Shadow

surged until I felt like I was burning, like I would turn to ashes right there.

I unbuckled the seat belt and lunged for the bathroom.

“Miss, you can’t get up right now!”

I ignored her and locked myself in, gasping for breath.

What was happening? I stared at my hands. My skin looked pinker than usual, and my face was flushed. Some kind of fever? But I didn’t feel sick.

Great. Two hours from landing and I was having some sort of heart attack.

I turned on the tap and splashed cold water on my face.

Maybe it’s better if you’re sick. You don’t belong anymore.

No, that was stupid. Mom wouldn’t want that. I didn’t want that, not really. I was just scared, that’s all. Some sort of panic attack.

I pressed my fingers against my wrist, trying to find my pulse. And then I realized something horrible, something terrifying.

The plane dipped in perfect time with my heartbeat.

I gasped. And then suddenly the heat fizzled away, my cheeks paled and my pulse slowed. All that was left was the buzzing feeling, like I’d had a good jolt of electricity through me.

What the hell?

The stewardess knocked on the door. “Miss?”

I yanked a paper towel from the wall and patted my face dry. I opened the door and mumbled an apology.

“You’re all right?”

“I’m fine,” I said, slumping back into my seat.

“Let me get you some tea,” she said, and she hurried away.

The pocket of turbulence slowed with my heartbeat, and then everything was as still as before.

Had I imagined it? Maybe it felt like my pulse had matched it because every bump had thrown my stomach for a loop. It was strange, though. I knew I should’ve asked for help instead of locking myself in, and yet something in me felt the incident had been something to hide. Maybe I was just afraid to face whatever it was, that there might be some real problem with me.

Everything on the plane seemed so vivid, the lights too bright, the fabric of the seat too rough. Everything came into focus, like I’d been sleeping all this time and had just woken up. I guessed it was just the aftermath of a panic attack.

“Here you go,” the stewardess said, handing me a plastic cup of cold tea.

“Thanks,” I said, and I took a sip. It tasted like mulled green beans, bitter and strange but not completely awful.

I looked out the window as Japan unfurled below us. It was a different world, the colors somehow more saturated and the air denser than home. The cars looked different, even if they were ant-sized from this height. Streets had white kanji scrawled on them in paint; stop signs were triangular, and everyone drove on the left. It was like life filtered through a warped mirror.

This was my life now, and I could barely recognize it.

Chapter Eight

Tomohiro

“Shiori!” I shouted as I neared the courtyard of her school. It was a private girls’ academy, but I didn’t hesitate, just plowed straight through groups of girls in their crimson blazers and tartan skirts, past the open iron gates and toward the door of the main building.

I flung the door open. Their genkan wasn’t as old-fashioned as ours. Instead of shoe cubbies, rows of beige half lockers filled the room.

A few of the girls looked up at me with wide eyes, but I ignored them, weaving between them like they weren’t even there. On the other side of a row of lockers I heard the muffled sobs.

“Shiori?”

The sobbing stopped.

“Tomo-kun?”

Shiori was the one person I had let get close to me, because despite everything that had happened—the accidents, the accusations—she had never doubted me. If I could just protect her, maybe I wouldn’t have to accept what the nightmares repeated, that I was destined for nothing but destruction and death. If I protected her, my life could have meaning. I could fight what I knew I was.

I looked down the next row of lockers and found her sitting on the floor in a slump, surrounded by crumpled white papers. Her locker door hung open, the corner of it warped in a new and ugly dent.

“Are you okay?” I said. I crouched down beside her, and my movement sent several more of the white papers tumbling from her locker. She shook her head, the tears streaking down her face as she wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand.

I picked up one of the crumpled papers and unfolded it. Giant kanji scrawled across it, childish names like dirty slut with Shiori’s phone number scrawled at the bottom. You don’t need a kotatsu table to keep warm. Call Shiori! She’ll sleep with anyone! It was the filth of washroom graffiti, juvenile really, but Shiori’s petite frame shook with sobs.

I scrunched the paper into a ball. “Assholes,” I said. “You know who it was?”

She shook her head again, her voice almost a whisper. She looked as pale as the lockers, like if I touched her shoulder she might just vanish completely.

One of the girls leaned over, her hands clasped in front of her. “Um...are you her boyfriend? I don’t think you’re supposed to be here—”

“Shut it,” I snapped, and she held her hands up.

“Mou! Just trying to warn you. You want to get her in more trouble?”

I stood up, my bangs falling into my eyes as I stared at her. “If you girls looked out for each other I wouldn’t have to be here,” I growled. “What, are you going to just let her sit there in a pile of hate mail? What if it was you, huh? What if you had the whole school breathing down your neck because they weren’t getting any?”

“Tomo-kun, stop.” Shiori’s voice trembled and the rage in me melted away. What the hell was with me today?

The other girl looked at me like I was crazy, but I didn’t care. “Sorry,” I mumbled to Shiori, and started scooping up armfuls of the paper. The girl stood watching for a minute, then turned and left silently. Like she wasn’t just ignoring the bullying. I cursed under my breath.

“It’s okay,” Shiori said. “It’s nice that you’re mad.”

“Mad? I’m furious. Fuming, you might say.” She fought a smile, so I kept pushing. “I’m enraged. Incensed!” A small smile broke through, and I grinned. Back in control, finally. “Let’s get a bag to put these in, and then I’m taking you to get shabu shabu for dinner.”

“Be serious,” Shiori said. “Like you have the money for that.”

“Okay, maybe not,” I grinned. “But udon I could handle.”

“Um, Yamada-san?” came the nervous voice, calling Shiori formally by her last name. I looked up. The girl had returned, a white plastic bag held open in her outstretched hands.

Shiori just stared. Finally, she breathed, “Thank you.”

I lifted the pile of papers in my arms and shoved them into the bag, nodding at the girl. She nodded back.

Just a little kindness. That’s all anyone needed. Not to be alone. Why was it so hard for any of us to give?

Deep thoughts for a Demon Son. The thought sent me whirling back to the history lesson. Taira no Kiyomori was real. The nightmares were real. What did it mean?