Caged: Little Yokai Series Book 1, page 1
CAGED
LITTLE YOKAI SERIES BOOK 1
SCOTT WALKER
FIREFLY TALES, LLC
CONTENTS
Books by Scott Walker
Exclusive Access to “Shadowed”
Glossary of Japanese Terms
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Hunted: Little Yōkai Series Book 2
Preview of “Hunted”
Glossary
Acknowledgements
About The Author
BOOKS BY SCOTT WALKER
THE LITTLE YŌKAI SERIES
(Urban Fantasy)
Caged
Hunted
Mirrored
ANTHOLOGIES
Folklore Tales of Old Japan
Daily Story Seeds
EXCLUSIVE ACCESS TO “SHADOWED”
Sign up for the Scott Is Writing Readers Group and get your exclusive copy of Shadowed, the Little Yōkai prequel:
As a freshly minted Bureau of Souls agent, Keiko Miller figured her first week wouldn't be too stressful.
A drug dealing oni, a powerful gokudo crime boss, and a mortalization client seeking protection soon prove her wrong. Within days of accepting her badge, Keiko must choose between the values in her heart and the oath she swore to uphold . . .
Click the link below to get your exclusive copy:
https://scottiswriting.com/little-yokai-shadowed
GLOSSARY OF JAPANESE TERMS
Caged includes several Japanese words and phrases, as well as references to specific gods and Yōkai spirits. A glossary of terms is provided at the end of this book as a reference.
To all the unseen spirits in the world.
ONE
NO GOOD DEED GOES UNPUNISHED.
That went double for Little Yōkai, which was where I met Yuri. To be more specific, I met her at Hana, a Yōkai-friendly speakeasy bar in downtown Los Angeles.
A single text message from a trusted friend had summoned me to the bar. My kitsune nose picked up the telltale aroma of chalk incense as soon as I opened the door. An unmistakable mixture of citrus, pine and campfire smoke, seeping into the place from censers artfully hidden from view. You eventually got used to the smell. Or not.
The Yōkai who frequented the bar said it made them feel relaxed. Most mortals said it smelled pleasant enough at first but caused headaches and dizziness after a while. I was somewhere in between, able to enjoy the incense for a couple of hours before wanting some fresh air.
My kitsune ears picked up the low murmur of conversation, almost entirely in Japanese.
Rikishi "Riki" Sato, owner and operator of Hana, waved at me from an elevated corner booth. She sat next to a man in a suit. His hair was slicked back, and his eyeglasses and the cut of his jacket reminded me of Western Europe.
A lot of the staff and regulars gave me a nod or a bow as I walked through the early Thursday night crowd. There were a few mortals — rich Euro trash slackers in bright designer shirts, a few Yōkai groupies, a handful of humans well connected with the spirit community — but most of the patrons were Yōkai.
Yōkai.
Thirty years ago, most Americans hadn't even heard the word. Months after we dodged the Y2K bullet, all that changed. Now most Americans knew Yōkai was a term for all manner of Japanese supernatural beings: ghosts, demons, spirits, and a lot of entities we didn't have an equivalent for in the U.S.
Madara, my aka bekko koi and constant companion, darted around me. A beautiful, burgundy-colored fish with black spots, she was no ordinary koi. I alone could see her, and she had some very special abilities, like identifying Yōkai by outlining them in a soft blue light. That gave me a definite edge in my line of work, since a Yōkai presenting as mortal would appear, well, mortal. Most importantly, she hid my Yōkai signature, allowing me to pass as a full mortal.
And yes, Madara was a Yōkai herself.
Riki's companion slipped out of the booth as I approached, said something to her I didn’t quite catch. Not English, not Japanese. A clipped accent. Maybe German? I sat across from Riki, eyed the extravagantly wrapped gift box on the table. Colorful wrapping paper with a wildly chaotic design, a forest of ribbons, and a massive bow. Too ostentatious for my Japanese taste.
"Konbanwa, Sato-san. Another admirer?"
“Konbanwa." A smile, a wave of her hand. "Some western European syndicate.”
“What’s the offer?”
“Two-million-euro penthouse with a matching annual salary, plus ten percent of net profit increases. All the things they think are valuable.”
“Sounds like a two-million-euro birdcage and some golden handcuffs," I said.
“Exactly.”
I looked around the bar. "Good night?"
"They all are," she replied with a grin. Tonight certainly was. Very few empty seats. "Thank you for coming."
"Of course."
Located in the heart of Little Yōkai — formerly Little Tokyo — Hana's "manifestations allowed" policy had cemented the bar's enduring popularity with Yōkai and mortals alike. A lot of the spirits were taking advantage of the policy and manifesting in their Yōkai form that night, something I wished I could do. My kitsune half was a secret, and I needed to keep it that way.
The bar's eclectic fusion of Western design touches against a traditional Japanese aesthetic felt right at home in Los Angeles, too. The dim lighting came almost entirely from candles, and retro swing music provided a bouncy background to the hushed conversations at the small tables and sofas scattered about the room. An unused piano, an antique typewriter, black and white photos, a white stone bust of some unknown woman — the decor somehow blended perfectly with the exposed wood, earth tones, and furniture a lot lower than Americans were used to.
Riki was presenting in her mortal form, a tousle of chestnut hair loosely cut into a French Bob, a frilly collared blouse sprinkled with sea foam florals. Typical look for her. I was presenting as well: half Japanese, half White.
"Going ningen tonight, I see," I said. A lot of mortals still used that term to refer to themselves, but after the Parting, ningen had replaced it among the Yōkai community and a growing percentage of Japanese.
Riki glanced at her body, back at me. She rippled, turned translucent for a moment. The mid-thirties Japanese-looking woman disappeared, replaced by a floating girl in a kimono whose skin and clothes were white light. That was Riki's Yōkai form. As a chōpirako Yōkai, her special ability was to make the places where she lived profitable. So, when she said all the nights at Hana were good, she wasn't exaggerating.
Her special talent had made it easy to get her stamp and leave Japan. The biggest corporations around the world headhunted chōpirako. Recruiting the spirits wasn't just profitable, it was also a bragging right. Riki continued turning down the offers, preferring to run her own bar instead.
Some other Yōkai had similar traits that helped them immigrate, but most of us weren't so lucky.
"Better?" Riki asked.
I smiled. "It's your place. Go with what you like."
The glowing girl morphed back into a Japanese woman in a style of clothes I could never pull off: a Harajuku fashion known as Mori Kei. Riki had tried describing it to me once at a party at her place.
"It's about layers. Natural colors. Your own idea of whimsical."
My fingers had flipped across the hangers in her closet. Scarves. Floral prints. Earth tones. A lot of lace, linen, and leggings. Nothing like the dyed hair and vibrant colors of fairy kei or the more traditional style of kimono kei.
I envied her. I wanted to be comfortable in those kinds of clothes, but the mix-and-match options were too much. Whatever I pulled out of her closet garnered a "well, that could work . . ." reaction.
Riki? She totally rocked that style. I mean, she made Mori Kei look amazing, and the guys definitely noticed. It was a waste of their time, but you couldn't argue with the results.
Compared to her, my usual style of dress was downright boring. Pretty standard fare for a plainclothes female in law enforcement: dark pant suit, blouse, and low-heeled black ankle boots. The SoCal heat of Los Angeles meant I sometimes ditched my jacket, though I preferred concealing my service weapon, Bureau of Souls badge, and the kusari tattoo marks around my wrists. Not that it made much of a difference in Hana. Anyone in there who knew me also knew what I did for a living.
Riki handed me a napkin with kanji written on it: "Corner table. Young woman. Alone."
"You want y
"Kudasai," I said. I spotted the woman across the room, noted the various spirits manifesting in their Yōkai forms. Kitsune foxes. Kappa turtles. Tanuki badger. Yamamba mountain hags. A host of different onna women: taka, hone, and nure. Even saw an oni, the ogre's horns tipping back as he laughed.
In the corner I found a Yōkai presenting as ningen. Generic t-shirt under an olive bomber jacket, loose jeans, over-sized sneakers, and a bright bleach-job of short, spiky hair. Chipped fingernail polish. Female, mid-twenties, Japanese, sitting alone at a table for two. At her feet was a small backpack. An elongated oval-shaped piece of flat gold metal twinkled from one of the straps. I couldn't tell which deity the omamori charm was for.
The pack was nondescript, and if it held anything, it wasn't much. No obvious threat near her, though there was a handsome guy leaning over, talking to her. I caught her expression, and it wasn't hard to decipher: definitely not into handsome guy.
I felt for her. Been there too many times myself to count.
Madara didn't seem interested in the guy, not a hint of blue. But the woman? Madara painted her in a rapidly strobing aura. She was new enough to the U.S. that her Yōkai signature was still oscillating.
I came in on the tail end of what had to be an awful pickup line from handsome guy, and I decided handsome guy was now just douchebag guy.
The Yōkai looked down at the table where an empty highball sat next to another, nearly empty one. She seemed to only have eyes for the cocktail in front of her, despite of — or more likely because of — the guy hitting on her. He either didn't notice or wasn't cluing in, rolled right into another pitch for his awesomeness.
"Hey, I'm a nice guy, not some creep. I'm just being friendly. Listen, you like sushi?"
I tapped douchebag guy on the shoulder, gave him my biggest anime eyes and a dazzling smile. Didn't recognize him, which meant he was new to Hana. And that meant he probably didn't know who I was.
"Excuse me, that's my seat." I used my hand to indicate the chair opposite Sad Girl.
"What? Oh, yeah, sure." He moved back, gave me room to sit down, turned his smile on me.
"You don't have a drink. Let me fix that."
I stepped in front of the chair, turned back to face douchebag guy. Put my hand on my hip and cocked my head, looked up at him.
"Got one coming, thanks."
Out of the corner of my eye I caught Mitch, one of Hana's bouncers, lock on to me, start moving in my direction. He knew me, and he knew how this might go, even if douchebag guy didn't.
"Well, at least let me buy you ladies some appetizers."
"Thanks, but we're good."
"Okay, cool, cool. Hey, you like sushi? I bet you like sushi. I know a guy, he owns a great place nearby. Maybe afterwards we can hit a karaoke place."
What went through my head was: You racist piece of shit, you don't know the first thing about me, much less what I do and don't like.
What came out of my mouth was, "I just want to have a drink with my friend."
The guy's smile widened, and he dipped his head, leaned in so he could talk with his mouth close to my ear. Touching me? No. Invading my space? Absolutely.
"Look, I'm not some asshole. I'm a nice guy. Just give me a chance."
He never got that chance.
"Come on, man, time to go."
Douchebag guy turned around, looked Mitch up and down — a rather long process, given Mitch's height — and held up his hands like he was being robbed.
"It's cool, dude. Just talking with the ladies here."
"And now you're just walking away from the ladies." Mitch gave him a head nod. I winked at Mitch, blew him a kiss before the bouncer turned to escort douchebag guy to the exit. I didn't need Mitch to look out for me, but it was nice having a guy watching your back instead of your ass for a change.
The woman at the table had a hint of a smile on her face.
"Thank you."
English but with a heavy accent. I replied in Japanese.
"My pleasure. May I sit down?"
The woman blinked a few times, her smile growing wider. She gestured at the empty chair. I took it as an invitation.
"My name is Yuri. It's a pleasure to meet you," she said, switching to Japanese herself. She gave me a half-bow, half-nod deep enough to let me know just how little she thought of herself. It also reinforced how new she was to the states.
I matched her bow and nod. "My name is Keiko Miller. Pleased to meet you as well, Yuri-san." I nodded at Riki's table. "Riki says you could use some help."
"I'm sorry. Riki?"
I should have known. Riki probably never even said a word to Yuri, just sensed she needed help and texted me. Riki was amazing at reading ningen, even better at reading Yōkai.
"Riki owns this place. She asked me to talk with you. May I do that?"
"Um. Yes. Yes."
I smiled, nodded. "Good."
I carried two sets of business cards. The first was for work. The second had my personal info. I pulled one of the latter out of my pocket, used both hands to hold it out to her, careful to make sure the writing faced her. She took the card with both hands, read it carefully.
"It's beautiful. I love the calligraphy," she said.
"Designed that myself, but I'm not very good."
"On the contrary, your skills are impressive."
She studied my card a bit more, placed it on the table after making sure the surface was dry and clean. She went back to studying her drink, avoided making eye contact.
"With apologies, I do not have a card to offer." Embarrassment. A touch of humiliation.
No surprise. If Riki's instincts were right, Yuri probably didn't have much more than the clothes she was wearing and whatever was inside the well-worn pack. My gut said she was a low-level Yōkai back in Japan who had snuck her way into the states. Without an entry stamp, she fell into the category of hakushi Yōkai, entities who had illegally entered another country.
Riki sometimes helped Yōkai who were down on their luck, including hakushi. Sometimes that meant reaching out to me, and if I felt I could help them without losing my job, I would.
I ignored Yuri's comment about her lack of a personal card, changed topics. "So, how may I help you?"
The Yōkai glanced around before replying.
"I need a stamp."
"Ah." The Holy Grail for a hakushi Yōkai. A fresh start. A new beginning. Legitimacy. Legal status. Also, hard to come by and, in any case, not something I was authorized to issue. More than a bit above my pay grade at the Bureau. Yuri cupped her drink with both hands, looked up. Bags under bloodstained eyes underscored her desperation.
"Will you please help me?" she asked.
I pursed my lips. "Get you a stamp? That would be extremely difficult for me to do."
Yuri caught the gist of my reply: no way can I get you a stamp. Her head dipped, then her eyes met mine again.
