“Why the fuck aren't you paying for her ticket, Sean?” demanded the maneki-neko. Her anger sloshed inside his pocket and not for the first time, Sean—a name the fox had pilfered from occidental traders, too charmed by the monosyllabic plainness of it to let such a treasure go—found himself thanking his past-self for his foresight. The sigils brocaded on his coat’s satin lining kept the maneki-neko’s vexation from spilling free. There were evenings when he welcomed her ire, but not tonight.

Tonight, he had different plans.

“She’s going to look like a monster. Trying to waltz into a charity opera that only asks for suggested donations.” The maneki-neko hissed again. “Why didn’t you warn her?”

“Shush,” he muttered, flicking a fingernail against the figurine. It chimed a protest. Masked patrons, their hair set with peacock feathers, streamed past, their lips tinted gold and plum, the colors of their new sovereign. “That’s the point.”

“You’re being cheap.”

Sean grinned at that, swiveling on a heel to watch as his date—a small, sharp thing draped in indigo silk, with pearls nested at her throat—negotiated with the cashier. Her eyes flicked between him and the man at the counter, jaw tensed. “Oh, boo hoo. I’m sure this one only contacted me because she thought I looked Chaoxian.”

“I don’t know why you’re giving her the time of day, honestly.”

“Because I can. And because there’s something dangerous to this one. She reminds me of our kind.” Sean stroked his companion’s grainy ear, its protective lacquer long since worn by repeated caresses, and then withdrew his hand to perform a familiar ritual. First, an upward nudge of his glasses to ensure proper vision. Then, a tug of his collar to ward against wrinkles. Before finally, a quick incantation, familiar as breathing, to extend his human seeming for another fortnight. Beijing, under the auspice of the Thousand-Eyed Countess, suffered no affection for the yao guai.

“That’s the fifth time in the last four hours. Don’t think I didn’t notice.”

“I would not dream.”

“You know you could find another fox to mate with.”

“That’d be too easy. Still, neko. Still.” He sighed, ignoring her yowl of displeasure. The maneki-neko disliked his nickname for her, thought of it as gauche. A cat was a cat and the point of being a cat was that you were a cat no matter what anyone else said. So why call her a cat and in a different language too, the maneki-neko demanded, when she already understood that was what it was? The fox, of course, thought it was hysterical and remained unrepentant. “I think I might soil my pants. A hound will tear out your throat and be happy to do it, but women? They’ll just defecate on your ego and piss on your dreams, leave you a vegetable. That said: flying colors on test number one.”