Seven Deadly Shadows

by Courtney Alameda

  “Nah. She allows far worse than you to stay in the ryokan,” Shiro says, shooting me a cheeky grin. I make a face at him, narrowing my eyes and scrunching up my nose.

  Shiro laughs. “We’ve got extra nemaki in the drawers beside the alcove.” He pulls a futon bundle out of the closet. “I thought about going to the baths, but honestly? I just want to sleep. Today’s been . . .”

  “Heartbreaking?” I interject. “Earth-shattering? Apocalyptic? The absolute worst?”

  With a long sigh, he rubs the back of his neck with his palm. “Yeah, all of the above.”

  Crossing the room, I slide one of the larger drawers open to find the nemaki—light lounging and sleeping kimono often worn in ryokan inns and bathhouses. The fabrics are decorated with intricate blue-and-white designs and are tied with a woven belt.

  Shiro steps outside while I change. We switch when I finish. I stand in the hallway, soaking in my surroundings, which are reminiscent of a more ancient time in this country’s history. The shoji doors have been crafted with actual washi paper. The lacquered wood floors gleam underfoot, suffused with the hallway’s warm light. It’s an entirely different world from the bar downstairs, or the brothel on the other side of the building—quiet. Warm. Everything about this place tells me I should feel secure here, but I doubt I’ll ever feel safe anywhere, ever again.

  I lean against the wall with a sigh. My body feels heavy, as if there are weights tied to my fingers and nose and eyelids; but my soul feels hollow, as if all the important bits of me have been scraped out and burned. I close my eyes, but all I see are the frantic final moments of Grandfather’s life.

  “Mrow?”

  Startled, I glance down, pressing one hand to my mouth. A massive cat sits at my feet. He—at least I’m guessing it’s a he—has a mousy brindle coat, which is mostly red with long, thin cracks of black. A large patch of fur is missing from the top of his head. One large pink scar cuts across his left eye, which can’t be bothered to be the same color as the right one. His left eye is yellow as a harvest moon, his right the bright blue of a crisp winter sky.

  But the strangest thing of all: the cat has two tails, which means he’s not a cat at all, but a nekomata. A spark of magical teal fire burns at the tip of each tail. He might be the ugliest cat I’ve ever seen.

  The nekomata growls at me, as if he heard me call him ugly in my head.

  “Oh, I apologize,” I say to the yokai. “It took me a moment to realize you were more than an ordinary cat!”

  Shiro slides the door open, poking his head into the hall. “What’d you say, Kira?”

  Before I can answer, his gaze zeroes in on the nekomata. His eyes widen. Shiro grabs me by the wrist, tugging me into his room so fast, I trip and land on one of the neatly made futons with a muffled thud.

  He slams the door closed behind us.

  “What’s wrong with you?” I snap at him, pushing myself up to my knees. “That nekomata looked friendly enough—”

  A deep growl interrupts us, one that rolls through the room and makes the washi paper panels in the door vibrate. Shiro reaches over to the light switch and snaps it off. The light from the hallway filters through the door, and the silhouette on the other side . . .

  What is that?

  It’s not the shadow of a house cat, but of a feline twice the size of a tiger. The nekomata’s fur bristles along its neck. Its dual tails switch back and forth. It rises on its hind legs, putting one massive paw on the fragile door.

  “Oni-chan,” Shiro says through the door. “You can’t eat this one, she’s a guest of Mother’s.”

  Another growl rumbles through the air.

  “Listen,” Shiro says to the cat yokai, “Mother needs this girl to find some shinigami, okay? If you kill this girl now, there will be nobody to find shinigami for Mother, and she’ll be angry with you. And you know what Mother’s like when she’s upset.”

  Oni-chan drops back to all fours, making a strange half-growling, half-whimpering noise.

  “No, you can’t eat her after she’s done looking for shinigami,” Shiro says, shooting me a look that says, You see what you’ve done?

  “How is this my fault?” I whisper.

  “You’re a Shinto priestess,” Shiro says. “You should know better than to talk to an unfamiliar nekomata!”

  “Pretty sure I’ve talked to worse today.”

  “Fair point.” Shiro turns back to the screen. “Oni-chan, if you promise to leave the girl alone, how about I take you to that ramen place you like tomorrow, eh? The one with the open hibachi?”

  Oni-chan shrinks a bit and cocks his head. “Mrowl?”

  “Okay, okay, we can go to the shrine with the good yakitori, too,” Shiro says, rolling his eyes. “But no people-eating, are we clear?”

  The cat chuffs, blowing out a breath against the screen. I guess that means yes, because the cat shrinks back to house cat size. Shiro turns the light on with a sigh.

  “Oni-chan has one last stipulation,” Shiro says as he opens the door.

  “What’s that?” I ask, lifting a brow.

  Shiro frowns. “He says he gets to sleep on your futon tonight.”

  My gaze falls on the demon cat sitting in the hallway.

  I swear he’s grinning.

  Nine

  The Red Oni

  Tokyo, Japan

  The next day, I awaken in unfamiliar surroundings with noonday sunlight streaming across my face. I sit up with a start, and the creaks in my bones and in my heart and in my soul remind me where I am:

  I’m in Tokyo.

  Sleeping in an inn made for yokai.

  Last night, my family’s shrine was desecrated by demons.

  My grandfather is dead, and I must ally with the shadows to avenge his murder.

  Today, I wake to a world that is forever changed. Even the shape of the sunlight looks wrong, dimmer somehow, as if my filters have shifted and left me looking through a dirty lens. Grief weighs so heavily on my chest, it’s almost hard to breathe.

  Wait. That’s not just grief—it’s a cat.

  I sit up. Oni-chan slides down into my lap. The cat growls at me, paws flailing in the air as he tries to right himself. He rolls over onto his pudgy belly, claws extended, and struggles through the deep pockets of bedding.

  “I thought cats were supposed to be graceful?” I ask with a grin, pushing the comforter away to help him fight his way through the blankets. In the daylight, Oni-chan may be even uglier than he appeared last night. But I prefer his charms when they are house cat size.

  Shiro is gone, his futon stowed in the closet. I kick off my comforter and rise, surprised to see how high the sun hangs in the sky. A small breakfast tray waits on the table by the window. I peek under the lids of the bowls to find natto, warm white rice with seaweed, miso soup, and a small piece of fish. As the smells waft into the room, Oni-chan comes to sit at my feet. He meows, licking his lips and bedraggled whiskers. I hand him a piece of fish, which he gulps down with little ceremony and no thanks.

  A note lies beside my breakfast tray, left atop a slim black cell phone. It’s from Shiro, and it reads:

  Good morning, Kira! I hope you like natto—this place only serves traditional breakfasts, so I grabbed as many things as I could carry. I’ve gone to run an errand for Mother, and I should be back in the afternoon. We’ll start looking for shinigami then. Also, I’ve left a spare cell phone for you to use, since yours broke. You might want to call your mom, since she won’t stop calling me now.

  There are women’s showers in the public baths. If you want to get dressed, just use the wardrobe you used last night. Think of the thing you’d like to wear, and it should appear in the cabinets when you open them. Nice, right? Don’t ask me how it works—you won’t like the answer.

  I fold the note over my index finger, glancing at the wardrobe. It looks entirely ordinary—just a black-lacquered chest with golden doors, with a crane in flight painted on its left-hand side.

  Setting Shiro�
�s note down, I go to the wardrobe and imagine black skinny jeans. No, not just jeans . . . but jeans from the best brands in Japan, like Studio D’Artisan or Samurai. Clothing Mother would never allow me to buy. My parents are well off enough, but they’re frugal and fashion isn’t a top priority for them.

  I take hold of the door pull, draw a breath, and pull the cabinet open.

  A pair of black jeans sits on the shelf inside.

  With a small shriek, I slam the door closed and hop a few steps backward, nearly tripping over my futon. On the other side of the room, Oni-chan lifts his head to snort at me, then goes back to basking in the sun. He thumps his tails against the ground in annoyance.

  “That’s not how wardrobes work in the real world,” I say to him. He glances up at me, blinking slowly as if to say, Stupid girl—my world is obviously as real as yours.

  I suppose the cat has a point. If his world weren’t real, I’d be spending today with Grandfather at the shrine, not preparing to search all of Tokyo for shinigami on behalf of Lady O-bei Katayama, Granter of August Wishes and Royal Pain in the Rear End.

  After I bathe, I spend fifteen minutes settling on something to wear: black tights, mini-length jean shorts, a fitted button-down shirt, and an overlarge army jacket—an outfit like those I’ve seen fashionable girls wearing on the streets of Tokyo. I text Mother, letting her know I stayed with Shiro’s family overnight and will be heading to see Goro this afternoon.

  Kira! she replies within seconds. Call. Me. Now.

  I’m sorry, Mother, I reply. But I’m on a train, and it would be rude.

  Then call me the moment you disembark. The police need to speak with you immediately—

  A knock rolls across the door. “May I come in?” Shiro asks.

  “Yes,” I say, pulling my jacket over my shoulders. The fabric feels fresh and crisp against my skin. I slide my phone into my pocket, putting Mother out of my mind for now.

  Shiro slides the door open and steps inside in stocking feet. He looks sharp: a long-sleeved, slim-fit tee hugs his muscular chest, and he’s paired it with jeans and mussed hair. Looking me up and down, he gives me a grin. “You figured out how to use the wardrobe.”

  “Can I take it back to Kyoto with me?” I ask, checking my hair in the mirrorlike depths of the framed artwork on the wall.

  “I can’t imagine we’d get it on the shinkansen.” Shiro’s smile brightens, chasing all the shadows out of my soul. I cross the room to be a little closer to him, and to all that light and warmth.

  I join him by the door, leaning one shoulder against the plaster wall. “Where’d you go this morning?”

  His smile drops off his lips. “Mother wanted me to pick Ronin up from the train station.”

  “And you didn’t kill him?” I ask in deadpan. “That’s a shame.”

  “Don’t think I didn’t want to,” he says through clenched teeth. He balls his fists, the tendons popping out in his neck. “I couldn’t even look at that bastard, not after everything he’s done. You lost a grandfather last night, and I lost a brother. He’s forgotten the face of our birth mother. His tails are gone. He is gone.”

  I open my mouth to respond, but can’t find the right words to say. Maybe there aren’t any, really, that can fix this kind of grief. Reaching up, I cup one of his cheeks in my palm.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. Those are the only words I can think of, but at least they’re true.

  “Me too.” Some of the anger drains out of him, softening the angles of his face. “Why choose death over life?”

  “I don’t think there’s an easy answer to that question, no matter who’s asking it,” I say, stroking his cheekbone with my thumb. Shiro shifts closer, bringing our faces just inches away from each other. My breath catches, and I go still. My heartbeat thumps in the tips of my fingers, and I wonder if he can feel it on his cheek.

  But before he can kiss me, something shatters near the breakfast table. I startle. Oni-chan hops off the table, headed for the puddle of natto on the floor. The cat slurps soybeans off the shell of a broken bowl.

  “You’re a rude cat,” Shiro says with a little laugh. Oni-chan growls at him before polishing off my breakfast.

  “I wasn’t that hungry,” I say, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. While Shiro and I couldn’t have been in Yomi for more than twenty minutes, we lost almost six hours in the real world. My body still hasn’t adjusted for that fact. “We should get going, anyway. The day’s already half-gone.”

  “Where do you want to start?” Shiro asks.

  “The Kanda Shrine,” I say, turning toward the door. “Maybe Goro will know how to get us out of this mess.”

  Ten

  Yoyogi Park

  Tokyo, Japan

  Goro no longer works for the Kanda Shrine.

  The Kanda priests tell me it’s been months since Goro was reassigned to the Meiji Shrine in the heart of Tokyo. It’s a more prestigious assignment, yes, but the fact leaves me feeling hollow inside. A small seed of doubt sinks into the darkest soils of my mind: Why did Grandfather keep such an important detail from me? What harm would it have caused for me to know Goro was now at the Meiji? And what else did Grandfather neglect to say? Did he think we had more time, even with a blood moon looming?

  It hurts to know I’ll never have answers for any of these questions.

  “The Meiji’s right in the middle of Yoyogi Park,” Shiro says as we head toward the train station, Oni-chan trotting at our feet. “We can look for shinigami while we’re there. Two birds, one stone.”

  “It’s already getting late,” I say, shielding my eyes as I look up at the sky. “We might have another three hours of sunlight, and another day will be gone. We’ve barely started, and we’re already running out of time.”

  “We still have a few good hours to look,” Shiro replies. So we take a train. Two. People shoot looks at the ugly “cat” peering out of the crate beside me, but say nothing. I’m used to people staring at me, and Oni-chan seems unconcerned with the opinions of mortals.

  After finding Oni-chan his yakitori skewers, Shiro and I begin our search in Yoyogi Park—a sprawling, 130-acre park at the heart of the Shibuya district. Here, the trees stand so tall they block out most of Tokyo’s skyscrapers. Wide walking paths snake through the trees, skirt ponds, and crisscross the lawns. On weekends, subculture groups gather in the park: not just cosplayers, but rockabilly enthusiasts, martial arts clubs, jugglers, and more.

  As we walk in, a girl group dances to a Twice K-pop song. College-aged men toss a baseball around on the lawns, while a mother chases her laughing toddler down the path. Everything looks so ordinary, so . . . normal.

  Well, everything except for the boy with the fox ears and the two-tailed demon cat walking on his hind legs and eating yakitori skewers. I’m not sure what other people see when they look at Oni-chan, but I know they don’t see the foul-tempered, mannerless creature I see. The one who, for some reason, has taken an instant liking to me.

  We pass a group of schoolchildren playing Kagome, Kagome, and I shudder. I’ll never be able to hear that tune again without thinking of Grandfather’s blood on my skin, or remembering the way his last breath wheezed from his chest. I hear so much darkness in the song now. Darkness and death.

  “You sure we’re going to find shinigami here?” I ask Shiro, scanning the crowds. “Shouldn’t we be looking in a place that’s a little more . . . maybe like the Red Oni?”

  “Meaning?” Shiro asks.

  “Someplace more . . . I don’t know, magical?” I say, frowning at the word because it’s not exactly what I mean. The Red Oni is more than magical, it’s . . . “Otherworldly.”

  “Shinigami are drawn to human crowds,” Shiro says. “Busy street corners, hospitals, bars—the more accident-prone a place, the better.”

  We wander down a manicured path, beneath tree canopies edged in autumn reds and oranges. “But how do they know when it’s someone’s time to die?” I ask.

  Shiro shrugs. “Shinigami
see both the mortal realms and Yomi at once. When it’s time for a mortal to die, they . . . flicker. Or something. Mother never talks about what she does in detail. I guess she thinks it’s tacky.”

  “I’m surprised she cares,” I say, frowning as a scruffy, unleashed dog wanders a little too close to Oni-chan . . . or maybe a little too close to his yakitori. The yokai cat hisses and swats at the dog’s nose, then throws an empty skewer at the canine as it scurries away, whimpering.

  “While she can be ambitious, vain, and definitely murderous”—Shiro smiles at a child as she scampers past us—“Mother does care for the welfare of her people and the Twilight Court. And I think—in her own twisted way, at least—for me.”

  I cock my head at him. “I thought you hated her?”

  “No,” he says with a firm shake of his head.

  “Even after everything she’s done?”

  “She took Ronin and me in when our birth mother died. Besides, I’m not sure you’re in much of a position to judge,” he fires back, nudging me playfully with an elbow. “Your relationship with your mom sounds messy, too.”

  I sigh. “You know, Grandfather once told me that my mother used to love the shrine, and now—”

  “Look,” Shiro says, pointing at a young businessman lingering on one of the park’s arched bridges. He wears a suit of solid black, but the fabric looks like it’s edged in twilight. A cloud of gray butterflies whirls around him, the tips of their wings trailing bright moonlight. With his slicked-back hair, high cheekbones, and skin as smooth as glass, he’s just as beautiful as O-bei.

  “Do you see the butterflies around him?” Shiro asks under his breath. “Those are the souls of the dead.”

  Before the attack on the Fujikawa Shrine, I doubt I would have paid any attention to this man. Today, I can see him for what he is: shinigami. Death incarnate.

  He’s exactly what we’re looking for.

  The shinigami watches a small boy playing by the riverbank. The park’s river moves swiftly past its shores, deep enough to drown someone so small. The intensity of the shinigami’s gaze, the sheer focus of it, makes my fear roil. I’ve already seen the terrifying truth behind the human facade, but I refuse to be cowed.