I nudge him off me. “There are rules to being human, you know. Most times it’s just easier not to break them.”
“Easier, but far less fun,” Shiro replies, flattening his ears in mock frustration. “I thought human girls liked sharing an umbrella with handsome boys?”
“Oh, I never said I didn’t like this,” I reply, drawing a grin out of him. “And whoever said you were handsome?”
“Just about every girl at your school,” he says, grinning at me. “Have I mentioned I have great hearing? I can hear them swooning through the walls, ‘Oh, Shiro!’”
“Ugh, gross, they can have you!” I say with a laugh. Now that I’m standing this close to him, I admit it feels good to be noticed, to be seen by someone. Especially when that someone is Shiro.
We reach the shrine. As we step past the chain link fences, Shiro tugs me behind one of the large KATAYAMA BUILDING CORP signs. It’s snowing harder now, and big, thumb-size flakes dance in circles across the ground. The cold blows straight through my tights. I shiver. Hooking one finger around my scarf, Shiro tugs it down, stroking my cheek with the back of his finger. His touch sends sunshine racing through my body.
“I don’t understand why humans have so many rules,” he whispers.
“Don’t you?” I say, tilting my face up to his. “I thought kitsune were supposed to be clever.”
“We are terribly clever,” he says, wrapping his arm around my waist and pulling me flush against his body. He’s warm. I place a hand on his chest, bracing myself. “But that doesn’t mean there aren’t any mysteries left in the world.”
His fingers dig into my wool coat, gathering me as close as he can. I stand on tiptoe. My blood rushes through my heart and floods my head, making me dizzy. His lips brush mine, tentatively, and he smiles.
“Is this okay?” he whispers, so close our foreheads touch.
But just as I’m about to say, Kiss me already, baka! my umbrella flies upward. A large drift of snow dumps down on our heads. “Hey!” I cry. The snow tumbles into my scarf, getting into the warm nooks and crannies and freezing me immediately. Cursing, I take a step back and glance up.
A blue-skinned oni perches on a crumbled bit of masonry wall. He clutches the top spindle of my umbrella in one hand, holding it just out of Shiro’s reach. He looks familiar, but I’ve never seen an ogre this close before: his fangs are stained a urine-yellow color, his skin is pockmarked, his beard scraggly and unkempt. His body odor might be even uglier than he is—a mixture of three-day-old tuna and sweat-stained laundry basket. Despite the cold, he’s half-naked, dressed only in a loincloth made of tiger fur.
The ogre makes a kissy face at us, snorting.
“Kiku!” Shiro shouts, grabbing my umbrella back from the demon. He hands it to me. “Get out of here!”
“You know this thing?” I ask Shiro, gesturing at the ogre.
“Unfortunately,” Shiro says, eyes narrowed. “Your grandfather always asked me to shoo him away from the shrine.”
Kiku wipes his nose with his dirty wrist. “I hear you idiots are gonna fight Shuten-doji. I want in.”
“What?” I ask, furrowing my brows. “You’re an ogre. Shuten-doji is your king.”
“I don’t bow to no king,” Kiku says, spitting on the ground. “Especially not that old bastard. I wish he’d just stay dead.”
“Wait, why?” I ask, surprised to find that I care.
“Because!” Kiku roars. “And because is a good enough reason for you!”
“Because isn’t a good enough reason for anyone,” I say flatly.
“Fine!” Kiku says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Give me something to do to prove myself, then.”
Shiro rolls his eyes. “I don’t know, how about you bring us a golden peach from heavenly Takamagahara? Or pluck a feather from the robe of a holy tennin, or some other equally crazy, impossible task?”
Kiku blows out a breath. “Those are baby quests!”
“Then bring me the shards of the shattered Kusanagi no Tsurugi,” I say jokingly. “And we’ll let you fight with us.”
Kiku’s eyes grow wide. “Oh, the girlie wants the sword, eh? The shiny bits of sword?” The ogre grins.
Shiro glances at me. “Do you know where Shuten-doji keeps the shards of the Kusanagi no Tsurugi, Kiku?”
“Of course! I will bring you the sword,” he says, hopping off the wall. “And when I do, you will let me help you kill Shuten-doji!” He whoops, loping off into the snow.
“Well, that was, uh, interesting,” Shiro says.
“I didn’t think he’d take me seriously.”
“Did we just send an ogre off on an epic quest?”
I wince. “I think so?
“Don’t worry about it,” Shiro says. “Kiku may be an oni, but he’s mostly harmless. C’mon, I’m in the mood for some ramen. There’s a good place just up the street, if you’re hungry?”
“Ramen sounds great,” I say with a smile.
Shiro’s favorite ramen shop lies a few blocks away from the Fujikawa Shrine. The building is machiya-style, with elegant wooden lattices over the windows and a fabric drape—known as a noren—hung in front of the door. Golden light melts through the windows. Parting the noren with one hand, I step under the restaurant’s eaves. My stomach rumbles.
Inside, the warmth seeps into my pores and burns the cold away. The umami scents waft around us, bold and inviting; and the gentle conversation from other guests wraps me up in a warm, comforting embrace. Like many ramen shops, this restaurant is so small, it can probably seat only ten or fifteen people at a time. There are a few cozy wooden tables, plus space at the bar.
Shiro and I settle at the bar. From where we sit, we can watch the chefs cooking in the kitchen. They’re both dressed in black polo shirts, burnt-orange aprons, and matching kerchiefs to hold back their hair. One noodle chef acknowledges us with a big grin, then shouts, “Hey, look who’s back! I haven’t seen you in ages, how you been, kid?”
“Heihachi-san,” Shiro replies to the noodle chef with a toothy smile. “It’s been too long. You heard about what happened at the shrine, right?”
“I did. What a shame.” As he walks toward us, he dries his hands on a kitchen towel. He’s not an imposing man—he stands just an inch or two taller than me. He’s stout and barrel-chested, with a clean-shaven face and his long hair tied in a bun. “Glad to see you’re all right. You want your usual?”
“Yeah, but this is Kira-chan’s first time. Give us a minute?” Shiro asks, sliding a double-sided, laminated menu across the bar. The tips of our fingers touch, and a bit of static jumps from his fingers to mine. I look away, embarrassed.
“Kira-chan, huh? She’s cute,” Heihachi says with a wink at Shiro, which only makes my blush burn brighter. “I’ll be right back, then,” he says.
Before I can stammer out a response, Heihachi turns and heads toward a back room, where he yells, “Are you done with those vegetables yet, Haruto?”
He’s through the door and out of sight before I can hear the answer.
“I like this place already,” I say, making sure to dip my words in sarcasm.