The Keeper of Night (The Keeper of Night #1)(33)

The word warmed every inch of my skin. I looked away, raking my damp and tangled hair out of my face and focusing on finding a place for my clock. Unlike a Reaper’s cloak, the kimono had no pockets, so I clipped it to the purple sash around my waist and tucked the clock inside the fabric.

“I’ve done my best, but I’m glad you can’t see the bow I did in the back,” Hiro said, scratching the back of his neck. “Sorry, but I haven’t put a kimono on my sisters since they were about three feet tall.”

“Shinigami can have more than one child?” Neven said.

“Well, no,” Hiro said simply, turning and gesturing across the water with his lantern. “I take it you wanted to cross the river?”

I glanced at Neven, who looked mildly confused at the blunt response, then nodded at Hiro. “If that’s where Izanami is,” I said.

Hiro turned and pointed over the water, though we couldn’t see beyond the scope of the light. “The mainland is across the river. There’s a boat downstream that will take you there.”

He took off walking past us, waving for us to follow. Apparently he planned to escort us there. Neven and I had to hurry after him, since he’d taken the only light source with him.

“Are you injured?” I said, looking down at Hiro’s foot.

He let out a sharp laugh. “Not recently, no. I sustained a severe paper cut on Tuesday, though, and I’ll have you know that I didn’t even cry.”

“I mean...” My gaze drifted to his foot again.

“Oh, that? Well, my mother always insisted that I eat my peppers as a child, but I never listened. Of course, she was right, because one day I woke up and my foot had changed. I swallowed crates and crates full of peppers after that. But tragically, it was too late for me.”

“Oh.” I frowned. What a mundane reason. “Is that problem common for Shinigami?”

Hiro sighed. “Have you heard of ‘jokes’ in England? My humor is wasted on you.”

I said nothing, deciding not to press any further. It was only fair that Hiro was entitled to secrets, too.

He stopped so suddenly that I bumped into him. Neven stumbled into both of us, pushing me into Hiro’s back.

“Why did you—”

“Shh!” Hiro said, waving a hand and extinguishing his lantern.

In the sudden darkness, Neven grabbed my kimono and pressed himself closer.

“Look over there,” Hiro whispered.

I couldn’t see where he was pointing, but my eyes focused on a circle of pale light about a hundred meters to our right. I felt Neven move around me to get a better look.

Two figures stood before the river, one in a bloodred kimono, holding a lantern like Hiro, the other in a white burial gown.

“Who are they?” I said.

“How should I know?” Hiro said. “I just love a good soul extraction.”

Soul extraction? But that would mean...

I squinted, my eyes adjusting to the light. The figure in red had the same ghostly glow as Hiro, the same hazy aura of Death steeping in the darkness around him. This was another Shinigami.

The few texts I’d read in England had no information on soul collecting outside of England. It made sense, for collections were a sacred act that Reapers preferred to do in private, so people of other cultures were probably just as secretive. But surely the process couldn’t be that different?

Before I could ask any other questions, the Shinigami’s fingernails sharpened like talons, and he plunged his hand straight through the human’s chest.

I gasped, slapping a hand over my mouth to silence the sound. Behind me, Neven’s fingers twisted in my clothes. But I shouldn’t have worried, because the human and Shinigami were too engrossed in the extraction to notice us.

The human’s lips parted, tinged with blood, hands clinging to the Shinigami’s arm as red painted the pure white kimono. Then the Shinigami withdrew his hand, pulling out a pulsing heart and a cloud of silver dust that twinkled like distant stars. His soul, I thought. I’d seen enough souls to recognize one on sight, even when they were unique to every person.

The human fell to his knees, a hand clapped over the bleeding wound, while the Shinigami stood over him, blood dripping down his robes as he raised the heart to his lips and took a wet bite.

“He’s eating it?” I whispered.

“Isn’t it enthralling?” Hiro said. I could hear his grin, even if I couldn’t see it.

“But why?” I said, wincing as the Shinigami took another bite and devoured the rest of the heart, then wiped his lips on his red robes. Perhaps this was why his robes were the exact shade of blood.

“As Shinigami, we are part of Izanami,” Hiro said. “We’re her eyes and ears on earth, and in Yomi, her mouth. This is how she receives the souls. Humans must forfeit them before they cross the river.”

“Then what’s left of them to cross the river?” Neven said.

“A shell,” Hiro said. “When they reach the city, they will be whole again, but their soul will forever belong to Izanami. They can never leave Yomi with their soul intact.”

I felt a bit nauseous at the thought of eating pulsing flesh, but there was something enthralling about it, as Hiro had said. It should have been a repulsive act, but was it really any worse than jamming my arm elbow-deep down a human’s throat to rip out their soul through the mouth? It was alarming how captivating the act appeared to me, like an instinctive part of me had always wanted to collect in this way but hadn’t realized it until I’d seen the bright gleam of fresh blood in near-total darkness, the ethereal contrast of stark white and violent red. I couldn’t help picturing myself in bright red robes, my lips painted with blood, standing on the shores of Yomi with my lantern like a beacon of light in the endless darkness. Was eating hearts all it took to be called a Shinigami, not as an insult but as a respected title?