Chapter 31
Thirty-One
Whispers
We are almost at the doors when angry shouting erupts to our right and my instincts tell me to leg it, so I keep walking.
My detente with Tony is still fragile; we need time to soothe the hurts we inflicted on each other, and the last thing I want is for Tony to be caught in the middle of a vampire brawl.
But Tony, being Tony, slows, then stops. ‘Isn’t that Lord Aengus?’
I follow his gaze to where Lord Aengus, hands fisted at his sides, glowers at a couple tangled together on a chaise longue.
When I realise who I’m looking at, my insides curdle.
The tall blond man from before – now trouserless as well as shirtless – and Mémère, who thank the Celestial Heavens is fully clothed, apart from one naked foot cradled in the man’s hand.
From the deep pink flush of Mémère’s cheeks, and the puncture wounds freckling the man’s throat and chest and – I nearly choke in surprise – penis, it’s clear what they’ve been doing.
Mémère’s attention shifts from Lord Aengus to me.
She frowns when she sees Tony. He’s even more haggard than he was only ten minutes ago.
She keeps her gaze trained on me while the blond man rises, his green eyes narrowed in displeasure.
He’s a head taller than Lord Aengus and twice his breadth.
Earlier, I mistook this man for Lord Aengus; side by side I see why.
The resemblance is uncanny. Almost like they’re . . .
. . . family.
‘Lord Aengus, who is that man?’ I ask.
‘Lady Jing,’ he says, without taking his gaze off the blond man. ‘Meet the Dagda, chief god of the Tuatha Dé.’
Father and son glower at each other.
Mémère murmurs something and a number of chevaliers appear around us. I worry for a moment they are here for Lord Aengus, but they don’t even look at him.
With a voice like crashing waves, the Dagda says, ‘Cómh neamhfhreagrach is atá tú! Breathnaigh ort féin. Seo é toradh na faillí a rinne tú i do chuid dualgais agus ní bhíonn an chiall agat a rá “ní dhéanfaidh mé” ’
Lord Aengus reddens like he’s been slapped, his frown carving deeper into his face. ‘Dualgais? Freagrachtaí? An bhfuil tú dáiríre?’ He looks his father up and down. His lip curls into a sneer. ‘Ní mise an duine atá ag téaltú timpeall na háite le gasta liopasta a fháil.’
The Dagda doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, but the air hums with an electric charge that makes the hairs on my arms stand to attention.
His presence swells, surges, sucks the air from the room until he towers over us.
From his hand unfurls a shadow in the shape of a long wooden staff.
Fear finally finds Lord Aengus – he stumbles, face chalky – as another shadow, in the shape of a giant hand, lands on his shoulders.
Lord Aengus’s whole body shakes as he tries to stay upright, his blue eyes astorm with rage.
Sweat drips from his face, mixing with tears.
He’s gone a dark puce from the strain. But he’s not at his full strength, still recovering from his recent illness and no match for the Dagda whose power could snuff him out like a fly.
It reminds me too much of my childhood, when Niang Niang or her hulijing courtiers tormented me for their own amusement.
My gorge rises, hot and sour and indignant as one of his knees hits the floor.
‘Jing—’ Tony touches my arm, voice urgent. ‘Not right—’
‘I know,’ I say.
Interfering in a pantheon’s internal affairs is a breach of the International Treaty of Immortal Harmony, but technically Lord Aengus is still under the protection of Tian since he has not yet crossed the border into Inis Fáil.
I carry the authority of a Minister of Hell and Liaison to the Hulijing Court.
Focusing on my qi, I wrap it around myself as a buffer and step into the Dagda’s personal space.
Once, as a child in Turquoise Hills, I fell through the ice of a lake.
The freezing water sent a jolt through my body, punching the air from my lungs.
Tiny needles stabbed me all over, making my body slow to obey, limbs like dead weights.
The same jolt lances through me, a burning cold that numbs my muscles almost to the point of paralysis.
Mémère’s eyes widen but I’m not worried.
Horsey has trained me well. I lift my chin and meet the Dagda’s gaze.
With a demure and softly delighted smile, I clasp my hands at my hip and dip into a delicate curtsy.
‘This unworthy one labours your procession and offers your fragrant glory ten thousand years of abundant gratitude for your borrowed light. The venerable Lord Aengus is currently still under the protection of the Ministry of Hell in accordance with Article 52 Section 3 of the International Treaty of Immortal Harmony, I humbly beseech the most noble and exalted Dagda of the Tuatha Dé to lift high his honourable hand.’
The Dagda cocks his head and the buzz in the air dissipates. Taking advantage of the respite, I help Lord Aengus back to his feet.
‘Please translate for me,’ I say.
Lord Aengus glares at his father, speaking in short staccato tones. I glance over at Tony. Something is off, but I can’t figure out what. His gaze is soft, slightly unfocused. At first I think he’s forgiven me, but the more I look at him the more that feeling of wrongness grows.
Finally I put my finger on it: he smells . . . wrong. His usual snow and watermelon rind scent is tinged with a strange smell, like rotting garbage on a hot summer’s day.
Jing. I watch his lips form my name, but there’s no sound. His eyes roll back, and he collapses.
‘Tony!’ I launch myself forward but one of Mémère’s black-clad cavaliers catches him.
Relief turns to confusion when the cavalier shouts, ‘Le douleur!’ and disappears with Tony.
There’s a flurry of movement; the air glistens and blurs as everyone in sight simply disappears.
I turn on the spot. The entire bar is empty but for Gigi, Ah Lang, Lord Aengus, the Dagda and me. We stare incredulous at each other then around the bar.
I sniff the air. Mémère, Marianne, Max. The band. The pursuivants, the other vampires. Even the bartender. All gone. We are alone.
‘Very funny,’ I say. ‘You can all come out.’
No response. Gigi and Ah Lang exchange worried glances.
‘Ha, ha! Really, that’s enough. Bring Tony back now.’ I try to sound confident, but my voice has gone pitchy.
Not a single mortal or vampire returns.
Before, when Tony said Not right . . . What if he wasn’t talking about Lord Aengus and his father, but about something else?
I wasn’t paying enough attention, distracted by the Dagda.
What if this isn’t a joke? Tony nearly died last time I lost him to yaojing.
Panic winds its tendrils into me, choking my thoughts, mangling my senses.
‘We have to go!’ I head for the door, but Gigi grabs my arm.
‘Wait, Jing, slow down,’ she says.
I twist from her grasp and bare my teeth. A primal instinct takes over: I have to find Tony.
She stills, softens her voice. ‘Jing, we’re here to help.’
Except all I see is her blocking my way out. A vicious snarl rips from my throat as I crouch, ready to attack.
A strange melody stops me mid-motion. The music worms into my mind, whispering of sunlight on rippling water, of the earthy scent of rich, fertile soil, of rain gently washing away worries and fears.
It whispers, Be calm, be calm, be calm.
Yes, I think to myself. Calm. Of course, how reasonable. I nod and smile. Belatedly it occurs to me that music shouldn’t speak.
I shake my head and realise the music is coming from the Dagda – his fingers dance over an instrument that resembles a konghou – a curved wooden frame inset with vertical strings.
Harp, it sings. Not konghou. The song flows into my nose and mouth, drowning me in its tranquillity. Calm, it croons.
I turn a stink eye on the Dagda. The turd is manipulating me with his music. I plug my ears, but the rotted music plays in my head unimpeded.
‘Stop that,’ I say.
‘Feeling better?’ The Dagda offers me a closed-lip smile.
I almost nod again, the patter of rain soothing away my confusion. Something nags at the back of my mind, so I replay the moment. The Dagda’s lips moved, he spoke. I understood, but the words he shaped were not Mandarin.
The rhythmic swooshing of a summer rainstorm drowns out my worries, and I turn my attention to the trill of growing plants and the sigh of parched soil soaking up a long overdue shower.
I’m distantly aware of Gigi calling my name, the Dagda’s stormy green gaze, the faint scent of rose and camphor.
But the rain cloaks them in a gauzy veil, sweeping away their shadows.
I stand in a forest clearing. Fronds of bracken cradle my bare feet while the steady drizzle susurrates a wordless song. Droplets splatter my eyelids, drip down my cheeks. I stare at my hands, giggle as raindrops fall from my fingertips.
‘What’s he done to her?’ Gigi doesn’t sound happy.
Raised voices between father and son. I want to tell them not to argue, but in order to speak I’d have to stop listening to the rain and why would I do that? I close my eyes and drift back to the clearing.
The whisper of rain slowly fades, replaced by loud, grating voices.
‘Jing!’ Gigi shouts right in my ear.
I jerk away, wincing. ‘What the Hell, Gigi—’ I’m about to berate her when I notice the Dagda watching me. Those green eyes remind me of leaves . . . and rain.
I blink. The rain. The music. The Dagda works his jaw but I can’t let him eviscerate my thoughts again.
‘Stop,’ I say in Celestial voice at the same time Gigi and Ah Lang also shout, ‘Stop!’ in Celestial voice.
The command reverberates through the room with the force of a cannon, echoes skittering off the walls and tables like swarming insects.
The effect on Lord Aengus is immediate: he collapses, his body spasming as he dry-retches.
Ah Lang crouches next to him, a firm grip on his shoulder while murmuring reassurances.
The Dagda however, stands tall, shoulders back, feet firmly rooted as if immune to Celestial voice. The only tell is the furrow between the Dagda’s blond brows. He sways gently, then pitches forward, toppling like a great oak.
Shit sticks. I lunge and manage to just keep his face from breaking his fall.
There’s a shimmer in the air and Marianne, Mémère and a chevalier appear.
Ah Lang positions himself protectively in front of Lord Aengus and Gigi. I join him.
‘Where’s Tony?’ I demand. I remember the chevalier’s shout. ‘What’s le douleur?’
Mémère does her best not to react, but she flinches ever so slightly at my words. The chevalier doesn’t have as good a mahjong face and she pales noticeably.
‘Your friends should return to Maison Loo,’ Marianne says. Her voice is flat, bled of emotion.
‘Why?’
The look she gives me – eyes swimming with remorse and pity – sends a chill down my spine.
‘Tony is very sick. I’ll take you to him.’