Blood Ninja (6 page)

“Why don’t they swim?” Taro asked.

“They can’t,” said the ninja. “They come from the mountains in the north country. Not much cause to learn.”

“So what do we do?” said Hiro. “Wait here for them to leave?”

The ninja was about to reply, but then his gaze flew back to the huddle of desperate-looking men as something fluttered up into the air. Taro turned to look, narrowing his eyes, trying to make it out.

Then it split into two, resolving into two birds that forked, flapping their wings, into the sky.

Messenger pigeons.

The ninja cursed. He looked at Taro’s bow. “Can you hit them?”

Taro felt the wetness of the string, saw the almost indistinguishable flickering of the birds against the dark sky, already dwindling to small pale points like dim stars. “What do you think?”

“Right,” said the ninja. “We need to move, before those pigeons bring reinforcements. Where’s the nearest village?”

“Minata. Two or three
ri
to the north.” Something tugged at the back of his mind, and it wasn’t until much later that he remembered what the
ronin
had said—about the peasant who had been killed in Minata by a
kyuuketsuki
.

The ninja leaned back in the boat, looking at the sky, and for a moment he all but melted into the darkness as his eyes disappeared from view. He wore loose black
hakama
trousers, a short black robe, and black silk coverings over his face. Soaked with water, these garments had gone an even deeper black, merging into the night.

“The north star,” he said, pointing. “Row that way. Along the coast.”

Hiro smiled as he picked up the oars. “Yes. We could have told you that.”

Far above them one of the pigeons winged its way toward a distant castle, there to communicate news of the wretched boy’s escape.

The other flew north.

Walking, they could have covered the distance in an hour or two at most, but north of Shirahama the waves were high and the wind stiff, and they made slow progress over the sea.

Taro had been impressed, when he’d pulled out the
shuriken
lodged in his arm, to see his flesh heal over quickly. It was a little sore, but there was soon little sign of the wound—just a raised pink line, little more than a welt.

No boat had followed, and slowly the ninja, who had remained tensed for action, began to relax. To the east they could make out the gray silhouettes of mountains, the darker rocks of the shore. The bright moon ahead of them lit a silvery path on the water, as if showing the way to a more marvelous world.

The ninja still wore his mask. When Taro had suggested he take it off, he had refused curtly.

But now that they seemed safely away from their pursuers, Hiro stilled the oars, an expression of grim determination on his face. “I think you should tell us what’s happening,” he said to the
ninja. “What did you do to Taro, back there? What did those men want?”

The ninja took a deep breath. “I can’t explain everything.”

“Try your best.”

Taro held his hands up to his friend in a placating gesture. “He’s with us, Hiro.”

“How do you know?”

“He saved my life. He saved my mother’s life.”

Hiro caught the unspoken implication. “Your father …”

“Is dead. This man”—Taro nodded to the ninja—”killed the one who did it.”

“Gods, Taro,” said Hiro. “I’m so sorry.”

“So am I.” Abruptly Taro’s eyes stung. His father was dead. He’d been ill, of course—and Taro had known that soon he would die. But now he had been killed by cowards and Taro would never have the chance to speak to him again before he departed for another realm of samsara, would never be able to tell him he loved him. Tears welled up as he remembered his father before the illness—his strength, his courage, his humor. He remembered the man who had told him stories as he faded into sleep, of samurai warriors and their Bushido ideals of honor, valor, and loyalty.

And then there was his mother—his kind, beautiful, brave mother. The ninja had faked her death and told her to run away. Would Taro ever see her again?

Hiro looked away, embarrassed, as Taro cried. He narrowed his eyes at the ninja. “Why did they kill Taro’s father?”

“They wanted Taro dead. I was sent to stop them.”

“Who sent you?”

The ninja looked down. “I don’t know,” he said.

“You don’t know?”

“I’m a ninja. The people who seek to hire ninjas don’t often want their names involved.”

“So you just … do whatever you’re paid to do?” said Taro. He was horrified. That would mean … Well, it would mean killing
for profit, not for honor. He felt his admiration for the person who had risked his life to save him warring with his disgust that it had been only an assignment.

This was not such a good ninja after all.

“Yes. All I know in this case is that I was sent to infiltrate a group of ninjas, and stop them from killing a boy from the village of Shirahama. You, Taro. I don’t believe
they
even knew why you were to be eliminated.”

Taro wasn’t quite listening anymore—he was focusing on something the ninja had said. “I never told you my name,” he said.

“Ninjas always know their targets’ names,” said the ninja. “Even if they don’t know why the target was chosen. It helps to not kill the wrong person.”

“Oh,” said Taro. “Well, you know my name, so perhaps we should know yours.”

The ninja bowed, slightly. “Shusaku. At your service.”

Hiro leaned forward. “You’re telling us that all those ninjas were there to kill little Taro?”

“Yes.”

“And yet there was only one of you. How could you have thought you would succeed in saving him?”

“Because I’m the best,” said the ninja. He spoke without boastfulness—as if merely stating a fact. “And anyway, I did succeed. Taro is still alive, is he not?” He paused, and his eyes closed for a moment, as he sighed with what seemed like the admission of an error. “At least, in a manner of speaking.”

Hiro grabbed him now. “What do you mean, a manner of speaking?”

Again Taro moved to calm his friend down. “I think I know. He means that I am a
kyuuketsuki
now.” He looked at Shusaku. “That’s true, isn’t it?”

Hiro’s eyes went wide, and Taro realized that he must not have understood the bite, the exchange of blood—perhaps he hadn’t really seen the sword that had run Taro through either.

Shusaku sighed. “You might say that.”

“And you … and all the other ninjas …”

“Also vampires, yes.”

Hiro’s mouth was open now.
“Vampires?”

The ninja put a hand on Taro’s arm. “Show your friend your wound.”

Taro held out his forearm, showing the pink scar where the
shuriken
had pierced the skin and muscle. Then he held up the throwing star he had taken from it. The points were still wet with his blood.

“Those ninjas were trying to kill him,” said Shusaku. “By turning him, I made their job harder. I wish …” He took a long breath. “I wish I had not had to do that. But there were too many of them.”

“But …,” said Hiro. “
Kyuuketsuki
aren’t real.” He was staring at the miraculously healed flesh, though, and Taro could tell that he was having trouble reconciling his deep-held beliefs with the evidence before his eyes.

Shusaku’s eyes sparkled, and Taro thought he might be smiling. “Had you ever seen a ninja before tonight? And yet you can’t deny that they are real.”

Hiro shook his head in disbelief. “But … ninjas are different from
kyuuketsuki
. … I mean, ninjas are men, and vampires are—”

“Actually,” said Shusaku, “they’re not different. All ninjas are vampires.”

“All of them?”
said Taro, incredulous.

“Of course. Vampires are faster than ordinary men, stronger and more agile. And have you ever heard of a ninja doing his work by day? Never. They operate only by night—silent, stealthy, deadly. It makes perfect sense that ninjas should be vampires.”

Hiro looked bewildered. “And now … Taro is …”

“One of us, yes.”

“What does that mean?” said Taro. “I mean, I know that I can heal quickly, but … vampires suck blood, don’t they?” He felt sick at the thought of it.

“Yes. We do. But not all of us are killers.”

“Not all of you?”

“Our friends on the beach have a somewhat different code from the one I live by. They belong to what you might call a different clan. When they feed, they kill their victims.” Taro thought of the villager who had been drained of his blood, the one the
ronin
had mentioned. “Me, I take only enough blood to survive. I will teach Taro to do the same. I believe that killing my food is inexcusable. You might say that I am a better Buddhist than most villagers. They don’t hesitate to kill fish. Me, I kill nothing!” He laughed.

“You kill ninjas,” said Taro, not sharing the man’s amusement.

“Well, yes,” said Shusaku, almost like a scolded child. “That’s different. I was doing it to save you.”

“If they’re not your clan, then why were you with them?” asked Hiro.

“One of their number recently died of a terrible accident. Their leader had signed a document requesting that I join the team instead.”

“Why would he do that?” asked Taro.

“I think he hoped I might show him mercy if he did.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

There was silence for a moment. Taro’s father had been killed, his mother was gone who knew where, and he had been turned into a monster from a story. Now he sat in a boat with a ruthless killer who had thought nothing of gutting a man from behind with his short-sword. Could a
kyuuketsuki
ever become a samurai—ever become a hero? He thought it unlikely.

But, least likely of all, he found that he quite
liked
Shusaku. The man seemed neither good nor bad—and Taro was beginning to wonder whether the black and white world of the samurai stories he had loved was only that—stories, told to children, to convince them that there were such things as heroes and monsters in the world.

Perhaps, he thought, the two were sometimes combined in the same creature.

And anyway, the man that Shusaku had so dishonorably killed in Taro’s hut had only moments before cut off the head of Taro’s sick, defenseless father—so the manner of his death seemed appropriate. It struck Taro that this world of violence and action was far from the glamorous arena of duels, honor, and romance that he had imagined.

He licked his lips, feeling the sharpness of his canine teeth. It was only when he saw Hiro looking at him with a distinctly nervous expression that he realized how different he must look. Hiro backed away a little. “Will he … bite me?” he asked Shusaku.

“I doubt it. You two are friends, are you not? I’m sure he can resist the lure of your blood. You eat fish, but that doesn’t mean you are compelled to eat every fish you encounter.”

Hiro had gone pale.

“But, if you wish, you can leave us when we go in to land. My task is to keep Taro safe.
You
are free to leave.”

Hiro shook his head. “Never.”

“You’re very loyal to your friend,” said Shusaku. Taro thought he sounded impressed.

“He saved my life once.”

Shusaku nodded gravely. “Such things breed loyalty, it’s true. Very well, you will come with us.”

“And where are we going?” asked Taro. “We should search for my mother. I’m sure she—”

“Of course,” said the ninja, interrupting him. “But first things first. We must get you to safety.”

“And then we find my mother?” said Taro.

“Yes.”

Shusaku turned to look out to sea. A dim glow was beginning to accentuate the line of the horizon, the first light of dawn dividing sea from sky, where before the darkness had blurred them into one. “In the meantime, we need to row.”

“Why?”

“There’s something else you need to know about vampires. The sunlight kills us.”

In the bright, early morning light, Lady Oda no Hana patted her horse’s neck and leaned back in the saddle. She held her left arm very still so as not to startle Kame, the beautiful chicken hawk that stood on a leather bracelet encircling her wrist. The hawk was still hooded—she cocked her head, listening to the sounds of the woods. A small stream babbled nearby; from the distance came the call of a cuckoo
.

Hana stroked Kame’s head with a hand that bore the scars of taming. The hawk made a little throaty noise and pushed against Hana’s hand, strutting a little on her leather perch
.

She was eager to be free—and Hana knew how she felt
.