Chapter Three

Chapter Three

All attempts ended in failure.

The morning sun wouldn’t reach the underground room even with the shutters lowered. Ryuuki was lying down, a conditioned response for vampires, while Nuvenberg and the doll girl tried every form of simple murder they could think of.

They drove a stake into the heart and cut off his head. But look away for a split second and he’d be all put back together again. Doing the same to his limbs yielded the same result. Strangling, same again. Roasting him with a flamethrower, zapping him with high voltage electricity, ditto.

After five seconds, the blackened skin peeled off and the fresh pink flesh revealed itself beneath.

They prepared a tank of water and submerged him—without effect. He truly was immortal.

“He is a one-off of a one-off,” Tonbeau finally said an hour later, throwing in the towel. “Eat him, bones and all—bury him at the bottom of the earth—but I wouldn’t guarantee even that would work.”

“We might as well try burying,” the doll girl said softly, as if attempting to come to a compromise.

“And we’d best to get it done while the sun is up.” She checked the diamond-studded Cartier watch wrapped around her ample arm. “A good opportunity to leave town. Only two hours left. That fissure in the earth is on the way.”

“You are quite right.”

“I’m out of here. I did not come to this city with the intention of being irradiated. What about you?”

“There is still work left for us to do.”

“Right. And who’s gonna stop me?”

“I would never attempt to do such a thing to my mistress’s younger sister.”

“Good to know we all understand each other. Looks like when it came to your upbringing, my big sister covered the important stuff. What about that huge crow?”

“If it wants to leave, I would ask you to take it with you.”

“I thought you were a mere wooden doll, sans tears and blood, but you turned out to be anything but.”

“The person who made me was very special.”

Tonbeau turned down her mouth in a disapproving manner, but didn’t comment further. When she went upstairs and said she was pulling out, Deputy Chief Tanomo scowled.

He’d been put in charge after Chief Kumagaki got turned into a vampire. The mayor had filled him in about Nuvenberg and the doll girl.

“Can’t I prevail on you to do something about that? We can deal with the likes of those Toyama chaps, but that thing is more than what we’re prepared to deal with.”

“Like I told you, the best solution we’ve got at this point is to bury him deep in the earth. True, there’s no guarantee he won’t vaporize and reconstitute himself somewhere else. In any case, I’ve done all I can do. Pay me what I’m owed up to now and I’ll be out of your hair.”

“Take a check?”

“Not a chance. You don’t even know what’s going to happen to this city. I take nothing but gold, silver and cold hard cash.”

“Then cash it is.”

“Wait a minute, what are you signing that piece of paper for?”

“This is a payment voucher. Give it to the clerk on the first floor and he’ll see to it that you’re paid.”

“Heh. In a situation like this, count on the Shinjuku cops to do things by the book,” Tonbeau said. “I can’t help being a little impressed.” She tucked the thin slip of paper into her bulging blouse. “Yeah, though you must be keeping your underlings in the dark about that missile. Nice job.”

“They were fully apprised of the matter yesterday.”

“Eh?” said Tonbeau, jutting her neck out like a plump turkey. “So why aren’t you all running away?”

“There are still people left here.”

“You mean, you’re still left here. Don’t your lives count for something? Every man for himself. Even rats are smart enough to flee a sinking ship.”

“We are human beings as well as police officers. As long as citizens of this city remain, we will remain. I can’t say that all of us adhere to that creed—perhaps twenty or thirty didn’t show up for roll call.”

“Huh. So there’s still a bit of humanity left here. I am so relieved,” Tonbeau said caustically as she stomped out of the deputy chief’s office and into the shadowy corridor. She glanced down at her feet. “What’s this?” she said crossly.

“I thought I would see you off,” the doll girl said with a slight bow.

“You really came to stop me, but let’s go with that. It’s not like I haven’t done my fair share of sticking around to the last moment.”

“Indeed. You have gone above and beyond the call of duty. I am very thankful to my mistress’s younger sister.”

As if giving her an elbow in the side, Tonbeau said, “Don’t think you can butter me up! I’ve got no reason to break a sweat for a place like this. This really is goodbye. Though I do feel a bit bad that in our short time together I didn’t take more of a liking to you and this city.”

“I feel the same way.”

“What’s with that crow?”

“It’s waiting outside. It was flying around searching for Aki-sama, but I called it back in a hurry.”

“Good girl.”

The mismatched pair of silhouettes turned toward the front lobby. As they drew closer, the scene became more and more like Shinjuku. Curses and lamentations, the sound of hard objects striking human bodies. Here and there struggles between civilians and men in uniforms, interrupted now and then by blue-white sparks and screams.

Mobile police wearing night goggles and carbon-fiber helmets and ballistic vests were hauling a gangbanger toward the back. Their vests were charred with laser burns, from which purple smoke still wafted.

The sight of a rather large girl (larger than her), with two even larger ruffians in tow, caught Tonbeau’s eye. “Impressive. You wouldn’t see cops like that even in New York.”

“That’s Detective Ran Mizube. She’s only twenty, but has the arrests of more than thirty hardened criminals to her credit. In the outside world, she would have received at least ten commendations by now.”

“She didn’t kill any of them?”

“Oh, that’d come to a good hundred.”

“What a city.”

“This is Demon City. Staying alive here takes guts, strength and courage.”

In the hundred feet to the front lobby, the two of them were passed by ordinary thugs with their heads split open; an android with the upper half of its body completely charred, only the polymer and steel skeleton and electric eyes remaining; a half-crab human blowing bubbles as its huge pincer hands snapped back and forth; a man with a dog head followed by a man with two heads.

The faces and uniforms of the officers with them were covered with blood. And yet strangely enough, there wasn’t a hint of the expected sad and nihilistic atmosphere.

“Everybody’s doing their best. It takes as much effort to die here as it does to live. Otherwise, it would become another place entirely. I suppose Prague is an even more remarkable place?”

“Don’t be silly. There isn’t another city like this one anywhere.”

The two left the building. As soon as they stepped into the sunlight, a shadow descended like a black cloud. “Farewell,” said the big raven.

“You take care too,” Tonbeau said with a brusque wave of her hand as she set off.

They watched as she passed through the front gates and disappeared into the pedestrian traffic on the main thoroughfare.

“Do you think she’ll make it out of here?” asked the big raven.

“She is our mistress’s little sister—she’ll figure out something.”

“I can’t tell whether you’re sad to see her go or relieved.”

“Watch your mouth.”

“Oops.” The raven fluttered its black wings in exaggerated chagrin.

“Well, at least she should survive the fate of this city. I guess that is something to celebrate. So, what do we do about General Ryuuki? I don’t suppose he’ll be turning to dust at noon?”

The doll girl turned back to the lobby of the police station just as a gust of wind lifted up her hair, scattering golden light. Overhead, the surly bird cawed, “I’m going to look for Setsura Aki. He is a resident of Demon City, even should this world meet an accursed end.”

“Nevermore,” rang out the voice accompanying its departure.

The gust of wind winded its way down the streets of Demon City. The doll girl and the bird were nowhere to be seen. The bright summer sunlight filled the streets. It was ten o’clock. Two hours to go.

The vagrant considered the place nothing short of a godsend the first time he found it. He’d found work outside the ward for three days. When he returned to his hovel near Shinjuku’s Chuo Park, he discovered that, thanks to a downpour two days before, the concrete floor had fallen in. Beneath was a dual-level, underground parking garage.

One look and he decided to move in.

The small building’s collapse had resulted in an almost miraculously rugged balance of rubble and space. For the past three years, it had protected him from the wind and rains of Demon City. Then a section of the fence isolating Chuo Park from the rest of the world got damaged, allowing the ghosts and goblins inside to spill out with the water. He couldn’t keep them from crawling into his living quarters.

He’d carried out all of his belongings that could safely be moved and was about to leave himself when he dropped an amulet—made from a special kind of metal whose odor drove off supernatural sprites—into a hole in the underground level.

Amulets like it were a dime a dozen in Demon City, and were effective only against a half-dozen or so of the smaller monster species. He wasn’t that attached to it in the first place. But in a fit of economizing, he went to get it anyway.

Dirt and silt carried by the rain had built up a slope beneath the hole that was fairly steep but preferable to jumping down. Brushing aside the small, fanged creatures, he made his way to the bottom floor of the parking garage.

The water had mostly evaporated, and with the help of the light shining down from the hole he found the amulet soon enough. He’d put it in his pocket when he noticed a flight of stairs leading further down.

The upper level had an exit to the surface. It was so densely packed with rubble that he’d given up trying to use it. Here though, the water had clearly carved out a rectangular opening. He’d avoided the stairs before for fear of what might be lurking under the landing. Now they struck him as an easy way up. Besides, he had his amulet now.

After aligning himself with his quarters on the level above, he made his way to the stairwell. That was when he saw it: a triangular space formed by several huge chunks of overlapping concrete, just to the right of the steel doors. The space appeared as rugged as a bank vault. And like a bank vault, his eyes were drawn to what was inside it.

The gray gloom couldn’t mask the gleam of glossy red playing across the surface of the cube, eighteen inches to a side. As he came closer, the crimson glow lit up his eyes like a campfire.

The details drew into sharp focus. The red surface was covered with a myriad of designs: a dragon flying through the air holding a large jewel; a serpent wrapped around the peak of a mountain, about to fight with the dragon; a giant whirlpool draining an entire ocean; and many more.

The freshness and vitality of these etchings were as if the artist had been endowed by the gods, entrancing the vagrant more than arousing in him any awe or fear.

And then another miracle. It was a tragedy in a sense.

He reached out to touch this work of art, and then wondering how much he could get for it, withdrew his hand. Perhaps it was mere greed that saved him.

Thoughts of his only true friend in the world welled up in his mind. One of the many fences and money launderers in Demon City, he dealt in high-quality goods. The vagrant had great faith in his powers of discernment when it came to appraising an object’s worth.

For whatever reason, it didn’t occur to him that somebody might have left it there on purpose. And he forgot about moving it someplace else. Instead, he immediately climbed the stairs and went outside to find a phone.

The fence rushed over ten minutes later. Along with three thuggish-looking companions. After a bit of menacing, the vagrant led them back to the lair. The thugs all had cyborg enhancements. It wasn’t like he had any choice in the matter.

“My bad,” the fence laughed. “I hooked up with these chaps yesterday. It’s the first chance they’ve had to make a little money. Hey, as long as everybody goes along for the ride, nobody gets hurt.”

In a corner of the parking garage, shrouded in an eternal dusk, the men stopped in stunned silence. Finally one of the thugs asked the fence, “Well, whaddya think?”

“Definitely an antique, and definitely worth a lot. Though I’m unfamiliar with the era. Maybe if I get a better look at those engravings.”

The fence moved right up to the triangular box and gently reached out with both hands.

A moment later, the fence was sucked right inside. Or more precisely, no sooner had the fingers of his left hand touched the surface than the rest of his body was drawn in after it—so quickly that only a gust of wind marked his absence—so quickly that it took a long moment for the rest of them to realize what had just happened, and even longer than that for the shock to register.

They looked at each other and asked, “What the hell just happened?”

“Where’d that bastard go?”

“No idea. I think he touched that box thing and got sucked inside it! The pictures, look at the pictures!”

Only in Demon City could a pair of unusually sharp eyes have seen what he saw. In the midst of the black whirlpool in a sea of whitecaps was a small pair of squiggly lines. The deformation was melded right into the design: the two legs of the fence, accurately portrayed down to his shoes.

As they watched, gaping, the legs thrashed several more times, bobbed up to the height of his knees, and then swirled out of sight into the depths of the whirlpool.

The thug who’d been standing closest to the box pulled away and touched his scarred cheek with a shovel-sized hand. He’d heard the roar of the magical sea in his ears and felt the salt spray on his face.

The underground parking garage fell silent. Right before their very eyes, a human being had been sucked into a drawing of a watery vortex.

The stunned moment of frozen inactivity was unusually brief. An engraving that could devour people—any pawnshop or antique dealer in Demon City would want a piece of that.

A particularly famous one hung in the hallway of Miyamoto Pawn in Hyakunin. It was a painting, a four by six foot canvas filled with a life-sized portrait, now known as “The Upper Half of an English Gentleman.” As the accursed name suggested, the portrait in this picture, hanging in a dark corner of the vacant, broken-down pawnshop, was blacked out below the waist with thick streaks of paint.

Three winters before, a foreigner of unknown origins had left it with Miyamoto Pawn. Over six months, the seven people living there disappeared one by one. A week after the owner vanished, the truth of the situation came to light when a CSI unit found the man’s journal on his desk.

His account revealed the mystery of the missing lower half of the portraits, and for a time cast this world in a whole new light.

The pawnshop owner had once dreamed of becoming an artist. He came to believe that the most unnatural part of this most unnatural portrait was not mere poster paint, and if carefully removed, the bottom half would be revealed.

According to the descriptions in the journal, the pawnshop owner waited a month for the painting to be redeemed. Growing impatient, and unable to resist the temptation, he set about “restoring” the painting.

During the three months he worked on it, his parents and younger daughter disappeared. He believed they were abducted or kidnapped and made no connection at all to the painting, only praised it.

The middle-aged gentleman wearing a silk hat and a three-piece suit featured in what he assumed was a work of eighteenth-century art—the red of the lips, the white of the teeth—possessed a vividness no ordinary painting of the era could match.

Two weeks after he broke the curse of the oil paint and revealed the legs of the English gentleman, his older daughter disappeared, and the pawnshop owner began to pay attention to what was going on about him, and the connection between the portrait and the disappearances.

He wrote in his diary of hearing something other than his family prowling about the house that day or night. Whether male or female—it was wearing leather shoes or boots.

The realization came three days before his final entry. Many times he had followed the sound of the footsteps, only to find himself in front of the painting when they faded away. That night, his wife was taking his youngest child to the bathroom, when there in the middle of the hallway was a tall Englishman. He opened his mouth and swallowed them head first.

With a look of satisfaction on his face, the Englishman crossed the hallway and stood in front of the painting—from which his portrait had vanished—and was promptly sucked back into it.

The pawnshop owner recorded the truth of what he had witnessed in his diary. But what had happened to him after this last entry was unknown.

Aside from the diary, the investigation team found the painting, the bottom half covered with thick paint, a can of paint in the hallway in front of it, and a brush. From the width of the splatter around the brush, they calculated that it had been dropped from a height of five feet, the same height as the mouth of the man in the portrait.

The pawnshop owner’s fate was not difficult to deduce.

The cannibal’s portrait still hung in a dark hallway of that pawnshop, a grave look on his face. According to the daredevils and ghost hunters who dared to visit the place, there was no longer any sound of footsteps wandering the premises.

But they would only pass by the painting with their backs against the wall opposite. And to avoid falling victim to its deranged presence, at any sound of sniffing or snuffling, kept their eyes closed tightly, seeing, hearing and doing nothing.

Similar stories were well-known around the city, so it didn’t take much time for the thugs to put two and two together. It also meant that they had no good way to deal with the thing.

“The dragon and the snake are still there.”

“What if we held it by the places that didn’t have any drawings?”

“Naw. The thing’s covered with them.”

The thugs exchanged thuggish looks. “No way we’re taking this thing back with us, then. Let’s leave this freak show of a haunted house here.”

“Man, what a waste. It’d be worth a fortune otherwise. The fence said so himself. Hey, what if it’s only the surface that’s cursed? There’s probably a ton of valuable shit inside. It’s like the stuff on the surface is some kind of security system.”

“Yeah, I thought the same thing too. But how you gonna cut through a system like that? It’s so old school the fence didn’t know jack about it.”

“Let’s take it back with us. It can’t have been sitting here all along. Somebody brought it, so we can take it. Hey, you, make yourself useful.”

Suddenly the focus of their attention, the vagrant stood there stunned.

“You’re as up to speed as the rest of us. Come over here and figure something out, before we wring your scrawny neck.”

He’d already experienced their strong-arm techniques and didn’t want to again. He spent a long time exploring the surface of the box—until he could tell the thugs were getting antsy—and discovered a space on both sides where he could just fit five fingers without touching anything else.

Right next to these spots were a white tiger, fangs bared, and a huge baboon, claws flashing. His face pale, the vagrant picked up the box and turned to the thugs.

None of them saw coming what happened next.