Foxfire (An Other Novel) (14 page)

My father is dead. My father is the noppera-bō.

The thoughts chase each other round and round my head until I’m dizzy, grabbing my hair in my fists. I stagger down the hallway and push open the door to a bathroom. I slam the door, twist the lock, and sit against the tub, pressing my spine against the cold porcelain, trying to borrow some of its solidity.

My father’s voice echoes in my head.
You must learn my name.

I lift my head, my gaze caught by the gleam of the mirror above the sink. I climb to my feet and stand before the mirror. I think of the way Yukimi kept his photo in her mirror, his face behind her own. My throat tightens until it’s hard to breathe.

I lift my gaze to my reflection. Do I look like him?

My eyes blur and the mirror goes out of focus. I blink hard and lean with my hands on either side of the sink, breathing raggedly. I turn on the faucet and splash some water on my face. When I wipe the water droplets away, I can see again.

The noppera-bō steps beside me, inside the mirror.

The eggshell blankness of his skin melts, reforming into eyes, a nose, a mouth. He isn’t faceless anymore; he has the face from the burnt photo. His pale, bluish lips part.

“Father?” I sound croaky. “Is that who you are?”

“Yes.” He has a voice now, but it’s faint, so faint. “Can’t … her … ”

I stare at him, unblinking, not even wanting to glance at myself in the mirror to see if we look the same.

“What does Yukimi know?” I say. “What is she—”

Footsteps rap down the hall. Yukimi pounds on the door so hard it rattles on its hinges.

“Tavian?” she calls.

I double-check the lock. “Go away.”

“Tavian … ” whispers my father. “Must … ”

The reflected ghost melts into the silver sheen of the mirror. I press my palm flat against the glass, as if I can feel him, but there’s nothing but cold beneath my skin. I watch him fade away, leaving me with a fierce hollowness in my chest.

“You’re wrong.” Yukimi’s steely voice cuts right through the wall. “I never forgot you.”

I wrench open the door.

She slides one foot into the room, then freezes, her weight poised on her toes. Her nostrils flare and her eyes darken. “He was here. You spoke with him.”

I stare at her. “Why shouldn’t I speak with my own father?”

Yukimi exhales her breath in a hiss and steps closer to me. “He will lie to you, say anything to lure you away from me. He will drop you in the hands of the enemies.”

“My father is one of the enemies?”

She clenches her hands and lowers her gaze.

“Tell me,” I say. “Just tell me. Why do you want to keep him a secret from me?”

Yukimi’s eyelids flinch. “He’s dead now.”

I suck in a slow breath. “I didn’t even get to look at his picture for more than a second. And now I’m afraid I’m going to forget his face—” My voice cracks.

Yukimi drags me into a crushing embrace. Her grip knocks the breath out of me and I don’t know what to do with my arms—it’s awkward and it’s starting to hurt. I fight her, trying pry myself out of her grasp, but she’s an equal match.

“Let me go.”

“No.”

A hot tear slips from her cheek onto mine. The anger melts away inside me, and I let her hug me, because I don’t know what else I should do right now, even though I have a terrible feeling I don’t really know the woman I’m holding.

“I’m sorry,” Yukimi says, “but I can’t keep you safe.”

fourteen

I
take an uneven breath. “What do you mean?”

Yukimi untangles herself from me and steps back, her head bowed, her hair shadowing her face. “I can’t stop your father’s family from looking for you. And if they find you … ”

I lower my head, thinking. “Who are they?”

She plucks a tissue from a box and dabs her eyes. “You have seen at least one of them.”

“Who—what did they look like?”

She folds her tissue into smaller and smaller squares on the bathroom counter. “You should avoid them. They are your blood relatives, but they will not help you.”

I sit on the edge of the tub, my elbows on my knees. “If I don’t know what they look like,” I say, “then I won’t be able to avoid them. If I don’t know my father’s name … ”

Her fingers clench, crumpling the tissue’s careful folds. “True.”

I wait, saying nothing, for her to speak.

“His name was Akira Matsuzawa.”

I meet her gaze, and I can see raw hurt and fear in her eyes. She’s not bothering to hide it, and that scares me more than anything. “That was his name?”

“Yes.”

I lean my cheek on my hand. “Matsuzawa?”

Octavian. That was Zenjiro Matsuzawa.

I remember how Tsuyoshi spoke about the yakuza boss in a hushed, almost awed voice. What are the chances this is a coincidence?

I look at Yukimi, my stomach heavy with dread. “The same as Zenjiro Matsuzawa?”

“Yes. And you are Zenjiro’s only grandson.”

“Oh.” I nearly fall backward into the tub, but catch myself in time. “That makes sense.”

Yukimi clenches her fists, her knuckles white. “Even though you are half-kitsune, Zenjiro will want you. Maybe especially because you are half-kitsune. He might find it
useful
.”

“For what?”

“We shouldn’t talk too much more.” She scans the room, sniffing the air. “I can feel Akira here, watching us. I’m worried that he might tell them where we are.”

“You think the yakuza would use a ghost to spy on us?”

“Akira still has ties to his father.” She squeezes her eyes shut and sucks in her breath slowly. “Akira has ties to me as well, but I have learned to shut him out. It’s harder, though, keeping him from trying to talk with you.”

A shudder passes over me. “So I’m actually a Matsuzawa.”

“No,” she says fiercely. “Your father has nothing to do with you.”

But I think he has everything to do with me. And I’m beginning to realize why Yukimi left me in Hokkaido when I was nothing more than a six-year-old kit. The yakuza must have been hounding her relentlessly, trying to get at me …

She sits beside me on the tub and touches her fingertips to the back of my hand. “Are you still hungry?”

I blink, startled by the swerve in the conversation. “Maybe.”

“Let’s get out of here.”

Ten minutes later, we’re streaking through Tokyo on Yukimi’s motorcycle, the icy wind stinging my eyes and erasing my thoughts. The sun shines crystal-bright from an eggshell blue sky, and the city glitters more than mere steel and glass can. The feeling of speed fills me with a temporary, fierce thrill.

We’re in an area of Tokyo that must be part of the water trade, a series of concrete streets whose neon glitz pales in the stark daylight. The unlit lights look shabby and almost sad. Yukimi parks outside a hole-in-the-wall restaurant. As she chains her motorcycle to a lamp post, I try to peek through the paper-and-wood windows, but it’s too dark inside for me to make anything out.

“What is this place?” I say.

“The Fat Oni,” Yukimi says.

“That’s an … interesting name.”

She grins. “Brace yourself for the best
yakitori
and sake around.”

The thought of yakitori—skewers of chicken and other morsels, grilled over charcoal—brings a rush of saliva to my mouth. When Yukimi pushes open the door, the aroma breezing out makes my stomach growl thunderously.

“Knew you were hungry,” Yukimi says.

I give her a thin smile and follow her in.

Cheap paper lanterns strung on wires dangle over tables and chairs wedged into a tiny space that looks more like an office break room than anything else. Despite it being so early, about half a dozen bleary-eyed customers huddle over their breakfasts.

A high counter curves around the open kitchen, and there’s some muffled clattering and grumbling going on back there. Yukimi hops onto one of the stools.

“Ozuru?” she calls.

“What?” grumbles a raspy voice.

“I have a friend who would love to try your yakitori.”

“Oh?”

Ozuru pokes his head out of the kitchen—and I take two steps back before I can stop myself. His skin glows an unnatural, poisonous-mushroom red, and antelope-horns poke from his matted hair. Ozuru sees me staring at him and grins, tusks jutting from his black lips, his snake-yellow eyes glinting.

Oh, shit.
Oni
.

Translation: ogre-demon, the man-eating brute of legends, though I don’t know what they’ve been up to recently. Needless to say, you don’t want to screw around with oni.

“This is your friend?” Ozuru says. “He’s pretty little.”

“You’re pretty big,” I mutter.

The oni growls, a sound like boulders grinding together. “You’re with Yukimi, so I won’t eat you, kit.”

“I doubt I taste good,” I say.

Ozuru laughs, which also sounds like boulders grinding together.

“Don’t worry, Ozuru is harmless.” Yukimi pats a stool next to her, inviting me to sit. “Harmless enough that I had to save his ass from the yakuza on more than one occasion.”

Ozuru shrugs. “That was back before I became a chef.”

“Chef!” Yukimi snorts. “You’re hardly a cook.”

“Want some spit with your yakitori?” His eyes twinkle and he almost looks like an evil-ogre Santa Claus.

“Actually,” she says, “I’ll have the
asuparabēkon
.”

“Of course.” Ozuru looks to me. “You?”

“What’s asuparabēkon?” I say.

Ozuru grins. “Yukimi’s favorite yakitori. Watch out, she’ll fight you for it.”

Yukimi rolls her eyes. “It’s bacon-wrapped asparagus.”

“I’ll stick with the chicken. Nothing weird, thanks.”

“Sure, kit.”

The oni turns to a freezer, yanks out some raw chicken, and impales it on a steel skewer.

I climb onto the stool next to Yukimi. “Now I
am
starving.”

“Me too,” she says.

We glance at each other, then look away. Watching the yakitori sizzle on the grill is easier than saying anything to each other, but it doesn’t make this any less awkward.

“So!” Yukimi says.

“So?” I say.

“Why are you in Tokyo, anyway?” Her casual tone doesn’t quite mask a sharper interest.

I clear my throat. “Visiting my grandparents. Adoptive, obviously, on my dad’s side.”

“What kind of family are they?”

“Successful.” Not wanting them to sound mercenary, I add, “And they’re good people. They were careful to explain everything to me when they brought me to America, in a way that a little kid would understand, and they taught me how to live there.”

“I see,” Yukimi says.

I glance at her. She’s running her fingernail along a scar on the countertop, but I can see the crease between her eyebrows, the way her face looks older than it was a second ago.

“My dad works in the hotel business,” I say. “Like his dad. My mom is a lawyer, and works mostly on contract law. They’re pretty well-off. I don’t have to worry about college.”

“College?” Yukimi brightens. “What are you studying?”

“I’m not sure. Art, maybe, but my parents want me to study something more practical, like business.” I swallow, my throat dry, and give her a lopsided smile. “Sorry, I know how awkward it is for me to be talking about my mom and dad.”

Yukimi catches Ozuru’s eyes. “The usual drink, please.”

He slides a can of Kirin beer to her. She pops the top and takes a long swig, her eyes shut.

“How did you meet Akira, anyway?” I say.

Yukimi seems to have trouble swallowing. She sets down the can of beer and gives me a sideways stare. “I was young and stupid. He fell for me, and I let him. Is that enough?”

“You let him?” I say. “Even though you’re … you know.”

Yukimi blinks, her face uncomprehending.

I draw in a breath, then hold the air tight in my lungs. “Aoi strongly implied you’re a lesbian. So I didn’t have a clear idea how you and Akira met, and all that … ”

Ozuru glances up from the grill. “Lesbian?” He laughs.

Yukimi gives him a death-glare. “Go back to cooking.”

My face burns. “Is this not public knowledge?”

“It would be,” Ozuru says, “if it were true.”

Yukimi sighs, and the corner of her mouth twists. “I usually date women, but I have dated some men as well. Akira was one of the lucky few. Or unlucky few, I suppose.”

Ozuru leans over the grill. “Akira? You mean that Matsuzawa guy?”

I sit up straighter. “You knew him?”

“Yeah, I met him.” The oni slides bacon-wrapped asparagus off a skewer and onto a plate, then gives it to Yukimi. “Kind of liked him, before I knew better.”

“Oh, really.” I lean my elbows on the counter. “Tell me more.”

Yukimi savagely tears a hunk of yakitori with her teeth, her eyes locked on Ozuru.

“Uh … ” The oni scratches his chin. “I don’t know much else.”

I narrow my eyes. “You’re not saying anything because Yukimi is glaring at you.”

“The Matsuzawa family isn’t chitchat material,” Ozuru says darkly.

I hold my hands up in the air. “Fine. If you’re too scared of a dead man to talk about him, I won’t ask questions.”

Ozuru’s chest swells like that of a rooster faced with an enemy. “Listen, kit, I know you’re trying to piss me off so I’ll start blabbing about Akira, but that’s something you should ask Yukimi about. She knew him better than anybody.”

“I know,” I say nonchalantly. “She knew him
really
well.”

Ozuru lowers his voice, his gaze on Yukimi. “Out of curiosity, how much
did
you tell the kit?”

“Not much.”

“Is he staying with you?” Ozuru says. “And your roommates?”

“Yes.”

“The Sisters,” I say, “I know.”

Yukimi glances sharply at me. “How much did that myobu tell you about the Sisters, anyway?”

I take a plate of chicken yakitori from Ozuru. “Enough.”

Yukimi growls, and I can’t hide a grin. I can be just as evasive. Like mother, like son.

“You sure he’s not spying on you guys?” Ozuru mumbles.

“He’s my son,” Yukimi says. “So no, I don’t think he is.”

Ozuru’s mouth drops, his tusks on full display. “Your son? What the hell—are you pulling my leg?”

“No,” she says.

“And is Akira—?”

“Yes.”

I raise my eyebrows at Yukimi, my heartbeat thudding. “So have you decided to tell everybody?”

She gives me a look. “Like you haven’t been.”

I narrow my eyes. “Just Aoi.”

“Well, Ozuru would have guessed sooner or later. I trust him to keep his mouth shut.”

Ozuru manages to stop gawking. “So that’s why you left.”

Yukimi sips her beer. “I went to Hokkaido. Not too far away.”

I take a bite of chicken, savoring its tender juiciness—but it’s not as delicious as the information I’m hearing right now. I try to look as inconspicuous as possible.

Ozuru flips a row of skewers, steam hissing from the grill. “So I assume there was no sick grandma up in Hokkaido. And you were doing something else for six years.”

Yukimi laughs harshly. “You thought I was so devoted? Of course there was no grandma.”

“So you lied,” I say. “To keep me a secret.”

Her eyes glint dangerously. “You were better off a secret. If the Matsuzawa family knew you had been born, you would have been better off dead. I had to hide you.”

Ozuru lowers his voice further. “But didn’t Akira look for him?”

Yukimi shakes her head and tears off another hunk of yakitori.

“When did he die?” I say, with a hopeful look at the oni.

Ozuru shrugs.

Yukimi pats her mouth with a napkin. “Before Tavian was born.”

“Tavian?” Ozuru arches his eyebrows. “That’s his name? Why did you decide on that?”

“I didn’t name him that,” Yukimi says.

“You didn’t name me anything,” I say.

She sighs. “You weren’t old enough.” She sips more beer.

Ozuru lifts a skewer from the grill and gnaws on a sizzling piece of chicken, never mind that it’s blazing hot. “I had no idea you and Akira were that close. Or that you two had a baby. Shit, Yukimi. I would’ve never guessed you’re a
mom
.”

“Me neither,” I say dryly. “We parted ways when I was six.”

“Oh?” Ozuru says.

Yukimi grabs my wrist, her claws pricking my skin. “Watch it.”

I pry her fingers off me. “It’s the truth.”