Eight
The Red Oni
Yomi
The light blinds me from all directions, as if I’ve fallen inside the sun. The brilliance burns away my pain, my exhaustion, and my fear.
Is this death? I wonder. Perhaps death isn’t nearly as horrible as its harbingers; perhaps it is only this sweet release, this newfound buoyancy, this wholeness now coursing through my being. I close my eyes and wish to melt into this glow.
But the light fades, leaving me encased in a glittering golden shield. I glance up, finding O-bei’s sword lodged in the shell, inches away from my head. The charms on my bracelet glow bright as noonday sunlight. A trickle of blood slips down my wrist. Several of O-bei’s butterflies now rest on my shoulders, opening and closing their wings, basking in the soft light emanating from my clothing.
I . . . I’m not dead.
At least I don’t think I’m dead.
I step back, lowering my shaking hands as the light sinks into my skin. It suffuses my soul with its warmth, drawing with it memories far older and more ancient than I have the right to remember. The tips of my fingers burn with light. I blink twice to clear the illusion from my eyes, and realize we’re not alone.
The Twilight Court has reassembled itself on the verandas—some of its members now prostrate themselves, kneeling with their foreheads pressed into the floor. Others regard me with wonder or terror, their mouths agape. On my left, Shiro lies dazed on the ground, squinting at me and shading his eyes with one hand.
How long was I standing in that light?
Several yards away, the kitsune Minami helps O-bei back to her feet. O-bei staggers, wiping a trickle of eggplant-colored blood off the corner of her mouth with her sleeve. She leans on her kitsune for support, her clothing in disarray, her eyeliner creating long, melted trails down her cheeks. The darkness in O-bei’s veins fades as she catches her breath, leaving only smooth, pale skin behind.
When she straightens, she lifts her wretched gaze to mine.
“No wonder my sons refuse to let you die, Fujikawa,” O-bei says. “You are descended from Abe no Seimei, the greatest exorcist and onmyōdō practitioner of the Heian period. Who knew that so many generations later, his kitsune mother, Kuzunoha, would still be protecting his line?”
Shiro rises from the ground, tripping over his own feet as he stares at me. As my shield dissipates, O-bei’s sword falls to the ground. The blade turns to mist before striking the mossy floor.
“Kuzunoha will not allow me to kill a member of Seimei’s line,” O-bei says flatly. “A pity. But if you have the protection of a spirit like Kuzunoha, it means you may be useful in the coming war.”
“I want nothing to do with your wars,” I say, spitting the last word out of my mouth. I can’t trust her, not when she was willing to attack a guest in her own home. Not now, not ever. The creatures of Yomi aren’t subject to human mores, and that’s why I have no faith in them.
“You don’t have a choice in the matter,” O-bei says. “Your shrine harbors the last shard of the legendary Kusanagi no Tsurugi. In one month, Shuten-doji will rise with the blood moon. Either we ally to fight him, or he will destroy us all.”
“Then why work with his lieutenants?” Shiro asks through gritted teeth. “Why send Ronin into Fujikawa Shrine, backed by Shuten-doji’s thugs?”
“I am not obligated to discuss my strategies with you,” O-bei says.
“It’d at least be nice to know where your loyalties lie, Mother,” Shiro snaps. “Especially since you kept me in the dark about your plans for Ronin, defiled the shrine I swore to protect, and just tried to kill my friend in front of me.”
Are we friends? I glance sideways at Shiro. It’s been so long since I’ve had a proper friend; I haven’t really made any new ones since I transferred to Kōgakkan. But Shiro may be the last person I can trust in this world, and if that doesn’t count as friendship, I’m not sure what does.
“Watch your tongue, youngling,” Minami growls, drawing closer to O-bei. Protective, almost.
“I don’t answer to you,” Shiro says, a growl rumbling in his chest.
Minami bares her teeth at him. “I see shrine life hasn’t taught you to respect your elders.”
“And I see you haven’t lost your taste for licking the soles of my mother’s shoes,” Shiro retorts.
“Why should I listen to a fox kit with no tails—”
“Enough! Both of you,” O-bei snaps. The kitsune glare at each other across the courtyard, their bodies taking a predatory lean, muscles taut. But despite the palpable tension between them, neither attacks. And I thought my family was difficult to get along with.
“We do not have time for your bickering,” O-bei continues. “I have endeavored to kill the beast known as Shuten-doji for hundreds of years, and I will not have the three of you thwarting the last fifty years of hard work with your foolishness! Am I understood?”
“Yes, O-bei-sama,” Minami says with a bob of her head.
“Yes, Mother,” Shiro echoes, but with more bite.
O-bei glares at him. “The Twilight Court’s efforts to stop Shuten-doji’s resurrection have failed. Our last recourse is to destroy him in both the mortal realm and in Yomi, which will be no easy task.”
She turns to me. “In short, you and I are in the unfortunate circumstance of needing each other, Fujikawa.”
“If you need my help, it will come at a high cost,” I say.
“And what might that be?” O-bei asks.
“You rebuild the Fujikawa Shrine and restore the honor of my family’s legacy,” I say. “I know you cannot bring my grandfather back, so I at least expect you to honor the site he gave his life to protect.”
O-bei taps her chin with her finger, considering my proposal. “I could send my people to protect the Fujikawa Shrine, under the auspices that we are looking for the shard for Shuten-doji. Minami, you will oversee the shrine reparations. Assemble twenty of your best craftspeople and leave for the Fujikawa Shrine at dawn.”
“Very well, O-bei-sama,” Minami says, though she glares at me.
O-bei continues, “We will make the Fujikawa Shrine the site of our last stand—”
Shiro groans. “How fantastic. Wonderful plan, Mother.”
“Would you prefer Shuten-doji’s own yokai to patrol the shrine until he rises with the blood moon?” O-bei says, lifting an eyebrow. Both Shiro and I shake our heads. “I thought not. I will repair your shrine to make amends, Kira Fujikawa, but I will not commit the Twilight Court to your war without a good-faith effort on your part.”
“Meaning?” I ask.
“I will need your assistance with . . . a delicate diplomatic matter,” O-bei says.
“Here we go,” Shiro says, mopping his face with his palm.
If O-bei is annoyed by Shiro’s impudence, she makes no sign. “There are two ways to kill a creature like Shuten-doji: One, through the use of a holy blade like the Kusanagi no Tsurugi. Or two, through the power of a cabal of shinigami. Seven of them, to be exact.”
A cabal? I shoot a sidelong glance at Shiro. He squeezes his eyes shut tight and wrinkles his nose, as if he’s just bitten into a lemon.