Chapter Text
Shinobu died with Kanae, on that daybreak.
Not biologically speaking, of course. Her chest still rose and fell with broken sobs of oxygen, her eyes still sprung tears as she cried out her sister’s name, sodium streaking her cheeks, blood slick and crusting over her knuckles.
Her heart still pumped, her brain still sparked, air still tickled her vocal chords when she begged Himejima to let go of her, to allow her to cling to her sister’s body until it rotted.
Yet she died, because Shinobu remained with nothing, nothing if not grief. Grief, and anger.
An anger so ugly and twisted and all-encompassing, she had no choice but put it somewhere hidden, somewhere deep and unreachable for anyone that was not her. It boiled and bubbled and it was a side of herself Shinobu wouldn’t allow the Heavens to be a witness of. It was the one side of herself she felt like wasn’t lost or numbed.
Everything else was an imperfect imitation of Kanae. Her gentleness, her care– Shinobu wore her sister along with the fair haori, pretty appearances that hid the ugly, crawling thing underneath.
It worked.
People accepted it, eventually, the way Shinobu changed, the way she let her hair grow and her voice soften. They didn’t dare pry. And soon, Shinobu wasn’t sure where Kanae’s faux persona ended and where her true self began. Her hatred, her rage, they were successfully cloaked. They no longer caused her lips to tremble and her blood to pulse.
Or so she had thought.
“Master– surely you cannot..!”
“Shinobu,” Kagaya Ubuyashiky interrupts her, his voice as soft and kind as when she’d first met him, years prior. “I understand your distaste. Know, I wouldn't ask this of you, if it wasn’t so crucial. But Tamayo-san, I know for a fact she has knowledge that could end up being essential to our cause– and you, the only one among us that could hope to help her bring it to fruition.”
“She’s… she’s a demon.” Her breathing feels ragged, and Shinobu tries her hardest not to shout, clinging to the utmost respect she has for the man in front of her with claws. “What if she’s lying, what if she turns on us? What then? Demons lie. They lie all the time!”
“She won’t.” His answer is simple and plain. He adds nothing else. A case done and concluded that Shinobu had only been summoned to accept.
“Master…”
“Shinobu. I will not force you. But I do ask you to give her a chance. I really do believe, with all of myself, that Tamayo-san could be the one asset that will turn around this war.”
Shinobu looks down, her breathing still ragged. She hadn’t lost her composure like this— especially not in front of him— in years, since Kanae had just passed.
“How about this, child,” he states, his voice kind and understanding. “If she does anything to cause suspect or alarm, you are allowed to end her life on the moment. I trust your judgement, Shinobu. I know you won’t fail us.”
Yet another stone dropped on shoulders barely strong enough to wield her own katana. Shinobu swallows down the anger and the fear and the spite, and looks up towards those unseeing eyes, genuinely loving in a way hers never could be.
“Yes,” she states, forcing her voice to be sweet, to be the girl, the woman, she’s supposed to be. “Yes Master.”
The demon turns out to be sickeningly beautiful. And beautiful demons are, to Shinobu, the absolute worst kind there is.
“Kocho-sama.” Shinobu watches the creature dip her head, dark hair kept perfectly in place in a braided bun, an ornament with a pearl on its end fixed through it, as if the monster had developed a taste for beauty. “It is an honor to meet you. Thank you for having me.”
Shinobu grimaces, the side of her mouth curling downwards in distaste.
“Honor,” she repeats, voice as cutting and cold as the end of her blade, “is hardly what I would call it. But please, Tamayo,” she states, her voice sweetening, “make yourself comfortable.”
They are not in the Butterfly Mansion.
Shinobu would never bring a demon inside it, at the reach of the girls— with the sole exception of Nezuko, a being that has never once tasted flesh. Instead, Shinobu has allowed Tamayo to stay in her private laboratory, a separate shed where she’s been able to brew her more controversial concoctions without being disturbed.
She steps back, allowing for the demon to pass the threshold. Tamayo walks slowly, looking around the dark corridor and dusty walls. Shinobu has had no reason to keep this section clean.
“You are very young.”
Shinobu startles at that. Of all the things she might have expected coming out of that red mouth, an observation over her age hadn’t been one of them.
“Were you expecting someone older?”
Tamayo nods, clearly unfazed by Shinobu’s evident hostility. “Indeed. When Ubuyashiki-sama had told me about a poison master with extensive knowledge on demonic biology, a Hashira at that, I’d have expected someone more… experienced. It’s impressive that you’ve already accomplished so much in such a short span of time.”
It’s a compliment, even though Tamayo’s tone is everything but sycophantic. Shinobu is unsure of how to handle it.
It bothers her, truly, that this beautiful, monstrous being would appear so effortlessly calm and perceptive in a way Shinobu will always have to force herself to be.
“When people around you die every day,” Shinobu clips out, finally, “Experience is hardly a luxury we can afford.”
Tamayo looks at her for a long moment, lavender eyes unreadable. “Indeed.” Then she smiles. It’s sad and knowing, it instantly makes Shinobu want to draw her blade and slice it clean off.
Your kind kills them. You’ve killed them. It’s your fault.
“Please, then,” Tamayo says, oblivious to Shinobu’s simmering hatred. “Lead the way.”
Shinobu’s laboratory is better cared for than the entrance. Vials, boxes and notebooks are all placed in meticulous order, the walls are clean and sterilized and the smell of dried flowers overtakes the earlier dust.
Tamayo’s calm, pupilless eyes are analyzing the space without judgement, as if simply taking in any landscape.
“Yushiro, my assistant, will bring my things here in a couple of hours.” She says.
Shinobu looks at her, annoyed. “Assistant? Master has not mentioned anyone else. He’s a demon, isn’t he?”
A senseless question. No human in their right mind would willingly work for a demon.
Tamayo folds her hands in front of her waist, unfazed. “He is. His presence and medical skills will be a great help, I assure you. I did want to come here alone first, considering his… protective nature.” Tamayo gives Shinobu’s tensed form, the way her small hand rests on the hilt of her katana, a long look. “It seems like I made the right call, after all.”
Shinobu feels a vein high on her forehead throb.
“And what is that supposed to mean, exactly, Tamayo?”
Tamayo’s tiny smile turns a bit less sad and a bit more something else, perhaps even amused.
“It means that, while your killing intent is understandable, it hardly is subsided, Kocho-sama.”
Twice in a row, Shinobu is left speechless. There is a kind of candor to this demon, this creature of flesh and darkness, that is disarming her in a way few things ever have.
“In any case,” Tamayo continues, smoothing out an invisible crinkle in her clothing, “I believe we better get to work. As you stated, we hardly have time to waste, do we?”
—
Shinobu cannot stop staring at Tamayo’s hands. They’re pale, elegant and slender like the rest of her, and they keep fleeting over things that are Shinobu’s with the confidence of someone that has mapped this room by touch multiple times over.
It’s maddening. Every time her index and middle curl around one of Shinobu’s lovingly labeled vials, Shinobu’s mouth goes dry and her own fingers twitch.
“You’ve eaten people.”
It’s not a question, and Tamayo stills in place as soon as those few, accusing words leave Shinobu’s mouth. Shinobu registers the stiffening in Tamayo’s posture, the way her lips press together for a moment, and feels a hint of perverse satisfaction at having finally managed to rattle the demon.
“Many years ago. I’ve long stopped.”
“Liar. How many have you eaten?”
“It wasn’t a lie,” Tamayo insists, although her voice is still infuriatingly gentle as she settles the vial down on the wooden table with a soft clink. “Why would I lie to you? It’s been centuries. I’ve been sustaining myself on the blood donations like the ones you’ve been asked to collect for me.”
That is true. Shinobu had been asked to do so, a frustrating request considering the amount of slayers that need transfusions almost daily.
Blood wasted to satiate a demon’s appetite. Preposterous. Especially when the Hashira is convinced it’s just a cover on Tamayo’s end, a way to look good in Ubuyashiki’s eyes. She must be hungry, Shinobu thinks, for a blood that is fresh and spilling from a torn carotid.
“You didn’t answer my question, Tamayo.”
“Which one?”
“How many of them?”
Tamayo draws in a long breath. She doesn’t look angry. Not at Shinobu, at least. The Hashira finds it difficult to decipher the exact emotion coursing through her, when her face is so frustratingly plain.
“I am unsure,” Tamayo says, finally, with a subtle rasp to her usually smooth voice. “Dozens. I wasn’t… myself. When it happened.”
Dozens. To a monster like Tamayo, it might seem like an insignificant number, perhaps. Something to be unsure about. But to Shinobu, human and who has known loss so intimately, who has seen the change that a single person’s absence can make in the world, feels her own blood boil.
“Dozens.” Shinobu repeats, and then lets out a brief, mirthless laugh. “And what, you think because decades, centuries have passed, that doesn’t count anymore? You can just start over?”
Tamayo looks away, chastised, her lavender eyes lowered down to the floor.
“Of course not. I’ll carry that weight with me until the day I die.”
“Ah, I see,” Shinobu nods in mock sympathy. “Yet that won’t bring them back, will it? Neither will being a medic, or crafting a poison. You can’t undo what you did. You can’t spare that pain to their family, or their loved ones.”
Tamayo is flinching away now, and it gives Shinobu a thrill, the hidden hideous thing inside her baring its fangs, its blood singing.
“You’re a monster.” She murmurs with the same soft tone she’d use to talk to one of the younger girls, “You’ve filled your belly with children and mothers and are now here, acting like that can be undone by one favor.” Shinobu has gotten closer, stepping into her space close enough she can see each individual eyelash flutter on rosy cheeks. She can smell her. Sweet like sugar. “Their blood, the agony of their families and their beloveds, it will forever stain your hands. Isn’t that right Tamayo?”
Shinobu can see her every microexpression, the way those perfect crimson lips tremble for just a moment.
“Kocho-san…” Shinobu’s name is a whisper on the demon’s tongue.
Shinobu tilts her head, her own smile unchanged. “Hm?”
Tamayo has turned to look at her now, and Shinobu can feel the whisper of her breath on her lips. The rot that usually oozes from a demon’s tongue is absent, replaced by something that’s closer to honey.
And Shinobu can see it, the way she must have seduced men, too— with her wide, lavender eyes, flawless skin, and perfect mouth. There is something alluring about her most sensible clothing, about the way she acts and holds herself— a poised lady, feminine and sweet.
A venus flytrap.
Shinobu’s eyes fall back to those hands, for a moment, to a delicate wrist. Her fingertips travel up a blue vein, feeling the pulse, and she can see the shiver that breaks out beneath pale skin.
“Kocho—“
“What in the hell are you doing, so close to Tamayo-sama?!”
It takes two seconds. Shinobu has jumped back, her hand fallen to the handle of her katana, its thin blade extracted and pointed towards the new voice, the deadly tip of her weapon inches away from a pale neck different from Tamayo’s.
It’s a boy. A demon shaped like one. His eyes are far more honest than his Lady’s— with pupils that are vertical, cat like slits.
And he’s looking at her like Shinobu has just spat in his food, an animalistic growl vibrating up his throat, pearl-white fangs bared to the lamplight.
Shinobu hadn’t sensed him coming.
“Yushiro,” Tamayo states, having regained her composure. Shinobu sees her reaching for him, placing a hand on his chest as if to push him back. “Please, back down.”
“I heard the things she was saying to you, Tamayo-sama!” He blurts out, his malevolent eyes still fixed on Shinobu. “How dare you! How dare you speak like that to her?”
Shinobu’s pulse is slowing as she breathes, the shock subsiding. How could she have not heard him? Does he have some blood art that allowed him to sneak past her senses?
Or… had she been so focused on Tamayo, she hadn’t noticed?
No. That can’t be it.
“Speaking like that?” Shinobu asks, hiding away her surprise, her discomfort. “We were just having a chat between colleagues. And all things I’ve said were true.”
Another growl, deeper. He steps closer, unafraid of her weapon; neck inches away from it. Were he to cut himself, he’d burst into dark blisters and curl on the floor in an agonized bundle then and there.
“How dare you, you bi—“
“Yushiro!” He snaps his fangs at Tamayo’s call, frustration rushing red hot up his face, but he stills. A dog well trained. “Stand back. We are not here to fight.”
“Listen to your master, Yushiro,” Shinobu chides, wagging her finger at him. “I wouldn’t want to make a mess and contaminate my laboratory.”
Yushiro gives her a last withering glare that is meant to be intimidating, but to Shinobu it comes off as anything but. She could kill him in the span of a blink.
“We’re done for today.” Shinobu declares, grabbing her haori with two hands and tugging it forward to needlessly fix it into place. “Get settled in. Don’t touch anything. You’ll have rooms downstairs— you’ve brought your own mats, have you?”
Tamayo nods, her face serious once more. “I do not need much rest,” she says. “If it is dark enough in here, I can still work during the day.”
“Good.” Shinobu hums. “Then I’ll board the windows. I’ll see you tomorrow. And Tamayo,” Shinobu adds at the end, as she slides her sword back in her sheath. “Give your dog a muzzle, or I’ll have to put him down.”
Shinobu watches, amused, as Tamayo’s hand tightens on Yushiro’s shoulder, a way to hold him back even as his chest vibrates and his eyes widen with fury.
The Hashira leaves, light on her feet, pretending not to think about the way they’d been so close right before he’d interrupted, of how Tamayo’s sweet scent had made her feel like a bug drifting to ripe fruit.
—
For some reason that Shinobu cannot quite pinpoint— perhaps the strangeness of her, the infuriating calm as she talked about her past bloodshed, her deceiving scent— Shinobu cannot stop thinking of the demon named Tamayo.
A demon that looks, behaves and talks like a lady. What an offense she is. What a bleak parody of the graceful, beautiful girl Kanae used to be.
Kanae.
Kanae would have loved her. She would have gone up to Tamayo, taking her pale, elegant hands in hers and smiled. She would have believed her every word, of atonement and regret, tears shining in her eyes at the tragic air that surrounds the demon like a veil.
And Kanae’s body has rotten beneath the earth, food for a wisteria tree, with worms in her skull and centipedes scuttering over her bones.
Kanae is gone, and this… creature is here. Pretending to be something she is not.
Shinobu’s fingers curl into fists, short nails biting skin and forming red marks. She feels it, still, the phantom sensation of Tamayo’s soft wrist under her fingertips— the cool, smooth skin, the shiver that had traveled through it, the pulse of blood speeding up, just for a moment, allowing the mask to slip.
And Shinobu had wanted to… to…
To what?
To dig her nails in, to draw blood, to see its color— dark and viscous— and to watch the cut sew itself together just to slice it open again. And again. Keep going until the monster would finally, inevitably, take over the lady and bare its teeth.
Shinobu shakes her head as she walks, pretending not to see Aoi staring at her from the entrance of the Manor with concern in her young face.
Foolish.
She’s a Hashira. A doctor, these girls’ last hope. She cannot afford to waste her time thinking about a demon’s pretty face, the candor in her voice, the pulse fluttering in her delicate wrist.
She enters the manor, walking down the corridor, politely nodding to everyone that comes greet her with breathy, respectful “Shinonu-sama.”
Dozens.
The word echoes in her head, making it pulse. Dozens of lives, snuffed out. Dozens of families shattered into splinters, their futures and dreams like crushed leaves.
And Tamayo, beautiful, monstrous Tamayo, speaks of it with a quiet regret, as if it were a minor transgression, a youthful mistake she had long digested. The audacity. The sheer, horrible audacity of it makes bile burn in Shinobu’s throat.
And yet… Ubuyashiki-sama believes in her. He sees something Shinobu cannot, or will not, see. He has asked for her trust. He has placed this burden on her shoulders.
Shinobu looks down at her own hands. Small. Delicate. They’ve held dying slayers. They’ve mixed violent poisons. They’ve driven a blade into demon flesh. They are not gentle hands. Not anymore.
Kanae’s hands were gentle.
She is so tired of wearing her sister’s gentleness along with the haori. It never quite fits right. The seams chafe and make her skin prickle.
Your killing intent is understandable, but it hardly is subsided, Kocho-sama.
She’d seen right through her. Through the sweet smile, the soft voice, the pretty haori. She’d seen the ugly, crawling thing underneath.
She thinks of the demon boy, Yushiro. His feral protectiveness. His undisguised hatred for her. He is a simpler creature. A straightforward monster. She knows how to deal with his kind. A blade through the neck. Wisteria poison injected in the veins. Clean. Simple.
Tamayo is not simple.
She closes her eyes, letting the wisteria scent wash over her. When she opens them again, her expression is smoother, she’s found her placid exterior once more.
Tomorrow, she will return to the laboratory and work alongside the demon. She will watch her. She will wait for a mistake, for a slip, for a reason to fulfill Ubuyashiki-sama’s permission and end her.
And if that reason does not come…?
Then she will have to be creative.
Shinobu has never lacked ingenuity.