Exclusive Cover Reveal + Excerpt: Katrina Kwan’s The Legend of the Nine-Tailed Fox

The influences of Asian mythology can be seen all over the fantasy genre of late, from Amelie Wen Zhao’s Song of Silver, Flame Like Night and Kat Cho’s Wicked Fox to Sophie Kim’s The God and the Gumiho and Elizabeth Lim’s A Forgery of Fate. While these books all include different aspects of familiar myths and folktales, they all reflect a desire to feature more diverse and inclusive fantasy worlds, explore non-Western cultures, and tell stories involving everything from legendary creatures and ancient deities to complex magical systems based on fascinating and often unfamiliar rituals. The Legend of the Nine-Tailed Fox is the latest entry in this sub-genre, and one that sounds intriguingly dark and fascinating. 

The latest novel from the author of The Last Dragon of the East, The Legend of the Nine-Tailed Fox weaves elements of East Asian mythology with a reluctant partnership and slow-burn enemies-to-lovers romance. Described as perfect for fans of Sue Lynn Tann and Samantha Sotto Yambao, the story follows a mythical nine-tailed fox who is banished to Hell and must team up with the demon hunter who captured her to return to the world above.

Here’s how the publisher describes the story. 

Yue may be the last of her kind. At night, she stalks the streets of the capital city of Longhao, luring in unsuspecting victims with the mask of a beautiful woman, then consuming them in her true form of the nine-tailed fox.

When she is captured by a powerful demon hunter named Sonam and banished to Hell, she manages one final act of revenge: dragging him—and two of his subordinates—down with her.

Now trapped in an abyss with unimaginable terrors, they’ll need each other’s help to navigate Hell and bypass the gods who preside over each circle, each of whom presents the group with a unique and deadly challenge. Forced to depend on one another as they claw their way out of the underworld, both demon and demon hunter discover that there might be more to the other than meets the eye.

The Legend of the Nine-Tailed Fox won’t be released until February 24, 2026, but we’ve got an exclusive first look at its gorgeous cover for you right now, as well as a sneak peek at the story itself.

1

Yue

Hunting Log #142:

They bleed black. They have no soul.

I like watching them. Humans. It’s a cheeky little pastime of mine.

Most stand alone, individualistic. Selfish. But I’ve seen what they can do—what great feats they can achieve together—if they feel so inclined. They remind me of ants, though I mean that as neither slight nor compliment. Merely an observation.

I’ve watched them build taller than any mountain, how they nourish the land to nourish themselves in turn. Music, poetry, art… I’ve seen them accomplish a great many things. It’s such a shame they’re always so busy fighting among themselves. They could have achieved godliness ten times over in the years I’ve been observing them. But they won’t have my pity.

There’s no sense in feeling sorry for my food.

I slink through the narrow streets, mindful of the intricate network of canals that section the city into neat square blocks. Long-hao, they call it. The capital city of the Southern Kingdom of Jian.

A mouthful, if you ask me.

I round the corner, alert. The balance between predator and prey can shift in an instant. I may be the one on the prowl, but there’s nothing more fatalistic than believing yourself untouchable. It’s one of the many reasons why I work under the cover of night. There’s no better way to sneak up on my next meal. 

The moon sits low and heavy amidst a bed of stars, its silver glow reflecting off the water’s surface in a silky shimmer. Paper lanterns hang over the walkway barricades, floating like lightning bugs over the sleepless city. Even at this late hour, the water markets buzz with activity. Vendors sit upon gently rocking longboats, their hulls half full of all manner of spices and vegetables and im- ported trinkets, haggling wildly to earn themselves an extra bronze piece before the day’s end.

There’s an art to it, I’ve noticed. Too aggressive, and the customer walks away. Too accommodating, and you’re taken for a fool. What a fun little game.

The sour smell of decay lingers in the thick, humid air; the sound of seabirds screeching not too far off from their precariously balanced nests wedged into every available nook and cranny. I don’t understand how the humans put up with the lack of elbow room. I’d sooner suffocate in this dark, watery pit they call home.

At the center of it all—a palace made entirely of jade.

Tall pillars carved of deep green stone, white veins swirling through like clouds. Even the tiles upon its roof are made of the precious mineral, the sharp points of the gable and hip structure accented in gold. Where I have only ever known the shelter of the underbrush, those within have their pick of whichever pavilion they so choose. It’s a bit much, if you ask me, but there’s no denying its magnificence. Especially when surrounded by the sprawling city of smaller wood buildings, all looking upon their jade neighbor with a mixture of jealousy and awe.

Upon the water, a group of young maidens blow kisses at a night watchman as they float by on their canopied boat, giggling sweetly when the man’s face turns a sheepish pink. He could be a tasty treat, I think, but one glance at the sharp dao tied to his hip gives me pause. I don’t mind a good fight—but only if I know I’ll win—and he looks much too strong for my liking. To make matters more complicated, he’s not alone, walking alongside two of his compatriots who appear just as heavily armed.

I move on, allowing my eyes to wander. Not all are ripe for the picking. The haggard old man begging near the moon bridge looks easy enough, but I find that men past fifty leave a strange aftertaste. Stale, more often than not. He has little meat on his bones to begin with, and I’d prefer something with more sustenance. Nobody stops to help when a quick-handed thief steals his small cup of tarnished coins and makes off into the night.

There’s a group of young boys playing near the water, seated on the stone edge of the canal, sending paper boats coated in wax sailing down the murky current. It would be a simple enough task to lure one of those tasty rabbits away, but I don’t harm children as a rule. Not because I have a bleeding heart, but because it isn’t worth the trouble. Humans lose their minds when a child goes missing, battening down their doors and hatches. I’d much rather not make future hunts more difficult.

Smarter to let them grow into larger meals, besides.

What I need is someone who won’t be missed, with enough meat on their bones to satisfy my belly, and whom I can easily overpower in a pinch.

“Quit yer naggin’, bitch!” a man slurs.

My sensitive nose can parse him from here, reeking of alcohol and the acidic trace of vomit. Picking up my pace, I sneak around the corner and find myself in a narrow alleyway, the path cutting through the block on a diagonal. He stands at the end, swaying foolishly from side to side as he takes another hefty swig of his rice wine. With thin, greasy hair, pock scars marring his cheeks, and yellow, rotten teeth, it would be fair to say that he possesses a face even his mother couldn’t love.

Soft orange light spills from a nearby doorway. His shanty home. It seems his family lives in relative squalor, judging by the filth and detritus piled on their stoop. Even the den I’ve made up for myself in the neighboring jungle boasts more space than this hovel carved of rotten wood.

A woman clings to the frame, a wailing babe at her breast. The lamb’s cheeks are covered in red patches, terrible boils, and bumps covering his skin. Its breaths come labored. I can smell the sickness creeping through its veins. I turn my attention to the woman next. Even in the inky dark, I can see it, my sight sharper than most. Her bruised eye is fresh, a violent red that will only darken in the coming hours. Bruises mark her throat, too. One does not require an impressive intellect to imagine how she came to sustain them.

“You can’t keep doing this,” she hisses, tears streaking her puffy cheeks. Snot drips from her swollen nose. Not exactly appetizing. 

The drunkard pulls his hand back and the woman flinches. “Piss off. I’ll spend my evening however I damn please.”

“Always drinking our money away. I’d be better off without you, you worthless pig!”

He scoffs. It’s a wet, ugly sound from deep down in his throat. At his hip dangles a leather purse pregnant with coin, bronze pieces jingling with his clumsy steps. “Leave me alone, woman.”

“If you leave, you’d better not come back.” 

“Fine!”

My ears perk up. I’m nothing if not an opportunist.

I give him the courtesy of a head start before shadowing his trek through the narrow alleys. I have no qualms about his intoxicated state. In fact, I prefer my meals marinated. It makes the meat more tender.

The man roams aimlessly, muttering obscenities under his breath about his “hag of a wife.” I don’t make my move. Not yet. There are too many witnesses around, and I prefer to eat in privacy.

So I stalk my prey until he’s well and truly lost, turned around in a neighborhood that’s fast asleep. The moisture in the air clings to my skin, but I don’t mind the heat so much as I do the smell it brings. Hunting in the city has its benefits: plenty to eat, and plenty of places to hide my work. It’s unfortunate that it smells of rot and sweat. Unnatural and restricting. I miss the days when I could smell the earth readily beneath my feet.

There was a time when this peninsula remained untouched by human hands, covered in a thriving jungle where my sisters and I would nap beneath warm sunspots filtering through the heavy green canopy. Now the humans have carved the land to their will, built a city upon the waters flooding in from the seaside all in a matter of decades.

When the man tilts his head all the way back to drain his bottle of wine, that’s when I decide to end this boring, one-sided game of cat and mouse. I can’t ignore my growling stomach any longer. It’s been almost two moons since I last ate, and my mouth is watering with anticipation. I’ve gone much longer before—nearly four moons, to be precise—but those were desperate times. I see no reason to continue my hunger with a buffet so readily available. I smack my lips together to keep saliva from dripping off my front teeth.

Quick and painless should do the trick. I may not pity them, but I draw the line at playing with my meals. I find no pleasure in prolonging their suffering.

I bring a hand up to my face and readjust my mask, making sure to keep the hood of my cloak pulled low over my head. The mask is made of polished porcelain, as smooth and perfect as a doll. Every painstaking detail of her face has been painted by hand.

Like a fisherman’s lure, it’s a tool at my disposal. From the mask’s perfectly straight black brows, the soft rouge upon her carved lips, and the light blush that stains her cheeks, she’s the most tempting of lures indeed. I feel the magic within the mask rooting in place, seamlessly blending her features over my own as a second skin. No prey can ever hope to escape me now that I’ve been made beautiful.

With the illusion cast and steady, I step forward.

“Excuse me?” I call out, lifting my voice so that my words rival the saccharine notes of a bamboo flute. I pull off my hood slowly. My long black hair pools over my shoulders like calligraphy over the finest parchment. “Excuse me, sir, it seems that I’ve lost my way.”

The drunkard turns, lips curled into a sneer. I can tell he’s about to curse me out when he suddenly freezes, his eyes locked upon my visage with an almost haunted reverie. I’m the most exquisite face his miserable eyes have ever looked upon. He almost looks heartbroken by my beauty, his eyes glassing over with tears of awe.

If only he knew the horrors concealed just beneath the surface.

He starts toward me, entranced, mouth hanging open to add to his general air of stupidity. “Where are you going, my lady? I can show you the way.”

I bat my lashes, a delicate hand over my chest. Gone are my claws, replaced with dainty human fingers. All the easier to pluck his eyes out with. “I hope it isn’t too much trouble. I would hate to be a bother.”

“No trouble at all!” The man offers his hand out to me, suddenly a gracious gentleman. I pretend not to notice his bloody knuckles, remaining perfectly still. The goal isn’t to go to him, but for him to come to me.

“These streets are so terribly confusing,” I continue. I slowly reach for him, my movements graceful and enticing. “Won’t you come a bit closer? I fear I’ll trip on these uneven stones.”

He stutters pathetically. “Y-yes, I’d be happy to—” 

The moment he’s within range, I pounce.

My daggerlike nails pierce through the flesh of his wrist, slicing through tendons and grating against bone. I yank him toward me, already unhinging my jaw to tear at the side of his throat. He doesn’t get a chance to scream as we fall to the ground. There’s no fight in him now that the wine on his tongue has dulled his senses.

The metallic twist of blood coats the inside of my mouth, smears across my lips, drips down my pointed chin. It’s not just the taste I enjoy but the energy that comes from a mere bite. For all life, from the smallest insect to the mighty dragons far out east, is made up of qi. It flows through every breathing creature and gives balance to the world. It’s the invisible force that turns flowers toward the sun, which helps our bodies heal from sickness . . .

And it’s something a demon like me doesn’t have.

Perhaps that is why I crave it so. It’s only natural to seek what we lack—and this man is full-to-bursting with qi to share. The wine in his system lends its intoxicating effects, and before long, my head is spinning with inebriated bliss. Where most might find it vile, blood to me tastes better than a hearty beef stew. It quenches a thirst so deep I can feel the relief and satisfaction in my marrow.

I release his neck with a gasp, so engrossed in my feast am I that my lungs burn from lack of air. I can’t help but hum as I swipe a finger over the corner of my mouth. My sisters used to tease me for being a messy eater. Now that I have him in my clutches, I can tell this isn’t the man I’m looking for—why is that cursed Mask- maker so damn hard to find?—but he’ll make a scrumptious meal all the same. The drunken man beneath me sputters and twitches, his little eyes staring up at me in pure horror. He uselessly clasps his hand over the gaping hole I’ve left in the column of his throat. Red pours freely. I must have chewed through his artery. He won’t last long.

I take off my mask and set it down beside me, not wanting it to stain. It is one of a kind, irreplaceable. The magic pulls away like the thick strands of honey between two broken combs, and what once looked like skin returns to its rigid porcelain form.

I catch my reflection in a growing pool of blood beneath his quivering mass. I try not to look, but it’s no use. Now that the illusion has fallen away, I can make out the curve of my severely hunched back, the shape of my dirty claws, and the pointed, hairy ears sitting atop my head. My nine tails sweep out behind me, stretching out like a hand-painted fan, my fur bushy and a dirtied white. I now stand above the drunkard, my bones creaking as I grow to almost triple his height—a behemoth by comparison—as tall as the shanty homes that surround us.

But what I hate most isn’t my jittery figure or my knobby joints. A fox stares back at me. The right side of my face is horribly burned, the skin pulled back so tight that it exposes my fangs to the cold evening air. My six eyes are slits of dull obsidian and stark gray irises, no soul of my own to shine through. I look like a dead thing. Roadkill. A beast that should remain banished to the shadows.

I look away to eat. I’m not here to lament my hideous features. 

First to go are his ears and nose and both his eyes, all wonderfully chewy. Every bit of bone and every crunchy piece of cartilage. Organs, skin, teeth, and hair. I peel away his layers until I get to the main course: the heart. For within the heart resides the soul, and that is where the true feast lies. Richer than a persimmon, juicier than a peach. I don’t bother chewing, relishing the way his heart slides down my throat and settles in the pit of my belly. Hot like bone broth and thrice as nurturing.

I’m about to leave when I remember the appalling state my appearance is in. I reach for my mask, pressing it to my face to allow the magic to melt into my skin. I look back at the pool of blood, as a human might with a mirror for a little reassurance, and find a beautiful woman with long raven hair, rosebud lips, and bright, sparkling eyes. The face of an innocent. Someone who definitely didn’t just devour a man.

There isn’t a scrap of my meal left behind—only, perhaps, an errant knuckle bone and a single molar. No one will ever be the wiser. The evening is young, and humans are far more entertaining to watch under the cover of night. There’s plenty of time left to indulge in my favorite pastime.

But first, I snatch up the man’s coin purse.

I retrace my steps, following the scent of squalor. When I find the little hole of a home I’d arrived at earlier, I see that the door is shut tight and the lights within are out, though I can still hear the infant’s soft sobbing. Easy targets, the both of them, but I think they’ve dealt with more than their fair share of bad luck tonight.

Maybe I do pity my food. Just a little. In the same way one might feel sorry for a wounded rabbit squealing helplessly in a snare.

Coin purse in hand, I hop up onto the stoop and tie its strings to the door handle. I have no use for money. Whatever I want, I steal. Most are too slow to realize what I’ve pocketed, and those that aren’t can’t keep up with me should it come down to a chase.

With two swift kicks at the bottom of the wooden door, I bolt around the corner and duck out of sight. I watch from the shadows as the woman nervously opens the door a crack, peering out for someone she never finds. She notices the coin purse almost immediately, taking it with a sharp gasp. A quick look left, then right, suspicion etched into her cry-swollen face. I smell relief, a sweet note lingering beneath the surrounding decay, but it’s mostly masked by the bitter tinge of her distrust. I don’t leave until the woman returns safely inside.

I’ve had my fill this night. There’s no need to feast on lambs when there are wolves to satisfy my belly.

The Legend of the Nine-Tailed Fox will be released on February 24, 2026, but you can pre-order it right now. 

Lacy Baugher Milas writes about Books and TV at Paste Magazine, but loves nerding out about all sorts of pop culture. You can find her on Twitter and Bluesky at @LacyMB