Seven Deadly Shadows

by Courtney Alameda

  The snow still falls, serene and soft, as if it hasn’t noticed hell has descended on this street.

  Reaching out, Shiro takes my chin in his icy fingers and turns my face back to his. His mouth forms words, but I’m too distraught to make sense of them.

  “Kira,” he finally says, his voice breaking through the buzzing in my ears. I watch the woman in the street, looking down at her child and bouncing him in her arms. He still isn’t moving. Shiro persists: “Kira, you need to listen to me and do exactly as I say, okay? Take a deep breath. There, good. Now take another. Look at me.”

  I meet his gaze and hold it.

  “Good. Keep breathing,” he says. “In your head, I want you to name something you can touch, something you can smell, and something you can see, okay? Can you do that for me?”

  I nod and force myself to anchor my mind to the present—to feel the grit on Shiro’s fingertips, to shiver at the coldness of the ground beneath me, to smell the oil and blood in the air, and then to count the amber flecks in his unusual eyes. Today, there are twenty. Yesterday, there were seventeen . . . though I don’t recall counting them, not then. When did I count them? I draw in a breath and find I’m steadier, even as the injured man’s agonized moans shake the chords of my heart.

  “He must be s-someone’s grandfather,” I say, my breath breaking out of me in short, tight puffs.

  “Don’t think about that,” Shiro says, scooping me into his arms.

  “W-we sh-should help him.”

  “You’re in shock, Kira,” Shiro says, kicking the door to the laundromat and carrying me inside. The light seems too bright, and I squeeze my eyes shut and turn my face into his chest. “And even if you weren’t, there’s nothing we can do to save him.”

  “But we . . . shouldn’t we . . . Grandfather . . .”

  “He’s not your grandfather, I promise,” he says, setting me down on top of a rumbling clothes dryer. Its warmth seeps through my wet clothing. From this angle, I’m not able to see the bus stop outside, save for the traffic stopped in the road. At least ten onlookers have taken refuge inside the laundromat. Some peer out, shading their eyes with their hands. Others have cell phones pressed to their ears and are talking to emergency responders in low, urgent tones. They bow to people on the other line, unseen.

  In the back of the laundromat, far away from the chaos, a father distracts his small child from the scene with a Pokémon toy; the comforting smile falls off his face whenever the child isn’t looking.

  Amid it all, a chill murmurs through my bones and bleeds into my soul. Shiro must sense it too, because we look up in synchrony. By now, my soul recognizes death before my head does. Its arrival changes the barometric pressure around me. My ears pop. Even my heart slows in my chest, as if yielding to the power of the creature outside. Death has a spiritual resonance, and I’ve learned to listen for its call.

  I slide off the dryer without a word, heading for the exit. Bells jingle over my head as I push past the door. The outside wind whips the warmth from my clothing. I look up and down the sidewalk, and then at the scene before me.

  A figure in a slate-gray kimono and black hakama pants stands beside the dying man, the edges of his red haori flitting in the wind. Snowflakes gather on his conical sugegasa hat and broad shoulders. A host of onyx-winged butterflies surrounds him, clinging to bloodied glass and bent metal, their wings so dark they seem to absorb all visible light. Each butterfly must be the size of my palm, if not larger.

  That’s no man, I think, awed as I watch the shinigami place his hand on the dying man’s head, his gesture gentle. Reverent, even. The bells on the laundromat door clang behind me. Shiro appears at my side, placing a hand on my back and whispering, “Whoa.”

  The shinigami unsheathes his katana. I hadn’t even noticed the blade. “Wait,” I whisper. “Should we . . . I mean . . .”

  “No,” Shiro murmurs, putting an arm around my shoulders. He hugs me tight. I press my hand to my mouth. Tears warm my bottom eyelids. The bracelet tucked inside my sleeve begins to glow, suffusing me with sunlight.

  If anyone else at the scene can see the shinigami, they make no sign.

  With great care, the shinigami inserts the tip of his blade into the dying man’s forehead, between the brows. The katana ripples, its blade turning to mist. Its cloudy light softens over the man’s skin.

  The man’s mouth falls slack. The tension in his muscles releases, and his body rests against the van’s engine. His eyes, once bright with pain, turn to glass.

  The shinigami reaches up and closes them. As he draws his katana from the dead man’s head—leaving no physical mark on the corpse—I spot a small lump on the blade’s back side. It looks like a piece of hardened amber, brownish black in color and rough-hewn.

  No, not a lump, I tell myself. That’s a cocoon.

  The shinigami breaks the cocoon off his sword and sticks it under the brim of his hat. Sheathing his sword, the shinigami makes two quick, precise hand gestures over the body, and then he turns.

  “That’s him, the shinigami in the red jacket,” I whisper, pushing Shiro away. “He’s the one we’ve been looking for.”

  “Kira, wait,” Shiro says. But I’ve already started up the sidewalk, following the shinigami away from the chaos at the bus stop.

  “Shinigami-sama?” I ask a bit timidly, hurrying after him. My boots slide on the icy sidewalk. “Excuse me? Shinigami-sama? May I have a moment of your time?”

  He pays me no mind. I take a chance, betting on my instincts.

  “Shimada!” I shout.

  The shinigami stops in the snow, standing so still that his clothes freeze.

  “How do you know that name?” he half growls, turning his head to look at me. His eyes blaze under the shadows cast by his hat. Unlike the eternally youthful shinigami I’ve seen before, this man wears a weathered face, one that has seen countless sunsets. His eyes, however, glow from beneath the brim of his hat. Those eyes warn me not to mistake his compassion for the dying as kindness toward the living.

  I’ve never seen another shinigami like him.

  After several long moments, he tugs his hat down to conceal his face.

  “It is not your time,” he says, turning away. “You are none of my concern.”

  I chase after him, the words scrambling off my lips. “I-I’m the granddaughter of Hiiro Fujikawa, former high priest of the Fujikawa Shrine. Please, I mean no disrespect, but I’m certain that you are the only one who can help me.”

  “Your family name is Fujikawa?” he asks, walking faster.

  I nod, scarcely able to breathe. I hold my hands out at my sides to keep my balance.

  “That’s unfortunate for you,” he says, pulling his hat down farther. “But I can’t help you. Nobody can.”

  “Try,” I say, reaching out to take hold of his sleeve. The fabric feels so cold, it burns. “I’m told you left regrets behind at the Fujikawa Shrine—”

  Shimada moves faster than I can think. He stops, mere inches from me, so close that his hakama pants strike the side of my leg. It takes a full second for my brain to register the icy spark of pain at the side of my neck.

  His tanto knife nicks my skin. A hot drop of blood slides into the hollow of my throat. The pain near my jugular vein makes me suddenly, horribly aware of each heartbeat. The only thing I dare move is my eyes—I meet his gaze with defiance.

  If I so much as slip on the ice underfoot, I’m dead.

  “You know nothing,” Shimada says.

  “That’s not true,” I whisper. One of his butterflies lands on my shoulder. “You’re an agent of death, and yet respected by the oldest kitsune I know. It is said you follow no clans, so you must not need protection from the yokai. Not like the others.”

  He narrows his eyes.

  “But I need you,” I say through my teeth. “Because there’s a blood moon set to rise over Kyoto, and when it does, Shuten-doji will tear my family’s shrine apart to find the last shard of an ancient blade. If we
don’t stop him, he will use the blade to destroy everything good and holy in this world.”

  “Tch,” Shimada says, but he lowers his knife. “The miseries of the human world do not concern me.”

  “Maybe not,” I say, touching the small wound at my throat. I take my hand from my neck, extending it to him. Crimson blotches stain the tips of my fingers. Another butterfly lands on my hand. Then two. “But you can’t pretend the Fujikawa Shrine doesn’t mean anything to you, not now.”

  His gaze falls on my hand, then slides to the light emanating from my bracelet. “What is that?” he asks, pointing at the light.

  I tug back my sleeve to expose my bracelet’s metal links. “It’s a family heirloom, one passed down to me by my grandfather.”

  When I look up, Shimada looks . . . younger, somehow, in my bracelet’s light. Time hasn’t carved so many lines in his face, and he wears priestly robes resembling the ones Grandfather once wore. I see the shimmer of wonder in his eyes, rather than wells of deep hatred.

  He pulls his hat down, blocking his face from the light. Butterflies collect on his hat and shoulders, shaking snow from their thick, velvety wings.

  “I need time to consider this,” Shimada says, turning away. His butterflies take flight, filling the air with undulating shadows.

  My breath catches. “But Shimada-sama, I don’t have time—”

  “Three nights.” He halts but does not turn back to me. “If I choose to help you, I will appear on your shrine’s steps on the eve of the third night.”

  Before I can say anything else, he disappears into a cloud of black mist and seeps into the cracks of the sidewalk. I glance sideways at Shiro, openmouthed.

  “Well, you heard the man,” Shiro says, sticking his hands in his pockets. “I guess we’d better get back to Kyoto.”

  Thirteen

  Tokyo Station

  Tokyo, Japan

  On Wednesday—almost a week after the shrine was attacked—I find myself in Tokyo Station, headed home. My company includes two kitsune, one angry nekomata, and zero shinigami. We won’t know if Shimada has joined our cause until tonight. I’ve fretted over him so much these past two days, I’ve chewed my bottom lip raw. My grief over losing Grandfather hasn’t helped matters any, either. I feel guilty having wasted so much time in Tokyo with such laughable progress.

  Tokyo Station may be one of the largest train stations in the world—it’s a sprawling, massive underground complex with tentacles snaking all over the city. It’s no small wonder that Goro, Shiro, Oni-chan, and I get lost in the place twice. It does nothing for my nerves, which are already frayed.

  “I should have rented a car,” Goro grumbles, slipping his hands into his voluminous sleeves. While Shiro buys shinkansen tickets to Kyoto, Goro and I wait for him outside the security gates. Oni-chan growls from a crate sitting at my feet. I’m not sure which creature is grumpier: the elderly kitsune or the nekomata.

  “Hush,” I say to Oni-chan, taking a knee by his crate. “They won’t let you on board unless you’re in there!”

  “You are brave, scolding a nekomata like that.” Goro grins, flashing teeth. But before I can sass him, his grin drops away and he lifts his head. His gaze narrows, focused on a point behind me. Oni-chan snarls again, thrashing in his crate.

  I get to my feet, expecting to see an enemy stalking us through the crowds. I’m even less pleased to spot Ronin in the terminal. When our gazes touch, he stops in the middle of a busy thoroughfare. The masses of train riders give him a wide berth, as if the crowd senses the blood on his hands and the darkness in his heart. The light that once emanated from his skin has dimmed. The sacred foxtails he bore with pride have vanished, as have the ears that marked his kitsune heritage. Ronin’s transformation into shinigami has already begun, and the goodness has gone out of him. He wears a finely tailored cobalt velvet suit and tie. With his platinum hair styled over one eye, he looks like a pop idol. Women stare, openmouthed. So do men.

  I suppose even death looks beautiful, sometimes. But its beauty is a lie.

  Shiro rejoins us, balancing a tray of coffees in one hand. He shoves his wallet into his back pocket with the other, the corners of three small shinkansen tickets tucked between his teeth. He hands me the coffees, takes the tickets in one hand, and swears when he sees his brother.

  “What’s Ronin doing here?” I spit, clutching the coffee tray. My mood is now as dark as Oni-chan’s. The cat hisses, butting his head against the side of his crate.

  “Oi,” Shiro says, stepping in front of me as Ronin approaches us. “What do you want?”

  “Mother sent me to keep an eye on your progress,” Ronin replies. He looks Shiro up and down and sneers, as if unimpressed by Shiro’s dark jeans, leather jacket, and T-shirt.

  “We’re doing exactly what she’s asked of us,” Shiro says. “You don’t need to be involved.”

  “Relax, dear brother. I’m only here to look after Mother’s interests. She’s already sent a crew ahead to fix Kira’s precious little shrine.” Ronin reaches around me and takes a coffee from the carrier. Shiro grabs his brother by the wrist, the motion so quick, I don’t even see him move. The stitching in Shiro’s jacket strains, his back muscles flexing to keep Ronin held in place. Shiro glares. Ronin smirks.

  “You are no longer a kitsune, dear brother,” Shiro says under his breath. He digs his nails into the flesh of Ronin’s arm. Ronin’s smirk twists into a grimace of pain. “And it shows.”

  Ronin drops the coffee. The cup hits the floor and bursts open, splashing hot liquid over the toes of my boots. Shiro shoves his brother back, forcing him to stumble. A small, dark part of me enjoys watching Shiro put Ronin in his place. I know I shouldn’t, but I do.

  I look to Goro. He keeps his arms crossed over his chest, watching the brothers argue, but makes no move to intervene. As Ronin straightens his coat, I take a step forward to say, “Enough.”

  “This isn’t your fight, Kira,” Ronin says, never taking his eyes off Shiro.

  “You’re right, it’s not,” I reply, “but I’m ending it anyway. Follow us to Kyoto if you’d like, Ronin, but know this—you are forbidden from stepping foot on the Fujikawa Shrine grounds again.”

  Ronin turns his head. “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me.” Before he can argue the point, I pick up Oni-chan’s cat carrier, pluck a ticket out of Shiro’s hand, and walk toward the security line. “You’d better hurry if you want to come with us. The train’s leaving soon.”

  I settle into an aisle seat as the train pulls away from the station, Shiro at my side. Goro sits in the single seat across the aisle, looking around the train car with curiosity. To my eye, it’s not much to look at: an eggshell-white interior with large cube windows and a burgundy carpet underfoot. Shiro sprang for Gran-class seats, however, which are roomier than their economy counterparts. There’s enough room for Oni-chan’s crate by my feet. The cat growls as I set his carrier down.

  Ronin seethes two rows behind Goro. If I turn my head a few degrees, I can see him from the corner of my eye. I consider asking Shiro to switch places with me, but if I move I’ll have to listen to the brothers argue all the way to Kyoto.

  “How long is the trip again?” I ask.

  “Three and a half hours,” Shiro replies. “It’ll be a good time to practice your mudras and tuts. Goro’s right, you’re getting yourself into enough trouble. You should learn onmyōdō, even if you only master a spell or two for now. Let’s see how fast your fingers can go, hmm?”

  “What does speed have to do with spellcasting?” I ask.

  “You need to be able to tut in your sleep,” Shiro says, moving his fingers through the Nine Celestial mudras, or the Kuji-in, with ease. “Rin, Pyoh, Toh, Sha—”

  “Show-off,” I say, as he turns to me and performs the mudras without looking at his fingertips.

  “C’mon, do it with me,” Shiro says, elbowing me playfully and steepling his index fingers into Rin. I mimic his hand motions, and together we sa
y, “Rin.”

  Shiro knits his fingers into the next mudra, Pyoh. With his hands pressed together, his middle fingers move over his pointed index fingers and curl down to touch the tips of his thumbs. He does this without thinking; I very much need to look at my hands and sculpt them into the proper position.

  “For mortals,” Shiro says, slipping into the Toh mudra, easy as breathing, “these mudras are an aspect of esoteric Buddhism. They symbolize the forces of the universe, and how all the elements are united against evil. But for people like us”—Shiro performs a mudra I don’t recognize, followed by a cut quick through the air with two fingers—“well, they’re magic.”

  The tips of his fingers catch fire. It dances along his skin without burning him. Shiro grins at me, and then shakes it off.

  “But I’m a mortal,” I say.

  “A mortal who carries the blood of Abe no Seimei in her veins,” Shiro says.

  “He lived a very long time ago,” I say softly.

  He runs a knuckle down the side of my face, leaning closer. “And yet it seems that his mother hasn’t forgotten your line, not through all these centuries. Who knows, maybe you have enough kitsune blood to cast foxfire, even—”

  Something smacks into the window beside us. Shiro and I both jump. I smother a scream with my hands, not wanting to disrupt any of the other passengers in the car.

  A heavy clunk! echoes against the train’s roof. We all look up. There are at least ten other passengers in our car, all of whom startle from their seats, asking variations of What was that? Others peer out the windows, shielding their eyes from the mid-morning sunlight.

  “We’ve got company,” Ronin says, getting out of his seat.

  Shiro looks at the other passengers. “Get out of the car!”

  “What?” one of the passengers asks. “Why?”