Shiro and I settle at the kitchen island, sitting in stools as Goro fills a metal kettle with cold water. I decide not to dither with small talk: “What did the Grandmaster tell you about what happened at the Fujikawa Shrine?” I ask him.
“The Grandmaster is unclear about the night’s events.” Goro shoots a playful yet somehow reproachful glance at Shiro. The younger kitsune flattens his ears and drops his gaze, as if in apology. “Apparently, the Okamoto brothers have yet to make a full report. Where is Ronin? I’ve heard he’s quite meticulous, so I’m surprised he didn’t call the Elders straightaway.”
Shiro sucks in a breath. “You don’t know?”
“Kitsune know many things, but I’m not a mind-reader,” Goro replies, measuring out a heap of tea leaves. I can smell their sharp, spicy scent from where I sit. He sets the leaves down, and when he lifts his gaze, I swear he looks ages older than before. “Tell me he wasn’t lost in the attack?”
“No,” I say. “Not exactly.”
“But Ronin is not here with you.” Goro’s gaze slides to Shiro, who turns his face away. “Ah, so he has taken your mother’s offer to become her heir. That news brings me great sadness. I expected better from Ronin.”
“How did you know about that?” Shiro asks. “I thought nothing leaked from the Twilight Court—Mother kills anyone who speaks to outsiders of her plans.”
“When you grow into your power, Shiro, you will understand,” Goro says, resting his hands on the kitchen island. His aged hands look like Grandfather’s did, wrinkled and brown, like the strongest roots of an old tree. “You will know things about people, simply by looking at them. Just as I can see Kira has made a foolish deal with Lady Katayama.”
I flush. “I thought you said you weren’t a mind-reader!”
“And I am not, but the truth is plain on your face.” Goro chuckles, turning to gather three handmade teacups from his cupboard. “What sort of quest has she sent you on? Has she asked you to gather songs from nightingales and weave them into silk so fine it feels like a breath of air? Or perhaps she wants you to fetch her a ruby from Amaterasu’s own crown? Does she have you taking the beaks off tengu in Okinawa, or locating the very snow that birthed a yuki-onna?”
“She wants shinigami,” I say. “Seven, to be exact, to help us protect the Fujikawa Shrine.”
“Seven shinigami,” Goro says, clucking his tongue. “Seven to fight a rising demon lord, more like. A full cabal of them. My goodness, Lady Katayama is ambitious, isn’t she?”
“Do you think it will work?” Shiro asks.
Goro sets the teacups down in a line. “Perhaps. Though I don’t think you have considered all the implications of this scheme, Kira. A shinigami’s role in this world is to reap the souls of the living. They are death’s messengers, and therefore impure. They cannot be allowed to step foot on sanctified shrine grounds.”
“But the shrine’s already been defiled,” I say, thinking that Goro’s right about one thing—in Shinto, death is unclean. I can’t have both shinigami and Amaterasu’s holy protection of the shrine. “I won’t consecrate the Fujikawa Shrine again until after we have destroyed Shuten-doji.”
“This is foolishness, child.” Goro frowns, tapping the island with impatient fingers. “Shinigami are broken creatures. They reap the souls of the living to keep themselves from withering into oblivion, because the life force of the souls they gather can sustain them, at least for a time.”
“You mean the butterflies?” I ask, thinking of the shifting, winged patterns on O-bei’s kimono. “Shinigami feed on the souls they reap?”
“No, not quite,” Goro says. “The souls are eventually released and allowed to pass into Yomi. It’s more of a . . . symbiotic relationship, in which a soul helps to sustain the shinigami in exchange for protection during their transition into death. You can’t trust these creatures to help you destroy a demon. They have no motivation to help you.”
“I’m not sure I have a choice,” I say.
“You always have a choice,” Goro chides me.
“Who else could I possibly turn to for help?” I ask, spreading my hands wide. “Many people believe the yokai are fairy tales made to frighten children, not a reality hunting them from the shadows. These days, most human priests can’t even see the yokai anymore.”
“I agree that the world is not as it once was,” Goro says, “and that many people no longer believe as they once did. But that doesn’t mean death itself is your only recourse.”
“Well, I’m open to suggestions,” I say. I won’t deny that I’m frustrated.
My words draw a heavy sigh from Goro. “I didn’t say I had any, at least not off the top of my head. Perhaps the Grandmaster would know how best to approach this situation?”
“With all due respect, Goro-sama, no,” Shiro says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Hell no. If we go to the Grandmaster and his council, we’ll be stuck in an endless cycle of bureaucracy, meetings, and pointless hand-wringing. And while I don’t agree with everything my mother does, I can trust her motivations.”
“Can you really?” Goro asks. “You two may think you’re clever enough to use Lady Katayama for your own ends, but she has been manipulating people for a thousand years. I don’t trust her.” Goro shoots me a dark glance, which I interpret to mean and neither should you.
“She wants Shuten-doji dead, just like us,” Shiro replies.
Goro lifts a single, bushy brow.
“That’s good enough for me,” I say.
Goro sighs again. “Very well. But I can’t imagine your grandfather would approve of this plan.”
“No,” I say softly. “I don’t think he would, either. If we knew where the hidden shard of the Kusanagi no Tsurugi was, we might be able to do things differently—”
“Bah!” Goro says, waving a hand. “Its presence in the Fujikawa Shrine is a myth, nothing more.”
“That ‘myth’ got my grandfather killed,” I say. “Can you be sure the shard isn’t in the Fujikawa Shrine?”
“No, but even so,” Goro says, “nobody’s seen the thing since the sword was broken some five hundred years ago. Finding a shard of the Kusanagi is an impossible task.”
“I’ve been given a few of those lately,” I say with a sigh. Shiro places his hand on my shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze. “You don’t happen to know any shinigami looking for work, do you?” I ask with a self-deprecating smile.
“No, not really.” Goro clucks his tongue. He’s thoughtful for a moment. Steam begins to curl from the kettle’s lip. “But when your grandfather was young, we used to find a shinigami drinking on the shrine’s front steps after dusk. He never said much, and he was never drunk . . . but every time I saw him, I sensed deep, centuries-old waves of regret spilling from him. I suspect he was a priest at the shrine, long ago.”
“Do you know his name?” I ask.
“Your grandfather nicknamed him ‘Shimada,’” Goro replies. “He resembled the movie character, and Hiiro was a fan of Kurosawa’s at the time. I haven’t seen this man for many years . . . but there are tales of his like around Tokyo. Stories of a shinigami who dresses like he’s stepped out of samurai-era Japan. He wears a red haori jacket—no, blue? I will search for him tomorrow, while you scour the city for anyone who might be willing to help. And as for you, Kira—”