I let go.
When I wake, I find myself wrapped in a cocoon of comforters. I cough, still able to taste the well’s grime on my lips. My head throbs.
“You’re awake.”
I turn my head, surprised to see sitting Roji at my bedside. She leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “For a little while there, I thought I’d be turning you into a butterfly, kid.”
“What”—I cough again, trying to sit up—“what happened?”
“Don’t sit up, you nearly drowned,” Roji says, propping her bare feet up on my bed. Oni-chan mews, getting up from my side and hopping onto her lap. “You were attacked by a kyokotsu in a cursed well. You’re lucky that boy’s so blindly in love with you, he was willing to jump in and dredge you out. Damn fool.”
I’m not sure who she’s calling fool—Shiro, or me. Or both.
“Shiro’s not in love with me,” I whisper, turning my face toward the ceiling. The words sound like a lie.
“I don’t know what else to call it, then,” Roji replies, scratching Oni-chan behind one ear. “It’s easy to forget what something like love feels like after a hundred years or more.”
“We’re friends.”
“I’m dead, not blind.”
“You just said you don’t remember what love feels like!”
“Doesn’t mean I don’t remember what it looks like,” she says with a tch.
Fine, I’m not arguing about my love life right now. “Is Shiro . . . ?”
“He’s okay,” Roji says. “He and Goro are currently purifying the well—”
I sit up, my memories crashing back. “The well! I found something down there, something sealed under a Seimei pentagram, and I, I . . . Did I bring it back up with me?”
Roji chuckles, taking a silk-wrapped object off my nightstand. “Oh yes, you did. Shimada left this with me, because he knew you’d want to see it.”
I sit up straighter as she unwinds the raw silk and exposes a long, thin piece of metal.
“Is that what I think it is?” I whisper to her.
She grins. “Put your hands out, Kira Fujikawa. Palms up.”
I extend both my palms. Roji rests the metal shard—silk and all—in my hands.
The metal catches fire—no, it catches light. It blazes in my tiny room, and when I look up at Roji, I see her differently. Her tattoos are gone, as are the gauges in her ears and the cynicism in her eyes. Her hair runs down her back in a long, straight sheet; and the cut of her kimono seems different, the fabric more natural and homespun than I’m accustomed to seeing. Her hakama are miko red.
“It’s the last shard,” I say softly. “Finally.”
And the girl Roji once was, many, many centuries ago, smiles.
Twenty-Six
Fujikawa Shrine
Kyoto, Japan
On the Friday before the blood moon rises, I go through the motions of a normal day: I have breakfast with Goro, who will retutn to Tokyo later this afternoon; I train with Roji, who gives me a few new bruises; and I go to school with Shiro. We secretly tuck our hands in his coat pocket, letting our fingers lock together on the way home. It’s the last day of school before winter break—at least I won’t have homework while I’m trying to save the world.
Shiro and I spend most afternoons looking for more shinigami, but today, we head home to say goodbye to Goro. By the time we arrive at the shrine, Goro waits at the top of the steps with Shimada and Roji. A small suitcase sits at his side.
“Goro!” I call, racing up the stairs. I’m in better shape now, and running up the steps leaves me exhilarated, not winded. I throw my arms around the old kitsune, who chuckles and places his hand on the crown of my head. “I’ll miss you,” I say softly.
“Your grandfather would have been so proud of you, Kira,” he says as I pull away from his embrace. “Trust Shimada-san and Roji-san, they are good souls”—he smiles at them—“for a couple of dead people.”
“I don’t know about good,” Roji says, scratching the side of her nose. She grins at Shimada, who crosses his arms over his chest and looks unamused. He’s particularly good at that expression, his eyes narrowing by a few degrees, their irises flashing like flint. If I didn’t know him better, I’d be frightened. Perhaps I still am.
“As for you,” Goro says, turning to Shiro. He places a hand on the younger kitsune’s shoulder. “It is not often that Amaterasu tasks one so young with a responsibility like this, but you are up to the challenge. Trust yourself.”
Shiro bows to Goro. As Goro takes hold of his suitcase, he takes one final long look at the Fujikawa Shrine, and then at us. “When the darkness finally comes,” he says with a deep bow, “may the Goddess watch over you all.”
“And may she watch over you.” I bow to him, and then watch him descend the stairs. He will take a train home, where he will help the priests of the Meiji Shrine prepare for the blood moon. Most shrines will be bolstering their defenses this week, as Shuten-doji will be looking to weaken Amaterasu as much as possible. Destroying her houses of worship is only the first step.
“I am sorry to interrupt,” a voice says behind me. I turn, surprised to see Yuza standing in the gatehouse. Her shackles are gone. She stands before me, scrubbed clean of the cellar’s filth and dressed in midnight black from shoulder to hip to hem. Her hakama pants swing like bells in the breeze. Like the other shinigami, she wears her kimono folded right side over left—only the dead wear their kimono this way. “But Lady O-bei wishes to discuss our next move.”
Yuza looks so different from the monster that wanted to take my life. “Yuza,” I say, turning toward the gatehouse. “You’re free.”
“Not until Shuten-doji is dead,” she replies coldly. “He stole decades from me, and he will pay dearly for that.”
“Does that mean you’re joining us?” I ask, hope bubbling up in my chest.
A hint of a smile touches her lips. She turns. “Come, we have much to discuss.”
I glance at Shiro, mouthing Six! at him. Counting O-Bei and Ronin, of course. If we can manage to recruit one more shinigami in the days left before the blood moon, we’ll have a chance at destroying Shuten-doji. And not just for now, but for good.
We convene in the shrine office, which has become a flurry of activity. Yuza joins O-bei at the desk, as does Shimada. O-bei pores over maps of the shrine. Roji drops into a nearby chair. Ronin’s at the window, his back to us, hands folded behind him. Heihachi leans against one wall, playing with his little white moth. Shiro and I sit on the edge of an unused desk, our hands close, pinkie fingers barely touching.
The butterflies, with all their wings in different shapes and colors, flutter around our heads. When I turn my face toward the ceiling, the dust from their wings coats my lips and slips into my nose. I sneeze.
“We have less than a week till the blood moon,” O-bei says, tapping a long, crimson fingernail on the maps. “My people tell me the shrine fortifications will be complete by then, but we have yet to find a seventh shinigami.” Her gaze hits me so hard, it seems to pierce my soul.
“We will find a seventh, Lady O-bei,” I say, lifting my chin. I’m not about to be cowed by her, not anymore. Shiro and I have spent most every afternoon searching Kyoto for shinigami. We’ve managed to recruit six total death gods to our cause, which feels miraculous. However, all our weeks of hard work will mean nothing if we can’t manage to find another shinigami. We need seven for a cabal. Only seven can slay the demon.
“See that you do,” O-bei says. “You must understand, I have destroyed my relationships with the Iron Palace for you and this shrine—”
And your ambitions, I think to myself, but even I can read the air well enough to know I shouldn’t say those words aloud.
“—And if we fail now, Shuten-doji will enslave us and slay the mortals,” O-bei says, her voice rising. Several of her butterflies whisper across the silk of her golden kimono, as if upset by her tone. “He will likely hunt down every member of my court, and your family
as well, Kira.”
A shudder starts at the base of my spine, worming its way through my vertebrae and into my skull. On one hand, I know O-bei might be using my family to manipulate me into doing what she wants; on the other, I’ve seen Shuten-doji’s cruelties. I refuse to subject my family, my friends, or this world to his rule.
We must defeat him, no matter what it takes.
“If you wish to succeed,” Shimada says, rubbing the stubble on his chin with one hand, “we should take the remaining shards of the Kusanagi from Shuten-doji.”
“And how do you propose we do that?” O-bei asks sweetly, lifting a brow. “Shall I send my armies to his front door and demand the shards back? Or perhaps you and I could raise Shuten-doji’s last and most infamous murderer from the grave? One mortal man shouldn’t be a problem, not for you and me.”
O-bei smiles, but there’s no warmth in the expression. I can’t tell if she’s teasing Shimada, or challenging him.
“Don’t be melodramatic,” Shimada says. “A group of us could break into the Iron Palace and retrieve the sword. These are oni—mere ogres, dangerous and stupid in equal measures. They aren’t gods.”
“Most of them aren’t gods,” Roji mutters.
“Are you suggesting a heist?” O-bei says with a little laugh. “My dear, we have five days till the blood moon rises. How could we possibly infiltrate the Iron Palace in that time frame? Tamamo-no-Mae is no fool. It would take months of planning, curating assets, stealing maps and securing key posts—”
“I’ll do it,” Yuza says.
The room falls so quiet, I can almost hear the soft, feathery beat of the butterflies’ wings in the rafters.
Everyone turns to Yuza.
She continues: “I served that beast for decades, and I know every corner of the Iron Palace. Nobody should go but me.”
“That might work,” I say. If I could face down the blood moon with seven shinigami at my back and the Kusanagi in my hands, I could be reasonably sure of our success. Reasonably. O-bei’s people have been fortifying the shrine not just for an attack, but for a war.
“It’s a terrible idea,” O-bei says flatly.
“Why?” Annoyance snaps in my chest. “Shouldn’t we do everything in our power to defeat Shuten-doji?”
“And run the risk of stretching ourselves too thin?” O-bei replies, gesturing to the map. “We have days left before the blood moon. Our resources are not endless.”
I hop off the table, preferring to face O-bei on my feet. “So send one solider in,” I say, gesturing at Yuza.
“Absolutely not,” O-bei says. “It’s far too great a risk—”
“As if taking on Shuten-doji here at the shrine isn’t a risk?” I snap.
“Do not interrupt me, girl,” O-bei says, the last word more growl than grace. “It is one thing to take an intelligent risk, and another to squander precious soldiers on unnecessary maneuvers.”
“It’s not squandering lives if we succeed,” I say, my temper flaring. “Letting Shuten-doji control a major advantage makes it look like you want him to win.”
O-bei blanches. The color seeps out of her eyes, leaving them pale as moonstones. I bite back my anger, knowing I’ve let things go too far. “I’m sorry, Lady O-bei,” I say with a short bow. “That was unfair of me.”
She lets my apology hang in the air for a beat, and then moves on as if I never lost my temper. “Time moves differently in Yomi,” O-bei says, smoothing her hands down the front of her kimono. “Spending hours in Yomi costs days in the mortal realm. And if we were to lose a shinigami in the endeavor . . .”
O-bei trails off. Roji punctuates the silence by flicking her butterfly knife open and closed. Heihachi stares at the floor. Neither Shiro nor Ronin has said much since our conversation began. Shiro stands quietly beside me, running the back of his thumbnail over his lower lip, lost in thought.
“Let us send Yuza in,” Shimada says, knocking once on the desk. “I understand your concern, Lady O-bei, but I do not wish to leave this battle to chance. If Kira”—he gestures to me—“wields the sword, victory is far more likely.”
O-bei turns her glimmering eyes on Shimada, narrowing her gaze. She takes a step toward him, sizing him up, cocking her head to one side. “And why are you so keen on retrieving the blade, hmm? You, the shinigami without a name? What drives you to demand . . .”
But her eyes widen, her lips curving into an o shape. Her gaze slides to Roji, and she asks, “Ah, I think I know what’s happening here—you were bearers of the shattered blade, weren’t you? I heard everyone involved in that act was punished, but I didn’t know you were turned into shinigami.”
Roji turns her face away with a tch. Shimada says nothing.
“So much for your noble hearts,” O-bei says, covering her mouth as she snickers. “You are both here to settle an old score.”
“As are you,” Shimada says.
“Wait,” I say, looking back and forth between Shimada and Roji. “What’s Lady O-bei talking about?”
“Ancient history,” Roji says, snapping her knife shut. The click echoes in the silence that follows. “And I’m not keen on giving any of you a lesson. I’m out.”
Roji pushes out of her chair and leaves the room, letting the door slam in her wake. I look to Shimada, but he shakes his head.
“It’s a long story,” he says. “A long, tragic story.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “We have time—”
“Time is the one thing we don’t have,” O-bei says.
“That, and the rest of the Kusanagi,” Shiro mutters under his breath.
O-bei looks at him, long and hard, until Shiro bows his head. “If I allow Yuza to attempt this, she must leave tonight. Otherwise she may not return before the blood moon rises. Kira, I would like to send you with her.”
“What?” Shiro and I say in tandem. Only I ask, “Why me?”
“Because Yuza will need someone to feed to the oni if things go badly,” O-bei says, and when she sees the look on my face, she laughs. “That was a joke, Kira.”
“You’ve always had a marvelous sense of humor, Mother,” Shiro says darkly. Ronin chuckles, casting a glance over his shoulder.
“Some types of magic need two sets of hands for the working, and I can’t spare anyone else here,” O-bei says. “Either you go with Yuza, or we abandon this plot altogether.”
She’s left me no graceful exit from this situation, not if I want Yuza to attempt to steal the shards of the Kusanagi. I’m caught between my love for the shrine and the terror of following Yuza into Yomi.
Yomi is death, but the shrine is my life. This is my one and truest home.
“Fine,” I say, looking to Yuza. “Let’s go steal a sword.”
“If Kira’s going, so am I,” Shiro says.
“No,” O-bei says. “We are not risking anyone else on this little excursion, especially you. I need you to remain behind and search for the final member of our cabal.”
“Then send me in her place,” Shiro says. “Kira can keep looking, and I’m the better onmyōji—”
“No,” O-bei says, her tone making it clear she won’t brook any arguments. “If this sword is so important to them, let these fools try to steal it from the demon god.”
Yuza and I are to leave at sunset. I head home to change my clothes, but my feet carry me to the motomiya instead. The small shrine sits in the growing shadows, alone and forgotten. But forgetting the night Grandfather died will be impossible, I think. Even if we win—even if we manage to bring the sword back—I will never forget the blood that was spilled here.
The boards still sing when I step inside. I kneel on the stained floor, pressing my palms into the wood until it bites into my skin. The pain distracts me from the wounds in my heart. And then I lean down until my forehead touches the ground.
“I’m scared, Grandfather,” I whisper to the boards. “Is it all right to be frightened?”
I sit up, but no answer comes. I am not a shinigami—I
cannot call out to the dead.
“Your sacrifice will not be forgotten,” I say with a shiver. “Not today, not ever. You gave your life to save mine, and in return, I will fight to protect this place till my last breath. Even if I have to venture into the land of the dead.”
I’m not sure how long I sit in the small shrine—long enough, at least, for the evening to curl into the room and rest its head on my shoulder. Just before full dark, Shiro finds me. I hear his footsteps first, and then a deep inhalation, as if he’s scenting the air. There’s a pause, as if he’s processing everything that’s happened here, as if he can remember the way the blood rushed out of Grandfather’s body from the scent alone.
Shiro drapes his jacket over my shoulders as he sinks down beside me, then pulls me under one arm. “You don’t have to go, Kira. Mother’s just being terrible. As usual.”
“No, she’s right,” I say, with a shake of my head. It knocks loose a tear, which I wipe away. I steady myself with a breath. “We’re going to need those shards if we can’t find a seventh shinigami—maybe your mother will accept the Kusanagi instead.”
“I knew you’d say that.” He frowns, reaching into his pocket. “So I made you something, just in case.”
“Really?” I ask, scooting over to give him a little more space.
He tugs a tiny stuffed fox from his pocket. No larger than the height of my thumb, the little creature has red-tipped ears and a tail that curls over its back. I take it from Shiro, running my fingers over the fox’s silken fabric, sensing the strength of the magic within.
“It’s a special omamori amulet,” he says, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “I’ve imbued it with some of the magic from my hoshi-no-tama—a kitsune’s soul gem. I hope it brings you luck.”
I look from the omamori to Shiro, and then back again, swallowing hard. Nobody has ever given me such a thoughtful gift, not in my whole life. Words fail me. I throw my arms around his neck. He gathers me close, holding me for a few precious, comforting seconds, before I pull away.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
Seven Deadly Shadows Page 20
