Chapter 1:
American Yōkai, or (The Unlikely Story of How the Kitsune Toppled an Empire)
You could slice the tension in Miller's Tavern with a knife, but she much preferred bullets. East and West coast watering holes were two sides of the same coin, really. Smelled of cheap liquor and desperation all the same. Only difference being one was more considerate of their fashion sense.
A lone cowgirl, mahogany boots clicking against the wooden floor as she approached the bar.
All eyes were on her, naturally. No wonder, what with the ruckus she caused. It was a good thing really, because she meant it.
Behind her, a man with a trembling lip had one last chance to pray. He didn’t take it. She was dragging him by the collar, and yanking him up with ease, she plopped him onto the stool next to her.
The man’s legs dangled like a puppet’s. The cowgirl leaned lazily against the bar top, her elbows propped like she owned the place—hell, maybe she did, seeing how people were too chickenshit to speak up for her mark. Must have been one standup guy before all this commotion.
“Please,” she drawled. “Your finest Kentucky whiskey.”
"We… we don't have them."
"I can settle. But it better be good. We have high standards where I come from. Put some thought into it. I tip well."
The bartender hesitated, his hands pausing over the bottle rack, unsure whether to focus on her smile or the revolver holstered at her side.
“And one for the gentleman sittin’ right here.” The slight tilt of her head. “I insist.”
“Y-you don’t have to—”
“Oh, sugar,” she interrupted. Her finger flicked the top of his forehead. “It ain’t about havin’ to. It’s about makin’ memories. You remember this moment, don’t you? A drink on me—after all, it might just be your last.”
The bartender swallowed hard, finally reaching for a dusty bottle from the top shelf. He poured two generous glasses.
She slid the first glass across with a casual flick of her wrist. The man didn’t move to take it. His mouth hung open, saliva pooling at the corners and dripping onto the sticky floorboards, his glazed eyes darting between her and the bartender.
Unbothered, she grabbed her own glass and tilted it back. She exhaled sharply as she set the empty glass on the counter with a heavy clink.
“Phew! Well, don’t that beat all. Smooth like soft, supple little babies, that was. This fine establishment's owner’s got taste.” She swirled the empty glass, peering at the lingering drops like they held secrets. “One of them fancy ones from Europe, yes?”
The man blinked, his brain struggling to catch up. “...Yes."
She cocked her head, fixing him with a sharp look that could cut through steel. “Would you know where the average saloon owner might acquire fine merchandise such as this?”
“Boss… boss never told me.”
She leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “That’s right. He wouldn’t have. Otherwise, you’d have beaten the ever living shit outta him soon as you found out about the side hustle he’s got going on.”
The man stiffened, his eyes widening even further. Cassidy only chuckled.
“Relax, sweetheart. I don’t blame ya for being in the dark. Your boss has a real knack for keeping people like you just dumb enough to be useful. It’s almost admirable.” She leaned back, her hat tipping just enough to cast a shadow over her eyes. “Almost.”
Her hand shot out, grabbing the man by the collar with enough force to lift him clear off the barstool. His legs kicked weakly as she hoisted him up, dragging him toward the center of the room. With a sharp yank, she turned to the room of wide-eyed patrons, her captive dangling like a broken puppet.
“See this piece of work right here? This man hasn’t been very honest with y’all. No, sir. In fact, he’s so deep up the enemy’s anal cavity you could probably spot his shiny bald head if you peek down their throats!”
A ripple of gasps and whispers spread across the room. Cassidy kept her grip firm, the man squirming in vain.
“Ratting people out,” she spat, her voice dripping with venom. “Sending good folks back across the Atlantic. Y’know what waits for them there? The gallows of the British. Rope around their necks, tying 'em down, all thanks to this little worm.”
Her lip curled in disgust as she tightened her grip on the man’s collar, lifting him higher.
“But wait, there’s more. Worst of all… this rat’s been peddlin’ bad opium. Oh, yes. Your businesses experienced a downtick in clientele? It'd be him, cuz they'd inhale themselves so full they'd weigh enough to bury themselves six feet under the soil."
She gave the man a final, violent shake, before tossing him on the ground, his head snapping back as he coughed and sputtered.
“Now, y'all know I ain’t one for long speeches. So, if you boys want this scum to live? Just say the word!”
She spun her revolver on one finger, the metal gleaming under the flickering light.
"P-please…"
Her head whipped, and she pressed her ear into his ear. "Sorry, what was that?"
"Don't… shoot me."
“Now, now,” she cooed. “I can’t just let you go without due process. That ain’t fair at all.” She straightened up, brushing the dust off her coat as if she had all the time in the world.
“Please…”
She ignored him, raising her voice to address the room instead. “WILL ANYBODY SPEAK UP FOR HIM? Come on now, I know you talked to him before. Someone here must’ve shaken his greasy hand, whispered in his ear, shared a drink. Where’s that loyalty now? I NEED AN ANSWER FROM Y'ALL!”
Nobody said a word. After a long, agonizing while, she simply sighed.
“Figures,” she spat. “Y’all are just as rotten as he is. Scum. Every last one of you. And that’s precisely what’s wrong with this great nation of ours!”
She let her boot off the man’s back, but he didn’t scramble to his feet. He knew better. Her glare pinned him to the ground just as firmly, her revolver spinning lazily on her finger like an executioner sharpening their blade.
Maybe it didn’t clock for her that the onlookers were too terrified to speak up. Maybe she did, and she simply didn’t care. Fear was a universal currency, and tonight Cassidy was the richest woman in the world.
"S-stop!"
Her eyes opened slowly. "…What?"
A boy, no older than a teen, ran forward and pushed past the crowd. His voice had cracked. "I said stop! Please! That's my uncle!"
"Wha—whazzat? Kill my no-good uncle? Sure thing!"
"No—"
Her hand darted back to her gun in a blur. CRACK!
A water fountain would be an appropriate image to describe the aftermath. The corpse dropped onto the wooden panels with a thud. Carefully, she dusted herself off as her boots stepped over the blood pooling toward her.
The boy's hands were still shaking. He wailed.
"Sorry if I misheard you, kid. Need to get my ears checked out; been gunslinging too long."
Someone in the crowd finally found their voice, a gruff tone cutting through the tense silence.
"Why the theatrics? Why go through all that just to shoot him dead anyway?"
She stopped mid-step, and gave him a fanged smile.
"I wanted to watch y'all watch him die."
\\
She made her way to the bounty board with all the grace of a three-legged mule, each step punctuated by the jangling of her spurs and the occasional hiccup. The dim light of the guild hall made it harder to focus, but Cassidy wasn’t about to let that stop her.
She squinted at the faded parchments pinned to the wall, her hand gripping the edge of the counter for support. Her hat was slightly askew, the brim dipping just low enough to shadow her glazed eyes, and the unmistakable scent of whiskey clung to her like an old, loyal friend.
“You are drunk as shit, Cass."
Cassidy turned.
The clerk wasn’t there in person—just a snarky projection in the magic mirror propped on the counter. Their voice crackled through, sharp as ever. Part agent, part babysitter, and always judging.
She pointed a wobbly finger at them, as if she’d just discovered his existence. “I know. Greatest feeling… in the world.”
The clerk sighed, long and loud, shaking their head as they leaned on the counter. “Cassidy, I heard about what happened. I—”
“Only good things, I hope,” she interrupted, a lopsided grin spreading across her face. “Ha ha… ha…”
“I was actually gonna tell you how much of a shitshow you caused, but never mind that.”
Cassidy frowned in mock confusion, leaning closer as if the clerk’s words required deeper consideration. “Whatcha mean? I came, I saw, I conquered. And, uh—uh… oh, yeah! I delivered a valuable lesson. Moral in nature. Aren’t I just the greatest…?”
"Maybe clients don’t think so, seeing as they don’t wanna touch you with a ten-foot pole.” He gestured toward her, then the bounty board. “Now, I’m not saying that guy you iced didn’t have it coming. But these people? They’re civilized folk. Or at least they pretend to be. What you pulled? That don’t fly in Chicago.”
"My brand matters more… Marcus. Reason why I am filthy rich, and you ain't."
"Yeah, filthy rich for a month before you dog gone and spend it all."
She didn't respond immediately, which was unusual by her standards. Then: "…Now what's this?"
His eyes widen. "Don't—"
Too late. Her hand swiped the latest batch of bounties that came through the System. Imagine—paper, materializing before your eyes, about to be safely and magically stored away into a binder for other Hunters to pick up come the morrow, before being beaten by sheer human will.
"Hunters with disciplinary statutes are not allowed to touch those—oh, why do I bother?"
One name caught her attention, and she snatched the parchment off the board with a clumsy swipe.
“Hoshino? JAPAN? Ah-ri-ga-tow, friend. What’s the bounty on this poor bastard?” She tried to focus on the details, but the words seemed to blur.
Marcus hesitated, his lips pressing into a thin line. “There’s something about the Mystiks tied to this one."
Cassidy froze, her tipsy haze faltering for a moment as her head snapped up. “Indians and all?"
“Oddly enough, yes,” the clerk replied. “That’s why—oh, hell. Me and my big fat... There is a reason you were blacklisted from jobs like this, Cass.”
“Don’t care.” She slammed the parchment onto the counter, leaning in closer. “Lay it on me.”
The clerk sighed again, clearly debating whether this was worth the headache. Before they could respond, Cassidy leaned in even closer, her expression turning playful. “I promise you,” she murmured, “I’ll shoot you through that damn scrying mirror if you don’t let me have a peek.”
“You are one fucked sonuvabitch. I don’t doubt it.”
“Besides, I can make it up to you when I get back home…"
Marcus raised an eyebrow. “Blonde, light blue eyes. You’re my type, Cass, but all the ways you aren’t matter more. Much more.” They snatched the parchment from her hand. “Look. Come to Manhattan. Make your case in front of the board. Then maybe, maybe, this can work out. This job's special and requires investigation. You like mysteries. See where I am going?”
"Whoa. Like the Watson to my Sherlock Holmes. How did you know my favorite author was that British fella Arthur Conon Doyle?"
"You only mention it every single time we have a conversation, Cass."
"Heh. I like you, Marcus. I like the way you think. I like how your face looks. And we are always on the same page. A match made in heaven."
Marcus sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Try not to ruin this page, will you?”
\\
She wasn't expecting anyone to come near her after what happened last night. Especially at the town outskirts.
The boy approached cautiously, his steps hesitant and uneven as if each one might draw Cassidy’s ire. He was barely more than a kid, with thin shoulders that sagged. His eyes darted to her revolver, then back to her face.
“Miss…” he began, his voice cracking. “I—I know my uncle was a bad man. I’m not stupid.” He paused, swallowing hard. “But… I can’t believe he’s gone.”
Cassidy leaned back against the bar, her arms crossed. Her eyes softened slightly, though her expression remained unreadable. “Wasn’t much of a loss, kid,” she said bluntly, tilting her hat back. “He ever lay a hand on you?”
The boy hesitated, then nodded. His fists clenched at his sides. “All the time. But he made me food… kept me alive. I ain’t got no one else now. My parents are dead, and… and I don’t know how I’m supposed to make it without him.”
Cassidy let out a long breath, her gaze drifting to the revolver holstered at her side. Without a word, she pulled another gun from her coat—a sleek, well-kept piece with a polished grip. She held it out to the boy.
“Here,” she said. “Take it.”
The boy stared at the weapon, his mouth hanging open. “Y-you’re givin’ me a gun?”
Cassidy shrugged. “A good one, too. Better than what your uncle ever deserved to own.” She pressed it into his trembling hands, her voice firm. “Don’t waste it.”
The boy gripped the revolver tightly. Then, his jaw tightened, and his eyes met hers with a spark of something dangerous. “I feel like… I should avenge him. For honor.”
Cassidy chuckled, low and quiet. “Honor’s a funny thing, kid. It’s got a way of gettin’ people killed for all the wrong reasons. But I’ll tell ya what—when you get older, come find me. We’ll settle our score then.”
“You’d fight me?”
“If you’re serious about honor, then yeah. But not now. You’re too green. Train. Apprentice with another Hunter. Learn to fight, learn to shoot, learn to survive. When you’re ready—really ready—then we’ll see if you’ve got what it takes.”
He looked down at the revolver in his hands. His grip steadied. “I’ll find you."
Cassidy tipped her hat, turning away. “I’ll be waiting.”
-----
THE KITSUNE BECKON
in...
AMERICAN YOKAI
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