the unclean rise of emotion get the better of him.
He complimented himself on his discipline, when the sight of a newcomer to the room shattered his quietude. It was a beetle. An amber-gold beetle that crawled out from under a steel lamp.
The Japanese Dragon stared in disgust.
An insect. Impossible. In his sterile, perfectly clean dominion.
Unacceptable.
The Dragon clicked his metal claws on the metalfloor, following the beetle and trying not to grow too irritated. The insect moved quickly, pittering on tiny feet that the Serpent’s sensitive ears could not help but hear, circling wildly around a steel armchair, its miniscule mind locked in terror.
Down came the Dragon’s gold foot, and his clean environment was satisfactorily stained with beetle guts.
Najikko’s Serpent heart did not permit glee, but it was tempted.
And then came a second ticking of beetle legs.
More than one, this time.
Then more, and more.
Najikko turned and saw on the steel floor a small swarm of clicking, wandering golden beetles emerging from under his stove—a veritable invasion. His eyes narrowed. This was a clean environment. Sterile means sterile. Nothing germ-ridden, nothing unwanted, nothing earthy and out of his control.
Calm. Equilibrium.
This was the dilemma of being Serpentine. Wherever he went, nature found him and grew perverse, no matter what he did to stop it, and insects were the most common and vile of the effects. It took enormous effort and concentration to keep the pests away. One’s success at this was a measure of power.
Disgusting things, he thought, and with great precision, he fired a small blast of flame into the swarming beetles, and turned them into a smearing mark of black ash on his perfect floor. A mess.
Control the anger, he rebuked himself. They are nothing, less than nothing. You are lord over their pathetic lives as you are lord of your own emotions. You are perfection, he told himself, perfecting itself.
He washed the ash away with a flick of a switch, as clean water was shot out of automatic nozzles he’d installed everywhere, and the liquid carried the beetles away down a drain in the floor. A last beetle crawled up out of the drain, but Najikko crushed it with his foot.
Repulsed, he cleaned his claw, scraping off the bug guts.
He turned and moved away from the kitchen area before anything else could compromise his good feelings, his equilibrium repaired. A Tibetan monk would have been impressed.
In fact, Najikko felt a surge of power as he surveyed the city from his penthouse. The afternoon view was spectacular. Earlier in the day, he had used his magic to cause an airplane crash on a major roadway. He could see the chaos from his home, rescuers and wounded, helicopters and hubbub. It was good for business at the hospital, and it gave him a wonderful sense of calm.
He could hear in the background Asian melodies played on the cello of the great performer Yo-Yo Ma, gliding from a stereo near the plastic display skeletons in the living room. The music soothed his nerves.
The Japanese Serpent watched the rescue efforts unfolding, clicking his feet, and in his state of relaxation he allowed himself to enjoy the thought that he could now safely be considered a king. The Japanese King of Serpents. Indeed, he controlled nearly all of Asia, and had made inroads throughout the world.
If only he had someone to share it all with.
Here was a new and nagging discomfort to his serenity: loneliness. Was there a solution? Beyond the city, there was a new rival to his criminal territories, a new enemy by the name of Issindra, that tigerlike Bombay Serpent. She was the other power on this side of the world. Her men had begun blowing up the shipments belonging to his illegal medical syndicate. She was angling for a fight.
And for the second time in weeks, a strange notion came to him.
Perhaps after he’d defeated her, he could make her his slave.
Chapter 15
H OW THE O THER H ALF L IVES
S IMON S T . G
He complimented himself on his discipline, when the sight of a newcomer to the room shattered his quietude. It was a beetle. An amber-gold beetle that crawled out from under a steel lamp.
The Japanese Dragon stared in disgust.
An insect. Impossible. In his sterile, perfectly clean dominion.
Unacceptable.
The Dragon clicked his metal claws on the metalfloor, following the beetle and trying not to grow too irritated. The insect moved quickly, pittering on tiny feet that the Serpent’s sensitive ears could not help but hear, circling wildly around a steel armchair, its miniscule mind locked in terror.
Down came the Dragon’s gold foot, and his clean environment was satisfactorily stained with beetle guts.
Najikko’s Serpent heart did not permit glee, but it was tempted.
And then came a second ticking of beetle legs.
More than one, this time.
Then more, and more.
Najikko turned and saw on the steel floor a small swarm of clicking, wandering golden beetles emerging from under his stove—a veritable invasion. His eyes narrowed. This was a clean environment. Sterile means sterile. Nothing germ-ridden, nothing unwanted, nothing earthy and out of his control.
Calm. Equilibrium.
This was the dilemma of being Serpentine. Wherever he went, nature found him and grew perverse, no matter what he did to stop it, and insects were the most common and vile of the effects. It took enormous effort and concentration to keep the pests away. One’s success at this was a measure of power.
Disgusting things, he thought, and with great precision, he fired a small blast of flame into the swarming beetles, and turned them into a smearing mark of black ash on his perfect floor. A mess.
Control the anger, he rebuked himself. They are nothing, less than nothing. You are lord over their pathetic lives as you are lord of your own emotions. You are perfection, he told himself, perfecting itself.
He washed the ash away with a flick of a switch, as clean water was shot out of automatic nozzles he’d installed everywhere, and the liquid carried the beetles away down a drain in the floor. A last beetle crawled up out of the drain, but Najikko crushed it with his foot.
Repulsed, he cleaned his claw, scraping off the bug guts.
He turned and moved away from the kitchen area before anything else could compromise his good feelings, his equilibrium repaired. A Tibetan monk would have been impressed.
In fact, Najikko felt a surge of power as he surveyed the city from his penthouse. The afternoon view was spectacular. Earlier in the day, he had used his magic to cause an airplane crash on a major roadway. He could see the chaos from his home, rescuers and wounded, helicopters and hubbub. It was good for business at the hospital, and it gave him a wonderful sense of calm.
He could hear in the background Asian melodies played on the cello of the great performer Yo-Yo Ma, gliding from a stereo near the plastic display skeletons in the living room. The music soothed his nerves.
The Japanese Serpent watched the rescue efforts unfolding, clicking his feet, and in his state of relaxation he allowed himself to enjoy the thought that he could now safely be considered a king. The Japanese King of Serpents. Indeed, he controlled nearly all of Asia, and had made inroads throughout the world.
If only he had someone to share it all with.
Here was a new and nagging discomfort to his serenity: loneliness. Was there a solution? Beyond the city, there was a new rival to his criminal territories, a new enemy by the name of Issindra, that tigerlike Bombay Serpent. She was the other power on this side of the world. Her men had begun blowing up the shipments belonging to his illegal medical syndicate. She was angling for a fight.
And for the second time in weeks, a strange notion came to him.
Perhaps after he’d defeated her, he could make her his slave.
Chapter 15
H OW THE O THER H ALF L IVES
S IMON S T . G
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