Hurry, I hiss to myself. Kneeling, I run my hands over the floorboards, wincing as wooden slivers prick my skin. I flinch when my hand brushes up against the corpse of a dead mouse. Swatting the bones away, my fingers locate the right wooden knot. I slide them back toward my knees, counting the number of boards. One. Two. Three.
I dig my fingernails between the third and fourth boards, drawing up a secret, sawtooth trapdoor. A breath of chilly, arthritic air puffs out to greet me. I shepherd Ami down the steps first, slip in behind her, and carefully lower the trapdoor over my head. It settles into its frame with a groan.
We huddle on the steps under the door. Only the faintest bit of light ekes through the floorboards. The rough steps were cut from stone many centuries ago, and their chill leeches the warmth from my body. The air here smells of mold and decay, almost like a tomb.
“Kira?” Ami whispers. “W-what’s going on?”
“Shush,” I whisper, wrapping my fingers around hers. “We have to stay quiet down here. Understand?”
Ami nods against my arm, her cheeks as wet as my own. We hold very still. Long minutes pass. My knotted nerves begin to unravel. Perhaps the demons won’t find us here, hidden inside the motomiya, under a layer of protective wards older than the stones themselves. This shrine is a special place, one that may have been blessed by Abe no Seimei himself. Its power is ancient. Formidable. When the rest of the shrine burned down five centuries ago, only the motomiya remained untouched.
For a few moments, I allow myself to believe we’re safe . . . until another shout rings from the garden outside. A scream cuts off mid-breath, strangled into a wet, whistling sound. Cringing, I squeeze my eyes shut and clap my hands over Ami’s ears. She pulls one of my hands off, stubbornly. She hates to be treated like a child, even if she’s acting like one.
A voice sings through the garden, winding down to us. It no longer sounds like a child’s voice, but one that cracks like bones being burned. The sound rasps over my skin:
“Ushiro no shoumen daare? Who is behind you now?”
The air grows thorny, filling the shadows with sea urchins’ spines. Static crackles in my ears, raw and electric, as the light between the boards flickers, fights, and finally dies.
Heavy footsteps scrape the floorboards overhead. The yokai’s stench slips into my nose, heady as plums rotting in the summer sun. A bit of dust rains between the cracks in the floor, catching in my hair and eyelashes. My bracelet burns so hot it sears my skin. I bite my tongue to keep from crying out; I don’t dare move, not even to slip the bracelet off. If the creature finds us, we have no place to run.
The storage area under the motomiya isn’t much larger than the small shrine itself.
Tap-tap. The rap of claws echoes through the cellar. Ami trembles and wraps her arms around my waist. My head whirls, and I silently chant a prayer Grandfather taught me, which stops my vertigo for a few breaths.
Tap-tap, in the middle of the shrine floor.
Tap-tap, by the altar.
Tap-tap, near the trapdoor.
“Ibaraki-sama, lord of ogres,” someone says. Despite the wheeze of his breath, I would recognize the timbre of Grandfather’s voice anywhere. He sounds like he’s badly injured. My heart squeezes at the thought, but at least he’s alive.
Ibaraki, I think, biting down on the tip of my tongue. Why does that name sound familiar?
Grandfather continues: “You have come down . . . from the mountains . . . but for what purpose?”
“Don’t pretend you’re stupid, priest,” the ogre says. “You know why we’re here.”
“I . . . most certainly . . . do not . . . ,” Grandfather rasps.
“Lies!” The creature spins. “You have hidden the last shard of a holy sword in this place for five centuries. My master, the demon king Shuten-doji, has recovered all the pieces but one. Where is the last shard of Kusanagi no Tsurugi, sword of the Sun Goddess?”
“This shrine . . . has been rebuilt many times . . . ,” Grandfather replies. “Everything . . . lost. You . . . must . . . go.”
The yokai growls, but not in the way a wolf might. This sound gets mangled with a scream. It rakes my soul over sharp spikes, deflating my courage. The floorboards squeal as the monster charges forward.
Grandfather shouts the first syllable of a kuji-in exorcism mudra.
Another vicious shriek rends the night.
Silence seeps out in the aftermath.
The floorboards jump when something heavy hits them. I startle, clapping a hand over Ami’s mouth. Her small whimper dies under my palm. Grandfather groans. Blood drips through the floor, spattering my knees and scalp, cooling on my skin. When I squeeze my eyes shut, but tears leak out. I can’t hold them back, not when the mixture of horror, pain, and shame cuts so deep.
I thought my worst enemy was Ayako.
I was wrong, wrong, wrong.
“We will find the last shard,” Ibaraki says. “The next full moon will rise as a blood moon, weakening the Sun Goddess’s power over this world. When that happens, my lord Shuten-doji will return to this mortal plane to make the Light suffer for the oppression of our people.”
Grandfather’s answer dies with his final breath. Tears prick the corners of my eyes. I’m listening to my grandfather’s last moments, and there’s nothing I can do to save him. If Grandfather could not defeat this demon, what chance do I have?
The yokai’s steps crunch over the flagstones outside, fading into the shadows.
Ibaraki. I sear his name into my memory, repeating it over and over again. Ibaraki killed my grandfather. The thought turns into a cold, hard kernel of hate inside my heart. Ibaraki killed my grandfather, and his master is Shuten-doji.
I will make them pay for their crimes against me, my grandfather, and this shrine. But first, my sister and I need to survive the night.
Several minutes shudder by. Five, ten maybe, with no sign of the yokai. Police sirens roar in the distance. Releasing Ami, I open my eyes and wipe my cheeks with the backs of my hands. I place my palms on the trapdoor over our heads, gasping when something pricks my palm. It’s softer than a shard of wood or a nail, and doesn’t break the skin. Reaching up, I tug a small object between the boards. I run my fingers over its sharp, bloodied corners and gasp when I realize what I’m holding.
It’s the shikigami fox, soaked in my grandfather’s blood. And somewhere in the distance, I hear the yokai singing:
“Kagome, Kagome. Kago no naka no tori wa . . . circle you, circle you. The bird in the cage . . .”
The yokai’s voice fades into the police sirens. I crush the little fox in my fist, its points breaking the soft flesh of my palms. My bracelet stops burning. It’s all I can do to keep from screaming until these walls collapse and bury me in my grief and shame.
Kagome, Kagome. We are the birds in the cage.
And the monsters will come for us.
Four
Fujikawa Shrine
Kyoto, Japan
I hurl the crushed shikigami fox to the ground. “C’mon,” I whisper to Ami. “We should go.”
“Kira?” Ami whispers. “Are you sure? Where’s Grandpa?”
“I think he’s . . . he’s not well,” I say, because how am I supposed to explain to a six-year-old that our grandfather has been murdered by a monster?