Foxfire (An Other Novel) (7 page)

My gaze still on the hole in my sock, or the window, or anywhere but Gwen, I give her a recap of what Shizuka told me. Ending with, “So that means I’m really screwed up. Though a temple fox would never put it in such a crude way.”

Gwen says nothing.

I poke at the sock-hole again. “I need new socks,” I mutter.

“Tavian.” Her voice sounds steely. “So they didn’t help you at all?”

I shrug. “Now I know what’s wrong with me.”

I glance sideways at her. She’s working her jaw like she’s grinding words between her teeth. Her eyes glimmer gold.

“We’re going to fix this,” she says.

I laugh an empty laugh. “Got any ideas?”

“I’m
thinking
.”

This time I laugh a real laugh, but it comes out kind of scratchy. “Gwen.” I climb to my feet and take both of her hands. “Come here.”

She lets me hug her, but her muscles stiffen beneath my touch. “I’m pissed.”

“I can tell.”

“Aren’t you?” She looks into my eyes. “At your kitsune mother? At everything?”

“How can I be pissed when I have happy pandas in my stomach?”

“Tavian,” she says, resting her head on my chest. “Be serious.”

I sigh. “I’m not sure being pissed makes a difference. But I’m not going to just roll over and give up. Hell no.”

“Good,” she says, her voice muffled.

I squeeze her gently, trying to make us both feel better, when all I really feel like doing is running away. She leans back to look at me, then kisses me on the lips. I slide my fingers up her back and into her hair, freeing her curls from her ponytail.

“I’m not leaving you,” I whisper.

She holds me tighter in reply.

As we stand together, our breathing slows to the same rhythm and I feel her heartbeat against my chest.

“I’ve been worrying a lot,” she says. “About you.”

I sit on the edge of my bed and draw Gwen down to sit next to me. Her cheeks look red and splotchy, and I know she’s trying not to cry. I kiss her, softly at first, then harder. The tension in her muscles melts, and she lies back on the bed. I slide my hands into the back pockets of her jeans, my blood burning hotter.

“What are you attempting to do?” she murmurs, half-smiling.

“I’m not attempting to do anything,” I say. “I’m already succeeding.”

She scoffs, but she’s smiling. “You wish.”

I wiggle my eyebrows, over-the-top suggestive, and start kissing up her arm like a deranged Casanova. She laughs.

“That’s more like it,” I say.

“Naughty fox boy,” she whispers, “you know we can’t do anything.”

“Consider it a promise for the future,” I say, and I bend down to kiss her on the lips.

seven

T
hat afternoon, we head out to
Shinjuku Gyoen National Garden, which is surprisingly big for a garden in the middle of Tokyo, and surprisingly popular for the middle of winter. Scattered crowds stroll and chat beneath snow-dusted evergreens, while the late sun paints everything gold. An icy wind numbs my fingers and face.

“Tavian,” Gwen says, “someone is following us.”

I walk closer to her and our arms bump. We aren’t holding hands—that’s too mushy for public in Japan. “Is it the noppera-bō?” I whisper. “With all these people?”

“No.” She glances back over her shoulder. “Take a look.”

She stops at a park bench and tugs me to sit beside her. I pretend to be interested in pines farther down the path.

The gray mastiff.

It’s too massive for anything but an inugami. Passersby are shying away from the beast, maybe because it’s wearing a leather-studded collar but no leash—illegal, I saw the signs. Or maybe they’re shying away from the equally massive thug walking around with unconcealed tattoos on his arms. Reflective sunglasses hide his eyes, and his black hair hangs long and loose down his back. I don’t know who he is, but I’d rather not introduce myself.

“The Kuro Inu,” I say out of the corner of my mouth.

“Who?” Gwen says.

“Oh, that’s the name of their little yakuza gang.”

“Tavian? Gwen?” Michiko is waiting for us, farther along the path.

I saunter over to my grandmother, slowly, so it doesn’t look like I’ve seen anything alarming.

“It’s a pity the roses aren’t blooming at this time of year,” Michiko says, determined to be our tour guide. “But the French Formal Garden is still quite lovely. Now, onward to the traditional Japanese garden. In the spring, there are wonderful cherry blossoms. In the fall, the chrysanthemums bring crowds equal to their beauty.”

Behind us, I can hear the gray mastiff panting heavily.

“Gwen would love to see the Japanese garden,” I say. “And the teahouse there. Could we have some tea?”

Gwen nods, her eyes brightening at the lie.

Maybe if we go indoors, the inugami won’t follow us. The gray mastiff won’t be allowed in, and most places frown upon yakuza flaunting their tattoos—at least, that’s what our guidebook says. I doubt that etiquette will stop a drooling brute of a dog-spirit from having his revenge. But it’ll be better than being out here.

“An excellent idea!” Michiko chirps. She swivels around, trying to spot her wayward husband, and discovers him standing beneath a tree, his high-tech binoculars pointed upward.

I groan. Now is not the time to be bird-watching.

“Tsuyoshi!” Michiko calls.

He pretends not to hear. Or else he’s actually hard of hearing.

Would he be deaf to the sound of an inugami’s nails clicking closer on the pavement?

Dread seizes me and I run to my grandfather. “Ojīsan!”

A tiny brown bird zips from the tree, and Tsuyoshi follows it with his binoculars until it’s lost from sight. Then he lowers his binoculars and frowns at me.

“We want to go to the teahouse,” I say.

“Then go,” Tsuyoshi says. “There are many fascinating birds here.”

“But you—”

“Tavian?” Gwen calls.

I whirl around. The tattooed thug advances on Michiko. He towers over her, his muscles rippling like lean pythons beneath his inked skin. My grandmother grips the handle of her umbrella. I sprint to them, my legs slow, like I’m running through water or a nightmare. The fox paces inside me, ready to take over, but I force myself to calm down. Keeling over wouldn’t accomplish anything.

“Excuse me.” The thug has a soft voice with a slight rasp in it, like claws snagged in velvet. “Are you Michiko Kimura?”

Clearly the inugami have been doing their homework.

“Yes.” Michiko thins her lips. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“My name is Yuta.” He slips off his sunglasses and actually
bows
to her—are even the yakuza polite to old ladies?

My gaze drifts to the tattoos on Yuta’s arms, and I can’t help staring. A red-horned black dragon, twisting, serpentine, breathes fire and dissolves into curls of its own smoke.

“Can we help you with something?” Michiko asks politely.

Yuta nods, his eyes slivers of obsidian. “Oh, I think you can.”

The mastiff pants, his jowls parting like he’s smiling at us. He creeps closer to Gwen, his head held low. I grab her wrist; her hazel eyes have a gleam in them that means they’re seconds away from glowing.

“Do you speak English?” Gwen says to Yuta.

“Yes, I do,” he says, with an upper-crust British accent.

“Take your dog away,” she says, tacking on a semi-sincere, “Please.”

Yuta’s lips curl into a crooked smile. “His name is Ushio. You can pet him if you like.” He says “pet” with an upward flick of his eyebrows, as if he’s inviting Gwen to do something filthy with the gray mastiff.

“No thank you,” Gwen says, her voice icy, her face flaming.

The gray mastiff—Ushio—jabs his muzzle against her hand and drags his slimy tongue along her fingers. She shudders.

Yuta meets my gaze. “Tavian, come walk with us.”

“Why?” I say.

“My brother, Katashi, wants to talk to you again.”

Let me guess. He wants to have a little chat with torture on the side.

I clench my hands at my sides. “I’d rather not.”

“You blunt Americans never fail to amuse me,” Yuta says, still smiling. “Our next invitation will not be nearly so polite.”

I stare coldly at him. “It’s crowded here, don’t you think?”

Yuta’s smile widens. “You can’t hide in crowds forever, fox.” He slips his sunglasses back on, then turns to Gwen. “Did Ushio lick you? My apologies. I must say, you are remarkable. Katashi says you are like nothing he has seen before, Miss … ”

“Gwen,” she says, nonchalantly. “And I prefer not to be called ‘Miss.’ ”

Yuta peers at her over his sunglasses. “And what
are
you, Gwen?”

Her eyes burn gold. “Guess.”

Yuta laughs huskily. “I’m not familiar with American yōkai.”

I grab Gwen’s wrist and shake my head. Snarkiness won’t help. I can tell she wants to give those inugami another dose of pooka medicine, but we’re in enough trouble already.

She exhales. “I’m a pooka.”

“Pooka.” Yuta says the word slowly, like he’s rolling a hard candy around his mouth, tasting it. “Katashi was determined to discover the identity of what he saw earlier. A word of advice: my brother and his friends are easily insulted, and not so easily ignored. Don’t trespass on Kuro Inu territory again if you can help it.”

Michiko’s hand clamps around my wrist. “Excellent advice,” she tells Yuta. “Thank you. Now we really must hurry to the teahouse before it becomes too crowded and we can’t get a table.” She says all this in rapid-fire Japanese, then glances at Gwen’s uncomprehending face and sighs. “Tea,” she says in English. “Now.”

“Enjoy your tea,” Yuta says. “See you around.”

He saunters away. Ushio lingers, staring at me—trying to prove he’s dominant, or something else primitive and disgusting like that. I bare my teeth; the dog growls. A trickle of drool slips from his jowls and lands on my shoe.

“Disgusting,” I say.

Ushio barks and I leap back, my heart pounding.

“Leave him alone,” Gwen says, her shoulders rigid.

Yuta glances back. “Ushio!” he calls.

The mastiff trudges away, with a backward glance and a growl. Yuta and Ushio turn a corner and disappear.

I shudder. Is that it? They just threaten us and leave?

“Tsuyoshi!” Michiko marches over to her husband.

My grandfather still has his eyes glued to his binoculars, looking beyond the trees at a road. A powerful engine rumbles, and a sleek black Jaguar luxury sedan slides past. I don’t need binoculars to glimpse the shadowy man in a suit sitting the back.

He’s watching us.

The reflective window slides shut, and the Jaguar speeds away.

“Octavian.” Tsuyoshi turns to me. “That was Zenjiro Matsuzawa.”

“Who?” I say.

“A very powerful man.” He speaks with hushed awe, like Zenjiro is a celebrity.

“We shouldn’t wait outside,” Michiko says.

“Hai,” Tsuyoshi says.

She marches toward the teahouse and we all follow her. The teahouse looks gorgeous, with upswept roofs reflected in a pond beside evergreens pruned into pillowy shapes. But I don’t have more than a second to admire it before Michiko pulls and Gwen pushes me into the teahouse. We kneel on tatami mats around a low table.

“Are you certain it was Zenjiro Matsuzawa?” Michiko murmurs.

Tsuyoshi meets her eyes and nods.

“I see.” Michiko’s nostrils flare. “Then those were his dogs.”

I stare at them. “Is Zenjiro the head of the Kuro Inu?”

Tsuyoshi laughs bleakly. “The Kuro Inu? No, the inugami are mere henchmen, nothing more than hunting dogs. Zenjiro is human. The lower ranks of yakuza may include yōkai, but the yakuza bosses are all human.”

“So he’s a yakuza boss?”

“Of course. The Matsuzawa family is infamous.”

Michiko stares down at her hands. “Why was Zenjiro watching us? Did we do something wrong, something to anger him?”

“Nothing that I know,” Tsuyoshi says. “Perhaps Zenjiro was evaluating his men.”

Gwen and I share a secret glance. Was our back-alley fight with a handful of inugami really enough to catch their boss’s eye?

Then Michiko squints at me. “You are familiar with the Kuro Inu?”

Guilty as charged. But what I am going to say?

“Yes,” I say slowly. “It was—”

A waitress brings us bowls of green tea. We thank her and sip our tea. I try not to scald my mouth. The tea house is relatively empty, with only a few tourists in the corner snapping photos. I would definitely see if there were any inugami here.

Michiko lowers her voice to barely above a murmur. “How did you meet the Kuro Inu?”

I clear my throat. “I trespassed on their territory in Harajuku. They smelled that I was a kitsune, and they got aggressive about it. Gwen found me and saved me from them.”

Michiko’s eyebrows go sky-high. “By shapeshifting?”

Gwen blushes. “Yes.”

Tsuyoshi steeples his hands on the table, his face solemn, his eyes stormy. “It is very shameful for a yakuza to be defeated by a woman. Even if that woman is a foreign yōkai; maybe especially so. They will fight viciously to regain their honor. And the yakuza who are inugami hold a deep hatred of kitsune.”

“Of course,” I say.

Gwen twists her mouth. “So how will they try to regain their honor? A fight to the death?” Embers of anger smolder in her eyes, like she’d love to kick their asses.

“Possibly. They will try to humiliate you in a way that warns others away from trespassing on their territory.” The way he says
humiliate
implies everything leading up to and including death. “You should never fight an inugami. Not because you will always lose, but because their pride will be so wounded they will be honor-bound to fight back.”

For some bizarre reason, there’s what looks like a glimmer of pride in my grandfather’s eyes as he looks at Gwen. Does he think I’m incapable of fighting? Just because my kitsune magic is apparently out of control and might randomly kill me doesn’t make me an invalid. I could have figured out a way to fight the inugami alone.

And then I feel stupid for being jealous of Gwen.

“Understand?” Tsuyoshi says.

I nod like a puppet.

“Octavian Kimura?” the waitress says, her voice so feathery that I almost don’t hear it. She looks between our faces.

“Yes?” I say.

With a slight bow, she hands me an envelope. When I take it, a hair drifts to the table—long and black.

I open it slowly, my fingers clumsy. It’s handwritten in English.

Last time was not enough. Do not look for me. I will come for you.

It doesn’t have a signature.

“Tavian?” Michiko says. “What is it?”

I swallow, my mouth dry. “I … I don’t know.”

I hand the letter over to her. She reads its quickly, her dark eyes sharp, then gives it to Tsuyoshi.

“What does it say?” Gwen says, her voice taut with impatience.

Tsuyoshi slides it over to her.

“Who is this from?” Michiko asks.

“One of the Kuro Inu?” I furrow my brow. “But why would they need to repeat what they already said to me in person?”

Tsuyoshi shakes his head, and oddly, he looks triumphant. “No.”

“Then who?” I say.

“Shizuka. I knew she would want to speak with you again.”

Michiko purses her lips. “Rather impolite for a temple maiden … ”

But Tsuyoshi is still smiling. “Finally, some good news.” He toasts with his bowl of tea, then takes a swig.

Gwen glances sideways at me, her eyes questioning.

I look at the long black hair that fell from the letter, pinch it between two fingers, and lift it to my face.

Would it be stupid to hope it came from my kitsune mother?