The Keeper of Night (The Keeper of Night #1)(61)

“Ren,” he said, my name nothing but a warm sigh as it left his lips, so soft that it almost didn’t exist, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

My face burned with a sudden fever, my heart beating too fast to be healthy, pushing hot blood to my fingers that felt like white-hot stars in my hands. I was overheating, possibly sweating, even though Reapers weren’t supposed to sweat like humans. I had never felt quite so unraveled without any immediate danger, and yet the last thing I wanted was to stand up and leave.

“You’re so...” Hiro trailed off, still smiling as he moved closer, like he’d find the right words written on my face.

The thought of what he might say next terrified me. Either he’d say something well-meaning but horrible like different, or he’d give me another compliment that made my skin flush with warmth, and I was already about to combust. Having Hiro’s undivided attention was intoxicating, but I was sure that my face was an unsightly shade of red and my palms were damp against my skirt, and I didn’t want him looking so closely at me when I felt like I was vibrating out of my own skin.

“You wanted me to meet someone?” I said, the words choked and slightly panicked, but at least I’d managed to say something.

Hiro blinked, then sat up straight, the empty space between us filling with cool ocean air that washed away the warmth from my face. He looked out across the sea, his lips slightly downturned, as if disappointed. “Ah, right,” he said. He cupped his hands around his mouth and called, “Maho!” across the water.

The word echoed back a thousand times, as if the bay was a great plane of marble. The sound crashed into the distant mountains and disappeared, an expectant silence settling over the water.

Then the ocean before our feet began to bubble.

Hiro pulled his feet onto the rocks as a small face with bright green eyes broke the surface of the water, a trail of sea-mangled hair behind her, decorated with kelp. Two sharp white horns on her head curved in toward each other.

“It’s been nearly a century since you’ve visited, you know,” she said, bobbing up and down in the waves. Her voice rang like a whisper inside a seashell, echoing dreamily in my ears even after she’d finished speaking.

“You missed me?” Hiro laughed. “Come sit with us. Meet my friend.”

A large speckled fin slapped onto the flat rock, followed by another, and then a great sea turtle with the face of a woman climbed onto the rock. Her shell was different shades of brown and black, polished to a diamond shine. Behind her back fins, a broad curtain of green hair trailed into the ocean, like an odd cape or tail.

“This is Maho, the Honengame,” Hiro said to me. “This is my friend, Ren of London.”

The Honengame inclined her head in a bow, which I copied.

“‘Friend,’ you say?” she said to Hiro. Then she took a step forward and nudged at his hand with her head. He leaned closer, sliding his hand down her hair to the glossy surface of her shell. He closed his eyes, hardly breathing. Then his face flushed red and he pulled his hand back, hiding a flustered smile behind his hand.

“Maho!” he said, splashing his feet in the water petulantly. “You can’t just do that!”

I raised an eyebrow, but Hiro wouldn’t look at me, his face still red.

“I can foresee the future,” the Honengame said to me. “I can foretell great harvests or warn the people of impending plagues. If you hang my image in your home and pray to it, you’ll never get sick.”

“Ren is a Shinigami,” Hiro said, finally managing to wipe the smile from his face. “She can’t get sick. And besides, you know that last part isn’t true. You just like the idea of people worshipping you.”

The Honengame threw her head back and let out a squeaky laugh, probably the sound a sea turtle would make, if turtles could laugh. “Careful who you anger, fish boy,” she said.

Hiro pouted. “Is that what you call your best friend?”

The water beneath Hiro’s feet bubbled, and then a lobster flung itself from the water and landed on the rock, twitching. The Honengame wasted no time, opening her jaw wide and taking a great crunching bite out of the lobster’s middle.

“Best friend,” she repeated, through mouthfuls of lobster shell.

“Would you like one, Ren?” Hiro said.

“I don’t think my teeth could handle it,” I said over the crunching sounds of the Honengame devouring her lobster.

Unlike the other Yokai, no ambiance of fear and foreboding hovered like a storm cloud over Maho’s head. It wasn’t surprising that friendly Yokai like Maho had never appeared in my children’s anthology. Innocuous Yokai had far less entertainment value than dangerous ones, after all. I eyed the glossy surface of her shell, wondering if it felt as smooth and immaculate as it looked, but I doubted she’d appreciate being petted like a dog.

She finished her food and heaved a satisfied sigh, lying down on the rock and resting her head.

“I’ve been starving these days,” she said.

Hiro frowned. “You have? Why?”

“The humans are overfishing,” she said, closing her eyes. “Things have changed since you last visited, Hiro.”

“What kind of things?” Hiro said, scooting closer across the rocks.

Maho opened her eyes and frowned into the shifting waters. She turned to me suddenly, far too sharp a movement for a turtle, and looked me up and down.