Yuza closes her eyes, her face a mask. Even to my ears, O-bei’s pronouncement sounds like a fate worse than death.
Twenty
Fujikawa Shrine
Kyoto, Japan
The wee hours find me slouching over history homework, but I find reading about war while preparing for one is an exercise in frustration. It’s hard to focus on the present when the future keeps tugging on my ear. My gaze drifts to a book sitting on the corner of my desk—a battered library copy of otogi-zôshi stories, legends from old Japan.
Sticking my pencil in my bun, I set the book of legends on top of my textbook. The old pages cough dust in my face. I sneeze, wiping water from my eyes as I turn the pages. It doesn’t take me long to find the tale of Yorimitsu, the hero who last slew Shuten-doji. The book includes an illustration of Shuten-doji at Oeyama: his massive, crimson-red ogre’s head dominates the page, his mouth open in an eternal cackle. Black smoke billows where his hair should be, and—
A knock sounds at my door, startling me. Shaking off my nerves, I swivel my desk chair toward the door and say, “Come in!”
The door swings inward. To my surprise, Shiro stands on the other side. He leans against the jamb, holding up a pair of Kit Kats. “I saw your light in the window and thought you could use a break,” he says by way of explanation. “So I ran down to the twenty-four-hour konbini. Raspberry’s your favorite, right?”
“Um, yeah.” I slide my glasses off my face, suddenly conscious of my polka-dot pajama bottoms and loose-fitting tee. “How’d you know?”
“Easy,” he says with a shrug. “You always picked it when we were in Tokyo.”
“Oh,” I say, setting my glasses down on the desk. I pull my legs up, sitting cross-legged on the chair. It was one thing for Shiro to be in my sleeping space while we were in Tokyo, because we didn’t have any other choice. Back at O-bei’s inn, he and I danced around each other’s privacy, knocking more often than we needed to, and excusing ourselves to the balcony whenever necessary. Shiro had taken perverse delight in removing his shirt in front of me, which never failed to burn a blush into my cheeks.
It was one thing for Shiro and me to share neutral territory—but even if this is a guest room, it’s still my private space in Grandfather’s house. The implications of him being in here could shift under my feet like quicksand. Perhaps I’m as old-fashioned as my mother, but it just feels like it means something to invite a boy into my bedroom. Especially this boy.
K-dramas promised me that love was something that hit you out of the blue, like a star falling from the sky. Perhaps it felt that way for him; but for me, it crept up on little fox feet, slow and quiet, as if it didn’t want to startle me.
“So . . . ,” Shiro says with a sheepish grin. “Can I come in?”
After a moment’s hesitation, I nod. He crosses the room and sets the chocolate bars on top of the illustrations of Shuten-doji—one raspberry, the other green tea. Kit Kats are often gifted to students before exams . . . or, I suppose, to Shinto shrine maidens about to attempt a military coup against one of the country’s most reviled demons.
With every breath I take, the blood moon gets a little closer to rising. We are not ready. Shimada and I still don’t know where the final shard of the Kusanagi lies. We have three shinigami pledged to our cause—five if you count O-bei and Ronin, I guess, but they won’t stay if we don’t manage to complete the cabal of seven.
What’s more, I am not ready. No matter how much training I complete with Roji, I won’t be a master by the time the blood moon rises.
“Kitto katsu,” Shiro says softly, which means you’re sure to win in Japanese.
“I don’t know about that,” I say.
He glances down at my reading material, leaning against my desk. “And reading horror stories about Shuten-doji will help?”
“You know I like to be prepared.”
“Overprepared,” he says with a grin.
“Only when I can’t afford to fail.” I rise from my seat, slide the Kit Kats off the library book, and close it. “But I don’t feel like I’m doing enough, even though I spend every waking moment getting ready for the blood moon. The pressure of trying to balance everything is just . . .”
I pause, not sure I can articulate how I feel without crumbling.
“It’s intense,” Shiro says, wrapping his pinkie finger around mine.
“Yeah,” I say with a sigh.
He rests his cheek on the crown of my head. I turn my face toward him, drawn by some force I can’t quite name. Our noses bump. I giggle. A Kira of any other moment would be mortified to make that sound, but it draws a happy sigh from Shiro. I suppose it can’t be all that bad.
“Can we finish what we started under the umbrella?” he asks, running his thumb along the line of my jaw.
I ball one of my hands in his shirt. “You mean before we were so rudely interrupted?”
“By an irritating oni.”
“So long as you’ll still owe me a kiss under an umbrella . . .”
A faraway scream rolls through the shrine, startling us both. Shiro pushes himself away from the desk, his muscles tensed, ears pricked in the direction of the sound.
“What was that?” I whisper.
“It sounded like a woman screaming,” Shiro says.
“Well, I know that much,” I say, trying not to roll my eyes.
Shiro puts a finger to his lips as another shriek slips inside the house. “Stay here. I’ll go find out what’s wrong.”
“Are you kidding me?” I say, crossing my room. I grab a pair of skinny jeans from the dresser. “I’m not staying behind, not when someone is screaming in my shrine.”
“You’ll be safer if you stay—” But he stammers to a stop as I shuck my pajama bottoms off, my underwear hidden by the length of my T-shirt. He stares, and for once, it’s his turn to blush.
“You mind?” I ask, stepping into my jeans. “It’s not like I have time for propriety, here.”
He faces the wall, chuckling to himself as he wipes his palms on his thighs. I button my jeans, tuck the front of my shirt into my waistband, and grab a sweatshirt from my closet. I toss it on as we head downstairs. Shiro opens the front door. I slip into a pair of flats, and then I follow him out into the darkness.
The night stands at attention, cold and still, as if it shares our fears. We pause for a moment, listening. My breath clouds around my face. Another cry pierces the air, and Shiro takes my hand. We plunge through Grandfather’s wilting gardens, following the screams to the motomiya.
When we reach the small shrine, my gaze falls to the trapdoor. It yawns open, the darkness inside perfect. Complete. A woman’s wail creeps up from the cellar.
I start for the door.
“Kira!” Shiro hisses at me, grabbing for my hand. I shake him off, entering the small shrine and easing onto the cellar steps. At the bottom, a small amount of light struggles across the floor. My ears pick up a guttural voice, one that drags through my belly and leaves me quivering. Its tongue—unrecognizable, foreign—sounds hard-edged and cruel, as if its speaker has a mouth full of nails.
Shiro follows me down.
The air grows colder as my feet hit the cellar’s dirt floor. The darkness runs thick, barely broken by the meager hitodama spheres bouncing along the ceiling. I breathe in through my nose. The dry, dusty air stings my nostrils and throat.