CHAPTER TWO

Jasmine de la Croix watched in silence as the man she called "Father" slowly and methodically slipped the last of his bullets into the magazine of his 1911 .45 ACP. Dark and studious eyes were locked on the small shack on the shore, near the dock. His soft rhythmic breath blended with the sounds of the night; all else was the mark of man of his profession: equanimity and concentration mixed with deadly intensity. Though he betrayed nothing in his posture, Jasmine knew without a doubt that his heart was pounding. Panic crept like a predator just beneath the surface, waiting for that moment when his armor cracked.

For six years they had been in hiding. For six yearfs they had evaded the poisonous touch of the hand of Amalgam. Jasmine could see him trying to grasp the significance of this moment, trying to understand the mistakes he had made, the depth of the influence of people in the know. She didn't believe that was something he could possibly grasp. She herself didn't know all the details. The truth was that Amalgam had played them all for fools. They'd been discovered.

He caught his breath and his eyes shifted out toward the sea. Jasmine followed his gaze, but in the darkness she could see nothing more than the rippling waves, like black against the black-blue evening sky. Whatever it was he heard, or sensed, she did not know. The two of them sat still as stone for several moments before he finally slid the magazine into place. The soft click might once have been reassuring, but Jasmine knew that this time, not even the handgun of a marksman with the skill of Uribe Cruze would be enough to keep evil from wrapping her in its tendrils.

"Get down below," he muttered under his breath. His gun raised, the former mercenary took aim. She wondered what it was that he was looking for, but she knew whatever it was, it wouldn't be anything good. She shivered, though it was not cold. "Get below right now. Keep your head down. And whatever you do, don't you dare make a fucking sound."

Jasmine knew not to argue, though she hesitated long enough to stare into his face. It was becoming too dark to see his eyes, so she imagined what they must look like. She wanted so much to dive into his arms and tell him goodbye, but she knew he was trapped by his own conviction. There was something out there, something coming for them. He could not drop his guard, not even for an instant. She had to leave him, even though she feared she would never see him again.

"Go!"

She dropped down to the deck and crawled away as fast as she could. Though she could not see where she was going, she knew the boat by heart. In just a few seconds she reached the door that would take her below. Just as she was about to open it, she heard the first shot.

Still as stone, she waited, listening for the next sound, an indication to her own personal path to Hell itself. She didn't hear a body fall, a cry of pain, or even a muffled grunt. All she could hear, following the gunshot, was the familiar calm and the steady, consistent churning of the sea. Jasmine loosed a breath she was not aware she had been holding and pushed open the door.

As she descended into the darkness, Jasmine wondered if she had just taken her last breath of the free and open air. She just knew she was going to die down here.

Kurz placed a cigarette between his lips as he carefully considered how he was going to start this conversation. It probably wasn't even the proper time or place for it. Then again, he didn't think there would ever be an appropriate time or place to discuss anything of this nature, so he was just going to have to dive headlong into the fray. Unfortunately, he couldn't find the words even though he had mentally rehearsed this meeting a million times since they had parted ways six years ago.

"I thought you'd quit," Vincent said suddenly.

"I did. But then, I'd thought you were gone for good." Kurz lit the cigarette as he peered at him out of the corner of his eye. "If there's anything I know about you, it's that you wouldn't come back to Japan without a very good reason. What's even scarier is that you would bring her back. So, naturally, and even though I don't look it, I've suddenly become a nervous wreck. That said, I need a fucking cigarette."

Vincent smirked and stared down at his empty glass. "Can't say I blame you. I should probably be a nervous wreck myself. Strange how I'm not… given everything I know."

"Everything you know? What the hell does that mean?"

"All in good time. And especially not here."

Kurz's frown deepened. "And what the hell does that mean."

Vincent swivelled about in his barstool and leaned back against the bar, casting his friend a sidelong glance. "Just call it common courtesy. You see that dame over there?" He pointed to a table near the door, where the only other customer waited in silence. Kurz considered her for a long time before turning back to hunch over the bar again. He slipped the cigarette from his lips and breathed a long stream of smoke out into the musty bar air. "She'd skin me alive for talking about this in public, so I'm not saying jack right now. Not here."

"Son of a bitch." Kurz took one last drag before he stubbed out his cigarette. "What the hell is she doing here?"

"I asked her to come."

"You are nuts, you know that?"

Vincent smirked. "I didn't come home just so I could worry myself to death while I was here. Wraith is damn good at what she does. She'll be good insurance while I run my ass all over Tokyo, looking for demons."

"Demons." The former sniper snorted. "Now wait just a second…"

Vincent lifted a finger. "Not here," he repeated.

Kurz growled. "Then I'm not paying my bill."

"Rebellious bastard," Vincent said cheerfully. "Oh well… It was on the house anyway."

Life was far too short, Inspector Kaoru Oe thought to himself as he stared down at the grisly mess before him. He thought of his own daughter momentarily and gave a shake of his head. His young partner, Daisuke Harako, held a handkerchief to his mouth, having long ago averted his gaze to the shadows as he fought to keep his lunch down. They waited patiently as International CSI Specialist, Agent Miranda Cassidy, speaking softly into a voice recorder, strolled around the body in thoughtful contemplation as she conducted investigation of her own.

Despite the quiet that engulfed the alley, interrupted on occasion by the sounds of the city all around them, the scene around them was a flurry of activity, and had been ever since the first officer had arrived on the scene, within the last half hour. None dared to speculate too much into the grisly murder, but they all suspected—indeed, suspected nearly to the point of knowing beyond a doubt—that this victim shared a common theme to the six others, even if she shared nothing else. Kaoru knew that even if the speculation was wrong on his part, a higher authority shared his suspicion. After all, who in their right mind would have sent an International CSI Specialist into Japan if they didn't suspect the Black Demon?

Kaoru ran his fingers through his hair as he considered the thick, red splotches of blood on the brick wall of the building nearest the body, the long threads between the two. It was quite clear that the killing blow had been struck while the victim stood between the wall and the killer. There was very little blood to the other side, and the killer had taken great care not to step in the pool of blood that had swelled beneath the body. He also had left behind his weapon of choice—as was the MO of the Black Demon—buried in the spine of the corpse.

No head, of course, also the MO of the Black Demon. That particular piece of evidence had been lopped off like all the other victims', either a gruesome trophy or a method to ensure that easy identification would be impossible. Perhaps both. The girl's lack of clothing wasn't going to help matters. If Kaoru's hunch was right, their would be no evidence of sexual assault. The Black Demon wasn't at all interested in such things.

Judging by her remains, the victim had been at least in her upper teens but not likely any older than her mid-thirties, perhaps even in her forties assuming she had taken such exquisite care of her body. With the drugs available not only on the market but also those from the Underground, it wasn't an implausible scenario. An autopsy would certainly help Miranda's team nail down a more approximate age, but the results would take more time than Kaoru had to spare. He had to work under the assumption that the girl was at least twenty-five, and no older than thirty-five.

With a quizzical look on her face, Miranda came around the body and strode over to Kaoru and his partner. He glanced at young Daisuke, who looked very pale, and decided it was quite the miracle that he hadn't yet dumped the contents of lunch from his stomach onto the crime scene. "You don't look so hot, Harako," he grumbled. "Go get some fresh air."

Daisuke looked up to him. "I'm fine, sir."

"It's not a suggestion, Inspector. Get out of here."

He actually looked a little relieved. "Um… yeah, sure, Oe. I understand." He started off down the alley, only to pause. He glanced back, and Kaoru nodded. He waved back and tried to smile. "Be careful with the tigress, sir."

"No problem here, Harako," Kaoru said with a smirk.

"The kid has a weak stomach," Miranda said quietly as she approached. Together, they watched as Daisuke made his way through the small crowd that had gathered at the perimeter.

"Weak stomach, but a strong heart. That's for sure." Kaoru turned to her. "What do you think, Cassidy? Anything come to mind?"

"I'm a hundred percent positive that it's your Demon again, Inspector."

"A hundred percent? I'd say the odds are pretty good then. What's the kicker?"

She sighed as she tucked a lock of her long, auburn hair behind an ear. "The kicker is that, once again, there's no clear evidence of a retraction. The only reason we know that a killer ever came or went was the fact that we have a body that obviously didn't mutilate itself. He came with her, or more likely came out of nowhere, slaughtered her where she stood, and vanished without a trace. With as much blood it stands to reason that he should have gotten some on him, but assuming he did, he didn't leave a trail. It's as if he dropped down from the sky, did the deed, and flew away."

"Of course. The phantom menace. I guess that's why we call him the Black Demon. He who leaves no trail." Kaoru slipped a cigarette from the pocket of his jacket and set it between his lips. He offered Miranda one, but she turned it down. He flicked at his lighter a couple times, but no flame sprung forth as he continued. "We've got a fucking spirit on our hands, is that it? Problem is, we can't take that kind of bullshit to the Chief."

Miranda grunted. "You got that right, Inspector."

"So that's seven girls in two days, four of them in the last ten hours." Finally a flame sprung to life and he lit his cigarette. "The youngest being approximately fourteen or fifteen years of age, the oldest at least thirty, possibly as old as forty, though we have no way of determining which victim was the oldest. No positive ID on any of the victims just yet. All slaughtered by blade, presumably the same rusty old sword that the killer uses to pin them to the ground between their shoulder blades after he slices them open with it."

"Not to mention that each corpse is headless," Miranda noted as she considered his words. "No apparent sign of a struggle before they died. My guess is they flat out didn't have time."

"Either they didn't see him coming…"

Miranda nodded. "Or they had no reason to suspect he would do what he did."

"Question is, does that mean they knew the killer?"

"Unless, of course, the bastard really is a ghost."

The two of them turned back to gaze upon the decapitated body with the sword piercing that pinned it mercilessly to the ground. A camera's bulb flashed as another picture was taken. It seemed a sacrilege for this poor woman's body and her hideous and tragic end to be immortalized in such a manner, but it would be a worse crime to let her murder go unpunished. Which was exactly what would happen if they didn't get some sort of break. The sooner the better; the longer this butcher roamed the streets of Tokyo, the more likely another poor soul would wander into the meat grinder.

Nobody deserved to die like this.

Go!

That had been her guardian's final word to her. The last she had heard from him at all. She was certain that the recent, sharp crack that had disturbed the night could only have been one thing: a gunshot. The sound frightened her beyond description, as the shot had been far too loud to have been that of the 1911 .45 ACP that her father carried. While there was no way to know for certain that he had been murdered, Jasmine didn't have a doubt in her mind that he had gone to the other world. That was the way these bastards operated. They didn't leave loose ends to chance, and they were very efficient. Beyond a doubt, Uribe Cruze had been slain.

These bastards meant for her to follow him to the underworld, but Jasmine refused to go down without a fight. Her father would want her to stand up for her right to live, to stand up to these monsters who sought only to destroy her. Determined, she crept to the back of the cabin and fumbled with the keys she'd kept in her pocket for just such an emergency. She dropped them the first time, but managed to find them quickly. Kneeling next to the crate where her father had kept his arsenal, she jammed the key into the padlock and turned it. With a metallic click the shackle was released from the locking mechanism. She tossed the devise away and threw open the crate.

She pulled a small leather box from its place in the corner of the crate and popped it open. Her weapon of choice—a Walther PPS 9mm that her father had given to her years ago—waited there for her. She grabbed the weapon and the three loaded clips, dropping two into her pocket. The third she slid into grip of the weapon and pulled back the slide. Releasing the safety, Jasmine turned back to the cabin's entrance.

She froze as a single word exploded into her thoughts, shattering her confidence.

Anastasia.

Flashes of light pulsed through her brain. A pattern she did not understand but recognized without a doubt. She had seen this pattern before. It flickered with varying degrees of brightness and speed. The flashes of light were joined by a diverse sequence of trills and beeps and chirps that reminded her of the background noise for a bridge sequence onboard the Starship Enterprise from that science fiction show that her father had loved to watch.

Come to me, Anastasia.

But how? How did he know that name?

Don't waste my time, girl. Go to the door and join me on the deck. Do this immediately. Don't make me come down there for you. That would be a really bad move.

Trembling, Jasmine lifted her handgun and pointed it to the door. She was shaking so terribly that she couldn't even train the site of the weapon on a particular target. This approach would get her killed without a doubt. Still, she refused to go down with a fight.

Tears welled up in her eyes. She tried to take a step forward, tried to move toward her destiny, but her knees locked up as her motor skills abandoned her. In her heart she knew the reason. She wasn't ready to die. There was too much in this life that she yearned to achieve, too much to live for. She closed her eyes tight and murmured softly to herself. "Father…"

He lay up there now on the deck, dead. She knew it without having to see his body. The gunshot confirmed it for her. Even though Uribe Cruze wasn't her real father, she had loved him dearly, without shame, without reservation. He had been very good to her, had been her whole world since that terrible day when she had been discovered. Since that day, he had done everything in his power to help her—not to pick up the pieces of the past, but instead, to pave a new road and with it, to establish a new future, all her own.

Jasmine held back a sob of despair. She wasn't ready to die. She owed him her continued existence. She owed him her life. Uribe would not want her to surrender it so easily. He would want for her to survive, by any means necessary.

You're hesitating. Fine then.

Jasmine's eyes widened. She yelped in surprise as a high-pitched tone pierced her thoughts. At first the sensation only surprised her, but it quickly intensified until she could feel the painful vibrations within her skull. She thought her head would explode.

Have it your way.

Consciousness winked from existence as the blackness consumed her. What seemed only an instant later, as if she had merely blinked away a moment of unease, she found herself standing unexpectedly on the bridge of her father's ship. Before her, mere feet away, staring down at her with a devilish smirk on his lips, was a man adorned in a suit of golden armor.

Though her view was slightly obscured by the black face shield that hung over the monster's eyes, she recognized the man's square jaw and the narrow tuft of facial hair that hung from his chin. This was a man she knew, someone she had crossed paths with before. More than six years had passed since that day when this butcher had stolen the lives of her family.

She had seen him more recently in pictures, had known that he was out there and that she was still on his short list of targets. Her father had been insistent that she be kept informed of the potential dangers of the world, most importantly, those that were quite literally still out there, looking for her. Now, suddenly, one of them had found her.

"Ah, Miss Anastasia. What a pleasure to have finally made your acquaintance."

She wanted to lift the weapon in her hands, to take aim and to fire a bullet destined to strike him in the heart, to seize his life from him and in turn to ensure her own survival, but the weapon was no longer in her hands.

A mental image fluttered in her head, hazy but at the same time all too clear.

Drop it.

With those words in her head, she had no choice but to obey. Her will had been drained from her when she had lost conscious thought, in that moment when she had blacked out. The weapon lay down below, back where she had dropped it.

"Anyway, I would introduce myself, but somehow I think that's pointless. After all, what would be the point? I'm going to kill you, after all. I somehow doubt the name will be of any use to you where you're going."

He held up a fist encased in black, the lone spot on his armor that she could see that wasn't gold. A brilliant blue light surrounded the fist as he held it aloft, inches above her chest.

A Lambda Driver? Was it possible?

No… it wasn't. Such a device would require far more energy than a single suit of armor could provide. Without the electrical output of an Arm Slave with the capabilities of an M9 or greater, a Lambda Driver would be useless, nothing more than an eighty million dollar paperweight. Yet here one was. She was about to become a victim of the impossible.

The man's demonic smirk grew wide. "Now… don't move, sweetheart. I'm not gonna hurt you one little bit. I'm just gonna to take your head!"

The two of them were consumed by the light surrounding the man's iron fist.

Jasmine tried to run, but her legs refused to respond. A mere second passed, and then an eternity of darkness.