The Red Thread of Forever Love

Chapter One

It was happening again. Hank could feel the hot breath on the back of his neck and faint weight of a spectral body pressing down on his own. In spite of Hank’s efforts to elude him, the spirit had followed him from Tokyo. Why had he thought that it wouldn’t find him in a shinkansen sleeping car? He hadn’t thought any self-respecting ancient spirit would be riding Japan’s rails, but then again, two weeks ago he hadn’t believed yokai really existed at all.

“Suki desu, Hanku-sensei.” The yokai’s voice was deep and breathy and though masculine, filled with a creepy, almost childish yearning. “Suki desu yo!”

I love you.

The yokai sure had a funny way of showing it.

“I don’t love you,” Hank whispered. His Japanese wasn’t great, but he could hold his own in everyday conversations. “Go away.”

“I only want to be close to you.” The yokai’s long fingers tugged at the blankets. Hank held on firmly. He knew from previous experience that this particular spirit, whom he’d nicknamed “Fingers,” wouldn’t cause him bodily harm, but it got way too personal. “Can I look at your underpants? Are they Calvin Klein like before? I like your Calvin Kleins. Did you get them in Vancouver?”

“I told you, go away. My shorts are none of your business.”

“Do you work out?” Through the darkness Hank could now see the yokai shape floating above him. He wore the same dark suit as he had the previous times Hank had seen him, the same thick aviator glasses. His hands were much longer than normal, and his fingers wriggled like worms.

“As soon as we get to Aomori City, I’m going to find an exorcist and get rid of you.”

The yokai’s mouth turned down in a quivering frown. “But tomorrow is Christmas Eve. I want to give you a present.”

In the bunk above Hank’s, Daisuke Tachibana, the translator his publishing company had assigned to him, shifted.

He hadn’t told Tachibana about his new yokai buddy. He didn’t think any modern Japanese would take him seriously. It was one thing to research indigenous Japanese spirits as folklore, quite another to claim to have met one personally. He might as well claim to have met the Tooth Fairy or any of Santa’s eight reindeer. And somehow Hank found the fact that he’d attracted Fingers embarrassing. If he was going to be attacked by a supernatural force, he wanted it to be one of pure evil, not some creepy pervert with an underwear obsession. The yokai also had a very long tongue, and leaning forward, lips parted, he seemed just on the verge of using it.

Hank lurched sideways, but too late. The tongue slapped against the side of his neck and slid like a hot washcloth up the side of his cheek. Long fingers fumbled at the elastic band of his pajamas. Hank grabbed them. Fingers let out a giggle.

“You want to hold hands? There’s a red thread from my pinkie to yours.”

Glancing down Hank saw that this was hideously true. A red line like a laser shone around his own finger. It wound and looped around like a tangled string until it found the yokai’s pale, too-long digit.

“We’re fated to be together.”

Dear God, no! This was going too far. Damn what Tachibana thought—he was going to come clean.

“Tachibana!” Hank’s voice came out in a harsh whisper. He kicked the bunk above him.

Tachibana gave a snort. “What is it, Mr. Caldwell?” His voice emerged as a sleepy grumble.

Fingers frowned like an angry baby ready to let out a wail; then, like mist it dissipated.

Tachibana’s head popped down from the upper bunk. His dark, shiny hair tousled, pillow marks still creasing his cheek. He was cute, in the kind of harassed, nerdy way that all junior salarymen seemed to be. “Mr. Caldwell?”

All at once, Hank lost his nerve. “You were snoring.”

“Gomen nasai.” Tachibana rolled out of sight, the mattress springs creaking as he resettled himself.

“No worries.” Hank pulled the covers up tight around his neck, peering through the darkness, scanning the tight confines of the car for any sign of Fingers.

Hank Caldwell would never have described himself as a blushing flower of a man. On the contrary, he was a relatively young (thirty-five) relatively fit (worked out at least fifty-two times per year) and relatively intelligent (working on a PhD in folklore at the University of British Columbia in Vancouver).

Compared to the Japanese, Hank seemed especially coarse. He had hairy forearms and the slight swagger that anyone raised in Alberta acquires by osmosis and that years of living away from his native Calgary had failed to diminish. He also had a cowboy hat that he had purchased at the Calgary Stampede that caused virtually everyone he met to assume he was an American. He wore the hat with dogged persistence in spite of, or perhaps because of, the fact that it forced him to explain his nationality at regular intervals.

Not that he had anything against Americans. He just didn’t want to be mistaken for one. That’s was all.

The hat also served as a kind of disguise since few people associated cowboy hats with homosexuality—even after Brokeback Mountain. Back home in Canada, the hat conferred a machismo that, as an academic, he might otherwise lack. In Japan the hat served mostly as an icebreaker and conversation starter. The office ladies at his publisher liked to try it on and pose coquettishly for him, unaware that they—to paraphrase the saying—barked up the wrong tree.

Now the hat gently levitated approximately six inches above his folded coat.

In the bunk above, Tachibana coughed.

The hat dropped back down to rest atop the shearling.

Hank watched his hat for a long time, but it didn’t move again, and at last he succumbed to sleep.

#

Tachibana lay in the darkness staring at the ceiling only inches from his face. The gentle rocking of the train car did not soothe him. He knew from the sweat beading Mr. Caldwell’s pale, freckled forehead that the yokai had gotten loose again.

If only Mr. Caldwell hadn’t been a redhead. The yokai had a fascination for the exotic.

Mr. Caldwell was not the first person who had caught the yokai’s attention. Three years before at a company retreat to the hot-springs resorts near Nakakawane, the creature had first appeared, lavishing his affection on Mr. Sato from accounting, cornering the poor man in a toilet stall in order to admire the symmetry of his testicles. Tachibana had discovered Mr. Sato there, curled up into the fetal position, his handsome face distorted by disgust and fear.

“Why the hell do we have to come to the only hot springs with a gay toilet yokai?” he’d wailed. “I hate homos. They’re filth. They should all hurry up and die.”

Up until that point, Tachibana had had a crush on Mr. Sato. Not that he would have ever said so, but at hearing those words, all fondness for the fit accountant evaporated.

The story of the gay yokai had become legendary at the hot springs, even attracting the attention of a local television crew bent on recording the supernatural phenomenon. The resort considered hiring a spiritualist to cleanse the place for the safety of their male customers, but it proved unnecessary. The creature didn’t appear again.

The second time the yokai appeared was at the beach.

Sleepless and lonely, Tachibana had gone down at daybreak to watch the sun rise. Two young surfers had been there, taking advantage of the empty sand and waves. They had been stunning in their wetsuits. Tachibana had been watching them, imagining they were lovers. The way they talked to each other, smiled at each other seemed so beautiful that he had been filled with a yearning to join them. Suddenly, the yokai had come loping down the beach like an excited dog.

“I like you!” he’d roared, tie flapping behind him. “Please have sex with me!”

The surfers had scattered like a couple of chickens before him, abandoning their boards and gear and pelting up the beach toward the concrete pylons where Tachibana sat.

“Look out!” one of them had bellowed. “There’s a crazy homo behind us.”

When Tachibana had looked back, the yokai had vanished.

The third time it happened, Tachibana finally knew that the yokai had been created by him.

He had been at his sister’s wedding reception six months prior, sitting at a table next to his grandmother, watching his sister and her new husband pose for pictures, cut cake, and drink toasts. He’d felt utterly miserable but kept up the appearance of benign happiness, intermittently clapping when the occasion required and making small talk with Grandmother.

His grandmother was four feet nine inches tall and as far as Tachibana could tell had survived on nothing but barley tea and bean jam for the last five years.

“Daisuke.” She beckoned him close

Tachibana stooped to hear her. “What is it?”

“You see that man your sister’s husband’s mother is talking to? Yuki Nogami?”

“Yes.” The man had been very handsome, dressed in clothes Tachibana had last seen on a mannequin in a high-priced Shibuya department store. He wore designer sunglasses on his head, even though it was the middle of fall and overcast. Tachibana suspected they were mainly a device to hold back the man’s light brown dye job. Nogami looked up just in time to see them gawking at him and flashed a winning smile.

Tachibana had immediately averted his gaze and reddened in embarrassment. Grandmother didn’t seem to care.

“I heard from Mrs. Iwasawa that he is a woman hater.” She poked Tachibana with one tiny yet hopelessly gnarled index finger. “You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t.” But he had. He had known instinctively in that strange way that he often recognized or thought he recognized his own kind. The thought of having another homosexual in the very same room as him, at a wedding when it would be more than permissible for them to talk, filled him with longing and then crushing fear. If Grandmother knew about this guy’s sex life, then everyone else at the wedding probably did too. The thought disappointed him. Now if he, a confirmed bachelor, were to speak in a friendly way with Nogami, there might be speculation.

He did not need speculation. Certain parts of his private life simply could not bear the scrutiny.

He glanced back up and found Nogami looking at him in that assessing way.

His reaction had given him away. Nogami knew.

Safe in the recesses of his mind, he imagined Nogami walking across the room in slow motion, accompanied by a gentle wind that stirred not only the imitation autumn maple leaf table decorations, but also Nogami’s shiny, milk-tea-colored hair. Floating on this ethereal wind, Nogami held out his hand, smiling.

A piercing scream split his daydream.

“Look out!” Grandmother had rasped. “Here comes a yokai.”

The man in the suit was there again, holding Nogami by the lapels, swiping his foot-long tongue over Nogami’s face.

“You are so beautiful.” The yokai slobbered. “I want to taste you.”

“Get off me!” Nogami struggled with the yokai. Getting his face free of the offending tongue for a moment, he cast his eyes pleadingly at another guest, a burly man in the world’s most nondescript navy blue suit, who had been sitting at the adjacent table. “Masanori, please!”

Tachibana, along with nearly everyone else in the room, stared in shock.

With the expression of resignation of a man who has come to some major decision in life, Masanori launched himself out of his plastic chair and seized the yokai in a headlock.

The creature spun its head around all the way to face Masanori. A scream erupted from the crowd of onlookers. Tachibana could see the knowledge that they had a yokai among them rippling across their shocked faces. Oddly, his grandmother hooted with what seemed like girlish excitement. Tachibana wished the earth would swallow him up whole. But it didn’t.

“You want to have a threesome?” The yokai waggled his pink tongue.

“Yuki is mine!” the burly man growled. “Get out.”

“Yours?” The yokai’s expression had gone soft, like that of a sad puppy. “I’m very deeply sorry.” His entire body seemed suddenly to lack a skeleton. He deflated to the floor and then slithered along the ground, out the door.

Everyone at the wedding reception seemed, for a moment, to be paralyzed. Then the burly man, Masanori, reached into his pocket and offered his handkerchief to Nogami, who accepted it. Wiping his face, Nogami had said, “You might as well sit next to me now.”

Masanori nodded gruffly, then sat, glanced around at the circle of gawkers, and said, “Isn’t there any champagne at this wedding?”

This broke the spell and sent relieved laughter spreading throughout the assembled guests. Soon Tachibana’s truly compassionate sister, Tomoko, quietly offered her own handkerchief to Nogami, who was trying to dry his face, even as Nogami apologized for the disruption. Tachibana could not help but notice that Tomoko and her new husband were the only people who even looked at Nogami.

Tachibana, himself, avoided the scene by turning to his grandmother and saying, “Do you really think that was a yokai?”

Grandmother had given him a bewildered look, as if she were reassessing his intelligence.

“What else could it be?” Grandmother shrugged and reached into the sleeve of her kimono for another of the rectangular packets of bean jam she kept stashed there. “The question is, who made it?”

“What do you mean?” Strange guilt prickled just beneath the surface of Tachibana’s skin. Suddenly his collar felt too hot. “If it was, why weren’t you scared?”

“Oh, nothing can scare me. I lived through the war.”

“I . . . I see.”

“Did you ever read the Tale of Genji?” Grandmother gave him a sharp look.

“I . . . did.” Frankly, he didn’t like those old court novels so much. He much preferred informational manga. His strategy for getting through ancient literature had been to remember the salient facts just long enough to pass his exams and then forget everything immediately upon graduation.

“You can’t remember anything about it, can you?”

“Genji gets malaria, doesn’t he?” Tachibana hung his head. “The book wasn’t very interesting to me. I’m sorry.”

“Well, it’s a perfect example of the strong and denied feelings of a person manifesting as a spiritual force. Lady Rokujo wants the courtier Genji, but she can’t have him to herself, so her jealousy forms itself into a demon that kills the girl who took Genji from her.” Grandmother tried unsuccessfully to open the stiff plastic wrapper of her bean jam treat before finally handing it over to Tachibana to deal with. “So some man here created this yokai from his desire, but who?”

“Some disgusting pervert, no doubt.” Tachibana handed the opened packet back to his grandmother

“I don’t think so. It seemed like a harmless enough spirit. Overeager, but he went away right when that Masanori told him to leave. And who would have thought that Masanori was a boy lover? Or do you think he’s more of a woman hater? He’s a bachelor, isn’t he?” Grandmother gave him a shrewd look. “Like you.”

“Nowadays it’s just called gay, Grandmother.” Tomoko and her new husband had arrived at their table. “And I think it’s inspiring.”

“You don’t think it’s bad luck having a yokai appear at your wedding?” Tachibana had asked.

Tomoko’s husband grinned. “Are you kidding? Everyone’s going to talk about my wedding reception for years!”

Since that day he’d avoided his grandmother completely.

Especially after she started sending him paper charms and magazine clippings of articles about supernatural phenomena in the mail.

Not that he hadn’t kept the charms. There was one in his overnight bag right now. But that bag currently resided in the luggage storage compartment at the front of the car, and clearly the spiritual barrier that it formed did not extend as far as their sleeping car.

He should have kept one in his pocket. From here on in, he definitely would.

Chapter Two

Restless after his encounter with Fingers, Hank rose early and headed to the dining car for some breakfast. Tachibana joined him soon after, and they sat together in the miasma of smoke created by at least a dozen of businessmen smoking Mild Seven cigarettes. Tachibana himself had a pack in his shirt pocket but didn’t light up, seeming to be more interested in his breakfast than tobacco.

After smoke-free Vancouver, Hank would have thought he’d have some difficulty adjusting to the smoky train cars and bars of Japan, but somehow he didn’t mind. It reminded him of his childhood, when standing ashtrays in public places had been commonplace and smoking had been prohibited only in oxygen tents and elevators.

“How much longer till Aomori City?” Hank asked.

Tachibana looked at his watch. “Maybe two hours and thirteen minutes. Then perhaps three more hours to Lake Towada by bus.”

Hank smiled at his companion’s use of the word “maybe.” The shinkansen train schedule was reliably accurate to within a minute. He’d learned, though, that Japanese disliked speaking in absolutes, particularly about the future—even a future as predictable as when a famously punctual train would arrive. Hence the maybe.

Aomori City lay at the northern end of Honshu, the most populated island in the chain that made up the country of Japan. The seven prefectures that comprised northernmost tip of the island were collectively called the Tohoku region. Citizens of Tohoku were famous for their frugality and for playing a banjo-like instrument called a shamisen. Like the citizens of the Canadian eastern seaboard, the residents of Tohoku were buried under up to six meters of snowfall for much of the year. And apparently being buried in snow for long periods of time naturally leads to the playing of stringed instruments, regardless of ethnicity.

Hank had never been to this region before. Gazing out the train window, Hank marvelled anew at the juxtapositions of Japan. Once they had come through the somewhat desolate inland plains around Morioka, the train tracks hugged the mountainous coastline. On one side, cedars swathed in snow rose up steep inclines, and on the other the slate gray sea slapped against the shore, reflecting the dull December sky.

Every few kilometers the green of the forest side would be punctuated by patterned concrete that would blanket the entire hillside. Another few kilometers, and a huge colorful pile of refuse from an impromptu dump would come into view.

These sorts of dumps were endemic throughout the countryside, and Hank could see why. The garbage system in Japan was by far the most complex trash-removal process he’d ever attempted to comply with. Different refuse items could only be discarded on specific days. So if one had a broken toaster oven to consign to the small appliances afterworld, one might have to wait until, say, the second Tuesday of the next month when such items were collected to do so. For this reason all Japanese he had ever met lived with at least a cupboard full of cleaned and sorted garbage awaiting its special day of egress. The stated reason for all this sorting was to improve efficiency in recycling, but Hank had often wondered if it had something to do with a cultural history that included tsukumogami.

Tsukumogami were objects that, on their hundredth birthday, became imbued with a spirit and became yokai. Mostly stories of tsukumogami were confined to common objects like umbrellas, shoji screens, the walls of old houses, and the like.

But this was only one type of spirit. The term yokai encompassed fox spirits, river sprites, women whose necks stretched to be as long as boa constrictors, creatures who embodied stink or grime, transmogrifying badgers, and even small strange men who appeared to do nothing but carry tofu or count beans.

In his search for stories about yokai, Hank had visited dozens of old samurai houses said to be inhabited by the creatures, traipsed up thousands of mountain shrine stairs, and hung around high school bathrooms said to be inhabited by Toire no Hanako, the spooky spirit of a girl known to lurk there. Never, never had he thought that they were real.

Not until Fingers, anyway.

To say that his entire worldview had been shaken would have been an understatement. Not only had the supernatural become suddenly real, but it had also become suddenly aggressively gay.

The appearance of Fingers had forced Hank to confront not only his entire view of reality but his own romantic preconceptions about Japan and the Japanese. The former had been hard but not soul crushing, since the secret desire of most people who study subjects like folklore is to discover that things like fairies are actually real. The latter had led to a complete reassessment of his view of himself, which was much harder.

He had expected that if he met a yokai, it would be either beautiful or frightening or both—someone like Yuki No Onna, the Snow Woman. Returning to Canada with a story of an encounter with that haunting creature, so often immortalized holding a tattered parasol in Ukiyo-e prints, would be crazy but cool. Telling the story of Fingers coalescing before him in a Ni-Chome men’s room was just embarrassing, so embarrassing that he didn’t want to tell Tachibana that he’d already made contact with a real yokai, and not just because he’d have to admit he’d been to the gay section of Tokyo. How could he go back to his colleagues at UBC with a story about a spirit who appeared before him exclusively to find out whether or not his curtains matched his carpet?

So he had decided to spend his Christmas and New Year’s holidays in the north of Honshu researching the Devil of Lake Towada. A creature said to be responsible for the capsizing of a tourist ferry that resulted in the loss of seven lives. The Devil of Lake Towada was yokai worth telling a story about, even being killed by. Suspected to have sunk at least six vessels on Lake Towada over the past ten years, the Devil was simultaneously the Godzilla and the Nessie of the mountain lake.

Only two blurry photographs had ever been taken of the Devil.

Fingers, on the other hand, was a yokai that you never wanted to be seen with, much less have your name linked with in a dissertation, forever doomed to be mentioned in the same breath as though you had been legally wed.

He glanced across to Tachibana, who sat placidly munching the egg component of a three-flavor sandwich set.

When Hank had first started traveling with Tachibana, he had been perplexed by the other man’s largely silent demeanor. He’d thought Tachibana didn’t like him. But any time he encountered even the slightest difficulty, Tachibana would be there, whether Hank was having trouble with a credit card or suffering the casual and sometimes obscene remarks made by people who thought he didn’t understand Japanese. He’d grown to understand that Tachibana saw himself as a kind of bodyguard.

Hank didn’t know why Tachibana chose to give up his hard-earned holidays to accompany him. Family troubles? A sense of duty? Maybe his Japanese publisher had just forced him to. They were billing Hank as the modern Laficado Hearn, and it wasn’t like a Japanese host to let a foreigner roam unescorted through the countryside.

Tachibana was on the phone texting his girlfriend, Tomoko, again. Hank would have thought he was a closet case except for the expression on his face when he talked about the beauty and compassion of Tomoko-chan.

Sometimes, though, he still thought he caught Tachibana looking at him in that way. Not that that bothered him. Tachibana was a good-looking man. His jaw was very square, accentuated by his high cheekbones. He had thick, straight black hair, cut in a boring but not unattractive way. Hank didn’t demerit him for it. Everyone at his Japanese publishing company seemed to share the same middle-of-the-road style, as if haircut tip sheets were issued with company name badges.

The previous night, he’d seen Tachibana in short sleeves for the first time and noted that his bland dress shirts hid surprisingly muscular arms. In fact, he’d looked so long that Tachibana had caught him staring, forcing Hank to say, “nice guns.”

In response to the compliment, Tachibana had grinned and flexed for him.

Maybe Tachibana really was a closet case.

Hank couldn’t imagine himself ever describing a person with whom he had sex (or would like to have sex) as compassionate. But then again, he wasn’t Japanese, either.

Finally, Tachibana finished his sandwich, closed his phone, and fished his Mild Sevens out of his shirt pocket.

“How’s Tomoko?”

“As beautiful as ever.” Tachibana lit a cigarette. “She’s disappointed that I won’t be coming home for New Year’s Day, though.”

“I’m sorry about that. You really don’t need to stay with me. I won’t tell anybody if you go back to Tokyo.”

“Absolutely out of the question.” Tachibana drew himself up straight. His expression, which had showed open fondness, went opaque. “I said I would escort you, and I will. Tomoko understands.”

“But doesn’t your family want to see you?”

“Naturally, but your research is important to the company. And sacrifice builds character in a man.” Tachibana spoke with the air of a man who was repeating something his father once told him. Hank liked to call this the Dad Annex of a man’s brain—a collection of nigh irrefutable axioms that governed behavior long past the time that a man’s father had any real control over him. Hank knew from arguing with previous boyfriends that a man just couldn’t win a fight with the Dad Annex, so he didn’t try.

Besides, he had to grudgingly admit he didn’t want to be alone on Christmas. Outside, snow fell heavily on the cedars. The whiteness of the shower obscured the line of the horizon.

“We’re coming into the station soon.” Tachibana stood, stubbed out his cigarette. He seemed distracted.

“Something bothering you?”

Tachibana turned and looked at Hank as though he’d accomplished some mastery of mentalism. “Yes.”

Hank waited. Tachibana said nothing, apparently also waiting. For what, Hank did not know. All around them men at other tables were standing, readying themselves to detrain. Finally Hank said, “Anything you want to tell me about?”

An announcement burst out over them, spoken in the bouncy, nasal accent that Hank had a hard time understanding. A collective groan went up from the most of the people around them.

Hank said, “What did she say?”

“All trains from Aomori City are delayed because of heavy snowfall.”

“What about buses?” Hank asked hopefully.

Tachibana shook his head. “We’ll be staying the night here in Aomori City. In the morning when the roads have been cleared, I’ll rent a car.”

“Will you be able to find a car-rental place open on Christmas?”

Tachibana shrugged. “Christmas isn’t that important here.”

Hank hung his head, embarrassed by his own careless ethnocentricity. “Of course not.”

Chapter Three

“Mr. Sato, I’m afraid the only decent hotel with a room open is the Aomori Grand Hotel.” Tachibana kept his voice perfectly even and smooth. Once he would have felt some shame lying to Sato from accounting, but not anymore. “Unless you want our company to have Mr. Caldwell stay in a love hotel with me. It’s possible that since he is a foreigner, he wouldn’t be embarrassed by checking in to one with another man.”

“Don’t make such disgusting suggestions. No one is that stupid. He’s a scholar, not some character in a sitcom.”

“Sometimes foreigners like going to interesting hotels.” Tachibana knew this statement would only infuriate Sato more, but could not stop himself. Somewhere deep inside his ubiquitous navy business suit beat the heart of a rebel. That rebellious nature sometimes led to bad ideas.

No wonder he had manifested a yokai. He almost thought the yokai within him was aware of his actions and enjoying tormenting Sato from accounting. But that would be impossible, wouldn’t it?

Sato said, “The room at the ryokan at Lake Towada cheap is enough to make up for whatever you spend in Aomori City, so I’ll authorize the expense.”

Tachibana smiled a tight smile. “Thank you, Mr. Sato.”

He snapped his phone shut and dropped down to the couch in the suite of the Aomori Grand Hotel—the room he’d rented an hour ago. Tachibana had not lied. The suite was, in fact, the only room open in this particular hotel, but there were other hotels with lesser accommodation that he could have engaged if he’d been dogged in his pursuit of frugality.

But how many times would he have a legitimate reason to spend Christmas Eve in a honeymoon suite with another man? He wanted to be here just once. Even if he and Mr. Caldwell weren’t lovers, he could pretend.

Thinking seriously, Tachibana knew it was probably his inability to suppress these sorts of romantic thoughts that had led to the creation of the yokai. But he had a paper charm in his pocket now, and nothing would happen. Mr. Caldwell would never know how much he loved him, and that was fine. Tachibana was a twenty-five-year-old virgin. Mr. Caldwell was a thirty-four-year-old experienced gay who had never showed interest in any Japanese men, as far as Tachibana could tell. Just being close to Mr. Caldwell would be happiness enough.

He could hear Mr. Caldwell singing to himself in the shower. Immediately the image of his pale, freckled back filled Tachibana’s mind, and he felt an odd feeling of dysphoria. He could vividly imagine the white-tiled shower stall with its multiple western-style showerheads pouring steamy water down onto Mr. Caldwell’s naked skin. He could almost feel the close, muggy heat of the bathroom. The image of Mr. Caldwell came clearer now. From somewhere deep within his mind, Tachibana heard a whisper.

We should shower together. We could save the whales with our sexy water-conservation efforts.

He stuffed his hand in his pocket, feeling for the charm his grandmother had sent him. He couldn’t let the yokai out. The dysphoric feeling faded.

Immediately, he heard the shower turn off. The bathroom door opened, and Mr. Caldwell, dressed in the plush white hotel robe asked, “Did you say something?”

“Not me.”

“I thought I heard someone say something about whales.” Mr. Caldwell glanced around the room, a hunted expression on his face. “It must have been my imagination.”

“Or someone talking in the hallway.” Tachibana felt the sudden urge to change the subject. “I’ll sleep here on the sofa. You can have the bedroom.”

“Are you sure? Aren’t there two beds?” Mr. Caldwell walked into the bedroom, then walked back out holding a champagne bottle. “Did you know that there were roses, champagne, and chocolates in there?”

“This is the honeymoon suite,” Tachibana explained. “It was the only room open, but I knew this hotel had on-demand English television that we could both enjoy. There was also a Christmas Eve special package. We get free room-service dinner with Christmas cake available until midnight.”

“I thought the hotel staff seemed a little cagey. I thought it was because I was a foreigner, but it’s because they think we’re gay.” Mr. Caldwell examined the champagne bottle’s label.

“I told them we were stranded here because of the snow, but I don’t think they believed me once I ordered the special package, but it was so economical . . . . I’m sorry if my cheapness has embarrassed you.” Tachibana stood and gave bowed in contrition.

“No need to apologize. Actually room service dinner sounds pretty good.” Mr. Caldwell towel dried his amazing red hair. “After that, maybe we could go out. It seems like there’s some nightlife here.”

“You want to go drinking?” Anxiety rose in Tachibana. Drinking wasn’t a good idea. Not when the yokai threatened to break loose at any moment. “What about karaoke?”

Mr. Caldwell shied at the mention of karaoke. “I’m not that great of a singer. I tend to get my ass handed to me by the other people at the bar.”

“No one will expect you to be a great singer.” This was not entirely true, but being a foreigner, he could get away with a much lower vocal aptitude than everyone else. And singing would be a way to avoid excessive drinking, as Tachibana was apt to do when nervous.

“All right then, what the hell. I’m game.”

“I’ll order dinner, then, while you get dressed.”

As Mr. Caldwell and his beautiful partial nudity receded into the bathroom, Tachibana felt a shiver of relief. He would be able to keep the yokai under control, he thought, so long as he kept himself relatively sober and they didn’t go to any clothing-optional hot springs where the yokai would be lured out by the sight of Mr. Caldwell’s milky white, lightly freckled backside.

Not a lot of worry about that, to be sure. Though Lake Towada abounded with resort hotels featuring amazing hot springs, Sato in accounting had only authorized enough money for the cheapest hotel there.

Tachibana ordered room service, and by the time their meal arrived, Mr. Caldwell had dressed. He looked scrubbed and fresh and appealing. He wore a blue striped button-down shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots. The jeans looked expensive and stylish.

Mr. Caldwell sat and addressed his dinner. He used chopsticks competently but with no real grace. Tachibana found the slight clumsiness charming. When he had been an exchange student in America, he’d had the experience of being a fish out of water and now had sympathy for anyone who would go to a foreign country and try their hardest, even if they occasionally lost their grip on the slipperier dishes that comprised the hotel set meal.

“I do a lot better with those disposable chopsticks at noodle stands,” Mr. Caldwell joked as a vegetable escaped him.

“You’re doing well.”

“So everybody tells me.” Mr. Caldwell set his chopsticks aside. “I’ve been thinking about our approach at Lake Towada.”

“Our approach?”

“Yes, I had thought that we would just go around and see if any of the oldsters had any stories about the yokai we’re documenting, but now I wonder if we’re going to be able to find anyone who would take the time to talk to us. I guess I underestimated the importance of New Year’s here.”

Tachibana nodded. “It might be difficult to find anyone with time to sit down and talk, but your interviews don’t take very long.”

“I’m wondering if it might be easier to just go where the yokai is supposed to be and see if we can experience the phenomenon ourselves.”

“Experience the phenomenon?” Tachibana found himself taken aback. Mr. Caldwell had never said anything like that before. He’d never spoken as if the spirits and demons of Japan were real. Again nervousness rose in him, alongside a very strange sensation of satisfaction that Tachibana could not adequately explain.

Mr. Caldwell continued, “Yes, certainly there must be something driving all this recent talk about yokai there.”

“Probably it’s just some bad weather capsized a boat, and now people are blaming spirits. Old people are superstitious, especially in these mountain communities,” Tachibana informed him.

“Maybe, but did you ever think there could be some truth to these manifestations?”

Dread knifed through Tachibana. This line of questioning could only mean one thing—Mr. Caldwell hadn’t written off the yokai as some sort of dream. The possibility existed that Mr. Caldwell, like Fox Mulder, now believed. And if that was true, then Mr. Caldwell would certainly try to find out more. Under no circumstances did Tachibana want Mr. Caldwell to discover the spirit who had practically attacked him on the train originated within him.

“I don’t know if I really believe in the supernatural.” As he spoke, Tachibana felt a strange flare of outrage within him. He could almost hear the yokai’s voice.

Don’t pretend I’m not real. Our love for Mr. Caldwell is powerful.

Tachibana forced the feeling down. Just because the yokai was real didn’t mean he had to acknowledge it.

“Until I came here I would have told you the same thing, but . . . . Sometimes it’s just the simplest explanation.” Mr. Caldwell chewed thoughtfully for a moment before continuing. “Have you ever heard of a gay yokai?”

“Never.”

Liar! Mr. Caldwell knows me. Our pinkies are attached by a red thread.

Tachibana gripped his charm harder, but the voice continued to speak.

You cannot control our fated true love.

“There must be something,” Mr. Caldwell went on, unaware of the dialogue going on in Tachibana’s head. “Maybe there are stories of monks who are attacked by succubus-like creatures.”

“I don’t know that word, succubus.”

“A succubus is a beautiful woman who appears to monks to tempt them from their celibacy. There is also a male form of succubus, called an incubus.”

He thinks I am beautiful. Oh, I love you, Mr. Caldwell. Marry me, darling, and I will cook for you for the rest of your life!

Where did the yokai get these lines? He didn’t know how to cook, and he didn’t see how any spirit generated by him would have learned. Aloud, Tachibana said, “Probably Japanese monks just gave in to other monks instead of being lured by spirits. There are many stories of monks who were boy lovers and so on. There would be no need for gay yokai.”

Mr. Caldwell leaned back and stretched out his long legs. “Maybe there would be no need, but who’s to say that it couldn’t happen anyway?”

Tachibana gave a noncommittal shrug.

They finished their dinner and got ready to go out. Tachibana stuffed three more charms in his shirt pocket, right behind his cigarettes. If he were to have any chance of keeping the yokai under control he would need all the help he could get.

Chapter Four

Because it was Christmas Eve, romantic couples were out in force on the snowy streets of the entertainment district. Heterosexual couples, that is, but Hank tried not to be bitter or jealous. Though Aomori City was no one-horse backwater, it wasn’t exactly on the cutting edge of Japanese gay visibility either. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and glanced over at Tachibana, trying to imagine what he thought about going out with Hank on Japan’s premier date night.

Probably he didn’t think anything of it at all. If reserving the honeymoon suite with the special lovers’ package didn’t bother Tachibana, nothing could. Besides, Hank was a foreigner, so being seen with him wouldn’t be incriminating or weird. Especially not when Hank clearly designated himself a tourist by stopping and making Tachibana take a photograph of him standing beside a Santa robot who rang a bell and shouted, “Merry Discount Christmas” in English.

Poor Tachibana. He truly fit the bill of the long-suffering junior salaryman stuck with a crappy job on the holidays. That was one of the many reasons Hank was determined to get him drunk tonight. There should be some benefit to being dragged out to the boonies with him.

Now he had only to choose a bar.

Bars in Japan interested Hank in an anthropological context. Because of limited space in their dwellings, in addition to the frequent presence of small children or the elderly in multi-generational homes, bars and hotels served as proxy living rooms. Often times an individual bar would only seat perhaps ten or twelve patrons. But up to two dozen of these establishments might be crammed into larger buildings that Hank privately referred to as “bar malls.”

Usually a bar mall would have one large establishment, perhaps with a dance floor that would approximate the capacity of a normal Vancouver bar, but the upper floors would be comprised of these tiny establishments, whose clientele could be very specialized. He loved simply picking a windowless door and going inside.

Sometimes his gonzo attitude had resulted in the cold shoulder and a chilling lack of service. But more often than not, he’d be welcomed by the bartender and treated to an unusual slice of life in whatever town he was in.

Tachibana hated this habit of his. Hank could tell by the way he winced whenever Hank started “eeny meeny miney mo-ing” the doors. Tachibana clearly found his capricious nature nearly insufferable, but had put up with him through a wide variety of uncomfortable encounters.

Sometimes being a foreigner had its advantages.

This evening, Hank chose a nondescript door with only a small, handwritten sign on the front. Inside was a four-seat bar, two booths that might seat eight skinny people cozily, and a giant flat-screen karaoke system. The only other denizens of the bar were three businessmen occupying one of the booths and an elderly female bartender, who smiled welcomingly, eyes glinting with excitement at the sight of him. She smiled even wider when he took off his hat.

Being a redhead had its advantages too.

Hank chose the bar, and Tachibana followed. He seemed to have relaxed now that the bar wasn’t inhabited entirely by yakuza or cross-dressers as had previously occurred. He ordered whiskey for them both as well as a small bamboo dish full of hothouse strawberries. The bartender had a thick northern accent and much silver dental work, but she smiled and nodded as Tachibana explained who they were and why they had come to Tohoku.

“I’ve heard about the Devil many times,” she said.

“What does it look like?” Tachibana asked. Hank knew better than to try to speak Japanese in these circumstances. Though he had a competent grasp of the language, sometimes people had a hard time understanding his accent.

Obviously the businessmen behind him felt he had no grasp of Japanese; otherwise they wouldn’t have been musing vocally about the color of his pubic hair.

Really? Was there no one in this country not obsessed by that?

Tachibana apparently. He’d had plenty of opportunity to look, but couldn’t be bothered. It was one of the reasons Hank liked traveling with him.

The old bartender cocked her head thoughtfully. “Well, you want to know about the Devil, do you?”

“Yes, we would,” Tachibana said.

“You should be talking with my friend, Mrs. Kurokawa. Her cousin was at the scene when the first ferry sank.” The bartender polished a glass.

“We’re only going to be in Aomori City overnight. Do you think you could tell us about it?” Tachibana was nothing if not dogged in his questioning. “Where does it come from?”

“Supposedly the Devil is the captain of an old ferry. They say that what happened was that the ferry turned one hundred years old and became a yokai. The ferry was historical, you see. From the Meiji era.”

“The boat itself?” Hank couldn’t help himself. He hadn’t heard of an entire boat turning into a yokai before.

The bartender smiled at him. “Why isn’t your Japanese good, young gentleman.”

“He’s a professor.” Tachibana fished in his front pocket for his cigarettes. As he pulled out the packet, three slips of paper fell out onto the polished wooden bar. They looked like the sort of good luck charms that were frequently sold at temples. Tachibana hurriedly tucked them back into his pocket.

“Ah, forgive me, sensei.” The bartender gave a little bow, which Hank found both charming and disconcerting considering her age. “The boat became a yokai, yes, and apparently the boat didn’t think much of the captain, because it attacked him and sank right away.”

“So the Devil is the boat?” Hank asked.

At the booth behind them, the three businessmen began to loudly propose that they sing karaoke. One of them stood and staggered forward.

“Perhaps.” The bartender handed the businessman the karaoke microphone, as well as a phonebook-sized list of songs that could be chosen for performance.

The man with the microphone staggered sideways, sloshing beer across the front of Tachibana’s shirt. Ink from the charms bled through the pocket.

All at once there was a paroxysm of apology from both the bartender and the man responsible. Tachibana accepted her offering of a white cloth napkin while waving both their supplications aside.

“It’s not a big stain.” Tachibana zipped up his cardigan. “See? My sweater covers it up.”

Free rounds of drinks and unlimited karaoke seemed obligatory. Not that Hank was complaining.

Traditional Japanese songs, called enka, were not, to Hank’s ear, pleasing. But because of the critical importance of karaoke singing in business, he had learned to tolerate and then to actually enjoy the regular rounds of crooning with a repertoire mainly comprised of Beatles and Dylan songs. He didn’t particularly like either of those, but they were easy to sing, and he knew all the lyrics, having heard them endlessly since his midseventies birth.

Tachibana had a nice voice but no stage presence at all. He stood, shoulders hunched, and sang with the posture of one whispering a sordid confession to a policeman.

More patrons drifted in, mainly friends of the businessmen or the bar owner, filling it roughly to capacity at twenty people.

Both Hank’s mediocre efforts and Tachibana’s submissive delivery attracted a certain amount of derision from the three businessmen, who were now so drunk that not even Tachibana seemed able to understand them.

Hank realized that they had become embroiled in a karaoke-off.

The home team seemed to be winning, largely because of the degree of difficulty in their song selections.

Snow seemed to play a big part in most of the local favorites. The businessman openly smirked as he upped the ante, choosing what was apparently a classic of region that described various kinds of snow while employing such an array of vocal gymnastics that could only be accomplished with years of practice and as well as lubrication with Suntory brand whiskey.

He sounded like an ancient samurai, gargling and yodeling out his last passionate melody before he died of wounds received on a battlefield far from home.

At the conclusion of the song, the tiny bar erupted with cheers. The resident patrons seemed genuinely in awe of the man. The white-gloved bartender clapped and turned to Hank expectantly. Tachibana flipped frantically through the phone book-sized list of tunes.

“Do you know the tune of I Lost My Heart in San Francisco?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever even heard that song.”

Tachibana looked affronted. “It’s an American classic.”

“I’m not an American,” Hank answered sourly. “Look, I think I blew my wad with In My Life.”

“But you must sing again,” Tachibana whispered.

“Maybe we could just concede defeat,” Hank suggested. Tachibana gave him a look that could freeze vodka.

“I don’t want to lose to those jerks.” Tachibana was drunk himself now, slurring his English words slightly. One patron called for Hank to sing the local classic.

“There’s no way I can sing Tsugaru Strait Winter Scenery. I just don’t have that much voice in me. You do it.”

Tachibana’s nose was lightly pink. He’d unzipped his cardigan at some point in the evening, and Hank could see that the ink stain had spread quite a bit. Taking a deep breath, he said, “I told you I don’t want to lose!”

As if generated by Tachibana himself, a chill swept through the tiny bar. Then the door burst open. A haze of glittering silver snowflakes danced in the air. Hank felt a familiar prickling sensation, then saw with horror that Fingers had arrived.

He wore a version of his usual suit, but this one was as white as Liberace’s fur coat and shone with a blanket of sequins, like a tacky teen angel. Even his eyeglass frames were white. Fingers looked right at Hank and said, in English, “I will protect you. I am a karaoke master.”

The bar door slammed shut. Fingers turned his gaze to the businessman, who was caught between surly, drunken aggression and laughter. His two friends sat openmouthed. Finally, the skinny one took the microphone from his friend’s hand and offered it to Fingers. “Please, won’t you sing with us?”

Fingers held out his hand, and the microphone flew into his palm.

It was then that Hank noticed the red thread still tied to Fingers’s pinkie. Looking down at this own hand, he saw a glimmer of red appearing. Vaguely, he recalled reading some manga where a red thread stretched between the pinkies of two “forever lovers.” The manga had been aimed at twelve-year-old girls. He didn’t know whether to be alarmed or laugh at the cheesiness of it.

“Tachibana.” Hank held his hand out to his companion. “Look!”

Tachibana’s face was buried in the book. He held his head as though afflicted with a migraine. “I don’t want to.”

“Sober up,” Hank hissed. “There is a real yokai right here in this bar!”

“No.” Tachibana held his hands over his ears. “I don’t want to look at that stupid yokai.”

The lights dimmed, except for a spotlight that suddenly shone down on Fingers from no discernable source. The karaoke screen flashed and launched into playing some different song. Images of mirror balls and half-empty bottles of Hennessy filled the screen. As the music swelled, the businessman raised his eyebrows in surprise and yelled, “Kushi Iyamase? You’ll never make it through the high notes!”

Fingers took a breath, and his rich, deep voice filled the room, sending an unwanted thrill through Hank.

“Tachibana,” Hank said. “You’ve got to see this.”

“No, I don’t.”

Fingers sang like the fate of the world depended on it. He sang like a man who knew he was dying of cancer might sing his last night on Broadway. He sang as though by singing he could transform all evil in the world into good. In short, he sang very well.

Fingers created a sheer wall of sound that not only showed up the drunk businessman who had ruined Tachibana’s shirt, but transcended this spiritual plane. The walls of the bar seemed to grow dim, and Hank felt as if he was floating. Instead of booths and faux wood paneling, he saw stars and comets. It was as though he and Fingers were alone and floating through the galaxy together. A comet streamed by, and Hank felt he could almost reach out and catch its tail.

Dimly, Hank wondered if someone hadn’t slipped a hit of acid into his last whiskey. But things like that didn’t happen in Japan, did they?

He couldn’t think about it any longer. Saturn’s rings crested the horizon. Here in the darkness of deep space, there was him and Fingers and grand celestial bodies whirling and whirling through the space-time continuum. He stood on an arm of the Milky Way while Fingers dropped to his knees before him. “Caldwell-sensei, will you marry me? I will come to Canada and join the RCMP. Together we will fight crime and drink Crown Royal whiskey and eat maple syrup on our pancakes every day.”

Hank felt his face flush with embarrassment. “We don’t know each other well enough to get married. And I don’t like pancakes.”

Fingers slumped forward, then looking up, he raised one clenched fist. He said, “I will make you believe in my love if it’s the last thing I do.”

Then, with a visual display of swirling silver glitter not unlike drifting ice crystals from a comet’s tail caught and dispersed by the solar wind, Fingers vanished.

All at once the lights returned. No longer did they float through space borne aloft on star stuff. No more did comets arch through the sky above them.

Fingers was gone. The assembled bar patrons stared, openmouthed at Hank. The karaoke machine’s screen flipped back to “menu.”

In the silence that followed, Tachibana stood, bowed deeply to the bartender, and asked for the bill.

Chapter Five

“Did you see that?” Mr. Caldwell asked for the hundredth time since they’d left the bar. “Did you see that?”

As soon as they got back to their hotel room, Tachibana bowed. “I am very deeply sorry.”

“What for?” Mr. Caldwell looked at him as though he could not fathom what could possibly be embarrassing about the yokai’s behavior. “It’s not like it’s your fault. If anything it’s mine. I seem to be attracting the spirit somehow. I must have picked it up in one of those haunted houses we went to earlier this year.”

“I don’t think so.” Though he wasn’t prepared to admit he knew full well the origin of the yokai, he felt it was his duty to at least not mislead Mr. Caldwell in his research.

“Why not?”

“I—” Tachibana nearly confessed then, but his better judgment reared up to strangle the childish urge to be completely honest right out of his throat. “I guess you were right. Obviously there are gay yokai. I apologize for not knowing it before.”

“No, it’s me who should apologize. I’d already seen it a couple of times before. I should have just said I knew for a fact the yokai was real, but I was too chicken.”

“You’ve seen him more than one time?” Alarm zinged through Tachibana, combined with that inexplicable sense of smugness that he was coming to recognize as the feelings of the yokai within him.

“I first saw him when we were looking at the old farmhouses near Osaka. It was just a glimpse of him in the mirror, and I thought I was imagining it, but now I know it had to have been the same spirit. That’s why I think he must have come from one of those houses.”

“I don’t think so. The yokai seems too modern to be hanging around in some old samurai house. He’s a salaryman. He obviously came from Tokyo.”

“What makes you say that?”

“His accent,” Tachibana said simply.

Mr. Caldwell nodded, accepting this. He sat for a moment in silence, an expression of vague consternation on his face. “Okay, you have to level with me. How many yokai have you ever seen? Apart from Fingers.”

“Who is Fingers?”

“That’s what I’m calling my salaryman.”

“That’s a horrible name. Don’t you think you could give him a better name?”

“Stop being evasive. How many?”

“None,” Tachibana admitted, then had to immediately amend his statement. “Not since I was a child anyway. But every child sees yokai all the time. Isn’t it the same way in Canada?”

“No, there aren’t any spirits in Canada.”

Tachibana could not suppress the skepticism in his voice. “Sure there are. There must be. If there are spirits here, then there are spirits everywhere. You just can’t see them.”

“But unlike you, I never saw them.” Frustration sounded in Mr. Caldwell’s voice.

“You must have seen something.”

“Never.” Mr. Caldwell’s expression appeared troubled, as if some memory had suddenly resurfaced. Tachibana pressed his argument.

“You did, didn’t you? What did you see?”

“One time, I thought I saw Santa.” Hank flushed deep red.

“In your living room delivering gifts?”

“No, flying through the sky on his sleigh.”

“Maybe you did see the real Santa Claus.”

“Santa is not real.”

Tachibana shrugged. “Then maybe you saw a Japanese yokai who went to Canada and dressed up like Santa for some reason.”

“That doesn’t make any sense at all.”

“No, what doesn’t make sense is that you would talk about believing in Japanese yokai in one sentence and say that Santa Claus is not real in the next. It’s not as though Japan is some special country that is the only one with spirits and demons. Just look at the number of demons in India, not to mention ghosts in China. They are all probably real too.”

At this Mr. Caldwell seemed deeply troubled. He went to bed soon after. Tachibana stayed up, watching the end of Dickens’s A Christmas Carol on BBC World. When he went to turn off the lights before taking his place on the couch, he glanced into the adjoining room. He could see that Mr. Caldwell was not asleep, but awake and staring into the dark and starry sky outside the hotel window.

He didn’t know what the other man was looking for, but it probably was not Santa Claus.

Or then again, maybe it was.

#

Breakfast the next morning was traditional Japanese fare including a dish of grated mountain yam. Hank eyed it with determination. His mother had taught him to eat what was put before him, and that blank strategy of eating had always served him well in the past. But the slippery, slimy, and mucus-textured dishes so common at Japanese breakfast honestly stretched the boundaries of what Hank felt a man should be expected to engage early in the day—especially on Christmas morning.

He should be home eating his mom’s cinnamon rolls and watching his nieces and nephews open presents. He should be lounging on a couch drinking whiskey-spiked coffee and smelling frying bacon while his mother played bilingual French/English Christmas carols in an effort to make his hairy, kayak-toting Quebecois brother-in-law, Mario, feel more at home.

Instead he sat cross-legged on tatami mats in a tiny room, across a tiny table from the silent Tachibana. A man who, he had learned, regarded eating and conversing as two activities that should not be combined. Hank’s mood sank lower and lower. Finally Tachibana finished the last speck of rice in his bowl and pushed his tray aside. He leaned back, pulled an envelope from his inside pocket, and offered it to Hank with both hands, exhibiting the simultaneous slight bow that Hank had come to recognize as some sort of gift-giving posture.

“Please accept this.”

Hank took the envelope. Inside was a small but elaborate die-cut pop-up card that unfolded into a tiny, three-dimensional Christmas tree. Looking at it sitting there on his palm, he couldn’t decide if it made him feel better or worse. He managed to say, “Thank you.”

“One of the ladies at the office, Yuko, was an exchange student in New Zealand, and she said that you would want it,” Tachibana said, reddening.

“Well, I’ll be sure to thank Yuko then.”

“To me it felt strange to give you a Christmas present, because here in Japan, Christmas is a more romantic holiday. I feel very awkward giving this to you.”

Cool dread welled up in Hank. Tachibana was one breath away from making some sort of comment or joke about homosexuality filled with bigotry and tacit disapproval that would hurt Hank’s feelings. He steeled himself for whatever his translator was going to say next.

“I don’t think that Yuko understands that you are a gay, you see.”

Alarm replaced dread. He didn’t think that Tachibana or anyone else knew about that here. Not that he had lied about it, but he hadn’t gone out of his way to publicize it either. Hank truly had no idea what to say. Fortunately, Tachibana appeared to have been rehearsing this speech in his head for some time—probably the entire time Hank had been in the shower—and simply went on without him.

“So she wouldn’t know that you might misunderstand my intentions. But I thought I should give you the present anyway,” Tachibana finished. “From her.”

Hank puzzled over Tachibana’s words for a few moments. Sometimes the subtle implications of Japanese truly eluded him. He took a stab at understanding.

“So are you trying to tell me that Yuko has a crush on me or that you don’t have a crush on me, or both?”

“No one has a crush on you,” Tachibana said. “We just want you to have a nice Christmas.”

“Well, I don’t have a crush on you or on Yuko, so I think we’re all safe.”

“Good.” Tachibana looked down at his hands. “Because I also got you a present.” He plunked a small, red-wrapped box on the table between them. “I was an exchange student too. In Colorado. It’s a Hickory Farms fruitcake. My American host mother still sends one to me every year. I thought it would make you feel at home.”

Ah, the regifted fruitcake, the one Christmas tradition that he wasn’t missing. But the gesture touched him anyway.

“I didn’t get you anything.”

“That’s all right.” Tachibana shrugged and held up his teacup in a toast. “Merry Christmas.”

“Joyeux Noel.” Hank clinked his teacup against Tachibana’s.

“Shall I ask for a knife to cut the cake?” Tachibana offered.

“It’s a little early for fruitcake, I think.” Hank didn’t think he could manage Japanese breakfast and glaceed cherries within the same hour. “Are you still close with your host family?”

“As close as we can be being so far away. They were very nice people. We still exchange gifts every year.”

“Whereabouts in Colorado were you?”

“Manitou Springs. It’s in the mountains. I stayed there for a year.”

“Did you like it?”

“Yes, in the winter I skied every weekend with my host father in the backcountry. Once we were caught in an avalanche. Have you ever been in one?”

“No, I don’t do much backcountry skiing. I tend to stick close to the lodge. It must have be terrifying.”

“It was. We were above the treeline, and my host father had gone down first to show me the line. Everything seemed fine, but when I started down, there was a big fracture at least thirty meters wide. When that happens the snow gets unstable, like quicksand. I started to sink down.” Tachibana paused thoughtfully, his gaze far away, as though he was seeing the scene anew. “Right then I felt like I was out of my body, watching myself. I steered out of the slide, but the snow slammed into my host father below and buried him.”

“Was he all right?” Hank asked cautiously. Accidentally stumbling into Tachibana’s personal tragedy was not how he’d envisioned this conversation proceeding. Fortunately, Tachibana’s expression lightened.

“Oh, yes. His left leg was sticking out of the snow, so I was able to dig him out. They say that in emergency situations like that, people can have tremendous strength. That day I think I could have lifted up a tree if it had been necessary. In the end he wasn’t badly hurt. I lost my glasses, though.” Tachibana slid into a thoughtful posture. “I think it was the happiest I’ve ever been in my life.”

“Being in an avalanche or when you and your host father were still alive at the end of it?”

“Being in Manitou Springs. I liked living in America. There wasn’t so much pressure to conform. Lots of different kinds of people.” Tachibana eyed the fruitcake affectionately. “It was okay to be different there.”

“To a degree.” Hank felt he should point this out.

“True, but in America they were much more tolerant of my true personality. Sometimes I feel like I’m in a straitjacket here.”

“Why don’t you go back? I’m sure you could find work in the US,” Hank said.

“It’s not as easy to get a visa as you think, especially if you don’t have any money.”

Hank nodded. Plainly, Tachibana had investigated this avenue and come up empty.

“Well, if you ever want to come to Canada, I’d sponsor you.” Hank offered this off the cuff, quasi-joking, but Tachibana’s swift grin made him wonder if he might actually have to make good on that promise. “If nothing else, you could marry me.”

Tachibana stared straight into his eyes for a long moment, then said, “I’ll keep that offer in mind.”

Chapter Six

The drive to Lake Towada on the Tohoku Expressway was slow and full of switchbacks. It cut through thick forest, hugging steep and sometimes sheer cliffs. Walls of snow rose up on the roadside. Tachibana had placed Mr. Caldwell’s tiny paper Christmas tree on the dashboard of the rental car in an effort at a festive appearance. Mr. Caldwell was going over his notes but seemed distracted and kept glancing out the car window as if in mortal fear of flying off the road and plunging to his death.

“You shouldn’t be nervous about my driving.” Tachibana tried to reassure him. “During university I worked as a ski instructor on weekends. I’m used to this kind of driving.”

“I’m just amazed there aren’t any guardrails.”

Tachibana shrugged. “People would just drive through them.”

“You realize that that doesn’t make me feel any better, right?”

“If we do crash down the mountainside, maybe your friend Fingers will appear and save you before you freeze to death.”

Mr. Caldwell merely glared at him in silence.

“I’m only joking.” He glanced at Mr. Caldwell’s open laptop. “Where would you like to begin your research once we get to Lake Towada?”

“I don’t even know anymore.” He closed his laptop and gazed out the window. “I was coming here just to document stories because I didn’t have any real representation of yokai from the Tohoku region, plus I heard it was a beautiful place.”

“It is visually stunning.”

“Staying in Tokyo is great,” Mr. Caldwell said. “But I miss trees sometimes. I miss real nature.”

Tachibana nodded. “I’ve seen pictures of British Columbia during the Vancouver Olympics. I would like to ski at Whistler some day. Do you ever ski?”

“I was up in Whistler right around the Olympics, in fact. They have a gay ski weekend there in February every year.” Mr. Caldwell gave him a sidelong glance. “Does it bother you if I talk about being gay?”

“No, it doesn’t bother me,” Tachibana said. “But I wouldn’t tell very many people at the publishing company.”

“My plan was to not tell anyone.”

“Smart man.” Tachibana intently watched the road ahead, partially because he didn’t want Mr. Caldwell to read too much into his expression and partly because of the many hairpin turns.

“Can I ask how you found out?”

“When I heard we would be working together, I looked you up online to find out what sort of person you were. I read an article in your college newspaper that mentioned you had been involved in the gay and lesbian center. From that I assumed you were a homosexual.”

“I could be a straight ally,” Mr. Caldwell countered.

“Then I met you and I was sure.”

Mr. Caldwell laughed. “That’s fair, I guess.”

“So you said you weren’t sure what you wanted to find at Lake Towada anymore,” Tachibana prompted.

“I didn’t expect yokai to be real. Before I was trying to preserve folkloric stories. But if these creatures are real, then I’m documenting actual phenomena. It’s not the same thing. The whole emphasis of my book has to change. I have to figure out a way to prove that all of these things are real.”

“That’s not necessarily the case. Many of the people whose houses we visited already believed in the supernatural before we interviewed them.” Tachibana steered to the far left of the road to avoid colliding with a trucker who plainly had no fear of road accidents and felt no obligation to keep his fellow drivers alive. “There’s no need to change anything.”

“But what if only some of them are real and some of the stories are things that people made up?”

“There’s no way for you to tell the difference between those two things,” Tachibana replied.

“But it would be irresponsible to publish fake stories and real stories in the same book.”

“Not if it’s all labeled folklore. And for many people, yokai are folklore. Those are the people who will never see one. You just happened to have attracted one.”

“I attracted a horny salaryman who gets too handsy,” Mr. Caldwell said. “But what about at the Devil of Lake Towada? What if it’s real too? Last night for the first time, I wondered if what I’m doing could be dangerous.”

“Not any more dangerous than if you didn’t believe in them. How do we know that when people are killed in storms or lost at sea, they weren’t killed by supernatural beings as well?” Tachibana spoke with more assurance than he would have imagined himself to display, but he’d had to confront this very idea himself once he’d discovered his own spiritual powers. “If demons are real, then they have always been real, and the danger you are in from them hasn’t increased but remained constant.”

“I suppose that’s one way of looking at it,” Mr. Caldwell said.

“And even if you do get assaulted by the Devil of Lake Towada, that just gives your friend Fingers an opportunity to appear again. Maybe even in ski gear.”

“I can just picture it.”

“Do you hate him?”

“Fingers?” Mr. Caldwell smiled. “No, not at all.”

“You just don’t want to marry him,” Tachibana finished.

“I don’t see that much of a future for us.” Mr. Caldwell smirked. “Him living in the supernatural world, me living in British Columbia…”

“But you have gay marriage in Canada. If you married Fingers, do you think he could get a Canadian Permanent Resident card?” Tachibana was teasing Mr. Caldwell now, he knew, but the part of him that had made itself into a yokai did want to know the answer.

“Probably.” Mr. Caldwell shrugged, then burst into a wide grin. “It would probably depend on what the Canadian Bureau of Supernatural Affairs has to say about it.”

“There is such a thing?”

“No. Well… Who knows? If spirits and demons and…Santa are actually real, who’s to say there isn’t such a place?” Mr. Caldwell readjusted his hat. “You see? Once you start down this paranormal rabbit hole, there’s really no end. That’s why I don’t know what I’m trying to do anymore. Maybe I should try to ask Fingers about all of this.”

“Probably he doesn’t know either,” Tachibana answered quickly. Too quickly, he realized. Mr. Caldwell was giving him a frank, assessing stare. A somewhat dubious stare.

“I mean why would he know about Canada?” Tachibana amended. The brief suspicion vanished from Mr. Caldwell’s face.

“Maybe he’s part of some sort of consortium of yokai.”

“A consortium of yokai?” Tachibana couldn’t stop himself from laughing out loud. “Since I’ve been translating for you and assisting you, the only thing that seems to be consistent is that yokai don’t like to be team players.”

Mr. Caldwell slumped in his bucket seat, defeated. “I guess you’re right. If I see him again, though, I’m going to ask him.”

They drove onward through snow-covered forests, eventually coming to Lake Towada around noon.

Lake Towada was a dual-crater lake atop a four-hundred-meter mountain. Sixty-one square kilometers of sparkling clear blue waters stretched out before him. It was the largest and deepest crater lake on Honshu. To Tachibana it looked exactly like the sort of place a yokai would be living. Surrounded by evergreens, bare birch trees, and snow, it emanated a spectral beauty.

“Many of the hotels around here have natural hot springs.” Tachibana mistook himself briefly for a tour guide. “And local cuisine is supposed to be top-notch. We’ll have a splendid dinner tonight.”

“It’s bigger than I expected.” Mr. Caldwell pushed his hat back. “Are those the tour boats?”

“The red and white ones, yes. They look small from here, but most of them have at least three levels.”

“I wonder why a boat would choose to drown its captain.”

“The Devil, you mean?” Tachibana shook his head. “I have no idea. Maybe it had seen him do something terrible. Or maybe the captain had mistreated the boat.”

“How does a captain mistreat his own boat?”

“I guess we’d have to ask the boat.”

Mr. Caldwell leaned back in his seat. “I never know when you’re kidding.”

“Neither do I.”

They pulled into the hotel parking lot. It was a run-down little business hotel, probably without even a proper tub, even though it was surrounded by hot springs.

“Merry Christmas to us,” Mr. Caldwell murmured.

“I’m not sure this is the right place,” Tachibana said suddenly. He couldn’t bear to see to see the gloomy expression on his companion’s face.

“The sign is right.”

“I’ll just go check.” Tachibana pulled into a space and went inside, where he was greeted by a sad-faced man with a bad case of the sniffles. A photograph next to the main dining room showed the dismal set meal they would be served this evening. On an impulse—the sort of impulse he seemed to be having quite regularly on this trip—he gave the man a false name.

“I’m sorry, you don’t have a reservation,” the man said. “We have a room available, though…”

“Oh no, I’m sure I have a reservation somewhere. I wouldn’t want to put the other hotel owner out.”

“As you wish.” The sniffly man gave a slow bow and ambled slowly back toward the office.

Tachibana withdrew to the sidewalk outside the hotel, pulled out his phone, and started to search for better accommodation.

At times like these, Tachibana thought, having Web access on your phone is like having a magical power. In two minutes he found, contacted, and reserved a room at the Oirase Lakeside Hotel.

It was six times the price of this place.

Gleefully, he dialed the home office expense department.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Sato, but there is a problem with the original reservation. We’re going to have to switch to a different ryokan at Lake Towada.”

“I suppose it’s more expensive.”

“There weren’t very many rooms available because of New Year’s.”

“How much?”

“Sixty-five thousand yen per night.” Tachibana wished he could be there to see Sato’s face turn purple.

“Sixty—” Sato couldn’t even finish saying the number. Tachibana could hear him breathing heavily as though he were about to have a fit of apoplexy. “Where are you, at some sort of hot-springs resort?”

“Yes, Mr. Caldwell is really impressed. The rooms are beautiful. Traditional Japanese tatami. And the hot springs are beautiful. There’s a private outdoor bath.”

“There better be for that kind of money. Can’t you drive to another town and find something there?”

“Everywhere is booked.”

“The boss is not going to like this.”

“Yes, I’m sorry.” Tachibana did his best to sound authentically apologetic before he unleashed his whammy. “I should inform you that there is also a two-hundred-percent surcharge for the rooms from December twenty-eighth to January second.”

“A what?”

“New Year’s surcharge.” Tachibana kept his voice steady, though he wanted to burst with laughter at the tone of Sato’s voice. “I’m very sorry, as I said.”

“That is nearly three times your expected expenses for this trip.”

“There was nothing I could do. The original ryokan gave away our room when we didn’t arrive on the first day. Dinner and breakfast are included as well.”

“They better be for that price,” Sato growled.

“I could ask Mr. Caldwell to pay for half of the room.”

“No, we said we would pay for it, and we will, but you’ll have a lot to answer for when you get back to the office. I’m not going to explain this for you.”

“I understand. When I come back I’ll take full responsibility.”

Sato hung up on him. Tachibana sighed happily. This would be his best Christmas since he’d been in America.

#

Hank was almost certain that Tachibana was up to something, especially when upon returning to the car, he announced that their reservations had been cancelled.

“But I found another place. Much nicer.”

“Are you sure? This hotel doesn’t look that busy.”

“It was full.” Tachibana pulled on his white cotton driving gloves.

“It didn’t look full.” As they pulled away, Hank saw the man at the front desk looking at them with an expression of strange yearning that made him feel inexplicably guilty. “Let’s go back inside. I think they need the business.”

“All right, if you must force me to say it. I didn’t want to stay there,” Tachibana said. “I’ve reserved a room at a hot-spring hotel down the road. It’s famous for its giant fireplace and beautiful views.”

“How much does it cost?”

“We will be happy to pay for anything you need.” Tachibana’s voice was at its most formal. “Sato from accounting will just have to accept it.”

“I see.” It made sense. Of course Tachibana wouldn’t want to spend New Year’s in a ratty little dump any more than Hank wanted to spend his Christmas there.

“I’ve never met Sato from accounting.”

“He’s a—what’s the English word?” Tachibana paused, deep in thought before he found the right term. “Asswipe. Sato is a pompous asswipe. You’ll like our new hotel. It’s a better place to spend the rest of Christmas than some moldy old place on the expressway.”

When they arrived at their new temporary residence, Hank did have to agree. Small and situated back in the woods, their new hotel had the feeling of an alpine lodge. In the lobby, polished wooden timbers rose overhead, giving the room a cathedral-like quality. A massive 360 fireplace dominated the room. The cheery, welcoming blaze buoyed his spirits immediately.

Tachibana had managed to reserve one Japanese-style tatami room that had its own private outdoor hot springs bath attached. The room contained only a low table with cushions. In the evening the staff would come and lay out futons with duvets, as well as robes for them to wear, called yukata.

Hank set his miniature Christmas tree on the table. He knew he should get right to work—go around the town and see if he could find anyone who could tell him anything about the Devil, but…

Well, it was Christmas, and he didn’t want to work. What he wanted was to sit by his little paper tree and call his family. Because of the international date line, it was still nine p.m. on Christmas Eve back home.

“Tachibana? Would you mind if I made a phone call?”

“Not at all.” His translator stood, blinking at him for a moment, then said, “I’ll be in the lobby. Maybe I can ask some of the people who work here about the Devil.”

“That would be great.”

Hank waited until his translator/escort/bodyguard had gone, then dialed home.

His father answered the phone, and Hank could tell from his jovial tone that the eggnog must have been flowing thick and fast back home in Calgary.

“Hank!” Beneath his father’s voice he could hear the strains of Un Flambeau Jenette Isabella playing in the background accompanied by his brother-in-law’s big, boisterous laugh. “What are you up to over there, son?”

“Just settling into my hotel.” He knew he missed home and missed his family, but hearing them now, Hank realized how far away he was. “It’s a really nice resort.”

“Are there… What do you call them? Geishas?”

Hank laughed. “No, I’m in the boonies. There’s a hot spring, though. And lots of snow.”

“At least you’re having a white Christmas. Here it’s cold as a witch’s tit but not much snow on the ground.” Hank’s father then went on to give a brief summation of the past few weeks of weather activity in Calgary, punctuated by the usual anecdotes about which of his friends threw their backs out shoveling. Hank listened more attentively than he ever had before, lonely for the sounds of his family. After finishing his rundown of meteorological activity, his father handed off the phone to his mom, who wanted to know what time it was there.

“It’s around noon on Christmas Day,” Hank informed her.

“Do you have any plans for dinner?”

Of course his mother would want to know what he was eating. Planning and executing Christmas dinner was, for her, a near Olympic event, involving every member of the family. Each of them was always given a specific task to do. His was peeling potatoes, but his brother-in-law Mario was standing in for him tomorrow on account of his absence. “I’m finally getting a little useful work out of him.”

Faintly, in the background he heard Mario protest that he was always useful. Then came the sound of a blender.

“So, do you have a friend to spend the holiday with?” His mom could never resist inquiring about what, if any, friends he may have made at any given time.

“My translator, Tachibana, is here with me.”

“You talk about him all the time. Is he a looker?”

“Mom!” Hank felt himself blushing.

“Well, is he?” His mom had never been one for subtlety.

“He’s got a good face, but we aren’t romantic, if that’s what you mean.”

“So you aren’t going to bring back a Japanese husband? You can do that now, you know. Times have changed since you were in high school.”

“Yeah I know that.” How his mother could think that the past decade of GLBT equality in Canada had completely escaped his notice was beyond him. Sometimes he thought she was happier about gay marriage than he could ever be.

“I just think it would be a hoot to have a big nice wedding and show all those boys who were mean to you up. Do you remember Jerry Slidecki from your class? He just got married in Toronto. To a man.”

“Really? Jerry Slidecki?” He mainly remembered Jerry as one of the many jocks who’d lost a couple of teeth during junior league hockey games. “He was never mean to me. He just ignored me. How did you find out about his wedding?”

“I ran into his mother in the supermarket, and she showed me the pictures on her new phone. I sure would like to have one of those phones.”

“Maybe Santa will bring you one,” Hank suggested, though he felt slightly odd making an offhanded remark about Santa after his previous conversation with Tachibana.

“I sure hope so.”

His mother passed the phone to his sister, who passed it to Mario and on down the list. Once Hank had said a few words to his baffled youngest niece (age two), his father recaptured the phone.

“Well, I think we’re all just about lit here now,” he announced, though Hank thought the statement was somewhat belated. They had clearly all been lit already when he’d phoned.

“All right, I’ll let you go then. I wish I could have been there, but—”

“I know, you’ve got a book to research. Your mother’s been telling everyone in town about it.” His father laughed.

“Hey, you got Mom that phone she wanted, right?”

“What am I, an idiot? Of course I did.” His father’s voice lowered to a slightly boozy whisper. “If there’s one thing that thirty-five years of marriage has taught me is to catch a hint, and she’s been hinting pretty hard since October. I think it’s time for bed. That eggnog packs a wallop once you get to be my age. It was good talking to you.”

“Same here.”

Hank disconnected and lay back on the tatami mat, staring up at the ceiling. When he was younger he’d missed plenty of Christmases, but that had been back in his self-centered rebellious years. Now he wanted nothing more than to be with his family.

He closed his eyes. He had to pull himself together. He didn’t want Tachibana to come back in the room and think he was some kind of sentimental fag.

“Don’t look so sad, Mr. Caldwell. I am here to rescue your Christmas.”

Hank’s eyes popped open immediately.

Fingers knelt over him, licking his lips. His fingers wiggled above Hank’s primary red zone. “Can I give you your Christmas present now?”

“Is it a blowjob?”

“How did you know?”

“Let’s just say I’m psychic that way.” Hank glanced over at the tiny Christmas tree that Tachibana had given him. The loneliness he had felt at being so far from his family suddenly washed over him. It sounded crazy, even as he thought it, but would it be so bad to give Fingers what he wanted? He heard himself say, “If I let you do this, will you go away?”

“No, you are my forever lover.”

“Holy crap.” Hank rolled over.

Big mistake. Apparently taking this for an invitation, Fingers lay fully on him, nuzzling his face down into Hank’s neck, whispering, “You will be mine.”

“No, I won’t.” Yet the feeling of another man’s weight on him was so pleasing. So comforting…

But this was not a man; this was some sort of apparition. More than that, if Tachibana was correct, it was an apparition generated by another man. Wouldn’t it be better to find the man whose desire had generated Fingers and sleep with him instead?

But there was a problem with that too, really. Following the logic of Tachibana’s theory, Fingers was like an Internet avatar. His real body could be anyone anywhere. He could be a sixty-seven-year-old grandmother for all Hank knew.

But wouldn’t it be interesting to find out? Just for the sake of research?

“Where do you come from?”

“Heaven. And I will take you there with my lovemaking. I am like the gay Genji except I don’t have malaria.”

Hank rolled his eyes and shifted. Fingers held on tighter. “Give me some room to breathe, will you? Lay down beside me.”

Fingers complied, settling himself down next to Hank. The weak winter light streaming in through the window illuminated Fingers’s face. Now that he was close enough and calm enough to notice, Hank could see that the yokai was truly handsome in a demonic kind of way, when his features weren’t exaggerated by his emotion. He smiled at Fingers, which made the yokai lurch forward to plant a sloppy, tongue-intensive kiss on his mouth. Hank recoiled, spluttering.

“God, stop it. Who taught you to kiss?”

Fingers shrank back. “No one. I have never kissed before.”

“I can tell.” Hank dragged the back of his hand across his damp mouth and chin. “I think that in the future you might have better luck with your seductions if you learn.”

“Will you teach me?”

Hank almost said no, but didn’t. Maybe it was the missing his family, or maybe it was the talk of Jerry Slidecki’s big gay wedding. Hell, maybe it was Christmas blues, but he found himself agreeing to teach a Japanese spirit how to kiss. He must be out of his mind. “It will be my Christmas present to you, okay?”

“Yes, please instruct me.”

“First, you don’t go right for the tongue. To start off, just use your lips. Like this.” He leaned across and very gently kissed Fingers’s lips. As he did so he felt a familiar stirring in his stomach. A fluttering feeling that leaped up quite unexpectedly. “You can put your hand on me.”

Fingers went right for his ass, grinning as he palmed Hank’s cheek. The first stirrings of excitement turned to annoyance.

Hank said, “Don’t go right for the money. Try my waist.”

“Of course. I’m very sorry.” Fingers corrected himself with an expression of mortification on his face that softened Hank’s irritation. He lay back against the woven mat floor.

“Now you try. Slowly.”

Fingers took a deep breath and then closed the distance between them. He kissed Hank very sweetly on his lips once and then twice. Then, in a seeming wave of inspiration, he kissed his way down Hank’s throat to his collarbones. Hot yearning flushed through Hank’s body at the gentle contact, and he suddenly wondered if this lesson was really a good idea or not. Because though his brain knew that Fingers was an otherworldly spirit, his cock apparently wasn’t so discerning about who or what it responded to. And neither were his arms, which closed around Fingers as though he were a person. His right hand found its way into Fingers’s thick, silky hair.

A quick learner, Fingers kept at it. He kissed his way back up Hank’s neck to reach his mouth again. He paused, breathlessly. “Now what should I do?”

“Keep your mouth mostly closed, and use just the tip of your tongue to lick my lips. Whatever you do, don’t stick it all the way in. I’m not into deep throating your demon tongue.”

“Yes, teacher.”

“And don’t call me teacher.”

“Yes, my darling.”

“Just Hank is fine.”

“Hank.” The word escaped Fingers’s mouth in a quiet breath. Then the yokai did as instructed. Hank’s lips parted and he teased back. Their tongues touched and twined, and their mouths met in a long, deep phrase. Hank ran his hands down Fingers’s back, feeling the muscles beneath his suit jacket, pulling Fingers down onto him.

They broke off, breathlessly. Fingers searched Hank’s face expectantly. Hank said, “That’s good.”

“Can I try again?”

“Sure. Kissing isn’t just for lips, you know?”

“I know.”

“Help me get out of this T-shirt.”

Fingers’s eyes flashed wide, and he seized Hank’s shirt with rending grip. Hank’s hands closed over his. “Don’t tear it.”

Fingers relaxed his grip and very gently pulled Hank’s shirt over his head. The December air was pleasantly chill on his damp skin. The yokai gazed down at him with an expression of wonderment and awe.

“Your nipples are beautiful. May I?”

“Be my guest.”

Fingers bent and with great care kissed first his right nipple. Hank braced himself, expecting uncalled-for enthusiasm. Instead, Fingers’s kiss was gentle, a play of tongue and lip on his sensitive skin, and Hank found himself arching into the sensation, encouraging him to linger.

Fingers used his tongue, sucking the hardening nub deeper. Sharp need shot down Hank’s spine, and he breathed heavily. Fingers kissed his way across Hank’s chest and laved Hank’s other nipple.

Hank held Fingers tightly against him, wanting to feel more of him, on him. Hank urged Fingers to face him, and then he kissed him, forgetting he was supposed to be instructing the spirit, instead just reveling in the sensation of hot flesh on flesh, mouth open to the plundering.

Fingers broke their kiss, and Hank gripped his shoulders. “Kiss me again,” he said roughly.

“Should I use a deep kiss or a shallow one?”

“A deep one.”

Their mouths met again, and Hank moaned softly into his mouth. The yokai’s weight felt so good. Too good. Hank’s cock roared for attention now, no longer confined by his flannel pajamas. Fingers glanced down, and the sight of the tip of Hank’s cock seemed to make the yokai freeze for a moment.

“You are so beautiful, Hank,” he said. “Can I touch you there?”

“You haven’t even loosened your tie,” Hank said.

Fingers reached up to do so. He looked perplexed and tugged harder, then gave Hank a stricken look. “It doesn’t loosen.”

“Let me see.” Hank tried as well, but the cloth didn’t budge. He went for the buttons on Fingers’s shirt, but they too were stuck as if glued. Same with Fingers’s belt. “Haven’t you ever taken your clothes off before?”

“Never.” Fingers tugged at his tie again, only managing to stretch his neck sideways, the sight of which made Hank’s erection wilt. “Maybe I am only a suit. Maybe I don’t have a body inside.”

“You have a body. I can feel it.” Hank ran his hands over Fingers’s arms, chest, thighs, even his stiff and pleasantly large cock. The muscles were all there beneath the impossible clothes. Not even Fingers’s shoes came off. Hank tried pulling up his pants leg, but it only rose to the top of his business-length black sock, revealing no skin.

“Who cares if my clothes stay on?” Fingers said. “Please just let me make love with you.”

“I care.” The surreal difficulty of the clothes had brought Hank back to his senses. Fingers wasn’t a human, and no stories where humans made love with yokai ever ended well.

More than that, there was no telling when Tachibana would return. It was the middle of the day, for chrissakes.

“Listen, it’s not that I don’t like you. I just don’t think that it can work out between us,” Hank used his most reasonable break-up tone. “You’re not even human. I don’t know if I can handle that. I’m sorry.”

“I could be as good as a human,” Fingers said.

“Maybe you could go find another yokai to fall in love with.”

“No, I am in love with you. We are fated to be together. But I understand that I must prove myself to you. I will return to you when I am worthy.” Fingers stood and bowed and dissipated like mist.

A few minutes later Tachibana returned. He paused in the doorway, seeming to make a lengthy and perplexed survey of Hank’s disheveled clothes, his bare chest. “How is your family?”

“They’re good,” Hank replied automatically, grabbing his T-shirt. “Everything is good.”

Chapter Seven

Hank spent the few days buried in research. He went to the local museums and historical society as well as the Useful Silver Person’s League to see if any of the seniors knew anything. The search for their Aomori bartender’s friend, Mrs. Kurokawa, was a bust. She had moved into her daughter’s place far to the south in Tottori Prefecture the previous spring.

As always Tachibana stayed by his side.

Mostly Tachibana remained silent, listening and nodding, hands in his pockets in a casual manner. It seemed that since their conversation about the fruitcake on Christmas, Tachibana had seemed more at ease around him, often mentioning facts or details about his life. Though they’d traveled together as coworkers for nearly a year, Hank felt as though they’d finally become friends. Tachibana had even taken the unprecedented step of patting him on the shoulder once after a particularly frustrating day.

Completing interviews wasn’t easy. Many people, particularly the seniors, were busy with preparations for the New Year’s holiday, especially with a ritualistic form of “spring cleaning” called osoji. By New Year’s Eve traditional decorations had appeared on doors throughout the area. These shimekazari were small, bouquet-like explosions of rope, straw, and often tangerines. Some Japanese even wired shimekazari to the fronts of their cars the way Canadian holiday enthusiasts might affix wreaths to their truck grills back home.

Through dogged persistence (and, Hank suspected, copious cash), Tachibana was able to charter a motor boat to take them out on the lake to view the wreck of the Yasuragi Maru. The skipper was a short, stout, middle-aged man with a thick beard and bushy eyebrows that lay heavily over deep-set eyes. He seemed amused that they wanted to know about the Yasuragi Maru.

“Everyone who owns a boat out here has heard of it,” he said. “And of course there are the stories about the Devil, if you believe in that stuff.”

“Do you believe in yokai?” Hank asked.

“Well, yokai . . . .” The skipper cocked his head to the side and answered with the usual vagueness that Hank had come to expect from grown Japanese men. “It’s an interesting question, isn’t it? Everybody thinks they see a yokai at least once in their life, right? What about you? Do you believe in yokai?”

“Until recently I haven’t, but I’ve changed my mind,” Hank answered simply.

“It’s pretty risky to get on this boat then, isn’t it?” the skipper said, smiling. “What happens if we’re attacked? Aren’t you scared?”

Hank glanced sideways at Tachibana. “It’s like Tachibana here says—if yokai exist, then they’ve always existed, right? So it’s not any more dangerous than it was before I started believing in them.”

The skipper let out an enormous laugh, glancing between the two men. “That’s one way to think about it, isn’t it?”

Then the skipper’s attention was drawn back to navigating across the pristine waters. Tachibana moved closer to him, bending close to speak above the sound of the chill wind rushing over them. “So you’ve accepted the supernatural completely now, haven’t you?”

“Are you disappointed?”

Tachibana’s mouth curled into a tight, understated smile. “Not at all.”

“I still don’t know what to write in my book,” Hank admitted.

“Maybe you’ll end up writing a different book.”

“Maybe.” Hank pulled his coat closer in around him. “If I wrote what I really knew, do you think anyone would take me seriously?”

“Probably not. That’s life, though, isn’t it?”

Hank gave a short laugh. “Being ridiculed for writing a crazy book is life?”

“Sometimes.”

They reached the site of the sunken vessel a few minutes later. The skipper cut the engine, and they floated there above it, the water lapping against the boat the only sound he could hear. Because of the clarity of the water, he could actually see the ferry far below them. It was a small boat, obviously made and used in a time before Japan’s population had grown to its current size. Hank could see white paint with red trim. More than anything else it resembled the wooden paddle-wheel dinner-cruise boats in Vancouver—two levels and a small outside deck. At the edge of the hull were long, kelpy strands of vegetation. In places they seemed to encircle parts of the boat.

“What are those shadowy things down there?” he asked.

“Lake grasses, I suppose, or pondweed.” The skipper smiled slyly. “Or they could be part of the Devil, you never know.”

Tachibana stepped up between them, as he often did when interview subjects teased Hank. Though the gesture was somewhat proprietary, Hank mostly found his interventions both useful and relieving. Tachibana said, “Did you know the skipper of this vessel?”

“Sure I did. Yagi was his name. Hard man. Egotistical and liked to drink, but went down with his ship like a real captain,” the skipper said.

“Was the cause of the accident ever discovered?” Tachibana continued to eye the skipper levelly.

“Not really. Weather on the lake is usually pretty good, but what I heard was that a fog came in and the captain tried some maneuver that caused the boat to take on water. I could see how it could happen. Ferry boats are shallow and top heavy to begin with, plus those old boats have minds of their own sometimes.” The skipper gazed down at the boat thoughtfully. “The boat was more than a hundred years old, and Yagi had only been captaining her for a little while. You know who you should contact? Ayako Minami.”

“Who is that?”

“Town spiritualist. She does fortune-telling and has been said to be able to contact the dead. Maybe she could contact Yagi, and then you could find out what really happened.” The radio in the boat’s cabin sounded a staticky burst, and the skipper went to answer.

Hank sighed. “What do you think about this Ayako? Should we go see her?”

Tachibana shrugged. “I suppose it has to be done.”

* * *

As it turned out, seeing the spiritualist could hurt. It could hurt Tachibana’s travel budget.

Not that he was against hurting his budget, but he preferred to incur financial injuries paying for fancy hotels and meals rather than by engaging tacky and probably fake psychics.

Ayako Minami lived in a tiny apartment above a shop that sold the iconic Tsugaru-nuri lacquerware to tourists during the summer high season. Tachibana imagined that this was when Ayako made most of her money as well, selling consultations to the many summer visitors desperate to spend their vacation money as quickly as possible. Her house was crammed from top to bottom with knickknacks, doilies, and shelves full of charms for sale. Mostly love charms. A large, flat-screen television took up much of the room and was tuned to some New Year’s variety special that seemed to be featuring boy bands dressed in traditional clothing singing banal pop songs.

Ayako wore a beige business suit, much gold jewelry, and huge sunglasses, even though they were indoors.

Like most of the professional psychics Tachibana had encountered on his journeys with Mr. Caldwell, Ayako immediately took the foreigner for a sucker and asked him for three times the rate listed on her sign for her spiritual services.

Tachibana stepped forward, scowling slightly at the racks of charms. “Professor Caldwell is here on an academic study, not for spiritual advice.”

“But I can see that he is besieged by an otherworldly force.” Ayako held her hands up, as though pushing back a wave of supernatural power. Her fingers moved through a series of motions that Tachibana strongly suspected she’d picked up watching Yu-Gi-Oh! or some other children’s show. They certainly had no effect on him.

Mr. Caldwell’s interest had clearly been piqued. “What otherworldly force?”

“Have you been visited by any spirits recently?” Ayako leaned forward seriously. “People with unfinished business?”

Tachibana rolled his eyes. Was there anything more cliché than unfinished business at New Year’s? This Ayako was fishing. Nothing more. Vaguely, in the back of his mind, he wondered how he could be so sure. Yet he felt certain that this woman had no spiritual power whatsoever. Even the charms lining the wall appeared to be mere trinkets possessing no feeling of power. Nothing like the charms his grandmother sent.

He would have to ask his grandmother where she got those when he got back to Tokyo. Not that he needed more, exactly. For the first time, he wondered if he actually wanted to restrain Fingers any longer. Mr. Caldwell had certainly responded to him on Christmas day. Granted, he had been the only male present in a foreign land, but if Tachibana concentrated, he could remember the feel of Hank’s lips, of his muscular body. Not touching him during the last few days had been supremely difficult, but he had restrained himself to one friendly pat, even though all he wanted was to leap on him, force him to the tatami mat, and further investigate the area under Mr. Caldwell’s clothes.

Mr. Caldwell sat at the table opposite Ayako. His expression became slightly lewd as he said, “Yes, as a matter of fact, I have started something I didn’t get to finish recently.”

He could be referring to nothing but his interrupted lovemaking session with Fingers, Tachibana realized. Torn between pain and glee, he opened his wallet and handed over the exorbitant amount of yen.

“Do you know your Japanese astrological sign?” Ayako asked.

“Rabbit,” Mr. Caldwell answered.

Ayako’s eyes widened. “Did you know that 2011 is a rabbit year?”

“Yes, I’ve been told that before.”

Tachibana watched as Ayako asked to see Mr. Caldwell’s hands. Her eyes darted to his ring finger. Then she said, “Rabbits have good luck in love this year. A rabbit might find his mate.”

“What about his forever love that he is bound to by a red thread?” Mr. Caldwell wiggled his pinkie at her. Tachibana winced.

“Forever love!” Ayako waved a dismissive hand across the table. “Oh, you’ve been watching too much television.”

“Perhaps. What I actually came to ask you about was the Yasuragi Maru and the Devil of Lake Towada,” Mr. Caldwell said. “A skipper out on the lake said you might know something about it.”

“Oh yes, they called me to help try and contact the spirit of the ship’s most recent captain, Aoki. He drowned just a few weeks before the boat sank.” Ayako folded her hands, her gold bracelets clanking together as she did so. “They asked me to try because my family has lived here for twelve generations, and we have a deep connection to this spiritual place.”

Funny, Tachibana thought, he could have sworn he detected an Osaka accent, but he wasn’t going to say anything. It wasn’t as though Mr. Caldwell would take her advice seriously.

Hopefully.

“Did you contact Aoki?” Mr. Caldwell asked.

“No, his spirit was too far gone. I can’t just contact spirits people choose. I have to go where the psychic power leads me. I can tell that you have tremendous spiritual power, Mr. Caldwell.”

“What about me?” Tachibana asked.

Ayako gave him the once-over before saying, “Nothing.”

Tachibana looked at his watch. “We really should be going if we’re going to make it to dinner.”

“Just a minute,” Mr. Caldwell said. “About this person with whom I have unfinished business.”

“Yes?”

“Will I finish it?”

“I would advise you to do just that. You will see this person again and you must finish what is between you. All the year’s debts should be settled up by the time the New Year’s bells ring tonight,” Ayako said solemnly. “Especially as you are a rabbit. You need to start your zodiac year off right.”

“Thank you.” Mr. Caldwell rose, holding his hat to his chest in that endearingly cowboy way he had. “That’s all I needed to know.”

Chapter Eight

Following their visit to Ayako, Tachibana made the executive decision that they should stop at the liquor store for a bottle Crown Royal and then adjourn to their hotel for dinner and a soak in their outdoor bath. Mr. Caldwell agreed, but when it came time to shed their clothes and egress to the chilly outdoors, he suddenly had some notes to go over.

Since the revelation that Tachibana knew of Mr. Caldwell’s homosexuality, Mr. Caldwell had been strangely demure about being naked together with him.

Disappointed but not surprised, Tachibana took the whiskey and went out on his own, hoping Mr. Caldwell would overcome his reticence and join him later.

Tachibana sank into the warm water. The alcohol, combined with the steamy water, loosened his muscles, and soon his thoughts began to drift.

He wished, for the first time that he could simply be Fingers. Not because Mr. Caldwell had said he liked him, but because if he could control the yokai, he might actually be able to do what that hack spiritualist in town could not—go to the source. If he could integrate with Fingers, he might be able to somehow contact the Yasuragi Maru and ask it what happened. He’d completed dozens of interviews for Mr. Caldwell before. Surely if the boat had truly become a yokai, it would have a story of its own to tell.

But that thought was mere foolishness. Even if Tachibana could accept the yokai as part of him and thereby gain some influence over him, Fingers couldn’t scuba dive down to the bottom of Lake Towada in the middle of winter. He would die of cold.

Or would he?

He tried to solidify the image of Fingers in his mind. He put him in a white and silver scuba suit with shiny silver tanks.

I won’t need those. Love is my oxygen.

Tachibana’s eyes flashed open. He looked around. Through the haze of steam, he saw Fingers standing in the snow, eyes blazing with intensity. He blinked, and Fingers was already walking through the snow, absurd in his silver flippers. Humiliation knifed through Tachibana, and he hoped with all his heart that no one was around to see this display. Fingers stumbled, fell into the snow, and seemed to fade, becoming nearly transparent. He looked back over his shoulder.

Don’t give up. We can do this. Together.

The words sounded in his head. Could his doubt really be affecting Fingers?

Believe in me.

Tachibana sighed. He unscrewed the top of the whiskey bottle and took a warming swig. What had his American host father called this? Dutch courage? Could it still be Dutch courage even with Canadian whiskey? Tachibana took another gulp, and strange confidence suffused him. He lay back in the water and pushed thoughts of others from him. He didn’t care what anyone thought of his yokai. He didn’t care if the creature seemed ridiculous.

In the snow beyond the hotel, Fingers stood, seeming stronger.

Close your eyes.

Tachibana did so, but rather than the darkness behind his eyelids, he saw the cold surface of the lake before him. Now he saw through Fingers’s eyes, he realized. Fear briefly flared up in his chest as the yokai walked straight into the frigid water. Goose bumps rose over his skin, but the hot spring waters kept him warm as Fingers submerged himself.

And then it was as though they were one. Tachibana no longer felt his human body. He simply was Fingers, moving through the cold lake water. Below he saw the lake floor, thick with lake grasses. Here and there, he thought he could see other forms moving. Water sprites. They must be. Some were like men with turtle shells. Others beautiful women, all looking at him with blank surprise, as though he were crashing a party. One turtle-shelled man, a kappa, swam up beside him.

“What are you doing in our lake?”

“I’m searching for the wreck of the Yasuragi Maru.”

The kappa recoiled from him, somersaulting backward through the water before swimming up alongside him. “You don’t want to go there. The Devil lives there.”

“I wanted to talk to his boat,” Fingers said. “I wanted to find out if it was true that the boat killed him.”

“It is true, but no one knows why.”

“Then I aim to find out.”

“What’s the point? Why get involved in other people’s business?” The kappa swam along with him, clearly seeing no irony in his statement, since he was obviously concerning himself with Fingers’s business right now. “You should be at home cleaning up for New Year’s. That’s what we’re doing.”

The kappa gestured expansively through the water. At first Tachibana couldn’t see the other creatures the kappa referred to. Then he caught sight of them.

Below, three or four water sprites trailed them. They were mostly naked, with bluish skin and ropy hair that floated around their faces like seaweed. It was so unfair, he thought, that female water sprites should be beautiful while male ones looked like big nasty turtles. He wondered briefly how exactly one did year-end housecleaning in a lake. Then he saw one of the sprites held what looked like a discarded car battery in her hands. Another held a collection of old beer bottles.

“It must be hard work moving all the garbage from a lake this big,” Fingers remarked. He made a mental note to never litter again.

“We throw it up on the shore. Then the forest spirits throw it back in the lake next year. It’s a never ending cycle,” the kappa said. “You could help us if you want.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t. I must find out about the Devil to win my love, Mr. Caldwell.”

“Mr. Caldwell? What kind of name is that?”

“He is a Canadian. We’re fated to be together.” Fingers held up his hand to show the kappa the red thread tied around his finger. “This proves it.”

All at once the three sprites swam up to surround him, inspecting the finger and its thread. The kappa somersaulted again, his mirth apparent.

“That thread doesn’t prove anything. Look at my finger.” Wound around the kappa’s finger were at least two dozen red threads. The kappa grinned. “Stay alive long enough, and your finger will look just like this.”

“No, I am a true pure love manifestation. I exist only to find my love and help him, and if you won’t help me, get out of my way.”

“Whoa, I’m not in your way. I just don’t want you to be killed by the Devil. You seem like a nice enough fellow, though you look a little weird.”

“He’s that yokai we’ve heard about who keeps manifesting in the human world,” one of the water sprites said. “He likes to hang around in toilets.”

“Do you really feel true love for the Canadian?” another wanted to know.

“I do. I have felt infatuation before, but there was never a thread around my finger until Mr. Caldwell. And I do not hang around in toilets.”

“There’s nothing wrong with toilets,” the third quickly broke in. “They’re not really our thing, but you can do whatever you want.”

“How do you know about me?” Fingers asked.

“Sometimes we go to the surface. One of the skippers on the lake likes to watch television, and we watch too,” the kappa replied. “You were on television because of the hot-spring incident in Nakakawane.”

“He lets you on his boat?”

“No, we watch from the water. My favorite are game shows. I like Downtown no Gaki no Tsukai ya Arahende!! best. Especially the haunted-hospital episode.” The kappa grew more animated as he described the hapless contestants on the show, ending with, “The girls like historical soap operas.”

“The skipper only watches those when his wife is around, though,” one of the sprites put in. “So we miss a lot of episodes. Do you want to go watch television with us? The New Year’s variety specials are on tonight.”

“What I want is to speak with the boat. Can you help me?”

The sprites looked at one another and then at the kappa, seeming to confer without speech. Finally the kappa said, “We can draw the Devil away, but only for a few minutes.”

“You have my deepest gratitude.”

They swam on through the dark water, leading Fingers toward the sunken wreck of the small ferry. It sat askew on the lake floor, its red and white paint still vibrant in places, chipping in others. Strange blue flames seemed to dance around it, refracting through the clear lake water, throwing eerie, tentacle-like shadows. As he looked closer he saw that these were the long ropes of pond grass Tachibana had seen from the surface earlier in the day. Underwater and through his yokai eyes, the grasses clung to the sunken boat like the arms of an enormous octopus.

“Those belong to the Devil,” one of the sprites whispered to him. “He never lets her go.”

Fingers regarded at the old boat, pitying her situation. Sunk at the bottom of a lake and encircled with dark tentacles from a man she clearly hated. It would be good for Mr. Caldwell to get the story, but maybe even better for her to get some publicity. Maybe she could be set free to…do whatever boat yokai did. “How will you distract him?”

“We know ways.” The kappa gave him a sly look. “When the tentacles move away, you can move in. Come on, girls.”

The kappa darted away, the sprites in hot pursuit. The four of them reached the edge of the shadowy tentacles and suddenly started to cavort and sing.

“Come drink with us, Devil!” the kappa called.

Through the water came a low grumble, like a growl. It shook the water around Fingers.

“Get away.” The words came at Fingers like a shockwave, vibrating through his whole body, and for the first time in his existence he felt fear. What was he doing here? He was nothing but a harmless love yokai. This was a demon.

Perhaps he should go back to the ryokan. Mr. Caldwell would be there. He would never know that Fingers had come this far and run. Tachibana would certainly never tell him.

The water sprites kept singing, darting forward and backward toward the lashing tentacles. One shook her tiny breasts at the Devil, calling him out. “Are you a man or not, Devil? Come drink with us! Or can’t you hold your liquor?”

Another sprite joined the first. “He can’t hold his liquor? What a useless man!”

Shame flooded Fingers. If water sprites armed with nothing more than cleavage and sass could face the Devil for him, surely he must continue. And what better way to prove himself to Mr. Caldwell than to risk everything?

The tentacles lashed out at the sprites, who continued taunting it. The kappa went so far as to grab onto one with his turtlelike beak and give it a tug before diving away from a second tentacle that tried to encircle his leg.

“You can’t stay home all the time, Devil,” the kappa called. “Don’t be unsociable.”

“Shut up, you noisy lot,” the Devil’s voice rumbled through the water.

“Make us, old man.” The sprite who had been wiggling her breasts turned and mooned him.

In the blink of an eye, the Devil was after them. The shadow tentacles struck with frightening speed, moving through the water like a curling ink stain. “I’ll teach you to speak to me like that.”

The kappa gave Fingers one last grin before pivoting in the water to flee. The sprites did the same, leading the tentacles away long enough for Fingers to dive down to the wreck of the Yasuragi Maru.

He swam alongside the hull to where the paddlewheel hung askew. Tentatively, he ran his hand along the edge of a blade. Red paint flaked off beneath his touch.

“Who is there?” a woman’s voice asked. Her accent reminded him of his grandmother in her more archaic moments, but younger, more sensual.

“I’m just a harmless yokai, madam. I’m very pleased to meet you.”

A faint light, like a flame, danced out from the submerged cabin. It hung in the frigid water in front of him. The boat’s voice emanated from the center of the flame. “It’s dangerous to play here, young gentleman.”

“I am not playing, madam. I came to find out what happened to you.” Fingers heard the low rumbling of the Devil angrily pursuing his new friends through the lake. “I want to help you if I can.”

“The only way you can help me is to destroy that man,” the boat said.

“How can I do that?”

“I don’t know. I locked him in the cabin, capsized and drowned him, but he didn’t go into the next world. He had too much blackness in him to go down.”

“Why did you drown him?” Fingers could see why a person wouldn’t like the Devil, but drowning seemed extreme.

“He killed Aoki.”

“Who is that?”

“My forever love.” Yearning sounded through the boat’s voice. “He is waiting for me in the next world, but the Devil is too jealous to let me go.”

A wall of sound like a clap of thunder rocked through the water, sending Fingers tumbling into the crooked paddlewheel.

“You must go now, young gentleman,” the boat said.

“Thank you for everything, madam.” Fingers tried his best to bow, but it was hard under the water. Then he piked and swam as fast as he could for the shore. Behind him he could still hear the kappa and the sprites mocking the Devil. He wished he could stay and talk to them more, but his mission had been accomplished.

And besides, he felt strange.

For the first time since he’d come underwater, he felt short of breath. His lungs burned, but he was still yards beneath the surface. He kicked harder, reaching for the air above. Light seared into his eyes, and he felt himself fading as he did when he was about to vanish.

Tachibana became suddenly aware of being separate from Fingers. Suddenly the water went from frigidly cold to burning hot. He couldn’t breathe.

Then something wrapped around his arm and yanked him up. He coughed and spluttered and opened his eyes to see Mr. Caldwell kneeling on the edge of the hot-springs pool, soaked from splashing water, face dark with concern.

“Are you all right?”

Tachibana couldn’t answer at first. He coughed more and heaved himself out of the water, feeling dizzy and sick.

Mr. Caldwell put an arm around his shoulders to steady him. “Should I call a doctor?”

“No,” Tachibana managed to wheeze out. “I think I just stayed in the tub too long.”

“I thought you’d drowned, buddy.” Mr. Caldwell’s hand slid around Tachibana’s waist in a self-conscious man hug.

“Me too, for a minute. Thank you.”

“No problem.” Mr. Caldwell released him, rose, and fetched a fresh white towel. “I’m just glad I came in when I did. I almost lost my bodyguard.”

“Bodyguard?”

“Yeah, that’s how I kind of think of you. You’re always there when I need you.” Mr. Caldwell’s expression became sheepish. “I know it sounds like a bad come-on, but just put up with it, okay?”

Tachibana smiled, warm pride swelling his chest. “Okay.”

Tottering slightly, Tachibana stood and scraped the towel across his steaming skin, grateful for the coldness of the air. How long had he been underwater? Was it just for a moment, or had he been there long enough to drown, but didn’t? If Mr. Caldwell hadn’t been there to help him, would he have found the surface at all? One thing was certain: he’d found out valuable information. Now he had only to find the right time to reveal it. He couldn’t say he’d had a vision while underwater—he didn’t want to explain about Fingers and him right now. Not when he felt so shaky. Possibly not ever.

As Tachibana made his way back into the room, Mr. Caldwell moved alongside him, tense, apparently ready to spring into action if he toppled over.

Rather than feeling embarrassed, he felt comforted. He flopped down onto his futon and let Mr. Caldwell pull the comforter over him. When Mr. Caldwell sat back down at the low table, Tachibana said, “I guess tonight you’re my bodyguard.”

Mr. Caldwell shrugged. “What comes around goes around.”

Nearby, from the small town of Yasumiya, he heard the temple bells ringing in the New Year.

Chapter Nine

In spite of the spiritualist’s solemnly intoned prediction, Hank hadn’t seen Fingers the previous evening. He felt surprisingly disappointed about it. He had been sure that the yokai would appear at midnight. The conditions had been perfect—the near-drowned Tachibana had fallen asleep almost immediately.

He had even gone outside and hummed Auld Lang Syne in the hopes of attracting a New Year’s kiss.

Nothing.

And if deliberately attempting to attract a horny yokai to help him ring in the New Year wasn’t a sign that he needed to find a man soon, Hank didn’t know what was.

On New Year’s Day the workers and the guests at their hotel were in good humor, many decked out in kimonos, including Tachibana. Hank put on a suit and tie, and they went together to the dining room to have traditional breakfast, which consisted of many small dishes including a kind of vegetable soup with chewy rice dumplings. Hank surmised that with the generally festive atmosphere, they would get nothing done today and said so.

“I agree.” Tachibana finished off his soup, leaned back, and lit a cigarette. “We might as well enjoy the holiday.”

“Do you want to call your family? I imagine they’re up by now.”

“Later on.”

“What about your girlfriend?”

An expression of profound confusion furrowed Tachibana’s brow. “What makes you think I have a girlfriend?”

“You’re always talking about Tomoko,” Hank said. “I guess I assumed she was your girlfriend.”

“Tomoko is my older sister,” Tachibana replied.

Older sister, Hank thought. That does make a lot more sense.

“I thought we’d go to the shrine in Yasumiya and pay our respects. We could get you a hamaya to take back to Canada with you.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a white arrow that you get at the shrine. It would make an excellent souvenir,” Tachibana said. “And I thought we could hurl the fruitcake.”

Hank blinked. Was that some sort of euphemism? Finally he had to ask.

“Maybe it’s an American tradition?” Tachibana seemed confused.

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“When I was an exchange student in Colorado, around New Year’s there was an enormous festival where people threw fruitcakes. I thought that since you didn’t eat yours, you were waiting to throw it. Here in Japan we throw dry beans on New Year’s, but it would be just as good to throw a fruitcake, I think.”

“I think that might have been some sort of wacky thing specific to Manitou Springs.”

“Maybe. It was an amazing festival. Some people even built catapults. My host father believed in purity, though. He threw it like a shot put.”

“Let’s do it. I could definitely get behind hurling a fruitcake.”

“There is also a special cruise around the lake. I bought us tickets earlier in the week before we found the boat to charter. I thought you should get a chance to see how beautiful the natural scenery is without having to simultaneously interview anyone.” Tachibana stubbed out his cigarette and checked his watch. “The lake cruise leaves at two.”

They gathered their coats and the doomed fruitcake and headed toward Yasumiya.

Though not enormous, the shrine in Yasumiya was busy. Large white torii gates arched over a path that led to a red pagoda. The front of the shrine had been opened in anticipation of the many New Year’s visitors. A steady stream of Japanese, some wearing colorful silk kimonos with fur collars, others in their formal Western best, came and went, all making their first visits of the year. Hank followed Tachibana’s lead, first washing his hands with water from a bamboo ladle that sat in a rustic stone basin in front of the shrine, then climbing the shrine steps to stand before the offering box. Tachibana rang the gong that hung above the box, then threw in his yen coin, clapped, and bowed.

Hank did the same, hoping that whatever spirits resided in this particular shrine would favor him and his research. As he bowed, Hank realized that though he’d been to dozens of shrines before, he had never believed in them. Which is to say that he’d believed they were neat, exotic-looking, and highly photogenic buildings, but he’d never believed they housed spirits before. A sense of reverence unlike anything he’d ever felt before overcame him. He even felt himself tearing up.

Hurriedly he brushed the moisture beneath his lashes aside. When he glanced to Tachibana, he found his translator regarding him with an expression of concern and said, “Something in my eye,” to explain his sudden burst of emotion.

They descended the stairs and walked through the crowd to an outbuilding where miko, or shrine maidens, dressed in white and red sold the white arrows, as well as additional assorted charms.

Tachibana bought an arrow and handed it to him. The shaft was pure white with red fletching. Small gold charms hung from the end. Hank bought two more as souvenirs for his parents and sister. He had no idea how he would take them on the plane, but they were beautiful.

“They’re called demon-breaking arrows,” Tachibana explained as they walked back to the car.

“If only I’d had these at summer camp, I wouldn’t have been so afraid of going to the latrine at night,” Hank mused. This drew a smile from Tachibana.

They made it to the ferry dock with time to spare. Hank broke down and went inside a shop to buy some lacquerware, leaving Tachibana outside to smoke. He returned with multiple sets of chopsticks just as his bodyguard was crushing out his cigarette.

Tachibana cleared his throat. “I was just talking to an old woman, and she told me the story of the Yasuragi Maru.”

“Which old woman?” Hank glanced along the street. Stooped, elderly women abounded.

“She called on the phone while you were in the shop.” Tachibana pushed his hands farther into his kimono sleeves, shoulders up, protecting them from the cold. “It was Mrs. Kurokawa, the friend of our Aomori bartender. I left my number there in case the bartender thought of anyone we could contact here. Mrs. Kurokawa told me that the Devil was the ship’s first mate.”

“Is that documented?” Hank couldn’t remember Tachibana leaving his number, but then again, he had been pretty distracted at the end of the evening.

“We could check. I’m sure the accident was in the local newspaper. The old woman said the first mate had killed Aoki, and no one but the boat knew the first mate had done it. The boat was in love with her captain, you see, and she didn’t want his murderer to take command of her. So one day day, she locked the first mate in the cabin and capsized herself.” An expression of sorrow crossed Tachibana’s face.

“That’s bad news for the rest of the crew.” Hank looked out over the surface of the lake. It seemed so peaceful and calm. It was hard to imagine anything so violent could have happened here.

“They were rescued. The boat made sure of it. According to the old woman.”

“How does the old woman know all this?”

“She didn’t say.”

“We could dial her back,” Hank thought aloud. “Ask her a few more questions.”

Tachibana gave him a condemning look. “I don’t think she wants to talk much more about it. I think she’s afraid that the Devil will come for her too.”

“But that’s—” Hank started to say the old woman’s fear was ridiculous but stopped himself. If yokai and the supernatural world were real, then it might very well be true. She might have a valid reason for her fear. Suddenly the placid surface of the lake seemed threatening.

“The Devil didn’t stay dead, though. He managed to take his revenge on the boat. He holds her at the bottom of the lake, keeping her from voyaging in the spirit world. Aoki is there waiting for her, the old woman said.”

“It’s a romantic story,” Hank said. “Tragic, though.”

“Very tragic,” Tachibana agreed. “Not a story your gay love yokai would like.”

At the mention of Fingers, Hank could help but crack a sheepish smile. “No, I don’t think he would. He believes true love conquers all, apparently. He would probably want to go free her.”

“Is that so bad?” Tachibana gazed at him levelly.

“No, it’s not bad. It’s an admirable sentiment. Noble, even. I just don’t know how a person would go about it. Do you?”

“No,” Tachibana said. “Though I suppose a person could just go challenge the Devil. His manly pride would require him to fight.”

“And then what? I use my demon-breaking arrow to kill him?” Hank brandished the ornamental object in the air. “I’m pretty sure the arrow wouldn’t even penetrate the fruitcake, let alone a demon.”

Tachibana grinned at this. “You’re right. The fruitcake is dense like dark matter. Not even light escapes it. Better to challenge the Devil with it instead.”

Their tour boat arrived, and he and Tachibana and a couple dozen other tourists embarked. Many were foreigners, such as himself, being treated to an outing. Others were merely taking advantage of New Year’s days off to get in some sightseeing. It was the ubiquitous two-level tourist vessel he’d come to expect during his travels. The first level had a glassed-in area with seats in rows facing forward, like a lecture hall. A narrow deck bordered the main seating area. At the fore and aft of the vessel, iron stairs led up to an open observation deck, which no one occupied today, on account of the cold.

The cruise followed the lake’s shoreline, while a tour guide with a microphone explained various geological features that could be seen from their vantage point on the water.

The problem with this cruise, for Hank, was the tour guide’s accent. When he’d first come to Japan, he’d been baffled by the nasal, slightly whiny-sounding tone adopted by many tour guides, hotel concierges, and other hospitality employees. Though he’d eventually learned that this was a deliberate artifice, called the “service accent,” Hank still found it grating in large doses. A three-hour boat ride constituted a large dose for him. So about an hour into the tour, despite the cold, he took a break to go stand on the deck and avoid hearing it. Already familiar with Hank’s auditory aversion, Tachibana followed.

“That is the longest you’ve ever tolerated a tour guide talking,” he remarked. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks. But I needed some air anyway.” Hank leaned against the railing. Wind gusted around him. “We’re getting close to the shipwreck, aren’t we?”

“Right over there.” Tachibana took his place beside Hank, delving into his kimono sleeve for his Mild Sevens. As he did so, Hank once again saw the slips of paper tucked inside the cigarette pack’s cellophane wrapper.

“What are those anyway? You’re always carrying them.”

“Charms my grandmother gave me. They’re supposed to restrain yokai and demons and things like that.” Tachibana lit his smoke. “She’s always worried I’ll get into trouble traveling around with you.”

“Can I see them?”

Tachibana dutifully handed them over. They looked like nothing more than strips of paper with illegible Japanese cursive writing on them.

“Did your grandmother make these herself?”

“I don’t know,” Tachibana said. “Maybe she just cut them out of magazines. Who knows?”

“They don’t feel like magazine paper.” Hank ran one between his thumb and forefinger. “Do you think they would be enough to take on the Devil?”

“I don’t think so. They’re just words.”

“But when we were in the karaoke bar and that guy spilled his beer on you, one of them got ruined, and Fingers showed up almost immediately,” Hank reasoned. “That implies they were keeping him away.”

Maybe that was why he hadn’t seen Fingers for a while. He hadn’t been far enough from Tachibana to be outside the protective sphere of his grandmother’s charms.

“It’s possible.” Tachibana’s expression closed into opaque reserve. He clearly didn’t feel comfortable talking about his grandmother’s anti-supernatural efforts. Hank realized he should stop prying and offered the paper charms back. As he did so a gust of wind caught the edge of one and it slid out of his fingers.

Tachibana made a grab for it, and so did Hank. Their hands collided, both missing the charm while their faces came close enough to kiss. Hank drew himself back. The last thing he needed was for Tachibana to think he was some sort of lecher.

The charm fluttered down to the water below.

The fallen paper bobbed in the boat’s wake for a few seconds before being subsumed by the water. Hank glanced around guiltily, but no one saw him, thank God. He didn’t want to be seen littering on a historic lake.

Tachibana took the remaining charms from his hand but wasn’t looking at him. Instead he watched the surface of the water. He said, “You know, maybe they could help the boat. If it’s really true that she’s trapped down there. She must be sad.”

“What if it just provokes the Devil?” Hank tried to deliver this line in a jovial manner, but he felt real anxiety at the thought of provoking any devil now. Boats had been sunk on this lake, and they were far from shore.

“There’s already one in the water. I might as well go for it.” And then Tachibana let them go.

As Hank was watching them fly, he thought he caught sight of movement under the lake’s surface. But it wasn’t the Devil or anything supernatural. Just wildlife. A turtle.

“Do you see that?”

Tachibana’s eyes widened in surprise; then to Hank’s complete bewilderment, he waved.

“Do you know that turtle?”

“Yes, we met earlier.”

Hank straightened up. “You are acting extremely suspiciously today.”

“Me?” Tachibana pointed at his own nose—a Japanese gesture if there ever was one.

“Yes, you. And it’s not just today. Last night you nearly drowned, and you didn’t even seem rattled. Today you’re getting phone calls from mysterious old women and waving at turtles. This is not your normal behavior.”

Tachibana switched his gaze to the lake’s far shore. “I suppose it would seem like that to you.”

“What does that even mean? What is going on with you?”

Tachibana just shook his head. Finally he said, “Was there fog on the lake before?”

“Don’t try to get out of answering me by asking non sequitur questions,” Hank growled.

“I’m not. I think we might be in trouble.” Tachibana pointed out over the lake. Indeed mist seemed to be rising off the lake’s surface.

Distressingly, it rose from directly above the wreck of the Yasuragi Maru.

And it was rising fast. Hank tried to be optimistic. “Maybe it’s normal mist.”

“I don’t think normal mist rises that quickly.”

“Do you have any more charms?”

Tachibana finally looked at him. “We have the fruitcake. We could try throwing that in.”

“Are you serious?”

“No,” Tachibana said. The wall of mist approached like a giant hand reaching for them. Before Hank could suggest they tell the boat’s crew, it swept over the boat carried on an icy wind. From inside he could hear the other passengers’ cries of startled surprise. A crewman rushed out on the deck, trying to corral them back into the boat’s glassed-in cabin.

“Please come inside,” he said.

“We’ll stay out here,” Tachibana said. Hank gaped at him in shock. How could he say that? What did he think he was going to do?

“I demand that you come inside!” the crewman shouted, face turning red.

“I’m sorry, I can’t,” Tachibana replied. “You should go inside, though, Hank.”

“I won’t leave you. I’m the one with the fruitcake.”

With a wet thock a tendril of something curled around the boat’s outer railing. It was thin and sinuous, like a lanky piece of kelp, covered with ragged leaves and algal slime. The crewman grabbed a fire extinguisher and began to beat at it. Instantly the ropy kelp curled around him and yanked him into the air.

Another tendril came over the ship’s railing, and another. Then a deep voice boomed through the fog.

“How dare you challenge me?”

The voice could belong to no one but the Devil. Hank knew that as a certainty. Suddenly, Tachibana’s hands were on Hank’s shoulders. “Go to the top deck!”

“What about you?”

“I’ll be right behind you.” Tachibana shoved him forward. Hank loped up the metal stairs, taking them two at a time, tendrils in hot pursuit. He felt one slimy leaf graze his ankle. He couldn’t see Tachibana anywhere. The boat rocked, and he clung to the railing. He couldn’t afford to go in that water. He’d never last. Even if he evaded the Devil, the cold would kill him before he could swim to shore. And he couldn’t even see the shore. The swirling mist obscured even the bow of the ship.

Below him, he heard the screams of the other tourists. Then the shadowy form of a man coalesced before him. He wore a captain’s uniform. The man’s face was plain as a wooden mask. Dozens of strands of kelp emerged from beneath the Devil’s coat, completely obscuring his legs.

If he even had legs.

Hank knew he had to get out of here, but there was nowhere to go.

He had thought once that being killed by this particular yokai would be preferable to being caught with Fingers. Staring right into the face of his certain death, though, he realized how wrong he had been.

And not just because he didn’t want to die.

Underneath it all Fingers had been a good man. Crazy. Completely lacking in game. But a good man nonetheless, in so far as you could call a yokai a man. The Devil of Lake Towada clearly wanted to destroy him. That was much, much worse than putting up with a few clumsy but heartfelt sexual advances.

“I didn’t mean to challenge you, sir.” Hank gave his best Japanese-style bow. “The charm fell out of my hands.”

“I will eat your soul.” The low voice rumbled through him, almost too low to hear. Where was Tachibana? Had the Devil taken him? No, he could see him on the deck below, rifling through his bag. Maybe he had more charms stashed away in there. All Hank needed to do was buy time.

“Is there anything else I could do for you?” Hank said, with a sudden flash of insight. Fingers had been quite reasonable, once they’d started talking. “I brought you this offering of fruitcake. It’s a tradition in my country.”

Hank offered the leaden loaf to the Devil. For a moment, the Devil just looked at it, then asked, “Why would you bring this for me?”

“I’m an academic researcher. I’m writing a book about yokai, and everyone told me I had to interview you because you were the most fierce demon in Tohoku, and I have to say that I agree.” Hank tried his hardest to enunciate so the Devil could understand his Japanese. Everything depended on him talking now. “I’ve heard a lot of stories about a lot of demons, but you take the cake.”

“I am the most fierce demon in all Japan,” the Devil said. “No one else will try to enter the human world these days but me.”

Hank nodded in vigorous agreement, his head bobbing like it was on a spring. “So can you tell me about yourself?”

The Devil let out a huge laugh. “I am a demon. What more is there to know?”

“But you were a man before you became a demon?” Hank asked. “Don’t you want people to know how you have been wronged?”

“Wronged?”

“Yes, who was it that hurt you so much that you became a demon in the first place? Can you tell me?”

The Devil paused, shifted, then said, “No one wronged me. I kill and I take what I please. When I first killed I was still a human. It was during the war when I was a child. A girl had a pinwheel I wanted, and I hit her with a rock and took it from her. Later I learned she had died, but I felt no shame. After that, I knew how easy killing was. The second time I murdered a human—”

The Devil began to drone in self-congratulatory tones about the next person he’d killed and then the next in a prideful monologue.

Yes, Hank thought, I have him. As long as he doesn’t run out of stories of people that he murdered and decide to add me to that long and illustrious list, I have him.

* * *

Tachibana stood on deck below, unable to believe that Mr. Caldwell was actually trying to use pop psychology on a demon. What was he thinking? Was he going to ask the Devil to tell him about his childhood next? But then, what else could he do?

What could any of them do?

From somewhere deep within himself, he heard a whisper: I must protect him.

No, that was beyond ridiculous. Fingers had barely been any kind of yokai at all. The devil would show him no mercy.

Yet inside himself he felt rage and the exquisite desire to protect Mr. Caldwell. But what could he do? Again came the strange whisper: Let me free.

“I can’t let you free. You’re just a part of me,” Tachibana whispered.

Then will you let our beloved die because you’re a coward?

“I can’t fight a real demon.”

You are a real demon, came the voice from within. Yes, let me out.

“I’m telling you, I don’t know how!”

Canadian whiskey.

That’s right, he did have a flask of whiskey in his bag. He’d been saving it to offer to Mr. Caldwell in coffee later on, during the fireworks.

They still had a chance. He delved into his bag, yanked out the flask, and took a deep swig. He shuddered and swore, then downed another gulp. Then he headed around the edge of the boat and up the iron stairs to meet his destiny.

* * *

“At the time there was a woman I loved, but she wouldn’t have me, so once I strangled her, I swore never to love again…” The Devil was in fine narrative form, but Hank didn’t know how much longer this could go on. Then, like a miracle, Fingers appeared beside him, wearing fewer clothes than he’d ever seen the yokai wearing.

He appeared to be dressed as Cupid. He wore golden gladiator sandals and a white Japanese-style fundoshi loincloth that revealed what Hank had always suspected was an amazing body. Gold armbands and a set of small white wings completed his ensemble. Strangely, he still wore his glasses and gold wristwatch. In his right hand he held a fantastically elaborate golden bow. In his left he had a New Year’s arrow. Relief swept through Hank at the sight of him, in spite of Fingers’s weird getup. He had a chance now. Someone on the supernatural side would fight for him. He’d never been so happy to see anyone ever.

“I’ve seen you before.” The Devil glared at Fingers.

“We’re not afraid of you, Devil!” Fingers thrust the bow and arrow into Hank’s hands and launched himself at the Devil. Tendrils lashed the air, but Fingers sailed through them, twisting like an alpine aerialist. He landed behind the Devil and got him in a headlock. The Devil thrashed back and forth, rocking the ship with his efforts. Slick spray splashed up from the lake, coating the deck. Hank slipped and nearly went over the railing. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the fruitcake go sailing into the lake. He righted himself and looked back to see Fingers struggling to keep hold of the Devil. His arms bulged with the effort of restraining the strength of all of the Devil’s ill will and anger. “Shoot!”

“I’ll hit you! You’ll be killed.”

“This arrow has become Cupid’s arrow of love. It cannot hurt me. It can only make me love you more!”

Hank called upon all his memories of summer-camp archery lessons. He notched the arrow, drew the string, and let the arrow go. It flew like a streak of light, straight into the Devil’s heart. The demon writhed and thrashed, then slumped down. The tendrils vanished as the Devil’s shape diminished down to bones, finally collapsing in a broken heap at Fingers’s feet.

Hank could see now that the tip of the arrow had pierced Fingers as well.

Fingers wrapped his hand around the shaft and pulled it out. When he did so, he began to shimmer and glow. Then the light receded, and instead of Fingers, Tachibana stood there in his gray kimono, holding the hamaya in one hand and a flask of whiskey in the other. Hank rushed to him. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” Tachibana breathed hard, leaning against the ship’s railing. He offered Hank the flask. “Whiskey?”

“I don’t think I need to be drunk right now. What the hell just happened?”

“This flask helped me reach my spiritual powers quickly.” Tachibana took another slug of whiskey. “I had a short window of opportunity between the time that I was drunk enough to access my spiritual energy and when I became too drunk to use it anymore. Maybe five minutes.”

“The Devil is gone,” Hank said.

“I know.”

“Then why are you still drinking?” Hank thought he might know the answer already, but wanted to hear it from Tachibana.

“Dutch courage. I’m trying to get the nerve to tell you that I am the source of the yokai.” Tachibana took another gulp. “You know which one I mean.”

“Fingers.”

Tachibana pulled a drunken smile and said, “Now you really have a crazy book to write, don’t you?”

“I don’t give a damn about the book. Are you really all right?” Hank couldn’t stop himself from patting Tachibana down, looking for injuries. Tachibana straightened up and pulled Hank forcefully into his arms.

Hank returned the embrace, breathing into Tachibana’s neck. “You are one crazy bodyguard.”

They drew apart, simply gazing at each other. Finally Tachibana said, “What happened to your hat?”

Hank glanced around the deck and then at the surrounding water. He saw the hat floating on the surface of the lake.

“Should I try and get it?” Tachibana asked.

“No, let’s leave it for your friend, the turtle.”

Below them, from the glassed-in observation deck, he could hear sound and then a splash. Someone had thrown the crewman who had been pulled into the water a life preserver. As they watched the rest of the crewmen pull their mate to safety, the surface of the lake was strangely calm. Then slowly it began to glow, as if something huge and luminous was rising toward them.

Hank held his breath, waiting for some new demon to emerge. Up from the depths came the specter of the Yasuragi Maru. The bow rose like a whale breaching the surface, followed by the rest of the old ship. The peeling paint healed itself, once again covering the hull in gleaming white and red, just as it must have been the day of the Yasuragi Maru’s maiden voyage. Blue lights danced all around as the boat righted itself in the water. One figure could be seen on the deck—a young, smiling man in a captain’s uniform. It had to be Aoki.

The tour boat rocked as the people in the glassed-in deck below all rushed to one side to get a closer look at the spectral vessel. As they watched, a woman’s voice floated through the air. “Thank you, young gentlemen.”

Tachibana bowed and said, “You’re welcome, ma’am.”

Festooned with dancing blue flames, the boat moved into the deep mist.

As they stood, gasping on the top deck, the fog cleared. Bright January sun once again shone overhead. Then came a splash and a whoosh. A brown, loaf-shaped object sailed up in the air to land at Hank’s feet.

It was the fruitcake. It lay sodden and forlorn in a puddle. It appeared to have a bite out of it.

As Tachibana prodded it with his toe, Hank said, “I guess turtles don’t like fruitcake.”

“I guess not.”

Chapter Ten

News of the sudden storm on Lake Towada traveled fast. Back in their hotel they deflected all hotel staff attempts to help them.

“We just need to warm up in the hot spring,” Tachibana told the concerned serving woman who offered her husband’s clean, dry underwear for their use. “We’ll be fine.”

They showered and slid into the hot spring, barely talking. Hank didn’t know what to say and thought probably Tachibana wasn’t ready to talk about what had happened.

His book—his entire conception of the world—would never be the same. One thing was sure, though—Tachibana was a hero.

And a yokai.

And gay.

That last part, Hank felt, he could comfortably address.

“I thought you said you weren’t gay.”

“I never said that I wasn’t a gay,” Tachibana protested.

“You said you didn’t have a crush on me,” Hank reminded him. “On Christmas morning.”

“I don’t have a crush on you. That’s childish.”

“But you like me,” Hank coaxed. Triumph over the Devil, combined with the warmth of the outdoor bath, made him slightly giddy. “Admit it.”

“I am in love with you. That is different from having a crush or liking you.” Tachibana wouldn’t look at him. He stared fixedly out at the dark forest, an expression of pained embarrassment on his face. Hank couldn’t help glancing out to see if Fingers was out there, but he wasn’t.

Finally Tachibana spoke. “I suppose you will want another translator now.”

“What? Why would I want that?”

“Because I imagine I will be worse than Fingers ever was now. He could be banished with a scrap of paper, but I cannot, and I love you more now than I even did before.” He lifted his left hand out of the water. Wrapped around his pinkie was the red thread, shining like neon. “I don’t think there’s any separation between Fingers and I anymore.”

“And you think that would make me want to get someone else?” Hank drifted across the tub toward Tachibana. As he drew near he felt a kind of nervous anticipation he hadn’t felt since he was fourteen years old. “Who do you think I am?”

“Mr. Caldwell—”

“I told you Hank was fine.” He lay his hand on Tachibana’s shoulder.

“You told Fingers that.”

“You said there was no separation between you two anymore, so that means I told you that too.” Hank ran the tips of his fingers down the side of Tachibana’s throat. “Only now you can get your clothes off.”

“I don’t have any clothes on.”

“Even better.” Hank leaned in to kiss Tachibana, but instead of reciprocating, he pulled away.

“Don’t you want to anymore?”

“I want to, but—” Tachibana glanced around again. “Can’t we go inside?”

“Sure we can.”

Tachibana stood, steam rising from his hot skin as he toweled himself dry and shrugged into the blue and white hotel yukata. Hank followed him inside, drying himself but forgoing the robe. He stretched out on the futon and waited while Tachibana seemed to collect himself then kneel on the tatami mat beside him.

“I’m not very good at this,” Tachibana said.

“I’m sure you’ll be fine.” Hank ran a hand along Tachibana’s thigh.

“I’m a virgin,” he said suddenly. “I told you that already.”

Hank felt his heart melt a little at this serious confession and at the idea that Tachibana already considered him his boyfriend, though he and Tachibana had never actually kissed yet. Not as himself, anyway. After the artless ardency of Tachibana’s alter ego, Fingers, this shyness came as a surprise.

“I’m not afraid. Come here lie down with me.” Hank pulled the duvet aside. It wasn’t big enough to cover them both, but he didn’t think it would be on them long anyway. “Just kiss me like you did last time.”

“Shallow or deep?”

“First one and then the other.”

Tachibana covered Hank’s mouth with his own in a series of light kisses that deepened at Hank’s own eager response. He pulled Tachibana down on top of him, feeling the other man’s chest scrape pleasantly against his nipples.

Hank slipped his tongue between Tachibana’s lips, and the man suddenly gripped Hank tightly and kissed him back. Hank groaned, beginning to writhe beneath him. His murmured noises of encouragement seemed to embolden Tachibana—to bring some of the hero he knew was inside him to the surface. His hands roamed down Hank’s body, pausing to stroke over Hank’s nipples before reaching farther down, one hand encircling the base of Hank’s cock.

Hank gasped, and his head slammed back against the pillow. They both watched in silence as Tachibana stroked Hank’s cock, hesitantly at first, then developing a rhythm, confidence building with each delicious caress.

Tachibana’s cheeks were flushed, his eyes dilated, as he knelt beside Hank’s body. Hank realized he needed to do more, that this was Tachibana’s first time, and he had to reciprocate.

But the sight of Tachibana there, intense concentration on his face as he stroked him, was so sensual, Hank couldn’t bring himself to move, let alone change positions.

Tachibana nudged Hank’s legs apart and his knees up. Hank smiled.

So that was how it was going to be? He relaxed as Tachibana leaned down and kissed his way up Hank’s inner thighs, licking his testicles and the delicate skin behind them.

Hank writhed with the intensity of the sensation. This was the beauty of the futon and tatami room—they didn’t have to worry about falling off the bed.

But right now he didn’t care. Tachibana’s lips closed around Hank’s cock, and Hank decided he’d take that tongue any way Tachibana wanted to give it to him. Hank moaned as the other man took him fully in his mouth.

Tachibana might have been a novice, but he clearly had a gift when it came to this. Hank’s awareness drained from the room, from everything but the slick, wet heat of Tachibana’s mouth, and he had to restrain himself from thrusting too far into him.

Tachibana worked him, brow furrowed in concentration. Hank ran his fingers through Tachibana’s dark hair, damp with sweat.

“You’re going to make me come,” he said.

Tachibana briefly disengaged. “Don’t you want that?”

“It’s too soon. I haven’t even got to touch you yet.”

“I was going to—” Tachibana broke off, apparently too shy to say the rest of what he was going to do. “I thought I could…”

Clearly, Tachibana had no real idea what to do now.

Hank said, “I have a condom and lube in my bag.”

Tachibana blinked at him, then reddened.

Hank said, “I’ll get them.”

Tachibana lay, waiting, breathing hard.

Hank hadn’t had another man inside him since he’d left Vancouver—the few sexual encounters he’d had in Tokyo being of the anonymous back-room-of-the-bar variety. He wasn’t sure about initiating a virgin, but everyone was a virgin once, and if anyone deserved a little grace, it was Tachibana.

Tachibana breathed heavily as he lay exposed on the futon, his eyes dark and searching. Hank smiled reassuringly and then stroked Tachibana’s flank, trying to get him to relax.

Tachibana’s cock was at full mast, demanding attention. Hank leaned down and took it in his mouth. Tachibana uttered a wordless cry as Hank swallowed his stiff heat.

Tachibana writhed beneath him, and Hank realized he was about to go over the edge. He pulled back and rolled the latex over Tachibana’s cock.

Tachibana watched with a look of surprise.

“I thought you would…”

“I like it better the other way. Are you disappointed?” Hank offered him the lube and stretched out beside him.

Tachibana held the small bottle as if it were a precious elixir. He held it a moment too long, and Hank realized he needed some instruction. So he squeezed some into his own hands and showed him how to warm it, and then applied it to himself. Tachibana watched with the enthusiasm of a devotee.

Hank positioned himself. “Come inside me.”

Tachibana moved slowly, but he didn’t need instructions for this part. As he pushed inside, Hank realized how much he’d missed the feeling. And he’d missed all of it, even the wincing pain of initial entry. Sometimes, when he’d allowed a man to enter him, he’d feel a shiver of fear or uncertainly, but he felt no apprehension, even though Tachibana was clearly nervous.

“Am I doing this right for you?”

“Don’t worry,” Hank said. “You always take good care of me, Daisuke.”

The sound of Hank calling Tachibana by his given name seemed to release Tachibana (or was it the Fingers part of Tachibana?) from whatever had been restraining him. Hank didn’t know and he didn’t care. He just let it happen. He pushed back, and Tachibana rocked with him, pushing deeper and faster, listening as he whispered unintelligible Japanese phrases until finally Hank felt his climax beginning to roll within him.

“Don’t stop,” he heard himself say in his bad Japanese, “please… Please, Daisuke,” as he gave himself over to rapture.

Only seconds later, Tachibana gasped and gripped Hank hard. He collapsed beside Hank moments later, breathing heavily. “That was a dirty trick.”

“What was?”

“Calling me by my first name. That’s very intimate for we Japanese.”

“I know that,” Hank said. “Why do you think I did it?”

“That’s why it was a dirty trick.”

Hank rolled up on his elbow, looking down at his translator—now his new boyfriend. “Would you rather have me call you Fingers?”

“Never.” Tachibana wore that strange, calm expression Hank found so attractive. “Fingers isn’t his name, anyway.”

“What is his name?”

Tachibana smiled crookedly, eyes cast down. “It’s Daisuke, of course.”

“Of course.”

#

Tachibana came to awareness slowly in the soft darkness. Moonlight reflected off the snow outside, casting pale beams of light across his duvet. He’d been dreaming that he and Mr. Caldwell—Hank—had become lovers. Gradually, he became conscious of being in a ryokan, lying on a futon next to someone. Then all at once he knew it hadn’t been a dream. Hank rested beside him, his red hair bright against the white pillowcase even in the predawn dimness.

He shifted, and Hank shifted with him, moving unconsciously against him. Although Tachibana had never experienced anything like this before, he knew instinctively that it was right. It felt good. Inside him ran a raw vein of tenderness and unsurpassable love so intense he thought it must be emanating from his yokai.

He listened for Fingers’s voice but heard nothing.

A slight motion outside caught his attention, and he rose and went to the door that led outside. Through the mist rising from the hot springs pool, he could barely make out the shape of a man in a blue business suit standing among the bare birch trees.

Moonlight glinted off his glasses. For the first time, Tachibana recognized them. They were the pair he’d lost in America.

Tachibana raised a hand to greet him. His yokai smiled and walked toward him until they stood inches apart.

Tachibana asked, “Why are you here?”

“I came to say good-bye. You don’t need me anymore.”

“But I don’t have any powers without you,” Tachibana said. He’d just discovered his strength. It couldn’t end just like that, could it?

“You have the same powers you always did. You just don’t need me anymore to use them.” The yokai seemed to be fading into the surrounding darkness. “You took a part of yourself and made me. Now it’s time for me to return.” The yokai smiled.

Understanding opened inside Tachibana like a flower blossoming. He and the yokai were one in the same. They always had been, hadn’t they?

“So it’s good-bye and hello?” Tachibana said. “Like they say in Hawai’i? Aloha?”

The yokai held out his hand. “For me it’s more sayonara.”

Tachibana took the yokai’s hand. The moment he did so, wind swirled around them, scattering the man’s shape among the snowflakes.

All that was left of him was a pair of old glasses sitting in the palm of Tachibana’s hand.

Epilogue

The springtime morning was warm as Tachibana set his futon out on the minuscule balcony of his tiny apartment to air. Far away in the park, he could see the usual sea of pink cherry blossoms, the sight of which depressed him. In addition to being an overused cliché for the impermanence of romantic love, cherry blossoms made Tachibana sneeze.

He lit a cigarette and surveyed the low, cramped, mostly ugly buildings of Tokyo.

Soon Hank would fly back to Canada. The cherry blossoms, with all that they implied, were just mocking him.

Maybe he could kidnap Hank and keep him a prisoner of love in an underwater lair? If he could find the kappa again, he could ask him to help build a sea dome. Then he and Hank could live under the sea for a hundred years.

Tachibana abandoned the thought as soon as he had it.

Kidnapping Hank wouldn’t make him love him anyway. Love had to be set free and come back again to be real, right? His American host mother had had a poster to that effect hanging in her sewing room. Probably Canadians felt the same way about love.

Besides, who wanted to live in an underwater dome? No one sane, certainly. No, Tachibana had to accept that they would live their lives as human men.

In the time since the New Year’s trip, Hank finished writing his book as a piece of scholarly literature, not bothering to mention the fact that virtually every creature, spirit, and being mentioned in the book was real. At first Tachibana had though he couldn’t stand up to the ridicule a more factual account would incur, but that was not the case. He’d been contracted to write about folklore, and being an upright gentleman, Hank had delivered a book about the same.

The next book he wrote, Hank had explained, would be entirely different.

Since New Year’s they had spent virtually every day together, both realizing their time together would soon end, neither wanting to waste a moment of it.

“Hey, I thought you quit smoking.”

Down on the sidewalk, Hank stood peering up at him. Tachibana said, “I un-quit this morning,” but hurriedly crushed out his cigarette.

“Can I come up?”

Tachibana buzzed Hank in. As soon as the door closed behind him and they were out of sight of the nosy housewife down the hall, Hank leaned forward for a kiss, which Tachibana was happy to give.

“I’m just about packed,” Hank said.

Tachibana nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak. He still loved Hank, still saw the thread between them. But it wasn’t enough. Hank’s tourist visa would expire soon. Maybe he would come back to visit; maybe he wouldn’t.

Probably Vancouver was full of better men than him. Men who didn’t cringe from their neighbors or have spiritual powers so strong they could manifest yokai.

Normal men. Average men.

“I’m excited to see my mom again,” Hank said. “I can’t wait to tell her about you. She wanted me to bring back a Japanese husband, you know.”

“Are you asking me to marry you?” Tachibana’s heart leaped. But he kept his face calm.

“I don’t know if we’ll get married or not, but…” Hank held up his little finger. Faintly, if he concentrated, Tachibana could see a glimmer of red around it.

Hank said, “Do you think this will stretch all the way across the Pacific and pull you to me? I’ll take you to gay ski weekend at Whistler next February.”

Tachibana’s heart sank. Hank meant for him to visit only, not to stay. “I would like nothing more than to ski with you in Whistler next February.”

“Well then.” Hank reached into his pocket and pulled out an old-fashioned paper plane ticket. “I’ve got one of these with your name on it and one with mine. We leave in a week. I was banking on my Rabbit Year luck that you’d want to come with me. Do you think you could get your affairs here in order that quickly? It’s not America, but I think you’d find Canada also has its charms.”

“I would go with you anywhere.”

Happy Holidays!

December 8, 2020