Chapter 15

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.

Maybe I underestimated this girl. Her illusions are spot-on.

I let myself smile a little. “That was impressive.”

A blush blooms in her cheeks. “Excuse me?”

“The origami koi illusion. How much do they cost?”

“They are not for sale,” she murmurs, in hesitating English.

Right. Even though the student just made a “donation” in return for her illusory good luck charm.

I decide to switch to English, since she’s speaking it, and it will give my brain cells a rest. “I’m Tavian Kimura.”

She dips her head in a brief bow. “My name is Junko. Come with me.”

Junko hurries away from the shrine, her sandals scuffing on the stones, her red skirt trailing behind her. She unlatches the gate to the path fringed with bamboo trees, lets me slip through, then locks it behind her.

My arm accidentally knocks against hers. “Sorry.”

Her ears redden and she walks faster, looking anywhere but at me. “Shizuka is waiting for you.”

“Do you happen to know why?” I give her a smile, as if that will help pry some information out of her.

“No.”

I follow Junko down the bamboo path, through a doorway I don’t recognize, and into a labyrinth of hallways. The shrine complex has a tight, winding feel, like a fox den. Well, a very elegant, aboveground den.

“Did she say anything about me?”

“No.” She hesitates. “Just that you were the American kitsune.”

I detect curiosity in her voice. “I’m from Klikamuks, Washington.”

Junko perks up. “By the White House?”

“No.” I can’t help but laugh. “Not Washington D.C., Washington State. In the west?”

She stares at me.

“North of California? Seattle is the nearest city to Klikamuks.”

Her voice falls to a mumble. “I have never heard of Klikamuks. But I am a poor student of geography.”

“Don’t worry,” I say. “Most people haven’t heard of Klikamuks.”

Junko’s voice gets even more mumbly. “Are you… were you born there?” She glances coyly at me.

“No, I was born here. In Hokkaido, not Tokyo. But I was adopted.”

She nods, with a quiet “mmm.”

We stop outside a door with Shizuka’s name on it.

“I would like to hear your story,” Junko murmurs, looking at me with a sudden spark in her eyes.

I scratch behind my ear, not sure we’ll meet again. “Sure!” Might as well play the part of friendly American.

“Arigatō,” Junko whispers, shy again. She raps on Shizuka’s door, bows her goodbye, and leaves me alone.

The door sweeps open. Shizuka stands, tall and graceful, in a red kimono decorated with golden koi brocade. I wish for an irrational second that I could paint her portrait. Then I see her white tail peeking through her kimono and I come to my senses.

“I thought you might arrive at this time,” she says. “Please, sit.”

Her office is a study in white and black, with splashes of color here and there: a scroll of a kitsune wedding procession, an arrangement of red twigs in a vase, an apricot in a wooden bowl.

Shizuka pours us each a cup of jasmine tea. The steam rising to my nose carries the fragrance of night-blooming flowers and yōkai magic. I sip it too quickly and burn my mouth.

“So,” I say, “why did you call me back here?”

Shizuka looks at me with heavy-lidded eyes. “I know of your mother.”

She says it so softly I’m not sure I heard her right. “Yukimi?”

“Her name is spoken quite often in certain circles.”

“Which circles?”

Shizuka sips her tea, then swallows, her slender throat moving gracefully. “Mizu shōbai. The water trade.”

I set my teacup down. “You mean—?”

“Yes.”

The water trade is a euphemism for the business of the underworld—what goes on in the grimy underbelly of Tokyo. Under all the glitter and lights, there are bodies for sale, deaths that go unnoticed, illegal trades made in the shadows.

My guts tighten as if clenched in an invisible fist. Has my mother resorted to prostitution?

Shizuka seems to read my eyes because she leans forward in her chair. “Yukimi would not have earned such a reputation as one of those women. She is one of the Sisters.”

“I’ve never heard of them.”

Shizuka crosses her ankles. “That is unsurprising. They are secretive, and an American would certainly not know of them. But they are kitsune, and so the myobu are aware of their dealings. We would not like to be adversely affected.”

“What do you mean by ‘adversely affected’?”

“The Sisters are a gang of nogitsune who operate in the underworld. They engage in practices and behaviors that tarnish the reputation of kitsune as a whole.” She says this very primly, then sits with her lips pursed as if her tea is sour.

I pick up my cup again, so that my hands have something to do. My fingers are shaking slightly. “The Sisters are yakuza?”

Shizuka laughs without humor. “No. Yakuza do not allow women among their ranks. They consider females only good for childbearing and for pleasure. The Sisters, however, make themselves out to be champions of downtrodden women. Unsurprisingly, the two factions have been bitter enemies for decades now.”

I let some tea slide down my throat. “What else can you tell me about Yukimi?”

“That she is considered one of the more dangerous Sisters.”

“And?”

“That is all.”

“Do you know where to find her?”

Shizuka’s eyes gleam amber. “No.”

I bite the inside of my cheek. “But I need to find her.”

“Yes.” She refills her teacup. “You do.”

I narrow my eyes. “You know more than you’re telling me.”

“Tea?” Shizuka still holds the teapot aloft.

I shake my head.

She sighs and sets the teapot down. “Octavian, you may try your best to control your foxfire, but there is only so much that can be done while you are nameless. You need to be named. Only then can you save yourself.”

“How?” I rub my forehead, my head starting to ache. “I don’t know very much about it—nobody ever told me much or wrote anything down—but I thought I needed my parents to name me. My biological parents, which is a long shot.”

Shizuka lowers her voice. “You need only their names, and their blood.”

I’m silent for a moment. “From both of my biological parents?”

“Yes.”

“But I don’t know who my father is. Or was. He might not even be alive.”

“Ah,” she says, her voice even softer. “Without his blood, you may use his bones.”

A shiver crawls down my spine and my stomach feels icy despite all the tea I drank. “And then I will be named?”

“Yes.”

“By who?”

A shadow of a smile touches her lips. “Me.”