Foxfire (An Other Novel) (3 page)

“I’m fine,” I say.

Which is what I’ve been telling everybody, including Gwen, so they would let me travel.

Something shifts on Tsuyoshi’s face, as if he understands me now. “I know of a temple,” he says, “where they can help you.”

I frown. I don’t know what he means.

Tsuyoshi takes off his glasses and polishes them meticulously on his shirt.“Human doctors may not know how to treat people like you.” Which I guess is a polite way of saying, treat Others. “We will need to talk to the
myobu
.”

Myobu
,
temple foxes. Servants of the rice god Inari. Also known as celestial kitsune, considered by humans to be far more sophisticated and trustworthy than the petty, devilish
nogitsune—
that is, field foxes like my mother. And me, of course. Somehow, I don’t think they’re going to bestow any blessings on me.

“My mother was a nogitsune,” I say flatly.

Tsuyoshi’s face creases into a frown. “That is why you must speak to the myobu.”

Why? So they can try to sell me some overpriced mumbo jumbo?

I bite the inside of my cheek. I don’t want to be disrespectful to Tsuyoshi. “All right. I will think about it. Thank you.”

He is silent for a very long time. “Sleep.”

I nod, return to my bedroom, and lie down.

His face blank, Tsuyoshi shuts the door behind me. His shadow lingers for a moment. When I’m sure he’s gone, I sneak over to Gwen’s bedroom. The blinds on the window by her bed are open, the light of Tokyo casting an amber glow on her face. One arm lies flung above her head, and her sheets twist around her legs.

“Gwen?” I whisper.

She remains peaceful, sleeping. I could leave her this way. I should leave her this way. But I need to tell her about this, or I’ll be tempted to chicken out later.

I shut the door, then lie on the bed beside her. She mumbles something unintelligible and scoots back against me, almost shoving me onto the floor.

“Hey,” I murmur in her ear.

She blinks herself awake, and frowns. “Don’t you have a bed of your own?”

“It’s not as nice as yours.”

“Scandalous. Your grandparents are going to kill you if they find out.”

I try to smile. “Gwen, I need to tell you something.”

Her frown deepens and she sits up. “What? What’s going on?”

“Remember how I was dreaming on the flight here?”

“Yeah. You never really told me what that was about, though.”

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed. “The night my kitsune mother left me in the snow. In Hokkaido. More of a memory, really. Tonight I dreamed about her again, but it didn’t make any sense. We were in Hokkaido, but we were both human—in reality, we were pretty much always foxes in the winter, since it was so cold.”

Gwen arches an eyebrow. “So you’ve been dreaming about her? That’s not that weird.”

“It gets weirder, trust me. My kitsune mother was wearing a kimono, one as white as the snow, and she was calling for me to come with her. But there was a man in a suit. He pulled out a gun and shot her. Blood soaked the snow … ”

“Did you recognize the man?”

“I couldn’t—he had no face.”

“No face?” Gwen sucks in her breath. “Like what you saw in the car?”

“Yes. I think so? I don’t know what else it could be.”

She stares at me, her eyes glittering. “Tavian. Do you know what the faceless man is?”

I shake my head.

“I did some research.” She flicks on the light, rummages in her bag, and lugs out a beat-up old textbook.

“So much for packing light,” I say.

Her cheeks redden. “Part of my Paranormal Studies,” she says. “Thought I might as well study Japanese Others while I was, you know, in Japan.”

“Wow.” I arch my eyebrows. “I’m impressed by your insanity.”

She brushes my comment away. “If I’m majoring in this, I’d better know my shit.”

“Gwen, you’re half-pooka. One of the rarest Others in America. An extreme minority. Plus, you’re smart. Every college in existence is going to be fighting to admit you.”

She rolls her eyes. “Your flattery will get you nothing.”

“Not even a kiss?” I say, and I prove my point.

Gwen makes an impatient noise, but she kisses me back. “Anyway.” She scoots sideways on the bed, so I can’t keep distracting her, and flips open her book. “I read up on
yōkai
.”
Spirit, demon, monster. One of my names, at the orphanage. “And,” she says, “I found an entry on
noppera-bō.
Faceless ghosts.”

Faceless ghosts. Ice water trickles through my blood.

“Apparently,” Gwen says, “the noppera-bō can mimic any human face, which it does before it wipes its features away. The book says they’re harmless spirits fond of frightening humans.”

“Harmless.” I furrow my brow. “He shot my mother.”

“Well, your biological mother isn’t human.”

I rake my fingers through my hair. “Then why, if I saw a noppera-bō, didn’t it have a face? Why was it already faceless?”

“I don’t know.”

“Does the book say anything else?” I say. “Like where it comes from?”

Gwen shakes her head. “There isn’t anything in here about them entering dreams, either.” She tilts her head sideways and fiddles with one of her curls. “Do you think your kitsune mother was actually entering your dreams? I mean, I remember when you entered my mind, back when—you know.” She presses her lips together.

And I do know. I’m never going to forget. It’s how I got the scar above my heart, from the hunting rifle of the serial killer who missed his mark. In the hospital, I lay drifting in a white bed, my mind numbed by drugs, and I saw Gwen when I closed my eyes. When I slipped into her sleep, I could feel her pain—something was horribly wrong.

Gwen. You have to wake up.

Are you okay?

Don’t worry about me. Worry about yourself.

“Tavian?” Gwen clutches my hand. “Are you okay?”

I shake my head to fling the memory away. “Yeah.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“No worries.”

She squeezes my hand, then lets go. “When it happened,” she says, “I could only hear your voice. Is that how it’s supposed to work? Is that what your mother did?”

“She’s full kitsune,” I say. “Much more powerful than me.”

“If she’s so powerful, then why hasn’t she entered your dreams before? She’s had more than a decade to do it.” Gwen twists her mouth. “Or she could have picked up a phone.”

“We’re in Japan now.”

“So she waited for you to come to her? Why didn’t she come to America?”

My jaw tightens and I climb to my feet. “I don’t know why she left me. I don’t know why she wants me to come with her now.”

“Do you trust her?”

“Why are you so pissed about this?” I realize I’m talking way too loud, so I lower my voice to a whisper. “If your pooka father visited you, wouldn’t you be excited?”

She scoffs. “I’m not pissed.”

“Really? Because you definitely don’t seem happy about it.”

“Tavian.” Gwen wraps her arms around my waist and leans against me. “It’s just … something seems off. Be careful. Okay?”

“Of course.”

My heart twinges, a shadow of the pain I felt before, but enough to make my stomach squirm. I breathe in deeply through my nose. Should I tell Gwen? I’ve been letting her believe I haven’t been hurting anymore.

“I am kind of jealous,” she mutters.

“Oh?”

“I have a feeling my pooka dad is too busy gallivanting around Wales to actually discover he has a daughter.” Then Gwen laughs. “Not that I could afford a ticket to Wales to find out.”

“Hey,” I say. “Since you came with me to Japan, I’ll come with you to Wales. As soon as we’re rich and famous.”

“Tavian, you’re so sweet.” She yawns. “Now go back to bed. You look like a zombie.”

I wonder if I’m pale, if my circulation is poor somehow. “Right.”

She stretches her arms over her head, baring the skin of her belly, then yanks her T-shirt back down and groans. “Bollocks. I have got to shapeshift. Soon. Before I go crazy. It’s been this constant craving ever since the flight here, but that really wasn’t the time or the place.”

I arch my eyebrows. “You shapeshifted before we left. Spent a good three hours running around in the forest as a horse. That wasn’t enough?”

“Apparently not,” she says dryly. “Wish I could tell my pooka half to shut up, but no such luck. Maybe we could shapeshift tomorrow?”

“In the city?”

She smirks. “We can get creative.”

“Sounds like a date.”

We kiss goodnight, a genuine kiss on the lips this time. As I pad toward the door, Gwen mumbles something, her face smushed against her pillow.

“What was that?” I say.

“Tomorrow,” she says, “we explore Tokyo.”

“Definitely.”

If only so I can find answers to my dreams.

three

I
remember when Mom and Dad—though they weren’t that to me yet—took me on the train from Sapporo, Hokkaido, to Ueno, Tokyo. I remember glass-and-steel canyons flowing with rivers of people. I remember shivering, hiding behind the woman who tried to calm me down, and baring my teeth at people.

Now, riding the Tokyo Metro, packed tight with dozens of strangers, I feel the fox inside me flattening his ears, wary. I glance from face to face, noting only blank expressions. The metro feels like a place between places, or the time between a dream and waking.

And then, we’re here: Harajuku.

I grab Gwen’s hand and we swell upward with the crowd, surfacing in the overcast daylight. Gwen brandishes her camera and snaps photos of Harajuku Station, a white-and-brown building that looks more like an English cottage. To the west, snow frosts the bare branches of trees in a park—Yoyogi Park. But we’re really here for the pedestrian bridge, Jingu Bashi, that connects Harajuku with Yoyogi Park.

“Harajuku kids,” Gwen breathes, as if unearthing a rare artifact.

She grabs my hand, her grip crushing, and drags me forward. We run along the length of the bridge and skid to a halt in the center, at the epicenter of the Harajuku kids.

Doll-like, hair-ribboned girls in Alice in Wonderland dresses—Gothic Lolitas—giggle around a girl wearing a neon rainbow sweater, striped tights, and huge star-shaped sunglasses. They’re watching an androgynous kid in a black frockcoat and top hat pose next to a guy with ghostly makeup, electric-blue dreads, and pink contact lenses. Androgynous Kid and Blue-Dreads Guy make the peace sign, a tourist takes their picture, and then the Harajuku kids scatter back into the surrounding kaleidoscope of crazy clothes and crazier hair.

“I want that dress,” Gwen says, clinging to my arm.

She points to a scary-cute girl wearing a Lolita kimono-dress, black and red and trimmed with copious quantities of white lace. I look at Gwen’s face to see if she’s joking or not, but she seems dead serious. Then again, she does have a weakness for weird fashion.

“Oh, no,” I groan. “You want to buy something already?”

Gwen whacks me on the arm, then makes a beeline to the girl in the kimono-dress. “Photo?” she says.

The Harajuku girl smiles and strikes a pose. Gwen snaps a photo.

“Kawaii,” the girl says, pointing at Gwen’s red hair. Cute.

Gwen’s cheeks redden. “Uh, thanks. Arigatō.” She moves back to me and mutters, “Are they staring at
me?
”

“Well, you are an American giantess with curly red hair.”

She makes a face between a grin and a grimace. “Wow.”

While Gwen snaps photos, I slip a sketchpad from my backpack. I haven’t been drawing much lately, mostly due to the looming threat of college and my parents breathing down my neck.
Art can be your hobby! You can still have a real career!
Yeah. But it would be a crime not to capture these Harajuku kids on paper.

I lean against the railing and start sketching the people nearby. A trio of candy-bright girls with lollipops cluster at one end of the bridge and flirt coyly with two steampunk guys in trench coats, top hats, and intricate steel arm bracers. The guys must be cosplaying, dressed up as favorite characters from an anime I vaguely remember. A girl in a schoolgirl uniform minces across the bridge, a furry black tail trailing from her skirt.

Is she yōkai? I try not to stare.

Cat ears poke from her hair, and when she smiles, she flashes sharp teeth. A bell jingles at the collar around her neck. Her eyes, lemon-yellow with slit pupils, look too flat. Contacts.

I bite back a smile and go stand by Gwen.

“Look,” I whisper. “See the cat girl?”

Gwen follows my gaze. “Is she a
bakeneko
?”

I remember hearing about bakeneko when I was a kid—it literally means “monster cat,” as in a really big kitty with paranormal powers. Legend says they start out as ordinary human pets, then grow bigger and bigger and become yōkai. I doubt that’s true; bakeneko have a reputation for being tricksters, like nogitsune.

“No,” I say. “Just a girl cosplaying as one.”

A smile spreads on Gwen’s face. “Really?”

The bakeneko cosplayer strolls past us and I pretend to stare at the skyline behind her.

I talk in a low voice. “It’s pretty awesome that they actually would cosplay as an Other in Japan.”

“I know! The closest they ever get to that in America is Halloween.” Gwen rolls her eyes. “And that’s usually ridiculously stereotypical, offensive crap ordered from some catalog.”

I grimace. Like guys who like to smear on some gray face paint, add plastic fangs, and run around pretending to bite girls because they’re “werewolves.” And usually the girls who get fake-bitten are wearing sheer dresses and body glitter since they’re “faeries.” Never mind what real werewolves and faeries look like, or that both of those Others would kick some serious ass if they saw those costumes.

“Japan is different.” I laugh. “Though this
is
Harajuku.”

“True,” Gwen says.

We stand side by side in silence for a while, watching the pageantry of strangeness that could exist nowhere else. Watching the Harajuku kids makes me feel claustrophobic, in a way, like all the different people—the not-normal people—in Tokyo, maybe all of Japan, are crammed onto this one bridge. They know where they belong, and it isn’t with everyone else. I wonder how many of these kids take out their piercings and wash the temporary dye from their hair every night, then go work as secretaries and study at Tokyo University in the morning.

“I’m thirsty,” Gwen says. “Are you?”

“Let’s go find something to drink. There might be some drinking fountains in the park.”

We cross the rest of the bridge and head west into Yoyogi Park. The sun peeks through ragged clouds, and frost glitters on the grass and trees. Here, people wear darker clothes and take up less space. Gwen makes a beeline for a vending machine selling drinks—the hot ones marked with red buttons, the cold ones with blue. She buys a can of jasmine tea and pops the top, releasing a puff of steam into the chilly air.

“Isn’t this amazing?” she says.

I peer into the machine. “Oh, cool! Minute Maid Hot Lemonade.” I feed the vending machine some coins, wrap my numb fingers around the warm can, and take a sip of tanginess. “I remember drinking this when I was little.”

“Really?” Gwen says.

She must be wondering how a half-wild fox boy could have found the money to buy anything from a vending machine.

My cheeks warm. “My kitsune mother bought it for me.” I hesitate. “With fake coins. Illusions, made from her magic. So technically she didn’t buy it, she stole it. But in her defense, I was a little brat who wouldn’t stop whimpering for lemonade.”

Gwen laughs. “I’m trying to imagine you as a little brat.” She drains her jasmine tea. “I have to pee. Wait here?”

“Sure.”

She jogs toward the nearest public restroom. I finish my hot lemonade, then sit on a bench outside the restroom with my sketchpad. I love how the frost looks like sugar dusted on the grass and trees. Well, it’s not like that’s a sight unique to Japan. I sigh and slip my sketchbook back into my pack. This trip is going to be a total artistic failure if I don’t stop hearing nagging in my head.

The door creaks open behind me.

“Ready?” I say, my gaze still on the park.

“You need to go,” Gwen says.

Frowning, I turn toward her. Her face looks strangely serene. “What?”

“She is coming.”

“Who?”

Gwen raises her hand to brush back her hair—no, she’s wiping her face, wiping her face
away
,
leaving nothing but blank skin.

The noppera-bō.

The fox inside me leaps to the forefront, snarling, and I barely manage to stay human. I jump away from the noppera-bō, outside of its range. It reaches for me, its hand like Gwen’s but maggot-white. I stare at it for a full second, then run. Adrenaline electrifies my muscles as I sprint though Yoyogi Park.

I hurtle though the bushes, clenching my jaw to keep myself from transforming. That would not be a good idea, in broad daylight in the middle of Tokyo.

Behind me, I hear Gwen’s voice. “Wait! Come back!”

And find out whether it’s really her or the noppera-bō? Unlikely.

I hightail it out of the park and dive into the heart of the shopping district, where there are more people and, hopefully, safe places to hide. I hit the sidewalk running and zigzag through girls carrying shopping bags, trying to avoid a collision. Tokyo is such a maze of medieval streets, like a rabbit warren, that it’s hard to make any headway. I see some white-gloved policemen chatting on the sidewalk and I slow to a brisk walk, not wanting to look like I’m running from the law.

I could tell them I’m being stalked by a noppera-bō, but I doubt that would help.

Breath ragged, I wait at a crosswalk. A thought creeps into my mind. If the Gwen who came out of the restroom was the noppera-bō, what happened to the real Gwen? Ice solidifies in my stomach. How long have I been talking to a ghost?

Sunlight angles onto the storefront next to me so that the windows reflect the street. I can’t see anything but the rush of the crowd. At my feet, the morning’s rain puddles on the sidewalk, shivering slightly in the breeze. It stills, and I see myself.

The noppera-bō settles beside me in the puddle, silently, like a white petal falling.

Forget the crosswalk.

I dart down a side street, panting. There’s a dead end straight ahead, so I take a left, then a right. If I twist and turn enough, maybe I’ll lose the ghost. Can you actually
lose
ghosts? I mean, they aren’t exactly physical. A crazy laugh swells inside me, but I don’t have enough air for it; I have to keep breathing and running—damn it, my lungs are burning.

Gasping, I stumble to a halt and lean with my hands on my knees. My legs tremble when I take a step forward and my kneecaps feel wobbly. Adrenaline pulses through my bloodstream.

Where am I?

This definitely isn’t Harajuku anymore. Everything is cracked, crumbling, graying. Trees with yellowed leaves strain for what little sun slips between the crowded buildings. There’s a distinct stink of stale urine in the air. I spot a tiny newsstand wedged between an abandoned apartment building and what can only be a sex shop. Maybe I can buy a map and find my way back out.

The newsstand is nothing more than a metal box stacked high with neat bundles of newspapers and magazines. Fluorescent light shines on the bald head of a man who looks like he hasn’t smiled in years. He squints at me as I approach.

“Excuse me,” I say. “Do you—”

“No English,” he says, with a thick accent.

Why can’t I remember any Japanese? I stand there like a moron, words flapping around my mind like scared chickens. Wait, don’t I have a cellphone with me? I can call Gwen and—shit, dead battery. Maybe I left my charger in my backpack—

The stench of wet fur drifts on the breeze.

Dog.

Every muscle in my body tenses, and I drop into a crouch. I try not to bare my teeth. I loathe dogs, like all kitsune, primarily because dogs love running down foxes and ripping them into shreds of bloody fur. Where’s that smell coming from?

I sidestep away from the newsstand and sniff the air.

Nothing.

I rise from my crouch, sweating, not ready to laugh it off. Maybe somebody has a little breed in one of the apartment buildings, maybe a
shiba inu
. I should really be worrying about the noppera-bō, though I don’t see anything reflective here …

A bark.

A deep bark, from a big dog.

“Oh, shit,” I whisper.

Three men slink from the shadows, all of them wearing battered leather jackets and ripped T-shirts. They reek of dog, a powerful animal smell that fills my nose and makes me retch. The bleached-blond guy takes off his jacket, revealing tattooed arms—the mark of a
yakuza
, Japanese mafia. The tallest man bares yellowed canines, and the third begins to pant, his black-spotted tongue lolling.

Then I get it.

Their clothes aren’t ripped by choice, but because they’re shapeshifters who have to fight to stay human. And I don’t need Gwen’s textbook to know what kind.

Inugami.

Dog-spirits. Even more disgusting—and deadly—than dogs.

“This isn’t your territory, fox,” the tallest one says in Japanese, his voice chain-smoker gravelly.

Japanese returns to its rightful place in my brain, and I say, “I know.”

The bleached-blond guy laughs, more of a woof, and it makes me flinch. All three of them bare their teeth in grins. When the man with the black-spotted tongue turns his head, the skin under his chin jiggles, loose like the folds on a wrinkly dog’s neck.

I glance at the newspaper man, but he’s gone. Not a good sign.

The tallest man advances on me. “Don’t you know who I am?”

I shake my head, hard. I try not to stare at his face or the string of drool dripping from his mouth. His breath smells like rotten meat. Would he kill me slower if I suggested a dentist?

“My name is Katashi. You’re on Kuro Inu land.”

Kuro Inu,
Black Dog. Clever. Must be the name of his gang.

For some reason, when I get scared, I get extra sarcastic. “I’m sorry,” I say, “I got lost. I’m an American tourist, okay? That means I’m stupid. I wasn’t trying to trespass.”

A growl rumbles from Katashi’s throat. “You’re a nogitsune.”

I don’t know how he can tell, or why this matters. “So?”

“You smell like her.” Katashi drives me against the wall. “Like Yukimi.”

My bones bend under my skin, on the brink of changing into a fox’s skeleton. “Who’s Yukimi?”

A corner of Katashi’s mouth twists. “An excellent reason to kill you.”

Behind him, the bleached-blond guy ditches his clothes in favor of a pale yellow pelt. His face darkens into a black mask. The man with the black-spotted tongue looks like a hunchback. His spine pops as he falls to all fours, his body twisting into that of a gray mastiff.