Seven Deadly Shadows

by Courtney Alameda

  Before I can stammer out a response, Heihachi turns and heads toward a back room, where he yells, “Are you done with those vegetables yet, Haruto?”

  He’s through the door and out of sight before I can hear the answer.

  “I like this place already,” I say, making sure to dip my words in sarcasm.

  “Heihachi’s a tease,” Shiro says with a smile. “Nothing more.”

  “How often did you come here?” I ask Shiro. I’ve never heard him mention this place before, and honestly? I suppose I don’t know very much about Shiro as a person, outside of shrine life. He’s not a stranger, but if I were asked to name any of his favorite things—colors, foods, et cetera—I know I couldn’t.

  Shiro leans into the countertop, folding his arms in front of him. “Often enough. Ronin hated the company here, so it was the one place I could go and be sure he would leave me alone.”

  “I didn’t know he was following you around,” I say, incredulous. “. . . Why bother?”

  “Mother never trusted me the way she trusted Ronin,” Shiro says with a shrug.

  I make a face. “That can’t be a bad thing.” After all, O-bei asked Ronin to give up his natural life to serve her as a shinigami. While I understand that kitsune, yokai, and shinigami operate on different moral planes than do humans, what Ronin did to the Fujikawa Shrine isn’t acceptable under any moral code.

  Except O-bei’s, of course.

  “I know you see her as a monster,” Shiro says, interrupting my thoughts. “But Mother . . . I know she’s not good, but she’s not all bad. . . . She just is what she is.”

  “If you’re trying to be philosophical,” I say dryly, “you’re failing.”

  “Okay, let me explain it this way,” he says, pausing for a second as a waitress brings us glasses of water. He smiles at her in thanks, and then continues, “My birth mother used to serve Lady Katayama in the Twilight Court.”

  “Like Minami serves her now?” I ask.

  Shiro nods. “My mother died when I was young, leaving Ronin and me orphaned. Lady Katayama could have sent us away; instead, she took us in. Gave us a home. Loved us, in her way.”

  “And then she asked one of you to give up his life and become a shinigami,” I say under my breath.

  “That too,” Shiro says, scratching himself behind the shell of one ear. “It’s harder for humans to accept the fact that we are all made of darkness and light—there’s not a lot of middle ground with your kind.”

  “There you go again with the your kind business,” I say, flipping my menu over to look at some of the items on the back. “You sound like your mother when you talk like that, you know?”

  Shiro opens his mouth to reply, but before he can get a word out, Heihachi bustles over. “So! Has your girlfriend decided what she wants?” he asks with a cheeky little bow.

  My eyes widen, panic fluttering in my chest. “I-I’m not his—”

  “We’ll both have the tonkotsu,” Shiro says.

  “Shiro!” I cry.

  “Good, good.” Heihachi looks at me, then back at Shiro, his grin so wide I hope it makes his cheeks ache. “Don’t worry, miss, we make a good one here! I’ll be right back,” he says, rapping on the bar with his knuckles.

  As Heihachi turns away, I glare at Shiro. If we were alone, I might even hit him on the shoulder, but I don’t want to draw attention to us. Shiro has managed to embarrass me twice today, and I’m not keen on a round three.

  “I can order for myself, thank you,” I say.

  “Tonkotsu is your favorite kind of ramen,” he says. “Am I wrong?”

  I don’t know how he knows I like tonkotsu, but it makes me feel like he has an advantage in our relationship. I tch, pulling my phone out of my bag. “I hate that you know all these things about me. I barely know anything about you.”

  “You know my family’s crazy,” he says.

  “True,” I reply. “But that doesn’t say much about you. I suppose you take a perverse delight in embarrassing me publicly?”

  “You make it so easy,” he says with a laugh. “What do you want to know? My favorite color, or maybe my blood type?”

  “I’m not interviewing you for an idol profile, silly,” I say, setting my phone down. “Hmm . . . tell me why you wanted to become a shrine guardian.”

  “I respect O-bei, and maybe even love her in my own way,” Shiro says, leaning back in his chair, “but I didn’t want to spend my life in her service.”

  “I can respect that,” I say softly.

  Movement draws my attention to the kitchen. A tiny white moth flutters down and lands on Heihachi’s shoulder. He brushes it off, nonchalant, but it leaves behind a sprinkling of dust on his shirt. The tiny creature flies toward the pendant lamp overhead, dancing around the hand-blown glass bulb.

  I look harder at the man. It’s just a coincidence, I tell myself. A shinigami wouldn’t hide in plain sight as a noodle chef.

  . . . Right?

  The white moth follows Heihachi all over the kitchen. He bats at the thing if it gets too close to the food, but it seems like Heihachi’s putting in the effort only for our sakes.

  I lean close to Shiro. “Is your friend Heihachi a shinigami?”

  “Maybe,” Shiro says, a grin tweaking one side of his lips.

  “Why haven’t you tried talking to him before?” I whisper fiercely. “It’s not like he doesn’t know about what happened at the shrine.”

  Shiro leans his forearms on the counter. “I haven’t asked him, because unlike other shinigami—”

  A ball of fire explodes in the kitchen. Glass shatters, men shout. Heat billows toward us, searing my skin. I stumble away from the bar, nearly tripping over my own feet. One of the chefs rips a burning kerchief off his head. Hurling the fabric to the ground, he stamps the fire out. Heihachi grabs a fire extinguisher. A plume of white smoke billows from the extinguisher’s mouth.

  A cat leaps through the extinguisher’s cloud with a yowl. He lands on one of the hot grills, not bothered by the heat, and snatches a piece of chicken in his jaws. Steam rises off his paws. When our eyes meet, I swear he’s grinning through the mask of white flame retardant he now wears.

  I’d know that face anywhere. Those mismatched eyes. Those scars.

  “Oni-chan!” I cry, racing up to the bar. “What are you doing here?”

  “Catch that cat!” Shiro says, leaping over the counter. When Shiro dives for him, Oni-chan rockets off the grill, bounds off Shiro’s shoulder, and lands on the bar. The nekomata slips on the lacquered surface, knocking our chopsticks and condiments to the ground. Before he can leap away, I scoop him into my arms.

  “Bad kitty,” I say, taking the chicken breast out of Oni-chan’s mouth. The cat makes a grab for the meat with his paws, flattening his ears against his skull, beating his tails against my abdomen with a growl. The sound makes his body wind up, tight as a coil. I set the pilfered chicken on the countertop, then cradle the cat against my chest. It keeps him from getting any purchase against my body.

  Cursing, Shiro rights himself. He rubs a set of red welts on his forehead, left behind by Oni-chan’s claws. “For heaven’s sake,” he says, checking the tips of his fingers for blood. “You could have just asked!”

  Oni-chan makes a sound that’s somewhere between a meow and a crow, as if he’s pleased with himself for causing so much trouble.

  “Is that cat yours, Kira-chan?” Heihachi asks, setting the fire extinguisher down with a metallic thunk. The tiny, feather-headed moth now clings to the top of his bun, shaking.

  “Sort of,” I say, trying to keep hold of Oni-chan, who has become a wild, bucking, clawed thing. Even if Oni-chan isn’t technically my cat, I still feel responsible for his actions. “I am so very sorry, Heihachi-san. We’ll pay for the damages.”

  I try to bow deeply, but with Oni-chan in my arms, my attempt is anything but graceful. The nekomata growls at the deepest point of my bow. As if I needed any more embarrassment today, both Heihachi and Shiro break
into peals of laughter.

  “There’s no need to reimburse me for the damages,” Heihachi says to me, once he catches his breath. “I think you have enough to worry about, Kira-chan.”

  Maybe it’s the gentleness in his tone. Maybe it’s because for the last week, I’ve shouldered the blame for everything that’s gone wrong. Maybe it’s the pressure, maybe it’s the fear. Maybe I’m just too exhausted for even one more thing. But I drop Oni-chan to the ground and cover my face with my hands, trying not to care that my fingers smell like chicken grease, cat fur, and copper.

  I don’t just cry; I sob.

  “Oh no!” Heihachi cries. “What did I say? I’m so sorry!”

  “Nothing, Heihachi-san,” Shiro says, putting an arm around my shoulders. He pulls me into a hug, tucking the crown of my head under his chin. “It’s been a rough week.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say between each sob. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”

  “No more apologies,” Heihachi says, shooing away his employees. He motions to a booth. “Come, come. I will feed you, and you will feel better, hmm?”

  As Heihachi fetches us bowls of tonkotsu ramen, I wipe a mess of cat fur and tears off my cheeks. Shiro’s right, it’s the best I’ve ever tasted and it does make me feel better. The pork broth has the right amount of bite, and the umami flavors dance across my tongue. Even Oni-chan gets his own bowl. Heihachi tells us that he makes the noodles by hand each morning, a practice that has been in his family for centuries.

  A white moth lands on the edge of a serving tray, antennae twitching. It’s a small, delicate creature with a furry gray body and speckles on its wings.

  “Heihachi-san,” I say, setting my chopsticks down beside my bowl. “That isn’t an ordinary moth, is it?”

  “No,” he says with a small, sad shake of his head. “She isn’t.”

  She? I wonder.

  “I’ve heard about what you’re doing,” Heihachi says, coaxing the moth to climb onto his fingers. “I would pledge myself to your cause, but I’m afraid I wouldn’t be much help.”

  “Why not?” I ask.

  “I don’t kill,” he says, cupping the moth in his hands. “Not since this little one. She and I have a bargain, hmm? We keep each other safe.”

  “You wouldn’t have to kill anyone, Heihachi-san,” Shiro says.

  “Except Shuten-doji,” Heihachi says softly. “That’s what a cabal of shinigami does, right? It doesn’t just destroy a being’s physical body, but its soul as well?”

  I glance sideways at Shiro. He clenches his teeth but doesn’t reply.

  So I do.

  “Yes,” I say. “The plan is to destroy Shuten-doji, body and soul, and stop the darkness he wishes to draw over the world. I wish to avenge my grandfather’s life, and protect the shrine that my family has tended for generations. We could use your help, Heihachi-san.”

  Heihachi blows out a breath, pushing his hat off his head. His gray-white moth launches itself in the air, beating its wings in front of his face. He extends his index finger to the moth, which hops over his finger and flicks its antennae at him, agitated.

  “Sana seems to like you,” Heihachi says, running the tip of his finger down the moth’s back. “You’ve won her over, and if you have her support, you will have mine as well. I won’t lift a sword, but I can lend my strength to the cabal rites.”

  I press my hands together in front of my sternum and bow. Three.

  Eighteen

  Fujikawa Shrine

  Kyoto, Japan

  When Shiro and I arrive home from school on Tuesday, we find not one, not two, but three shinigami in the main office, discussing battle plans with Goro.

  Everyone looks up as we enter the room, which has been turned into a makeshift headquarters. Maps cover every horizontal space, held in place by mugs, stacks of wooden ema plaques, and tissue boxes. Black butterfly dust hovers in the air. Shimada’s butterflies cling to the rafters. Heihachi’s small white moth, Sana, flutters among them.

  Shimada stands with Goro by the largest table, pressing two knuckles into the tabletop. Roji slouches in a swivel chair on the opposite side. Heihachi leans against another table, his back to the door.

  “Shiro-kun! Kira-chan!” Heihachi says, turning as we walk in. “It’s so good to see you both!”

  He’s here. A shot of relief courses through me.

  “Thank you for coming, Heihachi-san.” I bow to everyone. “I’m grateful to see you here.”

  Heihachi returns my bow. “It is an honor to serve with such distinguished shinigami.”

  “That’s right,” Roji snorts, propping her boots up on the table. “I’m a distinguished lady.”

  “Hardly,” Shimada says, shoving her feet off his desk. Roji snickers as her boots thump on the floor. “I’m glad the two of you have arrived. Shiro, will you and Roji please show Heihachi-san around the shrine this afternoon?”

  “Me?” Roji says, taking a knife from her pocket and flipping it open. She snaps it closed with a flick of her wrist. “And pray tell, what is your lordship going to do while we peasants labor in the fields?”

  “Our efforts to find the shard by hand are failing,” Shimada says, gesturing to Goro and me. “We must try another method.”

  “Like?” Roji asks, flicking her knife open again.

  “We need to speak with the shrine’s last head priest,” Shimada says, turning to me. “Perhaps your grandfather will have the information we need.”

  “You want to summon my grandfather’s spirit?” I half whisper, awed and thrilled. I would give anything to have the chance to see Grandfather again, even if it’s only to say goodbye.

  Shimada nods. “The sun will be setting soon, and its last light may help to draw a priest to my side. Show me where your grandfather died.”

  With an excited shiver, I follow Shimada and Goro from the office and into the main courtyard. The sun drops in the sky, leaving behind peachy splashes of orange and red. The late autumn chill stings my skin and sucks the warmth from my bones.

  I lead them through the shrine, passing a crew fixing the cracks in the haiden’s walls. O-bei’s people rise at dawn to work on shrine repair and fortifications—I’ve grown accustomed to the sound of banging hammers, shouting foremen, and beeping machinery. O-bei has kept her promise to me; if I can manage to find a few more shinigami, I’ll be able to return the favor.

  The motomiya still has the ghosts of police tape clinging to it. I tug a bit of blue tape away, taking splinters of old wood with it. A black spider crawls across one of the beams, and I recoil, remembering the sound of the jorōgumo’s feet slicing up the verandas. Inside, the shadows have already settled in for the night, making themselves comfortable among the offerings at the altar.

  Shimada steps inside and draws a deep breath. “The death is fresh,” he says.

  “Ten days now,” Goro says, halting beside me. He places a comforting hand on my shoulder, but it trembles. “I am sorry, Kira, but I should not take part in this ritual. Will you forgive me if I excuse myself?”

  “Of course,” I say.

  Shimada kneels on the floorboards. He glances over his shoulder at me, then inclines his head. I step inside and kneel beside him.

  “Close your eyes,” Shimada says. “You shouldn’t watch this part.”

  I do as he says. Closing my eyes, I listen to his chanting, which is done in a language I don’t recognize. Its words can’t possibly belong to this earth.

  His voice grows stronger, bolder, as the room chills. Gooseflesh prickles along my forearms. A ghastly energy fills the room, one that digs into my shoulders like cracked fingernails and drags itself down my spine. The small hairs at the back of my neck lift and ache as if they are being plucked out, one by one.

  My next inhalation is a shudder, not just a breath.

  “Hello, wanderer,” Shimada says. I open my eyes, expecting—no, hoping—to find Grandfather there. Instead, a different specter flickers into sight before us.

  I
gasp and shrink back. “Grandmother?”

  The old crone’s missing her lower half—intestines dangle from her rent body in ramen noodle–like loops and clumps. Half her face is crushed, deforming her eye socket. Her brow and eyelid are stripped away, leaving her eyeball naked. Grandmother’s been dead for several years, after someone pushed her off the station platform and into the path of a moving bullet train. Or so the story goes. I never saw the body . . . or what was left of it, apparently.

  “Sit up straight, Kira!” she commands. “How many times have I told you it’s rude to stare?”

  “Yes, Grandmother.” My spine obeys, snapping straight and rigid as a katana. My eyes finally settle on the space above the crown of her head, so it appears I’m looking at her. If she senses I’m not giving her my full attention, she’ll scald me with her words. “I’m sorry, Grandmother.”

  Grandmother turns her gaze on Shimada. “And who are you? One of my husband’s lackey priests? Or another poor beggar taken in by the shrine?”

  “Not exactly,” Shimada says with a grin. “Your granddaughter calls me Shimada.”

  “You’re ugly,” Grandmother tells him.

  “Well, Fujikawa-san, death isn’t kind to any of us,” he replies.

  Grandmother glares at him for a moment. I open my mouth to defend him, to talk Grandmother down, to say anything to salvage the situation . . . but to my surprise, Grandmother bursts into laughter.

  I don’t think I’ve heard Grandmother laugh before. Ever.

  “Who knew a shinigami could have a sense of humor, eh?” she says. To my horror, I think she tries to wink at me. Her rent eyelid makes it only a third of the way across her eyeball. She plucks at a strand of her intestines. “On a scale of one to ten, how awful do I look? We don’t have mirrors in this realm, you know. Not like I can see for myself.”

  There aren’t words to hide the truth, so I turn my eyes down to the ground.

  “Must be bad.” Grandmother cackles, flinging her intestines at my face. I duck, but they pass right through me, misty and cold. “That’s why Ichigo’s always been my favorite grandchild—he tells the sweetest lies. Well, what do you want, anyway? I suppose it must be something awful, Kira, if you’ve enlisted the aid of a shinigami.”