UPDATE: 6/24/2016
Silver fangs piercing through soft flesh was as easy as a sharp spade dug through soil. With just three gulps, Tsubaki pulled herself away from her victim, cleaning the wound with her tongue so it left no trace but a purple bruise on his neck. She eased the unconscious man unto the ground among the trash and refuse of the city. Somebody would be bound to notice. He would wake up with no memory of his night, and she could only hope that he wasn't married. Her fang marks disappeared, but the bruise wouldn't, not for another week, if that.
She pulled up her hood, wiped the blood from her chin on her long black sleeve, and slinked out of the dark alley without anybody noticing a thing. As she crept out her, her victim groaned in pain. Tsubaki had no fear that he would remember anything. Still, she wanted to get away from the crime scene as soon as possible. It was very much like the aftermath of an evening of awkward drunk sex. It may feel good in the heat of the moment, but when all was said and done, you just wanted to pack up your clothes, get home with minimum damage done to your dignity, and take a long shower to wash away the stains of sweat and regret. Sneaking through the dusk shadows was her version of the infamous 'walk of shame' the Westerners referred to so very often.
"So like I was saying, this moron of a taxi driver is looking out his window like I had grown two heads—Ooof."
Tsubaki's shoulder brushed against the passers-by. The young, arrogant businessman took one look at her and sneered. She wasn't quite dressed for an evening out on the town. Beat up sneakers, tattered black jeans, a roughed up black sweatshirt with the hood to hide her pallid skin, and her slouched posture made her look like a street punk or a homeless woman.
"Do you have something to say?" He snipped at her.
"I'm sorry." Tsubaki turned to walk away. She had no time or patience to deal with belligerent men. The young businessman had other ideas; he had his hand latched around her arm. His partners watched with snickering faces and cell phones in hand.
"I'm afraid I didn't quite catch that. Could you say that again?"
"I said I'm sorry. I'll pay attention to where I'm going next time." She tried to pull away but he tightened his hold her arm. She couldn't fell any kind of pain, but rather a dull pressure as his vice grip would have bruised any normal woman.
"How do I know you're not a pickpocket?"
"How could I be? My hands have been in my pockets the whole time?" Tsubaki motioned to pouch in which her hands were indeed snugly hid.
The young businessman let go her arm only to snatch up the front of her sweatshirt. "I don't like your attitude, you little street rat." He seethed.
"I don't like arrogant men grabbing me in the middle of the street. I apologized, now could you please let me go. I'd like to go home."
"Just let it go already, Tsubasa. She's not worth it." One of the businessman's partners decided to finally say something.
"Just let me get a look at the little pickpocket so I know what to tell the police."
The man named Tsubasa suddenly reached for her hood and pulled it down. He just as quickly let her go.
"Geez, you look like the walking dead." Tsubasa sped back towards his friends.
Tsubaki pulled her hood back over her head.
"Are you alright?" A much gentler, kinder voice asked from behind.
Tsubaki slowly turned. A high school student was looking at her with the strangest pair of green eyes. He wore a magenta school uniform and his very aura screamed 'do-gooder' to her. He looked remarkably clean cut for a teenager.
But it wasn't those traits that caused her to stare. No. It was his hair. A crimson shade that reminded her too much of him. If her heart could still beat, it would be pounding in her chest. Why did this boy have to look like him? She felt her skin crawl, or she thought she felt her skin do that.
"I'm fine. Thank you for asking." Tsubaki cast her eyes down in hopes to avoid further conversations with the young man.
"Can I call you a taxi?"
"Thanks but no thanks I can walk home myself."
Tsubaki plopped down face first into her mattress. One would think that finding prey among the drunken hordes of club goers and late-night party crashers would be easier, but it wasn't. It was difficult to separate them from their groups and you were never without the possibility of getting caught by another drunkard stumbling onto the scene. She also had to be careful of their blood-alcohol levels. She couldn't take too much or else she'd kill them.
Her stomach was churning and the barely visible pulse was making her head throb. Tsubaki felt nauseous. Drinking from too many alcoholics poised another problem. The effects of alcohol were only effective on her if it's in the blood.
"Tsubaki," the bedroom door creaked open. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine, Izanami. I had too much blood that contained alcohol."
"You know you shouldn't do that. You know very well how it affects you."
"Thank you for your concern, but it'll pass. Could you please leave? I need some sleep."
"Of course, sleep well. I'll see you at sunrise then?"
Tsubaki mumbled something but it was so incoherent that the familiar Izanami couldn't make it out. Tsubaki drifted slowly off to sleep, still tasting bitter hops on her lips from beer-infused blood. Licking her lips, she was thirsty again. Alas, her arms and legs were too tired and too wasted to move her to the kitchen and grab a midnight snack of a prepared blood-bag stolen from a hospital only a couple of days ago.
Dim yellow light managed to force its way between the heavy planks of wood used to cover the windows. Tsubaki hissed and retreated to the furthest spot on her bed where the evil sunshine couldn't reach her. It wasn't that the sunlight could kill her. It just that the light burned her eyes with so much alcohol still in her system. It would take hours before it left; part of the curse of vampirism is that whatever you ate or drink, with or without blood, would take twice as long, you know, from being dead and all. Despite this annoying but minor disturbance, Tsubaki felt her eyes close and the last of her near-dead heart beats thrum in her ears, taking her off into a deep slumber.
Le sang est la vie.
Le sang est la vie.
Le sang est la vie.
His voice was ringing clearly, loudly. Her head was throbbing. Tsubaki could see a face hovering just above hers and the shadowy figure of a man standing away from the scene. She could barely see him past the man's shoulder. Hands were pinning her to the cold, frozen ground. Something warm was running down her neck. Her lips felt hot as something wet dribbled down them and down her chin.
Le sang est la vie.
The voice kept chanting. What did it mean?
A burning fire erupted in her throat. Tsubaki raised her hand to her neck but they were pinned above her head.
A pounding startled her awake. Tsubaki sprung up in bed. If she was still alive, her skin would be covered in cold sweat. She threw the covers off and clambered, irritated, towards the front door. She didn't even bother trying to fix herself to look presentable, but she did manage to take a look at the clock in her living room. It was three in the afternoon, much too early to drag a vampire out of bed.
The people at the door were not going to be receiving a warm welcome. Tsubaki thrust open the door, startling the poor people behind it. They stared at her for a moment, then slowly but surely they regained their confidence.
"H-hello," the man wore a dull gray business suit, well-pressed, however it had been out of style for no more than five years. He held a paper pad in his hand a pencil in his breast pocket. "I'm with the Tokyo Authorship paper, I was wondering if I could speak to a Miss," the man flipped through the pad in his hand, "I'm looking for Nanami Kurosawa. Do you live here?"
"Yes."
"Is she home?"
"No."
"Do you know when she'll be back?"
"No."
The man's brows furrowed. "And what is your relation to Miss Kurosawa?"
"I'm her daughter." This surprised him.
"I was under the impression the Miss Kurosawa was not married."
"She is. That is to say, she is not married."
"Then you are adopted?" He was either bad at guessing or just didn't want to imply that a famous female author had a child outside the bounds of holy matrimony, if such a woman by the name of Nanami Kurosawa actually existed. Only Tsubaki knew better.
"Something like that. I don't care if you're a reporter asking for my mother, I'm tired and I don't know when she'll be back. Come back another time." The door was promptly slammed in his face. Tsubaki used her sensitive ears to make sure the man walked off the property before going back to bed.
"How are you feeling today, Mother?"
Shiori took a long whiff of the flowers her son brought her.
"You should stop sending me so many. It's starting to look like a flower shop in here." She made him chuckle along with her, something that hadn't happened since she became sick.
"I'm just trying to make your stay more pleasant. Do you need your pillow fluffed or something from the nurse?" He started to rise out of his chair. Shiori patted his hand and he just as quickly sat down.
"There's no need to fuss. I'm very comfortable. Thank you for asking. I don't know what I would do without you."
"You're not too bored are you?"
"I do perfectly alright, Shuichi. I have plenty of company with my books." She patted the cover on the novel in her lap.
"Is it any good?"
Immediately, Shiori's face brightened. "Nanami Kurosawa creates such wonderful characters. This must be the second time I've read this particular book, but only because I'm curious how she can write such intriguing mysteries."
Kurama took the book from his mother's lap. "The Corpse Danced at Midnight?" He read before handing it back to her. "It sounds a little morbid for your tastes."
"Well, it's a murder mystery novel. It supposed to be morbid. Besides, it's not the title that I was attracted to. Ms. Kurosawa writes such wonderful stories. I was a little apprehensive at first about joining her fan club, what with her books being so scary and morbid, as you call it, and all. However, once you starting reading, you find that you can't put it down. It's almost addicting."
"Who brought it to you?"
"Oh, just a friend from work. I mentioned to him that I enjoyed Kurosawa's books. He was nice enough to bring me a few copies while I'm in the hospital."
A look of worried strain stretched across Kurama's face.
"I could have done that for you."
"Hush," she managed to lean forward and kiss him on the cheek. "I didn't want you to worry too much and you have school. How are your studies, while I'm on the subject?"
"They're doing very well, Mother."
"That's so good to hear." She glanced at the clock in the hall. "Maybe you should leave soon. You must be hungry. You should get something to eat."
Kurama rose, kissing his mother's forehead. "Only because you asked. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Be safe."
He left the hospital room quietly. Putting up a fake facade until he left, once he was outside the clean confines of the hospital, it was only then did he let he guard down. He saw it. He saw the drawn out look on her face. The paleness of her flesh, the frailty in her arms, the strained way she spoke like there was barely a fiber of strength was left in her. The disease was getting to her, and the battle was nearly won.
But not if he had anything to say about it.
A disgruntled businessman in a gray suit was yelling at his phone not far from Kurama. He was distressed, to say the least. Passers-by avoided him. Kurama moved slightly to the left to avoid him, but it was of no use. The businessman was so distracted that he barely noticed what happened. After the man had vanished around a corner, Kurama noticed something white on the ground. He bent over to pick up: a well-worn notebook. He looked but the businessman was already well out of sight and the possibility of finding him now were slim to none. Flipping it open to find some kind of name or address he could return it to, Kurama found that the first few pages contained nothing but quickly-jotted down scribbles. They seemed to be vaguely important as the author ran the pen heavily through the paper. A name stood out above the rest: Nanami Kurosawa. The author. The businessman must have been some kind of reporter or publishing agent. Kurama read further on, and found the elusive author's address.
He remembered how his human mother's face lit up when she spoke about Kurosawa's books. Just imagine the look on her face when the author came to greet her in person.
"I don't care what it takes, you're going to find the weasel who gave out my personal information," Tsubaki shouted at her agent, Minori.
"I'm doing the best I can, ma'am. There's a number of people who have access to that information. It may take a while." Minori replied sheepishly.
Tsubaki's grip on her table tightened, splintering the wood beneath her fingers.
"Minori," she hissed. "I agreed to publish the number of books in my contract if and only if my privacy was never invaded. I agreed, and unless you want a civil law suit against your agency, you're going to find the person who sold my personal information and fire them."
"I'm trying." Minori whined.
"Don't try. Do." Tsubaki angrily pressed the end call button. The phone slammed on the now-broken table. She nearly shattered her cell phone into pieces, but there was a drawer full of them for a quick back up.
The doorbell rang. Tsubaki growled as she stormed towards her front door.
"Whoever it is, my mother's not going to be giving an interview, so you'd better get off our property before I call the police!" She thrust open the door but instead of finding another reporter, a teenage kid was standing on her doorstep. He seemed familiar until it suddenly clicked.
"You." She hissed. Her fangs ached as they slowly ripped through her gums. "How'd you get this address?"
"I ran into a gentleman a little while ago. He dropped his notebook." He presented the item in question to Tsubaki.
She quickly snatched up, flipped it open, and ripped out the sheets of paper that contained her information. The leaflets were crumbled in her tight fist and tossed over her shoulder.
"What can I do you for?" She was impatient, tired, and wanted the boy off her property. If he caused trouble, she always compel him to leave and remove his memory of finding her place.
"I was wondering if you could do me a favor."
"As I told somebody else earlier, my mother is not giving any interviews. I don't care how that reporter came to know where we live, however she enjoy my privacy. Good day." Tsubaki started to close the door on him. His hand shot between the closing gap and stopped her.
"Wait, no. I'm not asking for an interview. I was hoping that you do something else for me." He was persistent. Tsubaki wasn't sure if she liked that.
"What do you want?"
"My mother is sick and she enjoys your mother's books very much. I was wondering if you could get your mother to make one special appearance—"
"How sick is she?"
"She's in the hospital. She's been there for quite some time. It would mean a lot of if your mother could see her. She really enjoys her work."
Tsubaki thought for a moment. She looked deep inside his eyes, trying to find some speck of malice. When she found none, she conceded. She could at least hear him out more. The door was pulled open wider.
"Do you want tea?" Tsubaki headed back inside.
"No, thank you." He was awfully polite for a teenager. He was even gracious enough to close the door behind him.
"I'll just make myself some then." Tsubaki pried open her cabinet door. One cupboard contained nearly every tea known to man. She picked one at random, not caring what it was, and dropped it in somewhat clean mug she plucked from the sick. It had only been sitting there since last night; it was still relatively clean.
A kettle of water was added to the stove, heat turned up. Tsubaki found her guest standing in the middle of the living room despite the fact that her barely used couch and fluffy cushions would have been far more comfortable.
"Take a seat. Make yourself at home." And what a home it was. Tsubaki admitted to herself from time to time that a designer's touch was needed, but what good would that do when you're the only one who lives there? Well, besides her "roommates."
"Thank you." He made his way to the couch and put his school bag on the floor, leaning against the couch leg.
"Are you sure you don't want any tea? Or coffee?"
"No thanks. I don't want to stay longer than is appropriate."
The kettle's whistle went off. Tsubaki quietly prepared her tea in the kitchen.
"And who's this?"
Tsubaki looked and found a black cat wandering in between the couch legs and the boy's. The black cat mewed loudly. Bright yellow eyes stared at her.
Who is he?
"That is Izanami. Her mate should be skulking about somewhere." Tsubaki walked in with her steaming hot cup of tea that smelled like jasmine and lemon and set it on the coffee table before taking a seat of her own. She sat with her back against the arm of the couch so she could face her guest.
"My name's Tsubaki but what do I call you?"
Izanami meow became a painful yowl. Her head brushed against Tsubaki's hand she left to dangle over the edge of the couch.
"Minamino, Shuichi."
"Tell me about your mother, Minamino. Why should I convince my mother to go see her?"
"I think we can get over certain pretenses, Miss Tsubaki."
Tsubaki's ebony brows furrowed.
"Pretenses? Explain please."
Izanami yowled again. She nipped at Tsubaki's hand. Tsubaki had no choice but to swat the cat away.
"I know what you are. You don't have pretend to be something you're not."
Get rid of him. NOW!