Spilling of Blood
Prem emerged from the Genja like a river spirit herself, wet hair stuck to her face and neck while water poured in streams and rivulets down her corset. Her pants and shirt were soaked and stuck to her skin as she walked up the bank, eyes shining bright as a Deepvali lamp. A small crowd of white-robed worshippers from one of the dozens of temples that lined the riverbank were walking towards her; it wasn’t uncommon to see ritual bathers coming down to the Genja at all hours, but it was unusual to see someone fully clothed coming out of it. They gave her a wide berth.
Nowhere in the entire city provided more proof of Bhai Mandwa’s physical transformation than along the banks of the Genja. Small, wood frame houses sat on the periphery of huge mill yards and factories with belching smokestacks. Pagoda temples stood next to narrow tenement rows, built of ugly cement, sometimes stacked three or four stories tall. Huge barges passed up and down the river, sharing the water with rickety wooden scows. The sounds of chanting worshippers and mantras, of children playing and shouting, mixed with the bells and whistles of the train lines, whose engines ran day and night.
Vati once called the Genja his home. As a creature born of both the sacred and the profane, Prem’s power came from him, which allowed her to travel to wherever the river’s waters touched. She used that power again, dreading and relishing the wicked thrill of Vati’s presence pulsing under her skin as she forced the water to sluice right off of her body, leaving only dry clothes and flesh behind. By the time Prem reached the road at the top of the riverbank, the river runoff that had soaked through her body and clothes was left pooling in the grass.
The Temple of the Red Eye was a short distance away, several minutes’ walk in the shade of the evening. Prem could hear worshippers singing, chanting and calling from blocks away. In a few days Kali Shodh, the festival of the New Year, would arrive and a religious fervor was in the air; most of Jaira’s religious cults considered it to be a sacred holiday for one reason or another.
Most of the Jairan people worshipped two deities: Mael, giver of life and creation, and Morda, deliverer of death and renewal. Nobody knew whether they were gods or goddesses, so cults and temples worshipped them as one or the other, depicting them in art and sculpture as male, female, or even both, though not at the same time. Prem didn’t worship either of them—Vati remained too possessive of her to allow that. She didn’t love or adore the Kushin in any way, but she saw no reason to antagonize him, and the state of her sullied soul was generally the last thing on her mind.
No ramshackle houses or apartment buildings stood near the house of worship. The temple was three stories high, with frightening figures carved of black and red stone standing at the eaves, fanged mouths bared in eternal snarls. Its windows were lit with torches and blood-red lanterns. Many cults followed the same god, but chose to worship it in different ways. The Cult of the Red-Eye focused on the darker side of Morda’s influence: pain, suffering, agony, and a host of other unpleasantries. It was one of the few places an assassin might find others of their kind, as well as offers of work. Prem never believed she would ever completely put her old life behind her—not if Vati had his way—but there was no way for Preet to know the full weight of what she’d suggested, urging Prem to seek out her old stomping grounds again. She sensed Vati’s pleasure like a second heart vibrating in her chest, fast and frantic, almost orgasmic in its tempo. It made her breathe deeper, move faster, like the whole world was hunting for her. The fear and every other sensation she felt was intoxicating, and Prem didn’t want them to stop.
The temple gates were wide open, so in she went. Some houses of worship required the removal of one’s footwear; thankfully, this particular temple was not one of them. Everyone was welcome, though only the heartiest of souls dared to enter. Rows of skulls decorated the walls inside, their empty sockets and ageless grins beckoning anyone brave enough to venture further in. Red and gray tiles on the floor led the way, stained to a dull, rusty brown from foot traffic and the regular spilling of blood. In the temple courtyard stood a tall statue of Morda carved from black rock, with a red stone cut in the shape of an eye seated in the center of his forehead. The shadows were long and jagged, dancing in wild shapes from flickering firelight.
Prem expected to feel uncomfortable, even afraid, coming back to such a place. But it was like pulling on an old evening coat: the stones were familiar under her feet, and she could see into even the deepest shadows. No one tried to intercept her. The pounding heart in her chest began to settle. After hiding at home for weeks, it felt good to be on her own again, not having to worry about photographers or policemen around every corner.
Throngs of the faithful stood before the great statue, clad in red robes, calling out to their god until their throats were hoarse. Many of the worshippers carried curved knives with which they used to cut clothes and flesh together, while others subjected themselves to the ritual ecstasy of the aara, blades as long and thin as whips—the elite temple priests used them on willing acolytes eager to prove their devotion. The sounds of mridangam and tavla drums, of humming dilruba strings mixed with chanting, both religious and ecstatic, all of it melted into a chaotic dissonance in Prem’s ears. Blood and tufts of soiled linen stained the flagstones. From the looks of things, Prem guessed that the evening revelry was in no danger of slowing down.
Prem’s history with the temple was deeper than what she’d told her siblings. Vati didn’t care much for money or physical trappings, but the demon soon learned that his young puppet required certain things to survive—shelter, clothing, food—and that the need to constantly steal to satisfy those needs carried both unwanted and unnecessary risks. It took some time for Prem and Vati to find a reliable source of income, and it took even longer to convince the Red-Eye priests that the dead-eyed waif constantly showing up on their doorstep was not only capable, but excelled at performing the very particular work the temple’s clients required.
Prem was content to stay at the periphery of the courtyard that evening, and wasn’t the only person watching from afar. Someone in a dark coat with an upturned hood entered behind her, preferring to keep a low profile like most visitors. She also didn’t recognize any of the figures huddled on the sidelines, which was probably a good thing. There wasn’t anyone she spotted that interested Prem, but someone appeared to be very interested in her. Across the yard, standing in the shadow of a doorway leading to the temple’s interior stood a figure in hood and veil. He was clad in dark gray, eyes catching the bright firelight so that they seemed to shine—those eyes were the first thing Prem noticed, but it was too far away for her to be certain if the person was possessed by a Kushin of their own.
The hooded one stared at her for a long time, giving what looked like a nod, but not moving or turning away. Prem detected a challenge in those eyes. She felt a chill inside of her begin to swell, a coolness sweeping across her skin, coiling at the nape of her neck. Her excitement was tempered by her pounding heartbeat banging in time with the drums. She and the hooded one stared at each other for what felt like minutes in the midst of the chanting, the zealous shrieks and screams, the sound of bare feet pounding and hands clapping—it all fell away, becoming muted and hollow.
Then it was over. The figure blinked, those shining eyes went dim, and he walked further into the temple without looking back. The shouts and beating drums returned; the chanting swelled and roared. Prem was left looking after the vanished figure, while also chiding herself for being so easily distracted.
Nothing else in the outer court interested her, so Prem headed down a nearby corridor that led into the inner courtyard. The hall seemed a perfect place for an ambush—called the Path of Purpose, it was narrow and unlit, lined with more skulls that watched as she passed by. Prem’s fingers furled and unfurled, her palms itching for the weapons tucked behind her in her belt. It only took a few moments to reach more torchlight as she walked under the long shadow of the temple itself. Her old instincts were alive again: her palms were damp, her breathing was slow and deep, and Prem could feel her heart beating a loud, steady rhythm at the base of her throat, intense and invigorating at the same time. Vati’s world was a dangerous one, but Prem could still taste the addiction of it, and fought against familiar temptations stirring to life again in her heart.
The inner courtyard, called the Chamber of Desire, had no statue, but tiles on the ground were dyed in the shape of Morda’s lidless third eye. A cool, welcome breeze brought the familiar scent of the nearby river with it. Torches burned away the evening shadows, but the open space was almost deserted—likely on account of the religious ceremony happening in the outer yard. She saw someone, a rotund priest seated in an open, solitary room on the other end of the yard. He sat behind a long table piled with sheets of paper, his head down, scribbling and squinting at his penmanship. Prem knew him and felt a small thrill at her good fortune—luck, it seemed, was on her side that night.
As Prem approached, an armed guard standing next to the priest nudged the man’s shoulder as she stepped up to the table. The holy man’s head was covered in short, sweaty stubble. When he saw her, his eyes went wide. “S-Sachin! You’re back!”
“Udara. It’s been awhile.” Prem kept her voice level, cool.
“Yes.” Udara shoved pen and inkwell aside and began to shuffle through his papers, unable to decide which was more important: finding what he sought, or looking at her. “Yes, yes, it has! Given some of the rumors I heard, I, ah, wondered if you were ever going to darken our door again. And yet…here you are.” He squinted at her for a moment. “I thought someone said you were dead.”
“Oh, I’ve still got things to do in this life before the next one gets here,” Prem said. Any desire to resist her old habits was gone; her sisters were far away and she was Sachin again, as comfortable of a transformation as pulling on a pair of old, lambskin gloves. “Maybe there was a good reason for me to come back.” She kept both hands visible and out in the open—good manners counted, especially in a place like that.
“Could be, could be.” Udara had a habit of repeating himself, especially when he was nervous. Something about Prem’s arrival had unnerved him, and she fought to keep her face smooth, fighting off a twitch at one corner of her mouth.
“Have you got a moment?”
“A m-moment?” He cleared his throat and took a long, hard breath. “Moment for what?”
“Oh, just to talk, like old times.”
Udara squinted at her, and Prem saw a familiar twinkle in his eyes. “Come now, Sachin, you know how this works: if you want to talk business, you pay the finder’s fee first.” Udara seemed more at ease when the subject of business came up. His teeth were crooked, but he grinned at her all the same, patting the side of a dark wooden box beside him in invitation. “Offerings are always welcome.”
Prem reached down past the top of her corset with two fingers, pulled out a pouch the size of a small plum, tightly packed and tied with a long bit of twine. She pulled over her head and placed in front of him. “That should cover it.”
Udara picked up the pouch in his stubby fingers and gave it a squeeze. “Rice,” he said in disgust, like he might toss it back to her. “Of course. I should’ve expected that, coming from you.” Rice was an accepted offering at every temple in the city. Even the faithful had to eat.
“I think that should be a sufficient amount to cover my fee,” Prem said. Udara didn’t bother hiding his disappointment, mumbling and sorting through his papers once more. His earlier excitement at seeing her had soured, but Udara was always easy to bait. Prem could feel her plan starting to come together, bit by bit. “Of course,” she continued, “in exchange for a little information, I could always make it more worth your while.” She set her hands on the table again and leaned forward, giving off a sweet smile and a pleasant view. Prem learned early on that men like Udara had a wandering eye, and used that to her benefit. From the looks of it, the guard was certainly enjoying the view, at least.
The priest ceased his paper shuffling, looked up, froze in place. He paused for a moment, staring greedily at the show, licking his lips. “How worthwhile?”
Prem nodded at the forlorn pouch of rice, keeping her hands planted, her body still on display. “Check it again,” she said, drumming both sets of fingertips.
Udara picked up the pouch a second time, squeezing it tighter in his hand, rolling it between his palm and thick fingers which resulted in a muffled, metallic grinding sound. Udara untied the twine, dipped his fingers into the bed of rice and pulled out a pair of coins just far enough to catch a twinkle of silver in the firelight. His mouth pursed into an O shape and he tied the pouch shut again, dropping it into the offering box. Prem knew he was already palming the coins, ready to hide them away for safe-keeping.
“Your offering is acceptable, of course,“ he said with a cough. “What are you looking for?” Udara pulled out one of the papers and slid it across the table towards her. It had a woodcut picture at the top, followed by the usual details: the target’s name, position, known associates, the bounty price, and so on. “There’s an impressive contract being offered by a member of Parliament for the silencing of a political rival from an opposing party.” A second contract was placed next to the first in front of her. “This one’s from a rich merchant about a lover who broke his heart…and pilfered his dead mother’s jewelry, it looks like.” He started shuffling again. “Or here’s one you might like—’’
She shook her head. “I said I wanted information, Udara. If I wanted a job, I’d have asked for a job.”
The priest hesitated. “What sort of information?”
“Personal information. My latest…employer heard something about a rumor that somebody threatened the Rani’s life. I’m looking for someone who knows something about that.”
“Everybody knows about that, Sachin,“ Udara said, his tone dismissive. “But anybody who actually knows something worth knowing isn’t going to talk to nobodies like you and me.“ He squinted up at her again. “You’re not stirring up some kind of trouble, are you?”
”I never stir up trouble, Udara…unless I have to.“ Prem thought about mentioning the bloody message on Gomati’s wall, but discarded the idea: it seemed wiser to keep such details to herself, for the moment. Instead, she just smirked, biting her lower lip for effect. “Are you sure you don’t know anything?”
Udara opened his mouth to reply, then shook his head. “Do I look like a policeman, Sachin? Go ask one of them about it.”
“Don’t play coy,” she said. “We both know I wouldn’t be asking you if I didn’t think you already knew something.”
They stared at one another for a few moments. The guard remained at his post, but he wisely kept his mouth shut and both hands tucked in his belt where Prem could see them. Finally, Udara broke: “What exactly is it that you’re looking for?”
“Not what, who. Gomati—I want to know where he is.“ A fresh sheen of sweat broke out across the crown of Udara’s bald head and Prem knew she had him. Her smirk turned into a full grin. “No need to be so shy all of a sudden.”
“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” he said. “G-Gomati hasn’t been here in months. Last time I saw him, he was begging for work but felt he was too good for the rate we offered him.”
“Interesting story,” she said, leaning in closer, pinning the priest to his seat with the heat of her stare. “Is any of it actually true?”
The fat man’s mouth hung halfway open, but nothing came out of it. His eyes flickered over her shoulder and she heard a talwar saber being drawn from its sheath—a long, off-tune metallic ringing sound. Daring a quick glance over that same shoulder, Prem saw the man in the dark coat and hood that followed her into the temple, but now he stood with his back towards her, facing off against four cultists in their red robes, blades in their hands and murder in their unveiled eyes.
A lone figure watched at the opposite end of the courtyard, standing in the doorway Prem had used just minutes earlier. At first it seemed that it might be just an ignorant bystander, but Prem spotted the burning eyes again, watching her from under his gray hood—it was the man from the courtyard, the one she’d locked eyes with. Again, their eyes met, and again, both of them stared the other down.
Prem blinked, the first to flinch. The grey-clad figure was gone, and the cultists rushed forward with cries of rage and bloodlust. The man in black didn’t falter or try to run as he was set upon, but the numbers weren’t in his favor. Steel crashed against steel as the fight began. The four attackers took turns testing the solitary man’s defenses. It was a tactic Prem had seen dozens of times before, working together to tire him out before they came in for the kill. The man in the black coat caught one sword with his own and turned it aside, sidestepped the next blow before shoving his opponent back, before blocked a third’s strike and kicked them in the face to send them reeling away. Then Prem saw the man’s face in the light of the torches: it was Mariander Neru. What was he doing here?
“Are those friends of yours?” Prem asked.
“All of Morda’s followers are friends of mine,” Udara said, sounding understandably nervous.
Prem grabbed a handful of the priest’s robes and pulled him across the table towards her as Udara squealed in protest. When his bodyguard reached for the weapon at his belt, Prem snagged a handful of the man’s shirt and pulled him down toward the table, slamming his forehead on the hard wood. He fell to the ground, limp and lifeless. She tightened her grip on the priest’s collar, slipped one of her curved kukri knives from its sheath on her back and pressed it to his neck. “Call them off, Udara.”
The fat priest spread his hands, though he kept his head very still. “The c-contract’s already been bought and p-paid for, Sachin. I’m only the intermediary, you know that! They might kill me if I tried to stop them now.”
Prem scowled, pulled her knife away. “If you see Gomati, tell him I’m looking for him.” Shoving the priest off of the table, Prem pulled out her other kukri and ran to the Deputy’s aid. She wasn’t averse to killing the whole lot of his assailants, but Mariander was a high-ranking policeman, which meant that murder might make him squeamish. That just left Prem the only option of ending the fight the hard way, for his sake.
The three nearest cultists all rushed towards the policeman at once. One got lucky, sticking a knife up under his ribs on the right side. Mariander’s sharp cry meant that his lung wasn’t punctured, but that was small conciliation at the moment. “She’s coming!” yelled one, standing at the periphery of the fight. He had an aara in his hand and it whistled through the air as he swung it about. None of the cultists appeared to have a firearm, but she didn’t want to give them enough time to prove her wrong.
Prem rushed for the closest target, a woman with a large, red mark on her face from where Mariander had kicked her before. It was so simple for Prem to shift on one foot, go down to a knee to let the cultist’s sword swing past her head, then thrust one knife forward. The blade scraped against the bones in the woman’s neck as it came out the other side, and a crimson spray erupted from her open mouth, sprinkling against the side of Prem’s face. The cultist’s eyes went wide and she tumbled to the ground, clawing at her torn throat as she started to drown in her own blood.
So much for doing things for the hard way.
Mariander kept one hand pressed to his wounded side while holding his ground. He avoided being stabbed again with his back to the wall, but his face was losing color, or as much as his actually could.
Prem dodged a wild swing from the aara’s blade. She stepped up behind the next cultist and bent low before making a sharp, twisting cut up his calf, shredding muscle and tendon together. She smelled blood, thick and sweet, and the man screamed before Prem slammed the pommel of her other blade against his temple so that he fell without another sound. He might bleed out, or he might walk with a limp if someone got him to a physician fast enough—his survival wasn’t Prem’s problem.
The policeman locked swords with his opponent, and then they both jumped backwards, dodging out of the way of the bladed whip as it swung down in the spot where they stood. Slipping both of her knives behind her back again, Prem took a wide step around the other two and rushed towards the aara-wielding priest, ignoring his wide grin and eyes full of challenge and excitement. The razor-sharp blade was ten feet long or more, cracking against the paving stones when he brought it down, sometimes coming so close it nicked Prem’s hair as she stepped, dodged and tumbled out of the way.
It became less of a fight and more of a dance. When she got close the cultist would turn with her, twisting his arm around with every swing, trying to catch her by surprise or trip her up. Prem had no weapon in her hands, but her entire body was a weapon: before Vati’s possession, she trained as a dancer and acrobat in her father’s palace, talents that the demon honed and refined to lethal precision. Prem bent backwards, letting the blade sail over her head. Then she pushed up with both hands, spinning her legs and body around in a circle as the whip passed under her before she landed on her feet.
“Hold still, damn you!” the priest cried, swinging the blade over his head like a lasso as he rushed towards her. The frustration in her attacker’s voice gave Prem a wicked thrill. His grin was gone, and his panting breaths showed just how tiring an aara was to use.
It was the opening she’d been waiting for. Prem sprang forward and tucked into a roll. She was too close for him to strike when she came up onto the balls of both feet and caught him in his midsection with her shoulder—the force of it threw him backwards with a sound of expelled air before he landed on Mariander’s upraised blade. The man’s eyes went wide and he crumpled to the floor, body quivering as the Deputy pulled his saber free.
Mariander began to fall as well, but Prem caught him first. Their four assailants were dead or dying at their feet, and she could hear more voices calling, the sound of footsteps approaching.
“Leave me,” he growled. “Go.”
“Don’t talk, you idiot; you’re just wasting your breath. Why didn’t you bring a gun?”
“Must’ve slipped my mind,” he said in a wheezing tone.
Whatever Prem’s feelings about the police, Mariander was her ally for the moment, which was the only thing stopping her from leaving him to bleed to death on the tiles. It would’ve been easier to escape alone, but she couldn’t risk the consequences of leaving him behind—if news ever got out that a Royal had abandoned the Prime Minister’s son, the firestorm that could erupt was sure to cause a national scandal, making the assassination threat look almost tame in contrast.
There was no way they could get out the front door, and a tall wall surrounded the temple compound, which meant they couldn’t escape on foot. Hoisting his arm over her shoulder, Prem led Mariander back into Udara’s office. The priest was gone but his guard still lay unconscious on the floor, so they stepped over the prone body and took a back door to a staircase leading upwards.
Mariander gasped and grunted with every step, keeping a thick mass of his coat pressed tight to his side. A trail of blood followed behind them—the Deputy’s left pant leg was soaked with it, and he couldn’t put more than the slightest weight down before his face tightened from the pain. “One of them got me in the thigh, too,” he said, panting as they reached the temple’s second floor.
The top of the stairs opened onto a long hallway. On one side were small, enclosed rooms with sliding doors, while on the other there was a long railing between evenly spaced columns. She could see the river stretching out beyond the temple wall, twinkling in the dark amidst the dark shapes of boats and barges.
“I guess one injury just wasn’t enough for you, was it?” she said. Prem was reminded of her sisters talking about Mariander earlier that afternoon, reminded of her awkward emotions, and of Vati’s watchful presence lingering just out of sight. Thankfully she had no time to dwell on such things—the footsteps following them came with the sound of shouting, and soon those feet were pounding on the stairs.
Mariander’s laugh was whisper-soft, but the pain of it cut him short. “I think I’ll have more of them soon enough. I’m sorry, Mari.”
“Stop calling me that,’’ she said, trying to keep a grip on her temper. The first room Prem checked looked like a sleeping quarters: it was a narrow cell with a rolled up mat, a reed-lined floor and a short wooden table. It offered nowhere for them to hide, and Prem knew that all of the rooms on that floor would be identical. She only had a second to make a decision. Risking her life for a stranger was idiocy, and knowing that didn’t make her feel any better. But she felt committed to this path, and Prem was too stubborn to give up.
“Don’t struggle,” she told him. Taking a hard breath, Prem crouched down to one knee, pulled him over her shoulders and balanced his entire body weight across them, keeping her arms around his bulk to keep her balance. His weight nearly staggered her as she stood up again—he had to outweigh her by half, at least—but she was already moving, already running while pleading in her head for Vati’s help as her back strained and legs pumped with the effort, sweat beading and sliding down her cheeks.
They went right past their pursuers, all standing in a cluster at the top of the stairs, weapons in their hands and murderous glee on their faces. Prem raised one foot, stepped onto the rail, and launched herself over the edge as far as she could, sailing over the exterior wall and across the sloped riverbank. Somehow she managed to grab and turn Mariander in mid-air, to bring him down headfirst with her as they crashed into the dark water.
She felt the man start to struggle, likely from the shock of the water mixing with the pain of his wounds, now combined with a basic, instinctual need to breathe. Coming up for air would have been a death sentence, so Prem grabbed his neck and shoulders in both hands to keep him submerged, pulling him farther down, away from the surface. She pressed her lips to his, expelling the air from her mouth and lungs into his, which would soothe him for a moment, she hoped.
Sound worked differently underwater: heavy banging and whirring noises came from the ships passing nearby, gears crunching and propellers turning, some so close she could feel the wake moving around them. But she heard other sounds above, high-pitched noises as bullets broke the river’s surface, whizzing through the water. Prem wasn’t sure how far down it was to the bottom of the Genja, but finding out after getting shot wasn’t an experiment she wanted to try.
Torches flickered in the distance above the surface, but the water bent and refracted that light, throwing strange shapes in her vision. High up in the darkness, Prem saw a shining shape like a pillar of flame, warped and immense in the shadow of the temple roof. It lingered for a moment, then it was gone.
An immense barge passed close-by, so Prem kicked her feet and pulled Mariander towards it, keeping one arm locked around his shoulders, pushing her mouth hard against his again. Possession by a water demon meant Prem didn’t need to breathe while submerged, so she breathed for Mariander instead. He didn’t struggle as she pulled him out of range of the gunfire. As she reached the barge Prem grabbed hold of a long chain dangling in the water, letting the vessel carry them down the river—though to what destination, she wasn’t yet sure.