City of Demons, page 1
part #2 of The Unseen Series
City of Demons
The Unseen - Book Two
by Brian Martinez
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events locales or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the author.
Copyright © 2019 Bloodstream City Press
www.bloodstreamcity.com
For the obsessed.
-1-
Midnight approached, and that meant Miku was awake.
The new moon was what worried her, the night the Sun and the Moon aligned. As far back as she could remember, the night of the new moon, the darkest of nights, meant no sleep.
That was because, with the new moon, came the ritual.
When they first moved to the tower, she used to fall right asleep the same as any other night, only to be shaken and dragged to her feet a few hours later. Now her body was so accustomed to the routine, she could barely close her eyes for more than a minute without being filled with panic. Her sleep was even starting to suffer the night before, when a sliver of the moon could still be seen above the city. Which was ridiculous, because nothing ever happened the night before.
But tonight was the night of the new moon, and there was no escaping the ritual. Even if she hid, even if she ran, even if she kicked and screamed and bit the men that came for her, they always brought her to the room.
In the end, the ritual always won.
Even with the constant fear she lived with, Miku didn’t like to complain. All she wanted was to make her mother happy. The rituals, the fear, she told herself they were what her mother needed, the price for living in the tower. All she could remember of their life before this one were the fleas that lived in their bed, and how her legs itched. The names the other kids called her, making fun of her for the tiny red spots on her skin. Her mother was so unhappy living that way, always dirty and hungry. They could barely afford food most days, and many of their clothes had holes in the knees and elbows. They had each other, but that was all they had.
Then it happened. Mother met someone, a man with lots of money and beautiful things. She'd been so excited when her Prince Charming proposed to her. "You're getting a mamachichi," mother smiled, "a step-father who can take care of you the way you deserve. He will keep you safe."
The day they came to live in the tower felt like the happiest day of their lives. Windows in the sky, that was how mother described their new home. A pillar of shiny glass looking out on the world.
It was a dream too good to be true. Mother was kind and sweet, but her desperation made her blind to the truth- that her suitor didn't have their needs in mind.
Stepfather was no Prince Charming. He had money and nice things, but he also had cruelty in his heart. And now, kept apart most of the time, Miku and her mother didn’t even have each other. Not the way they once had.
Miku sat up in bed. She'd heard it. From deep inside the building, the bonsho rang out. It was a pretty sound for some, a song born in ancient temples. For her that sound meant the ritual had begun. Each time the wooden beam struck the bell's bronze, she felt the little hairs on her neck stand up. She felt the fear drive deeper into her heart.
Pulse racing, she jumped from her bed and went to the door. Opening it a crack, the sound of the bonsho grew louder in her skull, its voice echoing through the tower’s darkened halls. Each strike vibrated in her toes and fingertips.
Then the other sound came. The sound of footsteps. But they didn’t belong to stepfather’s guards, they were the heavy leather shoes of the one she feared most. The one who never talked, except in the dreams where she died. He was coming for her with his thick, grunting face and his big, dry hands that didn’t care if they hurt her.
Even though she knew it was useless, Miku ran.
She slipped out the door and ran down the half-lit hallway, the dark tiles cold on her bare feet. She wished she hadn't worn her white pajamas. The way they glowed in the building’s security lights worried her. She needed to be as invisible as possible, a shadow among shadows. She also needed to make no sound at all, and even though her footsteps barely registered under the continuing chimes of the bonsho, to her they sounded like car crashes.
She rounded the corner to the next hallway, then the next. She knew those hallways too well. To Miku that building, that tower of glass, was home and prison in one, wrapped up like the rolls the chefs made in the big, metal kitchen downstairs.
The red vent, that was her goal. She’d noticed it a week earlier when she was playing, the face left loose after someone worked on it. She knew she'd need it one day, so Miku wrote it down in her mind, the place where she wrote anything she didn't want found. Too many people went into her room to clean up or snoop around.
She would hide in the red vent as long as she had to, until her next birthday if need be. She couldn't suffer through one more night of this. Through one more ritual.
A noise came from ahead. The footsteps of one of step-father's guards. A beam of light broke through the night, a flashlight bobbing up and down the hallway, looking for her. They’d realized she was gone from her room. If they caught her now, she would be in worse trouble than just the ritual. They punished her for running, for not accepting her role in stepfather’s plan, and they were nearly as cruel as he was.
Miku ducked behind a suit of Kozane armor, clutching at its red scales. She wasn’t allowed to touch the antique samurai suit. Not that she wanted to get near the dragon-faced man, which she told the guards when they warned her, but they never cared when she said those things. They didn’t care about her, only in not angering her stepfather. They had their jobs to do, and that was all.
Staying perfectly still, Miku held her breath. The guard walked past her hiding spot, shining his flashlight into every dark corner around her. Miku was as silent as death itself, her small arms wrapped around the ugly samurai. Knees digging into the cold tile, she waited until the man and his flashlight were around the corner and gone to breathe again, ready to continue her path to the vent. The red vent, where she would climb inside and hide until they stopped looking.
They wouldn't win tonight. Not tonight.
With a deep breath for courage, Miku reemerged from behind the armor, except something was in her way. Darkness filled her vision. She got a face full of a wall which hadn’t been there seconds earlier. She backed up to look at the new wall, to see what stood in her way.
It was him.
The one who didn't speak.
The one who scared her more than any other.
As his big, dry hand covered her face, muffling her scream, Miku realized she'd been kidding herself. No matter how fast she ran, no matter how well she hid, no matter how much she fought it, they always found her. In the end, the ritual always won.
Thunder rumbled overhead, called forth from the other place.
***
The spider stirred in its dark corner, disturbed from its rest. Emerging from the shadows, it watched the figure at the center of the room, studying the woman with all six of its eyes, arranged in pairs.
Karen Kimura swept the floor of Dojo K. Her black hair was tied at the top, a style reminiscent of the chonmage worn by samurai to hold their helmets steady. Her face was lean and tense. She was annoyed. Her assistant Lisa had done a poor job of cleaning up for the day.
Dojo K had to be pristine, to serve as a sharp contrast to the crumbling neighborhood outside its frosted door. No dirt or dust was to be found on its padded floor, just as no posters, flyers or photos could blemish its wooden walls. There wasn’t a single trophy case anywhere in the building, either. No blue ribbons or colored belts to stroke the ego.
Awards had no place in Dojo K. They were only concerned with two things: honor, and survival. Cleanliness was an important part of honor. A clean home was a sign of respect, for oneself just as much as for its guests.
As she swept, Karen tested the weight of the broom in her hand, getting a feel for it. A true master of combat could defend him or herself with everything at their disposal, from a pencil to a garbage pail, but an untested weapon could prove fatal if not properly understood. Every object had a personality. A weight and a feel all its own. How it fit in the palm, the way it cut through the air. How easily it could break a bone.
She stopped and balanced the broom in her open palm, feeling the weight of the bristly head pulling it down to the floor. With her other hand, she grabbed the handle end and steadied it, then flipped the broom over. She spun it like a bo staff, though one with drastically different physics.
Bojutsu. The art of the staff. Most Bojutsu techniques echoed standard hand technique. The bo was merely meant to be an extension of one’s limbs, increasing their reach. As with all good weapons, the bo merely improved upon the body’s design.
Karen performed a cross strike, then a hook strike, meant to disarm the opponent, then followed through to a downward smash. The abrupt stop knocked the dust loose from the bristles, sending a cloud of dirt into the air.
She lunged, spinning the end of the broom handle in a tight circle, faster and faster until it became a blur. The tiny whirlwind collected the dust in the air. Still spinning, she transfered the cloud of dust to the small pail by her side, every particle coming to a rest inside.
Karen leaned on the broom. She surveyed the floor, finding it to her liking. Dojo K wa
Almost.
Lightning fast, she struck out with the the broom a final time. The end of the handle stopped a centimeter from killing the light brown spider watching her from the baseboards.
The spider didn’t flinch. It was larger than a quarter, with a violin-shaped mark on its elongated back. People called that kind a recluse, Karen recalled, though Lisa sometimes called her the same.
"You’re not as quiet as you think," Karen warned.
The spider extended a leg, feeling the broom handle, then transferred the weight of its body onto the wooden staff. It crawled slowly up the broom’s handle, walking the length of it and onto Karen’s hand. Karen didn’t flinch, either. She laid the broom against the wall and studied the spider sitting in her palm.
"There’s not enough room here for the two of us," she said. The recluse didn’t move. It appeared content, as if it were huddled inside a web of its own making. Karen had no desire to kill it, though it had no place in a clean dojo, either.
She walked into the back and through to the dojo’s side door, where it opened onto an alleyway. Immediately cold air buffeted her, the power of the winter wind sweeping through the space between buildings. She shielded the spider in her hand from being knocked down, then picked out a spot among the garbage bags.
"No free rides," she said, setting it down. She went back inside and put on a jacket, deciding to head out for a few groceries. When she was gone, the spider snuck back inside.
***
A train rattled in the night, slipping through Santa Fausta like a bothered snake through dead grass.
Two stops from Little Tokyo, Danny scanned the train car. The Japanese man three seats ahead of him stared at his phone with bleary eyes. Trying to make sense of a message, the man eventually gave up and fumbled it back in his shirt pocket. He looked out at the city. In the dirty reflection his eyes were bloodshot, his head wobbly. His skin was greasy from cheap food and cheaper booze.
At that hour, no one rode the train unless they were drunk, lost, or looking for trouble. In Danny’s case, it was a mixture of the three. He stood and approached the Japanese man, pointing to the seat across from him.
"Do you mind?"
The man looked around the train car. Other than the two of them, he counted five other passengers. "Plenty of other seats," he said, his accent forcing him to slow down his words.
Danny put his hands up. "Relax, man, I don't bite. I'm just looking for a little conversation." He offered a smile. "I’m bored as hell, and you seem interesting enough to hold my attention for a few stops."
The Japanese man looked sideways at him. "My English is not very good."
"Perfect. Neither is mine." He smiled until the man turned back to the window. Danny took the seat across from him, checking first for old gum or anything else he didn't want to get on his jeans. "Winter, huh? It's freezing in here." He flipped his hood up to hide his face from anyone who might glance over at them.
"The city looks better in winter." The man's eyes were bloodshot from more than drinking. His white work shirt was wrinkled and sweat-ringed under his coat.
"I know what you mean." Danny looked out the window, trying to see what the man saw. All he saw were brick fire traps coated in dirty snow, lit up by neon sex. The city had gone from bad to worse in recent years. Then things really changed. People left the city like rats from a sinking ship. New gangs formed all the time, infections painting the city their various shades of bile and blood. The Chromes, the newest of the bunch, killed for the fun of the thing. Often they didn't bother to steal their victim's wallet. Like Ted Bundy had formed a youth group.
"So," Danny said, "the old lady kicked you out?"
"Who?"
"The boss. The better half. The ball-and-chain." He paused. "You know- the girlfriend."
The Japanese man looked as if he'd witnessed a magic trick. "How do you-?"
"You have all the signs," Danny pointed out. "A tie you didn't pick out, a shirt you didn't iron, and judging by the glitter on your pants, one too many drinks in a place you wish you hadn't gone."
The man looked down at his pink tie. "Today is the worst day of my life," he concluded.
"So what did the trick- lying? Cheating? Drinking?"
"Video poker."
"The root of all evil." The overhead lights flickered as the train moved into a tunnel. "So what's your name, pal?"
"Ken."
Danny nodded. "Some people don't understand the thrill of gambling, Ken. The highs, the lows, the adrenaline rush of landing the perfect hand." The train came out the other side of the tunnel, the lights buzzing back to normal.
"I like it very much."
"Of course you do. And is that a crime?"
"Yes."
"Well, technically yes, it’s a crime. But I hear they're trying to legalize it. It's all timing, though, am I right? Drinking used to be illegal during Prohibition, but now it’s not. So were those Bootleggers really breaking the law?"
"Yes."
"I mean, yeah, they were breaking the law. But does that make them bad people?"
Ken shrugged.
"Exactly. Except the ones who killed people, I think we can agree they were pretty bad." The man looked confused, and Danny realized he was losing him. "Pick up your feet," he said.
"Pardon?"
Danny lifted his feet as the train angled up a hill. On the floor below, trails of yellow liquid flowed from beneath his seat and splashed into Ken's shoes. "If you're lucky, it’s beer," Danny offered. The train angled back down the other side of the hill, taking most of the dirty water with it. "So…" Danny put his feet down and leaned forward in his seat. "Was she cute?"
"Who?"
"C'mon, Ken, keep up." He shook his head as Ken searched his memory.
"The old lady?"
"There you go. You have a picture on you? Let me see what all the trouble's about."
The man patted his pocket. "My phone-"
"Phones have germs, I’m not touching that thing. You don’t have a picture of her in your wallet?"
"Oh. Yes." Ken fished the wallet out of his back pocket and opened it to a plastic sleeve with a photo inside. The girl was pretty, a bit shy but with an honest face. Danny leaned closer to get a look.
"Alright, man, not bad. You know, after tonight she might feel so bad she'll take you back."
The man gave up a bleary grin. "Why?"
"Because, Ken- you really are having the worst day of your life." With that, Danny snatched the wallet out of the man’s hand and jumped out of his seat in one, quick motion.
He bolted toward the back of the train to the soundtrack of Ken's shouts. The other passengers glanced at them out of passing curiosity. They watched Danny pass them with a wallet that wasn't his and blinked before turning back to their windows and phones; none of them want to get involved in someone else's business.
Danny slid the door open and stepped into the cold wind, navigating over the train's articulated links. The winter air blew the hood off his blonde head. He moved into the last car, the door slamming shut behind him. He was halfway to the back of the compartment when the door reopened. Ken stepped in, shouting for someone to stop the guy who stole his wallet.
With his hand on the emergency stop button, Danny looked back at him. "Nothing personal, Ken. A guy's gotta eat."
Before he could pull the lever, the brakes locked. The train lurched, slowing too fast for its own good.
Danny and Ken were thrown off their feet, falling to the floor in jumbles of arms and legs. The scattered passengers slid out of their seats. Heads hit seat-backs, suitcases and backpacks tumbled down the aisle. The car filled with screeching brake sounds and the smell of burnt metal until, after a long, wrenching slide along the cold tracks, the train came to a slow, grinding stop.
Disoriented passengers pawed themselves back into their seats with curses on their lips. Danny picked himself up and looked out the window. He saw no reason for the sudden stop, only the long expanse of a moon-lit train yard, one of those countless dead zones of the city- a no-man’s-land that belonged to the rats and the rail workers.
At the front of the car, with his sore back pressed against the door, Ken shook his head and used the handle to stand. Danny remembered the man’s wallet, realizing it was no longer in his hand. He scanned the floor until he spotted it resting against an old woman’s foot. He stooped and snatched it back.
