Shanghai Immortal (Shanghai Immortal #1)

Chapter 1

One

The Delivery

What’s Big Wang got to do with anything?

Allow me to share my poor orphan story: my darling mother also had a damned inconvenient predilection.

Hers was for diamonds the size of quail eggs, treasures a down-and-out deity such as herself could ill afford.

Rather than give up her precious jewels, she pawned me as a whelp to Big Wang, a.k.a.

the King of Hell, to pay her shopping debts.

And then she went and died before she could claim me back.

Yeah, sob, sob, I know.

The swollen wood of the warehouse door creaks against my back.

The red brick building, one of a row of identical squat brick structures lining the Whangpoo River, is past its prime, worn and weathered from the humidity.

It would be easy enough for Big Wang to make the warehouses shiny and new, but he prefers them this way.

Gives the place character, he says. I shimmy the fine cotton qipao up my thighs and stand with my legs as wide as the form fitting-dress will allow.

It’s hotter than the Hearths of Hell out here.

I run my tongue over my gums, sore but still smooth, fantasising about the nice tall glass of ice-cold blood I’ll earn for this errand.

Three days old, my favourite – when it gets just the right amount of pétillant tingle.

My feet ache so I slide one from its silk slipper – a tiny, tight, ridiculous thing more useful as a torture instrument than an item of clothing – and massage my cramping arch.

Big Wang is probably expecting another of his rotted collectables.

One of his beloved tortoises maybe, or a koi for his pond, but the damned delivery is late.

Impatience and hunger war inside me. Much as I’d like to leave I can’t.

Sweat prickles down my back, so I gather my hair, twist it into a makeshift bun off my skin then unbutton the collar of my qipao and try to fan myself.

There’s no respite. Even the breeze burns hot.

Most people know the decadent, divided version of Shanghai on the other side of the veil – a foreign enclave nestled in the tender-as-tofu ta-tas of the Middle Kingdom.

The mortals call it Paris of the East, New York of the West. Their version of my city teems with yang qi – violent, virulent, vibrant life-force; an unending playground for foreign powers, merchants, and gangsters, all vying to dominate.

But the most inviolable rule of the Cosmos is balance.

Yang cannot exist without yin. Mortal Shanghai is no different.

We yaojing – deities and demons alike – have a yin version of our own: immortal Shanghai, the glittering capital of Hell.

On our side of the veil – the Hell side – the deserted river flows black and thick in the gloom.

But through the veil, smoky shadows of mortal boats crowd the currents.

Large junks with their bat-wing sails ghost across the water, smaller sampans bounce in their wake while floating among them are dark rectangular shapes.

Coffins. More and more these days. Civil unrest in the mortal world, compounded by foreign powers eager to butcher the Middle Kingdom into trophy cuts of meat, floods immortal Shanghai with ghosts.

A few years ago, the Japanese bombed Zhabei, Shanghai’s Chinese quarter.

The ghost ferries docked at our ports, one after another, in a never-ceasing convoy of death.

The sour, sweet stench of rotting plants and brine burns my nose.

Mixed into the cocktail of scents is one that makes me gag and salivate at the same time: the unmistakable reek of bloated corpses full of blood.

My fangs, tiny white claws, pierce through my gums. The pinch in my belly grows, gnawing upwards until it is a burning thirst that lines my throat with needles.

The sudden slap of water against wood sends fear pebbling across my skin despite the sodden heat.

My fangs retract, the bloodlust fades. I press hard against the door, though I know I’m a safe distance from the water.

The wood creaks in protest and it takes a few seconds before I understand it’s only the approach of a sampan.

With effort, I peel myself away from the door so I don’t break the weathered wood by accident.

I’ve never liked the water. Thank Tian it never rains here.

As the dark shape of a sampan approaches the fog boundary I rearrange my qipao, tugging the pale blue fabric past my knees and redoing my collar button.

Big Wang, like all yaojing, is quite conservative about these things.

One of those bitch fox-spirits from my grandmother’s court reported me for showing too much leg and I had to peel garlic in the Cathay Hotel’s kitchens for a month, in apology for my disregard of Confucian virtues and ‘offending my ancestors’.

What a load of piss-fart. It took a month for me to stop sneezing and another before I stopped reeking of the stuff.

The scratch of a match and the hiss of a flame pull my attention back to the river.

‘Boh-yo-boh-lo-mi.’ A gruff voice utters the words which pierce the barrier to our Shanghai.

From the murky dark emerges a dingy sampan, more sliver of bark than boat.

A squat man steps off the open stern onto the rickety dock.

The wood creaks under his bare feet. Over his shoulder he balances a large, lumpy sack and from his mouth dangles a glowing joss stick.

As he makes his way up the gangplank, coils of blue smoke spiral in the air behind him, releasing the scent of sandalwood into the night.

He stops at the edge of the dirt road, twenty paces from me, and dumps his cargo with a grunt.

The delivery is much larger than I expected.

The mortal doesn’t come any closer; he is no fool.

He may have a pass from Big Wang to enter and leave our realm as long as the joss stick burns, though it’s no guarantee of safety.

His blood and yang qi sing to me, but I keep my distance.

Big Wang forgives me many of my failings, both accidental and intentional, but even I know not to harm his couriers.

I press against the door again, this time not from fear but out of caution.

The mortal bows in my direction, low, as befitting a mortal to a yaojing.

He doesn’t know what I am, only that I’m dangerous.

Slowly, the mortal shuffles backwards, an eye on the shadows where I stand, retracing his steps to his sampan, back to mortal Shanghai.

His scent lingers and makes me shudder with want.

Only when his sampan is safely across the veil do I approach the roughly woven bag.

It’s an awkward shape, all bulges and strange angles.

I reach for the sack. The thing inside wriggles, then a mortal-shaped form sits up.

I jump back three feet. What the Hells?

The scent is so strong now that my knees wobble and I’m forced to hold my breath.

Tian. The siren song wasn’t from the mortal with the joss stick.

It’s coming from the bag. My fangs extend fully, my gums throb, I can’t see straight.

This is no stale blood. There’s a live mortal in that bag, pulsing with blood that’s rich, sweet, fragrant, and cloying as a tan hua, the ephemeral white flower that blooms once a year in the dead of night and dies at sunrise – a fitting metaphor for such a delicious smelling mortal in Hell.

My skin tingles and I swallow over and over because I can’t stop salivating.

I’ve never been this close to a living, breathing mortal, and it makes my head spin.

Big Wang did say he had a surprise for me.

We’ve been arguing about my upcoming birthday: in a couple weeks I turn one hundred years young.

I am expected to embrace my title and position at court, something I have absolutely no intention of doing.

Maybe the delivery is a peace offering, though I wouldn’t bet on it.

Still holding my breath, I crouch over the bag to untie it.

The rope falls free, the bag unpeels like a plump mandarin to reveal a thirty-something-year-old man wearing a light grey Western-style suit, popular among the trendier Shanghainese these days.

Gone are the changpao robes with their mandarin collars, replaced by the newest fashions from the West, arriving via the endless stream of cruise ships and magazines and talking pictures.

The man has smooth skin, clear brown eyes, and a cow lick in his dark hair.

He regards me with bright eyes and a beaming smile.

I take a careful, shallow breath. Healthy.

Not a whiff of the sickness usually tainting the corpses dredged from the river.

With a resounding slap, he slams his fist into his palm and bows with such enthusiasm I can’t help but stare.

‘This unintelligent one has long admired your glory, most venerable Lady Jing,’ he says, his tone confident and cheerful, like he is pleased to meet me.

I frown. No one is ever pleased to meet me. ‘How do you know who I am?’

A broad smile sets off dimples in his cheeks and his whole being exudes a childlike eagerness. He reminds me of an overgrown puppy.

‘The most noble Yan Luo Wang instructed this humble one to offer my lowly self to virtuous Lady Jing. Abundant gratitude for awaiting this tardy one’s arrival.’

Offer to me? He must be a gift: a willing snack.

Big Wang actually did something thoughtful.

This is unexpected and I’m both excited and nervous.

My blood always comes in a glass with a straw – I’m not sure I like the idea of feeding from a live mortal.

What if he moves or makes strange noises?

But then the bloodlust takes me and dissipates all those thoughts until the only thing I see, hear, and smell is the blood pulsing at his throat. I lean in, stretch my jaws wide.