Shiro bows as O-bei approaches us, and, not wanting to appear rude, I do the same. As she moves, the butterflies flutter their silver-thread wings, scattering across the silk. She presses her fingers together in an upside-down triangle in front of her obi, and her hitodama descend to float around her head and shoulders. Their light makes her look otherworldly. Dangerous, too.
It takes me several seconds to realize my mouth’s hanging open. I close it, before noticing the small brown stain on the front of my sweater. Standing next to this creature, I must look like a fool.
“So,” O-bei finally says, puncturing the silence. “You’ve come a very long way to tattle on your elder brother, Shiro.”
“To tattle on him?” Shiro says, his brow furrowing. “No, Mother, I came to you because Ronin broke the oath he swore to Amaterasu. His actions got many people killed.”
“And since when has that been a problem in this house?” O-bei asks, arching a brow. “Death is the family vocation, my child.”
“It’s your vocation,” Shiro snaps. “Not mine.”
O-bei’s pout turns into a close-lipped smile. “And now it is also your brother’s.”
A beat of pure silence rolls out around us.
Shiro growls from the bottoms of his lungs, low and guttural. When he curls his upper lip, his incisors look sharper than before. “Ronin would never forsake his heritage to become something like you. We came here to ask for your help, not to hear your lies.”
“Shiro, you wound me,” O-bei says, reaching up to rest a hand on Shiro’s cheek. She stands several inches shorter than him, so she reaches high to touch his face. Her kimono’s sleeve slides back, revealing pale skin with blackened veins beneath. “There is no greater calling in all of Yomi than to usher mortal souls into death.”
O-bei’s words strike my mind like a gong. I’d thought she might be some sort of yokai, perhaps a kitsune who preferred a fully human form, or even a futukuchi-onna. But O-bei Katayama is no mere yokai.
“You’re a shinigami,” I say, and my voice shakes with the words. “You’re a death god.”
“Goddess, yes,” O-bei says, barely taking notice of me or my shock. Instead, she looks up into Shiro’s eyes. “Ronin has chosen to join me in my work. Who am I to deny him the right to be my successor and heir?”
Shiro trembles with barely restrained rage. “He swore an oath to the Goddess. . . . He was one of her priests. . . .”
“As was I, many centuries ago. Our kind are sometimes made in that fashion,” O-bei says, stroking Shiro’s cheek with her thumb. He growls and steps away from her touch, flattening his ears against his scalp. “Everything I do, my darling boy, I do for my children, my family, and my people. The Twilight Court cannot sustain itself without human hosts. And if Shuten-doji succeeds in his old mission, well, my people will starve.”
“Ronin was with Shuten-doji’s monsters tonight,” Shiro snaps.
“I know,” O-bei says, pointing a finger in Shiro’s face. “It has taken me decades to earn the trust of Shuten-doji’s general, Tamamo-no-Mae. Don’t you dare interfere with my plans to destroy them, no matter how opposed you may be to my methods.”
Anger swells in my breast. Over the last twelve hours, this world has tried to convince me that I am powerless, unwanted, unloved. And now I’m told that my grandfather’s murder was just a political power play? Among monsters, no less?
O-bei continues, “It will be our power, not our principles, that will save us in the coming war, Shiro. Remember that.”
“You’re wrong,” I say.
O-bei turns her head in a slow, deliberate way, considering me out of the corner of her eye. Her very gaze chills the air around me.
“Perhaps we haven’t been properly introduced,” O-bei says. “I am O-bei Katayama, Lady of the Twelve Dread Wastes, the August Granter of Wishes, and the Keeper of the Mortal Souls of Kyō. And you should know, girl, that I am never wrong.”
It’s strange how, in certain moments of sheer stupidity, fear can give way to fury.
“What is power without honor?” I say, balling my fists so tight, my fingernails bite into my flesh. “You stole my loved ones from me. You desecrated my home, and made the sacred profane for your wars—”
“Kira,” Shiro says, a note of warning in his voice.
“Which means you now owe me a debt of honor, Lady Katayama,” I say, ignoring Shiro. “You took something from me in exchange for nothing, and if you think I will easily forgive that debt, you’re wrong.”
The word wrong echoes through the empty courtyard.
Wrong.
Wrong.
Wrong.
One by one, the hitodama lights hovering over O-bei’s head wink out. Little by little, the glow seeps from the room, till the shadows draw close and my bracelet burns my wrist.
“Wrong?” O-bei turns to me, slowly. Black veins branch across her throat, over her jawbone, and up her cheeks, as if her blood had been pumped full of sumi-e ink. Her brilliant, kaleidoscopic eyes darken into ebony mirrors, and the kernels of her teeth now have an onyx gleam.
Beside me, Shiro sucks in a sharp breath. He holds up his palms, placating, apologizing. “Mother, please, Kira didn’t mean it, her grief is making her say things she doesn’t understand—”
“You think I am wrong, Kira Fujikawa,” O-bei says, cocking her head, examining me. She pulls the ornaments from her hair, dropping them to the ground. They tinkle like bells as they strike the soft earth. When she shakes her hair loose, a thousand dark-winged butterflies spill from between the strands. The tiny creatures flutter around her in a great cloud. They stir up an icy breeze that bites into my cheeks.
“You think I owe you a debt of honor.” O-bei thrusts out her right hand parallel to the ground. A pale katana materializes in her palm, its blade reminiscent of the one Ronin carried at the shrine. The metal glows with the dull, ashen light of a cloudy day.
Shiro and I both step back. He eases in front of me, shielding me with his body.
“Then allow me to take one more thing from you,” O-bei says, her voice no longer a musical, courtly sound, but the woven litany of a thousand wails. “Your life.”
Her butterflies rush at me, enveloping me in a dark, velvet-winged wind. With an unholy shriek, O-bei leaps up into the air, the room’s shadows unfurling around her like a set of great black wings. She draws her katana up in both hands, pointing its glowing tip at my chest.
O-bei dives toward me.
Someone screams.
Instinct kicks in. I throw my hands up in vain, crossing my wrists in front of my head. I expect the blade’s chill to slice between my ribs, to stop the beating heart in my chest. To steal the soul off my lips.
The sword’s tip collides with my raised wrists. Pain sends white-hot sparks crashing down my arms.
And light—radiant, golden light—explodes around me.
Eight
The Red Oni
Yomi
The light blinds me from all directions, as if I’ve fallen inside the sun. The brilliance burns away my pain, my exhaustion, and my fear.
Is this death? I wonder. Perhaps death isn’t nearly as horrible as its harbingers; perhaps it is only this sweet release, this newfound buoyancy, this wholeness now coursing through my being. I close my eyes and wish to melt into this glow.
But the light fades, leaving me encased in a glittering golden shield. I glance up, finding O-bei’s sword lodged in the shell, inches away from my head. The charms on my bracelet glow bright as noonday sunlight. A trickle of blood slips down my wrist. Several of O-bei’s butterflies now rest on my shoulders, opening and closing their wings, basking in the soft light emanating from my clothing.
I . . . I’m not dead.
At least I don’t think I’m dead.
I step back, lowering my shaking hands as the light sinks into my skin. It suffuses my soul with its warmth, drawing with it memories far older and more ancient than I have the right to remember. The tips of my fingers burn
with light. I blink twice to clear the illusion from my eyes, and realize we’re not alone.
The Twilight Court has reassembled itself on the verandas—some of its members now prostrate themselves, kneeling with their foreheads pressed into the floor. Others regard me with wonder or terror, their mouths agape. On my left, Shiro lies dazed on the ground, squinting at me and shading his eyes with one hand.
How long was I standing in that light?
Several yards away, the kitsune Minami helps O-bei back to her feet. O-bei staggers, wiping a trickle of eggplant-colored blood off the corner of her mouth with her sleeve. She leans on her kitsune for support, her clothing in disarray, her eyeliner creating long, melted trails down her cheeks. The darkness in O-bei’s veins fades as she catches her breath, leaving only smooth, pale skin behind.
When she straightens, she lifts her wretched gaze to mine.
“No wonder my sons refuse to let you die, Fujikawa,” O-bei says. “You are descended from Abe no Seimei, the greatest exorcist and onmyōdō practitioner of the Heian period. Who knew that so many generations later, his kitsune mother, Kuzunoha, would still be protecting his line?”
Shiro rises from the ground, tripping over his own feet as he stares at me. As my shield dissipates, O-bei’s sword falls to the ground. The blade turns to mist before striking the mossy floor.
“Kuzunoha will not allow me to kill a member of Seimei’s line,” O-bei says flatly. “A pity. But if you have the protection of a spirit like Kuzunoha, it means you may be useful in the coming war.”
“I want nothing to do with your wars,” I say, spitting the last word out of my mouth. I can’t trust her, not when she was willing to attack a guest in her own home. Not now, not ever. The creatures of Yomi aren’t subject to human mores, and that’s why I have no faith in them.
“You don’t have a choice in the matter,” O-bei says. “Your shrine harbors the last shard of the legendary Kusanagi no Tsurugi. In one month, Shuten-doji will rise with the blood moon. Either we ally to fight him, or he will destroy us all.”
“Then why work with his lieutenants?” Shiro asks through gritted teeth. “Why send Ronin into Fujikawa Shrine, backed by Shuten-doji’s thugs?”
“I am not obligated to discuss my strategies with you,” O-bei says.
“It’d at least be nice to know where your loyalties lie, Mother,” Shiro snaps. “Especially since you kept me in the dark about your plans for Ronin, defiled the shrine I swore to protect, and just tried to kill my friend in front of me.”
Are we friends? I glance sideways at Shiro. It’s been so long since I’ve had a proper friend; I haven’t really made any new ones since I transferred to Kōgakkan. But Shiro may be the last person I can trust in this world, and if that doesn’t count as friendship, I’m not sure what does.
“Watch your tongue, youngling,” Minami growls, drawing closer to O-bei. Protective, almost.
“I don’t answer to you,” Shiro says, a growl rumbling in his chest.
Minami bares her teeth at him. “I see shrine life hasn’t taught you to respect your elders.”
“And I see you haven’t lost your taste for licking the soles of my mother’s shoes,” Shiro retorts.
“Why should I listen to a fox kit with no tails—”
“Enough! Both of you,” O-bei snaps. The kitsune glare at each other across the courtyard, their bodies taking a predatory lean, muscles taut. But despite the palpable tension between them, neither attacks. And I thought my family was difficult to get along with.
“We do not have time for your bickering,” O-bei continues. “I have endeavored to kill the beast known as Shuten-doji for hundreds of years, and I will not have the three of you thwarting the last fifty years of hard work with your foolishness! Am I understood?”
“Yes, O-bei-sama,” Minami says with a bob of her head.
“Yes, Mother,” Shiro echoes, but with more bite.
O-bei glares at him. “The Twilight Court’s efforts to stop Shuten-doji’s resurrection have failed. Our last recourse is to destroy him in both the mortal realm and in Yomi, which will be no easy task.”
She turns to me. “In short, you and I are in the unfortunate circumstance of needing each other, Fujikawa.”
“If you need my help, it will come at a high cost,” I say.
“And what might that be?” O-bei asks.
“You rebuild the Fujikawa Shrine and restore the honor of my family’s legacy,” I say. “I know you cannot bring my grandfather back, so I at least expect you to honor the site he gave his life to protect.”
O-bei taps her chin with her finger, considering my proposal. “I could send my people to protect the Fujikawa Shrine, under the auspices that we are looking for the shard for Shuten-doji. Minami, you will oversee the shrine reparations. Assemble twenty of your best craftspeople and leave for the Fujikawa Shrine at dawn.”
“Very well, O-bei-sama,” Minami says, though she glares at me.
O-bei continues, “We will make the Fujikawa Shrine the site of our last stand—”
Shiro groans. “How fantastic. Wonderful plan, Mother.”
“Would you prefer Shuten-doji’s own yokai to patrol the shrine until he rises with the blood moon?” O-bei says, lifting an eyebrow. Both Shiro and I shake our heads. “I thought not. I will repair your shrine to make amends, Kira Fujikawa, but I will not commit the Twilight Court to your war without a good-faith effort on your part.”
“Meaning?” I ask.
“I will need your assistance with . . . a delicate diplomatic matter,” O-bei says.
“Here we go,” Shiro says, mopping his face with his palm.
If O-bei is annoyed by Shiro’s impudence, she makes no sign. “There are two ways to kill a creature like Shuten-doji: One, through the use of a holy blade like the Kusanagi no Tsurugi. Or two, through the power of a cabal of shinigami. Seven of them, to be exact.”
A cabal? I shoot a sidelong glance at Shiro. He squeezes his eyes shut tight and wrinkles his nose, as if he’s just bitten into a lemon.
“Find seven shinigami for me,” O-bei says. “And I will help you destroy your demon.”
Shiro sneers. “Do you and my dear elder brother count as part of the seven?”
“Perhaps,” O-bei replies. “Depending on the success of your recruitment efforts, of course. So what say you, Fujikawa? Do we have a deal?”
I wish I could discuss this transaction with Shiro, because I sense deceit behind O-bei’s pretty words. She’s basically given me a contract with the fine print written in a foreign language. I glance sideways at Shiro. He flicks one of his ears back, but doesn’t meet my gaze. Worse, exhaustion nips at me. My back muscles ache from standing ramrod straight in O-bei’s presence. A tension headache has built itself up behind my eyes. My body has endured too much over the last few hours. Here in Yomi, I’m not sure time even exists. On one hand, it feels like Shiro and I have been here for a matter of minutes; on the other, an eternity.
Even in this state, I’m not sure I have much choice in this situation. Shuten-doji is rising, and while I’m not sure how Shiro and I will recruit shinigami to our cause, doing something is better than doing nothing. We can’t fight a demon god on our own. At least not on the timetables fate has given us. A month’s time isn’t enough.
I don’t have to trust O-bei to use O-bei. We don’t need to be friends, just temporary allies, each using the other for her own ends.
“All right,” I say. “If you help me protect the Fujikawa Shrine, Lady Katayama, I will help you find your shinigami.”
O-bei smiles. I can’t help but think her lips curve like a harvest sickle, its blade ready to reap souls instead of rice. “A wise decision. Should you find me my shinigami, Kira Fujikawa, I promise you will have the full might of the Twilight Court to assist you in this war.”
With that, O-bei snaps her fingers. The entire court disappears, leaving Shiro and me alone in the dusty bones of the Red Oni’s attic. Silence and darkness, sudden, unex
pected, and horrible, settle into the piles of dead leaves around my feet. Music throbs through the floorboards. A few hitodama bob around the building’s old rafters, providing meager light. A chill douses the air, sneaking up my sleeves and leaving me shivering.
I turn to Shiro, who runs his hand down his face in exasperation.
“How difficult will it be to convince other shinigami to help us?” I ask him.
“Would you prefer the pessimistic or realistic answer?” he asks.
“Let’s start with realistic.”
“Nearly impossible,” Shiro says. “You see, Mother . . . sort of offended a powerful shinigami clan a few years ago.”
“Wait, there are shinigami clans?” I ask, blinking.
“Yeah, and they sort of have this treaty with Shuten-doji?” Shiro says, wincing. “As in, the shinigami clans won’t interfere with his kingdom, so long as they’re not subject to his rule.”
My mouth drops into a little o shape. “How many of the shinigami belong to a clan?”
“Almost all of them.”
I slide my hands into my hair and count backward for a few seconds, breathing through my frustration. “Somehow, I think I’ve managed to make this worse.”
“It’s not your fault, Kira. C’mon,” Shiro says, turning away from me and walking toward the torii gate. “Ronin and I have a room here, at least. We should get some sleep.”
Shiro leads me to a small, tidy room away from the Red Oni’s tumult and noise. After the day I’ve had, the room’s tatami mat flooring and sweet, grassy smell comforts me and reminds me of home. Yellow light falls from a single square-shaped chandelier hanging from the ceiling. A tokonoma alcove sits on the right side of the room, displaying an ornamental scroll and deadwood bonsai. The tree’s white bark almost glows in the low light.
Straight ahead, two shoji doors yawn open, revealing a small sitting nook with a table and chairs, perfect for tea. Behind them, darkness turns two sliding glass doors to mirrors. I catch sight of my reflection and sigh. I look every ounce as exhausted as I feel.
“Will O-bei mind if I stay here tonight?” I ask.
Seven Deadly Shadows Page 6