The Book of Fallen Leaves (The Book of Fallen Leaves #1)

Chapter One Demons

CHAPTER ONE

Demons

Winter

The man took too long to die.

He thrashed and screamed and trembled in the girl’s arms, and at the end, he begged for mercy, clutching at her with a wet, wavering voice, choking and full of fear. But he was just a priest. She was small, no more than a child, and the man was weak, and the knife was not too heavy.

When it was done, his lifeblood warm over her fingers, the girl crouched beside him, waiting for the last of his spirit to leave. The red spilled a darkening ochre into the dirt; she held his hand. “You don’t have to be afraid,” she said. “It will be over soon. You’ll be all right.”

When it was done, she let the body fall.

When it was done, she looked up, and slowly seemed to remember where she was.

She peered into the night, the rotten fence, the winding line of cobblestones and weeds.

She saw a clump of steps that crowded at the foot of a decrepit hut, dark and so ramshackle that a ghost could knock it down.

There, the woman she called her sister stood waiting like a statue in white mourner’s robes, gazing up into a black and hooded sky.

Two more dead monks lay in broken pieces at her feet.

“Sister.” The child went to her, hesitantly, and tapped a finger on the woman’s arm. “Look, sister,” she said, peering upward. “The gods are walking. Do you see?”

“Yes,” the woman said. Her face shone pale as alabaster, smooth as stone. “Yes.”

The rain had stopped long before the two figures had entered the courtyard, leaving the air wet and heavy.

But when the dark-eyed woman in the long white mourner’s cloak stepped across the gate, a chill fell through the night and even the crickets stopped their clamor.

The lack of a breeze and the oppressive feeling of the low clouds overhead filled the air with a cloying fullness, a kind of thick humidity that made it hard to move; it was as if the dark itself had weight. There were no stars.

Storms had come hard and fast, flooding the little courtyards of the decrepit shrine and the temple just beyond, but now, everything was still.

The two figures walked past the gate, sandals squishing in the mud and between the sodden stepping-stones.

The small temple lay before them, hardly more than a shack.

A thin stream of smoke unfolded itself from an opening in the roof, and the crackle of a fire whispered faintly from within.

“We will stop here,” the woman said.

If not for the lines and the shadows under her eyes, she would have seemed almost young.

But there were shadows, and there were lines.

Criss-crossing a gentle face, the trace of a dozen written marks cut across her features as though she’d been splashed by ink.

Words written onto skin, fine strokes almost too faint to see.

When she stepped into the light, the writing vanished, leaving her skin unblemished.

When she looked down, her face falling into shadow again, the letters reappeared, faint as they were, and hard to see in the darkness. She took the young girl’s hand.

The girl didn’t notice the marks. Or if she did, she didn’t mind them.

“Let us hurry,” the woman said, leading her toward the shack at the edge of the courtyard. “Before the rains return.”

Her voice was but a whisper, sibilant and thin; like the trickle of water on the shores of Onji River in the spring.

Her eyes were polished stones, shining in dim cloudlight.

She was tall, towering over the child, and her movements were gentle, but slow, careful as a tiger on the hunt.

She seemed, with her steady gaze and calm, unnatural look, to be somehow disconnected from the earth.

By the time they reached the little temple, her face lay smooth and mournful again. The words, like spells, had disappeared.

The girl shifted as they got close, listening to the sound of the fire inside. “Someone’s in there.”

“Yes, child,” the woman said. “Come. He has been waiting for us. Though, perhaps, he does not know it.”

The hut, a simple open space, had a shrine on peeling wood, a place for tea, a hearth, a dying fire: nothing more.

There was barely any warmth. A young monk sat in meditation by the wall.

In his third decade on this earth, he swayed, turning prayer beads with slim hands, counting each one, click, click, click. “Namu Ohirume Kotaijin,” he intoned.

A breeze swept past, the fire flickered, and in the space between one breath and the next, the woman was there.

She stood as if she’d always been there, floating in the dark beside him.

Finally, she sat. The prayer continued in silence.

The incense burned. The woman said nothing, but in the end, he glanced up, his young face no more than twenty-two or three.

“Welcome, sister,” said the monk. The fire cast tremulous shadows over his features, black as lily seeds, then warm and orange in the glow. “The storm has not ended yet. I fear it will return soon, and you must be weary.”

“Thank you, young one.”

He tried a smile. “You are surprised. Am I so young on this earth, and yet remove myself from it already?”

“There are many children sent to temples in these days,” the woman said, settling beside him. “I know this. But you were not one. Your robes are new.”

“Observant.” He faced her now. “Have you come from the west? You must have seen my associates on the road. They left not an hour ago.”

“We did,” said the woman. “They offered prayers, directed us to this place, to pray before Ohirume… We sent them on their way.”

“Is that why you’re here?” he asked. “To pray? You may join me. I know I’m young, but I will aid in what I can. What troubles you?”

“On a night like this,” the woman said, “everything. Tell me, monk, do you believe in the cursed gods?”

He paused, considering. “There are many hungry spirits now,” he said at last, “searching for something to calm their wrath. Vengeful, bitter. Corrupted…”

The woman inclined her head. “Once, when I was young, I was sent to a temple in the northern islands, to the order of the sacred law. Just a child, alone. I was told to seek enlightenment. They said I was suffering.”

He held out his hands. “We all suffer, and we all have the elements of enlightenment inside us. Eventually, we may change.”

“Change,” mused the woman. “A funny word. Where were you, may I ask, in the recent wars?”

He grew still. “I was in the royal city.”

“You must have seen it, then. I saw many things myself. For a time, I too thought the Age of Plagues was upon us. I despaired. I fell ill. Then, one day, the wind changed. The tides were stayed. And when I woke, I could hear.”

“Hear what?”

“The other place.” She moved closer, reciting an ancient verse. “‘Waves, lapping onto the Awa shores, are still unchanged; while you are so very different than I remember.’” She gave the faintest sliver of a smile. “But such is life.”

“Do I know you?” the young monk asked.

“No,” she said. “But I know you. I have been with you every day of your life.”

He glanced at her, then away.

“I am troubled,” she said. “Such death and devastation in this world. War, rebellion, unrest. The clans and noble families. I fear the gods will punish us. I fear that I am… cursed.”

“The gods are kind,” he said. “They show compassion.”

“No,” she said. “It is for the gods that I am cursed. I seek to end it.”

The spellwork writing became visible on her face as she lingered at the edge of the hearthlight. “You see,” she said, “I am their messenger.”

He blinked. “Who are you?”

“A ghost,” she said. “Like you. Remaining, and yet changed. I am brought unto this world at the will of the gods. I am their servant. Their… voice. I am here in search of sinners. There are so many on this road to hell… so many who wander the wastes of the world. And so must I wander, until I fulfill my purpose and bring their souls to justice. You see… then will my curse be ended, and I will become one of them.”

“One of who?”

“The gods.” She leaned forward, letting the light of the dim fire spill across her eyes. “They brought me back for a reason. I know, now, what that reason is.”

He tried to move, found himself pressed upon the opposite wall.

The fire burned dim in the hearth. Each time she left a flicker of light, the strange, dark writing returned.

“I am but a mirror,” she said. “A servant who walks the earth to correct a great and terrible wrong. The gods ask me, even now: Deliver us, they say. Deliver our divine punishment for the sins of the three.”

His breath caught at the words. “You need to leave.”

“I cannot, young prince. Not until my work is finished.”

“I’m not a prince.”

“But you are,” she said. “You are.”

“I have renounced that way.” He trembled. “I am a monk of the sacred law. My name is Joren…”

“You are a son of the Keishi line.” She blocked him every time he tried to move. “You have blood on your hands the same as your father. You know this, Shigemune. You know it in your heart.”

“I’m not that man anymore. I left that behind…”

“You cannot leave it behind,” she said. “The gods are watching.”

“Why are you here?”

“Because of you, my prince. ‘Three will die.’ You know these words.”

“Get out.”

“Three will die,” she said again. “Gensei. Keishi. Ten’in. Three great families to which I am bound. I must reclaim their children. You see? A child, for a child.”

His eyes widened. “You’re a demon.”

“There are many demons in the world now,” she said, “and all have suffered. Tell me about the Gensei family.”

He tried to rise. She caught him in her gaze and laid a hand on the wooden table. Her eyes glinted like broken pearls, reflecting light.

“I… told them not to,” he whispered, as though under a spell. “I knew it would lead to nothing but death…”

“Which you took part in.”

He said, “I have no illusions about what I’ve been a part of. Now I dedicate my life to something better…”