A Fox's Family (American Kitsune Book 4)

by Brandon Varnell

  Kotohime watched as streaks of fire carved lines through the air in the shape of a pentagram. A second pentagram soon joined the first, followed by a third, a fourth, all the way to the thirteenth. She looked around, noting that all of the pentagrams had trapped her inside of what she guessed was a larger pentagram.

  “Ara, ara. What an interesting technique.” Dust rose as her sandal-clad feet slid further apart. Her left hand grasped the hilt of her katana, while her right held onto the sheath. “Ufufufu…”

  Even in battle, the chuckle remained the same.

  Ling shuddered.

  The blazing pentagrams of destruction closed in on her, intent on turning her into cinders.

  “Water Art: Blade of the Water Lily.”

  Water appeared on Kotohime’s katana, covering her blade in liquid blue that constantly rippled and shifted as she moved.

  “Ikken Hissatsu. Sen.”

  Kotohime’s sword lashed out, an untraceable number of flashes weaving a never ending trail as the water-covered steel glinted in the light. Each strike of her blade seemed to slice through one of the pentagrams multiple times—dozens, hundreds even. And each flame that was cut by Kotohime’s blade burst into dozens of fireflies, tiny bulbs of light composed entirely of fire. The fireflies moved a short distance away, swirling around her in a half-dome entrapment.

  “Oh? What kind of technique is―k-ku!”

  One of the fireflies latched onto her back, and the flame seemed to burn a hole straight through her skin―no, it felt like the fire was searing her very soul!

  More and more fireflies latched onto Kotohime’s frame, and each one that affixed itself to her brought even more pain. And yet, despite the amount of pain she felt, the swordswoman had the presence of mind to notice that something was off.

  None of the flames had burned her.

  “A-an illusion! Gah!”

  However, it appeared to be too late by that point. The fireflies swarmed over her, latching onto her, covering every part of her body in their orange and yellow light. Kotohime began to struggle. She started to stagger. Her body fell onto its knees and then toppled face first to the ground. Her firefly-covered figure twitched once, twice, then went still.

  “Is that it?” Ling asked, frowning. That seemed far too easy.

  She approached the prone corpse cautiously, her eyes wary for any sign that Kotohime might not be dead. However, when she reached the figure, she saw that, indeed, the woman was still.

  “It seems I defeated her,” Ling murmured, “it appears that she underestimated me, right to the very―what the―?!”

  The body before her dispersed into water. A million tiny droplets sparkling in the afternoon sun, which hovered in the air—at least until they all darted towards Ling at unparalleled speeds.

  Ling did her best to defend against the attack, but she didn’t have time to perform a technique and was thus reduced to reinforcing her body and guarding her vital organs with her arms.

  Her body was pelted with thousands of water droplets. It didn’t sound very painful, but when those droplets moved faster than 100 miles per hour and were dense enough that their compositional hardness was comparative to diamonds, it hurt. It really, really hurt. With every drop that struck her frame, blood spurted out of a new wound. And there were many such strikes. Before long, Ling’s arms, legs and abdomen were covered with small punctures, tiny holes from which crimson ichor poured. They weren’t large, nor were they debilitating on their own, but together, they presented a problem.

  “Water Art: Tsukuyomi’s Wrathful Tears.”

  Ling turned around, her bloodstained teeth clenched in unmasked pain. Kotohime stood several feet behind her, unharmed. Her kimono didn’t have a single cut, tear or burn mark, not even a ruffle or a crease. The expression on her face remained unchanged, placid and calm and composed, as if she were not in the middle of a life and death battle.

  “You…” Ling wiped away at the blood making a slow trail down her chin. Some of her non-vital organs must have been punctured. “That was… an illusion?”

  “Oh, no,” Kotohime responded with a light smile. “While I do have some illusions at my disposal, they do not go very well with my style. I simply replaced myself with a water clone and held its form together during your attack using my youki. You were so focused on watching ‘me’ burn to death that hiding in the bushes while you were distracted became a simple matter.”

  “I see.” More blood dribbled down her chin. Ling wiped it off. “You are indeed skilled just as the rumors say. However―” A pair of black tonfa shot out from the sleeves of her kimono and into her hands, where they quickly caught fire. “Do not think this means that I am ready to throw in the towel just yet. Fire Art: Encompassing Torch.”

  “I would expect nothing less.”

  Kotohime shifted into a relaxed posture. She gripped her katana with both hands, the sheath tucked safely away within her obi. She slid her left foot forward, bending her legs at a precise 45 degree angle. She thought about also using her sheath, but discarded the notion as preposterous. There was no need for overkill here.

  A moment of silence passed. Two opponents eyed each other. They moved on some unspoken signal, each preparing to attack before the other.

  Kotohime was quicker.

  With speed that the other kitsune simply couldn’t match, she appeared before Ling in a flicker, a ghostly mirage filled with ill-intent. Her sword was already descending. Ling raised her tonfas above her head in an X-guard to block the attack.

  “G-guu…”

  The swing never came.

  Pain exploded in Ling’s stomach as something hard and powerful smashed into her. She doubled over the katana pommel like a foldout chair, right before her body was launched into the air. She hit the ground several feet away, her body rolling for several more yards. Luckily for her, she was on the road. Otherwise, she would have been the unfortunate victim of numerous cacti.

  She struggled to her feet and looked up just in time to see her opponent’s next attack.

  “Ikken Hissatsu. Tsukuyomi no Dansu.”

  Kotohime began to dance, slowly at first, but picking up speed by the second. Her blade sang, coming in at Ling from seemingly random angles, seeking to slip through a hole in the three-tails’ defense.

  The younger kitsune did her best to defend against the increasingly speedy onslaught but eventually found herself being overwhelmed. Her tonfas flashed through the air, doing everything kitsune-ly possible to avoid getting injured, but that was like trying to keep a thousand killer bees from stinging. Utterly impossible. Cuts slowly formed on her skin, most notably her arms, which she was forced to use to keep the majority of the strikes from reaching anything vital.

  Then Kotohime began to spin. Her body started twirling around with the artistic grace of a ballerina. Her katana came in faster, too, appearing as brief flashes of silver that disappeared seconds later. It moved so quickly that it seemed as if there were multiple blades striking her at once.

  The three-tails tried to defend against the storm, but the task proved impossible. There were simply too many attacks coming in from too many different angles. More cuts appeared on her fair skin. All she could do was grit her teeth and hold out against this unfathomable onslaught, wincing as her clothes became stained in carnelian liquid.

  And then it was over.

  Ling, her body bleeding from innumerable lacerations, fell backwards, hitting the ground.

  And then she disappeared, her body bursting into wisps of smoke and a gout of flame.

  “That was…!”

  Kotohime turned around and raised her blade. A loud clang! rang out across the clearing. The katana Kotohime held in her hands ground against one of the tonfas. Just one. The other tonfa swung in from her left. Ling clearly hoped to slip this one in her guard and strike her unaware. The weapon was even being held by one of Ling’s tails instead of a hand.

  How cute.

  Two people could play at that game.


  One of Kotohime’s long, white-tipped fox-tails grabbed onto the hilt of the wakazashi being carried in the sheath on her back. The short blade slid out with the sibilant hiss of steel, its polished surface glinting in the sun. Wakazashi met tonfa in a clash of sparks. Ling’s eyes widened before narrowing into a look of fierce determination.

  “Fire Art: Three Tails of the Undying Flame.”

  The temperature rose around them. Three spots on the ground became red hot and boiling, like magma bubbling up from a hidden underground volcano. Fire burst from the ground. Three large pillars rose into the air and took the shape of three flaming fox-tails.

  Kotohime did not take her eyes off Ling, but through her peripheral vision, she could see the tails wavering around her, blowing back and forth as if caught in a stiff breeze. The tails straightened up and then descended towards her as one. At the last second, just before the tails struck, the fox-woman in the black kimono leapt back, her left hand enclosing into a fist.

  “Constrict.”

  “Ikken Hissatsu. Bōei.”

  Before the inferno of tails could coil around her, Kotohime’s water-coated blade moved faster than even most yōkai could follow. Flashes of light from her sword’s reflection appeared, the number of refractions increasing over time. Soon, Kotohime’s sword was moving so quickly that the flashing lights had become a singular, solitary entity, a half-dome that surrounded the four-tails on all sides, a barrier made from an uncountable number of sword strikes.

  The fiery tails didn’t stand a chance. They burst into steam the moment they touched the barrier, which disappeared as the thick cloud of evaporated water covered the battleground, blocking Ling’s vision of Kotohime.

  Kotohime tore out of the expanding cloud, the steam splitting apart as she rushed forward, moving on swift feet.

  Ling backpedaled. Her tails moved forward and around, surging past her body. They came together, their tips touching. From the tips, a bright yellow, almost white flame appeared. It flickered for but a moment, then morphed into a ball about seven inches in diameter.

  “Fire Art: Fire Bullets.”

  Dozens―no, hundreds of bullets shot from the small sphere of fire, all of them traveling towards Kotohime as indecipherably incandescent streaks. They were all spaced several inches apart, and there were so many of them that it would be impossible for her to dodge them all.

  In that case…

  “Ikken Hissatsu. Senpū.”

  Her katana spun in a counterclockwise motion in front of her body. The blade moved so fast that it almost looked like the blades of a helicopter. From the spinning katana, a tornado of wind shot forth.

  “Water Art: Tsukuyomi’s Surging Waterfall.”

  The wind soon merged with a jetstream of water, which burst from Kotohime’s four tails as if it had been launched from a geyser. Water and wind combined to form a torrential flood of inconceivably fast motion. Power of nature given form.

  The water tornado engulfed the fire bullets, snuffing them out quicker than a candle in a hurricane.

  Ling’s eyes were impossibly wide as the attack struck her with the full force of a tempest condensed into a small tornado. The attack slammed into her body… and barreled straight through it as though it wasn’t even there. Ling’s body flickered once, and then it was gone.

  Instincts born from years of combat saved Kotohime. She turned, her blade already raised. A tonfa struck it. Sparks flared like dying souls lost in the wind. She pushed the offending weapon away, then tilted her blade down and to the left so the tip pointed towards the ground. The second tonfa struck moments later and slid off her blade. That was when her wakazashi, still held in the grip of her tail, struck.

  Ling was knocked off balance as the short sword slammed against her tonfa, which she’d just barely managed to raise in time to avoid having her throat slit. Her balance shot, she could do nothing as Kotohime’s katana swung down.

  And hit nothing.

  Like a ghost wavering in a breeze, Ling’s body disappeared, leaving only a strange smokey substance behind. The smoke, from which cries of anguish could be heard and the faces of undying phantoms lost in a phantasmagoric realm could be seen, surged forward, trapping Kotohime and wrapping around her.

  “W-what is―gah!”

  Kotohime fell to her knees. Her body felt cold. Chilled. Numb. Like she had just put one foot into the realm of the dead. Her vision darkened and she struggled to keep her form cohesive.

  In the same manner that she had disappeared in, Ling reappeared in front of Kotohime. She looked down at the four-tailed kitsune, dark eyes filled with a merciless cold.

  “Spirit Art: Braying Spirits of the Underworld.”

  “G-gu… this is…”

  “This is one of my most powerful techniques. You feel it, don’t you? The numbness spreading through you is a sign; your body is shutting down. First, your muscles will grow cold and begin to atrophy at an extraordinary rate. Your organs will cease functioning next; first the minor ones, then the major. Your heart will be the last to stop, and then your soul will be pulled out of your body and carried on to the Sanzu river. It is a technique that not even a four-tails can escape from once trapped.”

  “I see.”

  Ling’s eyes widened. That voice—it came from behind her!

  Pain erupted from her chest, along with a lot of blood, which arced through the air in an almost graceful manner. Ling looked down to see a katana protruding through her chest, bright red liquid dripping from its gleaming surface. She blinked, turned her head…

  … and met a pair of dark eyes smiling at her.

  “How…” Ling hacked up several globs of blood. “How did you…?”

  “How did I escape from your technique?” Kotohime finished for her. “The best way to avoid getting hit is to not be there when the attack is coming. I knew from the moment you used that technique with those fireflies that you are not a pure Fire Kitsune. You are a hybrid, a combination of fire and spirit.”

  “It would also explain why your abilities exceed those of a regular three-tails,” Kotohime continued.

  “Ha… ha…” Ling’s breathing had become labored and her eyes half-lidded. “So you… figured it out… I-I suppose… I should have expected this… from… the Blood Princess of the Slina Clan.”

  “Indeed, but do not feel too bad. You did very well for one so young. I was impressed by your abilities.”

  “Heh, to be praised by you…” A bloody smile made Ling’s lips twitch. “I suppose… there are worse things to hear… before I die…” Ling took one last shuddering breath before her body became limp. She slid off the blade, crumpling to the ground, where she lay still.

  Kotohime eyed the woman for but a moment. Ling’s ponytail had come undone and her hair was splayed across the ground. Her eyes were half-lidded and dull. Blood leaked from between parted lips that breathed no more.

  Kneeling down, Kotohime placed a hand over Ling’s face, closing her eyes. “You did well,” she praised. “May you find peace in eternal slumber.”

  She stood back up.

  Looking off into the distance, where she felt an incredible surge of clashing youki, Kotohime found her placid smile returning. “Ara, ara. It seems Kiara is having a lot of fun.”

  ***

  Kiara grinned as her aura engulfed her. Flames of power licked her body, an ethereal inferno that surrounded her, encompassed her, yet did not burn her. Her large, brown and bushy tail wagged behind her, as if to emphasize the excitement she felt at the fight to come.

  “Are you ready, foxy?”

  Shílì’s grin matched Kiara’s. “I am merely waiting for you to start.” A slight bow at the waist. “Ladies first, you understand.”

  “Heh, a gentleman during a battle. What an unusual fox.”

  Deciding to take Shílì up on his invitation, Kiara started the battle by slamming her left fist into the ground. Tremors rocked the earth. Large cracks appeared along the surface. From those cracks, several dozen
shards of rubble burst from the ground like a hail of spears, shooting straight at Shílì.

  A grin crossed his face. Before the fragments could hit him, his tails moved forward. On the tip of each tail was a small black flame darker than midnight. They moved with lives of their own, writhing and turning and twisting.

  “Void Art: Fork Bullets.”

  A multitude of small projectiles shaped like forks were fired from the dark spheres. Each Void fork struck the rubble flying towards him. The dark flames spread across each makeshift projectile, consuming then, devouring them until nothing remained.

  “So, that’s Void fire,” Kiara muttered, a shiver crawling up her spine. Even from where she stood, she could sense the flame’s hunger; it seemed to possess a sentience of its own, irrespective of the one who summoned it.

  “Is this the first time you’ve seen the Void?” inquired a curious Shílì.

  “Hn. So what if it is?”

  The dark grin on Shílì’s face unnerved Kiara. “The Void is the inevitable end of all things. It is the means as well as the conclusion. The Void is the absence of concept; it is nothingness beyond dimension, boundary, or measurement.”

  Shílì looked down at his hands, clenching and unclenching them. Dark shadows played across his face, preventing Kiara from seeing anything except his chilling grin that stretched from ear to ear.

  When he looked up, Shílì’s eyes held equal amounts of reverence and madness.

  “No one truly understands what the Void is… or why it’s so malevolent. Perhaps it is not the Void itself, but the whispers of dead gods who are not really dead, of beings ancient and powerful, descending into madness that transcends the boundaries of time and concepts. In the end, no one really knows. All we have are theories… and the whispers.”

  Kiara’s tongue felt thick and swollen as she listened to this man. She didn’t know why, but the words he spoke disturbed her, filling her mind with vile images and delusions of suffering.

  “Being one who has never touched the Void, never heard its sirens’ call, you probably won’t understand.” Flames of the darkest black flared into existence above the tips of Shílì’s tails. “The Void hungers, Kiara,” he whispered, his haunted voice bordering on dementia. “It’s only desire is to consume everything. And we who touch the Void hear the whispers in our hearts and minds. Every day and every night we’re forced to listen to them; gods, beings descended into madness, whatever they are, imploring us, tempting us with whispered words, demanding we destroy all, that we hasten this world to its final demise. It haunts us, drives us to madness! We are forever slaves to its will!”