Chapter 5

The fox inside me leaps to the forefront, snarling, and I barely manage to stay human. I jump away from the noppera-bō, outside of its range. It reaches for me, its hand like Gwen’s but maggot-white. I stare at it for a full second, then run. Adrenaline electrifies my muscles as I sprint though Yoyogi Park.

I hurtle though the bushes, clenching my jaw to keep myself from transforming. That would not be a good idea, in broad daylight in the middle of Tokyo.

Behind me, I hear Gwen’s voice. “Wait! Come back!”

And find out whether it’s really her or the noppera-bō? Unlikely.

I hightail it out of the park and dive into the heart of the shopping district, where there are more people and, hopefully, safe places to hide. I hit the sidewalk running and zigzag through girls carrying shopping bags, trying to avoid a collision. Tokyo is such a maze of medieval streets, like a rabbit warren, that it’s hard to make any headway. I see some white-gloved policemen chatting on the sidewalk and I slow to a brisk walk, not wanting to look like I’m running from the law.

I could tell them I’m being stalked by a noppera-bō, but I doubt that would help.

Breath ragged, I wait at a crosswalk. A thought creeps into my mind. If the Gwen who came out of the restroom was the noppera-bō, what happened to the real Gwen? Ice solidifies in my stomach. How long have I been talking to a ghost?

Sunlight angles onto the storefront next to me so that the windows reflect the street. I can’t see anything but the rush of the crowd. At my feet, the morning’s rain puddles on the sidewalk, shivering slightly in the breeze. It stills, and I see myself.

The noppera-bō settles beside me in the puddle, silently, like a white petal falling.

Forget the crosswalk.

I dart down a side street, panting. There’s a dead end straight ahead, so I take a left, then a right. If I twist and turn enough, maybe I’ll lose the ghost. Can you actually lose ghosts? I mean, they aren’t exactly physical. A crazy laugh swells inside me, but I don’t have enough air for it; I have to keep breathing and running—damn it, my lungs are burning.

Gasping, I stumble to a halt and lean with my hands on my knees. My legs tremble when I take a step forward and my kneecaps feel wobbly. Adrenaline pulses through my bloodstream.

Where am I?

This definitely isn’t Harajuku anymore. Everything is cracked, crumbling, graying. Trees with yellowed leaves strain for what little sun slips between the crowded buildings. There’s a distinct stink of stale urine in the air. I spot a tiny newsstand wedged between an abandoned apartment building and what can only be a sex shop. Maybe I can buy a map and find my way back out.

The newsstand is nothing more than a metal box stacked high with neat bundles of newspapers and magazines. Fluorescent light shines on the bald head of a man who looks like he hasn’t smiled in years. He squints at me as I approach.

“Excuse me,” I say. “Do you—”

“No English,” he says, with a thick accent.

Why can’t I remember any Japanese? I stand there like a moron, words flapping around my mind like scared chickens. Wait, don’t I have a cellphone with me? I can call Gwen and—shit, dead battery. Maybe I left my charger in my backpack—

The stench of wet fur drifts on the breeze.

Dog.

Every muscle in my body tenses, and I drop into a crouch. I try not to bare my teeth. I loathe dogs, like all kitsune, primarily because dogs love running down foxes and ripping them into shreds of bloody fur. Where’s that smell coming from?

I sidestep away from the newsstand and sniff the air.

Nothing.

I rise from my crouch, sweating, not ready to laugh it off. Maybe somebody has a little breed in one of the apartment buildings, maybe a shiba inu. I should really be worrying about the noppera-bō, though I don’t see anything reflective here…

A bark.

A deep bark, from a big dog.

“Oh, shit,” I whisper.

Three men slink from the shadows, all of them wearing battered leather jackets and ripped T-shirts. They reek of dog, a powerful animal smell that fills my nose and makes me retch. The bleached-blond guy takes off his jacket, revealing tattooed arms—the mark of a yakuza, Japanese mafia. The tallest man bares yellowed canines, and the third begins to pant, his black-spotted tongue lolling.

Then I get it.

Their clothes aren’t ripped by choice, but because they’re shapeshifters who have to fight to stay human. And I don’t need Gwen’s textbook to know what kind.

Inugami.

Dog-spirits. Even more disgusting—and deadly—than dogs.

“This isn’t your territory, fox,” the tallest one says in Japanese, his voice chain-smoker gravelly.

Japanese returns to its rightful place in my brain, and I say, “I know.”

The bleached-blond guy laughs, more of a woof, and it makes me flinch. All three of them bare their teeth in grins. When the man with the black-spotted tongue turns his head, the skin under his chin jiggles, loose like the folds on a wrinkly dog’s neck.

I glance at the newspaper man, but he’s gone. Not a good sign.

The tallest man advances on me. “Don’t you know who I am?”

I shake my head, hard. I try not to stare at his face or the string of drool dripping from his mouth. His breath smells like rotten meat. Would he kill me slower if I suggested a dentist?

“My name is Katashi. You’re on Kuro Inu land.”

Kuro Inu, Black Dog. Clever. Must be the name of his gang.

For some reason, when I get scared, I get extra sarcastic. “I’m sorry,” I say, “I got lost. I’m an American tourist, okay? That means I’m stupid. I wasn’t trying to trespass.”

A growl rumbles from Katashi’s throat. “You’re a nogitsune.”

I don’t know how he can tell, or why this matters. “So?”

“You smell like her.” Katashi drives me against the wall. “Like Yukimi.”

My bones bend under my skin, on the brink of changing into a fox’s skeleton. “Who’s Yukimi?”

A corner of Katashi’s mouth twists. “An excellent reason to kill you.”

Behind him, the bleached-blond guy ditches his clothes in favor of a pale-yellow pelt. His face darkens into a black mask. The man with the black-spotted tongue looks like a hunchback. His spine pops as he falls to all fours, his body twisting into that of a gray mastiff.

“Run, little fox, run,” Katashi singsongs.

Katashi casually slings off his jacket, unbuttons his shirt, and peels off his tight jeans. His entire body is tattooed with an image of a dog feasting on a gutted rabbit. The rabbit’s blood spirals over his shoulders and arms, twisting into snakes down his legs.

Katashi shuts his eyes, then shapeshifts into a huge black dog.

I try to dredge up some kitsune magic, but I can only think of stupid illusions—a golden apple, a kite that flies itself—and each of those requires an object of some sort. But I can improvise. I spot a length of broken wood on the ground and grab it, willing it to look like a blade. It flashes along its length, and the sight of steel drives them back a step.

Pain blooms in my chest, sharp and fierce.

My heartbeat stutters. I gasp, my vision blacking, and the blade clatters on the ground, broken wood again. The pain throbs, fading, and I grimace, doubled over, one hand pressed above my ribs. It’s worse than I’ve felt in a long time.

The yellow dog, the gray mastiff, and the black dog slink closer to me, their teeth bared, their fur spiking along their spines. My instincts are screaming at me to change into a fox and run, but my heart is going so fast it’s skipping beats—and I don’t want to find out what might happen if I push it. I back against the wall, my palms flat against the concrete, the world suddenly sharp with clarity.

This is all too real. I could die.

With a bellowing bark, the black dog—Katashi—lunges for me. I twist out of the way; his jaws click shut where my hand was a minute before. He growls, and barks again.

He’s trying to scare me into running, so he can chase me down.

Like hell I’m going to run. I—

A hawk screams overhead. Everyone looks up.

A stone-gray streak dives from the sky. The hawk’s wings snap open, slowing its plummet, and its talons slash ragged red grooves in Katashi’s head. Katashi yelps and leaps, trying to bite the hawk, but the bird of prey pumps its wings hard, gaining altitude. The yellow dog scrabbles after it, his teeth inches from its feathers.

“Watch out!” I shout.

The hawk flares its tail, feathers spreading like a fan, and lands on the pavement. Doesn’t it know that’s suicide? The yellow dog crouches, the muscles in its hindquarters bunching.

The hawk’s body shimmers like a heat wave, then shifts. Feathers to hair, talons to hooves. A black horse spins to face the dogs, tossing its wild mane, its eyes glowing golden.

Gwen.