Chapter 5 Yiran
Yiran
Four boys sat in a circle by the swimming pool on the roof deck of a swanky condominium. Expensive cologne wafted, hiding
the after-school musk of teenagers and exhaust from the city streets below, while the late-afternoon sun glistened off limited-edition
watches on tanned wrists and hair shiny enough to rival that of a shampoo model’s.
We look like an ad for people who take tropical vacations in the dead of winter, Yiran thought. It wasn’t far from the truth, he supposed, glancing at the cabanas around them, presumably added to give
a cheesy sense of ambiance despite the season.
He picked at an uneven patch at the hem of his cashmere sweater-vest, rolling the fabric into a tiny ball between his fingers.
He was bored, bored, bored. Bored with the scenery, bored with the noisy traffic, and bored with . . . everything. Mostly
though, he was sick of waiting for his opponent to decide his next move.
“Hurry up, Cheng. We haven’t got all day.” Yiran flicked the ball of cashmere at his schoolmate. “Do you want another card
or not?”
Nicholas Cheng tugged at his collar. “Give me a sec. I need to think.”
“It’s just math.” Yiran yawned. A wide, satisfying stretch of the jaw.
Cheng polished his glasses with his shirttail and put them back on. “Okay, hit me.”
Yiran flipped the next card and slid it toward him. “Nine of diamonds, for a total of”—he looked at Cheng’s other two cards—“twenty.”
Cheng looked relieved. “I’ll stay with what I’ve got.”
“As you wish, Nicky boy. Theodore, my friend?”
Theo threw his cards down with a grunt. “Stand.”
“Good choice.” Yiran glanced to his right.
The last boy, Sweets—nicknamed for his love of candied jellies—shook his head. “I’ll take my chances with eighteen.”
“Dealer’s turn.” Yiran assessed the two cards in front of him. His five of hearts was open for everyone to see. His other
card was face down, but he knew what it was. “Ta-da—four of spades.”
Sweets raised his eyebrows. “Yikes.”
Theo cracked his knuckles, casting a look at Yiran that said, That’s rough, buddy.
Sensing an impending victory, Cheng relaxed.
Yiran stretched his neck. Five and four. It wasn’t promising. Blackjack was a game of math. Simple to understand, trickier to execute. Luck and a player’s appetite for risk went hand in hand, but Yiran
didn’t care about the win. The thrill of the bet was enough to keep him going.
He reached for the deck and drew a card. “Two of hearts. Total of eleven.”
Theo snickered.
Edging closer, his face slightly pale, Cheng tapped the table. “It’s not over yet. Hurry up, take another card.”
“Aren’t you enjoying the suspense?” Yiran teased.
“You have to take another card. The rules—”
“I know my own house rules.” Yiran slid a finger over the smooth surface of the topmost card of the deck. His chances of winning
had gone up with the last draw. There was still no guarantee of a win, but maybe today was his lucky day.
He flipped the card over.
Cheng smacked his forehead, the sound as final as the game’s result.
Yiran smiled. “Twenty-one. The house wins.”
Sweets let out a low whistle. “Nice. King of spades.”
The dark king, Yiran thought out of the blue. His smile suddenly felt forced. The game had ended. There was nothing left to look forward
to.
Theo and Sweets handed over their stacks of twenty-dollar bills without hesitation, but Cheng was still clutching his face.
“Pony up, Nicky.”
“But I—”
“Shh.” Yiran held a finger up. “You knew this might happen when you said you wanted in. My game, my rules.”
Cursing, Cheng removed his watch. “My dad’s going to kill me. He got this for my sixteenth birthday—it’s worth more than your
freaking car.”
“No one’s interested in your sob story, darling.”
Muttering under his breath, Cheng handed over his watch. Yiran heard the word asshole and possibly something worse. Grabbing his bag from the deck chair, Cheng left in a huff.
Sweets whistled, peering at the watch Cheng had left behind. “Collector’s edition. That boy’s got some nerve. What are you
going to do with it?”
“Same thing I always do,” Yiran replied, shuffling the cards.
Which was nothing at all.
The treasured possessions he won from his schoolmates were piled up in the corner of his wardrobe. Useless trinkets he never
touched. He thought about selling them from time to time. Never got the energy to go through with it. Rumor at school was
that Yiran funded his lavish drug-filled lifestyle with the sales of his winnings. It was insulting; he would never ingest
a drug intentionally. He couldn’t bear to relinquish control of his own mind, not when his grandfather controlled everything
else. But he did relish the myth of the person Song Yiran could be, even if it was far from the truth.
“Your babysitter’s here.”
Yiran looked up. Theo was pointing to a man in a tidy black suit who had appeared by the entrance of the roof deck. The man
wore a pair of generic sunglasses over his generic face. His head was slightly bent, a hand by his ear like he was listening
to instructions from his earpiece.
Yiran shoved the pack of cards and Cheng’s watch into his messenger bag.
“Hey, Robert,” he called out.
He didn’t know or care if the man’s name was Robert.
His grandfather’s people were all the same to him.
An endless stream of men in black suits who chaperoned Master Song’s precious grandson.
Well, chaperone was a euphemism, and Yiran wasn’t precious.
His grandfather was merely afraid Yiran would besmirch the reputation of the esteemed
Song family and the Exorcist Guild.
The man in the suit approached. “It’s time to head home.” He added, “Er shaoye.”
It was lip service. The honorific was used, but the man didn’t lower his head by even an inch. Yiran got the message: he wasn’t
worthy of real respect.
“It’s still early. I don’t have to be home yet,” he said. But his feet were already moving. No one kept the Song patriarch
waiting.
The man kept in step with him. “Master Song wants to see you before dinner. It’ll take thirty minutes in this traffic to get
back to the mansion.”
“I can do it in fifteen.”
“Master Song instructed me to drive.”
“My car—”
“Has been towed.”
Yiran almost dropped his bag. “What? But I—”
“Will get it back eventually, I’m sure.” The man’s face was impassive, but it wasn’t difficult to guess what was going through
his head. Spoiled brat. Good-for-nothing. Bastard grandson. He didn’t have to say it out loud.
Yiran knew.
The pin on the man’s jacket glinted. An Exorcist. Few Exorcists lived to a ripe old age and most stayed with the Guild until
injury or death caught up with them. But there were some who left earlier to work for the city’s upper crust as part of their
security detail. Yiran found them to be tenacious babysitters.
He glanced over his shoulder.
Theo had lain down for a nap. Eyes locked on his phone, Sweets waved a vague farewell.
Irritation scratched at Yiran’s throat. As sons of some of the city’s most influential people, they were precious too. Just not in the way that constrained their lives. He was envious of them, and he hated that.
He turned to the man in the black suit. “Let’s go, Robert. The old man won’t be happy if I’m late.”
“Appreciate the favor, Robert.” Yiran slammed the car door shut.
Traffic turned out to be clear and they had made good time, and maybe the man wasn’t that bad after all. He’d agreed to stop
at the gates to the estate instead of the front door—as long as Yiran promised to go to the study right after he cleaned up.
A direct summons from his grandfather meant Yiran was in trouble, and he wanted time to clear his head.
Old ginkgo trees lined the winding driveway. They were silent sentinels, watching as Yiran made his way up to the mansion.
Their leaves had turned with the season, and the path was a glorious explosion of gold and yellow. It reminded Yiran of the
day he first arrived.
It had been a crisp autumn morning, the sun warm and gentle on his face. He was barely six years old, clinging onto his mother’s
legs, hiding his face behind her skirt. He was a sickly thing then, shy and small for his age. Catnip for bullies at school.
Yiran’s breath had caught at the sight of Song Mansion, and he fell desperately in love with it. He’d stared in wonder at
the terra-cotta tiles on its curved roofs, the jagged stones in the quadrangle courtyard in the center of the cluster of buildings,
made smooth in places by footsteps.
The first thing he’d noticed inside the house were the doors. There were so many of them, mostly locked. Intricately carved
with symbols and fantastical animals and figures, they felt like portals to different worlds. It was the first time the word
magic rang loud and clear in Yiran’s head. He’d thought he was the luckiest boy in the world when his mother told him that this was where he would be living from that day on.
Then she left and he never saw her again. And in time, he understood that a house could never love him back.
Now, Yiran dropped his bag onto his bed, splashed some cold water onto his face, and changed out of his school uniform into something fresh. Made sense to present his cleanest self since his best wasn’t good enough.
Minutes later, he was standing outside his grandfather’s study, one hand raised and the other straightening his shirt. His
heart was starting to pound.
He knocked. Two quick raps, the way he’d been trained to do.
His grandfather’s voice trailed out. “Come in.”
Yiran exhaled through his mouth and twisted the doorknob.
Once inside, he bowed low. “Zufu.”
Despite his age, Song Wei was an imposing man. His wide shoulders showed no signs of hunching, and his stride was firm and
purposeful when he got up from his rosewood chair and walked over. Trimmed neatly at the sides, his hair was a regal mix of
black and silver, and his eyes were keen as they took in his grandson’s appearance. Leisurely, he circled Yiran like an eagle
setting its sights on prey.