My heart seizes.
Any face at all, Yue once told me.Both the living and the dead, so long as he’s seen it once before.
I don’t know whether I’m more enraged or bewildered. To compare it to looking in a mirror would be a gross understatement, for at least my reflection doesn’t have a mind of its own. Just think of all the damage he could do if he returned to the mortal realm, masquerading as one of the princes of the Southern Kingdom of Jian. No one would be the wiser. He could commit unspeakable acts in my name. The only discernible difference between us is the fact that he’s missing two of his fingers, courtesy of Yue’s powerful jaws.
“I have something far better in mind.” The Maskmaker stalks toward her, staring deep into her eyes. “I don’t have to lift a finger to hurt you, Yue. Your dreams will do it for me.”
Yue slumps forward, her head dropping so suddenly I fear it will snap off her neck. My breath catches in my throat. For a moment, I fear he’s killed her. I nearly leap out from our hiding spot, my trusty dao halfway drawn, when I notice the subtle rise and fall of her chest. Not dead, merely a deep slumber. There are nowords to describe my relief, and there are fewer words still to explain why I feel this way.
It was always my intention to kill her. To rid the world of demons would be a feat unlike any other. Just one more hunt, indistinguishable from all the others, and yet… The thought of harming her now leaves a bitterness on my tongue.
The Maskmaker turns away, Yue’s porcelain mask in hand. He runs his fingers—my fingers—over a small scratch. He clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “Gone and ruined it,” he says before tossing it to the floor. The Maskmaker lifts his foot and crushes the mask beneath his heel, shattering it into several sizable pieces.
Anger simmers in my veins. I’ve seen how protective Yue is of her mask. There was no reason for him to destroy it except out of pure spite.
It’s then that I notice the Maskmaker isn’t alone. There’s movement from the shadows of the pavilion’s main room. Demons. Were it not for the Jade Palace’s ominous green glow reflecting in their dark, beady eyes, I might not have noticed them until it was too late. They all appear transfixed with a tall pile of porcelain gathered near the center of the room. A collection of masks stacked tall enough to touch the ceiling.
The Maskmaker sits before the pile and reaches into the long, drooping sleeve of his robe, retrieving something long and slender. I have to squint against the dim lighting to get a better look. It takes me a moment to place the slim bamboo handle and black-stained tip.
“A paintbrush?” Wen murmurs.
I shush him. We’ll be damned if we give away our position.
The three of us crouch low when a demon rounds one of the inner corners and approaches the Maskmaker with a set of fine porcelain discs in hand. “That’s all of it, master,” the demon croaks. “If I may, my lord, how much longer do you suspect we’ll be here?”
“Not much longer now,” the Maskmaker replies, sounding annoyed as he picks up one of the discs. “I’ll craft a few more and then we’ll make our way to the main gate. No harm in having spares.”
The demon bows deeply, hinging at the hips. “Very wise, my lord.”
“The handful of demons I’ve sent ahead have made excellent progress. Their masks have been working perfectly.”
A chill passes through my veins. If what he’s saying is true, that means there are more demons lurking in the dark corners of Longhao than I first believed. I think back to the seamstress’s daughter, to all the reports I’d received about those who’d vanished without a trace. I was wrong to think Yue was behind all of those disappearances. It was the Maskmaker all along—how many of his minions lie in wait up above? What catastrophes will they rain down upon my people?
With a wave of his hand, the Maskmaker sends the demon away and returns to his work, picking up his brush to paint even strokes against the porcelain surface. I spot no ink stick nor bottles. The end of his brush is completely dry, yet the details of the mask magically appear.
I stare in fascination. So this is how the masks are made. But does the magic come from the Maskmaker, or the brush itself? Can he only create masks of human faces?
Sooah nudges me with the tip of her elbow.
How are we going to get past them?she asks.
I grit my teeth. The last time we took on a horde this size, we barely escaped with our lives. Were it not for Yue’s strength and ferocity, we’d be digesting in the pit of some forsaken beast’s stomach. It would be foolish to bet on the three of us taking on a thousand starving demons, which means we have two options: wait for them to leave, or—
“We need a distraction,” I whisper. “To draw them off. We’ll grab Yue and make a break for it before they can follow us to the surface.”
Wen frowns. “But—how?”
I take inventory of the weapons I have left at my disposal. Only a handful of hidden daggers, one last needle, a few jars of poultice in case of any cuts and bruises. My sword is looking worse for wear, the tip blunted and the edges dented. An idea occurs to me as I eye Wen’s bow and nearly empty quiver strapped to his back.
“Hand me an arrow,” I instruct. He does so without any fuss, only squawking with disapproval when I move to drag the tip across my palm. I hand it back, the arrowhead now coated in my blood. “Through this window and out the one across the way,” I tell him. “This should be enough.”
Wen nods, but I sense his hesitance. “But my tremor…”
“You can do it,” I say. “Youwilldo it. I have faith.”
I sidle out of the way, giving Wen enough room to draw his bow and nock the blood-soaked arrow. It’s possible for him to kill the Maskmaker while his back is turned, but that will only draw the horde’s attention. We need to thin out the herd, and the best way to do that is by using their hunger against them.
Wen releases the arrow, the precisely cut eagle feathers that form the fletch slicing past his cheek. It’s a near-impossible shot—in through one window, past the writhing mass of shadows, and then out through the opposite side of the room into the pavilion’s private gardens. Drops of blood splatter across the floor. Wen sucks in a breath, triumphant. I never had any doubt.
