The second woman cuts in. “Protecting a human? Partnering up with it to sleep with other humans? You call that coming to terms?”

“Can you blame him, dear? We all need to satiate our demonic needs somehow.”

“Well, I suppose you are right.”

“And don’t forget,” says the third woman, “he’s allowing us this private party here tonight. He may be a fledgling asshole of a yokai, but when you think about it, he’s really come a long way in the last one hundred and fifty–odd years.” The others nod.

“That’s right,” says the first. “It was that long ago. Why, he must have been younger than you when he turned, dear! Times were different — samurai were considered men at fifteen back then.” The others nod again in agreement. The Yokai does not know how to feel about that statement.

“It sounds like you have yet to run into him. Would you —” the fourth woman’s eyebrows dance “— like to?”

“Not really. No.”

The first woman snickers. “Well, we suppose only time will tell. Here we are!”

A long flight of steps has taken them up to another hallway, into a large room with a small butsudan altar in the corner. The walls are lined with hundreds of candles. Underneath a large red lantern in the ceiling sits a low, long table that stretches the length of the room. The Yokai’s eyes light up. Every inch of the table is covered with food: plates and platters longer than her arms laden with pink and orange sashimi, bright yellow flowers, sushi arranged to look like planets, and mint-green blossoms of wasabi. Cornucopia of autumnal fruit — short, fat persimmons and giant Fuji apples — are surrounded by enormous bowls of ice creams and puddings, and tiny plates of herbs and spices are scattered in between. In the centre of it all sits one large, silver covered dish.

“Well, ladies? Let’s dig in!”

“Itadakimasu!” the women cry and take their seats together, on the other side. The Yokai sits alone on her side. She does not mind. More elbow room for her, she thinks to herself. What she does not notice is how the women watch, unmoving, as she piles up her plate and devours everything she takes. Every time she brings a roll of sushi or a sliver of sashimi to her lips with her black lacquered chopsticks, they make little gasping sounds as if every morsel may cause the Yokai to explode.

“What?” she asks them. “It’s not dynamite.”

The first woman purses her lips. “No. We suppose not.”

When the Yokai takes a break from chewing with a cup of green tea, the women exchange glances between themselves and the large, covered dish. The first woman cocks her head. “You are full?”

“Mm-mmm,” says the Yokai.