Foxfire (An Other Novel) (10 page)

“Octavian,” Tsuyoshi says gruffly, “why don’t you and Gwen find something to eat?”

“Good idea,” Gwen says.

She doesn’t look as pale as I’m sure I do right now, but I’d bet twenty bucks she’s ravenous from her shapeshifting.

Michiko twists her mouth and stares at the nurse working on her arm. “How much longer will this take? I was halfway through preparing fried rice for dinner.”

The nurse shakes her head. “You need stitches.”

“Oh?” Michiko says. “The wounds seemed fairly shallow when I first examined them.”

“Michiko,” Tsuyoshi says, his voice rumbling.

They start arguing again, and I slip away with Gwen. I lead the way back down the hall to an elevator. Luckily, the buttons are labeled in English as well as Japanese.

“Cafeteria sounds like our best bet,” I say.

Gwen grimaces. “Hospital food.” A growl escapes her belly.

“Your stomach thinks otherwise,” I say.

She laughs, and I try to smile, but there’s a strange prickling along my spine—something is off.

Turns out hospital cafeterias in Tokyo are like those pretty much anywhere else: clean, boring, and smelling a little too much like antiseptic for your appetite to survive. Gwen loads up a tray with a bowl of rice, tofu, fish, seaweed, and so on, while I linger behind her, trying to figure out where that uneasy feeling is coming from.

“I’ll check out the vending machines,” I say, as an excuse.

“Sure,” Gwen says. “I’ll snag that table in the corner. Oh, no, that lady is walking toward it … ” She scrambles to load food on her tray, which would be comical any other time.

I meander over to the vending machines, keeping my pace carefully casual, pretending to be only mildly interested in my surroundings. There’s no one unusual in the cafeteria, no one Other, but then why is the scent of yōkai magic still tingling in my nose?

I rummage in my wallet for some coins, not really caring whether I buy seaweed crackers or instant soup. I glance up, yen in hand, and see myself reflected in the glass belly of the vending machine.

Ah. Of course.

My face looks a lot calmer than I feel. Inside my rib cage, my heart is drumming a frantic beat. The noppera-bō slides into place beside me, a white faceless oval that looks almost ordinary overlaid against the cheery colors of the food in the machine.

“You can’t speak without a mouth, can you?” I say.

The noppera-bō’s blank face ripples like an invisible hand is sculpting features from a blob of white clay.

“Tavian.” Gwen touches my elbow. “Ready?”

I blink, and the ghost is gone.

I growl under my breath. “You scared off the noppera-
bō. It was going to tell me something, something important. In the reflection of the vending machine—didn’t you see it?”

Gwen stares at me, her eyebrows raised. “No.” Her eyebrows descend. “Here?”

“Yes!” I’m sweating now, for some reason.

“Tavian, there are a ton of people here.” She glances at the vending machine again, then forces a smile. “Aren’t you hungry? I tried some of the tofu here, it’s pretty good. Kind of squishy, and I know you don’t like silken tofu, but—”

“Gwen.” I rub my forehead, my palms slick. “I’m not hungry.”

She shakes her head. “You need to eat. This is dinner.”

“Fine.”

I jam a few coins into the vending machine and buy some cheap ramen. At the hot water dispenser, I scald my hand and swear. Gwen frowns at me from her table; she hasn’t touched any of her food yet. I sigh and bring my ramen to her.

“Eat,” I mutter. “Don’t mind me. I’m just going crazy.”

“You’re not.” She rolls her eyes. “If you want to talk to the noppera-bō, maybe you should do it somewhere less busy than here. And besides, I’ve never even seen it before, so … ”

“So I must be crazy.”

“No.” She lowers her voice. “So it must be trying to talk to you and nobody else.”

I grit my teeth. “I wish I knew what it wanted to tell me.”

Gwen shakes her head and hands me a pair of disposable chopsticks. “Eat. Your brain needs food, you know.” She digs into her bowl of broccoli and rice. “Even if it’s bad food.”

I force myself to consume the ramen—consume, because it’s too mechanical and tasteless to be called eating. Then I sit and wait for Gwen to eat her tray of food. I rest my arms on the table and stare at my clenched hands, trying not to crack my knuckles. Finally, Gwen finishes her dinner and we head upstairs to Michiko.

I trail behind Gwen, glancing at windows with open curtains. What would happen if I went to the bathroom alone, and stood by one of the mirrors? Would the noppera-bō return?

A woman walks ahead of me, her black mane of hair swaying against the back of her lavender scrubs. Why would a nurse or a doctor leave her hair loose? Unless it’s just a quick disguise.

I run after the woman and catch her by the wrist. “Yukimi!”

She faces me, frowning. “Excuse me?”

Not Yukimi.

My cheeks burn. “Sorry, I thought you were someone else.”

The woman gives me a hesitant smile, the kind you give a patient who has a few screws loose, then twists her hair into a ponytail and walks briskly away, back to work.

Michiko and Tsuyoshi stand by a bed, staring at me.

“Tavian?” Gwen takes me by the elbow. “What was
that
?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. Sorry. I made a mistake. Are we ready to go?”

Michiko has her purse, so she must be. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.” But cold sweat dots my skin and a strange hollow feeling of dread has taken residence in my stomach.

“You haven’t been,” Gwen says, her voice quiet.

Tsuyoshi clears his throat. “We are already at the hospital. Perhaps you should see a doctor—”

“No, I didn’t mean to worry you.” Damn, how am I going to talk my way out of this one? I paste a smile on my face. “I’m tired, that’s all. The sooner we get home, the better. I should go to bed early.”

Tsuyoshi nods slowly, his eyes guarded.

The four of us leave the hospital together. I’m the last to exit the elevator to the parking garage, despite the tight, stale, claustrophobic air inside, because I keep glancing at the reflective steel walls. Michiko leans over to Tsuyoshi and whispers something in his ear, in Japanese, but one of the words slips on the air to me.

Sick
.

And I do feel sick, feverish, my head throbbing with a migraine that must be thanks to the tug-of-war between Yukimi and the noppera-bō fighting for control of my thoughts. I wince at the pain and try not to stagger against the elevator’s walls. Why are my arms and legs shaking like this? Am I about to be puppeted again?

Tsuyoshi hesitates to unlock the Audi. “What’s wrong, Tavian?”

I bite the inside of my cheek. I can’t tell them that I’ve been haunted by the noppera-bō and that Yukimi has been clawing her way inside my skull. They’d think I’m crazy for sure, or at least definitely damaged, if they don’t already think that.

Damn it, damn it, damn it. Keep it together.

“Can we go home?” I say, playing the part of the good little long-suffering grandson. “Please?”

Gwen looks sideways at me, and I know she’s tempted to talk.

“Yes,” Michiko says. “I’m tired, Tsuyoshi. Let’s go home.”

I thank her with my eyes.

In the cool leather-scented air of the Audi, my mind clears a little and I feel stronger leaning against the steel of the door. I rest my sweaty forehead on the window. Tsuyoshi flicks on the headlights and pulls out of the parking garage, ascending to the street. My heart squeezes, and I twist back to look into the parking garage.

Yukimi stands, stark in a cone of light, watching me go.

I suck in my breath and force myself to shut my eyes. When I open them again, she’s gone, and we’re traveling along the streets of Tokyo, blending into the city’s glittering flow.

ten

T
he moon peers at me through the window as I lie awake in bed. Sweat glues my skin together in places I’d rather not think about. My blanket feels like it’s roasting me alive. I toss it off, then pad across the room to turn down the thermostat, and frown at the snow outside.

Maybe I’m feverish. Maybe this is kitsune magic burning me to ashes.

Foxfire
.

I’ve never summoned a ball of illusory white light. And I’d never known foxfire could be anything more than that. What didn’t Yukimi tell me? Where is she now? Can she save me?

I sprawl on my bed and shut my eyes.

Night air steeps in the scent of rain on hot asphalt. Cars hiss along the wet street. I open my eyes, bringing the world into sharp focus. I’m crouching in a dark alley, my nose held low, my whiskers damp in the steam rising from a manhole cover. A feral cat slouches past me, intent on a dish of day-old octopus outside a restaurant. The rich fried-batter smell of tempura saturates the breeze.

Instinctively, I know I’m waiting for something else. Someone else.

A woman’s heels click on the pavement. She’s wearing a cobwebby gray dress and black boots best suited for a nightclub or bar. She walks briskly, her eyes fixed on the street ahead, though she doesn’t carry herself like a woman afraid of the dark. She tosses a glance over her shoulder, her long black hair fanning, and I see her face.

High cheekbones, glittering amber eyes. It’s her.

“Yukimi!” calls a second woman, hurrying to join her. “Is she—?”

“Yes,” Yukimi says.

The second woman’s short-cropped hair reveals pointed fox ears. My ears prick. Another kitsune. I press myself low to the ground, hiding in the shadows, hoping they won’t catch my scent among the odors thick in the steamy night.

“Where are the others?” Yukimi asks.

“Late,” the other woman says. “We need to go, now.”

Yukimi nods, and unsheathes two knives from her belt. “Aoi. Cover me.”

The woman—Aoi—nods, then moves her hands as if rubbing an invisible ball. The air between her fingers begins to glow white, coalescing into foxfire. My fur stands on end.

Yukimi strides down the alley, the knives held at her sides. I skulk along the wall, following in her shadow. She pauses outside a doorway and cocks her head. I can hear a woman sobbing, faintly. A man’s low voice rumbles, and the woman cries out. There’s a deep bark, followed by a rumbling snarl, and the woman quiets. Yukimi curls her lip, then marches up to the door and knocks.

My heartbeat races as the door sweeps open.

A bleached-blond man with tattooed arms bares his fangs in a grin. “You have no business with the Kuro Inu, bitch.”

Inugami. Recognition sweeps through me.

I’ve seen him before, but in the winter, not the summer, and I shouldn’t even be a fox—is this a dream? Everything around me shimmers and distorts like I’m walking in front of a movie projector, and I don’t belong in this movie.

This can’t be
my
dream.

“Move,” Yukimi says.

The blond man sniffs her, drool glistening down his chin. His gaze dips down her neckline. Yukimi snarls, and one of her knives flashes. The blond man yelps, his hand darting to his face. Blood trickles between his fingers.

“Bad dog,” Yukimi says.

A bark thunders from the blond man’s throat, and he lunges for her. In a blink, Yukimi twists, driving her other knife into his arm. He yanks out the blade, his face contorted, his limbs warping as he transforms into a dog. Aoi hurls her ball of foxfire at him and it shatters on his face, breaking into stinging centipedes. The inugami whines, flinging his head back and forth, scrabbling back.

Yukimi darts past him; inside the room, a naked woman hunches, bruised and battered, her arms tied to a chair. With her last knife, Yukimi cuts the woman loose and helps her to her feet.

A gunshot.

The naked woman screams, her arms flinching to cover her face.

Katashi walks into the room from a side door, a gun in his hand. He aims it directly between Yukimi’s eyes. “Let go of my wife,” he snarls, his voice guttural and growling.

Cornered by a man with a gun, Yukimi smiles. “Unlikely.”

She doesn’t see the two massive dogs creeping behind her, their muscles bunched and ready to spring. The woman in her arms whimpers.

This is Yukimi’s nightmare. Nothing more.

My body ripples into its human form, and I step forward. “Yukimi.”

Katashi bark-laughs. “The Sisters use little boys now?”

Yukimi cocks her head, a mixture of confusion and recognition in her eyes. She lowers her knife and walks toward me, her body held low, as if ready to dart away.

Aoi stands taut in the corner of the room. “Who is he?” she shouts.

Yukimi frowns. My vision fades in and out of focus, and I blink fast—she must be close to waking up.

“Fucking crazy foxes,” Katashi says, almost lazily.

The inugami sights down the barrel of his gun, his finger twitching on the trigger. Yukimi throws up her hand like she’s going to catch the bullet, stop it with her flesh—

Freeze.

The bullet hovers in front of Katashi’s twisted face; Aoi lingers in midair as she leaps closer; Katashi’s wife gasps, unblinking. It’s like Yukimi hit the pause button on her dream.

Yukimi lowers her hand and turns to me. “You ignored my letter.”

Do not look for me. I will come for you.

My throat tightens. “You’ve been following me. Why won’t you come out of the shadows and talk?”

Her face remains expressionless, doll-beautiful. “There may be a safe place for us to meet tonight.”

“Where?”

“The Sleepless Town.” Her lips twitch. “Kabukicho.”

I narrow my eyes. “The red-light district is safe?”

She shrugs.

“Where in Kabukicho?” I say, my voice rough.

“Near the south entrance,” she says, “a small
yakisoba
stand stays open all night. Wait there. If you hurry, you won’t miss the metro. The last train leaves Akasaka at midnight.”

“How will I get home?”

She says nothing.

I grit my teeth. Why is she so damn frustrating to talk to? Where is the woman behind that blank-faced mask?

“So we’re going to have a chat over some yakisoba. Great.”

She opens her mouth to respond, then sucks in her breath.

Footsteps echo in the hollow silence of the dream. A man in dark suit enters the room. He has no face.

Yukimi snarls, a feral sound in the back of her throat. “Get out.”

The noppera-bō turns to me. He stretches out his hands like he’s beckoning me into his arms.

I step toward him. “Who—”

Yukimi drives her knife into the noppera-bō’s back. He falls forward and tears into tatters of mist.

I stand with my hands useless at my sides. “Why did you do that?”

Yukimi wipes her blade on her sleeve. “He should not be here.”

“But who
is
he?”

“No one.”

“You’re lying.” I square my shoulders. “He’s in your dream, not just mine. He knows you. Knew you.”

She sheathes her blade without a word.

“Did you kill him?”

Flames blaze to life in her eyes. “Go.”

She flings her hand out at me like she’s throwing a piece of garbage away. I’m flung through the air. The world ripples and darkens around me as if I’ve plunged into a deep pool. Slowly, slowly, I rise to the surface—or am I sinking? My lungs burn, and panic builds inside my chest. I can’t breathe. I kick hard, thrashing against the tangling feeling of a mind trapped between sleeping and waking.

Finally, I stop trying to fight it and just let go.

I blink myself awake. I’m lying on my bed. It’s snowing outside, and I’m alone. I pinch the bridge of my nose, my head starting to throb. I’m not used to entering dreams.

The digital clock by my bed blinks to a new time: 11:46 p.m.

I have a train to catch.

It’s easy to straighten my spine and let bravado steel my veins. But in reality, guilt crawls like a maggot through me, because I know that what I’m doing is stupidly dangerous. If I want to keep those I love safe, I should leave Japan and go home. But then I might as well give up—because then I would be dead.

Maybe I could live like a human. Pretend like I was never half-kitsune to begin with, and crumple my magic into a tight ball so it sits inside me, rotting away, until I’m okay.

Is it selfish to want to save yourself?

I’m alone in my train car as I take the metro from Akasaka to Shibuya. From there, I can walk to Kabukicho. I keep staring at my reflection in the windows with gritty eyes, waiting for the noppera-bō, but he never comes.

The metro glides to a halt, brakes whining, and a homeless man climbs on. He stinks of sour milk and sickness, his coat patched with duct tape. He holds out his hands to me, begging, but I shake my head. I don’t have any change. If it weren’t so cold out, I’d crack open the top window to breathe.

At the next stop, two women in neon clothes and three-inch heels clamber on. They stagger as the metro accelerates, then fall into the seat beside me, kicking up their feet and giggling far too loud. They stink like liquor and cigarettes. I scoot away from them, my eyes fixed on the window.

“Why are you out so late?” the woman in pink coos.

I pretend not to understand. But then what would a tourist be doing out at midnight? Well, visiting the red-light district, obviously. These women probably work in the water trade. Do they work for the yakuza? Have they seen the Sisters?

“Cute boy!” The woman in pink snaps flamingo-
colored nails in my face. “Don’t be rude.”

This sends the woman in green into hysterics of laughter.

I look at them blankly. In slow, loud, English, I say, “Sorry, I don’t speak Japanese.”

“I speak English!” chirps the woman wearing green.

I grit my teeth and try to ignore them. I should have brought my MP3 player and some headphones. Of course, I might as well tape a sign to my forehead saying, “Mug me!”

“Hello,” she says, in halting English. “My name is Kiko.”

The woman in pink hoots and cuffs her on the shoulder.

“Would you like some fun?” Kiko manages to strike a sexy pose while slumped against her seat.

“No, no, no!” Her friend lurches to her feet, grabs a pole, and starts pole-dancing. “Like this!”

Kiko collapses, giggling, her hand over her mouth.

My face burns. I feel bad for them, making fools of themselves while the homeless man watches with a look in his eyes that’s even filthier than his sour-milk smell.

The metro slows. “The next station is Shibuya.”

I jump to my feet.

Kiko hauls herself upright. “Hurry, Candy! Stop dancing!”

The woman in pink—Candy—spins around the pole and leaps outside the train, amazingly nimble in her heels. I wince, imagining her falling onto the electrified tracks instead.

Not making eye contact with them, I stride down the street.

“We made it!” I hear Kiko say breathlessly. “I’m so hungry.”

“You’re always hungry,” Candy says.

Great. They’re following me.

I quicken my pace until I’m almost jogging. I slip my guidebook out of my pack to double-check the map. Yes, I should be heading toward Kabukicho. Though I could just follow Kiko and Candy, come to think of it.

Once beyond the businesslike skyscrapers of Shibuya, I spot a lightbulb-adorned arch gaudy enough for Las Vegas. Glowing billboards and marquees compete for space on the buildings crowding the narrow street, like a snapshot of a Tetris game. A steady steam of traffic passes under the arch, more people going in than out. Midnight must be prime-time for Kabukicho.

A hand grabs me by the shoulder.

I whirl around, my teeth bared. “Let go of me!”

It’s Kiko.

Her eyes widen. “You do speak Japanese.”

I let my teeth sharpen into fangs, then twist away from her touch. “I’m not interested.”

Candy trips closer to us. “You’re—you’re a kitsune!”

“Like Yukimi,” Kiko says.

I freeze. “Yukimi? You know her?”

Suddenly, Kiko and Candy aren’t laughing anymore. They share an uneasy glance. Kiko clutches Candy’s arm and mutters something in her ear. The two of them walk quickly toward the arch to Kabukicho, glancing backward at me.

“Wait!” I jog after them. “I’m looking for Yukimi.”

Candy whirls at me, her long earrings tangling in her hair. “You won’t find her.” She half-snarls the words.

“I’m her son. I’m here to meet her.”

Kiko laughs. “She doesn’t have a son.”

“What do you know about her?” I say.

Candy grabs Kiko’s arm. “We’re drunk, not stupid. Go find some other women to screw around with.”

The two of them march away, their heels clicking in time.

I follow them through the arch to Kabukicho. They glance back at me, then put on a spurt of speed, dodge down a side street, and disappear into the crowd.