As an editorial note: In Part 1 I stated that the year was 2002, but I am adjusting that slightly. This story takes place around 2003-2004.

Japanese vocabulary:

kami: In Shinto (he traditional and primary religion in Japan) kami are deities, divine beings, or forces of nature. Kami is an embracive term, anything venerated in a religious sense is a kami.

And to reorient, at the end of Part 2 Gekijo faced off with the kitsune, which ended with Gekijo extinguishing the burning blade in his bathtub. And here we go:

From then on Gekijo carried the katana with him as much as possible, almost everywhere he went. This society did not allow a man to walk around with a katana tied to his waist or back, but it did allow one to walk around with a duffel bag in hand. He had a proper sheath made for it, one of high-nickel alloy to withstand the highest temperatures, and finished all over in flat black, to make it as discreet as possible.

There was more work, of course. Quinn had the gang operating further west and south these days. He was still living in Manhattan, and they all moved apartments often, but there was plenty of work in New Jersey where they were less known.

There was a mission Gekijo was to do alone, a recon mission. Data collection, at a Jersey port. Quinn had the idea that a large shipment of some sort of contraband was arriving and wanted Gekijo to scope it out, so Quinn could ask Doctor more specific questions and trace the lines better. It wasn't going to be two men in fedoras, meeting at the docks in the middle of the night, like a movie. The money exchanges usually happened separately, at a different time and place. Gekijo had become quite familiar with the family operations.

He arrived to the Den early in the morning. At Gekijo's insistence, Quinn had rented a warehouse space to stick the lamppost in. It was too conspicuous out on a street corner, and in an alleyway it was even worse. What would an ornate lamppost be doing in an alleyway? Quinn had protested the idea of paying for rent, but Quinn needed Gekijo and the ultimatum won out. Gekijo had already tried bottling small portions of his own blood and pouring it to the lamppost from a vial, but this did nothing. It wanted fresh blood from a fresh cut. Everything about the procedure and the lamppost itself and its never-ending glow were the opposite of discreet. Gekijo refused to continue working on such terms, and made this clear.

Quinn was also rightly leery of the paperwork in renting space, or what the owner would see, or hidden cameras.

"Skip the paperwork. Pay him extra under the table. Nothing new in New York City," Gekijo had said. "Ask Doctor every day and we'll pull out if the owner loses our trust." Everyone knew Quinn was giving himself by far the biggest cut anyway, and finally he relented and made the deal.

Gekijo made a tiny cut in his forearm with a small knife, and rubbed this against the lamppost's dentils until the stairway fell open in the floor. When he came into the main chamber, it was Sweet Atlanta alone, sipping coffee from a mug. A pot of greet tea and cup were waiting for Gekijo.

"Where is Quinn?" he asked, taking the tea. Quinn and Sweet Atlanta always briefed him together.

"He's probably in Newark, screwing teenage girls. It's what he does," she said, as bland as flat toast. "I have a special mission for you today."

"What of the recon at the shipping yard?" Quinn asked.

"I sent Carlos. Don't worry, he knows what he's doing. He'll take care of it. What I need from you requires a little more of your unique finesse."

Soon they were in a blue sedan, speeding up the freeway that led northeast to Massachusetts. The car was sleek and had a powerful engine that ran with a smooth purr. The interior was of immaculate cream-colored leather. Sweet Atlanta told Gekijo what she wanted. There was someone in the Boston area that she needed him to check out for her, to watch and to tell her what he saw. A little more than that, he was going to wear a minute camera/microphone earpiece transmitting to a small screen in her possession. The screen also had its own microphone, and it would be possible for them to converse through the devices.

She handed him a photo of the target. He was a strikingly handsome man, probably around forty years old, the image of Anglo-Saxon gallantry, like a soap opera doctor.

"His name would do you no good," Sweet Atlanta said, "He is undoubtedly using an alias."

"Someone from your past, I must assume," Gekijo said. Sweet Atlanta just huffed. It might have been a small laugh.

She had reason to believe that he was working with the Boston Red Sox baseball team. She had carefully reviewed the footage of several games but had seen no sight of him. She suspected that he was working in an important position, behind the scenes. It was Gekijo's task to get deeper in and get visual confirmation of his presence.

"That's all we need," Sweet Atlanta repeated, "Visual confirmation of his presence."

Gekijo nodded. At first he had thought she was going to ask him to do something difficult. She had picked an important game day, which was smart of her. The more hubbub and commotion the better. Gekijo finished studying the layout of Fenway Park, and then headed out towards the crowds around the stadium and the neighboring clubs and bars.

It was game one of the World Series against the St. Louis Cardinals. The Red Sox had just completed a miraculous comeback against the Yankees. Gekijo had been in America for a little more than a year now, and while he did not follow sporting events with any real interest, it was almost impossible not to know about that series. He had gleaned it to be a "best four out of seven" arrangement. After losing the first three games to the Yankees, the Red Sox won the last four games in a row, a first in league championship history. It was dubbed a miracle, and was practically the only thing in the news in New York City recently.

The excitement in Boston was more than just palpable, the electricity was alive and in the streets; something like a street festival, even just a step down from a riot. The fans were out in full force. So were the vendors. Gekijo came up behind a caterer who was his size, who didn't even hear him coming. After stuffing him unconscious behind a stairway he changed into the uniform. Luckily the ID badge did not carry a photo. The name was a Hispanic one, Miguel Agalludo, not a good fit for Gekijo who was obviously Asian, but if anyone asked he didn't speak English anyway.

This got him through the staff entrance of Fenway. Being unarmed made it simple.

The key was to look like he was meant to be there, like he was busy and knew where he was going, but not that he cared too much. He was a menial laboror. The other key was to turn his demon characteristics fully off. Many hours of practice and meditation had satisfied Gekijo in his command of this important skill. He walked the hallways in mild boredom, anonymously, not speaking to anyone or looking at anyone in particular, while actually keeping his attention fully out for his mark at the same time.

He walked down a concrete corridor with wood panel walls, and through a door into a chilled room. Another member of catering staff was filling a cart with alcoholic drinks in bottles and when his back was turned Gekijo smoothly grabbed the cart and wheeled it out. When the guy turned around and saw his cart gone, he was dumfounded for a moment, and then he ran out into the corridor and looked both ways to see where it had gone. Gekijo was already in an elevator, heading up to where the clubhouse overlooked the diamond.

If Sweet Atlanta's target was doing important work behind the scenes, this was the most likely place to find him. Other possibilities were by the locker room and near where the pitchers were, but Gekijo felt most confident about the clubhouse. Sweet Atlanta spoke directions into his ear as he worked his way to an appropriate entrance to the clubhouse.

"Approach slowly," Sweet Atlanta said. "It will be smoother if someone opens the door for you."

This was a good idea and Gekijo did so. When he was about thirty feet away a large man in a tight grey suit came bowling out, bombasting his cell phone overloudly. He didn't even look at Gekijo, but the man coming behind him held the door open for him.

Inside the clubhouse was packed. This was a party. A lot of men and a few women were halfway between business and celebration. Another run was scored and the place erupted with cheering.

"That's four for the Red Sox just in the first inning," Sweet Atlanta commented. Gekijo was scanning the room for the man in the photo as he wheeled the cart behind the bar. He didn't want to linger, but...

It was unmistakable. Gekijo saw his face in profile when he turned his head, but that wasn't it. The man was <i>glowing</i>.

Quinn walked around, ate, talked, moved like a human, anatomically and in basic appearance, but when you looked at him it was perceivable that something else was going on. From a human perspective it just felt wrong, but if you didn't know the truth that he was a demon, if you didn't believe such things were real, you wouldn't have been able to put a finger on exactly what was off. You just wouldn't trust him. Similar, albeit different, things could be said of Sweet Atlanta. Superficially she looked like a beautiful woman, but she had an indefinable air, an etherealness touching at the barest tips of unreality.

The "man" in the expensive suit, sitting with the rest in the Red Sox clubhouse at Fenway Park, was undoubtedly a kami, an angel, touched of the divine. The photo had not told the full story, it failed to capture the <i>aura</i> that would be felt but probably unrecognized by anyone not really in the know.

"Sweet Atlanta," Gekijo muttered, almost inaudibly.

Gekijo got out of there. Just as he turned to leave he saw the angel do the barest of double takes in his direction, but then his attention was back to the matter at hand and Gekijo was gone.

Sweet Atlanta guided Gekijo back to where she had the car.

"What was the purpose of this?" he asked gruffly when he got inside. "Are you trying to tell me I should place a bet on the Red Sox winning?"

"It's a little late for that. You should have put money on it back at game four against the Yankees," Sweet Atlanta said. "I did. Ten grand."

"Who was that and why did we search for him?" Gekijo wanted to know and would be told, though Sweet Atlanta was reluctant to explain. Gekijo could sense that she was preparing to tell him, but choosing her words carefully.

First she took him to a thrift store to get a new set of clothing. He changed in a gas station bathroom and threw away the catering uniform.

Sweet Atlanta had the radio tuned to the game. The Red Sox were winning four to two. Gekijo turned the volume all the way down.

"You knew when you asked me to help that you would have to explain. The photo you showed me failed dramatically to warn me of who I was really looking for."

"The other thing I <i>knew</i> was that he was involved with the Red Sox. I called it weeks ago," Sweet Atlanta said. "It's so like him. He was at the 1980 Winter Olympics as well."

"I don't know about that. I was dead then. I also don't particularly care unless it answers my question."

"The US Olympic hockey team was up against Russia for the gold medal. The decks were stacked completely against them, but they won. It was also during the Cold War, you know, 'who might bomb who first', so it was doubly significant. They called it a miracle. That's what they're saying about this one, too."

"So he is an angel who saves American sports teams from defeat," Gekijo said.

"It's a lot more than that. Sports are important to people in a way that can be difficult to define. It's near transcendent." She paused. "And he also just likes sports..."

Gekijo could tell Sweet Atlanta wanted to tell him more, and kept silent. The answer was creeping at the edge of her tongue.

"If he had any idea where I was, he would be looking for me." Sweet Atlanta said it flatly, as was her manner, eyes on the road. "If he's playing around with the Red Sox then he's not looking for me."

"In Japan there would be little reason for shame in this, but I have the idea that in the West a tryst of angels is a blasphemous thing," Gekijo said.

He had her there. The visors still made it so damn hard to read her but her countenance shifted dramatically all the same. "Yeah, that's right," she spat. "Don't look at that heavenly glow of his and think you're seeing the paragon of pure and blessed grace. A paragon of self-righteousness." She paused for a moment. "Angels are always right."

There was silence after that. She put the radio back on. She had answered his question to his satisfaction and Gekijo left it at that. The Red Sox won eleven to nine.

Quinn had more work for them. He had found a way to monetize their terrorist "specter beyond the shadows" mythos by extorting the extortionists, a game of threats and punishment. Quinn was enjoying himself too much. There were mob families that had a price on any lead, identification, anything - they didn't even really know where the shots were coming from, whose head to put a price on. Gekijo's main job became hunting the hunters. He knew the game and knew the families, knew the yakuza, knew who was pulling the strings on the street warriors, where to be and what to do when.

The lamppost was fully underground at this point. They had moved it into the back service corridors of the subway system. It was a space that didn't exist in a space that didn't exist, and you could get anywhere with the transit system. In his life as a hired ninja he had skirted on the hem of the hanging veil parting this world from shadow - but he was far past that now. Gekijo was the shadows, and to be able to seemingly appear and disappear at will, to cause someone to vanish or die the same day they took a contract, was the exact balance of fear and power that made Quinn giggle and grin at every payoff.

Gekijo didn't and had never really known exactly what to do with the money. Quinn spent his on drugs and girls, among other things. Gekijo knew Quinn and Sweet Atlanta lived together, and found himself wondering only once what their actual arrangement was.

Gekijo was no lavish liver, but there was an expense that corresponded to and justified his bankroll. He was purchasing Japanese artifacts - there were collections, galleries, replicas, and while he really needed few of these things and would use almost none, there was something in each piece of his home that called to him, a string reaching back through time and finding him in the present. These items were in ways really a burden, he needed to move often, had to find ways to store them, but still he purchased them. It was through this interest that he became aware of the authentic suit of historic samurai armor that was being auctioned.

It was of course without real explanation, but that it was from the private collection of a Wall Street figure, one who favored Asian artifacts - and was possibly trying to compensate for significant losses. But why had little importance, all that mattered to Gekijo from the moment he saw the photo was to get that suit of armor. It was not a natural thing from his previous life - samurai were lords and sons of lords, and Gekijo had been an orphan, penniless, a tool. One did not rise in a rigid caste system. But the world was different now. An idea had been born that a person could describe his own destiny and fulfill it or not as he was able. It was up to him.

The auction was a formal event. Gekijo asked Sweet Atlanta to accompany him and she accepted. She arrived in a taxi and Gekijo climbed in, dressed in a fine kimono of gray and green and red. Sweet Atlanta was stunning in a black strapless dress, with long gloves and a pair of large dark sunglasses in place of her normal silver visor.

"What did Quinn say?" Gekijo asked her.

"He made a fuss, asked me where I was going. I told him I was off to screw college boys and he shut up. He's probably breaking something right now."

"Does he hurt you?"

Sweet Atlanta scoffed. "Does Quinn lay a finger on little old me? I'm a warrior, Gekijo. I would destroy him."

The auction hall was stately, dark woods and somber upholstery. There were at least eighty people attending. The first lots were pottery - Gekijo owned already a few pieces of beautiful black and white pottery and was not interested. He had promised himself he would bid on nothing but the armor. A carved jade figurine of an old man frozen in the middle of an intricate dance sold for three thousand dollars. The next lot was a hair ornament, all gold and red, white and yellow, a curved piece with an array of jewels and two tines to affix in the hair. A thought came, unbidden, of how beautiful it would have looked in Tamashi's hair. Such a luxury would have been unthinkable in their life. Tamashi had even stolen jewelry of comparable splendor, but they were transient things, passing from them as soon as they were had, never really owned by them. Then the thought came of how lovely it would look in Sweet Atlanta's hair. They were sitting side by side, neither saying anything. The hair ornament sold for thirty thousand dollars.

There were a few pieces of Western art for auction as well. Gekijo paid little mind. Finally the auctioneer announced the samurai armor, the last lot of the evening. It was more magnificent than the photo showed, pale gold and green with red accents, each plate chased with dynamic patterns. The helmet was low and wide, the dominating helmet of a warlord. It was more than just battle gear, it was a work of art, a statement of supremacy.

"Bidding will start at two hundred thousand."

There was a round of furious bidding, several parties cutting over each other in quick succession. Gekijo remained silent, waiting. The price rose to three hundred seventy-five thousand dollars. There was some rustling, murmurs, competitors conferring quietly with their companions, but no new bids were placed.

"Do I hear three hundred eighty thousand?" the auctioneer asked after a moment. "Going once, going twice-"

Gekijo raised his number. "Five hundred thousand."

"Five hundred thousand from number forty-nine. Do I hear five hundred ten thousand?"

Another man raised his number. It was the one who had placed the three hundred seventy-five thousand bid earlier.

"Five hundred fifty thousand," he said.

Gekijo huffed to himself. He had hoped his high bid to intimidate other rivals. He quickly raised his number again. "Eight hundred thousand," he said. That was about all the money he had.

"Eight hundred thousand from number forty-nine. Do I hear-"

The other man, number sixteen, raised his number again, cutting off the auctioneer. "Eight hundred fifty thousand," he said.

Gekijo didn't hesitate. His number went up. "Nine hundred thousand," he stated. Sweet Atlanta shifted slightly. She knew he was outbidding his own finances, but said nothing. Gekijo looked at her. She looked at him. Then as one they turned to face number sixteen. He was a plain looking man, in a suit and with a pair of round glasses with thin frames on his nose. With an angel and a demon staring him down he did not flinch or blink or even look at them. He was conferring with a notebook in his hand.

The auctioneer continued his patter. "Nine hundred thousand from number forty-nine. Do I hear nine hundred ten thousand?"

The other man looked up from his notebook, directly at the auctioneer, ignoring Gekijo and Sweet Atlanta. "Nine hundred ten thousand," he said.

Gekijo immediately raised his number again. "One million."

"One million from number forty-nine. Do I hear any other bids?"

Number sixteen got up and walked out of the room.

"One million from number forty-nine. Going once, going twice, sold for one million dollars."

They did not discuss the matter; with no agreement or arrangement made, Sweet Atlanta put down the rest of the money Gekijo lacked to buy the armor.

He took it home and painstakingly worked over every detail. The previous owner had taken good care of the armor, but it was a little too big for Gekijo. He found expert craftsmen to do the tricky work of alteration. Some plates could not be changed while others could be shaved down at the edges. Sweet Atlanta had no problem helping to cover the hefty fees. The Red Sox won the World Series, and the transaction with the bookie had been rough but not unsuccessful - the bookies belonged to families and were well supported, but Sweet Atlanta was uniquely supported by her own crew.

Gekijo received phone calls and text messages from Quinn, but he ignored them. The only thing that mattered was the armor. When it was nearly complete he received an unwelcome knocking at his door. As he walked over to answer it, the knocking repeated louder, more petulantly. He opened to find Quinn standing there. Quinn was livid, his features twisting at the ends, dripping liquid shadow at the edges where he blended with the rest of physical reality. He was having trouble containing himself.

"Where the fuck have you been?" His tongue flicked out when he talked, a thin black sliver, his eyes slit and yellow.

"Fulfilling my destiny," replied Gekijo. "I have done well and karma has awarded me this suit of armor."

"You know that thing isn't going to stop any bullets," said Quinn.

"It's not for stopping bullets."

"I know, that's what I just said," said Quinn, completely missing the point.

Gekijo made his decision, right there. If he was to be samurai then he was samurai.

"State your purpose for coming and then leave," he said.

"<i>Leave?</i> There's <i>work</i> to do!" spat Quinn.

"You have been paying me on a per-job basis with no retainer. I find most of your 'work' to be unwise. It will catch up with you inevitably. If you present me with a job and I accept the terms, then I will proceed."

"Oh the hell you will, Gekijo, Mr. High-and-mighty all of a sudden. You work for <u>me</u>. I literally made you a new body from scratch."

"And I have made you enormous amounts of money," said Gekijo. "You have also failed to free my daughter from her prison, as you promised you would."

"I said I'd <i>try</i>. And you heard Doctor, she's gotta get born out of an angel's butt - what the fuck am I supposed to do with that?"

"You have given up trying," said Gekijo flatly, "Thus you have failed."

"Oh, that is it," Quinn said, suddenly getting very close to Gekijo, like he was going to elbow his way into Gekijo's apartment. Without hesitation, Gekijo slammed the flat of his palm into Quinn's chest, sending him reeling backwards into the hallway.

Quinn slithered back to his feet, spitting. "Oh yeah, Gekijo, think you know everything! You just watch buddy, I'm coming for you!" Quinn was stumbling over himself down the hall as he pointed and yelled at Gekijo. "You don't know me, you'll see! Oh yeah, fuck you!" He tripped over a box against a wall and slid spun over himself like he had too many legs. "I'm gonna enjoy eating that goddam look off your face!" Quinn grabbed the banister of the stairwell and slithered over the side, whipping out his limbs to take hold of the posts and railings to descend through the open center. Gekijo could hear him yelling and cursing as he went.

Gekijo closed the door and set back to the armor. The last adjustments were made, and he began donning and fastening the pieces one at a time. Then he took his daughter's prison, with her most inauspicious of cell mates, and set it in the living room on its stand but without the sheath.

Gekijo sat in his leather armchair, sinking deeply into the upholstery, probably damaging it. Tamashi was impressed, she addressed him respectfully and told him how good he looked. The kitsune agreed and called him Tyrant Gekijo, wondering if there were populations he would like to subjugate.

Gekijo did not respond. He needed to speak with it face to face - it had happened once, it could be done again. In his youth, in his training, Gekijo had performed many asceticisms, such as meditating under the punishing deluge of a strong waterfall, or balancing on a single foot while sleeping. He knew how to put himself in a trance. He focused on his daughter, on the kitsune. The sword was right in front of him, but the souls within where his target.

The earth was firm beneath his feet, stretching out plain and flat in all directions beyond visibility. Gekijo felt much bigger than he did on Earth; he was tall, expansive, clad fully still in his samurai armor. The woman form of the kitsune was before him, robed in white, Tamashi still fluttering as a long ribbon tied around its neck.

"Look who is the handsome samurai," the kitsune said unctuously, stepping towards him. He was struck then with what was so unnerving about the woman kitsune - there were many things - but Gekijo realized that in taking on his daughter's appearance as a young woman, the kitsune had achieved looking almost exactly like Tamashi's mother. Memories flooded unbidden into Gekijo's mind. Like Tamashi, he had led her to too soon a demise. Pregnant with the child of an itinerant bastard, she fled with Gekijo to the countryside where they found refuge with an elderly and childless couple. Nearly two days of hard labor, without midwife; they hadn't known what to do. She had been sharp tongued and impetuous, but she deserved a better life than the death she found there. Gekijo couldn't remember her name.

"Is that what you want, Gekijo?" the kitsune was reading his mind again. "I could be your bed woman."

"Let me tell you what you will be, kitsune, and hear me well. From now on, you are <i>my</i> familiar spirit. You belong to me." Gekijo took a mighty step forward, his weight causing the ground to shudder. "You will do as I tell you, when I tell you, without hesitation." He was growing taller, his chest expanding, his claws hardening. The kitsune took a step backward, uncertainty in its eyes. "One step of treachery begets my wrath. One break of fealty and you lose your neck. You will stay away from my daughter, you will have nothing to do with her."

The kitsune opened its mouth, "But-"

Gekijo swung hard with the back of his hand. It did not connect, his hand went right through as if there was nothing there, but the kitsune gasped all the same. It shifted quickly, glowing, bending back into its fox form. It was low on its front paws, staring at Gekijo, but it averted its gaze under the pressure of his. Gekijo became aware then that large wings had grown from his back. They were not bird or bat wings, nor the wings of insects; they were something else entirely, more reptilian.

Gekijo did not stop, his voice was thunder now. "And you will begin by untying my daughter from around your neck and setting her gently on the ground."

At this the kitsune gave the barest of bitter smiles, still looking away, its head cocked to the side. The truth of it came to Gekijo before the kitsune finished its sentence. "Lord Gekijo, if I were able to untie Tamashi from around my neck, I would have done so hundreds of years ago."

Gekijo realized he was lying prostrate on the carpet. He was in pain, there was a horrible mounting pressure in his back beneath the armor and he was hot all over. He quickly unstrapped the torso plates and released the wings that had been pushing hard against them.

He stood upright, letting the wings stretch to their full span. Tamashi gasped wordlessly, the kitsune said nothing. Gekijo's back and shoulders, and his wings ached - he could feel them like any other limb. He felt them over with his hands and tested his muscles gingerly. The wings were glistening, wet, and while he could move and manipulate them, swing them with his back and chest muscles, he could not really "flap" them. They came in at an odd joint in his upper back, behind and below his arms, and the rest of his body lacked actual flight anatomy. They were, in a word, useless. He considered even cutting them off with the sword. But he thought he would test first, trying to retract them, as he was able to turn off the claws and other details. By concentrating, he succeeded in pulling them in. It was painful, but the wings did slide in at the joint and disappeared in his back. He checked in the mirror and could see no physical signs of them. The he stood back, far back, and pushed them out again, slowly. The effect was horrifying.

Gekijo knew the importance of symbolism. He picked up the torso plates of his armor from the floor. He would have to get them altered again, make sections on the back able to open outwards.