ADVANCE RE ADING COPY
SEP TEMBER 2021
Sifton Tracey Anipare
Rare Machines is a new imprint of Dundurn Press. Its name emerges from the idea that a writer is a rare machine for producing books, and the book itself is as elegant and complex as the most unusual of devices. Rare Machines publishes literary fiction and poetic non-fiction that is playful, unusual, daring, or innovative. It welcomes hybrid forms. It welcomes emerging writers. It is a place for both the experimental and the polished. Like Dundurn Press itself, Rare Machines is curious, courageous, and forward-thinking.
Hajimemashite. Watashi wa Sifton to moushimasu. Douzo yoroshiku onegaiitashimasu. (Nice to meet you. My name is Sifton. Pleased to meet you.) This is the standard jikoshoukai (self-introduction) I give to introduce myself within a Japanese context. Introducing my novel, Yume, however, requires something more complex than a spoken phrase. I like comparing it to Turkish rice, a lovely eclectic Nagasaki dish that combines several items one might not readily associate with each other but work amazingly well together. Similarly, Yume strives to create an equally delectable combination of my experiences, anecdotes, interactions, hauntings, conversations, and of course, dreams from my four years in Japan. I hope to showcase my love for my second home, and go beyond the samurai and geisha (although there’s a bit of both in the book), sushi and sake (okay, there’s a bit more of those), and sumo and so on (there was one opportunity to add what would have been an unfair match, but I decided against it). There is also plenty of food and several instances of eating and devouring as we follow Cybelle’s journey down a Wonderland-rabbit-hole of culture shock. In short, Yume gets real, and it gets weird. Have a safe trip.
Sifton Tracey Anipare
YUME Sifton Tracey Anipare A modern-day fantasy novel about demons, dreams, and a young woman teaching English in Japan. Publication: Canada Sept. 20, 2021 | US Oct. 12, 2021 FORMAT 5.5 in (W) 8.5 in (H) 536 pages
Paperback 9781459747371 Can $25.99 US $19.99 £16.99
EPUB 9781459747395 Can $11.99 US $11.99 £ 7.99
PDF 9781459747388 Can $25.99 US $19.99 £16.99
KEY SELLING POINTS An epic urban fantasy adventure set in Japan featuring a demon-filled dreamworld With rich and imaginative storytelling, the story encompasses a magical dreamworld
filled with dark humour and Japanese mythology, and also mundane workplace scenes that ring painfully true Author has based protagonist’s experience of teaching abroad on her own life as a Black woman teaching English in Japan A debut novel from an exciting new voice in fantasy
BISAC IC009060 – FICTION / Fantasy / Urban FIC009050 – FICTION / Fantasy / Paranormal FIC009020 – FICTION / Fantasy / Epic
ABOUT THE AUTHOR Sifton Tracey Anipare is a writer and teacher. She lived in Japan for four years, teaching English for three of them through the JET Programme. She lives in Markham, Ontario.
YumeTheNovel
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MARKETING AND PUBLICITY P ublicity campaign to targeted media and influencers Representation at international trade shows and conferences Consumer, trade, and/or wholesaler advertising campaign Social media campaign and online advertising
Email campaigns to consumers, booksellers, and librarians Advance reading copies available: Print ARCs, NetGalley, Edelweiss, Catalist ARC mailing to booksellers, librarians, and influencers Goodreads Giveaway
RIGHTS World, All Languages ABOUT THE BOOK Cybelle, an expat, lives in a small city in the Kansai region of Japan. Life is difficult: her coworkers don’t treat her as one of their own and, outside of work, people dislike or even fear her. On top of it all, Cybelle is struggling to conform to the rules that have helped her survive so far. Elsewhere in Kansai, Zaniel navigates the dream realm, bringing women to have romantic encounters with a demon named Akki, his “bodyguard.” When another demon — the Yokai — appears in Akki’s territory and wreaks havoc in his domain with its voracious appetite, both Zaniel and Cybelle find themselves caught in the middle of the supernatural creature’s antics. Will Cybelle be able to keep up her do-your-best attitude when she is pulled into the world of demons and the heated battle between Akki and the Yokai?
For more information, contact publicity@dundurn.com Orders in Canada: UTP Distribution 1-800-565-9523 Orders in the US: Ingram Publisher Services 1-866-400-5351
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Y U M E
Y U M E Sifton Tracey Anipare
Copyright © Sifton Tracey Anipare, 2021 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purpose of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright. All characters in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Publisher and acquiring editor: Scott Fraser | Editor: Whitney French Cover design and illustration: Sophie Paas-Lang Printer: Marquis Book Printing Inc. Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication Title: Yume / Sifton Tracey Anipare. Names: Anipare, Sifton Tracey, 1982- author. Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20200373676 | Canadiana (ebook) 20200373706 | ISBN 9781459747371 (softcover) | ISBN 9781459747388 (PDF) | ISBN 9781459747395 (EPUB) Classification: LCC PS8601.N483 Y86 2021 | DDC C813/.6—dc23
Title: The rebellious tide / Eddy Boudel Tan. Names: Boudel Tan, Eddy, 1983- author. Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20200310291 | Canadiana (ebook) 20200310399 | ISBN 9781459746879 (softcover) | ISBN 9781459746886 (PDF) | ISBN 9781459746893 (EPUB) Classification: LCC PS8603.O9324 R43 2021 | DDC C813/.6—dc23
We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Ontario, through the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit and Ontario Creates, and the Government of Canada. Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credits in subsequent editions. The publisher is not responsible for websites or their content unless they are owned by the publisher. Printed and bound in Canada. Rare Machines, an imprint of Dundurn Press 1382 Queen Street East Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4L 1C9 dundurn.com, @dundurnpress
To my dad, Victor Charles Anipare, who showed me my first anime
Ho, ho, fireflies come! Over there the water [is] bitter Over here the water [is] sweet Ho, ho, fireflies come! Ho, ho, come by the mountain road! — “Hotaru Koi” (Children’s song from Akita, Japan)
序章
THE WOOD WHERE THINGS HAVE NO NAMES
万事は夢 All things are dreams
There is a quiet forest upon a mountain on a spring day. The sky is blue, the grass is a lush green, and the sun is shining. A wide dirt path winds through an assortment of trees: thousand-year-old oak, majestic redwood, thick reedy bamboo, baby spruce, short fat pine, many others with no names. There are no sounds except for the occasional breeze that does not affect the foliage. There are no living creatures, save two: a young man and woman down the road. They hold hands as they walk in silence. The woman’s long hair obscures her face as she giggles into her chest. She covers her smile with a small, demure hand. A black dress jacket tailored for a man hangs over her shoulders, shielding her from the cold. Underneath, a skimpy white camisole is visible. Pyjama bottoms two inches too long, a conscious
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choice or perhaps a current style. Her feet are bare. Tiny white toes poke out from her pants as they scuffle through the dirt. She walks with tiny, pigeon-toed steps, making it hard to keep up with the steady, rhythmic strides of her long-legged partner. The young man wears simple but stylish black shoes, black dress pants, and a white dress shirt that could be designer, a handsome though nondescript ensemble. His face is long and narrow, framed by jet-black hair that flows neatly over his brow, but not enough to cover his ears. He wears two beaded bracelets on his gaunt, pale wrists: one is obsidian, as dark as his own hair; the other is a vivid ruby, the same colour that flows through his veins. There is something in the curve and fullness of his lips and cheeks that is captivating, and his skin, with a natural hint of peach, makes the cold sharpness of his eyes stand out. That is something else unique about him. His eyes are not brown, but an unnatural, pale, icy grey. He stares straight ahead, focused on his intended destination, cool and oblivious to his companion. His demeanour is gentle but serious as he holds the woman’s hand and guides her down the road. The young woman’s body shakes harder and harder with muffled titters as she sneaks shy glances at him. Surely such enigmatic beauty would catch anyone’s attention; make hearts flutter with minimal effort beyond eye contact and an outstretched hand. However, it was the one next to him who had really captivated her, the one who had singled her out. Out of all the women he could have, he had pointed at her. He had chosen her. Now, her dream is about to come true. They continue down the long, winding road in silence. They disappear around the bend, reappear where the path straightens, follow its twists and turns. Suddenly, the man stops in his tracks. The woman stumbles in surprise. Her head twists this way and that as she becomes aware of her surroundings. She looks away from the man, eyes wide, and lets out a wistful cooing sound.
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She has just noticed this wide-open space that is their destination. In the middle of this forest, sequestered away from all civilization, stands a large cottage. Pale yellow curtains billow through its open French windows. On the porch an outdoor wicker deck chair for two swings in the silent breeze. Thick brown tiles like slabs of chocolate make up the roof, and the cedar logs glow in the sunny afternoon light. They almost look like they are melting. A long flight of wooden stairs leads to the front door, a solid cocoa-brown panel of wood a full storey off the ground. Without turning to look at her, the young man speaks, his voice low as if speaking to himself: “Akki-sama …” His right wrist flexes in pain as his red bracelet glows with heat. He starts to proceed, but the woman is still dumbstruck by the beautiful scene before her. There is so much for her to take in. She releases his hand and falls to her knees with exaggerated sighs. He stands there for a moment, hoping for her to say something poignant or explain herself. The man clears his throat, a soft yet awkward sound. She does not notice him. She merely gazes up at the cottage with admiration: “Tash — Tu — … Tash — Tu — …” Over and over she whispers to herself, a garbled, unintelligible noise. The man frowns: something about various tutors? No, various Tudors. No, it is a person’s name she is repeating. He suppresses an irritated noise in his throat. She can babble on her own time. He lets go of her and presses on toward the cottage without looking back. The woman gets to her feet and prances after him, begging him to wait for her. The door groans open on its own accord and the man walks in without hesitation; the woman follows. The door slams with a resounding boom that ripples through the woods. It sends trembles up the trees, then trickles down the mountain until, little by little, it fades and everything is still. Well, almost everything.
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Nearby, in the woods, peach trees begin to rustle and stir. A faint giggle emanates from their leaves. Something grows in the woods, swelling in size with each footfall. It has spied on the house for some time, and now it approaches. Inside the house, the woman reaches out into the darkness. She gropes for the velvety comfort of the young man’s hand but only feels the panic that comes with flailing in an empty space. A dim light grows brighter in a corner somewhere above her line of sight, so gradual it locks her heart in suspense. The man is there, a few steps ahead on a narrow stairway. A small candle glows at his socked feet, its light throbbing and pulsing like a heartbeat. There does not seem to be anything else inside the cottage. No hallway, no drawing rooms, no furniture … just a tiny recessed entryway, a single pair of straw sandals, the stairs, and her patient companion, shoes in hand. As she runs up to him, disjointed thoughts flit across her mind: What was the architect thinking when he made the front door on the second floor? Not like a Tasha Tudor cottage at all. She thinks about asking … later, of course. Not that the architecture matters. This place is romantic and gorgeous. It is as she has always pictured a foreign cottage. Well, almost, because when she thinks about it, it is quite a strange design for a house. She giggles again and sighs with happiness when she regains the comfort of the young man’s sleeve. She does not say a word to him. The wide grin on her face is enough to express her feeling without uttering a syllable. She could content herself with walking these steps for the rest of her life were it not for the one with whom she is about to reunite. He is close by; she can feel it. She leans her head on the young man’s shoulder, tightens her grip around his arm, and sighs as loud as she dares. Now the climb is even more awkward for the young man. The flight seems to grow longer with each step. The muscles in his legs burn, but at last the stairs — like all stairs — come to an end, and relief kicks in. Not much longer now.
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The hallway they reach is long, with one set of doors. The man loosens the young woman’s grip and slides the doors open for her. She gasps at the sight of a large, extravagant room. Down pillows lie in the centre, shielded by thin mesh drapes, surrounded by plates of exotic, expensive-looking food: mountains of tropica l fruit drizzled with honey, giant cakes covered in flower petals, and a champagne tower. Taper candles line walls that extend far into the darkness. There must be hundreds of them. A giant paper lantern hovers over the blankets in mid-air. The fire glowing within it is deep red, unlike any fire she has ever seen. Ghostlike wisps of incense drift through the air. The room is filled with heat, with warmth, with love. The young woman clasps her hands with a sigh. She throws herself against her companion and kisses his cheek, then enters. She pulls back the mesh drapes and kneels on the silk futons, sweeping her hands over their intricate designs. She turns back to him and pats the spot next to her, inviting him to join her. When the young man waves his hand, she insists. It is the last thing he wants to do. Keep them warm, his grin tells her. He holds up a finger. He means for her to wait. The woman giggles again. She turns her back to him, removing his jacket from her shoulders. He slides the door closed. Without hesitation he turns back down the stairs. There are more candles now, but the amplification in lighting does not improve his mood one bit. “Nice shade of lip gloss you got there,” a high-pitched voice snickers. Small peals of laughter join in. No, don’t respond, the young man thinks to himself. He is not in the mood for nightmares right now. He rubs the kiss on his cheek with the back of his hand and wipes it against what must be the wall. It is too dark to tell. However, he does not need light to see fresh burn marks on his skin where the blood-red beads have singed him.
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He puts his shoes back on at the tiny front entrance. Every part of him feels heavy as lead. He waits by the front door. It feels like forever. He half expects to hear the doors upstairs slide open and the woman call him. Impossible, of course, for she does not know his name. Instead he hears shuffling noises above his head. A deep voice murmurs for a long time, like a one-sided conversation. He hears the woman giggle. Then, moans of ecstasy, increasing in volume and urgency within seconds, tear through the once-silent house. He feels a twisting sensation in his stomach, an odd com bination of nausea and relief. Now what? It is a foolish question to ask, he realizes, because there is only one thing he can do. He forces the front door open. His eyes sting with the transition to the outside world, but he jogs down the steps as fast as his legs can carry him, away from the house he feels is always watching him. Tapping quick staccato notes on the stone steps, his spirits lift a little as his shoes readjust to his feet, but grow heavy again as he settles down on a decaying stone bench in the garden. His back to the house, surrounded by withering bonsai trees and mouldy pools that reek of discarded carrion, he sits there, feeling hollow and heavy at the same time. He is already bored with the same few roads and trees he explores when there is nothing else to do until the next enamoured woman his protector manages to sweep off her feet. A deep, loud moan cuts through the silence. Louder than normal. He clicks his tongue in disgust, but otherwise does nothing. There is nothing he can do. He leans forward and rests his chin against the butt of his hand. He is sick of this place. The bloodred sky, the shrivelled brownish-grey grass, the stench of rot that always chokes the air and permeates his clothes when he wakes up. It sticks to his hair, he can smell it on his skin; no amount of showering seems to get rid of it. What he would not pay to see this whole world disappear …
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A sound wrenches him from his thoughts. Behind him, he hears the splintering crush of wood and infrastructure, like a wrecking ball through concrete, high over his head. He ducks and curls up on the ground just in time to avoid a shower of gold rubble. When he looks up, the colour drains from his face. Sitting cross-legged next to where the cottage stood is the biggest yokai the young man has ever seen. It towers fifty feet above him in a hooded white silk kimono, striking and bright against its midnight skin so that it casts a shadow over its face. Every movement of its limbs causes the ground to shudder. The sleeves of its robe are too long, but instead of pushing them out of the way the monster is focused on something in its hands: a sandwich of cedar wood walls, layered with slabs of chocolate-brown roofing and soft, airy clouds. The monster yawns wide. Its jawbone clicks with three explosive pops as it unhinges. It brings the shattered cottage deep into its giant mouth. The man is too frightened and stunned to stop it, not that he can. It is too late. It chomps down with sharp, white teeth and a deafening crunch that echoes even as it takes another gargantuan bite. All that remains of the cottage are the front door and the stone steps to nowhere. The rest is gone, including its occupants. The woman, the nightmares, Akki. The realization hits the man like a slap to the back of the head. Akki-sama. This yokai must have eaten Akki, as well. So that’s it, then. He’s gone. No one can protect me now. He had always wondered how his pact with Akki would end — he never guessed it would be in the grip of another yokai’s teeth. The yokai continues to chew and swallow. Smiling, head bobbing side to side in a pleased manner, it lets out a deep moan of satisfaction that shakes the air and the ground. The man recognizes the moaning sound from before. The yokai brings the house to its lips one last time. Then it sees the man staring up at it from the corner of its eye.
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He breaks into a furious sweat. He has been spotted. He cannot outrun a creature this size. He is not even sure if he should move; all this monster has to do is stretch out a hand and squeeze. His head would pop like a grape. Then it could slide out his spine and use it for a toothpick. He would feel every sensation of it. Even in dreams, these things hurt. He must do something. First, he apologizes for disturbing it. He rises to his feet, palms out in a sign of negotiation, speaks in a gentle voice. With all the canned coffee and Cup Noodles he consumes, he assures the monster that he would be far from delicious. He feels like a child again, grovelling to a creature more powerful than himself, but he has no choice. The bracelets on his wrists are useless, now. No one will rescue him, not this time, perhaps ever again. He keeps his eyes on the yokai as he takes his first step, ready to flee. “Oh, no you don’t.” The yokai twists its body and lifts the giant cottage sandwich higher into the air. “I saw it first!” The young man feels his heart clench. His arms drop to his sides. Its words were muffled in a mouthful of chocolate, but … he could have sworn … “Uh …” “What? I’m using plain English, aren’t I? You heard me. It’s MINE.” He cannot keep his voice from trembling. “I — I’m sorry,” he tries again. “I didn’t mean to intrude. Please. Take all you want. Just don’t hurt me, please.” The yokai’s angry eyes now widen. “Is this your house?” “No! Please. By all means. Help yourself. Just let me go. Please, don’t eat me.” “What?! Why would I do that?! What do you take me for, some kind of monster?!” “It’s just … that house, Akki-sama …?” The name does not seem to register on the yokai’s face. “Wasn’t there anyone inside the house? It’s okay if there was,” the man adds quickly. “I mean, I’m sure you had a good reason — unless, it was by accident. Right?”
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The yokai looks close to tears. Its eyes dart around, making the trees shiver. “It was empty.” Its voice is soft. “It looked empty.” The young man takes a deep breath. “You know what? Never mind. I wouldn’t worry. Carry on.” “But — I … I’m …” “No.” He tries not to look so happy. “Please. I insist.” As a sign of trust, he backs away, turning when he reaches a safe distance, choosing another bench far away to perch upon. Tears brim in his eyes when he hears the last remnants of the house pulverized in the yokai’s mouth. Freedom has never sounded so beautiful. When the monster, now smaller, plops down on the bench, his old fears return. He braces himself for the attack, but it sits facing away from him, refusing to meet his eye. It stretches a small hand toward him and waits. “You can have it,” it says in a soft, forlorn voice. The front door is so small the man is tempted to take it. “No, I can’t,” he replies. “Go ahead. It’s all yours.” “I feel bad. I didn’t mean to eat it — er, them?” “No, take it!” He allows himself a small grin. “Give it a good home.” The creature does so, breaking off piece after piece, eating much more politely than when it was unaware of being watched. The young man pretends not to look at it. Now that it is almost as tall as he, the yokai looks much less threatening, more interested in its barren surroundings than the stunned gentleman gaping at it. The way it spoke, the way it moves — placing every morsel of chocolate door on its long, snakelike tongue with delicacy — is hypnotic. For sake of safety, the man pretends to play along. It is too late to make a run for it now. “You look satisfied.” “I’ve never had one before.” It licks the last traces of chocolate from its fingers and pats its belly. “Whoo … that was a meal and a half. What’s the deal with this place, anyway?” “This is private property. Or …” he looks over his shoulder at the ruins. “It was private property.”
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The yokai looks down at its swinging feet. “Oh, I see. It was important to you.” He allows himself another mirthless grin. “No.” “Well, it looked edible. If you didn’t want anyone to eat it, you shouldn’t have made it out of food.” “I didn’t. Trust me.” “Yes …” It removes its hood and looks him in the eye. “I think I do.” The man grins despite himself. He can feel a blush coming on. He cannot remember the last time he spoke this freely to anyone, human or otherwise. He narrows his eyes as he tries to determine exactly what kind of yokai he is dealing with. He has never seen one that looks and talks like this. It could be a simple shape-shifter taking the form of a woman. It is possible that she is a futakuchi- onna, a demon with a mouth in the back of its head. Or perhaps a nure-onna, a snake woman. They are not uncommon in this part of the mountains, but if that is indeed what this is, why does this one look so … He searches for the word. The frustration on the man’s face catches the yokai’s attention. “NOW what?” “Nothing. I’m sorry. If … I may ask … what are you?” The yokai narrows her eyes. “What kind of a question is that?” “Well, forgive me, but I’m having trouble —” “You make me sound like I’m some kind of freak or something.” “Well, you did just eat a house.” She turns away to hide her grin. “Yeah, well … I wouldn’t talk, Momotaro.” The young man smiles a little. “Momotaro?” “Yeah. Your cheeks look like pink peaches. Peach cheeks. ‘Peach Boy.’ Momotaro. So there.” “Momotaro,” he laughs. Normal. That is the word he is looking for. Either this thing is far from her home, or she is toying with him. Many yokai still do that, he remembers from his former
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protector. They like to play with their food before they eat it. He looks away. “Well, I must go. Again, I apologize for disturbing you. Please excuse me.” She grabs him by the arm. “What’s your name?” “Zaniel,” he admits with a sigh. It is pointless and often unwise to lie to a yokai. “Oh. Cool name.” He does not dare relax at her calm tone. They play with their food. Perhaps it is safer to talk his way out. “You know,” he begins, “there are many places to eat here. There’s a whole village just down the road from here. I’m sure you know it. It’s where all yokai go. It has all the food you could want.” She leans so close he can see himself in her big black eyes. “Food like that?” She gestures to the remains of the house. “Um … maybe?” The young man blinks. She is gone. Zaniel leaves the garden, looking over his shoulder now and then, taking careful steps. The yokai does not sneak up behind him or leap out from the trees. By the time he reaches the end of the forest, he supposes she did not want to seduce and devour him after all. The forest disappears at a cliff. Clouds line its face like a border and stretch into the bloody horizon. He hesitates at the edge, clinging to a nearby tree for stability. This place has always frightened him. He never knows what can be down there, waiting beneath the clouds. Is it a straight drop? Or would he roll down the mountain for miles and miles if he fell? It doesn’t matter, now. He sits down and rests against the tree, closing his eyes. Soon, he will wake up to what he can only describe as a new life. Everything is going to change — for the better, he prays. A rumble of thunder drowns out the last of his prayers. He opens his eyes. The blood-coloured sky is now thick with lavender clouds. Night is falling. He cannot make out the forest, save for a
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few lightning strikes that illuminate his surroundings, but then the trees in the distance catch fire. He sees the glow of flames brighten and hears a shriek in the distance. A shriek of panic, rage. “No … no!” What’s happening? Who could be doing this? He knows the answers already. It is Akki, and Akki is angry. What he does not know is why. Was this all a test of loyalty, to see if he could stay on his toes? To see if he would throw himself at the first pretty face to come by and try to sway him? Zaniel is certain he will never know, even if he should dare to ask. And for the first time in years, he does not care. It was foolish to get his hopes up in the first place. He should have known better than to trust anything in this place. That’s the problem with dreams: you can’t tell the good from the bad, and after a while, they blend into one. Zaniel closes his eyes again and assumes a comfortable pos ition. He prepares to awaken. The tumultuous thunder, the heat of the encroaching forest fire, the warmth of that yokai’s ebony eyes. He can feel them, even now, like a warm kiss. “Goodnight, Momotaro.” His eyes fly open. The warm feeling on his skin dissipates the moment he does — the only thing he sees is the obsidian bracelet on his wrist, shimmering with cold light. As his body feels heavier and heavier, his bracelets vibrate. He feels creatures’ eyes all around him, watching him. He feels relief that he is leaving this world. Then, he feels the regret that he may have lost his only chance to make a friend here. And then … “Damn.” Zaniel sits upright in his bed, touching his shoulders and chest. “My jacket. I left it in the house.” It is true. The Yokai had eaten a perfectly good jacket.