But the Shogun parried every deadly strike. He deflected a cut to his head and then whipped his blade back and forth, fending off two quick jabs to his midsection. Two more swift thrusts to his head forced his blade upward, and he had to shift his footing in order to keep his balance. He had to do something fast and he knew it.
“Soon I will have you, Shogun,” said the Musketeer between strikes, his free hand edging toward his belt.
Noticing the movement, the Shogun lunged forward and struck the Musketeer with his shoulder. The maneuver caught him off guard and sent him stumbling backward. Never losing his momentum, the Shogun followed through with a quick uppercut, slamming his fist into the Musketeer’s chin. The blow sent the man flying, and he flipped twice in midair before slamming into the roof with a thud. His hand slipped out of his shirt, a dirk in his fist.
Kicking himself up, the Musketeer landed on his feet like a cat, his weapons at the ready. This time, however, it was the Shogun’s turn to go on the offensive, and he attacked his opponent with savage ferocity. The dance began again, and the night was alive with the deadly song of the clashing blades.
The Shogun parried a hasty jab to his midsection and slashed down at his opponent’s head. The Musketeer blocked the strike with both weapons, and the two fighters slid their swords down, their blades locked and arms straining with exertion.
“So, mon ami, where do we go from here?” the Musketeer panted.
“We finish it,” replied the Shogun, and pivoted to the side. The Musketeer stumbled forward at the sudden release of pressure, leaving him wide open. The Shogun slashed upward, cutting deeply into his stomach, doubling him over.
The rain halted in place and the clamor of the universe ceased as time itself came to a standstill. The Musketeer hung limply from the Shogun’s katana. He chuckled and his dirk dropped to the ground with a clang. Strangely, no blood flowed from the gaping wound.
“Get on with it already!” he growled through gritted teeth.
The Shogun nodded and slid his blade forward and yanked up, finishing his cut. The Musketeer fell to his knees, his hands dangling at his sides.
“Goodbye,” whispered the Shogun.
“Go to hell!” the Musketeer spat.
“Never.” The Shogun swung his blade to decapitate the injured man.
Before the blade could hit its mark, the Musketeer threw himself forward and the katana missed his head by inches. With a renewed and supernatural vigor, the Musketeer rolled to the side, away from the crouching Shogun. Holding his insides in with one arm and using his sword as a crutch, he managed to get to his feet, stumble toward the roof’s edge, and throw himself over.
The Shogun charged after the fleeing Musketeer but was not quick enough. He peered over the edge, hoping to find a broken corpse lying shattered on the street below, but his heart knew better. There was no sign of the injured Musketeer.
The universe snapped back into motion and he was buffeted by the sudden clamor of the storm. A ghostly chuckle echoed on the wind but was lost in the downpour.
Two
Not far from the supernatural conflict, a young woman jogged down the relatively quiet streets of Binghamton, New York. The storm had driven most of the city’s nocturnal inhabitants indoors for the night, so the streets were empty.
Amanda Pratt was a twenty-seven-year-old fit and attractive blonde. She had debated with herself on whether or not the exercise was worth getting wet over, but the heaping bowl of ice cream she had eaten after dinner made the decision a no-brainer. In today’s society, the cardinal sin was not murder but being fat. It didn’t matter what you did, as long as you looked good doing it.
She turned onto the street that led to Otsenango Park and picked up her pace as she crossed the bridge. Amanda was mildly afraid of heights, and her heartbeat quickened as she sprinted across the hated bridge. She slowed when she reached the other side and quickly checked her Fitbit. The rain was steadily increasing, and the wind was blowing hard, making the run uncomfortable and difficult.
Should she turn back? She sucked in deep gasps of air and shook off the rain that drenched her from head to toe.
What was I thinking coming out here this late at night and in a horrible storm no less? she thought. It’s not like anybody’s gonna notice, anyway.
Somebody had noticed her, though, and had followed her since she’d left her house. The fact was, he had come out here in this miserable weather just for her. She had been on his mind for quite some time.
Amanda noticed the man slowly approaching her as she turned to start the long run back home. He was a tall handsome man, whose long wet black hair clung to his face. The man was dressed all in black and wore a leather coat that came to his waist.
Her hand slipped up to her hair—she knew it was a matted mess after jogging—and she blushed as the handsome man approached. But as the man drew closer, a feeling of dread washed over her. The feeling was so overwhelming that it took all her willpower to keep herself from bolting in the opposite direction. She took a step back, her heartbeat quickening as she looked for a possible way of escape.
A few paces away, the man stopped to pull out a cigarette. He lit it with a Zippo lighter and took a long drag. “Hello, Amanda,” he said, blowing smoke out his nostrils as he spoke.
Blue eyes. Ice-blue eyes.
“Do I know you?” she replied. The fact that this man knew her name made her feel even more uncomfortable.
The man smirked. “I’m a bit hurt that you don’t remember me, Amanda.”
Shivering in the rain, Amanda tried
