Imamimi Notanobu - VII

There’s a split-second as the blue fire makes its way down.

I snatch it out of Yuura’s hand. The paper drifts lazily in the air, scattering ash as it does. Yet, even as it lands in a puddle of scattered grey, the surrounding concrete catches fire, burning a bright blue.

Whoever set that ablaze, was looking to do more than burn a sheet of paper, alright. The revelation is enough to cause me anger, and for a slight instant, I imagine breaking the kneecaps of whoever would put Yuura in harm’s way.

“Nobu-kun… I think it’s over. I-I can’t feel the magic anymore.”

“Yuura-san…”

Before letting me finish, she takes a quiet step forward and puts her mouth to my ear.

“Don’t be scared, Nobu-kun. But, until the very last second, that joss paper made no sound at all. The heat my magic detected; the magic is in this building. I’m certain that’s what Mad Dog was hearing. And if it is beneath our feet, then whoever cast that spell is in this very building. They heard us, Nobu. And at the first mention of this ofuda’s magic, they set it on fire. Got that?”

Mad Dog seems to notice our discretion, and in doing so, silently moves over.

“Hello, everyone,” she says in a hushed way. “What is the gossip?”

“Someone’s in the building,” I answer.

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

My first thought is that it’s the killer, come to tamper with the evidence. There is a precedent for that. Seeing as all the other ones were fiddled with, too. I just have a hard time reconciling with the fact. It must be an extremely narrow window for both the killer and investigator to be there at the same time,

“Okay.” Mad Dog nods. “Do we catch?” she adds, and in doing so, turns her attention to the stairs.

“We should form a plan,” suggests Yuura.

“No time,” replies Mad Dog. “And, us becoming so quiet so quickly, is more suspicious. No?”

As I take in her words, a sense of profound agreement arises within. She’s right. There’s not a second more to lose. If the person managed to make it in without notifying us, who’s to say they can’t do the same by leaving?

Mad Dog nods to me. “Go.”

Without further ado, she runs towards the wall, picks up the pace, and promptly hurls herself out the window. Adrenaline suddenly seizes me, and I make for the stairs, running down without room for pause.

Tnk. Tnk. Tnk.

I nearly trip, but manage to find footing, and use it as an impromptu speed boost. I don’t know what to expect. I don’t know what I’ll find. But I have to keep going for the simple fact that something might be there, because in our situation, might might very well be the best there can be.

“Hold on just a moment! What’s the rush here?”

A handsome man meets my gaze with an expression of utmost surprise. During this period of mutual stares, I notice the strange expression on his face and the clothes he’s wearing.

They’re workman's clothes.

You know.

Thick shoes with a divided toe. Baggy pants designed to accommodate those very shoes.

Stuff like that.

He pushes the bridge of his stylish, wire-frame glasses.

My adrenaline—my acute awareness of the danger around, takes a back seat.

The man’s around my age. Young, for a construction worker. But what if he isn’t? What if he’s here just to work on utilities or something?

I can’t tell if I’m overthinking things or not. I can’t tell much of anything. But even so, I know that I can’t quite put my finger on what he is. Still, slick black hair? A few hairpins on both sides?

Isn’t that too stylish for this type of job?

I lose track of my thoughts and notice him approaching.

“You don’t look like you work here.” He takes a step forward. “You wouldn’t have any identification on hand, right?”

The man draws ever so closer. My sense of danger grows; it controls me, forces my eyes to his movements, and my body to the verge of action. This man’s movement is too fast. Too aggressive. And his hand. His hand is reaching into the inconspicuous inside of his winter jacket, clearly trying to avoid revealing what’s inside.

By the count of one, I realise something is amiss.

The subtle tension of one readying for a burst of movement.

My hand goes for my baton. With a flick of my wrist, it expands into its full size. At the same time, he draws something from his jacket.

A cleaver. Thick and square-shaped. Used to chop through cartilage, bone, and all manner of meat.

“You’re not with the police, are you?”

The man seems concerned. Despite the tension in his body, I can tell he’s hesitating on the matter. Unfortunately, I can also tell that he’s building up courage towards it, and having guessed that I’m not with the police, is tempted more by each passing second.

“We’re-” I stop. I can’t find a convincing excuse. Not in this tense of an encounter. “I don’t trust you, I don’t like your hairpins, and I’m about to beat you up and ask questions later, how’s that?”

A smile quickly takes the man’s fierce face. “Good.”

He draws three pieces of paper from his pockets, tossing them in my general direction. They’re fast, but they also drag in the wind, giving me ample time to react. I lean back and throw out a pendant: a stone carving of a Norse jötunn.

“Hræsvelgr!”

He takes physical form. He becomes an eagle the size of my palm, with white feathers, and armour the colour of sapphire. Flying in place, Hræsvelgr unleashes a barrage of wind. The papers are blown off-angle, scattered here and there.

Even the man braces himself, raising his arms to block. As he does, I take a look around, searching this former ninja store for anything I can use. There’s a bunch on a desk nearby.

Prop metal weapons: A set of two shuriken and kunai.

I hear Hræsvelgr begin to slow. His howl of wind becoming more like a whistle.

The man rushes two steps forward and throws the cleaver at Hræsvelgr. Hitting him square in the head, my eagle falls, and the cleaver bounces back, retreating back into the man’s hands.

I throw my projectiles at the man and kick the desk for good measure.

Without a moment wasted, he deflects them mid-air and leaps above the desk, closing the gap between us in one superhuman jump. And without anything left to keep him at bay, we enter close range.

He starts first, swinging the cleaver with all the martial distinction of a madman. Up. Down. Left. Right. There’s no real technique. But there is a sense of rhythm, an incorporated timing that reveals an experience in fighting.

For two seconds straight, I’m on the defensive, using the baton’s range to block and smack away each cleaver swing. All the while, I’m pressed back. Forced away with every swing and chop of his cleaver.

I go for a low kick, and the man effortlessly backsteps it, before bringing his cleaver down on my ankle.

He doesn’t land it.

I snap my foot back at the last second. My balance goes off-kilter. A heavy thump rings in my ear, the growing awareness of the rhythm of my heart.

The strange remains still, sizing me up like prey, refusing to attack for a reason beyond me.

He’s good.

I need distance. I hate to say it, but this gangster’s tough as nails. And if I let up for even a second, he’ll slice open an artery and bleed me dry.

I tell myself to press on; I tell myself that I’m dealing with a man involved in the murder of eight people, and need to get my head fucking straight.

My eyes dart right. Through the abandoned living room are bits of furniture. Decrypt old things like chairs and wayward tables.

I grab the frame of an old chair and attempt to toss it at my opponent. The thing breaks apart mid-way and lands sloppily at the man’s feet. We stop to look at it.

He gives a sympathetic tilt of his head.

“Nobu?”

I hear Yuura on the staircase. But I don’t turn back. I can’t. You’re a wonderful lady and all, but just this instance, I don’t want to look at you!

“How about we call it even and put our stuff away?”

“Sure,” says the man. “Provided you weren’t here investigating a certain scene upstairs.”

He studies my reaction, honing his eyes on every tell of my body.

“Unfortunate,” he mumbles, after a second of contemplation. “What’d you say to 100k yen to never go away and forget this all happened?” He’s reaching into his jacket again.

For a weapon. For a gun. For whatever. I don’t know.

Either way.

I don’t fall for it this time. As it so happens, Yuura seems to catch on. A bowl flies from her hands, straight into the man’s face. He stumbles for just a moment. A short sweet, quarter-second, where he recoils in pain and forgets about everything altogether.

A moment good enough for yours truly.

“Jīnjī!”

I toss my bird-shaped pendant. It transforms into a golden chicken and proceeds to land on the man’s face. Jīnjī fights unceasingly, pecking at his eyes with all the ferocity of a mother hen.

He raises his cleaver to maul my dear bird.

But he doesn’t manage to do it in time.

My muscles engage. The wings against my side flutter to the tempo of my heart, beating faster than a high school boy closing his porn tabs as a parent walks in.

I step to his right. Thwack. My baton hits his liver. The main recoils in pain. Thwack! My baton hits his kidney. Now, as he stands reeling, and hunched over, I launch my final bow—

Thwack.

—Sending the back of my baton into his unprotected neck.

The man falls to the ground with a long groan. He makes a small silver of movement, and attempts to rise. Yuura takes five steps forward. Kicking him in the side twice, and dispels any resistance that man might have.

“Where’s Mad Dog?” she asks, clearly tense.

“Chasing our imaginary murderer,” I guess.

Yuura doesn’t move. She scans the fallen man’s body and looks out towards the streets outside.

“I guess we should tie him up, huh?”