Chapter Thirty

"Where's Sakura?" Mokona asked, leaping from the windowsill and into Syaoran's arms. They'd left her at the apartment, since her translation range extended well beyond the arena. At least one of them could be spared the brutality of the chess matches.

"She'll be out for a while. She . . ." He swallowed. "She said not to wait up for her."

Mokona's ears flattened against her back. Tiny, transparent beads of moisture formed at the edges of the creature's eyes. "But Sakura will be back, won't she?"

I hope so. "Of course." He set Mokona on the edge of the couch and sat down, shivering. The distance between their apartment and the arenas seemed insignificant, but in mid-winter, with wind ripping through his tournament clothes as if they were made of cheap lace, it had been a long walk back. Bits of snow clung to his hair, and every inch of exposed skin tingled.

It almost made their apartment seem warm.

There's nothing warm here, he reminded himself. We're living in a basement in a cheap apartment building, trying to scrape by until we can move forward. And even then, we'll just be moving to another world to do this all again. He exhaled slowly, trying to abandon the sense of hopelessness in his gut. They were making progress, no matter how slow, and this Sakura wanted to stay here. That's her choice. I can't interfere with that.

"I suppose I should make dinner," Fai said. Without Sakura around to keep him cheerful, he seemed even more somber than usual. "How does soup sound?"

"Fine," Kurogane said, sprawling across the other side of the couch. Syaoran edged away, realizing he'd taken the ninja's usual spot, but before he could move more than a few inches, Kurogane caught his hand.

His eyes flickered to Fai, who was busy pulling out pots and pans to prepare dinner. The vampire's close proximity put Syaoran on edge, but even when he tried to withdraw his hand, Kurogane held on.

"What are you . . ."

The ninja gave a barely-perceptible shake of his head. Syaoran closed his mouth. Why is he paying attention to me now? Why, when Fai is standing on the other side of the room?

Kurogane's hand trailed down his wrist, then back up, disturbing the fine hair of his arm. Syaoran shuddered at the touch. After being out in the cold, the ninja's hand felt hot against his clammy skin. Syaoran felt his body starting to relax, despite Fai's nearness.

"You're freezing."

"I left my jacket here. I didn't think it would be so cold outside."

Kurogane released his arm and leaned back. "You need to be more careful."

The strangest thing about their relationship, Syaoran thought, was how little they had to say to get a point across. He knew at once that the warning went beyond forgetting his jacket. Had Kurogane noticed something? Were they in danger? Is Sakura in danger? he wondered, sitting up. He leaned closer to the ninja. "Is something wrong?"

"That guy at the arena . . . He knew who we were without asking."

"We have been getting more attention lately," Syaoran said. "It's possible rumors are circulating about our team."

"But that guy . . . he said he knew the chairman of the chess tournament, which means some big-shot is taking an interest in our team."

Syaoran's eyes widened. "You think they've been keeping an eye on us."

"Yes. From the moment we landed here. It's a different feeling from the one I've had since the beginning of this journey. I don't know why they're tailing us, but you have to be careful."

"What about Sakura?"

"I'm not worried about that right now." Kurogane turned away, staring at the wall. "If someone's shadowing us, they're trying to keep a low profile. Harming her would bring them to our attention faster than anything else, so I doubt anything will happen. But whatever's going on in this world, we need to be careful. I want you on your guard."

He nodded. "I understand."

"Good." Kurogane tousled his hair. The sound of pots and pans clanging together continued. Syaoran closed his eyes to tune out the noise. He didn't feel like going back to his room. It felt wrong somehow, as if retreating to his closet-sized bedroom was tantamount to abandoning Sakura. She'll be fine, he told himself. Kurogane's right. They wouldn't hurt her; that would command too much attention.

"The soup will be a while," Fai said. Syaoran heard the clink of something hitting the coffee table and opened his eyes. The vampire had plucked a bottle of wine from one of the shelves and brought it over to the living room. "We might as well have a drink, while we're waiting." His eye flitted to Syaoran's face for a moment.

He shifted uncomfortably, glancing at Kurogane for some sort of cue. The ninja lurched to his feet. "You forgot the shot glasses."

Fai smiled hollowly, watching the ninja head into the kitchen. Syaoran's eyes flickered back to the bottle. "Are you sure it's okay?" he asked, remembering Fai's earlier expressions of concern. It had been one of the few times the vampire had spoken to him with anything more than indifference, and he didn't want to worry the man, despite the tension between them.

"That's up to you," Fai said, smiling as Kurogane handed him a glass. Like most of his recent smiles, this one looked hollow. "But I'm going to drink."

"Are you?" Kurogane muttered, leveling a hard glance at Fai. The tension between them was almost palpable.

Syaoran slid away from the coffee table. "Actually, I've got to shower. Maybe later." He backed away from the couch, then headed into the bathroom, turning on the water and stripping off his shirt. After a brief hesitation, he pressed his ear against the wall, tuning out the rushing water, and started eavesdropping.

"You need a drink," Kurogane said, voice barely audible over the rumble of the pipes. "And not just alcohol."

Syaoran pressed his ear harder against the wall, curious. Not alcohol . . . Blood then? He closed his eyes, pressing one hand over his free ear to block out the ambient noise. A pause filled the living room, stretching on for several seconds before Fai spoke. "I'm not getting out of this, am I?"

"I can't force you to drink," Kurogane said, his voice businesslike. Syaoran imagined him unsheathing Souhi and bringing the blade across his arm, the same way he always did when Fai needed blood. I shouldn't be eavesdropping on this, he thought. It's private.

Yet he couldn't quite make himself stop listening. Kurogane's voice rumbled from the other side of the wall, almost too quiet for him to hear. "But it's going to flow whether you want it to or not."

Syaoran imagined the blood dripping down Kurogane's arm, hot and sticky. In his mind, the blood was a striking crimson against Kurogane's tanned skin, glistening in the light as it trailed down the curve of his forearm. The image shouldn't have been arousing, but something in Syaoran coiled tight.

He heard Fai sigh.

I shouldn't even be thinking about this, Syaoran told himself, but the thought of Fai's tongue sliding over Kurogane's skin had already embedded itself in his mind. Their relationship isn't like that.

But that didn't mean there was nothing there. Kurogane had offered his blood to save Fai in Tokyo. He had, in a very real sense, placed his life and his strength in the magician's hands. It had been necessary to save Fai's life, Syaoran knew that, but a part of him longed for that kind of connection, that kind of trust.

He took a deep breath and peeled his ear away from the wall. An inch of water had covered the bottom of the tub, the drain sucking it away too slowly to keep it from pooling. Quickly, Syaoran stepped into the tub, yanked the curtain into place, and lifted the switch to turn the shower on. Scalding water sprayed across his back; he threw himself to the side of the shower, recoiling from the onslaught.

It took him a moment to regain his bearings. He twisted the knob until the water ran cold, then modulated it up to a tolerable temperature. He hung his head under the spray, letting the water cascade down his neck, his back. The thought of Fai lapping up Kurogane's blood danced in his mind, equal parts unsettling and arousing, until all he could think about was what the ninja's skin would taste like against his own tongue.

There's something wrong with you, he told himself. Something deeply, pathologically wrong. A long breath hissed out between his lips, his stomach contracting in a strange combination of jealousy and desire. A shudder ran down his back, flinging droplets of water across the plastic curtain.

He twisted the knob until the water turned frigid and told himself not to think about it.