“Fox demons don’t brood.” She flicked one of her tails against my wrist. “We calculate .”

“The contract,” she said, lips near my ear, “isn’t a scroll or a spell. It’s a promise . One you made when you gave me your name.”

We were at the rooftop shrine market, the monthly gathering where spirits, half-demons, and the occasional oblivious mortal (me) bought dubious charms and fried tofu. Kitsu, normally a glutton for aburaage, hadn’t touched a single skewer.

And I made my choice.