LUCKY THIRTEEN
"No! You can't"
He screamed the words. And for good reason. He hadn't done anything…. Had he? Who in the hell were they to be chasing after him, hunting him. It was all a simple mistake, right? But the symbols, those awful symbols, burnt, blazing in the night.
"You can't possibly do this to me!"
The voice came back from the shadows, sinuous and alluring, but with all the sting and venom of a desert viper. It was a strange thing to note that perhaps the most beautiful, deliciously sinful voice he had ever in his entire life, would probably be the last thing he heard ever, lost in that dark alley.
"Oh, but I've already done it."
-
"So, what's on tomorrow's schedule, boss?"
Michael's inquisitive eyes glanced across the computer console, asking the question just as much with their curious twinkle as his voice. The glittering, gleaming lights seemed to dance across his vision, sparkling in his field of vision. He gazed across the lights, past them, to the figure just on the other side of the console, a woman with soft eyes and shoulder length, brown hair. Miho Karasuma.
She smiled, almost wistfully. "The usual."
The usual. Only two months after the incident of the Factory, the STN-J had been back to "business as usual," but it could never be the same ever again. The events that had transpired on that strange night left gaping rifts in the STN-J. Two, really. For, while Michael, Sakaki, and Doujima all returned to work with Karasuma, Robin and Amon did not. Robin stopped by Raven's Flat only days after that night, to give emergency contact information to Michael, before returning to her refugee-like status. Amon had disappeared entirely, for dead or worse, the untold wrath of Solomon.
And the hunting? It had become completely different without Robin and Amon. Only witches who had actually attacked someone where imprisoned, sedated and tranquilized, locking in a state of suspended slumber. Those who hadn't attacked anyone were required by law to register, or suffer the same fate as those who acted out in a violent manner. It was "more humane." At least, Miho mused, that was the same thing she had said about their previous methods.
"What's the new case like?"
"It's odd," Karasuma breathed, the words barely escaping her lips, as her eyes scanned the file before her. "Seven attacked in five days, all within the confines of the Kabukicho. The last one was only a few hours ago."
Michael nodded. He knew that place well. Kabukicho was the "red-light quarter" of sorts to Shinjuku, a district of western Tokyo. It was filled with cabarets, small restaurants, gaming rooms, dance clubs, and private clubs. All that was in addition to the sex shops and other, less tasteful businesses. Violence in that seedy of a location was common, especially when Yakuza thugs where about, which was every other day. Shinjuku had once been a way station of sorts of Edo travelers, and, with the reputation of the district, particularly Kabukicho, Michael wasn't all that shocked.
"So, how's it on our hands?"
Miho slipped a picture of the last victim across the table. Three symbols, Futhark runes, Michael recognized, had actually been burnt, branded into the victim's arm. Teiwaz, Hagalaz, and Naudhiz. They seemed to glow, even through the photograph.
"I see," Michael noted. "What the hell does it mean?"
Karasuma sighed, rubbing her temples. "I don't know. The Rune of Justice. The Rune of Disruption. The Rune of Constraint. All from the old Futhark alphabet and runes system. At least, if my memory serves me right, that's what they should be. But I can't quite be sure; it's been a while."
"You're right," Michael announced, having already pulled up the symbols on his database.
The woman smirked at his quickness to act. "It seems to be some sort of ritualistic markings. I'm not entirely sure at the moment. I've never seen runes actually burnt into a person, into the flesh." She shrugged. "And, from what I understand, there's nothing really out of the ordinary at the seen of the attacks. No leads, no nothing."
"What about the runes?" Michael inquired.
Karasuma shook her head. "The Futhark's common and well known, even though I've never heard of a witch to burn them into a person. It's odd, and really unheard of."
The younger male nodded, scratching at his strawberry-blonde hair. "What about Robin?"
"What?" Miho blurted the word out.
Michael let out a heavy breath. "Robin's got the Arcanum of the Craft, doesn't she?" He waited for his boss to nod. "Maybe she knows something about this." He started reaching, stretching out for that scrap of folded paper, scotch taped about his console. "We could-"
"No." Karasuma sharply caught Michael's wrist with a strong hand.
"But…"
The woman stood, still gripping the hacker's arm. "We can't take that kind of risk. Right now, we're not sure what this witch is capable of, other than scaring the pants off of people and giving slight burns. It's not a problem as of yet. Ok, it's not that big of a problem yet." She allowed his hand to slip from her hold; Michael just sat there in chock for a moment. "We shouldn't worry her like that with something this trivial. That number's for emergency use only."
The man blinked. "Gotcha."
Miho turned to leave, slinking to the door, before turning and giving a wink. "Remember, no calling Robin."
"Ok… what are you going to do?"
She grinned. "I'm heading to the scene of the last attack. See if I can pick anything up. Keep searching. Catch you later, Michael."
-
Kabukichu.
It had taken an hour of driving through the business quarter of Shinjuku to get into Kabukichu. Towers scaling as tall as the eye could see screamed up from the earth, streaking past the little black sedan as Miho cut through the city. Earlier, while the sun was up, businessmen and women would dart this way and that along the sidewalks, rushing between work and perhaps a round of pochenko before heading to Kabukichu at the end of the day. The neon lights blaringly proclaimed the district's presence. There, the men would game, eat, drink, and may haps indulge in some more provocative activities.
Were Miho Karasuma a different person, she might have found the prospects of that curious, interesting at best. But Karasuma didn't play to gossip. Instead, she rather dreaded the thought of having to be in such close contact to that sort of thing. No empathy enjoyed such company. The STN-J agent refused to stray there any longer than she needed to be.
Resolved in this goal, the woman slowed her car to pull over. She wasn't far from Kabukichu, but she didn't really want to drive into that district. The car sedan was probably safer in Shinjuku. Kabukichu remained packed with visitors to all hours of the evening. Miho preferred to just stroll the narrow alleys and streets of the district. Karasuma walked past the shops, strip clubs, and mah-jongg, all the fire hazards.
A careless man bumped into her.
Damned cheating no good….
The woman brushed a stray lock back, trying to force down the thought that obviously wasn't hers. That man. Miho didn't want to admit it, but she knew about him, more than just the stray thought. He'd just lost a game, gambling. Karasuma frowned, knowing full well the man should have been glad she couldn't turn him in for illegal gambling.
She stopped in front of the old Liquid Room. The building had once been the home of Tokyo's most famous techno club. The entire exterior had been redone, removing all the remnants of the old club and replacing it with the sleekly gothic motifs. The former techno club had been reset-dressed to look more like an old, medieval castle blended with an old theater, complete with mechanical gargoyles crawling over the façade. Gas lamps burnt brightly in the dark of night. An antique movie house sign called out the name in both English and Japanese. 'Nocturne.' Loud music poured out.
Miho sighed. "The more things change…"
She rounded the building, heading back to where the police investigation was still ongoing in the back alley. The woman ran her hands down the stone-wall of Nocturne, finding nothing. Not a thing.
The entire club was void.
The empathy blinked in surprise. That was completely unheard of. No location, no matter how quiet it was, was psychically devoid. Not like this. No. The very presence of people always left a lingering taint. Nocturne held no feeling. The industrial club felt sterile and clean, as if empty of all life. However, judging by the sounds from inside, that was quite the opposite.
She looked to the investigators gathered, her face pale and wide-eyed.
The acting detective looked down. "You must be from the STN-J."
-
Sorry for the continued short chapters. I promise the next few will be longer.