by Unknown
Nothing happened. She opened her eyes.
The red haze had vanished from the room. Sienna blinked, as if waking from a dream. Without the fuel of Shada's rage the sorcery sputtered and died.
Shada met Sienna's gaze. There were so many things to say, and unsay, yet no time. If she'd slain her sister, as she had so desperately desired only minutes ago, she would not have been able to go on living herself. Within the spell, Shada had thrilled at the revelation that Sienna was her secret enemy, that the angry knots that bound them together could be easily severed by the sharp edge of a sword. But the sorcery lied.
The door opened. Michal, Escroat, Gregory, and two mages rushed into the room.
"Abraxas is inside the Citadel." Shada pointed through the window, at the dark shapes thickening into being below.
"The gorgon head," Sienna whispered. "You must have carried him in."
"Transmutation," Shada whispered back.
"And then possession."
Shada nodded.
Sienna slashed her sword across Escroat's calf at the same moment Shada swiveled and kicked him in the face.
The Cavalier fell to the floor. Sienna impaled the palm of his left hand. Shada brought her heel down on his right, feeling a satisfying crunch of bone.
"Are you both mad?" Gregory yelled.
The Cavalier tried to speak, but Shada dropped a knee on his throat and stuffed a handkerchief into his mouth. "He's Abraxas. Hands, mouth; any other way he can cast a spell?"
The college mages withdrew in what looked like sheer terror.
"He wanted us to kill the gorgon. To prove its death we'd have to display the head," Shada said. "It was his way inside the Citadel. He transmuted himself into the gorgon's blood and slime. Escroat got the blood all over his hands, and when Escroat was alone Abraxas entered and possessed him."
"You can't be certain, Shada." Gregory said. "Why wouldn't he simply have possessed you back in the caves?"
"We're not certain, so Escroat's still breathing," Sienna said.
"The princess was born within Citadel walls. Abraxas wouldn't be able to possess her." Michal made a dizzying series of hand gestures at the window. "Of more pressing concern are the hundred or so shadow soldiers below that have nearly cohered."
Escroat's eyes blazed.
You think you have subdued Abraxas, but my sorceries are subtler than you realize. Take your final breaths, before my shadows drink down your light and hue like summer wine. St. Navarre falls tonight.
Shada felt as if her limbs were sinking into amber. Her knee slipped from Escroat's chest. Sienna dropped her sword. The voice was binding them all. Only Michal seemed able to fight it, tears of blood streaking his cheeks as he struggled to move his hands in intricate circles.
Lightning danced from his fingertips, out the window and into the dark courtyard, setting ablaze the hundreds of darkened lanterns and fire pits. The space was suddenly bathed in light, the shadow soldiers struggling to hold their forms.
Escroat sat up, choking out syllables.
Michal's fingers slowed. The braziers and fires faded. He reached out and clasped Shada's hand.
She felt as if the room was falling from a great height as Michal's touch jolted her free of the magical binding. She grabbed Gregory's staff out of his hands and brought it down on Escroat's head.
Sienna and Gregory snapped loose of the paralysis. Michal leaned out the window, hands now in dizzying motion, his casting lighting up the courtyard in blazing silver and blue. The legion of shadows burned away like a mist at sunrise.
"Oh. Sorry." Shada passed Gregory back his staff. The Privy Councilor raised an eyebrow.
"They're gone." Michal's voice was an exhausted whisper.
Shada wiped the blood from his face with bare fingers. "That," she whispered, "was terribly impressive."
Gregory stepped past them and thrust the bloody staff at the skull leering down from the clouds. "Abraxas the Great and Powerful is no more."
* * * *
Shada met Sienna upon the Eastern ramparts the next evening. They stood overlooking the churning ocean, St. Navarre's silver and scarlet banners snapping in the wind.
The day had been chaos, Court wizards and war chiefs charging in and out of Kings Hall, Calvary units dispatched to mop up the remains of Abraxas' followers. Shada had suffered through hours of healers' ministrations, her blade and tentacle wounds requiring much painful salving.
As the sun sank into the inky sea, the remains of what Shada had come to think of as Abraxas' skull became visible in the sky, a ghostly echo of its prior brightness.
"You look better," Sienna said.
Shada still felt a stitch in her side, and couldn't help but think of Sienna's dagger. She felt the urge to say something unpleasant, but Sienna's throat was still blue and bruised. Undoubtedly she had been so needed during the day there'd been no time for healers.
"I'm sorry," Sienna said. "I should have asked you, rather than tricked you. There was so much going on. It just seemed easier."
"Use me."
"Pardon?" Sienna leaned in.
"You're right. I fight and train and beat Cavaliers senseless on the proving grounds. For what? So that I can eventually be married to one of Baron DeThurnable's feeble-minded get?" Shada swallowed hard. "Make use of me. You plot and scheme with Gregory all the time now. I want to be more than angry. I want to be useful."
Sienna's eyes widened. She nodded. "I'll speak to Gregory."
"Thank you." Shada felt suddenly, hopelessly awkward.
Sienna reached out a tentative hand to Shada's bandaged side. Shada laid her fingers on her sister's, and for a moment they stood quietly as the sea breeze wove around them.
Feeling moisture in her eyes, Shada broke away and headed for the stairs down. As she stepped into darkness she saw, as she knew she would, her sister's sly and knowing smile in the reflected light of the faded skull.
The Hungry Ghost
by J.C. Hsyu
Marion once said that the difference between horror and occult fiction is that in horror people see a ghost and start screaming, while in occult fiction they wonder why he is there and what he wants. I must admit that the latter seems a more sensible attitude to me.
J.C. Hsyu grew up in suburban Los Angeles, where she raided small libraries and bookstores for fantasy and science fiction. She is a graduate of the 2010 Clarion Writers' Workshop, and lives in San Francisco with her patient husband and neurotic cats. "The Hungry Ghost" is her first short fiction publication.
#
On the evening of July 15, Mei-Li Chang got home early from work, cooked dinner for her mother, and prepared to leave for her second job. She strapped two slim black cases to her back as her mother managed to eat, watch a musical variety show and lodge her daily complaint about grandchildren, all at once. "You know, Mei," Ma-Ma said above the canned laughter, eyes glued to the television as she lifted a spoonful of chicken rice porridge to her mouth. "I'm not going to live much longer. You're running out of time to get married and have a child."
"Yes, Ma-Ma," Mei replied, stepping out of her slippers. "I have to go now. Don't wait up for me." She laced up her heavy black boots.
"Ha!" Slurp. "I'm tired of waiting. You should be working on a boyfriend instead of a second job." The plastic soup spoon clacked against the ceramic bowl. "But you never listen to your poor mother. You only listened to your father."
"Oh Ma-Ma, stop it. I listen to you." Mei looked at the stacks of boxes surrounding her mother's chair, parted to make a clean line of passage from the television to the kitchen. They were the only boxes that remained unpacked since moving in. Dust had formed a pale, nearly solid coating on the cardboard and the fraying pink twine holding the boxes shut. Mei was sure that her father's urn was in there somewhere. "And it turned out Ba-Ba wasn't anyone worth listening to."
"Now Mei-"
"Besides, I like working."
"Yes. You're a good girl, Mei," Ma-Ma sighed, and Mei's shoulders rela
xed. "But wasting time playing with fake swords?"
The words came so easily now. "It's not a waste. I like performing, Ma-Ma. It makes people have fun, and feel safe during the festival. It is a duty that people will remember. Nobody remembers who empties the trash." She pulled on the black straps until they creaked. "And they're not fake."
Ma-Ma was already talking over, beyond her. "—and there are plenty of other people in the troupe who can entertain a crowd. But all it takes is one man to give me a grandchild—"
"Bye, Ma-Ma." She put on her helmet and closed the door behind her. In the darkened hallway, she slumped against the wall and exhaled. Then she straightened her back, tucked the loops of the Hello Kitty surgical mask behind her ears, and headed downstairs.
* * * *
The sun was setting behind a dense layer of smog when she emerged from the underground parking lot on her rusted moped. It took a couple of hours to cut southeast across the concentric ring roads dividing Beijing in order to reach the Forbidden City. But Mei had been making this drive once a year since she turned eighteen and moved her mother to Da Shan Zi Towers, eleven hazy years ago; she deftly maneuvered through waves of traffic against the grainy, blood-red sky. By the time she arrived at the Pavilion of Everlasting Spring at the top of Jingshan, the sky was the darkest blue before black. Thin wispy clouds were spread like the folds of a blanket.
Mei's hair was damp when she removed her helmet. July was the hottest month in Beijing, and she could not feel the air against her skin. She peeled off the face mask and looked at the Beijing skyline before her. To the south the Forbidden City lay dark and still; beyond it, past the Meridian Gate, Tiananmen Square was flooded with light and color and people. The Ghost Festival was about to begin. She hurried inside the pavilion, towards the locker rooms on the second floor, and ran into Jincheng Wu in the narrow hallway at the top of the stairs. He was already dressed and armed, and when he smiled at her she realized that he had been waiting for her. "Hey, Mei-Li."
She nodded, and barely kept the smile from her face. "Hello, Jincheng," she replied, tilting her head back to speak. He was wiry, and very tall; his long arms made up for the short reach of his crescent moon knives. His hair was in a topknot.
He was also very polite. "How are you? Work okay?"
"Good," she shrugged. "The artists work on computers now, but they still generate a lot of trash. It keeps me busy."
He chuckled, and she crossed her arms, trying not to enjoy the moment. "How is your restaurant doing, Jincheng?"
They were interrupted by the pleasantly rotund figure of High Minister Lin, waving at them from the other end of the hallway. "Ministers! You have fifteen minutes until moonrise."
Mei turned towards the locker room. "I, ah, need to get ready. You can tell me at the training exercises next month."
Still smiling, Jincheng Wu stepped in front of her, stopping her mid-stride. "There is always too much time between exercises, never enough to catch up with you. Will you meet me for dinner?" He was always very friendly but direct, like her.
Mei's mouth worked silently, twice, before she finally mumbled, "I will let you know when it is a good time."
He saluted. "I will wait to hear from you, then."
Mei ducked into the locker room. Her face cooled as she changed into her black tunic, tucked her black trousers into her boots, and opened the cases. Her swords, snug in their velvet housings, gleamed in the dull fluorescent light. She strapped the Sword of Coins to her left hip and the Sword of Steel to her right, and joined the others in the atrium on the first floor.
High Minister Lin handed out their masks. Mei stared at the fierce visage of Zhong Kui, painted as the red-faced, angry old man of Peking opera, the hongsheng. Fierce black eyebrows angled down over glaring pupils; the scraggly black mustache and beard framed the hard curve of a perpetual frown. Another year, another chance, Ma-Ma, Mei thought, and put the mask on. She looked out through its eyes and felt its edges seal themselves against her skin. The nostrils and lips parted to let her breathe. Warmth surged through her muscles and bones, a hidden wellspring of strength that would lend her supernatural grace and power for this one night of the year. In response, the handles of her swords warmed in her hands.
Every year Mei-Li Chang's second job culminated on the night of the Ghost Festival, July 15th. It was a night she looked forward to, more than cleaning up after animation artists every other day. She didn't get any sleep, and sometimes she got hurt, but she didn't mind. She didn't receive a second salary, because her second job served the people and was therefore a reward in itself, according to the Politburo Standing Committee; but she didn't mind that either. She did mind hiding the true nature of her second job from her mother, but she knew that she would quit soon — maybe even tonight, given the chance — and Ma-Ma would understand eventually. The prospect of Jincheng Wu would certainly help Ma-Ma get over it.
For Mei-Li Chang could see ghosts, and every year she looked forward to the sweltering summer night where she could run through the streets of Beijing, swords out, and send ghosts back to the underworld.
* * * *
At moonrise the Ghost Festival began. The distant pops of firecrackers rose above the din of crowds and musicians, as the living began to celebrate the yearly visit of the dead. Mei parted with the other Ministers on the steps before the Pavilion of Everlasting Spring; for luck in the hunt they crossed weapons with each other before going their separate ways into the night.
Among the many grimacing masks of Zhong Kui, she could always pick out the lean build of Jincheng Wu. She blurted, "Your sector this year is west, right? Xicheng district?"
"Yes." He held out the gold and silver curves of his crescent moon knives. Mei crossed her swords and met the edges of his blades. "And you're going to Dongcheng." He tilted his head to the side. "You pick that neighborhood every year. Didn't you live there before you moved to Da Shan Zi?"
"Yes," she said shortly, and looked away. "Well, we should go. There are many ghosts, and not enough Ministers. For the honor and dignity of the People's Republic."
"For the honor and dignity of the People's Republic," he echoed. He sounded amused, and Mei caught herself wishing they could take their masks off, so she could see his expression.
She had never wished such a thing before; she had always relished the ritual sealing and cover of the mask. She pulled her shoulders back sharply, bowed to Jincheng, turned and ran down the eastern shadows of Prospect Hill without looking back.
When she reached the bottom she leapt onto a six-foot property wall in the quiet Shatan neighborhood, and ran northwards along its length. To her left, she caught glimpses of her colleagues disappearing into the distance, their silhouettes armed and fierce against the glimmering backdrop of Beihei Lake. Otherwise, Shatan was dark and unoccupied for several blocks until a group of festival goers appeared unexpectedly around a corner. Her mask warmed against her skin, and her muscles moved of their own accord: Mei jumped, caromed off of the side of a building and onto the telephone lines, where she continued north. Though she was dressed to entertain with her fierce mask and "fake" swords, she made sure the group neither saw nor heard her. When it came to the true nature of their jobs, the Politburo strongly encouraged the Ministers of Zhong Kui to avoid detection at all costs.
Thus it was when she reached South Luogu Alley, a neighborhood in the traditional hutong style, she dropped to a low crouch as she ran and leapt along the swooping grey tile roofs, hands on the pommels of her swords. The narrow lane was packed with locals and tourists burning joss and incense, taking pictures of each other against the red doorways, setting off firecrackers, riding in red hooded pedicabs, shouting and laughing. Mei was poorly hidden from the crowd by her proximity, and little cover from the lines of paper lanterns strung across the rooftops; but Luogu was the best route north, straight as an arrow, and she needed to get to Dongcheng sooner. Every year she caught almost all of the ghosts in Dongcheng.
All but one, she remind
ed herself as she leaped soundlessly across a small, perfectly raked stone garden.
Suddenly, there. She slowed to a stop at the northernmost intersection of the alley, just before she was due to turn east into Dongcheng proper. It was a small, feeble glow from this distance, but after eleven years of Ghost Festivals it was unmistakable. Mei dropped to the ground and darted forward.
A tiny wizened thing, the ghost of a little grandmother, looked up in bewilderment at the layered curves of the Drum Tower's stacked tile roofs. This early in the night, many of the ghosts were lost and confused on their first outing from the underworld. They were attracted by the fireworks and offerings but could not understand why most of the living could not see them, and became frightened by the fierce countenance of Zhong Kui when confronted. But the elderly woman was not fazed, just lost in a large parking lot. When Mei bowed and politely pointed towards Qianhai Lake with her Sword of Coins, the little grandmother patted Mei's hand and walked away briskly. Mei wondered briefly what the little grandmother had done to end up in hell –- or the underworld, as the Politburo encouraged the Ministers to call it in these modern times. Then she jumped a series of balconies to get back up to the rooftops.
Many spirits visited the living realm in peace during the Ghost Festival, content to mingle among the crowds in Tiananmen Square or visit shrines across the city. Like the little grandmother, most of them were gentle, insubstantial creatures. They had let go of their earthly cares when they entered the spirit realm, and they gladly accepted tributes of food, incense and burning joss paper. At the end of the night they sought the nearest body of water where paper boats, candles and lanterns were set afloat by the living. Their spirits were snuffed out of the living realm when the candles went out. Mei used her Sword of Coins to direct these ghosts along the way. It was made of round golden coins with square holes, supposedly from Zhong Kui's own coffers, strung into the shape of a sword by hundreds of yards of red string. It was heavier than the Sword of Steel, and shone brighter in light.