Seven Deadly Shadows

by Courtney Alameda

  I recognize the fourth and final oni who enters my shrine: this yokai stands taller than the first. His ropy red flesh looks like flayed muscle in the blood moon’s light. A thick black mane of hair tumbles over his shoulders, one threaded with braids and bones. Four horns crown his forehead—two large, two small. He wears no armor, save for a kilt made of patterned silks and fur. It leaves his chest bare, though his pectoral muscles look strong enough to repel steel.

  This is Shuten-doji, Lord of Demons, King of Yomi. I recognize him from the stories I’ve read, and from the illustrations of him that have survived from ages past. But more than that, my soul recognizes the evil that emanates from him. A bright spark ignites in my heart. I grip the Kusanagi no Tsurugi and offer up a silent prayer to Amaterasu to help me strike true.

  Shuten-doji stalks toward Kiku, slinging an oversize club off his shoulder. “You!” Shuten-doji snaps, his voice deep as a quake in the earth. “Traitor! Thief! You stole the Kusanagi no Tsurugi from my vaults, and betrayed your king and your people. You will die for your crimes, lowborn!”

  Kiku scrambles to his feet, backing away from Shuten-doji until he stumbles into the front courtard pool. “You killed my family!” he shouts, spitting in the water. “And for what? For nothing! You are no king of mine, and the ogres would be better off without you!”

  “Treason,” Shuten-doji says, motioning to the ogres on the walls. “I will flay you alive, and then burn you for what you have done.”

  Shuten-doji moves so quickly he blurs, stepping in melee range of Kiku and stabbing a short sword into the other demon’s chest. Kiku gurgles, his flesh ripping as Shuten-doji jams his sword up toward Kiku’s sternum. The cries from my allies echo through the courtyard, but the only emotion I can comprehend in the moment is fury, and the only color I see is red.

  The demon king yanks his knife from Kiku’s body. As Kiku collapses into the pond, Shuten-doji turns to me. “As for you—give me that sword, girl. Or I will tear it from your broken hands!”

  Those words shred whatever courage I held in my heart. Someone screams my name as Shuten-doji charges toward me. I want to move, to dodge this attack, but my feet seem to have fused to the ground. Terror weighs my limbs down. Every muscle locks into place. Time slows. “Move!” I shriek at myself, but it’s almost as if I’m held down by some dark magic, my body unable or unwilling to respond to my commands.

  A gout of foxfire leaps from Shiro’s hands, shaped like a nine-tailed fox. It slams into Shuten-doji’s chest, scattering into a shower of cinders, and staggers him. Whatever spell Shuten-doji had on me breaks.

  My rage pushes out my fear. I grip the Kusanagi no Tsurugi with both hands, recalling all the long hours of training I had with Roji. I’m no master; I’m not even good.

  But I have to hope that I’m enough.

  Shuten-doji regains his footing, shaking the last of Shiro’s fire from his mane. Behind him, the shinigami battle his three lieutenants, three on three. Heihachi tugs a wounded Kiku from the water. The remaining kitsune hold the gate against a rising tide of yokai. We’re desperately outnumbered, but the only demon who needs to die tonight—the one last death that will end all of this—is Shuten-doji.

  “Do you not understand?” Shuten-doji shouts, lunging forward and swinging his club in an arc. Shiro dives out of the way, to my right; I leap backward. The weapon whistles past my nose. “Of all the priests in the world, I thought you would know what it means to be an outcast, Kira Fujikawa.”

  Shuten-doji draws his left foot up and brandishes his club high. He slams them into the ground in tandem, cracking the cobblestones. The ground bucks, forcing me to a knee. Shuten-doji swipes for me with his free hand, but I roll out of reach. Scrambling to my feet, I fight to catch my breath. It’s already a ragged, shuddering thing.

  “I sent your classmates to torment you, so that you might know oppression.” He tracks me with his yellow-eyed gaze. “I wanted you to feel the same despair that my people have felt under Amaterasu’s heel. I wanted you to understand us, but like all mortals, your gaze is pathetically short.”

  “Don’t pretend you’re some wise, compassionate leader,” I snap, circling Shuten-doji, keeping the Kusanagi no Tsurugi between us like a barrier. “Not when you thrust a sword through Kiku’s chest!”

  “That fool deserved worse!” Shuten-doji rushes at me. Shiro leaps on his back, sinking his claws into the ogre’s shoulder. Shuten-doji rips Shiro off with a roar, clutching him by the hair on the back of his head. Shiro snarls, clawing at Shuten-doji’s face. In those precious, distracted seconds, I swoop in. Shuten-doji throws Shiro aside, but a second too late. I step close, slashing the Kusanagi no Tsurugi across Shuten-doji’s exposed chest. He pivots with a sharp howl, bringing his club down like a hammer—I dodge the blow, sidestepping his club, but not his fist.

  It connects with my abdomen, punting me into the air. The pain inverts my world. I hurtle backward until I crash into the ground. I lose my grip on the Kusanagi and tumble for a few yards.

  “Pathetic,” Shuten-doji says as I struggle to push myself up, or even to breathe. My broken rib feels like it might be poking into one of my lungs. I blink the tears from my eyes, gaping like a fish left to die on land. “To think this is what Abe no Seimei’s line has become! He would be ashamed of you, girl.”

  I push up to one knee with a half sob. The pain feels like a hot dagger between my third and fourth ribs. Clutching my chest with one hand, I take the Kusanagi no Tsurugi in the other. My palm is too slick to get a grip on the weapon. But if I remove my hand from my chest, I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep upright. Bright fireworks of pain explode across my field of vision.

  Fifteen yards to my left, Shiro gets to his feet, clutching his left forearm. It looks broken. Blood coats half his face, gushing from a cut hidden behind his hairline. Our eyes lock, and his pain amplifies my own. He can’t fight with a broken arm, nor can he tut. I tremble, knowing that our survival now rests on my shoulders.

  “If I’m so pathetic,” I wheeze, turning back to Shuten-doji, “how did I land the first blow?”

  Shuten-doji slings his club over one shoulder. I scored a line some ten inches across his flesh—it’s no small wound, but it doesn’t seem to concern him, either. “You cannot win. Even your shinigami are struggling to hold their ground against my lieutenants,” he says, gesturing toward the shrine’s main gate. I turn my head. Roji blocks an attack—barely—but her motions look sluggish. The left side of her breastplate has caved in, and dark blood oozes from her lip and coats her chin. Shimada dodges an attack, but he’s limping. An inferno tears the shrine’s gatehouse apart, and I see Yuza and Ronin darting among the flames, fighting off one of the lieutenants.

  “Give me the Kusanagi no Tsurugi,” Shuten-doji says, beckoning to me, “and let us end all this suffering.”

  “And what, you’ll spare my life?” I ask with a short laugh.

  Shuten-doji grins, throwing his club aside. “You’re right, that does sound ridiculous. So be it, Kira of the Fujikawa Shrine. Bring me the sword, and then you die.”

  He twists his fingers into a tut so powerful, I feel it resonate in the air. Twin disks of fire appear to his left and right, spinning like sawblades. They rocket forward, carving twin lanes of molten rock on either side of me. The heat scorches my skin and dries the moisture from my eyes. What is this fresh hell?! I think, watching the red-bodied lava chew on the solid rock underfoot. The solid, cool stones I stand upon seem to be sinking, and I have no magical bracelet to protect me now.

  The magma lanes corral me straight into Shuten-doji’s arms. The molten rock is too wide to jump, trapping me between two fiery rivers of death. I lift my gaze. Shuten-doji watches me with a predatory focus, smile on his lips, his fingers slipping through another spell.

  “Move, Kira!” Shiro shouts.

  I lunge forward. The ground, two steps back, bursts into flame. Shuten-doji laughs. “A bird in a cage, indeed! Don’t wait too long to come to me, little prie
stess—the stones are already melting away.”

  There might be fifty feet of free space between Shuten-doji and me. The lane isn’t wide enough to allow me to attempt a frontal attack, not without burning off my foot or worse. At this rate, I would need wings to escape, or springs in my legs, or—

  “Oni-chan,” I whisper. The great cat stalks across the roof of the main shrine, licking his lips. It takes all my willpower not to call out to him, or even let myself look in his direction too long. Shuten-doji burns around a bit of ground beneath my feet.

  “Oni-chan,” I whisper again, calling him now, keeping my gaze on the demon king. The cat’s ears perk.

  “You’ll have to speak up, little priestess,” Shuten-doji says, taunting me. He licks his lips. “Unless you want me to make you cry.”

  I leap forward, rolling to avoid a double patch of magma. Biting back a sob of pain, I glare at Shuten-doji. “I said”—I rise to my feet, taking the deepest breath I can manage with a broken rib—“Oni-chan!”

  Oni-chan roars as he leaps from the roof. Shuten-doji turns his head, but the giant nekomata covers the distance between us in two short bounds. He springs into Shuten-doji, staggering the ogre. The demon king takes a step back, his bare foot landing in molten rock. The blackened crust breaks open around his flesh, and red, bubbling lava swallows his leg to mid-calf.

  Shuten-doji’s scream breaks the sky. It hits my eardrums like a corkscrew and twists, spiking pain into my jaw, my temples, and my head. I’d clap my hands over my ears, but one hand holds the goddess’s sword, and the other, my broken rib.

  Still, I don’t hesitate. Shiro leaps in, grabbing Shuten-doji by the mane, knocking the ogre off balance. Shiro is thrown clear as Shuten-doji tumbles back. Oni-chan’s fangs are at his throat. For one heart-shattering, horrible moment, I think Oni-chan’s going to land in a pool of lava, but Shuten-doji rips him off and throws him into a stone pillar. The cat slides to the ground with a whimper, then lies still.

  I don’t stop to look at the charred, burning stump of Shuten-doji’s left leg, or even think about the smell of it—I charge to safety, passing his writhing, screaming form.

  “Kira!” Shiro shouts at me, pain lacing his voice. “Strike now!”

  I pivot, gritting my teeth and taking the Kusanagi in both hands. My heart in my throat, I drive the sword’s tip toward Shuten-doji’s broad back. It strikes home, but glances off his shoulder blade and slices though his trapezius instead.

  I missed? How could I miss, he’s right there—

  Shuten-doji lunges for me, moving quick on his hands and feet. I dodge, kick a rock in his face, and run. He’ll follow me, I know he’ll follow me—I have the Kusanagi no Tsurugi, and neither of my friends poses him any threat. At least not anymore.

  I run blind, half limping through the shrine. The blood moon now hangs low over the horizon, a festering tumor on the sky. The motomiya rises like a specter on my left. Skirting it, I step into the small hedge garden, hiding among the unkempt shrubs and Japanese maple. The cultured slopes of these bushes used to be Grandfather’s great joy, but in the month since his death, they’ve gone wild. The loose pebbles crunch under my feet. I tuck myself behind a hedge and crouch down, breathing through the pain in my chest, scrambling to piece together a plan—any plan.

  The wind carries a voice to me: “Kagome, Kagome. Kago no naka no tori wa . . . circle you, circle you. The bird in the cage . . .”

  Something pokes me in my hip. Adjusting my leg, I reach into my pocket and pull out Shiro’s fox omamori and the wedge of bloodstained wood I took from the motomiya. I tie them both to the Kusanagi’s guard, hoping for a bit of fox luck and guidance from my ancestors.

  “Little priestess . . . ,” Shuten-doji sings, though the pain in his voice carries through his notes. “I have a gift for you. Come out, come out, and meet my pet. Or perhaps I will send it to find you.”

  The bushes rustle around me, releasing a low moan. Irregular footsteps crunch on the garden pebbles. I listen to them wander through the hedgerows, wondering what new torment stalks me now. Keeping my back to the hedge, I get to my feet, biting my tongue to keep from crying out in pain.

  “Kir-aaaaa,” something sobs.

  I freeze, pinpointing the creature’s location. It’s one hedgerow over and starting to tear its way through. I’m in the middle of the garden, so there’s nowhere left to hide.

  “Kir-aaa,” it rasps again.

  The bushes shudder, branches snapping like tiny limbs. A thin, gray-skinned hand shoots through the leaves. I lift the Kusanagi no Tsurugi one-handed, backing away from Shuten-doji’s “gift.” Another hand breaks through the barrier, making room for the creature’s bulbous head and shoulders. It cries as it crawls through the hedge, tumbling out onto the ground with a splat. Its mouth isn’t larger than a small plum, and its distended belly balloons from the creature’s skeletal frame. It wears rags around its waist.

  It’s a gaki—a yokai that hungers eternally, wandering the earth in torment.

  And it wears my grandfather’s face.

  “Grandfather?” I whisper, feeling like my heart’s been impaled on my broken rib. The pathetic creature lifts its beady black gaze, whimpering. I limp to its side—a gaki poses no danger to me—and sink to my knees, tears welling in my eyes. “What have they done to you?”

  The gaki opens its tiny mouth, muttering a mess of nonsensical syllables. Of all the things Shuten-doji has done to me, to my family, and to this shrine, turning Grandfather into a gaki might be among the worst.

  The demon king has left me one choice.

  I rise, swaying on my feet from the pain. Grandfather cranes his puny neck up to look at me. “I am sorry, Grandfather,” I say, blinking away my tears. “I am so sorry.”

  Lifting the Kusanagi no Tsurugi, I place its tip between his brows.

  Grandfather closes his eyes.

  I push the sword through his skull.

  The sword bursts into flame, consuming Grandfather’s yokai body and burning it to ash. The fire sweeps over me, igniting a white-hot rage and scorching away my pain, grief, and fear. I stalk from the garden, soul on fire, and face my tormentor. On the periphery of my sight, I see the ghostly forms of my ancestors joining me. They light my path.

  I find Shuten-doji waiting in the small courtyard. He leans on a makeshift crutch, his left leg half-gone, chest and back a mess of bloody wounds. “Did you like my gift, little priestess?”

  I answer him with a bright blade in the shadows, one that opens him from shoulder to hip. When he doubles over in pain, I bring the Kusanagi no Tsurugi down on the back of his neck, slicing all the way through the sinew, muscle, and bone.

  Shuten-doji is dead before he hits the ground.

  Like Grandfather, he burns. I stand in the small courtyard outside the motomiya and watch the flames dance. One by one, the battered shinigami join me: Shimada. Roji. Yuza. Ronin. Heihachi.

  We watch his body burn down to ash.

  Thirty-Four

  Fujikawa Shrine

  Kyoto, Japan

  When dawn tiptoes over the shrine, I sit up, rubbing gritty crust out of my eyelashes. I spent most of the night resting beside Shiro in the assembly hall, listening to the crackle of funeral pyres outside. The scent of woodsmoke barely masks the earthier, meatier scents of burned hair, fur, and flesh. A low, thick haze hangs in the air outside, and ash coats my tongue.

  Still, I want to see the sun rise.

  Careful not to disturb Shiro, I slip from beneath the blanket we share. Every muscle in my back aches as I get to my feet. Shiro stirs but doesn’t wake, his face a patchwork of bruises, blood, and dirt. Oni-chan snores, curled up in the crook of Shiro’s knees. The cat now sports a new gash behind one ear, expertly sutured and already healing. He opens his yellow eye as I walk past, chuffs, and then pushes his face back into the blanket.

  Kiku rests on a cot nearby, his torso wrapped in thick bandages. The shinigami promise me he’ll survive—and I suppose their word is
probably more trustworthy than any doctor’s. Several kitsune have curled up together in a corner, using one another’s tails for pillows. So few of them have survived—no, so few of us.

  I can’t pretend our realms are separate anymore; they belong in my world, and I’m a part of theirs. In the last month, I have seen more heroism and humanity from “monsters” than I have ever seen from men. I’m not afraid of the yokai. Not anymore.

  I shuffle outside. Every breath sends a spike of pain through my chest, but the cold air feels good on my face. I brace myself against a wooden pillar. As the sky lightens, the last of the funeral pyres burn down to embers in the courtyard. Shimada, Roji, and Heihachi stand with their backs to me, watching the smoke and passing a flask around. Yuza and Ronin aren’t anywhere in sight.

  We won. Though the number of ash piles on the courtyard cobblestones might say otherwise. We won, but at a high cost. O-bei is dead, and Kiku teeters on the brink. Ronin has become a shinigami, and his relationship with Shiro may never recover. The Fujikawa Shrine is in desperate need of repairs—again—and its head priest was slain and turned into a demon. And now my parents are selling the shrine I fought so hard to save. They don’t know what happened to Grandfather, and I don’t have the heart to tell them.

  We have won another sunrise. I tell myself that is victory enough.

  “May I interrupt?”

  I look up, surprised to see Shimada standing beside me. His red haori wears new bloodstains and tatters, and the stench of death clings to him. I hadn’t seen him approach. “Of course,” I say, though my voice isn’t higher than a hoarse whisper. I cough and repeat myself, louder this time. “Of course.”

  He removes his sugegasa hat and palms it in one hand. Flipping it over, he reveals the rings of butterfly cocoons that line his hat. Most of them look like black, resinous scabs—I can see wings twitching in one or two of them, still slick inside their casings. Shimada points to one with felted, soft gray sides, as if it has been newly formed. “Your grandfather,” he says gently.