Something isn’t right about this place.
We come to a stop in the middle of a wide, open courtyard. Armed guards are everywhere, their swords drawn and ready to swing. Royal archers surround us atop the inner city’s walls, at the ready with their bows nocked and arrow tips aimed in my direction. One wrong move and they’ll slice me to bits and riddle those same bits with holes. I despise the way they look at me—as if I am equal parts freak and nightmarish horror. If only Captain Sonam hadn’t taken my mask, I’d be able to hide from their judgment.
One of the captain’s men pokes and prods at me through the bars with his scabbard, laughing in cruel delight whenever he manages to pull a growl from my throat.
And they callmean animal.
“Leave it alone, Wen,” Captain Sonam snaps.
Wen doesn’t heed his warning. Instead, he reaches through the bars and strokes one of my tails. I lash out against the cage, but I’m unable to reach him. He’ll be the first I devour when I get out of here.
“But look at this fur. I could wash it! Make one of its tails into a pretty scarf for my wife. Ain’t like it don’t have any to spare.”
He’s the youngest of the group, his immaturity accentuated by his boisterous nature. He stands at least half a head taller than his captain, but his shoulders are narrow and his limbs lanky. His armor doesn’t fit well, hanging off of his frame like garments leftout to dry on a clothesline. Hand-me-downs, if I had to venture a guess. I pity him his wonky nose and gapped teeth, but I pity the woman who agreed to marry him all the more.
The other guard under the captain’s command has yet to utter a word. A woman, not a man as I first believed, though her masculine appearance certainly lends itself to the assumption. She stands tall and dutiful, wearing just as severe a frown as her leader. This is not a lady of refinement, but one of battle, the deep scars of angry red upon her cheeks and across the bridge of her nose a written history of all the violence she’s seen. It isn’t until she motions to Wen with her hands, stringing together a sequence of signals as she produces shapes with her mouth, that I realize she’s missing her tongue.
Did she lose it in a fight, I wonder, or was it punishment for some unknown crime?
Whatever the guard says, it causes Wen to roll his eyes. “It ain’t gonna bite me,” he replies arrogantly. “Would you quit being such a worrywart?”
Sonam stands firm, arms folded over his broad chest. “Sooah is right. Leave the demon be. The king will be here soon.”
Mildly disgruntled, Wen bows his head. “As you wish.”
My heart skips a beat. The king is coming? Why in the nine suns would the King of Jian deign to see someone like me?
At the sound of a palace eunuch’s boisterous call, Captain Sonam bows steeply, hinging at the hips toward a figure I can’t yet see. Wen and Sooah also bow, though they drop to their knees into a full kowtow, foreheads smacking against the jade stones—an indication of their unworthy station. What I wouldn’t give to tell them to do it over and over again until they shatter their own skulls.
“You’ve done well, Demon Hunter of Jian.”
I strain my neck to see who the voice belongs to. Standing atthe bottom of a jade staircase is a man practically swimming in the finest silks in all the land. He contrasts sharply against our all-green surroundings, his white robes accented with embroidered designs of delicate golden thread, appearing almost like a cloud at sunset. He is nearly double the captain’s age, his long beard streaked with white and his mianguan expertly placed to conceal his receding hairline. Thick rings of jade decorate each of his fingers. There’s a heavy sink to his jowls, and the crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes become more pronounced as he smiles with approval.
Behind the king stands a group of young men, all dressed nearly as lavishly as he. There are seven of these peacocks—all brothers, judging by the same shape of their lips and width of their eyes. Qualities, I notice, that Captain Sonam seems to share. But that’s where the similarities stop. Where they stand with lax, haughty airs, Sonam is rigid and tempered. A collection of fine silk against the edge of sharpened steel. I don’t miss the way he clenches his filthy, calloused palms and hides them from view behind his back.
“Our people are all the safer thanks to your efforts,” the king says.
“Thank you, Father,” Sonam replies. Stiff. Almost rehearsed. “This demon has plagued our city for far too long. My only regret is that I failed to catch it sooner.”
My ears prick up.Father?How very interesting. While I’m curious to understand Sonam’s lack of a princely title, I’m more concerned with finding a way to escape. I have no interest in human affairs, least of all the affairs of my captor.
“What’s done is done,” the king says as he approaches my cage, inspecting me from head to tails with wide-eyed fascination. “You’re certain it’s the last one in the city?” he asks Sonam.
“Yes, it is. I’ve been careful to kill or banish all the rest.”
My stomach twists. This can’t be. Of all human flaws, I’ve always despised their ability to lie above all else. There’s no way a single, mortal, weak little human could have achieved such a feat.
But what if he speaks the truth?
It’s not that I care for the well-being of other demons. They are hardly my concern, nor, I’m sure, am I one of theirs. We are mountains, built of the same cold earth, but we stand alone to brave the world all on our own. I look after myself. Though I’ll confess to feeling a strange numbness at knowing I’m the last one to walk the mortal plane.Specialisn’t quite the right word I’m looking for, but I can think of no other way to describe it. I outlasted them all—until today, it would seem.
“Very well. I expect nothing less from a son of my court.”
The princes whisper among themselves, clearly unimpressed or disbelieving. In the same way Sonam looks down on me, they do the same to their brother. Sonam may stand tall and proud like the rest, but he also stands apart. His clothes are utilitarian, no excess fabric or hefty pieces of jewelry to show off his wealth. The weapons strapped to his belt are not simply for show. There are signs of wear and tear on the worn hilt of his sword, as well as the grooved leather loops of his belt. My curiosity burns. If he is a son of the king, surely his station can afford him the life of a prince—so why does he look a mere foot soldier?
Even his title as a captain makes little sense. A man of his birth should have a whole army at his command, not two measly guards. And surely he should be able to afford finer armor. Where is his chest plate carved of gold, and his heavy helmet complete with ridiculously long head feathers to flaunt his importance? Humans love to boast—so why not this one?
Sonam’s expression brightens a touch, hopeful. “Does this mean that I’m welcome back?” He sounds so much like a boy at this moment. Too eager, too transparent.
