The school day passes without incident, though it leaves me anxious. I’m behind in all my classes. Several important exams fall right before the next full moon—the blood moon—so I’m stressed. If I fail to keep up with my studies, I’ll lose my place at Kōgakkon . . . and then I’d have to change schools again. While I may not like some of the students here, Kōgakkon is one of the best private schools in the country. If I graduate from this school and have top-notch entrance exam scores, I’ll be able to attend any university I want, at home or abroad.
Shuten-doji’s already taken so much from me. I won’t let him have my future, too.
Shiro excels at playing the dutiful student, going so far as to answer Kurosawa-sensei’s most difficult physics questions. He can speak English and perform complex mathematical equations in his head. Shiro wasn’t kidding when he claimed kitsune are clever—Kurosawa-sensei delights in stumping his students, but even he wasn’t able to get the better of Shiro.
“Don’t worry, you’ll catch up quick,” Shiro says as we help clean our homeroom’s chalkboards after school concludes. Cleaning the school is a daily ritual all students engage in, no matter their status. “I can tutor you, if you’d like.”
“There’s just so much to do,” I say, wiping the rest of Mifune-sensei’s last lecture off the board. “I’ve missed at least three exams and a paper, and I should have started my bunkasai Culture Day project last week.”
He wrinkles his nose. “You’re too hard on yourself. Everyone’s willing to give you some extra time, Kira.”
“I doubt Nakajima will be so . . . understanding,” I say, blowing out a breath. The class president of homeroom 3-A, Emiko Nakajima, has high expectations for this year’s Culture Day. Every fall, Culture Day festivals are held in schools all over Japan. These events are often open to the public and aim both to demonstrate the skill and talent of an individual school’s student body and attract new students to its ranks. And at a school as prestigious as Kōgakkan High School—where parents are often well-known members of Kyoto society—Culture Day is very, very important.
Or at least, it used to be.
“All these things seem so meaningless now,” I say, arranging pieces of chalk into dotted lines along the blackboard’s railing. “After everything we’ve been through, worrying about a school festival seems silly. How am I supposed to take everyday life seriously?”
Shiro reaches out, smearing a little white chalk on the tip of my nose. I make a face at him. Bad move—I breathe in dry chalk dust, which forces a sneeze from me. He chuckles.
“Hey, you don’t have to take life too seriously,” Shiro says, tipping my face up with a knuckle under my chin. “Things are going to be okay.”
“I’m not so sure,” I say.
Shiro steps closer, running his thumb along the edge of my jaw. One of his knees bumps mine. He grins. “Then I’ll tell you things are going to be okay until you believe it.”
“It won’t be easy to convince me,” I say. “You might run out of breath.”
“Challenge accepted,” he says, leaning in.
Footsteps clatter in the hallway. A blush flares across my cheeks. Stepping back from Shiro, I grab my cleaning cloth and go back to scrubbing the chalkboard. Not two seconds later, Mifune-sensei steps into the room.
“Are you two almost done?” she asks. “If so, I’d like to lock up.”
“Yes, Mifune-sensei,” we say in tandem. As we put away our cleaning implements, a stream of students comes in to grab their things, before moving on to school clubs, cram schools, or afternoons spent at the arcade with friends.
Shiro and I, however, will spend the afternoon in a very different manner: searching all of Kyoto for shinigami.
I step into the school’s main courtyard, headed for the gates. The midafternoon chill slides up my skirt. I shiver, clutching my books to my chest. The school’s white-faced buildings tower over Shiro and me, blocking the worst of the breeze.
Ayako and her friends congregate around their favorite bench, sipping hot drinks from the vending machines and giggling. One of the girls—I think her name is Nanao—points at me, and the group turns to look like a pack of hungry wolves. Ayako steps forward, her sights set on Shiro, her mouth making a perfect little o shape. When she realizes Shiro and I are looking at her, she slips behind a mask of cool indifference.
Shiro places a hand on my lower back, protective and familiar, sending a clear signal to the other girls that I won’t be such an easy target anymore. Ayako’s eyes narrow, but I turn away from her, unafraid.
Maybe having Shiro around won’t be so bad after all.
Seventeen
Fujikawa Shrine
Kyoto, Japan
By the following Monday—ten days after the first shrine attack—Roji’s predawn training sessions start to take their toll. My body aches, muscles pumped full of lactic acid, caffeine, and fear. Exhaustion hangs on me like a weighted blanket. I’ve been up till midnight every night this week, catching up on homework, helping Shimada search for the shard of the Kusanagi, or answering Minami’s endless questions about the Fujikawa Shrine.
Any time I want to complain, I turn my eyes up to the sky. Some days, the ghost of the moon is there, haunting me, watching, waiting. It’s grown so thin, it’s nearly disappeared into the sky.
I yawn as Shiro and I leave Kōgakkon for the day, covering my mouth with the back of my hand. A few snowflakes flutter from low-hanging silver-bellied clouds. One lands on my forehead like a cold kiss.
“You need to get more sleep, Kira-chan,” Shiro says as we turn onto the sidewalk.
When did I become your -chan? I think, but bite the words back. It’s not like I’ve given Shiro a reason not to use that endearment. “Tell that to Roji, my teachers, and Shuten-doji,” I say, adjusting my scarf to hide my lips and nose from the wind’s bite.
“Nobody on that list will listen to me,” Shiro says, blowing on his hands to warm them. He refuses to use the gloves I bought him yesterday, even if the cold turns the tips of his fingers bright red. “Least of all Roji.”
I laugh. “She wants to add afternoon training sessions to my schedule.” I take my umbrella out of my bag. I open it, and the wind immediately fills its belly and tugs it skyward. “I told her I can’t, not until we find more shinigami.”
Without a word, Shiro takes the umbrella handle and holds it over our heads. He leans in close. My cheeks burn so hot with embarrassment, I don’t need my scarf to keep my face warm. I look around, checking to make sure nobody has noticed. Public displays of affection—even simple ones—aren’t proper, and I would feel bad if I made someone else uncomfortable. Plus, any of my parents’ friends might see us, which would infuriate my mother. I’ve sworn to her that Shiro and I aren’t dating.
A middle-aged woman motions at us, clucking to her teenage daughter; but otherwise, nobody’s looking our way.
Shiro leans his head on mine. “You know what I think?”
“I’m a priestess, Shiro, not a mind-reader,” I reply.
He chuckles good-naturedly. “You’d be happier if you stopped worrying about what other people think of you.”