This Man and Woman (2 page)

“Ah. You wish to challenge Jean-Pierre? Master swordsman? To a duel, perhaps?”

“Give me the sword.”

The words came through gritted teeth, causing him to chuckle before he answered. She didn’t like it, either.

“Make me.”

Samurai swords were fashioned with an outer wrap of high-carbon steel for holding the sharpest edge possible, about a low-carbon center for flexibility. The quenching of a sword caused the distinctive curve, making it a fluid motion to pull a sword and cut a man’s head off with the same move. Jean-Pierre demonstrated his skill at it with a deflection of her thrust, putting the ring of steel-on-steel into the room.

“
En garde!
”

The blows came fast and furious at first, slashing her blade into his time, and time again, while he defended, biding his time and dancing about. Each blow made a cacophony of sound in the room that throbbed right along with her heartbeat. With one portion of his attention, he listened for the sound of approaching sirens, wondering why the mystery voice on Mason’s phone hadn’t called anyone. With the rest, he listened and absorbed her body’s responses. He was beginning to wonder about her. More and more. With each parry and thrust he deflected, the feeling became more entrenched.

She could be his mate. It wasn’t as impossible as it was astounding. He’d about given up hope of ever finding one, and here it might be gifted to him. If the odd sensation trembling about the edge of his consciousness was accurate, this woman could be
The One
. From the looks of it, he was a lucky man. She was fit. Toned. Lithe. Graceful. Extremely adept. Well-trained and disciplined.

And she was losing. The blows from her sword hadn’t the same power, and they were a hairsbreadth slower in coming. He had an advantage and was on the point of pursuing it when she spoke again.

“Why don’t you just die?”

Another thrust of her blade. Another ring as he slapped it aside with his.

“Ah,
Cherie.
Many have asked that same question.”

She sent two quick thrusts, lacking power. He met them and added three rapid-fire slashes of his own, backing her up slightly. And then he stopped and cocked his head at the vaguest hint of sirens. Mason’s contact had come through and called 911. They had about fifteen blocks of time before the authorities arrived.

“Well?”

She sent her sword at him again, slashing the material of his sleeve open. Jean-Pierre shook his head at the damage. “I may have been inattentive. What is the question again?”

“Why don’t you die?”

“You must forgive me, fair maid. I must leave you.”

“Not with the sword.”

“It’s been a pleasure I cannot describe, although I shall spend what is left of this night in the vain attempt. But for now, I must bid you
Adieu
.”

“I can’t go back without the sword.”

“Then, don’t go back. Come with me.”

He’d surprised her, if the way her blade trembled was an indication. He’d also tired her, if the slant of it toward the floor was correct. He was still impressed. Nobody else had lasted this long against him.

“No.”

“Then, you fail. Farewell.”

He moved through the double doors and atop the balcony with a blur of speed no mortal could match. He knew she noticed, by the catch in breath before she reacted. Perhaps it was even a gasp. He hoped it was a gasp.

“Dream of me,
Mon Cherie
.”

“Wait!”

“You wish a rematch?”

Jean-Pierre stopped in mid-air, hovering just outside her reach. He knew she gasped this time, but she didn’t look to his feet to see why. She had her own method of levitation as evidenced by her wall cling. She could just try and figure out his.

“When?”

“Tomorrow. Midnight.”

“Where?”

“You pick.”

“Central Park Lake.”

“Which shore?”

“Does it matter? I’ll find you.”

“Enough flirtation. I truly must go. It will be sunrise soon. We have a date, then. Don’t bring too many with you.”

Her little, black-wrapped chin lifted, as though he’d insulted her. The wail of sirens was filling the street far beneath them, moving up to enwrap them in a cocoon of sound. He added that to the sonnet he was composing in his head. He watched her glance down toward the noise and then back to him.

“I don’t want the body count to be too high.”

And with that, he left her.

CHAPTER TWO

Failure had an emotion attached to it, coloring everything with a gray wash. Takaiya had long moments to contemplate it as the subway filled and emptied of commuters going about their morning pursuits, ignoring where she sat in her lone corner as much as she ignored them. Nothing about the multi-hued advertisements or the mesh of colors worn by the humanity about her altered the gray state. It felt like she’d stepped into a graphic novel and couldn’t find her way back out. Everything had lost its flavor, texture, and color. She hadn’t known failure felt like this. Because she’d never failed.

Until now.

She exited the subway after the fourth circuit, slowly climbed to street level, blinked her eyes to bright sunlight that managed to find its way through all the skyscrapers, and still couldn’t experience much. Concentrating got her little more than a hum of sound where blaring horns and sounds of the humanity bustling about her should be interfering. She stepped around a crowd about a hotdog cart. Lunch? They were already going about their lunch hour? She’d spent the entire morning on the subway?

Lethargy dogged her next, making it a chore to take the steps to her flat, all five floors of them. She never used the ancient box they called an elevator. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust it, it just took too long. Her two-room apartment was just as non-welcoming as always. And just as sparse. She dumped her bag on a table situated against the wall, and headed for her mat. A bit of meditation was in order, and for that she’d need complete clarity of mind.

Complete and total clarity. Takaiya altered her breathing, modulated her heart rate, untensed and flexed every muscle. Concentrated…

Again.

Takaiya stood, glared at the blank wall before her, and settled back onto her mat to begin anew. She needed complete clarity of mind to handle the emotion attached to her failure, and at the thought the gray wash and feeling of disassociation cracked.

A flare of emotion sparked deep within her, taking her from her meditative stance into an aggressive and angered one. She’d failed. That was unacceptable for the most meticulous translator of the Japanese embassy in New York. For a member of the Hisushu Clan, it was impossible. She’d been trained for nearly twenty years in the Japanese art of weaponry and killing known as
Budo
. Nothing interfered with her concentration, or her expertise. Not human frailty like emotion, not physical ills such as fatigue and injury, not even the environment. Nothing came between a Hisushu Clan member and their objective.

Nothing except a jackanapes dressed in a velvet coat, ruffled shirt, thigh-high boots, and skin-tight pants.

She’d rarely seen such a spectacle, and he’d complained about the damage to his outfit? She’d done him a favor. Coats that were nipped in at the waist like his deserved to get shredded. And the sleeves? What fool designed a coat with sleeves that ended at the elbow, allowing a huge mass of shirt to billow out? As for his profusion of ruffles? Not only had his cuffs been nearly obliterated by them, but ruffles as large as those gracing his shirt placket belonged on a society matron at a benefit ball, not on a man who’d give her the first failure she could remember.

And such a man.

Takaiya’s mouth parted slightly at the memory. He might be dressed in the epitome of bad taste, but he had strength to every line of him. Those pants of his hadn’t hidden muscle, nor had the coat done anything to disguise the width of his shoulders. And she’d personally watched him collapse a man’s chest with the pressure of one hand. Such power. Such presence. Such ability. Such masculine perfection…

What was she thinking?

Takaiya groaned the disgust and kicked at her mat, both signs of a cluttered mind and off-balance soul. She needed to work out this anger and frustration, and she had little left save her long stick known as a
Shinobi-zhu
. She’d lost all her weapons to that effeminate-looking buffoon. She’d have to fetch more before tonight. Takaiya did a cartwheel to fetch her stick, disguised among the broom and mops and started working with it. She moved to a rhythm only she heard, soundlessly utilizing the span of floor, until it worked at clearing the confusion of her mind. Oh yes. That was it.

She stopped and regarded the blank wall, awash now with a haze of red, pumped to her eyes by her heart and her anger. She was Takaiya; warrior of the Hisushu Clan. That man was going to give up the ceremonial sword to her tonight, and then he was going to die. And she was going to enjoy every moment of it.

o0o

A splash of cologne, and he was ready.

Comte Jean-Pierre de Margolis hoped she appreciated the trouble he’d gone to. He moved and posed in various angles, watching the folds of his new coat glide and drape as he did so. Drat this afterlife sometimes! There wasn’t any way to check his appearance, so he had to trust the word of his
valet de chambre
. He wanted everything to be perfect. He’d even had his eyebrows plucked and waxed, despite how it had pained, and the fact they’d probably grow back before morning. He didn’t care, a perfectly groomed and coiffed man was a mark of good breeding. And Jean-Pierre had worked long and hard at achieving that.

Anyone with knowledge of the
noblesse d’epee
would know the Margolis line was false. There wasn’t a title behind the Comte de Margolis, no lands and estates, no wealth…nothing that existed prior to the French Revolution. One thing about that little episode of history - a man could invent whatever background he wished. He didn’t have to stay ‘stable-yard scum’ unless he wished it. It fit nicely into Jean-Pierre’s one wish, one goal, and one purpose: Revenge.

That’s what came of being knifed in the back on a dark Paris street; set upon by thugs sent by his one-time employer, the Comte d’Antilli; all because he’d had the bad luck of catching the Comtesse’s eye. Jean-Pierre hadn’t even got to perform the act before paying for it! Luckily, he’d still clung to life when approached by Akron, promising an eternity of life and all the revenge he wished.

That was what had decided him. It had been perfection, itself. The Comte d’Antilli had paid for his crime, over an entire evening spent draining the man’s blood and weakening his heart, while his wife cavorted with some lover. Never could it be Margolis.
Non
. Akron hadn’t told him that side of this coin: that he’d be bereft of physical love should he accept this afterlife. No…that part he had to discover for himself. He got to linger upon the centuries of time - chaste and unmoved - unless and until he found the one creature destined as his mate. It might take centuries. It might never happen.

And they called Jean-Pierre Margolis melancholy.

Random thoughts went through his mind as he’d prepared, putting on his French court attire with the same satisfaction as always. It was his pleasure to caricature them, each and every time he went on assignment. It was his look. His brand. He tried for the ridiculous, because that’s what that bastard d‘Antilli had been.

But he was wasting time, when he could be with her: the woman who was potentially his mate. He felt like a child again on Christmas Eve. Better yet! He felt like a young man again, readying for his first assignation with a woman.

She wasn’t there when he arrived, floating above the area, testing for her essence. The waters of Central Park Lake lapped at the shoreline, the rustle of leaves lifted with his passing, the glimmer of moonlight created shadows and havens for lovers. It was the perfect location for a rendezvous…or a duel. That reminded him. He’d brought his dueling rapiers. He wore the Samurai sword strapped to his left side, tucked out of sight, but carrying anything else ruined the drape of his coat. He spent some time finding the best place for the long wooden sword case. After several attempts, he decided it made a grand leaning post. And then he worked at finding the perfect pose, ending up propped by the case, one leg crossed in front of the other, showing off his calves to advantage.

Where was she?

His impatience grew as midnight approached. He studied his manicured nails for a bit, and then checked the diamond cufflinks on first one sleeve and then the other. He wasn’t used to wearing quite this much finery. The wig beneath his hat tickled. The close fit of his clothing irritated. Even the powder on his hair had him holding back sneezes. He must also have forgotten how much this particular false mustache itched.

The elements shifted the instant she arrived. The earth beneath him throbbed with a pulse that got larger and harder and deeper as she neared, using the shadows for cover. Had he been human, he’d have missed her approach. She was that good. Perfect. She moved like a wraith of time; breathing with a softness that matched the night, disguising every motion with the slightest huff of wind. And that’s when he was certain. She
was
his mate. Jean-Pierre’s entire frame trembled with the scope of this gift. He felt like tossing his head back and crying the emotion to the sky. After all the centuries of longing and loneliness and yearning—

His posing was for naught. The case fell as he swiveled to face the first projectile she threw at him - another razor-edged star. And then she tossed three at once, and then three more. Then he got a small blade. He caught them all, easily and cleanly, situating them in his pockets as he did so, first the right side, then the left.

By the fifth item, he was chuckling.

By the ninth, he erupted with laughter.

She didn’t like it. Her displeasure was in the cry she gave before launching a sickle-ended thing at him. It was his pleasure to take that from her as well, and then he got to catch three little darts, sent lightning quick; each destined for his chest. Or perhaps his throat. They ended up in the left breast pocket of his jacket. All of this weaponry was ruining the drape of his elegant ensemble. He wondered if he’d show to better advantage without the coat. The ladies were forever impressed by his physique. At least…they’d always told him as much. He was still deciding the merits of disrobing when she stopped, lowered her head, and glared at him through the little eye slits of her mask. Apparently, he’d angered her. He could tell by the sounds attached to every one of her heavy breaths.