Tsumiko and the Enslaved Fox (Amaranthine Saga Book 1)

by Forthright

  Argent was better than the clan’s best.

  Senna lunged, missing the young woman hiding behind the silver fox, but catching his foreleg. Tsumiko’s double screamed, and dream-Argent snarled and struggled free. Nona limped in, joining the melee, and Argent reached out, giving the dream its final twist.

  Nona’s fur silvered.

  “She looks like you,” Tsumiko murmured. “And you have the same limp!”

  “Fancy that.”

  Confusion reigned.

  Tsumiko asked, “Can’t Senna tell it’s not you? By voice or scent or something?”

  “I have been thorough,” he replied, slowly drawing up and away.

  More Kith showed among the trees, hanging back as the vixens tangled. Their screams raised hackles, and confusion rippled through the growing ranks of witnesses. Why were the Hightip sisters feuding on Starmark lands?

  “Fools.” Argent slowly pulled at the edges of his dream, unraveling the construct. “They will not easily explain this away.”

  “Uh-oh.” Tsumiko turned in the direction of the main house. “Someone’s coming. Someone strong … and angry.”

  As Harmonious Starmark arrived in truest form and waded into the fray, barking for the vixens to desist, Argent let loose the last of his sigils. The illusion dissipated without a trace, leaving two disoriented vixens in the wreckage of a formerly peaceful forest—downed trees, scarred earth, scattering tufts of red fur.

  Rising higher, Argent made good their escape. But he couldn’t resist a backward glance, wanting to make sure his meddling went unnoticed. Everyone’s attention was where it belonged—on the cringing foxes.

  Correction. One head was turned his way, tracking his progress.

  A formidable feline perched on the compound’s high wall, looking for all the world like a large, lazy housecat. Orange eyes blinked, and a pewter paw lifted. At first, Argent thought the cat intended to wave, but he only gave the fur a few lazy licks before rubbing behind an ear.

  Even so, Argent knew he had been spotted, marked, and allowed to leave.

  SIXTY

  Emergence

  Home.

  Tsumiko paced the floor in Stately House’s kitchen, her nerves frazzling as she waited for Argent to announce their return. He’d slipped in without triggering Michael’s defenses, so as not to disturb anyone at this early hour. Or so he said. She was fairly certain he was investigating the Amaranthine newly attached to their household.

  But she was more concerned about Michael and Sansa. Would they approve of her plan, half-formed though it was? It would affect them all, so she wanted their input. But more than anything, she wanted their support. What if they didn’t want a passel of orphans invading their home? What if Tsumiko’s decision drove them away? In creating a new kind of family, would she lose this one?

  Feet padded along the passage, and Gingko strode through the door. In two low bounds, he had her and Kyrie in a lopsided embrace. “Dad said there was trouble,” he said gruffly. “You okay?”

  “Fine. I’ll be fine.” And then she realized that she wasn’t the only one holding a baby. “Who’s this?”

  “Meet Lilya.” Gingko eased back and pulled aside the blankets to reveal a rosy-cheeked newborn with Sansa’s dark hair. Nose twitching, he asked, “And who’ve you got there?”

  “His mother is my relative, a distant cousin on the Hajime side. She … didn’t want him.” Tsumiko stroked the little boy’s cheek. “I’ve been tending him, but he’s getting fussier. We’ll need to find him a proper meal.”

  “Leave that to Sansa.” Gingko guided her to the sofa in the bay window and made her sit. “Does the kid have a name?”

  “Kyrie Hajime-Mettlebright.” She searched his face, trying to gauge any reactions. “We’re going to be his family from now on.”

  Gingko’s ears pricked forward. “Swap?”

  She took Lilya, who was smaller and softer than the hybrid child, but intangibly brighter. “Oh,” she breathed. “Is it just me, or is she …?”

  “A stunner. Brightest child yet,” Gingko bragged. “Maybe even beacon class. But this guy’s flashy in his own way. What’s up with this hair, little bro?”

  “He’s like you, half-human.”

  “No kidding. I almost missed the subtle hints.” He loosened Kyrie’s blanket, sniffing and stroking until the baby woke. Then grinning at the little one’s doleful red gaze. “How’d your cousin get mixed up with a dragon?”

  “Abduction,” whispered Tsumiko. “She was unwilling, and so her child was unwanted.”

  Gingko sobered. “She make it?”

  “Yes. And she asked me to take him.” Tsumiko was still trying to process everything that had happened in the last few days. “It’s a long story.”

  “One I want to hear.”

  Tsumiko touched his shoulder. “I’d like that … to talk it through.”

  “Sounds like bad stuff happened.”

  She nodded. “But good things, too. Especially for Kyrie.”

  More steps sounded in the hall, and Argent strode through, now dressed in his own clothes and scowling faintly. Michael and Sansa followed close on his heels. And another person slipped into the room behind them—the feline newcomer.

  He was even bigger than he’d appeared in the snapshots Michael had sent. Standing just inside the kitchen door, like a guard at his post, he kept his head bowed, his eyes lowered.

  Michael guided Sansa to a rocking chair, then hurried over. Resting his hand atop Tsumiko’s head, he beamed. “Welcome home, Tsumiko. I see you’ve met our little lady.”

  “I’m glad to be home,” she said. “And Lilya is beautiful.”

  “Isn’t she?” he agreed. “But I hear you’re adding a son to our household. Come to Uncle Michael, little man!”

  Tsumiko held her breath while the reaver made a quick but careful inspection. Sansa beckoned to her, and Gingko reclaimed Lilya so Tsumiko could go to her side.

  “I’m home,” Tsumiko murmured shyly.

  “And most welcome. You were missed, but you were where you were needed.” Sansa took her hand. “Argent told us how you rescued this new one.”

  Did she mean new life or new breed? Tsumiko supposed Kyrie embodied both. Still watching Michael’s explorations, she said, “His mother didn’t want him to suffer as she did. So we’ll give him a home.”

  “You are his mama now.”

  “Yes. He’s mine.” Tsumiko added, “But I’ll need help.”

  A soft growl issued from Argent’s direction, and Michael set aside his curiosity to announce, “Lilya will have a playmate. And a rival for Gingko’s affection.”

  “I’ve got two arms,” grumbled the gardener.

  Michael brought Kyrie to his wife. “Well, my dear, let’s see if he’ll take to you.”

  Sansa took the baby, her lips curving into a wondering smile. Flipping her heavy braid over her shoulder, she unabashedly bared her breast and coaxed Kyrie to suckle. She laughed at his enthusiasm. “All is as it should be. He understands what he needs.”

  “Love,” said Tsumiko. “And a place to belong.”

  “This is true.” Sansa caressed his silky hair. “He shall know warmth and comfort and the pleasure of a full belly.”

  While Kyrie ate, Tsumiko noticed that the tone of Argent’s growl had shifted from annoyance to approval. And Gingko was watching him. Covertly. And with traces of confusion. Was he remembering something from his own childhood? Or had Argent changed noticeably during their month abroad? They would need to catch up.

  But before she could frame the idea into words, Argent’s attitude changed again. A low huff and the jerk of his chin toward the door. Then he walked out. Deece meekly followed.

  “What …?” asked Tsumiko.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about those two.” Michael took Kyrie to his shoulder, p
atting firmly. The baby burped wetly, then uttered a squeaky growl. Michael laughed. “They’re simply going through … well, let’s call them necessary formalities.”

  Tsumiko looked to Sansa for a translation. “Which means …?”

  The battler chuckled. “It means they are males.”

  . . .

  Argent was not sure how to handle the latest addition to the household. Not Lilya or Kyrie, of course. Their welcome was assured. But the feline factor needed immediate clarification. Stopping in the empty stretch of winter-whitened lawn above the cliffs, Argent stopped to face his silent shadow. “Cat got your tongue?” he inquired snidely.

  “Sir?”

  Argent bluntly asked, “Are you Twineshaft’s spy?”

  “I am not.” Stepping forward the feline offered his palms. “My name is Deece Evernhold.”

  In no mood for formalities, Argent opted for some good old-fashioned posturing. Power surged, and the warrior boy was on his back in the snow, pinned under the weight of one silver paw. To his credit, Deece remained passive—arms outspread, gaze lowered, throat bared.

  He was a little breathless under the pressure Argent was applying, but Deece managed a deferential tone. “Hisoka Twineshaft is my mother’s brother. That is no secret.”

  Not good enough. Argent returned to his speaking form, but he didn’t give up his show of dominance. Straddling the bulkier clansman’s chest, he pointed out, “You are armed.”

  “I am the Evernhold tribute, given to Sansa to be trained as a battler.”

  Argent smelled no lie. “And Michael?”

  “My … first taste.”

  Was the boy actually blushing? “Tsk. You are young.”

  “Compared to some,” he murmured, showing a bit of spirit.

  Argent smirked. “Are you calling me old?”

  More carefully, Deece answered, “I would call you strong.”

  “So you acknowledge my superiority.”

  “Even among the forebears, few could rival you.” With a small sigh, he added, “I freely admit that I am no match.”

  “In wits or warfare?”

  “Either. Both.” Deece frowned, “But you are not my enemy.”

  “No?” Argent leaned closer. “What am I?”

  “A secret.”

  “One widely known?”

  Deece shook his head. “My uncle keeps more secrets than he tells.”

  Argent relented somewhat. “What do you know about me?”

  “Only that this is your den. And that I should not trouble your lady if I wish to survive my apprenticeship.”

  “Michael said that?”

  “Gingko did.” Deece finally met Argent’s gaze. “He was … adamant.”

  “Unsurprising.”

  And still, the boy showed no sign of restlessness over his subjugation. Then again, males of the cat clans were used to being dominated. All things considered, Deece would be easy to manage. But would this would-be warrior fit in with Tsumiko’s future plans?

  Argent asked, “How do you feel about children?”

  Deece’s brows drew together in frank confusion. “The same as anyone?”

  “Tsk. You will not find refuge in generalities.”

  “Children are precious to the clans. They need our affection, our protection, our attention, our guidance.” Offering a small shrug, Deece added, “This is true for Kith and Kindred alike.”

  “And crossbreeds?”

  Deece’s eyes widened, and their expression grew soft. “Your sons and daughters, Michael’s sons and daughters, and my sons and daughters—may they cherish one another even as we cherish them.”

  So that was how it would be. Argent acknowledged the pledge—and all it implied—with a burst of anticipation. One thing was essentially true for Kith and Kindred, humans and crossers.

  It was not good for them to be alone.

  . . .

  A week passed more quickly than Tsumiko could track. The entire household seemed to revolve around the needs of their newborns, with Argent taking over the kitchen and Deece patrolling the boundaries. Gingko was available at all hours to cuddle and coddle, while Michael fielded the sudden explosion of communication from the outside world.

  They had caused a good deal of trouble for Tsumiko’s solicitor. Mr. West was dealing with ruffled feathers and red tape as he worked to reclaim her personal effects from the Smythes.

  Messages had begun arriving from the Farroost clan, demanding assurances and offering supplemental security for Akira’s and Suuzu’s impending visit. The week leading up to the Emergence’s first anniversary had been declared an international holiday, and the boys would have a break from school.

  At the same time, two of Michael’s and Sansa’s daughters were expected. Darya, their eldest, would be escorting four-year-old Annika home to meet their new baby sister. Tsumiko couldn’t wait to meet them.

  Much trickier was the casually officious letter from England informing them of Jacques Smythe’s intention to visit. Despite Michael’s increasingly brusque attempts to dissuade the man, Uncle Jackie’s correspondence was full of frivolous—and often flirtatious—enthusiasm for his upcoming adventure. Nothing would hold him back.

  None of these would have been much of a problem if they weren’t still in limbo about Argent’s bondage. Good intentions weren’t enough to set her slave free, and no one at Stately House was eager to broadcast Argent’s predicament. Michael had been losing sleep in order to press on with his research, so Tsumiko offered her services. She might not understand everything about reaver culture, but she was no stranger to academia. Research was well within her abilities. Which was why she was in Michael’s office when Gingko charged in, breathless and shaky.

  Setting aside a thick folio on the subtle differences between seals and wards, she asked, “Is something wrong?”

  “Yeah, maybe. Or definitely.” Gingko stalked across the room and took her by the shoulders. “Tsumiko, I need … just a little more? It’s the only thing that helps!”

  His grip was harder than necessary, but she tried not to show it. “I’m not sure that’s wise. Maybe you should ask Michael this time.”

  Gingko’s eyes slammed shut, and he swayed in place. Swearing under his breath, he loosened his grip. “Sorry, sorry. It might be good to get Michael. He can make sure nothing gets out of hand. But please, Tsumiko. It’s gotta be you.”

  Desperation clipped his words, and she could feel the panic underlying his plea. “What are you feeling?” she asked. “Help me understand what’s going on?”

  “I don’t know,” he moaned. “There’s a fire in my belly and in my bones.”

  “Argent!” she cried.

  Gingko hissed his protest, but his father was already there.

  “Explain,” Argent’s voice was dangerously soft.

  “He’s not feeling well.” Tsumiko helped lead Gingko across the hall, into a side parlor. “Would tending help?”

  “Symptoms?”

  Tsumiko shared what she knew.

  Argent took hold of Gingko’s chin, forcing him to meet his gaze. “How long have you been in pain?”

  “A while,” he hedged. “A few days.”

  “Idiot. How many times have I told you to go to Michael for tending? He knows how to control his output.”

  “Stingy,” Gingko muttered. “Tsumiko doesn’t scrimp, and I like feeling full.”

  “Well, you have taken too much.”

  “Feels like I’m dying.”

  Argent snorted. “You are not.”

  “So … what?” asked Tsumiko. “I’ve given him the equivalent of a tummy ache?”

  “How many times have you tended this beggar since we returned?” Argent asked.

  “Not very much!” Gingko tried to hide behind her. “Don’t be mad. It’s not her fault.”
<
br />   At Argent’s arched brow, Tsumiko answered honestly. “Seven times.”

  She felt awful that her willingness to fill his aching soul with light had led to pain. She didn’t regret the sessions themselves. She’d missed Gingko’s casual camaraderie, an intimacy she didn’t need to resist. He always acted like he was taking, but she treasured the trust they’d found. Her first friend. And it felt as if she was losing him.

  “Tsk.” Argent cupped her cheek. “He is not dying. You did well to call for me, since I am the one he needs.”

  “He needs you?” she echoed just as Michael came through the door at a jog.

  “Argent? Gingko?” The man looked between them, radiating concern. “Should I bring Sansa?”

  “No need. This is a clan matter.” To Gingko, Argent said, “Remove your shirt.”

  Michael took Tsumiko’s arm, murmuring, “We should leave them to it.”

  But Gingko blurted, “Let her stay!” His hands were shaking, and his eyes pleaded with her. “Stay with me.”

  Until that moment, Tsumiko hadn’t realized how much Gingko feared his father. “May I?” she asked.

  “By all means.” Argent laid aside his own shirt. “Do you want Michael as well?”

  Gingko nodded jerkily, and Michael was at his elbow, murmuring reassurances.

  Argent eased closer, touching his son’s shoulder. “Direct contact is necessary. Will you trust me?”

  “Can I?”

  “Always.”

  The answer seemed to surprise Gingko. But he shuffled forward, trembling.

  “Idiot,” Argent grumbled, placing his hand atop his son’s head, then tugging gently at one silvery ear. “There is nothing to fear, kit. You are coming into your heritage.”

  . . .

  Gingko’s body ached and burned, but he didn’t understand what was needed. Usually, all he craved was tending, but this was fundamentally different. And frightening.

  “Hurts,” he whimpered.

  Immediately, his ears drooped in anticipation of mockery. Surely his father would ridicule the weakness he’d likely inherited from the woman he despised most.