“Who else would we steal them from?” Shimada asks.
“Hmph,” Grandmother says. “Very well, then. I will go consult with the other ancestors and see if they know anything about your precious sword. Don’t move. I’ll return shortly.”
Grandmother dissipates into the air. Shimada and I do as she says, not even chancing conversation. Minutes pass. The longer I sit like this, with my feet tucked under my seat bones, the more the tips of my toes begin to tingle. It was barely noticeable when I was distracted by conversation; now it’s all I can think about.
I’m not sure how long we wait for Grandmother to reappear; but when she does, she comes as quickly as she went. All the contempt has been drained from her, leaving only the chill of death in its wake.
“They say they cannot tell us where the last piece of the Kusanagi lies.” Grandmother toys with the edge of her kimono sleeve, twisting it, fretting. I’d get lectured for playing with my clothing like that; but Grandmother’s so agitated, she doesn’t even realize her eye has popped out of its socket again. “They say that information was passed down through the generations, from one high priest to the next. Because we are not high priests of the Fujikawa line, they refuse to share the location of the last shard with us.”
“If we can’t find the last shard, the Fujikawa Shrine will burn,” I say. “Just like it did five hundred years ago. Is that what they want?”
“Don’t get salty with me, girl!” Grandmother snorts hard enough to suck her eyeball back into place. “I’m just the messenger. I don’t make the rules.”
“Can we speak with the Elders?” I ask, rising to my feet. “Surely, we could make them see reason—”
“These are the spirits of men dead for centuries, Kira,” Grandmother says, shaking her head. “Tradition means everything to them, and they do not see the world the way you do.”
I shift my weight. “Well, if we can’t find the shard, perhaps Shuten-doji won’t, either.”
“Once Shuten-doji returns to this realm, he will never cease his assault on your shrine until he has what he desires, or until he is dead,” Shimada says gently, rising too. “Your only option is to destroy him.”
“We can do that with a cabal,” I say.
“Assuming we have enough shinigami for one,” Shimada says. “Failing that, we can slay his physical vessel again and force him back into Yomi for a time. But you will only burden tomorrow with the problems of today.”
“As this family has done for centuries,” Grandmother says. “Listen, shinigami—I do not want my granddaughter to have to fight this monster for the rest of her days. I will intercede with the family Elders on your behalf, but . . .”
My heart lifts in my chest, beating a little faster. “But?” I ask.
Grandmother peaks what’s left of her eyebrow. “I want better offerings made on my behalf at the family kamidana. You’ve ignored it for months, Kira. How can you expect help from your ancestors if you’ve failed to remember them?”
Dropping to my knees, I bow so low my forehead nearly touches the ground. “I’m sorry, Grandmother. I’ll remedy the family kamidana immediately, and care for it daily.”
“See that you do,” Grandmother says. “And as for you, shinigami—if the Elders are willing to impart their wisdom, I will find you in the realms of the dead.”
“Very well, Fujikawa-san,” Shimada says. “Thank you.”
Grandmother inclines her head a few degrees. “Just don’t hold your breath. All the dead have left are traditions, and they cling to them like caged monkeys that have been given grapes. Good luck.”
As Shimada and I step outside, the evening chill wicks the heat from my clothing. I pause on the motomiya steps and look up to the sky, where a handful of stars have already opened their eyes. The last of the day glows faintly blue on the horizon, every minute hurtling us closer and closer to the month’s end. The waning moon now looks like a grimace.
We’ve been running out of time since the night Grandfather died.
“This fight keeps getting more and more complicated,” I say with a sigh.
Shimada chuckles. “You chose to meddle in the affairs of the gods.”
“As did you,” I say.
Shimada tips his hat back to gaze at the night sky. “You and I are too honorable for our own good.”
“You’d think that would be a compliment,” I say.
“I have taken hundreds of thousands of dying souls under my wing. I have eased the suffering of men and women dying on the battlefield; I have stood beside executioners, walked into the depths of prisons, and held children weak with starvation. Eventually, all lives end,” Shimada says, stretching an index finger into the air to provide a perch for one of his black-winged butterflies. “The dead cling to tradition because we have forgotten what it means to breathe. We can afford to be rigid, unchanging—something that, by definition, the living cannot be. But honor means very little in Yomi.”
“Then why do you still practice it?” I ask. “Why come here to fight my demons?”
Shimada launches the butterfly in the air. “By protecting others, I save myself.”
“Save yourself from what?” I ask, furrowing my brow.
Shimada does not answer me immediately; nor does he look at me. After a few moments of silence, he steps off the veranda, heading through the shrine’s courtyard. “I’m going out to reap,” he says without looking over his shoulder. “I will see you tomorrow, Kira. Please make sure Roji doesn’t kill Heihachi-san before we can put him to work. She is good, but she doesn’t suffer kindness.”
“Wait, Shimada-sama,” I cry.
He disappears into the shadows, leaving me to wonder what a death god might fear.
Nineteen
Kōgakkan High School
Kyoto, Japan
Within days, the snows come for real.
I usually love the cold season, especially at the shrine’s high elevation, where snow hushes everything with a thick white blanket. In winter, the shrine’s eaves glitter with icicles, and the world smells pristine and pure.
But today, the fog creeping through the shrine fills me with a deep sense of foreboding. My anxieties shook me awake before my alarm, and I spent the morning worrying about everything from the upcoming Culture Day festivities to Shuten-doji to the scuff on my favorite shoes. Anxiety likes catching me alone and unawares. It’s been worse lately, especially as the second week comes to a close.
Shuten-doji has become an obsession; I fall asleep reading articles about him on my phone, and sometimes catch myself humming Kagome, Kagome in the shower.
I’ve never laid eyes on him, and yet I see him everywhere. Every time I spar with Roji, I sense Shuten-doji’s gaze on me. When I search for the missing shard with Shimada, Shuten-doji seems to inhabit every shadow. No matter what I do, he’s there. Watching. Waiting.
“You okay?” Shiro asks as we walk to school. “You’ve been quiet this morning.”
“I’m fine,” I say, shooting him a thin smile.
“Liar,” he says, and reaches out to take my hand. Normally, I’d try to pull away from this sort of gesture in public; for now, I crave the reassurance. I walk a little closer, letting our long coats hide our hands from sight. He squeezes my hand. I squeeze back.