I don’t understand why it matters to him. Most mortals view yao’jing with disgust. They are like us but not; they are unwanted by whichever other realm created them, and so we do not want them, either. They are not extraordinarily powerful, but they are different…and I think that terrifies us.
Yet, looking at the yao’jing’s face, at her utter terror and helplessness, I was reminded of Méi’zi. Of myself, on that sunny afternoon, kneeling on my kitchen floor and watching my father die.
“She was a life,” I find myself whispering. My thoughts tumble in the darkness of night; the combination of fatigue and fading adrenaline fogs my mind. “She, too, had a beating heart.”
I realize how much of a fool I sound. There is no place for sympathy at the Temple of Dawn—in this nightmare of a world we now live in. I could have been hurt, or worse, I could havedied.Then how would Ma regain her soul? Who would take care of Méi’zi—kind, gentle Méi’zi, whose hands are soft from her silks and needles?
I am suddenly so angry with myself. In a moment’s sympathy, a moment’sweakness,I jeopardized my family’s lives.
Yù’chén is so close to me, I feel the heat radiating from his body. He is watching me with a look I cannot read, one that is different from the amusement with which he typically beholds the world. No—in this moment his gaze is intimate,searing,as though he sees right through the cracks in my armor.
His lips part, and his gaze trails down my body. Suddenly, I see what he sees: my skin through the wet silk, the way my dripping hair curls over my breasts, how my shift barely covers my thighs. I think of the words he spoke to me when we made our alliance:What can you offerme,little scorpion?
I’m shivering, my blades glimmering on the grass at my feet—out of reach. Bile rises in my throat. I have no disillusions that I will find a great, epic love like those the ancient poems sing of. But yielding my body to a stranger for survival is a line I have not crossed.
Yù’chén releases my elbows. Before I know what he’s doing, he bends and sweeps up my crescent blades from the ground. Carefully, he places Striker and Fleet back into my palms. Then there is a swirl of red, a flutter of cloth, and his cloak settles over my shoulders, draping me in warmth, his warmth. His fingers barely scrape my collarbone as he fastens the knot. Gently, so gently, he smooths out the wrinkles in the fabric and tucks the collar under my chin.
The gesture reminds me so much of the way my mother used to dress me when I was a child.
I have not been touched like this in over nine years.
I look into Yù’chén’s eyes. He holds my gaze. Slowly, he pushes a lock of wet hair out of my face, his fingers grazing my cheek.
I know fear well: living as the prey in a world dominated by my hunters has taught me the feeling. Your pulse races, your breathing turns shallow, and there is a tightness in your chest and a dizziness in your head. But I have learned to live with it. I have sharpened it into a weapon, let it make me steadier, faster, crueler.
Now I feel all those sensations. My heart tumbling. My breaths quickening. My head spinning. As though I stand at the edge of a cliff, and with one wrong step, I will fall.
Only this is different, somehow.
Yù’chén breaks the moment first. He takes a light step back, dragging his hand through his hair. “We’re nearing the edge of the forest. If the accounts are correct, we will arrive at Heavens’ Gates before nightfall tomorrow.”
I am glad we are talking again, of concrete plans, of actions. He’s right: the Heavens’ Gates mountain range is the seam between the mortal and immortal realms. If we reach it, we will have survived the Way of Ghosts…and arrived at the border of the Kingdom of Sky.
“We’ll take it at a run,” Yù’chén continues. His face is tipped eastward, his brows furrowed as he considers this plan. His hair is wind-whipped and wild, but it suits him. He pauses to look at me.
“I’ll be fine,” I say shortly.
“I know,” he says. His lips curve in a smirk, but I do not find it insulting. “I would not question the Slayer of Áo’yin.”
No, I find that I like it.
“Back to camp,” Yù’chén says, gesturing in its direction with his head. “Though I did nothing as impressive as killing a mythological monster, I did shoot a pheasant for dinner. This way.”
I realize I am smiling. Quickly, I turn and retrieve my dress and remaining blades from where I left them by the river, then hurry to catch up with him. “Your cloak,” I call. “You can have it back.”
He is in a tight shift and pants, all black, fitted to his sculpted muscles. He throws me a glance over his shoulderand says drolly, “I’d rather you return it to me when you are decent.”
My face heats. I can’t think of a clever response to that.
“You needn’t show your stingers at all times, little scorpion,” he continues. “Learn to rely on other people. It can be nice.”
I watch his retreating back blend into the darkness of the trees.
6
I sleep well for the first time since I left home. When I wake, it is to the sound of birdsong, the kiss of a breeze on my cheeks, and the movement of sunlight across my eyelids. Fabric scratches at my chin.
I open my eyes. I’m curled up on my bedroll on the forest floor, the early morning light dripping through a canopy of golden larches overhead. My pack serves as my pillow, and I’m draped in a cloak.Hiscloak.
