It doesn’t matter what she does, I think. She’ll never be able to bring back Grandfather.
“Hello?” I call out, as much to hail the kitsune as to break the oppressive silence. Nothing moves. “Shiro? Goro? Is anyone here?”
No answer.
I set my suitcase down. The breeze rustles in the treetops, making their bare branches creak. Turning, I glance back down the front steps, and the memories of that night come crawling back to me. I imagine children singing Kagome, Kagome in the distance. Pain pricks my palm, and when I turn it over, the places where the paper fox shikigami pierced my skin begin to bleed. I take a step back. Icy talons grasp my heart.
A black butterfly lands on my outstretched hand, feather light. It laps the blood from one of my cuts.
It’s sunset, I realize, looking up.
Sunset on the third day.
Darkness gathers on the shrine steps, drawing the heat from the air. The butterfly launches itself from my hand, fluttering down the steps as shadows form into twin poles and a lintel resembling a torii gate. In the space beyond the gate, I see the steps of the Fujikawa Shrine descending into a darkness so deep, it chills my soul.
A man in a conical hat steps through the torii gate. Shadows burst from his clothing like dust. Black butterflies—hundreds of them—spread out like a flock of crows, blacking out the sky.
He’s here. I press my hands to my chest, afraid my heart might break through my rib bones and leap down the steps.
Shimada tips his hat up. I bow to him. When I rise, I’m surprised to see another figure coming through the torii gate. A girl appears beside him, one who doesn’t appear much older than seventeen or eighteen. She’s dressed in black samurai armor studded with sharp, silver spikes. Her hair’s short and braided to her scalp. The sinuous braids follow the curves of her ears, and she wears black gauges in her earlobes. The armor leaves her arms exposed, allowing me to see the butterfly tattoos beating their wings under her skin. Some of their wingtips lift off her body, leaving ghostly contrails in their wake. Tattoos are taboo, and I don’t think I’ve seen someone with a real one before.
There isn’t just one shinigami standing on my front doorstep, but two.
“Shimada-sama,” I say, bowing again. “Welcome to the Fujikawa Shrine.”
Peals of laughter bounce up the steps, chasing away any dignity I might have afforded my guests.
“Shimada?” the female shinigami asks, snorting at him. “Is that what you’ve asked them to call you?”
“You will have to forgive Roji, Fujikawa-san,” Shimada says to me, closing the shadowy torii gate with a wave of one hand. “She had no manners in life, and death hasn’t improved her any.”
“Hush, you,” Roji says, punching Shimada in the shoulder. “I know you’ve missed me.”
“In a manner of speaking,” Shimada replies, resting one hand on his sword.
“So this is the girl, eh?” Roji says, turning her attention on me. She scratches a spot under her earlobe and looks sideways at Shimada. “Another Fujikawa with a demon problem, surprise, surprise.”
“I figured you would be the most . . . empathetic to her plight, Roji,” Shimada says with the ghost of a grin. “So be empathetic.”
“Empathy isn’t my strong suit,” Roji says, starting up the stairs toward me. “Killing, on the other hand? Well, there aren’t many in this world or the next who are better at it than me.”
Death’s aura clings to her, so sweet and cloying I can almost smell it like incense. Something in her gaze sends a shock wave of fear through my system. She reaches the top of the steps, popping my bubble of personal space. I step back, forgetting I’d left my suitcase a pace behind me, and crash into its side. I tumble to the ground. Pain echoes through my palms—now scraped again—and a sharp blade of rock stabs into my left ankle. I push myself up on my hip, my hair hiding my reddened cheeks from sight.
Roji crouches down in front of me, resting her wrists on her knees. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, baka,” she says with a grin, and then offers me a hand up. I look down at her outstretched palm—her skin so pale it could be the color of paper. I put my hand in hers, surprised to find her touch cold. Stony.
She helps me to my feet. Shimada joins us at the top of the stairs.
“This is the girl you want wielding the Kusanagi?” Roji asks, jerking her head in my direction.
Shimada nods. “It would consume us with fire. The kitsune do not fight with anything but their magic and their claws. That leaves the priestess.”
“Me?” I ask, almost choking on the word. “But I-I don’t know anything about fighting with a sword!”
“Don’t worry, kid.” Roji grins and claps me on the shoulder. She gives me a small shake, even as I bristle at the word kid. “That’s where I come in.”
Fifteen
Fujikawa Shrine
Kyoto, Japan
The next morning, I’m awakened by Roji.
Rudely.
“Get up!” she says, slamming the guest room door open. “We don’t have time to waste with sleep!”
I sit up, blinking at the bedside clock. “Roji-san, it’s five o’clock in the morn—” A yawn overtakes the rest of what I mean to say.
“And?” she says, putting her hands on her waist and tapping a bare foot. She’s dressed in a white crop top and loose, flowing black pants. The top shows off her abdomen, which is covered with the myriad branches of a cherry tree tattoo. Inky butterflies waft across her pale skin. While the tattoos are a work of art, it’s hard to call them beautiful. Not when each butterfly represents a life taken.
“Shuten-doji isn’t coming today,” I say, sliding my legs out from under Oni-chan. The cat grumbles at me, yawns, and hops off the bed. “What do you want?”
“To train,” she says, snapping her fingers at me. “If you’re going to be ready to face the demon god in three weeks, I can’t have you tripping over your own feet.”
“But we don’t have a single shard of the Kusanagi,” I complain.
“The shards are Shimada’s problem,” Roji says, crossing the room and throwing off my comforter and sheets. “You’re mine. Let’s move—we’ve got a lot to cover before I lose you to that mortal school garbage.”
I can’t help the irritation that sparks in my chest. I stayed up late last night preparing to go back to school—the police returned my schoolbooks, and most of my teachers emailed me my missed assignments. I need to complete a substantial amount of makeup work by next Monday, four days from now. Honestly, the task feels as impossible as learning kenjutsu swordsmanship by the rise of the blood moon.
“Fine.” I groan, swinging my legs off the bed. My toes touch down on the cold floorboards. “Just let me get dressed, okay?”
Roji doesn’t move, keeping her arms crossed over her chest.
“Are you going to watch me change?” I ask, feeling anger catch fire in my chest.
She lifts a brow, grinning at me. “Would you like that, or . . . ?”
“Get out,” I half shriek, half laugh, grabbing a pillow from the bed and tossing it at her. She catches it easily. When she throws it back, the force of the pillow slams into my torso, pushing me down on the bed.
“Hey!” I say, sitting up and rubbing the tip of my nose. “You didn’t have to throw it so hard!”
“No, I didn’t have to,” Roji says with a laugh. “But I wanted to, ha!”
Something tells me it’s going to be a long three weeks.
After I change into a set of gym clothes—leggings under my shorts with a loose-fitting hoodie—I walk downstairs to Grandfather’s kitchen. I’m greeted by all the best breakfast aromas: miso soup, grilled salmon, and daikon pickles and rice. My stomach rumbles. I pull my hair into a messy bun at the top of my head. One of Shimada’s black-winged butterflies dances around a light fixture.
In the kitchen, Goro is at the stove, tending to pieces of fish and sautéing vegetables. Shimada sits at Grandfather’s dinner table, nursing a mug of tea
. Hold on, shinigami drink tea? Neither he nor Shiro looks up as I enter—they’re absorbed in reviewing maps of the Fujikawa Shrine. The maps are made from paper as thin as an old man’s skin and their edges curl up like scrolls.
“Good morning, Kira!” Goro says with a smile, drawing my attention. “Would you like something to eat before you join Roji?”
“You approve of this plan?” I ask. “The one where I, a girl with almost no martial training, kill a demon king with a sword.”
“Of course!” he replies, handing me a bowl of miso soup.
“With. A. Sword,” I repeat, as if he hadn’t heard me the first time.
“And?” he replies. “Do you expect me to put a holy blade into a shinigami’s hands?”
“We don’t have the Kusanagi no Tsurugi,” I say.
“At the moment, no,” Shimada says. I turn, and he gestures to the maps on the table. “The blade of the Kusanagi was shattered from tang to tip, and its fifty-two pieces were scattered across Japan. Fifty-one of those pieces have been located by Shuten-doji’s forces.”
“And the last piece is here?” I ask him.
“Hidden so well, it’s survived centuries of attempts on your family’s shrine,” Shimada says. “It’s almost as if Seimei himself has hidden it, eh?”
Shiro grins and winks at me. I roll my eyes.
“This is getting ridiculous,” I say, fishing my chopsticks out of a kitchen drawer. I brought my favorite pair from home, the wood coated in smooth red lacquer. They were a gift from the teacher who helped me prepare for my Kōgakkon entry exams. While my father taught me to value hard work over luck, I could use a little good fortune in the coming weeks. Especially today. I bump the drawer with my hip, closing it gently.
“This is how we win,” Shimada replies as I join them at the kitchen table. “Goro-san says your grandfather never told him your shrine had a shard of the Kusanagi no Tsurugi—did Fujikawa-san ever make any mention of it to you?”
I shake my head, plucking a cube of tofu out of my soup and popping it into my mouth.
Shimada looks back at the maps. “In that case, we may need to try to summon his spirit—”
I nearly choke on my tofu, covering my mouth with one hand to hide a cough. “You can do that?”
“Yes,” Shimada says, flicking a small crumb of tofu off one of the maps with disdain. My cheeks burn with shame. “I can do that if I must.”
Glad to see I’m making a positive impression on our new guests. I eat my soup quietly, picking out the best bits of tofu before lifting the bowl to my lips. The salty, oniony broth wakes up my taste buds, and the warmth braces my spirit. Good, I need some strength to face the day; I’m anxious about joining Roji for training—I usually like to have more time to prepare for things like this so that I don’t look like a fool. That’s not an option, not now.
Once I’ve finished my meal, I wash my dishes, thank Goro for breakfast, and head outside into the dark, chilly morning. Night still drenches the shrine. The moon wanes in the sky—after Shuten-doji, time is my next greatest enemy. Some of the shrine’s buildings have been destroyed, and their bones reach up into the night, their edges glazed in moonlight. I shiver, realizing I can’t feel the presence of the kami here anymore. These grounds have been desecrated; if I’m ever to restore them, I must learn to fight an enemy as ancient as memory.
Despite the early hour, hammers bang and buzz saws growl. Floodlights focus their beams on the main shrine, where Minami’s team appears to be repairing the roof. Two kitsune stand atop the building, silhouetted by the bright lights, going over a set of building plans. I spot Minami on the ground, talking to a small group of yokai. I wave as I pass. She scowls. I don’t care if she doesn’t like me—she’s rebuilding the shrine, and that’s what matters.
As one of the largest buildings on the Fujikawa Shrine’s grounds, the assembly hall has been used for various community gatherings. It functions as a waiting room for those planning to worship at the main shrine. It’s still mostly intact, barring some damage to the verandas on the western side.
This morning, the hall serves as a makeshift dojo.
I slide off my shoes at the door, leaving them outside. The front doors are open to the morning chill. Roji lies on the gleaming wood floor, hands under her head, an ankle propped on the opposite knee. All the furniture has been pushed against the eggshell walls to make enough space for practice.
“It’s about time,” Roji says. Two wooden bokuto rest by her side. Practice swords. They look just like steel katana, except that they’re made from a smooth, blond wood. Roji performs a kip-up, leaping to her feet. She tosses me one of the weapons, which I manage to catch but barely. The tip of the sword swings down and makes a hollow thok sound against the wood floor.
Roji knocks my bokuto’s blade with her own. “You ever used one of these before?”
I shake my head. Grandfather provided me some with hand-to-hand martial training, but we never had the time to do any sort of kendo or kenjutsu.
“Yeah, I can tell by your grip.” Roji swings her bokuto down so fast it whistles through the air, knocking the wooden sword out of my hands. My bokuto clatters to the floor, the impact leaving my hands stinging.
“Hey!” I cry, shaking my hands. Roji laughs, but there’s no malice in the sound.
“Lesson one,” she says, sliding a foot under the tip of my bokuto, kicking it into the air, and snatching it with no small degree of style. She delivers the wooden sword to me, handle-first. “When your life depends on the sword, your sword depends on your grip.”
I take the bokuto in both hands this time, mimicking Roji. Pivoting, I fall into step beside her.
“Your left hand provides the power, and your right hand the precision,” she says, pointing to my hands in turn. “While it may seem counterintuitive, you’ll want to keep your grip light up top. Hold the sword with your middle, ring, and little fingers.”
I relax the tension on my pointer finger and thumb. The grip feels . . . unstable at best. “Won’t I drop the sword if I try to block a heavy blow?”
“Sure, you can worry about that—if you’re an actress in a samurai movie,” Roji says, setting her bokuto aside to rework the positioning of my left hand. “Actual combat isn’t flashy, and striking your opponent’s blade is a surefire way to break your own. You’re better off relying on quick thinking and superior footwork to exploit the weaknesses in your opponent’s defenses, thus allowing you to disarm or destroy them.”
We spend the next hour developing my footwork, including stances, slide steps, and shuffles, all done while maintaining a proper grip on the bokuto. While Roji makes the movements look effortless, my arm and back muscles begin to ache before long. The one-pound bokuto hadn’t seemed heavy at first . . . but Roji snaps at me if I let the tip fall below my knees. I’ve yet to perform even one practice swing, but my body already complains from the effort.
However, I refuse to acknowledge these pains out loud. I don’t wish to seem ungrateful. Not only does Roji’s presence mean I have two shinigami committed to my cause, but she’s teaching me how to defend myself against the yokai, too. It’s what I’ve always wanted, even if the packaging isn’t ideal.
As we stow our bokuto in a closet for the morning, my muscles burn with exhaustion. I won’t be able to take a break anytime soon—classes start at eight-thirty and end at three-fifteen. Afterward, Shiro and I will spend several hours searching Kyoto for more shinigami. And then I’ll return to the shrine, help O-bei’s people with their repairs, and try to get a few hours of homework in before bed.
In manga, the hero responsible for saving the world generally gets a free pass on real life . . . but I don’t live in a manga world. The real world keeps moving forward, despite the danger it’s in.
I step outside, taking a deep breath of the morning air. The night has already started draining into the west. The last of the stars glitter overhead.
“Hey,” Roji says, joining me on the veranda. “I can’t t
ell you things are going to be okay, kid. But if you have to go down, you might as well go down fighting.”
I don’t reply right away. Roji picks a small scab off her arm and flicks it away. Her tattooed butterflies make lazy loops around her biceps; I’ve never noticed before, but the tattoo ink varies greatly in intensity, as some of the butterflies have begun to fade from her skin. Others are so new, their black-blue coloration glimmers like wet ink. Several small, butterfly-shaped welts decorate her shoulder, as if she took new souls and pressed them straight into her flesh.
I wonder what color my wings would be, if she wore my soul on her skin.
“Encouraging others isn’t one of my strong suits,” Roji says with a chuckle. “But I hope you know we are here to help.”
“Thank you, Roji-san,” I say with a bow of my head. “I’m sorry, I’m just . . .”
“Overwhelmed?”
“Yes, that.”
“I don’t really remember what that feels like,” Roji says, leaning against the balustrade and looking toward the pond. “Emotions aren’t something we shinigami really feel. But if you remember one lesson from me, it should be this—every situation in death or life is easier to handle if you keep a good grip on it.”
“Easy to say for a master,” I reply.
Roji grins. “I guess you’d better be a quick study then, eh?”
Sixteen
Fujikawa Shrine
Kyoto, Japan
An hour later, I hurry downstairs dressed in a clean school uniform. Kōgakkon’s dress code doesn’t change—no matter the weather—so I’ve put on thick black tights under my pleated skirt to keep out the chill. I’ve also opted to wear a long sweater under my blazer, one that ends a few inches above my hemline and keeps my skirt looking trim. I haven’t had time to replace my school bag, so I’ve borrowed one of Mother’s leather carryalls.
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