Chapter 4 A day at the spa

She awoke when his hand stopped caressing her. She did not move right
away, but waited until the rhythm of his breathing became slow and
shallow. He would not sleep for long; he never slept for long since the
graduation. None of that mattered now however, she had a chore to
complete, an obligation to fulfill.

She could already feel it starting. Her skin prickled, like a thousand wasps
stinging on the inside. It felt taught as a drumhead, and it would keep
getting worse. It had only been 7 days since her last beauty treatment
and already she could feel it. Then there was also the dull ache in her
head, like a pounding taiko drum from far away. That to would worsen,
becoming louder and stronger and harder to ignore. A pounding rhythm
within her head that made it hard to concentrate, hard to focus, hard to
maintain control. The treatments used to last longer, why did she need
them more frequently now, she wondered. She had been warned, after it
was done, that without proper maintenance, it would fade. She had also
been warned that it was impossible to say how often she would require
maintenance. Maybe being out of the Shadowlands had something to do
with it. Perhaps without the latent power of that place, she had to work
harder to maintain her beauty. Maybe, without the constant swirl of
kansen, it took more effort to maintain. Whatever the reason, she had to
go out, tonight.

She slowly and cautiously disengaged her limbs from his, and slipped out
of the room. It was dark, but that was no problem. She dug into her pack,
looking for the items she would need. Only once had she lost control. It
was on the trip to the Shinomen Marsh. They had pushed on hard, around
the wall and straight for the marsh. For weeks, preparations were in full
swing, and there had been no time to steal away. She tried to ignore it,
but the pain and pounding overwhelmed her on night, after they had
rounded the wall, and she blacked out. She had no memories of what had
happened, and for that, she was thankful. When she awoke, she was in
the small hut of a peasant family. The corpses of the family lay all around
her, mangled and torn. Pools of blood that had soaked into the tatami
mats, had already turned that sickly brown-red color of dried blood. The
flies were beginning to swarm over the bodies, and the stench was rising
from the dead. She sat up, the pain and pounding finally gone, and
surveyed the scene around her. Four bodies, a man and women and two
small girls, slumped in death around the small hut. The man was killed
with a heavy weapon, his skull was caved in, but the others had been
killed by blade. Slashes criss crossed the bodies, leaving gaping valleys in
the body. Blood had no doubt flowed from these cuts, accounting for the
soaked tatami mats. The most gruesome thing, however, were the rough
tears in the flesh. Sachio looked closely, and noticed that those marks
were not made by a weapon, but looked more like a human bite. Sachio
could feel the sticky residue of dried blood about her face, and she could
taste the metallic residue of blood in her mouth. Her stomach rolled at
the realization of what had happened, and she wretched involuntarily.
Chunks of meat and red bile added to the grisly scene on the floor, and
she scrambled to her feet, and out of the charnel house. She found a
stream nearby, and washed her face and hands, cleaned her clothes as
best as she could, and returned to the column of lost moving into the
Shinomen Marshes. Days later, the far scouts reported a small group of
zombies, moving with purpose, toward the Shinomen Marsh. They looked
to be two adults and two children, and they moved straight for the new
city, as if drawn there. The scouts dispatched them quickly, and burned
the bodies, in order to keep the location of their new home secret, but
reported the occurrence to their commander.

She shook her head, to clear the memories lingering there, and focused
on the task at hand. No need for a kimono and all the trappings of a
proper lady tonight. She was going hunting, and that required a
different kind of attire. She collected her hunting clothes, as she called
them, and slipped them on. Tight black pants, made of silk, and slit from
the outside ankle to her hip. Black gloves, and a bustier, made of silk and
metal, designed to resemble armor, but leaving far to many gaps in
critical places, to be functional. She completed the outfit with knee high
boots, and the aiguchi she had been given for just this purpose. She was
ready, and it was time to hunt.

She slipped out into the night, making for the seedier part of town. There
were always men there, men who would make an easy victim, and she
prepared herself for the kill. She moved quickly, but with a purpose,
avoiding the more prominent establishments and going to places where
men trying to avoid notice would congregate. She came upon a little
building, tucked away behind a warehouse that was perfect for her needs,
a brothel and opium den. She slipped inside and surveyed the scene.
Patrons sat at small tables, drinking bad sake or sochu, and waiting for
their particular vice to overtake them. These were the dregs of society,
but some were samurai, and they would serve her purpose, now which
one. There in the corner, a samurai, obviously drunk from the swaying
way he sat, but still coherent enough to follow her. She walked over
toward him, grabbing a bottle of sochu from the table of an unconscious
samurai, and stood before him. Might I join you? she asked.
Shingo was not a bad man, he was just an unlucky man. He was not
blessed with great physical prowess, or mental acumen, or spiritual sense.
He was simply an average man, which would not have been bad, had he
not also been terribly unlucky as well. Everywhere he went, his bad luck
followed him, and ruined any opportunity he had to improve his lot in life.
He was in Mirumoto Junnosakes regiment, when the Dragon he was
stripped of rank and title, and was released from imperial service with the
rest of Junnosakes troops. Later, he joined the Shoguns army, but was
only with him for a few months, before it was disbanded. He then found
employment with a Lion patron, and was doing well there, when the rain
of blood came. His lord went mad, and slaughtered his family, before
leaping to his own death. Shingo was cast to the waves again. Other jobs
had come, but they too, had all ended badly. Now, he was known as the
Cursed Ronin. No one would hire him. He had ended up here, in this
opium den, wallowing in self-pity, and drowning his sorrow in drink, when
his luck finally flipped. Standing in front of him was the most beautiful
woman he had ever seen. She stood, with a bottle in hand, and asked to
join him. Had he not been so far into his cups, Shingo may have
wondered about this. A beautiful woman, dressed like an exotic
prostitute, wanted to join him? Why would she be here? This was one of
the dankest, cheapest dives in the city. No woman that beautiful would
ever even know this place existed, much less come inside. Furthermore,
why would she talk to him, he was the Cursed Ronin, known for bringing
his bad luck to anyone he dealt with. Had Shingo been even partly
rational, he would have sensed a trap, and refused her request.

Shingo, however, was in the place where drink allows us to believe

whatever fantasies you want to. That place between rational thought
and oblivion where you believe everything is exactly as you see it, and
where your inhibitions are subdued enough to act on any of your feelings.
So Shingo invited the woman to sit with him, pleased and proud of his
prowess with the opposite sex. She sat near him, pouring him drinks, and
touching his hands and head, kissing and caressing him, breaking all the
taboos of society. She oozed with sexual desire, and it was not long
before they were retiring to a more private place to continue their
relationship. Shingo could not even remember if he had suggested it, or if
had been her idea, but they were soon moving off into the night in search
of a room. Shingo lead her to a dirty inn that he had been staying at,
before his money ran out anyway. He looked down, and two shiny coins
were in his hand, just enough for a room. Shingo went inside, and got a
room for the night, and then went around the back, to let her in. It would
not do, she explained, for a fine samurai to be seen with a prostitute like
her, and she was right. Shingo snuck her into his room, and slid shut the
door. He removed his katana and wakizashi, placing them on the stand by
the door, and turned to the beauty awaiting him. She had removed all her
clothes, and waited upon the mat, on all fours like an animal. He stripped
off his kimono, and stumbled towards her. She stalked up to him, rose up
on her knees, and around his neck, while kissing him full on the lips. She
licked his chin and chest, working her hands down his chest, scratching
him, while sliding her bottom away. She rolled backwards, down on her
back, spreading her feet wide, and opening her knees. Shingo lurched
forward toward her, but was caught short of his goal, when she lifted her
legs, and locked her ankles behind his back. Her left hand grabbed his
right wrist, and she smiled a wicked smile at him. He smiled back,
stupidly, the drink and passion clouding his reason. That is when she
plunged the aiguchi up, under his ribs and into his heart. He did not even
realize what had happened at first, so quick was the strike. He looked
down at her, and was still trying to continue their lovemaking when he
noticed the hilt of a knife sticking out of his chest. He reached for it with
his free left hand, but she grabbed that arm by the wrist also, and pulled
his arms out wide. His eyes went wide with horror as the blade began to
glow with a horrible greenish light. His mind cleared, the terror of his
situation overcoming his drunkenness. He could feel his life force being
stolen, and watched in shock as his blood began to pump out the handle
of the blade, spewing all over the body of his naked companion. Her eyes
rolled back into her head, ecstasy clearly written on her form. As the
blood splashed onto her, he could see orange spirits begin to swirl around
the body of his companion. Maho, he thought, and watched in fear as the
blood was being absorbed into her skin and she started to glow with a red
hue. He tried to wrench his arms free of her grip, tried to stand, anything
to get away, but he was weakening from loss of blood and spirit, and she
held like iron shackles. He could not even scream, the yell frozen like a
lump in his throat, as he watched his life pour out. He swooned, his head
rolling back, his luck had not turned after all, he was still the Cursed
Ronin, and he would die as such.

Sachio trembled with the joy and pleasure of it. She writhed and
squirmed as the feeling receded and then died away. She could get used
to that, she thought evilly. She released Shingos body, and it fell to the
floor, dead. She felt incredible. She lay there for a moment, just basking
in the afterglow. She rose up on her elbows, and surveyed the scene.
There was blood all over, and it was still coming out from around the
aiguchi, pooling upon the mat, where she had been only moments ago.
She got up, using his kimono to clean herself, and quickly got dressed.
She withdrew her knife from the body, and then got behind it. She
dragged the body up into the center of the mat, and arranged the body in
a kneeling position. She then retrieved Shingos wakizashi. She lined it
up, with the hole her aiguchi had made, and plunged it into and through
the dead man. She stepped back, and surveyed the scene. It looked
enough like a seppuku to satisfy any magistrate who would come to look
into the death.

She slipped out the back, and hurried back to Sahara.