The room was sparsely furnished, with only a simple futon on the floor and a small chest of drawers along the wall. The earthquakes had displaced many of the objects in the room, like the cross over Hikari’s bed which had fallen down. The day after the Rapture, wearing gloves, Sam had carefully replaced it and then set everything else to rights in the room. He’d folded a pile of clothes on the end of the bed — the only trace he could find of his master.
Hikari’s swords were mounted on their stand under the window, beside a small bedside table with a lamp and bible sitting on it. He’d seen Hikari reading from this bible many times. It was well worn, crumbling at the edges, the gold embossing on the cover starting to fade. He smiled at the thought of Hikari sitting in Lotus position on the porch reading from it. Often, his master would narrate passages from it for him. Those were some of his favourite times.
Without conscious thought, Sam reached out to touch the bible, then at the last second, he yanked his hand back. After all this time, he should know better. The Bible, he knew only too well, would burn him with the lightest of touches.
He left Hikari’s swords where they were. Although made of finest steel and folded countless times by one of Japan’s greatest swordsmiths, they were of no use to him. They would have little effect on his foes. Unlike his own, he thought grimly, patting the wakizashi at his waist. Cold iron was the only effective weapon against demons.
He left the bedroom, stopping short when he saw a flash of light … but it was only his reflection in the cracked hallway mirror — a teenage boy, well over six feet in height with broad, powerful shoulders. The result of almost constant training and preparation. His face was lost in the shadow of the hooded sweatshirt, a tuft of jet black hair jutting down over his forehead. With his jeans and trainers, he knew he looked just like any other teenage boy, albeit one who with his build was probably the high school quarterback.
All very normal … if they didn’t look beneath the hood or see his eyes. That was why he so very rarely looked in the mirror these days. He knew what lay underneath, and had no desire to see it again. Even now, with all the years he’d had to come to terms with it, he still didn’t want to be reminded of his bloodline.
He stalked down the corridor, past his own room — there was nothing for him there now — and into her room, inhaling deeply. It still smelt of her: her perfume, her clean natural scent. He drank it in. The rebellious part of his mind told him that he missed her more than he did Hikari. It wasn’t true — he just missed them in different ways. Closing his eyes, he could picture her as if she was actually in the room with him. Long, shimmering dark hair, luminous blue eyes inherited from her mother who had died in childbirth. A grace in her movements that made her sword play seem like a dance. A smile that made his heart ache. Hikari’s daughter had been his constant companion and friend for all his life. At almost sixteen, she was two years younger but far more mature and much less impulsive than he. She was gone now and he would never see her again. Where she had gone, he could not follow. Ever. The thought made him almost choke with sorrow.
He sat on her bed, lost in memories of her. These sentimental thoughts, he realized, were the only reason he was still here. Los Angeles beckoned — a promise made long ago. He was procrastinating, the house his only remaining connection to her.
The only reason he hadn’t left by now was because he wasn’t ready. He needed time to gather supplies and prepare. That was what he kept telling himself, anyway. The real reason, if he was honest with himself, was that he was afraid. This house, the town of Jacob’s Ladder and its immediate surrounds were his whole life. His whole world. He had never left it because of who he was.
He couldn’t put it off any longer though. He needed to go.
He was turning to leave Aimi’s room when he heard it — an inhuman cry uttered by monstrous vocal chords. The hairs at the base of his neck stood upright. Still some distance away but getting closer. Probably already on Main Street. He had seconds, perhaps a minute at best.
Catlike, Sam jumped down the entire length of the stairwell with one leap and landed at the foot of the stairs. He positioned himself in front of the front door, placing his feet carefully to avoid the trap. With one swift movement he withdrew his katana, holding it two-handed in guard position above his head. And then he waited. But not for long.
The demons came for him.
He saw them gather in the street outside, their gray scaly skin almost crimson in the glow of the moon. They were completely without clothes and, as far as Sam could make out, of no discernable gender. Their heads, covered in long mangy hair, appeared almost human but far more skeletal. Teeth sharpened to points gleamed in the darkness, high-pitched screams emerging from the darkened pits of their mouths. Arms much longer than any human’s ended in sharp talons, while horns protruded from heads, knees and elbows on their man-sized bodies.
The first time they had attacked, he hadn’t expected it, even though Hikari had told him what it would be like. A part of him, despite his love and respect for the old man, had refused to believe it. That night he had left the front door open, innocently believing that someone homeless might enter and he could offer them what comfort he had. Instead, the demons had poured in. They had charged into his home, shrieking and wailing, and he had been taken off guard, confused and deeply terrified. Thankfully his training had quickly kicked in and he had rallied, fighting them off in spite of his horror. His weapons, as he had been taught, were never far away.
After that, he didn’t bother closing the door — they would just smash it in any case. He found that the demons (he recognized them as Lemure from pictures his master had shown him) were essentially pretty stupid. If he stood in the doorway, they would surge towards him in a mass of bloodthirsty frenzy. They used no tactics and in fact, in their desire to reach him, would often impede each other. He used this knowledge to his advantage.
The trap in front of the door was a simple enough affair. It was simply a pit he had dug, lined with iron railings and covered with an off-cut of carpet. The demons fell for it every time. Really fell.
Now the Lemure leapt forward, disturbingly swift for such stupid beings. Three entered the doorway at once, and two immediately fell into the pit, impaling themselves on the spikes beneath. Their bodies turned to ash which momentarily obscured the third from Sam’s view. The rest, he knew, would jump over the trap. If he stayed for another night, the process would begin all over again. It was almost like they had no long term memory — they learnt from what they saw and did in the present, the past a stranger to them.
Jumping through the ashy remains, the third demon was upon Sam in seconds. He didn’t even think. He just reacted as he has been taught. The blade felt light in his hands, almost like it was eager to fight and taste the blood of demons. He knew this shouldn’t be so — his blades, like Hikari’s, were made of iron and much heavier than conventional steel weapons. Only someone with exceptional strength and intense training could handle these incredibly dangerous weapons effectively. Sam had that training; for the last six years he had worked with these weapons, day and night.
The katana in high guard position came down in a straight overhead, lightning fast, splitting the skull of the Lemure like an axe through kindling. It disappeared in a plume of ash. Two more darted in after it, mouths wide and talons outstretched. He switched his grip on the katana to one-handed and drew the wakizashi with the other. Following through with the drawing motion, he slashed the first of the Lemure through the throat with the smaller blade.