Free Foxfire (An Other Novel) by Karen Kincy Page B

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