Chapter 19

It’s easy to straighten my spine and let bravado steel my veins. But in reality, guilt crawls like a maggot through me, because I know that what I’m doing is stupidly dangerous. If I want to keep those I love safe, I should leave Japan and go home. But then I might as well give up—because then I would be dead.

Maybe I could live like a human. Pretend like I was never half-kitsune to begin with, and crumple my magic into a tight ball so it sits inside me, rotting away, until I’m okay.

Is it selfish to want to save yourself?

I’m alone in my train car as I take the metro from Akasaka to Shibuya. From there, I can walk to Kabukicho. I keep staring at my reflection in the windows with gritty eyes, waiting for the noppera-bō, but he never comes.

The metro glides to a halt, brakes whining, and a homeless man climbs on. He stinks of sour milk and sickness, his coat patched with duct tape. He holds out his hands to me, begging, but I shake my head. I don’t have any change. If it weren’t so cold out, I’d crack open the top window to breathe.

At the next stop, two women in neon clothes and three-inch heels clamber on. They stagger as the metro accelerates, then fall into the seat beside me, kicking up their feet and giggling far too loud. They stink like liquor and cigarettes. I scoot away from them, my eyes fixed on the window.

“Why are you out so late?” the woman in pink coos.

I pretend not to understand. But then what would a tourist be doing out at midnight? Well, visiting the red-light district, obviously. These women probably work in the water trade. Do they work for the yakuza? Have they seen the Sisters?

“Cute boy!” The woman in pink snaps flamingo-colored nails in my face. “Don’t be rude.”

This sends the woman in green into hysterics of laughter.

I look at them blankly. In slow, loud, English, I say, “Sorry, I don’t speak Japanese.”

“I speak English!” chirps the woman wearing green.

I grit my teeth and try to ignore them. I should have brought my MP3 player and some headphones. Of course, I might as well tape a sign to my forehead saying, “Mug me!”

“Hello,” she says, in halting English. “My name is Kiko.”

The woman in pink hoots and cuffs her on the shoulder.

“Would you like some fun?” Kiko manages to strike a sexy pose while slumped against her seat.

“No, no, no!” Her friend lurches to her feet, grabs a pole, and starts pole-dancing. “Like this!”

Kiko collapses, giggling, her hand over her mouth.

My face burns. I feel bad for them, making fools of themselves while the homeless man watches with a look in his eyes that’s even filthier than his sour-milk smell.

The metro slows. “The next station is Shibuya.”

I jump to my feet.

Kiko hauls herself upright. “Hurry, Candy! Stop dancing!”

The woman in pink—Candy—spins around the pole and leaps outside the train, amazingly nimble in her heels. I wince, imagining her falling onto the electrified tracks instead.

Not making eye contact with them, I stride down the street.

“We made it!” I hear Kiko say breathlessly. “I’m so hungry.”

“You’re always hungry,” Candy says.

Great. They’re following me.

I quicken my pace until I’m almost jogging. I slip my guidebook out of my pack to double-check the map. Yes, I should be heading toward Kabukicho. Though I could just follow Kiko and Candy, come to think of it.

Once beyond the businesslike skyscrapers of Shibuya, I spot a lightbulb-adorned arch gaudy enough for Las Vegas. Glowing billboards and marquees compete for space on the buildings crowding the narrow street, like a snapshot of a Tetris game. A steady stream of traffic passes under the arch, more people going in than out. Midnight must be prime-time for Kabukicho.

A hand grabs me by the shoulder.

I whirl around, my teeth bared. “Let go of me!”

It’s Kiko.

Her eyes widen. “You do speak Japanese.”

I let my teeth sharpen into fangs, then twist away from her touch. “I’m not interested.”

Candy trips closer to us. “You’re—you’re a kitsune!”

“Like Yukimi,” Kiko says.

I freeze. “Yukimi? You know her?”

Suddenly, Kiko and Candy aren’t laughing anymore. They share an uneasy glance. Kiko clutches Candy’s arm and mutters something in her ear. The two of them walk quickly toward the arch to Kabukicho, glancing backward at me.

“Wait!” I jog after them. “I’m looking for Yukimi.”

Candy whirls at me, her long earrings tangling in her hair. “You won’t find her.” She half-snarls the words.

“I’m her son. I’m here to meet her.”

Kiko laughs. “She doesn’t have a son.”

“What do you know about her?” I say.

Candy grabs Kiko’s arm. “We’re drunk, not stupid. Go find some other women to screw around with.”

The two of them march away, their heels clicking in time.

I follow them through the arch to Kabukicho. They glance back at me, then put on a spurt of speed, dodge down a side street, and disappear into the crowd.

Two women in the water trade know about Yukimi, but they won’t tell me anything. Were they protecting her? Did they think I was a spy sent by the inugami?

People eddy around me as I stand in the middle of the street. A motorbike honks at me, and I jump onto the sidewalk. I glance at my watch: 12:39 a.m. I walk back toward the glowing arch. I brush elbows with red-faced drunks, women wearing too much makeup and too little clothes, and men with expensive suits and trendy chestnut hair flirting with anything that moves.

I let the fox out a little, to sharpen my nose.

Perfume barely masking old sweat… urine-soaked snow… cigarette smoke on the wind… alcohol on the breath. The stench makes me want to retch. Over it all, there’s a greasy, starchy smell, kind of like carnival food. Stir-fried noodles.

Yakisoba.

My heartbeat thudding, I zigzag through the crowd. A yakisoba stand, both brightly lit and dingy, stands near a street-corner FamilyMart convenience store—ironic, considering why I’m here. Inside the stand, a sweaty-faced woman tosses noodles, broccoli, and beef in a wok, then dumps the finished product onto paper plates. Nearby, there’s an empty stool.

I hesitate. Am I supposed to sit? But that means I have to buy some of that questionable yakisoba, and besides, I don’t have any cash on me. I don’t see Yukimi anywhere. I grit my teeth and walk up to the yakisoba stand.

The woman tugs her hairnet straight. “Ready to order?”

I shake my head. “I’m waiting for my mother.”

“Your mother?” She squints at me. “Aren’t you too young to be out here so late?”

“I’m seventeen.”

I don’t know why I’m telling her this. Maybe it’s because she has this sort of all-purpose, industrial-strength motherly aura around her. There’s real worry in her eyes.

“You hungry?” says the yakisoba woman. “You look skinny.”

I shrug but take a seat on the stool.

“Eat.” The yakisoba woman pushes a paper plate toward me.

“I don’t have any money,” I say. “Sorry.”

I’m taking up space where a real customer would sit. I should at least eat what’s on the plate. But that yakisoba looks greasy and suspicious—even though the woman is nice—

“We have to go.” A voice in my ear.

I almost fall off my stool. She’s standing right next to me, in sunglasses and a leather coat, her hair twisted back.

“Yukimi!”

The yakisoba woman watches us, squinting.

“I have a motorcycle.” Yukimi grabs my wrist, her hand hot. “We can outrun them.”

“Who?”

Her lip curls. “The inugami.”