This story also has some "Pet Shop of Horrors" and "Tokyo Babylon" mixed into it, but this volume is mostly "Fruits Basket." I mention this because a little TB appears in this chapter.

Disclaimer: FB, PSOH, and TB belong to Natsuki Takaya, Matsuri Akino and CLAMP, respectively. Anything else you recognize also doesn't belong to me.

Chapter 40

Ten times a night, images of the fragile, curled parchment disturbed Shehure's dreams. The signature on the parchment, in particular, seemed blacker and bolder each time. The shaky, careful handwriting gained new vivacity, as the laws of the dream world steadied and strengthened its lines and curves. Shehure always heard a voice in those dreams reading out the contents of the parchment, and by now he was almost convinced it was the voice of its writer, risen from the dead to make sure the family was resurrected from the curse.

Shehure walked from his study to the kitchen, wishing for once the children were home. The house was too quiet for his frayed nerves. Perhaps tea would help. Summer had ended, and it was a month into the school year. Huki, Lhadoman, and Lhoru were now seniors.

Karan had now been in Lhose for three months. Apparently she was doing fine, but recently Hathori had been forced to terminate communication with her due to Asheno's diabolically timed rash of poor health. More seriously, however, Asheno had been wondering about the doctor's mysterious absences. It only served to make a tense situation worse, not knowing how Karan was doing. Shehure actually welcomed his editor's panicky visits as a distraction from the strain the three friends endured. Ahame, for his part, had been working overtime, earning frequent glances of worry from his faithful Mhine, who was still completely in the dark about Karan. Khazuma prayed fervently, to any deity that might exist, for the curse to be broken so Lhadoman would finally be freed from the cat's shackles. Six more months until they would know whether the unusual instructions given in the parchment worked.

Luckily the younger Dzunis were too occupied with their own lives to notice the three oldest members' stress. Oh, Huki noticed how tired and overwrought Ahame was, but he spent virtually every minute with Hanadzima now. Lhoru and Nharu were busy convincing Hatharu to court Zhula, and thus far it appeared their efforts wouldn't be in vain. Shehure chuckled. Soon enough, if things went well, all three girls would be marrying into the family. As for his little brother Haru, he was slowly persuading Rin to get back together with him. The thought of Haru and Rin rankled Shehure slightly still; he hadn't quite found it in himself to completely forgive Rin for the way she treated Haru when they broke up.

Strangely, Asheno hadn't reacted much to the outbreak of dating and rebellion in the family. Their head surely was frustrated, and his frustration manifested itself in the form of illness. Shehure hadn't visited him for a while; Asheno's health couldn't handle it now.

"It would be better for everybody if Asheno died," Shehure said in a flat tone, to the empty room at large. He tipped his cup, and drops of hot tea landed on his foot. "Damn!" Perversely, a bird chirped cheerfully outside.

Hotohori

Our esteemed family head was still ill when I woke up the next morning, so the boys and I were free to go where we wanted. Both Hatsuharu and Haku were dead asleep, and I decided to leave them in peace. I bundled up in my thick winter coat and leggings, and made my way to the central lobby of the inn. The cold stung my face right away, and I increased my pace.

The lobby contained a large circular fireplace in the center, around which tables and chairs had been arranged. At one end was the registration desk, and a small stage dominated the opposite end. The inn often had bands play after sunset, and the employees kept up a brisk chatter as they assembled and arranged microphones and sound systems. I ignored the bustle and headed for registration. Only one stout attendant stood behind the desk, and he smiled broadly as I approached.

"What can I do for you, ma'am?" He had the same weatherworn face of all middle-aged Lhoseans, and he was just as friendly. The contrast between Lhoseans and Lhasans became more obvious as I encountered more Lhoseans. They never failed to acknowledge strangers, and often greeted them cheerfully. In Lhasa one would only get a suspicious look at most if one said hello to a complete stranger on the sidewalk. I'd expected Lhose's inhabitants to be perpetual seasonal affective disorder sufferers. Certainly, I didn't present a pretty picture to the desk attendant, with my dull voice and drawn face. Again I cursed Asheno silently for dragging me to a wintry place full of my archnemesis, snow.

"Have you heard of Dzaran Shuro?" I asked.

As I expected, he had. "Of course I've heard of him! He's one of the best singers to come out of Lhose in recent years. Why, he's singing here tonight! I would strongly recommend that you come, ma'am. There'll be good drink and food, and plenty of people your age to meet."

"You might even get a chance to talk with me," said a smooth, low voice. I was surprised to see a young man whose head was level with my shoulder. He'd cut his deep brown hair in a feathery bob that framed his delicate face. His entire body was delicate: the tiny hands, the light golden tan (in Lhose?), the brownish-gold flecking of his round eyes, the neck that looked as though it could snap under the lightest pressure. The baggy clothes clashed rudely with such a body. Shuro wore a dark green sweater that hung over his hands, and his black khaki pants left plenty of room pooled at his ankles. Vaguely I wondered if he was gay and trying to disguise it.

"Of course, that depends on whether I'm being stormed by my fans after the show or not," laughed Shuro, "I'm very popular, you know." He winked at me, and I narrowed my eyes, offended.

"Oh, I see, you're a visitor who's depressed by Lhose's dismal weather." Shuro nodded knowingly, unfazed. He turned to the attendant. "Perhaps I shall try to cheer her up?"

"I don't need cheering up," I snapped.

"Will you have some drinks sent to us? Traditional ones?" Shuro asked the attendant, who obliged and departed. Shuro grabbed my wrist, and before I could protest, had seated me in a deep, comfortable leather chair before the roaring fire.

"I'm totally with you," Shuro said, "I can't stand this weather either. As you see, my body isn't really build for it." He extended a hand to prove his point. "I've got no insulation on me whatsoever."

"How can Lhoseans be so cheerful?" I asked, unable to resist the burning question any longer. Despite my initial poor impression of Shuro, I began to warm up slightly. "It's so cold, there's so much ice and snow, and it's only 'summer' for two months out of the year."

"We surround ourselves with beautiful things." With an extravagant gesture, Shuro took in the paintings, carvings and bright colors that ornamented the room. "We carry it to an extreme, and we also drink a lot. Did you know Lhose is known for its liquor, besides its fur?" As Shuro nodded, his head bobbed in a queer pecking manner.

The attendant returned with a bottle and two glasses. "Here, Mr. Dzaran," he beamed, "some of Lhose's finest for our visitor." He bowed to me and left.

I eyed the contents of the black bottle uneasily. Shuro examined the label and smiled demonically. "This is strong stuff, but you bet it's a Lhose vintage. I wouldn't drink it too quickly." As he poured the purple liquid into the glasses, the smell of alcohol permeated the space.

Shuro watched me expectantly as I lifted the glass to my lips with great trepidation. I took a small sip, and fire engulfed my mouth.

"Auggh…" Quickly, I set the glass back on the coffee table, and gasped like a fish, trying to exterminate the burning with cooler air. Bastard, I thought, as I observed Shuro chuckling and effortlessly downing his glass.

"I told you it was strong. It'll stop burning in a few seconds, so don't worry." He waited until my mouth was only halfway open. "What's your name? You're a cute girl."

"I didn't come here to get hit on!" The stinging faded steadily, and I flexed my tongue cautiously, licking my lips.

"Easy, I'll back off," said Shuro.

"Zhuruth Hotohori. And how did you manage to drink that entire glass?"

"I've lived in Lhose all my life, so I've had more time to get used to the burning." He poured himself another glass, and sipped once. "This is my favorite, by the way. So your name is Hotohori? Where are you from?"

"Lhasa." The mention of the city had a curious effect on Shuro. The cocky smile vanished, and Shuro rushed to drink the rest of the glass. It occurred to me that he knew that we'd come to get him.

"Lhasa?" His voice started high, but returned to its previous low pitch. "Are you from that family, by any chance?"

"The Shomas?" I asked gently. Shuro remained silent, his cheek muscle twitching every so often.

"You don't want to leave, do you?" The fire's roar seemed to gain volume in the quiet that ensued between Shuro and I. This would have to be handled carefully, but I soon found out that the reasons why weren't what I thought.

"No." Shuro shook his head emphatically. "I'd like nothing more than to leave this hellhole and go north, to warmer climates. And Lhasa is a much better place to start a professional singing career. You've got me wrong. But my family doesn't want me to leave."

"Do you love them?" I asked. I knew I was venturing onto dangerous ground, judging from Shuro's uncomfortable fidgeting. Finally, he looked at me, laughing nervously.

"Hotohori, have you noticed there aren't any flame trees in Lhose?" His sudden change of subject relieved me of the burden of easing the tension.

"There are trees in Lhose?" Frankly, I hadn't seen much, but I couldn't recall seeing any sign of plant life in all the snow.

"It's the wrong season, but there are some small trees. No flame trees, though," clarified Shuro. "Do you even have any idea what flame trees look like? There should still be plenty standing in Lhasa."

"Well, they are the subject of our national song," I responded somewhat indignantly, and uncertain of where the conversation was heading. Hesitating, I realized I couldn't summon a mental picture of a flame tree, only a vague idea that their blossoms were the color of fire, as the song said.

"Their bark is blackish-grey in color," explained Shuro, "and they're usually really twisted in shape, and not very tall."

"Oh, those trees!" Finally I remembered the gloomy trees all over the main estate, and felt somewhat embarrassed that I should have forgotten them so easily. "They never bloom anymore, so nobody in Lhasa really pays attention to them anymore." Suddenly I felt sad. "If I remember correctly, the flame trees used to be revered in Hoth."

"Not in Lhose," whispered Shuro, with a bitter smile. "That reminds me, you should not talk about them around native Lhoseans. It's fine with me." He leaned in towards me, and continued in a conspiratorial whisper. "You know, Thika Mountain is only twenty miles away from here. It's like a graveyard now and depressing—don't go there. That's where the flame trees are from. Lhose is the only town in the Ashomi Waste that doesn't have flame trees, which is kind of ridiculous considering how close we are to Thika.

"The other towns in the Waste and high up in the mountains have lots of stories about the old gods who lived on Thika, and made sure the land remained peaceful and rich. The flame trees served as their source of magic, and eventually the trees were planted all over Hoth because they were believed to bring good luck. As far as I know, that never happened in Lhose.

"Instead, the people who founded Lhose almost seven hundred years ago believed the flame trees were the source of evil magic, and destroyed all the ones within reach of their lands. They left Thika alone because even they were too afraid to disturb it. Nobody's ever explained to me why, but there you have it." Shuro shrugged philosophically. "At the time Lhose was founded, a family with strong magical ties practically ruled Hoth, and whose emblem was the flame tree. Their name has never been forgotten in Lhose—the Sakurazukas, which means 'dark magic,' as you know. Legend has it Lhose was founded by survivors of a rival family that was crushed by the Sakurazukas almost seven hundred years ago.

Then, five hundred years ago, the Sakurazukas suddenly faded from the public scene, the flame trees wouldn't bloom anymore, and a story started getting around about a prophecy saying that the gods would return after the flame trees had been barren for five hundred years."

I'd listened to the long speech with a growing realization of how little I knew I about the curse's complexity. And the Sakurazukas sounded suspiciously like the Shomas—the timing was perfect.

"Shuro, how much do you know about the curse?" I asked hoarsely, interrupting Shuro's reverie.

"What curse?" Shuro looked genuinely puzzled. Then he sighed. "Eh, I wouldn't be surprised if there are stories about a curse, too." His face became hard, and he forgot about the curse the next moment: "But I want you to understand, Hotohori, I hate those damn flame trees, too. Not because I think they're evil—that's an old folks' tale—but for what they've made my family do to me."

All of Shuro's previous drama and flippancy had vanished completely, overtaken by anger. He stared into the fire, his lips moving but no sound issuing from them. Despite my better judgment, I stared, wondering how half-dead trees could've possibly driven his family to do things that would leave Shuro in such a state.

"Hey, Shuro!" bellowed a bossy woman's voice. "We need to do a sound test on the equipment now!"

"Oh, that's my manager," said Shuro, perking instantly. "Coming!" He stood up, and I did likewise. "We'll talk again, won't we, Hotohori?" His smile showed no signs of his very recent strain. "Come to the show tonight!" He yelled back as he trotted towards the stage.

Hathori, Ahame, and Khazuma had the same dream about the parchment as Shehure, and they heard the same raspy voice.

During a particularly hot night, the silk sheets on Ahame's bed became more twisted and rumpled as the snake tossed in bed. He groaned as he shifted once again. For a few minutes, it seemed he could finally sleep in peace. Then Ahame's body froze, as the voice began speaking in his dreams:

"I, first of the Dzuni Gods, write this on my deathbed. My strength fades quickly. I have told no one of this parchment, and I shall entrust these instructions for the resurrection of the gods to the safekeeping of fate."

In a martial arts center near the Golden Ridge, Khazuma heard the words again in his sleep:

"Those who find this parchment, the spell will surely have ravaged the family and cast the Dzuni into a seemingly eternal hell of misery. My Dzuni and I have already tasted this misery, and long for freedom.

"500 years from now, when the gods have slumbered long enough, the spell shall be lifted by the dragon, serpent, and wolf. They must mix their seed with one in whose veins the dark magic flows. Thus the spiritual bridge shall be rebuilt."

Hathori, wide awake by contrast, gazed out of his bedroom window out onto a peaceful summer night in Lhasa. Once again, he took comfort in the dead god's last words, desperate for reassurance of Karan's safety in Lhose and the success of their actions. Even if the reassurance was from a person who'd lain in a grave for half a millennia.

"Heed my instructions, and within the year you will be able to caress your loved one, as I have been unable to do these past 30 years. The resurrection shall be slow to reach its finish, a natural effect of the gods having been silenced for 500 years. Have patience, and hope once again."

Meanwhile, Shehure contemplated the mysterious signature as he stared at the beginnings of his newest romance novel on his computer screen.

"I take leave of you now,

Shoma Maghri

(formerly Sakurazuka Ajirin)