Chapter 18 #2
The too see rolls have dulled the edge of my thirst but my fangs haven’t retracted.
The prickle is still there at the nape of my neck but my head hurts and I can’t focus on anything except making sure I don’t drain Mr Lee.
The restaurant isn’t far – I can see it in the distance and a dark figure by the shiny black motorcar that can only be Willie.
It’s a straight shot back. Willie will see, and hear, if anything happens to Mr Lee.
The drive home is frosty, Gigi refusing to be drawn into conversation with Ah Lang, no matter how hard he tries.
I lean my head out the window, try to dispel the dizziness and Mr Lee’s scent.
Slowly my head clears, and thinking back on that feeling of being followed .
. . it seems to only happen when Mr Lee and I are on our own.
I didn’t feel it at all when we were in Zhabei with Ah Lang and Gigi.
Interesting, but I don’t know how that fits with everything else.
Now that my head isn’t pounding, I take a careful breath inside the car. My throat immediately feels like I’ve swallowed razors, so I stick my head out the window again.
‘The Paramount really is an amazing place,’ Ah Lang says, trying to engage Gigi. ‘You’ll love it, petal. It’s the best club in Shanghai.’
Gigi stares out the car window, as if she hasn’t heard him.
‘Mention my name if you have any trouble,’ Willie says. ‘The Paramount is a favourite playing ground for yaojing. Be wary of any hulijing.’
With Gigi in this mood, it’s unlikely we’ll be going anywhere tonight.
I know what she’s like and when she’s in a temper, she is the most contrary woman I know.
And there’s no way I’ll get to talk to Brother Zhu if we don’t all agree to go to the Paramount.
However . . . if I play my hand right, I can make her think she wants more than anything to go the Paramount.
I glance at Mr Lee, who is gazing out the window, his attention far away.
His words grate at my conscience. Lying is the path of cowards.
I hesitate, then feel foolish for allowing a mortal’s opinions to sway my purpose. I take a deep breath of fresh air then pull my head inside. I say, ‘Big Wang said the hulijing are bound by the laws of Tian to behave, is that true?’ and then hold my breath again.
‘Mmmgh,’ Willie says, making that same non-committal noise Big Wang so favours.
‘They dare not cause blatant mafan, but I would not be surprised if they tried very hard to make you dishonour Tian. Big Wang says to remember your anger management lessons.’ Through the rearview mirror, Willie levels his cold gaze on me.
I nod as if really considering and infuse my voice with a smidgeon of fear. ‘Maybe it’s best we don’t go. Better to stay in the hotel,’ I say, then return my head out the window and wait for Gigi to be contrary. San, er, yi . . .
Right on cue, Gigi says, ‘I’m not sitting in my hotel room,’ at the same time as Ah Lang says, ‘Please, let me show you the Paramount?’
Gigi glares at him, but Ah Lang seems pleased that she’s even looking his way. ‘I’ve never seen any hulijing step out of line there. The bouncers are strict and have no hesitation in banning troublemakers. And you can get all dressed up, petal. Show off to everyone the goddess you are.’
Gigi doesn’t respond to the lavish praise, not even a tiny lift of her cheeks. She only turns away again, back to the window. I’ve never seen her ignore a compliment.
‘I’m not letting you sit in a hotel room either, Jing,’ Gigi says to the window. ‘Big Wang said we had to show you how to have fun.’
I feel a pang at manipulating her when she’s feeling low, but I blame it on the lack of blood. If I don’t make sure to clinch the deal, Gigi might still change her mind.
Another deep breath of fresh air and I pull my head inside the car. Wrinkling my nose, I aim for her weak spot. ‘It’s too mafan. I didn’t bring anything fancy and besides, I don’t even know how to dance. Let’s just forget it. Or better yet, why don’t you go without me.’
‘Big Wang was clear that we go where you go. Do not for the love of Tian make me spend my time in yang Shanghai cooped up in a hotel room.’ Her voice trembles like she is about to cry. I am horrified by the notion of dealing with a weeping Gigi and nearly abandon my plan.
Ah Lang hears it too, and turns those rotted dark eyes on me, gooey and pleading, and I want to turn away at their sappy theatrics, but I cannot deny I have been dealt the perfect cards. Pushing down my thirst, I sigh, let my disgust show and play my ace. There’s no way Gigi will back out now.
‘Alright,’ I say, ‘I’ll go with you, but I’m not getting dressed up.’
Gigi turns in her seat, high colour on her cheeks. ‘I am not letting you waltz into the Paramount looking like some bedraggled half-deity,’ she says, tone sharp enough to slice through stone.
The truth of her words has an unexpected sting. ‘That’s what I am, Gigi.’ I sound ridiculously maudlin, and I remind myself that I am getting what I want without anyone knowing it. Yay me.
As we pull up to the Cathay Hotel, she huffs, turns to look at me. Her gaze is hard. ‘That may well be what you are. But that is not who you are. You are Lady Jing of Mount Kunlun and you are going to look like a goddess tonight, so help me Tian.’
She’s in a full-blown mood. Normally I’d enjoy provoking her, but she’s too pathetic right now. Goading her wouldn’t be fun so I leave her be. Besides I can’t speak while I’m holding my breath.
Satisfied she’s made her point, she nods stiffly at Willie and sweeps out of the car. Ah Lang hurriedly offers Willie a fist palm salute, then scurries after Gigi.
I follow, only to stop when I notice Mr Lee isn’t with me. I turn and find him walking behind me by a few steps. I am grateful for the distance because, Tian, he smells good. I lick my lips, only to realise with a start that he’s watching me.
He steps back. ‘You go on up,’ he says. ‘I’ll join you later.’
My fangs scrape the inside of my mouth. I nod, and head to my room.
It’s the smell that draws me from sleep. I wake with a burning throat, and those creepy baby angels staring down at me. My fangs are already out, my gums throbbing. The air is heavy with the aroma of over-ripe persimmon. I climb out of bed and follow my nose to the sitting room.
Mr Lee looks up as I enter. He’s pouring dark red liquid from a bottle into a crystal flute with a pleased expression.
‘Good sleep?’
I nod, shocked by his good humour. Watching him for signs of stress or fear, I slip into the chair. He’s humming to himself, clearly at ease. He doesn’t smell of fear, though there is a sharp alcoholic smell clinging to him. Snacks fill the table – profiteroles and strawberries – and tea.
Mr Lee pushes the flute towards me, and then sets to pouring himself fresh tea.
I waste no time, picking up the blood and inhaling.
This blood smells different to what I usually get.
I frown. There’s a crispness to it – like finely sliced apple layered over the flesh of a persimmon so ripe it’s softened into mush.
Usually, the sweetness is cloying. Not this time.
This blood is more like honeyed ginger syrup with heat and kick. I feel floaty and parched.
‘Is something wrong?’ Mr Lee asks, his brows pulling together.
It takes a moment for the words to register. I suck in a shuddering breath. ‘I’ve never had blood that smells this way.’
With a stricken expression, he sets his teacup on the table. ‘Is it that bad?’
The tone snaps me momentarily from the fug. This blood is a gift, and I feel compelled to acknowledge his efforts. ‘No, not at all,’ I say, wanting to reassure. ‘It smells amazing.’
He seems to puff up at this. ‘Really? You seemed so unwell earlier, I couldn’t bear to see you suffer.’ His sincerity slices at my heart.
I swallow down the lust pressing up in my throat and focus on getting my words out. ‘But you seemed so scared about the blood. Why would you make yourself uncomfortable?’
He chuckles. ‘A wise woman once told me that mild discomfort is nothing to whine about.’
‘Ha,’ I manage before the bloodlust takes hold and I shove the glass to my face and drink.
Mr Lee continues to speak, but his words are drowned by the rushing in my ears.
I try to savour it. Try to make the blood last. But it slips down too smoothly.
It’s liquid sunshine – the warmth zings through my body like a lit fuse.
There is yang qi in this blood, something the blood Big Wang got me never had.
How? But the question is drowned by the rich tang of persimmon, refreshing apple – sharp with an edge of citrus – and a gingery kick which dances across my tongue.
There’s something else too . . . crisp, fresh, familiar .
. . but the rush hits before I can identify it. I groan.
In three gulps, the glass is empty. I try to put the flute back on the table – but my hands are shaking.
My breathing hitches. Mr Lee catches the glass as it slips through my trembling fingers.
That shining amorphous cloud is back – the golden glow is everywhere.
I wave my hand and leave gold streaks in the air.
When I touch them, glittering strands stick to my fingers like sugar taffy – growing finer as I pull.
I laugh, plunging all my fingers through the streaks, waving my hands and creating a web of gleaming gossamer. ‘I’m a spider!’
‘Eat, Lady Jing.’ Mr Lee holds out a chocolate-glazed profiterole.
His hands glimmer. Mr Lee gives me an encouraging smile. Even his teeth are limned with gold. I try to touch them, but he backs out of my reach. With my arm outstretched, I notice my own body exudes that same golden lustre.
‘Wah! I sparkle,’ I say, giggling as I look at my hands and wrists. I push my sleeves up to see more, to see if I shimmer all over.
‘Open up—’ Mr Lee is trying to feed me a profiterole.
‘You are a nice man,’ I say, and bite into the soft pastry, the whipped cream a cool cloud on my tongue.
His golden glow pulses – is he pleased? I can’t stop laughing. I raise my shimmering arms over my head, swaying them back and forth and watching the air streak with gold. I start to unbutton my shirt, but Mr Lee’s hands are on mine.
‘What are you doing?’ His voice has gone all squeaky.
I slap his hands away. ‘My arms sparkle,’ I say. ‘I bet I sparkle everywhere!’
‘Wait!’ Mr Lee’s hands close over mine again.
‘You should eat more. Have some strawberries. And another profiterole. I brought more too see rolls and caramels. Let me unwrap them for you,’ Mr Lee says, shifting my hands so he can hold both in one.
With the other hand, he picks up another profiterole.
‘Do you sparkle everywhere? Can I see?’ I reach for the buttons on his shirt, but his hand goes to his throat, like a delicate maiden. It makes me giggle even harder.
Before he can catch my hands again, I leap up and start backing away. He tries to grab me, but I turn and run, circling the pink armchair and giggling as Mr Lee gives chase.
‘Please, Lady Jing.’
I snort and laugh. ‘Big Wang’s guards could never catch me.
You definitely can’t!’ I unbutton my shirt and pull it over my head.
I catch sight of myself in the mirror hanging on the bedroom door and stop running.
I sparkle everywhere! I run my hands up and down my arms, over my pale belly.
My cropped dudou, a pretty embroidered slip of silk, covers my breasts. I peek under it and bark a laugh.
‘My ta-tas sparkle too!’
Mr Lee keeps trying to put my shirt back on, and I keep shrugging it off.
‘I bet my legs sparkle.’ I drop my trousers.
Mr Lee makes a strangled kind of sound. ‘Please, Lady Jing. Put your clothes on.’
I look down at my dudou and tap pants. ‘I am wearing clothes.’
When I look up, Mr Lee is facing the wall, his back to me. The nape of his neck all the way to the tips of his ears are bright red.
‘Lady Jing, there is more blood. How about another glass?’
I stop patting my sparkling skin. The rush isn’t quite so strong now. ‘You have more?’
‘Yes. I’ll pour you another glass, but you must first put your clothes back on.’
‘I told you, I am wearing clothes.’
Mr Lee’s head tilts back, like he’s staring at the ceiling. ‘More clothes.’ His voice is wobbly.
‘Are you alright? You don’t sound well.’
‘Clothes, Lady Jing.’
‘So tetchy. I’ve run through the whole of Shanghai wearing less than this.’
He makes another choking sound. He takes three laboured breaths. ‘No more blood until you put all your clothes back on.’
I make a horking sound in my throat. ‘You’re as bad as Horsey.’
He doesn’t answer.
‘Fine.’ I pull on the shirt. He doesn’t move.
I wait.
He waits.
I blow out a huff, then pull on my trousers.
‘Button your shirt and your trousers please.’ It’s only when my clothes are all done up that he turns, face red, eyes on the floor. ‘You’re properly dressed?’
‘For the love of Tian, yes. It’s like you’ve never seen a woman’s body before.’ He blushes harder. I scrutinise him. ‘Have you never seen a woman’s body before?’
He clears his throat and moves decisively to a silver bucket and pulls out another small bottle of the red stuff.
‘Aren’t you curious where I got this?’ He refills my glass and hands it to me.
The image of the still, barefoot child in Zhabei flashes before me. I put the glass on the table. The thick liquid is near black in the centre where the light can’t penetrate. I swallow. ‘It’s not from— from Zhabei, is it?’
He returns to his seat and pours a fresh cup of tea. ‘No. It’s not from the streets. It’s from a blood bank.’
‘A what?’
‘It’s where people donate blood for use in hospitals. It’s fresh, clean, and willingly given.’
‘Willingly?’ I can’t quite fathom the idea. I pick up the glass anew, twirling it slowly in my fingers, the blood clinging to the inside surface, thick and viscous. ‘Wah.’
Mr Lee looks pleased with my awe. I lift the glass, but Mr Lee puts his hand over the rim.
‘First, please eat what’s on the table.’ His cheeks are pink as he gestures to the strawberries and the remaining profiteroles.
He unwraps a handful of too see rolls and caramels into a bowl and hands it to me. ‘Starting with these.’
I duck my head and try to hide the giggle. For a grown man, he’s absurdly squeamish. Even so, I obediently eat every last morsel of food before I drink.