Seven Deadly Shadows

by Courtney Alameda

  “Mother, wait!” I say.

  She pauses, looking back at me.

  “Did Grandfather ever mention that our shrine was hiding a piece of the Kusanagi no Tsurugi?” I ask.

  Mother frowns. “Why should we have a piece of the Imperial family’s holy sword? Isn’t that being held in Nagoya?”

  “I suppose so,” I say.

  When she is gone, Shiro puts his arms around me. I lean against his chest, and he rests his chin on the crown of my head.

  He doesn’t say anything.

  He doesn’t need to.

  Twenty-Four

  Kōgakkon High School

  Kyoto, Japan

  On Monday morning, Shiro and I find that December has unleashed an even deeper chill. Winter winds bite my cheeks, and ice slides under the soles of my shoes. The moon has become a low-hanging thumbnail in the sky, now growing more full by the day. In a little more than a week’s time, the blood moon will rise and our war will begin in earnest.

  I’m surprised to see the family car waiting on the street, engine idling. Mother steps out of the vehicle, her mouth set in a grim line. “Kira,” she says by way of greeting. She refuses to acknowledge Shiro, not even with a polite hello.

  “Good morning, Mother,” I say, pausing on the front steps. “What are you doing here?”

  “Kōgakkon High School has agreed not to expel you, on one condition,” Mother says, her words going up in a plume of fog.

  “Oh? And what’s that?” I ask.

  “You are to make a formal apology to Nanao Miyamoto and her parents,” Mother says. “Today.”

  “That’s it?” I ask, looking for the conceit, the trap, the hidden condition inside my mother’s words. I’ve spent so much time in the world of monsters, it’s difficult to accept anyone’s intent at face value anymore.

  “I met with Miyamoto-san, Nanao’s mother, on Saturday,” Mother said. “I made sure she was aware that you believed you were acting in self-defense. We are meeting in the principal’s office this morning to deliver your formal apology.”

  Mother is . . . helping me? In her own self-serving way, I suppose. “You’ve left me no choice.”

  “Do you deserve one?” Mother says, her words as chilly as the breeze.

  I sigh. While I have no desire to apologize to my bullies, allowing my parents to save face will keep them from complicating my life. “Fine, I’ll apologize to Nanao,” I say.

  But before I join my parents in the car, I turn to Shiro. “I’ll meet you at school, okay?”

  “You sure about this?” Shiro asks, sticking his hands in the pockets of his slacks.

  “Yeah,” I say, flashing him a quick smile as I start down the steps. “See you in homeroom!”

  He winks at me and waves, ignoring Mother’s withering stare. Father says nothing to me as I slide into the backseat of his sedan. We don’t speak on the drive to school. Mother doesn’t chide me for my friendship with Shiro, nor do we talk about what happened at the shrine last Friday night. Instead, I’m forced to play out my apology to Nanao in my head, over and over again.

  By the time Father parks outside Kōgakkon High School, sweat has dampened the back of my shirt. My heart squeezes each beat, aching as if I’ve just run a marathon. I don’t want to kneel in front of my enemies and beg for their forgiveness, nor do I want to pretend that I’m sorry for defending myself. I’m not sorry, though I will be sincere. Unlike Ronin, I understand what an apology really means—it’s a request to return to a more harmonious state, and a promise not to repeat the behavior in the future. If Nanao doesn’t repeat her behavior, I’ll never be forced to, either.

  Once we arrive at school, I follow Mother and Father to Principal Ito’s office. The room has warm hardwood floors and leather couches. Abstract sumi-e artwork decorates the walls. Pale, cloudy light drifts through the windows. One pane stands half-open, allowing a frozen breeze to slide into the room.

  Principal Ito rises from behind his desk; he’s a small, neat man, who seems almost dwarfed by the furniture around him. He smoothes the front of his suit, exchanging bows and pleasantries with my parents. Nanao and her parents rise as well, exchanging bows and subdued greetings. Our fathers engage in a bow-off, demonstrating their respect and humility, as well as acknowledging their equal status in the room. Their bows begin at the standard fifteen-degree depth and grow shallower with each dip.

  When my gaze meets Nanao’s, she touches the side of her bandaged nose and looks away quickly. While I’ve never been good about “reading the air,” so to speak, there’s nothing triumphant in her demeanor—Nanao looks as uncomfortable as I feel. I expected her to revel in every second of this, and to later spread horrible rumors about me. I even thought Ayako might be here to witness my public humiliation. But the only emotions I read in this room are shame and sorrow.

  “Kira,” Father says without looking at me. “I suppose you have something to say to Miyamoto-san and her parents?”

  “Yes,” I say, placing my hands on the tops of my thighs and bending forward till the tips of my fingers touch my knees. It’s a very deep bow—seventy degrees with a straight back—the kind reserved for approaching shrine kami or very, very sincere apologies. “I apologize, Miyamoto-san, for injuring you and causing you physical pain. My actions were foolish, and I am sorry for any distress I have caused you and your family.”

  I rise. My parents repeat this process, except to Nanao’s parents. Mother apologizes for raising such a mannerless daughter. I fight to keep my expression neutral, letting her words pass through me like sand through a sieve. Even when I resign myself to listening to her, it still grates.

  “My daughter has assured me that she will not act so coarsely in the future,” Mother says, and then dips into another, shallower bow. “I am grateful, Miyamoto-san, that you are not seeking her expulsion from Kōgakkon High School. Your generosity knows no bounds.”

  “No, Fujikawa-san, I should be apologizing for my own child,” Mrs. Miyamoto says, bowing in return. “We can’t hold your daughter entirely responsible for this situation, can we, Nanao?”

  Nanao blinks fast, holding back tears.

  “Nanao?” Mrs. Miyamoto insists.

  With a hiccup, Nanao bows to me. Her perfect hair cascades over her shoulders, falling in two twin waterfalls on either side of her head. Her fingertips tremble on her knees. I’m so shocked and confused, it takes the full two beats of her bow for me to regain a neutral, open expression.

  “I must apologize, too, Fujikawa-san,” she says, keeping her eyes downcast. “I recognize that my actions may have given you the wrong impression of me and of my family. In the future, I will try to be a better classmate and member of Kōgakkon’s esteemed student body.”

  Principal Ito clears his throat. “I expect this will end the hostilities between the two of you. Exemplary students must strive to promote harmony among their classmates. Should any additional altercations occur, you can expect swift and decisive action from me. Am I clear?”

  “Yes, Principal Ito,” Nanao and I say in concert. We bow to the principal. Nanao sniffles, desperately trying not to lose more face. I pity her—it should be Ayako here, bowing and apologizing for the harm done. Nanao may have played along, but Ayako pulled all the strings.

  I bid my parents goodbye at the door and head to class, glad that Nanao and I don’t share a homeroom. And maybe, just maybe, Nanao will stop Ayako and their friends from tormenting me further. Admissions to Tokyo University are so competitive, Nanao won’t be able to afford a demerit on her record, much less an expulsion. And now that Ayako and her crew have seen that I can fight back, well . . . I don’t really expect them to come after me anyways. I’ve killed a demon with these two hands.

  I keep my head up through the school day, ignoring the whispers and rumors swirling around me.

  The fox does not fear the mouse.

  Twenty-Five

  Fujikawa Shrine

  Kyoto, Japan

  Two nights later, Goro a
sks me to take a tray of food to Shiro. “It’s his turn to guard Yuza in the motomiya tonight, hmm?” the older kitsune says. “He shouldn’t go without something to eat. You two came back late from your shinigami hunting.”

  Our failed shinigami hunting, I think with a sigh. We haven’t managed to find another willing shinigami since Heihachi, and time is running out. The moon waxes more full by the day. By now, the shinigami of Kyoto know who we are, and they know what we’re looking for—and not one of them wants anything to do with us. From Gion to Arashiyama and every neighborhood in between, help is hard to find.

  We’ve had no better luck locating the missing shard of the Kusanagi no Tsurugi—it remains just as elusive as the shinigami.

  I carry a tray of grilled fish, potato stew, and brown rice to the motomiya. I’ve already eaten, but the food still smells heavenly. I squeeze out the front door, waddle across the garden, and tiptoe down the motomiya’s stairs. Shiro sits on the bottom step, playing a battle royal game on his phone.

  “Goro sent dinner,” I say, sinking down beside him and balancing the tray on my knees.

  Shiro puts his phone aside. “That man is divine.” He takes the tray from me, his stomach rumbling.

  The motomiya’s cellar isn’t large, perhaps ten yards by ten. A naked lightbulb hangs over the door, rigged up with extension cords. Its hard light chases spiders and other creeping things into the cracks of the walls. Old, rusted tools line the edges of the room—some of them look like they predated Grandfather. Dust coats everything in a thick blanket. Nothing here has been touched in more than a lifetime.

  Yuza sits in a corner, watching us with the same curiosity that a caged tiger has for schoolchildren. Her kimono, once white, has now taken on the cellar’s rusty, drab brown. Two moths still cling to her sleeve. One hasn’t moved since I entered the room.

  “You sure you want to be down here?” Shiro asks. “It’s pretty cold.”

  Translation: I know what this place means to you. Grandfather’s blood still stains the motomiya’s floorboards. All these weeks have dulled my grief, but not my desire for revenge. I will always miss Grandfather. But I will not allow the shrine to fall to the monsters who killed him, not while I still draw breath.

  “I’ll be okay for a little while,” I say, warming the chill from my fingers by tutting them through the nine major mudras. They feel more comfortable now, as if I’d spent my life training to use them, rather than a few short weeks.

  Shiro picks a potato out of his stew, popping it into his mouth. “Let’s work on empowering your mudras,” he says, setting his tray aside and scooting closer to me. “You still need practice.”

  “Lots and lots of practice,” I reply.

  “Little Miss Overachiever,” he says with a grin.

  “Hardly!”

  The shinigami shifts her weight in the corner, saying nothing. Her gaze unsettles me; while she sits across the room, I almost feel like she’s staring at the back of my neck, waiting for an opportune moment to strike.

  I tut the mudra Rin, focusing my mind on a candle’s flame. My fingertips catch fire, just like magic. As I shake the flames off my fingers, a light flashes across the cellar’s dirt floor.

  Shiro and I look up. “What was that?” I ask. Even Yuza frowns and sits up, her gaze riveted to the middle of the room.

  “Do the mudra again, Kira,” Shiro says. So I steeple my fingers together in Rin, thinking of candle fires winking like cats’ eyes. Fire bursts along my fingertips. White light dances across the floor, illuminating a familiar shape in the dust. The image burns itself into my retinas. When I close my eyes, I see it transposed on the backs of my eyelids.

  I gasp, pushing up from the stairs. “That was a Seimei pentagram.” It would make sense if his magic lingered here—this motomiya is the only surviving building from the original shrine. These stones, this dirt, everything here is ancient. The wood has been replaced throughout the years, but the stones have stood since Seimei’s time.

  “No,” Yuza says, shifting her weight. “That was a seal.”

  “A seal?” I ask.

  “Think of it as a sort of lock”—Shiro snaps his fingers—“or like a password. It can be opened if you know the right combination.”

  “Or in some cases, possess the right bloodline,” Yuza says with a chuckle. “The seal was not responding to your magic, boy.”

  If I were going to hide the shard of a sacred sword anywhere, I think, it would be in a place like this.

  “How do we open it?” I ask.

  Shiro lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “I suppose you could try standing on the pentagram and casting the mudra for clarity? Or awareness?”

  “Let me find it first. . . .” As I walk toward the space, I place my hands back in Rin and light my fingertips on fire. The ground blazes around me, and the pentagram appears under my feet. I almost laugh in surprise, watching in delight as a white ring of light encircles me. Characters—many of which I don’t recognize—burn up through the dust. My bracelet glows with bright fire.

  I look through the light at Shiro. He stands on the other side of the wall of light, openmouthed. I beckon to him as the disk of light begins to turn underfoot, like a key turning in a lock.

  The ground disappears under my feet.

  I don’t even have a chance to breathe.

  Shiro shouts my name as I fall into darkness. I plummet ten yards into frigid water, hitting the surface like a thunderclap. Air bubbles buffet my body. The cold slaps me next, shocking my skin. Panicked, I fight my way to the surface, shrieking as I bump against a bloated rat’s corpse. My other hand brushes against something solid, slimy, and soft. I shudder, jerking my hand away. I try not to think about all the diseases currently crawling over my skin, and wipe the water from my eyes. I kick hard to keep myself afloat.

  Shouts and echoes of Kira! make their way to me. I turn my head toward the sound. I can’t see Shiro’s face—the brilliance of the light up above casts everything else in shadow. Down this deep, the glow from my bracelet puts silver caps on the water’s ripples. I can’t see anything else.

  Where am I?

  “Kira!” Shiro shouts. “Kira! Are you okay?”

  “I’m alive!” I shout back, splashing around and trying to find purchase with my toes. I think I’m in some sort of well, one that reeks of sewage and rot. I pull a chunk of algae out of my eyelashes, cringing.

  “What happened?!” Shiro shouts back.

  “I think that’s my line!” I say, churning the water with my legs. “Can you please do something? Get me out, maybe?”

  “On it,” he says. A rope’s silhouette bobs over the well’s lip. Its frayed edges reach for me like an outstretched hand. The line comes up several feet too short. I try to climb the slick well stones to reach the rope, but slip and tumble back into the water.

  “Hold on,” Shiro shouts down to me. “I’ll find something else!”

  “Hurry,” I call back. “It’s freezing down here.”

  I tread water, hoping—no, praying that Shiro hurries back. My teeth chatter, and every muscle in my body feels leaden. Slow. Something brushes up against my leg. I shriek, paddling away. It’s impossible to see anything beyond the oily black surface. Wishing to stay quiet and still, I put my back to one wall and focus on staying afloat.

  The links of my bracelet grow warm. Its light spreads through the water, but struggles to penetrate deeper than a half foot or so. I hold my bracelet in front of me, especially when I think I catch a bit of movement at the light’s edge.

  “Hurry, Shiro,” I whisper. “Hurry.”

  Yuza starts to laugh, but the well’s slick walls twist the sound into something otherworldly. “You’d best be careful, priestess. I don’t think we’re alone—”

  A hand slides around my ankle. I look down, catching a glimpse of cratered eye sockets in a bare skull. A torn gossamer shroud holds the skeletal spirit’s bones together like translucent flesh.

  I scream, kicking the yokai in the f
ace. It drags me under. I panic, scrabbling for purchase, looking for a handhold to stop this descent into darkness. My fingernails scrape against slick stone. The creature drags me into blackness so thick, it compresses my limbs and tries to force its way into my mouth and nose. I jam my heel into the yokai’s shoulder, but its bony hand grips me tight.

  The yokai slams me into the well’s rocky floor. I hit so hard I cough, expelling the rest of the air inside me. The bubbles race into the darkness. My ears pop. As the creature wraps its fingers around my neck, my hands scrabble for something, anything, that I can use as a weapon. Shiro’s fire spells are useless underwater. I have no sword, nothing to use to run the beast through.

  I’m going to die.

  My lungs burn, vision flashing red. Everything within me screams. Airless. Voiceless.

  I’m going to die.

  Then I see it—a toothy bit of light in the darkness, a spear of sun in the depths. Desperate, I draw my legs up and kick the monster in the chest. On the second kick, I snap one of its wrists and manage to push free. The yokai grabs my hair. I jerk away, tearing strands from my scalp. I struggle toward that light. Reaching. The water no longer feels cold. My lungs cry for air. I kick and fight and stretch and reach.

  My fingers bump against a hard, smooth sliver. It burns to the touch. When I grip it, the sharp edges slice little mouths into my skin.

  The yokai yanks me backward. When it tries to sink its fingers into my throat again, I stab at its torso. At its arms. At any bony part of it that comes too close. Each blow leaves a dash of light on the yokai’s bones, until my weapon sinks into something soft. Something fleshy.

  The yokai screeches, the sound earsplitting and haunting under the water. I yank the shard out, but the motion’s sluggish. A sheet of exhaustion falls over my body. Muscles refuse to respond. My eyes close, even as I fight to keep them open.

  I breathe the water in, as if I have become a fish. My mind darkens, my body ready to slip into this dark abyss. I feel a pressure, a lightness. Buoyancy. I don’t know if my eyes are open or closed. Every part of my body goes numb.