Lan glanced back to the spring. The demon was nowhere to be seen. “Did you do something to distract the water demon?”
Dilaya shook her head, lips pale. Before she could speak, lantern light flared from the palace’s windows. Her head snapped in that direction.
“He’s coming,” she said, and her knuckles whitened on the hilt of her dao. “Sòng Lián, if we must fight—”
“No,” Lan said quickly. “If we strike the grass, we startle the snake and lose everything. I can’t lose Hóng’yì’s trust, Dilaya.”
Somewhere in the distance, a set of doors creaked open. The red light of a lantern spilled into a sky that was beginning to lighten into predawn gray; shadows shifted, approaching.
“Go,” Lan said. “I’ll be fine. I’ll make up a lie—it’s what I’m good at.”
The twist of her friend’s mouth showed her how much Dilaya disliked this plan. But she said nothing. Lan felt a ripple of qì, a thickening of the shadows, and then Dilaya was gone.
Not a second too soon.
The flame from the lantern warmed Lan’s cool skin as the sand behind her hissed with footsteps. “Sòng Lián,” came that familiar tenor, chilling her to the bone. “My betrothed. How surprising to find you out here at the hour of the tiger.”
It took all of Lan’s will to turn her head and face Hóng’yì. He had come alone, without a retinue of servants or even his faithful bodyguard. Somehow, this gave Lan a feeling of foreboding. She thought of the ghosts in the water, their fearful pleas.
“I went for a swim to clear my head,” she whispered. The best lies were adjacent to the truth. She widened her gaze and gave her lips a false tremble. “I saw ghosts in the water.”
The crown prince’s face swirled with shadows, digging grooves into the corners of his mouth. The red of the lantern he held reflected in his eyes, lending him a haunted look. Evenat this bell, he wore his court hàn’fú; the elaborate gold stitching on the crimson brocade glimmered in the lantern light.
Hóng’yì bent to her, tipping her face to his. His eyes searched hers, and she sensed the subtle brush of his qì against hers as he slipped into her mind. She let him, opening her thoughts to the memory of that girl, to the water demon slithering away from her.
She placed her hand in his palm; his fingers burned as they closed over hers and pulled her to her feet. She noticed the healthy golden sheen to his skin, the feverish flush to his cheeks and lips.
She schooled her features to show none of her anger. “Your spring is haunted,” she said shakily, and made a cavalier stab ata smile. “You might have told me, since this is to be my home, too.”
“That spring has always been haunted,” Hóng’yì said. “But I will rid it of the ghosts if it displeases my betrothed. After all, you are correct: this is about to be your eternal home, too.”
He traced a finger over her face, and she shivered under his caress. Zen had always touched her with restraint, with a gentle longing that made her feel safe, respected. The way Hóng’yì’s fingers brushed her, though, made her feel like a trophy. “Good,” Lan said, lifting her chin. “Escort me back to my chambers, so I can sleep a bit longer before the ceremony.”
Hóng’yì hummed, as though considering. His lips had begun to curl. “I thought we could hold the ceremony now.” His smile spread. “Right here.”
She stiffened as his hand tightened over the small of her back. “Absolutely not,” Lan said peevishly. “I’m soaked and I’m cold. I’m not even in a ceremonial gown.”
“That can all be fixed,” Hóng’yì replied. Qì flashed, a Seal appearing so fast that Lan barely glimpsed it.
Reds and golds bloomed on her nightdress, stitching intoan intricate pattern of roses and blossoms. The fabric had dried and turned hard, from silk to thick brocade. This was a level of practitioning that Lan couldn’t even have dreamt of—one that might have impressed even the masters of the School of the White Pines.
“There,” the prince said drily. He stepped back from her and splayed out his palm. On it appeared a thick white tome, its cover inscribed with a Seal unlike anything Lan had seen before. Its qì was so strong, Lan felt as though she were staring into the heart of a fire. When Hóng’yì flipped the book open to the first page, it was blank.
He began to trace a Counterseal, one with strokes so elaborate, Lan could not follow. Demonic energies began to stir. Smoke wound through the air, thick and acrid; the light of the lantern seemed to grow. Counterseal met Seal, melding into ash, and golden words appeared on the tome’s leather binding.
Classic of Gods and Demons
Ink poured down the pages, looping into characters that were not Hin. They followed the vertical spill of Hin scripture yet bore circular loops and strokes more fluid than the steady, boxlike Hin calligraphy.
Hóng’yì looked up at her, his gaze burning. Behind him, against a sky that had turned coral with the dawn, great wings of flame seemed to unfold, a crown of feathers gilding the remaining darkness overhead. “Bound together, we will be more powerful than any god or demon that has walked this land,” he said, closing the gap between them and drawing her against him. With his other hand, he held the tome. Demonic qì pulsed from it.
Bound together.Lan glanced at the tome, warning bells pealing in her mind. She thought of the souls in the water,the golden lotus seeds, the ghosts’ screams trapped inside the spring.
It was now or never.
Lan took Hóng’yì’s face between her palms, softening her gaze as she met his from beneath her lashes. Her heart pounded so hard in her chest, she was certain he would hear it. This was her one chance.
Disarm them,he had told her of the art of grasping the qì of one’s mind;lull them into a comfort….
