Chapter 22: Marked by Fate
The door to the living room slammed open.
Hana spun toward the sound, her back slamming against the mirrored wall with a painful jolt. Her father stood in the frame, his face a mask of pure, undiluted horror. His eyes were locked not on her state of half-dress, but on her shoulders. Her bare shoulders.
Under her own startled touch, the lurid hand print burns were glowing. A deep, pulsing violet light emanated from the raised, blistered skin, illuminating the hallway with an otherworldly sheen.
“Hana,” Kenji breathed, the word brittle.
Shame, hot and frantic, swallowed her whole. She snatched a grey fleece jacket from the back of a nearby chair, yanking it on so violently she heard a seam groan. She fumbled with the zipper, her fingers slick and stupid, finally jerking it up to her chin. The soft fabric felt like a lie against the throbbing, fiery brands hidden beneath.
“It’s nothing,” she choked out, pushing past him. The scent of his morning coffee, usually comforting, now seemed accusatory. “Just… a rash. Allergic reaction. To the new laundry soap or something.”
“That is not a rash,” he said, his voice low and trembling. He reached for her.
She dodged his hand, brushing him off with a sharper movement than she intended. “I’m fine, Dad.Seriously. I’m going to start breakfast.” She didn’t wait for a reply. She fled to the kitchen, the fluorescent lights overhead harsh and revealing. She kept the jacket on, even as the warmth of the house began to seep in. Kitsune padded silently after her, his warm body pressing against her shin as she stared blankly into the open refrigerator.
Two hours later, the atmosphere at the low dining table was a fragile bubble of forced normalcy. Steam rose from bowls of miso soup and rice. Kenji ate with mechanical precision, his eyes constantly darting to Hana, who had changed into a long-sleeved t-shirt and jeans. Kage sat with a warrior’s stillness, his gaze fixed on some distant point, the memory of her taste and the sight of those burns hanging between them like a live wire. Jiwoo, perceptive and uncomfortable, finally broke the silence.
“So,” she said, setting her chopsticks down with a definitive click. “When do we return to the manor? We cannot strategize in this… plastic world. Our absence will be noted.”
All eyes swung to Hana. The unspoken question hung in the air: You’re the one who wanted to come here. What now?
Hana’s throat went dry. The thought of returning to that austere fortress, to the weight of ancient expectations and the simmering danger of Kage’s world, made her skin prickle. She needed air. She needed space. She needed to not be under this roof, under these watching eyes, for just a few more hours.
She cleared her throat.“Soon. But Dad,” she said, forcing a lightness into her voice she didn’t feel. “You should show Jiwoo around first. Your weapon collection.The gardens. The… the things. Give her the full, weird tour of the twenty-first century shrine.” She felt Kitsune’s bushy tail sweep against her leg under the table, a subtle, knowing pressure. She knew her father. Once he got started on his swords, his guns, the intricacies of modern steel versus folded tamahagane, he would be absorbed for hours.
Kenji studied her for a long moment, then gave a slow, resigned nod. “Yes. That is a good idea. The weapons here are… different.” He turned to Jiwoo, a spark of reluctant enthusiasm in his eyes. “They have devices called ‘guns’. They use a chemical explosion to propel a small piece of metal faster than the eye can see. No skill, just… noise and death.”
As he launched into his explanation, Hana excused herself. In the bathroom, she showered with water as hot as she could stand, scrubbing at her skin until it was pink, as if she could wash away the phantom grip of her mother and the very real memory of Kage’s mouth. She toweled off and stared into the steam-clouded mirror, the outlines of the hand prints still faintly visible, angry and accusing. Defiantly, she rummaged through her drawer and pulled out a summer dress she hadn’t worn in years. It was a soft yellow cotton, cut simply, but it was short. It skimmed her thighs and clung to her waist and chest. It showed every curve without apology.
She emerged, her damp hair piled loosely on her head. She grabbed a canvas tote bag, slinging it over her shoulder. Her father was in the spare room, now his armoury, holding a disassembled pistol, lecturing a bemused Jiwoo on the function of the recoil spring.They were distracted.
She caught Kage’s eye from across the living room and tilted her head sharply toward the front door. No words. A command. His eyebrows rose, but after a beat, he unfolded himself from the floor and followed her out into the bright, humid morning.
The local farmer’s market was a weekend carnival of sound and color. Canvas tents fluttered in the breeze, overflowing with vibrant produce. The air was a complex perfume of ripe strawberries, fresh bread, and sizzling street food. Kage moved through it like a wolf through a sheep pen, his shoulders tense, his eyes cataloguing every fluorescent light, every blaring speaker, every person staring at their handheld screens.
“What is this place?” he murmured, his voice almost lost under the din of a coffee grinder.
“A market. Food, mostly. Just… try to look normal.”
“I am a feudal lord in borrowed sweatpants and a t-shirt that says ‘California.’ I am beyond normal.”
She almost smiled. She led him to a small ice cream stand with red and white stripes. “You need to try this,” she said, digging in her bag for her wallet.
“What is it?”
“You’ll see.”
The clerk at the window was a guy named Ben. He’d gone to high school with Hana. He was tanned, with easy smiles and a smile that had charmed half her senior class. His eyes lit up when he saw her.
“Daisy Sato. Long time no see,” he said, his gaze doing a quick, appreciative sweep from her face down the lines of her dress. “You look… wow.Different. Didn’t expect to see you here. Day off from the museum?”
“Yeah, something like that,” she said, acutely aware of Kage stiffening beside her, his presence suddenly radiating a chill. “Can we get two cups of the vanilla bean, please?”
“Sure thing.” Ben leaned on the counter, his eyes lingering on her. “You know, a bunch of us are getting together at The Tap later. You should come. Bring your… friend.” He glanced at Kage, who was staring at him with a look of such cold, lethal intensity that Ben’s smile faltered for a second.
“We’re just visiting,” Hana said quickly, handing over cash. “Thanks, Ben.”
She took the two small cups and plastic spoons, steering Kage away by his arm. She could feel the coiled tension in him, a spring ready to snap.
“That male,” Kage growled once they were a few stalls away. “His eyes. They were on you like a stain.”
“He was just being friendly. It’s nothing.”
“I do not know the words he spoke, but I know the language of his eyes. He wants.” The simple statement was delivered with absolute certainty.
They found a vacant bench under a large oak tree, away from the main crowd. Hana handed him his cup. “Just eat it.”
He looked at the white substance with deep suspicion, then took a small spoonful. His eyes widened. He took another, larger one. “It is cold,” he said, surprised. “And sweet. Like scented snow.”
She watched him, a reluctant smile touching her lips as he ate with a sort of focused wonder. It was a rare, unguarded moment. But then she noticed the other looks. A group of women walking by, their eyes sliding over Kage, lingering on the breadth of his shoulders, the sharp line of his jaw, the intense way he focused on the simple cup of ice cream. One whispered to another, and they both giggled. A hot, sharp prick of something ugly twisted in Hana’s stomach. It felt like possession. It felt like fear.
He finished the ice cream, setting the empty cup neatly on the bench beside him. The ease was gone, his expression turning serious. “That male at the cold-snow stall. I did not like his looking.”
Hana sighed, scraping the last of her own melted dessert. “It’s fine. Really. He wasn’t seeing me. He was just… looking. Guys like that, they see the dress, the… the hips. It’s not about my face. I’m not beautiful, so it’s just… a physical thing. It doesn’t mean anything.” The words were an old, familiar armor, worn thin from use.
Kage went very still.
Then he turned fully to her on the bench. He reached out, his hands—the same hands that could wield a sword with deadly grace, that had pinned her to the floor—came up to cradle her face. His palms were warm against her cheeks, his thumbs brushing the corners of her mouth. He held her with a terrifying gentleness, forcing her to meet his eyes.
The ambient noise of the market faded into a distant hum. There was only his gaze, fierce and unwavering.
“You are a fool,” he said, his voice low and resonant, each word a carefully placed stone. “Do not speak of what you do not know.”
He leaned closer, his breath mingling with hers. The magnificence in his look was not flattery; it was a stark, brutal revision of her entire reality.
“You are the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on.”
Hana blinked. The world refused to right itself. The armor shattered, leaving her raw and exposed.
The armor shattered, leaving her raw and exposed.
It was too much. The weight of his words, the physical brand on her shoulders, the sickening sweetness of the melting ice cream still on her tongue. She pulled her face from his hands, the warmth of his palms lingering on her skin like a promise she didn't know how to keep. She looked down at her own white-knuckled fingers clutching the empty cup.
"You can't just say things like that," she whispered.
"I speak only truth."
She shook her head, a messy, frustrated motion. The crowd swirled around their quiet pocket under the tree, a river of cheerful noise that felt like a mockery. "I'm so indecisive and I don’t know what I’m doing," she said, the admission tearing from her throat. She could feel him waiting, a silent, patient pressure beside her.
She forced herself to continue, the words tumbling out in a chaotic spill. "I didn’t want to return home while I was in the past, and now that I’m here, I’m afraid to go back to the past. I know, I’m crazy, right? I just…I don’t know what I’m doing. Being here, I always felt like something was missing, and being there helped fulfill that, but it’s terrifying with all of the yokai and things that can kill you."
Her eyes started to water, blurring the vibrant market colors into smears. She stared hard at a crack in the pavement. "I didn’t tell my dad, but I had lost my job that day we traveled to the past. I was too ashamed. After all that work I did to study. They didn’t need me anymore…"
Kage’s hand came to rest over hers on the bench. His touch was solid, grounding. It didn't stop the tremor in her fingers.
"I just, I don’t know what to do…and I…" She finally turned her face to his, her vision swimming. "I want to stay with you, wherever you are."
The confession hung between them, terrifying and true.
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he shifted closer. He didn't kiss her. He simply pressed his forehead to hers, a gesture of startling intimacy. His skin was warm. She could feel the subtle ridge where his horns had erupted hours before.
"Indecision is the only sane response to a world that makes no sense," he said, his voice a low murmur meant only for her. "A river does not agonize over its path. It follows the pull of the earth, carves through stone, flows around obstacles. It simply is. You are being pulled. Do not fight the current to prove you can swim. Feel its direction."
His words seeped into her, quieting the frantic noise in her head. They sat like that, foreheads touching, breathing the same air, while the market dwindled around them. The afternoon began to cool.
Eventually, he pulled back. He stood and offered her his hand. She took it. They walked back to the bus stop in a silence that was no longer strained, but filled with the echo of her confession and his strange, ancient wisdom.
On the near-empty bus, the motion lulling her, she finally pulled her phone from her tote bag. The screen lit up with a barrage of notifications. Over a dozen missed calls and a torrent of texts, all from her father, all in rapid, worried Japanese.
Where are you?
Answer your phone.
This is not a game, Hana.
Jiwoo is growing impatient. We must prepare.
You must return home now. We need to send them back.
Each message was a nail hammering the lid shut on the fragile space they had just created. She didn’t want him to leave. The thought was a physical cramp in her stomach, a cold dread that seeped into her bones. She was terrified of him leaving.
The bus shuddered to a stop two blocks from the shrine. They walked the rest of the way in the long shadows of late afternoon. The neighborhood was quiet. As they passed a small, rundown shrine wedged between two houses, Hana gestured toward it.
"Shinto," she said, her voice quiet. "That's what most of these are. It's… not really a religion like in America. There's no single god. It's more about spirits in everything—in the trees, the rocks, the wind.Kami. You honor them, you ask for blessings, you try to keep things clean and pure."
Kage listened, his gaze on the small torii gate.
"Here in America," she continued, "where I grew up, most people believe in one all-powerful God. One heaven, one hell. One right way. Here… it's messier. More stories, more possibilities. But not many people really believe anymore. Not like they used to. It's just tradition. I still believe, though I don’t actively go to church."
They turned the corner. The vermilion torii gate of her family shrine loomed at the top of the stone steps, its paint bright against the grey twilight sky. Hana froze at the base of the stairs. She knew what was to come.
Her feet carried her upward, each step heavier than the last. At the top, she paused. She placed a hand flat against the cool, painted wood of the gate's left pillar. Before, it was just a familiar marker from her childhood. Now she knew power could flow through such things. It was a doorway between worlds. Today, it just felt like a final threshold.
She needed to get that book. Her mother's frantic plea in the dream slammed into the forefront of her mind. The purple one with three stitches. The thought was rushed and loud, a command she could no longer ignore.
Kage stopped beside her, facing the courtyard and the dark maw of the well.
"We cannot delay," he said, his voice stripped of the earlier gentleness. It was the voice of Lord Akuma. He placed a hand on her shoulder, his fingers careful to avoid the hidden burns. "I need to return to my time. You need to stay here."
The words were simple. Inevitable. They broke her heart with the clean, brutal efficiency of a snapped bone, but she knew they were true. Her father's world, her failing life, the prophecy her mother feared—they were here, in this time. His duty, his secrets, his very existence, were anchored there, in the past.
She nodded, unable to speak around the stone in her throat. She let her hand fall from the torii gate. Together, they walked through it, into the courtyard. The back door of the house was open, light spilling out. Kenji stood silhouetted in the doorway, Jiwoo a rigid shadow behind him.
"You're back," Kenji said, his voice tight. His eyes went from Hana's face to Kage's."Good. We must begin. Jiwoo believes the next viable window for the temporal crossing is at moonset. We have a few hours to prepare."
Hana's gaze slid past her father, into the warm glow of the house. Her eyes landed on the built-in bookshelf in the living room, overflowing with her mother's old collection. Somewhere in that colorful clutter was a purple book.
Her mother's book.
And the answer, she feared, to why her touch had seared Hana's skin from beyond the grave.