Approaching the first shelf, Yukiko set her lantern down, picked a scroll at random. The paper was greasy under her fingertips, a thick, heavy vellum that felt almost … moist.
Unfurling the scroll, she held it out in the guttering light. Browned with age, edges slightly uneven. She could see kanji inked on the surface, tiny verses she realized were haiku. Flicking her hair aside, eyes scanning the page, budding amazement coming to full bloom.
She brought the scroll closer, squinted at it in the guttering dark.
Yukiko dropped the scroll to the floor, wiping her hand on her trouser leg. Face twisted in revulsion, mouth dry, she looked around the shelves in growing horror.
The thunder tiger poked his head through the doorway above and blinked.
She backed away from the shelf, one trembling hand to her mouth.
“Hello, young miss.”
Yukiko whirled, hand on Yofun’s hilt as thunder crashed again. Buruu roared, hackles rippling down his spine, wings crackling with electricity. Lightning streaked across the sky, brilliant blue-white illuminating the gloom, and in the brief flash, she caught sight of a figure standing in the shadow of the stairs.
“Peace, young miss.” The figure raised its hands. “You have no need of steel here.”
Yukiko refrained from drawing the blade but kept her grip on the katana’s hilt, squinting in the gloom gathered after the lightning flare. The figure stood a little taller than she, wrapped in a simple monk’s robe of faded blue. A deep cowl hid its face, but the stature and voice were definitely male.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“Is this the custom in Shima now, young miss? A stranger breaks into your home, and you are expected to make introductions?”
The voice was calm, somewhat hollow, almost breathless. Her heart was thumping in her chest at the sudden fright, fingertips tingling with adrenaline. Feedback crackled down the Kenning, sudden stress opening pathways to her synapses, Buruu looming louder than the storm. She could feel his senses layered over her own, that old familiar tangle—wings at her back, talons at her fingertips, not knowing where he ended and she began. All of it underscored with a vague fear of the waiting pain. The control slipping through her grip.
“My name is Kitsune Yukiko,” she said, trying to keep her voice even. “That’s my brother Buruu.”
“Well met,” the figure bowed. “My name is Shun. I am master of this monastery.”
The figure drew back its cowl, revealing a thin and pallid face. Hairless scalp, mouth creased with age, wisdom gleaming in the depths of heavily lidded eyes. His irises were milky, almost white, as if he suffered from cataracts. Yet his gaze was focused, drifting from her feet up to her face. He blinked. Three times. Rapid succession.
Buruu’s thoughts crackled across hers with all the fury of the tempest above. She winced, tightened her grip on her sword.
“Are you in need?” the pale monk breathed. “Do you hunger? Thirst?”
“I seek answers, Brother Shun, not comforts.”
“We have those in abundance, Kitsune Yukiko.”
“We?” Looking around the ghastly library, raising an eyebrow.
“The Painted Brethren.”
“Is it true you keep the mysteries of the world here? Secrets forgotten?”
Shun gestured to the shelves and their horrid burden. “Never forgotten.”
“Do you know the secrets of the Kenning?”
“Hmn … I believe Brother Bishamon wore some lore about beast-speaking.”
“May I talk to him? Where is he?”
“If memory serves…” the old man tapped his lip, eyes scanning the shelves, “… there. Third row. Second alcove. Though I fear you may find his conversational skills … lacking.”
Yukiko swallowed her disgust, a thick, curdled mouthful, drumming her fingers on Yofun’s hilt. “But I can … read him?”
“Hai.” Triple blink. “But it is traditional for a tithe to be given for access to our athenaeum. A small token of gratitude for the brotherhood’s efforts at preserving lore otherwise lost to the hands of time and the flames of fools.”
“I have no money.”
Shun offered a conciliatory smile. “Then we cannot ask it of you, young miss.”
Yukiko glanced at the clump of oily scrolls the brother had gestured to, saw one with the name BISHAMON carved into its handle. Buruu growled in warning, low and deadly. Lightning licked the windows, and in the shuddering flare, she became aware of other figures in the room. One cloaked in shadows behind Brother Shun, another behind her, two more at the foot of the stairs. All clad in those long bleach-blue robes, frayed hems scraping the floor, hands clasped, heads bowed. Motionless as statues. Silent as ghosts.
She was certain they hadn’t been there a moment ago.
Sweat in her eyes. No spit in her mouth. The Kenning flaring wide, Buruu’s fear and aggression filling her, pupils dilating, stomach flooded with butterflies. The pain gripped tight, scalding her arteries, the answers she needed just a hand’s breadth away. She reached toward Bishamon’s scroll and Brother Shun moved, quick as lizards’ tongues, as dancing, fighting flies, grasping her wrist with one pale, ink-stained hand. His grip was cold as fresh snow, almost burning on her skin.
“Let go of me,” she gasped.
“The tithe first, young miss.”
She jerked her arm, unable to break his horrid, glacial hold. The burn scar at her shoulder stretched tight as her muscles strained, arm trembling. Two tons of thunder tiger pounded against a foot of solid granite. Buruu’s roar filled the room, rippling on the walls, in her chest, peeling her lips back from her teeth.
“I told you I don’t have any money,” she hissed.
“We have no need of iron.” Cataract eyes roamed her body, something akin to hunger swelling in their depths. “A foot should suffice.”
“What?” Yukiko twisted in his grip. “You want my feet?”
She jerked her arm again, the sleeve of Brother Shun’s robe slipping down, bunching at his elbow. And with a low moan of horror, she saw the entire limb had been peeled like fruit, skin flayed clean off, exposing wet dark muscle and gleaming bone beneath.
“Perhaps fourteen inches…” Shun smiled. “You
