“Find seven shinigami for me,” O-bei says. “And I will help you destroy your demon.”
Shiro sneers. “Do you and my dear elder brother count as part of the seven?”
“Perhaps,” O-bei replies. “Depending on the success of your recruitment efforts, of course. So what say you, Fujikawa? Do we have a deal?”
I wish I could discuss this transaction with Shiro, because I sense deceit behind O-bei’s pretty words. She’s basically given me a contract with the fine print written in a foreign language. I glance sideways at Shiro. He flicks one of his ears back, but doesn’t meet my gaze. Worse, exhaustion nips at me. My back muscles ache from standing ramrod straight in O-bei’s presence. A tension headache has built itself up behind my eyes. My body has endured too much over the last few hours. Here in Yomi, I’m not sure time even exists. On one hand, it feels like Shiro and I have been here for a matter of minutes; on the other, an eternity.
Even in this state, I’m not sure I have much choice in this situation. Shuten-doji is rising, and while I’m not sure how Shiro and I will recruit shinigami to our cause, doing something is better than doing nothing. We can’t fight a demon god on our own. At least not on the timetables fate has given us. A month’s time isn’t enough.
I don’t have to trust O-bei to use O-bei. We don’t need to be friends, just temporary allies, each using the other for her own ends.
“All right,” I say. “If you help me protect the Fujikawa Shrine, Lady Katayama, I will help you find your shinigami.”
O-bei smiles. I can’t help but think her lips curve like a harvest sickle, its blade ready to reap souls instead of rice. “A wise decision. Should you find me my shinigami, Kira Fujikawa, I promise you will have the full might of the Twilight Court to assist you in this war.”
With that, O-bei snaps her fingers. The entire court disappears, leaving Shiro and me alone in the dusty bones of the Red Oni’s attic. Silence and darkness, sudden, unexpected, and horrible, settle into the piles of dead leaves around my feet. Music throbs through the floorboards. A few hitodama bob around the building’s old rafters, providing meager light. A chill douses the air, sneaking up my sleeves and leaving me shivering.
I turn to Shiro, who runs his hand down his face in exasperation.
“How difficult will it be to convince other shinigami to help us?” I ask him.
“Would you prefer the pessimistic or realistic answer?” he asks.
“Let’s start with realistic.”
“Nearly impossible,” Shiro says. “You see, Mother . . . sort of offended a powerful shinigami clan a few years ago.”
“Wait, there are shinigami clans?” I ask, blinking.
“Yeah, and they sort of have this treaty with Shuten-doji?” Shiro says, wincing. “As in, the shinigami clans won’t interfere with his kingdom, so long as they’re not subject to his rule.”
My mouth drops into a little o shape. “How many of the shinigami belong to a clan?”
“Almost all of them.”
I slide my hands into my hair and count backward for a few seconds, breathing through my frustration. “Somehow, I think I’ve managed to make this worse.”
“It’s not your fault, Kira. C’mon,” Shiro says, turning away from me and walking toward the torii gate. “Ronin and I have a room here, at least. We should get some sleep.”
Shiro leads me to a small, tidy room away from the Red Oni’s tumult and noise. After the day I’ve had, the room’s tatami mat flooring and sweet, grassy smell comforts me and reminds me of home. Yellow light falls from a single square-shaped chandelier hanging from the ceiling. A tokonoma alcove sits on the right side of the room, displaying an ornamental scroll and deadwood bonsai. The tree’s white bark almost glows in the low light.
Straight ahead, two shoji doors yawn open, revealing a small sitting nook with a table and chairs, perfect for tea. Behind them, darkness turns two sliding glass doors to mirrors. I catch sight of my reflection and sigh. I look every ounce as exhausted as I feel.
“Will O-bei mind if I stay here tonight?” I ask.
“Nah. She allows far worse than you to stay in the ryokan,” Shiro says, shooting me a cheeky grin. I make a face at him, narrowing my eyes and scrunching up my nose.
Shiro laughs. “We’ve got extra nemaki in the drawers beside the alcove.” He pulls a futon bundle out of the closet. “I thought about going to the baths, but honestly? I just want to sleep. Today’s been . . .”
“Heartbreaking?” I interject. “Earth-shattering? Apocalyptic? The absolute worst?”
With a long sigh, he rubs the back of his neck with his palm. “Yeah, all of the above.”
Crossing the room, I slide one of the larger drawers open to find the nemaki—light lounging and sleeping kimono often worn in ryokan inns and bathhouses. The fabrics are decorated with intricate blue-and-white designs and are tied with a woven belt.
Shiro steps outside while I change. We switch when I finish. I stand in the hallway, soaking in my surroundings, which are reminiscent of a more ancient time in this country’s history. The shoji doors have been crafted with actual washi paper. The lacquered wood floors gleam underfoot, suffused with the hallway’s warm light. It’s an entirely different world from the bar downstairs, or the brothel on the other side of the building—quiet. Warm. Everything about this place tells me I should feel secure here, but I doubt I’ll ever feel safe anywhere, ever again.
I lean against the wall with a sigh. My body feels heavy, as if there are weights tied to my fingers and nose and eyelids; but my soul feels hollow, as if all the important bits of me have been scraped out and burned. I close my eyes, but all I see are the frantic final moments of Grandfather’s life.
“Mrow?”
Startled, I glance down, pressing one hand to my mouth. A massive cat sits at my feet. He—at least I’m guessing it’s a he—has a mousy brindle coat, which is mostly red with long, thin cracks of black. A large patch of fur is missing from the top of his head. One large pink scar cuts across his left eye, which can’t be bothered to be the same color as the right one. His left eye is yellow as a harvest moon, his right the bright blue of a crisp winter sky.
But the strangest thing of all: the cat has two tails, which means he’s not a cat at all, but a nekomata. A spark of magical teal fire burns at the tip of each tail. He might be the ugliest cat I’ve ever seen.
The nekomata growls at me, as if he heard me call him ugly in my head.
“Oh, I apologize,” I say to the yokai. “It took me a moment to realize you were more than an ordinary cat!”
Shiro slides the door open, poking his head into the hall. “What’d you say, Kira?”
Before I can answer, his gaze zeroes in on the nekomata. His eyes widen. Shiro grabs me by the wrist, tugging me into his room so fast, I trip and land on one of the neatly made futons with a muffled thud.
He slams the door closed behind us.
“What’s wrong with you?” I snap at him, pushing myself up to my knees. “That nekomata looked friendly enough—”
A deep growl interrupts us, one that rolls through the room and makes the washi paper panels in the door vibrate. Shiro reaches over to the light switch and snaps it off. The light from the hallway filters through the door, and the silhouette on the other side . . .