the glow of light and stared at it for some time. Dimly he decided that this was just the thing he would need to get him through the rest of his day, perhaps the very last one of his life.
He removed the cap and brought it to his lips. “Wen Lie,” he muttered the drinking salute then quickly downed over half of the bottle’s contents. The vodka burned down his throat and into his belly, igniting a fire that quickly spread through his entire body. Now that was more like it!
“Eat, drink and be merry, boys,” he announced aloud to the dark and silent interior of his car, “For today I just might die!”
For some reason this particular truth struck him as rather funny and rich laughter erupted from his throat, shocking him. The situation he was in wasn’t even close to funny yet here he was, laughing like a loon. He laughed so hard tears squirted from his eyes. After several moments he was able to pull himself under some semblance of control. The laughter, with its strange shrill edge of insanity, became a stream of snorts and chuckles and finally tapered away. His face hurt like a son of a bitch, but that was all right. Better to be alive and feeling than dead and in the ground, which is where he’d be if he didn’t get his ass in gear.
Feeling much better, Kuan Yin rested the nearly empty bottle near the fork of his crotch, pushed the ignition key into the slot and turned it. The car started up with a low rumbling roar, and then he was off, maneuvering the car through the parking lot and onto the mostly empty roads. He unrolled his window and felt the cold slap of the racing air across his face, refreshing and it served to wipe away the lingering fatigue as effectively as a splash of cold water in the face. Fumbling with the knob of the radio, he managed to find a static free station that played a heart-pounding variety of mid 80’s heavy metal tunes. Bobbing his head in time to the driving beat that flooded through his speakers, he pushed his gas petal nearly to the floorboard and raced with reckless abandon down the streets to what could be his final destination.
The neighborhood’s official name was Central City East, but its unfortunate residents, and the rest of the city, had a better name for it – Skid Row. This fifty-block area, brooding in the shadows of the LA downtown skyline was bordered by Third and Seventh Streets to the north and south and Alameda and Main streets to the east and west was home to one of the largest stable populations of homeless in the United States that ranged from seven to fifteen thousand souls. Personally, Kuan Yin thought the number was much, much higher.
The population was rife with homeless people, discharged mental patients, the recently paroled and drug addicts. It was an endemic of low-quality, inexpensive housing, violence, prostitution and illegal drugs. Cardboard box and camping tents lined the sidewalks and was in stark contrast with the gleaming glass-sheathed skyscrapers on nearby Bunker Hill. Garbage and rusted chain-link fences topped with razor wire lined the sidewalks which stank like an open sewer. Wrinkling his nose in disgust at the sight of a raggedly dressed old man urinating on the sidewalk, Kuan Yin quickly rolled up his window to block out the stench which hung heavily the night air.
When he had first come to this city he had been shocked by the sight of such squalor. Here in America, ‘land of the free and home of the brave’, he had never expected to see such a large population of people living in conditions equal to the destitution he had seen in his China homeland. Growing up on the streets of Shanghai had been hard true, but his memories of destitution were on a much smaller scale than that which was before his eyes now. The deserted streets he drove down were lined with small cut-rate garment shops, abandoned industrial buildings and warehouses. Everywhere he looked garbage was stacked in huge, festering piles. Graffiti marred the stained brick surfaces and many of the windows were boarded over. Those windows not broken out or covered up were dark and empty, just like the dull and sunken eyes of the hapless people he saw huddled together amongst the garbage and covered with old newspapers to keep warm.
When he caught a flash of red and blue out of the corner of his eye, Kuan Yin prudently slowed until his Mercedes was going slightly below the legal speed limit. Not that he was worried about being stopped and questioned about being about at such an hour. The police in the Central City East district were more concerned with cleaning up their streets to worry about him.
He slowed the car to a crawl and glanced down a side street and saw cruisers crowded along the littered sidewalks. A pack of uniformed officers were descending upon a terrified, milling group of homeless people. Orders were barked and they roughly lined up the men and women right in front of their children. The cops kicked their legs apart and began body-searching them, all the while shouting orders and obscenities. Even from his position at the end of the streets he could hear the kids crying and pleading for the officers to leave their parents alone. But their cries were ignored.
In an instant Kuan Yin flashed upon a scene of his own childhood, mere weeks before he found himself on the streets of Shanghai, an angry, bitter and bewildered orphan that was also a fugitive from the law. He had been lying under the covers, knees pulled up to his scrawny chest, listening in aching silence to the raging voice that filled the darkness. The exact words had been indiscernible, just the outside shapes of words, many to large for his child’s vocabulary. But the emotions behind the words had been loud and clear - a waspish hatred, mindless and slurred by a few too many drinks. He had no trouble discerning between the two voices, his father’s, loud and demanding, his mother’s, pleading, broken.
Angrily, he shook his head, dispelling the memory. His foot came down on the gas pedal and the car shot forward with an angry squeal and the stench of burned rubber. He drove through the streets steadfastly keeping his eyes ahead of him and concentrated on what lay before him. To his surprise he actually felt relief when he finally reached his destination, an old abandoned warehouse identical to so many in the area. Pulling up to the loading dock, he honked his horn briefly and smiled grimly as several young men came out of hiding behind the wooden pallets stacked up near the entrance.
The one that appeared by his door grinned at him easily with teeth as broken as an old picket fence. He was incredibly tall and gangly and thin as a rail with long, dirty brown hair. “We’ve been waiting for you, sir,” he drawled.
“Is Craig here yet?” Kuan Yin asked, killing the engine.
“Yes, sir, he got here about ten minutes ago.” He jerked his chin toward the entrance which was slowly lumbering open. “He was driving his white van, the one with the muffler just about falling off. That man needs to get that damned thing fixed before he gets pulled over by the cops. It won’t do to have them putting their noses in our business, sir, if you know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Kuan Yin sighed irritably, “And you’re right. We don’t need them poking around, not when we’re so close to the Resurrection.” He swung his long legs out of the car, stood and handed the keys over to the young man, whose eyes beamed with pleasure. “I’ll have a talk with him about that. In the meanwhile, park my car around back and be sure to cover it up with a tarp so it won’t attract too much attention. Got it?”
To his amusement, the young man actually saluted. “Yes, sir! Right away, sir! Just leave it to me!”
“At ease, boy. And hop to it already,” Kuan Yin muttered and, shaking his head in equal parts amusement and disgust, stalked into the dimly lit interior of the warehouse.
Once inside, the heavy doors swung into reverse and closed ponderously behind him, cutting off the sound of the young men gabbing. Dimly he heard the engine of his car roar into life then it slowly faded in the distance as the skinny young man followed his orders. He knew that his Mercedes would be driven to an alley adjacent to the warehouse where it would be covered with a thick, paint spattered tarp then further camouflaged with loose plank boards and other bits of garbage. To further insure that no one mess with it, the young man, whose name was either Timmy or Jimmy something-or-other, would stand guard with his pistol. Kuan Yin knew he had quite an itchy trigger finger and thought that it would be better for everyone involved if he never had to use that damn gun.
Slowly, he made his way through the warehouse, which was littered with piles of broken pallets, empty beer bottles, and hundreds of mannequin stands. In its heyday, this warehouse used to be owned by a high end clothes manufacturer but like so many of the other buildings in Skid Row, it had been long abandoned and had fallen into disrepair. Plastic arms, legs, torsos and heads had been stacked in large piles on the dirty cement floor and the air stank of decades of dust, motor oil, burned plastic and stale urine. To anyone who just happened to stumble into this place it might appear a bit on the gruesome side. But this forgotten graveyard of mismatched mannequins was child’s play compared to what awaited him in the manager’s offices located high above the warehouse floor.
Kuan Yin reached the rickety stairway leading up towards the manager’s offices and began to climb, lightly trailing his hand along the rusted out banister in case he lost his balance, or more likely, one of the crumbling steps gave out beneath his weight. There was an ancient elevator on the far side that was still operational after all these years, but he liked it even less than the stairs.
‘You couldn’t trust old machinery like that’, he thought, ‘because as it aged, it got mean.’ And the last thing he wanted was to be stuck in that damned thing when it decided to get stuck between floors, or worse, come crashing to the ground with him in it.
Kuan Yin imagined that he could feel the whole structure of the stairs sway with each step, but that could have been an illusion. Illusion or not, it was a rather unsettling feeling and he was glad when he reached the top without incident. He breathed a sigh of relief and removed a handkerchief from his jean pockets. With a moue of distaste, he wiped the red rust stains from his hands, pocketed the rumpled bit of cloth then made his way down the short landing until he reached the farthest door.
Up here, near the rafters of the roof, the air had a much more unpleasant aroma than it did near the floor. He could easily deal with dust and motor oil. Hell, even the stink of piss and booze would be preferable to the reek that assaulted his nostrils now. The air was heavy with the scent reminiscent of old copper pennies. It was the scent of slaughter, blood and terror.
For several moments Kuan Yin stood outside the door at the far end of the landing, his hand frozen mere inches from its surface, knuckles posed to rap the wood to announce his presence. He had learned from experience that it was best to knock before entering his Lord’s resting place. Though he considered himself to be one of his Lord’s most faithful servants, there were still some things that he did not wish to have direct knowledge of. Indirect knowledge of what sometimes went on behind that closed door had been bad enough.
Finally, he rapped his knuckles sharply against the rotting wood and said in a firm, commanding voice, “My Lord, it is I, Kuan Yin Zhang. I have returned.”
“Come in, come in, Kuan Yin, my most loyal vassal,” The voice was low and thick, as if the speaker’s mouth was filled with oozing mud. It was the voice of nightmares. Kuan Yin suppressed a shudder at the horribly eager sound of that voice.
‘There is nothing to fear,’ he told himself. ‘I am my Lord Akugi-Ma’s second in command…his most faithful servant. And no harm shall befall me in so long as I do not fail my Lord or waver in my duty.’ He viciously squelched the tiny voice that reminded him that he had already failed his Lord by not taking Count D or the sacred items into custody. Steeling himself, he gripped the doorknob, twisted it, and entered being careful to shut the door firmly behind him.
The room was in total darkness save for a few small tea light candles which burned on an ornamental hanger dangling from the ceiling over a dilapidated table near the far side of the room. The tiny flames cast their feeble light onto a filmy curtain that had been draped around what appeared to be a hospital issued bed. The mattress was narrow and the hand rails on the sides gleamed in the dim light. The stench of blood was a miasma that caught in Kuan Yin’s nose and throat, choking him but even that was but a mere nuisance when he stood in the presence of the unholy avatar that reclined there, covered by a thin sheet splattered with blood stains both old and new.
The body that lay before him shifted slowly, painfully. Kuan Yin stepped closer, intent on offering assistance, but that thick, mud-choked voice wiped out sharply, hitting him like a physical blow. “Stay where you are, human.”
Kuan Yin obeyed and stood his ground as the human-like creature groaned and panted as it swung its withered legs around so that they dangled over the edges of the bed. The creature, who at one point several hundreds of years ago had been a man, stared at him with eyes as black as tar. No whites showed in those burning eyes and nothing that even remotely resembled the human being it had once been burned in its face, which was shriveled and gray.
“Well,” Akugi-Ma demanded in his thick rasping voice, “Where is he?”
“Craig will be here momentarily, my Lord, with-“
“Not that blundering idiot, Zhang!” The creature on the bed roared, spittle flying from his thinning lips. “I mean the Kami! Where is Count D?”
Kuan Yin fought the urge to ring his hands and instead kept them very still at his sides. “I’m afraid I have some rather unfortunate news, my Lord,” he began slowly, “you see, I… we… We were unable to-“
“He got away?” This came out as an incredulous howl of rage. The once human-creature on the bed began to tremble in rage. “Is that what you are telling me, you worthless, incompetent pile of human excrement? Is it?”
“Y-yes, my Lord,” Kuan Yin mumbled, bowing his head in a show of contrition. “He managed to escape us.”
“And how did he manage that? Did you not use the drug as I commanded? That should have been a large enough dose to incapacitate him quickly enough.”
“Yes, we drugged him as you commanded, but we were interrupted as soon as we got him into our custody. By Jin Li Sung, my Lord.” He added quickly.
“Dishi Sung’s orphan brat…”
Kuan Yin nodded slowly, “The very same, my Lord.”
“And didn’t you even make an attempt to fight him off?” Akugi-Ma’s voice was low and soft, his tone dangerously silky. It was not a good sign.
“Yes, my Lord, we did.”
Akugi-Ma shambled to his feet and wavered unsteadily. The hospital Johnny he wore flapped around his bony legs. Rage contorted his face and he brought one frail looking arm down on the table under the tea lights with as much force as he could manage. With a loud cracking sound the table collapsed onto the floor, nothing more now than a pile of broken firewood. Blood spattered from a large gash in his forearm, but Akugi-Ma didn’t seem to notice it or even feel the pain.
“And yet he still escaped?” He roared. “Am I surrounded by total incompetents?”
“My Lord,” Kuan Yin exclaimed, rushing forward, “Your arm-“
“The Devil take my arm!” Akugi-Ma screeched flailing his wounded arm about in a rage. His hand came into contact with the filmy curtain and he wrenched it from its hanger with the sound of a large zipper being undone. He clutched the cloth in his trembling fist for several seconds then hurled it ineffectually at Kuan Yin. It fell short of its mark and floated gossamer-like to his feet. “I can feel this miserable human shell dying all around me and you’re concerned with my arm? If you were really the loyal servant you claim to be, you would have brought me the damned Kami as I commanded!”
“My Lord, I assure you that -“ Kuan Yin began helplessly, but suddenly stopped as he felt invisible hands wrapping themselves around his neck. He saw his Lord’s right arm stretch out, his fingers curling into claws. Thin, wisps of white hair fluttered about sunken skull as if caught in a quickening breeze. His eyes widened in shock as he realized what was happening. Pain flared as the pressure increased, cutting off his airway and depriving his lungs of much needed oxygen.
“My Lord,” he croaked, “I…”
Something very much like regret surfaced in Akugi-Ma’s rage distorted features, touched his voice. “Of all my many servants over these long, long years, Kuan Yin, I held you in the greatest esteem. It was I who took you off the streets and gave your life purpose. I put you above all others, granting you wealth, power, and a position at my side. You were as a son to me. And this is how you repay me?”
Kuan Yin’s hands flew to his throat as if trying to pry the invisible hands away but they scrambled at nothing. His face darkened to an ugly shade as he felt his life slipping away. His lungs burned and dark spots began to crowd his vision. Desperately, he drew in as much air as he could manage. The effort hurt him terribly, but he was able to draw enough air to try to plead his case.
“…have… plan… m… Lord.” He rasped out as unconsciousness was about to overtake him.
“What’s that, Zhang?” Akugi-Ma asked, his head tilting to the side like an inquisitive bird. “You say you have a plan?”
Kuan Yin nodded his head furiously.
“Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place?” Akugi-Ma’s fingers relaxed and he lowered his outstretched arm to his side as if it weighed a ton. His facial features smoothed out. He stepped back, bumped into the bed then slowly lowered himself onto the mattress. The demonic rage that had overtaken him evaporated leaving him light-headed and weak. Human rationality reasserted itself and he stared quietly at Kuan Yin until he had recovered enough to speak.
“You said you had a plan,” Akugi-Ma prompted almost gently.
Wearily, Kuan Yin nodded his head. His right hand massaged his throat tenderly. It hurt horribly, but if a sore throat was all he had, then he had gotten off easy. “Yes, my Lord,” he rasped painfully. “I have a plan.”
“Well, what is it?” There was more than a touch of impatience in his Lord’s voice. Kuan Yin hurriedly began to speak, throwing out his thoughts, his mind racing as he tried to weave them into the workable plan he claimed he had.
“I have recently discovered that the Kami may have taken a human lover.”
This seemed to surprise Akugi-Ma almost as much as it had surprised him. His black eyes widened and he leaned forward, a cold sort of rage filtering through his face.
Naturally, during his long years of service to the demonic avatar, he had learned a great deal about his enemies including the slaughter of their people at the hands of Emperor Sung’s son, Chouen Ti. The very idea that one of the last remaining Kami would take a human as his lover was absurd… but he had personally seen the love bites on D’s chest. There was little doubt in his mind that he and that third rate detective, Leon Orcot, had become intimate with each other.
“I hope for your sake that you are mistaken,” Akugi-Ma growled, “But how does this juicy bit of gossip fit into your little plan, hmm?”
“This human is no doubt Count D’s weak point,” Kuan Yin explained quietly and his voice became more animated as the pieces of his impromptu plan began falling into place. “We can use his feelings against him.”
“And how do you intend to do that, Kuan Yin?” Akugi-Ma asked in a quiet, tired voice.
“Just leave everything to me, my Lord,” Kuan Yin assured heartily. “I will not fail you again.”
Akugi-Ma leveled one bone-like finger in his direction. “You had better not, for your sake. You know the penalty of failure. If the Kami has indeed bedded this human, then all is lost. And heads will roll - starting with your own.”
Bowing low, Kuan Yin unconsciously rubbed his tender throat. “Yes, of course, my Lord.”
Both men turned their heads toward the door when they heard a sharp rapping against the wood. A horribly eager expression crossed Akugi-Ma’s face. His eyes lit up like a child’s on Christmas morning and he rubbed his hands together expectantly.
“Uh, that should be Craig with the offering,” Kuan Yin managed, hiding his discomfort. Then to the closed door he called out, “Come it!”
Craig entered the room, pushing a small Hispanic child in front of him. Her clothes were much too big for her and were full of patches and ragged holes near the knees and elbows. Duct tape had been slapped over her mouth and her red rimmed eyes rolled wildly in fear as she quickly took in her surroundings and the two men standing before her.
“I found this one huddling under the Eighth Street Bridge,” Craig explained as he shoved her toward the center of the room. The child, who appeared to be about eleven years old, tripped over her own feet and collapsed in a heap at Kuan Yin’s feet. She used the sleeve of her shirt to wipe away her tears and stared up at him in mute horror. “I think she’ll do just fine, won’t she?”
“She’s perfect,” Akugi-Ma breathed, his hands stretched out in front of him, eager fingers reaching for the girl on the floor. “Bring her to me.”
Reluctantly, Kuan Yin scooped the girl up, grasping her by her shoulders. She didn’t weigh much at all and her struggles, though frantic, proved useless. He lowered her onto Akugi-Ma’s lap and stepped back quickly as those pale, shrunken arms gripped the child with a strength that was inhuman.
Akugi-Ma stroked the fingers of one hand down the profile of her face, her throat, dragging his fingers along her skin and under the collar of her shirt until he cupped the soft swell of one budding breast, no doubt feeling her frantic heartbeat. “You’ll do just fine,” he breathed. His free hand snaked out and in one swift movement, pulled the duct tape from the girl’s mouth. She screamed and both Craig and Kuan Yin cringed. Without taking his eyes away from the child’s tear stained face, he snapped, “Leave me.”
Not needing to be told twice, both Kuan Yin and Craig made for the door. Kuan Yin struggled to maintain his composure as behind him he heard the sounds of ripping cloth followed by the girl’s desperate screams. All the while his master’s thick, gravely voice murmured unintelligible words which were probably meant to be endearments. Suddenly her screams were cut off by a thick, liquid ripping sound. The scent of blood in the room intensified and Kuan Yin cringed as he felt arterial spray splay along the back of his leather jacket. Still, he did not turn around. He continued to make his way toward the door with a steady, unhurried stride.
After closing the door carefully behind him, Kuan Yin rested against the wall for a moment, massaging his burning throat. While he understood the need for the demon to feast on human flesh in order to slow the decaying of his human body, he wished that his master’s tastes ran in victims that were a bit more… mature. No one much cared if a few homeless adults went missing, but the same could not be said about missing children. Since their arrival in Los Angeles the decaying had become accelerated. Instead of needing to feed once a month, he and Craig had been forced to find new sacrificial victims for Akugi-Ma at least once a week… then every few days. Sooner or later the police would make some sort of connection and then there would be Hell to pay.
Kuan Yin rubbed his hand over his face, feeling desperately tired. He wanted, no, needed, a good stiff drink, but there was no time for that now. He had been granted a reprieve and if he wanted to keep living long enough to see the completion of all his dreams of power and glory, he had better get his ass in gear.
Craig lingered at his side, eyes worried. “Now what are we going to do, Boss?”
Kuan Yin’s lips curled into an evil smile. “Just leave everything to me, Craig, my boy. It’s time we put Plan B into action.
TO BE CONTINUED
Pairings: Leon x D
Category: Supernatural/Drama
Rating: R
Warning: Shonen Ai/Yaoi.
Title: Man-Eater
Notes: Sequel to 'Denial', which is set before Volume 9's fourth chapter, Dynasty
Kuan Yin made his way down the hospital corridor, the heels of his leather boots ringing hollowly against the freshly waxed floor. Bright yellow cautions signs in both English and Spanish had been scattered strategically along the wet-looking tile by the custodial staff. And if you didn’t understand either language, there was always the universally recognized picture of some scrawny stick figure frozen forever in the act of falling.
Being the cynic that he was, Kuan Yin believed that the primary reason for the signs was not for the benefit of any unfortunate, illiterate sons of bitches that may slip and fall on the slippery surface. Rather, he suspected that the real reason they put out so many damned signs was to cover their asses in case of a lawsuit. Americans seemed to love a good, frivolous lawsuit almost as much as they loved their greasy burger joints. But, hell, the signs were fucking everywhere and as far as he was concerned, if people were stupid enough to ignore them and then fell and broke their fat asses, they had it coming to them.
‘At least they would already be in a hospitable,’ Kuan Yin thought and laughed briefly at his own wit, then grimaced when a twinge of dulled pain raced up the side of his mutilated face. He brought his hand up and gingerly touched the cotton and gauze the nurse had applied to his face after the doctor had finished stitching him up.
‘Thirty-five stitches, could you fucking believe this shit?’
Anger, warm and glowing like banked coals stirred by a poker, coiled within the depths of his being. This anger, naturally, was directed toward Count D, who had been the reason he needed stitches in the first place. But a small portion of that anger he directed at himself. He had underestimated the Kami, but it would not happen again, he vowed.
He was glad he had chosen to come to this particular hospital. Centered deep in an area known for its gang violence, there had been only a few questions asked as to how he had come by the wound on his face. He lied to the bored-looking woman manning the desk, and said that he had gotten into a tiff with a rival gang member. His story was accepted at face value as he knew it would be. The staff didn’t take sides in the various gang wars that flooded them with casualties, they just patched them up and sent them on their way, hoping desperately that they were civilized enough to keep their grudges and feuds out of their halls. Most of the time, they got lucky in this regard. Other times they were not so fortunate.
The nurse, an young, tired looking blond with washed-out blue eyes and a knock-out body, had given him some sort of shot before the doctor had began suturing the wound, humming tunelessly beneath his breath. His grey eyes bulged like a beetles behind the lenses of his horn-rimmed glasses and his hair was thinning on top. Like many middle aged men, he had made the unfortunate mistake of trying to cover it up with a comb-over. As far as Kuan Yin was concerned, it didn’t do one damned thing to disguise his balding dome, all it did was draw attention to it.
After a few moments he hadn’t been able to feel any pain, but he had found it more than a bit disconcerting that he could feel the tug and pull of the needle as it was inserted into then pulled out of his skin, dragging thread in its wake. To take his mind off what the doctor was doing to his face, he focused his attention on the very impressive cleavage of the nurse as she handed the doctor various unseen implements of torture. The white buttons of her nurse’s smock strained to contain her bounty and looked like they were waging a losing battle. Hell, they might pop at any given moment. Idly he wondered if they were real and decided that he didn’t really care one way or another. Tits were tits, after all. Though, as his father had been fond of saying, “More than a mouthful was a waste, really.”
After he was stitched up, the doctor left, presumably to make his rounds, leaving the buxom nurse to clean up the mess. As she gathered up instruments she informed him that he would need to come back in five to seven days to get the stitches removed. Her blue eyes, faded as a favorite pair of jeans, twinkled and there was the faintest hint of a blush on her cheeks. She had obviously been aware of his roaming eyes and didn’t seem to have any objections.
“You may experience numbness around the cut for several months.” She continued, offering him what was probably meant to be a reassuring smile. “Healing will continue for six to twelve months. You’ll need to apply sunscreen to your face several times a day to prevent pigment changes.” Her words were clinical, but she took hold of his hand and held it between her breasts in a gesture that might have been more motherly concern than come-on, but he doubted it. “If your scars appear too obvious after this time, you may want to consider seeing a plastic surgeon.”
Kuan Yin didn’t say anything to this because right now, in his current predicament, facial scarring was the least of his concerns. He had failed in his mission. He knew it, and soon his Lord would know, from his own mouth. There was no way in hell he was going to leave such things to his subordinates, that lazy pack of good-for-nothings. That wouldn’t look good at all and it wasn’t his style. Still, his Lord did not take a favorable view of those who failed him. If he managed to make it to the dawn alive and one piece, he would consider himself among the truly fortunate.
Now, he reached the exit with the nurse’s name and telephone number, scribbled on the back of a prescription pad, stuffed in his pocket. Maybe if his Lord didn’t kill him for fucking up, he’d give her a call and find out for himself whether those luscious melons of hers were the real deal.
‘Margaret. Who in their right mind gives a beautiful woman like that such a dopey name? She looked more like a Marilyn to me,’ he thought absently imagining the weight of her formidable breasts nestled in his hands, their pink nipples firmly erect and jutting between his groping fingers.
Pushing his way through the glass and brass revolving door, he found himself outside in a nearly deserted parking lot. He managed to cross the acres of cement to his car without getting more than the soles of his boots wet, despite the various puddles from a brief burst of rain earlier. Streetlamps lit the parking lot, forming bright circles of light under which several late model vehicles were gathered. His car, though, had been parked on the very far side of the lot, in a protective swath of dark shadows. No one would be dumb enough to break into it, and those that might be, wouldn’t live long enough to regret it.
Digging into the pocket of his leather jacket, he withdrew his keys. Their almost merry jingle seemed very out of place here in the dark and shadows, impossibly cheery and very annoying. He inserted the proper key into the lock, turned, and opened the door. Wearily, he sank into the leather upholstered driver’s seat and swung his long legs into the car before pulling the door shut. All thoughts of the nurse’s (‘Margaret,’ he remind himself, ‘her name is Margaret’) breasts vanished. The dark and silence descended around him and he rested his forehead against the steering wheel. It was late and he was tired. His body was heavy with the need for sleep, but it would be hours more before he saw his bed, if ever…
The silence was abruptly shattered by the insistent ringing of his cell phone. His was not the popular ring tones so many seemed to enjoy, but the regular, old fashioned sounds of a ringing telephone. A telephone, even a cell phone, he always believed, should sound like a telephone or what was the fucking point? He dug into his jean pockets and put the phone to his ear.
“Zhang here,” As he listened, irritation crept into first his face then his voice as Craig’s voice crackled the connection. The last time he had seen him, he had been unconscious in that stinking alley, taken out by a young man nearly half his age. “Where the fuck have you been you piece of shit?”
He listened to Craig babble his excuses and worthless apologies as the fingers of his left hand rubbed small circles along his throbbing temples. The fingers of his other hand gripping the phone tightened, showing white moons at each knuckle. Once upon a time he had had high hopes for this man, but his performance tonight had been less than stellar. Pathetic would be a better word to describe his bumbling efforts. Looks like he just might have to get rid of him and find a new right hand man. God knows there were plenty of men who wanted the job.
“Look,” he finally snapped, cutting the other man off in mid-blubber, “I don’t need any more of your pathetic excuses right now. Okay? Did you at least manage to get the offering?”
Relief flooded through him when Craig confirmed that, yes, he did indeed have the offering, he had, in fact, gotten it earlier that same day before their disastrous attempt at ‘questioning’ the Count. And that was good, that was, in fact, wonderful because, quite frankly, they would have been fucked without it. Totally fucked. His death grip on the phone eased and the thumping of his head became almost bearable, at least the pain faded enough for his mind to finally kick it into high gear. He even managed a half twist of a lip that may have even passed for a smile. Perhaps he could find a way to smooth things over with his Lord and convince him that, despite his, no, their failure, he could still pull this operation off.
“Get the offering and meet me at headquarters immediately. Got that?”
Without waiting for response, Kuan Yin disconnected and pocketed his cell phone. Reaching over, he popped open the glove compartment and groped inside. His fingers wrapped around a glass bottle and he pulled it out. It was a half finished bottle of Smirnoff Triple Distilled Premium Vodka No.21. He held it the bottle of clear liquid, so it caught the glow of light and stared at it for some time. Dimly he decided that this was just the thing he would need to get him through the rest of his day, perhaps the very last one of his life.
He removed the cap and brought it to his lips. “Wen Lie,” he muttered the drinking salute then quickly downed over half of the bottle’s contents. The vodka burned down his throat and into his belly, igniting a fire that quickly spread through his entire body. Now that was more like it!
“Eat, drink and be merry, boys,” he announced aloud to the dark and silent interior of his car, “For today I just might die!”
For some reason this particular truth struck him as rather funny and rich laughter erupted from his throat, shocking him. The situation he was in wasn’t even close to funny yet here he was, laughing like a loon. He laughed so hard tears squirted from his eyes. After several moments he was able to pull himself under some semblance of control. The laughter, with its strange shrill edge of insanity, became a stream of snorts and chuckles and finally tapered away. His face hurt like a son of a bitch, but that was all right. Better to be alive and feeling than dead and in the ground, which is where he’d be if he didn’t get his ass in gear.
Feeling much better, Kuan Yin rested the nearly empty bottle near the fork of his crotch, pushed the ignition key into the slot and turned it. The car started up with a low rumbling roar, and then he was off, maneuvering the car through the parking lot and onto the mostly empty roads. He unrolled his window and felt the cold slap of the racing air across his face, refreshing and it served to wipe away the lingering fatigue as effectively as a splash of cold water in the face. Fumbling with the knob of the radio, he managed to find a static free station that played a heart-pounding variety of mid 80’s heavy metal tunes. Bobbing his head in time to the driving beat that flooded through his speakers, he pushed his gas petal nearly to the floorboard and raced with reckless abandon down the streets to what could be his final destination.
The neighborhood’s official name was Central City East, but its unfortunate residents, and the rest of the city, had a better name for it – Skid Row. This fifty-block area, brooding in the shadows of the LA downtown skyline was bordered by Third and Seventh Streets to the north and south and Alameda and Main streets to the east and west was home to one of the largest stable populations of homeless in the United States that ranged from seven to fifteen thousand souls. Personally, Kuan Yin thought the number was much, much higher.
The population was rife with homeless people, discharged mental patients, the recently paroled and drug addicts. It was an endemic of low-quality, inexpensive housing, violence, prostitution and illegal drugs. Cardboard box and camping tents lined the sidewalks and was in stark contrast with the gleaming glass-sheathed skyscrapers on nearby Bunker Hill. Garbage and rusted chain-link fences topped with razor wire lined the sidewalks which stank like an open sewer. Wrinkling his nose in disgust at the sight of a raggedly dressed old man urinating on the sidewalk, Kuan Yin quickly rolled up his window to block out the stench which hung heavily the night air.
When he had first come to this city he had been shocked by the sight of such squalor. Here in America, ‘land of the free and home of the brave’, he had never expected to see such a large population of people living in conditions equal to the destitution he had seen in his China homeland. Growing up on the streets of Shanghai had been hard true, but his memories of destitution were on a much smaller scale than that which was before his eyes now. The deserted streets he drove down were lined with small cut-rate garment shops, abandoned industrial buildings and warehouses. Everywhere he looked garbage was stacked in huge, festering piles. Graffiti marred the stained brick surfaces and many of the windows were boarded over. Those windows not broken out or covered up were dark and empty, just like the dull and sunken eyes of the hapless people he saw huddled together amongst the garbage and covered with old newspapers to keep warm.
When he caught a flash of red and blue out of the corner of his eye, Kuan Yin prudently slowed until his Mercedes was going slightly below the legal speed limit. Not that he was worried about being stopped and questioned about being about at such an hour. The police in the Central City East district were more concerned with cleaning up their streets to worry about him.
He slowed the car to a crawl and glanced down a side street and saw cruisers crowded along the littered sidewalks. A pack of uniformed officers were descending upon a terrified, milling group of homeless people. Orders were barked and they roughly lined up the men and women right in front of their children. The cops kicked their legs apart and began body-searching them, all the while shouting orders and obscenities. Even from his position at the end of the streets he could hear the kids crying and pleading for the officers to leave their parents alone. But their cries were ignored.
In an instant Kuan Yin flashed upon a scene of his own childhood, mere weeks before he found himself on the streets of Shanghai, an angry, bitter and bewildered orphan that was also a fugitive from the law. He had been lying under the covers, knees pulled up to his scrawny chest, listening in aching silence to the raging voice that filled the darkness. The exact words had been indiscernible, just the outside shapes of words, many to large for his child’s vocabulary. But the emotions behind the words had been loud and clear - a waspish hatred, mindless and slurred by a few too many drinks. He had no trouble discerning between the two voices, his father’s, loud and demanding, his mother’s, pleading, broken.
Angrily, he shook his head, dispelling the memory. His foot came down on the gas pedal and the car shot forward with an angry squeal and the stench of burned rubber. He drove through the streets steadfastly keeping his eyes ahead of him and concentrated on what lay before him. To his surprise he actually felt relief when he finally reached his destination, an old abandoned warehouse identical to so many in the area. Pulling up to the loading dock, he honked his horn briefly and smiled grimly as several young men came out of hiding behind the wooden pallets stacked up near the entrance.
The one that appeared by his door grinned at him easily with teeth as broken as an old picket fence. He was incredibly tall and gangly and thin as a rail with long, dirty brown hair. “We’ve been waiting for you, sir,” he drawled.
“Is Craig here yet?” Kuan Yin asked, killing the engine.
“Yes, sir, he got here about ten minutes ago.” He jerked his chin toward the entrance which was slowly lumbering open. “He was driving his white van, the one with the muffler just about falling off. That man needs to get that damned thing fixed before he gets pulled over by the cops. It won’t do to have them putting their noses in our business, sir, if you know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Kuan Yin sighed irritably, “And you’re right. We don’t need them poking around, not when we’re so close to the Resurrection.” He swung his long legs out of the car, stood and handed the keys over to the young man, whose eyes beamed with pleasure. “I’ll have a talk with him about that. In the meanwhile, park my car around back and be sure to cover it up with a tarp so it won’t attract too much attention. Got it?”
To his amusement, the young man actually saluted. “Yes, sir! Right away, sir! Just leave it to me!”
“At ease, boy. And hop to it already,” Kuan Yin muttered and, shaking his head in equal parts amusement and disgust, stalked into the dimly lit interior of the warehouse.
Once inside, the heavy doors swung into reverse and closed ponderously behind him, cutting off the sound of the young men gabbing. Dimly he heard the engine of his car roar into life then it slowly faded in the distance as the skinny young man followed his orders. He knew that his Mercedes would be driven to an alley adjacent to the warehouse where it would be covered with a thick, paint spattered tarp then further camouflaged with loose plank boards and other bits of garbage. To further insure that no one mess with it, the young man, whose name was either Timmy or Jimmy something-or-other, would stand guard with his pistol. Kuan Yin knew he had quite an itchy trigger finger and thought that it would be better for everyone involved if he never had to use that damn gun.
Slowly, he made his way through the warehouse, which was littered with piles of broken pallets, empty beer bottles, and hundreds of mannequin stands. In its heyday, this warehouse used to be owned by a high end clothes manufacturer but like so many of the other buildings in Skid Row, it had been long abandoned and had fallen into disrepair. Plastic arms, legs, torsos and heads had been stacked in large piles on the dirty cement floor and the air stank of decades of dust, motor oil, burned plastic and stale urine. To anyone who just happened to stumble into this place it might appear a bit on the gruesome side. But this forgotten graveyard of mismatched mannequins was child’s play compared to what awaited him in the manager’s offices located high above the warehouse floor.
Kuan Yin reached the rickety stairway leading up towards the manager’s offices and began to climb, lightly trailing his hand along the rusted out banister in case he lost his balance, or more likely, one of the crumbling steps gave out beneath his weight. There was an ancient elevator on the far side that was still operational after all these years, but he liked it even less than the stairs.
‘You couldn’t trust old machinery like that’, he thought, ‘because as it aged, it got mean.’ And the last thing he wanted was to be stuck in that damned thing when it decided to get stuck between floors, or worse, come crashing to the ground with him in it.
Kuan Yin imagined that he could feel the whole structure of the stairs sway with each step, but that could have been an illusion. Illusion or not, it was a rather unsettling feeling and he was glad when he reached the top without incident. He breathed a sigh of relief and removed a handkerchief from his jean pockets. With a moue of distaste, he wiped the red rust stains from his hands, pocketed the rumpled bit of cloth then made his way down the short landing until he reached the farthest door.
Up here, near the rafters of the roof, the air had a much more unpleasant aroma than it did near the floor. He could easily deal with dust and motor oil. Hell, even the stink of piss and booze would be preferable to the reek that assaulted his nostrils now. The air was heavy with the scent reminiscent of old copper pennies. It was the scent of slaughter, blood and terror.
For several moments Kuan Yin stood outside the door at the far end of the landing, his hand frozen mere inches from its surface, knuckles posed to rap the wood to announce his presence. He had learned from experience that it was best to knock before entering his Lord’s resting place. Though he considered himself to be one of his Lord’s most faithful servants, there were still some things that he did not wish to have direct knowledge of. Indirect knowledge of what sometimes went on behind that closed door had been bad enough.
Finally, he rapped his knuckles sharply against the rotting wood and said in a firm, commanding voice, “My Lord, it is I, Kuan Yin Zhang. I have returned.”
“Come in, come in, Kuan Yin, my most loyal vassal,” The voice was low and thick, as if the speaker’s mouth was filled with oozing mud. It was the voice of nightmares. Kuan Yin suppressed a shudder at the horribly eager sound of that voice.
‘There is nothing to fear,’ he told himself. ‘I am my Lord Akugi-Ma’s second in command…his most faithful servant. And no harm shall befall me in so long as I do not fail my Lord or waver in my duty.’ He viciously squelched the tiny voice that reminded him that he had already failed his Lord by not taking Count D or the sacred items into custody. Steeling himself, he gripped the doorknob, twisted it, and entered being careful to shut the door firmly behind him.
The room was in total darkness save for a few small tea light candles which burned on an ornamental hanger dangling from the ceiling over a dilapidated table near the far side of the room. The tiny flames cast their feeble light onto a filmy curtain that had been draped around what appeared to be a hospital issued bed. The mattress was narrow and the hand rails on the sides gleamed in the dim light. The stench of blood was a miasma that caught in Kuan Yin’s nose and throat, choking him but even that was but a mere nuisance when he stood in the presence of the unholy avatar that reclined there, covered by a thin sheet splattered with blood stains both old and new.
The body that lay before him shifted slowly, painfully. Kuan Yin stepped closer, intent on offering assistance, but that thick, mud-choked voice wiped out sharply, hitting him like a physical blow. “Stay where you are, human.”
Kuan Yin obeyed and stood his ground as the human-like creature groaned and panted as it swung its withered legs around so that they dangled over the edges of the bed. The creature, who at one point several hundreds of years ago had been a man, stared at him with eyes as black as tar. No whites showed in those burning eyes and nothing that even remotely resembled the human being it had once been burned in its face, which was shriveled and gray.
“Well,” Akugi-Ma demanded in his thick rasping voice, “Where is he?”
“Craig will be here momentarily, my Lord, with-“
“Not that blundering idiot, Zhang!” The creature on the bed roared, spittle flying from his thinning lips. “I mean the Kami! Where is Count D?”
Kuan Yin fought the urge to ring his hands and instead kept them very still at his sides. “I’m afraid I have some rather unfortunate news, my Lord,” he began slowly, “you see, I… we… We were unable to-“
“He got away?” This came out as an incredulous howl of rage. The once human-creature on the bed began to tremble in rage. “Is that what you are telling me, you worthless, incompetent pile of human excrement? Is it?”
“Y-yes, my Lord,” Kuan Yin mumbled, bowing his head in a show of contrition. “He managed to escape us.”
“And how did he manage that? Did you not use the drug as I commanded? That should have been a large enough dose to incapacitate him quickly enough.”
“Yes, we drugged him as you commanded, but we were interrupted as soon as we got him into our custody. By Jin Li Sung, my Lord.” He added quickly.
“Dishi Sung’s orphan brat…”
Kuan Yin nodded slowly, “The very same, my Lord.”
“And didn’t you even make an attempt to fight him off?” Akugi-Ma’s voice was low and soft, his tone dangerously silky. It was not a good sign.
“Yes, my Lord, we did.”
Akugi-Ma shambled to his feet and wavered unsteadily. The hospital Johnny he wore flapped around his bony legs. Rage contorted his face and he brought one frail looking arm down on the table under the tea lights with as much force as he could manage. With a loud cracking sound the table collapsed onto the floor, nothing more now than a pile of broken firewood. Blood spattered from a large gash in his forearm, but Akugi-Ma didn’t seem to notice it or even feel the pain.
“And yet he still escaped?” He roared. “Am I surrounded by total incompetents?”
“My Lord,” Kuan Yin exclaimed, rushing forward, “Your arm-“
“The Devil take my arm!” Akugi-Ma screeched flailing his wounded arm about in a rage. His hand came into contact with the filmy curtain and he wrenched it from its hanger with the sound of a large zipper being undone. He clutched the cloth in his trembling fist for several seconds then hurled it ineffectually at Kuan Yin. It fell short of its mark and floated gossamer-like to his feet. “I can feel this miserable human shell dying all around me and you’re concerned with my arm? If you were really the loyal servant you claim to be, you would have brought me the damned Kami as I commanded!”
“My Lord, I assure you that -“ Kuan Yin began helplessly, but suddenly stopped as he felt invisible hands wrapping themselves around his neck. He saw his Lord’s right arm stretch out, his fingers curling into claws. Thin, wisps of white hair fluttered about sunken skull as if caught in a quickening breeze. His eyes widened in shock as he realized what was happening. Pain flared as the pressure increased, cutting off his airway and depriving his lungs of much needed oxygen.
“My Lord,” he croaked, “I…”
Something very much like regret surfaced in Akugi-Ma’s rage distorted features, touched his voice. “Of all my many servants over these long, long years, Kuan Yin, I held you in the greatest esteem. It was I who took you off the streets and gave your life purpose. I put you above all others, granting you wealth, power, and a position at my side. You were as a son to me. And this is how you repay me?”
Kuan Yin’s hands flew to his throat as if trying to pry the invisible hands away but they scrambled at nothing. His face darkened to an ugly shade as he felt his life slipping away. His lungs burned and dark spots began to crowd his vision. Desperately, he drew in as much air as he could manage. The effort hurt him terribly, but he was able to draw enough air to try to plead his case.
“…have… plan… m… Lord.” He rasped out as unconsciousness was about to overtake him.
“What’s that, Zhang?” Akugi-Ma asked, his head tilting to the side like an inquisitive bird. “You say you have a plan?”
Kuan Yin nodded his head furiously.
“Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place?” Akugi-Ma’s fingers relaxed and he lowered his outstretched arm to his side as if it weighed a ton. His facial features smoothed out. He stepped back, bumped into the bed then slowly lowered himself onto the mattress. The demonic rage that had overtaken him evaporated leaving him light-headed and weak. Human rationality reasserted itself and he stared quietly at Kuan Yin until he had recovered enough to speak.
“You said you had a plan,” Akugi-Ma prompted almost gently.
Wearily, Kuan Yin nodded his head. His right hand massaged his throat tenderly. It hurt horribly, but if a sore throat was all he had, then he had gotten off easy. “Yes, my Lord,” he rasped painfully. “I have a plan.”
“Well, what is it?” There was more than a touch of impatience in his Lord’s voice. Kuan Yin hurriedly began to speak, throwing out his thoughts, his mind racing as he tried to weave them into the workable plan he claimed he had.
“I have recently discovered that the Kami may have taken a human lover.”
This seemed to surprise Akugi-Ma almost as much as it had surprised him. His black eyes widened and he leaned forward, a cold sort of rage filtering through his face.
Naturally, during his long years of service to the demonic avatar, he had learned a great deal about his enemies including the slaughter of their people at the hands of Emperor Sung’s son, Chouen Ti. The very idea that one of the last remaining Kami would take a human as his lover was absurd… but he had personally seen the love bites on D’s chest. There was little doubt in his mind that he and that third rate detective, Leon Orcot, had become intimate with each other.
“I hope for your sake that you are mistaken,” Akugi-Ma growled, “But how does this juicy bit of gossip fit into your little plan, hmm?”
“This human is no doubt Count D’s weak point,” Kuan Yin explained quietly and his voice became more animated as the pieces of his impromptu plan began falling into place. “We can use his feelings against him.”
“And how do you intend to do that, Kuan Yin?” Akugi-Ma asked in a quiet, tired voice.
“Just leave everything to me, my Lord,” Kuan Yin assured heartily. “I will not fail you again.”
Akugi-Ma leveled one bone-like finger in his direction. “You had better not, for your sake. You know the penalty of failure. If the Kami has indeed bedded this human, then all is lost. And heads will roll - starting with your own.”
Bowing low, Kuan Yin unconsciously rubbed his tender throat. “Yes, of course, my Lord.”
Both men turned their heads toward the door when they heard a sharp rapping against the wood. A horribly eager expression crossed Akugi-Ma’s face. His eyes lit up like a child’s on Christmas morning and he rubbed his hands together expectantly.
“Uh, that should be Craig with the offering,” Kuan Yin managed, hiding his discomfort. Then to the closed door he called out, “Come it!”
Craig entered the room, pushing a small Hispanic child in front of him. Her clothes were much too big for her and were full of patches and ragged holes near the knees and elbows. Duct tape had been slapped over her mouth and her red rimmed eyes rolled wildly in fear as she quickly took in her surroundings and the two men standing before her.
“I found this one huddling under the Eighth Street Bridge,” Craig explained as he shoved her toward the center of the room. The child, who appeared to be about eleven years old, tripped over her own feet and collapsed in a heap at Kuan Yin’s feet. She used the sleeve of her shirt to wipe away her tears and stared up at him in mute horror. “I think she’ll do just fine, won’t she?”
“She’s perfect,” Akugi-Ma breathed, his hands stretched out in front of him, eager fingers reaching for the girl on the floor. “Bring her to me.”
Reluctantly, Kuan Yin scooped the girl up, grasping her by her shoulders. She didn’t weigh much at all and her struggles, though frantic, proved useless. He lowered her onto Akugi-Ma’s lap and stepped back quickly as those pale, shrunken arms gripped the child with a strength that was inhuman.
Akugi-Ma stroked the fingers of one hand down the profile of her face, her throat, dragging his fingers along her skin and under the collar of her shirt until he cupped the soft swell of one budding breast, no doubt feeling her frantic heartbeat. “You’ll do just fine,” he breathed. His free hand snaked out and in one swift movement, pulled the duct tape from the girl’s mouth. She screamed and both Craig and Kuan Yin cringed. Without taking his eyes away from the child’s tear stained face, he snapped, “Leave me.”
Not needing to be told twice, both Kuan Yin and Craig made for the door. Kuan Yin struggled to maintain his composure as behind him he heard the sounds of ripping cloth followed by the girl’s desperate screams. All the while his master’s thick, gravely voice murmured unintelligible words which were probably meant to be endearments. Suddenly her screams were cut off by a thick, liquid ripping sound. The scent of blood in the room intensified and Kuan Yin cringed as he felt arterial spray splay along the back of his leather jacket. Still, he did not turn around. He continued to make his way toward the door with a steady, unhurried stride.
After closing the door carefully behind him, Kuan Yin rested against the wall for a moment, massaging his burning throat. While he understood the need for the demon to feast on human flesh in order to slow the decaying of his human body, he wished that his master’s tastes ran in victims that were a bit more… mature. No one much cared if a few homeless adults went missing, but the same could not be said about missing children. Since their arrival in Los Angeles the decaying had become accelerated. Instead of needing to feed once a month, he and Craig had been forced to find new sacrificial victims for Akugi-Ma at least once a week… then every few days. Sooner or later the police would make some sort of connection and then there would be Hell to pay.
Kuan Yin rubbed his hand over his face, feeling desperately tired. He wanted, no, needed, a good stiff drink, but there was no time for that now. He had been granted a reprieve and if he wanted to keep living long enough to see the completion of all his dreams of power and glory, he had better get his ass in gear.
Craig lingered at his side, eyes worried. “Now what are we going to do, Boss?”
Kuan Yin’s lips curled into an evil smile. “Just leave everything to me, Craig, my boy. It’s time we put Plan B into action.
TO BE CONTINUED
