Chapter Nine
"Seishirou-san . . ."
The dark-haired man smiled at him, in that confident way he always did. Syaoran retreated a few steps, sensing danger like a rabbit sensing a wolf.
"Going so soon? I was under the impression I had something you wanted." Seishirou pulled one of Sakura's feathers out from his coat pocket, displaying it so casually. Syaoran froze, eyes fixed on the pale feather. "Or was it only the other kid that wanted this?"
He looked up sharply. The other kid . . . "You know?"
"When you've seen as many worlds as I have, you can tell the difference between the original and a copy. So tell me, Syaoran: how well did your copy reflect you?" He pocketed the feather, leaving his hand open. Black clouds formed near that hand, tightening up into the shape of a sword in the second he watched.
In a second, he processed the danger he was in. He had no backup, not this far from the others. If they would even help me now, he thought, knowing his clone hadn't stood a chance in Outo, and he didn't stand even half that chance now, exhausted as he was.
Not in a fight, anyway. He fumbled for something that would keep his clone's teacher from using that sword. "V-vampires. I met the vampires."
Surprise flitted across the man's face, and his sword hand relaxed. Syaoran felt a moment of relief, before he felt the fingers coil around his throat.
"In what world?"
"Give me . . . the feather."
The fingers tightened, cutting off his air supply. His body writhed, no longer under control of his mind. "You'll tell me now."
"No."
The hand released his throat. A moment later, Syaoran found himself facedown on the ground, a foot pressing down between his shoulder-blades. "Not much like the other kid, huh?"
"Give me the feather."
The foot pressed down harder, until he heard something crack. He went still, fearing the older man had snapped his spine, then breathing out in relief when he realized he could still feel his blistered feet. "Tell me where they are."
"I need the feather."
"Do you want to die?"
The Other had looked up to Seishirou as a mentor. In Clow Country, the man had been remarkably pleasant to be around, sociable on top of being skilled. In Outo, his clone's perceptions had changed, analyzing his teacher's motives with a more mature mind than he'd previously possessed. But up until the man had stabbed him through the heart in the made-up country, the Other had never really believed this man would hurt him.
Syaoran knew better. Seishirou wouldn't ask a question like that unless he meant to act on it, and there was very little chance of him defeating his old teacher right now. "Tokyo. There was a country named Tokyo, a country where the rain burned like acid, and almost everyone in the world had died. But they left. The vampire twins left right after we did. They're probably in some other world by now."
The foot lifted from his back, and he relished the opportunity to breathe. He rose half a foot off the ground, still supporting himself by his hands and knees. Seishirou stepped away. "Is that all you know?"
"Let me go. Please, just let me go."
"Answer my question."
"That's all."
"You're lying. What else is there?"
Fai. "Nothing."
The tip of Seishirou's shoe touched the bottom of Syaoran's chin and tilted his head up. "Tell me."
"It's not my secret to tell." He wasn't sure if it was a secret, since Fai was displaying his vampire powers in the arena, but if it was and he told, he'd be flinging himself out of the proverbial frying pan and into the fire. If I don't get burned right now, anyway. "And it's not relevant to finding the vampire twins."
Seishirou's eyes tightened a fraction of an inch. Syaoran rose to his feet, moving slowly, submissively.
"Anything else?" Seishirou asked.
He shook his head, back almost straight now. His hands shook, the barest of shivers. He'd feared for his life before, but that didn't make the adrenaline flooding his system any less intense. His heart pounded, his shoulder throbbing painfully in response to each beat. Had he reopened the wound? He couldn't tell if the bandages were wet again, not with the adrenaline numbing his body.
His eyes flicked up to Seishirou's again, noting the faint shine to the glass eye embedded in the man's face. Without processing anything else, Syaoran whipped around and sprinted out of the park.
He ran until his legs burned, convinced his old teacher would pursue him. Every few seconds, he glanced over his shoulder, waiting for some telltale flash of movement.
The sky had clouded over since he'd run into his old mentor, he realized as his legs started to give out beneath him. He slowed.
Just breathe. Just breathe, and everything will be okay. He closed his eyes, leaning heavily against a wall. Part of his mind urged him to keep moving, but after spending most of last night and all of today wandering around, his feet felt cracked and sore. Whatever blisters he'd had a few hours ago had most certainly burst in his flight. How far have I walked? he wondered. Twenty miles? Thirty? There was no way to be sure. He knew a marathon was twenty-eight, and that untrained runners who tried to attempt such a feat ended the day with bloody feet and blisters galore. Walking was probably a little easier on the feet, but still, he imagined he'd gone quite a ways since being dropped off two nights ago.
Someone passed by on the nearest street, chatting loudly with whoever they were walking next to. Syaoran sighed as he realized he couldn't understand them. Another two miles to walk, at the least. He wished he'd done the smart thing and run towards his destination, instead of away. No, that might've drawn Seishirou to the others.
He sat in the alley a few minutes more, shaking. When did you become so weak? part of him demanded. You walked this far, why are you resting now? Stop acting like such a child.
"I'm not a child," he muttered, talking to himself again. If anyone had been listening, they would've assumed he was mentally ill, listening to voices inside his head.
Maybe if you focused a little less on your feet and a little more on your real problems, you wouldn't have to wallow in self-pity like this.
He sighed.
You've already got a mass-murdering clone running amok, ruining your name in countries you've never been to. Not to mention you've got another enemy wandering around in the same world as you, looking for information. Your feet should be the least of your worries.
Far above him, muffled by the walls of the skyscrapers, thunder resounded through the clouds. His head tilted up, eyes opening as he waited for another flash of lightning. Storms were common obstacles in any world, but he didn't want to be caught out in the rain even with help close at hand. Forcing himself to his feet, he pressed on, circling the building he'd been leaning against for fifteen minutes now. Every step was agony.
His pace slowed considerably under the force of the pain. After his brief contact with Seishirou, his shoulder ached all over again. When he lifted a hand to the bandages, his fingers came back speckled in blood.
He was still out of Mokona's translation range when he felt the first raindrop come down on the back of his hand. The dark clouds above him resembled bruises more and more as the light waned. The heavens must have felt the pain of those bruises, because after the first few drops fell, the sky let loose a torrent of freshwater tears.
It was raining that day, too, he thought, remembering how the Other had woken up in Clow Country, covered in bandages and unable to communicate with anyone. The day my father found me.
For once, he didn't correct the possessive in his thoughts. Fujitaka-san was just as much a father to him as he had been to the Other. Even if I wasn't there for that, I learned almost as much from him as the Other did.
It may have been raining that day, another part of him thought, but if you're hoping for another new start, you're going to be sadly mistaken.
The rain was coming down a lot harder now, thunderous sobs tearing free of the clouds. Torrents of icy tears smashed into his face and seeped into his clothes. In just a few minutes, his body shivered like a tuning fork struck against a metal pole.
Night set in, evidenced only by the street lamps turning on around him. The rain wet the blood that had dried to his legs and feet, so he left red footprints wherever he walked. It also seeped into the bandages on his shoulder, irritating what was left of his wound and leaving his flesh uncomfortably clammy.
It was still hours before he made it to the apartment complex.