Weiß Kreuz: THE BEAUTIFUL STRANGER

By Shimizu Maiko

Released 2000 December – Revised 2001 January

Disclaimer: I don’t want to get into trouble. Please read before proceeding!

 

Weiß Kreuz is copyrighted ©1997-1999 Project Weiß, Takehito Koyasu and Tsuchiya Kyoko.

 

Angela Dawn, Angela Pallister, Mori Toshiro, et. al., are original characters created for this story. They do not exist in the original Weiß Kreuz timeline. Any similarity to real people, places and events is unintentional and purely coincidental.

 

WARNING!

Spoilers: Yoji’s past – Episode #3 “PARADIES” – as well as minute details from entire series.

Adult situations: language, violence and sexual references may not be suitable for younger readers – as Yoji would say, “Are you over 18…?”  ^_~

 

Teaser: Yoji pursues a dead ringer for a long-lost love – a beautiful stranger with a dark secret and a mysterious past. What will he and Weiß discover?

Prologue

The chimes tinkled sweetly as the glass doors of the flower shop in the street corner swung open. A gust of cool air blew into Koneko no Sumu Ie. Autumn was in the air. Mornings were getting colder. Hidaka Ken looked up from the bonsai – miniature trees – he was fixing on the planter at the far end of the shop, expecting to hear his friend Kudou Yoji greet whoever the early bird was. It was barely eight in the morning. They had just opened. It was too early for customers.

“Konnichi wa…” the voice belonged to a girl; it was hard though to tell from the long shapeless coat she wore. A big red beret hid her hair except for the few wispy locks that fell across her brow. She wore a thick scarf that almost covered half of her face. It almost seemed as though she was trying to disguise herself. She awkwardly hugged a cello case and a chamois pouch tightly to her chest.

That is odd, Ken mused, his dark brows knitting. Odder still was the fact that Yoji had not noticed the girl come in.

His friend was an incurable flirt. Any young woman above 18 who found herself within his immediate vicinity was bound to experience some close encounter of the Yoji kind. He usually got away with it; girls were naturally drawn to his easygoing ways. It also helped, that he was tall, blond and handsome. He should be a pinup, Ken thought, or a Playgirl centerfold. He only had to flash that smile – a slow, lopsided grin – to charm his way into and melt a girl’s heart. Ken never really understood how Yoji did it. Shaking his dark hair out of his brown eyes, he straightened up and greeted the customer. 

“Do you have lily of the valley?” her voice was so whispery soft, Ken had to lean forward to hear her better. She smiles like the Mona Lisa, he suddenly realized. She had dark, sad eyes that seemed to look inward instead of out; the same haunted look he sometimes saw on Fujimiya Aya’s face.

He understood something of the grief and torment behind his friend’s icy reserve.

Looking at the girl before him, he could not help but wonder if she too, had a sad story to tell.

Lily of the valley: the symbol of death and resurrection. The significance was not lost on Ken – for the return of happiness… and hope after a violent storm.

The girl quietly watched Ken while he worked on the arrangement, deftly transforming flowers, wires, tapes, ribbons and tissue paper into a bouquet. She thanked him and paid up. In one graceful movement, she took the bouquet in one arm and her things in the other. Her perfume, a delicate spicy sweet fragrance, lingered in the spot by the counter she had just vacated. Jasmine, Ken inhaled, recognizing the scent, and something else. Cinnamon.

He returned to the task of arranging the bonsai on the planter. Boring. Silently he wished his best friend Tsukiyono Omi was around. The whiz kid had just left for his morning classes. Aya was too serious and taciturn to carry a conversation with, while Yoji had that faraway look on his face. Probably daydreaming about some new girl again, Ken smiled wryly.

One: A Vision From the Past

Yoji was not in the best of moods that morning. His mind wandered as he trimmed the thorns and bruised leaves from the batch of long-stemmed American roses before him. He lit a cigarette. All those TV commercials about smoking being bad for the health – yeah, right – what difference did it make? He sighed, suddenly feeling very tired. He took a drag and casually blew the smoke out in a long, lazy plume.

Laughing. Smiling. Doing everything to keep from crying. Keeping cool was the name of the game.

Everybody knew about his things with women. Sleep all day, party all night. When was the last time he had a decent night’s sleep? Ken said he slept too much in the mornings. Omi often lectured him about flaking out on his duties in the shop. And Aya? He was the only one who dared to bodily pull him out of bed before afternoon. Innocent flirting and good-natured teasing with the girls who flocked to the shop. Dates. Flings. Nothing too serious. The playboy reputation kept those who wanted a serious relationship away from him. 

There were many girls out there but only one like her.

Perhaps he was doomed to a lonely life of endless, hopeless searching – a boat set adrift, never finding its way back to shore. Absentmindedly, he touched his left arm; the phantom pain burning as hot and as deep as when he first had his tattoo done. When you gonna learn – etched beneath a cross and a pair of ebony angel wings.

Yes, when are you ever going to learn…?

He flinched, startled out of his brooding by the sharp sting of the blade biting into his finger. He had accidentally cut himself. Damn, he cursed softly, instinctively pressing his finger to stop the flow of blood. He had suffered worse injuries in the past. He stared at the rose he was trimming. It looked so fragile, and his hand so big and strong. He could crush it – petals, thorns and all just as easily as he squeezed the life out of his victims, strangling them with a deceptively harmless-looking wire. In his hands, it turned into a weapon, deadly in its accuracy.

He pushed the sunglasses he always wore up his nose. If eyes were the windows to one’s soul, he hid his well behind those shades. He had seen too much of what was dark, ugly and evil in this world. He often wondered if it showed in his eyes. The conflicting realities of his life, moving from night to day, from killing to selling flowers... it was bizarre, to say the least. His days hung on the slender threads of luck and skill. Life afforded no second chances for assassins like him. Nothing made sense anymore. He often wondered if he was slowly going mad.

Nothing made sense except for… her.

When you gonna learn?

All those girls… an endless parade of eyes, lips and bodies; there were some whose names he could no longer recall. Love had nothing to do with it. They were like a drug in his system, soothing the aching void in his heart but never filling it. The pain always returned, burning deeper than ever.

You are looking for something you will never find.        

A whiff of a perfume, a certain look in the eyes, the way a girl laughed or tilted her head was enough to remind him of her. He sought her image in a million faces and bodies – the angel who alone could release him and give meaning to his damned existence. She was the only one he ever loved.

A girl with moonlit eyes and raven hair; a girl, with an honest heart, simple and straightforward in everything she did. 

Asuka….

He tried to shut out the image of her falling to the pavement, the terrified look on her face and the thunder of guns drowning out his voice as he cried out her name. Helpless. He was too helpless to save her. It had been more than two years. He had never healed completely. There remained a place in him – a hole in his heart – where she had been that caused him to wince whenever he touched it.

He pushed his shades up his nose again, blinking away the stinging hotness in the corners of his eyes. He picked up the pail of roses he had finished trimming. Ken would need them for an arrangement he was working on at the back of the shop.

He did not see the girl behind him, a bouquet of white flowers in her arm and a cello case in the other.

“YOJI!”

Ken rushed to the front of the shop, alerted by the crashing sound. He found Yoji helping the customer to her feet. Her cello case was flung to one side with her flowers, which were mercifully unscathed. A few baby pink roses were scattered on the floor. Aya was already cleaning up the mess in his wordless, efficient manner. His face as usual, was an inscrutable mask, betraying neither surprise nor disapproval at what was happening though he shot a knowing glance at Yoji, then at Ken.

“…I am alright,” she was saying, in a distinctly soft, husky voice; a voice so pleasantly sweet to the ear; a voice that echoed in one’s memory. Her red beret slipped off as she stooped to gather her things, releasing a cascade of hair as black as midnight. It unwound and rippled about her, in the air and over her head, finally coming to rest in long silky sheets around her shoulders and down her back.

Yoji gasped, the air rushing from his lungs as a viselike grip tightened in his chest. In a flash, dark eyes bore into him, a vision of pale pink lips and flawless ivory skin, then she was gone – the chimes jingling and the door swinging in her wake.

The faint scent of jasmine and cinnamon lingered in the air.

“WAIT!” A strangled cry worked its way out of his throat.

He rushed out of the shop, leaving his two astonished friends behind. Determinedly he followed the spot of red bobbing amongst the crowds like a beacon a few meters ahead, his mind a jumble of thoughts. Who is she? Asuka… alive? No, it is too damn impossible. What the hell are you doing Yoji, chasing a girl in a red beret and an ugly, oversized coat?

He stopped, scanning the crowds and struggling to catch his breath.

Where is she? How could she disappear so quickly?

His chest squeezed and it hurt, but it was not from the exertion of running. Was it a ghost? The skyscrapers rose around him, their steel and glass façades sparkling against a smoggy gray sky. Traffic. People rushing all around him.

I must be seeing things. He squeezed his eyes shut. Maybe I should go see a shrink.

Wearily, he traced his steps back to the shop.

Stupid Yoji. You’re a fool. You never learn.

But he could not shake off the vision – the dark eyes, the pretty face. It had haunted his dreams too many times.

Two: The Cellist

He saw her again – that face that was so familiar and yet so strange. It was she, but not quite she. Her image followed him wherever he went and everywhere he looked – in the mall, in the evening news, and even on the highway.

Larger than life, her face adorned posters and billboards all over the city.

The girl he knew wore her hair short, like a boy. So vibrant, she also laughed and smiled in a candid, almost unladylike manner. This one had hair so long she could almost sit on it. Her smile was elusive: a sad and haunting Mona Lisa smile.

But it was the same face and the same eyes.

Those dark eyes mocked him, daring him to consider what might have been had things happened differently in the past.

She was a cellist – a young artist who grew up in London and had started her career there.

It was her first time to perform in Japan. Everybody seemed to be agog about her. A Japanese girl with an English name. Angela Dawn. Radiant morning. That was what her name meant, the tabloids said. She was an enigma even to those who followed her avidly. Unlike other stars she did not give candid interviews – the sort that talked about gossipy things like what she did in her personal life, and if she had a lover.

It almost seemed she had no past.

It did not matter. Her beauty and mysterious aura only made her even more fascinating. Suddenly it seemed every young girl had taken up the cello or wanted to be just like her. The schoolgirls who visited the flower shop were now Angela Dawn look-alikes, their hair long, straight, black and loose around their shoulders; they copied her chic, feminine way of dressing up.

Three: Dreams

He awoke to butterfly kisses on his eyelids and on his cheeks.

Soft laughter. His heart skipped a beat at the lilting sound of her voice – husky and whispery soft – in his ear. She called him by his pet name; it rolled from her lips… unconsciously seductive, like a caress.

“6:30, Yotan… rise and shine!”

Warm breath tickled his ear. Moist lips brushed against it and playfully tugged and nibbled on his earlobe.

She sat astride him – resting lightly on his taut belly, her slender legs hugging his hips. He felt her weight shift as she leaned forward, her hands slowly traveling across his bare chest.

“Hey, sleepyhead… wakey!” Soft, feather-light kisses rained across his face.

Her name flew from his throat. With a moan, he reached out but she eluded his grasp, wiggling away just as his arms encircled her warm body. She laughed the same low, husky laughter.

“Naughty Yotan… what were you thinking of?”

But she leaned over him again, until her long hair fell around him like silken curtains. He felt the warmth of her and her scent, jasmine and cinnamon, suddenly fill the air around him. Her breasts were soft and warm as she pressed against him.

A bruising kiss. He opened his mouth to her. Hot. Velvety soft. Sweet. Intoxicating. An intense sensation shot through him and spread like wildfire to the tips of his toes. She abruptly parted before he had had enough of her.

“Yotan….” She whispered breathlessly.

She trailed kisses down his chin and neck, nipping, licking… growing hungrier and more passionate by the moment. She worked her way down. It seemed she was everywhere at once, all over him, her lips and hands leaving his skin flushed and tingling. Her warm breath fanned across his abdomen as one hand languidly slithered under the covers and touched him between the legs. He was on fire. The tension rose exquisitely – almost painfully – as her fingertips and tongue danced across his sensitive skin, teasing, lightly stroking him where all the fire burned.

She was playing with him – relentlessly, mercilessly fanning the flames – driving him crazy with the touch of her hand and with every flick of her tongue.

 “Can’t fool me, Yotan… I know you’re awake!” 

Another fiery kiss, deeper and more passionate than the first.

He was breathless; he could barely gasp her name. Unable to hold back any longer, he wrapped his arms and legs around her – hands entangled in her hair, the long, ebony strands twisting around his arms.

“Ahh-h-h-h…. Yo ~ JI!”

She laughed as he rolled over and overpowered her, pining her under him against the sheets. Jasmine and cinnamon wrapped him like a soft mist and something else that sent his senses spinning – something distinctly her. She exuded it – a scent so overwhelmingly warm and sensual. 

“YO – JIIIIIIII!!! OPEN UP!”

Sunlight filtered in through the drapes. He pulled a pillow over his head. The brightness hurt his eyes. He was suddenly aware of the cold, empty bed; the sheets devoid of any warmth except his own.

Fucking dream…. It was too vivid, too real.  

He took in great shuddering gulps of air, swallowing the emotions that threatened to wash over him and overcome him. He squeezed his eyes shut, blinking away the smarting sensation prickling his eyelids.

“Open up, Yoji! I know you’re in there!”

He opened his eyes and stared long and hard at the ceiling – at the cracks in the plaster and the shadows playing across the walls. The pounding on the door persisted. He threw the covers over his head and burrowed deeper under the bedclothes.

A key slid into the lock. The door opened a crack.

“Yoji-kun? You alright?”

He did not stir.

It was Omi. He sounded worried.

Yoji groaned inwardly. The last thing he wanted was Omi fussing over him so early in the day.

“Go ahead. I’ll take care of him.” Another voice. Deeper. More resonant. Aya.

Sunlight promptly filled the room. Aya had drawn the drapes. He stood by the window, his red hair blazing in the light.

“Oh, man…” Yoji grumbled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Don’t you know what privacy means?”

“You can’t stay in bed all day, Yoji,” Aya ignored his remark. “It is unhealthy.”

“Yeah, right…” Yoji shrugged. “Like it makes any difference…” He stretched like a cat and took his time getting out of bed. He grabbed a pair of denims that hung neatly on the chair by his bed and pulled it on in the same leisurely manner.

Aya fixed his violet eyes upon him, calmly following his lazy, unhurried movements.

“It does,” he said at length, his voice very soft. “When you have someone to live for.”

Yoji looked at him in surprise.

It was the closest Aya ever came to openly talking about his imouto, who was the only one left of his family.

But Yoji had the uncomfortable feeling he was alluding to something else. He chose to pay no attention to it. He disliked having to explain his personal activities. He was not in the mood for serious discussions, least of all with Aya.

He grinned easily, a skill perfected from years of practice.

“If you mean my women,” he drawled, “yeah, they make my day.” He brushed his unruly hair and winked at Aya’s unsmiling reflection in the mirror. “I live for the next date!” He pulled a fresh towel from the closet and jauntily flung it around his neck like a scarf. “Nothing like a night with a bodacious babe after a hard day’s work killing the bad guys!”

“You know that is not what I meant,” Aya replied evenly. With a barely audible sigh, he uncrossed his arms and walked to the door. “I hope you know what you are doing, Yoji,” he paused. “I hope she will understand why we do what we do!”

The door closed quietly behind him.

Yoji stared at himself in the mirror. Of course, he knew what Aya meant. Few things escaped his penetrating gaze. The redhead understood him better than he gave him credit for. It was easy to ignore in the light of day but it crept on him in the still of the night, when he was alone with his thoughts. Not even time spent in the arms of a girl could banish her from his mind. He sighed and rested his forehead against the cold silver surface. Nagging. Tormenting. Eating him alive.

Angela Dawn…. Who are you, Angela Dawn?

It was getting harder to control. It galled him but he could not help it. He bought every magazine that had her on its cover; watched every TV show that had her as a guest. Her music lulled him to sleep and she came to him in his dreams. Deep, shuddering breath. Damn it…. I am acting worse than a bloody twelve-year-old with a very bad infatuation.

“Yoji-kun?” Omi was back. “Care to join us for lunch?”

“Yeah….”            

But first, a shower. A cold one.

Four: Kismet

Another day.  Closing time. The sun was sinking in the horizon like a huge orange ball. The shop was awash with its last golden rays. Aya and Omi were carrying in the last of the plants on display outside. Ken was cleaning up.

“Yoji-kun?”

“Nani?” He looked up from the stocks he was checking.

Ken held out a purse. “I found this on the floor under the counter.”

It was made of pure chamois leather – as creamy as butter – the kind that could be bought only in exclusive boutiques.

They found a wallet and a small, filigreed silver locket inside.

“Nothing here but cash,” Ken frowned, going through the wallet. “No IDs, cards, nothing at all.”

Yoji turned the locket around in his palm. “I know there is a way of opening this dang thing,” he pushed his sunglasses up over his forehead; pulling back his hair so he could see well. He found a tiny notch in the heart-shaped pendant. The locket flew open to reveal two pictures, one of them of a smiling middle-aged couple.

The other portrait made his heart jump to his throat: the flowing raven hair, dark eyes and Mona Lisa smile.

Ken’s eyes widened. “Angela Dawn? The cellist?”

 “She was here the other day. Bought flowers from you, remember? Big coat. Red beret. I crashed into her. Big mess, flowers all over the place – ”

“That was she? You mean—I was this close to her and I didn’t know?”

“She must have left this in all the confusion. She seemed to be in a hurry." Yoji tried to sound cool about it.

Ken slapped his forehead in disbelief. “Well, I’ll be—! A famous person in our shop! Golly!” Then a gleam, a knowing look glinted in his eyes. “Wait a minute… Yoji-kun, you aren’t thinking of,” he gestured meaningfully, “you know….”

“Thinking of what, Ken-kun?” Yoji pulled on his most innocent, blank look. He turned his back so Ken would not see the tiny smile lifting the corners of his mouth. It was too good to be true. He could barely contain the exhilaration rising in him. 

Casually, he took the wallet, the locket and the pouch. “I’ll give these to her in the morning.” Laughing quietly, he turned and left Ken staring open-mouthed after him. He walked up to his apartment before the latter could say anything more.

His leather shoes sank deeply into the midnight-blue carpet, as soft as a cloud. He felt like he was walking on air. It was a heady, unreal feeling. It took Omi little more than an hour to hack into the systems of the hotels in the city and narrow in on the one where Angela Dawn was billeted. The kid was a genius; there was nothing he could not do with that trusty laptop of his. The elevator took him to the tenth floor. He took a deep breath and straightened his suit before pressing the doorbell.

“Yes?” A young Englishwoman answered the door. She would have been pretty if not for the enormous spectacles and the hair she wore severely tied back in a bun. Some sort of assistant or personal secretary, Yoji surmised.

“Ohayo gozaimasu. I am here to see Angela Dawn.”

“Do you have an appointment?” She asked curtly, eyeing him frostily from head to foot.

Hmm… not an easy one. She and Aya would make quite a pair.

“Actually, no…” he slowly took his sunglasses off and met her cool gaze. He knew from experience that his sleepy green eyes had a certain effect on people. He watched her discomfiture grow – the icy composure melting away. “But perhaps you could fit me in, Miss?” He cocked his head and smiled disarmingly. “Please?”

She blushed and lowered her eyes, turning several shades of pink. “I – uh… will check her schedules. She may not be seeing anyone today.” She smiled. Coyly. “Who shall I say is calling?” 

He gave her his name. She left the door ajar. Soft strains of cello drifted from inside the room.

She was back after a few minutes.

“Miss Angela will see you now,” she said, peering at him from beneath her lashes. She had taken off her glasses.

He pretended not to notice.

She sat by the window: a raven-haired sylph in a sheer, body-skimming chiffon dress. The light from the window cast a soft glow upon her. Her eyes were closed. She was so immersed in her music; she did not notice him come in. Her cello quivered as she lightly drew her bow across it.

Yoji held his breath. He did not particularly care for instrumental music. Yet, something about Angela Dawn’s music – something painfully poignant – spoke to him. He had a strange feeling that if he listened close enough he would hear a message hidden in the melody. He had listened to recordings but it was a different sensation seeing her actually play. She became the music somehow. The music floated around him, weaving a magical spell.

The melancholy notes died away. Slowly, she lowered her cello to the floor.

She regarded him with large, long-lashed doe eyes set on delicate cheekbones.

He watched her glide across the room towards him in her bare feet – long, gauzy skirts floating and swirling around her shapely legs. The girl he saw in the shop was awkward and edgy. This one moved with an easy, willowy grace.

She bowed low in greeting. “Hajimemashite. Angela desu. Kudou-san? You must be the visitor Janice told me about.”

“No,” he smiled, bowing in return, “just Yoji.” It felt strange to be addressed so formally. “Douzo yoroshiku.”

“Yoroshiku, Yoji,” she repeated softly. “Pleased to meet you, too.” She wore that vague Mona Lisa smile that by now was so familiar to him. “It’s a good name.” She led him to the lounge. “Take a seat? Kudasai.”

Asuka….

He was speechless. Dumbfounded. The resemblance was even more striking up close; it took his breath away.

He cleared his throat. “I believe this belongs to you,” he held out the chamois pouch.

“How –” she began, confusion flitting across her delicate features. Then she stared at him, the shock of recognition dawning in her eyes.

“You visited our shop the other day,” he supplied, reading the expression on her face.

“I did,” she nodded pensively. Then a soft smile slowly lit up her face. “Was that you? The guy with the pail of roses?”

“H… hai,” he stammered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Gomen-nasai, ne, I was a stupid, clumsy dork.” Idiot!  That was smooth, really smooth. He had never felt this way before. Yoji the Playboy – the debonair, the silver-tongued one – was suddenly awkward and at a loss for words.

She laughed softly. The same mellow laughter from his dream. He felt a surge of warmth run through him.

“Miss Angela?”

They both turned.

“Mr. Kanagawa, from Channel V on line one.”

The secretary was back, cordless phone in hand. She stole a glance at Yoji and smiled.

Cursing inwardly at the intrusion, he automatically smiled back. There was no point in staying. He stood up to go.

It was all very disappointing. He had barely slept a wink last night. He had looked forward to seeing her, a boyish anticipation building up inside of him. All too soon, it had to end; they had barely made any conversation. He sighed. But she was breathtaking, beyond his wildest dreams. He had been so close to her; close enough to touch her and smell her perfume.

It was like seeing, no, talking to Asuka once more.

When you gonna learn…? He wanted to kick himself. Just what were you expecting. Notting Hill?

He made it to the hotel lobby. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he looked around. High ceilings. Chandeliers. Marble floors. Plush red carpets. Attendants in bow ties and white jackets. Classy. Opulent. Luxurious.

He badly needed a smoke.

“I was hoping you’d still be here,” said a soft voice behind him. His heart fluttered. Angela Dawn.

She took his hand and pressed something papery and square into his palm. “Doumo,” she whispered, looking up at him with those doe eyes, “arigatou.” Smiling, she turned and was gone.

Stunned, Yoji stared at the elevator into which she had disappeared. He held up the object in his hand. It was a front row ticket to Angela Dawn’s concert. She had written in a dainty kanji: 

I wish you could come….

Five: Interlude

He could not help but look at her again and again. They were having dinner at a little seaside restaurant away from the glitz, lights and fashionable crowds of the Roppongi district. Away from the fans and the inquisitive paparazzi.

He had gone to her concert the night before; brought a bouquet made of a dozen pink balloons and lilac and mint green cattleyas – his personal favorite – to her dressing room before the show began.

 “Oh, Yoji…” she breathed. She looked up at him, her face aglow. “You came!”

He could not decide which made her glow more – those balloons and flowers or the fact that he had come.

On an impulse, he had asked, “Will you have dinner with me sometime? After the concert?”

She had studied him, carefully weighing her answer. “I would enjoy that.”

It was an innocent evening. He did not take her to the usual places he took his other dates to. He wanted her all to himself, away from the rest of the world. For the brief time that it existed, Yoji wanted nothing to spoil this magical moment.

He enjoyed her company even more than he had anticipated. She was easy to talk to. She had a quick, sly sense of humor that caught him off guard; he found himself laughing more than he had laughed in a long time. She was refreshingly unaffected and down-to-earth. She was gentle in a way he found appealing. She did not flirt. She seemed truly interested in him. Yoji found himself attracted to her kind, sensitive nature.

She made him feel happy and incredibly alive.

During the next few weeks, Yoji saw a great deal of Angela Dawn. He had thought it might have been out of his fascination with her resemblance to Asuka. If it had been his reason in the beginning, it was no longer true. He found himself increasingly drawn to Angela Dawn, to the person that she was.

He loved her honesty. It was a quality he had despaired of ever finding again.

For reasons he could not explain, Angela seemed to seek out his company, too. Yoji was an introspective man but when things were going his way as they were now, he was not one to overanalyze matters. Angela enjoyed his company, and that was that. With him, she was not Angela the artist; she was simply Angela.

Since she was new in Tokyo, he took her everywhere. He saw the metropolis through her eyes and it was wonderful.

They soaked in the serenity and strolled the gardens and woods of Meiji-jingû. They enjoyed the carnival atmosphere of the quaint shops, restaurants and cafes around Sensô-ji. They sampled the extra-large sushi at the Edo-gin. They played with the interactive robots in the high-tech exhibitions of the NTT Intercommunications Centre. They checked out the plays in the Kabuki-za in Ginza and the shows and nightlife in Shinjuku and Shibuya.

They carefully avoided speaking of personal things. Both were aware of the powerful sexual undercurrents between them.

He remembered his dream and for once, felt a blush creep to his face. Would it be the same…? He watched her out of the corner of his eyes, over the rim of his sunglasses. He would never tire of looking at her. She sat beside him, eyes closed, head thrown back against the car seat, softly humming along L’arc-en-Ciel on the radio. The wind blew through her hair, intensely black and lustrous against her long white throat. She wore a clingy garnet sweater, and skin-tight black leather jeans that drew attention to her lovely figure. Creamy ivory skin and pale-pink rosebud lips – the kind that would bruise and easily redden with just one deep, lingering kiss.

“Something wrong, Yoji?” She opened her eyes and turned to him, an innocent smile and a puzzled look on her face.

Damn it, Angela. Do you know what you are doing to me?                  

 “Nothing,” he said aloud. He tore his gaze from her and forced himself to concentrate on his driving.

They had spent an entire day at the Edo-Tokyo Museum. The sun was already low in the horizon. A chill wind blew; dark rain-bearing clouds were gathering, but Angela wanted to make one last stop in the park before dinner.

Something about a monument, she wanted to see.

“This is the place – ” she looked around the park, “I think….” She seemed unsure. She stopped before a granite marker under a small cherry tree. It had a sad, abandoned look to it; almost overgrown by weeds, and buried by a pile of leaves.

Yoji leaned forward and brushed the leaves off the marker. A name appeared. His heart froze in his chest.

Holy…. It cannot be—!

“No—god—no—!” It was a sob, a cry of anguish.

“A-Angela?”

Pale. She was deathly pale. The haunted look had returned to those doe eyes. She was shaking her head, her lips forming a soundless no. She took a step backward, one hand clutching her throat. Frightened. She seemed to shrink right before him, until all that remained of her were her dark eyes, wide with terror.

“Angela!”

She did not seem to hear him.

He held her by the shoulders, alarmed by the sudden change that had come over her. He looked into her eyes and saw the terrible sadness in them, and the fear. He held her, trying in vain to soothe her.

The wind was blowing, and it was starting to rain. Fat, heavy drops fell on their arms and on their faces. Taking off his jacket, Yoji draped it over her head as they scrambled for cover. It was useless. By the time they reached his car, they were soaked and shivering from the cold. She was quiet, oh so quiet. She sat stiffly, white knuckles on her lap, her eyes wide and staring ahead. Worried, Yoji reached beside him. She felt cold, and seemed to have withdrawn to a place he could not reach.

Somehow, she reminded him of Aya whenever he retreated into one of his troubled moods.

It was a short drive to the hotel.

Oh, those moments of decision. Those moments when you knew that taking one step would lead to many others – a certain choice resulting in myriad consequences.

Yoji turned his car in the direction of Koneko no Sumu Ie.

Everything was quiet now, and the lights turned low. He had brewed her some chamomile tea; it seemed to help her a bit. She had calmed down but he was not going to force it out of her. Whatever happened in the park, Yoji decided there was plenty of time to talk about it in the morning.

He threw the covers over his head, trying to curl up and fit his body on the short couch. He did not feel right about dropping her off and leaving her alone in the hotel just like that. Ken’s flat was quiet, and so was Aya’s. Aya was probably out on one of his mysterious solitary walks; Ken, probably fast asleep. He could hear music coming from Omi’s room. The kid was either surfing the Net, or had fallen asleep watching a favorite show.

He had found among his things a pair of white silk pajamas for her to change into. He rarely used them; he preferred to sleep in the buff. The pants were too big for her, but she wore the top – which fell to her thighs – like a nightshirt.

“Yoji…” She was stunning – damp hair combed back, long shapely legs, and soft curves. There was something very womanly, very appealing about a girl clad only in his shirt. She stood on her toes and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you.”

“Oyasumi, Angela Dawn.” It took every bit of self-control to resist the urge to kiss her back, and not just on the cheek. He turned, clutching the spare futon under his arm. “Sleep tight. If you need anything, I’ll be right here, outside the door.”

Turning off the lights, he closed the door behind him.

Six: The Tempest

He woke up with a start, his heart pounding and the harsh sound of his breathing shattering the dark and the silence.

He had been dreaming again.

Things had gone terribly wrong. They had failed in their mission to investigate a prostitution den and search for a runaway. They were now running for their lives. His injuries were slowing down their escape; the stabbing pain in his side made it difficult to breathe.

They were partners. She did not want to leave him.

“Get out of here!” He pushed her away, mentally calculating how many bullets he had left. He did not intend to go down without a fight. “Go now,” he said more gently. “I’ll be alright.” Those bloody bastards were not going to get her. He would protect her, even if it meant his own life.

She gave in.

It was a mistake he would live with for the rest of his life.

She had not gone far when those men appeared. She was out in the open, an easy mark. The screech of tires. The pop of a gun. No! ASUKA! She fell to the ground, eyes wild with shock and fear. He was shouting, blinded by tears of rage, reaching futilely out to her as the guns drowned the sound of his voice. Asuka! Asuka!

Thunder. Rolling. Roaring. Booming.

He gripped his knees. He was not going to cry. He had promised that to himself long ago.

It was her name on that marker under the cherry tree in the park. Murase Asuka.

He had not even known there was such a memorial in that park.

And Angela? What did she have to do with Asuka’s marker? She was obviously upset when she saw it. Why?

Angela Dawn. Asuka. They were eerily alike and yet so different, like two sides of a coin. What was real? How many girls shared the same face, the same voice? It hurt to see Asuka’s name on that marker. It put an end to any foolish hope he nurtured of ever finding her again. She was dead. It was real. Final.

Yet, there was Angela Dawn. 

He got up and padded softly into his bedroom. He stood at the foot of the bed and studied her in the soft glow of the night lamp. She was fast asleep. Her long hair spread all around her, like ebony angel wings against the sheets. She lay on her back, one hand flung palm upward on the pillow in a pose he found enchanting. Her long lashes rested on the smooth curve of her cheeks. Her chest rose and fell gently, her breathing soft as a baby. The pajama shirt had rolled up her middle. Gingerly, he pulled the hem down to cover the creamy whiteness of her tiny waist, softly rounded hips, and thighs. He found the blanket under one of the pillows. Unfolding it, he gently tucked it around her.

The wind tossed the branches outside his window. It looked like a storm. He closed the door softly behind him.

It is better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all. Omi quoted that verse the other day, something from his Literature class. Rostand. Cyrano de Bergerac. Strange, that he should remember that now.

Something in him died that day along with Asuka. He had never picked up the broken pieces of his heart.

Yet, there was this beautiful stranger – the very image of her – in his bed. Jasmine and cinnamon. Warm. Seductive. Even the perfume she wore brought back memories. What was this? Another sick, cruel joke by the gods of fate?

Looking at Angela – amidst his belongings and the tiny space he called home – in his bed and in his shirt, it hit him like a blow over the heart. He loved her. He had felt this way once, with Asuka, but she had been taken away from him so quickly. His love for her had never been fulfilled; instead, it left a gaping wound in his heart.

I love her! He was suddenly filled with a fierce, aching rush of warmth and happiness, such as he had never felt before.

And just as swiftly, he felt guilt and shame.

I hope you know what you are doing, Yoji. I hope she will understand why we do what we do!

He did not need Aya to remind him of that. He knew what his duties were to Weiß.

It was just that accepting it was so difficult.

She was so beautiful, and so trusting. Like Asuka, she was everything he desired and dreamed of in his life. It did something to him, the way she called his name, her voice sounding like warm and soothing things; like home, a mother’s love, and absolute peace and contentment – things that he had long deemed himself unworthy of.

It would surely destroy her – kill her – to know who he really was, to know he lived a double life. He would easily taint her with the blood he spilled, like the fragile flowers he tended during the day; crush her like his targets whose lives he snuffed out with just one quick whip of his garrote.

She was not like the others. She was not a mere substitute for Asuka.

I do not deserve you, Angela… The realization filled him with pain. When you gonna learn? He felt so alone; like a boat set adrift and never finding its way back to shore.

Sighing, he sank into the couch and buried his face in his hands. He was not going to cry. No, he was not.

“Yoji?”

His pulse quickened. She was calling.

She was up, hugging a pillow tightly to her chest. Lightning flashed and the wind moaned, blowing and making strange dancing shadows across the walls. Thunder boomed, crashing like a thousand cymbals, rattling the windowpanes.

“Yoji?”

“…I’m here,” he murmured as she buried her face in his chest.

“Oh, Yoji,” she shivered, “don’t leave me. I’m so scared!” She was not talking about the storm.

“You’re okay, Angela. It was just a bad dream. Nothing can happen to you.” He held her closer, lightly brushing a stray strand of her hair away from her cheek. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Something anguished flickered over her features. “Gomen—” the corners of her mouth twitched, “I’m sorry.” Her eyes were moist. Her lips twisted in a rueful smile. “I’m being silly, am I not?”

All he could think of at that moment was how beautiful she looked, how sweetly vulnerable; how much he would give – would do – to dry her tears and keep that look out of her eyes.

Then she reached out and touched his face, slowly tracing the outline of his mouth with her fingertips.

“Yoji,” she said very softly, “I don’t understand it… sometimes I feel like… I have always known you…”

He stared at her. He could not collect his thoughts. He had almost forgotten what had drawn him to her in the first place; he had somehow forgotten about his preoccupation with her resemblance to Asuka.

“A-Angela?” He trembled as he took her face in his hands. What are you trying to say? His heart pounded.

Her eyes were luminous pools in the dim light; they seemed impossibly large and brilliant against her pale skin. He plumbed their depths, hoping to find the end to his long, lonely searching.

Who are you, Angela Dawn? His mouth was dry. His throat was tight. He could not say the words aloud.

“You’re so cold,” she breathed softly, entwining her fingers with his, holding his hands closer against her face, her lips brushing against his wrist where his pulse beat. Her eyes were liquid ebony in the soft glow of the nightlight.

Time suddenly stood still.

What Yoji was aware of in the encompassing silence was Angela’s breathing, his own heartbeat, and her skin, warming up his fingertips as she pressed his hands to her face. His mind had stopped working. He needed her. He wanted her. Now. 

The next moment he was kissing her wildly, deeply, drinking in her sweetness, holding her hard against him with a fierce, urgent need to unite, to make complete. Her heart was wildly beating against his chest, almost as if it were seeking his own. She was so sweet; it overwhelmed him. The same perfume from his dream – jasmine, cinnamon – and that utterly female scent that could only be her. He kissed her throat and the line of her collarbone, leaving rose-pink marks on her delicate skin. Her breathing came roughly now – a faint, muffled protest.

“Yoji,” she gasped. “Yoji….”

He slid off his shirt from her shoulders. She was breathtaking; her skin was so white – tinged with rose – and so smooth, like heavy cream. His eyes feasted on her slender body, so lithe and so supple in his hands – the full breasts, the narrow waist, the softly rounded hips and the long shapely legs. They were both naked. He lay down beside her and drew her close, craving the feel of her flesh against his own. He caressed the soft swell of her breasts as his lips recaptured hers in a long, intoxicating kiss, their breaths mingling. He stroked her, lightly touching her face, her neck, his hand moving down until he felt the velvety softness between her legs. Her back arched, as she strained for his touch, and her hands fretted against his neck, his arms and his back. Her skin warmed as his hands and lips moved over her, hungrily exploring every crevice of her body until….

“…Ohhh—! Yo—ji—!” She threw back her head and cried out as though he had hurt her, only he knew he had not.

She wrapped her legs around his hips.

“Now,” she said achingly, “now—!”

There was a long, sweet thrust and he was inside her. She moved with his rhythm, following him where he led her. And they held each other tight, trembling as passion too long suppressed exploded in a dizzying release; a riptide that caught them both up and swept them away.

The storm had subsided into a steady downpour, the raindrops beating an incessant cadence on the windowpanes. They were floating in a velvety softness that knew no time and space, the rumpled sheets wrapping them like a cozy nest. He rested his head on her soft breasts, listening to the music of her heartbeat and her breathing. She gently stroked his hair, combing her fingers through his long, golden locks. The stillness in his soul – it was more than lust or physical release – it felt like he had finally found some missing part of himself.

Deep in the cocoon of her embrace, the insanity of his life and the stench of blood and death seemed far, far away.

Angela had given herself to him. She had held nothing back, surrendering completely.

He propped himself up on one elbow to gaze down at her in wonder. “I love you, Angela,” he whispered. The feeling was so new, and so delicate, it almost hurt. She smiled, pushed herself forward and kissed him, her lips clinging to his mouth, her arms encircling his neck and pulling him down against her. He pulled the sheets around them both and squeezed her tight. He closed his eyes and breathed her in, the soft sweet smell of her flesh warmed by his touch and his kisses.

I hope you know what you are doing, Yoji. I hope she will understand why we do what we do!

Damn, Aya. Hell, he would find a way to tell her. He would do everything; give up everything to be with her.

Even if it meant leaving Weiß.

He wanted to be with her. It was as simple as that. She filled the void in his heart. She made him feel complete.

Seven: Angela Dawn

It was nearly dawn and the storm had passed when he woke up, for once unusually alert at this early hour. The sun was just a tinge of red, barely breaking the horizon; fingers of gold and ruby had just started to brush the night away.

It was going to be a gloriously beautiful, sunny day.

A new day.

He smiled, suddenly realizing that was what Angela Dawn’s name meant. Radiant morning. It really was a new day for him. He felt reborn. Being with her chased away the ugly shadows that had haunted him for so long.

The sheets were warm and satiny soft against his bare skin. They smelled of her, jasmine and cinnamon – and musk, their scents mingling together. He reached beside him. Empty. The bed was empty. She was nowhere in the apartment and her clothes were not in the laundry where he had hung them to dry the night before.

You did it again. You never learn. The voice in his head fairly cackled, mocking him, taunting him.

“SHUT UP!” His voice echoed in the empty room.

Calm down, he told himself, breathing deeply, and raking his fingers through his hair. Think. Think! There must be a perfect explanation for this — he grabbed the phone and started dialing.

Someone was knocking at the door.

Omi. Only Omi.

He was still in his pajamas. His pale blond hair was disheveled; it stuck out in odd angles. There were dark circles under his wide blue eyes and he looked like he had been up the whole night. 

“Not now, boy,” he brushed him aside, struggling into his clothes.

“But Yoji-kun,” Omi called after him. “You’ve got to see this!”

He was already halfway down the corridor, long strides carrying him down to the garage behind Koneko no Sumu Ie.

“I KNOW WHO ANGELA DAWN REALLY IS!” Omi yelled in frustration at his retreating back.

Yoji stopped on his tracks and slowly turned around. “What did you say…?” His green eyes blazed.

A face stared out from the computer monitor. Angela Dawn – or somebody who looked like her – except that this girl was merely a kid; a baby-faced Angela Dawn with eyeglasses, hazel eyes, freckles and sandy brown hair.

Omi read the accompanying statistics aloud. “Born in London, only child of Mori Toshiro and his gaijin British wife, Angela Pallister. Father plays first violin for the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra while mother’s a psychiatrist. Age, 12. Height, 5 feet. Weight, 85 lbs. Blood type, A. Reported missing two years ago while on vacation in Tokyo, and presumed dead.”

He maneuvered the mouse to another file and the familiar face of Angela Dawn and her stats filled the screen.

“This is who your Angela really is,” he said quietly, waiting for Yoji to digest the new information. “The Mori couple adopted her two years ago, shortly after they lost their daughter.”

Yoji slowly rose from his seat, the hair on his nape prickling, the viselike grip tightening in his chest. He stared at the monitor, unable at first to grasp the significance of the data he was reading. Medical records do not lie. A realization was slowly, and then more urgently, forming in his mind – a sense of impending danger, sending chills down his spine.

“Yoji-kun, where are you going?” He heard Omi call after him. “Wait! Where are you going?”

He was back in his room, strapping on his weapon, and slipping a revolver into the inner pocket of his coat – just in case.

He noticed Angela Dawn’s cello case on the table. She always carried it, wherever they went. He opened it, hoping to find more clues. What the hell…? The bottom of the case swung open to reveal a secret compartment.

Angela Dawn was not just carrying a musical instrument in her case; she also carried a gun.

He slammed the cello case shut and spun around to see Aya, Ken and Omi standing at the door.

“We are going with you,” Aya said, the leather sheath of his katana peeping from under the long folds of his trench coat.

Eight: Secrets

Ground Zero.  The Police High Commissioner’s weekend home. 0600 hours.

They crept in the dark like shadows. The place was furnished in the traditional shibui – the minimalist Japanese concept of restrained elegance – there were few places to hide in the dwelling with its high ceilings and bare, wide-open spaces.

 “I still can’t believe he was involved with that prostitution ring we destroyed,” Ken remarked, scanning the gallery in the huge hall that displayed a collection of plaques, trophies and awards testifying to their target’s distinguished career in public service and politics. His stanch belief in seeing the good in others at times made him a poor judge of character. “Look at this,” he whispered in awe, pointing to an onyx statuette enclosed in a glass case. “This came from an international philanthropic organization. He gave a million yen to a children’s charity fund!”

“Not all that glitters is gold,” Aya reminded Ken coldly, his knuckles whitening as he tightened his grip on the hilt of his katana. Yoji knew he was alluding to his old nemesis, Takatori Reiji.

Omi had unearthed evidence that the commissioner had actually been a frequent, though covert, customer in that den. On a hunch, Omi had also checked the phone in Angela Dawn’s hotel suite to see who had been calling her regularly in the last 48 hours. He had traced to the commissioner a number of suspicious phone calls made to Angela Dawn; most were in the wee hours of the morning, and it appeared that he had been calling her every fifteen to thirty minutes.

“Wow, he must be a really big admirer of hers,” Omi suggested.

“Or he may be harassing her,” Yoji and Aya concluded, almost in the same breath.

They did not know what to expect at this point, though. Exactly what Angela Dawn had to do with the commissioner was not clear, either. All clues however seemed to suggest that they would find her in this villa. Yoji did not need his teammates along on this mission. After all, it was something very personal; they were not acting on Persia’s orders. It was something he knew he could handle by himself. Still, he was grateful to them for keeping him company.

He moved along, blending effortlessly in the dark. Angela! Angela! Angela! His heartbeats seemed to echo her name as he searched the rooms, his whole being crying out for her.

“Shit—!” A muffled yelp of surprise.

It was Ken. He sounded like he had fallen through some kind of hole in the wall.

“Baka….” Aya swore softly. “What now?”

One of the wall panels in the room had swung open to reveal a secret entry. Ken had inadvertently pushed the concealed door open as he searched the room. He lay sprawled across the threshold, on a narrow staircase that led to a room in the basement. “You could have alerted the entire Imperial army with that stunt, Siberian,” Aya deadpanned, helping him up. Omi had already disabled the compound’s security system as a precautionary measure.

“Go ahead,” Ken bristled, though everyone knew he could not stay angry for long. “Laugh.”

They could have had they not been on edge. They had not run into anyone; there were no guards, no servants, and no booby traps. Anything would have been better than this tense waiting. The place seemed to be deserted.

Still there was no sign of Angela Dawn.

“This isn’t good,” Aya said to no one in particular, his eyes narrowed to slits, giving him the look of a Siamese cat.

The silence was unnerving and the agony of waiting intensified with each passing moment.

“What’s that smell?” Omi wrinkled his nose in disgust.

A faint odor pervaded the room; it mingled with the stale smell of cigarette smoke and liquor, and the dry, dusty smell of books. They were in some sort of library or sitting room.

“Marijuana… opium…” Aya sniffed. “And something else I can’t put my finger on.”

Yoji had smelled it too, but said nothing, a dark sense of foreboding coiling like a cobra in his guts. It smelled too familiar. He denied it, not wanting to associate it with Angela Dawn; not wanting to acknowledge its implications.

He smelled it in the den he was investigating with Asuka; the same smell in the club with Maki.

 It did not emanate from this room but somewhere beyond. He moved slowly along the walls, his detective instincts working, and his hands searching the wall panels until….

“Ah!” Omi coughed and stifled a retching sound.

Another secret door.

The wall had moved back into a recess. The odor was much stronger now – a sickly sweet stench that seemed to hover thick around them like fog. The air was cold and damp, and it was so dark they could hardly see each other.

A flick of a flashlight.

“What the—bloody—hell—is—this—?” Yoji’s veins ran cold, a nauseous sensation growing in the pit of his stomach.

They were in a crypt – a thick-walled, windowless room. Chains, handcuffs, ropes, leather whips, and floggers hung from the ceiling and walls. An obscenely huge bed – almost a platform – dominated the room. One wall was lined with shelves crammed with videotapes, various paraphernalia and sex toys. A movie camera on a tripod stood at the foot of the bed.

The fucking sonofabitch! Yoji began to tremble. The man was a psychopath, a freaking pervert.

Oh, Angela, what did he do to you? He clenched his fists. Things were painfully, glaringly clear. Never had the desire to kill been stronger. He felt strength in every part of his body. The bastard was going to pay; he would see to it that he did.

The sickly sweet, musky smell of sex – and death – hung heavy in the clammy air.

Suddenly a piercing, blood-curdling wail ripped through the silence, followed by gunshots.

Angela! His mind screamed. Dread snaked icily down his spine.

It sounded so close, like it was just in the next room.

“It sounded like it came from this direction!” Omi pointed his flashlight to a passageway on one side of the room. They had not noticed it earlier when they came in.

They crashed through the door at the end of the tunnel, fully expecting a fight.

Instead, the same eerie stillness in the other rooms met them.

Early morning light filtered through the tightly drawn draperies. The only light in the suite was a night lamp in the lounge. Piped-in music played softly in the background. Claire de Lune. Debussy. A flask of champagne sat in an ice bucket on the small bar near the lounge, beside a salver filled with petit fours and hors d’ oeuvres. The food was untouched, the ice melted.

Aya led the way in, his katana unsheathed. Omi followed closely behind him, darts fanned in his hand. 

“It looks peaceful,” Ken muttered, clenching and unclenching his bugnuks, his dark eyes flashing in the dim light.

Peaceful. Yoji gritted his teeth. It seemed ominously quiet as they cautiously moved about the big room.

Let her be alive, he prayed. Please let her be safe.

“Angela….” His voice was barely a whisper. His heart hammered. She was not going to answer.

They were now in the bedroom.

He slid back the shoji screens. The acrid smell of gunpowder assaulted them – and the unmistakable stench of blood.

He fumbled for a light switch and found one on the wall beside the door. He held his breath as the light filled the room.

The police commissioner – a big, powerfully built man – lay naked, face down, in a growing pool of blood on the floor by the bed. Aya felt his pulse. Dead. He had been shot in the heart. The look of astonishment was frozen on his bloated face.

Angela Dawn lay crumpled beneath the dead man. They had wrestled for the gun until that fatal shot.

“Angela!” With an agonized cry, Yoji dashed to her. The world was a blur. The world was falling in on him.

She was covered in blood. It was hard to see where it came from – if it came from her or the dead man. Her eyes were closed. Her skin was colorless, as gray as ashes. Her lips were as dry as faded rose petals. Her breathing was shallow and her pulse so faint. She was so still, so cold, so limp, and so weightless in his arms. He scooped her up and rushed with her like a madman down to the back street where his car was waiting.

He drove while Omi held Angela in the backseat. Aya and Ken followed them in their own vehicles.

She is dying. His heartbeats echoed the words in his head. Dying! Dying! Dying! He blinked to keep the road in focus.

Asuka…. Maki… and now Angela Dawn. When are you ever going to learn, Yoji?

Helpless. He was too helpless to save any of them.

Then he heard a beautiful sound.

A soft cough. A hiccup from the backseat where she lay cradled in Omi’s lap.

Angela Dawn was crying.

“She is alright, Yoji-kun,” Omi smiled at him in the rear view mirror. “She’s not hurt, she only passed out!”

Epilogue

Angela Dawn knelt before the granite marker under the cherry tree in the park. She tended the burning coals and watched the flames grow in the brazier she had placed on the marker.

She emptied the contents of the chamois pouch on her lap: her British passport, identification cards and an envelope. One by one, she lowered them gently into the fire.

The envelope contained important documents from her past. Dr. Pallister had given it to her shortly after they took her in. She never opened it – too scared to see what was in it and reluctant to return to a life she had long forgotten.

Life was pleasant in London. She had her music, and a loving family.

They were dead. Dr. Pallister – who helped her fight the demons of her past – and sweet old Mori-san – who shared with her his love for music, were mercilessly killed in a car crash. She called them Haha and Chichi. Mum. Dad.

She never knew she had it in her until Chichi taught her how to play the cello. Each time she played, the music transported her to another world, where a beautiful stranger awaited her – only he called her by a different name. Where the image came from, she never knew. The dream always faded away before she could finish playing her music.

Chichi and Haha planted this cherry tree in memory of the brave girl who tried to bring their daughter back to them. 

Tears welled in her eyes. She felt so unworthy of the life they had lovingly and unselfishly given her.

Angela Dawn…aka-chan….

She was just a child – but there were some, who preferred little girls to women. Pedophiles. They shared a tatami in a cold room where others like them were held captive. The poor baby often cried for her mother in her sleep, but she could do nothing. One morning she awoke to find young Angela Dawn cold and still beside her. The wounds and bruises on her body were never going to heal, but her face at last was peaceful. The angels had taken her home.

It would have been better if she too, had died when those goons caught her.

It took awhile but she soon mastered the power to shut her mind to what they did to her. She locked herself in the shower for hours afterwards, the clean water washing her salty tears away. She scrubbed herself raw with tons of soap and hot water. But there were too many of them, one after the other. She could no longer cleanse off the rough feel of their hands, their stinking sweat and saliva, their foul cigars and their liquor from her body.

The plastic surgeons in England were very good; they had erased all the scars those men had etched on her body.

The wounds in her heart, though, were never going to heal.

Her memory was returning, like a movie slowly coming into focus.

She watched the flames turn her documents – symbols of who she had been – into ashes. She would not need those things anymore. They had served her well in the past. That part of her life was dead.

 Haha and Chichi had tried to bring her back to life; had given her their daughter’s name that she may live a new life.

Angela Dawn Mori.

It was but a temporary reprieve, for the truth was she had died – in mind and in spirit – along with their daughter in that prostitution den. She was but a mere shadow of her former self. Their death had ended any hope, any meaning her life in London held for her.

Tomorrow it would be all over the headlines: Angela Dawn Missing. She would pass as mysteriously as she came.

It was time to move on.

The monster was dead.

No, he was not laying his dirty hands on her again. She was not going to spend the rest of her life running, looking over her shoulder in fear, waiting for the blackmailer to strike.

She had lived in constant fear for so long. She would feel remorse later; right now, all she felt was an overwhelming sense of relief, and completion. The past, at last, had drawn to a close.

Angela Dawn and her parents could rest in peace, their murders avenged. Mission accomplished.

She undid the silver locket around her neck, kissed the heart-shaped pendant tenderly and lowered it into the fire. After a while, the flimsy chains and the delicate filigree glowed red in the flames and then began to melt into the blazing coals.

She wept bitterly. Goodbye, Chichi-oya… Haha…Angela Dawn…. I will never forget you.

“Angela....”

She looked up into clear green eyes. Gentle hands cupped her tearstained face. Tender kisses rained on her forehead, her eyes, her nose, her chin, her cheeks and her lips. Strong arms gathered her in a tight embrace.

“It’s over, Angela. All over,” a voice murmured unto the top of her head. “Everything’s going to be alright.”

It was the fair-haired stranger from her dream. The one who sheltered her from the storm; the one who made such sweet, tender love to her; the very first man who ever touched her and did not make her scream out in fear and pain.

Yoji….

She still could not understand many things; where the dream in her music came from, what it really meant; why Yoji and his friends had not turned her in, though they knew she had killed the commissioner; why they seemed to be protecting her.

Only one thing remained between her and a new life.

“Yoji,” she began, her eyes big and serious. “There is something I need to tell you.”

He held her tighter, a wave of apprehension flooding through him. “What is it?”

“I am not the person you think I am,” she looked very pale and scared. “I – I am not Angela—”

“I know,” he said, his voice soft and low. He looked at her, a world of meaning in his eyes.

His hands were on her cheeks again, gently wiping her tears away.

“My real name is –”

“Shh.…”

He kissed her on the mouth before she could finish. It could wait for later. Right now, he wanted to hold her in broad daylight, the sounds of the park coming alive around them. Hold her tight while Aya stood a few feet away, a ghost of a smile on his face. Kiss her while Ken and Omi blushed – and pretended to watch the children feeding the ducks by the pond nearby. It could not get any more real than this. The night he made love to her was probably a dream, but this was real. A dream could not fade away in the midst of a park. She was never going away again.

Before I go…

 

Thank you for reading! After being carried away (*sniff*) by Yoji’s tragic love and past, I wanted to explore other possibilities to his story. The question here is, “Is she or is she not?” You may read between the lines and draw your own conclusions.  ^. ^

 

Doumo arigatou to the High Priestess Lynn-chan – my friend who “lies over the ocean” – for the privilege of posting my work on this lovely site!

 

Did it melt your heart or leave you cold? For questions, comments, suggestions, whatever, you may reach me through mailto:kirei_onna@hotmail.com?subject=Comments/Suggestions to Fanfic.