“I would give you my ki,” she mumbled, vaguely bothered that Shiro might think she trusted Yumei more than him. “If you needed it.”
He chuckled softly. “Let’s hope I never need it. Now sleep, little miko.”
She stopped resisting the insistent drag of weariness. A small, nagging worry flittered through her thoughts that there was something else she should have told him, a warning she couldn’t quite remember. But then she fell asleep.
Chapter 3
Violent shivers pulled her from the depths of sleep. The chill in the room cut right through the layers of blanket and kimono, and her toes ached from the cold. Curled in a tight ball beneath her blankets, she exhaled harshly, half expecting her breath to fog the air.
Beyond the thin partition that separated her sleeping quarters from the rest of the room, the windows rattled in a fierce wind. A winter storm? A feverish ache throbbed in her muscles, though she didn’t think she had slept for more than a few hours.
Yawning, she forced her tired body off the futon. Cold hit her like a splash of frigid water but even that wasn’t enough to dispel her drowsy daze. A short, fumbling search uncovered no extra blankets in the closet within her small alcove. Wrapping an arm around herself for warmth, she slid a panel open and peeked into the main room.
The remains of Shiro and Yumei’s late dinner had been cleared from the table, and the unlit brazier was devoid of light or warmth. Across the room, a second futon had been laid out near Shiro’s, and dark shapes filled both.
Trust the yokai to sleep right through the freezing cold. Behind their futons was a larger closet where bedding was stored. Surely there would be an extra blanket in there. She stumbled toward it in exhaustion. Her chest felt hollow and empty, and some of the chill that plagued her emanated from within.
As she crossed the room, an icy breeze rushed across her. Jerking back a step, she turned toward the sliding garden doors. A six-inch gap revealed the night-swathed garden beyond, where snow flew almost horizontally in the wind.
Why on earth had they left the door open? With a tired scowl, she yanked it shut. The room immediately felt warmer. Shaking her head, she stopped at the foot of Shiro’s futon, the light from the window glimmering on his white hair. Not that long ago, she had woken him from a nightmare, and he had thrown her into a wall before rousing enough to realize he was about to rip her throat out. Attempting to sneak between their futons to reach the closet was probably unwise.
“Shiro?” she whispered. “Are you awake?”
He didn’t stir. Neither did Yumei, who slept on his back with his head turned away, his hair splayed untidily across his face in a way that was very unlike the usually reserved yokai. He rarely slept when anyone else was nearby, at least as far as she’d seen. Maybe her ki had tired him.
“Shiro?” she tried again more loudly.
When he again didn’t move, not even a twitch of his ears, a nervous prickle climbed her spine. Shiro wasn’t that deep of a sleeper. And why hadn’t her clumsy banging of the garden door woken them?
A spike of adrenaline cut through her drowsiness as she realized how unlikely it was that Shiro and Yumei would go to sleep with a door ajar. Had the wind blown it open? Or … something else?
She scoured the room, but it was clearly empty. Biting the inside of her cheek, she stepped between the futons and crouched.
“Shiro,” she called. “Wake up!”
No reaction. Hoping he wouldn’t attack her, she touched his shoulder. He slept on, eyes closed, face slack. Her apprehension intensified into real fear.
“Shiro!” She gripped his shoulder and shook it, but he still didn’t wake or so much as stir.
Was she dreaming? Was this a nightmare? She spun around and reached for Yumei.
“Yumei, wake up! Please wake up!” She shook him but he was as unresponsive as Shiro. In desperation, she hit his shoulder with her open palm, yelling his name. “What’s wrong with you? Wake up!”
As she turned, intending to grab a handful of snow from outside to shove in Shiro’s face, the air above him shimmered strangely. She went rigid, squinting into the darkness.
A shadow took form. A small body, thin limbs, ragged black hair. The ghostly child crouched on Shiro’s chest, her blank, bottomless stare fixed on Emi.
Her heart thudded in her ears. A kanashibari, the dream-weaving yokai that had been watching Emi in the bath. That was what she’d forgotten to warn Shiro about! And now it was sitting on him, and he wouldn’t wake up.
She lurched back to Yumei. A second kanashibari appeared before her, perched on his torso. The new one, another little girl with short, stringy hair and a pale kimono, looked up at Emi with empty black eyes.
The child’s lips pulled up in a rictal grin, and her tiny arm shot out.
Emi shoved the yokai away, but her hands passed right through the spectral body, feeling nothing but frosty air.
The yokai reached for her face and a small, frigid, solid palm pressed against her forehead. A wave of burning ice surged into Emi’s skull, blanketing her thoughts. Impossible, unyielding drowsiness crashed through her.
Before she could react, before she could even think about resisting, she collapsed on top of Yumei’s unconscious body and slid into darkness.
Emi’s feet were moving, but she didn’t know where they carried her.
As she meandered, relaxed and without urgency, her gaze travelled lazily around, taking in the unfamiliar sights. Walls rose on either side of her, curving outward at their bases. Vines, heavy with green leaves, draped over the dark stones. Twenty feet above, the stone transitioned to black wood walls interspersed with small, square windows.
Bemused but oddly calm, she followed the gravel lane into a twisting labyrinth, bordered by the towering walls. Shadows drenched her path and the clouds were bathed in the vibrant oranges of sunset.
She rounded another sharp turn and discovered wide steps. Craning her neck, she took in the tall, narrow building with multiple levels and a peaked, tiled roof: a watchtower upon a wall.
At the top of the steps, she found herself standing at the far end of a long, tiered courtyard. All around it, various buildings formed sharp angles with interconnected breezeways of wood and tile. Directly across from her was the largest building of all: six stories with layers of dark tiles and curving roofs, large windows, and a balcony surrounding the uppermost level.
A castle. She was wandering the grounds of an ancient castle.
She walked across the courtyard, her red hakama swishing about her legs. In the shadows of the many buildings, shapes moved. People in the traditional garments of days long past huddled together, their tension obvious even at a glance. With low-pitched calls, a flock of crows swept overhead, disappearing beyond the defensive outer wall.
Very gradually, questions began to whisper in her head. Where was she? What was this castle? Why was she here?
She ascended the steps to the castle’s entrance and walked through the open doors. Inside, beautiful tatami mats covered the floors of a room that seemingly stretched the full length of the building. Open rice-paper partitions and lacquered wood pillars interspersed the space. Pausing, she slipped her sandals off, leaving them in the entryway as was proper.
She crossed the grand hall on noiseless feet, then found herself walking up a flight of stairs to the next level. The rooms grew smaller and more lavish, simplistic but stunningly appointed. The nervous prickle deepened into trepidation. This wasn’t right. She shouldn’t be here. She didn’t belong here.
She stopped, amazed by the splendid room in which she found herself standing. Sprawled across every panel of the walls, murals depicted mountainsides and waterfalls and courts of brightly dressed lords and ladies. Narrow lacquered beams formed a latticework on the high ceiling, each square painted with its own tiny scene. Shimmering gold finishes added another level of wealth and sophistication to the space.
Breathless at the splendor, she drifted toward one of the open sliding panels
that led to the balcony. She stepped onto the wooden floor and rested her hands on the railing. The castle grounds spread before her—a maze of connecting buildings across three distinct levels, each surrounded by its own protective walls, with the castle in the center of the highest level.
From her vantage point, she watched the bustling activity below. Men and women hurried to and from buildings, and shadows passed across the windows of the defensive walls—soldiers on patrol. An excessive number of crows flitted from rooftop to rooftop, and a handful of figures that didn’t appear human moved about the pathways.
Beyond the castle walls was a sprawling grid of more buildings—all wooden structures. The dirt roads were dotted with the obvious shapes of horses and oxen pulling carts. Where was she?
A loud clatter and a thump interrupted her thoughts. She instinctively ducked behind the edge of the sliding doors, out of view of the room beyond.
From another of the four balconies that surrounded the floor, a dark shape swept inside. Large black wings rose from the man’s back, the feathers gleaming in the light of the setting sun. He was dressed in a black kosode and hakama and wore light armor—overlapping leather plates that covered his shoulders and hung down his upper arms. His long black hair was tied high on the back of his head, swaying with his angry strides, and several dark feathers accentuated his pointed ears.
Behind him, a woman with matching wings rushed to keep pace, her longer hair bound in the same style, her dark clothing and minimal armor only slightly less masculine than his.
“My lord!” she exclaimed in frustration. “Will you listen?”
The man’s wings flared as he spun toward the woman, and light from the balcony cut across his face.
Emi gasped in silent recognition. Yumei. His clothes and hair were different, but his face was unmistakable—as were those pale silver eyes.
“I care not what you would say,” he snarled, fury vibrating through every word. “If you valued your life, you would not be here.”
The woman planted her feet and folded her arms. A long katana and a shorter wakizashi were tied at her waist.
“We were victorious.” She lifted her chin. “We claimed a great conquest, one that will not soon be forgotten, and the name of the Tengu—and the fear of him—will be written into the history books.”
“You are a fool,” he spat.
“Am I?” she shot back. “Do you claim not to relish our triumph over the arrogant kami, our destruction of their great shrine? Do you claim not to covet the prizes we won, the treasures and weapons and powerful enchantments that now belong to us?”
“Treasures—of Izanagi.”
“We defeated his shrine, his vassals, his barriers and protections. Why should we cower before him?”
Yumei turned away from her. His wings snapped open and the black feathers dissolved into ribbons of power. The woman flared her wings, letting them fade into swirls of shadow as well.
“I forbade you to attack the shrine.” His voice was suddenly soft—dangerously soft.
“You left me no choice. I knew you would not let us die there, just as I knew your strength would prevail.” The woman pushed her shoulders back. “You have forgotten the glory of victory, my lord. You have done nothing but sit in this room and watch the seasons pass for too long, permitting the other daitengu to do as they please. It is time for you to awaken again. They need to see your strength, your power. The world needs to see it once again!”
Yumei stared straight ahead, his back to his daitengu—his general. “You are a blind fool. I forbade you to attack the shrine not because victory was out of our reach, but because it would mean our destruction.”
The woman retreated a step, her mouth opening.
He turned back to her, unforgiving anger icing over his expression. “We prevailed only because Izanagi is not in this world. But now he will descend, and in restitution for our victory—for my violation of his treasured shrine—he will destroy me and everything that is mine. My lands, my armies. My generals.”
“We—we will not be defeated by—”
“We will. He will destroy everything. Anything less would be a message to all yokai, an invitation to raid and pillage all that belongs to kami and their servants.” He bared his teeth. “He will lay waste to all whom I command, all whom I protect, because you disobeyed me!”
She stepped back from his savage ferocity. “Why did you join me, then? Why not let us die?”
“It was already too late.”
The shadows within the room thickened, rippling and dancing as they drew around him like a living cloak. He stepped toward the woman, his movements slow, smooth—predatory. Taking hold of the hilt at her hip, he drew the short wakizashi from its sheath with a metallic slither.
The color drained from her cheeks. “My lord?”
His expression was blank, merciless. He offered her the hilt. “Your choice, Saburo.”
She sucked in a trembling breath. “My lord, you don’t … you wouldn’t …”
“You betrayed me. You deserve not even this final chance to salvage your honor.”
The woman’s face hardened with resolve. “I stand by my choice. What I did, I did for you, so your daitengu—and you—would remember your power.”
He turned the wakizashi in his hand so the blade angled toward her unprotected abdomen. Her gaze darted from the blade to his face and her jaw quivered.
“You have left me no other choice,” he said.
“Yumei—”
He slashed the blade across her stomach. Blood sprayed across the tatami mats and she fell to the floor, clutching her middle.
Emi clapped her hands to her mouth, her head swimming. Yumei stood over the fallen woman, blood dripping from the sword, then he lifted the weapon a second time, the blade poised above her neck. Emi looked away, eyes squeezed shut as she wished desperately for this nightmare to end.
No, not a nightmare, she realized. A memory—Yumei’s memory.
Understanding brought with it the vision of the kanashibari sitting on Yumei’s chest, reaching for her. She was caught in the yokai’s spell, reliving Yumei’s past along with him.
A thud drew her attention back to the room. Yumei had dropped the wakizashi beside the unmoving daitengu. He strode away from her, pulling the armor from his shoulders and throwing it aside. He stopped beside a pillar and faced the sunset beyond the open balcony doors, his back to the woman he had killed. Bracing his forearm on the pillar, he bowed his head, shoulders slumped in defeat.
“Undone by a woman, Tengu?”
The sound of that voice stole Emi’s breath.
Yumei spun around. Across the room, the newcomer sauntered forward. Elegant white garments, the draping sleeves edged in embroidered flames, flowed around him. His long white hair was loosely bound behind his neck with a red tie and vulpine ears rose above his head.
“Inari,” Yumei snarled.
Chapter 4
Emi forced herself to inhale, the breath shuddering through her. Inari.
She could never have imagined Shiro in such exquisite, regal attire, but Inari wore it without a hint of self-consciousness. His bound hair, longer than Yumei’s, fell almost to his waist.
She leaned out a little farther, peering at him, but she couldn’t focus on his face, couldn’t even see his ruby eyes or the markings on his cheeks. In this memory-turned-dream, Yumei didn’t remember Inari’s face; not even powerful yokai could hold on to the memory of a Kunitsukami’s appearance indefinitely.
“So,” Inari continued with a mocking edge as he stopped near the body on the floor, “your lovely daitengu assaulted Izanagi’s principal shrine, and you charged in after her, thereby condemning every life beneath you. How noble.”
“As you no doubt already overheard,” Yumei replied acidly, “I joined her because it was too late. Whether I commanded the attack or not, Izanagi will not differentiate in his vengeance.”
“Of course not. She was yours not only to command but to contr
ol, and you did neither.” Giving the crimson puddle a wide berth, Inari strolled around the room, examining the painted murals. “Why is it, Tengu, that she failed to obey you? It seems many of your daitengu have begun to stray.”
“Why are you here, Inari?”
“You have been unusually quiet of late. I have heard little of your conquests these past years.” Inari faced Yumei. “Do you tire of battles and blood?”
“I have business to attend to. If you wish to be entertained, there are many opportunities in town.”
“I am more than entertained already, Tengu,” Inari purred, ice and fire thrumming through his voice. “Such a fate you have called upon yourself. Izanagi’s vengeance will be spectacular. You have expanded your lands and armies to glorious heights these past thousand years, and yet once the Amatsukami of the Sky is finished, all that will remain is scorched earth and ashes.”
“I cannot reverse what has been done,” Yumei snapped, his hands clenching into fists. “Find a new amusement, Kunitsukami.”
Inari glided into motion again, circling the room and Yumei. Seeing Inari like this—taunting Yumei, digging at his vulnerabilities, pushing his temper ever closer to the surface—Shiro’s playful teasing no longer seemed as harmless. She now understood it was a gentler version of Inari’s cutting taunts. Where Shiro’s banter rarely incited more than irritation in Yumei, Inari was effortlessly provoking the Tengu into a rage.
“What will you do, Tengu?” Inari asked, the question less caustic than his previous remarks. “There is time yet before Izanagi descends to wreak his vengeance.”
Yumei’s eyes narrowed as he gauged the change in Inari’s tone. “I will save whatever I can.”
Inari ceased pacing and ran a hand down a glossy pillar. “The glory of battle. The sweet rush of victory. The blood of your enemies upon the ground. They do not call to you as they once did, do they?”
Stiffening, Yumei said nothing.
“Your thoughts dwell not on the thirst for conquest but on the burdens already upon you, the lives and lands you rule. Your lovely daitengu mistress craved battle, but you, Tengu, have no fire left for the dance of life and death. It has been quenched beneath the weight of your duties as a sovereign lord.”