“How did you do it?” I ask quietly.
He only stares at me, saying nothing. This close, in this perfect, radiant realm of white stone and pale clouds and fiery skies, he looks ethereal in a way that shouldn’t be possible.
I raise my blades. “Speak, unless you want me to report this to the Eight Immortals.”
“I was trying to save your life,” he says. “You were frozen, and I couldn’t think of any other way—”
“How?”I demand again. “I’ve studied practitioning for nine years. I’ve never come across any talisman or form of magic granting a mortal the power of command over another’s mind. That’s dark magic, unheard of even in the yao’jing. So don’t you dare lie to me.” The more I speak, the more convinced I am that the man standing before me is a creature wicked and dangerous—one that shouldn’t be here. And when he remains silent, each heartbeat between us compounding his guilt, I say softly, “What kind of a monster are you?”
At this, he flinches and turns his face from me. I catch the sharp hitch to his breath, the movement of his throat as he swallows and, at last, speaks. “Halfling,” he says quietly. “I’m a halfling. Half-demon, half-mortal.”
My thoughts stutter. “That’s impossible,” I whisper. “There are no mó halflings.” The wards between our realms have been sealed for eternity since the gods created the world under the Heavenly Order. Mó ichor is poisonous to mortals; it is said the dark force that runs in their bodies counteracts the life force of mortals, making it impossible for a living creature to bear both.
“There is,” Yù’chén says. “One.”
I stare at him. Slowly, everything clicks into place. How impossibly powerful he is. How he was able to wield spirit energy, the energy only immortals and mortal practitioners can use. How he was able to call off Qióng’qí, and perhaps so many other beasts of the Kingdom of Night along the way, yet still present to me the evidence that made me trust him. Blood and heart—and dark magic.
And…the way he looked at me after I saved that halfling from Áo’yin. The gentle way his fingers touched me, smoothing my clothes and straightening my collar.
I shake off the memory and stagger away from him. He’s half-mó. Half a demon, half of something that should never have set foot in this realm. Half of the creature that destroyed my world and tore apart my family and drank my mother’s soul—
I turn to run, but his hands close over my wrists, dragging me back to him. “Wait,” he’s saying, desperate. “Àn’ying—”
“Don’t touch me,” I gasp, and to my surprise he obeys. He steps back from me and lifts his hands in a placating gesture. His chest rises and falls sharply, and my attention snags on the soft spot between his ribs.
I need to kill him. I’ll put a blade in his heart now, push his body off the edge of this corridor into the skies—
“Give me a chance.” His voice is low, deep and intoxicating with a power I should have realized was demonic from the very first day. He holds a hand out to me, palm-up. “Cut it open.”
I hesitate only for a fraction of a second before I plunge my blade straight through his palm.
Yù’chén gasps in pain, but I’m focused on where the steel of Fleet connects with his flesh. Blood, red and warm, wells up and drips down the sides of his hand, his wrist, his forearm. It splatters the perfect white marble, gleaming like rubies under the dying sunlight.
I remember why I decided to trust him in the first place.Demons don’t bleed.
I look up at him to find his eyes on me. His jaw is clenched, his mouth in a sullen curve. But he does not pull away. Without breaking his gaze from mine, he wraps his long fingers around my hand, curling them over the hilt of the blade wedged in his flesh to reach me. Blood drips down his arm as he draws my hand to him and presses it against his chest.
I start, but he holds me firmly—and that’s when I feel it: the pulse beneath my palms. A memory surfaces, of him pulling me onto Heavens’ Gate, his body warm and firm beneath mine. My cheek against his chest, listening to the strongthud-thud-thud.
Demons don’t have hearts.
“Half-mortal,” Yù’chén says. Our fingers are intertwined over the steady beat of his heart. “You heard the Eight Immortals: ‘By measure of your mortal blood and mortal hearts.’ ”
“You are no mortal,” I growl.
“The wards admitted me. I qualify, too.”
I narrow my eyes. “The immortals,” I say slowly, “havespent the last nine years building theirwardsagainst the mó. They should know that one has managed to slip through.”
Yù’chén’s mouth twists into a humorless smile. “Little scorpion,” he says, “if you report me, what do you think they’ll do to you? The entire hall saw me helping you earlier. They saw us leave together. They’ll think us either allies or lovers—”
“Don’t,”I snarl, “debase my name by suggesting I am involved with the likes ofyou.”
His smile slips. “You know it’s true. Whatever they do to me, they’ll do to you for being involved with…the likes of me.”
I stare at him, furious. As much as it kills me to admit it, he’s right. If I’m the one who reports him to the immortals, they might decide I have something to do with the mó. I recall their impassive expressions and distant gazes. They barely admitted me into the trials earlier. Something tells me they won’t bother listening a second time.
I have fought too hard to get here. And I have too much to lose.
