Witch Hunter Robin Fan Fiction ❯ Binah (Understanding) ❯ The Problem of Memory, Part 1 ( Chapter 11 )

“Miss Sena, this is so unexpected-”

Amon saw Robin direct her attention to the go game that waited at Neville's table. She gestured with one hand, and the game flew off the table and into the opposite wall, black and white plastic pieces clattering against wood. The board dropped and fell haphazardly to the floor. “You're right,” Robin said. “It is unexpected.”

Neville's eyes widened. “Your power…”

“Perhaps you should start telling me about the Arcanum of the Craft, or find someone who can,” Robin continued, “before I break something more important.”

And while Amon had to admire her handling of the situation (zero to Machiavellian in under a second); he remained silently astonished at the way her power was increasing by leaps and bounds. By the time they left the apartment, it wasn't just the coffee cup, but books, pens, a bowl—anything she wanted, really, but which was just a little too far away. They had experimented together, and not only could she bring the power back, she could manipulate it. But Robin wasn't a telekinetic Witch. Granted, it was a fairly common skill among Witches, but one that Robin had never exhibited. She was doing in a day what it took some Witches of the Walled City years to figure out. There were others, helpless to the Craft, who moved things without truly meaning to—Robin had done this exactly once, and then never again.

A sound behind Neville drew Amon's attention. Another door to the warehouse opened, and a group of five people, who Amon presumed were Witches, streamed in to face himself and Robin. The other Witches, including Neville, hurriedly stood and left. The five wore plain, drab brown robes, and eerily perfect Noh masks. Their voices were muffled behind the masks. They gestured with their hands.

“So, your power has begun to change?” one asked. “You have gone outside your Craft?”

“Yes,” Robin answered simply. “What is going on?”

“The Arcanum of the Craft,” said another. “You have four hundred years' worth of knowledge inside you.”

“It is knowledge of every Craft,” a third added. “Soon, you will master all of them.”

Amon came to stand beside her, and felt rather than saw her make the next logical jump. “You'll teach me, in exchange for leading you,” she said.

“That is the exchange,” a fourth Witch agreed. “Your knowledge is priceless, and our community is lost without it. But without our understanding, you too are lost.”

“Could I master it alone?”

All five made a slight dissenting movement. One spoke. “Your mind…it has been difficult to sleep of late, has it not?”

Robin stiffened. “How did you know that?”

“Your new memories, they plague you, in your sleep,” one Witch said. Her voice was female. “Now that the time has come for you to use them, your memories, all four hundred years of them, clamber to be heard.”

“The lives that have preceded you,” began another, a man, “they are insistent, and wish you to learn their fate…”

It took Amon exactly one second to understand why their tone irked him so deeply, and only another for his hand to drift toward one holster. “If you've invaded Robin's mind…”

“We've done nothing of the sort, warden!” a male voice snapped. “We are not so undignified…”

“No, but you are cowards,” Amon accused plainly. “I have no time for masks, and neither does she.”

“These masks protect you as well as they do us,” a female voice said carefully. “Our identities must not be known. You must not be able to answer questions, about us. If you were to be tortured…”

“You presume that kind of importance?” Amon spat. “You're a leaderless coven tarted up in costume. The last time I checked, there was only one Eve of Witches in this room, and she was the one who came here undisguised.”

“Amon,” Robin called softly. “It's all right.”

He turned. In the dark, Robin looked older, somehow. Even in the shadows, however, she didn't need to speak to make her wishes known: her face was enough. If he had spent the time, he might have wondered when exactly they stopped needing words. But in that moment, he knew only that Robin would be taking control, and he stood beside her to watch.

“The rumors of his temper were certainly true…” one Witch whispered.

“Were you saying something?” Robin interrupted brusquely. The others fell silent. “That's what I thought.” In a gesture eerily reminiscent of Amon's own posture, Robin clasped her hands behind her back. “You want to become my new instructors?”

As one, the elder Witches of the Walled City nodded. Robin looked around the warehouse. “It's dark in here,” she muttered, and promptly set a pile of dry wooden crates on fire. Brightness and heat came to life nearby, at once bringing a golden glow to her features, and casting them in relief. Shadows flickered across her face. Her eyes burned. The adjective that immediately leapt to Amon's mind, as fast and devouring as Robin's own flame, was quickly blown out by the icy winds inside him. One part of him stamped on the ashes, while another kept his eyes pinned to her, rapt.

“Do you know what happened to my most famous instructor, Master Witch Hunter Sastre?” Robin asked, her voice soft but strong. The implacable, perfect masks remained silent. “I killed him,” she said. “I killed him the same way that I killed Methuselah, who introduced the Arcanum to me. This was also how my superior, Zaizen, died. I incinerated them.” She looked at each mask in turn. “Are you absolutely certain that you want to teach me, knowing that?”

“Your secrets are far too precious to be lost,” one mask said. “And, you are the only one who can make the world see us for what we are—human beings. You, Robin Sena, are the only one who can broker the peace between Witches and Solomon, forever. That is why we, the Witches of the Walled City, Methuselah's children, will risk anything, endure any ordeal, to teach you and bring your new powers to life. You are our last, best hope, Eve of Witches.”

***

“I just have a few materials I need to obtain from the office,” Margarethe said to Touko. It was late, and Margarethe had yet to check Touko into her hotel. The rain had slowed traffic. “May I ask you to please wait here in the car?”

“Of course, do what you need,” Touko answered, smiling faintly. It was obvious that she was a little uncertain of herself, now that she was out in the world again. Margarethe had the sense that Touko had merely shifted between apartment, therapy, and grocery store while in Osaka. She looked at Tokyo in much the same way Margarethe had, upon first arriving from Frankfurt. Her eyes squinted at the billboards and displays; she looked a little lost in the crowd. She looked a little lost, period. But it was nice, for once, to have a native guide.

“Oh, hello, Miss Doujima,” Margarethe said, brushing past the younger Hunter in the alcove and narrowly missing her Burberry plaid umbrella. The security officer on duty watched them with mild, bored interest. Margarethe nodded to her car. “I apologize if I've blocked the driveway,” she added. “I'll only be a moment.”

Naturally, Doujima looked at the car. She saw the sole occupant, sitting in profile in the passenger seat. Margarethe watched her face. It froze in place rather than assuming a mask of nonchalance—but only for a second. Then she smiled, and said in a bright voice: “Oh, no, there's another exit. You don't have to worry.” Her smile gained some wattage. “It's good having you back, though, we were really slacking off, without you.”

“I can imagine,” Margarethe said, and nodded at Doujima before heading to the elevators.

Run to them, Margarethe silently urged her subordinate, listening to Doujima's heels on the flagstones. Run to your friends. Tell them what I've done, and help me flush them out.

***

Upstairs, Michael Lee noticed Margarethe's arrival on a security feed. It was open in one window in the corner of his screen. Really, he barely looked at it—the window was a habit from his collared days; a constant glimpse of the outside world, from a tiny camera's point of view. He watched Doujima attempting to make nice with her superior, and rolled his eyes. The camera's view changed, to focus on the turnaround where Margarethe's car waited. Michael squinted. There was someone else in the car. His hand pounced on the mouse, and froze the frame. He zoomed in on the picture, and adjusted its focus just as Margarethe stepped into the office.

“Nice haircut,” she said, striding toward her desk. He minimized the file.

“It was Doujima's idea,” Michael answered. He ran a hand through his noticeably-shorter hair. “I'm still getting used to it.”

“It suits you,” Margarethe said. She grabbed a few files from her desk, and tucked them under her arm. “I'll come back for a briefing, later,” she added.

“I'll see you then,” Michael said. Margarethe left the office. When Michael was certain her elevator was on its way down, he opened the screen capture again. The face was familiar to him, but he couldn't place it. Opening one of Solomon's numerous databases, he ran an image search. A match was found, the file appearing in time with a happy chime that meant his success. Michael opened the link.

“Oh, God,” he murmured, his English returning momentarily, as it was prone to do, when he forgot how to be calm, cool, collected, and Japanese.

***

Doujima and Nagira were waiting in a rain-streaked car outside the apartment in the dark, when Robin and Amon returned home. After the insane requests of the Walled City Elders, Amon was not in the mood, and showed it, slamming his way out of the car. His boots splashed through small puddles.

“Is there any particular reason you're sitting out here, blowing our cover?” he asked curtly, bypassing his brother and old co-worker in favor of the stairs. Robin preceded him, jogging up the stairs. Amon fished for his keys. He felt Doujima behind him, following slowly.

“Touko's back,” she said.

Robin froze. Amon turned slowly, to look at Doujima's wide blue eyes. “What?”

“She's been passing information to Margarethe Bonn, the replacement Hunter,” she continued. “Bonn brought her back to Tokyo.” Doujima swallowed.

“Are you absolutely certain?” Amon asked, his tones measured and quiet.

Doujima nodded. “Before I was sent here to research Zaizen and Orbo, I went over his files countless times. If you showed me Touko's kindergarten pictures, I'd recognize them.”

Rain fell noisily on the awning above them. It pattered down in soothing tones, contrasting painfully with the chaos storming in Amon's mind. Doujima's face, illuminated only by their humming porch light, was open, honest, and spotted with raindrops. Amon looked above her head, to his brother's face, posed behind her. “It's her, Amon,” Nagira said. “Who else would it be?”

“Get inside,” Amon growled, jerking his head in the direction of the kitchen door.

***

“Four hundred years' worth of knowledge?” Nagira asked. “The memories of those who preceded you?”

Robin nodded. “My dreams have been troubling me, lately,” she answered. “They weren't making any sense. I woke up so tired, as though I'd been through another full day. But now…if the Elders are telling the truth…”

“You mean you're able to access the memories of other Witches?” Doujima asked.

Robin nodded again. “And therefore, learn their Craft.” She shook her head. “No, that's not right. I gain the power, but…I don't have the technique. That only comes from practice.”

“And the Elders would have you practice with them, right?” Nagira realized. “You get the knowledge, and they get a figurehead.”

“And Amon learns how to control his Craft,” Robin murmured.

“A package deal, hmm? Do they accept all major credit cards?” Nagira's attempt at humor hung in the air. It fell, a silent moment later. He stretched his arms above his head, yawned, and folded his arms on his stomach. “You'll need all the help you can get, if Miss Bonn has more information on you.”

Amon continued to stare straight ahead, at nothing in particular. He was listening, but only distantly. Touko was back in the city. Touko, the holder of many of his childhood secrets. Touko, whose body his hands still remembered. Touko, who had lived with Robin. Touko, Zaizen's daughter. The woman who had whispered “I love you, Amon,” when she thought he was sleeping. And now she was colluding with the very replacement Hunter who still believed him and Robin to be alive. What a fucked-up mess.

“We have to get out of here,” Robin whispered.

“Yes,” Amon said.

“Will the Elders take you in?” Nagira asked.

“We're not staying with them,” Amon declared. He looked at Robin, who watched him. “We're not.” She nodded.

“Do you have any more favors to call in?” Doujima wondered aloud, her voice hopeful.

“They take time…” He gestured vaguely with open palms, hating his own powerlessness. One part of his mind wondered just what the fuck they could possibly do to remain safe, while the other gnawed at the idea of Touko, and why she would come back with another Hunter. Granted, she was a Solomon brat—she knew the organization, and it was indebted to her for remaining silent about her father's greater sins. It was natural that she would turn to it in times of trouble, and she was troubled…she was in surgery first, and a sanitarium, later, for the wounds he'd inflicted…

“Amon?” He blinked back to alertness. Doujima was staring at him. “I asked you if your skill with the Craft had improved any,” she said.

In answer, Amon stretched a hand over his glass of whisky. “It won't freeze-” Robin warned.

“I don't care.” He poured his frustration and bitter hate for the situation from his hand, imagining a wound in his palm that dripped blood black as frostbite. It was surprisingly easy. He'd never had such a simple time using his Craft, before. He watched in morbid fascination as ice crystals grew around the glass, as the glass itself condensed and hardened, trembling with its new weight, shaking, rattling, and shattering in one cold, glittering explosion. Shards went everywhere. Drops of unfrozen alcohol misted on the pieces and the table. Doujima screamed, and jumped in her chair. Nagira's eyebrows rose. Robin stood, and went to stand beside the sink. Her noises told him she'd begun washing dishes. How like her, he reflected, to begin doing the only helpful thing she could think of, while indulging her idiosyncratic need to clean in moments of stress.

“Does it hurt?” Nagira asked.

“Not really,” Amon answered.

Nagira sighed. “Well, Touko certainly won't be expecting it.”

“No,” Amon murmured. “She won't.”

***

It was not surprising that he couldn't sleep at all. He didn't even bother with the covers: Amon lay with his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. Touko.

If he let it, his mind could remember with exquisite clarity his first view of Touko: twelve years old, sat in front of the tv in Zaizen's old apartment, her chin at a level with her left knee, but not balanced atop it. She was surrounded by Botan rice candy wrappers, and pink Pocky boxes, and bags of seaweed crackers. The smell of instant chicken ramen hung in the air. The door opened and she turned, the messy, haphazard ponytail with the absurd ornamented hair-tie swishing with her sudden movement. She watched him and her father with guarded eyes. There was something about the speed of her reflexes, the tension in her scrawny muscles that spoke of an expectance of uncalled-for attacks. Blue television light flickered on her then-sharp features.

“Touko,” Zaizen said, standing behind Amon. “This is Amon Nagira.”

How did it get this way? Amon wondered silently. Was it always this fucked-up?

The answer was that he wasn't sure. He'd known Touko for ten years, now, and despite their history, could not point to the exact moment when everything had gone to shit. There was a time when he might have blamed it on Robin—if Robin hadn't come to Tokyo, if she had not lived with Touko, if he had actually been able to kill her… But the truth was that things were fucked between himself and Touko for years prior to that. Robin merely brought to the surface tensions that were compressed and ignored for far too long. And the root cause of those tensions, he knew, was himself—his very nature. Touko was a good person. She always wanted only the best for him, and wanted to be allowed to love him—it was always his stubborn refusal to let her, even when they were fucking, that tortured her. She was in love with a man that Amon knew to be fundamentally undeserving of love; no matter what distance he kept her at, Touko continued believing in him. It was why she allowed Solomon troops to tie her up and leave her as collateral for Robin, that night. She had looked into his eyes, peering at him with equal fear and trust, and allowed herself to be sacrificed. He still wasn't sure why. It was a topic he did his best to avoid. He did his best not to remember how Touko looked on a hospital bed, the victim of his own inexplicable weakness. Usually, he could explain his decisions clearly and rationally, but those nights, with Robin—

Robin screamed.

It wasn't a small, frightened sound. This was pain. He thought of invaders. He was off the bed and out the door before he could think to grab the gun, and burst through Robin's door, no knocking. Tangled up in her sheets, Robin screamed in long, bloodcurdling cries, her mouth impossibly wide and black inside. This was not fear, or anger, but pain—vulnerability and terror and a broken body. Her throat vibrated with the force of the scream; Amon's eardrums tingled. Her body arched up off the bed with each tortured ululation, and she kicked furiously, screaming until her voice cracked. Her breath caught, and Amon noticed tears streaming down her face. If adrenaline moved him before, something else moved him now, and he slid onto the bed to pin Robin down.

Her arms were behind her back, curiously, but she still managed to twist and give him a fight. It was a moment before Amon noticed that her shoulders were bare, and yet another bolt of adrenaline shot through him before Robin's wet eyes opened wild and frantic to look at him. She burst into tears, and skinny arms that now seemed made of steel coiled around him, pulling him down over her, startling a small noise from him as his hips sank into the warm, welcoming cradle of hers. Her face was in his chest, and she keened—not sobbing, there was a moan and wail to it that was real grief.

Awkwardly, Amon rolled away a little, but she came with him, still gripping him tight. At least he wasn't directly on top of her, any longer. His earlier suspicions proved correct, however—Robin was obviously naked under her sheets. Immediately, Amon shut his eyes, and, feeling like a complete fool while simultaneously attempting to calm his panicked heart-rate and breathing, slowly gathered more bedding around Robin. She clung to him. Her entire frame trembled; she shivered uncontrollably, as though abandoned in a winter storm. Small moans and gasps were drowned between them—this was not weeping, but the wringing of grief from her body, like blood from a triage rag. The tears, and her mouth, were wet and warm on his skin.

“It was a bad dream,” he murmured shakily. “Just a bad dream, Robin.” He tried to ignore the fever-hot body pressing every inch of itself to him, separated from his own flesh by only a thin sheet.

She shook her head roughly. “No,” she answered, her voice muffled. If possible, her squeeze increased in intensity. He felt her shiver now through her arms, as though each movement also reverberated through him. Blind, he was hyper-aware of her shape and warmth, how she fit against him, and her eagerness to have him close. “It really happened.”

Eyes still shut, Amon frowned. He wanted to ask her what she meant, but that wasn't the most important question. “What really happened?”

Robin tried to speak, but her sounds became sobs. He could feel her hands crawling up between his shoulders aimlessly, and thought it might be all right if he held her just a little, too. Fingers brushed her bare back, where the skin was unexpectedly soft and impossibly warm. His hand found the back of her head, which he'd at least touched before without reprisal, and the fingers buried themselves there. The other arm settled on top of Robin's blankets, in the curve of her hip, where he couldn't reach bare skin. “I was on fire,” Robin said, shuddering inside his arms. “I was tied to a stake, and I was on fire…Amon…”

“You've had that fear since you were very young,” he reminded her, not realizing how well he remembered that fact until now. “The nuns told you awful things, to frighten you.”

She shook her head. Her hair moved on his chest, almost tickling. “This was different,” she whispered. “And worse. Much, much worse…” She began to cry again, and he felt fingernails press into his flesh.

Amon fought his own loathsome powerlessness, and balanced his chin above her head, on a pillow. Even her sweat smelled somehow clean—he could smell it there in her scalp, along with her shampoo. “Why was it worse?” he asked, quietly.

“Because it was real,” Robin choked out. “It wasn't a dream. That was someone else's memory, Amon. That really happened, to someone, another Witch. And-” her body shook, “it means…it means…I'm…”

“You're what?”

“I'm a monster,” Robin whispered. “The pain I felt…I've done that, to other people.” Her arms left him, then, and folded themselves across her chest, separating them. She squirmed, as though trapped in her own skin. “You should have killed me when you had the chance,” she snarled bitterly. “I don't deserve life-”

“Shut up.”

“It's true! I'm a murderer, and I-”

“I said, shut up..” Now Amon's grip had gone to iron without his knowledge, and he held her so that she couldn't flee and would be forced to listen. “You're not a murderer, Robin. And I should know. It's the thing I'm best at.” He sighed, angry at himself for being so pitifully unable to explain something so important. “If you were a murderer, Robin, I would have killed you, already.”

“That doesn't change the fact that I-”

“No, it doesn't,” Amon said, anticipating her argument. His arms didn't relax their grip. “But you were trying to save your own life. Or,” he thought about Masuda, the first man she'd killed, who had threatened to break him in half, “to save the life of another.”

She sniffed. “That's true…” She hugged her arms, and he noticed his fingers tightening in her hair. “I'm the Witch mothers tell their children about…”

“I'm the Hunter Witches tell their children about,” Amon replied. Robin giggled a little, sniffling. Her shoulders shook gently against his chest, under his arms. He felt lighter, and breathed out in one slow movement.

“The Elders said the memories would come faster, now,” Robin said. “But they didn't prepare me…”

“No, they fucking well did not,” Amon agreed, his tone clipped. It was too late to be worrying about his language, now, least of all for the crying, naked girl in his arms.

“Are you really going to learn more about your Craft?” she asked.

He knew his answer, but not how to phrase it. He hated the way the Elders and Neville had manipulated Robin into becoming their leader and symbol on the mere promise that he would get some education in the Craft—no lessons could ever be worth that much, as far as he was concerned. But if he went on uncontrolled, he might hurt himself, or both of them. And a trained Hunter like himself knew the value of a finely-honed Craft.

“If you want it,” he said tiredly. “It would most likely be safer, for both of us.”

“That's not the reason I want it.” Robin pulled away, a little. He felt her staring at him, and kept his eyes closed. One arm came up between them slowly, knuckles and fingers brushing him as they went. He shivered. Light, delicate fingertips grazed his eyelids. The rest of her hand felt very warm, on his face, brushing his mouth.

“Amon…why are your eyes closed?”

“You're naked,” he answered simply, trying not to smile.

A moment later, Robin had scurried under her covers, burrowing there like a frightened mouse. Her speed was rather astonishing. He opened his eyes, and beheld a small, human-shaped lump under the bedding. “I'm sorry!” Robin's muffled voice cried from beneath the blankets. “I didn't mean…oh, I'm so sorry…”

Without her eyes there to see him, Amon was free to break into a rare, real smile. He savored it for a moment, and then pitched his voice at the lump. “I am an adult, you know. I can handle these things.” He was tempted to say that he'd seen very little, and touched even less, and moreover that he'd seen it all before, on other women, but understood even with his limited social graces that these were not the most helpful things to say.

“I know, Amon, but…I'm really, really sorry…I didn't want to make it awkward…”

“You're going to stay under there until I leave, aren't you?”

A part of her that was now identifiable as her head nodded slowly. She must have buried it between her knees. Amon's arms felt curiously empty, now, and he felt chilled. But he left the bed anyway, and crossed to his own room, wrenching open a drawer and pulling something out. Robin was still in her lump under the covers when he threw it at her. “Wear that.” He went to the kitchen.

One very large measure of Suntory vodka and a splash of tonic later, and Amon was back in the room. Robin sat with her legs under the covers, wearing his t-shirt. It was an oddly pleasant picture, with her hair all messy and her face still red from having wept. She'd lit no candles, and the room was filled with city-darkness. “Drink all of this,” Amon instructed, handing her the drink. Robin smelled it, and gave him a doubtful look.

“All at once,” he urged. “Go on.”

If Robin pouted at all, she was definitely doing it now, but she dutifully drank off the entire serving, throat working openly as her head slowly tipped back to get the last drops. Amon swallowed in turn, and thought a drink for himself might be in order. More information was definitely in order, he decided, something to take her mind off the dream. “You had another one like that, earlier,” he stated, gesturing at the black t-shirt that tented on her much-smaller body.

Robin frowned, but nodded. “How did you know?”

“During your Hunt, I stalked you,” he answered, willing himself to be honest. It was somehow difficult without a shirt on. “You stood outside, in something much the same.”

Robin's eyes were wide. “You watched me?”

It somehow seemed less painful and more embarrassing, now. Gone was the sensation of being stretched and torn in half, a memory of watching her from a solitary, windy rooftop with his fists clenched so tight they ached, associated with an inexplicable feeling like another self clawing its way out of him, through his eyes. The pain had vanished. It made him feel young and awkward now; to admit that he'd actually spent hours watching her, without her knowledge. “You were eating jam bread for dinner,” Amon said. “I don't think you're in a position to be debating the finer points of socially accepted behavior.”

Robin's face slowly curled around a very happy smile. There were no teeth, but he could feel the force of her laughter restrained by her lips. She pointed, slyly. “You're the one who always drove me to the convenience store,” she accused mischievously. “If you wanted me to eat better, you should have said so. Now you're guilty, too.”

“Miss Sena, it's unlike you to pass blame this way…”

Her face tightened, and her eyes sparked. There it was again—that moment between laughing and slapping him that he was somehow able to create on her face. He didn't need the light to see it. It was more a sense, a quickening, a ratcheting--“Go to bed!” Robin burst out, pointing out the door. Her smile was uncontrollable. Amon fought to keep a straight face. “I'm ordering you! Now go!” She dissolved into giggles. Amon didn't answer, but bowed, and shut the door. Yes, Touko had returned. And yes, Robin was going through hell. They were in the thick of it, in peril of attack from all sides—the place he functioned best. For the first time in years, he went to bed smiling.