Chapter 5 Yiran #2
Yiran resisted the urge to fidget.
“Commissioner Senai called earlier. Apparently, you’ve broken the traffic laws. Again. That makes it five times in two months
that the Commissioner himself had to step in to clean up your mess.”
Another circle.
“And now, I owe the man because he has to make sure that you don’t have to appear in front of a judge in court.”
Another damned circle.
“You should know better.”
Yiran stared at his feet. His socks peeked out from under his house slippers. The socks used to be white. Now they were a
shoddy gray, scuffed at the heels with little tears in the fabric. He should have put on a different pair before coming here.
“Never forget that you are a Song,” his grandfather said.
“Whatever you do or don’t do will always be tied to our family and the Guild.
Have you seen the headlines lately? Do you know what people are saying about us?
How many times have I told you the Guild’s status is only secure because we provide something people need?
We pay for this dearly, sacrificing our lives so that everyone else—everyone who is weak—can be safe.
What will happen if they decide we’re no longer doing our jobs well?
That we’re redundant? Or worse, that we are dangerous? ”
His grandfather spoke softly. Yiran wished the old man would raise his voice, that he would shout at Yiran and get it over
with. But that wasn’t his grandfather’s style. Song Wei knew the power of the quiet before a storm, the unsettling anticipation
of what was to come.
“Do you understand what I’m saying?” his grandfather asked, his voice almost a whisper.
Yiran nodded. Exorcists were accepted by the rest of society because their magic worked against the Revenants. But if that
ability to wield magic came from the very thing the Revenants desired, would a world without such people be safer? For the
sake of his half brother and grandfather, Yiran hoped no one would try to find out.
“What do you have to say for yourself, boy?”
Keeping his gaze lowered, Yiran counted to eleven, letting his breath trickle out slowly. In the past, he would attempt to
answer, but no answer ever placated his grandfather. Perhaps a satisfactory answer did not exist, and Yiran had given up trying.
Even a stubborn dog will learn who its master is, and what it must do to get fed.
“I’ve told you to get your act together many times, but it seems my words have gone unheeded. You’ve had your chances. Pack
your things. You’re leaving this place.”
Yiran must’ve heard wrong. His grandfather couldn’t be kicking him out over a silly traffic violation, could he?
“What does . . . leaving mean?” he asked, throat tight.
“There’s a private academy two towns away. You will keep up your attendance and your grades, and you will graduate. I don’t
want to see you back here unless I ask for you.”
Why are you doing this to me? Yiran wanted to yell.
Why did you take me in only to throw me out?
But he stayed silent and contained his anger.
Because deep inside, he knew why. He was never really a Song.
Never truly part of the family. He’d been living here for the past twelve years like a parasite, and today, his grandfather was finally culling his infected stock.
His grandfather settled onto his chair and picked up his reading glasses. “You leave tomorrow morning. Someone will drive
you.” He opened a ledger, licked his thumb, and flipped a page.
Yiran knew he was being dismissed, in more ways than one. Even as his mind protested, his body had given up. His head lowered
and his spine curved to complete the bow.
“Yes, Zufu.”
Yiran barely made it down the hallway before sinking onto the cold floor. He would be in full view of the servants if any
were to walk by, and they would know something had happened between him and his grandfather again. But he was past caring
about what the staff thought.
Eyes closed, he lay there, feeling the scrape of the hardwood floor against his scarred fingertips. One more year of high
school and he’d be off to college. No big deal if he left earlier. It wasn’t like he’d miss Sweets or Theo. Not much, anyway.
They were friends by convenience, thrown together because of family connections. Loyalty played little part in their friendship.
But Yiran had chosen the two of them, hadn’t he? And they had chosen him.
His grandfather wasn’t giving him a choice.
“Why are you lying on the floor?”
Great. The golden boy of the Song family had found him.
“I’m resting.”
Ash made a sound between a laugh and a snort that was somehow still charming. “I didn’t know you’d be home.”
Is this really my home? Yiran wanted to ask. But he kept his mouth shut and his eyes closed.
“Come on, get up.”
Yiran felt a nudge at his leg. He sighed and opened his eyes.
Looking at Song Lan Xi was like looking into a funhouse mirror, except Yiran was the distorted image. His half brother went by the moniker Ash—a nod to the gray hair that sprouted prematurely from his head because of his extraordinarily high level of yangqi. But it
didn’t matter what he chose to call himself. Unlike Yiran, Ash wore the Song family name well and he strode through life with
the ease of someone born to succeed.
He was everything Yiran was not and could not be.
Sometimes, when the nights grew long and lonely, Yiran found himself hating him. He hated Ash’s confidence, his guts, his
swagger. He hated that their grandfather loved Ash more, and that Ash was the only connection Yiran had to their dead father.
He hated that Ash would lay his own life on the line to protect his family. Most of all, Yiran hated not knowing if he would
do the same in return.
“I didn’t see your car in the driveway,” said Ash. “Did you crash it again?”
The accusation pushed Yiran to his feet. Two months ago, he had the misfortune of crossing paths with a jaywalker. The girl
had suddenly appeared at the intersection with her head turned in the wrong direction. He’d swerved to avoid her, ramming
into a fire hydrant. But his grandfather took one glance at the missing fender and broken headlight, and it was all that mattered.
“I told you it wasn’t my fault the last time,” he said.
“Okay, okay. I believe you,” Ash soothed. “So why are you home early?”
He doesn’t know about my exile. Yiran pushed his hair out of his face, mumbling, “Zufu sent someone to pick me up from Theo’s. He wanted to talk.”
Ash glanced down the hallway, a shadow crossing his face. “What did Yeye want to talk about?” He didn’t address their grandfather
in the formal way Yiran did. He didn’t need to.
“Nothing,” Yiran replied. Ash would find out from their grandfather anyway. “I’ve homework to do. See you at dinner.”
“We won’t be having dinner with you. Yeye and I have things to discuss.”
Yiran picked at a loose thread around his shirt button. He didn’t know whether to be relieved or angry. His grandfather and
Ash never included him in their secretive meetings where they discussed matters concerning the Exorcist Guild. Why would they?
He wasn’t one of them. He didn’t have magic and he couldn’t see Revenants, let alone catch or kill one.
Ash noticed his mood. “I’ll be back late tonight if you want to talk,” he offered.
“Are you going on a Night Hunt?”
“You should stay in tonight.” Ash patted Yiran on the back. It felt like a noncommittal answer.
“Some kids at school were talking about the rising supernatural homicides,” Yiran said, hoping that Ash would share more with
him for once. “It’s getting bad out there with the Revenants, isn’t it?”
“Negativity sells. The media loves to exaggerate the bad stuff. It’s all clickbait—don’t worry about it.” Ash spun on the
spot, stopping with a picture-perfect pose—clever smirk, eyebrow raised, and a finger pointed at Yiran. “I’ll see you later.”
Fists curling, Yiran watched as Ash went in the direction of the study. As expected, Ash had brushed him off again. Yiran
wasn’t an Exorcist. Couldn’t even qualify to be a Xingshan cadet. He didn’t belong in that world.
He forced himself to walk away before he could be tempted to eavesdrop.
Despair hung in his room like an axe waiting to fall. Yiran pulled out his largest suitcase. He stood in front of his wardrobe,
still in disbelief that he was leaving this place. Possibly for good. He stared at the crap he’d accumulated from his schoolmates.
Was this how he’d been wasting his life?
There was a knock on his door.
A hesitant voice said, “Er shaoye?”
Auntie Kimmie.
“Dinner will be ready soon. I told the cook to make your favorite soup dumplings.”
She knows. Yiran heard it in her voice. He couldn’t face her. Not now. The housekeeper cared for him like she would her own child. She
was the one who dried his tears in those early years when he missed his mother, the one who had tended to his wounds all the
times his grandfather had tried to figure out what was wrong with him.
“Thanks, Auntie. I’ll eat later when I’m hungry.” Yiran listened for her footsteps to recede. He couldn’t leave without saying
goodbye, but he couldn’t handle her tears either.
He snatched the first thing he saw on his hangers and threw it on the bed. His hands and arms moved in a frenzy of yanking
and throwing, until throwing was the only thing he did. Finally, he fell face down on the clump of clothes.
An electronic tune came from his back pocket.
Yiran pulled out his phone and lay on his stomach, frowning at the two faces that showed up on the screen.
“What do you want?” he asked, not bothering to hide his foul temper.
“We were going to the Night Market for supper, but they’re calling a Night Hunt later tonight. Ruining my plans again,” Theo
whined. “I’m so sick of the stupid curfews.”
“What does it have to do with me?” Yiran grunted without an ounce of sympathy. With Theo’s family connections, it wasn’t surprising
he got the news of the Hunt early. But Yiran was peeved that Theo got confirmation before he did from his own Exorcist half brother.
“Theo’s sleeping over at my place tonight,” Sweets said. “We’re doing movies and the new RPG game that dropped yesterday.
And I broke into my dad’s stash.” He held up a bottle of expensive-looking whiskey. “You interested?”
“You know I don’t drink.”
Theo laughed. “You grounded, er shaoye?”
“Screw you.”
Yiran hung up. Sometimes, he thought, he hated his friends, too.
He tossed his phone aside and rolled onto his back. Resentment throbbed against his skull. It wasn’t his fault he was born
a bastard. Wasn’t his fault his father died and his mother abandoned him. Wasn’t his fault the powerful magic of the Songs
had skipped him for some reason, leaving him a dangling, rotting leaf on the family tree. Just another mouth to feed and clothe.
A sudden thought tickled his brain.
The Night Market would still be open before curfew. If Yiran skipped dinner, he could make it there in time. He sat up, excitement
coursing through his veins, the thought slowly building into something else. It was a wild plan, but he was hanging from a
dry branch; all he needed was a spark to burn everything down.
And tonight, he was going to find a flame.