“Of course you are.”
She sniffed the air, and her tail gave an involuntary thump against the cedar. Then she caught herself, hackles rising. “What do you want, human? Offerings? Prayers? I haven’t eaten a traveler in decades, but I’m not above making an exception.”
She let him carry her down the mountain, limp and warm in his arms, her nose buried in the crook of his neck. The village children saw them pass and whispered. The old women at the shrine crossed themselves. But Takeda just walked, one hand cradling her head, the other holding the nikujaga pot. That spring, the school principal found Takeda in the staff kitchen, stirring a huge pot of zoni while a silver-haired woman in an oversized sweater sat on the counter, feet dangling, stealing pieces of kamaboko .
Takeda set down the pot. Then he did something very foolish. He reached out and touched her ear. Ookami-san wa Taberaretai
Her golden eyes studied him. “No. There isn’t.” Winter came early that year. The first snow buried the path, and the village council warned Takeda not to climb the mountain alone. But he thought of her ears drooping in the cold, her tail tucked between her legs for warmth, and he went anyway.
“So,” he said, pulling a small bento box from his backpack, “I made too much lunch. Ginger pork with a honey-soy glaze, tamagoyaki, and pickled daikon. It’s not subpar.”
“I brought nikujaga ,” he said softly, kneeling beside her. “Beef and potatoes. Simmered for four hours.” “Of course you are
“You’ll come back tomorrow,” she said. It wasn’t a question.
She was leaning against the mossy base of an ancient cedar, one slender leg crossed over the other, a half-eaten onigiri pinched between her fingers. Her silver hair fell in a wild cascade over her shoulders, and two furry wolf ears twitched atop her head. A tail, thick and plush as a winter brush, curled lazily behind her. But it was her eyes that stopped him—golden, feral, and for a fleeting second, wide with alarm.
And if you visited the little house at the edge of the village on a snowy night, you might see two shadows through the window: one human, one lupine, curled together under a kotatsu, a half-eaten stew between them, and hear a low, contented rumble that was either a purr or a laugh. Offerings
The woman bared her teeth. “Goddess.”
The autumn leaves had just begun to dust the forest path when Takeda Ryoichi first saw her.
“I’m trying to feed you,” Takeda said. “There’s a difference.”