Chapter 32

“Tavian?” Tsuyoshi clears his throat. “Are you certain?”

“Yes,” Zenjiro says. “I would recognize him anywhere.”

Before the yakuza boss can say anything to his advantage, I step into the room, feeling rather small as a fox. Michiko’s hand shakes as she sets down her teacup. It tips over the edge of the table and shatters on the floor. She glares at the widening puddle as if it was the teacup’s fault, then climbs to her feet and walks to me.

“I found him,” Gwen says. “In Shinjuku Gyoen.”

“As I suspected,” Zenjiro says.

I bare my teeth. Oh, like this was all one big plan? Doubtful.

“But he’s…” Michiko squints at me. “He’s a fox?”

“He’s half-kitsune,” Zenjiro says. “It’s to be expected. Have you never seen him in his natural form?”

I glance at Zenjiro’s face, and there’s little more than mild surprise in his eyes. Isn’t he disgusted that his only grandson is an animal right now? Isn’t he going to sic his dogs on me?

Tsuyoshi stands behind Michiko, his hands resting protectively on her shoulders. “Change back, Octavian,” he says, his voice deep and commanding—like that helps.

“He can’t,” Gwen says. “Not with everybody staring.”

That’s my cue to exit. I dart from the dining room and leap into my bedroom, shoving the door shut with my muzzle. The door opens again two seconds later, but it’s Gwen.

She locks the door. “Okay. Some privacy.”

Not for long. Not with Zenjiro out there.

Gwen sits on the floor next to me. “Are you really stuck?”

Even if I don’t have anburojia in my blood, would it be impossible for me to make the change? I’m half-kitsune, half-human. I should be able to sidestep between my bodies easily.

I meet her gaze, then shut my eyes and push myself to transform. I can barely feel my humanity, like it’s at the edge of my fingertips. I dig my toes into the carpet and arch my back. My heart drums a frantic beat. Pain rips through my spine, and I gasp.

“Tavian!” Gwen’s voice is low, urgent. “Don’t force it.”

But I know I have to. I clench my jaw and claw my way out of my fox body, tearing my pelt away, shoving my fangs back where they belong. My skeleton grinds into a new shape. I groan and collapse on the floor. I wince when my raw skin rubs the carpet.

Skin. I’m human.

Gwen’s hand grips my shoulder. “Are you okay?”

I pry open my eyes. “Yes.”

It hurts to talk; it hurts to breathe. My ribs feel like they’re squeezing my heart. I roll onto my back and try to massage away the pain. Gwen kneels beside me, her face pale.

“I think it’s getting better,” I say, which is only partway a lie.

Sourness rises in my mouth, and I swallow repeatedly. My stomach didn’t seem to like the transformation. But then again, neither did the rest of my body. Wincing, I sit upright.

“What happened?” Gwen says. “Tell me what—”

I draw her into a tight embrace. She heaves a shuddering sigh and slides her hands over my back.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I tried to call you earlier and tell you where I was.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“My psycho kitsune mother smashed my phone and practically kept me hostage for my own safety.”

Gwen withdraws, her face scrunched. “Seriously?”

I mirror her expression. “Yukimi can be overprotective.”

“So you went to her.”

“Yes.” I keep my voice carefully even and unemotional. “I let her bring me to her hideout, and I tried to get as much information out of her as possible before I got away.”

“Did she tell you how to shapeshift without hurting yourself?”

I hesitate. “She gave me something for the pain.”

“Something.” Gwen thins her lips. “Are we talking aspirin?”

“No.”

“Okay. So this ‘something’ masks the pain you’ve been feeling?”

“Yes.”

“What if you’re hurting yourself without knowing?”

“That has occurred to me.” I climb to my feet and my knees click unsettlingly. “Let me get dressed.”

“Sure,” Gwen says. “Not that I mind seeing you naked.”

I roll my eyes at her. I’m rewarded with a sliver of a smile. She tosses me the clothes from her backpack and I start tugging them on. I’m still shaky, but I manage to hide it.

“Yukimi isn’t our problem right now,” I say. “Zenjiro is.”

“Zenjiro?” Gwen says. “Do you know what he wants from us?”

My jaw tight, I finish buttoning my shirt. “From me.”

“What do you—?”

Someone raps on the door and we freeze, staring at each other.

“May I come in?” Michiko says.

I blow out my breath and open the door a crack just in case she’s not alone. But there’s nobody but my grandmother. I let her in, and she keeps her gaze latched on me, as if I might disappear.

“You’re back,” Michiko says, her eyes glistening.

“I am.” I lock the door behind her and lean against it. “Obāsan, when did he get here?”

“Shortly before you arrived,” Michiko says quietly, in case he might overhear. “He said he wanted to discuss something with us, but he hasn’t yet arrived at the purpose of his visit.”

“I know why he’s here,” I say.

“Oh?” Gwen’s eyes glow. “Is that something else Yukimi told you?”

I breathe steadily to slow down my pulse. “Yes, actually. Zenjiro Matsuzawa is the father of Akira Matsuzawa.” I glance at Michiko to see if this registers on her face, but I can’t tell what her expression means. “My father.”

Gwen stares at me, unblinking. “Zenjiro is your grandfather?”

“My biological grandfather, yes.”

Michiko tugs a tissue from her cardigan and dabs her eyes. “It will not be easy for Tsuyoshi to learn this.”

I touch her on the shoulder. “Did you know?”

“It occurred to me. You look like family.”

My stomach flip-flops. “He isn’t family,” I say fiercely.

Michiko nods, but she won’t meet my gaze.

I grab the doorknob. “Let’s go out there. I have some questions to ask him.”

“Octavian.” Michiko catches my arm. “Be careful what you say.”

“I will.”

I march out into the hall and make my way to the dining room. Tsuyoshi and Zenjiro kneel opposite each other, the glow from the lamps throwing their faces into craggy relief. They sip their tea and say absolutely nothing, and yet their eyes say it all—they want to get down to business, even if etiquette says otherwise.

Michiko takes her place kneeling beside the teapot, her face a perfect mask of civility. “Please, sit.” She pours two cups of tea. “You, too, Gwen. The tea will warm you up.”

I kneel by Zenjiro, ignoring the soreness of my muscles.

“Tavian,” he says. “It wasn’t so long ago that we last met.”

“It wasn’t,” I say airily. “Though this time you seem to have come without your dogs.”

Zenjiro lifts his teacup to his lips and sips with relish. “You must understand that inugami are not always the most disciplined of men.” His gaze slides to the bandage on Michiko’s arm. “As much as we might wish otherwise.”

“Discipline is the duty of their master,” Tsuyoshi mutters.

Michiko’s mouth hardens and she shoots Tsuyoshi a look. A second later, she’s back to her calm face. “Would anyone like some refreshments to go along with their tea?”

I know she’s probably looking for an excuse to escape to the kitchen. “Yes, please,” I say. “Thank you.”

Michiko bows slightly and shuffles from the room.

I clear my throat. “They bit her. Were you aware of that?”

“My sincerest apologies.” Zenjiro hesitates. “Medical treatments can be so expensive these days.”

Gwen’s eyes glimmer golden, and I can tell she’s itching to talk.

“They can,” Tsuyoshi says.

Michiko returns with a plate of mochi, confections made of rice flour and sweet red bean paste. She offers them first to Zenjiro, who takes one delicately and thanks her politely.

Delicately and politely. It grates on my nerves.

“The cost of your injury will be compensated,” Zenjiro says.

Michiko’s eyebrows flick upward. “Thank you.”

She’s thanking him? Because he’s paying her medical bills after his filthy dogs bit her?

Michiko offers me the plate of mochi. When I take one, it crumbles beneath my fingers. I force myself to relax, and clean up the crumbs with a napkin. But I can’t take much more of this.

“It has been unseasonably cold,” Zenjiro says, “this year.”

“It has.” Tsuyoshi relaxes, like he’s on familiar territory. “I expect—”

“Why are you here?” I look Zenjiro in the eye. “My apologies, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to be.”

The yakuza boss sighs ever so slightly. “Americans.”

“I was born here,” I say. “In Hokkaido. But of course you knew that.”

Zenjiro pauses. “You were not born in Hokkaido.”

“Please, enlighten me,” I say.

“Octavian,” Michiko says, her voice quavering. “Perhaps we should not discuss such topics at the table.”

Zenjiro clears his throat. “Unfortunately, it appears we must.” He turns to me. “You were born on the thirtieth of October, in Ueno, Tokyo. At the temple in Ueno Park, in fact, with the help of the myobu. But your mother fled soon after on the train to Hokkaido, taking you with her. You won’t remember; you were only a baby.”

A shiver crawls down my spine. “How do you know this?”

“I did not know all of this until after the fact,” he says. “But at a later point, the myobu were quite forthcoming.”

“The myobu would help a… help you?”

Zenjiro nods. “They are generous with their aid.”

Generous. Most likely he wrote a check for the restoration of the temple, just like Tsuyoshi did.

“What else do you know?” I say.

Zenjiro shrugs. “Only that your mother vanished once she reached Hokkaido. Only that your father followed soon after and vanished there with her.” His eyes gleam like crow’s feathers.

I grip the edge of the table. “I know who my father is. Was.”

“Your father?” Tsuyoshi rumbles. “Your father is Kazuki Kimura.”

My throat tightens. “I know that. Dad is… my dad. But my biological father was Akira Matsuzawa. Yukimi told me.”

“Matsuzawa?” Tsuyoshi’s head snaps toward Zenjiro.

Zenjiro meets his eyes and nods slowly, a trace of a smile on his lips, as if he’s checkmated his opponent.