some kind of prank. But not all five, and not if Ren is hurt and Miho is gone… I know, I know, but we can’t do this alone! We need help! Just meet us there!”
Sakura snapped her phone shut and put it away. She took a deep breath and started for the door without waiting for Mai.
“What did she say?” Mai said, following her out the door. “What’s going on? Why was she fighting with you?”
“Kara didn’t want to leave her house because Aritomo-sensei is there. The Hannya is there with her father.”
A chill ran up Mai’s spine and all her anger vanished. “But she’s going to meet us at Yamato-sensei’s?”
“She’ll be there.”
Mai nodded once, turned, and headed across the field with Sakura matching her stride for stride.
Miho woke to the copper scent of blood and the awful, rotting stench of death. As she grew conscious of her surroundings, eyes flickering open in the dark, the smells overwhelmed her, filling her nostrils and her throat. Her stomach convulsed and she rolled to one side, a thin stream of vomit erupting from her mouth.
Panic and revulsion brought her fully awake. She forced herself to breathe through her mouth, the stink of the room too much to take. Disoriented, she looked around, trying to make sense of what she saw.
The low ceiling above her head had a peak in the middle, and there were boxes and two old traveling chests stacked to one side. In the gloom-slices of moonlight gleaming between shutters or boards that blocked two small windows-she could make out a metal rack hung with what appeared to be old Noh or Kabuki theatrical costumes. A bare dressmaker’s dummy stood beside the costume rack like some headless, limbless spectator.
The smell. Where did the smell come from?
Miho sat up and her stomach convulsed again. Bile burned in the back of her throat, but this time she managed to suppress the urge to vomit. It wasn’t just the smell, she realized. The nausea and disorientation were symptoms of something else. Flashes of the conflict on the train platform came back to her. Fear flooded through her as she remembered the Hannya, its intimate hiss, and what it had done to Ren.
Oh, Ren. She squeezed her eyes tightly closed, terrible sadness gnawing at her. Please don’t be dead.
A fresh wave of nausea hit her gut and she thought again of the Hannya. One hand fluttered up to her neck and she gave a tiny yelp at the pain as she touched the bruised, punctured skin there. Some of the blood she smelled might be her own.
It had bitten her, and the bite had poisoned her or something. It had made her sleep as if she’d been drugged, and now the effects were starting to wear off. But the Hannya would be back.
Miho took a breath, still through her mouth, but now she could taste the stink of dead flesh on her tongue. Chills shuddered through her and she looked around, eyes at last beginning to adjust to the gloom.
In a dark corner to the right of the window she saw an antique dollhouse. In the black shadows behind it lay what was left of a human body. Torn and broken, bones showing, from what she could see in the dark it looked as though wild animals had gotten to it. Hungry animals. The darker stains on the wall and on the roof of the dollhouse must have been blood.
Miho began to shake. Her eyes swam with tears.
“No,” she whispered. “No, please. I haven’t done anything.”
Lurching to her feet, she banged her head on the low ceiling and then staggered toward the boarded window. Her fingers found purchase but she could not tear the wood away.
Miho dropped to her knees, threw back her head, and began to scream for help. She cried and she beat her fists on the boards and screamed until her throat hurt. Minutes passed before she paused to breathe, and to think.
And then a voice, little more than a dry rasp, came from behind the costume rack.
“You shouldn’t bother,” said the voice. “No one will hear. I’ve been trying for days.”
13
M r. Yamato sat in a rigid wooden chair, his back straight. As he listened to Kara and Sakura tell the story from the beginning, with Mai reinforcing their tale by relating again what Ume had told her and Ren showing his injuries and detailing the attack at the train station, the principal’s expression did not waver. So often stern, Kara thought his face must have settled comfortably into those grim lines over the years.
“And then we came here,” Kara told him. “Please, Yamato-sensei. You must believe us. I’m afraid for Miho, and for my father. More people will die if we don’t do something.”
The principal took a deep breath, but still his expression did not change. He shifted his gaze from student to student, studying each of them as though searching for a weak link in the story. Kara could not blame him if he thought they were all liars or lunatics, but she did not think that was the case at all. If he had, wouldn’t he have thrown them out of his house minutes after they’d begun their tale? Instead, he had listened to every word, asking only clarifications.
“Please, Yamato-sensei,” Mai said.
The principal’s eyes narrowed further as he focused on her. What had he expected when he had opened his door to find them there? Surely not this. He had invited them inside and they had removed their shoes and sat on mats and cushions on the floor of the living room. Mr. Yamato’s wife had offered them tea, but he had seen the urgency in their faces and politely asked her to let him speak to his students alone. He had apologized to them for sitting in the chair, explaining that he had trouble with his back. And then he had asked them to begin, turning to Kara as though sensing that the others also wished for her to speak first.
Now the principal shifted his gaze to Kara again.
“You lied to me that day, in my office.”
She flushed but did not avert her eyes. “Yes, sensei. I’m very sorry. At that point I still hoped Wakana and Daisuke really had run away together. And I was afraid if I told you that Mai was telling the truth, you wouldn’t believe any of us.”
Mr. Yamato nodded, glancing at Mai. “I see. And Mai told me only part of the truth, that day.”
“It was the truth as I knew it, sensei,” Mai said quickly. “As told to me by Ume.”
The man’s eyes darkened. “Ume, who may have been a murderer.”
Mai dropped her gaze.
“Tell me now, girl,” the principal commanded. “Were you one of those with Ume on the night Akane Murakami was killed?”
Kara glanced at Hachiro, Ren, and Sakura. All of them were staring at Mai, waiting for the answer. Sakura’s fists were clenched, but Kara couldn’t tell if the look on her face showed fury or a fresh wave of grief over the loss of her older sister.
Mai lifted her chin. “No, sensei. I swear I was not with them. Hana and Chouku were, but I know that only because Ume told me.”
“How convenient that they’re dead,” Sakura said bitterly. “You know who else was there.”
“I’d only be guessing,” Mai insisted.
“Enough!” Mr. Yamato said, slicing the air with his hand. He looked at Sakura, then turned back to Mai. “We will speak about this more tomorrow. First, we must contend with the story you have told me tonight.”
“Do you believe us?” Ren asked.
Mr. Yamato took a deep breath. It didn’t seem possible to Kara, but he actually sat up a bit straighter in his chair.
“As a younger man, I would have dismissed such stories without a moment’s thought. My grandmother loved to tell us tales of gods and demons, of spirits wearing the faces of men, and especially of tricksters who could appear to be animals. Kitsune was her favorite. I remember so many of those stories. I never believed them, but I knew my grandmother did. My father used to say the woman was crazy, and though I loved her stories, I agreed.
“As I have grown older, I have thought of my grandmother often. In my memories, she does not seem at all insane. In all other ways, she conducted her life normally-a sweet, doting woman who made fish soup better than
