Chapter 10: Not Quite Dead After All“What the fuck?”

  The words slipped out before I could cmp down on them. Instantly, a dozen pairs of eyes – each loaded with varying shades of oh-so-precious disapproval – fixed on me. The already cold, sterile air of the underground boratory seemed to drop another few degrees, prickling my skin under my designer blouse. Still, only one person possessed the sheer guts – or perhaps just the monumental stupidity – to actually voice his objection.

  “Kiriko-sama,” Yoishiro began, my personal assistant and self-procimed guardian of my decorum. He adjusted the thin-rimmed gsses perched on his pointy nose (wait, where did he even get those gsses?). His tone was that nauseatingly familiar one, like a schoolteacher chiding a particurly dense student. “A dy of your esteemed status should refrain from employing such… vulgar expressions.”

  A ripple of agreement murmured through the other Arakawa members present – those distant retives and assorted sycophants who always seemed to materialize whenever something important (or potentially disastrous) was brewing. Subtle nods, sideways gnces flicked my way. Honestly, the peanut gallery could choke on their propriety for all I cared.

  Only Tamamo-no-Mae-sama, seated elegantly on a stainless-steel stool that looked absurdly like a makeshift throne amidst the scientific-ssh-arcane chaos, remained utterly impassive.

  Her nine tails barely twitched beneath the folds of her obscenely expensive silk kimono. My extensive command of colourful nguage seemed to bother her about as much as a fly buzzing in the next prefecture. Good. At least one person here had their priorities straight.

  I shot Yoishiro a look. Not just any look. It was one of those gres that, if I had better control over my yoki, would have probably bored a hole straight through his sternum and left a smoking scorch mark on the concrete wall behind him.

  I saw him momentarily hold his breath, taking a discreet half-step back, his fingers fumbling to straighten his already immacute tie. Or maybe I just imagined that st part. Years of serving my mother had unfortunately rendered Yoishiro almost immune to my particur brand of intimidation. Damn.

  “So, what now?” I snapped, wrenching my attention back to Tamamo-no-Mae-sama. My voice came out sharper, higher-pitched than I intended. Ugh. “All that money, the time, the risk involved in sending my best men to pry that petrified Basilisk Tear off some Chechen necromancer… was it all for nothing? Are you telling me all those exotic, disgustingly expensive ingredients you had me chasing across continents for this… this stupid mystical scavenger hunt… are useless?”

  Tamamo-no-Mae-sama, the legendary Kyūbi whose beauty was whispered to be as lethal as her power, merely inclined her head. Her perfect, crimson lips curved into that infuriatingly enigmatic smile that always made the fine hairs on my arms stand on end.

  I cursed again, violently, but this time kept it locked inside my head – a litany of profanity that would make a drunken sailor blush. My body, however, betrayed my carefully constructed composure.

  My fists clenched so tightly that my nails (perfectly manicured, thank you very much) dug painfully into my palms. I felt an annoying tic start up in my left eyelid. For a fleeting, glorious second, I entertained the fantasy of kicking the nearest metal table clear across the room, sending instruments and vials scattering. But vanity won out; I wasn't about to scuff my limited-edition Louboutins on cheap b equipment. Instead, I settled for a short, furious stomp on the polished concrete floor – a gesture so pathetically childish it made me want to curse out loud again.

  This whole b was a study in bizarre contrasts. Gleaming, cutting-edge technology sat cheek-by-jowl with ancient arcane paraphernalia. Monitors blinked useless biometric data streams next to chalk circles etched with complex, glowing runes on the floor.

  The air was thick with a strange cocktail of smells: the sharp tang of ozone from humming machinery, the chemical bite of formaldehyde, and overying it all, the sweet, cloying scent of sandalwood incense that Tamamo-no-Mae-sama insisted on burning everywhere.

  And there, on the central table, bathed in the cold, unforgiving gre of a surgical mp, y the source of my mounting frustration: the corpse. Thin frame, messy brown hair flopping over his forehead, dressed in the cheap, functional clothes of a courier. He looked almost… peaceful. Asleep, even, if you ignored the waxy, bluish pallor of his skin and the gruesome bullet wound marring his temple – a wound someone (probably Tamamo, with her unnerving attention to detail) had meticulously cleaned.

  The most unsettling thing was his state of preservation. He'd been dead for three weeks—three weeks spent scavenging for ingredients, chasing scraps of hope, collecting useless trash. Yet, there were no obvious signs of advanced decomposition. He looked… disturbingly fresh. Like a macabre waxwork figure.

  On another, smaller table, carefully arranged on plush bck velvet cloths, y the fruits of my recent, expensive bours: the aforementioned Basilisk Tear, shimmering faintly; a vial of powdered unicorn horn (probably fake); a Moonpetal Bloom supposedly plucked from Mount Fuji's peak under a full moon; and various other bits of mystical junk. All utterly useless now, apparently.

  “Why?” I finally demanded, my voice tight with suppressed anger. “Why can’t the Kagekawa no Gishiki ritual be performed? Why can’t we just rip the information about those traitors – Lilia Takahashi and her freakish mutant brother – straight from his miserable soul?”

  Tamamo-no-Mae-sama cleared her throat delicately, a sound like tiny silver bells. Instead of answering directly, she gestured gracefully towards the woman standing quietly beside her, a figure who had remained respectfully silent until now.

  Another Kitsune, clearly, though younger than Tamamo. She radiated a serene, almost academic aura, dressed in a traditional hakama worn beneath an immacute white b coat. Six fluffy tails swayed gently behind her – a Rokubi, then. Impressive.

  “Allow me to introduce,” Tamamo-no-Mae-sama said, her voice smooth as silk, “Hakurei Sakiko. An alchemist of considerable renown, and an old friend.” She paused, letting the introduction sink in. “Hakurei-san, perhaps you could enlighten our impatient Kiriko-sama.”

  Hakurei Sakiko executed a small, perfect bow. “It is an honour, Kiriko-sama.” Her voice was calm and measured. “The reason is quite simple, though its implications are rather complex. The Kagekawa no Gishiki ritual only permits communication with the souls of the departed.” She paused, her intelligent, dark eyes meeting mine directly.

  “And this young man… is not. Not entirely.”

  I arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “What exactly do you mean, Hakurei-san? He looks plenty dead to me.” My tone dripped sarcasm like venom. “He possesses an extra hole in his head and isn’t breathing. Those are generally reliable indicators, in my experience.”

  Hakurei-san shook her head slowly, with the weary patience of someone expining quantum physics to a particurly stubborn toddler. “His physical body has indeed ceased all vital functions, yes. But his soul… his vital essence, Kiriko-sama… it has not fully departed this pne.”

  My fists clenched again. I was this close to putting this condescending, six-tailed know-it-all in her pce, but a sharp, warning gnce from Tamamo-no-Mae-sama froze me mid-thought. Fine. I’d py along. For now.

  “Doesn’t it strike you as… peculiar, Kiriko,” Tamamo-no-Mae-sama interjected smoothly, reciming my attention, “that the body shows no signs of decomposition consistent with the three weeks that have passed since his… incident?”

  “So?” I retorted, still not seeing the point. “Maybe the morgue had excellent air conditioning. Or perhaps he consumed a lot of preservatives in his undoubtedly trashy diet.”

  Tamamo-no-Mae-sama’s smile widened fractionally, though it didn’t quite reach her unsettlingly golden eyes. “Or perhaps,” Hakurei-san continued, picking up the expnatory thread seamlessly, “it is because the body is trapped in a stasis loop.

  A state of constant flux between decay and an anomalous cellur regeneration occurring on an astral level. The residual life energy attempts to repair the damage, but the severity of the wound is too great, and the connection to his… power source… is tenuous. It decays and repairs, decays and repairs, over and over, on a near-imperceptible level, maintaining him in this state of… macabre suspension.”

  I spped my open palm ft on the cool metal surface of a nearby counter. The sharp cng echoed in the tense silence. “But how is that possible? He’s just some ordinary human…!”

  Hakurei-san produced a slim, official-looking file from under her arm and flipped it open. She began reading in a precise, detached monotone: “Ezra Michael Graves. Age twenty. Second-year Electrical Engineering student at Metropolitan University. Part-time independent courier, drives an old yellow Chevette. Single. Resides with his father, Arthur Graves, retired. No criminal record, save one speeding ticket. Known allergies: penicillin and shellfish. Blood type: O negative…”

  “And your point is?” I interrupted, my patience evaporating like cheap perfume. “Are you going to read me his dental records next? His life story sounds depressingly mundane.”

  Hakurei-san looked up from the file, a flicker of something – academic interest? – sparking in her eyes. “Precisely. Despite this remarkably… pedestrian background, our Mr. Graves is not merely a ‘simple human’.” She turned slightly towards Tamamo-no-Mae-sama. “He possesses an extraordinarily high astral affinity. One might cssify him as a tent sorcerer, or at the very least, someone with significant, albeit likely undeveloped and unconscious, innate magical potential.”

  “The crux of the matter,” Tamamo-no-Mae-sama cut in, leaning forward slightly, her presence filling the room, “is that Mr. Graves is currently under the effect of a spell. A very potent, very ancient, and, I must add, strictly forbidden spell, even within the most… liberal magical circles. A spell that shields him, even in this state, from the cold grasp of our Lady Tamayobigami, the Collector of Souls.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “What kind of spell? Sounds like something out of a fairy tale.”

  “It is called Soulbinder,” Hakurei-san expined, her tone serious. “In essence, the caster – in this instance, likely Mr. Graves himself, perhaps instinctively or via an artifact – links their own soul, their life force, to that of another living being. An anchor.

  As long as the anchor remains alive and the bond holds, the caster cannot truly die. Their soul remains tethered to this pne, unable to pass on.”

  “Oh fuck,” I swore.

  The disapproving gres rained down again. I ignored the gallery of stuffed kimonos and shot Yoishiro a death gre before he could even open his mouth to lecture me.

  “So why is he like this?” I demanded, gesturing impatiently at the corpse. “Why isn’t he fully recovering if he’s not actually dead?”

  “Distance,” Hakurei-san replied simply. “The anchor, the individual to whom he is bound, must be a significant distance away. The Soulbinder functions like an ethereal umbilical cord. The greater the physical separation between the caster and the anchor, the weaker the connection becomes. It remains strong enough to prevent final death, to keep Tamayobigami from ciming the soul, but it’s insufficient to fuel the complete regeneration of such massive trauma, especially in one cking the training to consciously channel that energy. He exists in an existential limbo.”

  Something clicked then, a nasty, unwelcome puzzle piece snapping into pce in my mind.

  That bitch.

  Lilia Takahashi.

  It had to be her. The lingering scent of that treacherous cow had been all over the corpse, yes… she was his anchor. My mind raced, possibilities fring and dying like cheap fireworks. Could we use the body? Drag it around the city like some grotesque dowsing rod, pying ‘hot and cold’ based on regeneration signs until we found her? Track the ethereal connection? Too complicated, too messy, too… uncertain.

  “So… we’re screwed?” I asked, the frustration bubbling back up, hot and acidic in my throat.

  “Not entirely,” Tamamo-no-Mae-sama purred, and that unnerving smile widened, revealing just a hint of teeth that looked far too white, far too sharp. “Think of this spell as an invisible chain linking two souls across the astral pne. We cannot easily sever it without eliminating the anchor, which is… inconvenient for our current purposes. However, we can… tap into it.”

  A shiver traced its way down my spine, prickling the skin beneath my blouse and making the fur on my tail stand on end.

  “Tamamo-no-Mae-sama… you’re not about to send me on another idiotic fetch quest for some ‘ethereal soul-interceptor forged in the heart of a dying star,’ are you? Because I swear to all the Kami—”

  She ughed then, a clear, melodious sound that, despite the grim circumstances, sent an involuntary, pleasant shiver through me. “No, Kiriko. Nothing quite so… exotic this time.” Her golden eyes gleamed with predatory amusement.

  “The solution is far more… elegant. And considerably more… personal. Think of it less like cutting the chain, and more like… wiretapping. We don't sever the original line, but we add another connection to it. A connection we control.”

  My stomach twisted. “You mean… intercept his soul-link with Lilia… by using another link? Binding him to one of our people?” The implications began to dawn on me, and I didn't like the direction this was heading one damn bit.

  “Not exactly ‘one of our people,’ Kiriko,” Tamamo-no-Mae-sama corrected softly, her gaze locking onto mine, intense and unwavering. “To you.”

  The air punched out of my lungs as if I’d been physically struck. “WHAT?” The word ripped out of me, loud and incredulous.

  “NO! Absolutely not! No way in hell! Bind my soul, my precious, pure-blooded Arakawa soul, to that… that corpse? To a human? Have you lost your mind? I am a Kitsune of the highest lineage! A future cn leader! I will not be anyone’s spiritual jump-cable or backup anchor! I refuse! No, no, and a thousand times NO!”

  I actually stumbled backward, my expensive heels skittering on the smooth concrete. The very idea was repulsive, degrading… unthinkable!

  “Didn’t you want the Jewel of Twilight returned, the one those traitors stole?” Tamamo-no-Mae-sama asked calmly, her voice cutting through my rising hysteria like a razor.

  “Didn’t you crave vengeance for their betrayal?” Her eyes held mine, challenging me. “This is the way, Kiriko. By establishing a second, closer bond – one controlled by you – we can effectively reactivate the flow of life energy. The Soulbinder spell will be potent enough for Mr. Graves to… well, to return to the living. Or at least, a functional facsimile thereof. A puppet, perhaps, whose soul will be partially tethered to yours. You’ll be able to sense what he senses, see what he sees, influence his actions… and through him, locate the traitors and our stolen property. It’s the very solution you were demanding.”

  I was about to unleash a torrent of furious refusal, to tell her, Hakurei, Yoishiro, and the entire damn Arakawa cn exactly where they could shove their insane pn, when a timid but urgent voice cut through the tense atmosphere from the b doorway.

  “Kiriko-sama.”

  It was Kenji, one of my mother’s personal attendants. He looked pale and nervous, which was never a good sign.

  “What is it, Kenji?” I snapped, whirling around. “Can’t you see I’m in the middle of an existential crisis here?”

  He swallowed hard, his gaze darting nervously between me and Tamamo-no-Mae-sama. “My apologies, Kiriko-sama. But… Arakawa-sama requests your presence in her office. Immediately.”

  I frowned, instantly wary. “My mother? What for?”

  Kenji shifted uncomfortably, pointedly avoiding my eyes. “There are… visitors, Kiriko-sama. Ivanoska Sokolova-san has arrived.”

  A chill, entirely different from the earlier ones, slithered down my spine. Ivanoska? That ice-cold vampire bitch? What in the nine hells did she want now? This day just kept getting better and better.

  “Huh…” I let out a long, resigned sigh, smoothing down my clothes and forcing myself back into a sembnce of composure. “Fine. Tell Mother I’m on my way.”

  “Go, child,” Tamamo-no-Mae-sama said, rising gracefully from her stool. Her tails swished silently behind her. “We shall conclude this discussion when you are prepared to make a… sensible decision.”

  I threw one st venomous gre at the oblivious corpse of Ezra Graves, then another at Tamamo-no-Mae-sama’s knowing, vulpine smirk.

  “Fine,” I bit out. I straightened my shoulders, lifting my chin. “Yoishiro, come. It seems the circus of horrors has just added another bloody act.”