Chapter Four

Chapter Four

A girl of seven or eight with golden locks greeted Setsura at the door of the small stone house.

The combination of the pink gloss of her skin, eyes reminiscent of the clear blue sea, and the purple satin dress was so endearing as to drive the most austere man to thoughts of abduction. At the same time, she had about her an ethereal, detached essence that calmed the animal spirits.

“It’s been a long time,” Setsura smiled.

“Welcome,” she said with a bow. The golden wave of hair swayed on top of her head.

She gestured for him to come in. The black bird followed after them and alighted on the hearth above the fireplace. The girl didn’t object. The air was cool. The floor and walls and ceiling were made of stone. The light shining through the windows was filled with the cold clarity of a winter sun.

She offered him one of the chairs around the wooden table. “I’m sorry, but all I have is tea. Grandmother is in the hospital.”

“Yes, I know. Right now, she can’t move a muscle. I came here to ask you something.”

“What’s that?”

“Do you have any fears of being overheard?”

“There is nothing to worry about.” She followed Setsura’s gaze. “I’ve been observing you since you left the bus stop. I sent it to meet you.”

The bird held a wing in front of its beak and cleared its throat with a self-important air.

“I’m not sure that feeding a raven’s ego is a wise thing to do.”

“I agree,” said the girl, returning the bird’s look. The black bird turned the other way in a huff.

“I’m sorry, but could you draw the curtains?”

“Haven’t you just woken up?” With a soft, metallic click, her lips turned up in a smile. She was a doll.

Setsura looked over his shoulder. The curtains were drawn across the window. The room was dark. The brass lamp fixture in the ceiling cast off a dull light. He retraced his thoughts. Had it been like this all along? Without another word, with his left hand he turned down the collar of his shirt.

“This is what it comes down to.”

“I know.”

“Can it be treated?”

“The extent of the wound must be ascertained. It will take time—and will not be painless.”

“I’m fine until sundown.”

“That will do,” the girl said, closing her eyes and nodding in a manner that suggested a thorough knowledge of the subtleties of human existence.

“Strange things have been happening of late outside the neighborhood,” said the raven in a papery voice. It was still perched on the hearth. “I thought perhaps—and then it became quite obvious—it must be them.”

“Strange things?” Setsura queried, feigning ignorance.

“Yes. I see the unseen flying through the sky. I hear the unheard. Humans don’t understand how to use their eyes or ears.”

“That’s the kind of thing Grandma likes to say,” the girl grinned.

The bird ignored her. “One night, I watched a woman go into a house in Yocho. Half an hour or so later, she came out with a man. He had marks on his throat like yours.”

“I didn’t know you were a peeping tom. When Grandma gets better, she’ll have to gouge out one of your eyes to teach you a lesson.”

Setsura asked, “Why were you observing that house?”

“It’s the house of the Chief of Police. They toss out the most delicious leftovers in the trash.”

“And what happened after that?”

“You really want to know?”

“Sure.”

“It’ll cost you.”

“Spell out your terms.”

“Let me think about it,” the bird said curtly. “But more importantly, let’s not delay treatment. What I saw was barely a scratch, but I could tell the curse was already coursing through his bloodstream.”

“Good idea,” the girl nodded. “This way.”

Setsura got to his feet. She led him down a narrow hallway to a room further in. She pushed on a steel door set into the stone wall on his right. The heads of large rivets dotted the rusty red surface. The long-unused hinges groaned as the door opened inwards, exposing a dark, rectangular space.

The illumination from the hallway revealed a stone staircase. “Come along,” the girl said.

“What about a light?”

“I have it here.” She held up the silver candlestick holder.

The blue candle cast off a wan glow. The melting wax dribbled down and wound around the silver shaft of the holder. Without a moment’s hesitation, the girl disappeared into the darkness. Setsura chased after the small halo of light.

“Have you been to the hospital?” he asked, as they plunged deeper down into the chilly gloom.

“Yes. Yesterday evening. Doctor Mephisto said you had just left.”

“And how is she doing?”

A faint smile bubbled to the girl’s lips. The gap between the substance of the question and Setsura’s voice must have struck her as odd. Whatever pressure he was working under, he sounded like he was pretty out of it. To put things baldly, like he’d stumbled out of bed. Considering the state he was in, this said a lot about what the “normal” him was like.

“I couldn’t say. But if he comes up with an effective treatment, you ought to try some too.”

Setsura stood next to the girl. He didn’t know how far they’d descended. Based on the length of their conversation, more than ten seconds couldn’t have elapsed. But they’d walked down more than a hundred steps.

The faint halo of light revealed a subterranean scene entirely appropriate to this neighborhood and this house. The black stone arch holding up the ceiling, the stone sarcophagus resting on the stone floor—Setsura could make out similar objects residing in the chambers bored into the far wall.

“Over here,” the girl beckoned.

“An underground graveyard,” Setsura said, making note of vases inlaid with gold and silver tucked into holes in the arch.

“Yes.”

“And the contents of those vases would be—?”

“Yes. Hearts.”

“Whose?”

“I do not know. I suppose they belong to Grandma and me. Can you see well enough?”

“More or less.”

“And where it’s pitch black?”

“Less. The candle helps.”

“My hands have been empty for some time now.”

The girl was suddenly right in front of him. She pushed on a steel door. A beam of dim light cast a blue glow across Setsura’s face. The light burning inside the room wasn’t likely an ordinary incandescent bulb.

“You use this room often?”

“What makes you think that?”

“The hinges didn’t creak.”

“I treat people now and then. People with the same illness as you. Not all of the residents of the Toyama housing project are blessed with sufficient self-control. Even there, none of the victims had become a vampire irreparably. They are all recuperating in their homes.”

“You have that effective a cure?”

The girl didn’t answer. She pointed at the bed that stretched toward the back of the rather large room. “Wait there while I prepare for the examination and treatment. Based on your ability to see what should not be visible, your transformation has already progressed to a significant degree. Still, the wound seems fairly shallow.”

“Her sire is a four-thousand-year-old vampire.”

“That being the case—” Her tone of voice suggested she didn’t disagree with the relevancy of the observation. She walked to the wall on her right where an array of strange metal instruments was hanging.

Setsura sat down on the bed. It was hard as stone but had the necessary amount of give. The blankets were folded up at his feet.

Kii—kii—squealed the wheels of a cart the girl pushed up to the bed. An odd device sat on the cart. “Lie down,” she said. Setsura complied. “Turn your head. I will examine the wounds.”

A mechanism consisting of a cylinder and squarish object. Clear plastic tubes coiled around it like snakes. Here and there knobs and valves poked out at odd angles. It looked like an antique contraption from a long-gone, steam-powered era.

“Why didn’t you check yourself into Mephisto Hospital?” she asked, picking up a tube capped at one end with a needle-like, tapered metal ring.

“Let’s just say something doesn’t feel right.”

“Such as?”

“Such as that hospital director having an odd air about him, like he’s being torn by internal struggles.”

“You don’t say—”

Setsura felt the metal ring pressing against the wounds in his neck. “The son-of-a-bitch visited the vampire’s lair. Stuff must have happened there.”

He was the only person on the face of the earth who referred to the Demon Physician as a “son-of-a-bitch,” though that didn’t make his soul any more transparent.

“Was his blood taken?” The frightening possibilities of the question did not at all match the look on the doll’s face.

“I don’t get how doctors think at all. That quack in particular.”

“You do have a point.” She withdrew the “needle” from the pair of wounds.

“How is it?” Setsura asked, rubbing his neck.

“How is your appetite?” The tube she was holding had turned black. Setsura’s blood.

“I don’t have one right now.”

“Did you eat last night.”

“Yeah.”

“Trouble sleeping?”

“No.”

“Dry throat?”

“A little.”

“Anything you want to drink? Be honest.”

“Nope.”

“What’s your reaction when exposed to sunlight?”

“I get cold.”

“How cold?”

“Goose pimples.”

“You should have come here earlier.”

“Is it too late?” Setsura asked impatiently.

“No. There should still be time.”

“So you can treat me?”

“No.”

In response to this matter-of-fact statement, Setsura stared off into space.

“Please don’t give up hope. At the end of the day, there is no cure for somebody whose blood has been taken by a vampire. If they want to return to their human state, they must destroy the vampire that drank their blood. However, if the vampire loses interest after that, the victim can continue to maintain her humanity and go on living in…in proportion to the number of times her blood was taken.”

“So a person takes on more of a vampire’s characteristics if his blood is drunk twice rather than once, three times rather than twice—”

“Yes. That’s the gist of it. Though simply judging the degree of transformation according to the frequency and volume, it is possible to wrongly conclude that transfusions and the administration of antitoxins could bring about recovery. This bit of blind faith sprang up in Europe during the Middle Ages and still carries considerable weight. It is a fundamental error. In purely substantive terms, vampirism itself cannot be cured. A victim becoming a creature of the night all depends on the degree of the curse they bear.”

Setsura forgot about the severity of his own physical condition and focused his attention on the lecturing doll. The countenance of the striking young woman took on the grave demeanor of a professor.

Setsura said, “But according to Mephisto, some time ago, vampires came to Shinjuku that were not members of the Toyama clans. Fortunately, they were stopped before the victim transformed into a vampire. All the blood in her body was drained and transfused, and she now leads a normal life.”

“As close to normal as can be expected. I am also aware of that incident. The victim was the wife of a Naitomachi teahouse owner. Even now, she eats half of what she used to. She gets chills during the day and cannot bear the sunlight for more than thirty minutes. Even when she is in the store, she stays at the far back with the lights turned off. Her friends and acquaintances have dwindled over the years.”

“And why would that be?”

“Whenever customers with healthy complexions showed up, those frightening eyes would peer at them from the gloom.”

“No surprise then.”

“The vampire who bit her ran off and was never heard from again. He probably didn’t take a liking to her blood. Until that vampire is destroyed, she will remain as she is. She will likely live another thirty or so years longer than the normal person. Though if she drank blood, she could extend her lifespan far longer. As long as somebody else didn’t stake her.”

“Have her symptoms worsened since then?”

“As far as I know, they have. Until she passes, there are bound to be people spreading rumors about. We all know Grandma is a good person, but I’d swear neighborhood kids are showing up with scars on their necks. But those rumors have only emerged after a half-dozen decades or so.”

“What becomes of children who are bitten?” Setsura couldn’t help imagining an old lady basking on a balcony in the sun, rivulets of fresh blood spilling from her mouth.

“We are not talking about symptoms so obvious. She would become more susceptible to sunstroke. She would remain always a pseudo-vampire. And when she died, her body would return to its normal state.”

“Does that mean that after seven or eight years, I’ll be lusting after the blood of young women?”

She touched her fingers to her attractive lips. “Just between you and me, but they’d be lined up around the block.”

“I suppose that’s something to look forward to. However—”

The girl nodded. She pulled on one of the knobs and pushed down on a bulky lever. The top half of the cylinder began to spin. The cover popped open. She peered inside it.

Setsura heard a strange voice. The girl thrust her hand into the cylinder and withdrew it. She was holding a toad. A big one. Its legs splayed out from the palm of her hand, it struggled desperately to pull them back in, while flashing Setsura a contemptuous look.

“Hi there,” Setsura smiled with tired eyes.

“Guu—” croaked the toad.

“Perhaps you already know, but this knowledge can only be found today in legends passed down by the Ottoman sultans. The toad is said to be the most effective creature for revealing a vampire’s true nature. Do you think that an outrageous idea?”

Setsura didn’t have an opinion.

Vampire legends typically concerned their supernatural powers and terrifying aspects, as well as their weaknesses and ways of detecting them. For example, that when a casket was opened the skin of a vampire would be as vivacious as when it was truly alive. That caskets were buried filled with blood. That vampires feared running water. That they abhorred crucifixes.

These latter two were widely considered revealing vulnerabilities.

In Hungary, a vampire couldn’t walk down a road lined with briars. In Bulgaria, the milk of a cow milked by a vampire turned red. It was something of a historical irony that among the countless legends arising in the countries of Eastern Europe conquered by the Ottomans, the one describing the toad as the most effective means of detection should find a place in the sultan’s palaces.

Newly spawned toads were fed insects raised on sugar and copious amounts of pure water. After thirty days, the amphibious tissues grew particularly sensitive to the presence of vampires. Right now, the toad inside the cylinder’s terrarium-like environment was quite different from the ordinary representative of the species.

“Look.”

The girl deposited the lumpy toad beneath a glass cone. Inside the cone were three colors of dots. Three different kinds of red, blue and white mosquitoes. The bugs sensed that something was wrong and flitted around inside the cone. The gray lump stared at them coldly, and then suddenly opened its mouth.

The pink tongue shot out and plucked an insect out of the air and drew back inside its mouth. All in a split second. The toad’s eyelids closed. And sat there still as a rock.

“We have the results.” Her voice was a tad livelier than usual.

“What?”

“It ate the red mosquito. Each of them is engineered to give off the smell of blood, increasing in strength from red to blue and white. The toad chose the mosquito that carried your blood—the one with the weakest odor. That means the transformation is proceeding at a slow rate.”

“Meaning you don’t have to worry about me pouncing on you.”

“That is a meaningless observation as far as I am concerned.”

“Sorry.”

“No reason to be.” She closed her eyes and soon opened them again. The gesture suggested processing the statement and then purging the thought.

“How should we proceed?”

“You have nothing to worry about. As long as you are not compelled to drink blood, the status quo should continue for thirty years or so.”

“Will I acquire the knowledge of the vampires?”

“Unfortunately, no. I should count myself lucky and abandon the idea.”

“Understood.” Setsura nodded his appreciation, and got to his feet. “Give my thanks to Miss Nuvenberg and the toad.”

“Um—” the girl said. “Could I have a kiss as thanks?”

“As thanks?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry. It slipped my mind.” Setsura leaned over and kissed the girl on her right cheek. The “skin” was hard and cool. Climbing the stairs, Setsura looked for the raven but couldn’t see it anywhere.

“Too bad. Tell her next time I’ll stick around for tea.”

After Setsura left, a voice called down to the girl, who was still standing there as if frozen in place. “So, made your day, huh?” The black wings came to a halt on the ceiling lamp.

Without answering, the girl raised her right hand. With a creak, a skylight opened that hadn’t been there before. “Go,” she said.

“You’re quite the slave driver,” the raven grumbled as it flew out the window.

The flapping of wings faded into the distance. The girl closed the skylight. She touched her right cheek. Her face softened into a smile, and then soon hardened again. She tried several more times, but gave up.

“I wasn’t made to smile,” she said to herself, as if recognizing the fact for the first time.

She raised her left hand to her cheek and slowly massaged the surface, as if to return some human warmth and tenderness to the artificial flesh.