A fearful scream sounded from the study.
The mayor’s wife put down her nail file and jumped to her feet. On any other night, she would have ignored it. Every time he bought some strange thing from a bunch of strange people, he came home writhing in pain, scalded or stabbed or assaulted. A little yelling was to be preferred.
Tonight, though, she heard in that cry a touch of fear even she was unaccustomed to.
Before bolting to the study to demonstrate her undying trust and devotion, she had the sense to grab the phone off the dresser and call the security room. She then waited three minutes before leaving the bedroom. Whatever was happening to her husband and the security detail, it was enough time for the commotion to die down.
Combining the life insurance and government pension and condolence money, she could buy a fine place outside the ward. Oh, their daughter Chiho, on study abroad, would grieve, but it’d be all for the best in the long run.
Descending the stairs, the complete silence set her nerves on edge. If nothing had happened, then people should be coming out about now. She stopped in front of the door and craned her ears.
The hinges creaked. Her husband—Mayor Kajiwara—appeared in the eighteen-inch gap between the door and the jamb.
“What the hell are you doing!” she demanded at once, for he was inching along the floor on all fours. “You lose a contact?”
“In there—inside—in there—” Kajiwara pointed into the room.
“The security guard’s in the room? What about him? And why is the ward mayor crawling on the floor like a dog? Unbelievable!”
“He’s not—there—he’s in there—”
“Eh?”
“He got swallowed.”
“What?”
“We’re all in danger.”
His wife glanced to the right and left down the hall. There was an old European suit of armor—more of the junk her husband collected—she grabbed the long sword from the scabbard strapped to its waist.
She might not have cared if he got assassinated when she wasn’t looking, but the sight of her frightened husband right before her eyes kindled a long-dormant love.
“Hurry up and get out of there,” she said, raising the sword over her shoulder like a baseball bat.
He inched slowly through the doorway. His chest emerged, then his waist and his ass—but she didn’t look at his big ass because snarling and snapping at it was a big gaping mouth, followed by a white furry face and a pair of gleaming red eyes.
“A tiger,” she gasped. She pushed the door open wider. A completely different scene presented itself to her—a long torso covered with steel-blue scales—not a snake—snakes didn’t have clawed feet—the mouth was almost a yard wide. From beneath its snout dangled a whip-like beard.
“A dragon?” she said.
“A dragon,” Kajiwara answered.
There was something off about the dragon’s mouth. Instead of a tongue, an arm grew out of its mouth, still wearing a shirt sleeve. Some might have taken the gun still clenched in the hand as an ironic accent, but the mayor’s wife thought it a bit gauche.
“Dear—dear—”
She didn’t notice the sudden weight of her gown. She thought as well her misty gaze was due to tears. Her forehead was damp with sweat.
A flash of electric blue filled the hallway. And again. This time she took note of the light’s jagged edge. Lightning. The dragon was calling forth a tempest. Finally she realized why her gown was drenched. The water running down her forehead was from a thunderstorm—inside the house.
The tiger roared. Four neat holes opened up in the pants of the mayor’s pajamas. Left there by the tiger’s fangs. The tiger lumbered towards her. The mayor’s wife closed her eyes and felt its hot breath on her.
And suddenly it vanished.
Cautiously, trembling, she opened her eyes to see the back end of the giant tiger as it was drawn through her abdomen. The largest part of its body—thicker around than her own torso—disappeared into the wall.
Looking up, what was clearly the shadow of a serpent’s tail plunged into the ceiling above her husband, its steel-blue scales glittering.
Even after it disappeared, rain continued to fall from the unscarred ceiling for a little while longer. The second floor must be soaked as well. Her beloved husband was still hugging the carpet on his hands and knees.
In a slightly subdued voice, but still holding onto the sword and standing on her own two feet, she said in a shaky voice, “I don’t know what you are looking for down there, but give the damned thing back to whoever you got it from!”
✦ ✦ ✦
Ryuuki opened his eyes. A stone ceiling filled his gaze. His half-closed eyelids hid the upper half of the view. He couldn’t move his body. He was completely numb. It was enough of an effort to keep his eyes half-open.
To the left of him creaked rusty old hinges. A startled voice said, “You’re awake?”
“Ah—more or less, I guess,” Ryuuki answered, the voice of the military man also called a general.
“As I suspected, a frightening man. You should have slept for the rest of your life.”
The doll girl sounded impressed, and somewhat glad as well.
“I would have preferred that.”
“I understand, General Ryuuki.”
“Could you put me to sleep again?”
“If you so wish. However, my hands are full at the moment. You will have to wait a while. Your body should be paralyzed for the time being.”
“It is. It is better that way.”
“Because it keeps you from seeking the blood of others,” the doll girl said plainly. “Many visitors come to the house every night. We must do what we can to ensure you stay where you are. Oh, that reminds me. This may be a pointless gesture, but—”
The doll girl raised her delicate left hand and snapped her fingers. A set of four chains descended from the ceiling. She fastened the shackles around Ryuuki’s hands and legs.
“I’m sorry for the inconvenience.” She bowed courteously and left the small dungeon.
Wending her way down the twisting and turning hallway—of a length in no way indicative of such a small house—she finally came to a door. Opening it, a chorus of voices arose.
“Where is Miss Nuvenberg?”
“Please, look after this child.”
“Somebody—somebody’s after me.”
The doll girl slipped into the crowded living room and said in a loud voice, “As I told you the other night, Miss Nuvenberg is dead. Her younger sister is present, but is currently under medical care.” With a small sigh she continued. “Though my efforts may prove insufficient, let me hear what is on your minds. Please, state your cases.”
A man with a pale face and a head of mottled hair sidled up to her. “They’re gonna kill me. Any second now. Please, a job like this is the last thing I need.”
He thrust out his tongue. A rectangular lump skidded across the table. The blue-white tallow flame from the lamp wrapped the lump in a golden glow. It was a gold nugget.
“Send me back home. My children and husband are waiting for me. I don’t want to stay in this horrible city a minute longer.”
A slender middle-aged woman writhed on the floor. She sprang to her feet and tore open the front of her dress. The skin tore, crackling like old canvas, exposing her ribs. She screamed. Her fingers and hands melted and fused. Long sickles sprouted from the flat stubs of her wrists. The pain such a transformation inflicted was such that she wept bloody tears, tears that hit the floor and turned into small puffs of steam, leaving small holes behind. Acid tears that could dissolve stone.
“They’re coming,” shouted a black teenager. “They’re after me. Everybody’s trying to kill me.” His eyes were white, and devoid of pupils.
The others—including a blue-skirted girl, an old man in a polo shirt, a hausfrau with an enormous head—moved away from him, not eager to be identified as “they,” whoever “they” were.
The doll girl raised her arms. “Calm down, everybody. In the name of Galeen Nuvenberg, I assure you that no one will lay an untoward hand on you. Please stay here. Don’t go anywhere.”
The hem of her purple satin dress twirled around as she disappeared into the front foyer.