Seven Deadly Shadows

by Courtney Alameda

  Her legs shake as we climb the steps to the house. I snake an arm around her waist, supporting her the rest of the way.

  “Grandpa’s not going to be okay, is he?” she asks quietly.

  “No, Ami, he’s not,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

  She tries to keep her lips from quivering. In the rush to escape, I haven’t spent a moment thinking about what we’re going to tell our parents. Anything but the truth, I suppose. I doubt I’d hear anything but the same tired responses, anyway:

  Yokai aren’t real.

  They don’t kill people.

  It’s all in your head.

  All lies people tell themselves to ignore the hairs rising on the backs of their necks. Their guts know what their minds dismiss: that evil isn’t always human, but it’s always hungry. While terrorist attacks are rare, I’m certain what happened at the shrine will be labeled as something like domestic terrorism by the local authorities. They’ll never catch the real monsters who did it.

  That’s my job.

  “I’ll deal with your clothes,” I say at the door. “When Mother and Father come back, tell them you didn’t see anything. We ran away before anything bad happened, okay?”

  “But Kira—”

  “You didn’t hear anything, either,” I tell her, maybe a little too forcefully. She shuts up and turns her gaze down, tears glittering on her lashes. At least Mother and Father will put less stock in anything Ami says. They’ll write off the supernatural as figments of her imagination, a scaffold to help her cope with the terrors she experienced at the shrine. What other choice would they have? They don’t see the world the way I do.

  Ami and I take off our shoes in the lowered genkan entryway. From here, I can see our older brother, Ichigo, hunched over his laptop in the darkened living room, his back to us. University papers and books pile across the table. I doubt he thought to turn the room’s lights on as the sun set. Ichigo gets . . . absorbed in his work.

  “You’re late,” Ichigo says. He doesn’t turn around, the word again implied in his tone.

  “There was trouble at the shrine,” I say, ushering Ami into the hall.

  “Trouble?” Ichigo’s fingers stop clacking on his keyboard. He pauses, cocking an ear in our direction while still looking at his screen. I’m never worth more than half his attention. “What kind of trouble?”

  “Grandfather got us out before we saw anything,” I say, not bothering to mask the tremor in my voice. “Ichigo . . . I think people died.”

  Ami looks up at me, chin quivering. If she realizes I’m lying, she doesn’t contradict me in front of our brother.

  Ichigo’s chair creaks as he turns in his seat. Dark circles wax like moons under his eyes. “You look like hell.”

  “We . . . um, had to crawl through the back hedge to get out,” I say, explaining away my appearance.

  “Did you alert the authorities?”

  “We heard sirens.”

  After a long moment, Ichigo sighs, removes his glasses, and rubs the bridge of his nose. “And Grandfather?”

  My tears well up again, and I blink fast to keep them at bay. I look away and shake my head. “I . . . I don’t know if he’s okay.”

  “Well, there’s nothing I can do about it now, not if the police are already there,” he says, picking up his cell phone. “I’ll text Mother to let them know something’s gone wrong at the shrine. Take care of Ami, would you? I have an important paper due tomorrow.”

  Ichigo sends a text and turns back to his work, fingers flying over his keyboard, clack-clack-clack. I wish he would see me for once, see my disheveled hair and the blood on my clothes, and ask me what happened. I wish he would come over, give me a hug, sit on the couch, and talk to me. I wish he would listen. See me. Understand me the way Grandfather could, rather than weighing me with a look and dismissing me when he found me wanting.

  I should tell him Grandfather’s dead, but the words stick in my throat, stiff and unyielding. If I tell him I listened as our grandfather was murdered, Ichigo will want to know how; and if I tell him the shrine was attacked by spider-legged yokai demanding a famous sword, he’ll be on the phone with my parents in minutes, complaining that I’m telling stories again. The yokai are mythical creatures, Kira, he’d say. And even if they weren’t, why would they be interested in a dingy little shrine like ours?

  Our family’s shrine isn’t dingy, I think, before realizing I’m arguing with him in my head.

  “I should . . .” I hesitate, feeling like a stranger in my own home. “I’m going back to the shrine to check on Grandfather and help the police. But first, I’ll get Ami-chan into bed.”

  “Good,” he says without turning, the way Mother sometimes does. “That would be helpful. Though I’m certain Grandfather is already getting the help he needs—I can’t imagine you would be anything more than a bother.”

  His words crush crystals of salt into my heart. He doesn’t say, Let me go with you, nor does he thank me. My brother and I are bound by blood, but little else.

  “Good night, Ichigo,” I say, and guide my little sister toward the bathroom. He doesn’t answer me.

  He doesn’t even look up as we pass.

  Five

  Fujikawa Family Home

  Kyoto, Japan

  After disposing of Ami’s dirty clothes, I trudge upstairs to my bedroom.

  My mother is a fierce traditionalist, insisting upon old-world details in our home: the tatami mats on the floor give off a sweet, grassy smell. The walls gleam like eggshells, bisected by centuries-old, cracked wooden beams. Though my parents built this house, they used materials reclaimed from century-old machiya houses in Kyoto, so everything in this place seems to have long memories. This house may have been home for my whole life, but now it feels uncomfortable, foreign. My world has shifted. Shattered. The aged stairs groan underfoot, but their voices no longer sound familiar. When I reach the top of the stairwell, I turn right, slipping into the bedroom that has long been mine.

  My room is simple: Western-style hardwood floors and furniture, with a bed covered with a teal duvet. My desk slumps under a pile of books. I share a sliding shoji wall with Ami, which means I’ve never had much privacy. My sister throws those doors open whenever she pleases.

  But for the next few, precious minutes, my sister will be in the shower—water already hisses from the bathroom down the hall. I close my bedroom door, turn, and lean against its wooden surface. This might be the only time I have to mourn privately, at least for a little while.

  A trembling starts in my fingertips and leaps to my hands. Tectonic plates of grief shift inside me, shaking me to my core. I was a child when the Sendai earthquake hit Kyoto, but I remember how the sidewalks looked that day—hundreds of tiny cracks opened in the pavement as the ground buckled. The holes looked like mouths, shrieking without voices. At the time, I had thought the world was ending, that the earth would rip itself apart and swallow me whole in the process. Now I almost wish it had.

  I open my mouth in a silent cry, crumpling under the weight of the pain. Even if the shrine hasn’t been destroyed, it was Grandfather who was always my home. Unlike my parents, my grandfather understood that I didn’t suffer from an “overactive imagination.” I’d inherited his ability to commune with the divine and the demonic, an ability passed down through generations of Fujikawa men and women, along with the shrine. Grandfather gave me the direction and guidance my parents couldn’t, because they can’t see the world he and I do. No, did.

  The yokai won’t come looking for us here—we have no swords belonging to famous goddesses in this house—but there’s no escape from the monsters in my own mind. I will never be able to scrub the stain of Grandfather’s blood from my skin, not the memory of it, at least. Nor will I be able to tear the sounds of his last breaths from my ears.

  A shadow falls across my bedroom window. Startled, I glance up, my fear clanging through my veins like the tolling of suzu bells. A boy crouches on the roof. The small peaks of his ears
twitch in the breeze. His eyes glitter like stars. Reaching out, he places one hand on the window. The tips of his fingernails scrape against the glass.

  Shiro—he’s alive.

  “Let me in?” he says through the glass, throwing a nervous look over his shoulder. “Please? Ronin’s sent those psycho spider girls after me.”

  I’m relieved to see that someone else survived the attack, especially the boy who may be able to explain Ronin’s betrayal. I push myself up from the floor, wiping tears from my eyes with the backs of my hands. I cross the bedroom, lift the window’s latch, and then slide the pane back. Shiro steps down into the room, immediately closing the window behind him and locking it tight.

  “Thank the gods you’re okay,” he whispers. Blood darkens his forehead and left temple like a glistening red blossom. He reaches out, cradling my cheeks in his palms. The heat from his body warms the chilly space around us. I turn my face up to his, surprised by the gentle tug in my chest. I’m shocked by how much I’d like to lean into him. After everything I’ve been through, I almost crave physical comfort. “I panicked when I couldn’t find you or Ami anywhere outside the shrine.”

  “We’re both okay.” I step back and out of his range, not ready for these feelings, especially not right now. “But Grandfather . . .”

  “I know,” Shiro says, turning his ears down. “I’m sorry.”

  “Why would Ronin do this to us?” I ask. “Why betray everything he was sworn to protect?”

  “I don’t know,” Shiro says, sliding his hands into his pockets. “The Kusanagi is no average sword, and Ronin’s new ‘friends’ are yokai who have allegiances to Shuten-doji—”

  “Shuten-doji? He’s supposed to be dead,” I say, dropping my voice and glancing at my bedroom door. Shuten-doji is one of the Three Great Evils, an ogre-king who rampaged through Kyoto’s countryside, killing maidens and causing havoc. The hero Yorimitsu defeated him in the first century and buried his head at Oeyama.

  “Shuten-doji’s been killed a time or two, yeah.” Shiro wipes his brow with the back of his hand, smearing blood across his skin. “But it’s not enough to kill his body—he’s more powerful than your average demon, so you’ve gotta destroy his soul, too. And someone’s obviously trying to resurrect him on the night of the next blood moon.”

  “You think Ronin is trying to resurrect Shuten-doji?” I ask.

  “I can’t be sure what Ronin wants. This isn’t like him,” Shiro says. “But my mother might know. If I catch a late shinkansen train to Tokyo, I should be able to request an audience with her tonight.”

  “You need to request an audience,” I say, hoping the sarcasm in my tone conveys that I’m not asking him a question, “with your mother.”

  “If you and I have one thing in common,” Shiro says with a sigh, “it’s mommy issues—”

  But he pauses, ears swiveling toward the bedroom door. He puts a finger to his lips as my brother calls out: “Kira?” My thin bedroom door muffles Ichigo’s voice. Every cell in my body stiffens. “Who are you talking to?”

  Motioning at Shiro to be quiet, I go to the door. Cracking it a few inches, I peer out at Ichigo. One look tells me that I have interrupted my brother’s studies, and he isn’t pleased with me.

  “Mother and Father are on their way home,” Ichigo says, eyeing me up and down. He frowns. “Is that blood?”

  “I’m just grabbing pajamas for Ami,” I say, the lie rolling easily off my lips, as if Shiro himself had planted it there. “I must have been talking to myself out loud. I’m sorry for disturbing you, brother.”

  Ichigo scrunches his face when he sees the flaky red splotches on my kimono. “I thought you were going to go check on Grandfather at the shrine?”

  “I’ll be on my way soon,” I say.

  “Fine,” he says by way of goodbye.

  I close my bedroom door, releasing the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. As Ichigo’s footsteps thump away, Shiro shifts out of the room’s shadows. “And I thought I had a terrible relationship with my brother,” he whispers.

  “You still win that contest,” I say.

  “Yeah, you’re probably right.” Shiro makes an awkward attempt at a grin, but the expression looks as fake as it must feel. It falls off his face. “You can’t go back to the shrine, Kira. Not tonight.”

  “I know.” I shake my head, pushing away from the door. “But it’s the best place to start looking for answers.”

  “Well . . . you could come with me,” Shiro says.

  “To Tokyo?” I scrunch up my nose. “I can’t just run off like that. What would my parents think?”

  “Your ancestral shrine was just destroyed by one of your family’s ancient enemies, and you’re worried about what your parents think?” Shiro asks, frowning.

  “You don’t know my parents.”

  “That’s true, but they can’t be more terrifying than the yokai.”

  He really doesn’t know my parents.

  “I suppose the Fujikawa Shrine’s last kitsune guardian relocated to a shrine in Tokyo,” I say slowly, mulling the idea over. “He may be able to help us. Plus, my parents trust him.”

  “I remember meeting him. Older guy, nine tails, good sense of humor?” Shiro asks.

  “Goro. He was the shrine’s kitsune protector for almost seventy years.” Goro’s shadow used to loom as large as Grandfather’s did—he was my protector, confidant, and friend. I missed him terribly when he left, especially when Grandfather replaced him with the Okamoto brothers.

  “Then we’ll find him, too,” Shiro says. “Though I can’t say my mother will have all the answers, or any at all. She’s not fond of . . . your kind.”

  I lift a brow. “My kind?”

  “Humans,” Shiro says. “Especially the ones able to see our world as it really is, like you.”

  “Benevolent kitsune shouldn’t have any issues with Shinto priestesses,” I say.

  “Which is a true statement based on a false assumption,” Shiro says with a dark grin. “My mother is no kitsune, and benevolent is probably not the best way to describe her. She was born a lady, but she was also born a witch. She adopted me when I was a kid. You’ll see.”

  She sounds wonderful. I frown. “This is probably a stupid idea. . . .”

  “Those are the best kind.” Shiro opens my window, drawing a deep breath through his nostrils.

  Are you sure about that?

  “Come with me,” he says, extending a hand to me, palm up. “I can’t promise you answers, but it will be an adventure.”

  If I’m going to understand what happened at the shrine tonight—and more important, why—I’ll have to go out into the world and seize them for myself.

  I clap my hand into his. “To Tokyo,” I say.

  He grins. “To Tokyo.”

  Six

  Shinkansen Train to Tokyo

  Japan

  Two hours later, our shinkansen train speeds out of the city, leaving Kyoto’s twinkling lights behind. The tension in my spine finally loosens. I’m seated beside the window, with Shiro in the middle seat beside me. Like most trains in Japan, the shinkansen train is impeccably clean and quiet, with nothing but the gentle shush of the rails against the tracks to disrupt my thoughts. I lean back into my seat with a sigh, watching the dark countryside rush past.

  In the window, the shadowy girl looking back at me isn’t dressed in a priestess’s hakama and kimono anymore, but in skinny jeans, mint green flats, and a formfitting hoodie with cat ears on the hood. Once Shiro and I reached Kyoto Station, we purchased new clothes from the CUBE mall inside, changed in the public restrooms, and ditched our bloodied shrine robes in separate rental lockers. I called Mother from Shiro’s phone while we waited for the train, reading lies off Shiro’s lips. I assured her that I was fine, but had an urgent matter to take to Goro in Tokyo. My little lie hides a huge, frightening truth.

  Shiro and I aren’t on the run. Not exactly. But my mother wasn’t thrilled to hear that I was en route
to Tokyo.

  Plus, I sort of hung up on her.

  “You okay?” Shiro asks.

  Do I look anything close to okay? I half laugh and shake my head. “No. A hundred times no.”

  “Yeah, me neither,” he says, reaching out and placing his hand atop mine. I glance up at him, surprised to see an honest, raw ache in his eyes. “Your grandfather made me feel like I belonged somewhere. It’s been a long time since I felt like I had a home.”

  “Grandfather is good at that,” I say, and then I pause and turn away, staring instead at my reflection in the train’s dark windows. “Grandfather . . . was good at that.”

  Shiro’s hand tightens on mine, then releases. Our train hurtles through the darkness, leaving what Grandfather was ever farther in the past. He will not be waiting for us when we return to Kyoto. I won’t find him tending his garden in the springtime; nor will he chide me for forgetting to tend to my family’s kamidana shrine. I’ll never catch him drinking sake and snickering at retro manga on lazy summer afternoons; nor watch as a rare smile breaks across his face during a Shichi-Go-San festival for the neighborhood children.

  He’s gone.

  The ghostly girl reflected in the window begins to cry. Silent tears spill down her cheeks. I turn away from Shiro, wishing I could tell the girl that losing her grandfather was a survivable event. I wish I could tell her that the hole he left in her life wouldn’t suck all the light from her universe.

  But at sixteen, I’m still five years away from being old enough to legally own the family shrine. The ownership, no doubt, will revert to my mother in the meantime. Mother has no love for the place, and Father has made it clear that he’s grown tired of being one of the Fujikawa Shrine’s chief benefactors. I’m not sure the shrine can survive without his support.

  Who will help me cleanse and purify the shrine? Who will help me mourn our dead, raise money to repair the damages to the structures, and hire new priests? Not my parents. And on top of it all, I left my schoolbooks and notes in the shrine office, which means I won’t even be able to study for my exams on Monday. Grandfather’s death may buy me a few condolence days, but how does someone explain to her teachers that one of the Three Great Evils will be resurrected in her front yard in a month’s time?