Seven Deadly Shadows

by Courtney Alameda

  “It is urgent,” I say, focusing on a chunk of hair still clinging to her head. “We need to talk to Grandfather, if he’s available.”

  “Hmm,” she says, scratching what’s left of her belly. “So Hiiro’s dead, then?”

  Fear strikes a fierce chord in my chest. I exchange a glance with Shimada. “Yes, for more than a week now. . . . You haven’t seen him?”

  “He hasn’t come to greet the Elders yet,” Grandmother says. “Which means he hasn’t managed to cross over, the old fool. Just as directionally challenged in death as he was in life.”

  “That’s not unusual,” Shimada says to me. “Time moves differently in Yomi, and souls will sometimes linger with their shinigami for the space of many human months.”

  “What would happen if Grandfather’s soul wasn’t reaped by a shinigami?” I ask. “I was there when he died, after all. There was no shinigami to help him.”

  Shimada slides his hands into his wide sleeves, as Grandfather used to do. “Shinigami would have been drawn to the shrine in the wake of so much death. Someone must have intercepted your grandfather’s soul.”

  “That’s not what I’m asking,” I say, balling my fists in my lap. “I want to know what happens to human souls when they are not reaped by a shinigami.”

  “You know the answer to that question, priestess,” Shimada says.

  I do, but I want my fears to be articulated so I know they’re real. Someone must have found my grandfather’s wandering soul. Someone must have given him respite, and sheltered him until he was ready to accept his death. I hope he and all the other priests here at the Fujikawa Shrine are guarded by someone wise, kind, and noble. I hope someone like Shimada found them, each and every one.

  Because if Grandfather’s soul was allowed to wander, he most certainly would become yokai. My heart breaks over the mere idea of Grandfather being forced into such a wretched state.

  “Don’t worry about that old prude, Kira,” Grandmother says with a rusty chuckle. “Unless there is a demon that enjoys giving lectures, your grandfather is too high and holy to become a yokai.”

  “If he is not here”—I suck in a breath and steel myself, pushing away my fears for now—“might there be someone else Shimada-sama and I can ask about the missing shard of the Kusanagi no Tsurugi, sword of the Sun Goddess?”

  Grandmother rubs her chin. “So, that’s what you’re after, eh? What would you want with that thing?”

  “We need it to strike down Shuten-doji, once and for all,” I say.

  Grandmother’s eyes open wide in shock—or at least as wide as they are able without tumbling from what’s left of their sockets. “Shuten-doji? Even I know the horrors of that name—what sort of trouble have you gotten yourself into, child?”

  “Kira inherited her place in this,” Shimada says. “She deserves no blame for the conflict ahead.”

  “And you’ve taken it upon yourself to help her, Lord Death?” Grandmother says with a scoff. “Do you think yourself a hero?”

  Shimada doesn’t reply right away, nor does he flinch under Grandmother’s critical gaze. “I have my own mistakes to make amends for, Fujikawa-san.”

  “And what happens if you find this shard, eh?” Grandmother asks. “You can’t slay a demon with a sliver of a sword, you’d need the whole thing!”

  “Exactly,” Shimada says, arching a brow. “If we can find the shard hidden in the Fujikawa Shrine, our next step would be to steal the remaining shards back.”

  “From Shuten-doji?” I ask.

  “Who else would we steal them from?” Shimada asks.

  “Hmph,” Grandmother says. “Very well, then. I will go consult with the other ancestors and see if they know anything about your precious sword. Don’t move. I’ll return shortly.”

  Grandmother dissipates into the air. Shimada and I do as she says, not even chancing conversation. Minutes pass. The longer I sit like this, with my feet tucked under my seat bones, the more the tips of my toes begin to tingle. It was barely noticeable when I was distracted by conversation; now it’s all I can think about.

  I’m not sure how long we wait for Grandmother to reappear; but when she does, she comes as quickly as she went. All the contempt has been drained from her, leaving only the chill of death in its wake.

  “They say they cannot tell us where the last piece of the Kusanagi lies.” Grandmother toys with the edge of her kimono sleeve, twisting it, fretting. I’d get lectured for playing with my clothing like that; but Grandmother’s so agitated, she doesn’t even realize her eye has popped out of its socket again. “They say that information was passed down through the generations, from one high priest to the next. Because we are not high priests of the Fujikawa line, they refuse to share the location of the last shard with us.”

  “If we can’t find the last shard, the Fujikawa Shrine will burn,” I say. “Just like it did five hundred years ago. Is that what they want?”

  “Don’t get salty with me, girl!” Grandmother snorts hard enough to suck her eyeball back into place. “I’m just the messenger. I don’t make the rules.”

  “Can we speak with the Elders?” I ask, rising to my feet. “Surely, we could make them see reason—”

  “These are the spirits of men dead for centuries, Kira,” Grandmother says, shaking her head. “Tradition means everything to them, and they do not see the world the way you do.”

  I shift my weight. “Well, if we can’t find the shard, perhaps Shuten-doji won’t, either.”

  “Once Shuten-doji returns to this realm, he will never cease his assault on your shrine until he has what he desires, or until he is dead,” Shimada says gently, rising too. “Your only option is to destroy him.”

  “We can do that with a cabal,” I say.

  “Assuming we have enough shinigami for one,” Shimada says. “Failing that, we can slay his physical vessel again and force him back into Yomi for a time. But you will only burden tomorrow with the problems of today.”

  “As this family has done for centuries,” Grandmother says. “Listen, shinigami—I do not want my granddaughter to have to fight this monster for the rest of her days. I will intercede with the family Elders on your behalf, but . . .”

  My heart lifts in my chest, beating a little faster. “But?” I ask.

  Grandmother peaks what’s left of her eyebrow. “I want better offerings made on my behalf at the family kamidana. You’ve ignored it for months, Kira. How can you expect help from your ancestors if you’ve failed to remember them?”

  Dropping to my knees, I bow so low my forehead nearly touches the ground. “I’m sorry, Grandmother. I’ll remedy the family kamidana immediately, and care for it daily.”

  “See that you do,” Grandmother says. “And as for you, shinigami—if the Elders are willing to impart their wisdom, I will find you in the realms of the dead.”

  “Very well, Fujikawa-san,” Shimada says. “Thank you.”

  Grandmother inclines her head a few degrees. “Just don’t hold your breath. All the dead have left are traditions, and they cling to them like caged monkeys that have been given grapes. Good luck.”

  As Shimada and I step outside, the evening chill wicks the heat from my clothing. I pause on the motomiya steps and look up to the sky, where a handful of stars have already opened their eyes. The last of the day glows faintly blue on the horizon, every minute hurtling us closer and closer to the month’s end. The waning moon now looks like a grimace.

  We’ve been running out of time since the night Grandfather died.

  “This fight keeps getting more and more complicated,” I say with a sigh.

  Shimada chuckles. “You chose to meddle in the affairs of the gods.”

  “As did you,” I say.

  Shimada tips his hat back to gaze at the night sky. “You and I are too honorable for our own good.”

  “You’d think that would be a compliment,” I say.

  “I have taken hundreds of thousands of dying souls under my wing. I have eased
the suffering of men and women dying on the battlefield; I have stood beside executioners, walked into the depths of prisons, and held children weak with starvation. Eventually, all lives end,” Shimada says, stretching an index finger into the air to provide a perch for one of his black-winged butterflies. “The dead cling to tradition because we have forgotten what it means to breathe. We can afford to be rigid, unchanging—something that, by definition, the living cannot be. But honor means very little in Yomi.”

  “Then why do you still practice it?” I ask. “Why come here to fight my demons?”

  Shimada launches the butterfly in the air. “By protecting others, I save myself.”

  “Save yourself from what?” I ask, furrowing my brow.

  Shimada does not answer me immediately; nor does he look at me. After a few moments of silence, he steps off the veranda, heading through the shrine’s courtyard. “I’m going out to reap,” he says without looking over his shoulder. “I will see you tomorrow, Kira. Please make sure Roji doesn’t kill Heihachi-san before we can put him to work. She is good, but she doesn’t suffer kindness.”

  “Wait, Shimada-sama,” I cry.

  He disappears into the shadows, leaving me to wonder what a death god might fear.

  Nineteen

  Kōgakkan High School

  Kyoto, Japan

  Within days, the snows come for real.

  I usually love the cold season, especially at the shrine’s high elevation, where snow hushes everything with a thick white blanket. In winter, the shrine’s eaves glitter with icicles, and the world smells pristine and pure.

  But today, the fog creeping through the shrine fills me with a deep sense of foreboding. My anxieties shook me awake before my alarm, and I spent the morning worrying about everything from the upcoming Culture Day festivities to Shuten-doji to the scuff on my favorite shoes. Anxiety likes catching me alone and unawares. It’s been worse lately, especially as the second week comes to a close.

  Shuten-doji has become an obsession; I fall asleep reading articles about him on my phone, and sometimes catch myself humming Kagome, Kagome in the shower.

  I’ve never laid eyes on him, and yet I see him everywhere. Every time I spar with Roji, I sense Shuten-doji’s gaze on me. When I search for the missing shard with Shimada, Shuten-doji seems to inhabit every shadow. No matter what I do, he’s there. Watching. Waiting.

  “You okay?” Shiro asks as we walk to school. “You’ve been quiet this morning.”

  “I’m fine,” I say, shooting him a thin smile.

  “Liar,” he says, and reaches out to take my hand. Normally, I’d try to pull away from this sort of gesture in public; for now, I crave the reassurance. I walk a little closer, letting our long coats hide our hands from sight. He squeezes my hand. I squeeze back.

  The snows have hushed Kōgakkan’s grounds. Students hurry across the quad, tucked tight into their coats, heads down. Umbrellas dot the outdoor areas like winter flowers. Inside, students shake snow from their hair and brush the icy flakes off their shoulders. And everyone comments on the strange depth of the December cold.

  Despite my sense of foreboding, the day feels unremarkable. One class drags its feet by, stumbling into the next. My teachers blare on. Students take dutiful notes around me. On days like this, it seems crazy that everyone around me remains so blissfully unaware of the dangers barreling toward us.

  There are days I wish I was like them, and days I’m glad not to be.

  After school, Shiro waits for me outside homeroom, where Hotohori-sensei asked me to stay behind to discuss my grades. Rather than lecture me while I remain in my seat, she and I lean against her desk, staring out at her empty classroom. While all my teachers are excellent, I sense that Hotohori-sensei really cares about me as a person.

  I’m worried about you, she says.

  You always seem tired these days, but today, the burden seems greater than usual.

  I’m concerned your grades may slip if this continues much longer.

  Is there something I can do to help you, Fujikawa-san?

  I wish I could tell her what’s going on in my life, but honesty won’t help either of us. She’s right that I’m tired all the time: if I’m not at school, I have a sword in my hand. If I’m not training with Roji, I’m working on learning my mudras with Shiro or Goro. If Shiro and I aren’t out looking for shinigami, I’m holed up in my bedroom doing homework.

  As much as I try not to complain about my situation, I’m exhausted. Plain and simple.

  When I emerge, Shiro’s leaning against the wall outside, alone. He looks up at me. “Everything okay?” he asks, twitching one of his ears.

  “Okay enough,” I say. Hotohori-sensei wasn’t wrong to pull me aside—my grades have inched downward, though not by much. I’m fighting hard to keep my head above water, so it doesn’t help to have my failings pointed out. Then highlighted. And underscored.

  We head down the stairs. “I don’t know how you stand it,” Shiro says, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Day in and day out, listening to someone blather to you about things you should already know.”

  “What do you mean, things I should already know?” I ask as we head out the door into the quad. The world feels chilly as an icebox. An arctic wind blasts the school grounds, and I button my woolen peacoat against the cold. “I mean, I might be good in school, but it’s not because I already know these things.”

  “Humans,” Shiro says with a tsk, shaking off the cold. “I don’t know how your kind have survived so long without inherited memories.”

  “We have those,” I say smugly. “We just call them stories.”

  “Yeah, but you aren’t born with those stories in your head,” Shiro says, sidling a little closer, blocking me from the worst of the wind. “I remember things that happened to my ancestors. The stuff they knew. Mathematics. Languages. History. Art. We . . .”

  But he trails off, his eyes widening. He’s looking at something on my shoulder.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, glancing down.

  A white moth alights on my peacoat. It opens and closes its wings, the tips of which are frosted with ice crystals. Its fuzzy body looks soft to the touch, its antennae bushy as tiny pipe cleaners. It has a little white furry ruff around its head, as if outfitted for winter.

  But I know better—moths hibernate through Kyoto winters.

  This isn’t a living moth.

  The sound of steel against scabbard rings through the courtyard. I look up.

  The Shinigami in White stands inside the school gates, blocking the main exit. Her moths spiral around her in a snowy cyclone, terrible to behold. She’s still clad in her white kimono, but it’s accentuated with a white fox fur ruff. Shiro sees the fur and curls his upper lip.

  She sees Shiro’s expression and grins. “A gift from Tamamo-no-Mae, General to Shuten-doji the Endless,” she says, stroking the fur. “Though I should like one in red as well.”

  “What do you want with us?” My voice is little more than a terrified whisper.

  “You know what I am here to do,” she says, lifting her sword. She levels the blade at my chest. “I have been commanded to take your life. I am sorry to do so before your appointed time, priestess, but I must do as my master commands.”

  “Apology not accepted,” Shiro says with a growl. Shoving his palms forward, he performs an impressive set of tuts, summoning a glittering, brilliant torii gate made from light. Strange runes twine in ribbons around its hashira poles. Before I can ask Shiro what’s going on, he grabs me by the hand and plunges us through. The light settles over my skin, crackling and popping till it renders me translucent as a ghost.

  “Fox invisibility.” The Shinigami in White sniffs, scanning the courtyard with eyes as sharp as knives. “How utterly predictable. You may be able to hide from me, but you’ll never be able to escape. Not for long.”

  We’re . . . invisible?

  Shiro presses his hand into the small of my back
, ushering me toward the school. The Shinigami in White dashes to the place she last saw us standing, swinging her sword in an arc. The blade whistles through the air, making the snow flurry around her. I shudder to think what it would do to my flesh.

  “Where are you, little birds?” she asks in a lilting, patient voice.

  The Shinigami in White blocks the only way out of the school. There are doors out the back of the building, but to use them, we’d need a key card from one of the school’s staff members. If we want to escape, we’ll have to lose the Shinigami in White in the warrens of Kōgakkan’s hallways.

  Shiro must agree. He pauses a few feet away from one of the school’s large, double-wide doors and tuts a mudra I don’t recognize. In an instant, the air in the courtyard seems to detonate, blowing all the doors to the school open with a loud metallic bang!

  We sprint inside. The Shinigami in White scans the courtyard, trying to ascertain which of the doors we went through. Shiro takes me by the hand. I follow him into the school.

  “How long will the invisibility last?” I whisper.

  “A few minutes, if we’re lucky,” he says, looking for an open classroom. “I’ve never used my invisibility magic on two people before. I doubt we’ll get out in time—the school is well-fortified. We should hide and call the others.”

  We jog down a hallway, finding every classroom locked for the day. Desperate, I try the door to the teachers’ office, relieved to find it open. We slip inside. The office is empty, except for old Araki-sensei snoring over her desk. She startles awake as the door clicks behind us, her glasses askew, a bit of drool drying on her chin. I’d laugh if our lives weren’t in danger.

  While she gets up to make coffee, Shiro and I sneak to the back of the room, passing the other teachers’ desks. We step into the coat closet at the back, careful not to make a sound. The dark closes around us. Shiro and I tuck ourselves behind a large cluster of flags in the corner, and under a set of moth-eaten, musty winter coats. Neither of us dares speak, but Shiro’s hand finds mine in the dark. He squeezes tight, and I squeeze back.