Chapter 4 Yue
Trust your instincts. Not all is as it appears.
I find my way back to the main street, pulling the hood of my cloak up and over my head.
The merchants of the water market are packing up for the night, while the local teahouses grow rowdier as the evening drags on, the orange light spilling out through the latticed windows to paint the cold ground outside.
I’ve never been inside one, for I’m sure the beauty of my mask would bring ill-wanted attention, though a part of me likes to dream.
What do sweet bean buns taste like? What gossip might I overhear?
I wander, as I do so many nights, nothing more than a leaf drifting upon the current of people.
I’m drawn less so to the crowds than to areas of noise, where folks gather merrily beneath the flickering golden glow of paper lanterns.
It’s a special sort of thrill to walk among their kind undetected.
Sometimes, I can pretend I’m one of them. Especially now that my stomach is full.
I peer into homes through cracks in their windows, spoiled with the sight of families enjoying their nightly meals.
A few blocks away, I spy a mother tucking her children into their beds by candlelight, lovingly combing her fingers through their hair as she wishes them sweet dreams. The home after that, I peek in to find an elderly couple, their bodies frail and little, curled up together beneath a shared blanket.
Their faces are peaceful in sleep, the gentle rise and fall of their chests in time with one another.
I don’t stop until I accidentally find myself in what the humans call the Pleasure District, pulled in by the scent of floral perfumes and the melodious songs of painted women.
A column of large buildings stands on either side of the single street, their walls painted red with heavy golden accents.
It’s so bright and ostentatious that it hurts my eyes.
Ladies stand by ground-floor windows in sheer dresses, making flirtatious eyes to the men and women browsing as they would in the markets.
It never occurred to me that pleasure could be a commodity—both bought and sold like any other good.
Settling into the mouth of a narrow alley, I take a seat behind a stack of abandoned crates, soaking up the movements and sounds and colors.
Across the way, I spot a young couple stumbling out the front doors of a pleasure house.
The buck looks drunk, likely on both wine and kisses, the doe on his arm giggling sweetly against his ear.
“Promise you’ll come again tomorrow?” she asks him.
He whispers something. Although my hearing is better than most, I can’t make out what he says at this distance.
It’s a secret, just for her. One that causes her cheeks to flush pink and her eyes to widen in delighted surprise.
Did he promise to whisk her away? Or did he murmur something scandalous in nature?
The man takes her hand, carefully threading his fingers between hers, all the while holding her gaze with a tenderness that makes my chest feel… strangely tight.
Curious, I hold my own hands up before me and thread my fingers together. They are soft and warm, but it’s hardly as magical an experience as the couple makes it seem. I laugh bitterly under my breath. How pathetic am I, yearning to have my hand held like a child?
“Are you lost, madam?” a deep voice reaches my ear.
I nearly jump out of my skin, turning so quickly I almost lose my balance. I look up to find a night watchman.
From what little I understand about human aging, I estimate him to be in his early to mid thirties, though his steep frown makes him appear a decade older.
He’s dressed in armor—a leather chest piece pulled over mulberry red robes—with his dao at his hip and black leather gauntlets pulled up to below his elbows.
Strong and regal and much too serious, his features teetering just on the other side of unfriendly.
His hair is cropped short at the sides, where the length on top is pulled back into a neat bun in typical Southern Kingdom fashion.
I note his thick brows, square jaw, thin lips, and rough stubble. Some might call him a rugged brute.
But his dark axinite eyes and impressive stature aren’t what beguile me so…
It’s his smell.
Crushed cinnamon, star anise, and sweet dried mango.
An assaulting combination of sweet and earthy.
I wonder if he’s been spending time with the spice traders near the markets.
My mouth waters. My stomach growls with a painful ferocity.
I fight the urge to unhinge my jaw and swallow him whole, my baser animal instincts rising to the surface of my skin.
I damn near lash out to bite him when he suddenly says, “It’s a little late to be wandering the streets alone, madam. Do you require an escort home?”
My hands tremble and my nostrils flare. I’ve never come across a human who smelled more delicious.
His scent blanks my mind and leaves my body numb.
I could finish him off in seven bites, I think.
First his throat to silence his scream, then his head, both arms, his legs, and then torso.
A meal like him would keep me satisfied for two whole moons.
My sudden lack of control horrifies me. I’m trapped within myself, so consumed by this desperate hunger that it reduces me to the beast I truly am. What if I lose myself and go on a rampage? I’d feast on every soul I could find until hunters are called to find me.
The watchman observes me with obvious curiosity.
I recognize him now. He was the one I spotted on the other side of the canal earlier this evening, fending off the attentions of the young ladies in their boat.
Has he been following me? Does he know what I’ve done? My eyes flicker down to his weapon now.
Sharp. Dangerous.
“What is your name?” he asks.
I bite my tongue. He tries to offer his hand, but I flinch away like I’ve been burned. I don’t know what’s come over me. I need to escape, to get as far away from here as possible.
And yet I can’t move. My war-drum heart hammers against the ladder of my ribs, the rush of blood past my ears putting a terrible pressure behind my eyes. If I don’t eat this watchman, I feel like I might die.
Even worse than that—I think he knows. He knows.
It’s in the tension of his shoulders, his stance, prepared and alert and ready to fight if need be.
This man may look the part of a night watchman, but I know for a fact that their patrols don’t take them out this far.
In fact, I’ve seen the local proprietors pay good money for the privilege of a wide berth.
Either this man has been newly hired and is not yet in someone’s pocket, or he isn’t a watchman at all.
I’ve remained silent for far too long. His hand falls to the hilt of his dao—
I lunge at him, my jaw unhinging as the last remnants of my sanity wash away.
He throws an arm up and my teeth sink into the leather of his gauntlet, barely scraping skin.
I see him reach for his sword, but I knock it away with a well-placed kick, using the momentum to throw myself under and then over his arm serving as a pivot point—all while my teeth sink in further.
I throw him off-balance, dragging him down.
The hard thud of his body against the stones rattles my skull.
If he tries to move, all it will take is one hard yank to separate arm from socket.
Unlike the drunkard, however, I smell no panic.
No fear. Surprise, perhaps, but the watchman is quick to counter, moving with an almost practiced ease.
He gathers dirt in his free hand and throws it into my eyes.
Such a nasty trick. His arm falls from my mouth as I hiss and reel back, blinking away the debris stinging my vision.
“Wen! Sooah! Do it now!”
His gaze flicks up to something behind me.
I realize my mistake—I’ve let my guard down.
I don’t even have a chance to turn before someone throws a weighted net over my head.
There are two other watchmen, closing in to pin my arms and legs down with their pointy knees.
No matter how much I thrash and scream, they show no remorse as they press yellow strips of parchment to my wrists and ankles—binding talismans—to magically immobilize my limbs.
“We have the animal secured, sir,” one of them announces, his words thick with a distinguishable countryside accent. “What should we do now, Cap’n Sonam?”
Sonam. So that’s the name of this monster. An uncommon one around these parts. I’ve only ever heard it once before, though now is hardly the time to reminisce.
Onlookers begin to gather, horrified to see three grown men forcibly restraining a helpless woman.
I lean into their alarm, crying and wailing and pleading in the hopes of manipulating their sympathy.
My performance is convincing, but their disgust with the watchmen quickly dissolves into curious shock as Captain Sonam steps forward, crouches down before me, and reaches beneath the net to pull off my mask—and the magic along with it.
I transform against my will. Now they see me for what I am: a revolting beast. I can’t stand to have them look.
“Give it back!” I gnash my teeth, swallowing my burning shame.
“I’ve only ever caught a nine-tailed fox once before,” he says thoughtfully. The captain inspects my mask with great interest. “But it never had something like this. Where did you find this piece of cursed magic?”
My voice is a growl from the very back of my throat. “Give it back right now, or I’ll eat your heart whole!”
He doesn’t seem remotely threatened. Or even alarmed, for that matter, to lay eyes upon my hulking, demonic form.
Instead, he calmly turns to one of his friends.
“Secure its binds and bring it to the Jade Palace. I need to present it to the king. It’ll be safer there for the shamans to banish it away from prying eyes. ”
“Banish me?” I snap. “Banish me where?”
“To Hell.”