Alice is a Chinese Canadian author of fantasy. She's fascinated by the interplay between self-perceived versus imposed identity and how this intersects with belonging and enjoys exploring these spaces in her stories. A recovering lawyer and xiaolongbao enthusiast, she knits to soothe anxiety and has a deep abiding love for Hobonichi planners and kawaii planner stickers. She is grateful for the support of the Canada Council for the Arts.

Shanghai Immortal

A.Y. Chao

www.hodderscape.co.uk

First published in Great Britain in 2023 by Hodderscape

An imprint of Hodder & Stoughton

An Hachette UK company

Copyright ©  A.Y. Chao  2023

The right of A.Y. Chao to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Cover Image: © Weitong Mai

Cover design by Natalie Chen

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

Hardback ISBN 978 1 399 71741 0

Trade Paperback ISBN 978 1 399 71742 7

ebook ISBN 978 1 399 71743 4

Hodder & Stoughton Ltd

Carmelite House

50 Victoria Embankment

London EC4Y 0DZ

www.hodderscape.co.uk

For my little kraken.

Labour your grindstone, speak plain, and take no dabian.

知彼知己，百戰不殆；不知彼而知己，一勝一負;

不知彼，不知己，每戰必殆.

– 孫子兵法

Should you know your opposition and know yourself, you shall not meet peril in a hundred battles; should you know not your opposition, while knowing only yourself, your wins and losses shall be even; but should you know not your opposition nor yourself, your every battle shall meet defeat.

– Sun Tzu, The Art of War

Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Author’s Note

Acknowledgements

Credits

One

The Delivery

The steaming Shanghai night drapes heavy over my bare shoulders. I lean against the door of a decrepit warehouse, gums aching, stomach grumbling, and wait on Big Wang’s secret delivery. Cicadas scream all around me. With a title like Lady Jing of Mount Kunlun and ancestry that includes the great goddess Queen Mother of the West, running errands at 3 a.m. in this rotted heat might be considered below my station. With such a title, you’d expect me to be beautiful – all hair, ta-tas, and ass, held together with lashings of poise and dignity. Well, I’ll disabuse you of that notion right now. I am a degenerate mix of unfortunate genes and circumstances. From my dearly departed mother – a hulijing, or ‘bitch of a fox-spirit’ as I prefer to call her – I inherited my feral lack of charm; from my father – some leech-faced vampire who couldn’t be bothered to stick around – a damned inconvenient predilection for blood.

While 3 a.m. might be when the sodden heat is at its worst, twilight is when the veil between the mortal world and the realms of Hell thins, making it easier for mortal couriers to make their deliveries. Hot as it is, Big Wang expects me to wait, so that’s what I do.

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.

The man makes a strangled noise, jerks back and shoves a hand between my face and his throat. In it is a small black card splashed with three crimson characters. A muted warning nags at the back of my mind. I shake my head to clear the fug and squint at the card. The characters in bold red strokes slowly come into focus. Yan Luo Wang. Big Wang’s full name. I jerk away from the mortal and his tempting scent.

The card in his hand is an official invitation to Hell from the King himself. I scramble back to put some space between me and my almost-drink. Too close. Snacking on Big Wang’s guest would have earned me another long lecture and probably half a year peeling garlic.

‘Lift high your honourable hand,’ he says, a little less confidently this time, ‘and guide this one who is beneath you to the venerable King of Hell, Yan Luo Wang.’

My shoulders twitch at the courtly piss-fart. Why can’t he just say please don’t hurt me? Lift high your honourable hand. It doesn’t even make sense.

I snarl at him, baring my fangs and my irritation. He blanches, grabs at his neck and pulls out a battered silver bi – a coin-sized disc with a square hole in the centre and stamped with anti-demon incantations. It’s meant to conceal the mortal’s true nature from yaojing and act as an official ministry pass for safe conduct through Hell. Strictly speaking, while yaojing dislike yin silver, it isn’t debilitating. Afterall, yin silver is an export from the Hulijing Court, where it exists in abundance beneath the mountains of Turquoise Hills. None of my hulijing elders suffer from handling yin silver. They seem to be inured to it but whatever I’ve inherited from my deadbeat dad makes my skin blister and my eyes and nose burn if I get too close. The last time I came across a Ministry of Thunder and Storm talisman, small as it was, my eyes stung from five paces away. This bi doesn’t even tickle my nose. I lean forward and lightly pinch the charm between my finger and thumb. Nothing. No heat, no rash, not even a tiny wave of nausea. It’s fake.

I laugh, startling the mortal, then just as quickly understand how much mafan this means for me. There is no way I can simply walk the mortal to Big Wang. My temper simmers, threatening to erupt. If I can’t get him safely to Big Wang I won’t get my glass of blood. All because the rotted mortal couldn’t tell the difference between real yin silver and a cheap imitation.

‘I hope you didn’t part with too many silver taels for this,’ I say, tone sharp with irritation and hunger.

He tries to shuffle away from me, which is a bit difficult since his legs are half-inside the burlap sack, and I’m holding onto the bi around his neck.

‘It was worth it! The old woman said Lord Lei blessed it himself.’

His earnest panic only angers me. Foolish mortal.

‘Lord Lei, the Lord of Thunder? Bless this shit stick?’ My laughter is as harsh as the shrieking cicadas. ‘If this were a real talisman from the Ministry blessed by Old Lei, yes, that would grant you safe passage through Hell. But this? This won’t even get you passage into the nearest latrine.’

‘This humble one followed the most exalted and virtuous Yan Luo Wang’s instructions to the letter. This humble one paid what the learned and noble Yan Luo Wang said to pay the old woman.’

‘Oh for Hell’s sake, shut up with the courtly crap. I need to think.’

Without the talisman neutralising the scent of his blood and yang qi, the mortal will be a beacon to all yaojing. While the hypocrites look down on my weakness for blood, it’s not like they’re any better, drooling over mortal yang. I stand, brushing the dust off my dress. Understanding what I need to do to get this mortal safely to Big Wang does not improve my mood.

‘That’ – I point to the black card clutched in the mortal’s fist – ‘is what gets you into Hell. But without Lord Lei’s talisman—’

‘But this humble—’ His gaze darts to my pretty, shiny, sharp teeth. ‘Uh— I paid good money for this. Is Lady Jing sure—’

‘Hold your tongue if you want to keep it in your head. And don’t interrupt me.’

He cowers, then shifts to his knees and throws his arms out as he kowtows, over and over, knocking his forehead against the dirt. ‘Lift high your honourable hand, this humble, I mean, uh, I, most unworthy, I beseech your glory, lift high your honourable hand, lift high your honourable hand.’ His voice increases in pitch with each soft thud against the ground.

I tilt my head back to look at the starless sky, taking a deep breath. Big Wang always says count to ten, slowly, before you do anything rash.

‘Yi. Er. San,’ I count, and keep counting, nice and slow, until I hit ten. The irritation recedes, despite the mortal’s continued kowtowing.

‘Please,’ he whimpers.

His whimper incinerates my hard-won calm. The weak should never show their vulnerabilities. He might as well offer me his neck. This fool has no sense of self-preservation. The next time his forehead hits dirt, I step on his head. He struggles beneath the finely embroidered cricket and yellow butterfly of my blue silk slippers. Do not stomp his head into a porridge of bone and brain. I repeat this mantra three times – part of the anger management techniques Big Wang is making me learn. Then I count to fifty this time before I speak.

‘I am not going to eat you. I am not going to let you get eaten. For the love of holy yang, shut the fuck up.’

He finally stills. I curse Big Wang. He told me I should bring the ‘package’ directly to his private quarters in the penthouse of the Cathay Hotel. I can’t risk taking the mortal through the front doors. The hotel’s swarming with deities and demons attending the Ministerial Mahjong Council; they’ll be on him like locusts on a rice paddy. If he had a real talisman, we could walk straight through the lobby, even wander through the Mahjong Council, and none would be the wiser. Apart from my red eyes and sneezing and all the blisters that is. Without the talisman, the only feasible route to the penthouse is up the side of the building.

‘Lady Jing is not going to kill me?’ He gets up from his knees, slowly stands, and looks at me with doe eyes. My hand itches to slap him.

The mortal is a full head taller than me. Broad, with a strong jaw and long full lashes like a rotted deer. Not bad looking. Still, I suck my teeth. None of those things are going to make it any easier to carry a large living lump reeking of blood and yang through the streets of immortal Shanghai.

He holds his hand out to me. ‘I’m Tony. Tony Lee.’ His voice, like his hand, trembles.

My instinct is to swat his hand away; how dare he presume to touch me without invitation. Instead, mindful of my temper and my task, I grab his outstretched hand, and in one motion swing him over my shoulder like a fur stole, his body curved around my neck, legs dangling over one shoulder. It’s not very comfortable. Especially as he is trying, unsuccessfully, to escape my grip.

‘Lady Jing! Please! This is unseemly!’ His voice is squeaky with indignation.

The closeness of his pulsing blood makes me grit my teeth. His head hangs over my right shoulder; I have a clear view of his face and he of mine.

‘Mr Lee, listen to me carefully. You do not have a valid Lei talisman. Do you understand what that means?’

He stops squirming. His silence tells me he does.

Big Wang might be the King of Hell, but it’s the Ministry of Thunder and Storm that controls passage through Tian – the Celestial lands and the realms of Hell. Without the talisman, he might as well be wearing a flashing neon sign that says: Free Buffet.

‘I will bring you to Big Wang. But if you want to make it there alive with your prenatal qi intact, keep yourself tucked in tight around me and your mouth pinched shut. The smell of your yang qi is most noticeable when you breathe. Hell is full of hungry spirits, and you, mortal, make for a mouth-watering midnight snack.’

Two

Lady Soo

I hike my qipao high to free my legs. I’m sure my butt is hanging out. Mr Lee twitches, like he wants to spew more of that this humble one crap, but he catches my expression and wisely clams up.

With my legs free, I start moving, weaving through the narrow lanes between the hulking warehouses until I reach the neon lights of a wide asphalt road flanked by two-storey wood buildings, a stone-columned veranda at street level and overhanging second floors. The mortal’s bulk and warmth, added to the heat rising from the road, makes it hard to move quickly. This road is my fastest route to the Bund, the glittering waterfront of Shanghai and home to the Cathay Hotel, Big Wang’s headquarters. I stay within the deepest shadows of the veranda that meets my lane and sniff the air for any nearby yaojing.

A mix of sweet putrescence from decaying flesh and a mildewy smell from damp mould hits me. Jiangshi. By the strength of the stink, I’m guessing there’s two of them. Distant cousins to vampires, jiangshi are the only yaojing (apart from me) who prefer blood for nourishment, though neither vamps nor jiangshi are willing to claim the connection. Jiangshi are basically stiffened corpses who move around by hopping. Given how fastidious vampires are about their appearance – capes and velvet and corsets and such – it’s no wonder they turn their noses up at their decidedly ill-groomed cousins. And jiangshi would rather self-immolate than claim relation to vampires, because jiangshi are almost as xenophobic as my grandmother and dislike foreigners. But their connection to vamps means the jiangshi sense of smell is nearly as good as mine. I peer around the corner.

Neon signs hang like banners off the second storey of the buildings, advertising A-Man Hing Cheong Tailors, Double Lucky Pawn Shop, Dragon Seed Beauty Products in buzzing colours of red, yellow, purple and green. Two jiangshi hop unsteadily through the puddles of light, their greenish skin taking on the neon hues as they sing a smutty song very off-key. The wide road is otherwise empty, but the hoppers are between me and the Garden Bridge, the metal monstrosity that spans Soochow Creek. Another rotted body of water.

‘Hold your breath. We have to pass two jiangshi.’

The mortal puts on an expression that looks like he badly needs to dabian.

Hells no. I just washed this qipao. ‘Don’t you dare defecate on me or I will eat you.’ For good measure, I curl my lips and show him my extended fangs.

His eyes roll back and his eyelashes flutter. Oh, for Hell’s sake, he’s going to faint. I pinch his arm, hard. He winces, blinks, colour coming back to his face.

‘They have terrible eyesight,’ I tell him. ‘If you don’t breathe, they won’t notice you. Understand?’

He nods meekly. I launch into the street and run as fast as my bare legs will go, keeping a close eye on the hoppers. They warble and sway, each clutching a pale green bottle and taking deep swigs between verses. They make enough noise to drown out my footfall, but I do what I can to keep light on my toes and make as little noise as possible. As we get closer, my eyes water from the alcoholic sting of baijiu and the intense stench from their green-grey flesh. They’re too drunk and too busy singing to notice us, so I keep running. We’re nearly even with them. I hold my breath, but it doesn’t stop my eyes from watering. The way to the bridge is clear, just a few more strides, and we’ll be out of their reach.

A rooster streaks out in front of me in a blur of multicoloured feathers. I try to dodge it, but my own feet get in my way and suddenly I’m flying forward, fingers gripping the mortal’s legs, tarmac meeting body with a bone-jarring crunch.

I freeze, hold my breath, hope the jiangshi don’t notice.

One of them stops. He sniffs, a long hard inhalation, head swivelling to locate us. My hip smarts from the impact. Damn those roosters. We have so many of the rotted strays here. But I don’t have time to wring the stupid creature’s neck. Mr Lee lays crumpled on the ground.

I roll onto my knees and hiss, ‘Get up.’

The second hopper lets out a high-pitched giggle and their eyes glow green with yin energy. Shit sticks. They’ve smelled him. Their mouths stretch wide and I’m hit with the worst halitosis in Hell. The mortal claps one hand over his mouth and nose, I’m bent double, retching. He presses against my legs, pointing frantically at the hoppers.

Their matte black tongues hiss from their mouths like snakes, stretching across the space between us. The mortal screams. Double shit sticks. Staggering to my feet, I throw him over my shoulder like a sack of rice. His face presses against my ass. He’s muttering something, but I ignore him, and run like my yin depends on it. The hoppers’ tongues lash at me; the mortal screams again as cold air whistles across the back of my legs. Too close! The hoppers screech and give chase. I sprint, still dizzy from their terrible breath, focussing on the grey metal bridge just ahead, their rapid thud thud thud following close behind.

The hoppers are fast and I’m slowing. Next time their tongues will get us. The mortal shifts so suddenly I nearly drop him.

‘This humble—’ he sputters.

‘Spit it out!’

‘I have coins,’ he says, and waves a hand clutching coins, like he wants my praise or something. If the jiangshi get him, it’ll cost me my measly glass of blood.

‘Throw them!’ I shriek. ‘What are you waiting for?’

In answer, metal tinkles against the asphalt. The thuds slow, then stop. Jiangshi cannot help their urge to count the shiny metal pieces. It’s one of their few weaknesses. I don’t look back. In seconds I’m on the Garden Bridge. Tian. That was too close.

Steel girders flash overhead as I run, my footsteps swift over the metal bridge, leaving a dull echo in my wake. Big Wang cherry-picks what he likes from the mortal realm and brings it into existence on our side; this bridge he chose because the shape reminded him of his beloved tortoises. The creek rushing below raises my hackles but in moments I’m free. I burst onto the Bund into the fresh aromas of a manicured garden with a pond filled with more of Big Wang’s prized turtles. I slow a little. The view of the Bund that greets me is still unsettling, all pale stone and electric lights. I miss the marshland this used to be when I first arrived. The whole of Shanghai was contained in the walled city. Rickety bridges and wooden boats latticed the marshland around it, and the paper lanterns hung here and there along the docks winked like fireflies in the ever-present gloom. But Big Wang was impressed by the foreign-built buildings that sprouted like so many gigantic teeth along the maw of the river. One by one the old wooden buildings with their smiling upturned eaves disappeared, replaced by these great stone monoliths.

The Bund is heaving with tourist ghosts; immortal Shanghai is one of the few gateways for the Naihe Bridge, which souls must cross to reach their next life. Many, if not most, spend a good deal of time indulging in Shanghai’s many offerings before moving on. I smell a few Celestials, no doubt recently arrived ministers here for the annual Mahjong Council, so I bank right into Peking Road. There aren’t any mahjong halls or drinking dens here. The road is quiet and shadowed, apart from a few drunk ghosts. These ones wear grey robes denoting their stature as indentured servants to Hell. Most of them avoid me anyways, so I dodge them easily, then dog-leg through a back alley to the north side of the Cathay Hotel. Again, I pause at the corner, peering down the empty street towards the hustle of the Bund. The rat-a-tat-tat of firecrackers blisters the air as sparks of light and smoke obscure my view of the crowds. No one has any interest in this quiet side road, so I put the mortal back on his feet and catch my breath. His face is frozen in a bizarre rictus, eyes squeezed shut, mouth pulled down into the caricature of a frown. He sways, then starts to sink. I grab his arm, then slap him. He blinks, splutters, focusses on me.

‘We’re not safe yet. Get on my back and hold tight. I need my hands to climb.’ I crouch down to make it easier for him. He opens his mouth.

‘Just do it!’ I hiss.

He swallows and obediently climbs onto my back like a large monkey, then wraps his arms around my neck.

I pinch his ear. ‘If I pass out from lack of air, we’ll both fall.’ Not strictly true – I can hold my breath for a long time. But I dislike the pressure against my throat.

He immediately loosens his grip. I climb, fingers and toes finding the familiar holds between the granite slabs. Open windows flash past as I ascend, the mortal hanging from my back. I curse the lack of talisman, forcing me to take this ridiculous route. Luckily, most guests have their lights off; either asleep or out sampling the delights of yin Shanghai, while the yaojing here for the Mahjong Council should all be in the Mahjong Hall on the ninth floor. It’s the first night of Council so the ministers are busy gossiping and cutting deals. There’s little chance of accidentally being seen.

Halfway up, I catch a scent I know too well. I swallow a cough. Yaojing all have a spicy gingery scent. This one is mixed with the flinty smell of mountain streams and crushed chalk – a marker of the Celestial realms – and the honeyed fishy smell of hulijing. It’s all doused with enough lotus blossom perfume to addle a jiangshi’s sense of smell, but not mine.

Lady Soo. My dear grandmother Niang Niang’s favourite handmaid. The one who reported me for showing my legs. My hands and feet keep moving, but my attention is on the source of the stench above me: three rows up, an open window. I move sideways, towards the darkened windows on the far-right.

‘Big Wang’s a bigger fool than I thought if he thinks we’ll agree to his ridiculous project. A bank! In Hell? Niang Niang will never agree to it.’ Lady Soo’s nasally imperious voice drawls into the night.

She leans against the open window sill, her back to me. She wears her trademark yellow gown, her water sleeves so voluminous, swathes of silk tumble from her arms like cascading waterfalls. Her dark hair is piled high in an elaborate updo adorned with jewelled butterfly hair pins; all the accoutrements one would expect of a hulijing of her rank. In her hand, she swirls a bright green cocktail. A Suffering Bastard, by the looks of it, one of the hotel’s signature drinks and Lady Soo’s favourite tipple. I’ve served her a number of them over the years and been subjected to pinches and snide insults for the trouble. My nose itches.

‘I heard many ministers have been swayed by Wang’s arguments about the merits of modern banking. What if the Council overrides us?’ says a voice I don’t recognise from inside the room.

I keep climbing, uninterested in Council politicking. I also don’t want the mortal tattling to Big Wang that I’m not doing my job; I focus on my glass of three-day-old and count to ten under my breath for good measure.

‘That’s why we need the dragon pearl,’ Lady Soo says, and I slow as old bruises come blooming back to life. ‘Lord Black let slip in one of his tortuously circular speeches that the pearl has incredible power – power we could harness to protect the Hulijing Court from Wang’s machinations.’

The dragon pearl. Part of the deal Big Wang made when he bought me. My mother was desperate for the money to pay her debts, so when Big Wang made the pearl a condition for buying me, she had no compunction in stealing the thing from Niang Niang’s treasure vaults. In return, Big Wang cleared her debts and set up a generous line of credit at her favourite jewellers. The bauble reminds me that diamonds and pearls will always have more worth than I do.

‘And what of Lady Jing? Does Wang truly expect the Hulijing Court to welcome her back?’

‘She is nothing but an ill-bred arsonist who does not deserve her title, nor her position at court.’ Lady Soo sips her Suffering Bastard and I consider briefly scuttling down and spitting in her hair, but I stay put, proud of my self-control. She continues, ‘Wang’s an imbecile if he thinks we’ll accept that mongrel as an equal. Even her wastrel mother didn’t want her. Sold her to buy a huge canary diamond.’ She cackles.

It’s the cackle that releases raging wasps inside my head. My fingers tense on the stone ledge as the droning whine drowns everything out. Big Wang always pushes me to show her courtesy and respect. But what he doesn’t understand is that to her, it’s a weakness to exploit. I imagine grabbing one of the dark loops of hair piled high on her head and weigh the satisfaction of yanking hard and tipping her right out the window against the punishment I’d get for disrespecting an elder and bringing dishonour on my ancestors.

Pish. It’s not like any injuries from the fall would be permanent. She’s a grown ass Celestial after all.

Mr Lee shifts on my back and I remember his presence with a start. My cheeks go hot. A mortal just witnessed my greatest shame laid bare. I clamber as fast as my limbs can move, trying to outrun the humiliation. Mr Lee’s arms and legs wrap tight around me as, at last, I hurtle over the edge of the roof.

Three

The Guardians

We crash through the topiary – taking out a few palm leaves – and land hard on Big Wang’s private roof terrace, the bronze pyramid above his living quarters a beacon against the indigo sky. The impact dislodges the mortal, and he rolls off towards the koi pond.

Bullhead and Horsey, Big Wang’s personal guards, jump to their feet. Their real titles are Lord Nioh and Lord Ma, but I call them as I see them – one broad, muscled, and stubborn, the other long-faced, long-toothed, and long-winded. They both wear black, ankle-length robes and brandish matching curved swords aglow with the blue flames of a guard of Hell. Both swords are aimed at me. When their brains catch up with their eyes, their stances relax, though they don’t sheath the swords yet.

‘Oh good, you brought the package.’ Horsey says, gesturing to the mortal who is curled up against the side of Big Wang’s koi pond, dry heaving. A tortoise lifts its head from the pond, then just as serenely disappears.

I raise my head and stare at the two guards. ‘You knew the package was a mortal?’

Bullhead, as usual, gives me his it is what it is expression. But Horsey’s looking down his long nose at me in that snotty way I despise. I slowly stand and put a hand on my hip, staring Horsey down. Making sure the effort is particularly noisome, I spend some time bringing up a gob of spit.

Horsey’s ears turn red. ‘Don’t you do it—’ he warns.

I smile, then hork at him. The gob of saliva lands by his right foot, missing his fabric boots by a few hairs. My aim is off today. I give him a demure smile and bow. ‘Thank you for the heads-up.’

‘Have some decorum, Lady Jing.’ Horsey’s face is pulled frog-like in that disapproving frown he always wears around me. ‘And for Hell’s sake, cover your legs.’

I yank down my qipao. ‘The package would never have made it here intact if I had been precious about covering my knees.’

‘Which is why we won’t mention anything to Big Wang, right, Lord Ma?’ Bullhead says, moving between Horsey and me.

Horsey’s frown etches deeper into his face. ‘She’s a full Celestial, well into adulthood. Her centenary is in a few short weeks and she has yet to learn the proper behaviour befitting her title. She’s as bad as a monkey infested with fleas. Can’t sit still, can’t follow instructions – how is she going to sit on the Council—’

‘I’m here, aren’t I? And I am not joining the rotted Council.’

Mr Lee chooses that moment to throw himself at the guards, kowtowing with renewed fervour. ‘This humble one has travelled far to bask in your glory. This unworthy one requests the attentions of the venerable Yan Luo Wang.’ He repeats different versions of this over and over.

His cowardice makes me want to puke.

‘What did I say about that overdressed drivel?’ My voice is a snarl.

Brain and bone porridge it is. I stalk over to the mortal. Garlic duty will absolutely be worth the satisfaction of shutting him up, but Bullhead blocks my foot with the flat of his blade. The blue flames tickle my ankles, pleasantly cool against my aching arch.

‘Temper, temper, Lady Jing,’ he says, his blade unyielding. ‘Remember the rules. Breathe, then count to ten.’

I roll my neck from left to right, making the bones crack, then throw him a glare worthy of sinking a thousand ships.

‘Big Wang has been waiting for this delivery with some anxiety,’ Bullhead continues, unmoved by my posturing. ‘He was most clear that no damage should come to his guest. A mortal with half a head will be quite a problem, and we don’t want to upset Big Wang, now do we?’

‘I was only going to bruise him a little,’ I mutter.

Mr Lee stills, turns his head just enough to glimpse the flaming sword keeping my foot from crushing his skull. His gulp is loud in the tense silence.

‘Lord Nioh is quite right, Little Jing.’ A voice of shadow and grit makes us all turn.

Big Wang stands before his gilded terrace doors, a giant figure of a man. Bald with bushy eyebrows, skin the blue-black of inky night, and wild-looking eyes which gleam red when he turns his head just so. He wears his favourite ensemble, an emerald silk robe and matching green baggy silwar gathered at the knee. It’s a style he embraced after returning from the last Convention of Immortals, an international version of our Mahjong Council. Big Wang says he likes that all his bits can breathe. Honestly. There should be a rule about how much sharing is appropriate. He’s tied a saffron yellow sash around his ample waist and his robe is open to his navel, showing off the crimson tattoos of cavorting dragons which crowd every inch of exposed skin.

A cigar dangles from his mouth and he takes a slow drag. The end sizzles white, then red like an angry eye. In one hand he clutches a bottle of cognac. He raises a finger and lifts his chin very slightly. Usually, Big Wang has a dozen or so apprentices standing at the ready, but because tonight is the first night of the Ministerial Mahjong Council, he’s only got one apprentice attending him – the rest are busy catering to the many whims of the ministers, no doubt delivering drinks and messages around the Mahjong Hall. A young woman decked out in Big Wang’s livery – grey robes, silk instead of the usual cotton for indentured servants, tied with a bright red sash around her waist – steps forward at his signal carrying a tray with three cut crystal tumblers. Big Wang places the bottle on the tray and strolls over to the koi pond where the mortal cowers. He leans forward, hands on knees, cigar clamped between his teeth.

‘Welcome, Tony Lee. I trust your journey was not too uncomfortable.’ With a meaty hand, Big Wang yanks Mr Lee to his feet, then drapes an arm over the mortal’s shoulders, which in fairness are sculpted and well-muscled, but Big Wang’s size makes Mr Lee look like a scrawny child.

‘Come, let’s talk.’ Big Wang turns his back on me and heads towards his quarters.

I watch them go. For a moment, I’m curious. What does Big Wang want with Mr Lee? What does Mr Lee want? No mortal comes to Hell to vacation. Then I shake myself – curiosity leads to sharing. Sharing leads to caring. Caring leads to having responsibilities which inevitably leads to boring lectures from a dour-faced Horsey. Why should I bother with all that when no one bothers for me?

The apprentice scurries to the terrace doors and offers Big Wang the tray of crystal tumblers. Two of the glasses are filled with cognac; the amber liquid glints gold in the low light. The third tumbler is filled to the brim with a near black liquid that smells like an overripe persimmon – rich and tangy and sweet. My nostrils flare and my fangs pierce my gums with a soft pop. Big Wang plucks a glass of cognac from the tray and hands it to the mortal. He takes the other for himself, then pauses, turns his head to the side, but otherwise doesn’t look at me. ‘That’s for you, Little Jing. Well done.’

The coppery tang of blood dazzles my senses, and my stomach clenches in anticipation. But I push it away. I can’t let Soo’s insult pass. ‘Wait,’ I say.

Big Wang turns slightly, nods for me to continue.

‘When I came up the wall, I passed Lady Soo talking by a window. She openly insulted you, on top of the usual crap she spews about me.’ This time, surely, he can’t deny me. I won’t stand for this stain on his honour. I stand taller. ‘Let me avenge your loss of face.’

‘Lady Jing,’ Horsey hisses, glancing at Big Wang, ‘we do not throw baseless accusations at the ministers of Tian.’

‘I heard her! She said Big Wang was a fool and an imbecile—’

‘Enough.’ Big Wang faces me. His dark eyes bore into mine, as if trying to scrutinise my very soul.

I want to shrink back, but I know what I heard. I force my chin up. ‘She also said they want the Longnu dragon pearl. Is it really that powerful? Is that why you wanted it?’

‘The dragon pearl is not your concern,’ Big Wang says, dismissing my questions about the dragon pearl as he always does. ‘Do you have any witnesses?’

‘Rotted shit sticks. Can’t you take me at my word? Can’t you care about my face when she insults you?’

Big Wang swirls the cognac in his glass. ‘Do I need to remind you about the importance of tomorrow’s plenary council? I do not want anything to distract the ministers, especially not a repeat of the last time you decided to avenge your own loss of face.’

The too familiar burn rises inside me. Everything goes tight. ‘That was ages ago. Besides, she provoked me,’ I grind out.

‘You threw a burning cocktail on her. The ensuing diplomatic crisis between the Hulijing Court and the Ministry of Hell derailed the plenary session completely. The delays meant we missed our window to host the Convention of Immortals and have to wait until the next centenary cycle.’ Big Wang’s voice rumbles low, slow, and full of censure.

Lady Soo got off easy. I remember her from before my mother sold me. How she’d pinch me when my mother was distracted by some shiny new bauble, leaving little red half-moon marks on my arms. How she’d take the yin silver talismans they made and press them into the tender skin of my underarms. Sometimes she’d catch me in a hallway alone and make up some infraction so she could haul me off and punish me. She particularly liked using rattan canes.

The memory of her screams as flames engulfed her and danced in her sizzling hair brings a smile to my face and warmth to my chest. ‘Flaming Bitches are my favourite,’ I say.

‘Little Jing.’ The warning in his tone wipes the smirk off my face.

I shrug. ‘That was the name of the drink.’

Big Wang exhales slowly. ‘I am still paying restitution for the loss of face you caused the Hulijing Court because you cannot control your temper.’

I press my lips together, trying to keep the lava inside me from spewing out. I glare at the terracotta tiles. Lady Soo had called me a mongrel. Normally that wouldn’t bother me – I’ve heard that insult ten thousand times – but I’d been fetching drinks for her all through the three-day Council, listening to her hiss horrible things about me and my dead mother. She’s the kind of person who searches for a tender spot, then gouges at it with her nails. Of course I lost my temper. It’s why I have to take anger management lessons.

‘I was there,’ the mortal pipes up.

We all stare. How dare a mortal insert himself into yaojing affairs?

He swallows, but after a moment plants his feet and folds his hands at his waist. ‘What Lady Jing says is true. A woman in yellow said, “Big Wang is a bigger fool than I thought”, and then “Wang’s an imbecile if he thinks we’ll accept that mongrel as an equal”. The woman doesn’t like the bank project and wants a dragon pearl to help stop it.’

My face goes hot but Big Wang tilts his head and scrutinises the mortal.

‘I see,’ he says and turns to me. ‘Little Jing, stay away from Lady Soo. As I said, I do not want anything to distract the ministers from the plenary session. We need our banking system in place before war erupts in the mortal world and joss money all but dries up. If we miss this window, by the time the next Ministerial Mahjong Council comes around, it will be too late.’

Frustration wells. ‘But—’

‘You did well, getting Mr Lee here safely. Enjoy your drink.’ With that, Big Wang leads Mr Lee into his quarters.

The casual dismissal irks. I should tell him about the talisman, but why waste my qi when he never takes me seriously. He wasn’t even bothered about the dragon pearl. I shake myself. Stupid to care more about his reputation than he does. Stomach growling, I head for the glass of blood. The apprentice jumps when I appear too quickly next to her. I know she’ll end up whispering about me, but right now the blood rush is strong enough that I don’t care. My senses are magnified. The slight fizzing in the glass is as loud as crashing waves to my overstimulated senses. My mouth waters. I snatch the glass, but the ever-present weight of Horsey’s disapproval presses me back to myself. I am not in the mood to fake smile through another one of his lectures, so I force myself to slow down, to sip, but even then, I drain the tumbler in seconds. It’s all I can do not to lick the inside of the glass.

The effect is instantaneous. The blood rush rips through me with the exuberance of a firecracker. I sink to my knees, exalting in the energy chewing through my veins. The apprentice hurries away, my obvious enjoyment distasteful. Fuck her. I close my eyes and see with my senses – Bullhead and Horsey’s yin glows green. The darkness forever cloaking immortal Shanghai comes aflame with light that pulses and shimmers with great brushstrokes of golds and russets and silvers, staining the sky with the colours of hulijing.

Four

Blood Rush

Bullhead and Horsey’s hands grip under my arms and they drag me to standing. The world spins and I feel like a child again, belligerent and angry.

‘Ladies do not kneel wherever they wish and cackle like old crones,’ Horsey mutters sotto voce, and with a fair amount of venom.

I’m too far gone in the blood rush to care. Let him lecture.

The muscles have melted from my body. I have to jerk my head to look him in the eye, but I misjudge; my head rolls right back so my view is of the velvet sky, forever black.

‘Why can’t we have stars?’ I ask no one in particular. ‘Rotted-turd steel girders shaped like turtles? Oh yeah, those we have to have. But a few tiny stars to speckle the sky, that’s an indulgence. A little light in the dark to keep me company. Is that so much to ask?’

Bullhead looks at me, a softness in his gaze, his mouth downturned. I’m about to ask him why he looks so sad, but then my head lolls forward and shiny orange tiles snag my attention. ‘I bet that’s the colour of my tail. If it ever shows itself.’ I giggle. ‘It’s hiding in my butt. You wanna help me pull it out?’

‘Get a hold of yourself, Lady Jing,’ Horsey grinds out. He sounds like he might crack a tooth, he’s clenching his jaw so hard. The green glow of his yin pulses with his irritation.

‘Neeeeiiggggh,’ I say, unable to help myself. I swing my head to look him in the face. I have to squint because bright circles mar my vision. But I can sense that frown anywhere. ‘C’mon, Horsey, turn that frown upside down.’

‘Y-you insolent child. How dare you!’ He drops my arm and stalks off.

Hee hee. Hells, he’s so easy to wind up.

Bullhead drags me to a nearby chair and I slump forward onto the table. The marble surface is cool against my cheek.

‘You really shouldn’t bait Lord Ma that way. You know he’s sensitive about his appearance.’

‘Then he should quit nagging me about how a lady behaves. I am no lady.’ My words slur.

‘It is your title. And it’s time you stop shirking your duty and claim your position at court.’

‘With that pit of vipers? All they do is prance around half-dressed. No thank you.’

His expression pinches tight; his motto in life is very much it is what it is. He refuses to be drawn into criticizing those razor-tongued hulijing. I pick at a small crack in the edge of the table. Why can’t someone be on my side for once? I stick my tongue out but the effect is lost as I tip sideways in my chair. Bullhead discreetly pushes me back to centre. He stands to my right, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, his gaze sweeping the terrace, his foot bracing the chair so the thing doesn’t topple.

The high, stiff collar of my dress cuts into my neck and suddenly I’m furious. ‘Why? Why do I have to wear these ridiculous things?’ I gesture at the fitted qipao, crumpled from my rough ministrations. ‘Why can’t I wear a changpao like yours? It’ll cover my knees, and it’s wide enough that I can actually move like a normal person, not some trussed-up duck ready for roasting.’

‘Ladies do not wear changpao.’ His voice is grave, but not judgemental like Horsey’s.

‘Why not? If the whole point is to protect our modesty, why in Hells is a qipao fitted like a sausage skin? I might as well be naked!’

Bullhead makes a choking sound. ‘I hope your streaking days are well and truly behind you, Lady Jing. It is not befitting for Big Wang’s guards to be chasing you all over Shanghai just to make you put on clothes.’

‘Pish. I don’t know why you all have this hang-up. Everyone is naked under their clothes.’ I cross my arms and look across the skyline of Shanghai. The twinkling lights are a poor substitute for stars. ‘The entire Hulijing Court wishes me dead. I’m nothing but a useless unwanted mongrel—’

‘Do not refer to yourself in such terms. You are Grand Princess Overflowing with Sagacity, Noble Lady Hu Xian Jing of the Turquoise Hills, Lady Jing of Mount Kunlun, whether others like it or not. Whether you like it or not.’

‘I never asked for that rotted title.’ I kick the table in frustration.

‘It is your birth right and your duty.’ Bullhead’s tone is calm.

I’ve heard all this before. Big Wang wants me to claim my position at court so I can use my standing at the Ministerial Mahjong Council to vote on matters in his favour. And in the process expose myself to more ridicule and snide remarks from the likes of Lady Soo and the other rotted hulijing handmaids. I may be immature, irresponsible, impertinent, and improper. But I am not stupid.

‘I don’t give two turd eggs about how many days of rain the Ministry of Thunder and Storm allocates each territory of the Middle Kingdom. Or how many catties of fish the dragon kings permit to be caught from their seas every month. I hate fish and I hate rain. I’m not minister material.’ I slump in my chair, and my voice deflates. ‘They’ll all laugh at me.’ The words are barely a whisper.

Bullhead is silent; there’s something knowing in his expression that makes me fidget in my seat. Water laps gently against the edges of the pond as the tortoises slowly go about their business. The green glow limning him is abating; the blood rush fading. Replacing the fug is a heat crawling up the back of my neck, clawing across my cheeks. The blood rush is freeing but that freedom is dangerous. It makes me forget myself. Who I am, where I am, and most importantly, my position in Hell. A glorified indentured servant. Big Wang knows me well; I need blood to live, but am too squeamish to feed myself. So he pays and feeds me in blood. I couldn’t leave even if I wanted to.

Bullhead puts a hand on my shoulder, pats once, then offers me a rare smile, showing the gap between his front teeth. ‘Still thirsty?’

I nod.

‘I’ll bring you another glass of the three-day-old, if you promise to pull yourself together. No frowning. You’re beginning to resemble Lord Ma. Deal?’

A small smile twitches my cheeks. ‘Deal.’

Bullhead inclines his head, and motions for the hovering apprentice to bring another glass of my favourite tipple.

‘I want it in a cocktail glass with a straw and a pink umbrella!’ I shout after her retreating back. She pauses, glances back at Bullhead who gives a subtle nod. I hiss. What kind of lady am I that even a servant won’t fulfil my simplest requests? The fake talisman rattles at my conscience but I shove it away. Why should I care if Big Wang was bamboozled?

I could simply not mention it at all. The mortal is with Big Wang now. He’s safe and no longer my concern. The apprentice returns with my blood in a cocktail glass, complete with miniature paper umbrella and red-and-white barber pole straw and sets it on the marble table. The first hit is always the most intense, especially on an empty stomach. I’m more in control now. I grin at the drink, the talisman problem shoved to the back of my mind as I savour the sweet, cloying scent.

The apprentice stumbles back, before catching herself. She won’t look at me, but I can smell her disgust. I wait until she straightens before pulling my lips back and showing her my fangs.

‘This humble one thanks you for your kindness,’ I say, my voice sweet as lychee syrup. I lean forward and snarl. The apprentice trips over herself in her haste to be away from me.

Bullhead radiates disapproval. ‘That was unkind, Lady Jing.’

I suck my teeth. ‘She started it.’

Bullhead says nothing, but the weight of his frown settles across my shoulders. It’s too damned hot for this. Exasperated, I twitch my shoulders like I can throw off his disapproval, throw off the hurt. ‘They’re atoning ghosts. They have no right to judge me.’

‘They don’t know any better, and intentionally frightening them only makes the misunderstanding worse.’ Bullhead sighs. ‘Drink,’ he says, gently pushing the cocktail glass towards me.

The second hit is like a long massage, unknotting all the tension inside me. I relax into the blood rush, shudder as the blood flows through me, igniting my senses, but this time everything is accompanied by a sense of calm. I wish it could last forever. Sadly, that never happens. Too soon, it’s over. I suck up every last drop, slurping loudly until Bullhead takes hold of the straw and glass. There’s a little tug of war until he flicks my ear with his free hand.

‘Ow! That’s no way to treat a lady,’ I say, still clutching the straw.

‘I thought you said you weren’t a lady.’

I let go with a grunt. The apprentice whisks away the empty glass and straw. The pink umbrella I hide in my hand. They are a rare treat. Horsey never lets me have them, saying I’m wasting hotel resources.

‘Have you been doing your transformation meditations?’ he asks.

I stiffen. Big Wang has been waiting to see how many tails my fox form will have. The more tails, the higher I am in the fox-spirit court hierarchy and the more influential my vote as a minister. My grandmother is a silver nine-tailed fox. My mother was the same – silver and nine tails. They say nine tails is a sign of the great goddess Queen Mother of the West’s favour because a nine-tailed fox doesn’t need mortal yang for sustenance – she can simply absorb yang qi from the air around her. A golden fox would be even more powerful – no need for yang qi at all. But none exist; my grandmother is the most powerful, and most ancient, of them all.

Lady Soo has three tails, enough to warrant a higher position as a handmaid, but not enough to threaten Niang Niang’s power. She still needs mortal yang qi from time to time. The rest of those bitches are run-of-the mill one-tailed fox-spirits. I pity the mortal fool who stumbles into their lair. Me . . . I can’t even turn into a fox, much less manifest my tails, which is no great hardship. I have no intention of taking up a position at that rotted court.

‘I see,’ he says. ‘Perhaps after your centenary, you’ll manage it. Have you been practicing your Celestial voice?’

‘Yes.’ My voice cracks with frustration. Something I want to manifest, but can’t.

‘I’m sure that will come in due course,’ Bullhead says, correctly interpreting my tone.

I shake off the pity in his voice. ‘Can I go now?’

‘Not yet. We’ve had a complaint about a couple stray roosters which found their way into the Mahjong Council. The apprentices have their hands full dealing with the ministers. Can you round them up on your way out?’

The idea of having to subject myself to the whispers and gossip turns my stomach. ‘Get one of those idiots to catch the roosters. I just carried a grown mortal through the streets of yin Shanghai. He nearly got eaten by a couple of drunk jiangshi over on Broadway. I’m done for the day.’

Bullhead stills. ‘Jiangshi attacked you?’

‘Yeah. I would have made it fine if not for one of those damned roosters tripping me up. We need to do something about them.’

Bullhead crosses his arms and gives me a look that makes me replay my words. Shit sticks.

‘Right, I meant to tell you’ – he raises his eyebrows at my omission. I ignore him – ‘the mortal’s Lei talisman is fake.’

‘A fake?’ Bullhead’s thick eyebrows pull down low and the walnut brown skin between them creases to a deep valley. ‘But then—’ His gaze darts to Big Wang’s quarters. ‘If the jiangshi had caught you—’

‘Good thing I’m not shy about letting my butt hang out for all of Shanghai to see.’

‘That’s why you came up the side of the building. It did seem a rather extreme way to get here.’ He begins to pace. ‘I arranged the paperwork myself. The Ministry of Thunder and Storm approved it. I even spoke to Lord Lei to ensure the matter would be handled smoothly.’

‘Well, someone along the line screwed up.’

Bullhead’s gaze fixes over my head, his attention far away. ‘That doesn’t make sense,’ he murmurs.

I twirl the paper umbrella in my hand, waiting to be dismissed. Bullhead remembers me, looks up.

‘Deal with the roosters. I’ll let Big Wang know about the talisman. And Lady Jing’  – his expression is stern  – ‘stay away from Lady Soo. She’s trouble.’

I give him an insolent look, then hork a gooey gob of spit over the terrace balustrade.

Five

Lord Black

The lift doors slide open to clattering mahjong tiles that chitter like angry swallows against the distant rumbling of a waterfall. The whole place reeks of yaojing. Not only is there the usual ginger, flint, and the faint fishy whiff of hulijing, but also at least a dozen different fragrances – orchids, lilies, jasmine, sandalwood, cedar, pine to name the most pungent – mixed in with the acrid bite of cigar and cigarette smoke. My poor nose.

Separating the lift lobby from the Mahjong Hall of Harmony is a huge spirit screen framing an embroidered silk Mount Kunlun. The flickering lanterns make the cerulean waterfalls shimmer, while finely stitched deer, complete with white spots on their coats, frolic beneath majestic pines. My shoulders twitch – it’s been a long time since I was last at a Mahjong Council. Ever since that incident with Lady Soo I’ve been excused from showing my face here. I’m tempted to dawdle, hide behind the spirit screen where no one can see me, but . . . I shake myself. I will not be made a coward.

Inhaling, I let my chest expand, then exhale even slower. I do it twice more. In. Out. The sooner I find the damned roosters, the sooner I can go home.

I step around the screen into the majesty of the Hall of Harmony. Hall is a misleading name for the lush meadow spread out before me, created by the combined effort of every ministry of Tian. The Ministry of Thunder and Storm contributed curling wisps of cloud that hug the walls and a gentle breeze that cools in the summer and warms in the winter to make it seem like we really are in Mount Kunlun, frolicking in the Queen Mother of the West’s immortality peach grove. The Ministry of Agriculture arranged for grassy hills dotted with trees in perpetual blossom. I’m told they managed to negotiate with Queen Mother of the West herself to embed parts of the base of Mount Kunlun into the Hall walls for that ‘authentic feel’. I don’t know the exact terms of the deal, but I’ve since heard the Queen Mother’s prized grove, which always needed 6000 years to fruit, now fruits in half that time. All that effort for a three-day Ministerial Mahjong Council that takes place once a year.

Servants scurry up and down the stone paths set into the mossy meadows, delivering drinks and snacks to yaojing sat in groups of four at burnished wooden tables placed beneath blossoming trees. The leafy canopies are dotted with multicoloured lanterns and give each table a sense of privacy. There’s even a golden glow in the sky, as if dawn were just around the corner. I know it’s only an illusion, a cleverly painted corner of the ceiling paired with strategically placed electric lights, but it’s still one of my favourite things about this place.

At my feet gurgles a small brook – it rings the whole hall and feeds a waterfall at the other end of the space. It’s diverted from the mythical Ruoshui River, the protective barrier to Mount Kunlun. Only immortals may cross the river, preventing unwanted access. Lord Fu, Lord Lu and Lord Shou, the most superstitious of the lot, collectively insisted on installing the river in the Hall to ward away evil and corruption – even though it’s all rather pointless since there’s also a little bridge to allow servants access and a walkway in the back corner that leads to a series of meeting chambers.

I cross the tiny brook in two strides. I keep my head down, hoping to avoid meeting any hulijing, and slip into the crowd of servants balancing trays laden with fancy cocktails, bottles of Maotai, and little dishes filled with all manner of mahjong snacks, from braised peanuts and chargrilled cuttlefish, to peeled lychees and dried persimmon, and dainty eggshell porcelain cups of peach blossom tears soup made with resin from the Queen Mother’s immortality peach trees. I wrinkle my nose at the last, a breakfast staple among the hulijing for its bosom- and bottom-plumping properties. I shudder and keep moving, searching for those rotted roosters.

Two deities lounge on a pile of silk embroidered pillows beneath yet another blossoming tree – mulberry maybe – drinking Maotai from glass cups that look like shells of amber. They are lesser ministers, in blue and green silks, their hair piled in high ornate loops atop their heads. The fine gold chains dangling from their hair pins dance on the breeze as they laugh and gossip. When one of the deities notices me, recognition widens her eyes. Shock and then something akin to excitement crosses her pointed face. She leans in and whispers to the other deity, who stiffens, then slowly turns her head my way, eyes sparkling with glee and contempt. I pretend not to notice, not to feel their gazes boring into my back, not to hear their whispers or the barbed words that litter my shadow as I pass. Mongrel. Abomination. Cast-off. Arsonist.

My skin prickles at the too familiar insults and I wrap my arms around myself to ward off the old memory of sharp nails digging into tender skin. I glance back. Their silken water sleeves ripple as they gesture for their friends to join them, then point at me. Gazes follow their fingers and catch mine for a beat too long, mingled delight and disgust in their gestures, in their laughter. I tear away, forcing myself to move, even though the laughter brings me back to Soo, how she loved to humiliate me. Anger rekindles inside me, and my chest goes tight. Why should I always have to endure their insults?

It isn’t fair. Bullhead was right. Lady Soo is trouble. She’s here in the Hall somewhere; damned if I’ll let her bait me again.

With renewed focus, I move faster, hurrying around the servants towards the outer perimeter of the Hall. I skirt the edges of the space, careful not to slip into the creek, and head towards the waterfall. Murmuring follows in my wake as word of my presence spreads.

It doesn’t take long to find the first rooster. White with dark grey speckles and tail feathers bright as fresh blood, the thing is standing perilously close to the waterfall, pecking at the grassy bank. Cool mist freckles my arms, and I swallow the panic, quickly rubbing the wet from my skin and grabbing the rooster before stepping a safe distance from the creek and shoving the clueless creature under an arm.

I wander the Hall, watchful for the tell-tale yellow of Lady Soo and any sign of the other rooster, but neither are anywhere obvious. My silk slippers are wet from the dewy grass, though not muddy, which I appreciate. I circle the mahjong tables, keeping my gaze lowered and pretending I don’t hear the intakes of breath, the silence as I pass, or the furious whispering as I leave.

I follow artfully laid stones up another hill. A rocky outcrop partially obscures a huge weeping willow, but from within the curtain of willow branches comes the click of mahjong tiles. I sweep aside the branches and duck into a small open space I’d missed before. Low-hung lanterns cast the domed space in a silvery light. It’s easy enough to see out, but the way the low light falls, we’re completely hidden inside the canopy. A flash of yellow catches my eye and I freeze, bracing myself for Soo’s onslaught.

When a moment passes and nothing happens, I dare to look up. Four deities sit at a mahjong table, engrossed in their game, none of them Soo. There is something under the table though – the yellow flash I thought was Soo isn’t Soo at all. It’s the second rooster – the plumes around its neck the same vivid sunshine yellow that Soo so favours. The thing blinks, puffs out its flaming orange breast, and then lazily turns its ass to me, shaking its teal tail feathers as it pecks a peanut from a man’s open palm.

The owner of the hand glances back at me, black eyes glittering. A sweep of dark hair falls over one eye. His slightly hooked nose lends him a rakish air. The shabby brown changpao is an odd choice for a deity, but an immediate tell that he’s one of the dragon kings. They are easy enough to tell apart in their true dragon forms because of their colour:

East is azure, the coming of spring,

South is bright red, a warm summer’s kiss.

White is the west, autumn’s cool mist.

Black is true north, a wintry king.

A ditty Horsey taught me as a child – one of the few lessons where I earned a rare smile. But in the dragons’ human guises, I could never get them right. They were all fond of dressing like impoverished poets, floating around in their shabby robes with a dreamy, romantic air about them.

Before I can bow and offer the correct honorifics, he says, ‘This orphaned one basks in your glory, Grand Princess Overflowing with Sagacity.’

I swallow, surprised at his politesse. I bow my head and raise my fist palm salute high. I don’t want anyone to whisper back to Big Wang that I didn’t properly honour a minister of such high rank.

‘This insignificant one wishes you ten thousand years of good health.’ I can’t remember his name and hope he doesn’t notice. ‘Contain my interruption, but I need that rooster.’

‘Lord Black, quit dallying,’ says a deity at the table, her voice like crumbling granite, her face and robes a pale silver-white. On her delicate wrists, bright grass green jade bangles clink as she strokes her row of tiles.

I know Lady Chang-e, the Goddess of the Moon, by sight. She shifts her attention to me, taking in my wrinkled qipao and dishevelled hair. I hadn’t bothered to braid it today. The other two deities, one in silvery peach robes, the other in blush pink, are Celestial ministers. From their demeanour I’m guessing they’re not as senior in rank as Lady Chang-e. Peachy leans in and murmurs to the other, unaware that I can hear every rotted word.

‘It’s that foreign mongrel – the blood drinker.’ A sneer curves Peachy’s lips.

If Lady Chang-e or Lord Black decide to join them in the sneerfest, I’d be expected to bow my head and silently endure the insults – one of the reasons I try to avoid senior-level ministers as much as possible. But to my surprise Lady Chang-e merely nods, acknowledging my presence.

I stare, stunned by her lack of bitchiness. She raises an eyebrow at my slack-jawed silence so I hurriedly bow, lower than I would normally, and say, ‘To your venerable health, Lady Chang-e.’ Pathetic to be so grateful for what was probably to her a mere courtesy to a low-ranking deity, but it happens so rarely I can’t help myself.

She inclines her head in acceptance then turns to Peachy. ‘Lady Fen, please fetch an attendant. I find myself thirsty.’

‘If we’d sat in the open meadow, the attendants would pay us much more attention,’ Lady Fen says sourly as she stands.

Lady Chang-e sips her drink. She taps her tiles with an ornate nail that’s as long as my pinkie finger, lacquered silver and inlaid with tiny pearls. ‘If my request is such an inconvenience, please feel free to choose another table. I’m sure Prince Ji can do without our exchange this year.’

Lady Fen bows low, a scarlet flush rising up her neck. She must be a Ministry of Agriculture underling. Prince Ji is one of the heads of her ministry. I smother a smirk as she says, ‘Please contain my thoughtlessness, it’s an honour to assist Senior Minister Chang-e. Senior Minister Ji was most insistent we secure Senior Minister Chang-e’s favour. He says no one’s mooncakes can compare to those from your Ministry. Please don’t cancel our agreement.’

Lady Chang-e waves her pearlescent nails and Lady Fen scurries away to duck her head through the curtain of willow branches and wave down an attendant. She stalks back to the table, face twisted with annoyance and anxiety. Under different circumstances she’d probably spit at me, but with both Lord Black and Lady Chang-e treating me with respect, she doesn’t dare.

A squawk brings me back from my musings, reminding me I have things to do. ‘Venerable Lord Black, Dragon King of the North, may I?’ I point at the rooster.

He gestures for me to go ahead. The rooster clucks and postures; it doesn’t seem to want to leave its free meal and tries to dodge me. It takes a couple grabs to catch the thing and as I’m tussling to get it tucked under my arm, Lord Black pulls a tile from the table. The way he does it catches my attention, and I watch as he runs his thumb slowly over the carved face without turning it over, and then discards it. I glance at his hand. His tiles are a mess. No strategy, no groupings, no order, at least none that I can fathom. Curiosity presses me to ask him, but it’s not my place to question a dragon king. I stand to leave, but I can’t make my feet move. I sigh. It’s no use. I have to know.

‘You didn’t even look at it,’ I say as rooster number two squawks under my arm.

Lord Black hooks an arm over his chair. ‘The surprise is what makes life fun.’

‘Stop teasing the girl,’ Lady Chang-e says. She takes a tile from the table. With a flourish, she flips out a set of three dragons. ‘Pong.’

Lady Fen and Pinky groan. Lady Chang-e winks at me. I nearly drop the roosters in surprise.

‘He may have dragon sight,’ she says – I almost look over my shoulder to see who she’s talking to, ‘but he’s a crappy mahjong player. Cannot hold a mahjong face to save his ugly brown robes.’

Emboldened by Lady Chang-e’s friendly reception, I ask, ‘Dragon sight?’

‘Dragon sight is rooted in the Cosmos. I see much, both far and near,’ Lord Black says.

‘Are you saying you can see through time?’ I ask, wondering whether the rumours about the dragon kings are true – that they are older than Tian, as old as the Cosmos itself. Does this mean he knows what Lady Soo is up to?

‘We are aware of many things,’ Lord Black says, surveying his tiles and not answering my question at all.

Rooster one pecks at rooster two, causing rapid high pitched clucks.

Lord Black takes a tile and, like before, discards it without even looking. ‘There is always logic and order, you simply do not possess the skill to see yet.’

The roosters in my arms wriggle, but I hold them tight. Beyond the willow branches, Lady Soo swans across the meadow in a swathe of yellow accompanied by another bosom-heaving hulijing. From the height and the way she slinks next to Soo, it can only be her under-secretary. Lady Mao? Lady Mew? I can’t remember the name, only that she’s got a sharp face and claws to match. They duck under a cascade of wisteria. The walkway to the formal meeting chambers is behind there – private spaces for negotiations of a more sensitive or confidential nature. I need to get away before they return.

Lord Black continues, oblivious to my sudden impatience. ‘People talk of qi these days, but they have forgotten that qi is but one aspect of the Cosmos.’ He lights a cigar, puffs on it with a look of intense concentration.

‘Oh my moon,’ Lady Chang-e moans. ‘Please spare us your lecture on the Cosmos, Black. We’ve all heard it. Many times.’

He clamps the cigar between his teeth, smiles at me. ‘But Lady Jing hasn’t, have you?’

‘Oh,’ I say, looking around the table for some assistance. Lady Chang-e mutters darkly about Lord Black throwing her off her game. Lady Fen and Pinky are engrossed in their tiles, pointedly ignoring me. I glance towards the wisteria blossoms. ‘No, but I really shouldn’t interrupt your game—’

‘Nonsense,’ Lord Black says, waving away my protest. ‘You of all people should hear this.’

I nod in obeisance. I don’t have much choice, not when a dragon king insists. The roosters wriggle and cluck and continue pecking at each other. My bare arms are criss-crossed with red scratches.

Lady Chang-e knocks back the remainder of her Grasshopper as the called-for apprentice approaches. ‘I need another drink if I’m going to suffer through one of your circuitous lectures.’ She turns to the apprentice, waving her empty cocktail glass. ‘Make it a double this time.’

Lord Black blows a perfect circle of smoke at the Moon Goddess. ‘Very funny Chang-e,’ he says before turning his attention back on me. ‘No matter how small or insignificant you think you might be, the Cosmos makes no distinction.’ He taps the ashes from his cigar into an ornate half shell with tiny figures in boats carved into the rim. ‘Embrace the Cosmos, and you become embraced. Nurture the Cosmos, and you become nurtured. Accept the Cosmos, and you become accepted. Clear your vision, and you will see. Open your heart, and you will be loved.’

I bow, backing away. What a load of sentimental waffle. ‘Thank you, Lord Black, I have opened my ears and received your wisdom. But I’m afraid I really must go.’

As if on cue, rooster two crows with a shrillness that makes my ears ache. Lord Black winces, then inclines his head and waves me away with an apologetic smile.

With the roosters firmly under each arm, I slip down the side of the Hall, keeping well away from the mahjong tables and any groupings of deities.

The small bridge beckons. I glance behind me, no sign of Soo. I hurry across the little bridge and around the spirit screen. The lift lobby is deserted and I heave a sigh of relief. Shifting one of the roosters, I call the lift as a cloud of yellow silk shoves past me; I stumble, nearly dropping my two charges.

Lady Soo stands before me, wrinkling her nose. The roosters have stopped fighting for the moment, and like me, stare at the hulijing.

‘You really must do something about that foreign leech stink,’ she says. ‘We never could wash it off you.’

I thought I’d escaped. Just my rotted luck. I fight the urge to toss the roosters at her head. She smiles, a simpering, vicious thing.

She nods at the roosters. ‘I see you’ve finally found a position to suit your rank. Cleaning up other people’s messes.’

Big Wang’s warning comes back to me. Stay away from Lady Soo. The plenary session is important to him; I don’t want to disappoint him, again. I back up, grip the roosters tighter so I don’t accidentally rake my fingers down her smug face.

She takes my silence as defeat and sneers her triumph. ‘No one wants you, mongrel. Not even Big Wang. He sends you to do menial tasks meant for atoning ghosts. The best thing you could do for everyone is to disappear and never show your face again.’

The raging hornets are back. The buzzing in my head makes my hands shake. But the one good thing about lifelong enemies is I know her tender spots as well as she knows mine.

‘Lady Soo?’ I gasp, eyes wide with mock horror. ‘Have you been sunning yourself? Aiya, so many wrinkles.’

Lady Soo’s expression wavers. Her vanity is so predictable.

‘Queen Mother of the West’s royal jelly does wonders,’ I continue. ‘Her bees collect their pollen from the immortality peach grove.’ I smile sweetly, hearing the lift approach. As the doors open, I give her another once-over. I lower my voice so my words can only be heard between us. ‘Though, I doubt she’ll give you any. She really hates two-faced lying bitches.’

Lady Soo’s repulsively beautiful face twists. ‘How dare you—’ She grabs my wrist, faster than I expected, and yanks me from my escape.

‘Beg my forgiveness,’ she commands in Celestial voice. Her words slither with a multitude of echoes and whispers that burrow into my bones like termites.

Every muscle in my body tenses and I fight the urge to drop to my knees and kowtow like a snivelling worm. For once I’m grateful for all the brain-eviscerating drills Horsey has been putting me through. I may not be able to manifest the voice, but I can throw off the compulsion. Well, for everyone apart from Big Wang. I focus on my own will. Arms shaking, I yank my wrist from her grip. Her eyes widen. The last time I wasn’t able to fight her. This time I drop the roosters and lunge.

Lady Soo screams, grabbing my hands to keep me from clawing her face. I snarl and growl. We topple to the ground, roll on the parquet floors in a tangle of yellow silk and bare limbs. The spirit screen crashes to the ground. My fangs slide out. I’m about to sink my teeth into her face – but strong arms yank me off her, pulling me back. I shriek, twisting and trying to bite at the arms gripping me tight.

‘Calm, Little Jing.’ A familiar gritty voice grates down my back, amplified by Celestial voice.

My stomach drops like an iron chain into a fathomless lake – fear and shame spiralling downwards without end. Big Wang is here.

I shudder, unable to resist his compulsion. My arms drop to my side, my throat closes, cutting off my screams. My whole body quakes, trying but failing to throw off his control. It’s only when the arms release me that I finally notice their shabby brown sleeves. My face heats. Lord Black had to restrain me. Of all the deities to embarrass. I will never live this down. The dragon king steps out from behind me and helps Lady Soo to her feet. And that’s when I see the screen on the ground. I am exposed to the entirety of the Mahjong Council.

Lady Soo sniffs haughtily, pats her hair which has fallen in thick locks around her flushed face. ‘Venerable Big Wang, this child has abandoned her Confucian virtues. She shows her elders no respect. I demand you hand her over to the Hulijing Court so we may discipline her.’ Her voice is shrill and carries. Every yaojing in the hall has their head turned towards us. All those eyes on me. Judging me.

No. Cold fingers of panic wrap around my neck. I can’t speak, but I turn to Big Wang, pleading with my eyes. Don’t put me at her mercy. But the way Big Wang sighs, the anger in his gaze, tightens the grip around my throat. I shake my head, willing him to understand my desperation. So many eyes. They will gossip about this, everyone in Tian will hear about how the arsonist mongrel attacked a hulijing courtier, again, and had the gall to disrespect a dragon king! Hot tears prick at the corners of my eyes.

‘You would do well to remember your place, girl,’ Lady Soo hisses.

‘If I may, Big Wang,’ Lord Black says. ‘While Lady Soo’s beauty is renowned, a fragrant orchid amongst simple daisies, it does not become such a Celestial delight to forget her own virtues. As a wise man once said, one should see nothing improper, hear nothing improper, say nothing improper, do nothing improper. Taunting an orphan and calling her a mongrel does not exemplify benevolence, one of our core virtues.’

Lady Soo’s jaw drops at his words, then shuts with a snap. Her gaze darts to the Hall of Harmony where the assembled ministers are watching us with ravenous interest, and back to Lord Black. I know that look, she’s calculating what she can get away with. Lord Black outranks her many times over; I’ve heard he even outranks Big Wang and the Jade Emperor but for reasons known only to himself, he pretends he doesn’t.

She bows her head and simpers, ‘You are right Venerable Lord Black.’ She turns to me, her dark gaze glittering. She folds her right hand over her left, fingers in classic orchid formation, and holds them at hip level: the lady version of a fist palm salute. ‘Contain my outburst, it was most unkind.’

Big Wang clears his throat, reminding me with a look about the conversation we had earlier. The importance of the plenary session, his project. To stay away from Lady Soo. I realise with horror what he expects me to do. I turn to him, frantically shaking my head, not above begging at this point. The last thing I want to do is give that rotted bitch the satisfaction. He tilts his head, waiting.

I can’t. I won’t.

He sighs, as if hearing my protests, then commands, ‘Apologise.’

A roiling black cloud rises inside me, my vision mists with rage. I put everything I am into fighting the command. My fangs push out, cut into the tender flesh of my lips. I taste copper. But even as my muscles shake, his command will not be denied. My knees thud against the polished wood floor. I jerk and grunt, trying to twist from the compulsion, but it’s no use. My hands lift above my head as my body bends forward.

A grey feather from one of the roosters lies near Lady Soo’s feet. Inch by agonising inch the feather comes closer until my hands are palm down on the floor, and my forehead touches wood. I can see the feather no more. Hot tears slide down my cheeks. My body jerks upright, betraying me with every movement. I sit back on my heels, my hands lift above my head again. My forehead touches the floor at Lady Soo’s feet. I do this once more. When I have finished kowtowing, I kneel tall, hands joined above me, head bowed. I pinch my lips shut, wishing, praying, desperate not to utter those words but they come anyway, forced out from between clenched teeth, making me drool as I speak. Damn you, Big Wang.

‘Contain my outburst, Lady Soo.’

Command fulfilled, the compulsion releases me. I fall on my hands, breathing hard, refusing to sob before that wretched bitch. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand – it comes away bloody. The single grey feather lies on the floor, blurred now.

The frayed hem of a brown robe sweeps by me. ‘Lady Soo, I have not played a game with you in many years,’ Lord Black says. ‘Lady Chang-e was telling me how much she’d like to play a hand with you. Shall we?’

Her gilded silks swish as she passes, crushing the grey feather underfoot. I can feel the eyes of all the Hall on me. Shame, contempt, and fury solidify into a burning ember inside me. I will make Lady Soo pay for my loss of face, expose her and that whole rotted court for the toxic bitches they are. My oath clenches around the ember, compressing until my resolve hardens into a glittering diamond.

When I finally muster the courage to look up, the spirit screen is back in place. Big Wang is gone. The stupid roosters, however, are not. They stand staring at the wall. I grab them and make my way back to the terrace.

Horsey’s swapped places with Bullhead. I toss the roosters at his head – they squawk and he splutters. I yank my stupid qipao right up to my thighs then shove my fingers in my ears to mute his nagging and pound across the terracotta tiles, running as fast as I can. With a leap, I soar across Nanking Road, landing so hard on the smaller rooftop of the Palace Hotel I crack the tiles. I keep running, flying over the streets, hot air whipping my hair, sweat pasting strands against my face, flinging myself off the edges of each roof, not caring how I land, cuts on my knees, hands and shins multiplying. The twin spires of the North China Daily News Building flash by me. I swing my arms, pump my legs, go faster, higher, harder. Sweat drips down my back, blood drips down my legs, as I scramble across the tops of three short buildings, clamber up the clock tower of the Custom House, fury and shame biting at my heels. I throw myself over Foochow Road and nearly miss the next ledge, skinning my knee raw as I claw myself onto the next building.

I keep going, naming the streets as I fly over them: Canton Road, Avenue Edward VII, Rue du Consulat. The rhythm of the familiar names calms me, so by the time I land on the grey tiles of Mistress Ya’s medicine shop, I manage not to break a single one. I hop over the old moat and land lightly on the dark grey wall of the Old City. A group of lady ghosts on the Quai des Fosses drift below me outside the fortified walls; their dresses eddy around their legs and their long dark hair floats on an unseen wind.

The narrow lanes of the Old City press in, a dark and comforting embrace. My rooms sit on the upper floor of the Lake Heart Pavilion, right above Old Zao’s kitchen, home of the Hearths of Hell. I lope across the zigzagging bridge and launch myself up to the sloping eaves outside my bedroom window.

‘Is that you, Lady Jing?’ Old Zao’s smoky voice wafts up from their kitchen. Being the Kitchen God, they like to personally tend the Hearths of Hell so they’re there at all hours.

‘Sorry to wake you,’ I call down, my put-on cheer unconvincing to my own ears, and duck through the open window to my rooms. My bed is in the middle of a five-sided room, lattice windows across all walls. The bedroom opens into a square room, where I have a small desk, a washing basin, a large elm cabinet, and a camphor trunk for my winter clothes. My sketches and paintings paper the walls – sunrises and blue skies strewn with silk floss clouds. Things which do not exist here in Hell.

I kick off the silk slippers with more force than necessary and wipe my eyes with the back of an arm. Silk threads criss-cross the ceiling where my collection of tiny umbrellas twirls in the breeze. I touch one of the umbrellas, making the others bob and spin in greeting, and lay back in bed to watch them. Big Wang says he can’t bring the stars to our sky; they’re part of a different ministry, and apparently moving them is a bureaucratic headache. I make do with these, my paper version of stars – pink and green and yellow and orange and blue. They normally make me feel like rainbows are possible, even in a place as dark and rainless as Hell, but today, they only make me sad.

I roll over onto my side. The pilfered pink umbrella jabs me, so I pull it out. It’s a sad crumpled thing, torn at the edges. Soo’s words slither into my ears – Forsaken piece of trash. The best thing you could do is disappear. The memory of my body being pressed to the ground in front of so many watching eyes brings with it a fresh wave of humiliation.

I close my hand around the umbrella; the sharp end of the toothpick bites into my palm but I don’t stop. Instead I clench my fist harder, feel the wood bend slowly, but just before it snaps, a tear drops onto the tiny corner of paper still visible in my fist. The paper turns a deeper shade of pink.

I stop. If I do this, she wins. She does not get to taint my sanctuary. I open my hand and the little umbrella slowly unbends. Carefully, I straighten the bent wood, smooth out the delicate pleats of the umbrella and place it on the floor. I stare at it for a long time, even though the tears make everything blurry.

Six

Damned Roosters

The next morning I am rudely awakened by cocks crowing. A lot of cocks crowing. I yank the quilt over my head and try to smother the hoarse, braying sounds. It sounds like a whole flock of cocks has settled in my bedroom. The feathered kind. The other kind do not enter my rooms. First of all, Big Wang would throw me in a vat of garlic as punishment for sullying his good name; secondly, Old Zao downstairs would faint from the scandal. Though they would likely enjoy telling everyone within a five li radius – which means every inhabitant inside the walls of the Old City – once they recovered from the shock.

Anyway, no amorous ghost or yaojing in their right mind would dare approach me for fear of offending Big Wang. Which is a pity. I wonder sometimes how it would be to have a conversation with someone who isn’t myriads of centuries old. My mind flits for a moment to Mr Lee but just as quickly shies away.

The cockerels continue their shrill cries. The noise makes me want to pull out my own hair. I shriek in frustration. I have had enough of the rotted roosters. The influx of ghosts has increased steadily over the past few years, as has the stray rooster population. At first it was novel, it was fun to hear the cocorucoh first thing in the morning. At first I enjoyed waking up to the far-off cries of a cockerel or two. But now it’s got out of hand.

Twice a month, on the new and full moon, mortals burn joss money that their deceased receive in immortal Shanghai. The latest trend is to also burn joss cocks, origami roosters or sculptures made of cane and joss paper. Just about everyone wants to be reincarnated as a wealthy government official, the crème de la crème of society and power, and some idiot thought sending a big old cockerel along to the deceased in the afterlife would help make this happen. I can’t see how or why because the creatures are the stupidest things in existence. Besides, every ghost, after receiving their influx of funds, is too busy enjoying immortal Shanghai’s gambling houses, music halls, dance halls, restaurants, and bars to pay attention to their pet fowl. The abandoned birds wander off and join gangs of strays which blight the city. No one will eat them or kill them, not even demons, because it’s considered bad luck to despatch a lucky rooster. While I don’t believe in that hooey, I also don’t need to create even more reason for others to avoid me, so I refrain from snapping their scrawny necks. Stupid things.

There’s a loud thump, then something scrabbles and scratches right beside my bed. I yank off the quilt and come face to face with a beady, yellow eye.

For the love of Tian. It’s rooster number two from last night. Yellow neck, orange breast, teal body. How in the Hearths of Hell did it find me? It blinks, silent. We stare at each other, until I think we reach an accord. It pecks at the floor and wanders off – but not before I catch a glimpse of pink in its beak. My umbrella from last night.

I launch myself at the bird. ‘Give that back!’

It lets out an ear-bleeding COCORUCOH while still managing to hold on to the umbrella. I try to grab its neck, but it smacks me on the head with its wings and wriggles from my grip.

‘If you want to live to crow another day, be still or I will rip you into pieces and boil your bones for soup,’ I say, not caring that I’m trying to reason with a brainless paper creature.

The rooster squawks and jumps on my desk, knocking over my brush stand and half-finished watercolours. Rotted turd. I lunge for it, but the thing hops out of reach onto the washing basin, pecking at the porcelain. I chase it back into my bedroom where it jumps onto my bed. It throws me a stink eye, before launching itself upwards.

I can see exactly what the rooster is going to do in awful detail a moment before it happens. I know I can’t reach the rooster in time but still I try.

The rooster hits my web of stars and immediately gets tangled in the fine strands. The idiot bird shrieks and twists, unable to free itself. I finally reach the rooster, try to stop it from ruining the fine web I so painstakingly strung across my ceiling, but it won’t calm. Feathers fill the air as the cursed creature continues to flap and squawk.

The delicate strings snap, the umbrellas fall, and the rooster, in its frenzy, pecks at everything in its way. I try to save my hard-won umbrellas but it’s no use. There is nothing left but shredded pieces of coloured paper and broken bits of wood. I fall to my knees among the mangled remains of my stars. My paintings stare at me. Scenes from happier dreams; but really, what is the use of dreaming, when my dreams are nothing but paper and pulped wood?

The rooster frees itself of the net and struts around my room, seemingly pleased with the destruction. I start to shake. Tears burn my eyes. And then something inside me snaps. I scream and throw myself on the creature. I rip its head off, its wings, grab the long feathers of its tail and rip those out too. It’s a joss creature, not made of flesh or blood. Its insides are more layers of paper. On my knees, I claw at it in a frenzy, tearing out chunks of paper and hurling them across the room. Tears stream down my cheeks and my ears ring but I can’t stop screaming or ripping the thing into smaller and smaller pieces.

Footsteps thunder up my stairs. ‘Little Jing! What’s happened? Are you hurt?’

I can barely make out Old Zao’s voice above the roaring in my head. Warm arms wrap around me, hands on my wrists, forcing me to stop shredding the damned rooster.

‘Stop, Little Jing. Hurting the roosters is bad luck.’

‘My stars—’ I manage to say between sobs.

Old Zao sighs and settles themself on the floor next to me, smoothing the aquamarine silk of their robe over their knees. ‘I’ll help you restring the ceiling. But those are going to be hard to fix.’

At their tone, I look up and follow their gaze to the pieces of rooster sprinkled across my floor. As I watch, the crumpled chunks of layered paper start to rock back and forth on the floor, like corn niblets in a hot pan. They rock faster and faster until they vibrate in place. One – a smallish piece – explodes with a small pop into a tiny new rooster. The rooster stares blankly for a moment, then struts directly at me, stopping just short of my knees. It pecks randomly at the floor.

I stare.

The other pieces pop one after the other in quick succession. And like the first, they each make their way towards me until I am surrounded by tiny crowing replicas of the original rooster. I shift backwards. The roosters move forward. I stand and cross my room. The tiny swarm follows me like bees protecting their queen.

Oh. My. Venerable. Heavens.

‘What have I done? How do I get rid of them?’ My voice goes scratchy at the end as panic seizes me by the throat. ‘People will see them following me. They’ll know I defiled a lucky rooster. Tian, after last night, they’ll have even more gossip to whisper about me.’

‘This is why you don’t hurt the roosters, Little Jing. They do this.’ Old Zao gestures at the feathered menaces chasing me back across the room. I jump onto my bed, too high for the rotted things to reach.

Frustration wells and the tears threaten again, but Old Zao pulls a red silk handkerchief from a pocket and hands it to me. I glance at them, grateful for their kindness. Old Zao has on their favourite red silk hat and a matching red scarf wrapped around their shoulders. Like many of the oldest yaojing, they sport a dragon beard – a long, thin moustache that falls either side of their mouth like whiskers and trails to their chest and a tapered beard that grows from the very bottom of their chin. They stroke their beard, pensive, glancing at my mostly healed knees and palms. A few reddish scars remain from last night, but they’ll be gone soon too.

‘Dry your tears, Little Jing. Some food will help cool that anger inside your belly. We can figure out how to fix this.’

We shut all the tiny roosters inside my rooms, making sure to latch the windows tight so they don’t find a way to escape. Then I follow Old Zao down the stairs.

The mouth-watering scent of steaming mantou and xiao long bao meets me on the landing. When Old Zao slides open the kitchen doors we walk into huge billowing clouds of steam. Braziers line the left wall of the kitchen, where layered bamboo steamers sit atop boiling pots of water.

Old Zao grabs two small bamboo baskets and moves to the long wooden table in the centre of the room, their pale skin turning bright red from the heat. They dab at the sweat trickling down their neck with their handkerchief. ‘This heat. I’ll be glad when autumn comes.’

On the table are two blue-and-white bowls, one large, one small, next to a pile of dough pieces dusted with flour, each about the size of my thumb. The larger bowl contains the minced pork and ginger filling, the smaller is full of cubes of dark almost black jelly. Congealed mortal blood.

I perch on a stool beside Old Zao. Using a bamboo rolling pin, they roll the dough pieces into perfect circular wrappers, thinner at the edges, thicker in the middle. They glance at me as they work but say nothing. I know Old Zao is biding their time, waiting for me to calm enough to listen.

They chopstick a dollop of filling into the wrapper, top it with a black cube. With practiced hands, they fold the dough edges together into fine pleats. Their fingers move too fast for me to count, but it’s a point of pride for Old Zao that they fold eighteen pleats in each dumpling. For good luck, they say. There is no food in Shanghai that can beat Old Zao’s famous xiao long bao, freshly made for me with mortal blood. My tummy rumbles in agreement.

Old Zao nods, as if my stomach has given them a sign. ‘The only person who can restore the roosters is Big Wang. You’ll have to talk to him.’ Their hands fly between filling and dough. They fill the first basket with perfectly formed dumplings and move on to the second.

‘I’d rather bathe in the Whangpoo river than ask that jerk-face.’

‘Now, now, don’t be disrespectful.’ Old Zao throws a few more dough cubes onto the table and rolls out more wrappers. ‘Big Wang has been very good to you. And he cares for you, Little Jing.’

I scowl at the table. ‘Then why is he always humiliating me?’ The memory of being forced to kowtow to that bitch rises up my gorge until I taste bile.

‘I heard about that mafan with Lady Soo.’ Old Zao pauses in their work. ‘You need to be smarter, Little Jing. You’re too—’

‘Stupid. I know. You don’t need to tell me.’ My eyes go hot again but I blink hard.

‘Don’t put words in my mouth,’ Old Zao says gently. ‘I was going to say too emotional. You let your hurts rule your head. You should know by now how devious Lady Soo is. Learn from that.’

‘She’s a rotted bitch.’

Old Zao shakes their head, putting another perfectly formed xiao long bao in the basket. ‘Think of it like a game of kanhoo. You will never win if Soo is always able to read your hand. I thought you’d have better mahjong face than this.’

That got my attention. I love kanhoo. I play most days with Lady Gi; winning things off her gives me great satisfaction. Sometimes I lose but not often. Lady Gi is a terrible loser and her tantrums are almost, almost more enjoyable than the actual win.

In fact, the thought of whipping Lady Gi’s arrogant pigu in kanhoo later tonight banishes some of the dark clouds. I’m not ready to admit to Old Zao that they’re right, as usual.

‘He always sides with her,’ I mumble instead, unable to stop the petulance creeping into my voice.

Old Zao side-eyes me, before returning their attention to the now filled bamboo baskets. They pop the baskets on top of a small pot of boiling water.

‘All he ever wants from you is for you to give him face, to make him proud. Is that so hard?’

I frown. ‘How am I supposed to do that? Nothing I ever do is good enough. He’s always ashamed of me. I’m always the one who gets punished.’

Old Zao shakes their head. ‘Silly melon. You’re too forthright. He indulges you so much and you never see it. You should apologise to him.’

‘For what?’

‘Isn’t he doing a big presentation at the plenary session today?’

A surge of guilt slides up my throat, drowning my retort.

Old Zao continues, ‘When you show filial piety in public, you show everyone that Big Wang is a good guardian. You give him face. But when you throw tantrums and set a minister on fire—’ Old Zao sucks their teeth. ‘You show everyone that not only is Big Wang a poor guardian, but that you respect him so little as to think nothing of making him lose face before everyone, even the atoning ghosts.’

‘Big Wang doesn’t give a piss-fart about me,’ I mumble.

Old Zao gives a look that makes me squirm. ‘His ministers all told him not to make that deal with your mother. That taking you in would only bring Hell and him mafan. Everyone knows how bitchy those hulijing can be. But he would not hear a word of it.’

A pang of guilt hits me, sour and hot. ‘That’s not how I heard it.’

‘And who did you hear it from, I wonder?’

I frown at them. ‘What do you know about Big Wang’s deal with my mother? He always tells me the same old piss-fart.’

‘Only that you should know by now never to pay heed to what those vixens say to you. Whenever you listen to their poison, you always get yourself into a worse mess. Remember the garlic?’

‘I was the butt of all the ghosts’ jokes for a month.’ I twitch my shoulder, not liking the way the conversation is heading.

‘Then you understand what I’m saying? Be smart. Don’t let bitterness poison your common sense. You know what you need to do.’

Head bowed, I mutter into my chest, ‘Apologise to Big Wang.’

‘Good. I’ll steam some blood xiao long bao for you to take for breakfast.’ Old Zao grabs a large square of cotton from a side table and hands it to me. ‘Now go round up those birds.’

Seven

The Deal

Midnight blue shadows skulk between the trees and puddle on the ground between the streetlamps as I walk down the Quai de France with a bag of tiny cocks slung over my shoulder and a three-tiered basket of freshly steamed bao balanced against my hip. The white-washed wooden houses clinging to the old city walls are silent for now, as their ghost guests slumber. The quiet mornings are my favourite time of day, when both tourists and yaojing are tucked up in bed. I get the city mostly to myself. The roosters squawk inside the bag, shattering the peace. I give the bag a little shake.

‘This is your own rotted fault,’ I say, voice lowered, though there isn’t anyone around to hear me.

The roosters quiet down as if they’re really listening. I shake off the ridiculous notion and ponder instead on how I’m to phrase my apology. Losing my temper despite knowing how important the plenary session was, despite being warned by Big Wang not to cause a ruckus, was not my finest moment. I rub a hand down my face, not looking forward to my further humiliation.

I pass through the old wooden gate that once marked the boundary between the walled city and the docks, but which now marks the start of the Bund and her grand buildings. A tram rattles past me with a single ghost passenger. A pack of roosters – I count fifteen – zigzag across the tracks and the otherwise empty road, their red combs bobbing and their dark blue tail feathers swinging as they strut. More roosters dot the trees – their bright plumes spill from the leaves like exotic blooms: pumpkin streaked with midnight, white and black, teal and yellow. They all stare unblinking at me as I pass and I have the strongest urge to screech at their stupid little faces.

When I pass the Angel of Peace statue, wings spread wide on a low plinth on the river promenade, I bow my usual respects. Big Wang’s official line is it doesn’t matter that she’s a foreign spirit; she honours the dead, just as we do. But I know for a fact the statue is here because Big Wang lost a mahjong wager to Lady Guan, the Goddess of Mercy and Compassion and she wanted to encourage cross-cultural ties; if he had won, he would have had Lady Guan’s vote on ministry matters for five hundred years. He sulked for a whole week after losing that game.

I consider Old Zao’s advice. I cannot believe the solution is so simple – letting Big Wang win. The sour guilt gnaws at my gut. I should not have resisted his command last night; he uses it so rarely on me, and only when I’m being particularly obstinate. The last time was when I refused to wear the dresses Horsey had picked out for me and decided to streak across Shanghai wearing only a square silk dudou for modesty and a pair of silk knickers.

Perhaps courtly piss-fart – the art of not saying what you mean while oozing a disgusting amount of flattery – has some value to it.

The normally bustling docks are empty, apart from Fisherman Lo’s ratty old sampan. I wonder whether Big Wang’s guest would see something different if Fisherman Lo were to take him to the edge of Hell, but then shake off the intruding curiosity about the mortal. He is not my concern. The ferries that bring newly dead don’t start arriving until later in the morning, so for now the Bund is quiet. Fisherman Lo notices me and bows his head in acknowledgement. I bow back. It’s one of Big Wang’s rules. Courtesy to courtesy. I don’t mind Fisherman Lo. He’s a long-standing demon of few words, and I’m sure he thinks his passengers are as brainless as the stray roosters strutting around Shanghai. It’s the fake greetings I hate. The smiles that are soft and sweet on the outside, but on the inside, sharp with judgement.

I push through the revolving doors at the Cathay Hotel, and as soon as I enter the lobby my skin pimples. The air inside is cooled by the marble floors and stone-clad pillars and is a welcome respite from the heat. An octagonal skylight at the end of the lobby shines with bright yellow gaslight. The hotel is staffed by Big Wang’s apprentices, ghosts who, for various reasons, do not wish to reincarnate yet. Most want to work off their karmic debt so they don’t reincarnate as cockroaches. They bow when I pass, but I smell their disdain. I rein in the snarl on my lips; they know I won’t bite them but that doesn’t seem to matter to them. I’m different. That’s enough to warrant their contempt.

Big Wang is breakfasting on the terrace when I step out from the lift. The mortal sits across from him, wearing his grey suit, freshly laundered and pressed. There is an empty chair between them. Bullhead and Horsey stand slightly behind and to either side of Big Wang, wearing their usual black changpao with their swords hanging at their sides.

I take a deep breath, and make my way through the palm trees, past the koi pond and finally towards the dining area overlooking the Whangpoo. Croissants, sticky rice rolls, freshly squeezed watermelon juice, and a large basket of Old Zao’s regular xiao long bao fill the table.

When Big Wang sees me his eyes glow red, but before he can say a word, and before I lose my nerve, I put my bags on the floor, drop to my knees and raise a fist palm salute high in the air. Big Wang raises an eyebrow ever so slightly then leans back in his chair, interlacing his fingers over his belly. He watches me the way he watches his tortoises when he wants to see what they will do next.

With my head bowed, I recite the words I practiced on my walk over. ‘Contain this worthless one’s disobedience and lack of respect, most venerable Big Wang. I should not have resisted my esteemed benefactor’s guidance. I made you lose face and for that I shall suffer a thousand cuts of regret.’

I wait, motionless, but no one says anything. Finally, I raise my head. Big Wang’s expression is hard to parse, but the ruby glow of his eyes has dimmed. Horsey’s mouth gapes so wide I can see his tonsils. Bullhead stares like I’ve grown an extra head.

‘Mmgnh.’ The sound Big Wang makes is half-grunt half-clearing his throat. ‘I never expected to hear such fancy words from you, Little Jing. Are you feeling alright?’

My face twists at his incredulity. Is that courtly crap so out of place coming from my mouth? ‘Isn’t this what filial piety is supposed to look like?’ It comes out harsher than I mean it.

‘It is unsettling to hear you speak in such a florid manner,’ Big Wang says.

I glare at him, and he holds my gaze.

‘What brings you here so early in the morning singing like a gilded nightingale?’ Big Wang asks.

I consider reciting the rest of the fancy lines I’d prepared, but judging by Big Wang’s reaction, I decide against it. He might get angrier, or he might laugh at me. I don’t know which is worse. Horsey has gone pink, eyes shining; I’m afraid he might faint from the ecstasy of hearing me sound like a lady.

‘I need your help,’ I say plainly.

Big Wang eyes the bag by my knees. After a moment he holds out his hand and I pass him the wriggling bag full of cocks. A few tiny cocorocohs mewl from the bag. He peers inside and then makes that mmgnh noise again.

‘This is why you are supposed to count to ten,’ he says. ‘Recite your calming mantras.’

Trying to look contrite, I press my lips between my teeth.

‘Lies do not become you, Little Jing. You look like you need to dabian.’

‘Fine.’ I rock back on my heels. ‘I’m trying, okay? I need your help and am asking nicely.’

He watches me a little longer, no doubt weighing my sincerity. Finally, he gestures to an empty chair. ‘Join us,’ he says.

The mortal stands suddenly, then bows so low I get a clear view of the back of his head. His hair is slicked back with what smells like Big Wang’s dragon beard pomade. ‘This lowly one gives a multitude of thanks to the exalted and glorious Lady Jing of Mount Kunlun.’

I make a gagging sound. The red glow in Big Wang’s eyes burns brighter, reminding me that Mr Lee is his guest. I close my eyes, count to ten, then say in the most neutral tone I can manage, ‘The flowery language of formal court makes me extremely uncomfortable. Please stop.’

Another of Big Wang’s lessons. If I cannot bring myself to tolerate out of politeness, a calm, forthright admission can push the burden of tolerance onto the other party. Big Wang almost smiles. I wonder if this is what Old Zao meant by giving him face.

The mortal blinks at me. I put my breakfast baskets on the table and sit. The mortal follows. He watches me with a thoughtful expression and I curb an impulse to spit in his eye, since Big Wang probably wouldn’t approve.

‘Are those roosters in the bag?’ Horsey asks.

‘Never you mind,’ I counter, not wanting him or Bullhead to join the conversation.

His frog-frown returns. I suck my teeth at him. Of course, Big Wang frowns. Of course, I ignore them both, as I usually do. Taking the lid off my xiao long bao baskets I pop one of the bite-sized blood dumplings in my mouth. Mixed with food, the blood rush is almost unnoticeable. I chew, swallow, then grab another.

‘Can you fix them, Big Wang?’ I ask through half-chewed dumpling.

Big Wang settles his black gaze on me, the red glow now a mere pinprick in his pupil. ‘How did they get so small?’

I try not to fidget like a child and fail spectacularly, so I go with diversion. ‘The stray rooster population is out of control. They are like delinquents, roaming the streets. It’s not sustainable.’

Big Wang slurps his tea, then says, ‘I have noticed there seem to be more roosters than normal these days.’

‘That one followed me home after I extricated it from the Hall of Harmony. It’s too much. The ghosts abandon them here; they don’t take the creatures across Naihe Bridge with them when they leave for their next lives. If we don’t do something, we’ll end up with more roosters than ghosts.’

The mortal says nothing. He butters his croissant, then spreads kumquat jam over the soft flaky pastry.

I rub at my fingers, glancing at Bullhead out of the corner of my eye. Out of the three, he’s the one I dislike disappointing the most. Though he’s not looking at us, he’s no doubt listening. I lower my voice and nod at the bag. ‘They follow me around. I can’t leave them like that.’

‘Will you stop bothering Lady Soo? She said you intentionally provoked her last night—’

My face heats. ‘She’s a two-faced lying—’

‘She claims you were spying on her. Even after I told you how important it was for you to not cause any trouble.’

I slam my hand on the table making the tea cups rattle. ‘I was not spying! I was trying to get out of there before I could bump into her!’ My voice comes out more shrill than I intend.

‘You were seen by all the Council brawling on the ground like a common criminal. Lord Black had to restrain you. Lord Black, of all people!’ Big Wang’s nostrils flare as he speaks. ‘Lady Soo is a minister representing the Hulijing Court. She is not only your elder, and a handmaid to your grandmother, but as an attendee of the Ministerial Mahjong Council, she is here in Hell as my personal guest. As my ward, you owe her courtesy, no matter her provocation.’

My face burns. I was not spying. But Big Wang never takes my side. ‘Indentured servant more like,’ I mutter.

‘Lady Jing!’ Horsey stage whispers. Subtlety is not a strong suit.

‘We’ve been over this. You are, and always have been, my ward,’ Big Wang’s voice is firm.

I pick up another xiao long bao, the hurt making me catty. ‘I’m pretty sure one doesn’t buy wards. They are entrusted, not sold.’

Big Wang’s gaze glows red again. His words come out slow and deliberate, a sure sign that my barbs have landed. ‘How many times do we have to go over this? You are my ward and that is all there is to it.’

I look away. ‘I know you bought me and the dragon pearl so my mother could pay her debts and buy herself a ginormous diamond.’

‘Your mother asked for my help and I gave it to her. Why must you always twist the truth into something so ugly?’ There’s a sharp edge to Big Wang’s tone, the closest he ever gets to being outright angry with me.

Old hurts war with Old Zao’s advice. I feel bad that I jeopardised the plenary session today, but I am also perversely pleased to have gotten a rise out of him. The soft words that could smooth things over choke in my throat. I can’t bring myself to say them.

After a long moment, Big Wang picks up the white linen napkin in his lap, shakes it open, then replaces it. ‘You’ve had years of anger management lessons, and yet at the slightest provocation, you lose all control.’ He dips his chin towards the wriggling sack at his feet. His gaze settles on me, heavy with disappointment. ‘You will fix them through contemplation and meditation—’

‘What? No, I can’t—’

‘You can and you will.’

I drop my head. ‘I don’t know how,’ I whisper, hating how pathetic I sound. ‘They’ll follow me. Everyone will know what I did.’

‘You should have considered that before you lost your temper,’ Big Wang says. The edge in his tone is gone, replaced by a note of pity which makes me feel even worse.

Mr Lee shifts in his chair, and I catch his rotted doe eyes on me. Anger wraps around me, a buffer against the hurt and humiliation. My feet itch to get away from the unwanted attention.

‘You cannot run from this, Little Jing,’ Big Wang says, correctly guessing my intention. ‘Since you insist on behaving like a child I am forced to treat you like one. No more kanhoo evenings with Lady Gi. It’s a pity since Lang was granted a pass to visit Hell, and it would have been nice to give her news in person. She is, after all, the only person in Hell who will tolerate your poor manners and bad temper.’

‘Only because you give her a credit line at the mahjong halls,’ I mutter.

‘Hu Xian Jing!’ The table shakes from the force of his words and his eyes blaze so brightly we are shrouded in a red haze. ‘Enough of your back talk. You will return to the Lake Heart Pavilion and stay there under Old Zao’s supervision, meditating until you can both control your wayward tongue and return the rooster to its original form.’

‘You can’t make me.’

‘Do not tempt me.’

The memory of compulsion pressing me to my knees makes me shudder. Big Wang searches my face, the twin beams of his gaze so intense I’m forced to avert my gaze. He sighs. ‘It is your hundredth birthday soon,’ he says, his tone soft. ‘I wish to grant you a ministerial position. The ability to travel between realms at your own discretion. You came of age decades ago. And yet you are as irresponsible as a child who needs constant supervision and chaperoning. You will be confined to the Lake Heart Pavilion until you are able to control yourself.’

I fight the urge to stamp my foot. I don’t want a rotted ministerial position, but . . . the freedom to go where I want, to see a sunset or to stargaze whenever the fancy takes me – it makes my heart hurt. Usually Big Wang is more forgiving of my fuck-ups, but two in quick succession was a bad move on my part. All of this is Soo’s fault. If it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t have had to go through that humiliating ordeal last night, witnessed by the whole of the Mahjong Council, nor would I be here being blamed for yet another diplomatic embarrassment with the Hulijing Court. Because of the Flaming Bitch incident, the hulijing are only permitted to visit Hell when they are officially summoned to the Mahjong Council. If they are going to steal the dragon pearl, it will be in the next two days. This is the perfect opportunity to thwart them, but I can’t do it if I’m stuck being babysat by Old Zao.

An idea comes to me. What if I’m the one doing the babysitting? I could show Big Wang I’m in control of myself, barter for him to fix the roosters, and use the whole ruse as a cover to be a pain in the pigu to the hulijing. If they want the dragon pearl, then I want to make sure they can’t get it.

‘Why is he here?’ I point at Mr Lee.

Big Wang glances at his guest. ‘Mr Lee is an expert financier, educated at Columbia and Yale in mortal United States. He’s part of my project – with the civil unrest in the mortal realm, joss money is drying up at an alarming rate. Mr Lee is here to modernise banking in Hell so we will no longer rely on mortals burning joss money. We can print our own.’

Bo-ring. Even so, this is something I can work with. ‘Fascinating,’ I say, then pick up the last dumpling in the basket. If I have to spend the day with the mortal, I ought to make sure I am not hungry. An apprentice whisks away the empty bamboo baskets and places a freshly steeped cup of jasmine tea on the table. I pull on my mahjong face and ready myself to play my hand.

‘You are wrong about my self-control. When I first met Mr Lee he failed to show me his invitation card, so I didn’t know he was your guest. Even so, I withstood the impulse to drain him dry.’ Mr Lee whimpers softly but I ignore him and keep speaking. ‘That proves I can control my primal instincts. I also brought him to you safely and without harm to his person, despite how annoying he was with his constant courtly crap and his lack of talisman. That proves I can control my temper. With regard to Lady Soo – well, she and I have a long history. Let’s call that old wound a weakness of mine. But don’t we all have weaknesses?’

Big Wang inclines his head, acknowledging my logic.

‘I am working on my temper with regard to Lady Soo, but you cannot deny in other respects my patience is infinitely better than it was. Your guards have not had cause to chase me for many months now.’

Big Wang inclines his head. ‘This is true.’

‘So, how about we make a deal. The plenary session is this morning. Mr Lee will not be in attendance, given most ministers’ attitudes towards mortals.’ Big Wang nods in agreement. ‘And since Mr Lee lacks a talisman, I will chaperone him around yin Shanghai in exchange for you fixing the roosters.’ I hold Big Wang’s gaze, channelling everything I have into not looking away.

Big Wang presses his lips together. ‘Mmmgh. There is merit in your argument. If I agree, then you must abide by one condition,’ Big Wang says. ‘You leave the hulijing emissaries alone.’ He leans forward, pins me with his ember gaze. ‘Do not cause any mafan. I cannot afford another embarrassment, especially not today.’ After a beat, he adds, ‘And forget about the dragon pearl. It is not your concern.’

Damn. I can definitely leave the hulijing alone, it’s better we don’t cross paths. But forget about the dragon pearl? The whole point of traipsing around yin Shanghai with that fool mortal is so I can get the dragon pearl myself and hide it from those bitches. I scratch the back of my neck, weighing my options. The mortal seems easy enough to control. And if Big Wang catches me? I won’t get much worse that what he’s already threatening me with. In for a wen, in a for a tael.

‘Fine,’ I lie, keeping my face neutral, though Big Wang’s scrutiny makes my skin itch.

Finally he says, ‘Keep Mr Lee safe. Keep him unsullied.’

‘Keep the yaojing from sucking his qi and leaving a dead husk you mean?’

The newspaper crinkles in the silence and the mortal’s eyes peer over the edge, wide and frightened. This Tony Lee will allow me to go where I wish without interference – I smile at my good fortune, but he mistakes my expression for reassurance. His eyes go soft. I have to sit on my hands to keep myself from slapping that gooey look off his face.

‘Mr Lee is to return across the veil when his work here is complete. Keep him safe. He is important to my plans for the future of yin Shanghai. Don’t let him drink any of Madame Meng’s oblivion tea or set foot on the Naihe Bridge.’

‘Of course.’ I smile again, and the fool mortal smiles back at me.

I walk awkwardly back and forth on the terrace between Horsey and Bullhead, trying to move comfortably with a long sword hanging from my waist. The damn thing keeps catching the side slit of my qipao.

I throw my arms up. ‘How am I supposed to protect him if I’m tripping over my own feet?’

‘Since you have yet to master Celestial command, you must carry a sword of Hell in order to convey my authority in this matter,’ Big Wang calmly explains again as he refills the mortal’s tea.

‘I know that. But I can’t do it wearing a qipao.’ I pull the rotted dress higher to free my legs.

Horsey stares at my knees which haven’t fully healed from last night’s scrapes. His eyes squint, his lips purse, and his mouth pulls down at the corners, like he’s sucking a salted plum. ‘Aiya, what in Tian have you done to yourself? And I don’t remember those side slits being so high.’

I don’t have the patience for this again. ‘If it’s so bothersome to see my knees – get me one of those.’ I gesture to the mortal’s outfit. Jacket, shirt, and wide-fitting trousers. Mr Lee looks down as if surprised to find himself clothed. I continue to press my point. ‘The Western suit covers ankles, knees, and butt while allowing completely free movement.’

Horsey grimaces like I’ve just pushed out a big steaming spiral of dabian right there at his feet. I suck my teeth and appeal to Big Wang instead. ‘Think of how comfortable you find your silwar trousers. I want the same comfort. I don’t want to constantly have to worry about propriety.’

‘Since when are you ever concerned about propriety?’ Horsey huffs, his tone shrill.

With a very ripe and lengthy snort, I work up another gob of snot. The mortal laughs – it’s short, almost a bark, but he hurriedly covers it with a coughing fit.

‘I’ve had enough of your disrespect!’ Horsey abandons his post, takes two determined steps towards me as he pulls out his sword with a whistling ring.

Glee pulls up a corner of my mouth. Bullhead was the one who taught me my sword forms, and while I can’t best Bullhead yet, Horsey and I are well matched. I hold my hork, saving it for an opportune moment.

I flick my gaze over him, then lazily pull out my own sword. What emerges from the long, curved sheath is not a narrow jian sword, but a zhang sword. The long pole is weighted with silver at one end to counterbalance the spiked blade, three times the width of Horsey’s. My grin widens. Why hello, friend.

This is a weapon to strike fear in all of Tian, even Celestials. A blade of Hell has the power to carve out a yaojing’s primordial qi, the source of their regenerative powers. Without it, death isn’t a mere pause. It is final and eternal. I’m not a trained guard of Hell, so don’t have the skills to wield the full power of the blade and alleviate that dratted Soo of her immortality . . . but she doesn’t know that.

‘C’mon Horsey, let’s play,’ I say.

The mortal stares at the swords, each one glowing blue, waving in the air like a pair of battling cobras. His lips roll under his teeth, like he’s trying not to laugh. Big Wang sighs. He holds his hand up, gently pats the air. With his other, he sips his tea, doesn’t even look at us.

Horsey stands down immediately, returns to his post behind Big Wang. He sheaths his sword, but he’s still glaring at me, his fingers wrapped around the sword hilt with white-knuckled outrage. His chest rises and falls as if he’s run a few li. I hold my position, just in case. He’s always nagging me about my temper, but he’s the one who needs to work on his self-control.

Big Wang places the fine porcelain cup on the table. He does it softly, so softly the near transparent china doesn’t make so much as the tiniest tink against the marble. He isn’t looking at me, but I can tell I’m a touch too close to crossing the line. I do a showy spin with my sword, then sheath it, the broad blade magically sliding into its much narrower cover. At least now I won’t need to gob on Horsey to make him shut up.

‘Hua Mulan wore trousers.’ I invoke one of my heroes, the girl who took on an army and proved herself the equal of any man.

‘Hua Mulan wore trousers because she was a warrior,’ Big Wang says. ‘You are a lady.’ His voice rumbles across the quiet terrace.

My patience burns dry. ‘His blood will call every jiangshi in city limits, not to mention his yang qi! Look at him!’ I gesture at Mr Lee. He’s staring at his plate, studiously eating. He emanates a faint golden glow that pulses in time with his heartbeat. ‘If I’m to protect a walking blood sausage, I need to move and react like a warrior.’

Big Wang makes a disapproving noise in his throat and turns to the mortal with a shallow bow. ‘My apologies for my ward’s rudeness, Mr Lee.’ Though Big Wang is addressing the mortal, his gaze slides to me.

Uncowed, I lift my chin, bracing for another argument.

But the mortal shakes his head with a smile. ‘This humble one is not at all offended. Lady Jing is right; it was difficult for her to run and carry me last night.’

We all stare at him, and I realise he’s given me an opening, welcome, though unasked for.

‘Make me trousers,’ I say into the lull. ‘Like Mr Lee’s. Make them the same fabric as Bull— I mean Lord Nioh and Lord Ma’s changpao so I look like one of your guards. For my top, I can still wear this. Just cut off the bottom.’ I slice my hand across my waist. ‘That way I can move, which means I can protect the— I mean, Mr Lee, and not scandalise anyone.’ I glare pointedly at Horsey.

‘I will think on it,’ Big Wang says. ‘Now show me your sword forms.’

I back away from the table to give myself room. If this doesn’t convince Big Wang he needs to adjust my clothing, then nothing will. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath, focussing inward, seeking the core of my qi. When I find it, when I can feel its energy flowing through me, I visualise the thirty-two sword forms and begin.

In one smooth motion, I unsheathe my sword and step lightly into the first form, Three Rings Around the Moon. I slowly flow into the second form, the Big Dipper, smiling to myself. Balancing on my right leg, I lift my left knee and bend it outwards while I squat low with the sword held above my head. In order to achieve proper form, I have to wriggle the qipao past my upper thighs and wriggle some more to force the dress to ride higher.

Horsey splutters.

With my butt freed, my silk tap pants flutter in the breeze. I push my bare leg into position, extend my left arm straight out, and aim the sword so knee, fingers, and sword all point in the same direction.

My bare skin is pale as the moon, my entire leg exposed; a good portion of my ass too. My grin stretches wide. I move through the rest of the thirty-two forms, many of which end up baring one leg or the other. My robin’s egg blue tap pants make many appearances. When I’m done, I rearrange my qipao, and bow demurely with an equally modest smile. Horsey’s mouth opens and closes like the koi in the pond. Bullhead very wisely has not watched the spectacle at all; he knows of my many complaints regarding the necessity of a lady needing to wear lady’s clothing. He simply stares forward across the river. Big Wang’s wearing his mahjong face, giving nothing away, while Mr Lee is red as a cockerel’s comb, his gaze glued firmly to his plate.

We listen to the water lapping in the koi pond.

‘Perfect form. Lord Nioh is an excellent tutor,’ Big Wang says. ‘You will have no trouble escorting Mr Lee wherever he wishes to go.’ He makes that noise in his throat. ‘I will consider getting trousers for you, Little Jing.’

Triumph curves my lips. Big Wang is oddly old fashioned. He didn’t outright say no, which is progress. I quickly bow my head to hide my smirk.

‘While you carry the sword, you carry my authority. This is an extra layer of protection.’ Big Wang holds his hand out and one of his calling cards appears in his palm. He makes a small motion, a subtle flick.

The mortal jerks as the card smacks his forehead. It sinks into his skin with a faint sizzle, until all that remains are the red characters of Big Wang’s name, stamped across his skin.

‘Hmm,’ I say. ‘That’s definitely a way to mark Mr Lee as your guest.’

The mortal winces, touches his smooth forehead, but otherwise remains silent. An apprentice places a small glass of espresso on the table, whisking away the empty teacups.

‘You may leave now,’ Big Wang says.

Mr Lee stands, but instead of joining me, he goes to kneel before Big Wang. He fists one hand, and wraps the other over it, holding his hands in front of his bowed head. ‘This lowly one labours your procession to borrow your exalted light. By your fortune may the Central Bank of Hell be a success. Many thanks are offered beneath the ceremonial ramp to the most glorious King of Hell.’

I make a gagging sound. All that for thank you, let’s toast to our project’s success? What a waste of qi. Big Wang clears his throat and pointedly looks at the bag of roosters at his feet.

The rotted roosters remind me of my real goal. Putting that bitch in her place. I imagine my foot on her head as she kowtows to me. I sheath my sword and keep that image in my mind as I wait for the mortal to finish his courtly vomit.

Eight

Same but Different

I step from the Cathay Hotel’s revolving doors onto the wide pavement of the Bund. The sword sheath catches my qipao’s side slit and I nearly topple into Mr Lee, who doesn’t notice since he’s nose-deep in a small leather-bound notebook.

‘Could Lady Jing show this humble—’

I suck my teeth, fighting the heavy silver pommel and my temper. ‘Speak plain or don’t speak at all.’ Already my mahjong face is cracking; I’m not sure I can manage an entire day of playing nice with the idiot mortal.

Mr Lee clears his throat. ‘Could Lady Jing show me where joss money arrives into Hell?’

I turn without speaking and begin walking down the Bund, planning where I need to go and how to do it without raising Mr Lee’s suspicions. He looks like the type who would tattle. As if he can sense me thinking about him, he hustles to my side, gazing around him in awe.

‘I am astounded at how similar Hell looks to Shanghai.’

‘This is Shanghai.’ My voice is flat. My Shanghai has been in existence for longer than his Shanghai.

‘I mean, how similar immortal Shanghai looks to mortal Shanghai.’ He gestures to the imposing stone buildings that line the Bund, oblivious to my pique. ‘These, for example, are all the same as what we have on the Bund. That one – he points at the one with the clock tower – was only built in 1927. Eight years ago. The King of Hell has kept up with the changes sweeping mortal Shanghai.’ He cranes his neck to see further down the road. ‘They’re all here. Half of them are banks.’ He pauses. ‘Why, if you already have so many banks, does the King of Hell wish to build another one?’

‘They’re not banks, they’re mahjong halls.’

‘All of them?’

‘Not all.’ I point to the building we’re passing, right next to Cathay Hotel, forgetting about the rotted sword. It swings down and catches my heel. I lose my balance, but strong hands grip my waist, holding me tight.

Mr Lee’s face hovers over mine, his gaze soft, concerned. His scent – an unnerving melange of Big Wang’s hair pomade, snowflakes, and the velvet sweetness pulsing in his veins – overwhelms everything. The world constricts until there is only him and me. His breath tickles my skin, his arms solid yet warm. It occurs to me I have not been held like this, ever.

I am confused by how I feel about that. His lips part slightly and his yang halos around him, bright as sunshine. A responding burn, urgent and sharp, unsheathes inside me. My fangs extend and a deep snarl erupts from my throat. Mr Lee’s eyes widen. He drops me at the same time I jerk from his grasp. Judging by his expression, he’s as shocked as I am by my reaction. His gaze unsettles me. I fidget with my hair, tuck it behind my ears. My face burns.

Grasping for something to redirect his attention, I prattle about the buildings, walking quickly. ‘That one is Big Wang’s amusement hall,’ I say. ‘There are acrobats and opera, mostly shenqu, though they perform jing and yue operas too. The next two are theatre halls, also owned by Big Wang. One is for yaojing, the other for ghosts. Those three’ – I keep hold of the sword pommel with one hand while I point at the three short buildings, careful to keep two arms’ lengths between us – ‘are a dance hall, a massage hall, and a singing hall. Others are restaurants and bars, catering to the different denizens of Hell. That one’ – I point to the one with the clock tower – ‘is where we’re going now.’

Mr Lee stops, his hands clasped behind him, forcing me to stop as well. I eye him warily.

He raises his chin to gaze at the clock tower. ‘You looked like you wanted to take a bite of me,’ he says. There’s no accusation in his tone. But when he turns those soft brown eyes on me, like a rotted puppy, unease knots the muscles between my shoulders.

‘I’ve never been that close to a mortal before. You startled me, that’s all.’

He gives me an odd look. ‘I was draped over your shoulders last night and hung off your back. I think I have been that close to you before. Closer in fact.’

My cheeks go hot again. I stare at my slippers, dust already shading the pale blue silk a dark grey. ‘That was different.’

‘How? I want to know what made you react like that, so I don’t make you uncomfortable again.’

I snap my gaze to his, offended. Who is he to coddle me, a yaojing? And yet, his gaze is clear and earnest. Free of arrogance. And foolishly, also free of fear. Having Big Wang’s calling card stamped into his forehead has clearly addled his mind.

‘Me? Uncomfortable? Now listen here, mortal: you are in my territory. Your face was in my space, breathing your qi all over me. Of course I’m going to react. Never forget, not only can I drink you dry of blood, but I can also drain you of every last drop of yang qi. You’d be nothing more than a desiccated husk.’

‘But you wouldn’t.’ It’s not a question.

‘Don’t be naïve.’

He bows his head and when he raises it to me, his eyes are gooey. I shudder.

‘I don’t believe you would ever hurt me,’ he says like the fool he is.

‘Are you kidding me? I want to crush your brains into porridge. I want to slap you so hard you go flying back through the veil.’

I stride away, well, try to, but the damn sword trips me again. Mr Lee reaches for me, but I jump clear of his helpful hands.

I snarl. ‘Did you not hear a single word I said?’

He bows low. ‘This worthless one bears a karmic debt from your benevolence. Without your help I would not have made it safely to Yan Luo Wang. I must do everything in my power to prevent harm from befalling you or I would bring dishonour on my ancestors.’

‘Your ancestors crossed the Naihe Bridge long ago. They won’t know and they won’t care.’

‘I will know. I will care.’ There’s an edge of steel in his voice now.

I give him a once-over. He’s standing straighter, nostrils flaring righteously. I shake my head in disgust. ‘You have fermented tofu for brains.’

That gooey gaze drips all over me and makes me feel odd. He nods solemnly but as he turns away I see his cheek lift. He is laughing at me. I roll my shoulders. Yi, er, san, I count, working through my embarrassment and irritation. I need to deal with the rotted sword. I will not trip on it again or give the mortal the satisfaction of catching me. I am yaojing. He should not forget that.

It occurs to me it may be easier to simply abandon the mortal. I have a feeling he will only cause me mafan. But if Big Wang finds out I directly disobeyed him . . . I wrinkle my nose, remembering the awful itch of garlic and refocus on the sword.

I’m messing with the holster and the leather contraption wrapped around my waist, trying to get it off, when a lady ghost, with the tell-tale unkempt long hair and flowing white robes denoting wrongful death, wafts towards us, her dark tresses swaying in a non-existent breeze. She pauses beside Mr Lee, inhaling deeply. I am torn between leaving the mortal to her tender mercies or slapping the bitch out of my sight. Instead, mindful of my temper, I count to ten slowly and watch to see how far she will go.

‘Master,’ she says to Mr Lee, her voice breathy and high. A gentle gust parts her hair to reveal her face: rosebud lips, dainty sloping eyebrows, and a small, pointed chin. She is beautiful, but not very observant. She hasn’t at all noticed me standing right next to her target.

The mortal sidles closer to me, fear rolling off him. I sneer, insulted anew. I’m ten times more deadly than the ghost, yet he fears her? The ghost’s nostrils flare, no doubt sensing the vigour of his yang qi. Her filmy gaze travels up his body as if already savouring him. As she reaches an anaemic, thin hand towards him, I slide out my sword and block her hand with its pole.

‘Na-ah. Look, but don’t touch,’ I say and give the sword a shake so blue flames erupt all over the blade. A warning.

The ghost finally clocks my presence. Her soft expression contorts into something ugly. Black shadows pool around her eyes and mouth, spreading outwards like spidery veins. She bares her teeth, and I nearly laugh out loud.

‘You wanna compare teeth?’ I extend my fangs fully and smile nice and wide. A deep growl rumbles in my throat.

She blinks. Her gaze darts between me and the sword of Hell, then at Mr Lee. The black veins fade and she’s once more pale as soya milk. She drops to her knees and kowtows, her hair falling in silky black rivulets around her. ‘This unworthy one—’

I groan. Not that ceremonial drivel. I put the weighted end of the sword on her back and hold her to the ground. ‘If you keep your maw shut, I won’t tell Big Wang you tried to eat his guest.’

‘B-b-big Wang? You mean, Yan Luo Wang?’

I press harder between her shoulders. ‘The very one.’

The ghost lies unmoving at my feet, finally silent.

‘Good. You’re learning nicely. Now get up.’

She rises from her knees, head bowed, trembling like a wet mouse. One slice of the blade is enough to end her existence. No reincarnation, no Madame Meng tea to wipe away her mortal memories, no Naihe Bridge to take her on to whatever new life awaits her. Everything she is, everything she could be, finished, with one clean swipe. The power is intoxicating.

‘Hold this.’ I shove the sword at Mr Lee as I need both my hands. He takes it and holds it like I’ve given him a firecracker with the fuse already lit. ‘It’s fine. Just don’t drop it.’

The mortal stays as still as the ghost.

I focus on the leather holster, and finally untangle it from my waist, before handing the thing to the waiting ghost. Mr Lee is only too happy to relinquish the sword back to me.

‘With the authority vested in me by the sword of Hell, I, Lady Jing, bid you bring this to the Cathay Hotel reception.’

The ghost bows low. Clutching the holster, she backs away. When she is a good distance from us, she turns and runs. I watch her to see whether she does as I ask. Huh. She does indeed turn into Cathay Hotel. I grin with all my teeth. The flames licking the blade flare sky-high before settling back to a gentle flicker. With this kind of Please-Fuck-Off energy, I could absolutely get used to carrying the sword on a permanent basis.

Mr Lee runs a hand through his hair, making his thick locks stick up at all angles. Looking at him, I realise why the ghost didn’t see Big Wang’s warning mark.

‘You need to keep your hair off your forehead,’ I tell him. ‘Otherwise it hides the protective stamp. Big Wang should have stamped your whole face.’

He gingerly touches his forehead. He looks at me, really looks at me. The intensity of his gaze makes me squirm, like he’s somehow exposing my deepest secrets. I’m about to bring up some hork to spit in his eye, when he holds his elbow out to me.

‘Shall we?’

I stare at his arm.

‘It’s how Western gentlemen walk with ladies.’

‘They hold their elbows out?’ I frown. ‘It seems quite an uncomfortable way to walk.’

He smiles gently. ‘Ah no, the lady holds the gentleman’s arm.’

‘They touch?’

‘Very lightly.’

‘Why?’

‘I suppose the lady holds the man’s arm for balance. Shoes with elevated heels are very popular in the West. It’s considered good etiquette for a gentleman to offer his arm to a lady. I often saw this when I walked in the parks of New York.’

I’ve heard of New York, and the famous goddess of Liberty. Patron saint of doing whatever the Tian we wished. For that alone, I would love to visit the new world.

I eye his outstretched arm. Denizens of Shanghai did not walk in this manner – ladies linking arms with strange men. Horsey would faint if he saw me pawing a man like this. I consider the scandalous outcry; it gives me a gleeful rush, and then I’m annoyed. Because the outcry is such an overreaction. It’s not like the mortal hasn’t already been up close and personal with me all over – I’ve carried him on my back. Over my shoulder like a sack of rice. I mean, he’s technically kissed my ass, though I still had my silk tap pants between him and bare skin. He’s seen both my bare legs and most, if not all, of my butt. Stupid, hypocritical propriety.

I sneer at him. ‘I am perfectly capable of walking without assistance,’ I say, and stride towards the Custom House, leaving him behind me, scrambling to keep up.

We pass a few more early risers. Another white-robed ghost passes us, eyeing Mr Lee. I’m full of prickly fire, bursting for a reason to unsheathe my sword, but the ghost bows her head and gives us no trouble. I swing the sword around my head. The hilt and blade are perfectly balanced and it makes a satisfying whistle as it slices through air.

‘You seem to have really taken to that sword,’ Mr Lee says.

‘I named it Mafan,’ I say.

He huffs a quiet laugh. ‘In that the sword is troublesome to you, or that it makes trouble for others?’

‘Mafan for others, of course. I’m gonna use it to scare Lady Soo.’

The smile drops from his face. The glare he gives me reminds me strongly of Horsey. ‘You aren’t supposed to go near the hulijing. You promised Big Wang.’

‘What’s it to you? She’s a creep and deserves what’s coming to her.’

‘One should not lie.’

I don’t like the tone he takes. I press Mafan’s hilt to his chest. ‘Even the fuddy-duddy Confucius had no issue with falsehoods in the face of justice. Who are you to lecture me?’

‘I do not like liars.’ The look he gives me is so defiant I’m momentarily befuddled. Where is the cowardly mortal from before? And then my temper rises. How dare this mortal challenge me? I snarl and am about to forget all my promises to Big Wang when I see Madame Meng shuffling towards us. The ferries are coming. The fight in me deflates. I forgot all about the time.

Madame Meng wears her usual silver robes and sensible black fabric shoes. A blood-jade hair pin holds her tidy silver topknot in place. A train of attendants follow close behind, each pushing a trolley laden with candied haw on sticks. The small red fruit glisten even in the low light, like lacquered prayer beads. So many. There was a time when she only needed one trolly of the candied haws.

I bow deeply, and when Mr Lee doesn’t, I grab his sleeve and yank him down. He doesn’t fight me, but he still gives me the stink eye.

‘Virtuous Madame Meng,’ I say. ‘Ten thousand years of good health.’

Madame Meng smiles, wide and toothless, and her eyes disappear into half-moon creases. Despite all she’s seen, she continues to emanate warmth and kindness. I don’t know how she does it.

‘This one of the teahouse arrives before Little Jing unharmed,’ she says, with a slight incline of her head, then continues on her way, her retinue following her. Their trolley wheels squeak as they pass, the candied haw jiggling like spirit bells. She crosses the Bund and heads to the docks where the first ferry is already berthing. I don’t want to see the passengers disembark, but I can’t look away.

Mr Lee clears his throat. ‘Yan Luo Wang told me most ghosts spend quite a long time in Shanghai before they are called to Madame Meng’s teahouse,’ Tony Lee says with forced cheer. I want to clamp his jaw shut to spare me his drivel. ‘It’s very interesting that she meets the ferries personally.’ He pauses, and I ignore him, hoping he will stop speaking. No such luck. He continues, ‘I wonder if they get a chance to look around Shanghai, there must be many fascinating things to see . . .’ He trails off. Then rallies. ‘Don’t you think, Lady Jing?’

‘I am not your tour guide,’ I snap.

A hurt look crosses his face and I feel an unfamiliar sour pang in my gut. Guilt? I ignore him and my misguided senses. My gaze goes back to Madame Meng. She stands next to her helpers who wear matching silver robes, albeit less ornate than Madame Meng’s, each holding a handful of candied haws. The gangplank lowers from the ferry and connects with the wooden dock with a soft thunk that makes me flinch.

A young boy, no more than three, in a long, dirt-encrusted tunic, toddles from the boat holding a little girl’s hand. She can’t be more than six or seven, and her clothes, a pair of too short trousers and too tight shirt, are hardly more than rags. They look around, nervous and curious as they step off the gangplank. Madame Meng hands each child a stick of candied hawthorn. They hesitate, but after a moment, they take the candied haw with bright, eager eyes.

As soon as the children take the candy, a strand of red beads wraps around their wrists and links the boy to the girl. One of Madame Meng’s helpers takes the little boy by the hand, and they walk up the planks back towards the Bund. Madame Meng continues to hand out those sticks, one after another, each child linked to the next by a string of glistening crimson beads.

Children of all ages disembark from the ferry. Each takes a hawthorn stick; each receives a red bead bracelet. The oldest children disembark last, carrying the babies who cannot walk themselves.

The helper and the little boy pass us. I bow low. The children giggle and point as they pass the roosters in the trees, the lady ghosts with their long hair. A few cry but are comforted by the helpers. Most, if not all, wear patched, frayed clothing. Once they have the measure of yin Shanghai, they’ll be able to simply will their clothes new. But they’ll likely not be here that long. They are too young, too innocent; they deserve to move on, and Madame Meng will make sure they cross safely.

The procession snakes down the Bund towards the teahouse, while Madame Meng continues to hand out the hawthorn candies.

‘There are still trolleys on the pontoon,’ Mr Lee says, words hoarse. ‘How many more ferries to come?’

The tremor in his voice makes me answer him more fully than I might have otherwise. ‘There’s usually at least three or four these days. When the Japanese bombed Zhabei a few years ago, Madame Meng met a dozen ferries one morning.’ I nod at the river. ‘Here comes the second.’

He looks green, and the rims of his eyes have gone red, but to his credit he doesn’t once avert his gaze like a coward might. My estimation of Mr Lee grows a tiny bit.

The children keep coming. My stomach twists when I see a third ferry queuing to dock. I nudge Mr Lee.

‘C’mon. You wanted to see the Custom House.’

We trudge away in silence, each wrapped in our thoughts. I refocus on my plan, if only to shake the gloom from the ferries and Madame Meng’s small charges. The dragon pearl is probably being kept at the Treasury. If I can find it and hide it somewhere else, then the Hulijing Court won’t be able to get it even if Big Wang agrees to give it to them. I add to my list of tasks to ask Old Zao, the undisputed queen of Shanghai’s gossip, what they know about the dragon pearl and the Hulijing’s quest to get it. But first, the Custom House.

Most of the Custom House is a soaring stone building of flat planes, hard angles, and stone columns – Doric style according to Big Wang because of the square tops. The pink stone building looms above us, its windows lit with warm yellow light. But the ground floor entrance is preserved from the original building. Grey arched tiles line the roof in corrugated waves. The eaves curve upwards, giving the impression of a smile. More things Big Wang cherry-picked from mortal Shanghai. But I don’t tell the mortal this.

‘This is very different to our Custom House.’ Mr Lee stares open-mouthed.

I grunt and gesture for him to get a move on. We pass through four huge columns into the deeper shadow of the entry hall. Inside, the mortal stills as he takes in another change of style. We pass under a ceiling adorned with mosaics of junk boats with fan sails spread wide across a blue sky dotted with silk floss clouds. Our steps echo on the marble floors and through the cavernous hall. Dozens of desks sit side by side, making a line across the floor. All are empty, apart from one wizened old man in the grey changpao of an indentured ghost repaying his karmic debt. The ghost licks his thumb and turns the page of a comic book, chuckling to himself. I can tell from the cover it’s the latest issue of Sanmao, a popular comic about an orphan in Shanghai whose name is a play on words meaning three hairs on his head as well as three cents to his name.

‘Where is all the joss money?’ Mr Lee asks, noting the empty desks, the empty building. Not a single ghost waiting to collect their funds.

I lift my chin to point at the old ghost. The mortal can get answers from him. I lean against one of the columns and pull out the sword. Blue flames ripple from the hilt to the tip of the broad blade and my insides flutter at the beauty and power. Horsey would lecture me from here to Mount Kunlun for not treating such a weapon with the deference it deserves. I smirk and start to clean my nails with the tip of the sword of Hell.

It takes a moment, but Mr Lee finally gets it into his soft head that I am not going to help him, so he approaches the clerk. The clerk puts his comic on the desk and stares at the mark on Mr Lee’s forehead.

Mr Lee bows. ‘This unkempt one borrows the light of the exalted King of Hell, and labours your procession to show this humble one where the joss money arrives and how it is kept and distributed.’

The ghost scrunches his face. ‘Huh?’

Mr Lee tries again, repeating his question.

The old man scratches his head, then turns to me, raising his voice. ‘Lady Jing, what did he say?’ He speaks like he has gravel in his mouth, gurgling all the sounds at the back of his throat, gur gur sher sher. Typical Beijinger. Lady Ji-er, wha-er did he shay-er?

‘Speak plain,’ I say to Mr Lee. ‘He doesn’t understand your flowery piss-fart.’ I hold my left hand up, inspecting my nails. Not bad.

Mr Lee tries again. ‘Uh, can you show me where you keep your joss money? How it arrives, how it is divided, how it is distributed?’

The ghost looks at me, as if for permission. I half-heartedly lift the sword. It seems to work because the ghost straightens, interleaves his fingers.

‘We have no joss money right now. It is burned only on the new and full moon, and it’s a few days to the full moon. Whatever is sent over appears on the shelf with the deceased’s surname. The ghosts line up at the appropriate desk, and runners are sent up and down the stairs to fetch the correct bundle of funds.’

Mr Lee looks at me, a pained smile on his face. He glances at the clerk, bowing slightly in apology, then back at me again. I narrow my eyes. Why is he embarrassed? And then it hits me. He doesn’t understand the Beijinger’s thick labourer accent. Tian. He wants me to translate. Mr Lee is a books-and-pressed-Western-trousers scholar. Ink stains his fingers, not dirt. Bathing in garlic while being serenaded by roosters suddenly seems an attractive way to pass the time. I give him my shoulder and work on the nails of my right hand.

‘I am not good with northern dialects. Contain my thousandfold regrets for having fermented tofu for brains.’ The rotted mortal bows low, peeks at me from under a sweep of thick lashes. He has the audacity to smile sweetly. ‘Abundant gratitude for your assistance in this matter.’

At my expression, the ghost laughs, a gasping, wheezing sound.

‘No,’ I say, glaring between the two men.

Mr Lee straightens. He smiles so bright he almost shines with starlight and spun sugar. Dimples twinkle in both his cheeks. The wider his smile, the deeper my frown.

‘How about a deal then, Lady Jing?’ he says.

His gaze is too steady, his smile too knowing. My instincts prickle. I’m not a kanhoo champion for nothing. I know when someone is bluffing, but he looks like someone who’s drawn a winning set of cards.

Slowly, I say ‘What kind of deal?’

He eyes my qipao. ‘That’s one of Master Chu’s, is it not?’

I’m surprised he knows my tailor.

‘I will have him send you a Western-style suit, if you agree to be my translator while I’m here.’

My own suit. Even better than changpao. I narrow my eyes. Though Big Wang said he’d consider getting me trousers, it could be months, or years, before he makes up his mind. The mortal’s not as stupid as he looks. I hesitate. The deal seems too easy. I have to guide him anyway. It makes me wonder what else he has on his agenda.

The old ghost whistles. ‘Old Lord Ma will have a fit if he sees you in men’s clothes, Lady Jing.’

I bark out a laugh. The thought of Horsey’s expression when I turn up in men’s clothes is enough to silence my misgivings. I push off the column and join the mortal in front of the clerk’s desk. Mr Lee holds his hand out, like he did last night on the dock. The ghost and I stare at his hand.

After a moment, he says, ‘You take my hand, and we shake. It’s the modern way of sealing an agreement.’

A plan forms in my mind. There is one other person I know who has a good ear for gossip and who actually knows many hulijing. I let his hand hover. Taking Mr Lee to her is a little risky. Big Wang’s sword won’t scare her, but her intel should be worth the risk. ‘I want two sets of suits by Master Chu, one black, one in his choice of colour. I also want those’ – I point at his clothes – ‘to wear now.’

He looks down. The old man laughs so hard he has a coughing fit.

‘But, what will I wear?’

‘I know a place where you can get a changpao.’

He eyes me. ‘Is it safe?’

‘Of course,’ I lie and meet his gaze.

Already looking forward to running and moving any way I wish without being followed by titters and disapproval, I hold my hand out. He hesitates, his brown eyes boring into me. I do not like liars, they say. The words pinch a tender spot, then I remember myself and scoff. What do I care of some foolish mortal’s opinion? He is merely a means to an end. He can think whatever he wants.

‘Other hand,’ he says.

I swap hands. He grasps mine in his, his skin almost hot to the touch. Humans must run hotter than yaojing. He pumps our joined hands up and down three times. It’s most peculiar. Then he lets go.

‘There. That’s it, deal sealed,’ he says.

I rattle off what the Beijinger said, but without the gravel.

‘Are the notes standardised?’

The ghost answers, and I translate. ‘No. It’s whatever joss is sent across. Money, rings, wallets, little model houses, model cars, it’s always a surprise. The mortals can be very inventive. We’ve had quite a lot of roosters in the past year.’ The mention of roosters makes my temper flare and I have stop and count to ten, before I’m calm enough to continue translating. ‘Sometimes the notes are large, sometimes they’re square, sometimes rectangular. Sometimes they’re ingots. We get all sorts, sometimes we even get joss jewels.’

‘Abundant gratitude to honourable sir.’ Mr Lee bends low at the waist.

The ghost understands this, at least. ‘May sherrr,’ he says, the northern colloquial for ‘no problem’.

We leave the Custom House and return to the Bund. The street is busier now. A group of jiangshi hop along the road; I count six. Their heads twist as they scent the mortal, and immediately turn towards us, mouths open wide.

Mr Lee makes a strangled sound. I slam the sword pole against the ground, then make a show of waving Mafan at them, channelling my yin energy into the weapon so blue flames leap high from the blade. The jiangshi pause. Their yin qi is slightly more cultivated than that of a ghost, which means a slice from Mafan wouldn’t end their existence, but their lack of cultivation means they can’t heal like most other yaojing either. Their heads swivel in unison as they watch the sword swing back and forth. Slowly, their mouths close. I breathe a very shallow sigh of relief. Again, in unison, their gazes shift to Mr Lee, to the red characters glowing on his forehead. The jiangshi bow low, then turn to leave.

I don’t know what possesses me, but I call after them. ‘Wait!’

Mr Lee grabs my arm. ‘What are you doing?’

I shake him off and stride up to the jiangshi. It can’t hurt to try.

‘With the authority vested in me by the sword of Hell, I, Lady Jing, bid honourable Uncles to visit Mistress Ya and request her Orchid Breath Lozenges. Uncles, you need to do something about your breath. It is diabolically disgusting.’

The jiangshi glance at each other, taken aback. I suspect they have few interactions with other yaojing. Yaojing understand the hunger for yang energy; they do not understand the hunger for blood. They consider it an abomination.

The jiangshi bow as one. When they rise, they say in eerie unison, ‘Our abundant gratitude, Lady Jing. We have cleaned our ears and received your words.’ They hop on their way.

I fan the air a little before daring to inhale. I look around for Mr Lee, who is hiding behind a tree.

‘They won’t eat you. You’ve got Big Wang’s mark and Mafan here to protect you.’

He emerges from behind the tree. His lips are as white as a lady ghost’s and his hands tremble as he smooths down his hair. It occurs to me that he’s been putting on a brave face this whole time.

‘I-I promised you my trousers,’ he says, trying to make light. ‘You said you knew a place. Shall we?’

He puts out his arm again. And I understand now this gesture isn’t for my benefit.

When I was small and had first arrived in Shanghai, I tagged along behind Bullhead and Horsey on their rounds through the city. The first time I met Granny Bones, I wouldn’t stop crying. She was in her true form – a white skeleton – and her movements triggered a cascade of clicks that made me think of skittering cockroaches. Horsey scolded me for being disrespectful to an elder, but Bullhead simply took my hand. That small gesture made me feel a little braver. A little less alone.

I link my arm through Mr Lee’s and feel him jump. He looks at me for a long moment.

‘I need to hold on to you in case you run away,’ I say. ‘I’ll get in a lot of trouble if I lose you. Now, let’s go. I want you out of those trousers.’

Mr Lee chokes. He tries to maintain his composure, but the high pink in his cheeks gives him away. He pats my linked arm. ‘Of course. I wouldn’t wish to make you wait unduly, Lady Jing.’

I give him a dignified, somewhat snooty nod. He inclines his head with an equally prim expression. I have an almost overwhelming urge to giggle, which I stomp flat. But I do allow myself a small smile as I lead him towards the Old City.

Nine

New Clothes

As we pass through the Northern Gate, a low tunnel through the fortified wall, Mr Lee marvels, ‘Hardly any of the original Old City wall remains in my Shanghai.’

I nod. I’ve heard many tourists exclaim the same thing.

‘What’s your favourite part of Shanghai?’ he asks.

I don’t answer, and instead navigate us through the narrow warren of streets, hemmed in either side by three-storey wooden buildings, painted red or brown, adorned with intricate carved beams and topped with traditional smiling eaves that curve upwards at the corners. This is where the immortals of yin Shanghai call home.

Mr Lee is still trying to engage me in conversation, and it’s making me irritable.

‘Where’s your favourite place to eat? Do you go out much? From what Big Wang told me, yin Shanghai is full of fun places to visit.’

I huff. ‘You are so nosy.’

Hurt flashes across the mortal’s face and I’m hit with that pang of guilt again. No matter, I let it roll off me. There’s a reason Horsey calls me a well-seasoned wok. Nothing sticks.

We turn a corner and arrive at a small single-storey dwelling, much less ornate than most of the buildings in the street. But what it lacks in size and adornment, it makes up with elegance and clean lines. The building is made of silkwood – much favoured by Celestials. The wood is honeyed and polished to a lacquered shine. Two red lanterns hang either side of the smooth wooden door.

I knock.

‘Come,’ calls a voice from inside.

Mr Lee grabs my sleeve. ‘Is it safe?’ he asks again.

‘Of course,’ I say, willing him to shut up.

His grip tightens. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Would I lie to you?’

‘Yes,’ he says simply.

I yank my arm away. ‘Quit being such a nuisance. We have Mafan and you have your stamp. No one is going to harm you.’

His cheeks are pink but he says no more. We enter a small courtyard of raked white pebbles. Flat stones mark a path to the inner rooms.

I leave my slippers on the ground and step up into the receiving hall. Mr Lee follows.

A huge loom sits in the middle of the room; wooden slats hold thousands of fine threads taut, and a young woman plays the contraption like a lute, her fingers dancing over the fine strings, manipulating them to the rhythmic clack clack of the shuttle sailing back and forth across the sea of threads. A large table behind her is piled high with rolls of embroidered silk, linens, and the finest cotton. She rises from her seat. Her dress is an exquisite shade of lilac, like summer wisteria, embroidered with delicate cranes and swirling clouds, all in subtle shades of purple. A long sheer sash wraps around her waist and her water sleeves trail on the floor. In the fashion favoured by most Celestials, her hair is set in a triple loop perched on the top of her head, each section pinned with an ornate hair comb, studded with coral and pearls. Additional ornaments of gold and silver filagree adorn her hair, flowers and butterflies flutter and dance with her every movement. She folds her hands at her waist, gaze demurely on the ground.

I bow. ‘Lady Gi.’

‘Lady Jing, what a surprise.’ Her voice is neither warm nor welcoming. Unsurprising given she lost her favourite jade hair comb to me in our last game of kanhoo.

‘I need a changpao,’ I say.

She spends some time smoothing out a non-existent crease in her dress, still not looking at me. ‘And why would I help you?’

‘I can pay,’ Mr Lee pipes up.

Rotted turds, I forgot to tell him to keep his mouth shut. Yang qi fills the room. Lady Gi’s head snaps up, her eyes blaze green. The skin on her face tightens dramatically, and her mouth stretches wide, wider than should be possible. The sash at her waist whips towards Mr Lee, and slithers around him, binding his arms and covering his nose and mouth. He struggles against his bindings, but the sash holds him tight.

I lean the blade of my sword against the sheer mauve fabric, with enough pressure to make Lady Gi look my way.

She frowns. ‘What is the meaning of this, Jing?’

‘Sorry, you can’t eat him. He’s Big Wang’s guest.’

‘And? What do I care of Big Wang?’ She tugs the sash, forcing me to either lessen the pressure or slice into the fabric. If I ruin her dress, I’ll never hear the end of it.

I lift the blade. ‘You live in Hell.’

‘I’m the Jade Emperor’s daughter. Big Wang is not the boss of me.’

‘Yeah, Gigi, but your daddy kicked you out of the Celestial realms. Until he forgives you, you’re stuck here. I wouldn’t piss off Big Wang. He might cut off your credit line at the Mahjong Hall.’

She gives me a look that would turn a mortal to stone. Mr Lee’s muffled groans are growing faint. I hurry to the point, but drawl my words slowly. It would not do to give away my hand.

‘I heard something that might interest you.’

‘Oh?’

‘You’ll need to unwrap him. If he dies, I won’t tell you.’

‘Tell me.’ Her voice resonates with Celestial command.

Mr Lee stumbles from the effects of her compulsion. His complexion goes grey as the roof tiles.

I flick my hair. ‘You know that Celestial dog-fart doesn’t work on me.’

‘Suit yourself. I don’t want to know, anyway.’

It’s my turn to smooth a non-existent crease. ‘That’s too bad. Poor Lang. I guess you don’t care.’

The sash immediately loosens from around Mr Lee’s face, but doesn’t release him. She’s playing nonchalant, but I caught the way her hands tensed when I mentioned her long-distance boyfriend.

‘What did you hear about Lang?’

‘Agree to fit him a changpao, and shorten his trousers to fit me, and I’ll tell you.’

She glares at me, the longing clear in her eyes, and the suspicion. ‘How do I know what you have is worthwhile?’

‘You don’t.’

I see her struggle between want and wanting to smack me. She knows my information almost always comes from Old Zao or Big Wang himself. The sash unwinds from Mr Lee; he drops to his knees, hand to his throat, gasping for air.

He glares at me. ‘Safe?’ he mouths.

I shrug. He’s not dead. That’s safe enough for me. A long grey changpao appears, hovering beside Mr Lee. I shake my head. ‘Not grey. He’s not an indentured servant. Make it black.’

The changpao changes colour and folds itself on the floor next to Mr Lee.

‘Off you go,’ I tell him. ‘You can change in the next room.’

He staggers to his feet, still scowling at me. My conscience pricks in response but I shake the unwelcome feeling away.

Mr Lee turns to Lady Gi and bows low. ‘This unworthy one labours your procession. May your exalted glory contain this borrowed light. Manifold gratitude by your fortune,’ he says, still a little breathless from being nearly asphyxiated, before disappearing to change.

Lady Gi practically wriggles with pleasure at the fancy platitudes. She eats up that flowery shit.

‘Spill your tea,’ she says, tone razor-edged.

I check my nails, make her wait. When I think she might explode from impatience, I say, ‘I heard Lang managed to get himself a pass to visit Hell.’

She goes limp for moment – her arms, the muscles in her face, I worry she might faint. But then her hand flutters over her chest, and she pats her hair as if Lang might walk in at any moment. ‘Do you know when?’ Her voice is breathless.

‘Next week. Big Wang will let you know the day.’

She holds a dainty hand over her mouth, attempting to hide her emotions. But her eyes glisten. Everyone knows her story – she gets called back for a family dinner with the Jade Emperor once a year. After dinner, she spends the evening with Lang until the sun rises and she has to return to Hell. It’s been that way for centuries.

‘You sometimes play mahjong with those b—’ I catch myself and reset my mouth, ‘emissaries from the Hulijing Court.’

‘Only the junior ones,’ she answers airily, but then her gaze narrows. ‘Why? You hate them. You call them “the foul spawn of rotted carp”, “those bosom-heaving turd for brain bitches”, “the rotted—” ’

‘Okay okay,’ I hiss, glancing towards the other room. I press on. ‘Them. Have they been asking about anything out of the ordinary? Or talking about visiting specific places in Hell while they’re here?’

‘Why do you want to know?’ She crosses her arms and gives me that look. Damn. She’s calling my bluff.

I think fast. ‘Fine. I had a tiff with that Soo b—’ I press my lips together and try again. ‘I had a disagreement with Lady Soo and I want to make sure I am nowhere they might be.’

Gigi isn’t stupid, and she’s irritatingly observant. She doesn’t answer, just tilts her head and scrutinises me. We both turn as Mr Lee returns in his changpao. I’m out of time.

He strides towards us with the grace of a panther. How did I not notice that before? The changpao isn’t baggy like the jacket. It sits neatly across his wide shoulders, flowing over his muscled chest.

Before I can say anything, Gigi prowls around him, trailing her fingers across his back. He twitches at her touch and I’m inordinately pleased at his discomfort, though I don’t like the stink-eye he throws my way.

‘Dashing,’ Gigi says, standing far too close to him.

I suck my teeth and step between her and Mr Lee, shoving my sword into his arms. ‘Hold this,’ I say and snatch the suit from him.

I start unbuttoning my dress.

‘Jing!’ Lady Gi’s tone is shocked.

‘What? You’ve seen me change plenty of times.’ I wave dismissively at her.

‘I don’t mean me, I mean him,’ she says, giving Mr Lee a disapproving glare.

Mr Lee is red as a firecracker.

‘Oh. Turn around if it bothers you,’ I say.

He spins on his heel and covers his eyes for good measure. I can’t help giggling. Honestly, it’s like he’s never seen a woman’s body. I change quickly. The trousers are huge on me, as is the shirt. But Gigi passes her hands over the fabric, and it immediately shrinks to fit.

‘Much better,’ she says. ‘You can turn now, mortal.’

Mr Lee does as she says. I move into the basics of the Big Dipper sword form, to check I can move freely. It’s better than I could have imagined. I gather my qipao and take the sword from Mr Lee.

He looks away. ‘It suits you. You look nice.’ His tone is flat. He’s clearly still angry with me. Is he lying, or does he really mean what he said?

The compliment throws me. I don’t know what to do with my hands. I pull at the suit, then put my hands in my pocket. Finally, I just turn away.

Gigi smirks at me. ‘They’ve been talking about going to the dumpling house opposite Madame Meng’s while they’re here. They seem really excited about it, so I suggest you stay well away if you want to keep your handsome mortal to yourself.’

I splutter, grasping for a response while also being pleased she gave me the info. I didn’t think she would. Puzzle pieces slot together – the dumpling house is next to the Treasury. They are going to try to steal the dragon pearl. I knew it.

Mr Lee offers Gigi another deep bow. ‘This unworthy one offers your exalted glory one thousand years of abundant gratitude for your borrowed light.’

The ridiculous verbal acrobatics makes me snort long and loud. Gigi pulls the same frog-frown that Horsey does.

‘Jing, you are so uncultivated,’ she says.

I slap my fist into my hand and give her a melodramatic bow. ‘A cornucopia of gold orchid gratitude for the honourable, fragrant one. Stay your beautiful steps; this humble one weeps as the lone petal falls from the plum tree and retreats from your glorious light.’

‘Oh, please. Humble one? What a load of turgid shite. You don’t have a humble bone in your body. Get out,’ she says, but her words lack bite. She’s already sifting through the piles of fabric on the table, no doubt preparing a wardrobe for her boyfriend’s visit.

I skip out of her house, pleased at my successful sleuthing, and at my new trousers. I practice different walks. Lifting my legs high, spreading them wide, squatting low. These trousers are genius. I’m never going back, no matter what Horsey says.

Though the night sky never lifts, the songbirds know it’s morning and tittering fills the lanes of the Old City. Their tiny wings flash against the ever-gloom of Hell like twinkling stars. A coral-throated sunbird flits across the narrow lane, its jade green tails dancing on the breeze. I watch it soar over the grey tiled eaves.

‘You lied to me, again.’ Mr Lee says.

I ignore him and keep walking, but he doesn’t follow. He’s stopped in the middle of the lane with his arms crossed, face impassive. Tian. Pandering to his ego was not part of my deal.

‘You were safe enough,’ I say, annoyed at having to justify myself.

‘I almost died. How is that safe?’

‘Mild discomfort is nothing to whine about, mortal,’ I say with a snarl. ‘My job is to keep you alive and unsullied. Have I not already shown you I am more than capable of doing so?’

Mr Lee is unmoved by my show of anger. His top lip tightens, and instead of the cowering I had expected, he stands taller. ‘You may insult me, threaten me, abuse me. I willingly accept all of that because you saved this unworthy one’s life and deign to escort this mortal despite the task being beneath Lady Jing’s status. However, I must speak plain. Lying is the path of cowards. I cannot abide it. If something is dangerous, tell me. I will do my best not to bring shame upon you with my actions, but only so long as you do not lie to me. I cannot prepare if you don’t tell me what’s going on.’

Lying is the path of cowards? He doesn’t know anything.

‘I—’ I start, intending to give him the scolding of his life, but his gaze is so open and trusting, it’s as if he’s used Celestial voice on me; I cannot bring myself to speak harshly to him. ‘I am not accustomed to honesty,’ I say, the words surprising me. And they keep coming. ‘Lying has been the way of my world for as long as I can remember. Lies are the broken planks that keep me from drowning in all the shite that gets thrown my way.’

I am shocked by my confession, unsettled by our exchange and, despite knowing better, curious about this strange mortal. He is a coward and fool no doubt, and yet, there is an unexpected fierceness in him too. His eyes go from cold to warm and suddenly the connection is too much. He opens his mouth, but I glare at him, then turn on my heel and stride away.

This time Mr Lee follows. As we weave through the tangled lanes of the Old City, he touches my arm. ‘I didn’t know you were so accomplished in court manners; you have a creative flair for expression,’ he says in a tone so sardonic I can’t stop my lip from quirking. He smiles at me, his previous ire nowhere to be seen. The tension between us is suddenly gone.

Balancing Mafan in the crook of my arm, I clasp my hands together at waist height, hold my arms stiff a handspan from my body, and stand like I have a sword pole shoved up my butt. I mimic Horsey’s nasally voice. ‘Scholarship is the path to Propriety.’ I drop the uptight pose, return to my normal voice. ‘Horsey spent years drilling me on the classics. I know that drivel back to front.’

‘And you make such wonderful use of your knowledge.’

I finally smile. ‘I’m famished,’ I say, segueing the conversation towards my second destination. ‘Let’s go see Old Zao. They always have fresh xiao long bao.’ And the city’s freshest gossip.

If anyone knows about Soo’s movements, it’ll be Old Zao. They have their statuettes in kitchens all over yin Shanghai; all the tea is whispered direct into Old Zao’s ears. We wind through more narrow lanes, each house more ridiculously ornate than the last as we near Yuyuan Gardens. Gold gilt, intricately carved reliefs, multicolour glazed tile eaves, facades dripping with lapis, jade, pearls, and coral.

Mr Lee gawps, his jaw dropping ever lower as we make our way to the heart of the walled city. ‘Our Old City definitely does not look like this,’ he says, eyes round as he takes in the ostentatious ornamentation.

‘Many of the ministers have homes here. They’re all a bunch of peacocks. Can’t help showing off.’

We pass under an arch decorated with dangling ropes of freshwater pearls. They tinkle as they sway.

‘Is Lady Gi the famous lady weaver?’ Mr Lee asks. ‘And Lang, the famous cowherd?’

I nod, unsurprised he should know her story. She’s famous in both the mortal and immortal realms.

Mr Lee presses a hand to his chest. ‘Tian. I’m meeting legends. The princess who snuck out of the palace and fell in love with a mortal cowherd! This is beyond what I ever imagined. Why is Lady Gi in Hell? I thought she lived in the Celestial realms.’

‘Well, stories have a tendency to take on a life of their own. Gigi never was bound to the palace, and Lang never was a mortal. He’s a son of one of the minor agricultural Celestials. What got Gigi in trouble was neglecting her duties. She spent all her time with Lang and completely forgot she’d promised to dress the Jade Emperor’s retinue for their first appearance at the Convention of Immortals, a prestigious international conference. Her dad—’

‘She’s really the Jade Emperor’s daughter?’

‘Yup. He grounded her and sent her to Hell as punishment. Big Wang is doing the Jade Emperor a favour by letting her stay here.’

‘I don’t understand,’ he says. ‘I thought only yao lived in Hell while jing all lived in the Celestial realm.’

I laugh. ‘No, yaojing live all over Tian! A lot of deities from the Celestial realm have second homes here; coming to Hell and its urban landscape is a complete change of scenery for the Celestial deities used to mountains and oceans. Many denizens of Hell also have second homes in the Celestial realms. They get to enjoy sunsets and starlight.’

‘You sound wistful. Have you never been to the Celestial realms?’ Mr Lee leans against a house covered in a delicate mosaic of silver, gold and ebony depicting a black dragon undulating through a wintry landscape.

‘I was born there, but I left when I was very young. Best not lean on that house, Mr Lee. It’s Lord Black, the Dragon King of the North’s holiday home. If you damage his portrait . . .’ I slice my finger across my neck.

He practically jumps to the centre of the lane, trying to hide behind me. I think about telling him that Lord Black is unlikely to rise much before late afternoon, if he’s made it home at all, but the way Mr Lee keeps checking behind him like Lord Black is going to pop out from one of the paper screen windows makes me chuckle, so I keep that titbit to myself.

We turn a corner and step from the warren of Old City lanes into Yuyuan Gardens, a wild oasis of cascading willow trees, wind-carved stones, and lakes dappled with shadows and red pavilions. We skirt around the lakes, towards the zigzag bridge that leads us to the Lake Heart Pavilion and Old Zao’s kitchen.

I walk quickly onto the bridge, but Mr Lee stops when we’re halfway across.

‘I hadn’t realised how neglected our own Yuyuan gardens have become. This place is extraordinary.’

As he turns on the wooden boards, taking in the scenery, the bridge creaks and groans beneath us.

My stomach growls and I’m impatient for Old Zao’s xiao long bao, but more importantly, my feet itch to get off the water. When I’m in motion I can handle the fear. But standing here makes me hyper-aware that I’m surrounded by water. There’s no way I’m going to admit that weakness to a mortal so I force myself to stay with Mr Lee. He strolls slowly, enjoying the views. All I want to do is swing him over my shoulder and run.

My chest goes tight. I find it hard to breathe.

‘Are you well, Lady Jing?’

‘I’m fine.’ The cold crawls up my legs over my stomach and settles like a block of ice on my chest. I focus on trying to get air into my lungs.

‘Could you maybe, move over a little?’ Mr Lee’s voice interrupts me mid-gasp. He gestures to my side.

It’s only now I realise I’m standing in the middle of the narrow bridge, and he’s squashed up against the railing in an effort to maintain a proper distance between us. I shift to the right.

‘Maybe a tiny bit more,’ he encourages.

‘I already have!’ My voice is shrill. I’m breathing in gasps. I should run ahead. Leave the mortal. But something is wrong with my legs. I can’t move.

‘Are you sure you’re alright?’

I can only nod. The railing looms too close for comfort and yet, if Mr Lee gives me any more room he’ll end up in the lake. I squeeze my eyes shut and take a big step to the side.

When I open my eyes, the water laps the edge of the bridge. I imagine my foot slipping, the cold water slithering up my neck. Not real, I tell myself. Not real. But the chill rises within me, its flinty tang fills my mouth, covers my ears, until I can’t tell if the water closing over my head is imagined or real.

‘Lady Jing!’ Mr Lee’s voice is muffled, like I’m already submerged.

The icy dark has me in its grip.

When I open my eyes, I’m in the tea room off Old Zao’s kitchen, laid out on one of the rattan daybeds. Despite the summer heat, I’m shivering badly, toes burning with cold. I sit up. A thick layer of blankets tumble off me.

Old Zao bustles in with a cup of hot tea. ‘Oh good, you’re awake. Drink this.’

I wrap my freezing fingers around the china cup, try to press the warmth into me.

‘You gave us a fright.’ They touch the back of their hand to my forehead. ‘You need to warm up. I’ll make you some blood bao.’ Old Zao gives me a coy look. ‘You are escorting a mortal around Shanghai. Any chance he might have had a run-in with some jiangshi the other night?’

I laugh into my tea. ‘Please tell me you didn’t let anyone eat him.’

Old Zao waves their hand. ‘Some bodyguard you are. You know better than to dawdle on the bridge. Last time you were caught in the rain, your primordial qi was badly drained. You might be immortal, but you are not invincible.’

I hide my face and groan. ‘Don’t remind me. It’s not my fault he was dawdling on the bridge and gaping like a tourist.’

Old Zao squeezes my shoulder. ‘Come on. Your little mortal is eating xiao long bao in the kitchen.’

They help me up and keep hold of me until they’re sure I’m not about to faint again. My stomach makes a loud gurgling sound. When I enter the steaming kitchen, Mr Lee immediately stands. The heat warms my skin a little but doesn’t reach into that chill in my bones.

Old Zao takes up their position at the table and starts making my xiao long bao. They triple the regular dose of blood cubes for each dumpling. I join Mr Lee at the end of the table where Old Zao has set him up with his own basket of xiao long bao.

‘You are well?’

I nod. ‘Apologies for frightening you. I should have told you, I’m not good on bridges. I—’ I gaze down at my hands, try not to fidget. ‘I don’t like water.’

‘All water? Or just large bodies?’

‘In a glass is fine, or a bathtub. Anywhere else, no thank you.’ I sigh. ‘Don’t mention this to Big Wang, ok? I don’t want him to think I’m incapable of chaperoning a mortal.’

Mr Lee narrows his eyes. ‘Talking to you is like squeezing blood from a piece of jade. Does he know how water affects you?’

I’m still feeling woozy, panicky, and cold. ‘We don’t talk about it. I’m usually very careful not to let it affect me.’

Mr Lee stills, a xiao long bao half to his mouth. ‘If it bothers you so much, why did you bring me here? Surely there are other places we could eat.’

‘I live here. And Old Zao makes the best xiao long bao.’

He looks at me like I’ve grown three heads. ‘You have a phobia of water, and yet you live in a pavilion in the centre of a lake.’

‘I like where I live. Being inside a building, up a flight of stairs, somehow that makes it okay. But bridges and water, I can’t linger.’ I shrug, unable to explain things better than that.

Mr Lee scratches his head. ‘These bao are indeed delicious. And I can’t fault the location. It is beautiful here.’

Old Zao puts a freshly steamed basket in front of me. They pass me a pair of chopsticks and a small dish of sliced ginger and black vinegar.

I pick up a mouth-sized parcel and take a careful bite. The taste makes me groan, it’s so good.

‘Yours are different from mine.’

I open my eyes to see Mr Lee picking up one of my blood bao. Before Old Zao can react, I catch the bao in Mr Lee’s chopsticks between mine. ‘You can’t eat that.’

He leans back. ‘Why not?’

I can’t bring myself to say it, feeling self-conscious about my need for blood.

Old Zao wades into the awkward silence. ‘I’ve added women’s herbs and pig’s blood for Lady Jing to recover her strength. Better you don’t eat hers; I will steam you some more.’

Mr Lee releases the bao; but my chopsticks get tangled with his and I lose my grip on the bao too. The xiao long bao splats on the table, oozing a crimson juice. We both stare at the broken dumpling, its reddish-black contents spilling from the translucent wrapping.

Old Zao sweeps the broken bao away with a cloth.

‘Please forgive my presumption,’ Mr Lee says. ‘You need your sustenance, especially since you fainted. Please.’ He gestures to my basket, curls of steam rising from the almost translucent dumplings.

I eat without pleasure, though with each bite the chill recedes. It’s been a long time since I was caught unawares.

‘I like the clothes, Lady Jing,’ Old Zao says as they join us with their own basket of xiao long bao. ‘They suit you. Though, I think it will take Lord Ma some getting used to, seeing you like that.’

The thought of Horsey’s frown puts me in a better mood. ‘I’m going to wear this outfit every day. The freedom is extraordinary. You should ask Lady Gi to make you a Western-style suit. I bet you’d look very modern.’

Old Zao strokes their dragon beard, nodding to themself. ‘Yes. Wouldn’t I make a grand entrance to the Mahjong Council?’

While Old Zao eats their xiao long bao, I glance at Mr Lee, giving him a sickly-sweet smile. ‘Mr Lee, could I mafan you with a little errand?’

He sits up, eager. Just as I predicted. ‘No mafan,’ he says. ‘What do you need?’

‘Run my qipao upstairs to my room?’

‘T-t-to your room?’ He balks, staring between me and Old Zao, no doubt scandalised by the idea of entering a woman’s chambers.

Old Zao has folded their arms, clearly waiting to see what I am up to. They know me well enough to know I’m spewing dog farts.

Channelling Gigi when she’s sweet talking one of Big Wang’s guards into letting her break curfew, I pull on a simpering smile, and press the back of my hand to my forehead. ‘I still feel a little woozy.’ I glance up at him, make that soft feminine mewl Gigi makes which seems to make the guards melt. ‘You’re right, I’m being silly. It’s only a few flights of stairs. I’ll be fine.’ I stand, then make sure to sway very slightly while holding the table.

Old Zao breaks into a coughing fit. I don’t dare look at them.

‘No – Lady Jing, please, sit. I’ll do it. Where do I go?’

‘Up the stairs; please could you hang it on a hanger? There should be one near the clothes cabinet. Thank you.’

He disappears, clutching my dress.

‘Just so you know, you are the worst actress, ever,’ Old Zao whispers, their whole body shaking from repressed laughter.

I lean forward, not wanting to waste a single precious second. ‘I need a favour.’

Old Zao mirrors my posture, leaning in with a conspiratorial twinkle in their eyes. ‘Mmmhhhh,’ they say.

‘Have any of your little ears heard anything about Lady Soo and what she might be up to?’

When Mr Lee returns, we take our leave. I know where I need to go next – the Treasury. Apparently, the whispers have it that Lady Soo has been making enquiries about where the dragon pearl is being kept.

Mr Lee bows to Old Zao. ‘Abundant gratitude to the exalted God of the Hearths of Hell for your generosity and hospitality. Those were the best xiao long bao I have ever tasted.’

Old Zao bows in return and gives me a knowing wink. I don’t tarry on the bridge this time, I run ahead, carrying the sword of Hell and wait for Mr Lee on terra firma.

He pauses at the bottom of the stairs. ‘I know escorting me is a big inconvenience, and I appreciate your efforts. But—’

I try to dismiss whatever he’s about to say. I’m not in the mood. But he raises his hand, and something in his expression holds my tongue.

‘But,’ he repeats, ‘I’d like to return to the hotel. You should rest. I don’t want you to put your health in jeopardy. You— You don’t look well. In fact, your lips are still blue. We can continue again later this afternoon, or even tomorrow. And— Lady Jing, if there is something that makes you uncomfortable, or unwell, please do not lie about it. I do not wish for you to suffer on my account.’

I don’t know what to say. I’m good at fighting and insulting and spitting. I remind myself, this mortal is merely a means to an end. His gaze is soft and concerned and I want to pinch his eyes shut so he can’t look at me like that.

Focus, Jing. I have a goal today, and that is to be a thorn in Soo’s side. I nod, more to myself to stay the course. I change the subject. ‘I bet you’ve never met a pixiu?’

‘You mean those flying, furry, fire-breathing monstrosities? Aren’t they vicious and dangerous?’

‘The fiercest creatures of legend!’ I declare proudly. ‘Cutie and Puffy are the best. You’ll love them.’

Mr Lee frowns. He looks like he wants to say something, but then he clasps his hands behind his back. ‘Cutie and Puffy?’

‘The Jade Emperor gifted Big Wang a pair of pixiu shortly after I was brought to yin Shanghai. Big Wang let me name them.’

Mr Lee presses his lips together, failing to hide his amusement. ‘You named two of the’ – he clears his throat – ‘fiercest creatures of legend, Cutie and Puffy?’

He covers his mouth, but I can see his shoulders shaking.

I huff. ‘I was only seven.’

‘Very well,’ he manages between swallowed laughs. ‘Lead on, Lady Jing.’

Ten

Guards

We stop at Madame Meng’s teahouse, not far from the north gate of the Old City. The teahouse itself is a small, modest building. Single storey, grey brick, with matching grey roof tiles. No windows. White silk lanterns sway gently from the tree branches, setting the round, white paving stones which meander through the courtyard aglow like moons floating on water. I’ll stash Mr Lee with her while I get the dragon pearl.

Mr Lee glances towards the house. ‘Is this where the pixiu are kept?’

‘No, they guard the Treasury across the street. This is Madame Meng’s teahouse.’

The gentle smile falls from his face, and his eyes go wide. He is such a child. ‘Why the teahouse?’

‘I need to prepare the pixiu so they will know you are a friend,’ I say, biting back my impatience and trying to be reassuring. ‘They don’t get many guests. While I do that, you can chat with Madame Meng. She always has interesting things to say.’

He shrinks from me. ‘But isn’t this the gateway to the Naihe Bridge? Didn’t Big Wang say not to bring me here?’

I school my irritation. ‘Big Wang said you aren’t to cross the bridge. Madame Meng would never let you unless it was your time. Nothing will happen to you. It’s perfectly safe so long as you only drink from her personal teacups, not the ones she uses for her tea of oblivion.’

‘Your understanding of “safe” is not the same as mine.’ There’s no bite to his words but I feel a pinch regardless. He gingerly puts a hand on a wooden post and peers inside.

I hold my arm out and try to tone down my impatience. ‘Come on. Madame Meng is a benevolent deity. Who knows, she may even deem you worthy of her wisdom.’

He runs a hand through his hair before taking my arm. I have to pull a little before his feet unstick from the ground.

‘I don’t want to die,’ he whispers.

I’m about to retort he shouldn’t have come to Hell, but the rawness in his gaze tempers my anger.

‘Why are you here, then?’ comes out instead.

His dark brows draw together and he looks so vulnerable I almost feel bad I’m using him for my own ends. But then his gaze goes glassy and hard.

He straightens. ‘I have my reasons.’ His tone makes it clear he will say no more.

I shrug, annoyed at myself for bothering to ask. I grab the thick iron ring hanging from the middle of the door and knock a little harder than I mean to.

The door opens with a soft whoosh. We enter a simple room. A plain hewn table sits in the centre, two drum stools either side. The walls of the room are lined floor to ceiling with narrow shelves divided further into small square compartments, each one holding a single teacup.

‘How—’ Mr Lee whispers as he cranes his neck upwards, trying to see all the cups. The walls inside rise as far as the eye can see, and then some.

‘Little Jing, what a pleasure. And you brought a guest. Welcome.’ Madame Meng’s voice sounds the way mulberry paper feels, soft and dry. She stands next to Mr Lee gazing upwards at her collection of teacups. There are cast iron cups, fine porcelain, glass, carved jade, ceramic, wood, bamboo, in all different shapes and colours.

Mr Lee remembers himself and bows hastily. ‘Venerable Madame Meng, ten thousand years of good health. I am Tony Lee.’

She inclines her head gracefully. ‘You were wondering about the space, were you not?’ She gestures upwards. ‘My teahouse straddles the Dark City and the Yellow Spring.’

At Mr Lee’s bewildered expression, she explains, ‘The Dark City is what we old timers call yin Shanghai. And the Yellow Spring is where the bridge takes the souls for reincarnation. In any case, the rules of physical space are different here.’

Mr Lee nods, though I’m not sure he understands. He’s still staring upwards, jaw slack.

‘Madame Meng, I thought you might like to chat with Mr Lee, since it’s rare we have a mortal visitor, while I ready Cutie and Puffy to meet him.’

Madame Meng claps her hands together. ‘Wonderful! I would love to hear all about you, Tony Lee. Why don’t you join me for a cup of tea?’

Mr Lee blanches. ‘I—’

‘Not that kind,’ she says, eyes crinkling. She flicks her gaze upwards to her wall of teacups. ‘Those are for my travellers, to prepare them for the Yellow Spring. When you are ready you too will drink from one of those cups. But it is not yet your time, young man.’ She glances at me. ‘Off you go, Little Jing. I’ll take good care of your mortal. Sit, sit.’ She gestures to the stool and shuffles to a cabinet against the wall.

I bow low. ‘Contain my rudeness, Madame Meng, I will be back very soon.’

Mr Lee looks nervous, but I ignore the pang of guilt that is becoming an unwelcome habit. Madame Meng will take good care of him, I tell myself. Though she’s a vicious kanhoo player, underneath it all she is really very sweet.

‘Take care of this for me,’ I say as I thrust Mafan into Mr Lee’s hands. I don’t want to risk hurting the pixiu and, though I wouldn’t admit this out loud, I feel better knowing Mr Lee has a means to protect himself if needed.

I hurry across the street towards the Treasury. It’s another fusion building, stone and columns on the outside, surrounded by sculpted greenery with an old well out front fed by an underground spring. The walls rise ten stories in height, sheer and windowless; but inside is a cosy siheyuan, four long pavilions surround a spacious courtyard for the pixiu to play and sleep.

Only two guards patrol the perimeter since Cutie and Puffy are enough to deter most would-be thieves. As soon as the guard turns the corner, I launch myself across the street and am halfway up the wall before he’s taken two strides. It’s nothing to slip over the wall and land lightly on the grey tiles of the southern pavilion.

Cutie stands on her hind legs, her white bearded chin resting on the roof tiles between huge paws, waiting for me. She chitters and wiggles her bottom so ferociously her entire body wags along, from her fur-tipped tail to her snowy feathered wings.

I run over to her, laughing. ‘Hello Cutie.’ I sink my fingers into the thick mane around her furry face, and scratch behind her ears. Her chittering slows into something almost like hiccups. ‘I’m happy to see you too, xiao baobao.’

I hug her tight, burying my face in her tawny fur. She’s warm and smells of dust and the faint fresh whiff of soap from the last time I bathed her. There’s a rhythmic thudding and I look up in time to see Puffy, an oversized, black, winged furball, bounding through the courtyard, chittering excitedly. I scramble back just as she knocks into Cutie, and they both tumble in a tangle of legs and tails and wings. Cutie growl-caws her irritation. But Puffy is oblivious, tail wagging so hard she keeps smacking Cutie in the face.

I hop down, and Puffy bowls into me, like she did as a cub. Except she doesn’t fit on my lap anymore. She’s twice my height, each paw bigger than my head. She pins me down, one of those huge paws on my chest – all black but for one white toe – while she methodically licks my face with her scratchy tongue.

Laughing, I try to block her tongue with my arms, but everything just gets slobbered on. ‘Okay, okay, Puffy, stop! I’m glad to see you too.’

She huffs that way she does when she’s laughing at me, a succession of quick bursts of breath – huh-huh-huh-huh, her tongue hanging out one side of her mouth. I kiss her cold, wet nose.

‘Any chance you’ve seen anyone poking around? Any hulijing by the name of Lady Soo?’

Puffy sits back on her haunches, and Cutie finally deigns to join her. They sit like statues as they consider my question. Then Puffy’s scratchy tongue smacks my face and I’m showered with more pixiu slobber and hot stinky breath.

Using my sleeve, I dry my face. ‘I guess not, huh?’

Puffy topples backwards, landing with a hard thunk against the ground. She paws the air, her way of saying she wants a belly rub. I oblige, and coo at her. Cutie stretches out next to us, her tail wagging languidly as I take turns rubbing their bellies. I tell them about Mr Lee and that I’ll be bringing him over to meet them. The pixiu are calm; they are open to being introduced. Though they can’t speak, they are very clear when they don’t like something or someone.

There’s an odd noise, and both of them are on their feet, ears twitching, wings tensed as they sniff the air for threats. Cutie launches herself forward into the pavilion that leads to the external entrance, while Puffy lopes to the left through a doorway in the western pavilion.

I follow Puffy into the first of the interconnected rooms. The cool air hits me with a gentle slap, bringing with it the scent of camphor and dust. There are no lights, but I know the layout well from long afternoons spent playing with the pixiu. Cabinets and drawers line the walls of each room, leaving the middle empty so the pixiu have space to move. We proceed silently through each pavilion until Puffy pauses in the fifth room of the southern pavilion. I move around her. She’s sniffing an open drawer. Someone was here.

Puffy’s ears twitch and she moves away, stalking into the next room; nothing was stolen, otherwise she would be alerting the guards with an extended, high-pitched screech. I inspect the open drawer – there’s nothing in it but a small card stating the Longnu dragon pearl was removed five years ago. I stare at the card and the sound I make is halfway to a brittle laugh. That old sour anger twists in my gut. I slam the drawer shut.

Is this why Big Wang wasn’t bothered by Lady Soo’s threat? The pearl was safe somewhere else? Is this why he told me to leave things alone? For the first time I understand Mr Lee’s frustration with my half-truths. If Big Wang had told me he’d moved the dragon pearl, he would have saved me from wasting my time with the damned mortal.

A roar followed by a high-pitched whine shatters the muffled silence. I run towards the sound. Puffy is on the ground, whining and holding her paw close to her body. A wooden stake as thick as my leg juts out from the soft pad of her paw. I catch a whiff of honeyed fish and a flash of yellow silk disappearing around the corner of the hall, heading towards the main entrance. Soo.

I can’t leave Puffy like this. Putting my faith in Cutie, I deal with Puffy’s paw, pulling the stake out as smoothly and quickly as I can. The thing is as long as my arm. Luckily, pixiu heal quickly, so I leave Puffy and give chase.

Another roar, this time from the entrance. Cutie. I run faster. She screeches, sounding the alarm. But then she stops. There’s a whoosh then the distinct sound of crackling flames. I round the corner to the main entrance. The smell of chilli peppers hits me hard. Cutie paws at her eyes, bucking and whining and knocking over tables as she rears back and forth. In her pain and panic she’s spewing flames.

I grab one of the emergency buckets of water lining the main foyer. ‘Cutie, calm!’ I shout. ‘Calm!’ She slows, body still twitching violently but she’s no longer thrashing. I keep talking, reassuring her, telling her what I’m doing as I run up her back and pour water into her eyes to rinse out the chilli spray.

‘Down, Cutie, I’m gonna get another bucket!’ I say.

Her eyes are red and swollen. Three more buckets into her eyes before she stops shaking. The crackling grows in intensity, flames licking the walls and filling the hallway. I realise with a start we have to get out. I whistle long and loud, calling Puffy. There’s no response.

I lead Cutie towards the doors, slide open the wooden bolts, and lurch out to safety. Again, I whistle, listening hard for Puffy’s call. Seconds pass.

My fingers twist in Cutie’s fur, waiting. She can’t have been caught . . . But then, over the flames and the popping wood, I hear it. A rumbling caw. A heartbeat later, Puffy lands outside the entrance.

I’m about to call the perimeter guards to tell them about the fire when a whole contingent of Big Wang’s guards round the corner by Madame Meng’s teahouse.

I wave them down. ‘The Treasury is on fire! Puffy hurt her paw!’ I shout at the guards. They hurry towards me and shuffle into formation, separating into two groups of around twenty guards. The first group runs towards the well in the garden and forms a chain, passing buckets of water to douse the fire. The second group, however, fans out into a large circle around me and the pixiu. They draw their swords and my relief turns sour.

‘What’s going on?’ I ask, backing into Cutie and Puffy.

One of the guards surrounding me steps forward. Cutie and Puffy growl in warning, but the guard is calm, keeps his distance. My nose twitches and my eyes water from the smoke.

‘I am Captain Zhao Xiuping,’ he says bowing. ‘Lady Jing, we need you to come with us back to the Cathay Hotel.’

‘Wait, why?’ I hate the whine that creeps into my words. Does Big Wang have something else he needs to scold me about? ‘I came to visit the pixiu and saw Lady Soo in the Treasury. She stabbed Puffy then threw chilli powder at Cutie to make her start a fire.’

Captain Zhao sweeps his sharp, black eyes down my body. I follow his gaze. My suit is covered in streaks of soot, charred in places.

‘Lady Jing, you went too far this time. We all know you love your pranks, but Big Wang will be upset at the damage. Don’t make a scene.’ Captain Zhao’s words are quiet, but firm.

There’s too much history between the guards and me. I almost laugh but the humiliation burns too hot and the heat of it licks up my face. Soo’s outmanoeuvred me, again. I snarl, and the pixiu echo my reactions. Their snarl however makes the ground tremble. The guards raise their swords, an act of aggression which only riles the pixiu even more.

‘For the love of Tian don’t provoke the pixiu! They are here to protect the Treasury. It’s Soo you should interrogate.’ I blink, trying to get rid of the growing burn in my eyes.

‘Don’t be fooled by her pretty words,’ another guard urges. ‘She’s using her control over the pixiu to go against you,’ he says to Zhao.

‘Where’s Old Hu?’ I say desperately. ‘He’s their handler, he’ll tell you they are loyal to the guard and to the Treasury.’

The guards don’t look convinced. A dozen blue flaming swords point at my furry charges. The guards could inflict real damage on the pixiu, damage they wouldn’t recover from.

‘Down,’ I say to Cutie and Puffy. ‘You must listen to the guards.’

Puffy whines and nudges me with her nose.

‘It’s okay,’ I reassure her. ‘Obey the guards. I’ll be fine.’

Cutie seems confused. She paws at her eyes. I keep a hand on her neck, letting her know she’s safe. I take stock of the guards – many of them are Bullhead’s underlings. Not his elite troops, but his third-rate guards.

‘Why you?’ I say.

Captain Zhao blinks at me, confused. ‘We are to escort—’

‘Yes, I heard you, but why aren’t Lord Nioh or Lord Ma here?’

‘We are the South Wind elite division—’

‘Blah blah blah blah. You are only the third division. Babies. Where is the North Wind troop?’

Captain Zhao’s eyes widen at my insult. The guards jab their blue flaming jian towards me, like I should be frightened.

‘Are we playing you show me yours I’ll show you mine?’ I smile as sweetly as I can, wishing I’d brought Mafan with me. Instead, I slowly remove my jacket. Captain Zhao splutters, his face goes red. I drop the nicey-nicey. ‘I am going nowhere with you turd-eggs.’

The guards confer with each other in low whispers, but their voices rise like puffs of steaming farts. Idiots either don’t realise or don’t care that I can hear every rotted word.

‘Not again,’ says one. ‘Do we have to?’

‘We have orders,’ Captain Zhao says, his tone full of rebuke. ‘She came out of a burning Treasury. This is a security matter. We must take her into custody.’

‘How are we gonna do that?’ yet another voice asks. ‘You’ve heard the stories. She’s a complete pain in the pigu.’

Another guard barks a short, harsh laugh. ‘The North Wind division all complain about her.’ He lowers his voice, casts a glance at me. I glower at him, but he’s already turned back to his comrades. ‘She used to run through the streets in nothing but her underclothes; they had to chase her down and force her to dress properly.’

They all look at me. ‘What is she wearing now?’

‘At least she’s got clothes on.’

A few of them chuckle. I feel the heat rising up my neck, reminding me why I hate spending time with anyone other than Bullhead and Horsey. At least those two have the balls to disparage me to my face.

‘She’s that arsonist,’ another guard pipes up. ‘The one who set fire to the robes of a Hulijing Court emissary.’

Tian. I threw a burning drink on that bitch the one time, and now I’m forever known as that arsonist. Rage fills me. He has no idea what he’s talking about. She got what she deserved.

‘She’s feral as a monkey,’ another says, tsking. ‘Poor Lord Ma. His hair has gone white from her antics.’

‘Lady Jing,’ Captain Zhao says. ‘You must come with us.’

Across the street, Mr Lee stands before the teahouse gate, Mafan clutched in his right hand and diminutive Madame Meng on his left. Both watch me with worried expressions. They must have heard all the commotion.

The guards rearrange themselves, and I see an opening between their flanks. A chance to escape. I’m faster than they are. I could easily outrun them, have done on more than one occasion. But I’d have to leave Mr Lee here. I glance at him. He’s none of my concern, and yet, that irritating guilt snaps at me like an angry tortoise. Damned inconvenient mortal.

If I allow the guards to take me, they could take both me and Mr Lee back to Big Wang. But then I’ll be punished. I accused Soo again without evidence or witness. No doubt she’ll hear of it and demand I apologise. And since I disobeyed Big Wang’s direct orders to stay away and stop causing mafan, no doubt he’ll force me to do it, just like before. I shake my head, back away from the guards. No way in Hells am I kowtowing to that bitch ever again.

Captain Zhao sheathes his sword, but does not relax his stance. ‘Please, Lady Jing, don’t make a scene.’

I can feel Mr Lee’s doe eyes on me. He’s got Mafan, I reason with myself. And Madame Meng. He’ll be fine. Shoving the guilt away, I snarl at Captain Zhao and run.

Eleven

The Dragon Pearl

The empty street should be an easy escape, but halfway to the next crossroad, another contingent of guards steps out from the lanes and blocks my way.

With their appearance, my nose starts to burn something fierce. I rub at it, but the pain doesn’t let up, it only increases, causing me to sneeze. I pivot, start to run in a different direction. I only manage a couple steps before I sneeze again, and then I can’t stop sneezing and it’s impossible to run at all.

A guard catches up to me and pulls a string of garlic from his pocket. My eyes water, my nose runs, and I am sneezing so hard I can barely see. He leans towards me. ‘You have no choice. Captain Zhao also has silver bi in his pocket. Don’t make us use it on you.’

If I could stop sneezing, if I could see, I would spit in his eye. Guards grab my hands, bind them with rope festooned with garlic and bring me back to Captain Zhao.

In between sneezes I gesture to Madame Meng’s. ‘Bring Mr Lee. Big Wang will want to see him.’ Not strictly true, but I can’t stop sneezing long enough to say more.

Captain Zhao jerks his head to his guards who surround Mr Lee and Mafan and bring him along.

We are herded down the Bund like a dysfunctional ghost-wedding procession. Except our guests are dour-faced guards. A few have their gazes trained on Mr Lee, their nostrils flaring as they smell his yang. The sneezing is relentless. Tears stream down my face as I stumble forward. We take up the entire width of the Bund as we sweep towards the hotel. Crowds of ghosts part for us to pass, staring in curiosity.

Captain Zhao and six of his guards squeeze into the tiny lift with Mr Lee and me. The small space makes the garlic around my hands, tucked into the guards’ pockets, and the silver bi Zhao carries, unbearable. I hunch against the wall, trying to distance myself. Impossible in the crowded lift as I hack and sniffle and sneeze.

When the lift releases us, I tense, ready to leap across the rooftops. Let the rotted guards chase me. They aren’t as fast as I am. Before I can get anywhere, a huge hand settles on my shoulder, holding me in place. Big Wang. He turns me to face him and unravels the rope from my wrists.

‘Why do you always do things the hard way?’ The familiar low rumble, that tone he always uses when he’s disappointed in me, sets my teeth on edge.

‘It wasn’t me!’ My voice is more whine than I intend, but I no longer care that the guards are watching. ‘I smelled Soo in the Treasury. It was her.’

‘Let’s talk inside.’

‘Why won’t you believe me?’

‘Enough, Little Jing.’ He laces his words with a hint of Celestial voice. ‘We have things to discuss.’

Captain Zhao gives Big Wang a crisp salute and leaves, as if he can’t get away fast enough.

I shuffle behind Big Wang, meek, obedient, resigned. Thumbing my nose at the guards is one thing; but I owe my life here to Big Wang. He never stoops so low as to rub my face in it, but even so, I never forget. I would be unforgivably foolish to bite the hand that brings me my blood.

Big Wang nods as he passes Mr Lee. ‘You too, Mr Lee. Come.’ He pauses, sees that Mr Lee is holding Mafan, and plucks the sword from the mortal’s grasp and hands it back to me.

A black-robed guard opens the terrace door for us. I recognise him. Captain Ren. He’s one of Bullhead’s most trusted captains. He’s head of the North Wind troop which was tasked with making sure I didn’t go streaking through Shanghai. Evading the guards was actually a lot of fun, though the guards never thought so. I also don’t think this particular guard has forgiven me for kneeing him in his virtuous peaches.

He blocks my way with an outstretched arm. Hmm. Definitely hasn’t forgiven me.

‘Captain Ren.’ I give him my demurest, most lady like bow.

‘You can’t bring that in with you.’

‘I don’t think I heard you right. What did you say?’ No one has ever stopped me from entering Big Wang’s quarters before, and certainly no one has ever tried to take anything from me. Usually it’s the opposite, trying to cover me in robes or blankets.

‘You can stand down, Captain Ren,’ Big Wang says.

The Captain salutes, standing immediately to attention. ‘Honourable Big Wang, Lord Nioh made it very clear no one was permitted in your quarters with weapons. He did not expressly exclude Lady Jing. I will be punished if I disobey my orders.’ He says all this in a forceful monotone. He still has his arm extended, so I can’t follow Big Wang.

I move to unsheathe Mafan, but Big Wang gives me a look to say wait. ‘How about I take the sword, and you let Little Jing pass?’

Captain Ren nods stiffly. I hand the sword to Big Wang around the Captain’s outstretched arm, which he drops as soon as the sword is out of my hand. I lean close as I pass him.

‘I miss our old games of cat and mouse,’ I say sweetly. ‘Maybe we can play again soon.’

His left eye twitches and I throw him a saucy wink.

We enter a large room filled with elegant furniture. Big Wang has a soft spot for the simple lines of Ming era furniture – four huali horseshoe-back chairs surround a low table. I spent hours practising my characters here, brush stroke after brush stroke, my only company, apart from a droning Horsey, were the funny faces made by the huali wood whorls. Big Wang’s fancy electric lights hum softly in the background. One of my paintings – a watercolour of Big Wang’s favourite tortoise – hangs on the wall opposite his desk.

Big Wang gestures for us to sit, so I sulk into my usual spot on the floor, while Mr Lee settles in one of the chairs, all bright-eyed and curious. I make a face but keep my head bowed low so Big Wang can’t catch me out. Small bowls filled with my favourite snacks dot the table: five-spice braised peanuts, dried cuttlefish, and crunchy fried dough knots sprinkled with powdered sugar. I snatch a knot and shove it in my mouth, chomping as obnoxiously as I can.

‘Nice suit.’ Big Wang leans Mafan against the wall then sits in the chair opposite me. ‘I recall Mr Lee wearing something very similar this morning. I’m guessing you and Little Gi have found harmony after your last game?’

I give him a non-committal shrug. He huffs; I think it’s more chuckle than irritation, but I’m never sure. He gives good mahjong face.

‘To the matter at hand. What did I tell you earlier today? Don’t cause any trouble. And yet, it’s not even noon and already you’ve caused a fire, insulted the guards, and tried to run.’ He shakes his head and exhales for a long time. ‘You are so mafan, Little Jing.’

‘I didn’t cause the fire. It was Soo. She was there to steal the dragon pearl.’

‘She has an alibi. Apparently, she was with the other hulijing handmaids and even one of the Eight Immortal Crew. Lord Han, I believe. We cannot risk another diplomatic incident between the Hulijing Court and the Ministry of Hell.’

‘How convenient for the lying sack of steaming shite.’

‘Little Jing, we do not refer to ministerial deities in such vulgar terms.’

I stand, not willing to listen to his claptrap. ‘Whatever. Did you know the pixiu are injured? Do you even care? Soo stabbed Puffy in the paw and threw chilli powder at Cutie! What if she blinded her?’

‘Sit down and hear me out for once.’ Big Wang’s command voice is harsher than usual. My knees bend in response and I sink to the floor in shock.

My lips curl, and I’m about to spew a whole litany of profanities when he puts a hand up and says, ‘I know you did not start the fire.’

I’m stunned into silence. But then I remember he just forced me to sit and anger loosens my tongue. ‘Then why in the flying Hearths of Hell am I here being scolded, again?’

‘Please, Little Jing, calm down. I am trying to explain.’ There is an edge to his voice I haven’t heard before. I take heed and bow my head in obeisance.

I stare at the familiar whorls in the table’s woodgrain, seeking out the old faces. I had imaginary conversations with them while Horsey paced behind me and droned on about the five principles of calligraphy – correct, concise, legible, scholarly, and elegant. Aiya! Where is your brush control? The character mirrors the writer. Effort makes the mind, Lady Jing! I shake off the old memories, the constant feeling of failure.

‘The plenary session went badly today. The hulijing used last night’s fracas with Lady Soo as evidence that my banking project is a personal vendetta to ruin the Hulijing Court.’ I hunch forward, as if I could disappear in the face of his disappointment. ‘You were right about the pearl, though,’ Big Wang continues. ‘Lady Soo asked me for the Longnu dragon pearl late last night when I joined the Council for a round of mahjong.’

I stiffen at his mention of the pearl.

‘What did—’ I start to say.

Big Wang holds his hand up, silencing me. ‘I told her no. It is not something I can give away.’

‘So Lady Soo did try to steal it.’ My laugh is harsh. ‘I told you. Where is it anyways? The note in the Treasury said it was moved.’

Big Wang waves away my words. ‘And I told you, it is not your concern. Old Hu has been sent to tend to the pixiu.’ He glances at me, at the frustration I can feel clinging to my face, then sighs. ‘Your grandmother wants the dragon pearl back. I imagine it has something to do with the Jade Emperor and the Queen Mother of the West refusing her petition to strip you of your title.’

‘They can have my title. I don’t want it.’

‘Mmmgh.’ It’s that noise Big Wang makes at the back of his throat that’s half grunt half exasperated sigh. ‘And yet,’ he continues, ‘it is your title. It is who you are whether you like it or not, and that is not something anyone can take away from you.’

‘Mmmgh,’ I grunt in return, dismissing the spiel I’ve heard too many times before. ‘What does the dragon pearl have anything to do with it, anyways? Why don’t you just sell it back to her and be done with it?’

‘When will you get it through that stubborn head of yours, the dragon pearl is not for sale. It is worth more than you know. I can never, will never, sell it. I made some enquiries and it seems your grandmother is worried my banking project will make yin silver redundant. She overheard Lord Black discussing the powers of the dragon pearl and believes it will give her the power to protect her court.’

‘Can the dragon pearl do that?’ I ask.

Big Wang huffs, amused. ‘Who knows what the dragon pearl can or can’t do. Lord Black is always so cryptic, you know what he’s like. Though, with the dragon pearl in our possession, any further challenge to your birthright would be considered a grave insult, not only to the Ministry of Hell but also to the dragons themselves.’

I drop my head to the table and speak with my face pressed into the wood. ‘Why don’t you listen to me? I don’t want that title. I will not be a minister, not for you, not for her.’

The room is quiet though I can almost hear the burning sizzle of Big Wang’s gaze.

Mr Lee breaks the silence. ‘Who is Lady Jing’s grandmother?’

Big Wang picks up a piece of dried cuttlefish. ‘Niang Niang, the matriarch of the Hulijing Court. I don’t think she’s ever forgiven me for taking such a treasure from her.’ He chews the cuttlefish and eyes me, waiting for my reaction.

I pluck a few peanuts from the bowl. With practiced nonchalance I toss them into my mouth one by one as I eye him right back, refusing to let him see how much his words sting. I give good mahjong face too.

Mr Lee breaks the mahjong face face-off with a panic-riddled, ‘Lady Jing is hulijing?’

‘Only half. The other half is vampire,’ I say.

‘Vam-pire?’ From the look on his face, he doesn’t know the term. The dough-knot he’s holding dusts his black changpao with powdered sugar.

‘Surely you’ve read Dracula? Or Varney the Vampire?’

He shakes his head; the dough-knot lays forgotten on his lap.

‘And you call yourself Mr Columbia-Yale? Pish! Dracula is fascinating! You really must read it – it’s all about this vampire, Dracula, an immortal from Transylvania who drinks mortal blood to live. He—’

Big Wang interrupts me. ‘Surely you haven’t read any of the banned books on vampires, Little Jing?’ His expression is genial, but I know better. ‘It was one of Niang Niang’s conditions for the truce between the Ministry of Hell and the Hulijing Court. The truce I was forced into after you set fire to one of Niang Niang’s handmaids.’

I channel every single lesson Horsey has ever given me on propriety: to signal my virtue, I fold my hands at my waist like the ladies of yore; I give him my gravest expression, full of duty and obedience – I’ve practiced in the mirror enough, even that long-dead stick in the mud Confucius would approve; finally I make my voice silky soft so it oozes meek deference and recite my favourite poem about the futility of resistance. ‘Though I slice the water with my sword, it still flows. Though I raise a cup to drown my sorrows, they only grow.’

Big Wang coughs into his fist. I’m pretty sure there was a laugh in there, because he knows the resistance I mean is not mine, but his in accepting me for who I am. I allow myself a smug smile. Mr Lee is still staring at me. I give him a quizzical look, but he doesn’t react.

‘Vampires do not exist in the realms of Tian,’ Big Wang explains to Mr Lee. ‘They are a foreign creation. Transylvania, I believe? Lady Jing is unique in all the Middle Kingdom, both yin and yang realms. She prefers mortal blood, though, like all spirits of Tian, yang energy can also sustain her.’

‘Half-hulijing. I see.’ Mr Lee looks a little green.

Stupid. I should have expected this. Mortals, especially mortal men, know the tales of hulijing. Beautiful women with pale, plump ta-tas practically spilling from their robes. They seduce unsuspecting men and then suck them dry of yang life force. I lack the ta-tas and the inclination to get romantic with idiot men. Breaking their necks is much more straightforward. And besides, I do have self-control, much as Horsey would deny it.

‘Those xiao long bao with the “herbs” you didn’t want me to eat, they weren’t really filled with pig’s blood were they?’

I hesitate, about to say of course they were, but even though a part of me doesn’t want to, I shake my head. Mr Lee shifts further in his chair, as if trying to put more distance between us. A flicker of annoyance runs through me. I saved his yang butt three times already from hungry spirits. Four if I include the second lot of jiangshi. And he hasn’t even been here twenty-four hours. Ingrate.

Big Wang turns to me. ‘There are two more days of Council; I need to convince a few more key ministers to back my banking project. It is better if you are not here to cause trouble, or attract it, so I’m sending you to mortal Shanghai. Your temper is your downfall, Little Jing. The Hulijing Court will use that to their advantage. I cannot afford another Flaming Bitch incident. Besides, the dragons would pull out my insides and make a lantern of my skin if I ever allowed the dragon pearl to be bartered for political gain.’

‘You want to send me to mortal Shanghai?’ It’s the first time I’ve ever been allowed out of Hell. I’ll be able to see a sunset and a sunrise. And even stars in a mortal night sky. I swallow my excitement, tug my mahjong face tight. ‘Will Bullhead and Horsey come too?’

‘Lord Nioh and Lord Ma,’ Big Wang says, his words slow and deliberate.

‘That’s right. Them,’ I say brightly, ignoring his warning. I pick up a clump of dried cuttlefish and shred it into long strips. I know Big Wang’s gaze is on me; a cool, heavy burden. I also know he’ll let it go in san, er, yi—

‘No, they will not,’ he says, right on cue. ‘I need them to keep an eye on Lady Soo and her handmaids. Mr Lee will accompany you.’

‘What—?’ Mr Lee and I say in unison.

Big Wang continues calmly. ‘Mr Lee will chaperone you in the mortal world. You do not know the streets of mortal Shanghai. It is different there. In the mortal realm, war rages outside Shanghai, and inside a power struggle between foreign nations. Mr Lee will guide you and ensure you are fed with food and blood’ – Mr Lee makes a garbled noise – ‘during your stay in mortal Shanghai.’

‘No!’ I say. ‘I don’t need a chaperone. And definitely not him.’

Mr Lee’s complexion has gone waxy. ‘Blood? Wh-wh-who’s blood?’ He pushes on the arms of his chair as if he could meld into the wood, his eyes wide, darting between Big Wang and me.

‘Are you serious?’ I say to the coward. I wish I still had Mafan to add some extra to my glare. ‘I just spent the entire morning with you, watching your back. Now you’re afraid that I’ll drain you dry? I could’ve done that a thousand times over by now. Starting on the dock when you arrived in Hell without a proper Lei talisman to protect you!’

I chomp on my cuttlefish, stewing with indignation. I can’t even look at him, I’m so insulted. And if I’m honest, hurt. We sit in silence. Big Wang finishes three dough-knots before Mr Lee clears his throat.

‘Ten thousand apologies, Lady Jing. I should never have impugned your honour. You have saved me twice—’

‘FOUR times.’

Mr Lee frowns, counting on his fingers. ‘The two jiangshi, and the lady ghost, that’s only two.’

‘And the other jiangshi and Lady Gi?’

Mr Lee looks suitably chastised. He bows. ‘Ten thousand apologies. I had forgotten those incidents. Though you did try to abandon me when the guards showed up.’

I scoff. ‘You had the safest yaojing in Hell at your side.’

‘You should have told me what you are,’ he counters.

‘You never asked. It’s not like being a mongrel is something one announces at first acquaintance.’

‘Little Jing, do not use that term.’ Big Wang uses his serious voice on me.

‘Yeah, yeah,’ I say, waving his words away like he did mine.

Mr Lee pulls a frown worthy of Horsey and runs a hand through his hair. He catches my gaze. His eyes are no longer frightened. They’ve gone steely. Hells no. Turd-for-brains is going to apologise, again.

He stands, slaps his fist into his hand, and bows low. ‘You’re right, Lady Jing—’

‘Contain this worthless one’s outburst,’ I pitch my voice low and slow, mimicking Mr Lee’s courtly dog-fart. I wave his words away too. ‘May sherrr.’ No problem, you rotted turd-egg.

Big Wang pats the air in a gesture meant to calm. ‘Where were we? Ah yes. You thought I was asking you to feed Little Jing your blood. That is unnecessary. She can drink from the dead.’

I remember the smell of the corpses in the river. The decaying stench – my stomach clenches and I gag. ‘Ew. No. Can’t Old Zao make me blood dumplings? You get the mortal papers delivered every day. Surely your couriers can bring dumplings back for me? I don’t want to drink from a rotting body.’ The thought makes me gag again. I point at Mr Lee. ‘If he has to come, he can put the blood in a nice clean glass.’

Big Wang laughs, actually laughs at me. I give him my meanest stink-eye, which just makes him laugh harder. I cross my arms, torn between disgust at having to feed off corpses and an almost painful yearning to see a real sunrise.

‘You are an adult. It is time you figure out how to feed yourself,’ Big Wang says, looking between me and Mr Lee who now wears a look of earnest endeavour which makes me feel even more nauseous. I hold a hand up to block his face from view. ‘Little Jing has blood twice a day, once with breakfast and then a second time as a midnight snack. She has lunch, dinner and a bowl of noodles or dumplings around 4 p.m. Be sure she is fed or you will have to contend with a cranky Little Jing, and no one wants that.’

‘Hey,’ I say, not liking this assessment of my character. ‘You’re cranky too when you’re hungry.’

Big Wang makes a sound that’s half grunt, half huff – not a denial but not an agreement either.

Since the dragon pearl seems to be somewhere safer than the Treasury, there isn’t a lot I can do to get back at Lady Soo, unless . . . I lean forward. ‘Do you think the hulijing are behind the fake talisman? The Hulijing Court mines yin silver after all. Maybe they wanted to sabotage your plans by getting rid of Mr Lee.’

Big Wang considers my words then nods slowly. ‘It is possible, though we have no evidence. It doesn’t matter though; Mr Lee brought the information I needed, and he will be here to consult on the project.’ He plucks a few peanuts from the bowl and pops them in his mouth.

I know the Hulijing Court makes the talismans and Brother Zhu picks them up for the Ministry of Thunder and brings them to the mortal realm. He’s rarely in Hell, but I’ve heard he’s often in yang Shanghai. Maybe I can talk to him, find out if the switch happened in the Hulijing Court, or after.

As if he can read my mind, Big Wang says, ‘If you want me to fix those roosters for you, then stay away from the hulijing, even in mortal Shanghai. They are bound by our laws to not bring dishonour on Tian, but I fear the chaos that may occur if you cross paths. You are not to draw attention to yourself. I don’t believe the two are connected, but even if they are, I want to keep you well away from Niang Niang’s machinations – which is the whole point of sending you to mortal Shanghai.’

I keep my expression placid, as if approaching the hulijing is the furthest thing from my mind.

Big Wang presses his lips together, then finally turns to Mr Lee. ‘In exchange for making sure Little Jing is safe in mortal Shanghai’ – Mr Lee raises an eyebrow at the word safe – ‘I will waive the requirement for you to work as an indentured servant after your death.’

I give them both a quizzical stare. ‘What kind of deal is this? I thought Mr Lee was here to help set up the Central Bank of Hell? Why would he need to be an indentured servant?’

Big Wang looks to Mr Lee, giving him the chance to speak. But Mr Lee doesn’t let his mahjong face slip. Turd-eggs. I cross my arms. Fine.

Big Wang takes something from his silwar pocket. ‘Wear this while you are in yang Shanghai.’ He hands me a curved white jade pendant on a red silk cord. ‘This belongs to the Jade Emperor himself. It has the Queen Mother of the West’s qi embedded in the jade. If you are wounded or hurt in any way, break the jade, release the qi. It will protect you.’

The carved jade phoenix is cool in my hand, the white crisp and luminous. Three bold strokes of colour swirl across the bottom – black, red, and green – each colour expertly carved into a sweeping tail feather. Big Wang does not give or ask for favours lightly; to borrow a personal item from the Jade Emperor for my sake is a huge deal.

I get to my feet and bow low. ‘By your fortune, this unworthy one offers an ocean of gratitude.’

Big Wang laughs, a hearty rolling thunder that fills the room. ‘Lord Ma will be so proud to hear of your proficiency in courtly piss-fart.’ He rises and pats my back. ‘You will stay at the mortal Cathay Hotel under the name Miss Wang. Willie Leung will meet you at the jetty. He represents my interests in mortal Shanghai and will arrange anything you need. If you’re ready, my guards will accompany you to the docks.’

‘Docks? Isn’t there another way into mortal Shanghai?’

Big Wang looks at me, clearly perplexed. ‘It’s the usual way – through the veil over the Whangpoo.’

Mr Lee stands suddenly. I narrow my eyes at him. If he gives away my weakness, I’ll have his brains for porridge.

He bows. ‘This worthless one is deathly afraid of water. Is there another way through?’

Wait— What?

Big Wang gives Mr Lee a funny look. ‘Normally yes, but it takes time to prepare. It is impossible at this short notice.’ Big Wang tilts his head to the side, scrutinising the mortal. ‘You made it through fine the first time.’

Mr Lee nods vigorously. ‘Yes, you are right. But I was inside a bag. That made it bearable.’

‘We could put you in a bag again.’

Mr Lee’s mouth opens and closes like a carp. ‘They put me in a bag to keep me from seeing who was bringing me over.’ His gaze darts to me, then back to Big Wang. I’m enjoying this too much to help him. He licks his lips. ‘Well, perhaps since it helped the first time, being inside a bag will help again.’

Big Wang nods. ‘Consider it done.’

He turns to leave, but Mr Lee says, ‘Though – perhaps since I will be with Lady Jing, then her company will help distract me from my fear. So, perhaps, the bag won’t be necessary after all, if Lady Jing would be willing to offer this worthless one some of her venerable attention.’

He turns those rotted doe eyes on me. I suck my teeth. How can someone so big remind me so much of a helpless child?

I sigh dramatically, like it’s a huge imposition. ‘It’s okay, Big Wang, I’ll make sure he’s fine. No need for the bag.’

Big Wang gazes between us as if trying to decipher some secret code, then shrugs. ‘May your path be smoothed by winds of favour. Spend three days in the mortal realm, Little Jing. Come back on the full moon.’

Twelve

Piercing the Veil

I stand at the edge of the Bund, facing the jetty. Attached to it is a gangway which connects to the floating pontoon where Fisherman Lo waits in his sampan. Below us stream the dark currents of the Whangpoo River, rising with the tide. My feet don’t want to move, and I definitely don’t want to be stuck on a few planks of wood in the middle of the river. I remind myself that on the other side of the veil is the sun. Which means, there’ll be a sunset. And then stars followed by sunrise. I just have to make it across the river. I close my eyes and try to picture a sunrise. A rainbow of colour sparkling in the sky? Or reverse ink wash – the colour seeping into the sky and chasing away the dark? I was so little when I left the Celestial realms for Hell, I only have my childhood impressions, murky and blurred.

I grip the handle of a small suitcase in which I’ve packed a couple qipao, matching slippers, and two hair pins. Mr Lee stands at my side.

I can do this. I will do this.

Mr Lee holds his arm out. ‘Ready?’ His smile is tentative. He’s still trying to make up for earlier.

I give him a hard glare. I’m not ready to forgive him yet. Even so, I lift my chin and link my arm through his. I pray to every deity I know to keep me from embarrassing myself. Together we step onto the jetty. The structure is solid, thick planks of wood supported by great metal pilings driven deep into the riverbed. It’s just like the zigzag bridge to the Lake Heart Pavilion. Solid, unmoving. We make it across without mishap. Now the gangway. I hesitate, but Mr Lee pats my hand and pulls me along.

The gangway is made of metal, but it’s thin. It clanks and bounces with our every step. I feel myself slowing, the cold creeping up my body, but Mr Lee keeps to a fast clip; he doesn’t let us dawdle.

Fisherman Lo stands at the stern of his sampan, watching us approach. He leans on the yuloh oar, one weathered end anchored by a long thick rope attached to a brass ring on the side of the sampan, the other end of the oar disappearing into the black waters. My teeth chatter. Only when Mr Lee tugs me gently forward off the gangway, do I realise I’ve stopped moving. The pontoon isn’t large, there’s only enough room for the one sampan; it’s but five steps from here to the boat. Even so, the distance stretches impossibly far. The feel of cold water wraps around my throat. My legs aren’t working right. Mr Lee tugs again, a little harder, forcing me onto the pontoon. The whole thing sways. My breath hitches.

‘One step, then another,’ he whispers. ‘You can do it.’

I take a single halting step. Then stop again. Four steps to go. My whole body is shaking. I stare at the sampan bobbing on the river. The savoury, sweet, sour, putrid stench of brine and rot fills my nose. I try to conjure the sunrise, but my mind is full of dark, swirling water.

‘I can’t. I can’t do it,’ I whimper. My bones turn to tofu. I feel myself sinking.

Mr Lee places his hand over mine, his grip firm and unyielding; he keeps me from falling.

‘This worthless one humbly asks your venerable fragrant self—’ he begins.

It takes a moment for the words to slice through the icy haze of panic – but when they do, I snap my head up. What is he doing? I hate that piss-fart. ‘I told you—’

‘Contain this unlearned mortal’s poor memory,’ he says as he pulls the suitcase from me, ‘and lift high your honourable hand.’

I stare at him, uncomprehending. Not only does he insult my honour, but he forgets the one thing I asked of him. ‘What part of the flowery language of formal court makes me extremely uncomfortable didn’t you understand?’

‘Step,’ Mr Lee says, completely unbothered. ‘Contain this lowly one’s—’

He’s not even listening. My rage boils over. How dare he? ‘I can rip out your tongue or slice off your precious peaches. Your choice.’ I’m practically growling at him.

‘This unworthy one submits to your most noble and fragrant discretion.’ He gestures for me to sit.

I drop onto the wooden seat, glaring daggers. He joins me on the bench, calm as you like, grinning to himself. He crosses his arms, a hand cradling his chin. Then he starts to chuckle. I’m missing a joke.

‘Is there anything you want to see in yang Shanghai? It’s really not that different to your Shanghai, though I don’t think we have anyone who makes xiao long bao to rival your Old Zao.’

I stare at him, trying to fathom how this mortal, who went green at the thought of me drinking mortal blood, is not at all fazed that I’m spitting mad at him and considering all the different ways I can torture him. He’s sitting blithely next to me in the sampan like he’s off on one of Fisherman Lo’s tourist trips.

Wait.

I replay my last thought, then gaze around me.

Tian. I’m in the sampan, seated in the middle of the boat under an arched bamboo canopy.

Now he’s properly laughing. Tears streak down his cheeks. Fisherman Lo gives us a long-suffering look and with one strong push of the yuloh, the sampan launches into the currents of the Whangpoo. The boat rocks from side to side in rhythm with Fisherman Lo’s sculling as he pulls on the rope, then pushes the yuloh to propel us through the currents.

I grab Mr Lee’s arm. He tries to pull away from me. ‘What are you doing?’ I ask, not caring that my voice has gone all squeaky.

‘You said you wanted to rip out my tongue or slice off my precious peaches.’ He smothers a laugh. ‘The flowery language of formal court is clearly upsetting to you,’ he says gravely. ‘So perhaps it is best I leave you to your thoughts, Lady Jing.’ He bows his head and shifts away.

I yank him back, the warmth of his body enough to keep the chill at bay. ‘No, no, it’s okay. You can speak as flowery as you like. Just don’t let go of me.’

‘I am sorry, though, you know, for earlier. I was startled, and thoughtless.’

I nod, not knowing how else to answer. The boat rocks violently for a moment and I can’t help but cry out. Mr Lee presses his hand over mine; he is warm and solid, and I’m able to let go of the breath I’ve been holding.

‘I’m sorry Lord Ma didn’t get a chance to see your new outfit,’ he says. ‘I wonder how he would have reacted?’

The thought makes me giggle despite my anxiety. ‘Oh, I think he would have given himself a hernia. He’s so old-fashioned.’

Fisherman Lo strikes a match and I get a whiff of sulphur that’s quickly enveloped by the pungent scent of sandalwood. I look back – he’s got the joss stick clamped between his lips like a lady’s cigarette, long and elegant, the end a glowing red star in the inky ever-night.

‘Boh-yo-boh-lo-mi,’ he murmurs.

The murky dark suddenly fades to grey, then white. A thick cloud envelopes us. Shadows move in the fog, barely discernible. There’s a bright flash, and then sunshine, golden and resplendent, spills over every surface.

Mortal Shanghai is bright and sharp and intense. I squint, willing my eyes to adjust quickly. I don’t want to miss any second of this new world. The river is a molten bronze, shimmering as if scattered with diamonds, the sky a swathe of softest blue strewn with wisps of silk floss. Boats swarming the river dwarf Fisherman Lo’s rickety sampan. Junks with their bat-wing sails spread wide, chug-chugging steamers drag lines of barges, dull grey warships carry flags from Britain, America, Japan, and bobbing between the ships are countless sampans like ours and the ever-present coffins that bounce in our wake. All the shadows I glimpsed through the veil, brought to life in vivid colour and motion.

The smell is different too; stronger, more pungent. Among the seaweed and rot is also the stink of human waste, so powerful my eyes water. The smells of yang and blood – sweet and aromatic – tangle with the other scents. And there, across a slip of sparkling, silk-brown water, is the Bund. The familiar buildings, the pyramid that marks Cathay Hotel, but here it is a dull turquoise. The great stone edifices are almost blinding in daylight.

Mr Lee beams at me. ‘Welcome to Shanghai, Lady Jing.’

I lean forward, out from under the canopy into the sunlight. The rays melt over me like warm honey. I close my eyes for a moment; the back of my eyelids glow orange. I hold my hand out and marvel at the shadows and light which play over my skin. Warmth surges through me. My skin tingles. I’m disappointed I don’t sparkle like the river. I had no idea the sun could give me such a rush; the fear is there but dulled to a manageable level. I keep hold of Mr Lee’s arm, just in case.

The noise on the Shanghai docks is worse than the roosters at home. Horns from both boats and cars blast the air; there’s a constant hum of chattering from the crowds. Everything is anointed with glistening sunlight. There’s so much to see, I’m not sure where to look first.

Fisherman Lo weaves his way through the boats to the pontoon, deftly slipping his sampan between the small cruiser docked at one end, and the tourist ferry docked at the other.

The pontoon is heaving with people. And the smell. Oh, Tian. The smell. If I thought it was heady on the river, here by the pontoon, with the crowd of warm mortal bodies, waves of concentrated yang – pine and an earthy citrus smell, like a slightly rancid walnut fruit – crash into me. Beneath that is the smell of blood, the unctuous persimmon scent so thick it clogs my throat. My fangs are fully out now. My stomach flutters with want. The pulse of so many heartbeats drums in my ears.

My breathing is heavy and slow. The world spins around me, blurring the colours, tumbling the smells together. My whole body begins to tremble, and the giddiness takes hold. I cling to Mr Lee.

‘There’s too much blood,’ I try to say, but my words are slurred.

‘Lady Jing?’ His face is close enough for me to lick. ‘Are you well?’

A roaring like crashing waves fills my ears, muffles all sound. I can’t think straight. Mr Lee shakes me, trying to get my attention even though I’m already staring at him.

He looks confused and worried; I imagine his expression if I did lick him. Hee hee. He speaks, but the roar in my head drowns his words. His entire body is limned in a golden glow that fills the sampan’s arched canopy. I touch the edge of this glow – is this his yang? Strands stick to my fingers like gossamer threads. I can hear laughing. From the look on Mr Lee’s face, it’s not him. When I realise it’s me, I just laugh harder.

He tries to get me to stand; I am floppy, I am the Way, I flow like the Whangpoo. No, like diarrhoea! I giggle so hard I start hiccupping.

Someone pulls on my arm. I look up. Oh, it’s Fisherman Lo. I try to salute him, but I can’t get my fist and palms to meet. Mr Lee has my other arm. Together they carry me out of the sampan.

On the pontoon every mortal shimmers with a golden-red glow that coalesces into an amorphous twinkling cloud. When we push into it, the rush hits me with the force of a tsunami. I haven’t even tasted a drop, but I cannot stop shaking. I throw my head back and let the chaotic maelstrom take me. Tian. I’ve never experienced anything like this . . . I can’t get enough.

I’m vaguely aware of Fisherman Lo saying something about a joss stick. Mr Lee wraps my arms around his neck; I can’t stop petting his glow. It makes my hands sparkle. He lifts me through the crowds. They swirl around me, a mass of shimmering bodies. I lick his face. He tastes a little salty, and tingly. The golden threads spill from my lips like longevity noodles. His expression – wide-eyed, red-faced – makes me laugh even more.

Effort makes the mind, Lady Jing. Labour your grindstone or your blade will never reflect true. Horsey’s nasally voice pops into my head.

‘Go away,’ I mutter, but the voice is still there, nagging me. So I resort to my tried-and-true method to make him leave me alone. ‘Turd-egg claptrap, horsey horsey neeigggh,’ I sing, making the last neigh as sonorous and realistic as I can. Someone tries to hush me, but I just sing louder.

We cross the Bund – filled with trams and cars and rickshaws and mortals. So many mortals. Cackling, I realise there is one thing mortal Bund does not have. Gangs of turd-egg roosters. Ha!

‘Wansui!’ I shout, hands in the air, triumphant.

Mr Lee almost drops me. ‘Lady Jing, hush.’ His breath is warm against my cheek.

I lean into the warmth, but the rotted turd-egg leans away from me. I wrap my arms tighter around him and press my face to the shimmer at his throat. He smells nice. Something about the particular mix of his yang and blood reminds me of a winter breeze and the flutter of first snow. Beneath it, the crisp scent of watermelon rind. My fangs hurt; I want to pierce his skin so badly and yet I know I mustn’t feed from him. The image of the desiccated mortals scattered around the Hulijing Court makes me shudder and more determined not to ingest any yang qi and certainly not to drink his blood.

Bad Jing. No eating Big Wang’s guests. I lick him again and settle for pressing the smooth surface of my fangs against his neck, trying to quell the ache.

As soon as we enter the revolving door, the roaring quiets to a dull throb. The manic energy releases me as suddenly as it gripped me, and I realise how close I am to Mr Lee. My arms are wrapped around his shoulders, my open mouth pressed against his neck. I’m drooling on him. I should be embarrassed but I’m too dozy to care. I lean back a little to gaze at him; his whole face is the delicate pink of a peony and he studiously avoids looking my way.

In the doppelganger lobby of Big Wang’s Cathay Hotel, the air slips over my skin, cool and discreet. There are women in qipao, women in trousers, women in long, loose dresses too. The men wear Western-style suits and changpao and something that looks like shortened thigh-high changpao with trousers. I hear dialects I’m familiar with, as well as languages I can’t even begin to guess at.

‘So many foreigners,’ I say, voice dreamy. I trace their red-gold shimmer. Mr Lee catches my hand again and presses it to his chest.

‘Can you stand, Lady Jing?’ he asks.

I nod. He sets me carefully on my feet. I sway, still dizzy and strangely drained. Mr Lee wraps an arm around my waist, holding me secure.

‘You’re half—’ He catches himself, then says, ‘Transylvanian. Surely you’ve seen foreigners before?’

‘Français,’ I sing, rolling the rrrrs like the French-trained patisserie chef Big Wang hired for the hotel. A rare scrap of information about my father, when my mother was in one of her more attentive moods. ‘Never. They don’t come to Hell. Not our Hell at least. They go to the deities they believe in.’ I lean out, stick my face in the nearest mortal’s path. ‘Right?’

The woman startles. Her eyes are a luminous jade green. Her skin is as white as the most expensive rice, and her hair falls in voluptuous waves down her back. It’s the colour of kumquat jam and shimmers like silk. I reach out to touch – to see if it’s as smooth as it looks, but she jerks back from my hand, her jade eyes wide. Mr Lee says something to the woman, who frowns at me slightly, before swaying away on click-clacking shoes.

‘Wah,’ I say, staring avidly after her. ‘Did you see her eyes?’

Mr Lee’s face is all pinched up, like he’s trying not to laugh.

‘I had no idea mortal hair could come in so many shades. Or skin. Or eyes. Look at their noses!’ I lift my hand to point, but he encloses my hand in his once more, and lays it back on his chest. ‘A lady over there had amethysts for eyes!’ I sigh, marvelling at the novelty.

‘Hush,’ he says gently, lowering his voice. ‘Here is not the same as your Shanghai. Mortal Shanghai is run by many foreign powers. America, Britain, Japan, France, they all have jurisdiction here. And many more are escaping war and persecution from inland and abroad. You must take care not to offend others. Especially the foreigners.’

Before I can say anything, a short man with a moon face approaches us. ‘You must be Miss Wang. And you, Mr Lee.’

He lifts his rounded black hat in greeting. The mandarin collar of his black tangzhuang is stiff and tidy like that of Mr Lee’s changpao. Silk cord buttons run down the centre and keep the jacket closed over a well-fed belly; the folded cuffs are pristine white. His smiling face reminds me of a steamed mantou bun. Soft and doughy.

‘I am Willie Leung. Big Wang asked me to facilitate things for you here in Shanghai. Anything you need, just let me know.’ He waggles thick black eyebrows at me, holding his hand out for mine.

I stare at his pudgy fingers. He must mean to shake my hand. Three pumps, like how Mr Lee did.

But when I reach out, the lobby lurches and everything spins. Mr Lee’s grip around my waist keeps me from falling on my butt onto the cold marble floor.

‘I think I need to eat,’ I whisper into his chest. And then, to my horror, the edges of my vision creep inwards. With the delicate timing of a poetry-spouting, lute-playing, fragrant plum blossom of a lady, I faint.

Thirteen

Sunshine

I wake to the smell of xiao long bao. For a moment I think I’m back in my room at the Lake Heart Pavilion and Old Zao is steaming me a basket of blood bao. But the smell is different. Less rich. I remember where I am. Mortal Shanghai.

Recalling the smell of yang and blood together, I shudder with pleasure and then shame when I remember my antics. Tian, I licked Mr Lee. I groan, and my stomach echoes the complaint. It’s one thing to lose control when I know Bullhead and Horsey have my back, but here in mortal Shanghai . . . I don’t have that luxury. I’ll need to find a way to temper the mad rapture if I’m to function at all. Though something here – yang or sunlight, I’m not exactly sure what – seems to dampen my fear of water; that at least is one less thing I need worry about.

I open my eyes and startle at the five pairs of watchful eyes staring down at me. I blink a few times, dispersing the fog of sleep, and realise I’m looking at a painting. On the ceiling, five fat baby angels cavort nude in silk floss clouds on a pale blue sky; their skin the steamed pink of piglets, their smiling lips a lurid red, some with their tiny penises dangling in the breeze, others with their chubby butts hanging out for all to see. A chandelier in their centre drips with crystals and paints rainbows across their overly cheerful faces. I blow out a long breath. I miss my umbrellas.

Pushing up on my elbows, I have to squeeze my eyes shut for a moment while I wait for the room to stop wobbling. The back of my head pulses with a dull ache, and my mouth feels like I’ve rinsed it with sand. I look around for a glass of water.

The room brings to mind a fancy French cake with ornate frosting around the edges. A wardrobe sits against one wall, painted with meadows full of frolicking women with bouffant hair like clouds wrapped in ribbons. The bed I’m in has the same images painted on the headboard. I look closer. The women have skin like that lady from the lobby – rice white, with peony bud lips, and dresses full and wide as a dozen stacked umbrella tops. I study the dresses for some time; it seems like a lot of fabric, though from the painting it’s obvious the women are not restricted in their movements – they could easily perform all the thirty-two sword forms, including the Big Dipper. In fact – I scan the scene – quite a few expose stockinged legs with bow-topped shoes, legs swinging out joyfully, ta-tas bursting from low-cut lace-frilled tops. Niang Niang would no doubt approve.

The thought of her and those courtiers makes my skin itch. I will expose the hulijing, make them pay for their humiliations. I can’t do anything about the dragon pearl, I don’t even know where it’s being kept. However, I am certain the fake talisman must be their work. I can sense the truth of it, but given my last two missteps, and knowing how sly Soo can be, this time I need irrefutable proof.

There’s no water in the room so I slip out of the crisp white sheets and my feet sink into a thick rug covering most of the parquet floor. Mr Lee’s voice drifts through the door. There are other voices too. Willie Leung, I recognise. And two others. I sniff the air – the two strangers are mortals. Willie smells different – I’ve never smelled anything like him before. He smells of yang, but also of yin. I’ll have to ask Big Wang; it would be rude to question him directly. I know how much I hate being asked myself.

There’s a soft knock at my door and it opens a crack, letting in the mouth-watering smells of my favourite foods. Steamed buns, noodles, and something chocolatey.

Mr Lee pokes his head in. ‘Oh good, you’re awake. Room service just arrived. Come join us.’

I follow him to the other room. Mr Lee, Willie Leung and an older man in a black suit, light green handkerchief in the pocket, and a blazing pink azalea on the lapel, are in conversation, seated in plump pink armchairs around a low white table with gilded garlands of leaves wrapped around the edges. A young man wearing a red jacket with a double row of brass buttons and a matching hat unloads bamboo baskets and steaming dishes onto a nearby table, all the while glancing nervously at Willie Leung.

I stare at the foreigner with the azalea. His hair is dark, slicked back close to his scalp. He’s about as pale as Lady Gi, but his skin has a bluish undertone. Eyes like chips of sapphire regard me. His thin moustache twitches as he allows me to inspect him. He stands and offers me a warm smile.

Mr Lee clears his throat. ‘Lady Jing, I’m so glad to see you up. We were quite worried; Mr Smith, the hotel manager was about to fetch a doctor.’

Mr Smith bows to me. ‘This humble one—’ he begins in cultured Mandarin.

My lip curls and Mr Lee hurriedly interrupts Mr Smith. ‘Please, Lady Jing prefers plain speech.’

Those blue eyes glance up at me through thick, dark lashes. ‘Of course,’ he continues. ‘We are most honoured to host you at Cathay Hotel. If there is anything Lady Jing needs—’

‘Please tell me you have xiao long bao there,’ I say.

Mr Smith chuckles. ‘That, and dan-dan noodles. And sweet rice wine porridge. And chocolate éclairs. I am reliably informed these are your favourite afternoon snacks?’

My stomach rumbles its affirmation. ‘Perfect. Oh, is it possible to get a drink?’ From the corner of my eye, I see Mr Lee stiffen. ‘Warm soya milk, please?’ I clarify and throw a stink eye at Mr Lee. As if I can’t control myself.

Remembering my behaviour at the docks, I redden. Extraordinary circumstances. There are three mortals here, and their yang and blood don’t bother me in nearly the same way.

‘Your wish is our command,’ Mr Smith says. He nods to the young man in the red jacket who immediately leaves. He gestures to the young man’s retreating back. ‘I have assigned our brightest boy to you, Lady Jing. Anything you wish, you let Jay know.’

I nod, not really listening. I’m fascinated by Mr Smith’s skin – it’s like rice paper. Thin and translucent. I circle Mr Smith, peering at his eyes. They are a deep blue but slivered with speckles of silver and green. From different angles, the blue changes – lighter to darker. He smells a little different to Mr Lee, spicier perhaps.

Mr Smith holds very still, his brows pulling together, darting glances at Willie.

‘I’ve never seen eyes like yours,’ I say.

‘It’s alright, Mr Smith doesn’t mind, do you?’ Willie’s voice is smooth, almost inflectionless.

Mr Smith’s stiff smile, and the way he glances at Willie, make me reassess my earlier impression of Big Wang’s man in Shanghai. Willie might look like a mantou, but beneath the fluffy exterior is a sharp, and – judging by the Cathay Hotel mortals’ reactions to him – feared, blade.

I back away from Mr Smith and bow low. ‘Thank you for indulging me, Mr Smith. It’s only that I have never seen such beautiful eyes.’ I offer him a docile smile.

Mr Smith recovers his placid, pleasant expression. ‘It is my honour.’ He glances sideways at Willie, then back at me. ‘If it is not inconvenient, I will leave you three to rest.’

‘You’ve been here this whole time?’ I ask.

‘Yes,’ Mr Smith says. ‘We were monitoring your sleep, in case we needed to call a doctor.’

‘All three of you?’

Mr Lee looks embarrassed; Willie’s mahjong face rivals my own.

‘How long have I been asleep?’

‘Four hours,’ Mr Lee answers.

I glance between Willie and Mr Lee. ‘What kind of turd-eggs are you to make him wait while I sleep?’

Willie’s eyes widen at my outburst, but Mr Lee ducks his head. I can tell by his raised cheeks that he’s smiling.

‘Mr Lee did suggest—’ Mr Smith starts but I wag a finger, shushing him.

‘Come now, I’m sure you have a lot of work, and don’t need to be nannying one of your guests.’ I half-push, half-drag Mr Smith to the door. ‘Thank you! I will be sure to find you if I need you. And I’ll tell Big Wang that you were a wonderful help.’

Mr Smith shakes my hand, pumps it up and down three times like Mr Lee did the other day. I smile and close the door on him, catching his expression of relief. I have things I want to do; but first, food.

The bamboo baskets are emptied of xiao long bao; I’ve slurped all the noodles, as well as the sweet rice wine soup. Only the soya milk and three chocolate éclairs are left, which I’m saving for last.

Willie hangs up the phone. ‘Big Wang is sending reinforcements. They will arrive tonight.’

I put down my chopsticks. Willie is making it difficult to enjoy my snacks.

‘I told you. I was hungry, that’s all. Blood and yang affect me more when I haven’t eaten. I wasn’t prepared. I will be now. I am perfectly capable of managing without help.’

‘My job is to make sure your visit is complication free. You passed out because you breathed our air. That is a complication.’ Willie’s lizard smile gleams.

‘You could’ve at least let me speak to him. I could’ve explained.’

‘Letting you meddle in my work is not doing my job.’

I snarl at him, and the shit stick actually smiles even brighter.

Mr Lee is wisely staying out of the conversation, sitting on the pink sofa and pretending to be engrossed in a newspaper. Coward.

‘Who’s coming, then?’ I ask.

‘Big Wang did not say.’

He is being intentionally infuriating. ‘You should’ve let me talk to him.’

He smirks at my show of temper. ‘As I said, letting you meddle in my work is not doing my job. And Big Wang values me because I do my job very well.’

I shove the whole éclair in my mouth and glare at him while I chew.

Willie clasps his hands behind him. ‘I understand from Mr Lee you are somewhat squeamish about corpses? I can certainly obtain blood for you since you aren’t capable of doing so yourself.’

The smug look on his face makes the tips of my ears go hot. Yi, er, san. I count to twenty before I can turn to him and speak cordially. ‘I’m perfectly capable feeding myself, thank you.’

‘Big Wang wanted me to remind you specifically to avoid the hulijing and to not cause any kind of mafan. The roosters depend on it.’

I hiss. Big Wang would throw that in my face. I cannot ask him about Brother Zhu without giving away my hand. I had heard he frequents the jazz bars here . . . Maybe an opportunity will present itself. I need to be patient.

Willie continues, ‘And he also said to have fun. He said to tell you this is a direct order from the King of Hell to his ward.’

‘I’d like to go the Zhabei,’ I say. ‘I heard there’s a good market there.’

The look Willie gives me makes it plain he doesn’t buy my piss-fart, but he says, ‘You have to wait for your reinforcements. You cannot go with only Mr Lee as your escort. It’s too chaotic there.’

‘Fine. We’ll go in the morning, after my reinforcements arrive.’

Willie nods. ‘I’ll arrange a car to pick you up first thing. But, if your reinforcements do not agree to go, you won’t be permitted to go either. Big Wang’s orders.’ Willie smiles at me, clearly enjoying my frustration. ‘You have my number if you need me,’ he says.

When he’s gone, I round on Mr Lee. ‘Why did you let him call Big Wang and make such a big thing out of me fainting? I was surprised, that’s all. I wasn’t prepared for the crowds or the smell.’

Mr Lee folds his paper. ‘I was worried about you. What if you had really been ill? What if the yang world was like poison to you? I wanted to break the jade, but Willie wouldn’t let me.’ The concern in his gaze deflates some of my anger.

I pick at the chocolate glaze on my last éclair. The thin crust crinkles under my fingers. ‘I’ve never met mortals before. You were my first. I didn’t know I’d react like that. When I drink blood, I always have a blood rush – it’s like drinking baijiu on an empty stomach – but nothing as intense as what happened on the dock. Blood rush is always less noticeable when I have blood with food. I’m guessing yang qi is the same. I was overwhelmed. I won’t let it happen again.’

Mr Lee stands. ‘Well, you’re full now, why don’t we go out and practice. Make sure you can manage.’

‘You can take me to the lady who sold you that talisman.’ And tomorrow we’ll go see Brother Zhu.

‘I was thinking more along the lines of a gentle tour through the city. You heard Willie, we can’t go to Zhabei without your reinforcements.’

I cross my arms. ‘I don’t need reinforcements. I told you, it was just the huge crowd. I wasn’t prepared, that’s all.’

He crosses his arms, mirroring my body language.

‘I’ll go myself then,’ I say.

Mr Lee waits me out, clearly aware I’m bluffing. I have no idea where to even start looking. I need him and he knows it. I drink the last of my soya milk, then hold the glass upside down in a show of getting every last drop so I don’t have to look at his stupid face.

He chuckles. ‘While you were sleeping, Mr Leung told me Big Wang provided you with a line of credit here in Shanghai.’

‘A line of credit?’ I ask, turning back towards him despite myself. I’ve never had my own money before.

Mr Lee strolls to the window. ‘A few hours won’t change whatever the stall Auntie will tell us. In the meantime, let me show you around Shanghai.’

‘How much credit do I have?’

‘A generous one,’ Mr Lee says.

I bite my lip. Most of the things I own I’ve won in kanhoo games or swapped with my winnings. ‘Do you have book shops?’

‘Many.’

‘Art supplies?’

‘The best, from Germany and France.’

I can’t help smiling. To be able to choose the things I want, rather than barter for what’s available makes me sit taller. The stall Auntie can surely keep for one afternoon. ‘I recall you owe me some Western suits. Could we pay a visit to Master Chu as well?’

Mr Lee returns my smile and holds out his arm. ‘As you wish, Lady Jing.’

We emerge from the hotel into the frenzied rush of the Bund. I can’t help comparing mortal Cathay Hotel with Big Wang’s version back home. It’s mostly the same. The great glass dome here is lit by sunshine, which makes the colours dance on the marble floors. The quality of light is also different – less yellow, and somehow more vibrant. There are none of Big Wang’s apprentices; just mortals, most of whom are foreign, striding along looking purposeful. The bittersweet scent of walnuts and persimmons dances on the breeze, makes me feel woozy. I make a wistful sound, like a quiet moan. Mr Lee gives me a strange look, then glances away almost immediately.

‘Are you well?’ he asks the sky.

I’m panting slightly and feel a little too warm. ‘I think so. There’s a lot more yang out here than inside.’

‘Should we get you some blood?’ Mr Lee says. His tone is matter- of-fact, but I can sense his reluctance. To be honest, I share his sentiment. The idea of drinking from a corpse turns my stomach. The memory of pressing my fangs to his neck makes me shudder. I hope he didn’t notice that.

I match his tone. ‘I’m okay for now.’

‘Maybe a little sugar boost will help. Try this. It’s an American candy.’ Mr Lee offers me something long and thin wrapped in brown and white wax paper. Red foreign lettering is stamped across the length of it.

I untwist the waxy wrapping. ‘It looks like a tiny number two.’ I sniff it. ‘But it smells quite nice, actually. Chocolate and something else. Vanilla?’

Mr Lee gestures for me to take a bite. The candy is soft and sticky on my teeth, and very tasty. I pop the whole thing in my mouth. The woozy feeling abates.

‘And?’ he asks.

I hold my hand out for another. He laughs.

After a small detour into a nearby shop, my pockets bulge with the candy – too see rolls he called them. I am duly fortified against the crowds.

Mr Lee raises a hand. A coolie, human beast of burden, pulling a rickshaw, stops beside us. His trousers are frayed and full of holes, his shirt equally worn. Wiry muscle criss-crosses his arms like prison chains.

‘Where to, honourable sir?’ he asks.

I gaze at the man’s feet – his shoes are nothing more than a leather sole held in place with twine.

‘Rue Bourgeat,’ Mr Lee says.

I put a hand on Mr Lee’s arm. ‘No.’

‘What do you mean, no?’

The coolie looks at me. He’s so thin a sharp ridge cuts across his cheekbones, and his eyes are sunk deep in his leathered skin.

‘We can’t make him pull us.’

Mr Lee glances at the coolie, then back at me. ‘It’s safer if you’re not among the crowds. Easier to test your mettle.’ He gazes over my shoulder and lifts his chin at the river. ‘A cruise ship just docked. That thing carries ten times the passengers of a ferry.’

I follow his gaze and, sure enough, an ocean liner sits in the middle of the Whangpoo. Mortals press together at the railings, many layers deep, waving to the shore. I can smell their yang from here.

I don’t want to be caught on the Bund with so many people, but the coolie – he’s barely eating enough to survive. I can’t see how he can pull us.

‘I’ll pull us,’ I say.

The coolie looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.

‘And if you faint, Lady Jing?’

‘I am strong.’ The coolie thumps his chest. ‘I will get you where you need to go. Please, honourable lady, sir, I may look weak, but I can pull this rickshaw better than any ox.’

Mr Lee holds a hand out to me. I feel uneasy and conflicted. But the yang wafting over from the cruise ship is making the earth sway beneath my feet, so I climb onto the rickshaw.

With momentous effort, the coolie heaves the rickshaw forward, and we roll down the Bund. I cannot stop watching him – his loud gasps as he plants each foot and hauls us forward. His shoulders as they bunch together, rough hands gripping the carrying poles. Rickshaw runners in my Shanghai are well fed. Big Wang takes care of every inhabitant. No one goes hungry, not even the lowliest yaojing or poorest ghost. What kind of place is this where even the most basic needs are at the whims of fortune?

A warm hand on mine startles me from my thoughts.

Mr Lee leans in, whispers, ‘This is honest work. There are many who are not so lucky. Would you reduce him to begging in the streets? Or put him at the mercy of the triads? Guilds control the rickshaws. If he doesn’t have fares, he will fall into debt to the guilds. If it makes you feel better, I will pay him what I would pay a taxi that takes the same amount of time.’

We watch the coolie struggle along. It makes me feel marginally better to know he will be paid well for his services. But I dislike the nature of this kind of work. Coolie is an apt term. It means bitter labour.

We pass through well-dressed foreigners and Chinese alike swanning down the Bund, necks long, chins in the air; they remind me of the deities arriving for the Ministerial Mahjong Council. Mr Lee’s sigh is empty and sad.

‘Shanghai is known as the Paris of the East. Glory and opportunity always have a cost.’ His gaze unfocusses and for a moment he’s not here with me.

I wonder what vexes Mr Lee. What brought him to Big Wang in the first place? I want to ask, but he shakes himself, and an almost too-bright smile replaces the sombre expression.

‘There is much to see in Shanghai, but I thought it would be fun to start in the French Concession, since Lady Jing is half-français.’ He says the last word with a rolling trill in the r, making me blush to remember my antics.

I eat a few more too see rolls as I watch the familiar yet not familiar streets roll by. The buildings, the roads, the trams are just like at home, but our buildings don’t carry the multicolour advertising posters selling foreign products, and none of our ghosts are bedraggled and downtrodden like the coolie pulling our rickshaw.

The coolie brings us to a stop before a particularly busy section of the street. Tables and chairs crowd the pavement, as mortals chatter under a clear blue sky, drinking and eating. Nestled between a florist and a cake shop is a dress shop. Its curved glass window is filled with qipao that rival Lady Gi’s creations.

‘Rue Bourgeat,’ the coolie says.

Mr Lee hops off. ‘This is the best shopping street in all of Shanghai. Master Chu’s shop is just over there.’

Sunlight glazes every surface, burnishing everything to a golden glow. There’s an art store, an optician, a jeweller’s, shops that sell shoes and gloves, and one specialising in crystal knick-knacks.

‘It cost me three suits, if you include the one you took off my back, for your guiding services in your Shanghai. What will I get in return for being your guide and translator, Lady Jing?’ Mr Lee says, then laughs at my shocked expression.

He turns to pay the coolie who startles at the number of bank notes Mr Lee gives him. The coolie looks as excited as I am. I take Mr Lee’s hand and we embark on my first ever shopping trip, but a prickling at the nape of my neck makes me pause. Rickshaws and motorcars vie for space on the wide avenues, the leafy canopies above cast dappled shadows on the sidewalks. Nothing seems amiss, but I can’t shake the feeling that someone is watching us.

Fourteen

Friends

The world has a mauve tint from my new sunglasses as we stroll in the sunshine along lines of plane trees. Around us mortals chatter away in a foreign tongue. Mostly French, Mr Lee tells me. It is strange to think my father must have sounded like this. The scent of walnuts and persimmons is a constant companion, but I feel only mildly giddy. The too see rolls have done wonders; I gobbled up the last one in the art shop where I bought a small sketchbook and a watercolour set. Mr Lee picks a few bags of treats up from a nearby patisserie. For the ride home, he said.

‘We should hire a rickshaw; it is too far to walk back to the Bund.’ At my expression, he adds, ‘We can do our part to keep the coolies from going into debt to their guild. Plus, it’s faster and more comfortable than walking.’

My feet are getting sore. The edges of my silk slippers have turned grey from all the dust. And that feeling of being watched is back.

‘Alright,’ I say, glancing around, but the crowds and busy street make it impossible to identify anyone suspicious. Perhaps it’s only Willie keeping an eye on us. ‘So long as you pay the coolie well for his work.’

Mr Lee wastes no time in hailing a rickshaw; this coolie has more flesh on his bones. We clamber in, my paper bags tucked safely between us, and the bags from the patisserie piled on Mr Lee’s lap. We sway and bounce gently as the coolie pulls us along.

Mr Lee hands me one of the bags. ‘Ma ka rong,’ he says.

Inside are pretty cake-like cookies in the softest pastel colours. I choose one that’s the pale pink of a cherry blossom bud and when I bite into it, the crisp surface collapses and my teeth sink into a rich, smooth filling. The whole thing tastes like a candied rose.

Mr Lee picks a tan coloured one. ‘Salted caramel, my favourite.’ He breaks it in two and offers me the other half.

The thought of the caramel vodka from our first night turns my stomach and I almost say no. But, he was right about the too see rolls, so I take his offering and pop it in my mouth. It is nothing like the sickly-sweet stuff from the bar. This ma ka rong is full of contrasting textures, soft and crunchy. The salted caramel is smoky and savoury, which offsets the intense sweetness. It’s almost better than three-day-old blood.

Mr Lee watches me, but the sun is low in the sky and even with my new sunglasses which soften the glare, I can’t see his expression. It makes me feel self-conscious, so I hand him the bag of ma ka rong and pull out my watercolour set – a bright yellow tin case – and open it. A clever white tray with three grooved sections flips out to facilitate mixing colours. Nestled in the base of the tin are forty-eight little cubes wrapped in coloured paper to match their contents. The pigments are infused with honey to make them dry more brilliantly. Who would have thought a little sweetness could add so much lustre?

‘What kind of things do you paint?’ Mr Lee asks. ‘I can’t quite imagine you painting plum blossoms and writing poetry about graceful willows and cavorting butterflies.’

I touch each little package, still amazed at Big Wang’s generosity in providing me a shopping allowance. ‘This and that,’ I say.

Mr Lee takes out a lavender ma ka rong and hands me the bag. ‘I won’t laugh, you know.’

I keep my eyes on the watercolour set. I know he won’t laugh, but I am out of sorts here. The constant assault of yang, the sunshine, the small freedom to do as I please without wagging tongues judging my every action, make me feel both nervous and bold. I look up, my home-grown stars on the tip of my tongue, but his attention has shifted to the pile of paper bags crammed between us.

‘What’d you get at the bookstore?’

Before I can stop him, he’s pulled out my treasure trove and is flicking through the titles, frowning at the comic of ‘Mr Wang’, a hapless wealthy old man, on one of the back covers.

‘Careful! Those are discontinued issues – I was lucky to find them.’ I take the precious copies of Shanghai Sketch, a weekly pictorial magazine full of clever comics. ‘It’s been out of print for years.’ I place the rare issues back into their paper bag.

Mr Lee examines another volume from my pile – a yellow book with a black-and-white photo of a scholarly looking foreign man on the cover.

‘How to Win Friends and Influence People. This one was only recently published.’ He flicks through the pages. ‘Never imagined you would be concerned about what others think of you.’

I snatch the book from his hands. ‘Leave my stuff alone.’ My face burns hot as Old Zao’s braziers.

‘Lady Jing, why do you think you need this book?’

‘I said leave my stuff alone.’ I shove the book in with the others and put the paint box back in its bag too.

‘Don’t you have friends?’

The coolie’s heavy breaths punctuate the street noise – the rhythmic clacking of our rickshaw wheels, motorcars with their musical horns, and pedestrians chattering like magpies as they stroll along the wide boulevards.

‘There’s no shame in wanting to learn new skills,’ Mr Lee says, a softness in his voice that makes the back of my eyes burn. ‘For what it’s worth, I think you’re charming, in a prickly kind of way.’

Mr Lee touches my wrist. The tips of his fingers graze my skin ever so lightly. His nails are short, a perfect half-moon rising from each bed. Blue-green veins crisscross the broad back of his hand and fine lines ladder his knuckles. His fingers are long and elegant, much like the man.

I pull away, curl my hand in my lap. Mr Lee drops his own hand and bows his head slightly, as if I’ve chastised him. Something sour twinges in my chest. I want to bridge the silence, but I don’t know how to speak my heart.

Instead, I ask, ‘What deal did you make with Big Wang?’

Mr Lee swallows and looks away, down the street at the mess of honking cars and coolies pulling rickshaws. Still not looking at me, he hands me a bag of wax-wrapped cubes. ‘Sea salt caramels,’ is all he says.

I glance at him every few minutes. His expression is sombre, and his attention is far away. He doesn’t tease or taunt me. He’s almost indifferent to my presence. This new Mr Lee worries me. I cast about for something to say.

‘I think my fear of water started at the Hulijing Court,’ I offer to the heavy silence between us. From the corner of my eye, he straightens and turns my way.

The caramel bag crinkles as my grip relaxes. ‘Something happened there. Lady Soo had something to do with it, but I can’t remember what, no matter how hard I try.’

‘Do you have any good memories of your time there?’ he asks.

‘I remember I loved rainbows. Which is strange because I can’t bear the rain.’

I unwrap a caramel, focus on the sweetness to rid myself of bittersweet feelings, and offer the bag to Mr Lee.

The way he looks at the bag makes my heart hurt. There’s a heavy sadness in the line of his eyes, the way his lips tighten ever so slightly. He reaches for a caramel and turns the small cube around in his fingers.

‘These are my little sister Ruxi’s favourite sweet. I used to buy them for her when she was young.’ Mr Lee takes a deep breath. ‘In fact, all the places I took you today were places she used to love. But she’s very ill now. She’s not a bad person but she had a hard life. Fell into opium to dull her disappointments. She ended up on the streets and got mixed up with the triads before our father was able to extricate her.’ He fists his hand around the caramel. ‘She’s broken, body and soul; I don’t think she’ll live out the year.’

A breeze ruffles his hair as we pass a trio of young women strolling arm in arm down the street, laughing as they talk, wholly absorbed in their own joy. I wish I could be so sure of my place in the world, so protected from outside judgement and expectations.

‘Ruxi is about their age.’ He nods to the women who have paused to admire the colourful display of a shop window. His gaze swirls with loss and regret. ‘I petitioned Yan Luo Wang to allow me to pay her karmic debt. I don’t wish for her to reincarnate as a cockroach.’

‘I don’t understand – your sister could easily work off her debt herself,’ I say. ‘It wouldn’t take long, and Big Wang takes good care of the indentured ghosts.’

He shakes his head. ‘I’m her brother. I should have been there to look out for her. Mother passed when Ruxi was twelve. Shortly after, Father sent me to Europe and then America to university. He was busy with his business, and wasn’t as careful as he should have been when choosing a match for Ruxi. Her husband was violent and cruel. I didn’t know how hard things were for her. If I had come home when she asked, I could have helped her. But by the time I did, it was too late.

‘So I made a deal with Yan Luo Wang. The work I do for him will atone for the sins she committed while under the thumb of the triads. I ensure my little sister’s next life is filled with all the joys she lacked in this, and he gets his Central Bank of Hell.’

I gaze at him, horrified.

He gives me a lopsided smile. ‘The Central Bank of Hell is in very safe hands. Even H. H. Kung, Chiang Kai Shek’s Minister of Finance, defers to my advice. And now, this three-day trip home to Shanghai means I am off the hook for the one hundred and fifty years of indentured service that had originally been part of our deal.’

I sputter. ‘One hundred and fifty years? What on earth has she done to rack up so much karmic debt?’

Mr Lee opens his mouth to answer, and I hurriedly put a hand up. ‘No, I don’t want to know. I don’t care about that, or the Bank. You came to Hell without a Lei talisman. You could have died. If someone else had met you at the docks . . .’ My throat goes tight, remembering that I almost drained him. ‘Why would you risk so much?’

‘She’s my sister,’ he says simply.

I collapse against the rickshaw seat. All that for his sister? No one has sacrificed themselves for me. I am puzzled and envious that such depth of loyalty exists.

Mr Lee blows out a long breath, as if cleansing himself of his pain. ‘My turn to ask you a question.’

‘What do you want to know?’

He gazes at me and murmurs, ‘So much.’ But his expression lightens, and he nods towards the paper bag with my books. ‘Why that book?’

‘I want to learn how to make friends.’

‘But you seem to know everyone in your Shanghai.’

‘Sure, but that doesn’t make us friends.’

‘What about Lady Gi?’

I scoff, nearly choke on a caramel. ‘Her? We aren’t friends.’

‘Well, you’re not super chummy, but you seem to know each other pretty well.’

My shoulders twitch. ‘We play kanhoo a lot.’

‘I never pegged you as a card player. What’s a lot? Once a week? Twice a week?’

‘Well, no, more like every other day.’

Mr Lee’s eyebrows push into his forehead. ‘I see. Do you talk much when you play?’

‘No. Well, maybe, a little. Mostly insults.’

‘How long are your games?’

‘They last all night. We normally start after dinner. Big Wang lets us play on his roof terrace. We usually stop just before the first ferries pull in. Lady Gi doesn’t like seeing them either.’

Mr Lee clears his throat. ‘So you and Lady Gi see each other every other day and play kanhoo while you trade verbal barbs for some ten hours. I hate to tell you, but I think you and Lady Gi are friends.’

‘What? No. She hates me. I hate her. She’s a flowery obnoxious show-off.’

‘Who you play cards with almost every day.’

‘Every other day! And besides, she’s the only person in all of Shanghai who has time and is willing to play kanhoo with me. Everyone else only loses to me. Gigi’s a good player. Sometimes she wins, sometimes I win. It’s more fun that way.’

Mr Lee nods with a peculiar expression on his face. Disbelief? Amusement?

‘What?’

He shakes his head as we pull up to the Cathay Hotel. He gets off and offers me his hand. His lips are pressed together, but his eyes betray him. They sparkle. His shoulders tremble from suppressed laughter. I swat away his hand and hop off on my own. Mr Lee follows after paying the coolie.

‘There’s a nice restaurant on the hotel terrace. We could have dinner there?’ He’s still trying not to laugh as we push through the revolving doors of the hotel. ‘Though, you’ve eaten a lot today. It’s okay if you’re full and want to skip it.’

I laugh. ‘Skip a meal? Never! Does this place have a view of the sunset?’

‘Sunset?’

‘I like to paint them . . . but I don’t really remember what they look like. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a real sun dip over the horizon.’

‘It’s unfair that you only remember the cruelty, and none of the beauty.’

I pause. ‘Yes.’

‘Was Lady Soo the one you set fire to?’

‘You heard the guards talking?’

He looks down at the lobby’s marble floor and nods. ‘My hearing is pretty good. And the guards weren’t trying to be quiet.’

‘She deserved it,’ I say, my voice flat.

When he looks at me, his gaze isn’t judging or doubting. There’s a warmth there. Understanding.

‘I bet she did.’ There’s a vehemence in his tone that surprises me and makes me feel protected. I’m reminded of those giggling women by the café, their obvious fondness for each other creating a safe space against the outside world.

I’m tempted to pry open those half-buried memories from childhood and share them with Mr Lee. All the times Soo hurt me, scared me, and then the shock, years later, when I thought I was free of them, for her to turn up at a Mahjong Council. The words are there, ready to trip off my tongue. But what if he only laughs at me, what if, like everyone else, he thinks I deserved it?

‘You’re scary for a scholar,’ I say instead, opting to keep things light. ‘Remind me never to get on your bad side.’

‘Scholars are overrated. Bad sides are more fun.’ He throws me a smile that’s all teeth, and I can’t help it, I burst into giggles.

Mr Lee’s expression settles into the more familiar gentleness. ‘There’s a Russian restaurant around the corner with a great sunset view. You’ll love it.’

Fifteen

First Snow

I drop my parcels off in my room and change out of my Western trousers into an old jade green qipao, printed with oversized coral peonies. My insides are fluttery and nervous, which is a bit odd. I hadn’t expected the prospect of a sunset to affect me this way. Buttoning up the silk knots across my chest and up my neck is like donning armour. The familiar motions soothe. I pull out my jade comb, the one I won off Gigi, and run my fingers across the luminous jade oval, the teardrop pearls that dangle from the ornate filigree across the top, and marvel yet again that this delicate beauty is mine.

I’d always admired it when Gigi wore it. When I asked for one of my own, Horsey deemed such finery a waste – like playing a zither for a cow – since I refused to behave in a ladylike manner. Just because I don’t have a fit if I show my neck or my knees, doesn’t mean I don’t like pretty things. Most of the jewellery I own I won off Gigi. I chuckle, remembering the intensity of the game – I even forgot about my midnight glass of blood. Apprentices gathered to watch us play; the stakes were high. Old Zao, that old gossip, let slip that I liked to paint; Gigi seized on the idea and bet her favourite comb against me painting her portrait. The last thing I wanted was to spend hours capturing on paper all her ladylike perfections and reminding me of every one that I lacked. When I drew the strip that completed my winning hand, my heart pittered in relief and joy.

Mr Lee sits at a table in the lobby. He looks up as I approach. His gaze is strangely intense. Grave.

I stop. ‘What’s wrong?’

He blinks as if coming back to himself. His face has gone pink. ‘Nothing,’ he says, though I can tell something must be wrong. Despite the care I took, did I still not dress properly?

I touch my neck, check I’ve done all my buttons, glance down at my legs to make sure my dress isn’t stuffed in my tap pants. There’s nothing out of place, and yet, Horsey’s remonstrations fill my mind.

‘I am not a cow,’ I say huffily and storm towards the revolving doors.

‘Wait, Lady Jing,’ Mr Lee says as his hand wraps around my arm.

I glare at where he touches me, and his fingers spring open like I’ve burned him.

‘I wanted to complement you, but was afraid you’d crush my head into brain porridge.’ He looks so sincere.

‘Cows can appreciate music,’ I say, annoyed.

He blinks at me, frowns in confusion, and after a moment nods slowly. ‘I’m sure they can.’ He produces a small fabric purse and holds it out to me. ‘Peace offering?’

Its surface is embroidered with shimmering silk, depicting a flower-strewn meadow where a small fox frolics with a yellow butterfly. It’s very pretty, though I’m disinclined to tell him so. When I take it, I’m surprised at how heavy it is.

‘Open it,’ he says.

I unclip the metal fastening, exposing its innards. The purse is filled to the brim with too see rolls and caramels. I laugh. This is the first gift I’ve ever received, and I feel somewhat sheepish at my outburst.

He holds his arm out, not waiting for an explanation or my thanks. ‘Time to see a sunset,’ he says.

When we exit the lift onto the roof, there are so many trees it feels like we’ve strolled into a forest. We sit at a round table beneath a canopy of leafy boughs, low enough to give a sense of privacy. I tell Mr Lee to order whatever he likes for me. The menu isn’t in Chinese so I can’t read it, and besides, the people-watching here is even better than the Cathay Hotel lobby. Everyone is beautifully dressed, some Chinese, many foreigners, variations in skin tone like autumn trees, from the palest bark to the darkest leaves.

A deep red soup arrives; it looks like blood. Eagerly, I lift a spoonful to my lips, and grimace as the warm liquid slips down my throat.

‘Borscht,’ Mr Lee says. ‘Beets give it its colour and flavour.’ He studies my expression. ‘Do you not like it?’

‘It tastes like dirt. I thought it was blood.’

Mr Lee looks a little pained, but rallies with, ‘I ordered a little of everything so you could try. Hopefully you’ll find something you love.’

I certainly hope so. I drag my spoon through the not-blood dirt-soup. Mr Lee flags down a waiter who returns with a small bottle encased in a block of ice.

‘Russian vodka served the Russian way,’ Mr Lee says.

A shot of vodka clears the dirt-soup from my tongue. More dishes follow, familiar-looking foods in unfamiliar combinations. I try each one, exploring the new flavours and textures. Some of the strange pairings are interesting. Nothing as delicious as sea salt caramels or too see rolls, yet. The food is heavy with cream and butter, rich and savoury, and goes nicely with the cold vodka.

Something that looks similar to dumplings catches my eye.

‘Jiaozi?’ I ask.

Mr Lee shakes his head smiling. ‘Pelmeni. Similar, but richer.’

I take a bite and try to identify the various flavours. Lamb, and onions, and herbs I’m not familiar with.

‘These are really yummy!’ I say through half-chewed pelmeni.

I shove another into my mouth, savouring the juicy deliciousness. But there’s something that makes my tongue feel a little numb. Not unlike Szechuan peppers. I rub at a tickle in my nose. As I chew the flavour profiles become more distinct. My tongue starts to feel strange, like it’s too big for my mouth. The itch in my nose has spread to my throat. My eyes water. There’s a flavour I should have noticed, hidden by all the others.

Garlic.

Double rotted turd-egg shit sticks.

In yin Shanghai either Old Zao cooks for me, or occasionally I’ll order from the Cathay Hotel kitchens. Big Wang ensures my food never includes garlic. I didn’t know garlic tastes completely different cooked. My nose itches ferociously. I try to swallow my mouthful of food. Tian, why did I have to be so greedy? Too late. I sneeze, and the whole table, and some of Mr Lee, is sprayed with half-masticated bits of pelmeni.

But I’m not done. I sneeze and sneeze and sneeze. I grab the tablecloth, try to hide my face as my entire body jerks with each violent sneeze. Plates crash to the floor. Waiters descend on our table, whisking dishes and glasses to a safe distance. I can’t catch my breath, and I’m wheezing at the same time and the noise is awful; soon there is nothing on our table, not even the tablecloth, because that’s crushed to my face. Mr Lee hovers over me, as do a couple waiters, trying to help. I can’t stop sneezing long enough to speak. I need to get the taste out. If I drink I will simply spew the water out again.

In desperation, I grab Mr Lee by the neck and pull him towards me, burying my nose in the soft spot between his jaw and throat. He stiffens, but doesn’t fight.

His crisp clean scent, snowflakes falling over watermelon, wraps around me. My teeth slide out. Before I can stop myself, I press their sharp points to his throat. He stiffens.

A shiver quakes through me, followed quickly by shame. Mr Lee has proven himself a friend. Friends don’t drain friends of their blood, I remind myself. I tuck my chin in to keep my mouth away from his throat. Instead, I focus on the rhythmic beat of his pulse. Breath by breath, the scent of walnuts and persimmons slowly replaces the bite of garlic. I’m able to suppress a few sneezes, though I grunt from the effort. I claw much needed air into my lungs. My fingers twist in the fabric of Mr Lee’s changpao, which is still dotted with flecks of pelmeni. I squeeze my eyes shut, ignoring everything, and let the cool scent of fresh snow bathe my throat and nostrils and soothe the burn.

When the sneezing finally abates, I untangle my fingers from Mr Lee’s changpao and release him. My breathing is fast and shallow, but at least I can breathe. He doesn’t move immediately, so with the tablecloth still clutched in my hands I wipe off the worst of the pelmeni, but then he pulls away. Concern deepens the lines between his brows. I risk a glance around me – the entire restaurant is staring. I cringe at the attention.

‘Garlic,’ I whisper, accepting the glass of water from a waiter.

‘You’re allergic?’

I nod. ‘I’ve never eaten it before though.’

Mr Lee speaks rapidly to the waiter. The waiter’s eyes widen, and he prattles something very quickly before rushing off. I don’t understand a word.

‘French?’ I ask.

‘English,’ he says. ‘They’ll make sure your food has no garlic in it.’

I glance at the shards of plates that a young man is carefully sweeping away. The diners have mostly returned to their meals, though a few still glance at me from time to time. I shift my chair, so my back is to most of them.

Mr Lee slides into his own chair opposite. He seems to be mostly cleaned up. As the waiters throw new linen over the table and replace the cutlery and plates they salvaged, Mr Lee folds his hands on the table.

‘Were your teeth on me just now?’ he asks.

My face heats. It feels like a bonfire blazes on both my cheeks. ‘I—uh, yes. Sorry. But I didn’t bite,’ I hurry to clarify. I don’t want him thinking I’d take advantage of his kindness to feed on him.

He doesn’t say anything and I can’t read his expression. He doesn’t seem mad, or scared, but he also doesn’t seem pleased. There are no further garlic incidents. We eat in awkward silence, me staring at my food to avoid catching anyone else’s gaze, and to avoid looking at Mr Lee. I want to sink into a hole and disappear.

When skewers of grilled beef are placed on the table, Mr Lee says, ‘It’s time.’

I nod absentmindedly while I slide the chunks of meat and vegetables off the wooden sticks.

He puts his hand over mine, and I jerk away, my gaze snapping to his. His smile crinkles his eyes, and he nods to the horizon.

‘Look,’ he whispers.

I follow his gaze and all irritations are forgotten. Everything blazes gold. Shifting my chair so I’m facing west, I gaze rapt as the sun sinks towards the horizon. It dips lower and lower until it kisses the treelined avenues. The sky shimmers with streaks of pink and blue and orange like watercolours painting the sky. It’s even more beautiful than I remember.

None of the other diners are looking at the sunset. They’re intent on their food or their companions, and thankfully seem to have forgotten about my sneezing episode. I mean to ask Mr Lee how the others could be so blasé about the setting sun, but Mr Lee isn’t watching the sunset either. He’s watching me.

‘You lot are missing out.’ I shake my head and return my attention to the shifting colours of the sky. I feel rebalanced, the earlier embarrassment washed away by the bright, but fading, glow of the setting sun.

‘I suppose since we see it every day, we don’t cherish it as much as we should,’ he says thoughtfully.

The idea of taking this for granted makes my heart twist. ‘To see this every day. You have no idea how lucky you are.’

Mr Lee nods gravely. ‘You’re right. We should take more time to appreciate our blessings.’ He raises his glass. ‘Thank you for reminding me how very lucky I am. Nazdarovya.’

I pick mine up and mimic him, trying to roll my r’s in the same way. ‘Naz-da rrrrou vyah!’

We drain our glasses.

‘Was that English or French?’ I ask.

‘That was Russian.’

I set my glass down. English, French, Russian? ‘How many languages do you speak?’

His smile is warm and somehow my insides warm in answer. Though it’s more likely the vodka.

‘Aside from Mandarin, Shanghainese, and Hokkien, I also speak English and French, and a smattering of Russian. It’s necessary to do business in Shanghai.’

‘What kind of business do you do?’

‘I’ll trade you an answer for an answer.’

I narrow my eyes at him, and he raises his hands in surrender, laughing silently.

‘You really want to know?’

I nod.

He gazes out over the balcony, to where the sun dips over the horizon. The sky is a brilliant shade of indigo. Strings of lights now twinkle in the trees, and multicoloured lanterns glow softly in greens, blues and pinks above each table.

‘My father owns property. He died when I was living in New York and I came home to manage his portfolio,’ Mr Lee says.

The waiter brings a second bottle of vodka. I don’t remember finishing the first, but from the warm, fuzzy feeling swimming around in my chest, even though the bottles are small, I can’t deny I’ve got a fair amount of vodka in me.

I wave my empty shot glass at him.

He moves to pour me a shot, then stops. ‘I’ll top you up, but only if you tell me something about you that I don’t know.’

I gaze into my empty glass. Thinking about my past brings on a wave of melancholy. My grandmother wishes I was never born. My mother sold me then died. My father abandoned me. The only person I have is Big Wang, who only bought me so he could get the Longnu dragon pearl.

‘Do you ever feel like you don’t belong anywhere?’ I gaze out across the Whangpoo, thinking about the realms of Tian – the Celestial lands and Hell. ‘I’m titled, but the Hulijing Court would rather burn their fine silks than welcome me into the fold. Drinking blood makes the yaojing in Hell side-eye me, except the jiangshi, but everyone side-eyes the jiangshi so it’s not really the VIP membership I’m looking for.’ I sigh into the bottom of my glass. ‘I can’t function properly here either.’

‘You’re looking at all the ways you’re different. I could say that too – having spent half my life in the US. I’m too American in my ways when I’m home, and when I’m in America, they can never forget that I’m Chinese.’ Mr Lee fills my glass and his. ‘But you know, I could also say I’ve grown from the influences of these different places. There are things I love about America, and things I love about China. My world is one of my own making – much like how Big Wang creates Shanghai from those things he admires and enjoys.’

A last ray of the setting sun lances through our vodka glasses, spilling honeyed light across the table.

‘We’re quite similar, you and I,’ Mr Lee continues. ‘We both embody things that maybe people don’t expect to go together, but which surprises them, hopefully in good ways.’

His perspective makes me reconsider mine; I smile into my glass, now full.

I raise my vodka. ‘Rrrou-zda no-vyah!’

‘Na-zda rro-vya!’ He clinks his glass with mine.

We drain our shots. His cheeks are rosy, and from the heat of my own I probably am just as pink-faced.

‘Enough sadness,’ I say. ‘Effort makes the mind, I’ve heard. I choose to be happy.’

‘Here here.’ He raises his glass again. ‘To happiness and new friends.’

I am lost for a few moments in the warmth of his gaze, before remembering myself. The fake talisman nags at the back of my mind, but I can’t do anything without reinforcements. I might as well enjoy this evening.

I raise my glass. ‘To happiness and new friends,’ I say and drain it.

The night is a blur of firefly lights and laughter. Lots of laughter. Dessert is sweet, layers and layers of thin pancakes drenched in honey and liquor and set aflame.

At some point there is dancing. Only men, and they’re all wearing blowsy white tops with red embroidery around the collar and black trousers. There’s a lot of movement and blurriness and I’m so swept up in the whirlwind of music and sounds and smells and sheer joy all I can do is laugh and clap in time with the music. Mr Lee gets up and joins the male dancers – Russian folk style, he says – kicking their legs out from a seated position, but without a chair for support. I clap long and hard for Mr Lee as he works up a sweat with the others, acquitting himself honourably, and receiving hearty claps on the back from his fellow dancers.

As we leave, swaying and stumbling, one of the dancers grabs Mr Lee in a tight embrace. He clamps thick hands either side of Mr Lee’s face and kisses him three times on his cheeks – left, right, then left again. I’m so surprised that when the dancer clasps my face in turn, I let the man kiss my cheeks too. He smells of dried wood and pine and sunshine. I can’t help but laugh. His joy is infectious. He bows in my direction. In a flush of goodwill and wild impulse, I grab his face like he did mine, and kiss him three times – left, right, then left again. He looks dazed, then pleased as he says something to Mr Lee who blushes deeply.

‘The best night ever!’ I say to Mr Lee, who links his arm through mine.

We laugh and stumble arm in arm back to the Cathay Hotel. There’s a moment when I glance up at Mr Lee, the stars twinkling above our heads, and he notices me watching him. His expression is open and warm. He smiles, pats my hand. ‘The best night ever,’ he replies.

Sixteen

Cheers

As soon as we pass through the revolving doors, the Cathay Hotel concierge comes scurrying out from behind his desk.

‘Miss Wang,’ he calls.

Mr Lee pulls me to a stop, gives me a meaningful look. I stare back at him, and he squeezes my arm.

‘Miss Wang,’ Mr Lee says, arching his eyebrows and smiling so the dimple in his left cheek shows.

I almost say who, but Mr Lee’s intent expression makes me pause. I remember I’m Miss Wang. A fit of giggles takes me. The concierge stands patiently as I gather my wits to answer him.

‘Yes?’ I finally say, in my most ladylike voice, though I can hear I’m slurring my words.

‘You have guests waiting for you in the Horse and Hound,’ the concierge says with a curt bow.

I squint at him. ‘Sorry – what? Hound?’

‘The hotel bar – it’s past the lift lobby to the right.’

‘Oh! Of course. Who—’

The floor seems to tilt under me, and I stumble, but Mr Lee holds me tight, keeps me standing upright.

‘A lady and gentleman. I’m so sorry miss, but I did not get a chance to ask their names.’ The man bows, then retreats to his desk.

I give him a sloppy hand fist salute and a slurred, ‘This humble one offers abundant gratitude.’

Mr Lee laughs and pulls me along to the Horse and Hound. The bar is a cosy space tucked into the corner of the building. Tall glass windows give us a clear view of the still crowded Bund. The walls are panelled in dark wood and all the seats are upholstered in green leather.

‘Jing! We’ve been waiting for you for hours. Where have you been?’ A familiar voice calls out from the gloom.

I squint, trying to resolve the double images. I make out a woman wrapped in peachy gauze waving at me from a table by the window. With her is a broad-shouldered man, a head and a half taller than the woman. I sniff the air, trying to make out their scents. Gigi. What in the rotted turds is she doing here? I squint again. Slowly her blurry form focusses. Tian, how can a dress with so much fabric still manage to expose so much cleavage? I don’t recognise the man’s scent. He has the spicy gingery scent of a yin creature, there’s also mountain pine and a subtle whiff of farm. Someone from the Celestial realm, I’d wager. Yaojing from Hell tend to smell less rural.

Mr Lee tugs me gently and leads me to the table. The man with Gigi stands to greet us. He wears loose cotton trousers and a blue tunic tied at the waist with a rough hemp cord. His long hair is tied in a low ponytail. Very farm chic. He raises a fist palm salute.

‘Honourable Lady Jing.’ The man’s voice tumbles from him like tilled earth, rich and deep. ‘I am Ah Lang. Big Wang sent us as your reinforcements.’

‘Wansui!’ I shout, laughing as I flop into the nearest chair.

‘Tian, Jing, how much have you had to drink? You smell like you’ve been bathing in baijiu!’ Gigi crosses her arms, pushing up her already abundant cleavage.

‘Keep doing that and they’ll pop right out,’ I say, pointing at her chest.

‘She’s been having a grand old time, drinking herself stupid, while we’ve been sitting here sipping tea. This will not do.’ Gigi’s tone has that imperious edge to it.

I dismiss her with a lazy wave of my hand. The whole room swims around me. Distantly, I hear Gigi demanding a cocktail menu and rattling off a long list of drinks. I stare at Ah Lang, but my tongue is too drunk to make the words out.

Mr Lee steps in. ‘My humble greetings to the virtuous Lady Gi and Ah Lang.’

Gigi narrows her eyes at Mr Lee in a way that raises my hackles. I plant an elbow on the table.

‘Uh uh,’ I say, wagging a finger at her. ‘None of that nonsense you pulled last time with Mr Lee. Or my fist will have something to say to your nose.’

‘You wouldn’t dare.’ Gigi puts a hand on the table, leans towards me, challenge in her gaze.

I plant my other elbow, interlock my fingers. ‘You really wanna try me? You have such a pretty nose; it would be a shame to ruin it.’

After a moment, she withdraws her hand. ‘Big Wang said we should enjoy Shanghai.’

‘He sent you to spy on me, didn’t he?’ I say.

Gigi doesn’t answer. Instead, she smooths the non-existent creases from the shimmering silk of her sleeves.

I make a disgusted sound. ‘I bet Big Wang said he’d put in a good word with Daddy if you did him this favour.’

Gigi’s face contorts in anger. ‘You’re such a rotted know-it-all,’ she hisses at me.

‘Ah, there you are, Gigi. I missed your ugly face.’ I lean forward and pat her cheek. Her eyes look like they are going to pop out of her head. Hee hee. ‘Hells, you are so easy to wind up. It’s why you always lose at cards.’

Gigi stands abruptly, but Ah Lang gives her a rotted doe-eye look, and she lets him pull her back to her chair. ‘I’m doing this for Lang, not for you.’

‘Fine,’ I say, crossing my arms.

‘Fine,’ she says, crossing hers.

Ah Lang sighs wearily as he glances between the two of us. ‘Big Wang was worried about you. And he heard there were quite a few hulijing still in yang Shanghai. Thought it would be prudent to have a couple extra Celestials on standby.’ Ah Lang addresses Mr Lee and pretends not to notice Gigi and I glaring daggers at each other. ‘He heard I was visiting Hell and asked if I would join you both. In return, he said he’ll do what he can to convince the Jade Emperor to let Gigi return to the Celestial realm.’

I am perplexed and discomfited by how much debt Big Wang is incurring to keep me safe.

‘We’re planning to visit Hokkien Market first thing tomorrow,’ I say. ‘It’s just inside Zhabei, across Soochow Creek. The woman who sold Mr Lee the fake talisman has a stall there.’

‘No,’ Gigi says. ‘We are not doing any of that. We are having fun here. We’re not traipsing around playing detective.’

‘Yes. Yes, we are,’ I insist. I will not have Gigi thwart my plans.

Ah Lang pats Gigi’s arm. ‘We can go together after breakfast, petal. Big Wang did say we should keep Lady Jing company.’

‘Hells no. We came here to help her enjoy Shanghai. Not be depressed. I know where Zhabei is. We had reams of ghosts pouring into Shanghai after the Japanese bombed it into rubble and smoke.’

Ah Lang looks helplessly at Mr Lee, who returns an equally helpless expression.

‘Well, why don’t we enjoy Shanghai tonight, and decide in the morning. How about that, my petal?’

I gag. Before Gigi can retort, the waiter arrives with a tray full of drinks. The waiter names each cocktail as he places it on the table ‘Gin Sling, Suffering Bastard, Conte Verde, Madame Meng, Bee’s Knees, Hanky Panky, Grasshopper, Yinyang, Scofflaw.’ The list goes on until he has two glasses left on his tray. A tall flute filled with a gently carbonated deep red liquid.

‘Oxblood,’ he says as he nudges the flute into the already overflowing mass of glassware on the table.

My fangs nudge out. ‘That one’s mine,’ I say.

The waiter places the last one on the table with a flourish. It’s a simple martini glass with a bright orange liquid. He flicks a lighter and blue flame races across the drink’s surface. ‘Flaming Bitch,’ he announces with a flourish.

‘That one’s yours.’ I point at Gigi, cackling.

Her eyes flare, but at another rotted doe-eyed look from Ah Lang, she folds her hands in her lap and says with prim congeniality, ‘I ordered one of everything. And the Oxblood especially for you.’

I pull a whatever face, but Mr Lee elbows me. With a snort, I give her a sloppy hand fist salute and mutter from the corner of my mouth, ‘Abundant gratitude blah blah blah.’

‘Charming,’ Gigi says.

I ignore her and pull the flute towards me, excited for the blood.

‘I don’t know how you manage with the crowds – all that yang qi is making even me salivate,’ Gigi says.

Ah Lang’s eyes widen. ‘My petal, you mustn’t indulge in yang qi. It will make it harder for you to return to the Celestial realm.’

I pluck the Suffering Bastard from the table, and offer it to Ah Lang, giggling to myself. ‘This one’s for you.’

Mr Lee picks his own drink before I can choose for him. ‘I’ll take the Stengah.’ He raises the whisky soda. ‘To new friends.’

Gigi and Ah Lang raise their glasses and we clink before downing our drinks. I’m sorely disappointed to find Oxblood is not really blood at all. It’s champagne and red wine and something sweet and earthy. Not quite the liquid dirt of beets, but it makes my tongue feel furry. I grab another drink – the green and frothy Grasshopper.

‘Rrrousdavyeno,’ I say, raising my glass.

‘Na-zda rro-vya,’ Mr Lee corrects, but the way he says it and the smile he gives me, doesn’t make me feel bad about my mistake. I feel . . . cherished. The feeling buoys my already light spirits.

I laugh. ‘What he said.’ I chase the weird earthy flavour away with mint.

Gigi surveys our empty glasses, then stands and says, ‘More!’ infusing her voice with the multi-layered whispers of Celestial command. She always uses it when she’s trying to throw me off my game. While I’m not totally inured to its effects, after all that practice I do a good job pretending the voice doesn’t scrape down my back like a shard of ice. The waiter she singled out, however, looks like he’s about to dabian his smart black trousers.

‘Don’t pull that Celestial crap,’ I say. ‘It’s one thing on me, but the mortals can’t take it. Look at Mr Lee.’ He’s staring at Gigi, white as a lady ghost. All he needs is a head of long messy hair. ‘And you made our waiter cry.’

Sure enough, the poor man is weeping behind the bar, pouring out measures of whisky.

Gigi looks suitably chastised. ‘Contain this worthless one’s thoughtlessness.’

‘Oh for the love of Tian, none of that claptrap,’ I moan, gearing up to make my play. I am going to get them to come to Zhabei with me whether they want to or not. ‘New rule. If you utter that flowery shit, you drink.’ I consider her. ‘And whenever you push your ta-tas out, you drink.’

Gigi’s fingers fly to her throat, her jaw drops in mock offense. ‘Fine. But if you curse, you drink. And every time you mock me, you drink.’

‘Ha. Fine,’ I say, pretending to rise to her challenge. ‘Let’s make this fun for everyone. If he’ – I point at Ah Lang – ‘calls you petal, or makes those rotted doe eyes at you, you both drink.’

Gigi laughs, waving away Ah Lang’s sputtering objections. ‘Done. And if he’ – she points at Mr Lee – ‘gives you soft gooey eyes, or any time you touch, you both drink.’

‘Whatever,’ I scoff. Mr Lee tries to interrupt but I hold a hand to his face, being mindful not to touch him. ‘This is the wager. If I’m the last one standing, you all come to Zhabei with me tomorrow. If I lose, we’ll go lipstick shopping instead or whatever it is you want to do.’

Gigi tosses her hair. ‘I accept your challenge. May the strongest goddess win.’

I hold my hand out to her.

She looks at it, then up at me, confused. ‘What is that?’

‘It’s how we agree things here in yang Shanghai. Hold my hand.’

She extends her hand.

‘No, the other hand,’ I say.

She does, and I shake her hand, much to Mr Lee’s bemusement and Ah Lang’s fascination.

‘There. Deal done. Now let’s drink.’ I raise my glass and the other three follow.

We demolish two more trays of cocktails. Gigi at some point manages to get her hands on a full bottle of vodka, ‘to catch up’, she says.

Gigi holds herself back from the flowery claptrap, but Ah Lang can’t help giving her those doe eyes.

‘Drink!’ I shout every time I catch him looking at her.

‘Ah Lang, you’re making us lose! Stop with the loving eyes.’

‘Oh petal—’

‘Drink!’ I’m shrieking from laughter. Every time Lang opens his mouth, they both have to drink. He can’t seem to help himself.

It doesn’t take long for Gigi to get her own back, and I have to drink every time Mr Lee turns his shining eyes on me. He can’t seem to help himself either. Somehow, I find myself holding a bottle of salted caramel vodka. Mr Lee tries to wrest the bottle from me so I try to drink it dry before he can take it away.

‘Give that back,’ Gigi slurs, pointing at my bottle. ‘It’s miiine. I’m thiiiiirsty!’

I clutch the bottle tight. ‘Get your own.’

‘Okay,’ Gigi says with a happy grin. From the depths of her sleeves, she pulls out another bottle. ‘I am magic!’

‘She got the waiter to bring two bottles,’ Ah Lang explains.

‘Sly old demon,’ I cackle.

‘I am no demon. I am a goddess.’ She throws her shoulders back, pushing out her cleavage so the fabric strains dangerously. At a look from me, she tosses her head. ‘I know. Drink.’

She takes another swig from her bottle. With a goofy grin, she slowly tips towards Ah Lang, like an elegant bamboo falling in the forest, and promptly passes out. Ah Lang nimbly catches both her and the vodka bottle as it slips from her hands.

I throw my arms in the air. ‘Wansui! Zhabei here we come.’

Seventeen

Checkpoint

i  am curled up in the back of a fancy black car, hiding behind my mauve sunglasses and feeling like I ought to crawl into a coffin somewhere. Big Wang’s man Willie turned up at the hotel at stupid o’clock, hauling us all out of bed. There’d been some disquiet with the Japanese forces so he decided to drive us to Zhabei himself to ensure we would not be troubled.

This early the streets are quiet, but the sun fills the space with a loud intensity that stabs through my eyes, straight to the back of my head. We’re heading to see the old woman at the Hokkien Market who sold the talisman to Mr Lee, but I’m not sure I can speak without vomiting. Maybe a drinking wager wasn’t my best idea. Ah Lang lounges on the small fold-out seat facing us as if he’s sitting on a throne; one arm casually draped across the back of the front seat. He’s far too cheerful. Gigi sits next to me, slumped in the caramel leather seat, her head leaning on the open window frame. She’s wrapped in a frothy dress, a pale lemon yellow confection with her usual long flowing sleeves. A pair of hastily purchased sunglasses perch on her paler-than-normal face. At least she looks worse than I feel, which makes me feel marginally less like rolling into the gutter and letting the roosters have me.

Mr Lee sits up front, which is a good thing. Even with the windows open, my throat burns from the persimmon sweetness swirling in the car.

I’ve never gone this long without blood, and I’m acutely aware of the smell. Lang and Gigi’s gingery scent gives me something else to focus on, as does Willie’s odd combination of scents. The occasional waft of raw sewage, while disgusting, also helps quell the burn. I clutch my purse, still full of sweets, though I can’t quite face eating anything right now.

‘Ronin ahead,’ Willie says.

Mr Lee stiffens. I’ve heard of them. The Japanese volunteer police force. Brutal and merciless. A good many of the ghosts arriving on the ferries were the result of encounters with the ronin. Willie rolls the car to a stop in front of a makeshift barrier of sandbags. Ronin in brown uniforms with white armbands surround the car. They all wear black boots with rubber soles, the toe-box split in two like the cloven hooves of goats. The one closest to the driver side door waves a rifle topped with a blood-stained bayonet and shouts at Willie; his words are rapid-fire. He has the same black hair and dark brown eyes as we do. His face still has the roundness of youth, smooth and unlined, but his eyes are hard and his face is full of contempt.

‘Don’t make sudden movements.’ Willie’s voice is low; he doesn’t look at us as he speaks. He produces a red booklet and holds it open for the shouting ronin. ‘I’m here at Y. L. Wang’s behest,’ Willie says, his voice full of calm authority.

‘Did I tell you to speak? Get out,’ the ronin snarls in heavily accented Mandarin. He yanks open the driver-side door and jabs the bayonet to Willie’s throat.

A ronin on the other side of the car speaks – his words staccato like the rat-a-tat-tat of an artillery gun; I catch the word Wang and a nervous undercurrent. The first one holding the bayonet to Willie frowns. Uncertainty crosses his face, but then his expression shutters, and he barks something back. I don’t have to understand the language to know the other man’s concerns have been dismissed.

‘Lady Gi, would you do the honours?’ Willie says.

Gigi groans, but pushes up from the seat. ‘I’ll try not to vomit,’ she says and leans out the window. She slides her silver framed sunglasses down her nose to peer at the ronin. At the movement, he swings his rifle from Willie towards her, but then, on seeing her, and more particularly, on noting Gigi’s low-cut top and her feminine assets heaving from their pale yellow confines, his lips curl into a leer.

The other ronin have carefully shuffled away from the car, their gazes darting between their sneering comrade and us.

‘He’s not really that stupid, is he?’ I whisper.

Gigi’s hand grips mine, squeezes as if to say hush. The ronin takes a step closer. I glance at Ah Lang in the seat opposite me. His lack of anxiety is reassuring. The ronin reaches out, intending to grab Gigi.

Before he can touch her, Gigi says, ‘Stop.’ Her voice, barely a whisper, rings clear in the early morning stillness; within the single word skitters the susurrus of many whispering voices, like insects scattering in the dark.

The ronin stumbles backwards, shoulders pulled tight around his neck. His comrades, already a distance from our car, run. Hells, I want to do the same. Ah Lang has Mr Lee by the shoulder, murmuring reassurances to him.

Willie pulls his door shut and leans out the open window. ‘Y. L. Wang will be most disappointed in your lack of cooperation.’

The ronin blinks stupidly at Willie for a few seconds, then turns tail and runs to join his comrades. With a low chuckle, Willie shifts the car into drive, and we roll away from the now abandoned checkpoint.

When we cross from the International Settlement into Zhabei, the difference is immediate and stark. Gone are the gay colours. Gone are the wide boulevards. Gone are the grand stone buildings. Here are narrow streets, ramshackle buildings, and so many people. I count only a few foreign faces. Zhabei is Chinese territory, home to the hundreds of thousands who will end up crossing the veil into my Shanghai. People here are draped in dark drab clothing, soiled and frayed. Small children run barefoot through the teeming crowds. A woman balances a long pole over her shoulders, woven baskets full of luobo radishes hang off each end, their green fronds bouncing with her every step. A man with empty baskets strapped to his back runs out across the street, nearly colliding with us. He spits at the car, cursing, before disappearing into the crowds. Willie drives slowly, pushing through the rickshaws and bicycles and people, and finally pulls into the drive of a burned-out warehouse.

‘I’m afraid I cannot accompany you to the market. I need to report the ronin behaviour to my superiors. It won’t take long. I will return here and wait for you,’ Willie says.

‘They’re getting bolder,’ Mr Lee says.

Willie sighs. ‘Yes. Unfortunately, the Municipal Council turns a blind eye, and our people are the ones who end up suffering.’

‘Why don’t you stop them?’ I ask, thinking of Madame Meng’s candied haw sticks and those first ferries full of innocents.

Willie turns, and his gaze is uncannily like Big Wang’s – dark and unfathomable. ‘Our duty is to maintain the balance of yin and yang, Lady Jing. It is not for us to determine fate.’

‘But—’

‘All actions have consequences, sooner or later. Interfering in the yang world will only delay the inevitable and make things worse. What the Japanese forces are doing up north, the karmic debt they are incurring . . . well’ – Willie sighs heavily – ‘it will not end well for them.’ Something flashes in Willie’s eyes, the flick of a shark’s tail, before disappearing into murky depths.

We follow Mr Lee through the narrow streets of Zhabei. Either side of us are two-storied wooden buildings with shuttered windows, open doors leading to darkened stairwells. There are people leaning against the doorways, squatting in front of the buildings, some sleeping slumped on the ground.

People stare openly at Gigi and me. No one here is dressed anything like Gigi. Her clothes are more suited to the Han dynasty than 1930s Shanghai. My grey Western suit is the right colour, but the wrong style. Only the older amahs wear trousers – theirs wide legged and almost always paired with a muted coloured tangzhuang; unlike Willie’s, the mandarin collared jackets these ladies wear are grey, blue, brown, and tired.

The smell of blood and yang is making me woozy so I take a too see roll from my bag.

‘What’s that?’ Gigi asks.

‘Nothing,’ I say, closing my hand and holding my purse behind me.

‘I saw you take something from your purse. What is it?’

I ignore her, but she reaches around me, tries to pull up my arm. I’m a lot stronger than she is, so she doesn’t make much headway.

‘It smells nice. I want one.’ She puts her hand out. When I ignore her, she adds, ‘I shared my caramel vodka with you.’

‘You had two bottles!’

‘And you don’t have a whole stockpile in there? Tian, you’re greedy.’

I twitch my shoulders; Ah Lang and Mr Lee walk either side of us, arms out to keep us from being crowded. But the smell is intense. ‘The candy helps with the dizziness.’

‘The yang qi?’ she says.

I nod. ‘And the blood.’

‘You didn’t have your glass last night.’

My fangs push out at the thought. I groan, press my fingers to my aching gums. ‘Don’t remind me.’

‘There are corpses everywhere – why don’t you just have a drink now. We’ll stand guard.’

I blink at her. ‘What?’

She gestures to the woman leaning against the building to our left, and then at a man lying not three feet away from us, and then at a child, barefoot, curled up against a wooden post. Now that I’m paying attention, beneath the unwashed bodies and the yang and blood is a scent I hadn’t noticed before. In my Shanghai, corpses always come with the stench of the river. Here, there’s a dry kind of smell. Like desiccated leaves, or the sandy winds that sometimes blow in from the Gobi Desert.

I stare at the unmoving people. They’re not sleeping. They’re dead.

I catch Mr Lee’s gaze. The resignation in his eyes tells me these scenes are not new to him. That seed of knowledge contains more horror than the poor souls abandoned where they lay.

‘The public cemetery makes its rounds every few days,’ Mr Lee says. ‘The bodies will be collected sooner or later. Death is an expensive business; many don’t have the means to pay for a coffin, much less a burial.’

I glance at the child. Her face is grubby. She’s no more than four years old, around the age I was sold to Big Wang. Two short pigtails stick out either side of her head, and she’s wearing a simple shift, soiled and torn. Something tears inside my chest.

‘You should drink from them,’ Gigi says. She sniffs the air delicately. ‘They still have their yang too.’

‘Hells no,’ I manage to croak before my stomach turns. I twist away just in time and bring up bile, hot and sour.

‘Jing, their souls have crossed. What’s left is nothing more than dead flesh.’ Gigi’s tone is harsh, but her hands are gentle as she helps me up, taking the purse and candy from me and handing me a yellow handkerchief embroidered with phoenixes.

I wipe my mouth and pocket the silk square. Gigi returns my purse and candy, but I push the too see roll back in her hands.

‘Mr Lee introduced me to them. They’re very good,’ I say.

She inclines her head in thanks. ‘We need to get you some blood.’

The image of the child flashes in front of me. My stomach clenches. I shake my head, not trusting myself to open my mouth without vomiting.

Gigi is about to retort, but Mr Lee gives her a look that, to my surprise, shuts her up. He takes my hand and puts it in the crook of his arm. ‘I will get blood for you, in a nice glass, ok? For now, have a caramel. We’re almost at the market. It will get more crowded there.’

I do as he says, then I hold my purse open for Gigi. ‘Try the squares. Those are sea salt caramels.’ Ah Lang peers around Gigi. ‘You too, Ah Lang. Go ahead.’

He slams his hand into his fist and bows his head. ‘Abundant gratitude for your generosity, Lady Jing.’ He takes a too see roll and unwraps it. Sniffs it, like I did. But when he tastes it, his eyes widen and a matching smile lights his face. ‘These are delicious!’

His cheery enthusiasm is too much for my hangover; I stuff two caramels in my mouth to stop me from gagging.

The market is a covered square thronging with people. There are long lines of stalls, separated by thin wooden partitions extending the length of the market. Each seller has their wares displayed on sheets spread over the ground and crowds five-deep snake up and down the makeshift aisles.

Mr Lee grabs my hand, nods to Gigi and Ah Lang. ‘Keep hold of each other and watch your pockets. There are always sticky fingers about.’

We push through the crowds. I stuff another two caramels in my mouth. Warm bodies squeeze from all sides, but Mr Lee keeps my hand firmly in his. There are some fancy looking wooden jewellery boxes, and Gigi exclaims in delight at the stall with ornate hair pins. There are radios, military curios, a jade stall, and another for handmade shoes.

We stop in front of a stall laid out with bamboo steamers and baskets of all different sizes. An older woman, skin weathered and wrinkled, plump cheeks ruddy and coarse, squats by her wares in the uniform of older amahs – a grubby apron over wide-legged faded navy trousers and an equally faded but carefully mended navy tangzhuang. Her hands are busy weaving longs strips of bamboo into a basket. Up, over, around. She catches sight of Gigi’s expensive gown, and her eyes light up; then she sees Mr Lee. Her expression dims into wariness.

‘Why, hello, Auntie, you look surprised to see me.’ Mr Lee inclines his head to the woman.

The woman’s gaze darts between the four of us, not missing Ah Lang and Gigi who’ve positioned themselves either side of Mr Lee and me. She cracks a gummy smile, exposing a few lonely yellowing teeth, hands still weaving the long strips of bamboo. ‘Honourable sir, I thought you would have stayed longer on your visit.’

‘Oh, I’ll be returning in good time. However, there was a little problem with the talisman you sold me,’ Mr Lee says. ‘We were hoping you could help us understand how you came to sell me a fake.’

Her hands still. ‘F-f-fake?’

I hold out the talisman and drop it in front of her wrinkled face. She stares at the swinging silver bi, then stands as if to flee. But Gigi extends an arm on one side of her stall, and Ah Lang on the other. There’s nowhere to run. She drops her weaving and slowly wipes her hands on her apron.

‘That’s impossible,’ she whispers.

‘Then, explain, because the talisman Mr Lee received is not yin silver,’ I say.

The old woman stares at me. I allow my yin energy to swell, causing my eyes to glow green. My focus sharpens until the old woman is limned in a golden yang glow. She stumbles into the wall at her back.

‘Well?’ I say.

She shakes her head, sinks against the wall until she’s crouched on the ground, cowering. ‘It wasn’t me,’ she says, eyes wide, unable to tear her gaze from mine. ‘Please! Do not tell Lord Lei!’

I lean in. ‘I’ll tell you what, Auntie. You tell me what happened, every detail, no matter how small, and I’ll make sure the big guy doesn’t come here himself to right this wrong.’

‘The b-big guy?’ she stammers.

‘Yan Luo Wang,’ I say, invoking the formal title for the King of Hell.

The woman’s face goes slack before she drops to her knees, scattering the long bamboo strips leaning against the wall, the baskets piled high on the ground. She prostrates herself over her wares, and kowtows furiously. ‘Honourable sirs and ladies. Be merciful. I did not know.’

Curious onlookers pause to watch the old woman.

‘People are staring. Stop it,’ I hiss at her. It only seems to make her more hysterical. ‘Gigi, do something.’

Gigi flicks her water sleeves back in a practiced motion and they pool at her wrist. She folds her arms. ‘Get up, Auntie. No amount of begging will make me accept that price. It’s insulting. Twelve cents.’

The woman sits back on her haunches, her gaze darts to me, then back to Gigi.

‘Twelve cents or I walk away,’ Gigi insists, playing the role of a hard-nosed shopper. The onlookers shuffle away.

The woman picks up her abandoned weaving, runs her fingers along the pale strips of bamboo. She licks her wrinkled lips. ‘I have a dear granddaughter who has only me to take care of her. Please, I would never cheat Yan Luo Wang.’

‘Twelve cents,’ Gigi says.

More quietly, I say ‘We only want the truth. We are not here to give you any mafan.’

The old woman holds my gaze, testing my sincerity. Finally, she nods and slowly pushes herself to standing.

‘May I see that?’ She holds her hand out and I place the fake talisman in her palm. She turns the bi around, gazing at it. ‘It is always the same handsome young man who delivers the talisman, Brother Zhu. He gives me a parcel filled with silk pouches. They each have a name attached to them. I give them out according to the names.’

‘Do you ever look inside the bags? Maybe they could have gotten mixed up somehow,’ Ah Lang says.

The old woman shakes her head. ‘I never look in the bags, it is not my place. Only once was I given a talisman to hold. It was heavy and had a warm energy to it. But this one’ – she nods to the bi in her hand – ‘it does not feel the same at all. I am sorry, I did not know.’ She hands the fake talisman back to me.

She is telling the truth, I have no doubt. Which means either Brother Zhu swapped the talisman, or the hulijing did.

Eighteen

Hungry

Gigi insists on returning to the stalls with the hair pins, the painted jewellery boxes, the perfume bottles, the cloisonné mirrors and knick-knacks and we stand around forever while Gigi haggles with the stall keepers. When we finally get back to the car, we are laden with parcels and I’m hungry as well as grumpy.

Willie takes pity on us and drives us to Nanxiang, a canal town not far from Shanghai, and parks in front of a single-storey dark wood pavilion in the centre of a large and pretty garden.

‘These are the best xiao long bao around,’ Willie says as a young woman in a black qipao seats us at a round table by the window. I gaze wistfully at her hair, bobbed short and set in those fashionable marcelle waves.

‘Did you enjoy the market, Lady Jing?’ Ah Lang asks as towers of steaming baskets are placed in the centre of the table, along with side dishes of sliced cucumber with Szechwan peppers and cold jellyfish.

‘Yes, thank you for accompanying me. Though, I think Gigi had the most fun of us all, judging by her many purchases.’

‘Big Wang said we should have fun, not spend our time trying to find out if some mortal swindled him,’ Gigi says.

I glance at Willie, in case he twigs I’m following my own agenda, but he doesn’t seem bothered. I guess today is the last day of the Mahjong Council, so whatever I do here is unlikely to affect what Big Wang needs to do back in yin Shanghai. Brother Zhu will have answers – I need to find a way to talk to him, but I still haven’t figured out how to broach the subject without giving myself away.

‘I want to go dancing,’ Gigi continues.

Ah Lang’s face cracks into a bright smile. ‘I know a great place for dancing and music.’

‘You do?’ Gigi asks.

‘A friend of mine likes to spend time in the jazz bars here. We often play music together. I strum my pipa, and he plays his bamboo flute.’ He chuckles. ‘We sometimes even play the Paramount—’

Gigi is staring at Ah Lang like she’s never seen him before. ‘You’ve been to yang Shanghai?’ Her voice is sharp and high.

Ah Lang seems oblivious to Gigi’s rising anger. ‘Yes, a few times a year my friend invites me.’

The temperature around the table drops noticeably. ‘I’ve been sitting in Hell, waiting for that window once a year when I’m allowed back into the Celestial realms to see you, my darling.’ The way Gigi bites out the last word does not bode well for Ah Lang. He pales noticeably. ‘When at any time, I could have popped over to yang Shanghai, and watched you and your friend play the Paramount.’

‘It’s only Brother Zhu. I didn’t think it was important.’ Ah Lang rubs the back of his neck, attempts a pained looking smile. ‘You know now.’

I feel sorry for Ah Lang, who is squirming and clearly confused as to Gigi’s sudden pique. But this is perfect. Brother Zhu is exactly who I need to see.

‘Maybe you’re right, Gigi. Maybe some fun is in order,’ I say, but Gigi’s answering glare makes me hesitate. I clear my throat. Probably best to let her calm down first. ‘I’m full, I need to walk for a bit.’

Mr Lee stands as well. ‘Yes, excellent idea, Lady Jing. One hundred steps after every meal is the path to longevity.’ He raises a fist palm salute to Gigi and Ah Lang. Neither notice. Ah Lang is too busy staring wide-eyed at Gigi, who reminds me strongly of a cobra about to strike.

Willie glances at us, then at Gigi and Ah Lang. He too stands. ‘I’ll wait in my car.’

We all hurry out of the restaurant. As soon as the doors glide shut behind us, Gigi’s voice, strident, rises in volume.

‘She’s very intense,’ Mr Lee says, casting a glance over his shoulder as Willie heads to his car. It isn’t until we’re out of earshot of Gigi’s shrieking that we slow and start giggling.

With great effort, I pull my face into a mock frown. ‘This won’t do.’ I mimic the sonorous intonations of old-school scholars, clasp my hands behind my back as we stroll beneath crooked pines. ‘Effort makes the mind, Mr Lee. And what better way to hone our intellect and moral aptitude than to recite the classics.’

Mr Lee clasps his hands behind his back and nods sagely. ‘Ah yes. I am curious as to which poets you consider to be classics.’

My neck prickles and I have the sensation we are being watched again. I pretend to take in the scenery, gazing all around. Two white-haired men in navy silk changpao play xiangqi chess on one of the stone tables dotted around the garden, there’s a pond beyond them where a group of women have gathered, and songbirds flit from tree to tree, their chirps a pleasant background symphony. Nothing jumps out. But the malice burning holes in my back is undeniable.

I clear my throat, play the game of carefree nonchalance, and intone, ‘Wind sweeps the world; rain darkens the village. Thunder rolls from the mountains like churning waves. The fire and blanket keep me very warm. Me and my cat are not going out.’

Mr Lee cough-laughs. ‘You consider Lu You’s poem about his cat a classic?’

‘It displays common sense and compassion,’ I say haughtily, keeping my senses alert. ‘And there are no rotted butterflies, peach blossoms, pines, or heavenly ponds.’

Mr Lee laughs, then glances sideways at me. ‘Perhaps you’ll enjoy this one. It is not a classic as Lord Ma might consider, but I find it moving, nonetheless.’ He runs a hand over his face, wiping away his goofy smile. He strokes a non-existent beard, gazes at the pond with its nodding lotus flowers, and recites:

‘Please pardon my wanton stubbornness, immortal goddess.

Awake or asleep I see you always; the reason being

I carved your image into a stamp,

And with it branded you over and over onto my soul.

My praises for you, whether you care to listen or not,

are faithful and dependable as a cockerel’s midday crow;

Every second stretches as long as a day,

Every second raises my voice even higher.

I never wished for you to come down from heaven –

A thunderbolt that disrupts all.

But I hope, on an unexpected spring day,

When people are busy minding their own happiness,

a quiet breeze should bring me a message

That heaven and earth will one day meet again.’

‘Wah. Apart from the rotted roosters, that was really good. I’ve never heard anything like it.’ I guide us towards the women, to check if any yaojing are hidden among them.

He ducks his head, looking pleased by my reaction. ‘It’s new, not yet published. My friend Shao Xunmei wrote it.’

We skirt the pond, passing the women practicing tai chi in the rock garden. They all smell of mortal yang qi.

‘It’s much better than those crusty poems about being drunk and leaning on pines,’ I say. My throat itches from the combined scent of the women’s blood and qi. I swallow, trying to soothe the burn.

Mr Lee chuckles, and I guide us away from the women towards the canals in town. As their scent fades, Mr Lee’s grows more intense. I can almost taste the honeyed overripe persimmon flavour of his blood, the cool watermelon crispness of his yang qi. My gums swell and ache, my fangs pressing to slide out. I recite cat poems to keep my mind off Mr Lee’s intoxicating scent, and when my throat is too dry to continue, I demand Mr Lee recite more of his friend Xunmei’s recent compositions.

We head to the white-washed buildings of Nanxiang where grey tiles ripple across the rooftops and stone dragons undulate along the ridges. The town is built on an ancient network of narrow canals, which makes it easy to meander, and easy to spot anyone following us.

When we reach the first bridge, Mr Lee holds out his arm. ‘Please help me across the bridge; I don’t much like water,’ he says with a gentle smile.

I swallow again, this time because I’m salivating and don’t want to drool. I can’t seem to deny the expectation in his gaze, so I take his arm and smile tightly.

‘Why thank you for your kindness,’ he says. ‘This is much better than being wrapped in a burlap bag.’

As soon as we are over the bridge, I put some space between us, and try to breathe through my clenched teeth. The sensation of being followed is still there but I’m too distracted to focus. We pass through groups of mortals, all out for a gentle stroll. Whoever is watching us might be any one of them but I when I try to sniff the air for strangers, all I can smell is Mr Lee.

We turn a corner and are faced with another bridge and another canal. He links his arm through mine and I practically drag him across, impatient to stop the physical contact. I pull away as soon as we are over. My fangs are out and my head spins. We turn a corner, and there is yet another bridge. I nearly cry in frustration and rub my face to try and soothe that ache in my gums. Mr Lee glances down at me and without a word offers me a too see roll from his pocket, then another, then another.

I lean against a white-washed wall and close my eyes. ‘I need blood.’

I feel him flinch, in the change of his scent, in the sourness that betrays his reluctance. Like before. I pretend not to notice, though it stings.

‘Right now?’ he asks.

‘No, not now. But soon.’

‘What happens if you don’t get any?’

I look at him. He’s pale, but there’s a steely resolve in his eyes.

‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I’ve never had to find out. You know, it’s been almost a hundred years and Big Wang has never failed to provide for me.’ I bite my lip. ‘I really should be nicer to the old bat.’

Mr Lee laughs but it sounds flat. We’ve come full circle in the small town and exhausted all the streets.

‘We’d better head back,’ he says.

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.

Nineteen

Marcelle

After Mr Lee leaves with Ah Lang to get fitted for a suit, Gigi turns up at my door, her arms full of silky dresses.

I stand there holding the door open, staring. ‘What is all that?’

‘Pish, is that anyway to greet a goddess? Especially a goddess fashion advisor who is about to transform you into the best-looking deity in Shanghai? Well, apart from me of course.’

I regret playing this hand. I don’t want to wear them – to pretend to be something I’m not. ‘I’m already dressed.’

Gigi shakes her head, her eyebrows pushing high into her forehead. ‘For lounging around your hotel room perhaps, but not for the hottest ballroom in town. Even I’ve heard about the Paramount. Every deity worth their qi has been there. It’s only because I’ve been foolishly moping in Hell that I haven’t visited yet.’

‘What’s so special about the Paramount? Surely any of the clubs in Hell must rival it?’

Gigi sighs. ‘You know better than most how much yaojing like to show off. What better place than a mortal club? The mortals gawp while we yaojing preen and showboat to our heart’s delight. The only two rules are no mafan and no letting slip our true nature. Who could say no to that?’ She holds up one of the dresses.

I back away, waving my hands in front of me. I can say no, easily too. I’m about to tell her so when she says, ‘If you don’t look the part how are you going to approach any hulijing? They’ll see right through you.’

‘What do you mean? I don’t want to approach any hulijing,’ I say.

Gigi merely scoffs. ‘How are you going to find out if they switched the talisman if you don’t go? Don’t look at me like that. Who doesn’t know Brother Zhu is the Ministry of Thunder’s courier, and the hulijing make the talismans. Someone will have an answer.’

Grudgingly, I acknowledge her point. And berate myself for underestimating her. If I had confided in her maybe I wouldn’t be stuck playing forced dress up with Gigi. I eye the dresses warily. They look so ethereal. Fitting for a goddess. I am, as she so succinctly put it, a bedraggled half-deity.

Gigi senses an opening, moves in for the attack. ‘I saw you looking at that waitress’s hair. I know how to do that. I could marcelle your hair for you.’

Damn her. She’s a good kanhoo player for a reason. Observant and prescient. I touch my hair despite myself. ‘Y-you can do that?’

‘Are you going to make me stand in the corridor all afternoon?’

‘Oh, right.’ I step back and she sweeps into my room, her gleaming bosom leading the way.

She lays out slinky silks and delicate frothy fabric across the back of the sofa. There are eight or nine dresses here. One is a creamy gauzy thing, with blush-coloured plum blossoms that look like they are budding from the fabric itself. I run my fingers along the petals – they are satin-smooth, and I marvel that they aren’t actually real.

‘These are the dresses I think would suit you best. But you should try them on first, see what you prefer.’

‘Hells, Gigi, did you bring your entire wardrobe?’

She looks affronted. ‘Of course not, I only brought four suitcases! I had to send two suitcases home since Fisherman Lo refused to let me take them all.’

Four? I only brought one. And my suitcase was half-empty. I think of the two qipao hanging in the hotel wardrobe – the green one, which I wore yesterday, and my favourite yellow one with the embroidered swallows. I had planned to wear that tonight, but the dresses Gigi brought make my fanciest dress suddenly feel plain. And that makes me angry. It’s how all those rotted deities make me feel when they swan around at Council.

I lift my chin. ‘I have a dress. I don’t need these.’

She gives me a critical look. Picks up a vivid blue silk number. ‘Try this on.’

‘I have my own clothes, Gigi. I’m not a charity case.’

‘I know you have your own clothes. But come on, we’re in yang Shanghai! Please Jing. I haven’t been to a ballroom in ages. And I heard that snake Xiao Qing has been hanging around Ah Lang lately. She’s always talking about how much fun she has at the Paramount. I can’t let her overshadow us. We are going to surpass them all.’

‘I—’

She pulls a metal contraption from inside her water sleeve. It looks like some kind of barbarian prod.

I back away from her. ‘What is that?’

‘This is a curling rod. It’s to marcelle your hair.’

‘That looks like an implement of torture.’

Gigi beams. ‘I’ll do your hair and mine.’ She strokes the fine blue silk of the dress. ‘I brought a whole box full of hair pins to match the dresses. They’ll look wonderful with your waves.’

Rotted Gigi; she knows my weaknesses.

‘Go on,’ she coos, pushing the dress into my unprotesting hands.

‘What, here?’

‘Don’t pretend you’re shy about undressing. I know you better than that.’

Defeated well and truly, I let Gigi help me into the dress. The bodice is form fitting, accentuating my curves, and pinching in at the waist. The skirt, however, is a revelation. The fabric hugs my hips, but as it falls, it flares outwards. I squat with my knees wide apart, stand and kick my legs forward and back. The sapphire silk slips over me and gives full freedom of movement.

‘What in Tian are you doing?’ Gigi watches me, mouth open.

‘This is amazing – I can move however I wish. None of that ridiculous constraint from qipao.’

She gives me a smug smile. ‘I never could understand why you wear those dresses. I always feel like I’m suffocating.’

I suck my teeth. ‘Only because they cover your ta-tas.’

She ignores my jibe and plucks another confection from the back of the sofa. ‘Try this one.’

It’s also a silk affair, this one emerald green.

‘Arms up,’ she orders.

‘You are not the boss of me,’ I say, then meekly raise my arms.

Gigi sweeps off the first dress then shimmies the second over my arms and head. It falls in a cool cascade over my skin. The bodice is held up by the finest of straps and exposes my collarbone and shoulders. The dress skims my body and waterfalls to my feet.

Gigi purses her lips. Grabs another dress. ‘Try this one.’

‘They’re all pretty, Gigi. I’ll just wear this one. I like green.’

‘The Paramount is THE place to see and be seen in Shanghai. We are Celestials, Jing. Whether you like it or not, you are Lady Jing of Mount Kunlun, descended from Queen Mother of the West herself. No one can take away your ancestry. We will shine like the stars we are. Now try this one.’ She shoves the dress at me.

I eye the dresses still remaining on the sofa. There are so many. Tian, just looking at them makes me anxious. I picture Soo and her lot spitting at me, tearing at my ribbons, laughing at the mongrel who dared to dress as an equal. I clench my fists. ‘This is fine,’ I repeat.

Gigi studies me. ‘Do you know that feeling you get when a hair pin feels right with a particular dress?’

‘I only have two hair pins, and they go with most of my dresses.’

She taps her foot. ‘How about, when you pull the right card in kanhoo.’

That I understand. ‘I get a little thrill,’ I admit.

Gigi bounces on her toes. ‘Yes! The right dress on the right person gives me that same feeling. A thrill. While you are stunning in this dress, it is not the right one. Trust me on this.’

I grunt, but allow Gigi to pull the dress over my head and put yet another one over my compliant arms. We end up trying on, and discarding, three more rotted dresses. They are all beautiful, and I’d happily wear any one of them. But for some reason, none of them satisfy her.

She holds one up that clearly is meant to show off my cleavage. ‘Not that one.’

‘What’s wrong with it?’

‘It’s too low-cut.’

She makes a face. ‘I don’t understand your hang-up about breasts.’ She cranes her neck, making a show of checking out my chest. I cross my arms over them. ‘They look perfectly fine. Why not show them off?’

‘I don’t want to, okay?’

‘You’re happy to run around in your underthings, show your ass whenever you feel like, and yet you won’t show a little cleavage. Jing, you know that makes no sense.’

‘It’s not that. I don’t have a problem with my ta-tas.’

‘Then what is it? For Tian’s sake—’

‘All those bitches prance around with their ta-tas bursting out of their dresses,’ I grumble.

Gigi jerks back, like I’ve slapped her. ‘Well, if that’s how you feel,’ she says, her face suddenly blotchy. She starts gathering the dresses strewn over the sofa.

I curl in on myself. She’s trying so hard. I think back to the rules from the book I bought the other day about winning friends. Acknowledging my mistakes was one of them. I have no idea if the rules work, but surely they are worth a try. Anything’s better than my own clumsy efforts.

‘Gigi, I don’t mean you.’

She pauses, back to me. I exhale. ‘When I was little, I lived in the Hulijing Court. You know how they like to dress – everything on display in those low-cut translucent robes. The only memories I have of my time there are of Soo and her friends. Their faces all blur together but I remember very clearly their shrieking laughter, their smell, and their gleaming breasts as they held me down in the bathtub and scrubbed me with floor brushes until I bled. They said it was to clean me of my foreign stink.’

My voice trails away. I’ve never spoken about that before and am surprised by the tear trickling down my cheek. I wipe it away.

Gigi doesn’t move for a long time. Finally, she puts down the dresses in her arms, and picks up the gauzy one with the flowers. She turns to me, her eyes bright.

‘I never considered you the floral type,’ she says, tone brisk and no-nonsense. She holds up the dress against me and eyes me critically. ‘Something made me grab this dress. Maybe I have a touch of dragon sight. Wouldn’t Lord Black be surprised? Now arms up, ugly.’

The unexpected insult makes me laugh. I don’t know why, but it makes me feel better. Back on even ground. I do as she asks, and the dress falls over my head in a cloud of blossoms.

I turn to look at myself in the bedroom door mirror. The dress is stunning, no doubt. Pale pink and blush plum blossoms drape over one shoulder, tumble and scatter across the dress. The other shoulder is bare – bare of blossoms, bare of fabric, showing off a smooth expanse of skin from neck to armpit, but no cleavage, just the line of my collar bone leading into that dip in my shoulder. I stare at myself. I’m me, but there’s something about the dress that makes me feel taller. More . . . noticeable? I can’t put my finger on it, but I do like it.

Gingerly, I lift the sheer frothy layer of skirt – it swirls over a pink silk under-dress. The whole effect makes my skin appear delicate and creamy like Gigi’s, which is odd as I’ve never thought about my skin like that. The gauze is so fine that when I move, the blossoms seem to flutter as if on a breeze.

Gigi stands back, her eyes shining. ‘This is the one.’

We both stare at my reflection. The person in the mirror tilts her head. She looks uncertain.

‘I don’t know . . .’ I say.

‘What do you mean? It’s perfect. Look at you.’

I close my eyes, try to put my feelings into words. ‘The dress is beautiful, Gigi. But what are people going to think, seeing me—’

She holds a hand up, shushing me.

‘Forget about other people for a second. How do you feel wearing this dress? How do you feel, seeing yourself in this dress?’

The woman in the mirror gazes shyly at me. ‘Fancy,’ she says. ‘Pretty,’ she says. ‘Special,’ she says.

Gigi nods. ‘All that. Because you are a Celestial. And you will, with the love of all Tian, shine like one tonight.’ She takes me by the shoulders and steers me to the dressing table in my bedroom. ‘Now for your hair.’

She plugs in the curling rod then brushes my hair, smoothing and separating long hanks into sections. Has she always been this kind? I wonder how I missed it for so long. Or is it because we aren’t trying to win stuff off each other?

After a while, I ask, ‘What is dragon sight? Lord Black mentioned it the other day, but wouldn’t give me a straight answer,’

‘It’s a little esoteric. Dragons predate the split of realms between yin and yang. They are of the Cosmos – so their sense of past, present, and future is much more entwined with intuition and perception.’

‘So it’s not foresight—’

‘Not really. At least, that’s my understanding. The dragon uncles are terrible at explaining. They like their riddles.’ She picks up the curling rod, gives me a reassuring smile. ‘Don’t be frightened. Only people who don’t know what they’re doing scorch the hair off.’

My faced twists. ‘Scorch the hair off?’ I try to turn but she pulls a box from her sleeve and plonks it on the dressing table. If we were playing kanhoo, I’d be on a face-losing losing streak.

‘Here,’ she says. ‘Choose a hair pin.’

I eye the box and then the curling rod.

‘I promise, I won’t burn your hair. If I do, I’ll let you burn my hair.’

‘Fat lot of good that’ll do me. You’ll just wave your fingers and grow more hair.’

She shrugs, as if to say, And?

I resign myself to her ministrations and pore over the contents of her hair pin box.

Gigi pulls and yanks and primps until I feel like a plucked chicken. But what she does with my hair is nothing short of magical. I have a chic side part and waves all the way down my back.

I turn my head this way and that, admiring the cascading marcelles, the way they shine in the light and how they bounce when I move. I can’t quite believe the woman in the mirror is me.

‘Wah, Gigi.’

Her answering smile is, for the first time since I’ve known her, bashful. She lifts her chin at all the hair pins I’ve laid out. ‘Which one did you choose?’

‘I’m not sure . . . None seem quite right,’ I tell her.

Again, her smile is unfamiliar. Sweet and shy. It is so kind, the backs of my eyes prick and water. I blink quickly to hide the sudden surge of emotion.

‘I was saving this for your birthday,’ she says, pulling something from the depths of her sleeves, ‘but it’s too perfect to keep back.’

‘Just how much stuff do you keep in those?’ I ask.

She laughs. ‘The sleeve pockets are terribly useful! I can make you a dress like this when we get home.’ She hands me the pin, her hand trembling a little.

A jewelled fox frolics in a pile of blossoms, each one made of a small pearl surrounded by dainty petals of polished coral. Tiny butterflies flit above the flowers, their crystal wings catching the light and casting miniature rainbows. From the pin dangle strands of pearls and jade beads. The artistry is exquisite; this is easily the most beautiful hair pin I’ve ever seen.

A lump in my throat makes it hard to speak. My reflection blurs for a moment until I quickly blink things clear again.

‘It’s— I—’

Gigi leans on the dressing table, pats me on the cheek. ‘You’re welcome, ugly,’ Gigi says, her voice soft as she takes the pin from me. She sweeps a section of my shiny waved hair and pins it above my ear with my birthday gift. She gazes at my reflection in the mirror. ‘It’s perfect.’

I don’t look like myself. There’s someone hopeful there – her hair set in the most fashionable of hair styles. The beads sway, the butterflies dance.

‘You look glamorous, Jing. All those other deities can suck turd-eggs.’ Her grin makes me laugh. She gathers her hair pins. ‘Come on, my turn,’ she says, striding into the sitting room. I follow her and she shoves the discarded dresses into my arms.

‘I have matching dancing shoes for that dress in my room. Now it’s your turn to help me get dressed.’ She’s so excited, and I’m still so overcome by her thoughtfulness, I forget to be grumpy as I follow her, my new waves bouncing behind me.

Twenty

Ruffled Feathers

All marcelled, painted, and coiffed, Gigi and I head downstairs to meet the men. She is resplendent in a glimmering gold dress which is cut straight across her collarbones. When she first donned the dress, I was shocked to see she chose one that covered her bosom, but then she winked and turned. Swathes of silk fell from each shoulder, exposing the whole of her back, from nape to the dimples just above her butt.

Ah Lang and Mr Lee are waiting for us in the lobby. They wear black Western-style suits, but these are tailored more closely. Tuxedos, they tell us. The silhouette is sharp. The jackets have long tails at the back like a swallow and their white shirts are paired with black bow ties. I’m rather taken with this new look. I dare say, Mr Lee is even dashing.

Ah Lang’s gaze lights up when he sees us. He cautiously approaches Gigi, who stiffens beside me.

‘This unworthy one glories in your fragrant beauty which illuminates the very heavens, my darling petal.’ He bows low.

Gigi gives him a snooty sniff. I’m concerned that she still isn’t falling for that flowery piss-fart she loves so much. I nudge her, and give her an encouraging smile, but she only moves to the other side of me, away from Ah Lang.

Mr Lee bows. ‘We are the luckiest men in Shanghai.’ He offers me his arm. It feels natural for me to take it, so I do.

Ah Lang looks quizzically at Mr Lee for a moment, then mimics the action. Gigi turns her nose up and shifts away from him again. Just then, two ladies pass by in beaded gowns that pitter like falling rain as they pass. Their hair is bobbed short and marcelled like the most fashionable women here. Long silver earrings sweep their shoulders, drawing the eye to their elegant necks. Their gazes linger appreciatively on Ah Lang, and they offer him inviting smiles, until Gigi inserts herself in their line of vision and claims Ah Lang’s arm.

Willie arranged a car and driver for us, so we pull up to the Paramount in style. The dance palace reminds me of the fancy car we arrive in – all silver, chrome, and mirrors, and a lot of black shiny surfaces. We ascend a circular white marble staircase to the main dance floor. The place reeks of Celestials. There are so many overlapping scents and perfumes it’s as pungent as a Mahjong Council. The whole space is a concentric set of circles dotted with towering muscular bouncers, also wearing tuxedos which look like they might burst at the shoulders. At the centre is the dance floor. Around that are a number of small tables – women in qipao sit in groups by the tables closest to the dance floor. At the very outer edge are raised circular booths which give their occupants a sense of privacy, as well as the best views in the house. At the far end of the room is a stage with an orchestra.

We head towards the stage, when a squat but solid young man in a pin-striped suit crosses our path.

‘Brother Zhu!’

‘Ah Lang! Good to see you, old boy. Didn’t expect to see you again so soon.’ His short hair frames a face of boyish charm. A half-unbuttoned white shirt reveals a smooth muscled chest – he exposes nearly as much skin as Gigi normally does.

Gigi narrows her eyes and Ah Lang visibly tenses.

‘This is Lady Gi, my beloved petal,’ Ah Lang says.

Brother Zhu bows to Gigi. ‘This unworthy one basks in your heavenly beauty, most venerable Lady Gi. Ah Lang did not exaggerate your loveliness. Your beauty rivals even that of the great goddess Queen Mother of the West herself!’ He winks at Ah Lang. ‘You lucky dog.’

Gigi blushes, because of course she does, lapping up that aristocratic drivel.

Ah Lang claps him on the back. ‘And this is Lady Jing, and Mr Lee, our mutual friend.’

Brother Zhu bows, his dark gaze tracking me. His eyes dance and I just know he’s going to be full of that piss-fart.

Before he can utter a word, I put my hand up. ‘No courtly speech.’ I can’t help the growl that comes with it.

His eyes widen, and his impish grin gleams even brighter. ‘When a plum blossom vision as lovely as yourself makes such a request, how could I ever say no?’

He takes my hand and tries to press his lips against my skin, but I grip his hand and yank him forward. ‘Try it and I’ll carve out your rotted tongue,’ I whisper into his ear.

Brother Zhu gazes up at me through ridiculously long and lush lashes. He doesn’t look at all repentant, if anything it’s like I’ve offered him a challenge he can’t refuse. He gives me a fist palm salute instead, then playfully growls back, ‘Feisty Celestials are my favourite.’

Before I can respond, he turns to Mr Lee and grasps his hand, shaking it with enthusiasm. Mr Lee wears an expression I haven’t seen before. He reminds me again of a panther, still and dangerous. I stifle a laugh because dangerous is not a word I associate with Mr Lee.

‘Welcome, welcome,’ Brother Zhu says, completely oblivious to the way Mr Lee’s gaze has gone flat and predatory. ‘Come, you must sit at my table tonight.’

We follow Brother Zhu across the room. Our progress is halting as he pauses for one yaojing or another as they greet him. Lord Cai, the God of Money, in poppy red silks with gold chains dangling from his box hat, claps Brother Zhu on the shoulder as we pass. A few steps later, Ji Gong the God of Healing greets Brother Zhu with an energetic fist palm salute that ripples his plain cotton water sleeves, and right on his heels is Zhu Rong, the God of Fire, sporting a bright turquoise tuxedo, his hair slicked back like Brother Zhu’s. He nods at us, his gaze lingering appreciatively on Gigi. I glance around. Most of the deities here are high-ranking ministers.

‘Shouldn’t they be at the Mahjong Council?’ I mutter to Gigi as yet another senior minister claps Brother Zhu on the back.

‘They like to sneak out between rounds,’ Gigi says. ‘You’ll probably see all of them here at some point tonight.’

I had no idea. Ma Zhu, Goddess of the Sea, floats towards us, her sheer azure dress rippling around her bare feet. She slips an arm through Brother Zhu’s and whispers something in his ear. Whatever he says in return makes her blush and giggle.

Mr Lee walks stiffly beside me, his face like thunder. I wonder what has gotten into him. Brother Zhu leads us to the last table on the far side of the dance floor – a circular booth with a great view of the band.

‘Please, make yourself at home. Order anything you like.’ He thumps himself on the chest. ‘Brother Zhu takes care of his own.’

Gigi slides onto the white leather seats, followed by Ah Lang. There’s an awkward moment when Mr Lee tries to slip in beside me, but Brother Zhu is quicker. Mr Lee has no choice but to sit on the other side, next to Ah Lang. He looks as angry as he did when Gigi almost strangled him. I glance quickly at Gigi in case she might have threatened Mr Lee like last time, but all her attention is on Brother Zhu. I dismiss Ah Lang as a threat. He’s too upright to torment mortals. I watch Brother Zhu who, of all of us, seems the most at ease. He casually stretches his arm along the back of the broad booth so that his arm rests against my shoulders. I shift so I’m not touching him. His scent – classic Celestial – is layered with an artificial odour, cologne Gigi called it. Many of the yaojing and even the mortals here seem to like it. It makes my nose itch.

‘How lucky are we to be in the company of the two most beautiful women in all of Shanghai?’ Brother Zhu says.

Ah Lang beams at Gigi who is still ignoring him, while Mr Lee glares at Brother Zhu. I try to get Mr Lee’s attention so I can signal for him to stop behaving so bizarrely but he won’t look my way. A waitress dressed in a slinky qipao brings us crystal flutes and a fat bottle of champagne in a silver ice bucket. When she leaves, Brother Zhu leans forward.

‘It is really great to see you, Ah Lang. But—’ He glances around the table. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Well, uh, we—’ Ah Lang stammers.

‘Look, I’m no idiot. When Big Wang’s ward and the Jade Emperor’s daughter are here in Shanghai together, with you and a random mortal’ – he nods his head at Mr Lee – ‘no offense, it’s not a regular jaunt over to yang Shanghai.’

I clear my throat and lay my cards on the table. ‘We’re here on a private matter and wondered if you might help.’

A corner of Brother Zhu’s mouth quirks up. ‘It would make my day to help you, my beautiful plum blossom.’

Mr Lee makes a choking sound. He seems fine though, if a bit red.

‘Do you still courier the talismans from Turquoise Hills?’ I ask.

‘I do.’ He appraises me, then leans in close. I block his approach, my hand on his forehead to keep him from coming any closer. He chuckles, and takes my hand in his, raising it to his lips.

I try to snatch my hand away, but he’s prepared this time and holds me tight. ‘I won’t hurt you, my spring vision,’ he says and grazes the back of my hand with his nose.

‘The lady wants you to let go.’ Mr Lee almost snarls as he glowers at Brother Zhu.

Brother Zhu doesn’t let go of my hand, but he leans back, relaxed and unbothered by Mr Lee’s outburst. ‘You can calm down loverboy, I only wanted to know if Lady Jing smelled as good as she looks.’ I yank my hand from his grip, face burning. ‘And you do,’ he says gently. ‘Spicy and feisty, like Szechuan chillies and the sweetest mandarins.’ His eyes sparkle with mischief and I blink in surprise. No one has ever told me I smell nice. ‘I’m going to have the bartender make a special cocktail in your honour.’ He spreads his hands in the air. ‘The Lady Jing.’

Gigi leans forward, turns her back on Ah Lang. ‘What about me, I want a cocktail named after me too.’ She holds her hand out and Brother Zhu delicately sniffs her, at a more respectable distance since Ah Lang is watching, his doe eyes sad. ‘You, Ah Lang’s petal, smell of cinnamon and ginger and immortality peach. I’ll have the bartender make a new drink called Ah Lang’s Petal.’

Gigi pouts. ‘I want one named after me. Not some no-good boyfriend.’

Ah Lang’s face falls, but Brother Zhu doesn’t miss a beat. ‘How about The Goddess Gi.’ This makes Gigi preen and wiggle with delight. He certainly knows how to please the ladies. He turns his attention back to me. ‘Why do you ask about the talismans?’

‘There was a switch. Mr Lee got a fake, not one made of yin silver. Was there anything strange or different about the batch of talismans that contained Mr Lee’s?’

‘Bad luck, old boy,’ Brother Zhu says to Mr Lee with a broad grin. ‘Lucky you kept your qi; I imagine the yaojing would enjoy snacking on you. You too smell quite delicious, you know.’ At that Brother Zhu flashes a smile so wolfish I want to hide Mr Lee from his gaze. Big Wang’s protective mark is no longer visible here in yang Shanghai.

‘I will carve out your tongue if you so much as lay a hand on him,’ I hiss. ‘Mr Lee is under Big Wang’s protection.’

At Big Wang’s mention, Brother Zhu glances at Mr Lee with an appraising light in his gaze. His smile slips for a second but snaps right back again. ‘Your wish is my command, my golden orchid. I would never do anything to upset such a treasure.’ His gaze sharpens on me. ‘So, you wish to know if the hulijing had anything to do with the swap, am I right?’

I nod.

‘When did Mr Lee pick up his talisman?’

‘Two days ago, the first day of the Mahjong Council.’

‘I would have delivered that lot a few days before that.’ Brother Zhu steeples his fingers, gazes out at the now nearly full ballroom. ‘The list of who makes and packs each talisman is sent to Old Man Lei. Lord Lei’s son owes me a favour. I’ll see if I can get a copy.’

‘You know the Thunder God’s son?’ Gigi asks.

Brother Zhu leans back again, a lord in his element. ‘Sure. Yun and I go way back. He plays the drums in my band when his ba gives him time off.’

‘Yun’s job is to create the fog that hides the veil,’ I explain for Mr Lee’s benefit. Mr Lee spares me the briefest of glances, grunts, then looks away again. I stare. He’s never less than courteous. What is wrong with him tonight?

Gigi smirks and gives me a look I don’t understand. I drain my champagne. If that’s the kind of night I’m in for, I’ll need more alcohol.

There’s some motion on the stage, and Brother Zhu stands. ‘Time for our set. I’ll have the bartender send over your cocktails.’ He leans over the table, blocking Mr Lee from view. ‘Fragrant blossoms, promise you’ll save me a dance later?’

Gigi waves him off with a coy laugh. When he’s done giving her his simpering smile, he turns to me, expectant.

‘I don’t dance,’ I say flatly.

‘Like I said, I love the feisty ones. And you, my delicious plum blossom, are an empress in the mortal realm.’

He kisses the tips of his fingers and blows the kiss my way. I pretend to gag.

He bites his lip. ‘You are so adorable. Be still my fluttering heart!’ He bows with a flourish and hops onto the stage.

‘He’s always like that,’ Ah Lang says to Mr Lee. ‘Don’t take it to heart.’

Mr Lee crosses his arms, but seems to thaw a little. I lift my champagne glass. ‘To harvesting seeds well planted,’ I say.

Gigi laughs – a tinkling, girly sound. ‘Sowing seeds. I’ll drink to that.’

Ah Lang blushes and Mr Lee blinks like he’s got something caught in his eye.

‘I’d prefer to toast to new friends,’ Mr Lee says, then raises his glass.

Ah Lang nods and Gigi huffs, but in the end we all clink our glasses and drink. Brother Zhu’s band sets the ballroom swinging with their tunes – vibrant and energetic. My feet tap in time with the zinging piano lines played by a chap in a midnight blue tuxedo. Brother Zhu plays a hook-shaped brass instrument – the sound is something like the plaintive cry of a crane, but raw and mellow at the same time. It makes my heart soar.

Even Gigi is impressed. ‘What is Brother Zhu playing? That’s no bamboo flute.’

Ah Lang smiles. ‘It’s called a saxophone. Incredible sound – so throaty! Brother Zhu really has a talent for it.’

As if on cue, Brother Zhu’s saxophone croons into the ballroom. The music sends a shiver through me. I can’t help smiling.

‘You said you play the pipa,’ I say. ‘Is that the instrument you played here?’

Ah Lang’s smile is a pleased, shy little thing. ‘Yes, at first, then Brother Zhu—’

Ah Lang’s interrupted by Brother’s Zhu’s amplified voice. ‘Tonight is a very special night. My old buddy Lang is here with his gorgeous girl! The Goddess Gi! Please enjoy the special cocktail created in her honour.’ At his word, waitresses circle the floor with trays full of a glittering peach concoction. Four are placed on our table. Brother Zhu continues, ‘I think our Ah Lang should come up here to serenade her. Whaddya think?’

The crowd, fuelled by the new cocktails, cheers and claps. Gigi wriggles in delight. I duck my head, giggling. A public declaration of love to Gigi. There’s no way she’ll be able to stay mad at Ah Lang. That Brother Zhu is a sly old pig. I take a sip of Goddess Gi and gasp. The bartender captured Gigi’s essence in a very tasty cocktail. Gigi takes a sip too and moans in delight. ‘Do I really smell like this? This is delicious!’

Gigi refuses to move, still punishing Ah Lang, so Mr Lee gets up to let Ah Lang out of the booth so that he can make his way to the stage. The patrons swirl and sweep around Mr Lee, who stands so still he seems to be outside of time. Then he nods to himself, breaking the illusion. Squaring his shoulders, he turns to my side of the booth.

‘May I sit next to you?’

He’s oddly formal, but at least there’s no courtly blather.

‘Budge up, Gigi,’ I say as I shove over to make space for Mr Lee.

Gigi glances up from her drink and gives me a little smirk. ‘Sure,’ she says and shimmies about two finger widths over.

‘More.’ I move closer to her, but she holds her ground.

‘There’s an uncomfortable ridge beside me. Besides,’ she lowers her voice and leans in to whisper, ‘Mr Lee likes you. Let him cosy up to you a bit more. Maybe he’ll even kiss you.’

I wave away her words and duck my head. ‘That’s piss-fart,’ I say, feeling my cheeks heat. ‘Budge up.’

Her gaze is shrewd. ‘No.’ She knocks back the rest of the cocktail. ‘I’m not moving.’ She doesn’t bother to look at me, so my glare is wasted.

I give up, knowing she’s more stubborn than Bullhead when she’s like this. ‘What’s that instrument he’s got?’ I ask.

Ah Lang is positioning himself behind a large violin-shaped instrument. It’s taller than he is. Gigi still refuses to look.

‘It’s a double bass,’ Mr Lee says. ‘Not hugely different to a pipa – both are bowed instruments. But the sound is very different.’

The music starts. Ah Lang plucks the double bass, creating a rhythm of deep, resonant notes. He plays with his head bowed, long hair loose, swaying with the music. And then he looks up, straight at Gigi, and starts to sing.

His voice is full, deep, and raspy. Gigi turns to me in shock. ‘I had no idea he could sing.’ She watches him, enraptured. ‘What language is he singing?’

‘English,’ Mr Lee says.

‘What does the song mean?’ she asks.

Mr Lee listens. ‘It’s a song comparing his love to the deepest of oceans and highest of heavens. That he would travel to the stars to see you. It’s quite beautiful. If you like, I’ll write you the translation.’

Gigi’s eyes are shining. ‘Would you? This humble one offers you abundant gratitude for your kindness.’ She turns back to the stage, her gaze rapt on Ah Lang. He croons in that freight train voice of his, his doe-eyed gaze locked on Gigi’s.

When the song is over, he bows. Gigi seems to have forgotten her anger. Both she and I stand and clap, as do many others in the ballroom. A few women up in the mezzanine whoop their appreciation, earning a sharp stink-eye from Gigi.

I nudge her. ‘He only has eyes for you, Gigi, you know this.’

She tosses her hair, making her long tresses sheen in the light. ‘You’re right. It’s beneath a goddess to indulge in petty jealousies.’

I hide my laugh behind my hand, but needn’t have bothered. Gigi’s full attention is squarely back on Ah Lang, who is strolling over to us, hand rubbing the back of his neck, cheeks pink, and apprehension in his gaze.

She shimmies out of the booth and sashays with bold confidence towards Ah Lang. The music changes, and couples flood the dance floor, swallowing Gigi and Ah Lang in their midst.

Mr Lee turns to me. ‘Lady Jing, would you, I mean you don’t have to if you don’t want to, but—’

Brother Zhu saunters over to our table. With a smirk he says, ‘Why aren’t you spinning this gorgeous goddess on the dance floor?’

Mr Lee goes stony.

‘Well, what can I expect from a mere mortal?’ He smirks and turns to me. ‘How about it, Lady Jing? Fancy a dance?’

‘I’d rather gouge my eye out with a broken chopstick.’

‘Oh, you have spirit, my lady. How about a barter? You can ask me anything you like. I’ve been around; seen things, heard things. I will give you free access to my carefully hoarded treasure of information, for the duration of one dance. What do you say?’ He grins at me.

I weigh the offer, glancing at the dancers on the ballroom floor. They are smiling, laughing. It looks like fun.

‘How do I know what you have to say is worth my time?’ I say.

He rubs his thumb over his fingernails, as if wiping off an invisible spot. He shrugs. ‘I thought you were a better kanhoo player than that.’

Damn. I sigh. A single dance can’t hurt. And the people twirling on the dance floor look like they’re genuinely enjoying themselves. Even Gigi and Ah Lang seem blissfully content, though they aren’t actually dancing. Unlike everyone else, they are simply standing there entwined as one and gazing into each other’s rotted doe eyes.

‘Fine.’ I grab a couple too see rolls and hurriedly shove them in my mouth.

I gesture for Mr Lee to let me pass. He slides out, looking deflated.

‘If it’s fun, I’ll dance with you next,’ I say, and step down from the booth into the mess of swirling bodies.

The band starts up a new song. The drums make my feet want to move. Then the horns start – they sound like fog horns but infused with vitality. My heart sputters as I’m swept up by the music. When the whole band plays, it feels like a blood rush, but instead of feeling woozy, I’m energised. Brother Zhu puts an arm around my waist and takes my hand in his.

‘Follow my lead, and just feel the music. Let your feet bounce with the drums.’

I barely get a nod in before we’re off. Brother Zhu’s footwork is smooth and assured; he’s clearly a good dancer.

‘So what’s your first question?’ he asks as he twirls me. His feet seem to float, and somehow I’m swept along too.

‘What do you know about the Longnu dragon pearl?’

His gaze turns appreciative. ‘Not just a pretty face.’ He dips, then spins me again. ‘I know it was part of the deal when you were brought to Hell.’

The lightness dissipates and I land heavy with the weight of my past. ‘Does everyone know the story about my mom selling me for a fat diamond?’

He tilts his head. ‘Don’t take it that way. You’re different. Fresh. So of course everyone wants to know about you.’ He spins me again.

Fresh? I’ve never been described as something someone wants, even if it’s only to gossip about. I always felt like the garbage no one wanted.

Brother Zhu pulls me back from the spin, shoulders and hips swinging to the beat. He presses his cheek to mine, holding my hand as he leads me in the dance. ‘I heard Big Wang gifted your mom the money to buy that diamond,’ he says. ‘Dragon pearls can’t be bought or sold.’

I pull back to check his expression. He looks earnest. ‘Who says?’

‘Ask any dragon deity. They’ll tell you the same.’

I think about Lord Black and his circular answers. ‘No thank you. I can’t make heads or tails of their babble.’

Brother Zhu spins me and the lights of the dance floor blur into shooting stars. I laugh. I can’t help it. The music, the dancing, and the casual way he’s chatting with me, like it’s the most normal thing in the world, like I have every right to be here, fill me with an effervescent joy that buoys away all burdens. I want to feel like this every day.

‘So, what else do you know about the dragon pearl?’ I ask. ‘Do they grant great powers? Can they somehow overrule the laws of Tian?’

‘Honestly, I don’t know. The dragons are so cryptic about everything, and the dragon pearls are shrouded in mystery. The only reason we know of the Longnu dragon pearl is because Niang Niang has been ranting about it being stolen from her treasury. Other than that, I only know that dragon pearls are rare, very rare.’

‘I heard Niang Niang wants it back,’ I say, testing his intel. ‘Sent one of her handmaids to steal it from Big Wang.’

Brother Zhu tilts his head, his movements are graceful, like the music inhabits him. I watch in wonder, not understanding how his body can move like that. I feel like I’m only bouncing whereas he seems to undulate.

‘I heard one of the girls asking about the dragon pearl. I thought they were just gossiping – never dreamed they would dare steal from Yan Luo Wang.’

I shrug. ‘They’re a bunch of turd-brained bitches.’

He raises his eyebrows, a playful smile on his lips as he sways his hips to the beat. ‘Not your favourite people. I get it.’ He glances over at Mr Lee, whose face is twisted like the pleats of a xiao long bao. ‘What’s with the mortal? You two got something going on?’

‘Wh-what?’

Brother Zhu laughs, twirls me around, apparently not needing an answer. We dance without speaking for a little while.

‘I heard this place is a favourite of hulijing,’ I venture.

Brother Zhu laughs again. ‘True, though right before you arrived, a group of hulijing left in a hurry. I heard they got called back to Turquoise Hills.’ Brother Zhu rolls his shoulders to the music. ‘Some emergency to do with the jiangshi.’

‘The jiangshi uncles? That’s a strange combination.’

‘Yeah, I cannot imagine the hulijing hosting any jiangshi, or the jiangshi wanting anything to do with the hulijing. It’s a mystery I am perfectly okay with not solving.’

The music makes me feel reckless, and I venture one more question, one I would never normally ask. ‘Do vampires ever come to Shanghai?’

A hard glint flashes in Brother’s Zhu’s eyes, quick as a firefly, and it’s gone again. ‘Not for a long time, my fragrant blossom. There was a diplomatic incident.’

The music ends just as I am about to ask what happened. Brother Zhu grins at me. ‘Time’s up, beautiful.’ He leads me back to our table where Mr Lee is nursing an empty champagne flute, still wearing that pinched bao face.

Most of Brother Zhu’s info was steamed dog-fart in my opinion – especially the titbit that dragon pearls supposedly can never be bought or sold. Even so, I’m not too annoyed. For introducing me to the joy of dancing, I won’t carve out his tongue. The music starts up again and I feel like there’s an invisible cord pulling me back to the dance floor. My cheeks are sore from smiling.

‘Dance with me, Mr Lee. It’s so fun.’

Mr Lee swirls the champagne in his flute, not looking at me. ‘You seemed to be enjoying yourself.’

‘It’s my first time. I’ve never heard music like this. Brother Zhu called it swing.’

Mr Lee crosses his arms and legs. ‘I’m sure Brother Zhu would know.’

His tone is all off. I sit down, peer at him. ‘If you’re not feeling well, let’s head back to the hotel.’

The dance floor calls me, but it doesn’t feel right to have fun when Mr Lee seems so unhappy. I nudge him with my shoulder. ‘The concierge told me they get their xiao long bao from a lady on the Bund. We can see if she’s there, get a midnight snack and watch the sunrise from my hotel room.’ I smile, trying in some small way to return his many kindnesses to me.

He stares intently at me, then bows his head. When he looks at me again, that hard edge is gone. ‘No, I’m just— Don’t worry about me. I’m fine. I think I would like to dance with you.’

I smile. ‘Really?’

He nods; I grab his hand and drag him to the dance floor.

‘You liked swing that much?’ he asks.

‘Shut up and dance with me.’ I wrap his arm around my waist, then hop from one foot to the other, finding the beat. He shakes his head, the sour expression eclipsed by a bright dimpled smile. ‘Here, follow my lead. It’s not about jumping, it’s more about stepping. Watch.’

He shows me the steps, and I move in time with his counting. We dance until my feet are sore and then dance some more. Ah Lang and Gigi stand there the whole time just staring into each other’s eyes. Mr Lee and I spin around them, crowding and leaning into them, trying to force a reaction and then spinning out of reach whenever Gigi tries to slap us. At some point, Brother Zhu brings a tray of Lady Jings, and we take a break to try them.

They taste like a combination of oranges and limes – Brother Zhu says it’s from a citrus fruit called calamansi, and there’s a fiery kick from the chillies.

‘I smell like this?’ I ask, not daring to believe.

‘Yep,’ Brother Zhu says, leaning close. ‘Intoxicating and addictive. Even better than the mortal.’

I giggle, inordinately pleased that I don’t stink like a corpse. He promises to let me know tomorrow who made and packed the talisman and I feel much friendlier towards him than before.

Mr Lee refuses to dance with me after our break, claiming fatigue, so I dance with Brother Zhu until Gigi drags me away saying it’s time to head home.

Twenty-One

Rain, Rain, Go Away

We tumble out of the Paramount in the wee hours, feet sore, hearts still dancing to the music. The muggy air wraps around us. I gaze up – no stars to be seen, but it doesn’t matter. The dancing and the music were stars enough for me tonight. I touch my hair pin, feeling like I’m sparkling from the inside out. We stand under the neon awning and it slowly dawns on me that the streets are deserted. My Shanghai is never this quiet. There’s always ghosts or yaojing about. But here, the tram line in front of the ballroom is silent. The three-storey red brick building opposite is completely dark. There are no taxis or rickshaws to be had.

‘We could walk back,’ Ah Lang says.

Gigi looks at her feet. ‘Only if you carry me. There is no way I am walking.’

I wriggle my toes in the borrowed shoes. Away from the dance floor, my feet are starting to complain. I shake my head. ‘I don’t think I’ll make it back if I have to walk.’

The men glance at each other – but they are saved by movement at the end of the road.

‘There’s a rickshaw!’ Ah Lang sprints away and manages to catch the coolie’s attention. This rickshaw is one of the more modern ones, pulled by a bicycle.

‘You and petal take the rickshaw. Mr Lee and I will get the next one,’ Ah Lang offers as the rickshaw driver pedals towards us. Mr Lee nods, but Gigi makes meaningful eyes at me.

I clear my throat, trying to suppress the tickling laugh caught there. ‘You and Gigi go on. Mr Lee and I can wait for the next rickshaw.’

Gigi sweeps past me before Ah Lang can try to out-polite me. ‘Don’t mind if I do.’

She’s so shameless I can’t help laughing.

‘What?’ Gigi says in mock innocence. Once Ah Lang climbs on she turns and gives me a smile so smug and satisfied it ought to be stuffed with canary feathers and dipped in fresh milk.

We watch them leave, and then Mr Lee and I are alone. I feel suddenly shy, and when he looks at me his gaze smoulders. My cheeks warm and I get a fluttery feeling inside my chest that strangely makes me feel like I need to pee.

What is wrong with me? I clear my throat, again, determined to shake off that odd sensation. Maybe it’s the champagne.

‘That was fun,’ I say, and then wince. My voice sounds too loud, too bright in the soft night.

‘Sure,’ he says, his mouth a grim line.

Did he not enjoy himself? I remember the rules from the book about winning friends. If they worked on Gigi, maybe they will work on Mr Lee. Number one was to avoid complaining – which means I can’t talk about my feet. Charm . . . I discard that since it’s definitely not a strong suit. I finally land on something that could work – the author said to praise achievements and encourage others to talk about themselves. Mr Lee rarely talks about himself. So I say, ‘Where did you learn to dance so well?’

‘Abundant gratitude, Lady Jing,’ he says, and I suck my teeth in mock anger. It makes a corner of his mouth lift. ‘I’m not that good a dancer, but I enjoyed dancing with you.’

‘You helped me learn the steps, much better than Brother Zhu. He just shimmied around.’ Oops – I just broke the don’t complain rule. The lessons are harder than I thought. Hurriedly, I tack on some praise in the hopes it can neutralise my faux pas. ‘Brother Zhu dances wonderfully.’

Mr Lee’s shy expression shutters. A dark cloud settles over his features, pulls his eyebrows down and douses the light in his gaze. ‘There’s a rickshaw,’ he says, turning abruptly. His voice has an edge to it, like the surly Mr Lee from earlier. He hurries down the steps to hail the coolie, leaving a chill between us.

Once in the rickshaw, surly Mr Lee sits stiff and silent. I remember the next rule from the book. Acknowledge my mistakes. ‘It’s not anything to do with Brother Zhu’s dance skills; it’s only I felt so lost. I had no idea what I was doing on the dance floor.’

He scoffs, crosses his arms. ‘Well, you certainly looked like you were having fun.’

I don’t understand the meaning in his tone. ‘I was. No one told me how fabulous dancing makes you feel.’

Another awkward silence. I look over at him, annoyed that he’s not acknowledging my efforts. I try again, not wanting such a special night to end on such a sour note. I pat his arm gently to make him look at me, then fold my hands at my waist in the old style, bowing as low as I can manage sitting in the narrow rickshaw.

‘This unintelligent one laboured your procession to take care of this troublesome woman. By your fortune has this unworthy one had the best time of her life in the last two days. Abundant gratitude for treasured Mr Lee’s kindness and friendship.’

When I straighten, Mr Lee is staring at me, surprise and shock in his wide eyes. He sputters for a moment, then whispers, ‘Treasured?’

I nod. A small smile creeps up the corner of his lips, but then he frowns again. ‘What about Brother Zhu? You said he’s wonderful.’

‘He’s a complete pig.’ The words are barely out before I clap a hand over my mouth, dismayed I forgot rule number one. No criticising is hard to remember. But instead of souring Mr Lee’s attitude, I’m rewarded with a flash of dimples. He settles back into the rickshaw, the stiffness all gone.

‘You didn’t find him charming?’ he says.

Encouraged by his reaction, I try more criticism. ‘I wanted to stomp his smug face into the ground. “Feisty Celestials are my favourite”? Oh please. What a bunch of rotted turd-eggs.’

Mr Lee is grinning widely now.

‘The point is,’ I continue, ‘I need him. He has good intel. I would have to be incredibly stupid to throw that away simply because he’s full of horse farts.’

It’s cooled considerably, and a refreshing breeze plays over the back of my neck. Mr Lee leans right back so his head is pillowed by his interlocked hands.

‘Why are you so cheerful all of a sudden?’ I ask.

‘You willingly used courtly piss-fart to thank me; I’m touched,’ he says. ‘Treasured Lady Jing, these past two days have been wonderful for me too. Thank you for your friendship and your trust.’

Mr Lee’s soft gaze meets mine. His knuckle skims my cheek and he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. His thumb lingers at my jaw. I’m suddenly unable to move, caught in his gaze, the warmth of his hand against my cheek. The moment stretches, and Gigi’s words float back to me.

Mr Lee likes you.

He leans in, long lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. His breath feathers over my lips. I’m about to close my eyes when a crack of lightning splits the sky, followed by the deafening roar of thunder. Panic seizes me. I cringe away from Mr Lee.

The heavens open and rain sheets from the sky.

I want to run, but I’m frozen to the wooden seat of the rickshaw, every droplet of rain chaining me in place. The last time I encountered rain was during my first month as Big Wang’s ward in yin Shanghai. It was a sudden storm like this one. Bullhead held me for hours, wrapped in heated blankets, feeding me hot soup, until I finally warmed up again. It’s been so long I’d forgotten how awful it is.

Mr Lee tries to pull the rain cover over us, but it will only pull out partway, like a broken fan.

The coolie turns to us. ‘The rickshaw is rented. I don’t know how to fix it. Contain my ten thousand apologies!’

Mr Lee peels off his jacket and holds it above my head. But it makes no difference. The water seeps through my dress and slicks my skin. My muscles won’t obey. The downpour washes away the warm glow from the ballroom. It floods me with a chill that sinks into the pit of my stomach. I try to blink the water from my eyes, but there’s too much rain. Rising water wraps around my throat with smooth, cold hands. I whimper.

‘Lady Jing?’

My teeth rattle I’m shivering so hard. I can’t answer. Mr Lee calls my name over and over, his voice pitching higher. But I can’t focus enough to make my lips move. The water . . . it’s dark. And cold. I don’t want to be here. Mr Lee’s voice sounds far away. Muffled. Like I’m already underwater.

Images flash in my mind – a link of chain, the splash of water, a pale face watching me as water closes over my head. I flail and flounder, my lungs burn. I see flashes of white in the dark – long, slender fingers reaching for me. I try to grab hold, hoping to be pulled out of the water – instead nails dig into my scalp, push me deeper. Cold fingers grip my shoulders. I’ll never get out. I try to twist from the grip.

‘Lady Jing!’

A voice pierces through the murk of panic and fear. A voice I know. A voice I trust. Bit by bit I come back to myself, to Mr Lee shaking me, calling my name. The rain has stopped. I’m soaked through, shaking and sobbing.

‘Mr Lee? Don’t let go. Please don’t let go.’ I hold tight to him, pressing my face into the hollow of his throat, his familiar smell a safe harbour from my waking nightmare.

‘You’re safe, Lady Jing. You’re safe,’ Mr Lee whispers over and over, holding me tight.

I don’t know how we get to my room. I’m sitting on the pink sofa. I feel strange, like my body isn’t mine. I’m clammy and wet. I want to peel off my skin so I can escape the sensation.

‘Let me call the doctor. You don’t look well, Lady Jing.’

‘No, no doctor.’ I can’t bear the thought of a stranger prodding and poking at me.

He leaves me and I hear water running in the bathroom. He comes back, wraps me in towels. ‘Ten thousand apologies, Lady Jing, but you’ll be warmer if you can remove your dress.’

‘I d-don’t know how. Gigi h-helped me.’ The shaking makes it hard to talk.

I hear Mr Lee on the phone. Moments later, a knock, hurried footsteps, then Gigi’s ginger smell, hands on my shoulders, voice in my ear.

‘Arms up,’ she says. I try to comply, but my muscles won’t cooperate.

‘Help me, Mr Lee, hold her arms.’

The dress peels off, and a warm towel wraps around me.

‘The bath is ready,’ Mr Lee says.

They both help me stand. My beautiful dress is a sodden pile on the floor. The plum blossoms wilted, pathetic, and bedraggled.

‘I can manage from here, Mr Lee,’ Gigi says.

Mr Lee leaves us in the bathroom, and Gigi helps me out of the dudou and tap pants and into the warm bath.

‘Your lips are blue,’ Gigi says, a note of worry in her tone. ‘What happened?’

‘It rained.’ I attempt to laugh, but it only makes me dizzy.

There’s a knock on the door, and a bottle of dark red liquid topped with a straw appears. ‘I brought Lady Jing some blood earlier – see if she’ll have some?’

Gigi brings me the blood; I drink the whole thing. There’s a momentary flare of warmth that flickers in my chest.

‘Is there more?’ she calls out. ‘I think it’s helping.’

The door opens again; a hand pushes two bottles into the bathroom, before disappearing again. I drink those too, and the tiny flame inside me grows a little stronger.

Condensation drips from the bathroom mirror. Gigi sits on the toilet, watching me. The hot water melts away the ice in my veins, but isn’t enough to warm my skin. My teeth are still chattering. My hair sticks to my face, limp and sodden. Gigi’s marcelles are gone too, pulled out by the steam.

‘Rain does this to you?’ she says.

I sigh, sink deeper, try to pull in the comforting heat. ‘I’m not good with water.’

‘But—’ She gestures at the bath.

‘I don’t love baths, but I can handle them. I can see and feel the bottom of the tub, I can stop the water any time I want, drain it if there is too much. But rain, rivers, lakes – I can’t control how much or how deep.’

‘Is this because of what those bitches did to you?’ Her eyes blaze.

‘I can’t remember.’

She rests her chin on her hand. ‘I always wondered why it never rained in yin Shanghai. Never knew it was because of you.’

I jerk at her claim; water sloshes onto the black-and-white tiled floor. ‘What? That’s ridiculous. It never rains in Hell.’ Well apart from that one time, but it was so long ago.

‘It used to. Before you came. It rains in the other cities of Hell. Just not Shanghai.’ She grabs a towel. ‘Your colour is better. Get into bed. I’ll tell Mr Lee how to make sure you don’t freeze.’ She hesitates, then says with a small voice, ‘You scared me.’

I wrap the warm towel around me, touched that she cares. ‘Thank you, Gigi.’

‘Pish. I didn’t want you to rip my dress. That’s all.’ She winks at me. ‘I’ll leave you in Mr Lee’s capable hands.’

When I finally crawl into bed, in a fresh dudou and tap pants, I’m shivering but no longer violently. As if handling eggshell porcelain, Mr Lee gently pulls the covers over both my shoulders, securely swaddling me. He blows out a long breath, and the weight of his hand rests lightly on my back, holding the thick quilts in place.

I reach out from under my cocoon of blankets and rest my hand on his forearm. ‘You’re so warm.’ I snuggle closer, teeth chattering.

He gazes at me, concern etching lines into his forehead, around his mouth. ‘Your lips are still blue.’ He clears his throat. Clears it again. His ears shine pink, as does his face. Not looking at me he says, ‘Lady Gi said the best way to . . . to warm you is to . . .’ he clears his throat, ‘use my body heat.’

‘Oh, that’s a good idea. You’re like a furnace. Get under the covers with me.’

He grimaces, that bao face returning. ‘She says I have to undress.’

‘Sure,’ I say, thinking how warm he will be. The covers are cold except where Mr Lee touches them. I flip open the blanket, gesture for him to get in.

He jerks away, staring upwards.

‘What are you doing? It’s cold! I thought you were going to warm me up?’

He runs his hand over the back of his neck, not looking at me. ‘Okay, but you have to close your eyes.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I’m going to undress. Lady Gi said it has to be skin to skin to be effective.’

‘We’re all naked under our clothes. Stop being such a prude.’

‘Do you want me to warm you or not?’

I huff, close my eyes. The bed shifts under his weight, and after a moment, he slides under the cover with me. His body radiates heat, though he’s kept on his underpants. I snuggle close and wrap my arms around him, pressing my cold cheek to his chest. He gasps, but doesn’t pull away. He lies very still, his breathing uneven.

Bit by bit, the shivering abates.

‘Try not to die, okay? I’ve become rather fond of you.’

‘I’m very hard to kill,’ I murmur.

His heartbeat tumbles in the space between us. As I listen to the reassuring whoosh of blood rushing through him, bit by bit, I am warmed.

I am safe.

Twenty-Two

I Like It

I leave Mr Lee snoring in bed, his arm thrown out to the side and one bare leg hiked over a tangle of blankets. He looks so relaxed I can’t bring myself to wake him. Instead, I go out in search of breakfast to thank him for his kindness.

The morning sun glazes the street as I cross the Bund to the riverfront. Having breathed Mr Lee’s yang and blood all night, I feel inured enough to wander mortal Shanghai for a little while on my own.

A group of elderly men in changpao, one of them a foreigner with thick blond hair and round glasses, stand chatting as they gaze up at the brilliant blue sky. They hold hand-cranked reels and I follow their gaze to a dozen or so kites – dragons and raptors and snakes painted with big expressive eyes – soaring and diving on the breeze. I imagine myself standing here, with Gigi, Ah Lang, and Mr Lee, our laughter flying the skies on the wings of our own kites. The thought makes me smile, fills me with anticipation, and then immediately with guilt. What about the hulijing? And the talisman? I feel conflicted – I want to do as Big Wang asks, have fun, forget about all that mafan. But . . . doing as Big Wang asks grates. Why should I let those bitches get away with their insults?

I hurry along, towards the tall white tower that marks the Great World Entertainment Hall, where the breakfast hawker the hotel recommended has her stand. I suppose, if I’m being honest, this whole thing with the hulijing also grates because Big Wang never takes my side when it comes to those vixens. If he really did stop the rain like Gigi says, if I’m really his ward, and not an indentured servant, surely it means he should care for me, care for my face. But he always panders to theirs. I’m always forced to apologise. It’s so humiliating.

A nightingale flits over my head and lands in a tree near the hawker, its yellow-and-orange throat puffing with song. With the kites dancing in the sky above, the smell of fried dough sticks, freshly steamed xiao long bao, and the warmth of the sun on my skin, for a moment every mafan is forgotten as I savour the simple pleasure of being here in the moment, listening to a nightingale sing.

I mull on my grudge. Am I sabotaging my own happiness by obsessing so much about the hulijing? What of honour and face? The nightingale flies away, drawing my gaze back to the kites. The kites weave and bob in the air. Closest to me are a phoenix and dragon dancing together, big eyes watching me from above, their rainbow tails fluttering madly in the wind. Their eyes seem to say, What of friendship and joy?

I pay the hawker for my food – rice rolls, hot soya milk, fried dough sticks, and a basket of bao for all four of us. As I head back to the hotel, the prickling at my neck starts up again. My carefree morning suddenly feels ominous. I casually glance around, trying to pinpoint the source. The unwanted gaze feels heavy and oily. I carefully sniff the air – there’s a faint whiff of ginger, and a harsher, bitter scent like burnt resin. A Celestial, but one I haven’t come across before. The sense I am being followed increases, the hairs on my arms stand on end and my breathing hitches. It’s the same feeling I had as a child if ever I wandered the halls of the court alone. Always, there were eyes on me, and I always could tell when those eyes wished me ill.

I glance behind and see three men following me. They each wear Peking opera masks, hiding their faces but I can tell they are Celestials. The way they move, the way they smell. I break into a run, the straining bags full of breakfast swinging from my hands. They give chase.

I’m fast, but, here in yang Shanghai, the distraction of yang qi puts me at a disadvantage. They’re faster. Ahead a cruise liner is in the midst of disembarking. The crowds from the dock flood across the street. I see my chance to escape.

I race towards the crowd. The yang qi and blood from the gathered mortals is overwhelming, but I focus on the threat behind me and getting to safety. The men gain on me. I stumble and drop my bag of xiao long bao. Whirling to face them, for a split second I am motionless. Then anger at their audacity ripples through me. How dare these faceless Celestials threaten me. I spring forward to grab the xiao long bao and they lunge, but I dodge and fingers graze my shirt. Then the crowd swells and swallows me, the number of mortals between me and the men surges from two to five to ten. I’m carried away by the tide, the masked men unable to reach me.

I make it back to my room, and debate calling Willie; but then it occurs to me he’ll call Big Wang, and we’ll probably be bundled back home. Gigi and Ah Lang are here, and with them I’m safe. Those men only follow me when they aren’t around.

Mr Lee is still asleep, so I lay breakfast on the table and then return to the bedroom. In the quiet of the room, with only Mr Lee’s soft breathing, I start to shake, my heart racing in a way it hadn’t when I was being chased. I crawl into bed and mould myself to Mr Lee’s side, letting his familiar scent comfort and calm. I watch him sleeping; his lashes flicker as he dreams. Bit by bit the shaking subsides. He murmurs something, then makes an appreciative sound, his lips curling into the sweetest smile. He nuzzles into me, sighing, those dimples winking at me in the morning light.

He shifts, then opens his eyes. The look he gives me is so unguarded, so pleased, a warmth spreads through me that sparkles and tingles not unlike the feeling of drinking that fresh blood yesterday. But then he gazes around us, frowning. And then he jerks away from me, yanking the covers to his chin and nearly upending me off the bed.

‘There’s no need to get violent,’ I say, half-joking, trying to cover the sting of his reaction. ‘Besides, I’ve seen everything. You were sprawled out like a shameless drunk.’

Mr Lee’s face pinches in horror. ‘When, how?’ He looks down at himself. ‘Did you—?’ He is properly panicking.

I can’t help laughing at his reaction, the fright from the morning a distant memory. ‘Did I what? Steal your virtue?’

A red tide rises up his throat. ‘That’s not— It’s not—’ he splutters. He frowns into the bed covers. ‘Are you well, Lady Jing? I was so worried, but I— I must have fallen asleep. I meant to leave as soon as you were warm again.’

‘I’m perfectly recovered, thank you kind sir.’ I kneel on the bed, fold my hands at my sides and offer him a dainty bow. ‘It was nice to sleep with you.’

‘Tian, I slept with you.’ He rubs his face hard like he’s trying to rub off his skin. ‘I slept with the ward of Yan Luo Wang. Lady Guan Ying Goddess of Mercy and Compassion contain my trespass.’ His voice has gone all pitchy.

‘Was sleeping with me that awful?’ I say, piqued at his obvious horror.

He pulls his knees up to his chest. ‘Could you turn around and let me dress?’

‘I’ve never slept with a man before,’ I say, watching him carefully.

He chokes, holds a hand up and shakes his head frantically. ‘I thought we— No, no— We can’t have.’

‘Are you saying we didn’t sleep?’

He splutters, unable to find words. ‘We did, sleeping, just sleeping.’

‘That’s right.’ I touch my lips. ‘When you sleep with a man, kissing is natural, isn’t it?’

His brows knit together, and he’s chewing his bottom lip. ‘You mean—’ He squeezes his eyes shut. ‘Tian, oh Tian. Of all the stupid things . . . P-please don’t tell Big Wang you slept with me.’

His horror is starting to seriously annoy me.

‘I’m not that awful, am I? Is that why you never kissed me last night?’

His hands drop to the bed, face stunned blank. ‘Wait . . . we didn’t—?’

I stare at him confused. ‘What are you talking about? No, we didn’t kiss. I fell asleep. I feel cheated. I slept with a man for the first time, but I’ve never been kissed.’

He exhales heavily, his cheeks puffing out like he’s just been given a last stay of execution. Anger flares in me. ‘Am I so disgusting?’

He blinks, doe eyes wide. ‘No, of course not.’

‘Then kiss me.’ I lean towards him, but he clutches the covers once more to his throat. He shuffles back, puts more space between us.

A little pang pierces me, deflating the warm bubble. Gigi was wrong.

‘Never mind,’ I say.

I turn, but he reaches for my arm, fingers hot against my skin.

‘Wait.’

I keep my gaze on the bed, unwilling to meet his eye. ‘I was only joking. Let me go.’

He doesn’t. Instead, he reaches for my chin, tips my face up so I’m forced to meet his gaze. His dark eyes shimmer with the same intensity from last night. ‘But I do. I do want to kiss you.’

I replay the conversation, thoroughly confused. He reacted with shock and horror and disgust when I tried to touch him. Does he really want to kiss me? Or is it pity? I’ve lost my ability to judge my opponent.

‘I don’t understand you,’ I finally say. ‘You don’t act like you want to kiss me. You act like I’m diseased, like you can’t get away fast enough.’

He shakes his head. ‘Trust me, I do want to kiss you. I just don’t want Yan Luo Wang to throw me off the Naihe Bridge for defiling his ward.’ His thumb strokes my bottom lip. ‘I want to get dressed first. We can’t kiss here.’

‘Why not? It’s comfortable, isn’t it?’ I pat the bed.

He chokes, clears his throat. ‘Because first kisses shouldn’t be on a bed. They should be done while sitting comfortably on a chair.’

I frown. ‘If this is some rotted dog-fart—’

‘If you don’t like it, then no kiss. Go ahead and tell Big Wang I slept with you.’ He raises his chin, his eyes glitter with resolve.

My kanhoo senses come rushing back. He’s bluffing. Part of me wants to grab him and plant my lips on his, but . . . I don’t want him to feel bad or uncomfortable. I play along, because this Mr Lee is infinitely preferable to surly Mr Lee – or indifferent Mr Lee.

‘Fine.’ I get up and dramatically stomp out of the room.

‘Close the door!’

I turn and he’s standing with the bed sheet wrapped around him, but revealing almost all of his legs and chest. ‘Like I said, I’ve already seen everything.’ I give him a wink and playfully kick the door shut.

I pace the room while I wait, nervous and excited and not quite knowing what to expect. Do we sit facing each other? Beside each other? I can’t picture what he means to do. And I’ll get to have my first ever kiss. My insides tingle.

When Mr Lee emerges, he is purposeful. He sets two chairs side by side like an imaginary rickshaw. He gestures for us to sit. I take my seat, feeling strangely formal in the dining chair.

‘This is how you want to kiss?’

He takes my hand in his and gazes at me so intently I squirm.

‘May I?’ he asks.

My mouth goes dry. I nod. He leans forward, ever so slowly. His scent, a perfume of sweet persimmon, citrusy walnuts layered with crisp watermelon rind and freshly fallen snow, fills my lungs. His edges sparkle gold at the corner of my eyes. He comes forward until he blurs and I close my eyes, hold my breath. His lips meet mine in the softest of touches, like the gentle flutter of butterfly wings.

And then – nothing. I open my eyes. That’s it? He might as well have patted me on the head.

‘There,’ he says. ‘You have now had your first kiss.’

‘That’s not what I expected.’

Mr Lee blinks at me. ‘Was that not good?’

‘I thought it would be more exciting.’ I trace the pink brocade pattern on the armrest, trying not to pout. ‘I hardly even felt it.’ My mind flashes briefly to Brother Zhu, and his demon-may-care attitude. ‘Do all men kiss like that?’

Mr Lee bristles. ‘A-all men?’ I wonder if he too is thinking of Brother Zhu. ‘Let me try again,’ he insists. ‘I’m sure I can kiss better. I don’t want your first kiss to be a disappointment.’

‘But it already is. I can’t see how you can change that.’

‘It’s not over, this is still your first kiss – since you haven’t stood up, if I kiss you again, it still counts.’

I’m not convinced. He’s still, waiting for my consent, so I nod. It can’t be as bad as the first one, surely. He leans forward again, this time hands cupping my face. His thumb traces over my lips, and he hovers, his nose brushing against mine, his breath tickling my lips. He runs the tip of his nose over my cheek.

‘You smell of sunshine and chillis and orange blossoms, dancing on an ocean breeze.’ His voice is husky.

Want unfurls inside me and I can’t breathe him in enough. I lift my chin seeking his lips, and he meets me halfway. This kiss begins just as gentle as the first, butterflies fluttering. His lips press against mine, meeting me fully. And then, his lips move, oh so deliberately. Like tasting. I do the same, and am surprised how much more I enjoy this than that first brush of skin against skin.

Kissing Mr Lee is a little like my first dance at the Paramount; I am so aware of myself, my body, my wrong turns, my wrong steps. But then, like my second dance, with Mr Lee leading and showing me the steps, suddenly there’s a point when I’m no longer aware of myself, only of the music and how it makes me feel.

My hands thread into his hair, and I pull him tighter to me, groan softly. Our scents entwine; the music takes over. Lips touch, tongues dance. He cradles the back of my head, steals my breath, murmurs my name. We kiss and kiss until I am breathless and no longer know where I stop and where he begins.

A knock at the door makes Mr Lee jump. He tears away from me, eyes wild, panting hard. He touches his fingers to his lips, swollen from kissing. ‘Forgive me, Lady Jing, contain this worthless one’s lack of control—’

He’s so panic stricken I can’t bring myself to be angry with that formal claptrap.

‘Jing!’ Gigi’s voice calls from the other side of the door. ‘I can smell the food from here. Let us in.’

Mr Lee takes one look at the door and runs for the bathroom. I let Gigi and Ah Lang in, puzzled by his strange reaction. Gigi’s gaze roves over my face. I roll my lips under, wondering if she can tell I’ve been kissing Mr Lee. My cheeks heat from the memory.

She smirks. ‘You look like you’re feeling better, Jing. Good night?’

I splutter.

Gigi sweeps past me, laughing. ‘I’m starving. Nighttime exercise always gives me a good appetite in the morning.’ It’s Ah Lang’s turn to splutter while Gigi’s tinkling laugh fills the room.

My face feels like it’s on fire, but I take her hands. ‘Thank you, Gigi, for taking care of me last night.’

Her smirk melts into a soft smile. She squeezes my hands gently before tossing her hair and saying, ‘Enough gooey eyes, it doesn’t suit you. Come, let’s eat.’

She pulls Ah Lang to the table and I join them. Eventually Mr Lee reappears, wet hair slicked back. He smiles shyly and takes a seat beside me.

‘We got word from Brother Zhu this morning,’ Ah Lang says through a mouthful of food. ‘Yun snuck a peak at Old Man Lei’s book.’

‘So, who was it?’ I ask.

Gigi stage whispers, ‘Lady Ay was the one who made the talisman and its silk pouch.’

For a moment the room is so silent I can hear the traffic from the Bund.

‘Lady Ay? She was my mother’s old handmaid. The only one at court who looked out for me. Never a harsh word. When she could, she hid me from the worst of my tormentors. She doesn’t have a mean bone in her body.’ I frown. It seems impossible to me that she would be the one to swap a talisman. ‘She doesn’t even know Mr Lee, why would she try to harm him?’

‘Maybe Mr Lee offended her in some way?’ Gigi says. We all look to Mr Lee.

He scratches his head. ‘I’ve never met any hulijing except Lady Jing.’

‘It doesn’t make any sense,’ I say.

‘Well, at least now we know who is responsible,’ Gigi says, her tone conciliatory.

‘I guess,’ I say, though the knowledge only makes me more confused, not less. As the others finish their breakfast, I debate not telling Gigi and Ah Lang about the men who were following me. But then I remember Mr Lee’s words: I cannot prepare if you don’t tell me what’s going on.

‘I should probably tell you – three men followed me this morning,’ I say.

‘I bet they were smitten by your beauty,’ Ah Lang says sweetly.

‘Actually, they were scary. They wore Peking opera masks, and I didn’t get the sense they wanted to give me flowers. More like they wanted to hurt me.’

Gigi’s eyes blaze and Ah Lang’s brow furrows.

Mr Lee’s eyes are wide. ‘You’re only telling us this now? What if something had happened to you? We need to call Willie.’

‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘I had the sense of being watched yesterday too, but not when Gigi and Ah Lang were with us. I’ll be fine so long as we stay together.’

‘We still need to tell Willie,’ Mr Lee insists.

Both Ah Lang and Gigi nod.

‘We can ask Fisherman Lo to fetch us early,’ Ah Lang says.

I sip the last dregs of my soya milk. There’s no reason to doubt Brother Zhu’s word. The talisman is another dead end. I can’t make heads or tails of Lady Ay’s involvement. And besides, something has shifted inside me. I want to make our last day count. Maybe friends do matter more than face.

‘No, it’s our last day,’ I say. ‘Let’s do something fun together. There’s an amusement hall at the end of the road. How about an opera?’

‘But what about those men?’ Mr Lee says.

‘So long as we’re together, we’ll be fine,’ I say, though Mr Lee doesn’t look convinced. ‘Gigi’s the Jade Emperor’s daughter. No one would dare attack her.’

She nods, because she knows it’s true.

‘I saw some people flying kites on the Bund. Can we do that?’ I say.

Gigi claps her hands in delight. ‘Oh that sounds fun! Ah Lang, what do you think?’

‘Anything you want, petal,’ he says, gaze disgustingly syrupy.

I make loud gagging noises, but Gigi pays me no attention and gazes doe-eyed back at Ah Lang.

We head out together in the sunshine. As we stroll along the Bund towards the kites, Mr Lee catches my hand, and interlaces his fingers with mine. His palm is warm. I glance up at him. He smiles and squeezes gently.

We fly kites, and then watch an opera, laughing and sharing snacks. Ah Lang is delighted by the singing, humming along so loudly an old lady tells him off. But she’s loud herself, and her shrill complaints make the opera singer stumble over his lines. Gigi laughs and gives red-faced Ah Lang a wet kiss that earns another shrill protest from the old lady.

After the opera, Mr Lee offers to take Ah Lang on a ‘scholar’s’ tour, while Gigi and I opt to shop on our own. When they meet us at the French café on Rue Bourgeat, Ah Lang flops into his chair, eyes bright and rapturous.

‘Mr Lee took me to Moutrie and Co – the oldest music shop in Shanghai!’ Ah Lang gushes, gazing doe-eyed at Mr Lee. ‘They make pianos and sell all kinds of instruments. Some of the customers recognised me from the Paramount and we had an impromptu jazz session. Then Mr Lee took me to a university lecture on modern farming practices!’ Ah Lang shakes his head as if he can’t believe his good fortune and wraps an arm around Mr Lee. ‘Abundant gratitude, treasured brother. I will never forget these glorious memories.’

Mr Lee blushes, pleased.

‘I am so happy I didn’t kill you when Jing brought you to my house; you really have been a good friend to Jing and Ah Lang,’ Gigi says. She bows her head, folding her hands in front of her in the old way, the right hand on the left, then the left on the right.

‘Gigi bestows a great honour on you, Mr Lee,’ I whisper. ‘Only high-ranking deities are offered this gesture of respect.’

Mr Lee immediately stands. ‘This unworthy one labours your procession and offers your exalted glory ten thousand years of abundant gratitude for your friendship and kindness. Manifold gratitude by your fortune.’ He bows so low he’s almost bent himself in half.

Gigi giggles in delight. ‘Aiya, Mr Lee, sit, sit.’ She pats the chair, and Mr Lee does as she asks. ‘To think Jing was prepared to use you as a sacrificial lamb – and for what? To satisfy her unhealthy obsession with the hulijing.’

‘What do you mean?’ Mr Lee asks.

I make eyes at Gigi, urging her to shut up. But she plows on, like an ox in the fields, with no regard to anything other than the path in front of her. ‘Oh, well, isn’t it obvious? The whole point of her escorting you around yin Shanghai, and agreeing to come to yang Shanghai, is because of her little revenge plot against the hulijing. Why else would she be so keen to pin the fake talisman on the Hulijing Court?’

I’m about to kick Gigi under the table, but the server arrives, cutting her off. He places a plate full of various pastries and another of salted caramel ma ka rong on the table.

‘When do you have to go back?’ I ask Ah Lang, changing the subject, though I can feel the chill of Mr Lee’s glare on my back.

He gazes sadly at Gigi. ‘In two days. Then I won’t see my petal until I can get leave to visit Hell or yang Shanghai again.’

‘Unless baba changes his mind,’ Gigi says. Her eyes sparkle a little too bright, and she makes a small noise that is very unlike Gigi – a quiet sob. But she shakes her herself, drawing herself tall. ‘Big Wang promised he’d make a case for us. The old man can’t stay mad at me forever.’

‘But you suffer so when we’re apart.’ Ah Lang traces a finger down her cheek. It comes away wet.

The moment feels too intimate. I look away, and catch Mr Lee staring at Gigi, a sudden bleakness in his gaze. I grab his hand, muttering, ‘Be right back,’ and pull him away from the table to give Gigi and Ah Lang some privacy.

We browse the sweets on the shelves inside the café. Mr Lee picks up a bag of sea salt caramels and asks, ‘Is it true? Does Gigi suffer terribly when they’re apart?’

I nod. ‘Sometimes she sinks into a dark mood. Playing kanhoo helps keep her mind off the heartache. Big Wang makes sure she has food when we play. Otherwise she doesn’t eat.’

The bag of sweets crinkles in his hand. ‘Maybe it would be better for her if she hadn’t met him at all.’

His comment surprises me. I shake my head. ‘It would be better if she hadn’t made her baba lose so much face by forgetting her duties. But I think Big Wang has a chance of swaying the Jade Emperor. They’re good friends. It would have been better if she hadn’t told him the truth in the first place. If she’d just said she forgot the date, rather than admit she wasted all her time mooning after a boy, her baba would not have gotten so angry.’

Mr Lee’s gaze turns dark. ‘Why is lying always the first thing you reach for?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You pretended to Big Wang you were not going to try and find out more about the fake talisman. I thought maybe you wanted to ask the old woman about it because you were worried about me. Your concern touched me, so much so I went out of my way to get you blood. But now, I know it wasn’t about me at all. It was all about getting your own back on the hulijing.’

My face flushes. ‘You don’t know what they’re like—’ I start. But he holds up a hand.

‘I understand you have an ugly history with them. You were a child and in no way to blame for what they did to you. But now? Your decisions and your actions are your own. I thought you cared for me, but how much of that was merely a means to an end?’ He huffs, a derisory sound. ‘Looking back, everything you did, everything you said, was duplicitous. You made it seem like you didn’t want to go to the Paramount but really, you wanted to go so you could speak to Brother Zhu.’ He shakes his head. ‘Why lie to me? Did you think I wouldn’t help you, wouldn’t support you?’

‘It’s not that. It’s that you’re a rule follower.’ I spread my hands, trying to make him understand. ‘And I’m not.’ Even to my ears, it’s a pathetic explanation. I try again. ‘I didn’t lie, really. I only massaged the truth.’

‘We would have gone to the Paramount willingly, if you’d only asked. There was no need for all the scheming.’ He huffs again, his gaze colder than I’ve ever seen it. ‘I told you, I can’t abide liars.’ He leaves me inside the café and rejoins Gigi and Ah Lang outside. I don’t know what to say or do. I don’t know how to make things right.

After lunch, I try to slip my hand in his while we wait for a rickshaw to take us to a covered market where Gigi wants to look at pearls. He gazes at our intertwined fingers, then drops my hand to fiddle with his wallet. Once seated, he keeps his hands busy – scratching his head, eating caramels, then finally propping his arm over the back of the rickshaw, out of reach.

We watch a talking picture at the Grand Cinema. He shifts in his chair and leaves a wide gap between us. He hasn’t addressed me directly at all since lunch; only speaking to me if courtesy requires. Sitting beside him in the darkened theatre, he feels so far away that he might as well be on the opposite bank of the Yellow River. This continues through the afternoon, the chasm between us growing wider and colder. For my part, I get angrier and angrier. He has no right to judge me, to criticise my choices. I want to spit in his eye, scream at him, but I won’t ruin Ah Lang and Gigi’s last day in Shanghai.

So I wait.

Twenty-Three

Broken

When we all agree to head back to our rooms and rest before meeting again for dinner, I finally have the chance to confront him.

As soon as the door shuts to my room, I pounce.

‘What’s with you?’

‘What do you mean?’ His gaze rests somewhere over my shoulder.

‘That – what you’re doing now. You spent the whole day avoiding me. You hardly even looked at me. So I lied! Everyone lies!’

‘You lied to me, over and over, Lady Jing. As angry as you are right now, so am I. I feel used. And I didn’t want to ruin Gigi and Ah Lang’s last day in Shanghai.’

‘So you decided ignoring me was the best solution?’

His eyes go hard and I almost step back from the force of his anger. ‘Yes.’ He spits the word out, a bitter seed.

‘Are you—’ I swallow, needing to know and embarrassed by this need. I eventually bite out what I need to say. ‘Are you sorry you kissed me this morning?’

I watch him carefully. There’s a soft flicker in his gaze, but then his expression hardens again. ‘Does it matter? My question to you – did you actually want me to kiss you? I think you just wanted to be kissed, and anyone would have done.’

‘That’s not true,’ I whisper.

‘Do you even know what truth is? You’re so habituated to lies, you lie to yourself all the time. You’re like my sister. You only care about what you want, how to get it, and it doesn’t matter how many people you lie to or hurt, so long as you get what you want in the end.’

Tears prick my eyes. I blink them away. I want to shout and scream, kick and slap, even bite him. But all my energy is focussed on keeping the sobs in my throat from escaping, and the tears burning my eyes from falling. The most I can do is shake my head over and over, denying his assessment. And yet, in the darkest corners of my heart, I wonder if he’s right.

‘Lady Jing, look at me,’ he says, his tone soft. He cups my face with his hands, and gently tilts my head, forcing my gaze up. Through my lashes, I see the shadow of stubble on his jaw, his mouth downturned at the corners, his lower lip fuller than the top, until finally, I meet his gaze. His eyes are pools of kindness, sorrow, regret. What I see there is too much; it breaks the dam and I can no longer hold back the sobs.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘Don’t cry.’

Everything blurs into a mess of colour. I’m hurt and mad. But also, I want very badly for him to kiss me, for us to forget the bruises we’ve inflicted on each other. My hands wrap around his neck, my fingers tangle in his hair, and I pull him towards me. The smell of snowflakes makes my insides tingle. He resists, at first. Then he leans in, drags the tip of his nose along my cheek, presses his forehead to mine. I hear him swallow. He wants this as much as I do. There is no room for lies when we kiss. My lips brush against his, anticipation unfurls in my chest, into my belly, and then . . .

I am leaning into empty air. Mr Lee is on the other side of the low table, breathing hard. I stand, meaning to go to him, but he steps back, widening our distance. What’s worse is the expression he wears. It’s a mask, distant and formal. I curl in on myself, the ache in my chest making it hard to breathe. It hurts and I reach for the emotion that has always protected me: anger.

‘Words aren’t the only way people lie,’ I spit at him. Surprise cracks his mask, but I don’t give him the chance to speak. ‘You say you wanted to kiss me, but you act like I’m a disease.’

‘I am only concerned for your virtue, Lady Jing.’

‘Virtue?’ The ache in my chest sours then ignites into fury. ‘What sort of dog-fart are you spouting? I’m not suggesting we make babies or even get married. I like kissing you. I like your smell. I like you.’ I try to decipher his expression. Embarrassment, shock, is that fear? Did I get it all wrong? ‘I may have lied about my motivations, omitted some truths, but here’ – I press a hand to my chest – ‘how I feel about you is true. I like you. I thought you liked me too.’

I reach for him across the table, but he turns a shoulder, arm up as if to ward off an attack. My cheeks redden and understanding sinks its claws into my heart. He fears me.

‘Haven’t I proven by now that I won’t hurt you?’ My voice cracks.

Mr Lee drops his hands. ‘We are different, Lady Jing. We come from different worlds. I’m mortal. You are a Celestial deity, royalty to the hulijing, and ward to the King of Hell himself. I was only doing my part of the bargain. Yan Luo Wang tasked me with taking care of you. I was carrying out my duty. That is all.’

‘You said we were similar.’ I hate the pleading in my voice. Lady Soo’s words whisper their poison in my ear. No one wants you, mongrel.

He faces me, back straight. I don’t like the look in his eyes. I stumble back, I don’t want to hear what he’s going to say.

‘We are not,’ he says, his voice hard. ‘You are hulijing and vampire. I am yang qi and blood.’

‘But—’

‘It is against your nature. Do you think I don’t know how you pressed your fangs to my neck? That every time you come close to me, you struggle with wanting to feast on my yang qi and the blood from my veins?’

I falter. What is he saying? ‘I never— I would never hurt you—’

‘Maybe not now, but it’s only a matter of time. You cannot hide from your true nature.’

My shoulders roll in, it burns to breathe. I want him to stop but my mouth won’t work. The words won’t come. I hold up my hand to silence him, but he keeps speaking.

‘A deity asked me, a nobody, for a first kiss. What mortal wouldn’t be flattered? What mortal would refuse? But that’s all there was to it. It is a discourtesy to the memory of that kiss to pretend there is anything more between us than that.’ He raises a steely gaze and the determination there makes me flinch. ‘You are inexperienced; you’ve mistaken adventurous curiosity for real regard.’

He might as well have carved out my primordial qi. I try not to blink, but more tears creep down my cheeks. ‘You call me a liar,’ I whisper, the blur of tears muddling him into pools of shadow. ‘But you lied too. Duty over truth.’ I laugh, but the noise I make comes out pitiful and forlorn. ‘You’re such a hypocrite. All of you lied. You all had deals with Big Wang for things you each wanted. What does it matter if you hurt me in the process, so long as you get what you want in the end.’ My vision wavers, black at the edges. I stumble. My hands find the side of the sofa, and I claw the fabric so I don’t sink to the floor. My chest hurts. I sway where I stand.

I am such a fool.

‘Lady Jing? Lady Jing!’ His words sound so far away. Somehow he’s beside me, touching my arm.

I can’t bear it. I turn and flee.

‘Jing! Wait!’

But it’s too late, I’m out the door and up the stairwell before he’s even reached the hallway.

I pry open a window and crawl up the side of the hotel to the penthouse terrace. Once there, I throw myself across the gap and land hard on the gravelled rooftop of the next building. Humiliation streams down my cheeks in wet rivulets. I swipe my forearm over my face. I will not cry over that worthless mortal, I tell myself, but the tears don’t stop.

I launch myself off the edge, careening through the air and landing hard on the next roof over, cracking the stone under my feet. My lungs scream and I can barely see through the tears. Rooftop after rooftop, I fling myself forward, but those words stay in my ear.

You’ve mistaken adventurous curiosity for real regard.

My feet pound on the stone and tile, leaving cracks and crumbling rubble behind me. By the time I reach the Custom House I’m sobbing and can barely breathe. I climb blindly to the clock tower then haul myself over the edge of the roof.

The clock ticks, rhythmic and sure. My breathing is harsh and wretched. The bell strikes. The ringing drowns out all sound – the vibrations course through me, numbing my heart, making my teeth buzz and my inner ear throb – and finally I can hear those cursed words no more. When the pealing stops, I lay still, and focus on the ticking. Breathe in for four counts, hold for four counts, breathe out for eight counts. I stare at the brilliant blue sky spread out above me, almost the same colour as the ceiling of my hotel room, and dotted with silk floss clouds tinged pink along the bottom edges. No rotted babies or tiny penises, thank Tian.

I replay the past two days and Mr Lee’s behaviour. His propriety, his kindness, always doing as I wished. I was carrying out my duty. That is all.

How could I be so naïve? All along Mr Lee has only been entertaining me. Taking care of me as Big Wang requested. Letting me have some ‘fun’. He was doing his duty, and I, fool that I am, assumed it meant more than that. Big Wang made a deal with Gigi, too. Her duty was to make sure I was safe, help me have fun. I touch my hair, remembering how she’d curled it, the hairpin, the dress. All those kindnesses were nothing more than a bargaining chip for the chance to spend time with the person she really cares for – Ah Lang. I mistook her friendship for duty. Her kindness was like those marcelles she curled into my hair. Fleeting and contrived.

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.

Twenty-Four

Home Sweet Home

I struggle and fight against my captors. I do not want to cross that threshold. But the opium swirls in my veins, switching my mind on and off like electric lights. My head lolls forward and the world goes dark.

When I come to again, leaves and twigs snap and creak while distant birdsong counterpoints the low rushing of a nearby stream. I scream and try to bite my captors, earning me another backhand for my trouble.

‘Is there any more of the opium?’ green mask demands.

‘No,’ comes the curt reply. Yellow mask. ‘We used it all. Didn’t think she would be able to fight it as much.’

‘Then we need to swap. Crazy bitch has bitten me twice already. What if— What if she infects me?’

‘We’re almost there. Quit whining,’ yellow mask says.

It’s not like I enjoy biting them either. Their blood tastes all wrong, thin and bitter, but I’ll bite anyone and anything if it means I can get back to Mr Lee – I have no idea if the jade has any effect on mortals. He could die there. I can only hope Gigi finds him in time.

They drag me through a sun-dappled forest up a stone path. I can’t do much with my hands tied behind me. My head and limbs are unbearably heavy. But as we make our way up the hill, the air grows thick with the stench of hulijing – flint and ginger and honeyed rotted fish. The stink sharpens my fear which helps focus my strength. With great effort, I use green and red’s grip on me to buck forwards, and on the back swing aim a well-placed kick at black mask behind me.

Right in the virtuous peaches. He goes down with a shriek.

Green and red drop me in surprise. I scramble to my feet and try to run, but yellow mask doesn’t hesitate. He roundhouses me again, foot connecting with my jaw. I land hard on my side, scraping the side of my face on twigs and stones.

Yellow mask grabs a fistful of my hair and yanks my head back. His face is too close to mine. The opium makes the painted swirls of his mask spin and distort. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to separate hallucination from reality.

‘You will behave, bitch,’ he snarls, ‘or I will fetch your mortal lover’s corpse and make you watch while I carve him into pieces and feed him to the hulijing. Understood?’

A sob claws its way up my throat but I clamp my lips shut. There’s a chance Gigi will turn up to berate me for disappearing. I need to keep the men away from Mr Lee. With no choice, I nod meekly.

The men curse as they drag me, arms bound, limp and defeated, closer to the home of my nightmares – the weathered blue-green rooftops of Niang Niang’s palace complex built on the edges of the Lake of Eternal Reflection.

We cross the first bridge that brings us to the Pavilion of Supreme Harmony. The strumming melody of a guzheng floats across the lake, the hulijing’s call to breakfast. Two handmaids wait on the pale wooden veranda. Their hair is partially pinned up in ornate loops held with quivering hair pins, the rest left long and loose over their shoulders. They bow to the men; their pale gauzy robes fall open as they bend, revealing an eyeful of pale, creamy ta-tas. I’d gag if I had the energy.

My captors, yaojing themselves, fall over themselves to greet the women. Rotted turd brains should know better than to fall for a hulijing’s charms. The men drop me unceremoniously to the ground. I slump, unable to right myself. I need to conserve my energy if I’m to escape. Better not to fight now, wait for an opportunity.

‘These unworthy ones bask in your fragrant beauty,’ yellow mask says, bowing to the bitches. ‘Please inform the venerable Niang Niang we have brought Lady Jing.’

I’m too weak to lift my head. One of the handmaids, I don’t know which one, speaks. ‘What’s wrong with her?’

‘A little opium straight into her bloodstream, and she’s tame as a new-born pup, just as venerable Niang Niang said. She is fine and whole.’

Jade green slippers embroidered with coral chrysanthemums approach me; she uses her foot to push my face upwards.

‘Welcome back, mongrel.’ Long lashes sweep across delicate cheekbones. This one has a sharp chin and her plump lips curl into an ugly smile.

I don’t bother smiling. Instead, I close an eye, take aim, and hork on her shoe. The gob lands on her forefoot like a glistening, slimy pearl.

Sharp chin shrieks, shuffling away from me. ‘You animal!’

‘That’s rich, coming from you,’ I try to say, but my words slur. I try to sneer but my face muscles tingle with pins and needles.

Her friend, round-faced with round eyes, snarls. But before she can inflict any retribution, sharp chin grabs her by the sleeve and pulls her into a bow. The men drop to a knee and offer high fist palm salutes.

‘Venerable Matriarch,’ they intone.

Goosebumps ripple across my arms. I strain my eyes towards the direction they’re all facing. Dainty silk slippers the colour of pom-egranates float across the veranda. Matching sheer silks eddy around the near motionless feet. My gaze climbs up the diaphanous robe, past the water sleeves trailing behind her in a river of crimson, over the swollen bosom, pale as fresh tofu, to the face I hoped never to meet again.

Niang Niang.

She is as she always was, stunning in her majesty and power. A silver halo shimmers around her body. She wrinkles her nose delicately and holds her water sleeve up to her face.

‘Sit her up,’ she instructs yellow mask.

He grabs my collar and yanks me to my knees, but my boneless body merely hangs from his grasp. I can’t even feel my arms tied behind me anymore. When he lets go, I fall forward, face first, into the wooden boards. Everything feels as if I’m watching from far away. I think briefly of Mr Lee, but it’s hard to keep hold of one thought. My mind bends and twists, tangled with bobbing memories I try to keep submerged.

‘How much opium did you give her?’ Niang Niang’s voice rings across the lake, each word dripping with disgust.

‘Contain our mistakes, Venerable Matriarch,’ yellow mask simpers. ‘She is stronger than we expected. We gave her the whole bottle.’

A slow tak tak tak sound follows, and though she’s out of my range of vision, memory supplies the image: Niang Niang, red lips curved downwards, cleavage spilling over folded arms, her imperial jade nail guard on one hand tapping a thick cream and crimson jade bangle on the other.

‘She’s no use to me in this state,’ Niang Niang hisses. ‘Throw her in the Pavilion of Reflection. I’ll interrogate her in the morning.’

The men lift me by the arms, making the rope dig deeper into my wrists. My head hangs forward, so I see only the wooden planks and their shuffling boots and, at the outer edge of my vision, the lapping waves of the lake.

They drag me to the very edge of the palace estate, where, single-file, we cross a long narrow walkway. At its end is a small open-air pavilion that sits in the centre of the lake. Six large pillars hold up an ornate roof – corners stabbing at the sky in upwards curves, marcelled in blue-green tiles. Water imprisons me from all sides.

They dump me in the middle of the pavilion and head back over the narrow bridge to stand guard at the far end.

I’m slumped like a heap of garbage, too feeble to move. The polished wood is warm against my cheek. As I look around, recognition rips through me. My blood chills, but the opium blunts the hysteria and fear.

Long buried memories float to the surface: my mother used to bring me here; we napped under the wooden eaves, cuddled together. She’d sing me lullabies. Often she had her box of diamonds and we’d play with them. Glittering baubles as big as quail eggs. When the sun hit them just right, rainbows splashed across the gleaming wooden floor, painted the ceiling in bright sparkling colour. Another memory, wet and cold, claws up my spine. Niang Niang’s handmaids dragging me here, screaming and crying. Their long talons carving crimson half-moons into my tender arms. I shudder, remembering too well the sting of those nails.

Out on the lake, movement ripples the mirrored calm. Something large breaches the water, only to slither back to the depths again. Waves surge outwards from the creature, racing to the edges of the pavilion. I should worry about such a large creature in the lake. The Celestial realm is full of wild beings even yaojing know to avoid. As the rolling waves glint under the sun, another memory jars loose. Gold links clink in my mind, but the full memory dances just out of reach. Instinct guides my gaze along the edge of the pavilion. I don’t know what I’m searching for until I see it – a slight dip at the end of one of the floorboards where I know without looking is the start of a heavy gold chain, jointed to the side of the pavilion floor.

Suddenly, I don’t want the memory. I should conserve my strength, then escape. But Horsey’s voice buzzes in my ear. Effort makes the mind, Lady Jing. I grit my teeth. For Hell’s sake, will I never be free of Horsey’s rotted lessons?

Memory drags me into its dark depths, holds me close, forces me to listen to the clink clink clink of the chain being pulled up link by link from the lake. Water pools around the golden coils. I’m four years old, peering at the puddles which perfectly mirror the blue sky, the blue-green tiled edge of the roof, and my own round face. Two little buns sit above my ears, tied with pretty yellow ribbons that dance on the breeze. The water seeps across the wood to kiss my toes. My eyes are round. Nervous, I think. I’m not afraid. That comes later.

The water slurps at the final chain links, as if not wanting to let go. But Lady Soo, younger in my memory, keeps dragging the chain up until finally the water gives up a large cage, just the right size for a small child.

I squeeze my eyes shut, as if that could stop the coming knowledge. I don’t want it. My eyes burn, but no amount of tears can wash away the past. Soo’s hands – pale and smooth as a magnolia – grab my scrawny arms. I scream, thrash, but another handmaid helps Soo. I am no match for the two of them and they easily force me into the cage, adding yet more raw crescent marks to the criss-crosses on my arms. The second handmaid’s name bubbles up through the watery depths of memory. Lady Wen.

‘You do not belong here, mongrel,’ Soo hisses at me. ‘Better for you to drown, like the useless runt you are.’

My child-self scrabbles to hold on to her, to the soft silk of her sleeves, the smooth expanse of her arms, but she shoves me away and I slam head first into the bars of the cage. She swings the door shut and locks it with a tiny gold padlock.

‘Mama!’ I wail and wail. The handmaids step back, watch me. Lady Soo’s lips curl into a smile, but her eyes are cold and cruel. I clutch my bare knees, whimpering. There is a long tear in my pretty dress, and I cry even harder.

Soo places the toe of her turquoise silk slipper against the cage. An embroidered tiger, so finely rendered I’m tempted to reach out and stroke its fur, peers at me through a glade. She shoves; the cage tilts and tumbles off the pavilion’s edge. As I fall, I notice a stray thread has worked loose from the tiger’s ear. I hear the slap of water before the cold seeps into my back, the water scrambling over my body, grabbing me with icy fingers and drawing me down, screaming, to the depths of the lake.

I open my eyes, blind to the lake rippling around me. Soo, Wen, and that cage. Those are the reasons I can’t stand the water. The root of my phobia. I am horrified and broken-hearted for what I was forced to suffer. And now, after so many years, I am back reliving my nightmares. Powerless then to protect myself, powerless now to help Mr Lee.

Sobs rip through me. If I hadn’t selfishly involved him in my quest for revenge, he would never have been harmed. He would be doing his part to help his sister. And now . . . I have no way of knowing whether he is alive or dead. Mr Lee embodies all the five Confucian virtues, but most importantly, he is ren incarnate – compassion and benevolence. And me . . . selfish, impulsive, disastrous. I angrily wipe away the tears.

Horsey was right. I lack all the Confucian virtues and my selfishness is what causes others mafan. Guilt and shame pull my shoulders tight and though I squeeze my eyes shut, I cannot scrub away the image of Mr Lee, pale and still, his heavenly scented blood soaking the delicate pink carpet in widening pools of deep crimson. Ninety-some years of pent-up hurt pour from me in torrents of hot tears and broken sobs. My chest aches as I grieve for the loss of the child I once was, and for Mr Lee, whose life I so thoughtlessly put at risk.

Twenty-Five

Effort Makes the Mind

It takes a long time for the tears to stop. Longer for my ragged breathing to grow even again. I missed the sunset entirely – the lake shimmers black beneath a full moon. The forest bordering the lake rustles and sways, punctuated by chittering and clicking from unseen animals. The sounds remind me of when I was little and would fall asleep in my rooms to the clicking and muffled chatter of Old Zao’s mahjong parties. The memory brings me a small degree of comfort.

Just as I’m feeling a little better, the heavens open. Water pours from the sky, further blurring the shadowed night. The rain drums against the lake in a low, rolling roar and splashes me with cold droplets.

I whimper, shuffle further from the pavilion edge. Not this, not now. My insides turn icy, and my teeth chatter. I gasp and wheeze, unable to get air, the old fear shredding my hard-won calm.

Horsey’s voice, high and nasal, slices through the rain. Lady Jing! Labour your grindstone or your blade will never reflect true!

The sudden scolding shocks me. It sounds so real – that annoyingly shrill pitch of his voice when he’s close to losing his temper – and so near, though I’m alone on the pavilion. I can smell two of the masked men guarding the end of the bridge – green mask and red mask – but no one else. It must be the opium. I plug my ears to stop Horsey’s incessant nagging, but his monotone admonishments drone on.

When the old man lost his horse over the Great Wall, he did not expect a blessing. Consume your setbacks and grow in knowing.

I hiss at the claptrap. I’m powerless! I want to scream. None of Horsey’s drivel helps. If Niang Niang wants to finish me . . . The cage swims into my mind’s eye and I flinch away from that horror. I am not strong enough.

You are. Horsey’s voice is gentle.

I knot my brows, immediately suspicious. I must be very upset to imagine a kind Horsey and am clearly still under opium’s thrall. Rain sheets across the lake while thoughts float haphazardly through my mind. Part of my mind is paralysed by that old fear, another part churning obsessively over my recently discovered memories.

It occurs to me my gut has always been right about Soo. She triggers more of my ire than any of the other hulijing I’ve encountered in yin Shanghai. Even though I buried the memory of the cage, I knew she was my enemy. I delve into my feelings about my grandmother – Niang Niang. That hard little ember of resentment is there for her too. It makes sense – Soo is her right-hand handmaid. What Niang Niang orders, Soo makes happen.

The more I think about what they did to a child . . . the more my rage rises, burning through my fear. Lightning sears across the black sky. It elicits only a shiver from me. I am too consumed with fury to give it any more thought. A shard of another memory untethers from its watery grave and floats to the surface: overhearing Niang Niang telling Soo to finish me. Perhaps they thought they could drown me, or simply keep me imprisoned under water. How did I get away? I search my memories but that one eludes me. My mother? It doesn’t feel right. Lady Ay? Again, that doesn’t seem to be the answer. The knowledge is out of reach. Perhaps I broke the lock – I was stronger than they gave me credit for.

That’s right, Lady Jing. Remember your virtues, for they are manifold. Imaginary Bullhead’s quiet encouragement makes me smile, even if I don’t believe him. I threw so many tantrums, was such a little turd-egg to him and especially Horsey, and yet the most punishment I ever received from them was to write out lines of Confucian propriety.

A sudden memory of my mother bathing me, the water warm, scented with wild rose petals. Her looking around, as if checking we were alone, then quietly counting yi, er, san. On cue, I slipped under and from the bottom of the wooden tub, I watched her face stretch and ripple as I kept count, then popped back up once I reached a hundred.

‘My clever treasure,’ she cooed. ‘Don’t tell anyone about your super power, okay? Our little secret.’

I frown, understanding dawning on me. My mother always told me never to show off my strengths; even Big Wang discouraged me from sharing the extent of my abilities. I always thought it was because she was ashamed of me. But what if . . . what if she was trying to keep me safe? Hulijing whelps are vulnerable. Their ability to self-heal doesn’t fully form until they reach adulthood at eighty-eight years old. Niang Niang probably thought she could easily drown me.

I snarl my anger – and my defiance. Those bitches tried to kill me. I did not die as they expected. I should thank my baba for giving me the ability to hold my breath for hours . . . maybe even days?

A sudden epiphany: when I arrived to all that blood and yang in mortal Shanghai, if I had known I could simply stop breathing, I could have saved everyone a lot of mafan. But I would have also missed out on the good memories we made.

Now think, Horsey’s voice returns, bossy and imperious as always. Even though I’m imagining it, and his words are every bit as annoying as they always are, the familiarity is comforting. Labour your grindstone. How will you outsmart them?

The intense chill has abated enough that my teeth no longer chatter. I would dearly love to teach them all a lesson, but my priority must be to escape. I have to get back to Mr Lee. I have to know he is okay.

I ponder my next steps. I’m outnumbered by the entirety of that bitch court. No one knows where I was taken or by whom. My arms are useless, no longer tingling or numb, just heavy lumps that make it impossible to lie comfortably. Thunder rumbles in the distance, but I ignore it. Focus, Jing.

I lift my head – water on all sides, and water pouring from the sky. I can’t see my guards nor smell them much now with the rain and the dark, but I can still make out the shadowy shapes at the far end of the bridge blocking my only way off this rotted pavilion. I grunt in frustration, eyes hot.

Bullhead’s voice floats into my mind. Tears do not cook rice, he once told me after I’d come home crying about losing another fight with some gobby yaojing. A rare reprimand. I was beaten badly because I never applied myself to my forms. I’d found it all too overwhelming, too many different styles, with each style combining a dizzying series of forms. One at a time, he told me. Master the basics. Then the series. Then the style. Slowly, I did as he said, and form by form, series by series, style by style, I mastered them all.

I focus on the first thing that will make a difference right now. The ropes at my back. If I undo them, then I can figure out the next step. Rolling over to my front, my hands have more space to manoeuvre. Finger by finger, I crook and bend and stretch them, forcing them to move. Tingling needles stab my palms as blood rushes back to my fingertips. Twisting my wrists this way and that, I slowly get a feel for the ropes binding them. I find one end and then the other, working at the knot until it loosens and I wriggle my hands free.

My whole upper body is slow and clumsy, but it feels good to move my arms. I stretch, glad for the rain that obscures me from the guards. Someone has brought them umbrellas. They aren’t looking at me, and I want to keep it that way. Absently I rub at a sore spot on my hip and feel something hard and square. I’d forgotten I tucked a few too see rolls and salted caramels in there. I pull them out, roll the glistening cubes and slim wax papered rolls in my palm. Tears slip down my cheeks before I can stop them. Tian, please let Gigi and Ah Lang have found him in time.

I eat a too see roll, the sweet vanilla conjuring happier times, making me feel lighter, less weighed down by my past horrors and present predicament. Next, I unwrap the salted caramel. A tiny cube in my palm. All of Niang Niang’s palace is made of silkwood, highly polished so she can admire her reflection from any angle. I roll the caramel in my palm. It is a perfect match in colour. I imagine every pavilion made not of wood, but of cubes of caramel stacked together. It makes me giggle.

The sense of helplessness retreats a little, so I eat another. Mr Lee’s candies seem to be fortifying me. Or maybe it’s just the memory of his kindness. Duty or not, he was kind. As was Gigi. Mr Lee was right. I do lie to myself all the time. Better to pretend I don’t care than to admit I do and risk rejection. And now, here I am, stuck in Turquoise Hills on this Tian-forsaken pavilion. I unwrap the rest of the candies and shove them in my mouth all at once. As I chew, I pull myself into the meditative kneeling position that Bullhead said always helped him to think.

Effort makes the mind.

I bring my focus inwards, contemplating the shards of memory. I piece them together to form a mirror of sorts, to show me my childhood, and to reflect back to me who I am now. In a flash of clarity I am certain of three truths.

One: I am no longer a frightened child and I will allow no one to treat me as such.

Two: My vampire ancestry saved my life. While I cannot summon affection for a baba who abandoned me, I will honour him for the inherited strengths which contribute to who I am.

And who am I? That brings me to three: I am Grand Princess Overflowing with Sagacity, Noble Lady Hu Xian Jing of the Turquoise Hills, Lady Jing of Mount Kunlun, whether others like it or not.

I shuffle carefully to the edge of the pavilion, one eye on the sentries and ignore the woozy feeling threatening to capsize my insides. Instead, I feel along the sides of the pavilion edge until I find cool hard metal and pull. The bright gold chain, still gleaming after all these years, emerges link by link from the depths of the water, until the green-crusted golden dome of the cage crests the surface and breaks free. I keep it half submerged so the sentries can’t see what I’m doing if they bother to look.

Rain soaks my hair, drips down my face, but for once, the nausea crawling up my throat has nothing to do with the water. I cannot stop staring at the cage. It’s smaller than I remember. The golden bars are half-coated in algae. The door is missing – twisted metal where the hinges once were. Ripped off, maybe. Did I do that? I sift through my memories, but nothing surfaces. The thing looks utterly ordinary.

And it’s that, more than anything, which ignites the sour hot rage scorching through me. Soo’s vile face looms in my mind. My hands tighten on the cage, trembling with my need for revenge. The bar in my fist breaks free with a loud snap. I stare at it, then glance over my shoulder at the sentries. They look around, as if searching for the sound. Shit sticks. I lie still on the floor, arms dangling over the water, the cage in one hand, and a long golden bar in the other, praying they don’t investigate. After a moment, they settle back into position, postures more alert than before.

The freed bar gives me an idea. If I take the cage apart, I can twist the bars together and make a chain whip staff. A weapon. But the noise would draw the sentries’ attention. The rain hits the half-submerged cage with a soft pat pat pat. I push the cage wholly under water, and the pat pat pat ceases. Checking over my shoulder, I place the first bar on the floor, using my body to hide it from view. With the cage under water, I snap off bar after bar, feeling stronger and freer and angrier with each one. Before I know it, I’ve freed all the bars. I drop the bottom of the cage into the lake. Only the top is left, attached to the pavilion by the chain.

I am bedraggled and my clothes are soaked from the rain. And yet a fire blazes inside me that lends me strength. With a sharp yank, the cage comes free from the chain. I let the curved dome of the cage sink to the bottom of the lake. The other end of the chain is still attached to a joist in the pavilion, well clear of the water. I can’t free it without an almighty crack from the wood. The sound would surely draw the guards’ attention.

Just then, lightning flashes across the sky followed by a clap of thunder, and an idea hits me. When another flash lights the sky, I’m ready. As the rumbling roar begins, I pull the chain with all my strength; the joist where it’s attached creaks and moans. The thunder rumbles and begins to fade. I either stop now and hope for another rumble of thunder, or go all in. There’s no guarantee I’ll get another chance.

I go all in.

The wooden joist resists, but finally with an ear-splitting creak, it snaps free.

The timing is a little off. I kneel, panting hard, watching the sentries out of the corner of my eye. They fidget under their umbrellas, but otherwise, don’t seem to have noticed. I exhale with relief. Working quickly, I twist the bars underwater into a long staff, securing the chain to one end. I lift the staff from the water and roll it onto the pavilion floor, bringing up the attached chain as quietly as possible. My new weapon lies in a puddle of water, green algae pockmarking the otherwise shining gold bars. The staff looks fit for a dragon king.

I survey my handiwork with a smirk, almost wishing Horsey were here to see. Small mercies he’s not – the tongue-lashing I’d get for my crumpled, dirtied, and most of all Western trousers would no doubt scorch my ears. The intensity of the rain lightens with the coming of dawn, until it is no more than shimmering dew. The sun rises with a dancing display of colour that forces the moon to retreat and fade. I sit cross-legged in the middle of the pavilion, facing the long walkway, and wait.

Two handmaids saunter towards me, no doubt to gawk and jeer. My lips curl into a smile as they notice I am awake and armed. They slow their steps, stare, then turn tail and run, screaming for my grandmother. The sentries are no longer masked, though I can still tell them apart by smell. Green mask and red mask wait for the other two to arrive. Yellow mask hangs back, lets his underlings lead the charge.

The turd-brains cross the bridge. It’s narrow, which forces them to attack single file. Using the staff almost like a fishing rod, I fling out the chain and one by one I knock them off the bridge into the lake. The creature in the lake breaches the water not far from the pavilion and disappears again.

‘I should probably let you know there is something rather large living in the lake,’ I say, gesturing at a disappearing tail. ‘You may want to get out of the water lest you become someone’s tasty snack.’

The men glance over in time to see a large shadow moving swiftly towards them. Their faces contort in ways which seem to defy gravity and their arms pinwheel in their haste to get back to shore. I grin. I offer a mental abundant gratitude towards the creature at my back for its impeccable timing. The leader pulls out a sword. It flames blue. Shit sticks. It’s a sword of Hell.

‘Yan Luo Wang’s going to be mad you stole one of his weapons.’

The man sneers but says nothing as he walks slowly across the bridge, sword at the ready.

I look at my twisted metal rod, then shrug. Bullhead taught me well. Time to labour my grindstone. ‘I have a score to settle with you,’ I say.

The man sneers. ‘For killing your pretty mortal friend? How predictable you are.’

I breathe, nice and slow, and centre my yin, before dropping into my first sword form. All those anger management lessons have finally come in handy. I channel my anger into my yin, tapping into the qi all around us. I close my eyes.

In my mind’s eye, his yin glows green. I sink deeper and flow into my sword forms. His yin flares and he rushes me, jian flaming blue. His advantage is size – bulk and inertia. But this time, I’m faster. Maybe stronger. I nimbly step aside, deflect his blow. He sways off-balance, but rights himself. Swings his sword in a great arc, slicing through air with a high-pitched whistle. I block. Metal screeches against metal, my staff vibrates from the force of the blow.

We parry. His sword sparks against my staff. The chain whips at him. He manages to twist away every time. His gaze – fierce, focussed. A fine sweat sheens his skin. I dance around his sword, let him get close. His yin glow gives everything away. I’m toying with him, but he doesn’t know it. I increase the pace. If I can defeat him, I can get off the pavilion and escape the palace.

Our weapons clash, faster and faster, until they sound like exploding strings of firecrackers. Sweat drips from his brows. He grimaces in concentration. His sword arm must be tiring because his blocks are no longer as solid or efficient. His blows no longer land where they should.

I move faster still – whirling and spinning. My whip lands a blow to his shoulder, his back. I jab him in the kidney. The stomach. The chest. Blow after blow after blow. He can no longer block me.

He kneels, swaying, blood dripping from a broken nose, chipped teeth, one eye swollen shut. I raise my staff and snarl my rage. One blow and I’m free.

‘Behave.’

The voice I most fear rasps across the bridge, wrapped in Celestial command. I swallow, lock my knees, in case they give way without my permission, and look towards the source.

My grandmother stands at the end of the bridge, blocking my escape. Her handmaidens gather to watch, tittering behind their water sleeves. From Niang Niang’s smug expression, she expects me to submit to that voice. I would laugh if she didn’t make my insides curdle with fear.

‘Get out,’ I spit at the man.

I look up at my grandmother, her golden skin unnaturally smooth in the morning light. A shimmering kumquat orange gown only adds to her resplendent aura. She opens her mouth to command me.

‘That voice has no effect on me, Grandmother. Don’t bother.’ I’m glad my voice sounds even. I might have had a chance to escape if it was just her, but with the rest of the court there to give chase, I can’t be sure I can outrun them all. I glance briefly at the water – could I jump in? My mind recoils and my insides quiver at the thought.

‘Come here,’ she says, eyes flashing.

The layers of her command itch at my spine. But I have almost a century of practice trying to throw off the King of Hell’s command voice. Niang Niang is nowhere near as powerful.

I recite Horsey’s mantra – Effort makes the mind – and lift my chin to meet my grandmother’s gaze. Curling my lips upwards to expose my gums, my fangs slide out with a wet pop. Her yin flares green. She cannot hide her disgust and it makes me smile wider just so I can show more fang.

‘No, Grandmother. I don’t think I will.’

Twenty-Six

Yoohoo

‘Insolent child. You will come here and kneel to me. You are in the Hulijing Court. You are under my laws.’

I think fast, trying to find a way out of this mess. The water glistens under the sun, as if beckoning me. I ignore it and try bureaucracy instead.

‘Well, actually, Venerable Matriarch, I am not. I am a ward of Hell. For me to submit your laws, Lord Lei should have granted you a talisman for my passage’ – I flick imaginary dust from my sleeve, sending a silent thanks to Horsey and his snoringly boring lessons on Tian’s administrative rules – ‘Ordinance 832, Article 52. And since I was brought here against my will, the coda of my home realm applies. I do not have to submit to you.’

Her handmaids whisper behind her.

‘I will not stand for such insult in my own court.’

‘Ah, but you’re doing such a good job of standing, Grandmother, especially given your age.’

Her face twists, no longer beautiful, but wretched and blotchy. And then she stamps her foot. Her flare of temper boosts my confidence. I would dearly love to laugh at her petty display, but I hold tight to my mahjong face. I follow my instincts, unsettling her in the best way I know how. Provoke and insult. In the disorder, surely an escape route will present itself. I crane my neck to look behind her at her handmaids. I find the face from my memories. Still exactly the same after all these years.

‘Aiya, Lady Wen! Is that you?’ I smile brightly and wave. She stills, a wariness in her posture.

‘Wah!’ I continue, pretending not to notice her less than warm response. ‘It’s been so long. Oh, my. That powder is doing you no favours. Makes all your wrinkles’ – I pat the air around my eyes, then gesture at the lines between my nose and the corner of my lips – ‘really noticeable.’ I drag my gaze blatantly to her chest. ‘You really should get better support, my dear.’ I mime pushing up my ta-tas, and stage whisper over the bridge, ‘They’re looking saggy. Like steamed eggplant.’ I tsk and shake my head.

Lady Wen goes red, and the glare she throws me should really set me ablaze. I am tickled and wish Mr Lee could see this. My momentary glee turns despondent as I remember myself, and remember my priorities. Get out of here and back to Mr Lee.

Lady Wen turns on her heel and huffs off. She’s even easier to wind up than Gigi. To think I used to be terrified of her. I call after her, ‘Wonderful to see you! You are as stomach curdling and as devoid of charm as I remember.’

‘How dare you insult my handmaids,’ my grandmother snarls.

Her anger makes me smile. ‘Well, she did try to kill me.’

‘Why couldn’t you just die?’

‘Aw, there’s nothing like a family reunion. So loving.’ My tone is caustic. She’s not paying careful attention to me now, in her rage. I search for opportunities, gaps between her handmaids. They are clustered too close together, fanning out around the end of the bridge.

‘You think you know so much—’

‘Lord Ma did educate me, and he is incredibly thorough—’ I glance behind me wishing there was another way to the far edges of the lake.

‘SILENCE! I will not be disrespected in my own court.’ She stalks down the bridge towards me.

My stomach clenches but I stand my ground, twirling my staff and the chain, forcing her to keep a respectful distance.

‘Where is it?’

‘Where is what?’ I ask, chain whistling by my ears.

‘I have had enough of your impudence, child. Answer me!’

‘I am answering. And my answer is: I have no idea what you are talking about.’

‘The Longnu dragon pearl!’ She stamps her foot again, and I cough to cover up the laugh that bubbles up my throat. Every time she does that, I get an infusion of courage. ‘Your useless mother stole it from me and gave it to Wang. It’s rightfully mine. I want it back. Soo saw you in the Treasury. What did you do with it?’

Rightfully hers? The claim makes me pause. Niang Niang moves into my distraction with a fast, hard slap.

‘I am your matriarch, and you will do as I say.’ Her voice is low with warning.

The whole left side of my face throbs, cold and then hot, and tears threaten. But I will not let her dominate me. Instead, I smile, as if I thoroughly enjoyed her slap. Even give her a lazy bow.

‘Venerable Matriarch, I have missed your casual violence. You can slap me all you like. But it won’t slap knowledge into me that I don’t have.’ I think about quoting another ordinance, but that might push her over the edge.

‘The dragon pearl is not anywhere in yin Shanghai. It is not in Wang’s dratted treasury vaults. When he sent you to yang Shanghai I knew he must have sent the pearl with you for safe keeping. Why else have Lady Gi and Ah Lang as your bodyguards?’

I blink at her in confusion. Her accusation is not at all what I was expecting. ‘I don’t have it. I don’t even know what it looks like.’

‘I don’t believe you. That dragon pearl was taken from my treasury. It is mine!’ Her voice shakes and her eyes are wide and wild. I’ve never seen her so unhinged.

‘It’s been nearly a hundred years since Big Wang got that pearl,’ I say, curiosity getting the better of me. ‘Why now? And why in Tian do you think I of all people, have it? I barely own three hair pins. How would I get my hands on a dragon pearl?’

I don’t like the way she narrows her gaze, assessing. ‘You don’t know anything about anything, do you?’

I swing the staff, not hard, but enough to make the whip chain whistle. To remind her that I have not retaliated for her slapping me. And to keep her from getting that close again. ‘I can recite sixty excellent poems about cats – Lord Ma was very insistent on my education.’

I work the staff faster, the whip chain snaps outwards like an angry snake. Niang Niang is forced to back up, hands clenched so tight they tremble.

Her eyes glint. ‘Tell me where the damned pearl is!’

‘Is that why you brought me here?’ I ask. ‘To interrogate me about a pearl I’ve never even seen? You are wasting your time.’

‘You are here because you are obsessed with blaming the hulijing for your own fuck-ups. I caught you sneaking into my Court, attacking my guards and courtiers.’ She gestures to the crowd behind her. ‘We have many witnesses to corroborate my account. Everyone has heard of your infamous inability to control your temper, your arsonist tendencies. Sadly, to protect my own, I had to subdue you, which unfortunately led to injuries that damaged your primordial qi.’

I laugh, though it sounds more like an ugly bark. ‘You’ll have to catch me first. Besides, no one will ever believe your lies. Everyone knows I’d never willingly set foot here.’

Uncertainty crosses her beautiful face, but it’s gone in an instant. ‘It matters not, because in the end, your corpse here in Turquoise Hills will be enough proof. I will have claim to the pearl and the Jade Emperor will compel whoever has it to hand it over.’

I hold on to my mahjong face. My kidnapping is an extreme attempt to hoodwink someone – me, Big Wang, or the Jade Emperor – into handing the pearl over. I know Big Wang must have it, and must have hidden it somewhere safe, but she doesn’t know this. Best not to clue her in.

‘Ok, Grandmother. You got me. I do have it,’ I lie. ‘I took it from the Treasury just before Soo tried to steal it.’ I suck my teeth. ‘But if I give it to you, I want something in exchange. Let me stay here. Your palace is gorgeous. And I’ve always wanted to prance around and show off my ta-tas. They’re really quite perky, you know. They would do the hulijing proud.’

Niang Niang frowns, thrown off guard.

I continue feinting. ‘You know what, let’s invoke Ordinance 6.2 of the Treaty. Parley. We can invite the Ministry of Hell to the Hulijing Court to negotiate new terms. You can officially claim ownership of the pearl and formalise my status in your court.’

Her gaze snaps to me, eyes fiery. Oops. I overplayed my hand.

‘You are a mongrel. You deserve to be stripped of your title. If I’d had my way, you would have been erased from Tian the day you were born. I am going to fix that right now.’ From her sleeve, she pulls a shiny silver net and advances down the bridge.

My eyes burn and water. Crap. It’s yin silver. I back away. ‘Now, now, Grandmother, you’re likely tired and grumpy. Old age will do that to you. Maybe a nap will help.’

With that net in her hand, she blocks my advance. The water blocks my retreat. I can’t let her capture me.

‘Impudent runt. This net is woven with the finest yin silver thread. It will leech you of your yin, leaving you a useless shell. And I will dig the pearl out of you with my own hands.’

I back up as she continues towards me. The net glimmers like a shoal of fish in the dawn light. Tears stream down my face. My skin itches and burns. She advances, and I retreat until my heel hits the edge of the pavilion. Behind me is the open expanse of lake. I know my fears aren’t about the water per se, but I’m still not keen on throwing myself into the deep unknown.

Niang Niang senses my hesitation. ‘Nowhere else to go, mongrel.’ The smile my grandmother gives me is full of malice.

Effort makes the mind, eh? Damn you, Horsey. I either stay and suffer while being imprisoned, or jump and suffer, but with a chance at getting back to Mr Lee.

Jump it is.

I blow Niang Niang a kiss. ‘Actually, I have a grindstone to labour. Don’t forget your nap.’ I gesture again to her face. ‘You really need your beauty sleep.’

Her face twists with insult and anger and it’s a joy to watch. I wager her reaction will end in a foot stamping, but I can’t stay to enjoy the spectacle. I take a deep breath. In one smooth motion, I throw the staff at Niang Niang and leap backwards. As my body arches and twists towards the shimmering blue waters, my grandmother shrieks and I hear the unmistakeable stamp of her foot. Still smiling, I slice through the water head first into cold and wet that swallow me whole.

Momentum pushes me downwards through the crystal-clear lake. Seabed flowers with bright pink and orange tendrils sway in the currents and dot the lakebed between tufts of dark green seaweed fronds. When the current has taken me a safe distance from the net, I look back. Niang Niang stands at the edge of the pavilion, her image wavering and distorted.

For the first time I can remember, I’m not seized with a paralysing fear. Now I can identify why I was afraid, now I know their faces, the watery shadows don’t frighten me anymore. Although, as I glide along, I slowly lose momentum and start to sink. Flapping my hands only slows me even more. It feels like I’m being squeezed from all sides, the pressure increasing as I sink into the depths of the lake.

Rotted turd on a stick – I did not think this through. I don’t know how to swim, and even if I did, where do I go from here? I don’t know which direction to head, nor even how far Shanghai is from Turquoise Hills. The thought is overwhelming and the weight of hopelessness bears down on me until green-black seaweed wraps around my legs and my feet sink into soft mud. Above me, ribbons of light ripple through the water, and little red fish flash as they dart between the rays of sunlight.

Horsey’s voice keeps me moving. Labour your grindstone, Lady Jing. One foot in front of the other, I push myself into the unknown, away from Niang Niang’s court.

While it’s a pleasant surprise to find there is no hardship in not breathing, the squeezing sensation is uncomfortable. I float-walk to the other end of the lake, figuring out by trial and error how to use my hands to propel me forward. My clothes slow my progress though, constantly getting caught on seaweed. I wriggle out of my shirt and trousers, but I’m loathe to leave them at the bottom of the lake. I scrunch them into as small a packet as I can and keep pushing forward. The water glides around me more easily now that I’m just wearing my dudou and tap pants. I wonder whether Horsey would understand, given the circumstances. A strong current of cold water sends me lurching sideways and tears my bundle of clothes from my grasp. The fast-moving water blurs my surroundings, and it’s not until I regain my balance and the water settles that I notice I’m in shadow.

A huge serpentine creature circles above me, blocking out the sun. Tian. I’d forgotten about the thing in the lake. I wish I’d had the foresight to bring my homemade staff with me. I scrabble around looking for something, anything, to help me fight off the creature. All I come away with are handfuls of mud and slippery kelp. In moments, I’m surrounded by black scales, the serpentine body undulating around me. It’s so long and twisty I can’t see the head or tail. The scaly spiral constricts. I put out my hands – maybe I can stop it from squeezing me to death. My fingers graze something soft. Fur? I try to get a better look but am confronted with a huge silver eye. My reflection wavers in the black pupil. The eye blinks. Long black lashes flutter in the water.

‘This lonely one basks in your glory, Lady Jing. I am surprised to see your fragrant self in the Lake of Eternal Reflection.’ The voice reverberates in my mind, clear and calm, and strangely familiar. It makes my ears tickle.

The creature pulls its head back so I can see it more clearly. A long muzzle with two thick silver whiskers on either side of a broad black nose. Silver fur lines its jaw and cheeks; the original dragon beard emulated by many of the older deities. Black antlers sprout from its forehead, curve over a thick silver mane that extends downwards along the spine of the creature’s undulating body.

This is no wild beast of the lake. This is one of the dragon kings. I hurriedly bow my head and offer a fist palm salute. ‘Venerable Lord Black, Dragon King of the North, ten thousand years of good health. It is good to see you again,’ I say, or at least try to say. For the most part, only bubbles come out.

Nevertheless, Lord Black seems to understand. ‘This one of the North Sea arrives before Little Jing unharmed.’

I smile awkwardly. What does one say when one happens upon another at the bottom of a lake? How does one communicate via bubbles? This was not covered in the Analects, the bible of Confucian etiquette. Lord Black seems to be waiting for my response. I gesture around me, smiling and nodding, try to communicate nice lake.

Lord Black tilts his great head, eyes flashing. Amusement? Irritation? I can’t quite tell. His silver fur waves in the water as his long body circles around me. I search for an escape route. I’m still in Niang Niang’s territory and I don’t know what alliances the dragon king might have with my venerable fiend of a grandmother.

Light webs over the lakebed. I can’t have this rotted Lord send me back to Niang Niang, but there is nowhere to hide. I poke at his scales and wave my hands as politely as I can to gesture go away.

I think he smiles. Or grimaces. I’m not good at deciphering dragon faces. He purses black, smooth lips, then says into my mind, ‘I have something for you. Will you come with me?’

I pretend to be coy and shake my head then try to scramble out of the coils. But they constrict, holding me tight.

‘I’m afraid I must insist.’ Lord Black dips his chin in a sharp gesture. The world pivots, there’s a strange sucking sensation, and I find myself standing, dripping wet, in a bright white cavern.

Twenty-Seven

Surprise

The cavern walls glitter as if embedded with diamond chips. The polished stone floor is dry and warm against my bare feet. Lord Black is no longer a great writhing dragon. He’s in his human guise, dark hair slicked back, wearing his trademark brown robe. I give him a critical once-over – handsome, especially with that rakish nose, elegant bearing, though why he insists on wearing those tired old scholar robes, I’ll never know.

There is a chair and desk a few paces away I can use as a weapon if need be. I raise a fist palm salute, and slowly back towards the desk. ‘Venerable Lord Black, Dragon King of the North, ten thousand years of good health. But I really mustn’t mafan you with an unannounced visit.’

He dismisses my protest with a wave of his arm. ‘No need to be so polite. I am delighted to have a chance to chat with you. You are certainly full of surprises. May I enquire what you were doing at the bottom of the Lake of Eternal Reflection? Trouble with the Hulijing Court?’

Turd balls. I scoff, feigning incredulity. ‘Why in Tian would you say that?’

‘Oh, a little rooster told me that there are some tensions between you and some of the ladies of the court.’

‘Ah yes. Misunderstandings, you know. Nothing for you to worry about.’ I scan the cave but the only opening is in the ceiling above me, far too high for me to jump.

Lord Black watches me. ‘As I said, I have something for you.’

I fake laugh into my hand. ‘Oh, I’m sure you say that to all the ladies. But really, I must go. Abundant gratitude to the Dragon King of the North, this humble one requests you send me back to the Cathay Hotel.’

I walk with purpose towards one of the walls, hoping he’ll dip his chin again and send me off. I stop with my nose to the cavern wall, waiting for that sucking sensation. It doesn’t come. Slowly, I turn. He’s watching me with that same expression he had in the water. With his human face, I can tell he’s amused.

‘Why am I here? And where is here?’ I pitch my tone between warning and demand.

‘Apologies for whisking you away, Lady Jing. Niang Niang was approaching, and it’s better if she doesn’t catch me with one of her court. Especially when she’s in a snit.’ He glances at my stance. ‘I am not going to hurt you. Lord Ma and Lord Nioh would not stand for it, and I would never disrespect my old friend Big Wang by harming his ward.’

I weigh his words. He does not smell like a liar or a coward. I nod, but even so, I don’t let down my guard. I stroll over to the desk, placing it between us. In his dragon form, I have no chance. But in his human guise? Maybe.

He waves a hand in the air. A robe of deepest purple appears, draped across the back of the chair. ‘That should fit you,’ he says.

‘I’m happy as I am.’

Lord Black’s eyes twinkle. ‘Well, between you and me, clothes are overrated. We are all naked beneath them, are we not?’

It’s the first time I’ve heard another deity express such a progressive attitude. Expose so much as a knee and the whole town is a titter. But shove my chest in everyone’s face? Well, that’s de rigueur. I will never understand the double-standard.

‘However,’ he continues, interrupting my silent shock, ‘Lord Ma would likely not be quite so understanding to find I entertained a decidedly underdressed Lady Jing in my home. For the sake of my future welfare, please.’

I reconsider Lord Black. Maybe he’s not dangerous. Maybe he is. At any rate, putting on clothes won’t put me at a disadvantage. Better to play along. It might get me out faster.

The robe glides over my arms in a heavy swish of embroidered silk, soft, smooth, and comfy. I pull the sash tight around my waist. ‘Abundant gratitude, honourable Lord of the North Seas.’

He bows slightly. ‘May sherrr. Come,’ he says, leading me to an alcove in the wall with two seats and an outcrop of stone to serve as a small table.

‘Do you live here?’

Apart from the writing desk and chair, and this sitting niche, there’s not much else.

‘I am sorry for the lack of furnishing. I normally keep to my true form when I am here.’

‘I didn’t know you had a home in the Turquoise Hills.’

‘I don’t, at least, not officially.’ He smiles, though there’s a touch of sadness. ‘I don’t think I am to the Hulijing Court’s taste.’

‘Too scaly? Too large? Too reptilian?’ I press my lips together, too late. The words are out before I remember to filter them.

Lord Black is silent for a beat, then bursts out laughing. ‘I have heard of your famed directness.’ He chuckles again, running a finger over his fine moustache. ‘The ladies of the Hulijing Court prefer mortals.’

‘To eat, yes.’ I know what hulijing do with yang. If they are kind, they let the mortal live, and thus continue to take nourishment from them. If they are not . . . well, empty husk is a generous description of what hulijing leave of their mortal quarry. Having come upon those husks as a child, I don’t blame Mr Lee for his fear of hulijing. ‘But you’re the Dragon King of the North.’

He shrugs, but he doesn’t seem at all bothered. ‘You are more mature than Lord Ma led me to believe.’

‘Nice to know Lord Ma thinks so highly of me.’ I can’t help the archness of my tone.

Lord Black crosses his legs and leans back against the cavern wall. ‘He does. You should hear him boast about you.’

My face scrunches up. ‘You are talking of Lord Ma – long face, big teeth?’

‘The one you call Horsey?’ He smiles at my reaction. ‘Yes. The very one. At seven you had mastered all five Confucian classics. At twelve your mastery of brush control was second to none. At sixteen you committed the entire Ming poetry canon to memory.’

‘How do you—?’

‘I told you. Lord Ma never shuts up about how proud he is of your achievements. He even got into a fight with one of the Celestials who refused to believe you were as impressive as he claimed.’

‘What? I never heard about that.’

‘Lord Nioh had to break up the fight. Very unseemly for such high-level yaojing to be brawling in the street. Lord Nioh is very persuasive when he wishes to be. The Celestial was politely asked to leave Hell and threatened with his virtuous peaches if he were to mention your name again.’

‘But Horsey’s always berating me. I’m never good enough.’

His gaze is gentle. ‘I don’t think Lord Ma knows how else to encourage you. But there is no doubt he is proud of you.’

‘That makes no sense.’

‘Raising a child is no easy thing.’ He sucks his teeth, regards me as if weighing up a decision. ‘I was waiting for your birthday, but since we happened to meet fortuitously, it would be foolish of me to deny the Cosmos.’

From his changpao sleeve pocket, he pulls a small bundle wrapped in thin golden silk and holds it out to me with both hands, a gesture of great respect. I am stunned. He is one of the highest-ranking deities in Tian. I am a nobody.

Bowing low, I hold out both my hands to show my humble appreciation and receive his gift. The shimmering fabric is unlike anything I’ve felt before. It is smooth like silk, but has a cool sponginess to it. Like water, but dry. What is this?

‘Sea silk,’ Lord Black answers my unspoken question. ‘Spun from the fibres of clams and algae from the North Sea.’

‘Extraordinary,’ I breathe. I carefully unwrap the square to reveal a small pink pearl. It’s about as big as the tip of my pinkie.

Lord Black leans forward and blows on the pearl. It immediately swells, growing larger until it is the size of a small melon. Pale pink scales cover the surface of the pearl. I tilt the bauble in the light, and the whole thing flickers as if bathed in pink iridescent flames.

‘Is this—?’

‘A dragon pearl, yes. This one is the Longnu dragon pearl. I was tasked with keeping it safe until you came of age.’

I stare at Lord Black, and then at the priceless dragon pearl in my hand . . . the cause of so much mafan.

‘I thought Big Wang bought it from my mother—’

‘Buy a dragon pearl? Oh child, you are too naïve. There is no dragon in Tian who would permit their dragon pearl to be bought, sold, or bartered. That pearl was gifted to you on your birth by my cousin Longnu.’

‘That’s what Brother Zhu said, but I didn’t believe him. But then why does everyone think Big Wang made it part of the deal to buy me?’

‘He did.’

‘You just said—’

‘It really isn’t my story to tell. You need to ask Big Wang.’

I suck my teeth at him, but Lord Black is unmoved.

‘So you wanted to give me the pearl? Thanks. I’d like to leave now.’

‘Don’t you want to know more about your gift? Why your grandmother wants it?’

Yes. No. I stand, irritated by the convoluted story, by still being in the dark, and the ever-present worry for Mr Lee. ‘I have to get back to the mortal realm, check on a friend.’

Lord Black chuckles into his fist. ‘Lord Ma did not exaggerate your obstinance either. The dragon pearl can make things easier and faster for you, if you will allow me to explain.’

I count to ten, allow my annoyance to settle, and then sit. I nod imperiously.

‘A tiger never births dogs,’ Lord Black mutters. ‘That pearl will grant you dragon’s sight. It is a great gift and an honour. Dragons see far.’

‘Yes, you’ve said that before. But I don’t know what that means.’

‘We see much.’

I try not to huff. What kind of answer is that? Infuriating creature. I squeeze my eyes shut. ‘Yi, er, san,’ I count slowly to ten. Breathe. Open my eyes.

Lord Black watches me, clearly amused. It makes me want to spit in his eye.

‘We see what is in all its forms. We embody the energy of the Cosmos. I cannot properly describe to you what it is to be connected with the Cosmos – all of yin and yang as it exists and as it does not.’

What in holy yin is he talking about?

He chuckles at whatever he’s seeing on my face. ‘You will simply have to figure it out on your own terms. Dragon sight has never been gifted before.’

What a load of festering shit balls.

‘Fine, fine,’ I say, rising again to leave, hastily covering the pearl up. It’s so big. How in Tian am I supposed carry it around? What if Niang Niang catches me with it? I shove it inside the robe’s sleeve pocket, hoping it won’t fall out. Hoping I can find a way back to yin Shanghai. Big Wang will know what to do. He’ll know where Mr Lee is, if he’s even okay.

‘I really must be going,’ I say.

‘Longnu also infused the pearl with the ability to transport between realms.’

I still. ‘Come again?’

‘Once it’s planted you’ll be able to conjure your own portal between realms.’

‘Hell and Celestial, or Hell and mortal?’

‘Hell, Celestial, mortal, and more,’ he says, buffing his nails with the pad of his thumb. ‘It’s terribly convenient. But for you, with your mixed heritage, with Big Wang and the Jade Emperor’s support, with your title and your character, I believe you have a promising diplomatic future. Promising and powerful.’

‘But having my heritage become common knowledge would bring dishonour on the Hulijing Court,’ I say wryly. ‘My grandmother says the dragon pearl is hers. She wants it back.’

Lord Black clasps his hands behind his back. ‘It is not hers, nor can it ever be. She is afraid of losing her standing in the Mahjong Council should the demand for yin silver decline. The dragon pearl cannot change modernity, or stop progress. She misinterprets my words.’

‘Imagine that,’ I say, then clear my throat. ‘Do all dragon pearls conjure portals between realms?’

‘No. Only this one.’ Lord Black doesn’t offer anything more.

I try again. ‘What do the other dragon pearls do?’

‘Some are just pearls.’

His empty answers grate. ‘Okay, what do the other special dragon pearls do?’

He smiles genially. ‘All dragon pearls are special.’

The tone he uses, like he’s trying to convince a child that one candy is much the same as another candy, makes me growl in frustration. The shit-bag claps his hands and laughs.

‘You are very funny,’ he says. ‘I like you. You must come visit again.’

I slump back into my seat, dizzied and exasperated. ‘Why me? Why did Longnu give me this pearl?’

‘My cousin was adamant. She sees far.’

‘Right. Dragon sight. She saw into the future.’

‘She sees many things.’

‘Fine, fine.’ I pull the dragon pearl from my sleeve pocket and hold it again in my hand. It is heavy and large. Carrying it around will be most inconvenient. ‘What do you mean by planted?’

‘Silly melon,’ Lord Black says, almost coquettishly. ‘Here, let me.’ He gestures for the pearl.

I give it to him, and he blows on it. This time the pearl becomes translucent, shrinks until it is the size of a small apricot.

He hops to his feet, grabs my chin. ‘Ready?’ His grip is surprisingly strong. ‘You’ll need to hold still. And keep your focus here.’ He points between his eyes. ‘You’ll feel pressure, but it shouldn’t hurt.’

Before I can say or do anything, he’s got the pearl pressing against my open right eye, and then he shoves.

I shriek. The pressure pinches, though, strictly speaking, after that night of dancing at the Paramount, those shoes Gigi gave me pinched in a much more painful way. My head is clamped in his hand; I can’t move even if I want to. I don’t, because I don’t want to risk losing my eyeball.

‘Almost there!’ he says with a disgusting amount of cheer. If he weren’t a rotted dragon with clearly far more strength than I have, I would totally stomp his brains into porridge.

‘You are definitely not strong enough for that.’

My face twists in horror. He can hear me?

‘Dragon sight. We are aware of many things. No, no, don’t move, don’t want the pearl going somewhere it shouldn’t.’

Holy Tian and rotted turd eggs. What have I got myself into? And then I hear a wet pop. Lord Black peers into my right eye, scrutinising – something. I have no idea what he can see.

‘There. I was a little worried. You moved and the placement got a little funny, but it’s in there properly now.’

I jerk my head away from his grip. ‘That pearl was almost as big as my face. It’s not going to expand in there, is it? I don’t want my head blowing up.’

He laughs. ‘It’s been a long time since I placed a pearl. Thought I might have lost the knack.’

I feel myself go faint and lean against the wall for support. ‘So glad you didn’t.’

Lord Black’s laugh is deep and smug. My hand itches to slap him.

‘So it won’t swell up?’

He looks at me like I’ve asked him if he has eight eyeballs. ‘Of course not. The pearl embodies the Cosmos, it isn’t the actual Cosmos.’

I stare at him, his answer infuriatingly circular, but bite my tongue. ‘That doesn’t make it better. I don’t want the Cosmos inside my eyeball.’

‘It’s not in your eyeball. It’s in your third eye.’

His nonsense is making me confused. I have only two eyes. Don’t I? I touch them and count, just to be sure. One on the left, one on the right. That makes two. Two eyes.

‘Fine.’ I can’t deal with his riddles anymore. ‘What if I want to take it out?’

‘That’s easy, simply blow on it. It will shrink and pop out.’

‘Blow on my third eye?’

‘Silly melon, no. Blow on the dragon pearl.’

The conversation is making me dizzy.

‘But – that makes no sense – it’s in my third eye.’

‘Mmmgh,’ he says.

‘How do I blow there?’

‘Embrace the Cosmos, and you become embraced. Nurture the Cosmos, and you become nurtured. Accept the Cosmos, and you become accepted. Clear your vision, and you will see. Open your heart, and you will be loved. Easy.’

I sigh, not sure I have the energy to pursue this bonkers logic. He cocks his head, as if listening to something. I listen too. Something tinkling.

‘Are those bells?’ I ask.

‘Yes. It is time you are on your way.’

‘How?’

‘You set your intention, and then you blink.’

‘Just like that?’

He nods. I visualise my hotel room in mortal Shanghai. And blink.

I’m still in the cave. ‘Are you sure there isn’t something else I’m supposed to do?’

Lord Black cocks his head. ‘It’s second nature to me. Let me see. I think of where I want to go. And blin—’

Lord Black disappears. And then reappears again.

‘That’s strange.’ He grabs my face, peers again into my eye. ‘Mmm.’ Without warning, he smacks me on the head. ‘There we go.’

‘Hey!’

He ignores me, pokes the side of my eye, and then lets me go. I totter backwards.

‘Try again.’

‘Give a girl a little warning. There’s no need to manhandle me.’

‘Try again,’ he says, ignoring my complaints.

I visualise the hotel room. And blink.

Twenty-Eight

Back and Forth

The shift is lightening quick – I’m back in my hotel room, standing in the doorway between the sitting room and bedroom where I last glimpsed Mr Lee. The jade must have worked, he must be alright. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself. It’s the only thread of hope I have. I steady myself against the door frame. My head spins and bile coats my tongue. This realm shifting will take some getting used to.

Two strangers sit at the table by the window, surrounded by books and the remnants of breakfast.

‘Who are you?’ I ask.

The woman looks up and screams. The man jumps to his feet, but when he sees me, his stance relaxes. He says something I don’t understand.

‘Who are you?’ he says again, this time in Mandarin. It’s a bit accented, but I can make out his meaning well enough.

‘Where is the man who was staying here?’ I ask.

‘You mean the previous guest? He must have checked out. We arrived this morning.’

I glance wildly around, scanning the walls for blood smears, signs of struggle. Mr Lee was in no condition to get up, much less check out when I left him. What if the masked men returned for him? But the walls are pristine. Nothing seems out of order, apart from the two strangers in my hotel room.

I bow my thanks and hurry to check Gigi’s room. I realise I’m still barefoot but that can’t be helped. There’s no rotted answer in her room either. Maybe they checked out together.

I visualise Big Wang’s terrace, and blink. The transition makes me pitch sideways as the terrace materialises around me. I fall to my knees, gagging, but manage to swallow down the nausea. It takes me a second before I can open my eyes. When I do, a beady yellow eye greets me, followed by an ear splitting COCORUCOH.

I stare at it – it looks like the rooster from my bedroom. Yellow neck, orange breast, teal body. It’s back to its original size. I almost laugh, grateful that Big Wang fixed him, despite the Treasury disaster.

‘You are one lucky rooster,’ I say.

The creature clucks and stares as I search the terrace for Big Wang, Bullhead, and Horsey. The terrace is empty apart from the rooster and tortoises. Neither Horsey nor Bullhead are at their usual posts. The lights are off in Big Wang’s quarters. Where the rotted Hell is he? I need to know if Mr Lee is okay, and Big Wang was my best bet. I lean over the bannister, gazing out across yin Shanghai. It seems quiet, nothing out of the ordinary. Along the quay are the ferries, docking as normal, disgorging their passengers in one long line that is absorbed into the crowds of the Bund.

A small sampan is tied to the docks. Fisherman Lo. A flicker of hope lights inside me. Fisherman Lo will know. I consider blinking my way down there, but the risk of vomiting is too high. So I run to the lift, jabbing the call button. I pace as the lift makes its way to me, slow as the tortoises in Big Wang’s koi pond. When it finally arrives, I get in, push the lobby button and tap my foot as the lift descends gently and wholly incognisant of my urgency. The lift stops on the sixth floor, the doors yawning open to an empty lobby. I jab the close button, but the doors stay open for what feels like an eternity. Finally, they slide shut again, and the lift ponders downwards like an elderly gentleman expounding the virtues of the Shanghai hairy crab.

‘For Hell’s sake, hurry up,’ I snap to the empty lift. Of course, the lift doesn’t respond, nor does it go faster. When finally we reach the ground, I shove myself through the doors before they’re fully open and bound across the lobby right into Bullhead and Horsey.

‘Lady Jing! Where have you been? Everyone’s been worried sick about you,’ Horsey says, his eyes bulging as he takes in my bright purple robe. ‘What in Tian are you wearing?’

‘How is that important right now? Where is Big Wang?’

‘He’s not with you?’ Horsey asks as Bullhead checks me over for scrapes.

‘What? I need to see him!’

For a moment I feel like a child again, running back to Bullhead with tears after falling off the roof trying to escape the guards, or after losing a fight to another yaojing.

‘Big Wang got a call from Willie and rushed off,’ Bullhead says, seemingly satisfied I’m not fatally injured, ‘He said he was going to the Hulijing Court?’

‘I was just there. I didn’t see him. What about Mr Lee? Have you heard from him?’

‘That’s odd.’ Deep lines etch into Horsey’s forehead. ‘Mr Lee had Fisherman Lo take him to the Hulijing Court too.’

I sag with relief. ‘He’s okay, thank Tian he’s okay.’ And then the rest of Horsey’s words sink in. Take him to the Hulijing Court. ‘No, no, no.’ My hands flap uselessly in the air. ‘He can’t go there. They’ll kill him.’

‘We thought Big Wang had gone to meet him. But—’ Bullhead exchanges a worried look with Horsey.

‘I need to go.’ My insides prickle with fear. Niang Niang will leave him a desiccated husk.

Bullhead stops, looks at me as if only realising something. ‘We just came from Fisherman Lo – you didn’t come on the sampan. How did you get here?’

‘Ask Lord Black.’

They seem confused by my answer, but I don’t have time to elaborate.

‘I have to go. Mr Lee won’t last long with those bitches.’

For once neither chastise me for insulting the hulijing.

Horsey puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘Be careful of Niang Niang. She doesn’t play by the rules.’

I am touched by Horsey’s concern. Perhaps I’ve been too harsh on him all these years. He looks down at my feet and that frog-frown smacks him full in the face.

‘Where are your shoes?’ he shrieks.

Or perhaps not. Before he can say anything more, I visualise the pavilion, and blink.

I hear shouting from inside the palace complex. I run along the bridges, through deserted pavilions, towards the Hall of Preserved Harmony. I pad to the open doors and peer inside.

Huge pillars of polished golden silkwood soar upwards to meet carved wood ceilings painted with golden foxes. In the centre is a dais with a rosewood throne where Niang Niang reclines, cushioned by embroidered silk pillows. Her handmaids stand in rows either side of the dais, gazes cast downwards.

Standing alone at the foot of the dais steps is Mr Lee. His clothes are bloodstained, the same suit he was wearing when I left him slumped in the hotel room. But he’s standing. He’s breathing. The jade pendant worked. I sniff the air – hulijing scent dominates the room, but underneath, I can scent his yang qi. He smells healthy and his yang brims with vibrant potency. Relief courses through me.

‘You lie,’ he says, voice firm. ‘I know you have her. I demand you release Lady Jing.’

Niang Niang raises an elegant hand and laughs behind her pale, tapering fingers. Her laugh is carefree, like bells on a summer’s breeze, and it scrapes through me like shards of glass.

‘You? Demand?’ She waves the imperial jade nail guards on her right ring and pinkie fingers, casually admiring them. ‘On what authority, mortal?’

I lean against the door frame, preparing myself to confront my grandmother.

Mr Lee squares his shoulders. ‘Parley on behalf of the Ministry of Hell. Ordinance 6.2 of the Jade Emperor’s Treaty of Mount Kunlun.’

Niang Niang stills. The amusement drains from her expression and her eyes glitter dangerously. I have to step in before she sets her handmaids on him. Celestial command would be the easiest solution here. Niang Niang could not deny the authority vested in me as a ward of Hell. I’ve not yet managed it, but as Horsey says, Effort makes the mind.

‘The Treaty is none of your affair, mortal. In fact, a mortal entering my realm is the equivalent of willingly offering me your yang.’ She lifts a finger and the handmaids all look to her. ‘Are you hungry, my darlings?’ she asks.

I stride into the hall, channelling all my resolve into my voice.

‘Stop,’ I say. But my voice is no different from before. The command won’t come.

I almost stumble from the disappointment. But one look at Mr Lee – his rotted doe eyes shining in greeting – and I straighten my spine. I keep going and take my place beside him. My eyes water from the presence of yin silver – he must be wearing a Lei talisman. Perhaps Big Wang got him a new one. I breathe easier, despite the burn. A layer of ministry protection. Maybe the two of us can bluff our way out.

‘Mr Tony Lee is here on my behalf. I am a ward of Hell, and thus the Treaty applies. Venerable Matriarch, I demand you comply.’

I don’t dare look away from my grandmother, but part of me focusses on Mr Lee’s scent. Snowflakes. Watermelon. Persimmons. Ripe walnut fruit. I frown. There’s something else there – flint and peaches? Those are new . . .

I don’t have time to puzzle out the odd scents before Niang Niang stands and flicks the voluminous silk of her skirts behind her. She flows down the dais towards me but I hold my ground.

‘I demand parley,’ I say. ‘You brought me here against my will. Held me captive, threatened me with yin silver, and hired thugs to beat me into submission. You’ve broken the Treaty and must face the consequences.’

Niang Niang’s lips curve like a scythe. ‘So many demands today. First from a mortal, and now a mongrel. Both of you clearly have paste for brains.’

Mr Lee pulls out his talisman and holds it in front of my grandmother. The silver makes my eyes burn.

‘This was blessed by Lord Lei himself. I am here in an official capacity on behalf of the Ministry of Hell.’ Mr Lee speaks with a clarity that rings through the hall. ‘Stay back, demon.’

Shock crosses Niang Niang’s smooth oval face. She averts her eyes, lifts a water sleeve as if to hide behind it. Her handmaids watch in silence.

My vision blurs and doubles. There are two Niang Niangs before me, one lifts her hand and reaches towards Mr Lee. I blink. The blur is gone. Niang Niang moves and the déjà vu slams into me. She lifts her hand, reaches towards Mr Lee, exactly as I saw it. In one swift gesture, she yanks the talisman from Mr Lee’s neck.

‘No!’ I shout.

Without it, Mr Lee is a lame rabbit in a den of foxes. I lunge forward to grab the talisman from her at the same time her handmaids lunge towards Mr Lee.

I’m too slow. Niang Niang leaps backwards and lands lightly at the top of the dais, just in front of her throne. Her handmaids surround us, ripping Mr Lee away.

Niang Niang’s smile chills. ‘Silly melon. You thought you could outwit me?’ She seats herself on her throne, adjusts her skirts before leaning into her cushions. I struggle but there are too many holding me.

Niang Niang’s gaze locks on mine. ‘You have been a thorn in my side for far too long.’ With a lazy wave of her hand, the handmaids fall on Mr Lee.

Their jaws elongate, deforming their beautiful faces. The wet sounds of tongues lapping at flesh turn my stomach. He shrieks as his yang is pulled from him in long golden strands. The shrieking becomes a wheezing wail. He convulses, knuckles and head knocking against the polished wood floor. His eyes roll back until only white remains. His flesh falls in on itself. He is withering as I watch. He will die here, and it will be my fault.

Lord Black’s words return to me. Embrace the Cosmos, and you become embraced. Nurture the Cosmos, and you become nurtured. Accept the Cosmos, and you become accepted. Clear your vision, and you will see. Open your heart, and you will be loved.

I’m supposedly one with the Cosmos. If I claimed him with Celestial command, that could stop them. I clench my hands. How though? I couldn’t manifest it before.

Mr Lee no longer shrieks. His convulsions have slowed too. I don’t have time to wait. Gathering my qi, I take a deep breath, and speak: ‘Re-lease him.’

My voice starts out with Celestial power but then fizzles into nothing. Disappointment rips through me. I don’t wallow, I don’t have time. I push forward hoping my ruse will still work. ‘I have prior claim on Mr Lee.’

‘Enough,’ Niang Niang says, and her handmaids stop their frenzied lapping.

I hold my breath. Mr Lee groans. His skin is a dull grey, collapsing like wet paper against his bones.

‘You are very amusing, mongrel. You think to claim the mortal?’ She leans forward. ‘In order for prior claim to work, he must willingly offer you his yang qi, and you must have already fed on it. I happen to know you are too squeamish to feed from mortals.’

My shoulders slump and I bow my head. This I cannot bluff. There is no hope. I drop to my knees. Niang Niang smiles in triumph.

‘Since you admit you have the pearl, forfeit it and I will spare Mr Lee.’

Twenty-Nine

Dragon Sight

Damn, I forgot I lied to her, and now I actually do have the rotted dragon pearl. I scramble for a plan, a feint, something to buy some time, but I come up empty.

‘Wait,’ Mr Lee says, his voice a hoarse rattle. ‘Lady Jing has claimed me. I willingly offered her my yang qi. She drank four bottles of it.’

‘What?’ Niang Niang snaps.

I stare at Mr Lee. What?

‘I gave her my blood. Fresh, willing blood carries yang qi, does it not?’

‘Snowflakes and watermelon rind!’ I blurt out. That crisp, fresh, familiar scent from the blood he brought me. The flavours I couldn’t place. The ones that are uniquely Mr Lee.

His doe eyes meet mine, and he smiles, sheepish and shy. ‘It was my honour to do so. I don’t care what you are. You were right. I like you.’ His voice is barely a whisper on a breeze, but his words carve themselves into my heart.

My eyes prick with tears, and I whisper, ‘I like you too.’

But Niang Niang growls and cuts short our moment. She leans forward in her throne. The bones in her face shift under her skin, her jaw elongates. ‘You will submit to me, mongrel. Ladies – finish him.’

The handmaids fall on him once more. Mr Lee convulses as the women pull his yang from him. The sight ignites a white-hot rage. My vision blurs and doubles again, and I see myself speaking words heavy with Celestial command, laden with barbs. I see my words slither among the hulijing on the floor and force them from Mr Lee.

Lord Black’s words ring in my mind. Clear your vision, and you will see. Open your heart, and you will be loved.

The lava running through my veins renews me. I fist my hands and snarl, ‘Enough.’

This time, the voice that rings from me pulsates through the hall, whispering echoes of multitudes contained in that one word. Celestial command. Niang Niang visibly shudders at my voice. The women on the floor jerk away from Mr Lee as if I’ve slapped them. I check quickly that he still breathes. He looks withered and ancient, but still alive. Just.

‘You seek to defy me?’ Niang Niang’s eyes glow red. She raises a hand. At the same time, a golden strand rises from Mr Lee’s chest. His yang qi. With a flick of her wrist, the strand arcs through the air and pools neatly into her palm.

‘Stop!’ I say, using the voice on Niang Niang, but she only laughs.

‘Little mongrel, you think your nascent voice can command me? Your elder? The matriarch of this court? You truly know nothing about anything.’

Mr Lee twitches as the golden strand of qi continues to thin until it’s no thicker than a thread of gossamer. A glowing orb the size of a peach hovers where the strand meets Mr Lee’s chest.

‘That there is the mortal’s prenatal qi. It is the last of his life-force. Once I take it, he will die.’

My hands reach out as if I can stop her, as if I can hold his qi in place. But I know I can’t. I fall to my knees.

‘Please,’ I beg.

Niang Niang’s smile is all sharp little teeth. ‘Do we have a deal?’

I nod.

‘Say it!’

‘I will give you the dragon pearl in exchange for sparing Mr Lee’s life.’

‘Not just the dragon pearl,’ she purrs. ‘I want you to forfeit your life as well.’

I don’t hesitate. ‘My life is yours.’

‘Done.’ She flicks the strand away, and the golden orb sinks back into Mr Lee’s chest.

He gasps, then settles into stillness. I scramble towards him and place a hand over his heart. He’s barely breathing.

‘Give me the pearl,’ Niang Niang hisses.

She holds out her hand. The jade nail guards curve like talons over her fingers. I do not want those near my eyes. I glance at Mr Lee. I need to get the pearl out of my eye.

But how? ‘I’m supposed to blow on my third eye,’ I mutter to myself. ‘What does that mean?’

Niang Niang’s black gaze settles on me. ‘What nonsense are you spewing? The only thing that can touch your third eye is your qi.’

I lean back on my heels, swallowing down a hysterical urge to laugh. Of course. That convoluted old dragon. Why the Tian didn’t he just say that. I will Mr Lee to hang on. I focus my qi and send it over my third eye. There’s a strange pressure behind my forehead, akin to the hollow feeling of an empty stomach, and something pushes against my eye.

‘I see it!’ shrieks Niang Niang.

She flies down the dais stairs, waving her handmaids away from us. Her talons are at my face, but I bat her away and hunch forward protecting myself from her nails. There’s a wet sucking sound and something falls, glistening and sticky, into my waiting hands. The dragon pearl.

I stare at it, stunned that blowing on it actually worked. Niang Niang snatches the pearl from my palm, hissing in triumph. Her eyes have a wild sheen to them. A smile slashes across her face like cracked porcelain.

I put my forehead on Mr Lee’s chest. His heartbeat is weak and fading fast. After all that, I may lose him anyways. But then something strange happens. All the handmaids who fed on Mr Lee start to twitch. They fall to their knees, gasping, hands clawing at their throats. They writhe on the ground, their skin sloughing away like a crumbling wasp’s nest.

Niang Niang stares at them, mouth wide in horror. ‘What is happening?’

As the handmaids wither, Mr Lee’s skin plumps out. His breathing eases. As if being nourished by their qi. For a moment, I’m as confused as Niang Niang. And then I remember.

‘The jade.’ I laugh, long and hard. ‘Dear Niang Niang, you’ve landed yourself in a spot of mafan. Not only have you attacked a mortal with prior claim, you’ve attacked a mortal under the dual protection of Lord Lei and Queen Mother of the West. Mr Lee has her qi in him.’

Niang Niang’s complexion turns a ghastly shade of grey. ‘Impossible. Why would she—’

I step forward. ‘Look at your handmaids. You’ll have some explaining to do. Queen Mother of the West does not take kindly to hers being harmed.’

‘I did not know! You never told me!’

‘Give me back my dragon pearl and I’ll tell her myself that you did not know.’

Niang Niang’s fingers close around the pearl. She steps backwards, clutching the pearl to her chest.

‘Never. It is mine now. You gave it to me.’

‘As I understand it, dragon pearls can neither be bought, sold, or bartered. It is mine. And you will give it back.’

‘Little mongrel, you of all people, have no authority to make me do anything.’

I stand and move towards my grandmother who seems to shrink with every step I take.

‘Parley on behalf of the Ministry of Hell. Ordinance 6.2 of the Jade Emperor’s Treaty of Mount Kunlun,’ I invoke.

Niang Niang backs onto the dais steps.

‘I have come into my Celestial voice,’ I continue, emboldened by her reaction. ‘I claim both my position as a minister of Hell and a minister of the Hulijing Court. I claim protection of both the Ministry of Hell and the Hulijing Court according to the laws of Tian. You think I have no authority?’ I step forward again. My grandmother moves up the steps to her dais, her gaze never leaving mine. But she’s lost her smile. She looks diminished.

‘I have the authority to bring you before the Jade Emperor for breaching his Treaty,’ I say, biting out each word. I step onto the first step of the dais, forcing her backwards.

‘I have the authority to bring you before the dragon kings for stealing my dragon pearl,’ I say and take two more steps up as she too moves up the steps to maintain her distance. ‘I have the authority to bring you before the great Queen Mother of the West for harming one of hers.’ With one more step I’m level with my grandmother who backs into her throne. She has nowhere else to go.

I hold my hand out. ‘Give me back my pearl.’

Niang Niang grips the pearl tighter. ‘You disrespectful little leech—’

I cut her off. ‘The pearl cannot stop Big Wang’s banking project, nor can it compel demand for yin silver. Surely you know this.’

She swipes at the air as if she can repel me, stumbles, and lands heavily on her throne. ‘I heard Lord Black say the pearl gifted dragon sight. What could a mongrel do with such a gift? Wasted on you! With dragon sight I could lead my court to better trade deals, more power, more prestige. We could throw off the limits imposed by Tian on hunting mortals. We would no longer be under the thumb of that mortal-loving bleeding heart, the Jade Emperor. I don’t care if you’ve ascended. You will never have authority over me!’

I tilt my head and give her my sad face. ‘Grandmother, has no one given you a snack? I, too, get grumpy when I’m hungry.’

‘How dare you!’

I hold my hand out for the pearl again. ‘I can’t claim to truly understand the dragon uncle when he talks, but I’m pretty sure you can’t use the dragon pearl the way you think. It’s about embracing the Cosmos, or something. Now give it back. It isn’t yours.’

She snarls. ‘Never.’

I sigh and decide to try and emulate Lord Black. Gathering my qi, I send it towards the pearl, willing it to swell.

With a gasp, Niang Niang stares at the suddenly melon-sized pearl in her hand. Concentrating, I do it again, only willing it to shrink this time. I want it as small as the tip of my pinkie.

As I hoped, Niang Niang is too surprised by the shrinking pearl to stop me from smacking it out of her hand. The pearl plinks down the dais stairs and rolls across the floor until it comes to a stop against a bare black-skinned foot. The rest of the leg is clad in an emerald green siwar, gathered at the knee. Big Wang kneels to pick up the dragon pearl, inspecting it for damage.

I nearly weep with relief as I rush down the stairs back to Mr Lee.

‘Venerable Matriarch.’ His eyes glow deep red, a sure sign of his fury. His words rumble into the hall and the ground vibrates with the force of his voice. ‘Did I hear right? You attacked a ward of the Queen Mother of the West? You knowingly broke the Jade Emperor’s Treaty? And you tried to steal Little Jing’s dragon pearl? I thought I told you and your ministers the dragon pearl was never mine to give, and never yours to take. I believe you owe my Ministry reparations for your misdeeds.’

Niang Niang stands. ‘How dare you parade into my palace uninvited and unannounced—’

She falls silent as more footsteps sound in the corridor. A deity in cyan blue robes walks into the hall. He wears a Heavenly Peace crown. Gold tassels fringe the front and back of the crown’s board, swaying and tinkling softly as the deity strolls towards Big Wang. I stare unbelieving.

The Jade Emperor?

My eyes widen even further as six hopping jiangshi follow him through the door. They are not known for leaving Hell, or for socialising with anyone but themselves. They hop across the hall to stand behind the Jade Emperor. Something seems off about them. I puzzle over this until it hits me. They don’t stink as bad as they normally do. In fact, they don’t seem to stink at all. I surreptitiously sniff the surrounding air. I wonder if something is wrong with my nose.

‘What is the meaning of this, Brother Yu?’ Niang Niang addresses the Jade Emperor. ‘Why are you here, and why are those demons in my court?’

‘Sister Niang, you stand accused of attempted burglary, kidnapping, and property damage’ – the Jade Emperor glances briefly at Mr Lee – ‘plus you have broken convention by feeding on a prior claimed mortal who also happens to be blessed by Queen Mother of the West herself.’

She jerks at the mention of the Queen Mother of the West, the matriarch of Tian. ‘Y-you have no proof.’

The Jade Emperor stares down his long nose at Niang Niang, his dark eyes flashing disappointment.

‘Is that the position you wish to take, Sister Niang?’

She glances at the handmaids still writhing on the ground, skin now sloughed away to bone.

‘The only way to fix your handmaids is to beg for Queen Mother of the West’s forgiveness. You know how she doesn’t like liars.’ The Jade Emperor gazes dispassionately at the skeletal handmaids on the ground.

Niang Niang shifts in her throne, her gaze darting between Big Wang, the Jade Emperor, and the jiangshi. She licks her lips. ‘How can you accuse me—’

The Jade Emperor cuts her off. ‘Bring her in.’

Ah Lang and Gigi appear at the door and I can’t stop the happy sob that escapes at their arrival. Between them, her normally coiffed hair dishevelled, her yellow silk dress wilted, is Lady Soo.

Niang Niang stills.

‘These jiangshi came forward when we appealed for witnesses,’ Big Wang says. ‘They saw Lady Soo along with five members of the Eight Immortal Crew break into my treasury in an attempt to steal the Longnu dragon pearl, and then watched as she doubled back to frame Little Jing. They made a citizen’s arrest and brought Lady Soo to me.’

Gigi pipes up, ‘That’s why all the hulijing were recalled from mortal Shanghai! They must have realised something happened to her.’

The Jade Emperor frowns at Gigi, who rolls her lips between her teeth and scrunches her face at him in an apologetic Contain my outburst expression.

Lady Soo keeps her gaze on the floor, but her expression is grim.

Niang Niang smooths her hair. ‘Fine. I will pay reparations and punish my handmaid. I’m sure she was acting out of misplaced loyalty. But the fact is, you are too late. Lady Jing has already forfeited her life to me.’

‘Yoohoo, dear Sister Niang.’ Another voice floats into the hall from the corridor.

‘For the love of Tian, who is it now?’ Niang Niang looks like she might explode, her face is red and wisps of hair are stuck to her face. ‘My palace is not a train station for people to wander in as they wish.’

We all turn to see Lord Black strolling into the hall, hands behind his back, wearing his trademark shabby brown robe.

‘You,’ my grandmother hisses. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Visiting, as I often do. In fact, I saw Lady Jing being dragged to that pavilion at the back of your palace. Saw those thugs trying to beat her. Saw you, with the silver net.’

Niang Niang’s neck goes red, and her breathing fast.

‘But that’s all by the by,’ Lord Black says, turning to me. ‘I’m here to congratulate Lady Jing on manifesting Celestial command. Very powerful. I felt it ripple all the way through the lake to my cavern. Well done, Lady Jing. I knew you had it in you.’

‘Because you see far?’ I ask.

‘I see many things.’ I hear the smile in his words.

Niang Niang snarls. ‘What does this have to do with anything.’

The Jade Emperor steps forward. ‘Not only did you allow your handmaids to feed on this mortal in breach of the conventions of Tian, you attacked a mortal under official protection of the Ministry of Thunder and Storm, and blessed by Queen Mother of the West. You also attacked a member claiming protection of both the Ministry of Hell and your own court, breaching my Treaty and your own conventions.’ He shakes his head, tsking.

Niang Niang pierces Mr Lee with a look I do not like one bit. She tosses her hair. ‘He is still alive. I’ll pay reparations, which will be minimal for a mere mortal.’

Big Wang regards my grandmother, expression placid. ‘You also infringed on the liberty of a ward of Hell. Reparations for breaching the Treaty will not be so minimal.’

‘She is of my line. I have the right to rid myself of rotten fruit.’

‘She is not of your line,’ Big Wang says. ‘Lady Rey and I made an arrangement. I formally adopted Little Jing since Lady Rey was concerned for her daughter’s well-being in your court. Apparently, your handmaids tried to drown her.’

I stare at Big Wang. Adopt me?

‘That is not true. You bought her so you could get your hands on the Longnu dragon pearl.’

Big Wang shakes his head. ‘I told you then, as I’m telling you now, the dragon pearl cannot be bought or bartered.’

‘I don’t understand,’ I interrupt. ‘Why did you never tell me?’

‘I’ve always said you were my ward, but you never wanted to listen. Besides, Lord Black wanted to wait until you were ready to place the pearl. Too many would be tempted to steal from a powerless orphan. But very few would dare to steal from the King of Hell.’

Niang Niang stamps her silk-clad foot. ‘I want that dragon pearl!’

‘It was never yours, Sister Niang,’ a new voice says. The pitch is high, the rhythm serene with a distinct musical lilt. A mist swirls into the hall and coalesces into the shape of a dragon, pearlescent with shades of pinks and blues and white. The dragon rises until its massive head is level with Niang Niang, the rest of her serpentine body coiling and uncoiling on the ground. An invisible breeze tousles the snow-white fur that runs from her mane all along her spine to a thick tuft at the end of her tail.

Niang Niang swallows, her back pressed hard into her throne. ‘L-l-lady Longnu,’ she stammers.

‘It has been a long time, Sister Niang.’ The dragon’s voice fills the hall. ‘As you recall, I gifted my dragon pearl to Lady Jing.’ Her great head twists my way, lowering until it is level with me. I peer into a huge orb of an eye, as large as a gong. Her irises shimmer the palest blush pink, nearly the same colour as the dragon pearl. ‘Cousin Black told me you’d grown up well. I’m so glad to see you for myself.’

I can hear her voice clear as anything but the dragon’s jaws are still. Is that really Longnu speaking?

‘Yes, little one. It is really me speaking. I’m in meditation so cannot leave my cave. However, I can make spiritual exceptions in an emergency.’

‘The mongrel was part of my court, which makes anything given to her my property.’

Lord Black sucks his teeth and Longnu shakes her head.

‘Not so Sister Niang,’ Longu says. ‘The dragon pearl was gifted to Lady Jing’s vampire side.’

‘Explain yourself, dragon.’ Niang Niang’s tone is low and dangerous.

Longnu giggles and the sound is like a cascade of bells echoing across a valley. ‘Lady Jing’s father did me a great service a long time ago. My gift was repayment for that Cosmic debt, and thus outside the reach of the Hulijing Court.’ The dragon’s gaze sharpens on the matriarch, and I shudder at the rage and violence in them. ‘I have been very patient with you, little fox. Do not try to claim ownership for what will never be yours.’

Niang Niang’s face crumples.

Big Wang puts a hand on my shoulder, squeezes gently before turning back to Niang Niang. ‘Since we are here,’ he says, ‘we might as well renegotiate the terms of our truce. You must make reparations for your insult to my ministry.’

‘And for your breaches of the Treaty of Mount Kunlun,’ the Jade Emperor adds.

‘However,’ Big Wang continues, ‘if you are willing to stop with your nonsense and interference in Lady Jing’s life, I will be willing to drop my reparation demands and consider compromise. Is there anything else you wish, Little Jing?’

I grin in a way that bares my teeth, letting my gaze land on Lady Soo and Lady Wen. ‘Given my past history with the Hulijing Court, I wish to approve all future members of the hulijing delegation to the Mahjong Council. In particular, Lady Soo and Lady Wen are banned for eternity,’ I say. I search out two other faces. ‘And those ones. Sharp chin and moon face. Banned.’

Niang Niang glares at Big Wang. The Jade Emperor sucks his teeth and Niang Niang closes her eyes. I can see her struggle, but then she bows her head.

‘I concede,’ she says, rising to stand.

Big Wang bows. ‘It is so, Venerable Matriarch.’

Longnu nods once, and the mist dissipates. The dragon is gone.

Niang Niang sweeps down the dais, her robes fluttering around her feet. She floats out of the hall, her still-standing retinue of handmaids following behind.

Just as she reaches the door, Big Wang says, ‘Good luck with Queen Mother of the West.’ He glances at the shrivelled handmaids who are wheezing softly on the ground. ‘Best be quick about an audience with her. Their state will continue to deteriorate until she rights them herself.’

With an angry slash of her water sleeves, Niang Niang disappears down the hall.

Thirty

Rainbows

My hands tremble over Mr Lee, my tears flowing freely. He looks better than he did, no longer a husk like those mortals from my childhood. His chest rises and falls – but the dry rattle that accompanies the movement can’t be anything good. Lord Black kneels to join me.

‘Is Lady Longnu gone?’ I ask.

Lord Black nods. ‘She can only stay for so long as a spiritual projection.’

‘Please send her my most abundant gratitude,’ I say, gazing at Mr Lee. ‘Can you help him?’

‘He’s done very well helping himself. And you too, Lady Jing.’

‘So does that mean yes?’

‘Why do you think it means no?’ Lord Black counters, then laughs heartily. ‘Surprise is what makes life fun, Lady Jing.’

I try very hard to be courteous and pay attention to Lord Black’s mumbo jumbo. He and Lady Longnu have done so much to help me. But all I can hear is the awful sound of Mr Lee’s breathing. A sob tears free. More threaten, and I struggle to swallow them silent.

‘Contain my thoughtlessness, Lady Jing. It has been a tiring day for you. Let me take care of Mr Lee. You will find him in good health very soon.’

My head snaps up. ‘You can heal him?’

Lord Black hmphs, but not unkindly. ‘I am no healer, however, with the help of the yaojing here, I believe Mr Lee will surprise you once more.’

Lord Black gently gathers Mr Lee in his arms and carries him out, nodding as he passes the Jade Emperor, Big Wang, the jiangshi uncles, and Gigi and Lang, who all fall into procession behind him.

He’s taking everyone with him, except—

‘What about me?’ I cry, hurrying after him.

He turns his head to the side but doesn’t look at me. ‘Lady Ay wishes to speak with you. She is in her chambers, awaiting your visit.’

With that, he dips his chin and the entire procession disappears.

I stand before a row of latticed panel doors from my childhood. The place smells the same as I remember. Wax, camphor, jasmine, silkwood. My insides feel wrung out. I’m not sure I have the strength to deal with Lady Ay. There’s too much history here, too much pain.

I bow my head, whisper an apology and turn to leave, but the rotted door slides open. Lady Ay stands before me.

‘You came,’ she says, surprise in her tone.

‘Uh, Lord Black said you wanted to see me.’

She nods, her gaze shy and hopeful. She gestures for me to enter. I hesitate, but she takes my hand in both of hers.

‘Please,’ she says.

My throat tightens. Reluctantly, I step over the threshold into her chambers. A soft blue-and-green carpet depicting clouds and peonies covers most of the floor.

‘Little Jing,’ she says, her eyes shining, her smile as gentle as I remember. ‘I thought I would never see you again.’

She gestures to a table at the side of the room. I sigh, then take a seat. She joins me.

‘Tell me, do you know your Classics?’

I nod. Why does she care?

‘And your sword forms? The thirty-two are the best. Were you taught those?’

‘Yes, Lord Nioh taught me himself.’

‘Oh good. I’m glad. I always heard he was the best of the best. Did you ever learn any Ming poetry? It was always your mother’s favourite.’

I don’t know where she’s going with all these questions. I nod. ‘Ming is Big Wang’s favourite period for literature.’

She nods. ‘Your mother always said it was important to be well versed in both literary and martial arts.’

It’s the same lines Horsey has been feeding me all my life. I put my hands on the table. ‘Why do you care whether I’ve been well taught or not?’

‘Your mother cared, so I care.’

I don’t know what to say. I always thought my mother sold me to buy a great huge diamond. Knowing Big Wang adopted me, and didn’t buy me, changes how I see him. But knowing my mother gave me up? That she didn’t bother to try and move to yin Shanghai to raise me there? It doesn’t change at all how I see her. Lady Ay takes my silence for what it is, years of built-up bitterness.

She tries another tack. ‘Your mother dreamed that you’d go to the best universities, experience the world. But Niang Niang wasn’t going to teach you anything. She wanted to sell you as a kitchen servant, or worse. Your mother begged Big Wang for his help in protecting you.’

‘My mother gave me up. She could’ve fought for me, but she took the easy way out.’

Lady Ay looks hurt. ‘She never gave up on you. We tried so hard, but when we almost lost you to the lake . . . we couldn’t risk keeping you here anymore. You were safest with Big Wang, watched over by Lord Nioh, Lord Ma, and Old Zao. Has Big Wang not been good to you?’

I think back. ‘I was never afraid in Hell. I was never hungry or cold. And apart from that one rainstorm, I never got wet. I hated the water.’

Lady Ay nods, her expression sombre. ‘Lord Black saw what Soo and Wen did to you. He brokered the arrangement between your mother and Big Wang.’

‘Why did she never tell me this herself? Why leave me in the dark? Big Wang certainly could have clued me in before now.’

‘Big Wang tells me you never wanted to believe him when he said you were his ward.’

My shoulders hunch, ashamed at the memory of my tantrums and petty provocations when he spoke about my mother, about me being his ward.

‘Your mother went looking for your father, to get his help in protecting you,’ Lady Ay continues. ‘She wanted to tell you all this herself, but she was caught by demon hunters and murdered before she had the chance.’

We sit in silence. This newfound knowledge twists in my chest. It hurts to breathe. Lady Ay stands and retrieves a lacquer box from the cabinet behind us. The box is inlaid with a mother-of-pearl nine-tailed fox peeking out from a coral pavilion, surrounded by blue-green mountains rising from a sapphire sea. I don’t need to open it to know it is full of her quail-egg jewels. Blues, greens, and so many yellows.

‘This is yours,’ she says.

I don’t move, so Lady Ay opens it for me. The glittering jewels cast rainbows all over the table.

‘I saved them all for you. The yellows were always your favourite.’

‘I don’t understand. My mother loved these, not me.’

Her face falls. ‘You don’t remember? You loved these. Sometimes you’d come back to her after Niang Niang had scolded you, and you’d be far away. Your mother would take you into the sun and bring these baubles. She would hold them and let the rainbows dance on you; it never failed to make you laugh. Sometimes you liked the other colours, the rubies, the emeralds, the sapphires. But the yellow ones you said looked like the sun and sparkled—’

‘—like the stars,’ I say. An image of my mother and me floats to the surface of my memories. We lay on a blanket, cuddled together, holding the jewels in rays of sunshine.

Lady Ay takes a silk pouch from the box and removes a huge canary diamond. ‘Your mother wanted you to have this too.’

‘But Big Wang gave her the money—’

‘—to buy it for you. She wanted you to have something to remember her. When she died I had to hide these from Niang Niang. I wanted to bring them to you myself, but when Niang Niang discovered I helped smuggle notes from Lady Rey to the vampires, she confined me to Turquoise Hills and forbade me to leave. Lord Black offered to take the baubles for me, but I promised your mother I would put this around your neck myself and tell you she never stopped loving you.’

She reaches for me, tentative. I don’t lean away. She clasps the chain around me, her scent swaddling me in memory. Her hulijing scent layered with flint and pine and ginger. The diamond is heavy against my chest, but I like the weight. It reminds me of its presence. I look at Lady Ay. What else had I got wrong?

I push the jewels back to her. ‘You keep these, so you can look at them and remember my mother.’ I gaze at my pendant. ‘I will wear this every day and remember her too.’

‘I am so proud of you, Jing. I know your mother would be too.’ She embraces me, squeezing tight.

‘Why don’t you visit me in Hell?’ I ask. ‘I can show you around.’

Her face lights up. ‘It will be easier now to arrange, given your standing in both Hell and the Hulijing Court. I will speak to Big Wang.’

I hold her hands in mine. My heart feels like it might burst from pain and joy. And then I remember the talisman.

‘Did you swap Mr Lee’s talisman for a fake?’

Lady Ay giggles and holds her finger to her lips. ‘We’re not supposed to interfere in mortal lives. But’ – she lowers her voice and leans forward – ‘Lord Black let slip something about the mortal Big Wang was summoning to Hell. I knew from Brother Zhu you often handled Big Wang’s deliveries and would likely be the one to meet Mr Lee. I didn’t like that the talisman would have hurt you. You used to blister right up if there was even a nugget of yin silver in the same room. So I took matters into my own hands.’

My mahjong face slips for a moment. Mr Lee might have died. But she looks so pleased with how things have turned out, I can’t bring myself to censure her.

‘Abundant gratitude Lady Ay,’ I say weakly. ‘Um, may I ask what Lord Black said about Mr Lee?’

She flicks her water sleeve and giggles, a familiar sound from my childhood. Like tinkling spirit bells. ‘Lord Black said the mortal had the power to bring rainbows back into your life. I thought the Cosmos might finally be smiling on you, and wanted to give things a little nudge in the right direction. My birthday present to you.’

‘Mr Lee was my birthday present?’

She nods.

I blink at Lady Ay. Her smile is sweet and innocent.

‘To eat or to kiss?’ I blurt out.

Lady Ay hides her face behind her water sleeve, her eyes twinkling with impish delight.

Thirty-One

Rain

I meet Big Wang and Mr Lee by the Pavilion of Reflection. Mr Lee looks like his old self. A little tired, but his skin is plumped and no longer crumpled like a paper bag. He smiles at my approach. Big Wang holds the staff I made, the chain swinging idly. His expression, though, could pulverise wood. For a moment, I fear I’m in trouble again. But then he looks up and his expression clears.

‘How?’ I gesture to Mr Lee.

‘A little adjustment by Lord Black. He’s as good as new.’ Big Wang pauses. ‘Maybe even a little better than new.’

I raise my eyebrows, but Big Wang only chuckles.

‘Ready to go home?’ he asks. ‘Lord Black is taking care of a few things with the Jade Emperor. He’ll be here shortly to place the dragon pearl and you can portal back to yin Shanghai.’

I remember the nausea and quickly shake my head. ‘If it’s all the same, I’d rather take the slow option in the sampan.’

Big Wang inclines his head and pulls out a joss stick from his silwar pocket. He lights it, propping it on the pavilion floor to summon Fisherman Lo. Then he walks to the far edge of the pavilion and sits with his back to us, dangling his feet in the lake. After a moment I hear the sizzle of a match, and the stink of Big Wang’s favourite cigar. He puffs quietly, gazing out at the forest, giving Mr Lee and me a modicum of privacy. A warm fondness fills me for Big Wang. He really has been looking out for me all this time, and I never knew it.

I turn to Mr Lee who is watching me with his usual dark gentle gaze. My heart seizes again, remembering him convulsing, dying before my eyes.

‘I’m so glad you’re okay,’ I say, my voice hitching. ‘It’s all my fault. I should never have run off—’

He wipes a tear from my cheek. ‘You saved my life. It’s me who should be sorry. I was angry with you for lying, but I was also afraid. Afraid that forming an attachment would make both our lives harder. But when you disappeared through that door, the thought that I might never see you again – I almost lost my mind. I will never say such foolish things again.’

I grasp his hands, squeeze to let him know I feel the same. I stare into his warm, brown eyes, thanking the Cosmos for putting me in the path of such a kind, decent soul.

‘How did you come to be here?’ I ask. ‘What happened after I left? I thought you – I thought I’d lost you.’

‘You disappeared through the door, and not a moment later Gigi came flying into the room. She said she had a bad feeling.’ Mr Lee laughs, shaking his head. ‘She called Willie, told him what happened. At Big Wang’s behest, she and Ah Lang went to Mount Kunlun to speak to her father, in case we needed back-up. I summoned Fisherman Lo to bring me straight here.’

A sudden cloud of fog appears in the middle of the lake and through it comes a familiar sampan.

Mr Lee chuckles. ‘Speak of the demon.’

Big Want gets up and joins us to greet Fisherman Lo. Once docked, I hop aboard, looking forward to getting home, having some xiao long bao, and not having any excitement at all for a few days at least.

Fisherman Lo watches me, taking in my purple robe and my bare feet. His gaze stays on my feet for a moment, then snaps to my face. ‘You are in my sampan.’

‘Yes,’ I say.

He shakes his head, arm resting on his knee. ‘You are in my sampan, Lady Jing.’

Am I missing something? I realise Mr Lee and Big Wang are both staring at me. ‘Yes. Don’t I have to be in it to get back?’

Mr Lee ventures a quiet, ‘You are sure you’re well?’ And darts his gaze to Big Wang and back.

Fisherman Lo puts it more bluntly. ‘You are not screaming, or crying, or fainting, Lady Jing.’

I laugh. ‘Oh, that. Yes, I think I’m cured of my fear of water.’

Fisherman Lo grunts and positions himself next to his yuloh.

‘I’m glad to hear it, Little Jing,’ Big Wang says. ‘Maybe I can finally let the Ministry of Thunder send rain to yin Shanghai again. They’ve been badgering me for years. The paperwork is such a nightmare.’ Big Wang taps the ash from his cigar into the lake.

‘Thank you for stopping the rain,’ I say shyly. ‘I didn’t know you knew.’

‘Mmmgh,’ Big Wang says. ‘You seemed so determined to manage your fear on your own, I didn’t want to undermine your efforts.’

All those years. My eyes swim with unspoken gratitude. He waves away the words I don’t know how to say.

‘May sherrr,’ he says. ‘You catch up with Mr Lee. I’m sure he wants to hear all about Lord Black and your pearl.’

‘You knew about that too?’

Big Wang chuckles.

‘Are you not coming with us?’ I say.

Big Wang shakes his head. ‘I have some business with Lord Black. I’ll see you back home for your midnight snack.’ With that, he turns and strolls back towards the palace.

Mr Lee joins me under the canopy. He stretches in an awkward, dramatic fashion and then drapes his arm over the back of the sampan’s bench.

‘All that to put your arm around me?’ I ask.

Mr Lee’s cheeks pink. I laugh and snuggle into him. Fisherman Lo gives us his usual long-suffering look. He pulls on the yuloh and sculls through the water. The sampan rocks from side to side as we cross through the veil back to yin Shanghai.

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Author’s Note

Lady Jing made me do it.

She’d probably spit on me if she saw this and gripe about always getting the blame! But it’s true – Lady Jing demanded I write her story and I am so glad I did.

When I was growing up there were few books which reflected my identity as a Chinese Canadian teenager. Characters who embraced an appreciation of Saturday Night Live’s Church Lady and of Shanghainese breakfast treats by way of Taiwan were non-existent. Amy Tan’s Joy Luck Club was the first time I remember seeing a sliver of my diaspora experience reflected in a book. Mulan, the animated Disney film, was the first time I actually felt seen (let’s ignore for a moment its cultural inaccuracies and rejection of femininity). The film laid bare things I had felt all my life – of not fitting an expected mould, of deeply rejecting the ‘only boys do that’ binary. It was an epiphany to realise I was not alone in my feels.

A brief aside on Jing’s world in Shanghai Immortal. While this is a work of fiction, many of the events and places mentioned in the book are based on real life counterparts. The Cathay Hotel (now known as the Fairmont Peace Hotel) was a marvel in its day and hosted Charlie Chaplin and Noel Coward among many others. Unit 731, which Willie alludes to when he mentions Japanese activities up north, was Imperial Japan’s covert biological and chemical warfare research facility – the local Manchurian population was used for chilling and gruesome human experimentation. Master Chu is named after the late Chu Hongsheng, Shanghai’s maestro tailor of qipao. The books and magazines Jing buys existed in her day, as did the poems she and Tony recite by Lu You and Shao Xunmei. For further reading on 1930s Shanghai, Ruth Day’s travel diary Shanghai 1935: An American lady’s account of the city and its high society and Emily Hahn’s China to Me are both fascinating accounts of expat life in Shanghai of the 1930s, while Mao Dun’s Midnight offers a Chinese perspective of the same period.

I am honoured and grateful for the chance to add Shanghai Immortal to the ever growing chorus of marginalised voices. More stories mean more facets of representation, which means a better reflection of the myriad of intersectional experiences. We all want to see ourselves, our experiences, in stories, but having only a few representative stories means the burden of representation on the author becomes unreasonable and unfair. No one story can be, nor should be, an absolute reflection of the whole.

Lady Jing answers my inner child’s need for an irreverent character with familial and societal values close to my diaspora heart. I hope she entertains and lifts you as she did me.

Acknowledgements

First and foremost, to you, dear Reader, this humble one offers manifold gratitude for your borrowed light. You are the magic that makes stories transcend the page and come to life. Thank you for picking up this book. Thank you for reading to the end! And if you took the time to write a positive review or tell a friend how much you enjoyed it, your efforts contribute directly to the success of this book. Thank you from the bottom of my xiao long bao loving heart.

Abundant cornucopia of gratitude to my ever unflappable and most honourable agent Jamie Cowen, and to the exalted glory of my editor extraordinaire Molly Powell. I could not ask for more excellent, or kinder, champions.

Bringing this book bb into the world wouldn’t have been half as much fun without the enthusiasm and creativity of the Hodderscape team: Molly, Sophie Judge, Kate Keehan, Callie Robertson, Laura Bartholomew, Natasha Qureshi, Fran Fabriczki, and Sasha Baker. I adored the Shanghai Immortal themed Vampire’s Kiss cocktails dreamt up by Kate; though I drank too many and felt terrible the next day, it was totally worth it. The cherry on top of my sundae of happy screams (and happy crying) is the beautiful cover designed by Natalie Chen and illustrated by Weitong Mai. You made my heart flutter.

Ah, where would Lady Jing be if not for my amazing CPs and writing buds? I was meant to be writing something else, well, actually two other something elses, when Lady Jing parked herself in my brain and demanded to be heard. Venetia Constantine, Rhee Joseph, Christy Hovland, Chris Grissom, & Patty Hoffman read the first glimmers of Lady Jing, and their responses paved the way for Shanghai Immortal. When your trusted CPs respond with ‘Damn! Write fast, Alice!’ you don’t look back.

Some days are bones days, some days are no bones days (RIP Noodle). Whatever the kind of day, my Forkfam ride or dies never fail to step up. They are the margarita to my salt rim, the tequila to my lime, the last caramel vodka shot of a randomly chaotic night, tossed back to a Rickroll. Shout out to Kate Dylan for saving me from myself and for paving the way as a fellow chaos gremlin, Gigi Griffis and Sarah Mughal for their thoughtful comments on early drafts of Shanghai Immortal, Emily Varga for the great meals, Chandra Fisher for your indefatigable Leo spirit, Angel di Zhang for being an ancient being of ancient wisdom, Lani Frank for your excellent eye, and the whole crew for the hugs, the talking ups, the talking downs, the chats and memes and laughs.

Melissa Than, thank you for keeping me in Keanu during the revising and editing stages.

My undying gratitude to Lia Ryerson, my Author Mentor Match mentor who helped me get Lady Jing scrubbed up and polished for querying. You made jumping back into the query trenches – dare I say it? – actually fun and not overly traumatic!

Faber peeps: Venetia, Rhee, Vendela, Sylee, Steph, Linton, Tom, thank you for keeping me accountable and writing when crawling into bed and staying there forever was looking like a reasonable option.

Emma, Sam, Jak, Susan, Angela, Alison, Georgie, Christie, Michelle, you are a force of nature and an inspiration. Our Thursday catch-ups gave those years of pandemic structure and got me out of pjs at least once a week. Both my husband and my postman thank you.

Bubblies: this is gonna be a bit emo and gushy but seriously I am so happy to have found you. Maisie Chan you are the mama hen I never knew I needed. Mina, thank you for the gem that is Dick Fight Island. The gift that keeps giving. I am thrilled for more ESEA books to hit the shelves. Thrilled to be joining the growing number of diverse authors telling diverse stories. Thrilled to just hang out with y’all. May we eat often and prosper.

Shout out to Jenni Howell and the MSMF happy space. One of my favourite places to scream and nerd out.

From my earliest forays into writing contests, the Golden Heart cohort taught me so much about the industry, about taking myself seriously as a writer, about generosity and lifting each other up. Both the Rebelles and the Omegas were instrumental in helping me find my voice. Romance writers are the bomb, my friends.

Special thanks to Xueting Ni for her insight on Chinese mythology, Hui Qing Ang for their incredible character art, and the late 金沙老師 for his beautiful calligraphy that adorns the title page.

To my Kickstarter patrons – a huge thank you for believing in me, for going on this journey with me, and for being part of the release of this long anticipated book. We took a different train than expected, but I think we still arrived at the right destination. Y’all have my undying love! Agnes Chi-Lan Tung, Alan M, Aleisha Saer, Alice Chan, Alicja, Andrew Godecke, Andromeda Taylor-Wallace, Angela Lee, Arisa Belkheir, Arthur Lau, Barbara Penner, Beata Henderson, Becky Rawnsley, Caitlyn Hunt, Carole Ogram, Cavan Gilley, Charmaine, Chris, Christie Hampton, CJ Connor, Clare Weaver, Cookie A, Courtney Maguire, Ellen Goldberg, Emery Redman, Emily Sullivan, Emma Dorreen, Esther O. Lee, Fallon Smith, Francesca Villani, G K  Sihat, Gena Cheng, Git Lim, Hannah Schaefer, James Lucas, Jeanne Squillante, Jennifer Koo, Jenny Chao, Jenny Flemming, Joy Shaw, Kai Chao, Karina Johansen, Karina Nordbustad, Kathryn Di Giacinto Morris, Kathryn Stallings, Katia Righetti, Katy James, Kelly Sutliff, Kerstin Bodenstedt, Keyana S, Kim Kyuyoung, Lark Cunningham, Laura Waggoner, Linda Alexander, Lynn Synotte, Mark Stay, May Chao, Meera, Melonie Johnson, Michelle Johnston, Morgan Hazelwood, Natasja Fourie, Nicky Pope, Olivia, Ping & Amy Chao, Samantha Lee, Sarah Bang, Sebastian Larsson, Sheri Kamvari, Sheryl Slater, Sissel K. H. Rasmussen, Sonu Natt, Sophia Sutliff, Sophie Sofer, Susan McCreery, Susannah Erwin, The Gordshees, Tina Koo, Tineka Lo, Tracey Burley, Venetia Constantine & William Kao. Special shout out to the England Peakers: Adele Coulter, Alison Jill Gaskell, Cheryl O’Brien, Christine Coombs, Elizabeth Arris, Helen Clancy, Helen Winship, Jess Moylan, Kathryn Clayton, Lilian Nyamwaro, Lisa Sharman, Penny Marsden, Rachel Clare McDonald, Sarah Hocquigny, Sandy Kweder, Sophie A Lunt, Sue Wheeler & Valerie Pain.

I wrote Shanghai Immortal to the snuffles and snores of my dog Deuce. Miss you every day, little man. While Obi will warm my feet as he always does, writing the next two in the series won’t be the same without you.

Barbara Penner, thank you for being the best cheerleader and for putting your very excellent eyeballs on pretty much everything I have ever written. You are the GOAT.

我父母親等待著我寫的書出版已好幾年了，一直問我書那時寫完。很高興終於有書給他們看了。顧奶奶,慧芳阿姨,林日文叔叔,董繼欖阿姨,龐國玲阿姨,高頌涵,老舅,舅媽,小舅,小舅媽,還有我親愛的爸爸媽媽: 非常感謝大家堅定不移的支持與耐心。

To my dear hubs David and darling little kraken Amie, I could not have lasted those days in the revision cave without your support: meals, treats, coffee, and so many hugs. ILYSM! Hope you’re ready… cuz we got two more books to go!

And finally, I want to recognize the vital role government funding for the arts has in nourishing community and culture. I am proud and grateful to acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts.

Credits

EDITORIAL

Molly Powell

Sophie Judge

Natasha Qureshi

Fran Fabriczki

Sasha Baker

MARKETING & PUBLICITY

Kate Keehan

Callie Robertson

Laura Bartholomew

ART

Natalie Chen

Weitong Mai

PRODUCTION

Claudette Morris

Inayah Sheikh Thomas

AUDIO

Dominic Gribben

Ellie Wheeldon

Carrie Hutchinson

CONTRACTS

Emma Mojarab

SALES

Isobel Smith

Drew Hunt

Kerri Logan

Sinead White

RIGHTS

Rebecca Folland

Ben Fowler

Manifold gratitude to the entire Hachette team, the buyers, and the

booksellers who have supported this book.

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