She followed, half caught in the current of her shock and half by instinct. The shouts of the Elantian soldiers grew distant, the streets and houses peeling away until there was only him: his hand wrapped around hers, the familiar crook of his neck, that qì of shadow and flame she knew as well as her own heart.
Zen was here.
Zen was alive.
As the initial jolt of surprise faded, logic filtered back in, along with memories. A black-glass lake. Dead, cold gaze. Cruel, twisted mouth speaking cruel, twisted words.
They’d reached the other end of the alley. The doors of the multistory pagodas that served as teahouses were open, music and laughter spilling out into the evening air along with the light from their lanterns, which limned the sharp edges to hisface.
The dream broke. Suddenly, she couldn’t bear touching him. Couldn’t bear the feeling of his fingers on her skin.
She wrenched her hand from his. In the same motion, she pulled That Which Cuts Stars from her waistband—the dagger he had gifted her—and held it to his neck. “Give me one reason not to use this,” she breathed.
He was looking at her, lips parted, eyes as deep as the black waters of a bottomless lake. Whatever he had been about to say he swallowed at the sound of footsteps—another pair of patrols, approaching from the other direction.
Zen’s eyes snapped up. “In there,” he said, his throat bobbing against the edge of her blade.
She followed his line of sight. Across the street was a brightly lit pagoda. Pink lanterns hung from its curved terracotta roofs, and the sound of a zither and giggles spilled through its open doorways.House of Drunken Orchids, the rosewood sign announced.
The footsteps grew louder, echoing through the alley. Closing in on them.
Lan turned away from Zen, slipped her knife into the folds of her sleeve, and made for the brothel. Magenta silks whirled in her face as she ducked through its entrance. The pungent scent of sandalwood incense mixed with perfumes concocted of various flowers enveloped her, along with the sight of tangled bodies on love seats. She skipped over an overturned wine jar and a translucent silk dress discarded on the floor, making for an empty corner.
Lan glanced behind her. Four Elantian patrols had entered the premises, their heavy metal armor discordant amidst the scene of soft silks and softer flesh. There was no mistaking it: she was being hunted.
It was too late to get out. The patrols blocked the way to the exit, prowling closer to her as they searched. Any minutenow, they would spot her, a lone girl in travel clothes, who stuck out like a sore thumb.
A hand closed over her wrist; as she whirled, dagger raised, she was jerked behind a hanging silk that served to partially partition off this corner of the brothel. Lan stumbled, momentarily off balance. Her shoulder slammed into the wall; she righted herself, turning to drive her dagger down—
Zen froze, breathing hard, as her blade cut into the skin of his neck, a hairsbreadth from a major artery. He had pressed his palms to the walls on either side of her; at her look, he slowly lifted them in a gesture of surrender. They were so close that his páo pressed against hers, the movement brushing her knees.
She flicked a glance behind him. She understood what he was doing—mimicking what the other patrons had come to this brothel for—and only Zen could make such a gesture look gentle. Lan hated it, hated that he was still courteous and tender and patient and everything that had drawn her to him, even after what he had done.
She shifted the blade a degree, and he winced. Red dripped down his neck.
Impossibly, time had made him more beautiful, the unnatural pallor of his skin resembling cold porcelain, the dark sweep of his lashes and straight brows like brushstrokes of ink. Yet there were also cracks to the face she had known: the overly sharp cheekbones, the dark circles beneath his eyes. Something had kept him up, roughened the smooth exterior he’d always maintained.
Good,Lan thought viciously. In a low voice, she growled, “What are you doing here?”
His lips parted. “I—” he began, but then they both sensed a heavy scent of metal qì wafting in their direction. Zen paused.His eyes darkened, and for a moment, she sensed a different qì rising from him. A demonic qì.
She understood the choice they faced. The power of their Demon Gods could easily destroy every single Elantian soldier in the area. Most likely, it would also take everyone else down with them: the Hin, the foreign merchants. The innocents.
Zen swallowed, likely coming to the same conclusion. He hesitated, eyes searching her expression. Slowly, he lowered his arms as though to wrap them around her, but he never touched her: one hand hovered over her neck, the other resting just above her waist. She could feel the brush of his fingers against her páo, the hitch to his breaths as they mingled with hers.
“You didn’t answer my question,” she whispered. She wondered if he could feel the beat of her heart. The press of the pendant he’d gifted her, still resting against her chest. She should have burned that thing a long time ago. “Why are you here,Xan Temurezen?”
He flinched, almost imperceptibly, at the bite she gave to his full name. She had never called him that before. “I came to Nakkar to find answers to a question,” he replied. “Then I sensed you—the qì of your music.”
The song she’d played for the Fragrant Sandcloud Tavern’s innkeeper, she realized with a pang. He knew her qì so well that, in this big city filled with people, he had found her.
“So I came to you,” he finished.
She assessed his face. He wasn’t lying. The knowledge filled her with anger.“Why?”
His throat bobbed. “I need to find the Crimson Phoenix,” Zen admitted on an exhale. “The star map we transcribed a few weeks ago…I need you to confirm whether the Phoenix remains where it was then.”
Behind them, beyond the near-transparent silk that trapped them in this corner, a girl drunkenly slurred an insult at the prowling Elantian patrol; the merchant she was splayed against grunted a similarly inebriated insult. The patrol turned. His gaze met Lan’s.
