There are certain known facts about vampires. They revile change. They are obsessive-compulsive. They are illogical. They are cursed. They will burst into flames in sunlight.
They are dying.
With less than a hundred vampires left in the world, Yas...
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Sakura shuffled through wet streets, just another blur in the busy crowd. The rain was light, only a mere mist at this point, but the strikes of water against her nylon umbrella seemed to vibrate her very bones. Other than muted conversation and the slide of a rare car across tarmac, the predominant noise was the susurrus of feet and water slapping together in the hurried, miserable march she associated with Tokyo.
Yoshiwara had been different—same place, another time—but to dwell on old memories was to invite nostalgia. The Formula's magic, buzzing beneath her skin, cherished nostalgia and might be inclined to punish her for taking it into a city so far removed from her past. So she ignored the crowds, the streetlights, and the metal vending machines that stood sentry at every corner, the ultimate testament of change.
Here is food, but with no one to cook it or guard the purse.
She averted her eyes.
Instead she focused on the things she did recognize. The buildings, like tall courtesans posed on either side of the streets, colorful and garish with their signs for accessories and electricity for their jewelry. Windows acted like designs on their concrete kimonos. The antennas and flags jutted from walls like hairpins, and sidewalks rimmed the buildings' bases like skirts and geta. Sakura counted the white, orderly crosswalks, their numbers familiar and their patterns soothingly repetitive. The Formula appreciated them the most, so she let it stroke the painted rectangles, reveling in the brief but sweet relief being free offered.
