Page 117 of Tsumiko and the Enslaved Fox
“Do you know where Gingko is hiding?”
“No.”
“Then, please. I want to go to my brother.”
Argent inclined his head. “Do you trust me?”
“Yes.”
“I must fly high and fast. It will be too cold for you.”
She tugged her meager covering more snugly around her shoulders, waiting to see what his solution would be.
“I will carry you in my mouth.” Face straight, he added, “Under my tongue, to keep from swallowing you whole.”
Images from the previous night’s dream reared up in her memory, but she only wavered for a moment. “If you think that’s best,” she agreed. “I’m sorry if we taste bad.”
“I will be swift.” Argent caressed her cheek and stepped back so he could transform.
. . .
During their homeward journey, Tsumiko found new sympathy for Jonah. The belly of his whale couldn’t have been any more comfortable than a fox’s mouth, especially since she now knew that many such beasts had enjoyed devouring beacons and babies. One gulp, and they could be gone.
At the very least, their trip was indeed swift. The sun had yet to make an appearance when Argent spat her, queasy and moist, upon an empty lakeshore.
“Thank you,” she mumbled as he helped her stagger to her feet.
“You endured that rather well.” Argent plucked at the saliva slick hair clinging to her face. His hands were shaking. “I apologize for the ordeal.”
“We’re all right.” Her teeth were already chattering. “At least it was warm.”
He wrapped her in his suit jacket and hauled her into his arms. Already on the move, he murmured, “Bear with it a little while longer. There is Keishi.”
Tsumiko turned her face into his shoulder and prayed for the strength to reach safety.
Argent nudged her forehead with his nose. “Which way from here?”
With the bell tower of Saint Midori’s for a landmark, she was able to direct him to her brother’s campus and its dormitories. But which window was his?
“Do you still have my phone?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“I can call Akira to let him know we’re here.”
“No need.”
Lights flared in one of the windows, and suddenly, her brother was half-hanging out of it, frantically windmilling his arms.
As they drifted lower, she asked, “Did you do something?”
“Not I,” he said, traces of teasing in his tone. “You are to blame. Even a distraught, dimming beacon is a beacon.”
“My bracelet!” she gasped.
“In the same pocket as your phone,” he murmured. “Tsk. Do signal your brother before he draws attention to our arrival.”
Akira was clearly drawing breath to shout, but his roommate clamped a hand over his mouth and pulled him inside. When they reappeared, Akira sheepishly held out his hands in silent welcome. His friend anchored him there with an arm around his waist—wary and worried.
