Chapter 7 Yiran
Yiran
Yiran pulled up across the entrance to a busy street, wild thoughts in his head buzzing like a swarm of wrathful hornets.
He hadn’t paused to think twice since stealing a car from the family garage and driving to a place he knew he shouldn’t be
visiting. There was still time to back out, to sneak the car home without getting caught. Or, if he were caught in the act of returning, there was still a chance to grovel for his grandfather’s forgiveness.
But years of pent-up rancor had calcified in his chest, clogging any path to rational thought. If he was being forced to leave
the city, he was going to do it his way by sending a parting gift to his grandfather.
Yiran turned the engine off and got out of the car, slamming the door shut. Popping the collar of his leather jacket, he locked
his jaw and walked into the Night Market.
Smoke ribboned against the indigo sky, and the air smelled charred and sweet from incense and burning hell money. Red plastic
plates and bowls filled with fruit, cooked rice, and steamed meats lined the sidewalk—offerings for hungry ghosts and spirits.
There were so many stalls, selling everything from street food and ingredients for potions to antiques and allegedly magical
items. The place was a delirious explosion of noise and color, busy with different dialects singing the same song of trade.
Unlike his friends, Yiran had never been to the Night Market before. No Song family member or Exorcist of good repute would be caught here, and
Yiran’s mother had never brought him when he was little. He stared curiously at the people milling around him.
On the surface, the merchants and customers looked like ordinary people. Noisy aunties, uncles smoking smelly cigarettes,
younger people dressed in the latest trends, kids and elderly folk too. They were normies, like him.
But there were also magic practitioners to be found at the Night Market. Not practitioners like the Exorcists. The other kind. The kind who would get Yiran into more trouble if he was caught consorting with them.
Trouble was exactly what he sought.
He stopped at a stall selling an array of talismans. It was larger than the rest and parked in front of an old shophouse with
red lanterns. The lanterns had black markings, a sign that there was a magic practitioner living there. Mages. That was what they were called.
Red lantern good, white lantern bad. Theo’s dad had said that once when Yiran had asked him about the Market. Mr. Wang was a shrewd businessman who didn’t mind
resorting to some lucky charms and the like. But he would never go further than that by dealing with actual rogue mages who
supposedly dabbled in sorcery—magic that was absolutely forbidden by the Guild. Those were the white lanterns.
The middle-aged woman at the talisman stall looked up from her wares, squinting at Yiran through her cat-eye spectacles.
“Looking for a charm to help ace your studies, shuaige?” she asked, chewing her toothpick. “Or something that will get your
crush’s attention? Auntie Lian has everything you want.” She fanned a bunch of charms in front of Yiran and plucked one out.
“This one’s popular. Sold it to an office girl last week and she got asked out on a date right away. I’ll sell it to you for
half-price—you can’t get it this cheap anywhere else. Here, take it!” She grabbed Yiran’s hand and pressed the intricately
folded red paper into his palm. “Burn it and drop the ashes into a drink of your choice. Coffee, plain water, juice, anything
is fine. Stand in front of the cute girl you like when she’s drinking it, and she’ll think you’re the handsomest boy in the
world.”
“I’m not here for that, auntie,” Yiran said, dropping the red paper onto her table.
“Works on cute boys, too,” Auntie Lian said with a twinkle in her eye. “Don’t be shy, go after what your heart desires.”
“Maybe some other time. I’m here for something else.”
“Oh?” Auntie Lian peered up at him over her glasses, taking in his clothes and person. “What exactly are you looking for,
my dear?”
Yiran flashed a charming smile. “The secret menu.”
To his chagrin, she burst out laughing. “Where do you think you are? A fast-food restaurant?” She pointed at the line of stalls.
“Have your pick, all the street food you want is there in the open. We don’t have a secret menu, or any secrets here.”
“That’s not what I mean, you know that. I’m looking for actual magic.” When the woman gestured at her charms, Yiran scoffed.
“No offense, auntie, but I don’t need help pulling anyone—him, her, or them. This face card never declines.”
He had dated enough people to know this was a fact. But the dates had been casual, lacking in some way, physically attractive
people Yiran knew he was supposed to be drawn to, but who somehow left him feeling lonelier. Deciding that the void inside
him could not be filled by a person, he stopped bothering a year ago. He used discretion as an excuse, silence as implication,
and everyone assumed he was scoring anyway.
His friends, on the other hand, had no issue sharing their exploits openly, but Yiran couldn’t grasp the concept of treating
another human being as a trophy. This difference and his disinterest made him wonder if he was the problem, if his lack of magic wasn’t his only defect.
Auntie Lian’s salesperson face shuttered. She made a sucking sound through her teeth and spat out her toothpick. “No offense
taken, young man. Like I said, there’s no secret menu in the Night Market. Whatever kind of magic you think you’re looking for, it’s all in these charms and amulets.”
Yiran pointed at the shophouse behind the stall. “How about the mage inside? Can they help me? I can be generous.” He pulled
his sleeve back to reveal Nick Cheng’s watch.
Auntie Lian’s eyes bulged. “How generous?”
“Whatever it takes.” He glanced down the line of stalls. “I can also take my business elsewhere. I’m sure there’re other mages around—I’m not picky.”
He started to walk away.
“Wait.” Auntie Lian lowered her voice. “What exactly are you looking for?”
“A spell to capture something.”
“What kind of something?”
“Something valuable. It would be a feat that will make me famous in some circles,” Yiran said, pulse racing.
He thought Auntie Lian would tell him to get lost, but she popped another toothpick into her mouth and made a gesture with
her hand. From the shadows, a barrel-chested man appeared.
“Show him in,” Auntie Lian said.
The man led Yiran to the front doors of the shophouse.
Yiran stepped across the threshold, unsure of what to expect. He found himself in a large empty parlor with a single wooden
table in the middle. It was old and rickety, with two chairs beside it that were just as old and rickety.
The barrel-chested man grunted.
Yiran sat down.
Seconds later, an older gentleman in a white mandarin-collared tunic and black flowing pants appeared. His bald head was tattooed
with symbols that reminded Yiran of birds in flight.
He sat down across from Yiran, a genial smile on his lined face. “How may I help you?”
“I wish to purchase a spell.”
“Can you cast a spell?”
Could the mage not sense that Yiran was a normie?
Yiran watched as the mage’s eyes traveled to the small white scars on his fingertips.
He retracted his hands from the tabletop quickly, keeping them out of sight on his lap.
He felt silly for doing so, but something about the mage’s expression puzzled him.
The mage wasn’t just curious about Yiran’s scars, he was disturbed by them.
“No,” Yiran replied. “I can’t cast it myself. It’ll have to be a spell that will work regardless of that.”
A slow nod. “You wish to capture something that will bring you fame. What is the object you seek?”
“I want to catch a Revenant.”
“You mean you wish to kill a Revenant.”
“No. I want a spell that can help me lure one in and immobilize it. I want it alive.” The words sounded outrageous to his
own ears. But this was Yiran’s parting gift—one last spiteful hurrah, a monstrous middle finger to his grandfather. He stared
at the mage. “And I want everyone to see it—even the normies.”
The long silence that followed his words was damning.
The old mage stood abruptly. “See him out. Tell Lian to screen our customers with more care. We are not in want of money.”
Yiran jumped out of his chair. “Do you have a spell like that? Can you make a Revenant visible to everyone?”
The old man ignored him and retreated into the alcove.
“Wait—let go of me!” Yiran shoved the barrel-chested man away.
The man grunted, his brows meeting in a dangerous line.
Throwing him a dirty look, Yiran straightened his leather jacket. “I can walk out myself.”
He strode out the door and turned left toward another stall, but the barrel-chested man blocked his way.
“Look, buddy,” Yiran said, raising his hands. “Let’s forget about what just happened, okay? I’ll get out of your hair. We’re
good.”
The man glared. “Out is the other way.”
Yiran’s hand curled into a fist. It’s not worth it, the cool-headed part of him cautioned. He wanted to throttle that voice. But he knew it was right.
“Fine. I’m leaving,” he said, moving backward.
The man didn’t budge. Just stood and stared. Finally, Yiran turned on his heel. Lian caught his eye as he passed her stall again. She winked.
Cursing, Yiran walked on.
He’d messed up. What was he thinking, coming down here? His plan seemed so amateur and childish now. He knew that, and yet he’d let his anger get the better of him, the way it always did when it came to his grandfather. He had nothing
to show from this gamble, and there was hell to pay when he got home.
He stood outside the Night Market, staring at the red plates of offerings on the sidewalk.
Once, when Yiran was small, before he’d ever been to Song Mansion, his mother told him the story of a boy who’d accidentally
kicked the plates of offerings meant for hungry ghosts. From then on, the boy was plagued by spirits who haunted him until
his last days for messing with their meal. Yiran had been frightened by that story, and his mother soothed him by telling
him that—
Why are you thinking of her? he scolded himself, shoving that memory away. His mother had made it clear she didn’t want him in her life—why else would she leave him at Song Mansion without even saying
goodbye?
Yiran lashed his foot out, connecting with a bowl by the sidewalk. Rice spilled everywhere. Finding satisfaction in destruction,
he kicked another plate. Oranges rolled onto the road. He pulled his foot back for another round.
“What do you think you’re doing?” said a voice behind him.
He turned and saw a girl with choppy bangs and a giant scowl on her face.