Chapter 23 #2
I push myself up to sitting, let my feet dangle over the ledge of the roof.
Beneath me, the Bund unfurls like a grey ribbon, miniature cars and people going about their business, the ships and junks tracing lines over the brown waters of the Whangpoo River.
The sun sails across the sky, shadows trailing in its wake.
The horizon flames, burnishes the clouds gold and then everything is bathed in a rosy glow.
My last sunset.
I watch the colours bleed then fade, a heaviness inside me that even the blazing display fails to lighten.
Chime by chime, the night darkens. The moon rises, almost full.
Stars glare down at me, cold and indifferent to my sorrows.
I lie there until the sun makes its creeping return, knowing I too will have to do the same.
When the horizon glows pink and the golden fingers of day scrape across the horizon, I sit up.
It’s time to get my things and face Mr Lee.
I consider going through the window, but I’m not certain I can open it from the outside, and besides, it would only delay the inevitable.
Might as well don my trusty mahjong face.
I dust myself off, leap from the clock tower, and pick my way back across the rooftops to the Cathay Hotel’s terrace, where I slip inside and head down the fire stairs back to my room.
The room is empty. A pang of jealousy hits as I realise Mr Lee must have gone out with Gigi and Ah Lang.
He’s probably at some ballroom dancing his heart out.
I grab my suitcase, throw it open on the bed and storm around the room gathering my belongings.
It doesn’t take me long to pack everything; I had so little to start with.
My stomach growls, but I’m out of too sees and caramels.
I remember the bottles of blood and go check the ice box.
There’s one more left, along with a bowl of strawberries.
Not wanting to make a fool of myself, again, I eat all the strawberries before gulping down the blood.
The flavour really is something else – crisp and juicy rather than unctuous.
I know this flavour . . . I’m on the cusp of pinpointing it, when I hear footsteps in the hall, followed by the scratch of a key in the door.
As I hurriedly put the empty bowl and bottle back in the ice box, I spy a bag of caramels and too see rolls hiding behind the ice bucket.
I grab a few and shove them into my pockets.
Mr Lee opens the door. He moves slowly, like his limbs are too heavy for his muscles. Then he realises I’m standing there. We stare at each other for a heartbeat, before his gaze turns hard. ‘Where have you been? We’ve been all over Shanghai looking for you. How could—? What if those men—?’
I’d forgotten about those men. Guilt stabs at me for causing them to worry. ‘I—’ I say, trying to find the words, but he shakes off my feeble attempt to speak and stalks towards the phone. He jabs the dial, cradling the phone between his shoulder and ear and glaring at me with bloodshot eyes.
‘It’s me, she’s here.’
There’s squawking at the other end. I can’t make it out, but I’d recognise Gigi’s tones of outrage anywhere.
‘She looks fine. Yes. Okay. See you in a few hours.’ He hangs up then sinks into a nearby chair.
His head is in his hands and he’s motionless for so long I wonder if I should go back to my room.
But then he lifts his head. He looks utterly broken.
‘What if something happened to you? Do you know how worried we all were?’
For a moment, I believe he truly cares. Then he says, ‘How could I account to Yan Luo Wang if any harm came to you?’
I step back, my heart shrinking at his words. ‘Of course. Contain my thoughtlessness.’ I turn to leave.
‘Lady Jing, please. I am sorry for my harsh words earlier.’
Keeping my back to Mr Lee, I shake my head, not wanting to relive them, not wanting to face him. ‘May sherrr,’ I drawl, and keep walking.
‘Please, let me explain. I was out of my head with worry – all night I regretted my choice of words. I don’t want us to part on such hurtful terms.’ He sighs and the sound of it bruises my heart.
‘Seeing Ah Lang and Lady Gi suffer so much because they are forced to be apart—’ he starts, but loud banging on the door stops him.
He glances over, grimaces. ‘Must be Lady Gi. She was about to raze all of Shanghai to find you.’
I want to believe Gigi cared that much, but a voice in my head reasons that of course Gigi would be upset – how would she account to Big Wang for failing in her duty? I was her ticket to spending more time with Ah Lang.
Mr Lee heads for the door. I realise with a start whoever is on the other side is not Gigi. I know that scent – acrid, like burnt ginger and smoked resin.
‘Don’t open—’ I cry, but it’s too late.
Four men clad in black shove into the room, forcing Mr Lee to stumble backwards into the coffee table.
Their faces are hidden behind Peking opera masks – yellow, red, black, and green – each painted with leering mouths, flaming eyebrows and ornate swirls around their eyes.
The men hold brutish-looking daggers – short wide blades that glint as they jab them towards us.
Mr Lee holds his hands in the air. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’ His voice is level. He’s slowly moving backwards, towards me, but keeping the strangers in view.
‘Her,’ yellow mask says. ‘We want her.’
Mr Lee darts his gaze to me, then back at the intruders. He squares his shoulders. What is he doing? ‘Absolutely not,’ he says.
Yellow mask laughs. ‘And you, mortal, you really think you have a say?’
Mr Lee leaps over the sofa so he’s standing protectively in front of me. ‘Over my dead body,’ he growls, planting his feet and facing the men, arms loose but ready to fight.
‘Mr Lee, you are no good to me dead!’ I say, alarmed by his heroic resolve.
He doesn’t look at me, but he says quietly, ‘Last night I was a fool. I was angry and so I pushed you away. But when I thought I’d truly lost you . . . I was willing to give anything to get you back. I really do have fermented tofu for brains, don’t I?’
I want to laugh and cry but I can’t because yellow mask leaps over the table and sofa to backhand Mr Lee with such speed I barely have time to react.
Mr Lee crashes into the wall, then crumples to the floor.
Yellow mask tries to grab me, but I dodge and scramble away from him to crouch protectively over Mr Lee, eyeing the masked men, three to my left between the door and the sofa, and yellow mask to my right by the dining table and window.
My fangs pierce my gums – it’s only then that I realise blood scents the air.
It’s crisp and sweet. My stomach clenches.
Now is not the time for bloodlust, or to lose control.
Mr Lee groans and I help him sit. His right cheek is red and swollen, and crimson droplets trickle from the corner of his mouth.
The smell is intoxicating. I swallow, force my attention to the men.
‘Who are you?’ I say, focussing on the scent of each man. Celestials, as I suspected; their bodies run with yin; pine, resin, flint. But I can’t place from where in the Celestial realm.
‘You are to come with us,’ yellow mask says, leaning against the window, as if he has no care in the world. The other three fan around me, daggers at the ready.
‘Roll off you turd-eggs. I’m not going anywhere with you.’ I stand slowly, shake out my hands in readiness.
The three men hover, uncertainty in their stances.
They glance to yellow mask, obviously their ringleader.
I grab the man to my left, yanking him into the other two.
One of them swipes his dagger at me, but I twist. The blade hisses over my arm.
I circle my opponents, leading them away from Mr Lee.
They swipe with daggers and fists, but I deflect, push into their space, and land hard, fast blows just as Bullhead taught me.
A dagger slashes across my cheek. I’m dimly aware of Mr Lee shouting my name.
Another dagger whistles in front of me, I sidestep and it catches the fabric of my shirt.
Seizing my chance, I hook the man’s elbow and force it the wrong way with a satisfying crunch.
Red mask goes down, though I know he won’t be down for long. Celestials self-heal.
The other two regroup, hanging back and breathing hard.
I lurch sideways. The hotel room doorknob shoves into my back.
My side pinches and I press a hand to relieve the stitch, only to find the area wet and sticky.
My hand comes away bright with blood. My own.
It glistens, smells of shadows and brine, sunshine and tears.
The room blurs as I slump against the door.
I’ve been cut countless times before in training.
I don’t understand why I feel so strange.
Green and black stand between me and the bedroom door. Red is on the floor; he’s crouched howling and cradling his arm which hangs at an unnatural angle. Yellow mask isn’t by the window. Shit sticks. He’s got Mr Lee in a choke hold, the dagger at Mr Lee’s throat.
With an insolent smile, yellow mask says, ‘Very entertaining Lady Jing, but I’m afraid you have no choice in the matter.’
Snarling, I bare my fangs, about to launch myself at him, but yellow mask digs the tip of the blade into soft flesh. Mr Lee’s sharp intake of breath stops me where I stand. The room spins. I throw an arm out for balance, but my movements are slow to respond.
Yellow mask laughs. ‘A dab of opium on the blade and the mafan child is mafan no more.’
My head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton floss.
‘Lady Jing!’ The pitch of Mr Lee’s cry is wrong.
With great effort I force my eyes open – green and black are stalking towards me.
Mr Lee struggles and fights against yellow mask.
I try to move to him, but my body won’t obey.
Rough hands grip me by the arms and hold me captive.
Yellow mask and Mr Lee are a blur of movement, and then Mr Lee stiffens with a soft gasp. He looks at me.
‘Jing, I—’ he says, but his words end in a wet gurgle. He falls to his knees, his arms uselessly trying to reach behind him.
‘No!’ I scream.
Yellow mask kicks him and Mr Lee topples forward.
A dagger hilt protrudes from his back. Blood soaks his shirt and seeps into the pale pink carpet in dark crimson pools.
The smell of green apples and sweet ginger and snowflakes fills the room.
Fear and anger and rage burn away the drugged fog.
I am aware of nothing except Mr Lee lying prone, bleeding out.
Green and black hang off me as I fight my way to Mr Lee.
Yellow mask shouts at them, but I’m a frenzy of shrieking and desperation.
My fangs are out and I bite with feral pleasure.
The intruders fall back as I snarl and snap at anything that gets too close.
I reach Mr Lee and hunch over him, cradling his limp body.
I yank out the dagger in his back. The men try to drag me off him but I swipe blindly behind me with the blade.
There’s shouting but I barely register. Mr Lee isn’t yaojing. He won’t survive this.
The men renew their efforts, yanking my hair, trying to lift me bodily. I swipe again, grab a hand that comes too close and bite, sucking as much blood as I can. The man yelps and yanks his hand away. The blood helps clear my mind.
What did Big Wang say? If you are wounded or hurt in any way, break the jade, release the qi. It will protect you.
My hands are clumsy and slippery with blood. Hunched forward to hide my actions, I fumble in my shirt and pull out the pendant.
‘Enough,’ yellow mask commands in Celestial voice, which gives away that he’s a low-ranking Celestial. His command isn’t even as powerful as Soo’s.
I spit at him, a gob of blood-swirled saliva hits him in the face.
He lunges for me; I throw myself on top of Mr Lee, my hands shielded by my body.
I break the jade, press both pieces into Mr Lee’s wound.
From the corner of my eyes, yellow mask crouches, then spins into a powerful kick.
His foot flies towards me. I feel the jade go hot under my palms before my head jerks sideways in an explosion of pain.
I slam into the sofa, my lungs knocked flat. I wheeze, stars dance across my vision. A wisp of golden smoke curls from Mr Lee’s wound. Is that the jade? Or is Mr Lee’s yang qi leaving him? I reach for him but a boot steps on my hand.
‘Tie her hands, she’s more mafan than I expected,’ yellow mask mutters. ‘Here, pour the rest in her wound before it closes.’ He hands red a small glass vial full of brown liquid.
Still gasping for air, I’m helpless as green and black yank my arms behind me and secure them with rough rope.
Red mask uncorks the vial and pours the contents into the gash in my side.
It burns, then a numb tingling spreads from the wound site across my back.
My mouth goes dry and my movements slow again.
I blink.
The tableau has rearranged itself. Green mask looks down at me. The swirls of his mask blur and the mask swells, then shrinks, wriggling and wavering as I watch.
I blink.
Rough hands grip my arms, holding me upright. Someone lights a match – the hiss of the flame echoes in my ears for an unnaturally long time.
My head lolls to the side. When I open my eyes again, we are gathered in front of my bedroom door.
Somewhere nearby a joss stick burns. The smell of camphor and sandalwood overpowers everything.
A hand pushes the door open. I gasp, the intake of breath slower than it should be and creaking like an ill-fitted door.
Beyond is not my hotel bedroom.
Beyond is sun-dappled forest, birdsong, the gentle lap of water against stone, and the scent of decaying leaf-fall and freshly crushed pine needles.
Beyond is Turquoise Hills. Home of the Hulijing Court.