Chapter 12

That 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 birdwatching.

“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?