A woman appeared around the corner of the house. She was small and slender, no more than twenty. She wore a kimono of yellow silk that shone in the sunlight, and her waist-length hair hung loose. Her flawless face came to a point at her chin. She stopped and gazed at them from under long black eyelashes. Her red lips pursed in surprise. She was so close, Iwata could smell her: a thick, heady scent of lavender.
“My lords?” she quavered.
Daigo quickly bowed and opened his mouth to reply, but Hiroshi cut him off with a growl. “Come off it. We’re not fooled.”
The woman smiled, her lips stretching just a little too wide. “How did you know?”
“No fisherman’s wife would wear silk. And a real peasant woman would have thrown rocks at us. We look like bandits, tramping around with swords on our hips.”
Iwata leaned against the wall. Why was Hiroshi having a conversation with this creature? He should be attacking it. Iwata remained where he was, lanced with pain, tense and silent. Revulsion at the beast’s audacity choked him, but he waited. Hiroshi must have some purpose.
“You do look disreputable. I fooled the young one, at least.” Her voice was changing, becoming hollow. “I didn’t expect to fool you, Hunter. And this one,” she turned to Iwata, and he saw her eyes were changing too, from brown to green. “He knew me before he saw me.”
Hiroshi’s fingers tightened on Iwata’s arm. “He was badly injured by the seven-tailed one.”
The woman’s face began to melt, the features curling together like bark on a piece of burning wood. Iwata slowly straightened up, gritting his teeth against the pain. Hiroshi, intent on the shifting fox, didn’t notice as he moved his aching arm, sliding his thumb between the hilt of his katana and the scabbard.
The woman shrank into the collar of her kimono, which fell to the ground in a puddle of silk. A fox wriggled out from beneath it, shaking its ears loose of the cloth. It was a little larger than a cat, its fur dusty orange, its green eyes framed in black. The two tails were tipped creamy white. The fox stepped free of the empty robe and sat on its haunches, tilting its little face up to Hiroshi.
I have news for you, Hunter. The creature’s mouth didn’t move, but the voice clearly came from its muzzle. It echoed slightly, as the seven-tailed fox’s voice had. But this voice wasn’t so deep, or so ancient.
Hiroshi released Iwata. “What news?”
Can these men be trusted?
Anger overwhelmed the pulsing pain. Iwata grabbed the hilt of his katana and slid it an inch out of its scabbard. His voice emerged in a snarl. “Stop playing with us, demon, or I’ll slice off your head and stick it on a pike.”
The fox reared up, its lips lifting, exposing black gums. Its eyes glittered. Is this how the Hunter treats those who wish to help? Did I hear false tales?
“What do you think you’re doing?” Hiroshi rounded on Iwata, his face flushed with rage. “Sheathe your sword!”
Iwata glared at the fox. He loosed his grip, and the sword slipped back into the sheath. But he rested his palm on the butt, ready.
Hiroshi bowed to the fox. “I apologize. He doesn’t understand my ways. It’s true that I hunt only the seven-tailed one, no other. You are safe here.”
The fox gazed suspiciously at Iwata. He glared back. Finally it pointed its muzzle back to Hiroshi. I don’t like the seven-tailed one any more than you do. She draws attention to us with her cruelty. Humans are too stupid to see the difference between our tricks and hers. She delights only in the deepest suffering.
The lines etched around Hiroshi’s eyes deepened. “I know.”
I think she plans to cross the sea, may already be crossing it.
“That’s impossible!”
Both Iwata and Hiroshi looked at Daigo. They’d forgotten him. The fox fixed him with its green gaze. Under their combined scrutiny, Daigo flushed red. “I’ve read everything I could about foxes since Mother died. They’re land spirits. They can’t cross salt water.”
That’s true for most foxes. But the seven-tailed one is old and powerful. She couldn’t swim in the sea, but….
Hiroshi waited, but when the fox didn’t continue he demanded, “What?”
“A boat.” Iwata growled. His head had begun to throb so badly that he wasn’t sure he’d even said anything until Hiroshi nodded thoughtfully.
“Yes.” He bowed to the fox. “Thank you. This information will be very useful.”
The fox rose. Its tails waved slightly. I hope you find her. As for that one—it glared haughtily at Iwata—teach him some manners.
Daigo bowed. Iwata managed to dip his shoulders. It seemed enough for the fox, which strode away with a dignified gait.
The tension slowly fled his body. Relief washed over him at the pain’s gradual decrease, and finally absence. He was ashamed of how grateful he was that it was gone.
Hiroshi laid a hand on his shoulder. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“Good.” Hiroshi dropped his hand. His voice had gone hard. “Next time we meet such a creature, keep your damned mouth shut.”
Iwata bristled. “It was playing with us.”
“That’s how they are! No fox ever says anything outright. I’ve made it known that I won’t harm any fox but one, and you threaten it! How will they trust me when you act like—”
“Like a soldier?”
“I haven’t been a soldier for the long time, Sho. I’ve been hunting this demon for years while you’ve followed in the prince’s wake.”
“I’m not the one bowing to the monsters that killed my family!”
They were both shouting now. Iwata found he was clenching his fists, his ragged fingernails biting into his palms. Hiroshi too was trembling with anger. Here was the man Iwata had traveled so far to find. He was close enough to kiss, and all Iwata wanted to do was hit him.
Another word and they might have come to blows, but Daigo dared to step in. “My lord, surely Uncle has learned much about foxes that most people wouldn’t know. And Uncle Hiroshi, how was the Lord General to know what you promised them?”
For a moment Iwata thought Hiroshi might still try to hit him, if only to relieve the relentless anger that had been simmering in him since Iwata had come. Iwata readied himself to strike back.
But suddenly Hiroshi relaxed. “Daigo’s right.”
“Yes.” Iwata wasn’t a man used to apologies. He tried to load that single word with all the regret he felt.
Daigo smiled nervously as if he were dealing with small children who might yet explode into tantrums. “Shall we make inquiries, then?”
Hiroshi strode past them, scowling. Iwata clenched his jaw and followed. The pain the fox had brought forth had gone, but his muscles still twitched at the memory of it.
Daigo fell into step beside him. “My lord, if I could suggest… it might be best if Uncle and I talk to the villagers.”
IT WAS warmer on the beach than it had been in the forest. The stretch of sand reflected the sun’s heat, making it feel almost like spring. Iwata felt a patch of damp between his shoulders, beneath his pack. He shifted its weight and looked out toward the sea, which was dark blue, spotted with breakers of white foam that vanished and were reborn. The dark shapes of fishing boats dotted the water farther out. Figures moved on them, and Iwata heard faint shouts above the hiss and purr of the waves.
Hiroshi and Daigo were talking to a group of women who’d been mending nets on the shoreline. Iwata had hung back when they approached. Daigo was young and friendly, and Hiroshi had always been able to talk to anyone. Iwata knew he’d frighten the women. He’d never been able to easily talk to anyone who wasn’t a soldier. He knew very little of the world outside the army.
The women worked as they talked, glancing up at Daigo and Hiroshi with sweat-slick faces. An old woman reached out and patted Daigo’s arm, saying something that made the other women erupt with laughter. Then Hiroshi spoke, and the collective gaze of the group turned to him. Women had always taken to him
, and even with a beard and his hair shorn, that hadn’t changed.
Something nudged his leg. Iwata looked down at a scruffy white dog, covered in long fur like pale seaweed. Its pink tongue lolled over its teeth, and its tail waved hopefully. Iwata stared at it. What did it want?
“Don’t waste time on him, dog. He doesn’t like animals.”
Hiroshi had broken away from the group and come over to him. Iwata saw Daigo bow to the women. He hurried back to them as the net weavers began chattering among themselves, no doubt enlivened by the rare appearance of strangers. Hiroshi slid his pack off one arm and began to rummage inside.
Daigo halted when he saw the dog, his lips pressing tight. The dog ignored him, its muzzle still turned up to Iwata. “Where did that dog come from?”
Iwata glowered at the animal. “It just appeared.”
“How do we….” Daigo’s wide face flushed pink. “They’re shape changers. And that fox is white, you said, and this dog—”
“If it was a disguised fox”—Hiroshi pulled a strip of dried fish from his bag—“Lord General Iwata would be in agony right now.”
“Oh!” Daigo shook his head. “Of course. You must think I’m stupid.”
“I think you’re eager to find your mother’s murderer. Calm yourself, and you’ll notice more.” Hiroshi offered the meat to the little dog, which snapped it from his hand and began to eat, strings of drool oozing from between its teeth.
“At least the wretched creature can’t hide from us.” Iwata wiped sweat from his neck. “I’ll know as soon as it comes near. What did the women say?”
Daigo sighed. “We didn’t learn much, my lord. If the fox even came through here, it was very restrained. They said a couple of houses lost chickens, but lots of animals steal chickens. Maybe even this little one here.” Daigo crouched and scratched the white dog’s ears. It wagged its tail, but its eyes remained fixed on Iwata.
“Another one told me that a small merchant ship put in here yesterday. They took on fresh water, bought a few supplies, and left at dawn this morning.” Hiroshi stared at the silver-flecked sea.
Iwata read his thoughts. “Are they going to an island?”
“Kakuo. About a day’s sail from here, very isolated. The merchant ship visits twice a year. It’s their only source of outside goods. The fishermen won’t be back until dark, and the women say none of them would dare go out on the water at night. But one said her husband will take us in the morning.”
“For a price.”
“Of course.”
“I also have some money,” Daigo added. “Maybe they’d take us tonight, for a higher price.”
Hiroshi shook his head. “It’s not the water they fear. There are things in the water that only surface at night.”
“But the fox will be a whole day ahead of us!”
“I know you’re impatient, nephew. But it’s going to an island. There will be no place for it to run.”
Daigo flushed. “Of course, Uncle. You’re right.”
The white dog yipped once, its voice surprisingly deep for such a small animal. Iwata sighed. “We have to find a campsite, since we’re staying.”
“Mistress Kurachi has offered us her barn loft for the night.” Daigo brightened. “And Mistress Tenzen wants to host us for dinner.”
Hiroshi scratched his beard. “Along with the rest of the town. These rural villages don’t have visitors very often. They’ll all come to get a look at us.”
He spoke with weary certainty. Iwata suspected he’d been subjected to the same ritual many times in the past years.
They trekked over the sand, back to the village. The dog trotted after, snuffling as its short legs pumped.
“Go away!” Iwata snapped at it. The dog’s tail wagged in response.
IT WAS the Hour of the Owl, three hours after sunset, when Iwata left Mistress Kurachi’s house. He’d said farewell to no one—not red-faced, talkative Mistress Kurachi or her equally red-faced husband, not to Daigo, deep in conversation with some of the younger fishermen, who were fascinated with his imperial lineage. And not to Hiroshi. He’d felt the Fox Hunter’s gaze following him as he backed toward the door and slipped outside. His former lover had watched him all evening.
Iwata had watched Hiroshi too, and how he behaved with these strangers. Before the fox killed Lady Kumomo, he’d been quick to smile, strict with soldiers and servants when they’d needed it, but always approachable. The men respected and feared Iwata, but they’d respected and liked Hiroshi.
The younger man’s manners were as impeccable as ever, but his smile was no longer quick, and his friendliness was now tempered by silence. If Iwata was only meeting him now, he’d guess that Hiroshi was carrying a heavy burden of some kind.
Which, of course, he was. Lady Kumomo had been his only family. She’d raised him after their mother died.
Iwata shook off his thoughts and looked around. His feet had turned unconsciously toward the beach. It made more sense to go back to Mistress Kurachi’s barn and sleep—first light would come soon—but something stronger compelled him to the shore. He’d been born in a seaside village, but he hadn’t seen the ocean since he was fifteen. He might as well look at it now, in the quiet moonlight, before they resumed the chase.
The beach was deserted now, the fishing boats overturned on the sand like beached sea creatures. The moon was halved, the shadow rabbit’s features nearly lost to darkness. The foam on the wave crests was dimly visible as the sea touched the land and rolled swiftly away again. The waves hissed and purred, in and out. The sound of the sea was soothing. Iwata had forgotten how calming it was. He stood, his arms crossed over his chest, and let the sound of it wash over him.
Just as the confusion and anger of the past days began to fade, a short bark sounded behind him. Iwata turned as the anger rushed back, lifting his foot to kick the stupid beast, but he froze before he could do it. Either the dog had followed Hiroshi to him, or it had led him here.
“Sho.” Hiroshi’s sandals crunched the sand. “I have to talk to you.”
“About what?” Iwata’s crossed arms tightened. The white dog padded over and sat on Iwata’s foot, its body warm on his skin. He ignored it.
Hiroshi gazed past him, at the water. “I’ve never seen the sea before. It looks endless.”
“That’s what you wanted to tell me?”
“No.” The younger man’s shoulders rose and fell in a sigh. “Sho, don’t go to the island. Turn around.”
Iwata’s jaw clenched so hard, his neck hurt. “Go back where?”
“To the palace. To the army. It’s the only place you belong. The prince’s son would be delighted to have you as his general.”
“I resigned from the military.” The white dog yawned and started to lie down. Iwata nudged it away with his foot.
“The fox will make you crumple in agony when you come within ten feet of it. I saw what happened when you got near a small one, a cub. I can’t watch…” Hiroshi broke off abruptly. When he continued, his voice was gruff. “You won’t be any use like that. How can you fight when you can barely stand?”
“I’ll find a way,” Iwata snapped. “I battled it before with my leg stitched up.”
“And you almost died. Go back, Sho.”
“No.”
“Even if it kills you?” Hiroshi’s hand rose to his temple as if his head ached. He turned to go, his shoulders bowed in a way that told Iwata he’d never really expected his argument to work.
Damn him—what was wrong with Hiroshi? Iwata had come to find him, to help him. Yet Hiroshi acted as if he couldn’t bear the sight of him. Why was he so angry? Fury seized him. He spun around and grabbed Hiroshi’s wrist. Hiroshi tensed; his fingers curled into a fist. Iwata gave a yank that threw him off balance for an instant. Hiroshi would regain his feet as quick as a cat. Iwata pulled the younger man to him. He gripped Hiroshi’s arms. They were of a height; their noses nearly touched. Hiroshi’s eyes, black in the night, looked directly at Iwata for th
e first time since they’d met again. His breath brushed Iwata’s skin. He’d held Hiroshi this close a hundred times in the six months they’d been lovers, but now his nerves hummed with anxiety. He wanted to move slowly, carefully, as if he was coaxing a new horse to eat out of his hand. But at this moment, his patience failed him. He leaned forward and kissed Hiroshi.
Iwata had expected to find Hiroshi’s fist buried in his gut, but instead his former lover’s lips parted. Iwata felt Hiroshi relax, and his hands moved to Iwata’s hips. He pressed his body against Iwata’s, its planes and angles familiar even under the strange clothes. Hiroshi’s acceptance drove Iwata’s hunger into madness. He yanked at Hiroshi’s sash, desperate to feel the other man’s skin beneath his fingers. Hiroshi’s mouth crushed Iwata’s eagerly, and his fingertips dug into Iwata’s skin.
At last Iwata managed to loosen Hiroshi’s sash. Without breaking the kiss, he slid his hand inside Hiroshi’s kimono.
Suddenly Hiroshi jerked away, arching back from the touch as if burned. The hands that had gripped Iwata so tightly now pushed him away. Night air rushed in to fill the space where Hiroshi’s warmth had been. Iwata shivered. He stood frozen, his hands still half-raised. Hiroshi’s scent, sweat and steel, still clung to him.
“Hiro?” he said, not caring that his voice quavered uncertainly.
Hiroshi was already turning away. His hair fell forward, shielding his face. Iwata thought Hiroshi sucked in a sharp, sobbing breath, but it was difficult to be certain over the hiss of the waves. Without answering, Hiroshi strode away. Iwata watched him until he disappeared behind a stand of spiky sea grass. Then he turned back to the water. It rolled in and out, oblivious to Iwata’s bewilderment, his anger, his frustrated longing. The night had grown very cold. Iwata resisted the urge to wrap his arms around himself… but there was no one to see, except the white dog, which sat a little distance away. Weariness washed over him, driving away all the rest. He sank to the sand, hugging his knees to his chest. He rested his chin on his knees and closed his eyes.
Late Summer, Early Spring Page 10
