Curling up in her seat, she hugged the worn journal to her chest, lost in cherished memories as the mountains slid by outside the window.
An hour later, the train came to a stop and she disembarked with a handful of other passengers. Her sturdy ankle boots thumped on the wooden platform as she wheeled her suitcase toward the street. The tiny town of Kiroibara was quiet, the afternoon sun warm and lazy on her skin. She drew the fresh mountain air deep into her lungs.
Pushing the long sleeves of her shirt up to her elbows, she strolled unhurriedly through the town, smiling at the passing townspeople. At the northern outskirts, she turned onto a winding dirt road. Ahead of her, mountains stretched toward the horizon, wild and unclaimed by mankind.
She could have traversed the road in ten minutes, but at her leisurely pace, it took twice as long. She didn’t mind. Eyes half closed, suitcase bumping along behind her, she strolled through dappled shadows, the sound of the breeze in the trees soothing her soul. She’d missed this place. A few years ago, she had tentatively told Katsuo that she was thinking of relocating to Kiroibara, but his reaction had been immediate panic. She couldn’t live there, he’d told her. How would she ever move on with her life?
With her thoughts elsewhere, she followed the road to a wide trail through the woods, and the babble of a stream joined the rustle of leaves. A shape loomed in the shadows: a small red torii that spanned the trail. She bowed, then stepped beneath it.
A tingle of warmth spread from her foot up her ankle.
Retracting the handle of her suitcase, she picked it up and ascended the stone stairs. A second torii loomed at the top, and she again bowed before stepping into the courtyard where familiar structures waited—the repaired stage for performances, the tiny hall of worship reconstructed after its near-complete destruction seven years previously. Her steps faltered as memories assaulted her.
He had stood right there, blood running from his terrible wounds, and stared at her with fathomless ruby eyes.
“You’ll forget me someday, little miko.”
“I’ll never forget you. I’ll remember you to my last day.”
“Do you promise?”
“Yes, I promise.”
Shaking her head, she turned away from the shrine and hurried across the courtyard. Surrounded by vivid green plants that were just beginning to bud with flowers, the pond sparkled in the sun. She stopped halfway across the footbridge and peered down at the shadows of orange koi swimming just beneath the surface, then continued onward to the house.
At the front door, she tapped lightly before sliding it open. “Hello?”
No one answered. Emi slipped off her boots and, leaving her suitcase in the entryway, headed inside. In the kitchen, she found a note on the counter in Nanako’s handwriting, letting Emi know she and Kannushi Fujimoto had run into town for an errand but would be back by dinner. Lunch was in the fridge.
Emi found the leftover stew with her name on it and popped it into the microwave. After eating, she put her shoes back on and carried her luggage outside. In the trees across the front lawn, she let herself into the guesthouse and deposited her suitcase in one of the two small bedrooms. No memories haunted her here.
She stopped in the bathroom, taking a minute to brush her elbow-length hair into a high ponytail and adjust her side-swept bangs. Grabbing her jacket, she pulled it on and hurried outside again. Beyond the house, she strode up the trail into the woods, eager little butterflies flitting in her stomach.
A horse nickered as she came out of the trees into the open field. The four horses in the small pasture pricked their ears toward her, and a black gelding with one white sock pranced toward the fence.
“Hey there, Tornado,” she cooed, reaching over the fence to rub his nose. “Did you miss me?”
He snorted against her hand. She climbed over the fence and headed for the stable, Tornado following behind and nudging her back as though telling her to hurry. She chuckled and lengthened her stride. In the stable, she made quick work of grooming and saddling him, the motions natural and comfortable.
Leading him out the pasture gate onto the trail, she pulled the reins over his neck, put her foot in the stirrup, and swung onto his back in one smooth motion. Settling into the saddle, she gathered the reins as he danced impatiently in place.
“Okay, you goof,” she laughed. “Let’s go!”
She touched her heels to his sides and he broke into a canter, the wind whipping her ponytail out behind her. They cantered past the pasture and raced underneath the torii at the edge of the grounds. The trail wound through the trees and began to climb, the slope growing steeper. Eventually, they slowed to a brisk trot.
Though Katsuo had accompanied her on her previous visits to Shirayuri, she had always undertaken this part of her journey alone.
When she passed the remains of a fallen tree that had once blocked the path, she ignored the odd mix of eagerness and unease that danced in her middle and urged Tornado onward. The early afternoon sun crept across the sky as she followed the trail deeper into the wild woods. Birds chirped in a frenzy of song and tiny sparrows swooped madly among the branches above.
Then, the sound she had been waiting for.
“Caw.”
She looked up. A glossy black crow swooped out of the forest canopy, landed on a branch a few yards away, and let out another harsh cry. Somehow, each year, she worried the crows wouldn’t come for her this time.
The bird took flight again, leading her off the trail. She guided Tornado through the underbrush, and for well over an hour, they forged through the increasingly untamed forest. More crows fluttered in to join them until she had an escort of nearly two dozen. They squawked and squabbled among themselves, making a terrible racket.
Finally, the woods opened into a large clearing. In the center, a huge oak rose in lone splendor. It wasn’t as large or quite as majestic as the ancient tree that had fallen seven years ago, but it was still magnificent.
At the base of the oak, a dark-haired figure sat, a sword between his knees as he ran a whetstone down the blade. She hesitated at the sight of the daitengu, then dismounted. After loosening the cinch on Tornado’s saddle and tying up the reins, she patted his shoulder.
“Don’t wander too far, boy.”
He buried his nose in a patch of long grass, and leaving him to graze, she approached the tree.
The daitengu looked up, his garnet eyes sweeping over her. Dressed casually in a black kosode and hakama, with his long hair messily tied back, he looked casual and relaxed—a stark contrast to the terse, crude warrior she remembered.
“Zenki,” she said cautiously. “It’s been a while.”
He slid the stone along the blade. “Haven’t seen you since the solstice, kamigakari. I’m surprised you still know me.”
“I’m not a kamigakari anymore,” she replied.
“What are you then?”
“Human.”
“Humans are supposed to forget yokai, not remember us for years.”
“I just … I think about you all a lot, that’s all.”
He leered at her. “You think about me a lot, do you, pretty thing?”
“Not you specifically,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “What are you doing here, anyway?”
“Trying to convince His Irritableness to help me out with something.” He lifted his sword and peered down the length of the blade. “He can’t expect to call us into battle without warning, then go back to ignoring us for another five centuries.”
“What do you want his help with?”
“Oh, just a little murder and mayhem.” His vicious grin displayed his pointed canines. “He knows it will be fun. He’s just being stubborn.”
She raised her eyebrows skeptically. “If you’ve been regaling him with your powers of persuasion, why are you out here?”
He scowled. “He kicked me out.”
She didn’t hide her amusement. “So it’s going well, then.”
“He’
s been ridiculously moody for two weeks now. See if you can do any better.”
“I will.” Flipping her ponytail off her shoulder, she reached for the lowest tree branch and pulled herself onto it. Ignoring Zenki’s derisive snort as she wobbled to her feet, she grabbed the next branch and continued climbing. By the time she clambered onto a thick bough three-quarters of the way up the trunk, her breath burned in her lungs.
Before her, darkness rippled in the shape of a rough entry, the otherworldly doorway embedded in the bark.
She stepped into the icy passage. The air thickened and tried to shove her out again, but she strained against it. All at once, it gave way and she stumbled into dim light and the scent of wood smoke.
A circular room materialized before her, the walls made of solid, unfinished timber. A low table sat in the center of the space beside a square fire pit, its coals dark and cold. An assortment of crates cluttered one portion of the wall, and as she’d come to expect, the table was buried in what appeared to be a pile of junk.
A solid wooden staircase carved into the tree curled along the wall opposite her, and standing on the bottom step as though having just descended, the owner of the home waited for her.
Tears stung her eyes and her smile stretched her lips until they hurt. “Yumei.”
Chapter 30
As he stepped off the lowest stair, she rushed across the room and threw her arms around him. His put-upon sigh as he returned the embrace made her laugh. She knew he didn’t care for hugs and other sentimental displays, but she forced him to endure at least one embrace per visit anyway. Though he clearly didn’t enjoy it, he never pushed her away, and that brought tears spilling down her cheeks.
“Emi,” he murmured in greeting.
His quiet, toneless voice was so familiar, so welcome. She released him and stepped back to scrutinize his stark, handsome features and eerie silver eyes. He looked exactly as she remembered him, and relief fluttered through her. She’d made it through another year without forgetting anything.
He studied her as well, and she shifted self-consciously. Her snug-fitting shirt, casual jacket, fitted jeans, and boots were far different from the miko uniform and kimono she used to exclusively wear, yet his dark kosode accented with silver was the same as always. He had seen her in modern clothes on her previous visits, but he always looked her over as though checking her appearance for … for something.
She quickly wiped the tears from her face with one sleeve. “I saw Zenki outside. He wants you to fight with him?”
“He has been aggravatingly persistent,” Yumei complained without emotion. “In another week or so, he will grow bored and leave me alone.”
“You don’t want to go on an adventure?” she teased as she followed him to the table where they knelt on battered cushions.
“Not his idea of adventure,” Yumei muttered. His gaze slid across her again, oddly intense, and he waited.
As was tradition during her visits, she launched into a recap of her year. She told him of her new job, her progress in judo, and the horse she was riding at the stable outside the city. She’d decided to quit archery in favor of violin lessons. She touched on her schooling and the research she was undertaking for her Masters, then described Katsuo’s wedding in detail.
He had never asked her to tell him everything about her mundane human life, and he rarely commented or even spoke while she talked, but every year, he listened, his full attention on her words, and it didn’t matter if she was boring him. He was listening, without impatience or irritation, and that’s what mattered.
When she finished, she shifted on her cushion and pushed a stack of rolled paper aside so she could prop her elbow on the table. “Tell me about the yokai.”
He tapped one talon-tipped finger on the table in thought. “Aside from Zenki, Taro and Naigu have invaded my home twice, for seemingly no other purpose than to aggravate me. I have not seen the others, though we suspect some will revive within the next few years.”
An uncomfortable twinge ran through her at the reminder of how, on that fateful winter solstice, seven of the twelve daitengu who had followed Yumei into battle had perished, including four of the five who had entered the hidden cavern.
“Zenki said you’re not allowed to go back to ignoring them again,” she told him.
“They do not determine what I may or may not do,” he replied flatly. “I will ignore them as long as I please.”
She quashed her amusement. If his daitengu were still visiting, then he wasn’t doing a good job ignoring them. She suspected that, even if Zenki failed to sway him, the daitengu would eventually draw Yumei back into their adventures. As he’d said, they were very persistent and, considering how easily he could keep them away if he really wanted to, his resistance seemed halfhearted at best.
“You can spend time with them without becoming a warlord again,” she pointed out. “They want your help.”
“They do not need me.”
“No, they don’t. But they want you to join them again.”
He frowned at her.
She smiled back. “Any other news?”
“Sarutahiko and Uzume have decided to hold a yearly … gathering? Audience? Whatever they wish to call it, they will make themselves available for a week each year, and they expect their vassals to attend them, at least briefly, during that period.”
“So they can check up on everyone?”
“I expect so.”
“What about Susano?”
“He is, as typical, elusive. However, I encountered him this past autumn.” Yumei’s expression shifted into what might have been slight amusement. “He was travelling in the company of Seiryu.”
Emi straightened in surprise. She couldn’t recall the blue-haired Shijin of Water well, but she remembered the petite yokai female had been both beautiful and feisty, and more than capable of besting Yumei’s daitengu at their drinking games.
“That’s interesting. I would have liked to see him myself,” she said wistfully, then asked, “What about the other three Shijin?”
“Nothing yet.”
The red-haired Shijin of Fire and dark Shijin of Cold had both died by Izanagi’s blade in the hidden cavern world. And Byakko had fallen to enemy forces on the mountainside, sacrificing himself to ensure Uzume reached the fire gate before it was too late. Emi sometimes wondered about the fate of his son, orphaned until one of his parents revived.
She asked about a few more of the yokai she had met in those chaotic days preceding the solstice, but Yumei had little else to share. With each query, her tension increased until she was nearly vibrating in place. Her final question built within her like a boiling storm cloud about to break. She already knew the answer. If his reply this year was going to be different, he would have told her already. Yet, even knowing this, she still had to ask.
“And …” She swallowed hard. “And is there any news about … about …” Why was it so hard to finish the question? Why did it always stick in her throat, refusing to budge?
Yumei studied her as though weighing something in his mind, then spoke the words he had repeated every year.
“I searched all of his shrines but found no evidence of his presence. Inari has not returned.”
Her shoulders slumped and she nodded. She had known that would be his answer, so why did it hurt so much? Why did aching loneliness descend over her like an icy cloak weighing her down?
Yumei shifted where he sat. “It is far too soon. His ki was decimated. If he revives, it will not be for decades yet. My last revival took nearly two centuries.”
She nodded again. He had spoken these words, in various iterations, many times before as well.
“He may never revive,” he pressed. “No Kunitsukami—no yokai—has ever suffered such a death.”
“I know,” she whispered, staring at her lap, tears standing in her eyes. Every year, she told herself not to hope. Every year, she repeated his warnings over and over, hammering them into her brain. Yet somehow,
every year, hope kindled in her subconscious, an ember that refused to be extinguished.
Yumei was silent and she could feel his gaze on her. He rose to his feet. “Come outside.”
She obediently followed him to the dark portal in the wall. He stepped through and she shoved into the darkness after him. It swallowed her, tasted her humanness, and spat her out the other side. She flew forward, arms flailing gracelessly. Yumei caught her and pulled her against his side before leaping off the bough. Her stomach swooped as he jumped from branch to branch. They landed lightly on the grass and he released her.
As he strode away, Emi glanced back to see Zenki still at the base of the tree, ignored by his master. The daitengu scowled at her and, abandoning decorum, she stuck her tongue out at him.
Among the trees, Yumei slowed to a more casual pace. She fell into step beside him, curiosity gnawing at her. Yumei had never invited her on a walk before.
After several minutes of quiet, he spoke. “You tell me of the many things you do each year.”
She blinked, confused.
“But when you speak of them, you sound as though you are reciting a list.” He glanced at her, his stare cutting. “Not until you ask of yokai, and not until I tell you of them, do I see true vivacity in your face.”
Wincing, she mumbled, “I just look forward to hearing what …”
“What you have missed?” He stopped and turned to face her. “Do you know why I am the only yokai you have seen since that night?”
“They … they’re busy, and …”
“Every yokai who met you and who cares for your fate agreed, seven years ago, that they would never allow you to see them again.”
Pain slashed through her. “They don’t want to see me … ever?”
“They agreed it was the greatest kindness they could give you.”
He started walking again, leaving her to stumble after him.
Hands clenched, she asked hoarsely, “Why?”
Immortal Fire (The Red Winter Trilogy Book 3) Page 31
