Rain

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“Hold still,” Yuki said, threading the thick obi ribbon through the back of the bow. She pulled the loops tight. “Okay, now breathe in.”

I took a deep breath as Yuki shifted the bow to the center of my back, but didn’t look up from my phone.

“How’s that?”

No messages in my inbox. “Looks great.”

“You didn’t even look.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Yuki snatched the keitai out of my hands. “Hey!”

“Ano ne,” she said, an expression which meant we needed to talk. That didn’t surprise me. “You’re starting to look obsessed. Yuu will call you; I’m sure of it. You don’t want to be the needy girlfriend, right?”

I didn’t say anything. How could I? Yuki didn’t know that not being able to get ahold of Tomohiro could mean the Yakuza had him, or the Kami had kidnapped him, or that Tomo had drowned in an ocean of his own sketching. The Kami, descendants of the Shinto goddess Amaterasu, could make ink come alive on the page, although the power came with its own curse—a plague of nightmares and threats, scars carved by the claws and talons of their own feral drawings.

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