Zero Foxes Given Read online

  Zero Foxes Given

  Kitsune Shapeshifter Series

  Other books by Nix Whittaker

  Glyph Warrior series

  Hero is a man

  You can run

  Sorrow also sings

  Blind Leading

  Wyvern Chronicles

  Blazing Blunderbuss

  The Mechanicals

  The Jade Dragon

  Wyvern’s trim and other stories

  Ruby Beyond Compare

  Wyvern Mysteries

  Lady Golden Hand

  Model Human series

  Model: Serenity

  Model: Scribe

  Zero Foxes Given

  Nix Whittaker

  Reshwity Publishers

  https://reshwity.wixsite.com/publishing

  © 2019 by Nicola Pike

  This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical facts, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the author.

  ISBN Paperback:

  ISBN Ebook:

  This book is written in my native English so if you are American, you might notice more Us and less Zs, but that is as intended. Also, a warning to those who love the oxford comma, you might see less of those as well.

  Chapter One

  Angling her phone to get in the blade and handle of the ancient knife, Kiera took a photo. Trying three times to avoid the reflection off the glass box surrounding it. The blade looked ordinary, something a medieval lord would eat his supper with. The wood darkened with years of oily palms though the blade was dull with years.

  The tour guide droned on in the background. “Considered the knife that killed Caesar. They thought they lost the knife until last year when it was found in the estate of…” Kiera moved away from the tour guide and his dry tones. She had already read all of that off the plaque gleaming in brass under the glass cabinet.

  Tapping a comment onto the bottom of the image, she went back to fix up the lighting before she sent it off to the ethers of the internet where her fans waited. Kiera avoided the crowds, who oohed and ahhed around the big-ticket items, and wandered into the quieter areas of the museum. Here she discovered water colours by Japanese artists. Intricate images of yokai lounging around cherry blossom gardens and sparkling ponds.

  The strange creatures brought a smile to her lips. But she was on the clock and had to move on. There were at least two other tourist sites she wanted to visit before the end of the day.

  Outside the museum, she found Tinkerbell running a stall of cupcakes. Wings flittered behind her, picking up the light breeze. A motley crew ran the other tables in the shady courtyard though not as interesting as the fairy. One had dreads while another wore yoga pants in a clashing colour to his holey shirt. They sold prints and junk that still sported bits that showed where the melted plastic was poured into the moulds.

  Passing by Tinkerbell and her sugar-coma-inducing treats Kiera perused the wares available, drawn to the tables with hand-crafted souvenirs as she had seen enough plastic reproductions to fill a hundred landfills.

  The woman behind the table watched her with dark, intent eyes. Unlike the others, she wore a pinstriped pencil skirt and a simple button-up blouse. All business.

  Kiera sorted through the clutter of hand-carved toys and glass pendants hung on strips of leather on the table sitting in the dabbled shade under the trees. Her fingers itched over the stack of pencils, shaped like miniature weapons. Axes topped some, while the others had swords—they were perfect.

  One still had a little plastic sleeve over the tiny blade. She picked that up and held it to the light. The tiniest silver writing decorated the blue shaft. The end had a short blade that looked more like a scimitar tacked on the end or possibly a glaive. The writing looked like kanji, but it could have come from any of the Asian countries. She doubted it was accurate or authentic.

  The vendor said in a slight Canadian accent, “You can get a discount if you buy five.” That was the nail in the coffin of Kiera’s reluctance. Slipping her hand inside her jacket pockets, she searched for stray money. She didn’t have much in the way of Canadian coinage as she had only crossed the border that morning. The lack of any wireless card machines on the table had Kiera assuming the vendor only took cash.

  She laid the coins out on the table, in a line as she found them. Two dimes and a single loon. She dug into the pocket on her chest and grinned as a polar bear festooned twonie was added to the line of coins. A ten-dollar note wedged behind her passport, from her inside pocket, joined the others in a wrinkled curl.

  The woman behind the table waved to indicate Kiera could select the five weapons with the change. Diving in with glee, she searched through the wares for the pencils for a range of different blades.

  The vendor asked, “Did you enjoy the exhibitions?”

  A katana and two medieval long swords, one with a basket and the other without, joined the mini scimitar in her hand as Kiera answered, “The watercolours were stunning, and there certainly was a crowd around Brutus’ blade.” She decided on an axe for the last one and shoved them into a chest pocket where the sharp ends could point upwards and hopefully not poke her as she headed to the next site on her list. Kiera waved off the small plastic bag the vendor offered.

  “Do you need me to explain the names of the weapons?” the vendor asked helpfully.

  Kiera gave the tiniest of shakes of her head.

  “Nah, I used to be in HEMA when I was at boarding school.”

  The vendor raised her eyebrows. “Oh, were you any good?”

  Kiera chuckled. “No, I was terrible. I’d flinch every time someone tried to hit me. Hard to hit back when your eyes are closed.” Though that had never stopped her from practicing. Finding calm in the movements. The fighting had been an easy way to socialise for her. She didn’t need to talk, and there were a set of rules to play by and if she did, everyone thought she was awesome. Unfortunately, those kinds of shallow friendships hadn’t lasted after she had left school.

  Kiera patted the pencils into place as the woman said, “Are they gifts?”

  Kiera snorted. Dad’s Alzheimer’s had isolated more than just himself. By the time she had left New Zealand, she hadn’t been on speaking terms with most of her family, and her friends had disappeared like mist on a sunny day. “I’d need an ounce of social skills to have someone to give gifts to.”

  The woman tutted sadly. “Social skills aren’t everything.” She collected up the coins Kiera had laid out. “Well, be careful with those. They are pointy. Are you new to town?” The vendor slipped the coins into a steel box sitting by her hand. Dented and with flaking paint, it was a contrast to her crisp outfit.

  Kiera zipped up the pockets she had opened to search for the shrapnel, double-checking her passport was still in the inside pocket of her jacket, a habit after travelling for so long. She checked the zips on her backpack as well before returning it to her back. She wasn’t surprised she gave outsider vibes to the vendor. Her accent alone would have drawn a massive neon sign above her head.

  “Just arrived today. I’m planning to stay awhile.”

  The woman raised an eyebrow at Kiera’s answer. Despite Victoria being a stunning city, it wasn’t the usual place tourists planned for an extended stay when Vancouver was so close. She had no idea Kiera’s followers wanted to see the less-travelled places.

  Kiera flushed, as she hated explaining her exploits. “I have an Instagram account. I go to places that introverts would like to go, and people follow me.” Literally as well as
digitally.

  And some even paid her to travel to certain places. Victoria City was paying her to wander their city, and she wasn’t about to turn up her nose at hard cash. Most of the perks of her followers were advertising income and free hotels. When cash-paying gigs came about, she snapped them up.

  She finished putting her many-pocketed jacket to rights and flashed the vendor a smile. “Thanks.”

  It wasn’t the vendor’s fault Kiera hated talking to people. The vendor held up a hand to hold her for a moment and said, “You should check out the gorge on Galloping Goose Trail. It’s stunning.” Kiera agreed with a soft mutter. She already planned to head that way as the camping site she was staying at was on the other side of the gorge.

  The day cooled by the time Kiera hit Deadman’s Island halfway across the gorge on the Galloping Goose Trail. The walkway had been busy for most of her walk but as she reached the middle of the gorge, the bridge went quiet.

  She had already gone to several tourist areas. Mostly museums. She maxed out her limit of tourists which left an ache behind her eyes. She had enough for several days’ posts, so she would have time to settle into Victoria.

  Enjoying the moment, she stopped to lean on the wooden railing. The salt air reminded Kiera of her hometown. A small one-horse town—where the horse died and was buried a decade ago—on the east coast of the North Island. She could go months without seeing people she didn’t know. Now surrounded by strangers, Kiera ironically didn’t feel any less lonely than she did growing up.

  The wide boardwalk, suspended over the gorge, allowed for an open view of the inlet. Murky green water, whipped by the wind, created white frothy peaks. The railing was high enough she had to lift her elbows to lean on it. The metal pole, spotted with salt spray, topped the railing and was cold under her arms.

  A ripple in the water caught her attention. She frowned as a suckered tentacle uncurled out of the water. It was massive for how far out it was. The skin slick, purple and translucent. She had never seen a squid or octopus that particular colour.

  Distracted, she didn’t see where the attack came from. A large, black blur dived and struck Kiera, smashing into her cheek. She reflexively raised her hands in defence against another attack. Disoriented, she stumbled against the railing, going to her knees. Magpies had attacked her before, so she had a healthy respect for the feathered menace. Knowing a bird had attacked her didn’t lessen the throbbing in the bone below her eye.

  Kiera judiciously touched the area and came away with darkened fingers. Wetness meant the bird had broken the skin, but she ignored that to make sure they wouldn’t attack again. She scanned the sky while still on her knees. Her arm half-raised to protect herself if the crazy bird returned.

  Instead, a shadow of a large man caught her by surprise. She dropped her hand to get a better look at him. His leather jacket hid most of his blue t-shirt, stretched over a muscled torso. Her eyes travelled to his raised arms over his head, brandishing a katana. His face twisted in hate. He swung.

  Her heart kicked up, and the world turned slow. Horror at the situation snapped her out of shock. Crouched against the railing, she was at a disadvantage as she couldn’t retreat.

  Telegraphing his move, Kiera rolled to the side as he struck. The katana chipped wood off the sidewalk planks, spraying her with splinters. Sound was deafened as blood rushed through her ears.

  The pencils from her pocket clattered as she rolled to her feet. Staying low with one hand still on the ground, she eyed the man with suspicion. Studying him in the brief moment, he recovered from his swing. The man wore denim jeans, dark hair cut close to his head and a touch of mocha to his skin.

  Holding up one hand, she held him back, keeping herself a small target. She remained crouched close to the ground. “Hey mate, no need to get violent here. Surely, we can talk this out,” she pleaded with him. Her mind wandered to all the reasons he might be fighting her. Surely, she hadn’t been in the country or the city long enough to offend him. He couldn’t know enough about her to hate her, so it had to be for the usual reasons men attacked women.

  His answer was to shift his grip on the sword and swing the blade, aiming for her side. Kiera dived out of the way as he threw all his strength into the lunge. Her backpack slammed her head as she rolled. Taking the brunt of the move on her shoulder, Kiera evaded another slice of the blade.

  She hissed with pain as the pencil stuck in her hand as she moved to avoid the maniac’s attack. The tip caught in the fleshy part of her palm.

  Ignoring the pain, she tried to move out of the way of his attack. Instead, she was thrown back as the pencil under her hand expanded into a long pole. The end topped with a curved blade. Silver kanji glowed faintly in the low afternoon light. The gold tang and cap were etched with a storm scene. Her eyes fixated onto the sharp edge.

  Naginata!

  Not questioning its presence, she scooped it up. Blood from her hand turned the blue-painted shaft slick in her grip. Tightening her grip, she turned on the villain. Pain from her wounded cheek throbbed through her head, adding a counterpoint to the growing headache from the adrenaline. She shifted her feet. Taking a breath, falling into that feeling of peace. Single in purpose, she moved the blade, so it swayed like a mesmerised snake near her feet.

  Grimacing, he jabbed at her with the tip of the katana. It was a weak move and more to judge her resolve or possibly skill level. Not many people knew how to use a weapon, let alone an exotic one like a naginata. She swept the bladed end of the naginata at his legs, and he stepped back. He swung, but he didn’t have the reach despite towering over her. She jabbed at him to give herself enough time to straighten from her crouch.

  Her ears roared with the rush of her own blood, and it throbbed against her eardrums. Fear had her rushing to her feet, and she stumbled backwards as her shoe caught on the extra material of her jeans. She had never been the most graceful fighter.

  Seeing his opening, her attacker made a sound of glee as he swung at her again. If she had been in his shoes, she would have counted on her not knowing how to fight. When his swings were full of force and little technique, she knew she was right.

  Recovering quickly, she spun the naginata up and blocked the blow. The shock travelled through the shaft, and she almost lost the weapon. Flicking the staff of the naginata, she knocked the blade away. Mouth dry with panic, kept at bay with adrenaline alone, she advanced on him.

  The leather-clad thug snarled, showing teeth as he retreated from her attacks with the occasional swing or jab of his katana to keep her back.

  “Give it back, saitei.” His anger twisted the Canadian accent into a growl. The Japanese word placed his darker skin. Here in Canada, she had assumed he was native. That also explained the katana. Though why an expat Japanese man was wandering around attacking women with a katana was still beyond her comprehension.

  Her feet danced as she avoided another of his overpowered swings. Her mind took a long moment to process his words. Instead, favouring to process things that could keep her alive. “Hey, I know what that means, jerk.” She’d lived in Japan for three months, insults and swear words were the first things she picked up in any new place.

  He rumbled as he backed up. Twisting her wrists, she changed the direction of her blade; instead of jabbing, she sliced towards his arm. Forcing him to take an awkward step back or risk his arm being sliced.

  Stumbling against the railing, fear flickered into his eyes. She had the reach and instead of taking on a newbie without a weapon, he now faced her. The power shift gave her confidence. Her hands shifted on the shaft, and she swirled the blade in a circle, twisting his sword away from her with the simple turn of her wrist.

  He struggled to keep up with her attacks. The steel of the blades sang as they contacted. His strength matched her reach with the longer weapon. They shifted back and forth along the wooden boardwalk. Time wasn’t her friend as her muscles shuddered with fatigue. She backed up, sliding one foot along the smooth wooden boards. Hi
s attack had her stepping back blindly and awkwardly with her other foot.

  Her heel slipped on a pencil, which rolled under her. She let go of the naginata with one hand to catch her balance. Throwing her arm out to return her centre of balance. He rushed her, taking advantage of her distraction.

  Slapping her palm back onto the pole in a panic, she tried to bring up the bladed end of the naginata, but he was already past it. His blade descended, and she made an awkward move as she changed her intent of her weapon, bringing up the other end of the staff to block the blade.

  Dread filled her. She wouldn’t be fast enough. Tempted to close her eyes, her eyelids flickered. That had always been her downfall in fights. But she couldn’t let it happen this time, or she would be dead. Fear of the katana had her dropping her hand off the shaft of the naginata as she raised it gracelessly. The katana sliced down into her shoulder. Shock stuck in her throat.

  The katana caught in the wood of the staff she had tucked in against her shoulder. She puffed out the air in her lungs in relief. The naginata staff had saved her arm from being severed. Her heart dashed as she came to grips with how serious this situation really was. Knees weak, she struggled to keep her ground.

  The naginata must have a steel core as the katana was, by far, sharp enough to cut through bone, let alone a wooden staff.

  He yanked at the katana, but it stuck fast. A growl burst from him in frustration. The sound more animal than human.

  Pain burned. The adrenaline only a spotty shield against the injury. He had cut down a couple of inches into her arm.

  Gritting her teeth, she lifted the staff. The blade travelled the path it had taken rather than going sideways and possibly taking a chunk of flesh the size of a wallet off her shoulder. The sucking sound of disturbed flesh had her gagging. Pain shivered through her and sharpened her thoughts. He renewed his efforts to regain his sword.