The Devil's Fox Read online

  THE

  DEVIL’S FOX

  GEORGE POLLINO

  Copyright © 2015 George Pollino

  THE DEVIL’S FOX

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means–electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise–without written permission from the author.

  Book Cover & Interior Design by Monkey C Media

  www.MonkeyCMedia.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBNs:

  978-0-9864151-0-4 The Devi’s Fox (Paperback)

  978-0-9864151-1-1 The Devil’s Fox (eBook)

  978-0-9864151-2-8 The Devil’s Fox (Audio Book)

  978-0-9864151-3-5 The Devil’s Fox (Hardcover)

  BISAC code: FIC009060 FICTION / Fantasy / Urban

  BIC code: FM Fantasy

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015900406

  I sold my soul to write this book,

  hope it was worth it.

  ONE

  Akane woke up on the floor of a public restroom. She stretched her legs and arched her back, squinting under the fluorescent lights that made her bright red fur look like a muddy ocher mess. The bathroom was clean and smelled like pine, but the stainless steel partitions and ceramic tile were nothing like her den, deep in the woods under a moss-covered log, where it was warm and safe and dry.

  A bathroom wasn’t the oddest place she’d ever been conjured, but it was close. What made it so strange was that no one was around waiting for her. She hated being summoned like this. It was like falling into an icy stream in the dead of winter, and she always woke up disoriented and irritated. Back in the day, only witches and warlocks had the audacity to summon her, and only then with good reason. But nowadays, every Tom, Dick and Harry wanted a piece. If it wasn’t some pockmarked emo girl craving attention, it was a handful of horny teenage boys reciting a litany of ridiculous demands.

  She shifted into her human form and stood naked in the center of the room, brushing a few strands of long black hair away from her face, her prominent Asian features washed out in the flickering light. She fingered a silver necklace that hung around her neck, then let it fall against her chest. Its single pearl pendant was iridescent, with blue and green streaks that swirled into little pools and reminded her of the ocean.

  Akane looked for the conjuring circle that was used to bring her here, but all she saw was a blank sheet of notebook paper lying on the floor by her feet. When she picked it up, she realized it wasn’t blank after all but completely written in braille. Usually these things were drawn on the floor, an unnecessary mess of chalk and candles and raven’s blood. But this circle was different; it was unlike anything she had ever seen.

  It was elegant.

  She’d never read anything in braille before, but it didn’t surprise her that she could; understanding languages was inherent to her nature. The paper said: This is a circle that looks like a snake. The circle is closed by the head of the snake biting its tail. Around the circle is a tree, a castle, a bird and a rabbit.

  She stepped outside the circle’s area of influence and nothing happened. Whoever made it hadn’t included a binding component, which meant she could leave whenever she wished. The thought crossed her mind that she should probably just go now, before anyone showed up. These things never seemed to work out anyway. Humans had no concept of value, at least not the true value of a thing. If they did, they would never consider putting their soul on the bargaining table in the first place.

  Akane looked through a narrow window above the sinks. Outside, snow drifted down like specters dancing in the dark. Sitting on the stone countertop between the sinks was a glass vase with orange marigolds in it and a note in braille that said: Whenever you’re ready. Underneath the note was a pair of jeans, a sweater, a scarf and a pair of boots. Akane didn’t share the same sense of propriety that humans had; it was one of the things that was missing in her. But the fact that someone had gone to all this trouble because they thought she would feel more comfortable was the only thing that kept her from turning around and leaving. No one had ever conjured her like this before, and she couldn’t help but wonder who they were and what they wanted.

  The muffled sounds of conversation and glasses clinking with alcohol and ice fluttered through the bathroom door like leaves on an autumn wind. She slipped the sweater over her head and pulled an errant twig from her hair. Whoever brought her here was playing a different kind of game than anything she was used to. They were being patient with her. They were giving her time to catch her breath, time to gather her senses. That was a very uncommon thing for humans to do, and it made her all the more curious.

  w

  Hanging in the corridor outside the restroom were several ornately framed paintings that shared a common theme—the fox hunt. All of them had brown-and-white spotted dogs, men in red riding jackets and horses jumping over fences. But the one thing in every painting that made Akane’s stomach churn was the portrayal of a single terrified fox.

  She stopped at the end of the corridor and looked around the corner without committing to going inside. A large fireplace at the far end of an English-style pub bathed the brick walls and beamed ceiling in a warm light. People meandered throughout the room holding glasses of beer or wine or whisky. Others sat around rough-hewn tables on mismatched wooden chairs, talking and laughing in small groups.

  Until they saw her.

  Then a hush fell over the room as everyone turned. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end, and her instincts screamed at her to run. Which she might have done had it not been for the curious man who sat all alone in the center of the room.

  He was pale, in his early thirties, with nut brown hair and a polo shirt that said Massachusetts Cancer Foundation. He wore dark glasses even though the sun had long since set and the lights in the pub were dim. His table was set for two, with an empty wine glass at each setting. A long white cane with a red tip leaned up against his chair, and the seat opposite him was pulled out like an invitation.

  This was the man who had summoned her.

  Akane walked into the pub, goose bumps prickling her arms despite the heat from the fire. She passed a large woman wearing a gaudy red blouse sitting next to an old man who smelled like prunes. A book titled Kitsune: Japan’s Shape-Shifting Fox Demon sat on their table. When the woman noticed Akane looking at the book, she slipped it under the table and into her bag. Akane walked across the room to where the man in the dark glasses sat, all the while thinking that when everyone knew more about her than she did, it might be time to think about quitting.

  Akane took notice of the steak knives on the table, the iron poker by the fireplace and the small hatchet in the wood basket, but she wasn’t worried. There was no binding component holding her here. She could vanish in an instant if she needed to, with nothing more than a thought.

  The man in the dark glasses stood up, his white cane moving side to side as he walked around the table to meet her. “Welcome to The Fox and Hound,” he said, extending his hand a little to the side of where she stood. “My name is Nikolai Vishinski.” Akane remained quiet and sniffed the air instead of taking his hand. One thing she missed when she was in her human form was the keen sense of smell she had as a fox.

  “Oh, you’re in Boston, by the way,” he said. “And just in case you’re wondering, it’s Friday night, about ten o’clock.” There was something peculiar about him, but she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. “Please,” he said in a cordial tone, “have a seat.” And he gestured to the chair that was waiting for her.

  A second blind man with a white cane, about the same age as Nikolai but considerably larger, came up behind him. He wore clerical clothing and a white priest’s collar that stood out in stark contrast against his black skin. For no particular reason other than the absurdity of the situation she found herself in, an old English nursery rhyme popped into her head.

  Three blind mice. Three blind mice.

  They all ran after the farmer’s wife,

  Who cut off their tails with a carving knife.

  Did you ever see such a sight in your life?

  “I’m begging you,” the priest said. He put his hand on Nikolai’s shoulder and squeezed it. “Please don’t do this.” Nikolai dismissed his concerns with a wave of his hand, but the priest continued, his voice growing louder. “It’s not too late to put an end to this and send this demon back to hell where she belongs.” He ground his teeth together, as if the words themselves tasted sour and were unpleasant to say. Everyone in the pub paid close attention to them. The priest’s dark hands balled up into fists at his sides. “There has to be another way to accomplish what you want,” he said, “without pissing your morals away and climbing into bed with the devil’s whore.” Someone in the pub gasped.

  This wasn’t the first time Akane had been associated with this “devil” figure. In fact, it was more common than not, and if it were possible for her to be offended by such an affiliation she would have been. But for all the times she’d heard about this personification of evil, this enemy of mankind, she had yet to see any proof that he existed outside the imaginations of those who conjured her.

  “Thomas, you need to relax,” Nikolai said. “Trust me, I know what I’m doing.”

  The priest spoke to Nikolai but looked directly at Akane, as much as it was possible for a blind man to do. “I don’t trust this ... thing,” he said, almost spitting out the words.

  The bartender brought
over a bottle of Casillero del Diablo, a Chilean cabernet that he had just uncorked. He placed an extra glass on the table, undoubtedly for the priest, who was now standing like a bodyguard between the two of them, brooding and stewing in his self-righteous disdain for her.

  “Pull up a chair and sit down,” Nikolai said. “You’re making everyone nervous.” The priest continued to grind his teeth but remained silent. He felt for a chair from the neighboring table, pulled it over and sat as close as he could to Nikolai and as far away as possible from Akane. “Well, now that you’ve met Father Thomas, let me introduce you to everyone else.”

  Nikolai identified everyone in the room in turn, and what they did for a living. As he called their names, some of them stood up, then sat back down, while others only nodded their heads. All of them regarded Akane with a mixture of fascination and apprehension.

  Everyone in the room was involved, in one way or another, with some branch of science or technology. A man standing in front of the fireplace was the special projects coordinator at Boston Museum of Science; another, wearing a tweed jacket, was the associate dean of sciences at Boston University. A woman with silver-gray hair turned out to be the professor of medical research at Harvard, and a man with a Panama hat was the technology research analyst for the Boston Herald. There was even an investigator from the Boston Paranormal Society with a name tag that said, Hello, my name is Mr. Smith, although no one talked to him, and he sat at a table all by himself.

  “And finally,” Nikolai said, gesturing at Akane, “our guest of honor.”

  “My name is Akane,” she said, and left it at that.

  Father Thomas crossed himself and mumbled a prayer under his breath.

  “You’ll have to forgive my friend,” Nikolai said. “Several years ago we had an unfortunate experience with one of your kind, and he hasn’t been able to let it go.”

  “Unfortunate?” Father Thomas said, raising his voice. “Is that what you call it?”

  Nikolai snapped at him; it was obvious they’d had this conversation before. “Stop being such a drama queen, Thomas. You know the girls love it when you show them your scars.”

  Akane interrupted them. “Why are all these people here?” Her voice was quiet but still maintained an edge of authority.

  “They’re here to witness one of the greatest discoveries in the history of mankind,” Nikolai said, and he spread out his arms, as if what he said encompassed the entire world.

  Akane shifted in her chair. She was a connoisseur of sorts, a collector. There was only one thing she collected, but it was one very specific thing. Akane collected souls that were overflowing with excess. She found them in men whose dreams were larger than life. And in women whose aspirations towered far above their ability to climb but they climbed on regardless. She knew such a soul when she found it. She could smell it on them like musk, and Nikolai reeked of it.

  “Are you the one who summoned me?” she asked, and he nodded. “Why?”

  Nikolai picked up the bottle of wine, and once again Akane got an odd feeling she couldn’t quite place. He gingerly held the bottle by the neck instead of the body, almost as if, for whatever reason, he didn’t want to touch the label. He took his time filling the glasses, putting his index finger inside each one so he’d know when they were half full.

  “For the past sixteen years,” he said, “I’ve been developing a device that will revolutionize medical science as we know it and will make the discovery of penicillin look like a grammar school project.” He took a sip of wine. “The problem is, the device requires an ungodly amount of power.” He laughed, more to himself than to anyone else. “In fact,” he said, “it’s never even been tested. That amount of energy just isn’t humanly possible.” He paused for a moment, then said quietly, “But it’s imperative that we try.” He placed his glass on the table and rubbed a spot on his chest, slightly below his heart. Father Thomas put his hand on Nikolai’s back in a sympathetic, almost tender way, and Akane crooked her head. “And that,” Nikolai said in a brighter tone, “is precisely where you come in.”

  All she needed to do now was listen. She’d been in situations like this a hundred times before and knew exactly what they all wanted—wealth, influence, long life or countless variations on a carnal theme. “If you wouldn’t mind,” he said, while Father Thomas continued to glower at her, “I’d like to ask you a personal question.”

  She waited.

  “Is that pearl pendant around your neck your hoshi no tama?”

  Akane touched her necklace protectively and took a sip of wine that tasted like berries and summer. “You’re right,” she said, “that is a very personal question.” And then quite suddenly she stood up to leave.

  “Good riddance,” Father Thomas said, and everyone in the pub erupted into speculative conversation. “Don’t let the door hit you on the ass on the way out.”

  “Please wait,” Nikolai said.

  But Akane didn’t care, she was halfway across the pub now. She was done with this intellectual circus and its two blind ringmasters. It was time to go back home, back to her den. Then she heard something that made her stop, something barely above a whisper.

  “I’m dying.”

  Nikolai put his head in his hands. He looked like someone who had just doubled down with every dollar he had, put it all on red when he should have bet on black. Akane returned to the table, the commotion in the pub ending as abruptly as it had begun.

  “Thank you,” Nikolai said. “When I said the amount of energy it would take to power my device wasn’t humanly possible, I wasn’t exaggerating.” The showboating in his voice was gone now; his words were intimate, like the two of them were the only ones in the room. Akane took her seat and crossed her arms. “That beautiful pearl pendant hanging around your neck has the power to transform a fox into a woman and back again. It also has the power to operate my device.”

  Akane laughed, surprised at how nervous it sounded. “Why would I bargain with something that I value with my life?”

  “Because if you do this for me,” Nikolai said, “if you give me this chance to make my mark on the world...” The bartender quit washing glasses, and the pub grew silent. The ice in the drinks stopped clinking, and the logs in the fireplace stopped crackling.

  “If you do this for me,” he said again, “I will freely give you my immortal soul.”

  TWO

  Japan, 1788.

  She rolled in the clover with the other foxes, the sun making the red fur on her belly glow. Now that the winter months were finally over, the days would be getting longer and the weather would be getting warmer. Soon the forest would turn green and the cherry blossoms would start to flower. Spring had finally come to Japan.

  She tried to do what the other foxes did, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t stop thinking that she was different from them. Just the fact that she thought she was different only reinforced the suspicion in her mind that she was different. She knew she had a mind; she could hear her own voice inside her head. She snapped at a butterfly with blue spots and understood that the spots were a color called blue and that the butterfly was a blue tiger butterfly. How did she know that? Did the other foxes know that too? She didn’t think so.

  She lived in a den, underneath a moss-covered log, that was buried deep in a wooded hill outside the city of Nagasaki. Unlike the other foxes, she knew she lived outside the city of Nagasaki, not by instinct or some location skill foxes have. She knew because she could read the signs on the side of the road. She knew the sun was in the sky during the day and the moon at night. She knew people wore hats on their heads and sandals on their feet. But she didn’t know why, and more than anything she wanted to know the answers to these things, to a thousand things, to everything.

  There was another quality that separated her from the other foxes. She had a pearl in her mouth. It was iridescent white, with blue and green streaks on the sides that swirled into little pools and reminded her of the ocean. The pearl was always there—she never swallowed it, and she never spit it out. And for some reason, one that she didn’t quite understand, she knew she didn’t want to. She had checked all the other foxes in her den, and she was the only one who had one.