Then a whisper caught his attention. “Kenji! Is that you?”
A pale, heart-shaped face was framed in the black of an open door.
“Yuka!” he cried. “What are you doing here?”
“It is you!” She laughed and slid the door wide, rushing toward him with arms outstretched. She wore an old-style kimono embroidered with a rainbow phoenix and a sun-colored obi wrapped around her midsection.
He stood agape. She was so beautiful, just as in his fondest memories of her. Her face was bright, her eyes alive, her joy at seeing him exactly the kind of reunion he’d wanted.
Cat’s roar filled the room, and in a single leap, he pounced upon her, crushing her to the floor and seizing her head in his huge jaws.
“No!” Django yelled, but it was too late.
With a wrench, Cat tore off her head.
The moment he did so, her bloodless form came apart like a wad of thread.
Django simply stared, his heart thumping like a trip-hammer without a target. From elation to heartbreak in less than a second.
Cat spat and coughed and pawed at his mouth. “Ugh! It tastes so awful!” he growled, his words distorted and muffled by the mouthful of sticky, silvery silk.
Django stuttered, “How did you know?”
“She didn’t smell human,” Cat said with another cough.
Hage said, “Now you know how the tsuchigumo ensnares his prey.” His voice was higher now, more childlike. He dropped to all fours, an old, gray tanuki.
Django wiped a sheen of sweat from his face. “Got it. What if we run into my parents?”
Cat said, “Assume they are illusions as well until proven otherwise. It’s the only way to be sure.”
Django nodded and tried to gather enough spit to wet his bone-dry tongue. Of Yuka, there was no sign. What had only seconds ago been a perfect likeness was now only a wad of disheveled silk with hints of color still visible. Django poked it around with his foot and spotted a single silvery thread leading toward the door the apparition had come through.
Hage squatted and released a burbling, squeaking fart. Three glimmering globules of purplish-blue witchlight burst forth and floated into the air. They hovered above Hage about four feet from the floor, orbiting languidly, bright as torches. Plenty of light to see by, despite the eerie hue.
“Really?” Django said.
Hage said, “We all have our talents. You keep your mahō in your essence pools. Shall I tell you where I keep mine?”
Django held up both hands and returned his attention to the silver thread. Hage followed close behind, bringing his lights with him.
The room was empty but strangely clean. One might expect to see everything coated with the dust of ages, but it was as if the wooden floors had been freshly swept and polished. The thread led straight to a whitewashed plaster wall and then under it.
Django sat cross-legged on the floor. “Time to do a little reconnaissance.”
He steadied his racing heartbeat with a few deep breaths, gathered his will, opened his Third Eye, and sent it through the wall.
As expected, behind the wall lay a black passageway choked with cobwebs. It traced along the foundation of the mansion for a little distance but then descended into the rock of the mountain itself, spiraling deep.
Down and down his Third Eye floated, through endless veils of webs, deep into the heart of the mountain, able to see even in the lightless cave. His floating awareness emerged from the passageway into a cavern so vast he could not discern its boundaries. The entire space was so choked with tapestries of web that he could not sense its shape, depth, or height. Among the webs were hundreds, maybe thousands, of ensnared cocoons. Many of them were human-shaped, but many cocoons were too small or wrongly shaped for a human.
And in the darkness, something moved with great, ponderous bulk—a shadow of ancient hunger—but also many, many small somethings.
He focused his vision on one of the small disturbances and saw a shiny black spider with bright yellow stripes on its legs. It was small compared to the big thing. The span of its legs looked to be about two meters, with a streamlined abdomen. It was a jorogumo, the venomous Joro spider of Japan, but giant-sized.
Back in the mansion above, he groaned in despair. How could he possibly find his parents among those hundreds of cocoons without opening each of them? He doubted the tsuchigumo or its jorogumo minions would tolerate anyone disturbing their food supply.
In a flash of inspiration, he remembered that a little improvisation and experimentation could sometimes produce wondrous and unexpected results—or it could produce something like vegetables and Spam in a lime Jell-O mold.
With his Third Eye still floating invisibly around the great cavern, he opened his Crown pool and channeled Celestial essence through it, trying to sense life signs in the cocoons. In his magical vision, he saw a few here and there that still pulsed weakly with life. There seemed to be no pattern, as if the tsuchigumo had such an abundance of food that it couldn’t remember which victims it had fed upon.
Django sighed again at his lack of weapons. He should have studied Fire mahō more...studiously. He could only infuse existing weapons with fire. The Fire pool’s offensive capabilities were staggering at higher levels. It was not the kind of power entrusted to apprentices.
With a strange sense of double awareness, he could still sense Hage and Cat with him, hearing their breathing, but they waited, patient and alert. He hoped he could maintain the Third Eye long enough to find his parents’ location.
Floating from cocoon to cocoon, he moved in close and tried to see faces through the silk, but it was no good. Having no physical form, he could enter the cocoons, but then all he would see was bone, flesh, and organs.
Then he spotted a dim aura, shining from within a cocoon. There could be no mistake—a mahō user. Perhaps he had found an ally—if they could free him.
Then a thrill of discovery shot through him.
Obscured by dust and webs lay a mound of detritus, things like clothing, trinkets, jewelry, much of it decayed into an intermingled mess. But there was also an old samurai helmet. And the hilt of a Chinese sword. And a spear.
If he could get his hands on a weapon, he could fight.
He returned his awareness to his body and said to Hage and Cat, “With enough stealth, we might have a chance.”
DOWN INTO THE EARTH they went. Hage led the way with his floating purple globules of light. They moved without sound on padded feet and soft-soled tabi but had to sweep away curtains of webs that blocked the passage. Down and down and down. The deeper they went, the tighter his nerves.
As they descended, he told them his plan. “I’m going to try to get a weapon, then free that warlock.”
When they neared the great cavern, Django halted them with a quiet hiss. “If my plan goes to hell, I’ll retreat to the mouth of the cavern to bottleneck whatever comes at us. I think the tsuchigumo is too big to reach us in this passage.”
“A tactically wise choice,” Cat said.
“Squeeze my balls,” Hage said.
Django blinked twice. “What?”
“I said, squeeze my balls like lemons. That is where my magic is stored.”
Django blinked again.
Cat said, “It’s true. Tanuki keep their magic in their jewel sacks.”
“I’ve cooked up something special for you,” Hage said with a grin, limned in the bluish-purple glow of the floating fart-lights.
Django pursed his lips, took a deep breath, and steeled himself.
Then he paused. “Uh, are you sure I have to—”
“Yes, by the gods and buddhas, cease your dawdling!”
Cat said, “He is a prudish American after all. They have strange and unhelpful inhibitions.”
Django knelt, reached out, tentatively grabbed Hage’s furry scrotum—surprisingly large for a creature of his size—and squeezed.
Invisible lightning blasted up Django’s arm, turning his arm invisible as it went, t
hen his shoulder, then his torso, legs, and his other arm. He tried to look at his hands, but they weren’t there. It was as if he were a disembodied point of awareness, just like his floating Third Eye. But he could touch the walls, feel the floor, and smell the cave’s dank, earthy mustiness. He opened his Third Eye then and found he was invisible even to his mahō-sensitive sight. He hadn’t even known that was possible.
Hage gestured him forward. “You may proceed.”
“Thanks,” he whispered and stole down the passageway.
Moments later, the passageway widened into the cavern, and he crept across it toward where he had seen the pile of debris, taking every footstep carefully to avoid the crunch of pebbles or grit. In the far reaches of the cavern, he could hear the skittering of the giant jorogumo, and something else, something that sounded like women singing the old rice-planting work songs, but faint, as if muffled or distorted somehow.
Holding his lungs to slow, controlled breaths, he ducked and wove around the sheets of spiderweb, careful not to touch them. Many types of spider sense their prey through vibrations in their webs. These strands looked thick enough to ensnare a human.
A jorogumo the size of a donkey scuttled into view.
Django froze.
The spider paused, shiny legs striped in black and yellow. It was so close he could see all eight of its eyes—dark, cold orbs above fangs dripping with venom. Its narrow body quivered and pulsated. Could it smell him?
He eased away, first one step, then another, then another. The spider moved on about its business.
Django released his breath and resumed his course.
Finally, the pile of collected debris came into view, nestled against the wall of the cavern. The rear portion of the pile was covered in pale, shiny encrustations growing out from the cave wall.
One look at the spear lying among the debris told him that its shaft was so much worm food. The silken cords of the samurai helmet had rotted almost to dust. If he touched it, it would collapse into a pile of metal scales. Both spear and helmet were useless.
Before disappointment could set in, his gaze fastened upon the hilt of the Chinese sword, so swathed in cobwebs and the dust of ages, it was barely recognizable. Still clutching the hilt was a desiccated hand, fingers bejeweled with rings, severed below the wrist.
Django gingerly tried to work the sword from the pile without making a sound, but the inevitable scrape and clatter felt like the thunder of a passing train.
Somewhere in the blackness, something shifted.
Django froze again, listening for any approach. Somehow, he felt eyes upon him, attention focused in his direction.
Another jorogumo scuttled within ten feet, paused, then moved on.
He pried the dry, brittle fingers from the hilt, the knuckles and skin coming apart like parchment and dust. Then, with painstaking slowness, he tugged the blade from its ancient scabbard.
Chinese swords were straight and two-edged with a cross guard, more akin to European styles than Japanese ones. As the blade came into view, however, he began to sense its incredible antiquity. This sword was old before the earliest humans crossed over to the Japanese archipelago from the Korean peninsula. Ever so slowly, hoping the quiet rasp would be lost among the endless webs, he drew the sword. A greenish rime covered its surface, highlighting the engravings along the flat of the blade. The corrosion meant the blade must be made of copper or bronze, not steel. On one side of the blade were engraved mountains, rivers, and trees, and on the other side, the sun, the moon, and an array of constellations. The grip was wrapped in tightly wound silk cords, stained and frayed.
He hefted its weight and twirled it slowly to get a feel. The blade was thicker and wider than a modern Chinese sword, but it had good balance.
Now to find the warlock. Tucking the sword’s scabbard through the back of his belt, he crept across the open cavern toward a cluster of cocoons. Only one of that cluster remained undevoured, and its mahō aura leaked through the silk, dim but still alive.
Beside it he knelt, checking the area for jorogumo before he began cutting through the tough, sticky strands. With the sword’s corroded edge, it was like trying to cut wire with a butter knife, but the blade would serve just fine when he infused it with Sunblade. He would hold off on that for as long as possible to avoid revealing himself.
Gently he sawed at the silk. The more he sawed, the less he seemed to need to, as if the edge were sharpening itself as he went. He peeled away the silk from the man’s face, revealing gaunt, hard-edged features slackened by unconsciousness.
Django pulled out a kokoro-shikwasa fruit, tore it open, and squeezed the juice onto the man’s lips.
The man’s eyes snapped open, his aura flaring brighter, and Django clamped a hand over the man’s gasp of shock. He immediately tried to struggle free of his wrappings.
Django shushed him and leaned close to whisper, “Quiet! I’m here to get you out.”
The man froze and let Django peel away the cocoon.
Django asked, “Can you fight?”
“A little.” The warlock’s voice was shaky but determined. His aura shifted color to clear indigo, indicating he was accessing his Third Eye pool, trying to orient himself. “I can’t see you!”
Django took the man’s hand and placed a fruit in it. “Eat this.” The man devoured it whole, chewing rind and all.
Then Django took the warlock’s hand and led him back toward the passage where Hage and Cat waited. But the warlock did not possess Django’s stealth. He tripped over a rock and fell hard, releasing an expulsion of breath.
Immediately the darkness seethed with movement. Webs began to move as if they were alive.
Django cursed, hooked the warlock’s arm, and dragged him to his feet, running toward the passage. “Let’s go!”
As they rushed into the funnel of the passage’s mouth, the scuttling sounds of pursuit growing louder, Hage’s lights came into view. Django spun to face whatever was coming. Cat crouched beside him. And then an oni sidled up next to them. Django gasped and scrambled back. Towering shoulders and chest above Django, the oni just grinned and patted its huge palm with a massive tetsubo, a studded iron club. The three witchlights hovered around the oni’s shoulders.
“This is it, then,” Hage said with the oni’s mouth, his voice deep as thunder.
Chapter Twenty
DJANGO SUMMONED HIS Fire magic and filled his ancient sword with the power of the Sunblade.
But he wasn’t expecting what happened.
The green corrosion on the blade instantly evaporated, revealing a beautiful copper sheen, polished to mirror brightness. The engravings on the blade burned with sunlight. Previously buried in dust, engravings on the pommel and cross guard flamed to life—dozens of characters written in the oldest form of Chinese writing, known as Oracle Bone Script, when the characters still resembled the concepts they represented. Even the silken cords of the grip now looked fresh and new and had a rich vermilion color.
In less than a second, the sword gleamed with life as if this were the day it was first forged. Because Django was still invisible, however, it looked like a floating, dancing sword.
“Found something, eh?” Hage said.
But Django didn’t have time to respond.
Because Yuka staggered into the light, clutching her abdomen as if wounded. “Kenji, help me!” She wore a Babymetal T-shirt and worn-through blue jeans, which he recognized from the day he had met her.
Cat said, “You’re not going to fall for that again, are you?”
“No,” Django said, then charged forward with two hands on his sword.
Half a step before he came into range, however, the apparition of Yuka leaped backward to dodge his slash, too fast for him to follow. Four black-and-yellow-striped spider legs burst forth from her rib cage, and venom-dripping mandibles sprouted from her cheeks. Black eyes gleamed with hunger, and she darted back toward him. The tips of her spider limbs were sharp as daggers, stabbing at him,
forcing him back. He managed to hack off one leg, which fell to the ground, trailing green ichor, and the creature screamed and retreated.
Among the veils of webs, more figures emerged, human-shaped, eyes reflecting Hage’s purplish-blue light.
A chorus of female voices called his name. “Kenji! Kenji, it’s me. Don’t hurt me. I just want you to hold me, Kenji.” And they all looked like Yuka.
He made a sound of disgust. “Shut up!”
From behind him, the warlock asked, “A friend of yours?”
Hage said, “This is who you hope to save? I can understand your obsession.”
“I’m not obsessed!” Django snapped as he opened his Earth pool and surrounded himself with an invisible Fortress. His sword glowed brighter and radiated searing heat.
The army of Yukas stalked closer. With his Third Eye, Django saw their true form. All were giant jorogumo, dozens of them, picking up speed as they scuttled.
A hand on Django’s shoulder pushed him aside, and the warlock stepped up beside him. He gathered his hands to his chest as if creating a ball of energy. They glowed brighter and brighter. The spiders were coming fast.
Three Yukas gave him winning smiles as mandibles and extra legs burst forth from their bodies.
Then the warlock loosed a sharp cry and blasted a torrent of flame from his hands, a stream of blazing fire that filled the cavern with scorching heat, setting webs and jorogumo aflame. Shrieks of agony pierced Django’s ears. Giant spiders scattered, trailing flames from their bodies and setting even more webs aflame. The air filled with acrid smoke from burning webs and scorched arachnid. The warlock kept up the torrent of flame, spraying it back and forth like a flamethrower, his lips twisting into a smile of pleasure. When he finally relented, a carpet of flame forty feet deep spread before them, in which black, twisted limbs twitched and crackled. It clung to the ground like napalm, burning fiercely.
“That was incredible!” Django said.
The warlock said, “What are we waiting for? Let’s get out of here!”
Django shook his head. “My parents are still alive and wrapped up in here somewhere. We’re not going anywhere until we get them out.”
Tokyo Blood Magic (Shinjuku Shadows Book 1) Page 18
