The Keeper of Night (The Keeper of Night #1)(75)

“Let’s go this way,” I said, wary of the lingering gaze of the couple.

“But I want to see—”

“Later,” I said, pulling Neven around the back of the building to the smaller auxiliary shrines. Unlike the majesty of the main shrine, these fell under the silent shade of the forest and what little it retained of its foliage. They formed a ghostly village of tiny houses, all connected by a paved stone path, guarded by stone lions patchy with moss. Maybe it was the lack of humans or the quiet or the sacredness of the whole village, but a sense of calm spread like cool water through my blood.

“It looks a bit like the mausoleums at Highgate,” Neven said.

And there, once more, was the constant reminder that I was shackled.

“It’s different,” I said.

“I don’t know,” Neven said, strolling down the path, “the arrangement is similar.”

His eyes had gone pale purple with wistfulness. He was probably imagining London in autumn and missing it terribly. A good sister would have cared, but instead I felt frustrated that he could see Japan only through the lens of “Not London.”

“It’s different,” I said again. But this time he heard the heaviness in my voice and turned to face me.

“Have I offended you?” he said, a sour look on his lips, just like when he’d snapped at me on the shores of Takaoka. Apparently his near-death experience hadn’t lessened his bitterness.

“I don’t want to hear about London,” I said. “We’ll never return, so it’s not relevant anymore.”

“So we just erase it from our memories?” Neven said, voice rising and eyes darkening.

“You can do whatever you want with your memories, I just don’t want to hear about it.”

Neven scoffed, kicking some rocks in his path. “Is our heritage so repulsive to you?”

“It’s not that simple,” I said.

“It never is, with you.”

I closed my eyes, consciously swallowing down a sudden surge of darkness crawling up my throat. A village shrine was not the best place to start shouting in English if I hoped to blend in.

“Neven,” I said, “I just don’t need to be constantly reminded that—”

“That we’re Reapers,” Neven said, scowling. “Believe me, I’ve noticed.”

I knew he meant it as a fact, but the word Reaper had never before stung badly. No one had called me that in London, yet the title had followed me like a curse to Japan, worse than being called a half-breed or a whore. Could he not see that all the blood on my hands was for the sake of becoming a Shinigami? That I would give anything for it? He had done things he hated just to be the perfect Reaper son that Ambrose wanted, so how dare he judge me for trying to become a Shinigami, for wanting to stand before my mother as someone strong and whole?

“Are we?” I said. “Are we really Reapers?”

Neven frowned. “Of course—”

“You certainly are. But why am I granted the privilege of that title only now that I’m no longer in London?”

“Ren, don’t be ridiculous,” Neven said. “Our father is a Reaper.”

“I have no father,” I said. “You know this.”

“Then am I even your brother?” Neven said, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “If you cut all ties to London, then what am I?”

“This isn’t about you!” I said. The wind blasted a spray of dying leaves into the air, the sky growing dim. How could Neven, my only companion for over a century, be so incapable of understanding me and so utterly unwilling to try?

The fallen leaves beneath my feet crumbled to black dust, a circle of Death appearing around me. Of course London had followed me to this sacred place. No matter how far I ran, it always found me.

Water splashed somewhere behind me.

Neven and I both turned around as an elderly woman began washing her mouth at the fountain. In all my years collecting souls at the end of lifelines, I’d never seen such an ancient human. Her skin looked like wet crumpled paper, translucent gray and speckled with bruise-purple age spots. Snarled white hair hung down her back, each strand a delicate spider string twisted into a tangled mass. Every gnarled tendon of her neck stuck out through her loose and withered skin. How had she even ascended the steps to the shrine, or approached without Neven or me noticing? It was as if she’d simply materialized at the fountain.

“Come here,” she said.

Her voice sounded jagged, sharp as the gravel beneath our feet. I stiffened, looking to Neven, whose eyes had gone wide.

A little girl came around the side of the fountain and took the old woman’s hand. I let out a breath. She hadn’t been addressing us.

The old woman washed the girl’s hands and mouth with splashes of water that soaked the girl’s clothes, making her whine and squirm. She grabbed the girl’s wrist and turned around, suddenly facing us. Her hazy eyes locked onto mine with startling precision, considering the distance between us.

“And why have they let your kind into this sacred ground?” she said.

I couldn’t find the energy to be offended, too transfixed by the odd feeling that had settled over the courtyard. From somewhere far away, Death had begun to pull in all directions, as if tiny hooks had bitten into my skin and lightly tugged, peeling skin from flesh. A faraway static filled my ears, the edges of the world fizzling away. Neven had gone rigid by my side.