Michi's phone buzzed late Sunday night. Vibrations sent it squirming across the couch cushion, the screen lighting up, the ringtone Yurie had programmed blaring far too loudly.
Yawning, Michi jabbed pause on her gaming controller, and on screen, her avatar froze, flames billowing from her hands, an enemy's sword one moment away from delivering a death blow. A well-timed dodge might have saved her, but she'd never have a chance of getting the timing right once she unpaused. Not that it mattered. The boss fight had been as good as lost anyway. She'd been playing too long, forty minutes of homework blurring into six hours tumbling down a rabbit hole of side quests, and her combat skills had devolved into little more than button mashing and frustration.
Nestling into her pillows, she fished her phone from the cushions. A text from Asato awaited her. -New transplant file in your inbox. Call me.-
That was it. No further explanation—or thanks—given. Never mind that she hadn't truly agreed to manage a new transplant case. Never mind that he was dishing out assignments ten minutes before midnight on Sunday of all days. She rolled her eyes.
Classic Asato.
Rubbing at her tired eyes, Michi dragged her laptop across her ottoman with her toes and leaned sideways to pull it into her lap. The screen took a moment to brighten, and while it woke, she slid further into the cushions, propping her head on the armrest and cradling her computer against the curve of her thighs. A few flicks of her fingers across the trackpad brought up Asato's email, the attachment opening a heartbeat later.
It was the usual fare. Half Demon World mumbo jumbo, half useful psych evaluation. Her gaze flitted over the data on her charge's class and abilities. None of that was worth retaining. Assessing threat levels was Hiei's job, not hers. If he recommended an apparition for relocation, she trusted his judgment—cynical and rough-edged though it might be.
The psychological profile was the piece relevant to her—the piece she'd study until she knew it backward and forward, until she could recite it in her sleep. Understanding her transplants' personalities and histories was key to getting them settled. The better she could anticipate their thoughts on their relocation, the easier it was to read their Looms and ease their transition.
At least in theory anyway.
Scrolling through the file, she rolled the apparition's name across her tongue. Ryota. In the corner of the first page, a picture had been included, though it was too grainy to make out much more than his dark features and heavy brow. By that image alone, she might've thought him some brutish creature, but his backstory revealed otherwise.
She had to parse through Hiei's rough appraisal to get there, but beneath his callous tone and snide remarks—most of which she dismissed for the prattling nonsense it truly was—she found a history as heartbreaking as any she'd encountered yet.
Four months ago, Ryota's village had been destroyed in a territory war between two clashing demon clans, his home razed to the ground, most of his family and neighbors felled in the onslaught. The border patrol had taken him in as a refugee, offering room and board on their roving fortresses in exchange for his service, and Ryota had tried to fulfill his obligations, but it had been too much for him. He was young, relatively weak, and more broken than he let on. So when Hiei made passing mention of the relocation program, Ryota had seized on the opportunity, eager to escape his history in Demon World—to start over somewhere not haunted by memories.
All of which likely meant he'd be skittish. Fearful of the unknown. The sort who'd fare better settling somewhere quiet and reclusive than in some loud, brash city apartment.
As indicated on the file's last page, Genkai had drawn the same conclusion. The home she'd slated for Ryota wasn't too far from her own mountain shrine, safely tucked away in the tiny town of Itomori miles off the beaten path, as solid a place as any for an anxious survivor to begin a new life.
And horrifically inconvenient—because, of course, it was.
More classic Asato.
Seizing her phone, she pulled up his number and jabbed the call button. It rang once, twice, then connected. Her cousin's drawl reverberated in her ear. "Evening, Weaver. Read that file yet?"
"You know, this could've waited until morning."
"And yet I'm sure you've already read the whole thing. Probably twice, knowing you."
She'd skimmed it three times, not just two. And she'd read it a dozen more tomorrow. But he didn't need to know any of that. "When does Ryota come through?"
"I'm picking him up at Demon's Door Cave tomorrow evening. Then he'll spend the week at Genkai's getting acclimated. He'll be ready for relocation Saturday or Sunday, whichever is better for you."
She was supposed to spend Saturday afternoon with the girls, celebrating Nanako's birthday, and she'd intended to dedicate Sunday to knocking out some essays in advance of their due dates, but of the two, homework could be shifted around—birthdays not so much. "Sunday, then. Same routine as usual? Meet you at the train station?"
A yawn thrummed through her phone in a burst of static. "Sure thing," Asato said, his voice muffled. "I'll stay at Genkai's Saturday night and bring Ryota to you in the morning, then you can escort him to Itomori." There was the rustle of clothing and whine of a rolling chair before his keyboard started clacking. "You good with me buying your train tickets?"
"Yeah. Email me the itinerary whenever."
"Will do." He hesitated a moment before adding, "Thanks for helping out, Michi. We need the extra hands."
Sighing, she flipped her laptop shut and lurched upright. If his actions in the last fifteen minutes were classic Asato, her acquiescing was classic Michi. He knew it. She knew it. At a certain point, it wasn't worth fighting her own nature—even if her course load would make her regret it.
She swung her feet to the floor, wincing as the cold woodwork kissed her toes. "You get why I needed a break?"
"Of course. Sorry for nagging you, but you know how Genkai is. Stubborn as a damn mule."
"And just as nasty."
He laughed so hard a snort snuck through. "A nasty, stubborn, life-saving mule. Genkai in a nutshell. Anyway, isn't it way past your bedtime, Weaver? Or are you finally a big girl who stays up after midnight?"
Just like that she was rolling her eyes again, whatever bonding moment they'd been about to share going up in smoke. "Night, Shade, you ass."
"Ass? Excuse me! Did you just curse—"
Grinning, she hung up.
Michi departed the social sciences hall in a whirl of nervous energy only to end up fidgeting at the foot of the steps, waiting impatiently for Runa, her hands idly twisting and untwisting her bag's strap.
She'd spent the last ten minutes of Professor Endo's lecture checking the time and silently begging him not to run long. When he'd released them early—by all of eighty-seven precious seconds—she'd bolted from her seat too quickly to even remember that Runa probably hadn't been blessed with an equally timely escape, and sure enough, Runa was nowhere to be seen.
Which was fine, really. It's not as though they usually rushed to leave campus. She had plenty of time to reach Nako Square, plenty of time to snag a place at the front of the subway platform—plenty of time to work herself into a tizzy that most certainly wasn't warranted for only a ten minute ride with Shuichi.
Forcing her hands to still, she sank onto the bottom step and sucked down a steadying breath. Then, as she often did, she tried to picture her own Loom, imagining what tangle of colors must be woven across her skin.
The nauseating mustard yellow of anxiety without a doubt. The hunter green that accompanied fizzing anticipation. Hopefully some teal, some tinge of happiness managing to burn past her roiling unease. Probably a thread or two of crimson annoyance. The lot snaking over her emotional core, whatever feeling it was that defined her as a person.
When her territory had first manifested, the knots of color found at the center of every Loom had been inescapable, blazing like miniature, odd-colored suns embedded in the chest cavities of every soul she met. It was only after weeks under Genkai's tutelage that she'd learned to disentangle a person's threads from the emotional anchor of their being, and nowadays, she rarely noticed cores—or, at least, she did her best to block them out.
There was too much to them. Too much concentrated color. Too many strings knotted and twisted and tied into a dense ball of yarn.
Threads changed. They were dynamic. Informative. More than that, she could filter through them, find their salient meaning and put it to use.
Cores were static. Or so it seemed. If they changed in some way, it was at a scale too small for her to make out, and looking at them too directly for any length of time was like staring into an eclipse, so bright and overwhelming that it left afterimages on her vision for hours.
So she knew a person's core—she couldn't possibly miss it—but she didn't dwell on it. And yet she wondered often about her own. What defined her? What emotion lay at the root of her being? Certainly not Genkai's steely, navy determination. Nor Asato's mix of icy pride and aquamarine contentment. So what was it? Who was she?
She'd never know. Her Loom remained forever a mystery.
Perhaps it was better that way.
"Michi, hurry up! Aren't you coming?"
Startled, she tore her gaze from the back of her hands, realizing she'd been squinting at her knuckles as if focusing enough might make her threads appear, and found Runa bouncing from foot to foot, her skirt swishing about her thighs. "When did you get here?"
Runa faked checking a watch. "A year ago. Now get up. We can't have you missing your fated ride with Subway Guy."
Wincing, Michi stood and started down the path. "I told you his name."
"Yes. And 'Shuichi' is dreadfully dull. It has none of the mystique of Subway Guy. None of the charm."
"Because Subway Guy doesn't make him sound like a creepy stranger at all. Obviously."
"Obviously," Runa echoed. She wound an arm through Michi's, pushing her to speed up. "So what's the battle plan? How are you going to charm him straight out of his pants?"
"Um, I'm not."
"Well then you, Michi Kuroki, are missing out on a golden opportunity."
They'd reached the traffic light at the edge of campus, and Michi punched the button for the crosswalk, frowning pointedly at Runa and her billowing cobalt threads. "Remind me why I tell you anything. Ever."
"Because I am your guide in all things. Your mentor, if you will." Lavender affection rippled through Runa's Loom, and her sharp gaze softened. "We're sure he's not a jerk, right?"
The light changed, the walk signal coming alive, and Michi tugged Runa into motion. The subway entrance waited on the far side of the street, bustling as always with university students and professionals in equal measure. "Can you ever be sure someone's not a jerk?"
Runa tapped her lip, staring pensively into the sky. "Well, I'm not a jerk. You know that."
"I mean…"
Laughing, Runa jabbed an elbow into Michi's side, then tugged her to the side of the station's open doors, safely out of the flow of traffic. "You think he'll ask you out this time?"
"I don't know." She slipped her arm from Runa's. "It's okay if he doesn't. I'll be happy just seeing him." Him and his beautifully pale Loom.
"You're not getting in his pants with that mentality. Now go." Runa pushed her lightly toward the escalator leading into the subway's depths, her threads awash in lavender and emerald. "Don't miss his train. And text me later. I need to know everything."
Still grinning, Runa turned and wove into the crowd, trekking for her apartment, and Michi watched her dark ponytail until it disappeared amongst the sea of commuters, then ducked into the subway. Skilled maneuvering brought her to the front of the crowd, and when the railcar rattled into the station two minutes later, she was the first aboard.
As promised, Shuichi was waiting.
The autumn chill had settled over campus in full by Wednesday, a light rain falling throughout the afternoon, and Michi killed the hour between her classes in the library, curled up in one of the plush armchairs on the second floor, her notes for Nordic Literature in hand. Ten minutes before she planned to pack up, her phone buzzed in her bag, earning her scornful glares from a couple ensconced on a couch nearby.
Though their devote worship of each other's faces had hardly been more polite than a phone she couldn't control, she muttered an apology and scooped up her things, darting for the nearest bathroom before picking up.
"Shade?" she said, frowning at her reflection in the mirror. "You know I'm—"
"At school. Yup, fully aware. But it's urgent, Weaver. Like actual urgent."
Her reflection's brows rose. "What's going on?"
"Taki is— Hell, how do I even start this?"
Michi's heartbeat kicked up a notch, her eyebrows climbing even higher. Taki had been her first transplant. A gentle giant if that cliché was ever actually worth using. He was a stoneskin, or so his paperwork identified him, and he'd shown her once how he could turn his whole body to coarse, sturdy rock, as if he'd been carved straight from granite. A nifty ability, but not a dangerous one. Genkai had deemed him the perfect test run for Michi's role with the halfway house.
His transition had been over two years ago. She'd checked in on him regularly since, though not in the last handful of months. He was hardly the sort of creature who should've had Asato calling her in a panicked fit.
She leaned a hip against the counter, trying to shake off the restlessness coiling in her gut. "The beginning is usually good as far as starts go."
"Funny, Weaver."
"I'm not trying to be."
He heaved a sigh. "Okay, right. The beginning. Taki got in touch last Thursday—"
"With you? Not me?"
The phone crackled as if Asato's reception was spotty as he answered, "No, not me. With Genkai. He used his emergency communicator. Told her he'd been feeling off for a few days now. Angry. Like, unnaturally so. And he couldn't spot the cause."
Not once in two years had Michi seen Taki angry. Not once in the long, vexing process of learning an entirely new world and means of living had he shown even a flicker of temper. If ever there'd been a demon meant to prove the whole lot weren't as harsh and irritable as Hiei, it had been Taki.
She dug her nails into her palm. "I… don't get it."
"Neither did we. Genkai told him to sleep it off. Reach out if it persisted. And, well, she didn't hear from him, so she—we—assumed that was the end of it."
"But it wasn't."
"Apparently not." He barked a sudden curse, and the blare of a car horn echoed distantly. "Bastard cut me off."
"Where are you, Asato?"
"Driving back from Genkai's. I brought Ryota out there Monday like we talked about—used my car so he wouldn't be subjected to the crowds in a train—and decided to stay the week. Figured I could help with whatever Genkai's got going on."
All too aware of where this conversation was headed, Michi pulled on her raincoat, hiked her bag over her shoulder, and started for the door. She cut for the back stairs, keeping her voice hushed as she said, "You wanted to figure out what brought the Spirit Detectives back together."
He groaned. "Look, I'm not going to deny it, but you can give me shit about that another time. Right now, we need to focus on Taki."
"Why?" She reached the foot of the stairs, ducked into a deserted hall, and broke for the door. "You haven't actually explained the crisis yet, Shade."
"Spirit World contacted Genkai, okay?" An uncertain pause followed, and she hardly dared breathe before he continued. "Apparently Taki's energy is all over the place. Spiking and going haywire. They're concerned he's going to hurt humans."
Which was a crime. A crime punishable by death.
And absolutely not something Taki would ever do. Not in a million years. No matter how angry he might inexplicably feel.
"You want me to check on him." It wasn't a question. Not really.
"I'd do it, but I'm still two hours from Sarayashiki. Can you get out there and visit him? I know you have class—"
"It's Taki, Shade. Of course I'll go." She emerged into drizzling rain and yanked the hood of her jacket over her head, hunching her shoulders against the wind. Campus was deserted, most students and faculty safely tucked away in lecture halls and offices, which meant there was no one around to gawk at her awkward jog. "I can afford to miss a class if it means making sure he's all right."
Asato let loose a breath, his relief palpable even through the phone. "Thanks, Weaver. I'm headed straight there, so call me if you need me. Otherwise, I'll see you soon."
"Sounds good."
As soon as the line went dead, she opened her texts and scrolled to her messages with Shuichi. He was still just a number, no name yet assigned. Some stupid, nervous piece of her feared naming him would be a jinx, a curse on whatever fledgling relationship she'd begun to build between them.
She stopped at the crosswalk leading to Nako Square and punched out a quick text while waiting for the light. -A friend needs me, so I'm skipping class. See you Friday?- She hit send before she could second guess herself, then darted across the street and into the station.
It was a half hour later, as she surfaced in Sarayashiki, that his response at last came through, whether because he'd been busy at work or her cell's signal had failed in the tunnel, she'd never know. -How about dinner tomorrow instead?-
She tapped out a hurried acceptance, barely bothering to reread for clarity before sending it along. Her heart was pounding too hard, her hands trembling too thoroughly for a mere text to matter, and as she raced for Taki's distant apartment complex, she shoved her phone deep into her bag.
Shuichi could wait.
Taki lived on the fifth floor, in a cozy four-room place Michi had picked out herself.
Back then, Genkai hadn't had a system for assigning homes, nor a backlog of leases awaiting occupants. The halfway house had been a vague dream, an almost naïve hope that humans and demons could live side by side. It took nearly six months of successful relocations before Spirit World granted Genkai a housing allowance for the program.
But Michi had picked well for Taki, and once Genkai stopped paying his rent after a year, he decided to remain here—and he'd let Michi keep a key.
So she didn't bother with the door buzzer, and she didn't worry as she flew into the elevator. Even if Taki wasn't expecting her, even if he wasn't actually home, she could get in, and she'd work out the rest from there.
Waiting for the creaky elevator to climb five floors was like waiting for Yurie to finish one of her rambling stories. Endless in the moment, but by the time it was over, Michi couldn't even recall what had happened. One second she was on the first floor, jabbing the call button, the next she was at Taki's door, her keys clutched in her fist as she knocked.
The second her knuckles hit the wood paneling, the door swung inward, and it took only a heartbeat to realize Taki was home.
And he wasn't alone.
AN: Dun, dun, dun. I'm so excited to finally be here, advancing the actual plot of the story beyond fleshing out relationships. We're about to see just how tangled up in the detectives Michi really is, whether she realizes it or not. I can't wait to share!
There are two references to Your Name. in this chapter. Not particularly well hidden, but bonus points to anyone who spots them regardless.
Endless thanks to everyone who reviewed, favorited, or added to their alerts last chapter! You guys ROCK! Special thanks to the reviewers: Antiqua-hime17, farewellhello, La Femme Absurde, ahyeon, nevvy, zZhell-butterflyZz, and Elvenrose22.
(I'm going to mention my Tumblr one more time because I forgot to include it in my original upload last week! For anyone who missed it then, I'm hereafteryyh over on Tumblr. I'd love to connect with anyone active over there. I'm still learning the platform, but I'm planning on sharing bits and bobs about this story's creation and probably some mid-week teasers between chapters. Hope to see you there!)
