Most of you will never know me. I am the faceless one, the "everyday Joe" you pass on the sidewalk every morning, the nondescript neighbor that you feel obligated to wave to whenever our cars pass. Five minutes after an encounter with me, I'd be willing to bet good money that you can't remember a single distinguishable feature about me.
That is how I like things; you see, in my line of work, if you're remembered then you are as good as caught. In layman's terms, I am called an "assassin", but really it's too crude of a word for what I do. My work is a subtle form of art, a talent. I take money from people just like you, and I remove the person that is your most bitter enemy, your obstacle, or even your loved ones. You'd be surprised at who's been on my client list......everyone from cherub-faced mothers to the rich and famous has sought out my services for one reason or another. And sometimes, just sometimes if the money is right, I even work for the insane.
The old man definitely fit in that category. From the time he arrived in my office, I pegged him for a loon. He arrived in the company of his grandson, who happened to be a prominent figure in the Yakuza, the Japanese Mafia that was establishing its roots slowly but surely in America. I'd done business with his grandson on many an occasion. The grandfather had seen eighty years unless I missed my mark, and I was rarely wrong. His eyes were piercing in his weathered face, and the snow-white hair of his head was a startling contrast to his tanned skin.
Even though I'm sure he'd lived in America for over thirty years, he still wore the traditional kimono of his native culture. He spoke no words of greeting, merely marched up to my desk and placed a manila folder before me. His grandson helped him take a seat while I opened up the file. The thing was crammed with photos: Polaroids, professional quality, and even printed photos from some computer webcam. They were all shots of one woman, obviously my client. I looked up to find the old one watching me intently. "Kitsune," he remarked, his voice still thick with an accent.
"Kitsune? That her name?" I asked.
"No, kitsune," the old man repeated, his burning gaze falling down to the pictures. "Japanese demon. Fox fire." His grandson placed a hand on his shoulder, speaking a few words in Japanese to comfort him, then looked at me. "What Grandfather means is that he believes this woman is one of the kitsune. You Americans call them werefoxes, I believe." I stared at them both, the old man in his ancient garb, the younger man in the Armani three-piece suit.......both faces mirrored the same deadly calm and serious. I raised my eyebrows, not really sure if this was some kind of stupid joke. "Werefoxes? You mean, howl-at-the-moon, turn-furry-once-a-month type?"
"The kitsune has been around in Japan since the ancient times," the young man replied stiffly. I could see how hard he was trying to contain his rage at my glib remarks. "My family was given the sacred honor of ridding the land of the demons over three hundred years ago, and it has been passed down from father to son since that time. My grandfather is the last of our family to receive the honor, but he is too old now to hunt the kitsune. That is why he seeks your help."
I thought about making another smart remark, but I decided against it. The last thing I needed was a Yakuza boss pissed off at me, and I needed the business they provided for me. The old man took my silence as acceptance of the job, and barked at his younger companion in fluent Japanese. The grandson stood, and placed two objects on the desk before me. One of them was an ancient kitana, the polished wooden hilt and sheath carefully wrapped in a black satin shroud. I noticed several Japanese characters burned into the sword's handle; the family name, more than likely. The second object was a black professional briefcase.
I opened it and tried not to gape. There had to be close to ten million dollars, from a quick glance, nearly three times the amount I was normally paid for a job. The old man caught my gaze again, and his face was as unreadable as some ancient statue. "Use the sword to kill the beast," he said. "Only the purest silver blade can stop her fire." He stood, and motioned to his grandson. They both bowed slightly at the waist to me, and I found myself automatically returning the politeness. They headed for the door without another word; I was too speechless to stop them from leaving. The grandson was the last to leave, pausing just a moment to give me one final warning.
"Don't let the kitsune bewitch you," he said sternly. "She will use her mind and body to try and stop you. You mustn't let her draw you in." Then they were gone, leaving my office as abruptly as they had arrived.
I stayed awake most of the night, looking at the sword and the money again and again. I didn't really buy their story; I figured that the old man must have had some run-in with her and just needed her offed. The sword deal, well, that wasn't all that unusual. Some of my clients paid me a lot more just to make sure their target was killed in a certain way or with a certain thing.....call it a "calling card" of sorts. But their devotion to the legend piqued my curiosity, and so the next day I turned to the library to find out about this "kitsune".
