CHAPTER THIRTEEN

 

 

“TYPE O NEGATIVE! You remembered!”

“Only the best.” I incline my head and try to feign indifference as The God of Missing People suckles on the blood bag like a juice pouch. It helps, of course, that the deity has provided phenomenally effective discretion.

The ghost of Xiao Quan is precisely as I imagined: decorous, elegant, beautiful in the way only dangerous predators can be, and very slightly translucent. Her eyes are large and sad within the sharp-jawed frame. As I study at her, the Dragon King’s daughter flows into a low bow, every inch a model of sinuous grace.

“Forgive this one for all of the trouble she has caused.” Her manner of speech is appropriately archaic, several centuries too formal for this irreverent millennium.

“No sweat!” The word pulses free. I rub the back of my neck, awkwardness heating my cheeks. I like respectful people as much as the next person, but you can feel unqualified for the attention. If she knew what I’d been up to, she’d likely have choicer words. “I’m, I mean. I’m very honoured you could make an appearance.”

“This one did not intend to cause trouble. This one had her own desires, her own... agenda. This one wanted to die.” No drama colors that proclamation, only wistful frankness. This one wanted to die. The words seep through my bones. Minah has never so openly articulated her desires, but she had always desired escape. Instinctively, I run my fingertips over my phone, hoping for the buzz of an incoming message. Nothing. “This one also knew her father would not accept—”

So, feeling rather like a sexist heel, I talk over her, and over the thoughts extricating themselves from the morass of my memory. “Couldn’t you have just told your father about what was happening?”

Xiao Quan’s laugh is hollow. “And what? This one’s sire would have simply told this one to go home, and preserve face. One cannot abandon the fate they’ve made for themselves.”

Waves smash into the rocks of Port Dickson. We’ve found a secluded corner in spite of the area’s popularity among the country’s overworked and underpaid middle-class. I probably didn’t need to be adjacent to an ocean to summon Ao Qin, but the idea had romantic appeal. Sort of. Up until the point I discovered one of my fellow passengers suffered from explosive bowel troubles. Of course, by then, there was nothing to do but grin and bear it.

Anyway.

I swallow, glance over to the sea, a muddied brown that inspires no desire to wade into its depths. I suppose I could have found a more inspiring spot. “I see.”

“This one meant no harm. At least not to anyone other than her beloved spouse. The Furies seemed like the perfect option. Certainly, the local nobility trusted them.”

“I—” I falter. Murder victims usually aren’t quite so apologetic about the violent crimes, but normal employers rarely participate in grandiose chess matches, utilizing ancient spirits and domestic dissatisfaction as game pieces. There’s no template for me to pin a response, really, so I shove that line of thought aside. “Why did the Furies off you too?”

“It was mariticide,” Xiao Quan explains, edges shimmering. She collects her hands over her belly. I don’t recognize her garments from her corpse. They’re simpler than what I would picture; cotton rather than silk, pale oceanic colors bare of complicated embroidery. “The Kindly Ones could not allow for it. This one had to die, if they were to fulfill this one’s request.” She hesitates. “But they were kind. It did not hurt for long.”

I nod. The God of Missing People has wandered off towards the shore, still clutching its sacrificial plastic sack. Flashing us both a curious stare, it drops to its knees and begins listlessly scooping at the beach with its fingers.

“Will you tell this one’s father she is sorry? This one was tired. After so many thousands of years, this one simply desired to cease.”

“I—” I purse my mouth, but incline my head. There’s nothing more to be said here. At this point, any criticism about her life’s decisions feels unfortunately moot. Lacking the right words, I delay my answer by looking over towards the God of Missing People, who is locking fingers with a spectral hand it had just unearthed. “Yes. But, don’t you think it would be better to tell him yourself?”

“No,” Xiao Quan replies, fading into intangibility. “Not at all.”

I almost let her go. Almost. The exhaustion in her gaze digs like a hook. I know that look far too well. But even as Xiao Quan diffuses, fading into the pale curve of a smile, I chatter another incantation, an ugly barrage of consonants. Her outline snaps back into hard focus.

“What?”

“I’m sorry.” I fold into a half-hearted shrug, feeling somewhat like an adult challenging a toddler to a test of arms. “I sympathize. I do. But you’re going to tell your father about what happened so he’ll call this whole thing off. And please,please can we avoid mentioning the bit with the ghouls? I don’t want to be a bastard, but if you tell, I will make sure it goes just as badly for you as it will go for me.”

 

 

THE ENCOUNTER IS less dramatic than I expected it to be, less a meeting between two reptilian divinities, more a pow-wow between father and daughter. Ao Qin wears his human shape throughout the muted conversation as they stand with their foreheads pressed together, the Dragon King’s forearms rested on his daughter’s shoulders, Xiao Quan’s fingers loose about his wrists.

My daughter my daughter my daughter his memories have lightened to hazy watercolour figments in my head, barely distinguishable from a dream. But I feel the afterimage of his agony, his guilt still twinges like an old injury.

Hours later, or maybe minutes, the two separate. Xiao Quan bows low as, shooting a hurt look in my direction, she finally dissolves into air, leaving Ao Qin to goggle at the space she occupied. Three long breaths later, he marches up to me, carrying the smell of salt and death.

“Thank you.”

I nod.

He pauses. You can almost see the words hanging suspended in the air: the apologies, the reassurances, the vocabulary of comfort. But I’m just a man, and he’s a god with a questionable grasp of the value of a human life. Such limitations prohibit wanton brotherly love. “We need to know: was anyone else involved?”

“No.”

His lamplight stare burns molten. “Are you certain?”

“We are. I mean, I am. One hundred percent.”

Ao Qin’s expression remains placid, although his skin does not. Patterns writhe with unverbalized emotion. I glance away just as it reaches his eyes. The God of Missing People is wisely keeping its distance, more preoccupied with the ghost it found in the sand than my predicament. Typical.

“Your daughter had her reasons. Bad ones, definitely, but this is something she wanted. No foul. You have your evidence. You have a confession. I have a confession. Bring it to... to god court, or whatever you call it. I did my job. Now”—the words catch as I hold out the tape recorder for his inspection—“let Minah go.”

The Dragon King says nothing, only regards the device in my palm with what appears to be mild befuddlement. I’m briefly wracked by concern. What if he—

“Thank you.” The gratitude comes stiff, unpracticed. He takes the machine, pockets it, then snags my hand in a rough handshake. “We will have a word with the Furies and their masters. This is more than sufficient for what we require.”

Not trusting myself to speak, I respond with an equally graceless nod. It’s not every day that you catalyze a war for a woman’s sake.

Ao Qin glides sidelong, taking a step back towards the ocean. “Are you certain there’s nothing else you wish to tell us? No further details?”

Karma feels like the weight of the world compressed into a single pin, its point impaled upon the middle of my forehead. I suck in a breath. The universe is watching. This is one of those moments that you clearly recognize as instrumental in the charting of history. One of those decisions that divide reality into parallel dimensions, that defines centuries to come. I clutch that breath like a lifeline. The right thing to do would be to prevent the risk of global conflict.

“No.”

You know what they say. Love makes fools and warmongers out of all of us.

 

 

“HOW DID IT go, Rupert?” the boss queries, effervescently delighted.

“Wonderful. I started a war for you.”

He laughs. “Excellent, excellent. Excellent.”

I meander up the hill side, back onto the road. Several metres away, a black sedan sits purring, its driver nonchalantly reclining against its frame. “You sent a ride?”

“Of course. And a change of clothing. We’re told you absolutely reek.” He laughs quietly. “Make sure to change before you come in today. We already have to deduct your pay for your absences. We’d rather not have to cut it any further because of your inability to maintain personal hygiene.”

I don’t ask how he knows, or even why he cares. The boss isn’t exactly someone who should complain about offal, given his predilections. I nod towards the driver, yet another Aryan bombshell. “Sure, boss.”

“We have lamia in stock today, by the way. I hope you’re prepared for the challenge.”

“Sure, boss.” Just another day in paradise for Rupert Wong, cannibal chef.