Foxfire (An Other Novel) (8 page)

Dinner feels like a ritual of normalcy, where everyone takes their prearranged places and swallows their anxieties before starting to eat the feast Michiko has cooked. I can almost taste my grandmother’s concern simmered in her soup, mingled with her hope that everything will be all right.

I crunch a rice cracker seasoned with sea salt and sugar. “These are delicious.”

“Arigatō,” Michiko says, and she’s very good at almost making her smile touch her eyes.

Later in the evening, Michiko and Tsuyoshi wind down, their movements slower and stiffer. I can see their masks slipping, revealing their true age. I sneak into the kitchen on the pretense of snatching another rice cracker, but really I’m hoping I’ll be caught by Michiko so she can scold me and I can crack some bad joke to see her smile, this time for real.

But the kitchen remains empty and bare beneath the flat fluorescent lights, and the cracker tastes like sawdust in my mouth. With a sigh, I head to the living room, where the TV plays with the sound muted. Tsuyoshi snores, slumped low in a leather easy chair, his chin propped on his chest. I slip the remote from his hand before it can clatter onto the floor and wake him.

His snoring stops and I wince, hoping I’m not being too loud.

Tsuyoshi turns toward me, his eyes still shut. “Tavian,” he says, without stirring. His voice sounds hollow and sleep-roughened. “You have spoken to her.”

The hairs on my arms prickle. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I warned you,” he says, “that she would come.”

He rubs his eyes with a clumsy hand, and his face smudges, revealing the blank skin underneath.

The return of the noppera-bō.

“I thought you went on vacation,” I mutter, trying to barricade my fear behind humor.

The fake Tsuyoshi lies in his chair, blank-faced, his chest moving as if he’s breathing through his nonexistent mouth and nose. Thoroughly creeped out, I back away and hurry to the guest bedroom, shutting the door behind me. Wait. Should I have talked to the ghost? Interrogated it?

The doorknob turns behind me, and I leap away from the door.

Gwen enters the room, finished with her shower, wrapped in a towel. She’s carrying another towel, but she’s not using it to dry her hair, which drips all over the carpet.

“Gwen,” I say, shutting the door behind her.

She stands by the window and stares out at the brooding clouds, their underbellies glowing orange by the light of Tokyo. Her hair keeps dripping.

“The noppera-bō is here,” I whisper. “Pretending to be Tsuyoshi.”

She turns toward me, her eyes distant. “I need to talk to you.” Her voice sounds hollow.

And I know it’s the noppera-bō.

This time, I say, “Then talk.”

The noppera-bō lets Gwen’s hands go limp. The towel slips from her body, leaving her pale and naked against the black night outside the window.

“We do not have much time,” she says, her mouth barely moving. “She is keeping me out.”

“Who?”

“Her name must not be spoken.”

“Is she Yukimi?”

The noppera-bō shushes me with a hiss like wind racing through grass. “She is watching you.”

I advance on this ghost-as-Gwen. “Who are you?” I take another step. “Tell me the truth.”

“You will know when you find my face.”

I frown. “Why can’t you show it to me?”

“I am dead.” Gwen’s head lists to the left and stays at an unnatural tilt. “You must learn my name.”

I clench my hands into fists and step even closer. “Have you forgotten it?”

She shakes her head, then opens her mouth to speak again.

There’s a whisper in my head.
Do not speak to him
.

Yukimi’s voice.

My thoughts feel sludgy, like they’re swimming in muck. The muscles in my legs twitch as if activated by electricity, and they move by themselves. I walk stiffly toward the ghost masquerading as Gwen.

Fear flickers, briefly, in the noppera-bō’s borrowed eyes. “Wait.”

I back Gwen against the window, my arms drifting upward, my hands pressing on the icy glass on either side of her head. I’m trapping her, but I don’t want to.

“Let me speak,” Gwen says.

No,
Yukimi says in my head.

My hands move to unlatch the window and fling it wide open, to grab Gwen by the shoulders and push her out into the frigid air. But she fights against me, clinging to my arms, clawing at my skin, snowflakes sticking to her wet hair.

She cries, “Tavian!”

I know that the noppera-bō might not be imitating her—it might be possessing her body, and I could throw the real Gwen out the window to plummet to the pavement below. But
I
am possessed, by Yukimi, who has crawled into my brain and is making my muscles move.

I strain against the force puppeting me from within, but Yukimi’s grip upon my mind is ironclad.

I lunge and shove Gwen through the window.

To fall thirty-eight stories down.

eight

A
scream trapped in my throat, I grip the edge of the windowsill and lean into the night, watching as Gwen plummets from the skyscraper, bringing her hand to her mouth to stifle a shriek. As she falls, her fingers smooth away her face, leaving only blankness; her body drifts apart into mist, disappearing into blackness.

It wasn’t really her.

But try telling that to my heart, which is beating so hard and fast it’s skipping beats. I fall to my knees, clutching my forehead, fighting Yukimi’s grip on my mind.

I snarl at myself. “Get out of my head!”

No need to shout,
she whispers.

With a sudden relief of pressure inside my skull, Yukimi leaves me. I crouch, panting, a splitting headache thudding behind my temples. Snow swirls into the bedroom on the wind, carrying a wisp of mist that may or may not be a piece of the defeated ghost. I hold my breath, waiting for it to reappear or leave me forever.

The door opens.

Gwen walks in, wrapped in a towel, and I scramble away from her. But this time she’s wringing her hair dry, not letting it drip everywhere like she just doesn’t care.

“Shut the window!” she says. “It’s freezing in here. Are you trying to turn my hair into icicles?”

I exhale in a shuddering breath. “I thought you were the noppera-bō. Again. It came inside, pretending to be you … ”

“Tavian!” Gwen latches the window. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m okay … ” I stop and squint at her. “What’s the best place to get pizza in Klikamuks?”

“The Olivescent,” she says, without skipping a beat.

“And what were you eating the first time we met there?”

“Calzones.” She sighs. “Tavian, I don’t think the ghost would have answered the first question correctly, you know.” And she sounds snarky enough that I know she’s real.

I turn up the thermostat and grab a blanket. We huddle together on my bed for warmth. Shivering, I tell her what happened, how Yukimi entered my mind while I was awake.

Gwen rubs the goose bumps on her arms. “She can do that?”

“I didn’t know.”

“This is bad, Tavian. Really bad. Maybe you should ask for help.”

“From who?” I’m too tired to muster any sarcasm. “The myobu?”

“Maybe.”

I squeeze Gwen’s hand. “I don’t understand what Yukimi wants from me. Or who the noppera-bō
is
—was.”

She twists a curl around her finger. “We’re going to have to find out.”

“He could be anybody. At least, anybody who was an enemy of Yukimi, or who hated her enough to stay after death. Maybe he thinks Yukimi is so evil she’d hurt her own son.” I rub my pounding head. “She already has.”

Gwen hugs me, and I hug her back even though she’s getting water all over me from her hair. “I’m sure there’s a story behind this, Tavian. An explanation. We’re going to find out.”

I wish I shared her confidence. I grimace. “I hope I didn’t wake my grandparents.”

“I don’t think they heard you,” Gwen says. “Michiko was already snoring when I walked past their room, and that alone would drown out anything under one hundred decibels.”

“Hey,” I say, mustering some pretend outrage, “she’s my grandmother.”

“Your loud grandmother,” Gwen says. “I’m glad I’m sleeping next to you.”

“In your own bedroom,” I say.

She arches her eyebrows. “I wasn’t suggesting anything inappropriate.”

I can’t help smiling. “Sure. After we get home, you’re in big trouble.”

“That’s more like it.” She snuggles against me and shuts her eyes.

I hold her close, maybe a little closer than I need to, trying to erase the image of her falling from my mind.

Twilight in the forest. I crawl from my den and yawn, my tongue curling. The sweet loamy scent of earth clings to my fur. It’s a fine evening to be a fox. I tilt my head back to look at the stars winking into being between gaps in the lacy canopy. Wind ruffles my red fur, carrying a delicious perfume—a delicate spice over a deeper, musky smell.

Nose held high, I trot deeper between the trees.

Fireflies light my path, floating around me in a scattering of glow. A yip breaks the stillness of the air. I cock my head toward the sound. Another yip—a vixen.

I slink closer, poking my face between a tangle of vines.

A pure white fox stands in a grove of apricot trees, her eyes as golden as the ripening fruits. She walks nearer on slender legs, her sleek tail trailing behind her. We touch noses. I inhale the spicy-musky perfume, and I realize it’s the vixen’s scent.

I dance back with a yip, inviting her to come run with me. The vixen narrows her eyes and gives me a short growl. I whine questioningly and tilt my head to one side. Why doesn’t she feel like slipping between the shadows, trotting beneath fences into farms, and maybe finding a nice plump chicken for dinner?

Tavian. Now is not the time to think with your stomach.

The whisper echoes in my head, paradoxically loud. I skitter back, my ears flattened against my skull. I know that voice.

Shizuka?

The white fox smiles, the corners of her lips curling.
Yes.

Around me, the forest ripples as if it were only ever a reflection. I blink and stagger back, swimming in the melting green. This is a dream. Shizuka has entered my dream.

Tail bristling, fur spiking along my spine, I growl.

Calm down
, Shizuka says.
No need to wake yet.

The white fox walks to me and rests her muzzle on my shoulder. The forest quiets, settling back into the illusion my imagination has created for me. But now I’m totally lucid, and I’m not sure I like the idea of a myobu creeping into my mind at night.

Shizuka sniffs, a miffed, whistling sound.
I won’t stay for long.

And she can read my thoughts now. Great.

Why are you here?

She sits and wraps her tail daintily around her paws.
You would do well to return to the shrine in the morning.
She pauses to sniff the air, then glances back at me.
Alone.

I prick my ears. Why?

There is much left unsaid.

So the myobu didn’t think I was a total—I force my mind to swerve from those thoughts. Must be polite.

Shizuka laughs silently, a chiming sound in my head.

Wait. So if she didn’t send the unsigned letter …

Letter?

Never mind. I’ll figure that out later.

Shizuka tilts her head.
Goodbye, Tavian
.

Her fur shimmers at the edges, twinkling like sun on snow. The brightness sweeps over her body until she’s nothing but a fox-shaped glow. With a blinding flash, she blinks out.

And I’m left alone in the forest of my dreams.

Over a breakfast of seaweed-sprinkled rice, fried tofu, and corn puffs—the last one’s for Gwen, who had a craving for cereal—I break the news to my grandparents.

“The letter wasn’t from Shizuka,” I say.

Tsuyoshi frowns over the top of his newspaper. “Oh?”

“I had a dream about her, last night.” I wrinkle my nose. “Technically, she entered my dreams.”

Gwen crunches some corn puffs. “What did she say?”

“Shizuka asked me to come back to the shrine, this morning. She wants to talk to me.”

“Then you must go at once,” Michiko says, pouring herself more tea. “It wouldn’t be very polite to keep a high-ranking myobu such as Shizuka waiting, especially after she took the trouble of inviting you personally.”

Tsuyoshi frowns. “Shizuka didn’t send you the letter at the teahouse?”

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

“No.” I remember the long black hair that drifted from the letter. “It might be from one of the Kuro Inu. Another threat.”

Tsuyoshi’s face hardens. “I will come with you to the shrine.”

“Shizuka asked me to come alone,” I say.

“Oh,” Tsuyoshi says, with a tinge of disappointment. “Why?”

“She didn’t say.”

Michiko nods at my bowl of food. “Finish your breakfast and find out.”

It’s hard to swallow with a stomach that feels like it’s already full of eels, but I scrape the last grains of rice into my mouth, excuse myself, and hurry to get ready.

At the door, Gwen kisses me on the cheek. “Good luck.”

I can see in her eyes that she’s not content staying at home, waiting for the news I’ll bring back. I can only hope she won’t do something
too
adventurous to make up for it.

As I board the metro, the eel-feeling worsens in my stomach. Sure, it’ll be really
nice
if Shizuka has some sort of magic pill for me, or maybe a secret recipe. But why wait to tell me?

I can see my reflection in the subway window, and it looks pretty sarcastic. Better wipe that smirk off my face before I get to Ueno.

A prerecorded female voice announces, first in Japanese, then English, “The next station is Ueno.”

I climb to my feet, grabbing a pole to hold myself steady. People trickle from the subway doors, joining the greater flow of crowds navigating the stairs. Aboveground, in Ueno Station, weak winter sun trickles through a roof of glass. On the wall nearby, a poster catches my eye. It’s nothing special, artistically speaking: a super-cute snowman standing in front of a snowy castle. It’s an advertisement for the upcoming Sapporo Snow Festival.

In, of course, Hokkaido.

I could buy a ticket and melt into the crowd, wait patiently for the train to my birthplace, so close and so far away. But what would be waiting for me in Hokkaido? The orphanage? I shudder, the hairs on my arms bristling. No way in hell am I going back.

I hurry out of Ueno Station, walking up the escalator. In Ueno Park I break into a jog, too edgy just to walk. By the time I get to the Inari shrine, it’s hard to make myself stop moving. A line of visitors all wait their turn to speak to the myobu—a girl I don’t recognize, sitting behind a persimmon-red table at the front of the shrine. I fidget behind everyone else, trying to catch her eye, hoping the flat air will carry my scent to her so she realizes I’m a kitsune and lets me bypass the wait. I’m not even here to pray.

Finally, I’m second in line, standing behind a guy in a black school uniform. He bows really low to the miko, his hair flopping over his eyes, and I can see his ears flush. He starts mumbling about how he’s so sorry for taking up her exceedingly valuable time, but he would very much appreciate her blessing for good luck on his examinations, especially for admission into the prestigious Tokyo University …

I curl my toes inside my shoes, resisting the urge to step around him or maybe gently kick him to finish up. How long is this student going to blather? I don’t have time for this.

The shrine maiden nods politely as she listens. She bends over the red table, her fingers moving as nimbly as a spider’s legs around a bug caught in a web. She’s folding a yellow square of paper into some sort of origami shape. Luckily for me, she’s quick at it.

I tilt my head to get a better look at the miko. She’s small, maybe even microscopic. Pink plastic butterfly barrettes hold back her bangs. With her round cheeks and big black eyes, she looks maybe ten, eleven tops. What if she’s new here and no one told her I’m meeting with Shizuka?

The flustered student finally stops blathering.

“Done,” says the miko. “May this bring you good fortune.”

She adds a last crease to her paper, then brings it to her lips and blows. The origami sculpture flares into the shape of a fat fish. With a shimmer, the paper ripples into golden scales. A perfect little paper koi—Japanese carp—not more than two inches long.

Nice. The origami-illusion even wriggles like a real fish.

“
Arigatō gozaimasu!
” The student takes the koi with a deep, deep bow.

The miko bows in return, and smiles as he slips an envelope into a box for shrine donations. Her gaze moves to me. “How may I help you?” If she knows I’m kitsune, she isn’t showing it.