The Santoku Chronicles

Mako

There wasn’t always dragons in the valley.

But now, San Fransisco was crawling with them. The Red Dragon Syndicate. Although sometimes, Mako couldn’t tell the difference between human and beast.

Even if they hadn’t been there long, Mako hadn’t known a time without them.

He knew he was to blame. The Red Dragons were the furthest reaching Yakuza because of him.

The Red Demon, as they called him in the streets. Whispered like a death rattle. The Akuma Akai.

And tonight he knew he would yet again put a new stain on his bloody slate. He was kneeling with his feet tucked underneath him, dark head bowed. The house he was in was hardly that. It was a fortress. Ancient as the samurai, a traditional Japanese minka surrounded by a meticulously groomed garden. It was the fortress of the leader of the Dragon Syndicate. There wasn’t a leaf out of the place that the Red Dragon allowed. Guards patrolled the walled-in gardens with guns and katanas. Mako had once counted three machine guns on the edge of the walls, six bulletproof SUVs, and at least eighty-five men.

The rice paper walls let in some of the golden rays of the sun. It was almost sunset. Twilight would be in a couple of hours.

The Red Dragon sat on the dais in front of Mako. There were only five other Dragons in the room to witness. Mako wasn’t high-ranking like them. He was only a blade, a tool to be picked up and used.

Anger began to catch in his chest, flaring like a flame on paper. Anger at the Red Dragon, sitting only feet away, watching him like a hawk. Mako knew he was making him wait. Forcing him to stay down to test him. Mako didn’t care that the syndicate head had saved his life. Someday, he would show the Red Dragon just how sharp his favorite blade was. But for now, he couldn’t let the anger show. His hands stayed relaxed, his breathing was even. And he waited.

The bamboo floors underneath him creaked slightly as another member of the syndicate stepped forward. A pair of feet were in Mako’s peripheral. He tensed, but there was another long beat of silence.

“You have work to do, Murakami Mako.”

"Hai."

“Your assignment is simple. One human. A restaurant downtown. Tonight.”

"Hai."

“They have the Sight. This must be fixed. You will fix it.”

Mako dipped his head to the floor and stood. When he held out his hands, palms up, his sleeves slipped back to reveal a peek of tattooed forearms. The syndicate member pressed a katana into his hands and dipped his own head.

“Go now.”

Mako ducked his head sharply and turned to leave, his face a mask of calm and focus. He had just slid the door open when a voice boomed out.

“Murakami.”

Mako turned and looked the Red Dragon in the eye. He kept his expression schooled in perfect patience as the syndicate leader studied him.

“You will not return until it is done. Do it well.”

It’s another test.

The third in a month. Mako smiled to himself but didn’t let it show. The Red Dragon was a suspicious man, but he wasn’t paranoid. If Mako played this right he could get inside his head. He could crumble this filthy syndicate from the inside.

“Hai.” Mako dipped his chin and left the room. As he left, he strapped the katana to his back and pulled a hat over his head. Sure that no one was in the hall with him, he let his fist clench into a tight ball. He could feel the angry red moons on his palm from his nails. Then he breathed deeply and relaxed his hands. It wouldn’t be long now. He could feel it. The game he’d been playing was a fine line. And he’d been balancing on it for as long as he could remember.

Mako’s stomach growled as he passed the guards at the front door. Maybe he could stop for some ramen before assassinating someone. Better before than after.

Mako fitted the red demon mask over his face before pulling the hood over his hat.

Change was coming. He could feel it.

…

Nicola

The breeze that drifted through the alley wasn’t the freezing cold punch in the face Nicola expected. In fact, she thought it smelled like warm grass. In the shadow of the building, it was cool enough to make her shiver. But as soon as she stepped into a slanted ray of sun, the toasty bricks made a small sigh of relief escape her nostrils.

Leaning against them, she rummaged in her baggy chef’s pants for her pack of cigarettes. The lighter didn’t catch until she cupped her hand around it, pressing the butt between her lips. The wind was starting to overstay its welcome.

Slipping the lighter back into a pocket, she blew out a cloud as she surveyed the alley’s narrow territory. It was a small breath of space between two brick buildings about a century and a half old, probably made in the early nineteen hundreds. Nicola could never remember dates from history class, much less the history of San Francisco. There had been a gold rush, then the Embarcadero had been built, and then…

Well, she thought tiredly, the rest is just normal big city stuff.

A trio of small fairies flitted past the building she leaned on, their small wings buzzing like dragonflies. Across her was a clean kept restaurant with dark green awnings over the patios and front. There were people sitting on small white marble tables and cushioned chairs, enjoying the last of the spring evening light. Her work shift had started two hours ago at three in the afternoon. It wasn’t unusual for her to stay at the restaurant until midnight. There was another gust that teased her bangs out of her backward hat. It smelled of the bay, hover car gasoline, and grass.

I need more bobby pins, she thought as she sucked in more nicotine. It felt like taking the first sip of coffee in the morning, and her shoulders sagged a little. Clamping the cigarette between her lips again, she yanked off her hat and let her stomach-length brunette hair loosen from her ponytail. The bangs that framed her too-small face flopped into her forehead again, greasy with sweat. And a shower.

As Nicola raised her head, her eyes caught on a dark shape suddenly standing inside the alleyway. She started, almost spitting out her cigarette. Collecting herself quickly, she called out, “Hey this is private property.”

Smoke billowed out of her mouth as she spoke hastily. The dark shape moved closer to her. A stooped human, wrapped with multiple shawls that looked like they needed a round at the cleaners. Ash-colored hair was highlighted pink in the light of a red neon sign as they approached. To Nicola, it appeared to be an elderly lady. “Ma’am,” she tried again. “You can’t be back here its—“

“Nicola Giada-Giuseppina.”

The voice crackled, and Nicola’s hair stood up on her neck. There was a sensation of static electricity in the air. She was too confused to say anything, but the crone stopped like she was glued to the concrete.

“I’ve seen you before.”

The strange woman’s words didn’t lose any of their power. Slowly, she raised her forefinger to her forehead. As soon as the skin touched, a third eye opened in the middle of her head. Nicola gasped and stumbled back against the wall. A witch.

“I haven’t done anything.” She squeezed her eyes shut. Maybe if she couldn’t see the witch and her soul-searing third eye, the witch would leave. “I’ve left your kind alone my whole life.”

“You will do your part.”

Feeling the peach fuzz on her arms start to raise, Nicola opened her eyes again.

The witch was gone. The alley was empty again. There was no sign of anyone having been there previously. She couldn’t even see anyone walking away or leaving around or corner. The witch had simply disappeared.

The back door opened and a line cook’s head popped out. The rumbling noise of the dishwashing machine cooks shouting and pans scraping against burners broke the evening calm. It soaked into the alley like a slow tide of reality. Nicola blinked.

“Nic, we need you on the line. We just got twenty tickets.”

Eyes wide, still squeezing the cigarette between her fisted hand, she looked at the line cook. “What?”

Her heart was pounding so hard she could hardly hear the noise of the patrons eating outside or the seagulls overhead. What had that witch said to her?

You will do your part.

What did she mean? Why had she approached Nicola? She wracked her own brain, trying to remember if she’d run into the witch in the past.

At the open market? On her way home? Think think.

“A shit load of tickets just came in. We need you on the line.”

“Coming.” She took one last huge inhale then flicked the cigarette on the filthy pavement and rubbed it under the toe of her converse. She’d had to put this out of her head for now. Otherwise, she’d end up with burnt plates of food.

The door closed and she sighed through her nose again. Unconsciously, she put her hat back on and swiped it backward before stepping through the heavy door and into total noise.

The water from the dish pit gurgled and sprayed a fine mist into the air as she passed by. There were three different conversations between the waitresses walking by with trays filled with filled waters and wine glasses, gossiping ferociously as they worked. The clank of plates from set was like small fireworks. Flames roared into the air from the ten burner stovetop as two sauté cooks worked side by side searing chicken entrees, seafood, and various sauces. It was welcome chaos.

“Who’s on wheel?” Nic called above the roar as she strode into the line area. There were five other cooks bustling along shelves of navy blue bowls. One cook jerked his head up. “Oh good, you still work here?”

“I’ll take over.” She grabbed a ticket hanging from the stainless steel wall clasp. “Sauté, we need two salmons, three chicken breast with bearnaise sauce, and one portobello steak.”

“Yes chef,” came the double chorus.

“Set, we need four app plates and six entrees.”

“Yes, chef.”

“Fry, we need two orders of crab cakes and one of fried asparagus.”

The hours flew in a non-stop cacophony of order after order. Jokes were tossed around, added to, then directed at one or two of the greener employees of the kitchen staff. The next time Nic stopped to drink some water and glance at the clock, three hours had gone by. It was past eight and the light outside was gone. The far wall’s windows were black, broken by bursts of neon lights from the city beyond the brick wall. “You guys know where chef is?” Nic took another long sip of water. She wanted another cigarette but mostly, she craved some fried food.

“I think he’s getting prep done in the back,” one of the line cooks titled his head to the furthest end of the kitchen, where a couple of tables had been pushed against each other in the middle of the room for pantry jobs.

Bouncy black mats formed a square on the ground around it, covering the terracotta orange tiles of the kitchen floor.

“Whistle if you need help.” She knocked back the rest of the water and threw the water bottle into the trash can as she walked away from the line.

There was a catcall whistle, comically loud, and everyone laughed behind her back.

“Do that again and your lunch break is gone, Ty.”

“That’s illegal.”

“Then call HR.”

Nic was out of earshot before Ty could reply, knowing full well the restaurant in no way had an HR department.

“Everything good?”

The voice was a low rumbling masculine voice and came from above Nic’s head. As she sauntered into the prep area, a massive minotaur in a stark clean chef’s coat turned to face her. The thick santoku knife in his plate-sized hairy hand gleamed in the white lights. He was at least seven feet high, with bulky muscular arms. Horizontal burns crisscrossed his forearms, as well as multiple tattoos. Two horns went straight from his temples before spearing forward to form a menacing crown. His bushy eyebrows, usually stuck in a grimacing frown, framed dark brown eyes filled with a tough-love and scorching criticism. A small tuft of brown hair stuck up between his horns.

Nic could never guess where he got the right coats to fit him. The sleeves were rolled at his elbows and not a button was out of place. He also wore black chef pants, but instead of feet, he was two curved cow-like ankles with enormous black hooves. Even a thick brown tail with a tuft of brown hair on the end snaked behind him, graceful as a cobra. Chef Bernard Randall was an impressive figure, definitely not someone to mess with.

“Yes, chef. The dinner rush is through.”

“Great. Now the bartenders can have a run for their money.”

Nic snorted and grabbed a blade from the metal magnet on the wall. Reading her mind, as usual, Bernard gave her his steel. She smiled at him gratefully as she began to sharpen her filet knife.

“You seem quieter than usual tonight, Nicola.” Bernard moved his cutting board so she could stand on the mat next to him.

Nic reached for a tenderloin and started cleaning it carefully, focusing on taking off only the access fat. “Spring is in the air,” she told him instead. “It smells like grass outside.”

Bernard gave her a sideways glance. His towering bulk was comforting to Nic. She felt like she could shrink next to him without being noticed. But he could always tell when she needed to talk, even though he wasn’t particularly empathetic. “It’s about time.” He answered neutrally. “We need some of your grandmother’s tomatoes for a special.”

Nic’s thin smile grew. “I’ll let her know.”

“Some fresh basil would be nice too.”

She sliced off more fat from the filet. A fresh wave of anxiety had rushed over her, fuzzing out everything around her. Maybe the witch had found her to get rid of her. Nicola’s stomach tossed like risotto in a saucepan. She should have ignored the witch. Pretended like she hadn’t seen her at all. Now Nic could find henbane in her lunch. Or maybe a charm bag under her motorcycle’s seat that would bring her bad luck. The unease in her chest made her fingers shake and she longed to go back outside and breathe in more nicotine until she felt calm.

Chef Bernard, irritatingly, seemed to notice.

“Nic, put the knife down before you hurt yourself.” It came out like an annoyed rumble. His voice was so deep that Nic sometimes thought someone was dragging some trash bins outside. She sighed and released her grip on the filet knife.

Bernard’s massive hairy forearm took up her entire peripheral as he reached over to clean it, sanitize it, then proceeded to sharpen it with a steel rod. The noises of metal clashing on metal were oddly relaxing, and the tension in her chest loosened.

“Are you going to tell me what’s eating at you, or are you going to go back to being a moody bastard?”

This was the game she and Bernard played almost every day. He could read her well, and as much as she hated how easy it seemed for him, a small part of Nic rested easy knowing he cared. As an orphan raised by her two elderly, if eccentric, grandparents, Bernard was the closest Nic had to a father figure in her life. At work, they would trade off snarky comments. Sometimes it would turn competitive, other times it would rally them during a heavy push of tickets.

“Keep up old man.”

“Wipe your plate, Gino.”

Sometimes good old-fashioned insults would rile him into a second wind mid-shift. Nic savored finding new ways to get on his nerves.

“Are you still crying because I can cook better salmon than you?”

“Are you still overcooking rice?"

Inevitably, he’d calmly end the exchange with a scathing comeback and an amiable wink.

So when Bernard finished sharpening her filet knife and handed it back, handle pointing to her chest, Nic sighed and decided to be honest with him. She didn’t know why. But she trusted him on a gut level. And over the years, her gut had not done her wrong yet.

“When I was taking a smoke break a couple of hours ago, a witch talked to me in the alley.”

There was a long, heavy pause. Nic kept slicing. Bernard kept chopping with his santoku knife. So naturally, Nic’s big mouth tried to fill the silence. “She said she’d seen me before. And she said something creepy."

There was a derisive snort.

Nic’s shoulders tensed and she stopped and took off the black gloves she’d been wearing. “Look maybe I shouldn’t have said anything—“

“Nicola.”

The tone was a borderline paternal rebuke. She winced and slowly glanced at him, all the way up seven foot three inches. He didn’t look like she had expected. His expression was deeply troubled, making the wrinkles on the corners of his eye deeper and more tired.

“I already guessed you had the Sight,” Bernard rumbled lowly. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

The weariness on his face looked oddly soft in contrast with his massive sharp horns.

“You knew?” It came out like a squeak and Nic instantly regretted it. “But…How?”

A smile split the minotaur’s face in half. “Nic,” he chided. “From day one, you would step around my tail. You don’t hide your Sight well.”

Nic felt her cheeks grow hot with humiliation at being so obvious. Of course. Nobody else did that.

“I didn’t know if I could trust you,” she mumbled.

“And you were right not to tell anyone.”

Nic looked up again. Instead of feeling regret, she felt a wave of curiosity. Suddenly, there was an opportunity to get answers. Nic felt an overwhelming need to ask questions.

“You have to promise me something, Nic.”

“W-What?”

“Promise me you won’t tell anyone else.” Bernard’s voice was usually low, but now it could have been buried under concrete. “It’s very dangerous, your ability.”

“Dangerous?” The idea made her scoff. “I know it’s unpopular but—“

“It’s extremely dangerous and you have to be careful.” Bernard’s voice was harsher than she’d heard it in a long time. “Promise me, Nic.”

“Okay okay, I promise.”

He grabbed her wrist and held it firmly in his massive hand. “I’m dead serious, Nicola. It’s extremely dangerous for you See things you shouldn’t. There’s a lot of us that think people like you…” He trailed off and let go of her arm. His severity was starting to scare Nic. Her heart was hammering under her stained jacket. She felt a large desire to run and hide in one of the dimly lit closets. “People like me…what?” She whispered. Nic wanted to stuff the words back in her mouth. Why had she asked? Did she really want to know? But curiosity always overpowered her need to keep quiet. She had questions that had lurked in her brain ever since the day she realized she could See things other people couldn’t.

Why did she have the ability? Why did it feel so wrong to See? Where had the Sight come from?

But Bernard shook his head. “Never mind. The point is that not all of us feel that way. We just want to keep our way of life the same. A feeling I believe everyone shares.”

Nic could only nod catatonically. This was the first time she’d ever talked to someone else about her Sight. She had just broken a barrier she’d built at an early age. It felt awful, like stepping out of a shower only to find all your relatives in the bathroom with you. But there was something freeing about it too. A weight had been lifted off her shoulders and in some part, she felt even grateful towards Bernard. He’d known her secret and he’d kept the knowledge even from herself. Deep down, she had known she could trust him. That feeling had been cemented now.

“Thank you, chef,” she whispered.

It might have been her imagination, but his big brown eyes looked more watery than normal. He put a heavy hand on her shoulder and smiled back. For the first time in years, Nic felt like she could relax.

Until someone screamed.