“You are jealous,” buzzes a voice behind her. She turns around to see a giant Japanese hornet floating by on a large velvet cushion, holding cigars in four of its appendages. The other two rest on the cushion for balance. “You wished for that, once. With Akki’s boy. Did you not?”

“I think I did — I mean, I do,” the Yokai says. “Have you seen him?”

“I am afraid not, child. I see nothing these days. It is my time to hibernate until the heat of summer returns that I may terrorize your fellow humans once again.”

“But I’m leaving, and I have to find him before I go.”

The suzumebachi takes a puff of one cigar, exhaling a cloud into her face. “I know. I have known for quite some time. I wish I could be of more help. You charmed me, more than most yokai. Perhaps it was our talk of cuisines and dreams that I found thought-provoking. I am glad we were able to meet, and I do not say that often. Take care on your journey, will you not?”

“I will. Thank you.”

The hornet floats its way above the procession and off into the distance. The Yokai half-wanders into the street to watch it go, oblivious of the congregation of kettles that stumble into her ankles. One, an electronic model, tilts up on its short legs to look at her. “Bless my wiring! I know that face and hair anywhere. Why, I made your green tea for six years!”

The Yokai kneels down to get a closer look. She squints. “Mr. Kettle?”

“We meet again, young baku-lady. Tell me, have they replaced me? You have a younger, better model, I’ll bet. One that lights up like a rainbow and sings when the water is ready?”

“Sorry. We’re not allowed to get another one.”

“Well, I’ll be. I’ve left a legacy. The last Nishibe-Zozo kettle. Hear that, everyone?” The congregation screams and steams. “Fancy a cup, miss?”

“No, thanks. I’m looking for my friend. Have you seen him?”

“’Fraid not, dearie. I don’t know much about things that don’t have to do with tea. Have you tried asking the air conditioners?”

“No. Thanks, anyway.”

And so it goes. The Yokai scans the heads and tails of the long line of demons careening toward and around her as they cavort and caper down the street. The friendly, more intoxicated ones try to lure her into the procession with a not-so-subtle wink or an overly long handshake that turns into a tug on her arm. She refuses each time. Find him, she must keep repeating to herself. Find him, find him, find him …

“Would you like a bowl, miss?”

A gentle voice at her shoulder makes the Yokai turn. It is someone with an udon cart. She recognizes the sly smile and eyes so sharp they can cut through her.

“Kitsune-ojisan? Is that you?”