Seven Deadly Shadows Read online

  But 99 percent of my classmates are from a different economic sphere, one with different social rules and expectations. I’m often accused of “kuuki yomenai,” or “not being able to read the air,” because I sometimes miss the subtleties in social interactions.

  In spite of my efforts, I stand out. A lot. It’s hard to start over when you stick out so much. At least I belong here at the shrine, among the ancient rituals, talismans, and old cobblestones; I love every inch of this place—it’s my sanctuary from the world.

  I bandage my wounds. When I dress, my shrine maiden’s uniform smells of cedar: crimson hakama pants, a pure white robe, and red hair ribbons. The feeling of crisp, clean fabric against my skin wicks the rest of my anger away. With a sigh, I consider doing some purification rituals before I begin work—I’ve spent too much of the day angry.

  My inner peace lasts less than a second. As I exit the restroom, I look up and find I’m not alone anymore.

  One of the shrine’s kitsune guardians, Shiro, sits at the office desk. He’s about my age, maybe a year or two older, with pop-idol good looks and a nose for mischief. Shiro looks human enough, except for the fox-shaped ears that poke out of his thick, reddish hair. Like most yokai, he keeps these ears glamoured while in public. Not all kitsune are benevolent, but shrine guardians like Shiro protect the sites dedicated to the worship of the kami and Amaterasu. Shiro serves at the Fujikawa Shrine with his icy yet talented elder brother, Ryōsuke, who prefers to be called Ronin. When we were introduced, I thought his nickname was strange, but it seems to fit him.

  Shiro looks like he’s been waiting for me.

  “Hey,” he says, leaning forward in his chair to rest his forearms on his thighs. He wears a priest’s teal hakama, rather than my red ones. “Rough day?”

  I pause, clinging to the bathroom door handle. My kimono sleeves are long enough to hide the white bandages on my hands, but not the humiliation seared into my skin. I don’t know Shiro well enough to burden him with my problems.

  “I tripped and fell at school,” I say, tugging on my sleeve. “I’m a little embarrassed, but I’ll be fine.”

  He cocks one of his fox ears down, as if unconvinced. “You can’t lie to me, Kira. I was raised by the best liar in all of Yomi, and can spot a lie before it’s off your lips.” He rises from the chair and starts across the room toward me. “Who hurt you?”

  “I’m not lying.” I step back as he approaches, but find myself bumping into the bathroom door. “I tripped.”

  Shiro’s tawny eyes flash with mirth. He reaches down and takes my hand, lifting it gently, peeling back my sleeve to expose my injured hand. “I know a thing or two about not fitting in,” he says, covering my hand with his own. “If you ever need to talk about things, I’ll listen.”

  He’d be cute if he weren’t so annoying, but he’d be really annoying if he weren’t so cute. I don’t like how easily he sees through my defenses, and his directness makes me uncomfortable. I won’t tell him as much, though. “Thank you,” I say, gently taking my hand from his. “But I should really get to work.”

  “Take a deep breath,” he says. “Fujikawa isn’t missing you yet—”

  “You should call my grandfather Fujikawa-san, as is proper,” I say.

  “Typical Kira, using the rules to avoid having a real conversation.” Shiro pretends to roll his eyes, voice lilting as he teases me.

  His smile’s so inviting, I’m almost tempted to tell him everything. But my scars and bruises, inside and out, are not the parts of me I want him or anyone else to see. When people know your weaknesses, they can exploit them. Or at the very least, they’ll think less of you for them.

  “I should go.” I slip past him, heading for the door.

  “At least let me walk you home tonight,” Shiro says. “There were a lot of yokai in the streets earlier. I can help keep you and your sister safe.”

  I pause. Turn. Shiro leans against the bathroom door, arms crossed over his chest. When in his priest’s garb, he always manages to look majestic and roguish. There is a quiver to him, almost, even when he’s standing still. Perhaps it’s the way he lifts his head an inch, nostrils flaring, as someone passes the office window. Or his sense of perpetual alertness, as if he expects an attack to come at any time, from any angle. That’s the life of most anyone who deals with yokai daily.

  “Do you know why they’re here?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “No, but until their numbers thin out, nobody should leave the shrine alone. Something’s not right.”

  “I’ll meet you out front at sunset, then.” At least this arrangement will make Ami happy; she adores Shiro. She’ll probably pester him for a piggyback ride, and Shiro will oblige her all the way home.

  He follows me out of the office. I step into the afternoon sunlight, pausing to let it thaw the rest of the fear from my soul. While it’s my turn to sweep the shrine’s courtyards, I’m almost looking forward to the work. At least I’ll get to be alone for a little while.

  “I suppose I should check the wards around the shrine, just in case,” Shiro says with a sigh, placing his hands on his hips. “I’ll see you in a few hours, okay?”

  With a nod, I turn to the afternoon’s work: sweeping. Endless sweeping. The Fujikawa Shrine is one of the larger shrines in Kyoto: it boasts two courtyards, an assembly hall, a teahouse, gardens, and dormitories for the priests, and that’s to say nothing of the magnificent main shrine itself. And while Grandfather employs groundskeeping staff to keep the shrine immaculate, he still expects me to sweep the leaves. I guess he thinks it builds character.

  It doesn’t. It builds calluses, lots and lots of calluses. Which I suppose gives my palms more character, now that they have little white seeds planted at the root of each finger.

  The hours of sweeping and the calluses are all worthwhile. Someday, Grandfather will teach me the ancient art of onmyōdō, which will give me power over the yokai demons and onryō ghosts who threaten our way of life. For a girl who has spent her days in the unwanted company of nightmares and monsters, my greatest wish is to be able to banish them at will. Despite my near-constant pleas, Grandfather says I will begin my training at twenty-one, when I become old enough to formally inherit the shrine. For now, he focuses on my martial arts training and lets me observe rituals and business transactions, greet patrons, and, of course, sweep.

  As the sun drops toward the horizon, a chill creeps into the air. Patrons wave to me as they exit the shrine, on their way to warm homes and hot meals. Some will return to work, no doubt. The shadows lengthen and the place empties of everyone, except for the priests, my sister, and me.

  I’m tidying the gatehouse when I spot something small sitting under the first torii gate.

  Curious, I descend the grand staircase, taking the steps two by two. A small origami fox sits at the bottom of the staircase, alone. When I pick the fox up, a child starts singing a folk song in the distance, her voice carried by the wind:

  “Kagome, Kagome . . . circle you, circle you . . .”

  My bracelet grows warm. I glance over my shoulder, expecting to see Ami giggling behind one of the gateposts. She graduated from children’s kancho-style mischief at five. Now six, she’s seen enough variety shows on TV to have learned a more sophisticated style of pranking.

  “Ami?” I ask. No answer. Tree branches click in the breeze. The air tugs the loose hairs at the nape of my neck, and the small of my back prickles. My body senses something’s off, but my mind can’t figure out what. “Hello?”

  The stone steps lie empty, but I feel as though a thousand eyes have turned on me, their gazes brushing against my skin, my hair, and my chest. Fear uncurls against the base of my spine, something eyeless and primal. I back away and whirl, running up the steps, through the gatehouse, and toward the shrine.

  The origami fox pricks the inside of my palm as I reach the top. I double over, panting. When I look over my shoulder, nothing waits in the torii gate below. I tell myself there isn’t anythi
ng odd about finding a piece of origami at a Shinto shrine. It’s an offering, not a warning. At worst, it’s a child’s prank.

  It’s fine. Everything is fine. I tuck the origami fox into my pocket. The sun slides ever farther down the sky, glittering through the tree branches.

  Twenty minutes later, I finish sweeping the main courtyard. As I head back to the office to change, a little flash of white catches my eye. I pause and gasp: a second origami fox sits on a large, flat stepping-stone near the pond’s edge. Had I missed this second fox earlier? No, I’d have noticed something so obviously out of place.

  The breeze clangs through the wooden ema boards on racks nearby. I jump, my pulse ringing like Grandfather’s old landline phone, and then roll my eyes at myself. I pluck the fox off the stone to carry him back to the office. It is, after all, just a bit of folded paper I can cage inside my fingers.

  In the distance, cars rumble and honk, and the trees filter people’s shouts and laughter down to a comforting hum. Beneath it all, the child’s song continues: “Kago no naka no tori wa . . . the bird in the cage . . .”

  Closer now.

  “Ami?” I halt and turn in the courtyard. “If this is another prank, I’ll make you walk yourself home tonight! In the dark!”

  Giggles echo through the shrine. With a tsk, I slip my hand into my pocket, expecting to feel the paper’s sharp points prick my fingers.

  But my pocket is empty.

  The first fox is gone.

  Three

  Fujikawa Shrine

  Kyoto, Japan

  I stab my hand into my pocket, rooting around, my breath catching. Did Ami somehow steal it from me? No, that’s impossible. My sister may be many things, but a cunning thief isn’t one of them. Something is wrong. The knowledge chills me from the inside out, as if my bones have turned to ice. I need to find Grandfather.

  Now.

  I start across the courtyard. Grandfather takes his evening tea at the shrine’s teahouse, no matter the time of year. He says he finds beauty in every season, and upon reaching his age—he’s robust even at seventy-five—each month feels as fleeting and bittersweet as cherry blossoms.

  As expected, I find him sitting on the teahouse veranda, watching koi dance under the pond’s clear surface. He still wears his regular shrine robes with black hakama, cradling a cup of tea in his weathered hands. His hair, which used to be black as the deepest part of the midnight sky, is now the color of the moon—silver white and glowing in the last embers of daylight. He looks up as I approach, smiling.

  “Good evening, Kira,” Grandfather says.

  I bow to him, then rest my broom against the teahouse’s low fence. “Hello, Grandfather. How is your tea?”

  “Never mind the tea,” he says as I join him on the veranda. “Do you hear that voice on the wind? Something is amiss today—other shrines in the area are reporting that yokai are swarming their streets. We are lucky so far, but there have been reports of violence in the north.”

  “Not too lucky,” I say, offering the origami fox to him. Grandfather frowns. He sets his teacup down, then plucks the tiny fox from my hands. “I found this at the shrine’s main gate. I put it in my pocket, only to lose it minutes later. . . .”

  I trail off, unnerved by the look on Grandfather’s face. The lines on his forehead multiply and deepen, the shadows drawing inky lines in his skin. Dread drops into my gut. He turns the tiny fox in his hands, examining it from every angle.

  “Here is a lesson in onmyōdō for you,” he says, pinching the fox’s tail between his thumb and forefinger and holding it up. “This is a shikigami, a sort of servant that both onmyōji exorcists and yokai use in rituals. I did not summon it, and its magical resonance does not feel familiar to me.”

  “What does that mean?” My voice shudders over those words.

  Grandfather holds up a hand, asking me to be quiet.

  The wind kicks up again, whispering, “Itsu, itsu, deyaru . . . when oh when shall we meet . . . ?”

  My bracelet flares white-hot, so bright and quick, it tricks my nerves into thinking the links have frozen. I grip my wrist in pain.

  “Listen carefully,” Grandfather says as he rises to his feet. “Go directly to the house, collect your sister, and hide in the cellar under the Seimei motomiya.”

  “What are you talking about?” I whisper. “Why?”

  He removes a stick of incense from a nearby ceramic dish, then touches its burning tip to the shikigami fox. As the flames eat the shikigami’s paper feet, Grandfather says, “Go. Do not leave the cellar until I come to find you. There are powerful protective wards in the motomiya. They will keep you safe.”

  Fear tastes like copper and bile on my tongue. My scabbed knees ache as I stand. “Grandfather—”

  “Do not argue with me, Kira! Go.”

  I turn on my heel and leap off the veranda, running down the teahouse path and grabbing my broom. Grandfather lives in a modest house on the shrine grounds, one that shares a garden with the priests’ dormitories. The Seimei motomiya—or small shrine—stands on the very edge of his garden and property. It’s the last original building on the site. The place honors our most famous ancestor, Abe no Seimei, who was the most talented onmyōji astronomer, magician, and exorcist of ancient Japan.

  I jog onto the main path. On my right looms the shrine proper: the main hall, courtyard, and ponds beyond; straight ahead, obscured behind a high hedge, are Grandfather’s house and the dormitories.

  Something screeches in the darkness. The sound drags itself across my skin, sharp enough to leave welts. I halt. The shriek seems to come from the front of the shrine, and echoes across the deepening night. Men shout. Someone screams. Fear makes my head feel too light, as if it could float away like a festival lantern. The path blackens. I clutch the broom’s handle to my chest, and my heart beats fast and hard against my ribs.

  The shrine is supposed to be protected from malevolent yokai, I tell myself. It’s supposed to be safe.

  A sound clicks behind me, like a cicada but louder. The noise rattles inside my bones. I whirl. Behind me, a funnel of conjured shadows stretches across the air. A yokai crawls from the weblike strands and steps onto the shrine grounds. The beast has the head and torso of a beautiful woman, her hair styled as intricately as any geisha’s . . . but the rest of her ends in a nightmare. She is half-woman, half-spider. Her eight elegant legs step in concert, and her claws click like knives against the cobblestones. The eight eyes in her face look like gashes, their insides burning bright as the embers of a fire.

  It’s . . . it’s a jorōgumo.

  I didn’t even think those were real.

  Her abdomen bobs behind her, strands of silk descending from her spinnerets. She hisses at me, then strikes.

  “No!” I scream, swinging my broom like a baseball bat. The bristles slam into her left cheekbone. Her head snaps to one side. Something cracks in her neck. The jorōgumo staggers back, her growl rumbling like deep, shackled thunder.

  Dodging past her, I sprint toward the shrine’s assembly hall. I scramble onto the veranda, slipping on the wood and catching myself against the outer wall. The yokai leaps after me with a shriek, drawing my attention backward. Moonlight glimmers on her abdomen, and on the sickled ends of her feet. She looks like a scream made flesh.

  I push off the wall and run. I make it ten steps, maybe more, before a rope of spider silk snares my ankle. It yanks my feet out from under me. I crash down, broom clacking to the wooden floor. As my heart pounds in my throat, I flip onto my back, snatching my broom. The yokai approaches. She keeps my tether taut, wrapping her silk around one hand. The veranda groans under her weight.

  She lunges for me.

  I lift my broom with a cry, jabbing the handle into her chest to hold her off. Her cheeks split and open like a set of glistening crimson leaves. Hot saliva drips off the needlelike teeth embedded in her flesh, splattering over my chest and face. It smells of bile and coppery blood.

  She leans in clos
er, her weight pressing the broom’s bristles into my gut. I grit my teeth, pain flickering across my vision in bright red bursts.

  “What do you want?” I gasp.

  She grins at me, but it’s just a sick approximation of a smile. “Isn’t it obvious, little priestess? You have a yokai’s sight—can’t you sense the weakening of the sun? Can’t you feel her getting colder, darker?”

  “Yeah,” I say, grimacing at her smell. “And it’s called winter—”

  A shadow darts in on my left. Air hisses as a blade winks in the darkness, slicing into the back of the jorōgumo’s neck. Her jaw falls open in shock. Great splatters of blood hit the ground. The jorōgumo becomes boneless, collapsing beside me, the life gone out of her. Her claws slice into the veranda, leaving great red wounds in the wood.

  With a shriek, I scramble away on my knees and palms.

  “Useless creature.” A shadowy figure spits on the corpse. “I ordered you to leave the girl alone.”

  I know that voice. I’ve heard it ringing in the shrine’s halls, even when it wasn’t louder than a whisper. The white peaks of his fox ears almost glow with unearthly light. Black bloodstains spread across his kimono. If Shiro channels sunlight with his laugh, then his elder brother, Ronin, can funnel darkness with a look.

  His gaze fills my whole soul with dread.

  “W-what’s going on?” I whisper, shocked to see the katana in his hand. The blade glows with a muted gray light, like a lightbulb coated in grime. Kitsune don’t use katana—it’s not possible to cast an onmyōdō spell while holding a sword, and magic is a kitsune’s specialty. I blink fast. “I don’t understand, h-how did you—”

  “Ronin!” someone shouts behind us. I turn, surprised to see Shiro standing on the path behind us, his face and chest splattered in blood. The inky fluid drips from the tips of his fingers, which end in long, sturdy claws. Shiro’s voice sounds lower, rougher, as though he’s shifting deeper into his yokai form, leaving his human elements behind: “Let Kira go.”