“Sort of,” I say, trying to keep hold of Oni-chan, who has become a wild, bucking, clawed thing. Even if Oni-chan isn’t technically my cat, I still feel responsible for his actions. “I am so very sorry, Heihachi-san. We’ll pay for the damages.”
I try to bow deeply, but with Oni-chan in my arms, my attempt is anything but graceful. The nekomata growls at the deepest point of my bow. As if I needed any more embarrassment today, both Heihachi and Shiro break into peals of laughter.
“There’s no need to reimburse me for the damages,” Heihachi says to me, once he catches his breath. “I think you have enough to worry about, Kira-chan.”
Maybe it’s the gentleness in his tone. Maybe it’s because for the last week, I’ve shouldered the blame for everything that’s gone wrong. Maybe it’s the pressure, maybe it’s the fear. Maybe I’m just too exhausted for even one more thing. But I drop Oni-chan to the ground and cover my face with my hands, trying not to care that my fingers smell like chicken grease, cat fur, and copper.
I don’t just cry; I sob.
“Oh no!” Heihachi cries. “What did I say? I’m so sorry!”
“Nothing, Heihachi-san,” Shiro says, putting an arm around my shoulders. He pulls me into a hug, tucking the crown of my head under his chin. “It’s been a rough week.”
“I’m sorry,” I say between each sob. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”
“No more apologies,” Heihachi says, shooing away his employees. He motions to a booth. “Come, come. I will feed you, and you will feel better, hmm?”
As Heihachi fetches us bowls of tonkotsu ramen, I wipe a mess of cat fur and tears off my cheeks. Shiro’s right, it’s the best I’ve ever tasted and it does make me feel better. The pork broth has the right amount of bite, and the umami flavors dance across my tongue. Even Oni-chan gets his own bowl. Heihachi tells us that he makes the noodles by hand each morning, a practice that has been in his family for centuries.
A white moth lands on the edge of a serving tray, antennae twitching. It’s a small, delicate creature with a furry gray body and speckles on its wings.
“Heihachi-san,” I say, setting my chopsticks down beside my bowl. “That isn’t an ordinary moth, is it?”
“No,” he says with a small, sad shake of his head. “She isn’t.”
She? I wonder.
“I’ve heard about what you’re doing,” Heihachi says, coaxing the moth to climb onto his fingers. “I would pledge myself to your cause, but I’m afraid I wouldn’t be much help.”
“Why not?” I ask.
“I don’t kill,” he says, cupping the moth in his hands. “Not since this little one. She and I have a bargain, hmm? We keep each other safe.”
“You wouldn’t have to kill anyone, Heihachi-san,” Shiro says.
“Except Shuten-doji,” Heihachi says softly. “That’s what a cabal of shinigami does, right? It doesn’t just destroy a being’s physical body, but its soul as well?”
I glance sideways at Shiro. He clenches his teeth but doesn’t reply.
So I do.
“Yes,” I say. “The plan is to destroy Shuten-doji, body and soul, and stop the darkness he wishes to draw over the world. I wish to avenge my grandfather’s life, and protect the shrine that my family has tended for generations. We could use your help, Heihachi-san.”
Heihachi blows out a breath, pushing his hat off his head. His gray-white moth launches itself in the air, beating its wings in front of his face. He extends his index finger to the moth, which hops over his finger and flicks its antennae at him, agitated.
“Sana seems to like you,” Heihachi says, running the tip of his finger down the moth’s back. “You’ve won her over, and if you have her support, you will have mine as well. I won’t lift a sword, but I can lend my strength to the cabal rites.”
I press my hands together in front of my sternum and bow. Three.
Eighteen
Fujikawa Shrine
Kyoto, Japan
When Shiro and I arrive home from school on Tuesday, we find not one, not two, but three shinigami in the main office, discussing battle plans with Goro.
Everyone looks up as we enter the room, which has been turned into a makeshift headquarters. Maps cover every horizontal space, held in place by mugs, stacks of wooden ema plaques, and tissue boxes. Black butterfly dust hovers in the air. Shimada’s butterflies cling to the rafters. Heihachi’s small white moth, Sana, flutters among them.
Shimada stands with Goro by the largest table, pressing two knuckles into the tabletop. Roji slouches in a swivel chair on the opposite side. Heihachi leans against another table, his back to the door.
“Shiro-kun! Kira-chan!” Heihachi says, turning as we walk in. “It’s so good to see you both!”
He’s here. A shot of relief courses through me.
“Thank you for coming, Heihachi-san.” I bow to everyone. “I’m grateful to see you here.”
Heihachi returns my bow. “It is an honor to serve with such distinguished shinigami.”
“That’s right,” Roji snorts, propping her boots up on the table. “I’m a distinguished lady.”
“Hardly,” Shimada says, shoving her feet off his desk. Roji snickers as her boots thump on the floor. “I’m glad the two of you have arrived. Shiro, will you and Roji please show Heihachi-san around the shrine this afternoon?”
“Me?” Roji says, taking a knife from her pocket and flipping it open. She snaps it closed with a flick of her wrist. “And pray tell, what is your lordship going to do while we peasants labor in the fields?”
“Our efforts to find the shard by hand are failing,” Shimada says, gesturing to Goro and me. “We must try another method.”
“Like?” Roji asks, flicking her knife open again.
“We need to speak with the shrine’s last head priest,” Shimada says, turning to me. “Perhaps your grandfather will have the information we need.”
“You want to summon my grandfather’s spirit?” I half whisper, awed and thrilled. I would give anything to have the chance to see Grandfather again, even if it’s only to say goodbye.
Shimada nods. “The sun will be setting soon, and its last light may help to draw a priest to my side. Show me where your grandfather died.”
With an excited shiver, I follow Shimada and Goro from the office and into the main courtyard. The sun drops in the sky, leaving behind peachy splashes of orange and red. The late autumn chill stings my skin and sucks the warmth from my bones.
I lead them through the shrine, passing a crew fixing the cracks in the haiden’s walls. O-bei’s people rise at dawn to work on shrine repair and fortifications—I’ve grown accustomed to the sound of banging hammers, shouting foremen, and beeping machinery. O-bei has kept her promise to me; if I can manage to find a few more shinigami, I’ll be able to return the favor.
The motomiya still has the ghosts of police tape clinging to it. I tug a bit of blue tape away, taking splinters of old wood with it. A black spider crawls across one of the beams, and I recoil, remembering the sound of the jorōgumo’s feet slicing up the verandas. Inside, the shadows have already settled in for the night, making themselves comfortable among the offerings at the altar.