The shinigami have collected here like shadows. Heihachi turns to me as I enter—he’s hovering closest to the door. His moth beats her tiny wings in alarm, fluttering over his shoulder. The others are crowded in a loose semicircle around one corner of the room: Shimada stands at the center apex, his face grim, his hands tucked into his sleeves. O-bei is at his side, her heart-shaped mouth drawn into a thin line; Roji has her fists on her hips, and a fifth person stands with his back to me. Despite his ashen-white hair, it takes me a second to recognize him.
Ronin.
“What are you doing here?” I say, charging into the cellar, Ronin in my sights. “I told you to stay away—”
A shriek stops me. A woman in a dirty kimono kneels on the floor, shackled by her wrists and ankles. The gray metal reminds me of the shinigami’s blades—it glows with the light of a cloudy day. She peers at me through a snarled curtain of hair, the irises of her eyes swallowed by her pupils. Looking at her pokes holes in my sanity.
“Yuza?” I whisper.
She lunges at me, screaming. Oily tears leak down her cheeks, staining her skin. In the chilly light of her chains, she looks like a vengeful ghost. She strains for another moment, neck tendons popping, before she lets out a mournful sob and collapses to the floor.
“What are you doing to her?” I ask. My revulsion puts my anger on ice.
“Nothing,” O-bei says, stepping close and placing a hand on Yuza’s head. Yuza growls. “Shuten-doji’s followers have cursed this one, and they now try to call her home. You must understand, Kira, we needed the talents of five shinigami to subdue her.”
“You should have come to me for permission,” I say through my teeth. O-bei always sets them on edge.
O-bei croons at Yuza, turning the other shinigami’s chin up and stroking her cheek. “Had I waited but one more moment, this one would have broken free and had a knife at your pretty throat—”
Yuza shrieks like a police siren. Her body contorts, neck snapping back at an impossible angle. She collapses to the floor, reaching out to me with a shaking hand. I step back, right up against Shiro’s chest. He places his hands on my upper arms, bracing me.
Even O-bei recoils as she screams again. Heihachi shudders. Only Shimada remains impassive, unmoved.
“Can’t you help her?” I ask them.
“No,” Shimada says gruffly. “Though I want to be clear: should we fail to destroy Shuten-doji, the shinigami in this room will share Yuza-san’s fate. Her curse may pass, but our torment will be everlasting.”
“We will not fail,” I say, though I feel helpless watching Yuza struggle. If I can’t protect one shinigami, how can I expect to save seven?
“There is one thing I could try . . . hmm,” Heihachi says, breaching the ring of shinigami to crouch at Yuza’s side. She swipes at him with one hand, but the malice in her attempt is overcome by her frailty.
“May you know peace, sister,” Heihachi says, pressing his thumb to Yuza’s brow. His small moth balances on his knuckles.
Tendrils of smoke rise from Yuza’s flesh. It swirls around her face, funneling toward Heihachi and sliding into his nostrils, his tear ducts, and his ears. He gasps in pain. Yuza’s breathing slows, and the tightness in her limbs eases. She collapses to the floor, drawing in a deep, jagged breath.
Heihachi’s face pales, growing so gray I wonder if it will crumble like ash. A black tear bubbles from the corner of one eye. He wipes it away with a finger.
Yuza coughs, then gazes up at the shinigami. “Fools . . . my master . . . will find me . . .”
“You’re quite welcome,” Heihachi says, cupping his struggling moth in both hands. He rises, wavers, and allows Shimada to brace him for a moment. Roji places a hand on his lower back, brows knotted. Heihachi looks like he might collapse without their support.
“What did you do to her?” Shimada asks.
“I drew out as much of her pain as I could bear,” Heihachi says, opening his palms. His little moth, Sana, flutters up and tucks herself inside his collar. “Not all power comes from a sword, Shimada-san.”
“Neither does all death,” Shimada replies.
Heihachi says nothing to this, but bobs his head in a short, tired bow.
Shiro and I move aside, giving Shimada and Roji the space they need to escort Heihachi from the cellar. Exhausted, Heihachi drags his feet, kicking up dust and exposing a small, white object near the bottom of the steps.
I cross the cellar, wondering what lies in the dust.
“I want Yuza guarded constantly,” O-bei says behind me. “If not by one of you two, then by Minami.”
“That’s a lot of work,” Shiro says, rubbing the back of his neck with his palm. “Especially when Kira and I still have shinigami to recruit.”
“Surely you can dedicate a mere eight hours a day, brother,” Ronin says. “After all, what else is a tailless kitsune good for?”
As the brothers bicker, I kneel by the stairs and pluck a bit of folded paper from the ground. I dust it off, and my heart sinks. It’s the shikigami fox. Its bloodstains have dried to brown, its edges now blunted. I rise. Any malevolence it once had is gone now, but I’m going to burn it all the same. No magic, either. Just me and a match, simple physics, and some ash.
I turn to leave, but Ronin calls me back: “Kira, wait—can we talk?”
My hand tightens around the shikigami, crushing it in my palm. I pause and turn, feeling the weight of the room’s attention on me. O-bei, Ronin, and Shiro make a strange family, two death gods and a kitsune. Yuza now leans against the wall, her face hidden by her hair, and sleeps.
Ronin steps forward. Shiro moves to intercept him, placing a hand on his chest. The brothers glare at each other, but Ronin eases back.
“May I apologize?” Ronin asks, breaking his brother’s gaze first. I’m not certain if he’s asking for permission from me, or Shiro.
Ronin is further gone than he was at the train station—he moves with a shinigami’s grace, as if his muscles and bones are no longer subject to gravity. He looks older, too, though maybe that’s just the effect of his tailored suit and tie. He would look like a salaryman, were it not for the death in his eyes.
Maybe he thinks words can absolve him; but no matter if you’re living or dead, a true apology needs to be made with your whole soul. And Ronin no longer possesses one.
“While I’m grateful to Lady Katayama for the work being done on the shrine,” I say, “sorry doesn’t bring my grandfather back.”
“Kira . . .” Ronin says.
“Does this mean you’re staying?” I ask O-bei.
She nods.
“Fine.” I walk out of the cellar, alone.
Twenty-One
Fujikawa Shrine
Kyoto, Japan
The next morning, Shiro and I sit at the kitchen table before school, practicing my onmyōdō mudras. Goro busies himself about the kitchen, cleaning up from breakfast and drinking tea. Oni-chan sits on the stove, noisily destroying the rest of our leftovers. The morning news blares from the front room, and outside, the sounds of shrine reconstruction bang on.
“Zai!” Shiro says. I fan my fingers out, palms down, with only my thumbs and index fingers touching. When I glance over, Shiro’s hands already form a perfect Zai mudra.