Seven Deadly Shadows

by Courtney Alameda

  I call Goro for help, and he recommends a magical swordsmith in Narita. Shimada dismisses the idea, saying, “This is a sun-forged blade—no mortal fire will melt this metal.”

  I rub my face, exhausted physically, mentally, and spiritually. Every time victory looks close at hand, fate yanks it away again. With only six shinigami, we need the Kusanagi no Tsurugi whole again. If I can’t find a way to reforge this blade by sundown, I may have no other choice but to give up my life. I’ve already tasted what it’s like to end an existence—it left me dark and despairing. I’m not keen on spending the rest of eternity cursed to kill.

  “Can we summon my grandmother?” I ask the shinigami. “Now that we have the shards of the Kusanagi, the Elders might be willing to help.”

  “It’s worth a shot,” Roji says with a shrug. “I’d like to meet the old bird—Shimada told me so much about her. You’ve been maintaining her kamidana better, yeah?”

  “I don’t think I’d have the courage to suggest it if I hadn’t,” I say.

  “Nor would I,” Shimada says with a grin.

  Footsteps echo on the cellar stairs. Heihachi descends into the basement, befuddlement clear on his face. He leans into the room on the last step, one hand hooked on the wall, as if he doesn’t intend to linger here. “Kira, there are some people here to see you,” he says. “. . . I think they might be your parents.”

  “Ugh, that’s the last thing I want to hear,” I mutter, pressing my hands to my ears. “What are they doing here?”

  “They have a great sense of timing, that’s for sure,” Roji says with a twinge of annoyance in her voice. “We’ll get things ready for the summoning, Kira. See you in a minute?”

  “Let’s hope,” I say darkly, following Heihachi up the steps. We part at Grandfather’s garden, where I find my parents waiting at the gate. “Mother, Father,” I say, performing a short bow to greet them both. “What brings you to the shrine today?”

  And of all the days you could’ve picked, why did it have to be this one? I have a hundred and one things to do today, and none of them include a conversation with my parents. They’re obviously here for a reason—and from the looks on their faces, it’s not to say hello. Whatever news they’ve brought can’t be as important as forging the shattered Kusanagi anew, or fighting off an ancient demon king.

  “We need to talk,” Mother says, judging me with a head-to-toe look. Her brows knit together, and that’s when I remember I haven’t changed my clothes since I got back from Yomi. I’m still wearing my enemies’ ashes on one cheek, and there’s blood spatter across my right shoulder.

  “About?” I ask, rubbing my cheek with my sleeve.

  “This is a private family matter,” Father says. “We should go inside.”

  Great, I think. That’s exactly what I need, additional complications.

  I enter the garden gate’s code and slide the door open for my parents. Once I’ve unlocked the front door, I step out of my shoes and head toward the kitchen.

  Mother calls me back: “We’re not going to be here long.”

  I halt in the hall. Both my parents stand in the genkan, shoes on. While I support their desire for a short visit, their reluctance to even remove their shoes alarms me. Mother frets with her hands, first grabbing her purse strap with one hand, then sticking her hands in her pockets, and finally clasping them in front of her.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, looking between them. “Is someone sick? Did Ami get hurt at school? Or did the Miyamoto family decide I don’t belong at Kōgakkon anymore?”

  “No, no, nothing like that,” Mother says, glancing up at Father for support, or perhaps for reassurance. Whatever she’s looking for, Father doesn’t pay her any mind. “I suppose it’s best not to sugarcoat the issue. . . . Kira, I’m sorry, but I’ve chosen to sell the shrine.”

  It takes her words a full second to sink in—first, because I can’t imagine the Fujikawa Shrine not belonging to a member of the Fujikawa family; and secondly, because everything I have done, every sacrifice I have made has been for the shrine. For our family. Grandfather’s blood still stains the floorboards of the motomiya. How many nights have I stayed awake, counting the hours till the next full moon? How many times has my life been threatened, my body been injured, and my spirit bruised in the name of this place? And now my parents want to take it all away from me?

  I want to scream, to lose my temper and let them feel the full weight of my fury. How dare you?

  How dare you think you have the right to do this? To take this away from me? From our family, and every generation that comes after us?

  And to my mother: How dare you turn your back on everything we are?

  I don’t say any of these things. What else is there to say? By this time tomorrow, an eternal darkness may coat the world because I have failed. Or perhaps I will have turned my back on life to follow our shinigami into the abyss.

  “You understand, don’t you?” Mother says, her voice like steel. “Your father and I . . . we don’t want you to spend the rest of your life here, dealing with the problems of the shrine—”

  “You mean fighting monsters, don’t you?” I ask coldly. My parents flinch at the word monsters. “One day, perhaps you both will realize that I never had the privilege of leading another life. I never got to be blind to these things, do you understand?”

  “Maybe you could try,” Mother says.

  “What, like you?” I spit, trying to control the fire on my tongue and failing. “I know you can see who and what Shiro is—I know you can see the yokai, at least some of them. And rather than try to protect me, you abandoned me. Just like you did the shrine—”

  “Don’t you judge me,” Mother snaps. “You have no idea what I had to endure to bring you into this world! And now you’re friends with . . . with something like that!”

  “Something?” I say with an annoyed laugh. “Shiro is a shrine guardian, Mother! He’s not a thing!”

  “Kitsune are dangerous creatures!” Mother lifts her voice—I realize I’ve never heard her yell before. Nor have I heard her acknowledge the yokai before.

  “So are the demons you left me alone with!” I shout back.

  “That is enough,” Father says. My mother and I fall silent. Mother drops her gaze, face red, ever the dutiful wife. Father continues, gently this time: “We already have several buyers interested in the property. I think it’s time that you returned home. All this talk of ghosts and demons . . . it’s not healthy.”

  I open my mouth to reply, think twice, and shake my head. “I am home,” I say.

  “He means our home,” Mother says.

  “I know what he means, and my answer is no,” I reply, grabbing my shoes from the genkan. “Sell the shrine. You’ve already turned your back on our birthright, what’s one more slight to our family’s legacy?”

  My mother gasps as if I’ve slapped her with an open palm. I shake my head, then leave them alone in the genkan. I head through the kitchen. My parents call my name. Shoes clatter on the genkan’s wood floor. I step out the back door, letting it slam in the frame.

  As fury tinges the edges of my world red, I disappear into the depths of the shrine gardens. The natural world has always given me a measure of peace—I need it more than ever now. I run my palm over the prickly top of a manicured shrub, which hasn’t been tended since Grandfather’s death. I take a deep breath of the crisp, chill morning air. A bird sings from the branches of an evergreen tree. Closing my eyes, I turn my face toward the sun. Her warm glow passes through my eyelids, a brilliant spot of red in the darkness.

  I don’t want to lose this world.

  “Am I interrupting?” a male voice asks.

  I open my eyes and turn.

  Ronin stands near one of the high hedges, hands in the pockets of his tailored peacoat. He tries on a smile, but it doesn’t fit him. Several teal butterflies cling to him, their wings gleaming in the morning sunlight.

  “You’re the last person I want to see,” I say, t
urning my back on him. I start to walk away.

  “That’s harsh,” he says.

  I stop. “Are you here to bungle an apology, or to convince me that I should join you in death?”

  “Perhaps a little of both,” he replies awkwardly.

  “Save your breath,” I say. “Not that you have it to waste, not anymore.”

  I turn on my heel, knowing I would give my life to protect this shrine. I might even damn my soul if the blood moon were rising and the Kusanagi no Tsurugi still lay in shambles. But there are hours yet, and I still haven’t spoken with Grandmother. I will find a way to forge the Kusanagi anew—somehow.

  I walk away. It’s not enough just to survive the night—I want to live, too.

  Ronin doesn’t follow me.

  Thirty

  Fujikawa Shrine

  Kyoto, Japan

  The shinigami summon my grandmother’s spirit to the motomiya, but they leave me alone to speak with her. Grandmother’s soul no longer looks like a specter from my nightmares, and her once-tattered spirit now looks happy, well fed, and whole.

  I gasp when I see her, and dip into a bow.

  “You see what happens when you remember your ancestors?” Grandmother says, whacking me on the back of the head.

  I rise from my bow. “I’m glad to see it’s made a difference.”

  “And then some!” Grandmother replies.

  We sit in seiza form on the floor of the motomiya. The morning sunlight falls through the open door, glitters on Grandmother’s ethereal form, and bounces off the motes of dust in the air. The sun comforts the aches in my muscles and bones.

  “You’ve been stirring up trouble,” Grandmother says. “Sneaking into Yomi, stealing swords from demons, burning down half the Iron Palace—”

  My face flushes. “I’m sorry, Grandmother, if my actions have brought shame—”

  “Shame?” Grandmother says with a snort. “Are you kidding? This is the most entertainment the Elders have had in centuries! Everyone’s talking about you, including your prudish Great-Aunt Michiru. I have to remind that old goat almost daily that you’re my granddaughter, not hers!”

  “Oh!” I say, covering my mouth with one hand to hide my surprise. “. . . If only my parents were so pleased with my actions.”

  “Ah, yes,” Grandmother says, the mirth draining from her features. She leans forward to place her hand on mine. “I know it must be difficult for you to see, but your mother has a good heart. She only wishes to protect you.”

  “Then why did she let me believe she can’t see the yokai?” I ask, fighting to control my tone. My anger is still too fresh and new, and it bubbles from the cuts on my heart. “Why abandon the shrine? Why leave me to battle this darkness alone?”

  Grandmother squints at me, as if I’m a lens through which she can gaze upon the past.

  “I think your mother knew about all this,” Grandmother says after a quiet moment, gesturing to me, the motomiya, and maybe even Grandfather’s blood on the floorboards. “While she was pregnant with you, your mother spoke of a golden fox spirit who visited her in her dreams. The fox told her that the child—a daughter—would face a great darkness. After you were born, your mother stepped down from her duties at the shrine. I think she wanted to change your fate, but fate is tricky, and you chose your path regardless of your mother’s intentions. Children are wont to do that.”

  When I can’t find any words, Grandmother pats my hand. “May I see the shards of the Kusanagi no Tsurugi?”

  “Yes,” I say softly. “Come, I’ll show you.”

  We descend into the motomiya’s cellar. The shards of the Kusanagi no Tsurugi glimmer in the low light, protected by magical wards both ancient and new. Grandmother floats forward, halting a full yard before the altar. She performs a deep bow.

  “We can’t find a way to reforge it,” I say as we approach the altar. “I was hoping you might know how?”

  “No,” Grandmother says, shaking her head. “We are a family of priests and priestesses, not swordsmiths. But . . .”

  “But?” I ask.

  “In life, I had a handmade stoneware bowl, passed down to me by my mother, and her mother before her,” Grandmother says, resting her hands on the altar’s edge. “It was my most prized possession. The day I broke it might have been the worst of my life—I was inconsolable. But your grandfather took the shards and restored the bowl with gold. After that, the bowl was far more beautiful and far more precious to me.”

  “I’m not sure what mending pottery has to do with forging legendary swords.” I realize that Grandmother is trying to help, but I was hoping for a less philosophical answer.

  Grandmother shrugs. “My point isn’t that you should fix the sword with gold, child. It’s that our scars make us ever more valuable. Perhaps you must accept the scars on this sword—and the ones on your own heart—before it will answer your call.”

  “I wish I knew how to do that,” I say, staring down at the fractured metal. “If I’m going to survive the night, I need this sword whole. I can’t save anyone—not the shrine, not myself—without it.”

  “I know, child,” Grandmother says with sadness in her tone. We stare at the shards in silence for a few moments, contemplating the fall of night. “Perhaps it is better not to be a hero. You must remember one thing about the heroes from the old stories—not all of them survive.”

  All through the day, I try to reforge the Kusanagi. All through the day, I fail. The closer the sun gets to the horizon, the more the pressure under my ribs expands. The shinigami come and go; Shiro takes laps around the well, rubs his face with both hands. I eat when Heihachi shoves a bowl of ramen into my hands.

  No matter how much I try to make sense of what Grandmother told me, nothing happens.

  As the sun sets, I gather in the main courtyard with Shiro, the six shinigami, the oni Kiku, and Oni-chan.

  “This is madness,” O-bei says, gesturing furiously at Kiku. Despite her misgivings, the shinigami are going to try to form a cabal with Kiku acting as their seventh. According to Shimada, ogres serve a similar function in Yomi—though their skills lie closer to torturing humans in death, rather than reaping their souls. While there aren’t any guarantees, it’s entirely possible that Kiku’s spirit will withstand the cabal ritual. Maybe.

  The closer the sun gets to the horizon, the more I tremble. I tell myself it’s because of the cold, which has been creeping up on the shadows’ backs; I tell myself I’m just afraid of the unknown. It’s not because I fear death; no. It’s not. It is.

  But I am not the girl who cowered in a basement while a demon killed her grandfather; nor am I the girl who allowed herself to be tortured by bullies. That girl did not have calluses at the roots of her fingers from hours of sword practice. She did not have clothes singed from practicing her mudras. She had not yet stepped into Yomi, nor faced down a shinigami.

  On a crisp fall evening, I left that Kira Fujikawa on a train platform back in Kyoto. Scared and shaking. When I returned, I was forever different, and forever changed.

  I’m dressed in my miko’s red hakama paired with a white kimono, with my hair pulled into a high ponytail. I carry a regular steel sword shoved through my belt. Even if I go to face my death, I’ll make sure my enemies die with me.

  Oni-chan lies at my feet. Shiro stands at my side. The shinigami (and their rogue ogre) convene in the middle of the courtyard. Shimada appears to be explaining the process of creating a cabal to the others, his red haori fluttering in the breeze. Heihachi looks overwhelmed. Roji seems bored, picking at her fingernails. This is the first time I’ve seen her wearing armor since the day she and Shimada arrived. She catches me looking at her and makes a kissy face.

  O-bei and Yuza are both dressed in all black—from here, they almost look like sisters. O-bei has opted for a kimono, coupled with a slender breastplate over her chest and an armored amice on her left shoulder. Butterflies scatter over the fabric in white thread. Yuza wears black hakama and a black kimono, lo
oking poised. Deadly. On the other side of the spectrum, Kiku crouches on the ground, naked to the waist, his thigh and calf muscles bulging. He chews his thumbnail and spits something on the ground.

  My hopes now ride on an ogre. If he fails, all is lost.

  It’s almost as if Shiro hears my thoughts. He puts an arm around my shoulders, pulls me close, and kisses my head. “It’s going to be okay, Kira,” he says. “This is going to work.”

  “We can’t be sure,” I whisper, watching the shinigami take their places. Their formation resembles the Big Dipper constellation, with Shimada standing in the place of the Pole Star. The Big Dipper, or Seven Stars of the Northern Dipper, has held significance in onmyōdō since Abe no Seimei’s time. Those seven stars have long symbolized a ward against evil and, perhaps more important, divine justice.

  Shimada hasn’t told me much about this ceremony, but I understand the significance of the formation nonetheless. The shinigami face the falling sun, performing a complex series of tuts I can barely follow, much less read.

  Silence falls. As they cast the cabal spell, their shadows take on monstrous shapes. Their figures grow long claws and curling horns, shifting scales and seething fangs. I take a step back as Shimada’s shadow reaches out of the ground, pressing its palm into the cobblestones. It releases a cry I hear with my soul, one that sends my courage scrambling away.

  The butterflies lift from O-bei’s kimono and scatter from Roji’s tattoos. Yuza’s white moths join with Ronin’s blue-winged swallowtails; all of which are dwarfed by Shimada’s black-winged behemoths. Thousands of butterflies and moths swirl across the courtyard, curtaining something dark, sickled, and horrible from my sight.

  “What have we done?” I whisper, stepping back from the creatures that are rising from the darkness.