See Part One for Disclaimers

Part Four

He looked around the room, his gaze resting on Caleb's door for a long moment, almost sensing his cousin on the other side half listening to find out what he could hear of the conversation.  He almost moved to the door, to shove it open, to confront his sneaky cousin with his dubious actions.  But what was the point?  There wasn't one.  Caleb was responsible for his own actions.  Nothing his new found cousin did would alter that.

He gathered up his belongings from the bedroom he'd occupied and left.  The front desk had assured him there was a room available for him.  There was.  He signed in for the new room, got his key and deposited his bag in the room, taking a moment to hide his legacy, just in case.   Just in case Caleb gets bright ideas? he asked himself.   Or just in case a Black Dragon comes calling?  He frowned at the thoughts.   Or just in case your paranoia gets the better of you?

He laughed at the last thought.  It's only paranoia if you  aren't being followed.

He went out to do some research, stopping first at the Times Picayune offices to find out if they still retained archives their old issues.  He was relieved to discover that they did.  Most of them on microfiche.  He asked for the three years he believed involved in Aaron Acton's convictions.  The attractive young lady with the incredible Southern drawl behind the counter inquired what particular sort of article might interest him.  He told her.  She pulled up a computer query and found exactly the items he was looking for.  She directed him to a computer terminal on the other side of the room and he spent the next hour reading about Aaron Acton and his run-ins with the law.

The last article was a small single column item detailing a ruckus at Angola Prison.  Died: Aaron Acton, serving 20 to life for murder.  In critical condition: Kenneth Usagi, serving 5 to 10 for drug dealing, first offense.  He cross referenced Usagi.

The young man had a long record stretching back to Juvenile Hall.  His juvenile records were sealed at this time, but he had been seventeen when he was convicted.  Due to his background, he served a year at a juvenile correction center before being transferred to Angola on his 18th birthday.  Aaron had been right about the boy being young, but hardly fragile.  Even a hardened lifer like Aaron could be fooled, sometimes.

Then he went looking for information on his cousin Caleb.  Surely, as violent as he was, he could hardly have avoided being caught doing something.   Right.  And as violent as you are, you could hardly have avoided being caught doing something.  He reminded himself that the difference between the vengeance he had extracted, however ill conceived it might have been in retrospect, was nothing like the hostility and random violence of Caleb.  His inner voice snickered at that.  It reminded him that he had nearly beat a felon to death because he was annoying a woman Jonathan cared about.  That lack of control had seriously disturbed him for days.

Nothing.

Perhaps he was looking in the wrong place.  He thanked the young lady and left, ignoring the wistful look she gave him as he went.

He realized it was long past lunch and went looking for a restaurant.  He found a café that served sandwiches, po'boys here in Louisiana, resembling submarines and hoagies, but with a subtle difference on warm French bread with a crisp, crumbling crust.

While he ate lunch, solitary, and watched life go by on a New Orleans street, Caleb was doing his own research through a knowledgeable acquaintance.  The Barrister, as the little man was known, was a font of knowledge on both sides of the law.  He was unequivocally neutral.  He would not break the law, but he would not turn in the law breaker either.  He brokered information only.

"Jonathan Raven," the older man repeated.  "Interesting name."

"Very.  He lives in Hawaii, he has money, he is, or  was, related to Aaron Beauregard Acton and he looks entirely too much like me.  I want to know all about him.  And I want to know before sundown."

"How very dramatic of you.  I'll do what I can."

Caleb left without threatening the man because he knew that threats would not work.

About six in the evening, as he was headed back to the hotel for dinner, Caleb got two calls.  One was from a sinisterly whispery voice urging him not to betray the owner and to bring him Jonathan Raven.  The other was from the Barrister.

"You had better have found something."  Caleb's tone was acidly in earnest.

"Bad day?"

"Not yet."

"Well, Jonathan Raven, born, raised in Japan, orphaned, taken into a supposedly non-existent clan of assassins."  Caleb perked up.  "Around 1983/84 something happened to the clan.  Mr.  Raven surfaced a little later as an assassin working for a department known as "The Agency" to most people.  He was very good at his job.  Then he shows up in Hawaii with a friend, Herman Jablonski, a private investigator.  No obvious ties to the Agency, frequent problems with people trying to kill him, but nothing to show that he is still in business with anyone other than the private investigator.  Martial arts skills in several areas.  And something of a temper.  Not a man to cross."

"Neither am I."

"Yes, Mr.  Moorecock.  Will there be anything else?"

"You missed one item."

"And that was?"

"That his mother was Aaron Acton's sister."

"I presumed you were aware of that connection, Mr.  Moorecock."

"Thank you."  He cut the connection with a snap as he closed the cover of his cell phone.  Annoying little -- he pulled himself up.  The Barrister was not someone even he could afford to offend or pick on.  He entered the penthouse and was aware of its emptiness.  He looked toward the room his cousin had occupied.  As good as his word, he had vacated the premises.  He called down to the desk to find out what Mr.  Raven's room number was.

He started to call down, then decided it would be better if he went in person.  He took the elevator down to the proper floor and walked down the thick carpeted hallway to the room.  He met Jonathan coming out.

"Well met," he said softly.  "Although hardly moonlight."

"And not proud Titania," Jonathan responded, recognizing the quote.  "You wanted something?"

"You asked about family, Mr.  Raven."

"You gave me your answer."

"Yes.  But I was rude.  And I was -- wrong.  Join me for dinner?"

Jonathan could almost sense the wheels going behind the bland façade, but he accepted anyway.  New Orleans was not quite comfortable for him on his own, he kept sensing someone watching him.  If it was his cousin, he might as well watch in comfort and from an observable distance.

The Royal Orleans Rib Room lived up to its reputation.  The Prime Rib was melt in your mouth tender, and the rest was well presented, well cooked and well received.  In spite of his Japanese upbringing, he did not feel overwhelmed by the food here.

Whether it was the food, the alcohol or the company, and Jonathan doubted it was any of the three, Caleb was inclined to talk.  He told Jonathan everything he knew about Aaron Acton, which wasn't a great deal, but was more than the newspapers and Aaron himself had revealed.

"Did you set it up?"

The eyes glittered dangerously for a moment, then his companion relaxed.  "I am hardly going to admit to having my father killed.  Besides.  There was really no reason to do so.  He had enough enemies on his own."

"As does the boy he was apparently protecting."

"Boy?"

"Kenneth Usagi.  Japanese American, drug dealer."

Caleb's brows drew together slightly.  "Usagi -- ah, yes.  Beautiful young man.  Quite a lot of enemies.  You shouldn't always believe what you read," he said softly.

Jonathan frowned.  He decided not to explore this avenue of investigation.  He asked Caleb about his childhood on the bayou.

"Nothing like it was fifty years ago.  By the time I was old enough to remember things, the Cajun lifestyle was being memorialized on film with us being anything from the good ole boys who help save the day to the pin headed morons who were the problem.  Henchmen and helpers.  Of course, you never get anyone who actually  is back bayou Cajun to play one.  There is a limit to the box office draw, I presume."

Dinner passed off well enough.  The drive back to the hotel was another matter.  Caleb made an excuse to stop off in the warehouse district close to the riverfront.  He slid out of the Porsche and disappeared into the darkness while all the warning bells in Jonathan's mind were screaming "TRAP" at him.  He cussed silently at his duplicitous cousin and threw himself out of the car.

He crouched in the shadows several feet away a few moments later, waiting.  The car had not exploded.  That was a good sign.  But he could sense others here, in the darkness.  Others who were as attuned to working in the dark as he was.  And he had come out unarmed.  He wondered briefly if the glove box of the Porsche still held the gun Caleb had left there earlier.

A quarter of an hour passed.  He eased out of the shadows and over to the Porsche.  Just as the door to the glove box dropped, something whizzed out of the darkness and skimmed his cheek.  Small and metal, it pinged off the Porsche and fell into the darkness.  He dove into the car, grabbing for the gun and then stilled, waiting.

Silence.  He popped the driver's side door open and pushed it out.  Thump.  Shuriken.  A star shaped one was imbedded in the door liner.  He threw himself out of the passenger side, hoping to confuse his attackers.  Thump.  Ping.  Thump.  He rolled into the deeper shadows behind a trash bin and grimaced to keep from acknowledging the hit he'd taken in the thigh.  He reached down and found a dart imbedded in his thigh.  He pulled it out, wondering what might have been on the point.  He sniffed it cautiously.  Blood.  His blood.  Nothing else.

Still, the damage would work against him.  He checked the magazine on the gun.  Full.  Good.  Now, to wait.  And when he was through with the attacker, he would deal with Caleb.

Caleb discovered that the ninja was not quite so satisfied with his assertion that he was not Jonathan Raven.  Two black clad forms had been waiting for him, armed with swords and throwing stars.  He'd taken one in the shoulder before he eluded the two of them.  He fumed over having left his sword at the hotel and his gun, one of them, in the car.  Damn.  Well, found weapons could work just as well.  And this  was the warehouse district.

Jonathan could feel blood oozing out of the wound he'd taken, soaking into the fabric of his trousers.  He wished his opponent would make a move.

"Raven-san.  Traitor.  Murderer.  Betrayer of Clan.  Come out."  The Japanese was fluent, stinging.

Jonathan chanced a look.  A stocky form stood out in the open.  Clad all in black, it was impossible to tell anything about it, although the voice placed it as male, approaching middle age and from the Kyoto area.  Well, he couldn't stay crouched here forever.  Jonathan stood up and stepped out of the shadows.

The other looked him up and down.  "You are Jonathan Raven."

"I am."

"You are a dead man."

"I've been told that before."

"Your bloodline ends, here, tonight."

He felt a cold chill.  "I don't think so," he answered softly.  "There is no reason for this."

"You betray the clan and you say there is no reason for this?"

"The Black Dragons murdered my parents.  They boasted of it on the walls of the room in which my parents died.  I sought vengeance.  The Black Dragons died for the murder they had already committed."

"Lies."

"Truth."

"We are dishonored as long as you and your whelp survive."

"My son has nothing to do with this.  I do not know where to find him.  You do not know where to find him.  Let this end, here and now."  He was offering them his life, although he wasn't completely aware of what he was doing.  To keep Hikari safe from a vengeance he didn't even know existed, Jonathan would willingly die.

"You are unarmed."

He brought forward the pistol.  Caleb, watching, swore silently.  That was  his gun, dammit.  He swore again as Jonathan tossed it into the Porsche.

The ninja made a hand motion.  A sword came flying out of the night.  Jonathan caught it.  It was his sword, the one that should have been in his house in Hawaii.  To the death it would be.  For Hikari.

They stood, at the ready, like Japanese statues out of time.  Jonathan breathed easy as he had been taught.  Let the other begin the fight.  You end it.  Small noises became bomb blasts.  He could hear breathing.  His own.  The ninja.  And two more silent attackers nearby.

The other man moved, like lightning.  Jonathan countered, ducking and striking in his own turn.  Steel hit steel.  He turned to face the other as he launched a second attack.  Swords striking sparks from each other, they met as katana's were not meant to meet.  The razor edges took blows and flamed in the darkness.  The ninja's metal broke suddenly, with a k-tang that could be heard for miles, or so it seemed.  He abandoned the broken haft and pulled a pair of knives.

The ninja waded in, striking, striking, striking, turning, and striking again.  Jonathan was barely warding off his blows between the sword and his empty right hand.  One knife broke through, slicing along his rib cage, but not doing much damage.  The cut burned, like a razor cut would.

Jonathan abandoned the sword for his other skills, including dodging around, under and through obstacles.  His thigh burned where the dart had penetrated it.  Blood was soaking his shirt.  He had to end this and end it now.  He called on all the skills he had mastered over the years and grappled with his opponent.  A flurry of strikes knocked one of the knives away, leaving only the other one to worry about.  They strained against each other.

"Forget my son," Jonathan whispered.

"Never.  The line  must end.  Now."

Shift.  He felt an opening, surged into it and was almost surprised when the other gave a surprised grunt and stopped fighting.  They parted.  The hilt of the knife protruded from just under the man's heart.  "We -- will -- be -- avenged."  He dropped to his knees, then fell the rest of the way flat onto the pavement.

Jonathan dove for the gun in the car.  He could hear the soft susurration of soft ninja boots as the others left.  Now to find his cousin.  He checked the steering column.  The keys were still there.  Caleb was not going to abandon his car.  He slid out of the driver's side of the car, wishing he could just quit and go home.  The adrenalin surge of the fight waning, he was beginning to feel his wounds.

A quiet step behind him.  Not one of the ninja.  Caleb.  Jonathan crouched beside the car.  He heard the other man pick something up.  The fallen knife, probably.  Caleb came around the back of the car, looking into the darkness for his cousin, but not right beside the car.  He turned to look farther out into the darkness, a frown pulling his eyebrows together.  He wanted to find Jonathan, although he wasn't completely certain that killing him was the answer he sought.  He sensed Jonathan's presence behind him just fractionally too late.

He stilled as the cold metal of the gun touched the sensitive skin on the side of his neck.  He was closer to dying, right now, at the hands of his look a like cousin, than he had been at the hands of the Black Dragons, or anyone else, for some time.  The feeling was electric.  His heartbeat accelerated, his respiration was shaky, his temperature was rising and he was getting a major hard on.  The pressure against his neck was exhilarating and frightening, as was the touch of his double's arm firmly around his neck.  Finally acknowledging the double edged sword of his ambivalence toward Jonathan, he waited.

Jonathan Raven found he was not certain what he wanted to do with his damnable cousin.  The man was a conscienceless killer.  He was crazy.  He was trembling under Jonathan's touch.  As close as they were, he could feel the hard core of tension in the man.  It dawned on him that Caleb was getting very turned on by their confrontation.  That the man was waiting for the violence that would give him release.  More disconcerting was the recognition that Caleb was by no means the only one aroused.

Caleb relaxed back against his captor.  Part of his brain was looking for an out, part of it was just enjoying the contact.  Was  that what he thought it was?  He risked turning his head slightly, his heavy lidded gaze met Jonathan's.  They both trembled.  Faces within inches of each other, sensual mouths far too close and inviting.  Jonathan was tired, he hurt and he was having trouble dealing with the close proximity of his double.

Caleb reached up and gently stroked the side of his cousin's face.  Then his fingers tangled in the unruly black waves the other wore just slightly longer than his own.  He could feel the hand holding the gun tighten, the finger on the trigger aching to complete its mission.  He smiled.  "I surrender."

The tension that had gripped Jonathan's entire body eased away.  His eyes closed, his head sagged forward slightly toward Caleb.  He eased back on the trigger he had come so close to pulling.  The soft touch of the other man's lips on his forehead brought his eyes open again.  Caleb grinned at him.  There was a wicked gleam in his eyes.  And a touch of supplication.  Jonathan pulled back.  Caleb read the look.  No.  This cousin might be tempted, but he was too solitary to give in.  Pity.

"May I have my neck back?" he asked coyly.

Jonathan let him go.  "Where does this leave us?" he asked, leaning heavily back against the car.

Caleb shrugged his shoulders carelessly.  "Not enemies."

"You'd have pulled the trigger."

"Of course.  But you're not me."

"And you traded on that," Jonathan ground out.

"No.  Not at all.  I didn't know, until now."

Jonathan looked into those fathomless eyes, so like his own, and read the truth.  Caleb was a risk taker because it was life and breath to him.  He would turn the card, take the gamble, kill or be killed with the same abandon because it was all one to him.  It wasn't even faith that he would come out on top that drove him.  It was the game itself, the play, the tension, the temptation.  It was what made him know he was alive.

"Neither did I," he admitted in a tired voice.

The quiet admission got a real smile out of Caleb, one that lit his eyes.  He chuckled, straightened his coat and suggested that they get Jonathan the hell out of there before someone else came hunting him.  It was then that Caleb realized Jonathan had taken damage.  His concern became real.  He helped his cousin around into the passenger seat and took them back to the hotel.  On the way, he placed a call to his personal physician.

"Don't worry.  He's discreet.  Very discreet."

He helped Jonathan to his feet and into an exclusive elevator that went directly to the penthouse, not stopping anywhere else en route.  The doctor arrived moments after they did.  Jonathan pulled off his ruined shirt to reveal a long shallow cut, most of the blood dried and clotted already, but in need of stitches.  The hole in his thigh was cleaned and bandaged.

Caleb stayed and helped through the whole procedure, only having his own wound seen to when Jonathan was resting comfortably.  If he noticed the swift drawing together of his cousin's brows when he realized the other man was damaged, he gave no sign.

Jonathan was just about dozing off, when it occurred to him that there was something odd about Caleb's back.  He opened his eyes and looked as the doctor finished taping a pad into place over the wound in his shoulder.  Very faintly, there was a cris-crossing of scarring across most of his back.  As though someone had whipped him.  The word flayed came to mind.  And the scars were old, stretched, faded.  He had been very young when it had happened.  He wondered if Caleb would tell him, if he asked.

Caleb had caught the flicker of Jonathan's eyes across his back.  There were some secrets he occasionally forgot he had.  He pulled his shirt back on, showed the doctor out and went back to make certain his cousin was settled in.  He was looking very remote as Jonathan tried to hold his eyes open to look at him.  Damn, the doctor must have given him a sedative.  Caleb sat down on the bed next to him, reached over and gently pushed sweat damp curls out of Jonathan's face.

"You're safe for tonight."

"There isn't much of tonight left."

Caleb smiled.  "You're safe from me for the rest of your stay.  I've played my hand for now."

"Why?" Jonathan found himself asking, in spite of the earlier revelations he'd had.  Those were becoming fuzzy now.

Caleb leaned down, close and whispered.  "Sheer envy, cousin.  You walk half in the light, something I will never do.  And sometimes, that is so very attractive, so very alluring.  But the dark has its needs."

Jonathan met the black gaze squarely, saw the darkness he had once thought would always claim him.  He reached up with his good arm and gathered his surprised cousin into a fierce hug.  "Sometimes, the light burns," he murmured.  He felt Caleb's arms go around him, hold him.  There was a fierceness there too; a protectiveness that surprised Caleb.  Maybe there was something more to life than games and risks.  He sat there until he felt his cousin relax into sleep.  Then he sat there a while longer, knowing that each owed the other nothing more than blood calling to blood.

Caleb left the penthouse at dawn.  He wasn't certain he wanted to be there when Jonathan woke up.  He didn't want to see the regret in the other's eyes over what they had shared in the depths of the night.

Jonathan awoke alone and aching.  The doctor arrived a few minutes later, clucked over him, gave him some painkillers that wouldn't knock him out and asked after Caleb.  Jonathan couldn't tell him.

Lunch came and went.  No Caleb.  About dinner time, Caleb called and apologized for his absence.  He asked how Jonathan was doing.

"Not bad.  Cluttering up your penthouse."

There was a laugh in Caleb's voice as he assured him it was all right.  "When are you leaving?"

"When will you be back?"

"I asked first."

"I'll know when I get an answer."

"You've gotten too many already, Jonathan," came the soft reply.  "I won't be back for a week."

"I'll be gone before then."

"It's all right.  I'll be in touch."

Jonathan looked thoughtful for a long time after he put down the receiver.  The truth in Caleb's voice had been obvious.  It would take some getting used to, but now he had family other than a son he couldn't seem to find and a friend.  He blinked self consciously at the sudden dampness in his eyes.  Now he knew he hadn't made a wrong decision letting his cousin live.

Two days later, still sore, but functional, he checked out, took a taxi to the airport and sat down to wait for his plane.  He took with him new hope that he might find his son, new knowledge that he was not alone, whether he found that son or not; and an understanding that there were paths he had chosen not to tread, dark places in his soul that were far more gray than black.  He was content to continue his search.

Ski met him at the airport looking tanned and fit.  If the older man wondered at the sudden bear hug that engulfed him, he didn't let on.  There were depths to his friend that he would never know or understand, he would just accept.

"Good trip?"

"Yes."

"Talk about it?"

"Later.  Right now, it's just good to be home."

end

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