by Eileen Wilks
“No.” He was quiet a moment. “Behind me . . . I heard Phil behind me. Uh . . .” His voice sank so much Lily couldn’t hear the rest, not over the sound of the tap. She looked at Rule.
“He said that your sister was near, and Jason, and Teresa. I believe he means Teresa Blankenship.”
“Okay. Didn’t have her on my witness list, so that’s something.” Lily rinsed and used her elbow to shut off the tap. Jason handed her a towel. She dried her hands and moved up beside Cynna. “What about Rule? Was he near?”
“No.”
“Did you smell anyone or anything that didn’t belong?”
“No.” His voice was blurry.
“An Asian man, maybe? One who didn’t look like my brother-in-law.”
“Don’t know your damned brother-in-law. Can’t . . .” He frowned, his eyes closing. “Can’t remember anyone like that.”
“That’s okay. Did you see anything funny with your other vision?”
“Nothing funny. Some sorcéri.”
“Okay. I’m going to touch your shoulder first, then your incision. Lightly. I’ll do my best not to hurt you.”
He grunted.
She took that as permission and laid her hand on his shoulder. The skin was warm, but she barely noticed.
Cullen’s magic didn’t feel like anyone else’s. There was what she called fur-and-fir magic—the lupus magic that felt like fur yet reminded her subtly of evergreens. But mixed with it was a dancing tickle of heat. The heat meant a Fire Gift. The dance, though, that was how she read the sorcerous part of his power. As motion.
She drew her hand toward his chest.
There. Weird. She felt a little bump or ridge. On one side of the ridge, everything felt normal—fur and tickly heat. On the other, warm skin with just the faintest overlay of magic . . . and something else. Something smooth.
She tried coming toward the incision from another angle. Another. Soon she’d mapped out the edges of . . . whatever it was. And whatever it was, it was remarkably uniform.
Lily straightened. “There’s an area five inches in diameter where your magic is thin, as if it’s only skin-deep. I can feel the . . . Call it a barrier. It feels smooth, uniform. Shaped. I can’t tell what kind of magic is involved, not with your skin between it and my hand.”
“Need to look.” Cullen spoke more strongly, but his eyes didn’t open.
“We should let him,” Cynna said. “He needs to know. It might help.”
Nettie hesitated, then said, “All right. You can hold his head up.”
Cynna slid her hand beneath his head and lifted. His eyes never opened. Lily knew he didn’t need them to, not for his other vision. He’d still “seen” that way after his eyes had been gouged out.
But it looked pretty odd, the way he studied his chest with his eyes closed. Finally he spoke. “Hell.” He took a careful breath, winced. “Nettie . . .”
“I’m here.” She took his hand. “You’re going back in sleep now.”
“Yeah. Lily.”
“Yes?”
“You’re right. Shaped. It’s shaped. Someone stuck a goddamned spell in my heart along with their knife.” He took a slow, careful breath. “I can tell you one thing about it. It’s blood magic. And the sorry bastard’s using my blood to power it.”
TWELVE
The city of Luan; Shanxi Province, China; sixteenth day of the eleventh month of the forty-fourth year of the Ching Dynasty
THE winter wind was like death—importunate and intrusive, poking its cold, bony fingers through Li Lei’s layered rags to find flesh. She did not disdain the contact. She disliked being cold, but death was a powerful acquaintance.
She could have been warm. Had she been in the midst of a blizzard rather than squatting on the cold cobbles of the street, Li Lei could have been warm. That was one of the more useful tricks she’d learned from the one she called Sam in the past year and seven months—how to craft a second skin out of will and magic, one that warmed her precisely as she wished.
She didn’t dare. Not in Luan. Sam had told her to assume the sorcerer could track any use of power in his city. They did not know that he could do this, or that he did so constantly, but the caution made sense. In the eight days since her return to Luan, Li Lei had confirmed that those who had actively practiced magic had been among the first to die.
Many others had died since. Some were killed outright when they opposed the sorcerer. Some were killed more cruelly as they—or those they loved and trusted—fell through the open door of madness.
A door opened by a demon. The sorcerer’s lover. The Chimei.
Li Lei stared at the silent house in front of her. Had it been her father who went mad first and killed the rest, slicing or bludgeoning those he loved more than life? Had it been his wife, Li Lei’s pretty, ambitious, and stupid stepmother, who’d first fallen through the cracks the Chimei opened in her mind? Or had it been one of the children who caught the nightmare and somehow infected the rest?
She had heard various tales. She could not, of course, ask directly, but she’d managed to steer the talk in the marketplace now and then to the story of the deaths in Wu An’s house. The gossips had only a mishmash of tales, unhelpful save for the way they kept the wound open. No one knew. No one save, perhaps, the Chimei, who had caused it all.
The Chimei, who could not be killed.
Li Lei watched the house where everyone who mattered had died. And waited.
It was a finely crafted structure with beautiful carving on the lintels, built from the best materials, but it was not pretentious. The doors were red lacquer, centered amid the four columns upholding the roof, yet that roof possessed but a single tier. Li Lei’s father had scoffed at merchants who aped the nobility. Wu An had been a commoner, only a few generations removed from pure peasant, and proud of it. How did you honor your ancestors, he said, by pretending to be other than they had been?
Used to say, Li Lei corrected herself. He said nothing now. Nothing she could hear, at any rate.
She did hear the giggles and stumbling feet approaching. Before their owners rounded the corner she reached for a small stick she’d selected earlier. She didn’t look up. Her ears told her enough—a small group of young men, drunk enough to be foolish.
Few other than the drunk, the mad, or the desperate were out at night in Luan these days. Li Lei began drawing in the dust that covered the cobbles with her stick, pausing to grunt like a satisfied sow and move a few pebbles around, then “writing” with the stick once more.
One of the drunks called out, “Hey, you! What’s your stinking carcass doing here, eh?”
“Leave him,” another voice muttered. “Leave him ’lone, Zhi.”
“Gonna get him outa here. Don’t need stinking beggars hanging around—”
“He’s no beggar.” This voice was hard, the words less slurred than the others’ had been. “He’s one of the eaten, you fool.”
“Still stinks.” That young man was sullen now. He’d moved close enough that Li Lei saw his feet out of the corner of her eye. “Don’t need this smell on my street.”
Li Lei continued her meaningless writing as if she had no idea the others were there, but she wanted to look up, to see who claimed this street. She didn’t know the voice, but that meant little. For all her father’s leniency when they were in the country, in the city he’d followed custom. She’d seen her male neighbors from time to time; she had never spoken with them.
Her focus didn’t let her avoid the kick he aimed at her side, but it allowed her to roll with it—roll like a log oddly determined to stand upright, for she ended up on her feet, staring blankly at the air directly in front of her. Not seeing the three young men so close.
She began writing in the air with her stick.
“Come on, Zhi,” the tallest young man said to his friend, taking his arm. “Leave the poor bastard alone. You need more wine, eh?”
“Not enough wine in the whole cursed city,” said the third one—the o
ne whose speech wasn’t slurred. “Not enough.” But he, too, allowed himself to be chivvied onward.
Li Lei continued painting the air as they left, but her heart was pounding. She’d recognized Zhi. He was the youngest son of the merchant Jiao, who trafficked in salt and spices. Her father had invested with Jiao sometimes. She wondered if he was still alive. And his wife, the sharp-tongued Yi Mé—had she survived?
Most had, actually. Death and madness might stalk the city, but the sorcerer was canny enough to leave most of the population alive. He needed the people of Luan to continue in their usual paths, or what was his power for?
His lover needed them for other reasons.
Li Lei sank down onto the street once more, sitting cross-legged. Thank you, Li Lei told her father silently, wiggling her toes. Had it not been for his disdain for commoners who aped the nobility, she might be teetering around now on tiny lumps of flesh, their bones liquefied after years of binding. No one would mistake her for a youth then, no matter how clever her disguise.
Or perhaps not. Her mother had not believed in foot binding, and her mother had been . . . fierce, she thought with a smile, for that loss had faded enough for smiles. Qian Ya Bai had been fierce indeed.
Of course, she added with fair-minded practicality, had her feet been bound, she would not have been able to run off in the first place. Perhaps her father had regretted his decision to leave her feet whole. She’d hurt him, she knew. Surely he had understood why she left . . . She had told herself he would, once he traveled past his anger. Understanding did not always wipe away pain, but it helped, surely?
Her own hurt had been keen when he remarried so swiftly after her mother’s death, but she had grown into understanding. He had needed a wife, and grief had led him to choose one very different from the fierce and beautiful Ya Bai. In time, Li Lei had understood that, and if understanding did not eliminate troubles, it eased the sense of betrayal.
Li Lei had never grown close to her stepmother, but she had adored the babies—Ji Wun, the boy whose arrival thrilled her father so, and the girls, little An Wei and An Mei . . .
Pain struck like talons ripping her gut. She folded over that grief, bending up like an old man passing a stone. But this stone wouldn’t pass. She rocked herself as she could not rock An Wei, who had been only a baby when Li Lei left. Ai, little An Wei, who had always laughed for her big sister, reaching up pudgy arms . . . Ji Wun, who had strutted around so imperiously in his new finery on his birthday . . . An Mei, whose shy smile had surely charmed the flowers into early bloom. Each so different from Li Lei, and so precious . . .
Time passed. She did not know how much. Eventually she was able to straighten and resume her wait.
She owed them this much. It wasn’t her gift, the ability to speak with the dead. But if any of those dear ghosts lingered—if they could reach her and wished to scream their anger or cry or simply be close—why, she could give them this.
Such an easy gift, when she herself wanted it so much! Wanted it in spite of her fears. She couldn’t help but wonder if her father blamed her for what had befallen his family . . . but she did not think he would. Surely madness didn’t accompany the dead into their land, and in life Wu An had never been one to make a sauce of blame to serve others while leaving his own plate unsauced.
But she had thought so herself, when she first heard. When Sam told her what had befallen Luan, and that her family was dead, she had feared the sorcerer had struck them down because he sought her.
Li Lei’s mother had been beautiful and fierce, yes. And if she’d passed all that ferocity and very little of the beauty to her daughter, that was just as well, for great beauty could be a trap. But along with her nature, she’d passed a more rare gift to her daughter. Magic.
Ya Bai had grown up in the tiny mountain village near the mine that produced much of Wu An’s wealth. Many there had some trace of demon blood; it was not unusual. Ya Bai had had more than a trace. No one was sure the type of demon, or else they would not say; nor did they know how far back the mating had occurred. But Li Lei’s mother had carried strong magic in her veins.
The sorcerer would surely have killed Li Lei with the others who possessed magic, but she hadn’t been here. Anyone could have told him she’d been gone for some time. His own vision would have told him that. He hadn’t set the Chimei to destroy her family in an effort to kill Li Lei.
She was almost sure of that.
One year and seven months ago, Li Lei’s stepmother had brought to their house the man she meant for Li Lei to marry—a merchant’s son, bashful and dull. A man she could easily have ruled. That was her stepmother’s thinking, and it was kind in its way, for Li Lei would infuriate most men.
But he lived in Beijing. So far away! Yet even that she might have forced herself to accept, were it not for the other gift from her mother, one which was bound up in the magic. Li Lei had seen the man and known she could not blend her bloodline with his. Not would not. Could not.
Perhaps her stepmother could not have been expected to believe her. Her father should have. She’d told him she would never bear children to that man. Just as her mother had known she would bear Wu An’s daughter, and only the one daughter, Li Lei had known she would never have babies if she married as she was bid.
She had to have babies—at least one baby. Her mother’s blood demanded it. As did her own heart.
And bah, how tedious that she circled back through that stale story now. She’d learned better than to let her thoughts run her, hadn’t she? Li Lei settled herself, body and mind, to the moment. However bitter and hard, she had this moment.
Her left knee ached. She’d banged it yesterday while avoiding the blow of a carter who had at least given up beating his beast to aim a fist her way. Her middle hurt, tight with grief. Her mind slowed.
After a time, the acrid scent of smoke tickled her nose. Smoke was a common scent, with so many cook fires in the city, but along with the smell came another sensation. One she knew well, but had no name for.
Several streets to the east, the darkness glowed red. Another fire had bloomed, this one in a good quarter of town. It was still small, but it would grow, for neighbors would not act together to extinguish the blaze. They didn’t dare. What if the sorcerer himself had caused it? Instead they would bundle up what they could of their belongings and flee, hoping the fire was dealt with before their own houses burned.
They were right in one way—the fire would be dealt with. The sorcerer did not want his city to burn down. He did not object to a chance to strut his power, either, Li Lei thought. She’d been among the crowd who gathered to watch him attend the other fire, which was huge and roaring by then, having engulfed several houses.
He’d made a show of it, arriving in a litter carried by six slaves, his silk robe so heavily embroidered with gold thread one might have mistaken him for the emperor. Li Lei had asked herself: why did he not ride on a showy stallion or fly through the air, as sorcerers were said to do?
She had answered the second question by adding her own extrapolation to what Sun Mzao had told her. The sorcerer could fly, but not through his own arts. That skill belonged to his demon lover, and while she could carry him, she would be unlikely to make the effort in such a cause.
The answer to the first question was even easier. The sorcerer did not know how to ride. He was known to be a commoner. She believed he was actually a peasant.
Now, Li Lei believed commoners were no more stupid than the nobility, and were perhaps a shade smarter, on the whole. But much of the peasantry existed in such profound ignorance and need that they were forever warped in their thinking. Whatever the sorcerer’s innate intelligence might be, his thoughts, plans, and goals were distorted. He behaved as a child—shrewd in his way, but always grabbing for whatever shiny object caught his attention, lashing out when it broke, then moving on to the next bit of glitter.
At the fire he’d made himself impressive, raising his arms and commanding the flames in a
loud voice—and fire answered him, yes, but sluggishly. He had triumphed over the blaze, but he had used a great deal of power to do so.
Fire was not his by nature. So Sam had said, and so her own observation confirmed. Li Lei smiled at the dark house where she had once lived, where so many she loved had died so horribly.
No, fire was not his. But it was hers.
THIRTEEN
NETTIE put Cullen back in sleep, left Jason some instructions, and went to get some regular sleep. Rule had a word with Jason, too, then called Max. Lily called her boss, Ruben Brooks, though at this hour she used his office line, not his mobile. He’d get her message in the morning. Cynna patted her tummy and went to use the bathroom. Jason left.
When Cynna came out, Lily had a question for her. “Blood magic, Cullen said. Could it be Vodun? Nettie said the spell reminded her of a Vodun curse.”
“Vodun uses a lot of blood magic, but they aren’t the only ones with blood spells. Some traditions consider blood magic just plain bad, like Wicca—though some Wiccans argue that it’s okay if you use your own blood. Wicca isn’t uniform like Catholicism. The Catholic Church ties itself up in knots on the subject, but that’s par for their course.” She lowered herself into the chair by the bed and heaved a sigh. “You think a single cup of coffee would hurt the little rider?”
“I think you don’t like coffee, so you must be getting desperate.”
“I’m not going to sleep,” Cynna said.
Rule put away his phone. “You’ll lie down, though, while we wait for Max to get here. Jason’s gone to arrange for a bed. That chair isn’t comfortable.”
“Well.” After a moment she grinned tiredly. “Guess I won’t argue. Max is coming?”
“He’ll be here in half an hour or less.” Rule glanced at Lily. “I asked him to sneak in. He’s rather distinctive. I don’t want him associated with this room.”
“Good thinking.” And it hadn’t occurred to her, which meant she probably needed either coffee or sleep, too. “Cynna, what can you tell me about blood magic? Anything might help.”