No answer.
I set my suitcase down. The breeze rustles in the treetops, making their bare branches creak. Turning, I glance back down the front steps, and the memories of that night come crawling back to me. I imagine children singing Kagome, Kagome in the distance. Pain pricks my palm, and when I turn it over, the places where the paper fox shikigami pierced my skin begin to bleed. I take a step back. Icy talons grasp my heart.
A black butterfly lands on my outstretched hand, feather light. It laps the blood from one of my cuts.
It’s sunset, I realize, looking up.
Sunset on the third day.
Darkness gathers on the shrine steps, drawing the heat from the air. The butterfly launches itself from my hand, fluttering down the steps as shadows form into twin poles and a lintel resembling a torii gate. In the space beyond the gate, I see the steps of the Fujikawa Shrine descending into a darkness so deep, it chills my soul.
A man in a conical hat steps through the torii gate. Shadows burst from his clothing like dust. Black butterflies—hundreds of them—spread out like a flock of crows, blacking out the sky.
He’s here. I press my hands to my chest, afraid my heart might break through my rib bones and leap down the steps.
Shimada tips his hat up. I bow to him. When I rise, I’m surprised to see another figure coming through the torii gate. A girl appears beside him, one who doesn’t appear much older than seventeen or eighteen. She’s dressed in black samurai armor studded with sharp, silver spikes. Her hair’s short and braided to her scalp. The sinuous braids follow the curves of her ears, and she wears black gauges in her earlobes. The armor leaves her arms exposed, allowing me to see the butterfly tattoos beating their wings under her skin. Some of their wingtips lift off her body, leaving ghostly contrails in their wake. Tattoos are taboo, and I don’t think I’ve seen someone with a real one before.
There isn’t just one shinigami standing on my front doorstep, but two.
“Shimada-sama,” I say, bowing again. “Welcome to the Fujikawa Shrine.”
Peals of laughter bounce up the steps, chasing away any dignity I might have afforded my guests.
“Shimada?” the female shinigami asks, snorting at him. “Is that what you’ve asked them to call you?”
“You will have to forgive Roji, Fujikawa-san,” Shimada says to me, closing the shadowy torii gate with a wave of one hand. “She had no manners in life, and death hasn’t improved her any.”
“Hush, you,” Roji says, punching Shimada in the shoulder. “I know you’ve missed me.”
“In a manner of speaking,” Shimada replies, resting one hand on his sword.
“So this is the girl, eh?” Roji says, turning her attention on me. She scratches a spot under her earlobe and looks sideways at Shimada. “Another Fujikawa with a demon problem, surprise, surprise.”
“I figured you would be the most . . . empathetic to her plight, Roji,” Shimada says with the ghost of a grin. “So be empathetic.”
“Empathy isn’t my strong suit,” Roji says, starting up the stairs toward me. “Killing, on the other hand? Well, there aren’t many in this world or the next who are better at it than me.”
Death’s aura clings to her, so sweet and cloying I can almost smell it like incense. Something in her gaze sends a shock wave of fear through my system. She reaches the top of the steps, popping my bubble of personal space. I step back, forgetting I’d left my suitcase a pace behind me, and crash into its side. I tumble to the ground. Pain echoes through my palms—now scraped again—and a sharp blade of rock stabs into my left ankle. I push myself up on my hip, my hair hiding my reddened cheeks from sight.
Roji crouches down in front of me, resting her wrists on her knees. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, baka,” she says with a grin, and then offers me a hand up. I look down at her outstretched palm—her skin so pale it could be the color of paper. I put my hand in hers, surprised to find her touch cold. Stony.
She helps me to my feet. Shimada joins us at the top of the stairs.
“This is the girl you want wielding the Kusanagi?” Roji asks, jerking her head in my direction.
Shimada nods. “It would consume us with fire. The kitsune do not fight with anything but their magic and their claws. That leaves the priestess.”
“Me?” I ask, almost choking on the word. “But I-I don’t know anything about fighting with a sword!”
“Don’t worry, kid.” Roji grins and claps me on the shoulder. She gives me a small shake, even as I bristle at the word kid. “That’s where I come in.”
Fifteen
Fujikawa Shrine
Kyoto, Japan
The next morning, I’m awakened by Roji.
Rudely.
“Get up!” she says, slamming the guest room door open. “We don’t have time to waste with sleep!”
I sit up, blinking at the bedside clock. “Roji-san, it’s five o’clock in the morn—” A yawn overtakes the rest of what I mean to say.
“And?” she says, putting her hands on her waist and tapping a bare foot. She’s dressed in a white crop top and loose, flowing black pants. The top shows off her abdomen, which is covered with the myriad branches of a cherry tree tattoo. Inky butterflies waft across her pale skin. While the tattoos are a work of art, it’s hard to call them beautiful. Not when each butterfly represents a life taken.
“Shuten-doji isn’t coming today,” I say, sliding my legs out from under Oni-chan. The cat grumbles at me, yawns, and hops off the bed. “What do you want?”
“To train,” she says, snapping her fingers at me. “If you’re going to be ready to face the demon god in three weeks, I can’t have you tripping over your own feet.”
“But we don’t have a single shard of the Kusanagi,” I complain.
“The shards are Shimada’s problem,” Roji says, crossing the room and throwing off my comforter and sheets. “You’re mine. Let’s move—we’ve got a lot to cover before I lose you to that mortal school garbage.”
I can’t help the irritation that sparks in my chest. I stayed up late last night preparing to go back to school—the police returned my schoolbooks, and most of my teachers emailed me my missed assignments. I need to complete a substantial amount of makeup work by next Monday, four days from now. Honestly, the task feels as impossible as learning kenjutsu swordsmanship by the rise of the blood moon.
“Fine.” I groan, swinging my legs off the bed. My toes touch down on the cold floorboards. “Just let me get dressed, okay?”
Roji doesn’t move, keeping her arms crossed over her chest.
“Are you going to watch me change?” I ask, feeling anger catch fire in my chest.
She lifts a brow, grinning at me. “Would you like that, or . . . ?”
“Get out,” I half shriek, half laugh, grabbing a pillow from the bed and tossing it at her. She catches it easily. When she throws it back, the force of the pillow slams into my torso, pushing me down on the bed.
“Hey!” I say, sitting up and rubbing the tip of my nose. “You didn’t have to throw it so hard!”
“No, I didn’t have to,” Roji says with a laugh. “But I wanted to, ha!”