Authors: Zoe Marriott
The Night Itself
Chapter 1: Entrances and Exits
Chapter 5: The Boy with the Sky in His Eyes
Chapter 11: Favours and Promises
Chapter 14: Through the Looking Glass
Chapter 18: The Court of the Kitsune
Chapter 20: The Kindness of Gods
Chapter 22: The Fortress of the Cat
For Tina Rath and Rachel Carthy,
who provided the spark and the kindling that lit
the flame of inspiration that became this book
ENTRANCES AND EXITS
S
tealing the sword was a bad idea. I can’t pretend I didn’t realize that at the time. I wasn’t even supposed to know about the thing, let alone sneak up and snaffle it from the attic where it was carefully concealed in the dark, under layers of cobwebs and rotting Christmas decorations. I was fully aware that if my father found out about the sword or about me taking it, he’d pop a blood vessel from sheer fury and kill me. Or die. Maybe both.
If your family’s priceless heirloom is some ugly vase or painting, like on the
Antiques Roadshow
, the worst thing that can happen if you mess with it is that you’ll smash it or ruin the patina or something. My family’s antique is a different story. Sixty-two centimetres of curved, single-edged steel, designed with a single purpose: to kill. You’d probably call it a samurai sword. But its proper name is katana.
And I needed it for my Christmas party costume.
Since it was the first day after school broke up for the Christmas holidays, Jack had persuaded me out to the shops to help her get a few final bits and pieces that she needed for her fancy-dress outfit. We should have known better. Wailing hordes of desperate, last-minute holiday shoppers had clogged the public transport system like too many bacon cheeseburgers in an artery. Considering that I’d got about half an hour’s sleep the night before, I was not in the mood to fight my way through them. But I didn’t have any choice. I couldn’t be late. When I crashed through my front door, my gaze shot straight to the foot of the staircase and I sagged with relief when I saw that the pile of luggage was still there.
“We seriously needed to run all the way from the station?” Jack asked as she elbowed past me. She dropped her bags on the chequer-pattern tiles and staggered dramatically into the hall to collapse in one of the chairs that sat either side of the phone stand, undoing the buttons on her coat as she went. “Didn’t you give your mum a hug before you left this morning?”
“Look, I need to reinforce their mission statement, OK?” I said, kicking Jack’s shoulder bag out of the way and then dropping mine on top of it. “They’re going to be in
Paris
on my birthday, Jack. Paris. Opportunities for those kinds of presents don’t fall in my lap every day.”
“Yeah, right.” Jack gave me a knowing look as she leaned her head against the yellow wall, but didn’t say any more. That’s one of the reasons why Jack is my best friend. She nearly always knows what I’m thinking, but she doesn’t always have to prove it. Plus, anyone who wears their hair in a two-inch-long, bleached-white pixie cut with hot pink and purple streaks in the front is someone with serious guts, and I respect guts. I needed them, growing up in this house.
“Mio!”
I turned round just in time to steady myself on the banister as I received a hug that would otherwise have knocked me flat on my back.
“You managed to get home in time,” Mum said. “I thought I was going to have to leave without saying goodbye properly.”
She squeezed me until my ribs creaked. Mum might be a puny five-foot tall – three inches shorter than me – but she is strong. Probably from heaving teeth out of people’s jaws all day long. Yep, she’s a dentist. Looking at her, with her sweet, young face and her soft waves of black hair, you’d never imagine that she was capable of inflicting pain on people for profit. I suppose it’s because she doesn’t see it that way; she just wants to help people and make them feel better, and she does. It’s her thing.
I leaned into her, breathing in her special mum-smell as I hugged her back. Just for an eye-blink the words hovered on my lips:
Don’t go without me. I don’t want to be alone on my birthday
…
“If Mio would just answer her mobile once in a while you wouldn’t have had to be in such a panic,” a voice said acidly from the top of the stairs.
I sucked the pleading words back down my throat as I straightened up away from Mum. “Hi, Dad.”
My father is definitely the dentist type. Either that or a traffic warden. Some profession where you can take pleasure in making other people miserable anyway.
“Hello, Mr Yamato,” Jack chimed in cheerfully. “Sorry we didn’t phone. The bus was packed, so we went on the Tube, and once we got off it didn’t seem worth it.”
“It doesn’t matter,” my mum said, letting me go as Dad stalked down the stairs. “You got home—”
“With a generous three minutes to spare,” Dad interrupted. “Perhaps I should mark it on my calendar.”
“Takashi, would you stop?” Mum chided.
He sighed, leaning on the newel post. “Fine, go on.”
Mum turned back to me. “You’re home, which means I can ask you if you’re really sure you don’t mind being alone on your birthday. Because I’ve got your passport. We could try to get you a last-minute ticket.”
Yes, please!
But there was no chance in hell of me saying it. Not with my dad standing right there, broadcasting doom at me. I knew exactly how much he didn’t want me around.
Who cares? I don’t want to be around him either
.
“Um, no offence?” I said. “But trailing behind while your parents make with the kissy-kissy in the world’s most romantic city is not a teenage daughter’s dream, you know.”
“Besides, Mimi’s not going to be alone,” Jack broke in. “Me and Rachel will make sure she has a great birthday, Mrs Yamato. Promise.”
Mum still didn’t look convinced. Her scrunched-up expression reminded me of the gerbil we used to look after in nursery school. I know most fifteen-year-old girls fight with their mothers nonstop, but my mum is just too nice to fight with. Seriously, even my father can’t manage it. And none of this was her fault. It was all my dad’s idea.
I plastered on my best happy face. “Stop this crazy talk, Mum. It’s your second honeymoon – the whole point is to be alone with each other. But don’t think I’m letting you off easy. You have to buy me amazing presents. Boots. Hats. Coats. Everything. And then we can open them together on Christmas Day and it will be the best ever, all right?”
My dad cracked an actual smile at that. Well, he was getting his own way, wasn’t he? I caught his eye and defiantly raked back the short length of my hair. The smile instantly transformed into his usual scowl. He’d barely stopped frowning since I’d gone out two weeks before – the same day he broke the news about his wonderful second-honeymoon plan – and got my hair, which had been nearly as long as Mum’s, cut into a sleek, graduated bob that just skimmed my chin.
It’s not that he’s one of those guys who think women need to be able to sit on their hair. Trust me when I say that my father is
not
traditional. We don’t celebrate any Japanese holidays or even eat Japanese food, and the only Japanese words I know come from kendo and watching anime. Dad’s lack of interest in our heritage used to drive Ojiichan – my grandfather – up the wall, and is probably why Ojiichan was so determined to enrol me in kendo. No, what bothers my dad is that I cut my hair
without
asking permission
. He’s dead keen on that. Like making me beg for his blessing before I’m allowed to breathe is going to ensure I ask permission before I run off and get pregnant or something.