Foxfire (An Other Novel) (13 page)

Of course there would be withdrawal. Of course I would have to return to my human body and start thinking in words again, start remembering why I’m here.

I dress quickly, clumsily, my fingers numb. “That was … fun.” I grimace at how lame it sounds. “That’s not what I mean. It’s been eleven years since we ran like that.”

Yukimi rakes her hands through her feral hair and twists it back into a bun. “Yes.”

“Why … ” I study her face, but can see no hints of her mood. “Why did you wait so long?”

“You were gone,” she says. “And then you were here.”

I concentrate on lacing my shoes, so that I don’t spook her by looking a little too interested in her replies. “So you could tell I was in Japan. From my dreams?”

Yukimi nods and stands there, finished dressing.

“Do you know where I went?” I say.

“No.”

My fingers have become too stiff to tie my shoes. I bend over my feet, staring at the ground. “I lived in an orphanage, in Hokkaido, for about a year. Then a couple from America came and adopted me. They took me home with them, to Washington. The state, not the capitol. You know where that is?

“Yes.”

I stand in one swift movement and look her in the eye. I catch a glimpse of emotion before she turns away, seemingly more interested in the street, but I know it’s a lie.

“Mom and Dad—my parents—thought you were dead,” I say.

“Understandable,” Yukimi says.

“So did I.”

A cone of light falls from a street lamp and she walks to its edge, the sharp planes of her face harshly illuminated. A convenient disguise for her expression.

“You will need a name,” she says. “A true name.”

I stand beside her, my heart thudding. “Shizuka was right? That’s how I can survive?”

“All kitsune must be named to become adults.”

I blow out my breath. “Yukimi.” Her name tastes strange in my mouth. “You’re very vague.”

Her teeth flash in a grin. “Am I?”

“If you want to keep me safe,” I say, “I need you to tell me the truth. About everything.”

Her grin vanishes as quickly as it came. “I can’t.”

“Not everything, then.” I’m so close that I could touch her, if I tried. “But at least about my father?”

Yukimi steps away from me, the distance between us filled with shadows so thick I’m not sure I can pass through them without pushing with my hands. Her face has become granite again, her eyes polished amber with emotions trapped inside.

“Your father was not a good man,” she says.

“Was?”

“He doesn’t belong in my life anymore. Or yours.”

I hold my breath, afraid to say something that will silence her again, keep her from sharing her secrets. “But we need his name,” I say, “and his blood. For me to be named.”

Yukimi thins her lips. “That may be difficult.”

“In what way?”

She looks at me as if she’s about to say more, then shakes her head. “I will tell you at a time and place less dangerous than this. For now, we will return to the Lair.”

thirteen

I
t’s only when I’m lying on the floor of the bedroom I’d seen earlier, curled in blankets that smell like Yukimi, that the guilt catches up like a slow-moving sludge.

I’ve been running around as a fox with Yukimi—
frolicking, damn it—and I’m not any closer to why I came here. I’ve been letting her control me, manipulate me into doing what she wants. I ate the anburojia, I shapeshifted for her, and I went to bed like a good little boy when I was done.

I’m chasing a memory. Okāsan doesn’t exist anymore.

My throat clenches on a knife-sharp feeling. My hands are still shaky, my forehead dotted with sweat, the lingering taste of anburojia sour on my tongue. This bedroom has no windows, but the darkness isn’t helping me fall asleep, no matter how strongly fatigue tugs me down. I glance at my watch: 6:24 a.m.

Gwen. She’s usually a night owl, waking up around noon on weekends, but the lure of Japan has been dragging her out of bed at ungodly early hours.

What is she going to do when she sees my empty bed? What is she going to do when she tries calling me, and my phone goes straight to voicemail?

I crawl out of my tangle of blankets. Now is no time for sleep.

My legs wobble beneath me, my kneecaps like Jell-O. My stomach growls, and the thought of anburojia makes my mouth water so hard it hurts. I shake my head. No addictive fruits for breakfast. No breakfast at all. Time to get up and go.

I’m halfway to the door when it creaks open. I see the silhouette of a woman.

“Yukimi?” I whisper.

“Oh, sorry.” It’s Aoi. “Did I wake you?”

“I wasn’t sleeping.”

Aoi shuts the door behind her and flicks on the light. I squint, my eyes aching. She leans on the wall by the door like she’s guarding it. Did Yukimi send her to keep me in?

“I’ve been thinking,” Aoi says, “about what you said.”

I rub my forehead, trying to drag myself out of this grogginess. “Have you decided I’m actually Yukimi’s son? Or did she decide to tell you herself?”

Aoi twists her mouth. “That’s the thing. I asked, and she didn’t say no. But she wouldn’t tell me any more.”

I try not to hold my breath. “Any idea who my dad is?”

“I haven’t known Yukimi for—how old did you say you were again?”

“Seventeen.”

“I haven’t known Yukimi for that long.” Aoi tilts her head to one side and tucks her hair behind her ears. “And she’s never been one to show much interest in men, if you know what I mean.”

“I don’t.”

Aoi laughs, a cigarette-rasped sound. “She’s never had a boyfriend for as long as I’ve known her. Not even a one-night stand, unless she’s very secretive about it.”

I raise my eyebrows. “So?”

Aoi shrugs and slips a pack of cigarettes from her jean pocket. “Do you smoke?”

“No.”

Aoi hits the bottom of the pack to knock a cigarette out, then reaches for a lighter. “Yukimi was dating this lady maybe a year ago, but they split up. Hell, even farther back I thought Yukimi might be flirting with me—but she said she would never date one of the Sisters. She doesn’t mix business with pleasure.”

“Really.” I stare at the ceiling. “Okay.”

Yukimi never told me
that
. But why would she?

Aoi lifts her lighter to her cigarette, then hesitates. “Is the smoke going to bother you?”

I nod absently.

She heaves a big sigh and slips the cigarette back into the pack. “I figured. You look like somebody with virgin lungs, uncorrupted by nicotine.”

I’d laugh at her joke if I were actually paying attention. “So how does my father fit into the picture? She told me that he was ‘not a good man.’ And that she would tell me more about him when it wasn’t dangerous to do so.”

“Dangerous?” Aoi arches her eyebrows. “Pretty much everybody in Yukimi’s life is dangerous. Myself included.”

“Sure,” I deadpan.

She bares her fangs, a wicked light in her eyes. “Don’t underestimate me, fox boy.”

I hold my hands in the air. “Joking. Just joking.”

Aoi crosses her arms, her gaze distant. “Well, there was that one guy … he had a particularly dangerous look to him.”

“Who?”

“Oh, I never actually met him.” Aoi tosses her hand. “But Yukimi keeps a photo. I found it one day by accident, when it fell out of a mirror of hers.”

“What did he look like? Besides particularly dangerous?”

“He wasn’t smiling. He was wearing a suit. I couldn’t think of why Yukimi would keep a photo of him if he wasn’t somebody important to her, maybe a brother.”

Wearing a suit. That could be anybody, but …

The snow doesn’t even touch his dark suit, just falls right through.

“You know,” Aoi says, “she probably still keeps it there. I never brought it up, because I knew she would kill me if I said anything. Yukimi can be secretive, to say the least.”

I square my shoulders. “Where is the mirror?”

“In her bedroom,” Aoi says. “But she’s sleeping there.”

“Maybe if I asked her … ”

Aoi frowns. “Oh, don’t tell her I said anything to you. This whole conversation is top secret, okay?”

“Okay.” But I’m walking to the door. “Which room is hers?”

Aoi sighs. “I’ll show you.”

We climb a rickety staircase with narrow, creaky steps. Upstairs, doors branch from a dimly lit hallway. Aoi stops at the first door on the left, and nods. I creep up to the door, which stands ajar, and raise my hand, ready to knock. Inside, I hear hushed breathing.

“I wouldn’t wake her,” Aoi whispers. “She’s had a rough night.”

“I won’t,” I whisper back.

Gently, I push open the door. Yukimi’s room is a deep red, like the inside of a plum, with thick curtains draped over the window and four-poster bed. Yukimi lies with her body curled around a pillow, her face creased as she sleeps. She’s still wearing everything she was outside, except for her boots.

“Over there,” Aoi breathes into my ear. She points to a silver hand-mirror, adorned with roses, lying on a battered dresser. “That’s the mirror with the photo in it. But don’t—!”

I slip past her and tiptoe to the mirror. It’s cold and heavy in my hand and leaves my skin smelling sweetly metallic. Must be antique silver. Yukimi doesn’t stir. Stolen mirror in hand, I sneak back out to Aoi and hand it to her.

“Show it to me,” I say, my voice low.

Aoi glances into Yukimi’s room, then wedges her fingernails between the mirror’s glass and its ornate silver frame. She pries the circle of glass out, catches it in her other hand, and takes a wallet-sized photo from the hollow in the mirror.

“Take it,” Aoi whispers, barely audible.

I pinch the paper between my fingers and hold it up to my eyes.

Is it the man from my dream? I stare at his strong jaw and sharply angled eyebrows. He’s wearing a dark suit, but it’s so generic—and how can I match a face to a faceless ghost? I turn the photo over, hoping for a name—

“Give it back,” Aoi chants under her breath, “give it back.”

There’s no name. Nothing.

I hand the photo to Aoi, who slips it into the mirror’s frame and clicks the glass back into place. She hands the mirror to me, then takes a step back into the shadows.

The door to the bedroom bangs open.

Yukimi stands there, her face perfectly calm but her eyes glowing like a fox’s. “What did you take?”

Is she bluffing? Did she see us look at the photo?

“This mirror.” I hold it out to her, and she snatches it from me.

“There’s no need to steal from me,” Yukimi says, her voice icy.

I plaster a hurt look on my face. “I wasn’t. Aoi brought me to your bedroom because I asked, but I didn’t want to wake you up.”

“Don’t touch my things.” Yukimi steps into the hallway. “Aoi?”

Aoi leans against the wall and lights up another cigarette, puffing smoke into our faces. “He didn’t break anything. The fox boy just wanted to see where you went.”

Yukimi looks between us. “Well, I’m awake now.”

“Sorry.” I give her an attempt at a smile.

She sighs and puts her hand on her hip. “Aoi, stop breathing smoke in my face. Tavian, don’t give me those hopeful, starving eyes. If you want breakfast, cook it yourself.”

I mentally breathe a sigh of relief. “Breakfast sounds good.”

Aoi saunters away, her cigarette smoke trailing behind her.

Yukimi glances down at her clothes. “I might as well show you the kitchen.”

“Thanks,” I say.

She heads for the stairs and I follow her. Every step I take, a thought thuds in my mind.

Do not speak to him.

Why would she not want me to speak to an anonymous ghost, one that had no connection to her, unless of course he knew her? Why would the ghost try so hard to keep me away from her? My father was not a good man.
Was
. Is that why she keeps his photo behind her mirror, so she can remember him every time she looks at her reflection?

“Tavian?” Yukimi looks back at me.

There must be something on my face, something betraying the terrible thoughts swarming in my head like a hive of wasps.

I shake my head. “I’m tired. Didn’t sleep.”

“Anburojia can do that to you,” Yukimi says. “You need to eat.”

She’s actually caring about whether I starve or not, actually going into the kitchen and opening cupboards. Being something like a mother to me. Like Okāsan.

I stand at the threshold of the kitchen, my shoulders rigid.

“Can you cook?” she says, pulling out a bag of rice.

“I’m learning,” I say.

Yukimi plugs in a rice cooker. “Come here, then. I’m not going to make breakfast for you.” Despite her gruff talk, she pulls a carton of eggs from the fridge.

I stand by the stove as she sets a skillet there. I take the oil from her and pour it onto the cold iron as it heats up, slowly, the oil starting to sizzle and pop.

What am I going to do? There has to be a way to say this right.

“Take the egg.” Yukimi nudges my hand with its cool shell.

I crack it against the edge of the skillet, much too hard, and it explodes everywhere.

Yukimi growls under her breath. “What a mess. You have—”

“Tell me who he is,” I say.

She grabs a roll of paper towels. “Who?”

“My father.”

Yukimi rips off a paper towel, starts to mop up the egg, then shoves the roll at me. “Here. You clean it up.”

I wipe the egg from the tile floor, but I keep my eyes on her.

I’m going to be the silent one now, to let the unspoken words blink into existence.

“Later,” she says. She dumps some water into the rice cooker without measuring it, then grabs the rice.

“Then tell me who the noppera-bō is.”

Yukimi stiffens, her hands gripping the edge of the counter. “Why?”

“
Why not?” I straighten. “He’s haunting me, isn’t he?”

Yukimi closes the lid on the rice cooker and turns it on, still playing pretend. “You shouldn’t listen to anything the noppera-bō tells you. He was a liar, and still is.”

“So you knew him,” I say.

“I did.”

Finally, finally, she’s answering my questions. Well, answer this.

“Was he my father?”

Her face stays serene, though I know now it’s as fragile as eggshell. She opens the fridge again and pulls out a bundle of green onions, then takes a knife from a drawer, and a cutting board. She arranges them as delicately as if she’s performing a traditional tea ceremony. Like this is a show.

“Yukimi,” I say. “Tell me the truth.”

She starts chopping the onions, her movements slow, careful.

“Okāsan.”

Her hand speeds up, the onions springing off the counter.

“I know you keep his photo with you,” I say quietly, no matter how loud the pain feels inside me. “I know you must still think about him. How did he die?”

Yukimi drives the knife an inch deep into the cutting board. “What photo?”

I wait for a moment, my heart thudding so fast in my chest I’m afraid of what might happen if I speak too soon, if she unleashes the barely restrained fury in her voice.

“The one behind the mirror.”

Yukimi marches past me, aiming for the stairs. I follow her, but she breaks into a run and bounds up the steps. In her bedroom, she snatches the mirror from the dresser and yanks the glass out. The photo floats, seesawing, to the ground. I lunge for it, but Yukimi blocks me with her arm and a fierce look.

“You will never see this again,” she says.

And that’s how I know I was right, and this was my father.

She grabs a lighter from the dresser. I strain to reach the photo, but it’s too late. Fire crawls over the photo, shriveling the paper, devouring the man’s face. Reflected flames dance in Yukimi’s eyes as she drops it in a glass to burn.

“That will be forgotten,” she says.

I watch the photo crumble to ashes. “Like you forgot me.”

Yukimi looks at me, and her face twists, and I can tell she wants to tell me everything she doesn’t know how to say. She grabs my arm, her grip bruising, but I yank away.

“Tavian,” she says.

I walk out of the room.