Chapter 26

I take an uneven breath. “What do you mean?”

Yukimi untangles herself from me and steps back, her head bowed, her hair shadowing her face. “I can’t stop your father’s family from looking for you. And if they find you…”

I lower my head, thinking. “Who are they?”

She plucks a tissue from a box and dabs her eyes. “You have seen at least one of them.”

“Who—what did they look like?”

She folds her tissue into smaller and smaller squares on the bathroom counter. “You should avoid them. They are your blood relatives, but they will not help you.”

I sit on the edge of the tub, my elbows on my knees. “If I don’t know what they look like,” I say, “then I won’t be able to avoid them. If I don’t know my father’s name…”

Her fingers clench, crumpling the tissue’s careful folds. “True.”

I wait, saying nothing, for her to speak.

“His name was Akira Matsuzawa.”

I meet her gaze, and I can see raw hurt and fear in her eyes. She’s not bothering to hide it, and that scares me more than anything. “That was his name?”

“Yes.”

I lean my cheek on my hand. “Matsuzawa?”

Octavian. That was Zenjiro Matsuzawa.

I remember how Tsuyoshi spoke about the yakuza boss in a hushed, almost awed voice. What are the chances this is a coincidence?

I look at Yukimi, my stomach heavy with dread. “The same as Zenjiro Matsuzawa?”

“Yes. And you are Zenjiro’s only grandson.”

“Oh.” I nearly fall backward into the tub but catch myself in time. “That makes sense.”

Yukimi clenches her fists, her knuckles white. “Even though you are half-kitsune, Zenjiro will want you. Maybe especially because you are half-kitsune. He might find it useful.”

“For what?”

“We shouldn’t talk too much more.” She scans the room, sniffing the air. “I can feel Akira here, watching us. I’m worried that he might tell them where we are.”

“You think the yakuza would use a ghost to spy on us?”

“Akira still has ties to his father.” She squeezes her eyes shut and sucks in her breath slowly. “Akira has ties to me as well, but I have learned to shut him out. It’s harder, though, keeping him from trying to talk with you.”

A shudder passes over me. “So I’m actually a Matsuzawa.”

“No,” she says fiercely. “Your father has nothing to do with you.”

But I think he has everything to do with me. And I’m beginning to realize why Yukimi left me in Hokkaido when I was nothing more than a six-year-old kit. The yakuza must have been hounding her relentlessly, trying to get at me…

She sits beside me on the tub and touches her fingertips to the back of my hand. “Are you still hungry?”

I blink, startled by the swerve in the conversation. “Maybe.”

“Let’s get out of here.”

~

Ten minutes later, we’re streaking through Tokyo on Yukimi’s motorcycle, the icy wind stinging my eyes and erasing my thoughts. The sun shines crystal-bright from an eggshell blue sky, and the city glitters more than mere steel and glass can. The feeling of speed fills me with a temporary, fierce thrill.

We’re in an area of Tokyo that must be part of the water trade, a series of concrete streets whose neon glitz pales in the stark daylight. The unlit lights look shabby and almost sad. Yukimi parks outside a hole-in-the-wall restaurant. As she chains her motorcycle to a lamp post, I try to peek through the paper-and-wood windows, but it’s too dark inside for me to make anything out.

“What is this place?” I say.

“The Fat Oni,” Yukimi says.

“That’s an… interesting name.”

She grins. “Brace yourself for the best yakitori and sake around.”

The thought of yakitori—skewers of chicken and other morsels, grilled over charcoal—brings a rush of saliva to my mouth. When Yukimi pushes open the door, the aroma breezing out makes my stomach growl thunderously.

“Knew you were hungry,” Yukimi says.

I give her a thin smile and follow her in.

Cheap paper lanterns strung on wires dangle over tables and chairs wedged into a tiny space that looks more like an office break room than anything else. Despite it being so early, about half a dozen bleary-eyed customers huddle over their breakfasts.

A high counter curves around the open kitchen, and there’s some muffled clattering and grumbling going on back there. Yukimi hops onto one of the stools.

“Ozuru?” she calls.

“What?” grumbles a raspy voice.

“I have a friend who would love to try your yakitori.”

“Oh?”

Ozuru pokes his head out of the kitchen—and I take two steps back before I can stop myself. His skin glows an unnatural, poisonous-mushroom red, and antelope-horns poke from his matted hair. Ozuru sees me staring at him and grins, tusks jutting from his black lips, his snake-yellow eyes glinting.

Oh, shit. Oni.

Translation: ogre-demon, the man-eating brute of legends, though I don’t know what they’ve been up to recently. Needless to say, you don’t want to screw around with oni.

“This is your friend?” Ozuru says. “He’s pretty little.”

“You’re pretty big,” I mutter.

The oni growls, a sound like boulders grinding together. “You’re with Yukimi, so I won’t eat you, kit.”

“I doubt I taste good,” I say.

Ozuru laughs, which also sounds like boulders grinding together.

“Don’t worry, Ozuru is harmless.” Yukimi pats a stool next to her, inviting me to sit. “Harmless enough that I had to save his ass from the yakuza on more than one occasion.”

Ozuru shrugs. “That was back before I became a chef.”

“Chef!” Yukimi snorts. “You’re hardly a cook.”

“Want some spit with your yakitori?” His eyes twinkle and he almost looks like an evil-ogre Santa Claus.

“Actually,” she says, “I’ll have the asuparabēkon.”

“Of course.” Ozuru looks to me. “You?”

“What’s asuparabēkon?” I say.

Ozuru grins. “Yukimi’s favorite yakitori. Watch out, she’ll fight you for it.”

Yukimi rolls her eyes. “It’s bacon-wrapped asparagus.”

“I’ll stick with the chicken. Nothing weird, thanks.”

“Sure, kit.”

The oni turns to a freezer, yanks out some raw chicken, and impales it on a steel skewer.

I climb onto the stool next to Yukimi. “Now I am starving.”

“Me too,” she says.

We glance at each other, then look away. Watching the yakitori sizzle on the grill is easier than saying anything to each other, but it doesn’t make this any less awkward.

“So!” Yukimi says.

“So?” I say.

“Why are you in Tokyo, anyway?” Her casual tone doesn’t quite mask a sharper interest.

I clear my throat. “Visiting my grandparents. Adoptive, obviously, on my dad’s side.”

“What kind of family are they?”

“Successful.” Not wanting them to sound mercenary, I add, “And they’re good people. They were careful to explain everything to me when they brought me to America, in a way that a little kid would understand, and they taught me how to live there.”

“I see,” Yukimi says.

I glance at her. She’s running her fingernail along a scar on the countertop, but I can see the crease between her eyebrows, the way her face looks older than it was a second ago.

“My dad works in the hotel business,” I say. “Like his dad. My mom is a lawyer and works mostly on contract law. They’re pretty well-off. I don’t have to worry about college.”

“College?” Yukimi brightens. “What are you studying?”

“I’m not sure. Art, maybe, but my parents want me to study something more practical, like business.” I swallow, my throat dry, and give her a lopsided smile. “Sorry, I know how awkward it is for me to be talking about my mom and dad.”

Yukimi catches Ozuru’s eyes. “The usual drink, please.”

He slides a can of Kirin beer to her. She pops the top and takes a long swig, her eyes shut.

“How did you meet Akira, anyway?” I say.