Please read Disclaimer in Prologue/Chapter One.
Title: Maya's Tale (C10: Sisters)
Author: JaganshiKenshin
Genre: Action/Adventure, General
Rating: K+/PG-13 (for anime-style fight scenes/language)
Summary: Kurama pays a visit to the Kawasaki residence.
A/N: Thanks for reading and reviewing!
"Did someone call for a doctor?"
Maya's Tale (10: Sisters)
by
Kenshin
Still rattled by the disembodied voice, Kurama inched through the woods, every sense strained.
The thick stems of trees blocked the long view, preventing him from seeing possible lurkers. The scent of greenery filled his nostrils. His footsteps crackled on dry weeds.
That deep, threatening voice could have been an illusion due to sleep deprivation.
It wasn't a voice Kurama knew. No enemy from his past, certainly not Karasu, who was so thoroughly dead he probably didn't even have a ghost.
What then? An escaped parrot with an extensive vocabulary? An evil ventriloquist, out for laughs?
When a bird exploded from a nearby bush and flew in front of his face, Kurama jumped. His heart labored, and as it slowed to its normal rhythm, he thought of returning home.
Nonsense.
The Kawasaki sisters lived only a couple of blocks away. He straightened, striding quickly now through the woods, and soon reached the sidewalks of Derelict's Row.
As for his sloppy excuse to visit the sisters-
That was Hiei's fault. Naturally.
Hiei had refused to loan Kurama even a single fountain pen, forcing Kurama to use a cast-off stethoscope in his pocket.
Kurama passed a boarded-up rambler and paused. Across the street lay his destination.
The sky was dishwater gray as Kurama approached the well-kept Victorian house with its discreet little nameplate.
It seemed one of the stars of the block, pale sage green, with buttercup yellow trim and deep-sage accents. Long lace curtains hung at the windows. Kurama lifted the brass knocker and rapped once.
They answered the door together: a pair of ladies in their 70s, with startling blue eyes and a quizzical air.
The sisters had the kind of good bones that made for lasting beauty, and looked as though they might have been half-American.
The taller one wore a gray Chanel suit, her silver hair in a French twist. Flicking a keen gaze at Kurama, she fluttered a hand to her chest. "A doctor?" Her voice was soft, pleasant, cultured. "Did someone call for a doctor?"
"Ruth, dear." The shorter one-by half a head-wore a sage-green silk tunic and slacks that had probably cost a fortune. Her salt-and-pepper hair was cut in a 1930s Hollywood bob, and a king's ransom in jade teardrops swung from her ears. "He can't be a doctor. He's a mere child."
"I' not a-" said Kurama defensively, and then laughed, and by that time he had been ushered inside the parlor, and introduced himself as Minamino Shuuichi.
The parlor seemed to be haphazardly furnished, but the varied elements of upholstery and wood and glass worked together in a way that was both comfortable and stylish.
But they had him pegged as a doctor. How-?
"Besides," said Ruth, "We're both healthy as horses."
Olivia put her hand under Kurama's chin. "He may be a child but he's far too handsome for his own good."
"Olivia, do stop. He's turning as red as his hair."
The stethoscope, Kurama realized. They're not psychic; they saw the tan rubber tubing.
"Doctor in training," Kurama corrected them. "And I had heard you perform evaluations."
"Well, that's true, dear," said Ruth. "But not at home."
"And by appointment only."
"How did you know to find us?"
"It's the lace curtains," said Olivia. "I keep telling you, Ruth, they're like a neon sign."
"Calling all and sundry to our lair," sighed Ruth. "I can see we shall just have to resign ourselves to being used, willy-nilly, by said all and sundry."
"A cruel fate," agreed Olivia, "but we shall try to bear up. Now, the stethoscope, was it?"
They were wonderful.
Kurama was relieved of the stethoscope and seated so quickly that his head spun. Olivia set down a tray offering jasmine tea and chocolate-dipped biscuits.
The elderly sisters moved with the lithe grace of much younger women. Ruth strolled to a tall mahogany shelf and pulled down a volume that looked as though it weighed more than she did. "Medical equipment is far from our area of expertise," she said.
Olivia teased a similar volume from under a coffee table. "Still, it hasn't been restored. This is a hopeful sign."
Ruth paged her tome. "Many people ruin valuable antiquities by means of clumsy restoration attempts-"
"-but this one looks to be from the 1950s." Olivia flipped pages, too, darting glances at the instrument. "Possibly the 1940s. American made, I believe-"
"-sturdy, no brand marking, tubing still in good shape-"
"-only the trumpet's here, might be missing a piece-"
"It may be a veterinary model."
Trust Smith, thought Kurama, to have a horse stethoscope.
Olivia turned her gaze to Kurama. "Does it work?"
Kurama nodded. The sisters tried it out, first listening to one heart, then trading places, exclaiming in delight. "Well, Olivia," said Ruth, "this settles things once and for all. You do have a heart."
"Its value, I fear, is not great-"
"Your heart, dear?"
"No, this handsome young man's stethoscope."
"-perhaps only a matter of a few yen-"
Kurama coughed discreetly. "An esteemed colleague gave it to me." Dr. Smith had, in fact, flung the stethoscope at him, along with some ancient waiting-room magazines: 'Here, Minamino, ditch these.' "So I wondered, for insurance purposes... ?"
"Dear me, no," said Ruth. "You'd be better off mounting it in a nice shadow box and hanging it on your wall."
Olivia gave him a narrow look. "That's if you have a wall to begin with."
Kurama assured them that he had.
Ruth returned the stethoscope and sat opposite Kurama. Olivia joined them, and the sisters started in on the tea and biscuits. Kurama nibbled a biscuit, to be polite. Then, as the sugar seeped into his bloodstream, he realized that he was starving. He took another biscuit, followed by sips of tea. The comfort of food and tea worked their magic, and he began to feel a bit more like himself.
"Now, dear." Leaning forward to pat Kurama's knee, Olivia's eyes gleamed Ming-Dynasty blue. "Why don't you tell us what really brings you here."
0-0-0-0-0
Dear Diary,
I dare not speak to Father. He doesn't realize that I know.
Being the only one with no taste for such things, is it because there is still a part of Mother dwelling within me? But how can there be? I never partook of-
Mother must have been a psychic of sorts. It is why she was chosen, of course. And as I am the only sister who did not inherit Father's appetite-
I was thinking of something. What was I thinking?
Would that Mr. Muktananda be able to tell me? I won't get the chance to ask. I already know my fate.
0-0-0-0-0
"What I'm doing here?" Kurama contrived to appear flustered, and did not need Shayla Kidd's expert stagecraft to sell it. He was flustered for real.
"Yes," said Ruth. "You have that look."
Bewildered, Kurama asked, "What look?"
"The look of an investigator," Olivia concluded.
"I do hope you're not investigating us."
Kurama reassured them that he was not.
"Excellent." Ruth darted a glance at Olivia. "Then let's get down to business."
"Fifty years ago," Olivia began, "Spring was afraid to come, too."
Ruth added, "Haven't you noticed how cold it is?"
"A tough young man like you," said Olivia, "wearing what amounts to a winter coat."
"There's a war afoot." Ruth's eyes flashed. "We're well aware of this."
"And we're also well-armed."
"However," continued Ruth, "knives, swords, a beautifully restored English flintlock blunderbuss, a stalwart Browning 12-gauge, and a small Meiji-era cannon-they are all right in their place, but this war cannot be prosecuted with such weapons."
"That camera-" Ruth flicked a frightened glance at Olivia. "What does he do with it?"
"He?" wondered Kurama? Who...?
"And why at night?" Olivia went for her teacup again.
"And he never appears but at night." Ruth grabbed a biscuit.
"Perhaps he's a vampire."
"About to be unleashed on all and sundry."
"But if so, why the camera?"
Ruth shivered. "He gives me the chills."
"Unfortunately, we cannot do anything on mere suspicion."
"No, indeed. Imagine what a world that would be."
Olivia shook her head. "We can hardly jail someone-"
"-or barge in unannounced-"
"-or even put a mortal enemy to death-"
"-on feelings only," concluded Ruth.
No. Even Hiei, for all his talk, would not do such a thing. Kurama put out a hand, trying to slow the rapid-fire talk. "Mortal enemy?"
"The man with the camera," explained Olivia.
"Who is he?" Kurama asked. "Where does he live?"
"That's the problem," said Ruth. "We really don't know."
"We see him-"
"-but never in daylight."
Kurama felt as though he'd been dropped in a paint-mixer. "Then... how do you know he's a... 'mortal enemy'?"
"How does one ever know?" Ruth shrugged. "You are an investigator, are you not? Though a well-spoken one."
"How did you really come to hear of us?" Olivia leaned forward to pour him another cup of tea. "It's a bit coincidental, when we are so out of the way, and there are many antique dealers downtown."
Kurama stalled, playing with his teacup. Should he tell them of the eerie disembodied voice? Or his fears about Maya? The dream of the floating girl?
Olivia and Ruth appeared to know about the Shadow Wars, if only as a vague idea that something evil was brewing in the world. They had mentioned a spring 'that was afraid to come,' occurring some fifty years ago. They could be a valuable resource, but-
"I wonder." Ruth got a faraway look, then turned to Olivia. "Could it be..."
"They are the same age," agreed Olivia, though Kurama was lost as to what exactly she was agreeing with.
"That dear child Maya," concluded Ruth. "A connection?"
Kurama almost dropped his teacup.
"Maya lost her mother last year-"
"And with her father away three-quarters of the time-"
"-no wonder she was searching."
The sisters grew quiet, but their bright blue gaze spoke: 'Well? The ball's in your court.'
After Kurama admitted his concerns regarding Maya, Ruth and Olivia apologized.
"But why are you apologizing to me?"
Ruth blushed. "You see, we knew at once who you were."
"Maya has indeed mentioned you."
"But we had to be sure, dear, that you're on the level-"
"-made of the right stuff-" Olivia added.
"-which you have proved, to our satisfaction."
Curiously relieved, Kurama exchanged contact information with the Kawasaki sisters.
"That Muktananda..." Ruth trailed off, exchanging glances with Olivia, who shook her head. Evidently they did not like the idea of Maya's 'psychic' any more than Kurama did.
Once everyone was on the same page, Kurama rose and said farewell. They promised to keep one another posted.
And then he was back out on Rokurokubi Block, Derelict's Row, with the feeling that he had been double-teamed by cloned elderly versions of his mother-and not minding one bit.
0-0-0-0-0
"My dear Muktananda, I am so grateful that you summoned me." Von Brandt sat back in a rather dirty armchair and waved away the offer of a suspicious-smelling hookah.
It was night.
Their shadows leapt in the flicker of two fat candles. Muktananda sat opposite Von Brandt, the table with its crystal ball between them, as though he was about to conduct a seance.
"He could hide his look but he couldn't hide his aura." Muktananda licked his lips nervously. "I don't know who he is, but I do know what he is, and you told me to-"
"Alert me. Quite right, dear fellow, quite right. We must be ever-vigilant against these... creatures."
As a psychic, Muktananda was a failure. He was good at cold-reading women, vulnerable women, and divesting them of money in exchange for the chance to speak with a departed loved one, who was just going to materialize, any moment.
But Muktananda was gifted in one aspect. He could tell whether a person was human, or-otherwise.
Most of the time, that is.
Muktananda gave a little jerk of his bony shoulders. He looked like a deer, poised on the edge of flight.
Reaching into his coat, Von Brandt retrieved a number of crisp new bills and put them on the table. "Strictly as a show of gratitude, you understand."
Muktananda's eyes widened at the sight of the money. His grasping fingers fumbled for the bills.
"Do count it, there's a good fellow."
While Muktananda bent his head to the task, Von Brandt rose, and, very gently and discreetly, slipped out an unassuming little 35-mm camera, and snapped the psychic's picture.
"Smile," he said.
For all that he seemed made of wire and rawhide, Muktananda slumped to the floor like a garden slug.
Von Brandt stopped to press a fingertip to the psychic's neck. No pulse. The flesh already cold. "You might have tried to run when you had the chance. Not that it would have done you any good."
He now knew the camera worked as he had intended. It only needed one minor adjustment. "You've performed an invaluable service, my good fellow."
It might amuse him, Von Brandt thought, to transfer Muktananda's soul from the camera, to, oh, say a cat. But he had no time to linger. He opened the back of the camera, extracted the roll of film, and crushed it in his red-gloved hand.
Careful to leave no evidence, Von Brandt pushed the ruined film into his pocket, then got out a piece of yellow card with black writing. He went to the door and removed the card that had been there, substituting his own, which read:
On vacation. Back shortly.
Then he returned to the heap of flesh and clothing, and again stooped, this time pulling his money from the dead fingers.
He put the money back in his coat, alongside the film.
Muktananda had outlived his usefulness, but he had performed one last bit of service. He had described his visitor.
This was the black-haired destroyer of the beautifully twisted Bartholomew tree. And he had been alone. The red-haired one was no doubt now on his way to a nervous breakdown.
Von Brandt's primary goal was an improved new breed. His creations would be neither youkai nor human, but with attributes of both. And that must come first. He would eliminate the pair of tree-choppers after he had secured the girl.
But he was getting ahead of himself. Here, in Muktananda's house, Von Brandt faced one more task.
It was not a particularly pleasant task, but it must be accomplished, and it required some thought before digging in.
He could not leave the dead man lying here. Muktananda would be found sooner or later, by a client wondering where the psychic had gone, or a neighbor calling the police about the stench of rotting flesh.
Although Von Brandt could not be destroyed by normal means, he had no desire to attract undue attention.
The very thought of what he had to do was distasteful. He could not disguise it with forced good cheer. For one, there was the filth of the surroundings.
For another, there was only the light from those horrid scented candles. No white linen, no fine wine, no music, no crystal goblets, no silver fork or knife.
Glancing at the deceased psychic, Von Brandt shuddered.
He was not used to such crude fare, and was certain it would cause him indigestion.
Although he comforted himself with visions of the goal, the girl, the prize, Von Brandt had to steel himself before hefting the body onto the table once used for bilking customers, and disposing of the evidence in the only way possible.
-30-
(To be continued: Where is Maya?)