by Natasha Ngan
A low, carrying horn blow.
At once, everything falls quiet. Conversations, the slap of sandals, even the simmer of the mixing barrels seems to drop. All thoughts of food are whipped away as I freeze where I am, arm still outstretched. Only my mind moves, lurching back, returning to that day.
To fire.
To claws, and screaming, and the feel of my mother’s fingers being torn from mine.
For a few moments, nothing happens. It’s just long enough to hesitate. For a flutter of doubt to lift a hopeful wing. Then the horn sounds again, closer this time—and with it comes the pound of hooves.
Horses, moving fast. They draw nearer, their heavy hoof-fall growing louder and louder, until the noise of it is almost deafening, and all of a sudden hulking shadows in the street block the windows at the front of the shop, casting the room into darkness.
Distorted shadows, like the nightmare version of what a human should be.
Stillness, and the dark pulse of terror. A baby wails in a house nearby. From further away comes a dog bark—Bao. A shiver runs down my back. He went off a while ago, probably to the food stalls to beg for treats or play with the children who ruffle his hair and giggle when he licks their faces.
“Lei.”
My father has moved to the bottom of the ladder. His voice is low, a rough whisper. He holds out his hand. Despite the hard set of his jaw, his face has drained.
I step down from the ladder and weave my fingers through his, the quick trip of his pulse at his wrist a mirror to mine. Because the last time we heard the call of this horn was the night my mother was taken. And if that’s what the Demon King’s men stole from us then, what might they possibly take from us this time?
TWO
THE THUD OF HOOF-FALL OUTSIDE IS loud in the silence. Every detail carries: the crunch of dirt, the creak of leather armor as the riders dismount. The horses snort and stamp, but it’s easy to tell the sound of their hooves apart from that of their owners. Though lighter, their riders’ steps are deliberate. Measured. They prowl slowly up and down the street, clearly searching for something.
Not us, I think, cupping the thought like a prayer.
After just a few minutes, the figures come to a stop right outside the shop. Voices sound—deep, male.
Demon.
Even without the warning of the horn, I’d be certain of it. There is strength, a power in their voices.
These are voices that bite.
“This is it?”
“Yes, General.”
“It doesn’t look like much. The sign is broken.”
“The usual Paper negligence. I assure you, General, it’s the right place.”
A pause, fierce as a growl. “It had better be.”
There’s movement, and then our front door slams open, the entrance bells crying.
The effect is instant. As the soldiers shoulder their way inside, panic floods the shop, customers dropping to the floor in deep bows, knocking things over in their rush, the air filled with whimpers and whispered prayers. Something ceramic shatters nearby. I flinch at the sound, then again as my father throws an arm out to push me behind him.
“Bow!” he urges.
The demons advance. Yet despite the weight in my chest, despite the whoosh of blood in my ears, I don’t budge. The fear might be strong.
But my hatred is stronger.
Soldiers took my mother. Moon caste soldiers like these.
It’s only when my father says my name under his breath, more plea than command, that I finally lower. Most of my hair has loosened from its ponytail after the day’s work, and it falls forward past my ears as I fold stiffly at the waist, exposing the pale arch of the back of my neck, almost like an arrowmark. I dig my fingernails into my hands to stop from covering it.
When I straighten, my father is still blocking me from view. I shift carefully to peer past his shoulder, my heart clamoring as I get a proper look at the soldiers.
There are three of them, so big they seem to take up the whole shop. All three are Moon caste, alien to me with their beastlike forms—still recognizably human in shape and proportion, but more bizarre for it, the melding of human and animal creating something that seems even more foreign. Because of our shop’s popularity, I’ve had some exposure to demons, but it’s mostly been Steel castes, their bodies for the most part human, touches here and there of demon details woven into the fabric of their skin like adornments. A spark of jackal eyes; rounded bear ears; the smooth curve of wolf incisors. Tien’s familiar lynx features. Any Moon castes I did meet were simply not like… this.
These demons have stepped right out of my worst memories, nightmares made solid.
The bull-form in the middle is largest and evidently the highest ranking—the General. The bulk of him, the sheer weight in those boulderlike muscles, sends a pulse of something chilled down my veins. He wears a plum-colored tunic and wide trousers, a leather belt slung round his hips. His short bull horns are roped with charms and talismans. Snaking all the way from his left ear to the opposite jaw, a scar twists the leathery skin of his face out of shape, pulling his smile into a sneer.
I get a sudden surge of gratitude toward whoever made that mark.
Flanking him are an emerald-eyed tiger-form demon and an ugly reptilian soldier. Moss-colored scales wrap the lizard-man’s long humanoid limbs like armor. His head cocks from side to side, eyes darting all around. A serpent tongue flicks out in a flash of pink.
Slowly, the General raises his hands, and as one the room braces. “Please, please,” he says in a lazy drawl. “There’s no need to be fearful, friends.”
Friends. He speaks the word with a smile, but it tastes like poison.
“We know what happened here some years ago,” he continues, “But I assure you, friends, we do not come with violent intent. I am General Yu of the Seventh Royal Battalion, the Demon King’s finest and most honorable soldiers. Perhaps you’ve heard of us?” Silence stretches out, and his smile tightens. He settles one hand on the ivory hilt of the sword at his belt. “No matter. You will remember our name after today.”
He steps closer, moving in a heavy bovine sway. I resist the urge to shrink back. Only the wooden counter separates him from Baba and me, and it barely reaches the General’s waist. Slanting light catches on the charms dangling from his horns as he turns his head, sweeping his gaze over the shop. Then it lands on me.
General Yu freezes. Somehow this is scarier than if he’d shouted or made some move toward me; beneath his stillness, I sense something coiling in him. I jut my chin, staring back as defiantly as I can. But my cheeks are burning, my heart stuttering like hummingbird wings, and when he turns back to the room, his smile is satisfied. Gloating.
Something slithers in my belly. Why does he seem so pleased to see… me?
“W-welcome, General Yu.” My father’s voice sounds so small in the wake of the General’s, its human timbre thin in comparison with the rich bass of bull. “It’s a privilege to serve you and your men. If you tell us what errand has brought you here, we’ll do our best to help you. Then we will let you on your way.”
There’s a quiet defiance in his wording. I want to throw my arms around him, kiss his cheeks, cheer him on.
Either ignoring or oblivious to my father’s tone, the General throws his arms open. “Why, of course! We wouldn’t wish to disrupt your busy day. It must be hard, running such a popular place like this without the help of your wife. I heard she was one of the women taken that day?” he adds casually.
Both Baba and I stiffen. On the far side of the room, Tien’s fur bristles, a murderous look entering her eyes. For the first time I wish what she told me about her being a descendant of legendary warriors were true.
The General’s fingers flex on the hilt of his sword. “Yet,” he continues to the sniggers of his two soldiers, “you’ve at least had the help of your daughter. And she is a particularly… lucky girl from what the rumors say.” His voice drops, just a whisper now but dange
rous and bone-deep, every word clear in the hush. “Well, old man? May I see if the rumors are true? Will you show us this daughter of yours with paper skin and the stolen eyes of a demon?”
“The—the errand,” my father starts in a desperate tone, but the soldiers are already moving forward.
“The girl is the errand,” the General growls.
And lunges for me.
Everything happens at once—Tien’s cry, Baba throwing me back, shouting, “Run!”
I spin on my heel as the General bounds onto the counter, shattering it beneath his weight.
There’s a scream. Sounds of customers scrambling to get away. A tiger’s deep-throated snarl. I lurch forward, making for the archway at the back of the shop, and dive through just as the General tears aside the beaded curtain.
Beads scatter everywhere. My feet skid, one sandal coming loose. But it’s the sandal the General has grabbed for, and I crawl back to my feet, dashing down the corridor, hands flying out to brace myself as I take the turns flying.
The back of our house is narrow. The General’s crashes and grunts fall behind me as he struggles to navigate the tight corners. Breathless, I race out into the golden blare of the lowering sun, leaping blindly down the steps of the porch.
A flock of birds scatter in a flurry of startled wing-flaps. I make it to the wall at the end of the garden just as a roar behind me tells me the General has made it out of the house. Using the web of leaves that cover the wall, I climb up, messily but fast. Vines slash my hands. Puffing, my palms crisscrossed red, I reach the top, hook an arm over, and hiss through my teeth as I pull, pull, pull—
Hands, on my legs.
I cling to the wall, but General Yu is too strong. I drop back, a hiss of air escaping my lips as I smash onto the ground.
In a second, the General is upon me.
“No!” I yell. I thrash against his ironlike grip, but he swipes me up easily, throwing me over his shoulder, and strides back to the house.
My head cracks against a wall as he squeezes through the narrow corridors. The world turns fuzzy. I catch a glimpse of the main shop room as we pass through: the broken counter, herbs strewn across the floor, pale faces peering from corners. Then we’re outside.
I twist round to see where the General is taking me. A little way down the street is a large carriage, two horses strapped to its front. They’re enormous, bigger than any breed I have seen, with wild eyes and foaming mouths, heads enclosed in metal muzzles. Two more are roped to the carriage on either side, I assume for the General’s men.
“Lei!” comes a shout.
I crane my head round to see my father and Tien by the front of the shop. The lizard and tiger soldiers are holding them back.
“Baba!” I cry. There’s blood on his brow.
His neck is strained, face flushed as he struggles to get free. “General Yu!” he calls after us. “Please, tell us what you want with my daughter!”
The lizard-man spits in his face. “What do you think he wants, old man?”
“Now, now, Sith,” General Yu says. “You know it’s not like that.” Slowly, he turns and lowers me to the ground, clutching me to his side so tightly his fingers pinch my flesh through my clothes. “I am merely collecting your daughter for delivery,” he tells my father. “I heard rumors of her pretty eyes and thought she would make the perfect gift for our Heavenly Master.”
Baba’s face falls. “You—you can’t mean…”
“You should be smiling, old man. The girl is to become what so many in our kingdom dream for their own daughters. She’ll live in the Hidden Palace of Han. Lead a privileged life of service to our gracious leader… outside of and in the royal bed.”
Tien goes still.
“No,” my father breathes.
The General gives my hair a ruffle. “Your own daughter, a Paper Girl. I bet you never dreamed you’d be so fortunate.”
Paper Girl.
The phrase hangs in the air. It feels wrong, all angular and edges that don’t fit together, because surely it can’t be. Not a Paper Girl. Not me.
Before I can say anything, the sound of barking makes us all look round. A tiny figure sprints down the street toward us on stubby legs—white fur, gray spots.
My stomach drops. “Bao,” I croak. Then, louder, “Bao! Inside, now!”
As usual, he ignores my orders. He skitters to a stop in front of us and sinks down on his front legs, baring his teeth.
The General smiles back, revealing his own.
“Hello, little one,” he murmurs. He peers down his muzzled nose at Bao, who is skittering on his paws at the General’s hooved feet, which are almost bigger than Bao himself and mounted with thick copper plates that look as though they could crush even a human skull in one stamp. “Have you come to say good-bye to your friend?”
He reaches out. Growling, Bao snaps at his hand.
The General’s eyes cut to the lizard-form soldier as he withdraws. “Sith. Help him, would you?”
The reptile smirks. “Of course, General.”
He reaches for the sword at his belt. There’s the cry of steel, the flash of a blade through the air. In one fluid movement, Sith lunges forward and drives the point of his sword into Bao’s belly. Then he raises the blade toward me, and my dog with it.
It’s as though the world had suddenly tilted off-kilter. The ground, shifted. My heartbeat goes jagged, and it’s as if I were floating, rising up and away from everything as, at the same time, everything spiraled closer toward me.
Bile lurches up my throat.
Bao.
Bao—who hasn’t yet made a sound. For one desperate moment I convince myself that he’s all right. That somehow his belly is hollow and the sword has lanced nothing but empty air, and in a minute he’ll hop to the floor and wag his tail, run to Baba for treats, dance circles around Tien’s legs. Life will be normal again, and this awful nightmare will be just that: a nightmare.
Something to wake from. To escape.
But then Bao begins to twitch and whimper. Blood wells at his wound. It runs down the blade, thick and dark, pooling around Sith’s scaled fingers, where they grip the lacquered bone hilt.
“Better say good-bye, girl,” the lizard hisses to me. A forked tongue skates over his lips. “This is the last you’ll see of your family. And if you don’t come quietly, this’ll be how your father will end up, too, and that ugly old lynx-woman. Is that what you want?”
I wrench my gaze to where Baba and Tien are struggling against the tiger soldier’s hold. My eyes meet my father’s. I give him a half smile, and he stills, face slackening with something like hope.
“I love you,” I whisper. Just as understanding sparks in his gaze, I turn to General Yu. I force out a deep exhale, blinking back tears. “I’ll come quietly,” I tell him.
“That’s a good girl.”
He pushes me into the carriage, so roughly I trip. Baba and Tien erupt with cries, pulling a ragged sob from me, and it takes everything I have not to look back as I climb onto the padded bench. The carriage heaves under the General’s weight as he gets in beside me. Moments later the horses start to move, breaking into a loping canter that carries us quickly out of the village, my world once again crumbling around me to the sharp stench of bull demon and the sound of trampling hooves.
THREE
EVERYONE IN IKHARA KNOWS OF THE Paper Girls.
The tradition began two hundred years ago after the Night War, when the Bull King of Han, the central-most province in Ikhara, won control of the other seven, from desertlike Jana in the South to my home, Xienzo, in the North. Before, each province had its own sets of governing systems, its own laws and customs specific to their cultures. Some provinces were ruled by a dominant clan, while others were unstable landscapes of ever-shifting power plays between ambitious clan lords. And while Paper castes had always been viewed as lesser than demons, there was respect for the positions we held in society, the services and skills we offered. But after the Night War, th
e King imposed his rule on every province—and along with them, his prejudices. Royal soldiers patrolled the flatlands and plains, scoured villages and cities to dispense the new regulations. Demon-run businesses flourished; Paper caste families were pushed to the dirt. Within the centralized system, the larger cities grew ever richer and more powerful, while smaller settlements faded into servitude.
The years following the Night War were almost as dark as the ones they left behind. In the absence of the duels and political deliberations that would have once sorted temporary peace in a way all parties could respect, old resentments between clans grew. Long-standing rivalries continued to simmer unchallenged. And now there were additional uprisings and plays for power between the royal emissaries and the clans.
Order was restored the only way the King knew how.
Bloodshed.
To encourage union among the diverse clans and cultures, the court established a new custom. Each year, the King would select eight Paper caste girls as his courtesans. The court said that choosing girls of the lowest caste proved what a just ruler the King was, and the families of chosen girls were showered with gifts and wealth, ensuring they never had to work another day in their lives.
Tien told me once how families in provinces close to the royal heart of the kingdom, such as Rain and Ang-Khen, prepare their most beautiful daughters for the role from youth, even making underhanded deals to ensure the girls are remembered when the annual selection time comes.
In my village, the story of the Paper Girls is told in whispers behind closed doors. We lost too much in the raid seven years ago to want to share anything more with the court.
But perhaps the gods have forgotten us, or grown bored with our small corner of the kingdom. Because here I am, about to share the last thing I’d ever want to offer the King.