Yuza banks right, taking us into a lavish quarter with golden walls and an inlaid wooden floor. We burst into a foyer. The walls glitter—gold leaf and gems decorate towering murals of oni at war, torturing human beings, and wreaking destruction upon the world of the living. The oni love chaos, so it’s no surprise to find these scenes on the walls of their treasure rooms.
Twelve real oni guard a golden door. Unlike the ogres we saw in the storerooms, these creatures loom with stately, straight-backed strength. But even as they stand at attention, wielding their golden naginata polearms, they wear necklaces of rotting hands. Their thick, coarse black hair has been braided with bits of gold-dipped bone.
I wonder if they take the hands of thieves who steal from Shuten-doji.
As Yuza and I skid to a stop, twelve heads turn in our direction.
“Yuza!” one shouts, his fury shaking the very ground. He storms forward, the blade of his naginata whistling as he palms it. Bones rattle in his braids. “You traitorous monster! You will pay for what you’ve done!”
“Not today, Ibaraki,” Yuza says, a sick smile twisting her lips.
Ibaraki.
I know that name.
That was the name of Grandfather’s murderer.
A bright rage fills me. Heat flares in my heart, pumping through my veins. My skin begins to shimmer, then glow. My enemies step back, shielding their faces with their hands.
“Yuza,” I say with a voice that crackles like fire. “Move.”
Flames burst from my fingertips. Their light’s so bright I can’t see anything beyond the foxfire, which leaps off my hands in the shape of a massive, nine-tailed fox. The fiery, golden creature crashes down upon the oni guards. The yokai scream, but even their voices are consumed by the flames’ roar.
The fires die as fast as they came. Seconds later, I find myself on my knees, blinking stupidly at twelve piles of smoldering embers.
Did I . . . ? What just . . . ?
Yuza chuckles. “My, my, you are interesting.”
I get to my feet. Yuza reaches over and taps my chin, reminding me to close my mouth.
“Ibaraki?” Yuza asks, lifting a brow.
“He killed my grandfather,” I say, following her toward the golden vault door. I spit on what I assume to be Ibaraki’s ashes.
“Ah, I see. He was a bastard, anyway,” she says.
We approach the vault door. I catch my blurred reflection in its smooth, dark surface, and tug at one of the strange ears on my head. The vault doors are inlaid with white gems that glimmer like stars; as Yuza begins to perform intricate tuts, the gems glow bright. One by one, graceful arcs of light connect them, creating strange constellations across the vault’s face. The ground trembles. The light shifts clockwise and a metallic thunk! echoes through the room.
Yuza frowns as the light sinks into the door, leaving behind deep scores. The metal groans as it retracts into the ceiling and floor. “One would think they would have changed the spells guarding their vaults.”
“I’m sure they never imagined we’d try something like this,” I reply.
Yuza only grins. We step inside. I’m not certain what I was expecting from an ogre-god’s vault, but this wasn’t it—finely dressed skeletons lie buried by heaps of beautifully wrought armor, and some pieces look like they predate any era I have a name for. A mountain of scrolls takes up one corner of the room, some of which float in the air, independent of gravity. Weapons glimmer from large racks on the walls. There are strange chests with eyes where the locks should be, or clockwork birds perched in the rafters. No matter where I look, I find something wonderful, or something I wish I had more time to explore.
Yuza snaps her fingers. The vault doors groan closed. “Come,” she says, heading into the vault. “We don’t have much time.”
We pass multiple doors cast in various precious metals. One door appears to have been carved from a slab of jade, and the next has the cloudy gleam of quartz. One door has been cast in bronze; but nothing steals my breath like the golden doors at the end of the hallway, lit by torchlight.
The doors stand at least fifteen feet tall. A woman floats at their center, dressed in a kimono fit for an empress. Her hair flows long and thick under a crown of sunbeams, and the clouds beneath her feet. In her right hand, she bears a sword. In her left, a jewel.
“Amaterasu,” I whisper. Even Yuza pauses before the door, her expression awestruck, her eyes soft and wide. It takes me a moment to shake off my awe, or to reckon with the fact that we’ve found Amaterasu in such a dark place. “I should bow,” I say quietly.
“Then do it quickly,” Yuza says, glancing over her shoulder. “It won’t take Shuten-doji’s monsters long to reach us.”
I fall to my knees, placing my palms on the floor before me, and dip low enough to press my forehead into the stone floor. For the first time in hours, peace floods my soul. I draw a deep breath. Everything I have done for the last three weeks—no, for my entire life—has brought me to this moment. My grandfather gave his life to protect the light in the world; and after everything that’s happened, I’m no longer afraid to do the same.
I rise. Yuza steps forward and places a hand on the door. It responds to her touch, splitting down the middle and swinging outward. We step inside. Yuza gasps, drawing my attention to a pedestal at the center of the room.
An empty pedestal, one with the memory of a sword pressed into its silken cushions. My heart skips like a pebble across a pond, then sinks.
The Kusanagi no Tsurugi—it’s already gone.
Twenty-Eight
Fujikawa Shrine
Kyoto, Japan
“Where’s the sword?” I whisper.
“Shuten-doji has collected the shards here for centuries,” Yuza says, charging up to the platform. She slams a palm down on the cushion. A cloud of dust erupts around her hand. “Either he moved the sword before we arrived, or someone has beaten us to it.”
“We should go,” I say, glancing over my shoulder.
“Yes, yes, I am quite aware that Shuten-doji’s little pests are at the gates,” Yuza says, pressing her lips in a thin line. She tuts a few spells, opening a small torii gate. Beyond its hashira poles, I can see the courtyard of the Fujikawa Shrine glimmering.
Yuza gestures to the portal. “After you.”
This time, I’m prepared for the shock of moving through the portal. I hold my breath, close my eyes, and wait to feel the real world materialize around me again. It takes a second. It takes an eternity.
I open my eyes to twilight. The sun has slipped behind Kyoto’s toothy skyline. And a pregnant, not-quite-full moon hangs over my head. I turn my face to the sky, the adrenaline draining from my body. Despair—or something very close to that—takes its place. My limbs feel heavy, my bones leaden, my heart a block of pure ice.
With the moon that full, we can’t have more than a day left. I can’t face Shuten-doji without the Kusanagi no Tsurugi—I was so close to retrieving it, and yet all I brought back is shame.
Yuza steps through the portal, closing it with a quick tut. “Damn,” she says, shaking her head.
“Do you think Shuten-doji moved it?” I ask her. My words sound strange—off, almost as if I’ve gotten water in my eardrums. I shake my head, rubbing one ear with my fingers.
“No,” Yuza says. “We left within hours of making our decision. Minami wasn’t acting under Shuten-doji’s orders—otherwise, we would have faced his entire Royal Guard in the basement.”
“You’re sure he had it in the first place?”
“Of course,” Yuza says. “I have seen the sword there before—”
“Kira!” Shiro shouts. Yuza and I turn. Shiro jogs toward us. While the relief is clear on his face, strain shadows the lower lids of his eyes.
Yuza touches my shoulder. “I am going to report to Lady O-bei. Hopefully the others have had more luck in securing a seventh shinigami.”
As soon as she’s gone, Shiro sweeps me into a hug.
“I
’m so glad to see you’re safe,” he says, pressing his face into my neck. His breath tickles the hollow of my throat, making me giggle. “I’ve barely been able to sleep since you left.”
“I’m fine, I promise,” I say, laughing as he sets me down. “But I could . . . do things in Yomi, Shiro. I cast spells I’d never seen before, and turned fire into foxes that burned down half the Iron Palace.”
He chuckles. “Where’s your fox omamori?”
I reach into my pocket and retrieve the little white fox he made for me. The fox’s little nose appears singed, but otherwise, it’s in fine shape.
“You?” I ask.
“You,” he says. “You’re not kitsune, but you’re related to one of the most famous kitsune who ever lived. Like any kitsune, you needed something to anchor that power—you weren’t born with a hoshi-no-tama like the rest of us. But I can share a little of my power with you, at least for another day or two.”
I clutch the omamori in one hand, then press my fist against my chest. Not long ago, I clutched a paper fox in my hand, one that became the harbinger of my nightmares. But this fox holds the key to my dreams.
“I can’t repay this gift,” I say.
“Why should you have to?” He folds me in a hug. I lean into the comfort and strength of his arms. His touch keeps my despair at bay and buoys my spirit.
“We didn’t get the sword,” I whisper, stepping out of his embrace. “It was missing by the time we reached the vault.”
“I figured, from the look on your face,” he says, leaning his forehead on mine. “Our luck hasn’t been any better here, either.”
“The blood moon must be rising tomorrow,” I say, looking up into his eyes. “What are we going to do? We have no shinigami cabal, no holy sword. . . .”
“I don’t know.” He presses a kiss into my forehead. “All I can do is trust in the kami, and trust in you. We’ll find a way to destroy Shuten-doji . . . somehow.”
“I wish I had your optimism,” I say.
“C’mon.” He links his pinkie finger around mine and gives my hand a tug. “We should check in with the others—they’re probably figuring out what our next steps should be.”
Morale in the office isn’t high: Kyoto’s shinigami have fled the city. The shinigami clans have disavowed our mission, and they swear to kill any shinigami that lifts a sword against Shuten-doji. Worse, our small team of six shinigami can’t handle the rising number of dead, restless spirits in Kyoto—and Shimada worries that Shuten-doji may call those spirits to his side during our last, desperate battle.
My heart aches. After everything I’ve done, I’m no closer to victory than I was on the night Grandfather died. It seems impossible to have gone so far, only to find myself standing in the same hopeless place I started in.
O-bei paces back and forth in the office, the butterflies on her kimono fluttering wildly over the silk. “We cannot turn back now—failure will spell doom for each and every one of us. There must be something we can do.”
“We are out of time,” Shimada says, leaning over the maps on the office desk. “Which means our only recourse is to create a seventh shinigami ourselves.”
A heavy silence settles over the office. I lift my gaze to Ronin, who sulks in a corner. If he heard Shimada, he makes no sign—he just stares out the window at the rabbit in the moon. Shiro shifts his weight, uncomfortable. I wonder if his mother’s calculating gaze has fallen on him, but I can’t bring my twice-broken heart to look. I couldn’t bear to lose Shiro, too.
“With who?” Roji asks with a snort, batting one of Shimada’s butterflies out of her face. She pushes off the wall, stalking toward him. “Not sure you’ve noticed, but almost everyone in this room is dead.”
“Almost everyone,” O-bei says, and my skin crawls with the idea hidden in those two words. But when I lift my head, I realize she doesn’t have Shiro in her sights.
She’s looking straight at me.
“Go to hell,” Roji says to O-bei. “Kira’s done nothing to deserve this half-life.”
“Except promise me seven shinigami,” O-bei says with a lilt in her voice, as if the idea of taking my life and making me like her is delightful.
Fear doesn’t grip me immediately—it creeps into my soul like ice overtaking a pond, starting from the outside and working its way into the deepest, darkest parts of me. I shiver, speechless and frozen. If someone touches me, I might shatter.
“Kira is trained to use a sword,” Shimada says, but it seems like these words now cause him pain.
“Don’t,” Roji says, pointing a finger at his face. “Don’t you dare start, too.”
“Hush,” Shiro says, holding up a hand. He cocks his head, ears perked and focused on the sounds coming through the walls. Even I can hear the ghosts of something outside.
Shiro moves away from me, heading for the office door. Curious, I round the back desk, following him. Shiro steps barefoot onto the veranda. If the cold bothers him, he makes no sign. I join him on the threshold, peering out into the darkness beyond.
A hulking figure stands in the courtyard, his broad, bare shoulders outlined in moonlight. He’s stripped bare to the waist, and dressed only in a loincloth made from tiger fur. His long, dark mane hangs down his back in a series of knots and snarls. Two identical white horns branch off his forehead into curved points. He wields an oni’s massive club and has a fabric rope twisted across his muscular chest.
I recognize him instantly, though it’s been weeks since he’s shown his face at the shrine.
“Kiku,” I say, stepping out onto the veranda with Shiro. “What are you doing here?”
“I heard you went looking for a sword,” he growls, untying the rope from around his chest. Slinging a makeshift bag off one shoulder, he holds it up in the air. Its contents clink together like shards of broken glass. “Too bad I stole it first.”
I cover my mouth with my hand. I’d forgotten about our little exchange outside the shrine—it feels like an eternity ago.
“You?” O-bei spits, joining us on the veranda. The other shinigami emerge one by one, fanning out behind me. “Am I supposed to believe a blue-skinned ogre, a creature hardly fit to be a servant in the Iron Palace, managed to steal the Kusanagi no Tsurugi from his own king?”
“I have no king!” Kiku roars.
I place a hand on O-bei’s arm, asking her not to interfere. She shoots me a look of disgust, jerking her arm away. I ignore her, stepping down from the veranda. The cobblestones feel like ice under my feet. I shiver.
“Several weeks ago, you came to the shrine asking to help slay Shuten-doji,” I say, choosing my words carefully. If Kiku has managed to steal the sword—and this isn’t a trap—I can’t afford to offend him now. Reading the air may not be my strongest suit, but I think I’ve grown comfortable with the language of monsters. They seem to make more sense to me than people do, these days. “I told you that if you could prove yourself to my cause, I’d allow you to join us.”
“Excuse me?” O-bei mutters.
Kiku nods with a hmph.
“So,” I say to Kiku, “prove that you belong here, with us.”
“He is not shinigami, Kira,” Shimada says.
“If Kiku has brought the shards of the Kusanagi—all of them—I don’t care if he’s shinigami or not,” I say to Shimada. “We’ll have the weapon we need to slay Shuten-doji; otherwise, we’re out of options.”
“Not to mention out of time,” Roji says.
Kiku sets the bag on the ground, then kneels. His big, clumsy fingers work to untie the knots in the lumpy, sweat-stained fabric. It appears to be an old sheet, twisted into a makeshift carryall, with knots to keep the shards from falling out. Dropping to one knee, I help him undo the package.
He shifts into a crouch. I loosen the final knot, then peel the fabric away. The moonlight glitters across thin, shattered spears of metal. I reach out to touch one of the pieces, and the whole pile hums with light. The shards closest to my bracelet glow the brightest.
Even Kiku pauses, struck by the beauty of the sword’s radiance.
I look up, dazzled by the light. “Why do you want to help us destroy Shuten-doji?”
Kiku regards me for a moment, sizing me up. Or perhaps he’s weighing the costs of telling me the truth. Finally, he speaks.
“Shuten-doji killed my brother.” Kiku’s voice twists into knots tighter than the ones we just unwound. “I want my vengeance. Let me fight.”
I know that feeling too well.
“You’ll give me the sword if I let you stay?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says, bobbing his head and shoulders.
“Fine, then,” I say, bowing my head. I slide my hands under the fabric, then lift the shards and rise. I turn toward the shinigami. “When the blood moon rises, we’ll fight that monster together.”
Twenty-Nine
Fujikawa Shrine
Kyoto, Japan
I have all the shards, but that doesn’t mean I can make the Kusanagi no Tsurugi whole.
I carry the shards to the motomiya’s cellar. Shiro and I work in silence to reconstruct the blade, communicating only in gestures and nods. O-bei paces back and forth, occasionally chewing on her thumbnail. I’ve never seen her look almost . . . I don’t know, nervous before.
Kiku crouches near the well, too tall to fit in this space. Roji leans against one wall, watching O-bei pace back and forth. Shimada stands nearby, occasionally offering us a word of advice.
Slowly, we form what appears to be a very early and very rusty tachi. The shattered blade is almost thirty inches in length from tang to tip, not including its hilt.
But when I set the final shard in place, nothing happens.
“Now what?” I ask, looking at Shimada. If anyone would know how to fix the Kusanagi, it would be him.
“The blade was shattered with magic,” he says. “Let’s start there.”
First, we try spells. When those fail, we attempt to console the shards with purification rituals. We spend the whole night trying everything we can dream of, and when dawn breaks, we carry the sword outside, trying to coax the shards together in the sunlight. Nothing works. And all my bracelet does is make the shards glow.
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