Foxfire (An Other Novel) Read Online Free PDF

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,