Eternal Samurai (10 page)

Ruthlessly, Arisada locked his love into a tiny prison deep within his heart.
Meiyo
first, honor first. He was here to kill this young hunter. However, for a short time, the vampire would savor the sight of this incomparable swordsman the same way he savored the perfection of an
ikebana
flower arrangement. Or the perfection of
seppuku
.

The challenge was too compelling. Arisada would bed this boy without using his vampiric thrall. Fellate and fuck him. Take him to heights of ecstasy no human had ever experienced. Then kill him.

But as Arisada watched Tatsu become one with the Way of the Samurai, doubts ate like acid through the vampire’s resolve. Arisada had never considered the eroding weight of
fukushū
on his soul. Or how time affected his morality. Eight-hundred years. Too long. Far too long. The vow of vengeance had spilled with full force from his lips, its intent driven by all that made Arisada Sōhei—honor, tradition, discipline and his implacable devotion to Mii-dera. But the centuries had eroded the meaning of that vow. Rendered it worthless in the light of the one truth Arisada thought would be forever denied him—love manifested in the body of this one exquisite boy.

With a searing flash of insight, love tore its way through the vampire’s heart. Love negated all need for
fukushū
. Yet revenge, his purpose for enduring the desolation of centuries, did not depart lightly. It refused to surrender to Arisada’s rejection, and fought with all the ferocity of the wildest mountain cat.

With a force that was almost physical, Arisada repudiated his oath for
fukushū.
Vengeance for the events of a too-distant past could never justify the taking the life of this innocent boy. The vampire accepted the dishonor staining his soul. Accepted that his brethren would never be avenged. In a rush of emotion that almost brought him to his knees, Arisada knew his honor was lost.

Wakatta,
better to exist with shame than destroy this lovely, vibrant human. Awash in an inexplicable mix of joy, sadness and relief, the vampire shifted his weight to leave. But his longing to touch this youth again, if only for a moment, stilled his step.

Just as Tatsu raised the
iaito
over his head in the
jodan
position, Tatsu sensed the presence of another. The air whistled as he began the descending cut. Instead of his weight landing on his forward leg, his body pivoted so he faced the entrance as he finished.

A silhouetted form moved against the darker square of the doorway. A man, maybe an inch shorter than Tatsu’s five-foot ten, took a single step over the threshold and bowed. A full-faced
menpo
hid his face. In his right hand, the stranger held a sheathed
katana
pointed forward and down in the samurai gesture of neutrality.

Tatsu believed he knew all of the dojo’s dozen or so
shinkendo-ka.
Hell, over the past week he’d defeated every one of them. Still, the stranger’s commanding stance—weight always balanced on his forward foot, body held loose, with a deceptive stillness—could only be that of an expert swordsman. Perhaps even a sword Master.

Then a shiver of recognition flashed through Tatsu. This was the stranger from the alley behind the Whore. For an absurd second Tatsu didn’t know whether to thank him for saving his life or ask why the fuck he kissed him. He did neither, covering his confusion with an abrupt
ritsurei
, a standing bow. “What are you doing here?”

“
Sumimasen
, I do not mean to intrude. The owner, Morinaga-sensei, lets me practice here from time to time when I’m in town,” the man replied in oddly inflected Japanese. “You are excellent. I have not seen swordsmanship like yours in a very long time. Would you honor me by opposing me in
tachiuchi
?”

Tatsu heard a smile in that voice. That smile held too much of a challenge. “
Hai, dozo,
” he assented. “Besides, it looks like you are already prepared for one,” indicating the man’s mask with a flick of his weapon.

“
Watashi wa koiedesu
.”

“I, too, am honored.” Tatsu’s pulse raced with an unexpected excitement.

The stranger lifted his
katana
horizontally at face level, bowed beneath it, then in the direction of the
shiaijo.
To Tatsu’s astonishment, the man offered a third bow to Tatsu before placing his weapon on the floor against the wall. Without another word, the man glided over to the rack of blunt steel blades and tested the weight and balance of several before selecting one.

They approached from opposite sides of the mat to the white lines that marked their starting positions. Both performed
kiotsuke,
stepping into position and bowing to each other, their naked swords carried on the left. As one, they each dropped into
sonkyo
, a straight-back crouch. They paused, a flicker of energy sparked between them, an understanding. Then with no outward signal they sprang up and apart raising their swords.

Tatsu opened with
jodan-gamae
, the sword raised above his head while the stranger countered with
hidari seigan gamae
, his sword pointed forward out from his belly. In quick succession, each opposed and defended with authoritative yet classical moves. Their weapons met, slicing in rapid succession upward, downward, side-to-side. Neither gained the advantage. Their slight difference in height gave Tatsu no advantage. As fast as Tatsu struck, the man countered with no effort.

Awe tinged Tatsu at the incredible strength, the speed of his opponent. The man’s strikes were delivered with a precise and a flawless grace.
Chikusho,
this guy was fast. So fast and strong as to be almost inhuman. Tatsu called on every ounce of skill he possessed. He knew he didn’t telegraph his moves, yet it seemed the man always anticipated any strike a fraction before and countered it with ease.

Thrusts at abdomens, cuts at head, neck, arms or legs were effortlessly met by counter cuts from above the head, from the side, upward from a crouch. They each offered the same attack and defense moves, sounding out the other’s strength and styles, searching for any weaknesses. There were none.

Each fighter mirrored the action of the other in split-second synchronicity. At first, they shouted before each strike. Then came that rare state when both fighters turned inward, into
kami-hasso
, and became one with the opponent’s mind and spirit. The dojo fell silent except for their measured breathing and the cry of steel against steel. Each fighter reached out with their senses in the samurai’s spiritual technique of
kami-hasso,
the technique of delving into the mind and the body of the other. Their energies met and melded into one as if both fighters were of the same spirit.

Tatsu admired how his opponent became a part of his environment. The stranger stepped on the mat as if he wished only to inflict the merest weight, like that of a butterfly, on its reed surface. With every flowing movement, the man’s clothing swirled around his body. Tatsu sensed the incredible strength in that compact body hidden beneath those rippling garments. Yet those slender hands wielding the
iaito
with such perfect control looked too pale to be Japanese.

Tatsu’s esteem for his opponent increased by the second.
Bushi damashi,
the warrior spirit of the samurai, burned deep within this fighter. The admiration brought a growing sense of intimate familiarity. Had they trained together as children in Nagasaki? The graceful figure was an enigma, a deadly enigma. Still, the man—every gesture, every precise move, every huff of breath, even his scent—was hauntingly familiar.

The man’s plaited hair licked the air like a flame. That beautiful braid, whipping back and forth with a serpentine virility, caught Tatsu’s gaze. Irrationally, he ached to stroke that silky length. Imagined it moving across his palm, the living thickness of it, the satiny feel, almost like hot skin over a pulsing, rigid cock.

The tiny distraction should have cost him the match. Why hadn’t it? Then Tatsu discerned an almost minute restraint in his opponent’s cuts. That puzzling reticence hurled a challenge more forceful than if the man had called him a coward.

“Fight honestly!” Tatsu cried.

The man answered with a short bark of a laugh from behind the
menpo
. All sign of hesitation vanished. He attacked with renewed ferocity. Within those first new strikes, the man displayed a mastery of the fighting secrets of the Seikanjito Shinden fighting sect whose secrets were never revealed to
bugaisha
on penalty of death. Ancient techniques that had been Shiniichiro Kurosaki’s legacy to his grandson.

A fierce exhilaration rippled through Tatsu. The man fought with the skill of
Ojii-san
, the last acknowledged sword saint and Shinden of Japan. This certainty filled Tatsu with a fierce joy. At last, a worthy opponent, a true warrior who could take Tatsu to that exhilarating edge, that moment of the death cut. Unbidden, a smile played over Tatsu’s lips.

“
Wakatta
,” the other man’s exalted laugh reflected a similar joy. The sound danced along every nerve in Tatsu’s body.

More determined than ever to win, Tatsu called on every iota of knowledge. He increased the speed of his cuts. The man countered with a poetic grace and incredible strength.

Neither gained any small advantage over the other. Both men accepted the power flowing from the other, allowed it to infuse a fierce joy into their fighting. The energy of their fighting coiled around them, shifted, and enraptured them in new meaning.
Suku
, the control and rhythm of their breathing, synchronized. Their moves evolved—touch by touch—into a dance filled with hidden desires.

Every strike and counterstrike delivered a subtle erotic promise. The whispering rustle of clothing promised tantalizing secrets of the body beneath. The teasing susurration of their feet moving toward and away echoed the tentative questioning of two new lovers. The glissade of blade sliding against blade became as a caress over quivering skin. The repeated ring of weapon meeting weapon spoke of the two bodies, the one driving into the other, only to break apart again. Each move flowed into them, through them, infused them with a primal hunger. This was not
shinkendo
. This was a dance, a beautiful, deadly dance, of raw lust. The longing of a man for another man.

Tatsu’s blood sang with arousal. The hairs on his arms lifted, his skin hummed. A shiver from his loins ran up his spine. He lost himself, taken by the wantonness of his need, sensing it was also that of the stranger.

“You feel it too? That need to be taken, to take,” the man whispered in a rich, sensual tenor. That voice sent a sweet thrill down Tatsu’s spine. He felt the man’s lust, that deep hunger. And for the first time ever, Tatsu was aroused … in the middle of a
shinkendo
match … by a stranger wearing a mask. Uncaring of its outcome, Tatsu rode a wanton high, letting the seduction consume him, letting the high course through every muscle, nerve and sinew of his body until it exploded in his brain. And his groin.

By the Gods, his cock was so hard it hurt.

“
Fakku.
Who are you?” Tatsu croaked in a vain bid to curb his almost blinding lust. Immediately, he regretted his question as the magic evaporated. His erection wilted. He lost the discipline of the sword, and his next cut met only air.

The stranger laughed a melodious seductive sound. Then he attacked with a flurry of unusual moves so fast one blurred into the other. Savage moves straight from the battlefield that pressed Tatsu into a floundering defense marred by anger.

“Emotion is foolish, young one,” the warrior laughed.

Young one? Tatsu’s face flamed with embarrassment.
Kuso,
he had just made a child’s mistake. He choked back his self-disgust, forced away his anger. He was damned if he lost to this mocking stranger. Tatsu dropped his weight forward, lowered his weapon diagonally across his bod
y
then slashed the blade upward with all the precision at his command. Before the sword reached its zenith, Tatsu reversed it in a curve toward his opponent.

The man responded with a quiet cry. He shifted his weight, turned his wrist, a slight flexion of a tendon as if to cut across Tatsu’s abdomen. Tatsu changed his balance, and curved the angle of his weapon to deflect the strike. Too late, he realized the man’s deception. With a continuation of the same delicate twist, the stranger flipped the
iaito
from Tatsu’s fingers. The sword spun away almost before his hand felt its absence.

Tatsu froze in disbelief. The last time he lost, he was nine years old. His face colored with humiliation. He dropped to his knees, bowed his head to the mat and slapped it in surrender. As he stood, Tatsu realized they had been fighting in complete darkness.

His opponent bowed low as if Tatsu had won the match. “
Gomen nasai
, that was not a fair move,” the man apologized. He placed the
iaito
back in its rack. Swept off his mask and bowed again.

“
Watashi wa
Saito Arisada.”

Thrown off guard, Tatsu bobbed an automatic bow and replied, “
Watashi wa
Tatsu Cobb.” Then he looked up and froze. Before him stood the beautiful stranger from the alley, the man who’d saved his life. The man whose kiss haunted Tatsu’s dreams.

With unexpected hunger, Tatsu’s gaze swept over that exquisite face up to the beauty’s eyes. Almond-shaped eyes the color of the sun.

Before Tatsu took his next breath, the vampire stood before him, almost touching chest to chest. “Nowaki-kun, I have found you at last.” That throaty purr spread heat through Tatsu like his first heady kiss.

Arisada brushed a hank of wet, tousled hair from Tatsu’s forehead. His fingertips trailed warm and gentle down Tatsu’s cheek, the thumb grazing over shock-parted lips.

The feather-light caress on his mouth sent shivers of inexplicable desire rippling through Tatsu. That touch, so familiar, so welcomed, delivering the memory of a connection that Tatsu felt in every fiber of his body. He leaned into the seductive promise of those fingers. And spiraled into a flaming well of hunger for just that touch.