Stolen Bloodline

by L G Rollins

  The front door opened and Mama hobbled in, then turned and waved good-bye to their neighbor who had accompanied her to market. Ju stood and hurried over, putting her arm around Mama.

  “How was your day?” she asked.

  Mama sighed loudly even as she pat Ju’s hand on her shoulder and held up her small basket of produce. “Working for Mr. Wimple has been a blessing.”

  Ju tried to smile. She truly was relieved and happy that Mama had work and was under Jasper’s roof where he could keep an eye on her. Jasper treated her well, which was also a blessing. But Ju couldn’t forget that Jasper paid Mama to cook and clean for him. No man would ever form longer-term designs on a woman whose mother worked for him. The last bits of warm hope extinguished inside her.

  “He is happy with the simplest of meals,” Mama continued unaware of Ju’s thoughts. “He has very little laundry to maintain, and never tells me I’m late, slow, or doing things the wrong way.”

  Many a housekeeper had chided Mama for doing things “the wrong way”. Mama held fast to the old Chinese methods of cleaning and washing and often her London counterparts felt that, simply because it was different, her methods were inferior. Even if Jasper was only flirting with Ju out of habit, she would forever be grateful to him for his kindness toward Mama.

  “Now,” Mama said, her gaze falling on the small mountain of folded lotus flowers. “Is all in ready? The sun is setting and Hungry Ghost Festival is set to begin.”

  ***

  Ju, her stomach full from the feast, strolled easily down the bustling street. All of Chinatown was out and celebrating. Over a dozen large bonfires up and down the street lit the night. Every few yards there was another small opening where performers sang, played the pipa or a ruan, danced, or acted out skits. Ju and Dapo would be dancing together later that night, but for now she was free to enjoy watching others.

  She stopped before a smaller circle of onlookers where Shuang pulled a bow across the two-strings of an erhu. The instrument rested in her lap and the thin piece of wood, which made up the rest of the instrument, stretched upward past her head. She moved her fingers quickly across the strings bringing more than notes to life, but a feeling of longing and patient hope.

  Dapo, sitting nearby, caught sight of Ju. He stood and walked over to her. The moment he reached Ju’s side, his gaze returned to Shuang. “Beautiful, isn’t she?”

  Ju nodded, also keeping her voice low so as not to disturb those listening. “I didn’t know she could play so well.”

  “You should hear her when she plays something with a faster tempo. I had no idea fingers could move that fast.”

  Had Jasper ever heard an erhu? What would he think if he were here? He’d admitted to her that he had been taking pictures and creating art inspired by the sights he’d seen in Chinatown. He was even considering doing an entire gallery on it. Perhaps she should have invited him.

  Dapo leaned in closer so that only she could hear him. “Where’s your dark shadow?”

  True to form, Dapo had guessed her line of thought once more. However, for the first time ever, his uncanny ability brought a blush to her cheeks. “How would I know? I haven’t seen him all that recently.”

  Dapo let out a guffaw. “Come now, Ju. I know he’s taken you out for shooting practice every day this week.”

  “Yes, but that doesn’t mean I know what he does with the rest of his time.” And it didn’t mean she was allowing herself to grow attached to him. And it didn’t mean that she considered him anything more than a friend.

  “Strange, because I—and half of Chinatown—are under the assumption that there’s something more between you two. Why else would he spend so much time trying to keep you and your Mama safe?”

  Ju kept her gaze steadily on Shuang. If she didn’t look directly at Dapo, hopefully he wouldn’t start to guess that her heart had begun wondering the same thing. Hopefully he wouldn’t see in her eyes that, despite all the times she repeated Wei shu’s warnings in her head, part of her still wanted to trust that Jasper could, possibly, become more than a friend.

  Ju’s gaze moved to the front row of seats, all of which were purposely kept empty. It was the row of seats left for those who had departed, for those whose time walking this earth had come to a tragic end.

  “Mama is convinced that my father sent Jasper to us,” Ju admitted. It hurt a bit to admit that Jasper was probably only helping out of a sense of honor and not out of affection. Nonetheless, the words had to be said, if only to calm her own heart. “He is just a good man who isn’t going to let two women be harmed by a jack-a-napes.”

  Ju couldn’t help but wonder sometimes, when Jasper smiled at her or called her an endearment, if perhaps he was beginning to care for her. But then she’d remember that her Mama worked for him, or she’d think of Wei shu’s warning, or how he called every woman by an endearment, and all her hope would evaporate.

  Dapo wrapped his arm around her and pulled her into a brotherly hug. Silently, they listened to Shuang, Ju’s eyes returning to the empty row of chairs. If they were in China, the chairs would have likely been painted red. But, as it was, they had to make do with tying red ribbons to the front row instead.

  The longevity lock charm dangling from her thick bracelet bumped against Ju’s hand. Was her father here tonight? Was he, as Mama insisted, watching them closely, though he couldn’t be seen? More than one of Ju’s friends had told her they’d seen glimpses of their deceased loved ones during Hungry Ghost Festival. But never once had Ju caught sight of any otherworldly being. During previous years, she’d often wondered if her father simply didn’t care, but after speaking with Mama and Jasper, she didn’t believe that anymore.

  She now knew he hadn’t taken his own life—that was something. It brought her peace knowing how, exactly, he had died. She felt closer to Mama, too. So why didn’t her father come to her or to Mama?

  The song ended and Dapo clapped heartedly. Shuang bowed to the crowd, then her eyes caught sight of Dapo and her smile grew.

  Dapo reached out and took her elbow. “Would you like to walk the street a bit with Shuang and me? You and I don’t dance for another hour yet, so we’ve got time to see some of the other performances.”

  Ju glanced quickly over at Shuang, who was making her way quickly toward them, her eyes never leaving him. “Maybe after we dance. I think I’d like some time alone just now.” Normally she wouldn’t mind strolling with them. But she felt Shuang wanted Dapo to herself.

  Dapo listed his head. He probably could guess she didn’t actually want time alone, but that her excuse was based on something else. But this time it seemed he wasn’t able to read her mind. “If you’re sure.”

  Ju nodded. “Quite. I’ll meet you over by the stage in enough time to warm up before we dance.” Shuang caught up to them and wrapped her arm through Dapo’s. Ju turned toward her. “Good evening, Shuang. Your music was absolutely breathtaking.”

  She blushed lightly. “Thank you. You are too kind.”

  “No,” Dapo said. “Actually, I think Ju wasn’t doing you justice.” Dapo continued on for several minutes, delineating just how exquisite Shuang had performed.

  Shuang only blushed deeper, until, finally able to get a word in edgewise, she said, “I like your hair tonight, Ju. You’re doing it different these days, aren’t you?”

  Ju lifted a hand to her hair, pinned up in the London fashion. “Yes, I am. Thank you.” Her gaze dropped yet again to the row of empty chairs. For the first time since she’d changed the way she did her hair, Ju felt unsure. “I’ll leave you two be,” Ju said, turning back to Dapo and Shuang.

  Dapo was looking at her closely. He could read her mind but he clearly hadn’t recognized that she’d changed her hair. Then again, she wouldn’t have expected anything different if he’d been her actual brother.

  With a small bow, Ju bid farewell and turned and walked down the street, folding her arms tight against herself so that she wouldn’t reach for her hair yet again. Did she
truly want to forget all she’d been taught as a child? Was she willing to give up all her Chinese roots, even if it was the only way to get into Ginevra’s?

  Dance was her everything, and it wasn’t as if there were any Chinese dance schools around. Well, none beside Wei shu’s and Ju had outgrown what Wei shu could teach her more than two years ago.

  A man wearing a bamboo douli hat low over his face, with a cup of what looked like baijiu in his hand staggered toward Ju. Tripping over his own feet, he toppled into Ju. She reached her hands up for him and spread her feet, catching him before he bounced off of her and hit the pavement. Baijiu spilled all down her clothing, soaking through the fabric immediately.

  “Are you all right, sir?” She didn’t recognize him. She knew most everyone in Chinatown, but there were still plenty of people she didn’t know.

  He nodded his head up and down a couple of times, pulled his feet back under him, and hurried away, probably embarrassed, if he wasn’t too far into his cups to be aware he ought to be embarrassed. Ju shook her head and pulled on the front of her soiled cheongsam dress. Oh dear, now she would have to change. It would be a while yet before it was time to switch into the dress she’d planned to dance in, and she would hate to put it on now and risk it getting ruined before the dance. But there was no way she was going to wander around Hungry Ghost Festival smelling of spirits. Ha—smelling of spirits during the ghost festival. What a thought.

  Ju turned her step and headed back toward home. It wasn’t far and she would be back well before it was time for her and Dapo to dance.

  The night was darker once she left the main celebration and the bonfires. The full moon shown above her head, coating everything in cool, blue light. Though Hungry Ghost month continued for a full thirty days, tonight on the fifteenth day of the month was the night of the biggest celebration. Many people in Chinatown only celebrated tonight, not bothering with the smaller symbols and activities that Mama insisted she and Ju do both before and after the fifteenth.

  Ju crossed the street, hurrying past the larger-than-normal pile of food she and Mama had left outside their front door. Tonight, after the festivities, they would light the pile of food on fire, and the smoke would carry it to the next life where her father would be able to enjoy it. Ju opened the front door then paused and glanced over at the pile of food. For the first time in many years, she sincerely hoped Father would be able to enjoy the food.

  She ducked into the house and hurried to the small trunk where she kept her few, finest clothes. It was Hungry Ghost Festival after all, and she had hoped to look her best. She pulled out a pair of breeches and her favorite high-collared shirt. It wasn’t as elegant as the soiled dress she was wearing, and it wouldn’t be much in comparison to what many of the other women were wearing tonight. But it was her nicest everyday wear.

  Ju switched dresses quickly, anxious to get back to the festivities. The two small, leather books Mama had handed her a couple of weeks’ prior still rested, untouched, near her cot. Ju reached for them, opening the top one. She flipped through a few pages. It appeared to be a diary of some kind. Days, years, of personal history were scrawled across the parchment. The top of the page was dated 1727.

  Gracious, but that was a long time ago. Ju flipped to the front once more. The name, faded, was in Chinese. Ju wasn’t sure, but she believed it was the name of her maternal great-grandmother. This was her history? No wonder Mama wanted her to read it.

  The characters were all in Chinese. Ju wasn’t as fluent in the language of her ancestors as she was in English, but she could mostly understand it.

  Cheers from a few streets over rose and broke Ju’s concentration. She would begin reading these two small books tomorrow. Ju tucked them carefully back in the corner near her cot. She’d never cared much for her heritage. After learning the truth about her father, perhaps she should give her other ancestors another chance as well.

  Ju picked up her soiled dress and draped it over a chair near the table—she’d wash it tomorrow—and moved toward the front door. A strange scratching sound came from the other side of the door. Ju paused, her hand just above the handle.

  The door rattled. Someone, or something, was knocking into it heavily. Ju took half a step back, her hands turning cold. She was completely alone, and no one would be coming to look for her any time soon. The door rattled harder, threatening to burst. Ju retreated to the center of the room, willing the panic in her stomach to ease.

  Ambassador Leng had sent someone to kill her, just as he had tried to kill Mama. No one who had friendly intent would bang so on her door. Ju glanced around, but she and Mama lived in a one room home. There was no back door to escape through. The only windows were against the front of the house in full view of whoever stood outside.

  There was nothing to hide underneath or behind. There was no way of escaping. Ju was trapped.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Jasper was in a bind.

  Never before had he found himself in such a self-inflicted, gut-wrenching place. He loved a woman who only thought of him as a friend.

  Guiltily, he recognized he’d been on the other side of this situation before. Ju was right. He had more than once unwittingly given other women the impression he wanted more than friendship from them, when it wasn’t true.

  This had to be penance, some twisted form of justice, or retribution. Jasper had never been religious so he wasn’t exactly sure what the holy book would call what he was going through right now.

  Heavenly punishment?

  Divine retribution?

  Whatever it was, he was miserable.

  “What do you think, Jasper?”

  Jasper set his cup back down, but it hit his supper plate on the way, making a loud clink. “Uh, sure. I think that sounds like a fine plan.” They’d been talking about something to do with Westwood Orphanage, right? He glanced around.

  Apparently, his answer had convinced no one that he’d been paying attention. Brox, Tressa, and their current house guest, Miss Amelia Rowley, all stared back at him, skepticism visible on every brow.

  How was it that Ju could continually push him away, without seemingly any effort at all, while he couldn’t go five minutes without thinking about her? It was bloody unfair, it was.

  “You were saying Miss Rowley ought to take a look at the Westwood books, correct?” Jasper tried.

  Tressa rolled her eyes and let out an audible grunt of disappointment. So his sister hated it when he let his wandering mind have a long leash; she’d get over it. But then Brox, too, gave him a look which made it clear he shouldn’t have wandered for quite so long. If even Brox was annoyed with him, then Jasper probably had let his mind go longer than he’d been aware.

  Miss Rowley, however, didn’t seem the least bit perturbed. Instead, she jumped into a recounting of what they’d been discussing. At least, that’s what Jasper thought she was talking about. She had a decidedly thick accent and he only caught every third or fourth word. Jasper kept his eyes on her. Sometimes forcing himself to look directly at whomever was speaking helped him remain focused.

  It seemed she was saying that financial records told a lot about a company, or an organization.

  “I can know their priorities, their—how do the British say it?—skeletons in the cupboard.”

  “All that from some financial books?” Jasper asked, more to prove that he actually was paying attention than because he was interested.

  Miss Rowley cut off another piece of meat but didn’t place it in her mouth. “Oh, oui.” She leaned in a bit from across the table. “When my père passed on, I thought ‘how will I know what to do with the orchard?’ Who would I sell to? How much do I charge? Then I found his books.” She lifted a fork triumphantly. “Told me all I needed to know.”

  “The case against Mr. Clark and a few of his associates is already tight,” Brox said. “But if you could review the books and let us know if there’s something we’ve missed, we’d be grateful.”

  “I am most
glad to help,” Miss Rowley said.

  “Any blackguard who profits from child labor needs to be put behind bars,” Tressa added. “Whether or not they worked at Westwood.”

  “If they were paid and the payment was recorded, I’ll find them.”

  Miss Rowley was confident, Jasper had to give her that much. She also wasn’t at all the—how had Tressa put it?—fickle and flirty female Tressa had feared she would be. It was kind of fun to see his sister getting along with another woman, particularly one who dressed well, spoke in a refined, albeit heavily accented, tone and seemed to prefer dresses to breeches and a leather jacket.

  “Jasper!”

  Jasper jumped at the urgent cry which came from directly over his shoulder. He whirled around in his chair.

  There stood Mr. Zhi, his face more full of emotion than Jasper had ever seen. Yet he couldn’t quite name the emotion. It appeared to be something between rage and panic.

  “He’s sent werewolves after them,” Mr. Zhi said, pointing furiously toward the dining room wall.

  “Jasper, are you all right?” Brox asked.

  Jasper turned back to find all of his supper companions looking, not at the ghost, but at him, and with strange unsure eyes. “Yes, only—”

  “Idiot, they can’t see or hear me.” Mr. Zhi cut him off. “I’m not such a new ghost as to not know how to pull off a simple barrier. Now, you must hurry. My wife and daughter are in danger.”

  Jasper stood, tossing his napkin onto his plate, his own form of rage and panic swelling inside him. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—let anything happen to either Ju or Mrs. Zhi.

  “Where are you going?” Tressa asked, the steel in her eyes warning him that he was not allowed to leave her to host alone, despite the fact that she and Miss Rowley were getting along surprisingly well.

  “I just remembered . . .” Jasper racked his brain for a valid excuse, but the only thing he could think was that Ju and Mrs. Zhi were in danger and needed him now. “There’s an art piece I left at home. It needs my attention.” Lame, but it would have to do for now.