“But what about your friend? He’s supposed to be here.” She wrinkles her nose at Zaniel. He does not need to hold her hand to know she would rather be in the handsome, muscular samurai’s company than in his. “Take me to him, already!”

Zaniel does not respond. Ignoring the invisible eyes watching him, he guides the young woman to one of the stone benches and heads toward the house. On the other side of the garden he hears yokai voices in the woods, their conversation turning from amusement at the night’s mukade celebration to confusion and caution. He approaches the front door, wary of entering; the last thing he wants to do is encounter Akki and learn he has disappointed the demon yet again. However, some inexplicable force pulls him to the door, draws his hand to the knob, and urges him to enter the house.

Three squid demons in the form of bald women collide with Zaniel on the stairs as they bump along the walls, groping their way to the exit. They hold themselves in various places, crying in pain, dripping thick black ink in place of blood all over the floor. One of them hisses and pushes him aside. “Damn humans! Out of the way, freak!” it spits from the leaking, black wound where its mouth should be.

Humans?

Cautious, Zaniel enters the house, goes up the stairs, and is startled by the wide black pool snaking along the tatami floor of a long, vast hall he has never seen before. Several feet down the hall, a strange lumpy figure is heaped in the middle of the black mess. It groans softly. Akki is over there, too. He is not alone. The Yokai is there, and she has not relaxed her offensive stance. Crouching on the floor, she is brandishing a pair of chopsticks in her clenched fist, pointing them up from her chest as if to strike Akki with them.

Nothing diverts her attention — not Zaniel down the hall, not even the black ink that has splashed her from brow to waist, soaking her white kimono. Not when Akki could have helped her.

Akki still makes no move toward her. He simply stares at her with a wicked, almost lecherous grin, savouring the scent of her. Neither breaks their gaze as she takes a step back, then another and another, until she is a safe distance to turn and escape down the hall.

“Oh, well,” the giant yokai shrugs to himself. He sniffs and whirls around himself abruptly. It is difficult with all the ink-blood in the air, but he could have sworn he smelled the boy.