I react by instinct, my mind in overdrive, terrified that this is another illusion of nightmares from this hellscape of aforest. My blades flash. Yù’chén shouts, one hand coming up to block, but it’s too late.
Blood sprays my face, flecks of it salting my tongue, hot and tasting of copper. It’s this that jerks me from my state of frenzy.
I blink, and Yù’chén’s kneeling before me, one hand clutching his cheek, face angled away from me. Streaks of crimson run in rivulets down his face where I cut him, mingling with the rain. There’s a foul smell in the air, and it’s coming from beneath me.
When I look down, I’m kneeling over a mound of rotting flesh: purpling, decaying skin; a swollen tongue; maggot-infested eyes; and pieces of exposed, pale skull. It’s the huà’pí, stabbed beyond recognition.
My hands and blades are bloodied, my throat raw. The screaming I heard from earlier came from me.
“Àn’ying,” Yù’chén says again. He’s breathing hard, but when I look into his face, all I can see is blood and the Higher One’s smile as she gorged herself on my father’s flesh.
I lean away from the dead creature and throw up the contents of my stomach. When I’m done, I crouch over the forest floor. Tremors roll through my body.
Soft footfalls as Yù’chén approaches. He bends, lifting my face with one hand, his fingertips stained red. “It’s all right now,” he says. “It’s dead.”
“It wasn’t…her…my father…” I’m incoherent, but I can’t bring myself to speak the words. I clasp my hands to Yù’chén’s, searching his eyes, forcing myself to focus on his face, on anything but the image seared into my mind like a white-hot brand. “It wasn’t…Bà…”
His gaze flickers with an emotion I can’t understand. “No,” he says quietly. “That wasn’t your father.”
“Not…my Ma…Méi’zi…”
“No. That was a huà’pí. It’s dead now, Àn’ying. It’s over.” His thumb strokes my face. “Your family’s safe. You’re safe.”
I stare at him, willing his words to sink in. Then, with shaking hands, I grasp his collar and slowly, slowly lean my forehead on his chest. I feel him stiffen, then feel his arms encircle my back as he draws me against him. His skin is warm in the rain, and against my cheek, I feel the steadythud-thud-thudof his heart, the brush of his breaths against my ear, stirring my hair.
In this moment, I need to be held, even if it is by half a monster.
Gradually, my body stops shaking. My breathing evens out. And my senses return.
I draw back. The rain has soaked through my dress and washed all the blood from my hands and blades. I’m aware of how close Yù’chén and I are, how his touch on my skin trails heat across my lower back. He’s watching me, rain dripping down his hair and lashes and chin. The cut on his cheek is already healing, the bleeding stopped.
I touch a finger to the skin, observing the way it knits itself back together like it was never broken in the first place. “I’m sorry,” I say.
“Sorry you cut me?” he asks. “Or sorry you thought me a monster of nightmares?”
I’m not sure what I’m apologizing for. He’s silent, droplets of rain clinging to his lashes, and I realize he’s actually waiting for an answer. I frown and pull my hand away from his cheekas another thought occurs to me. My voice is still unsteady as I ask instead, “How did you find me?”
He draws a sharp breath, eyes darting between mine. “I…”
“Were you looking for me?”
He swallows and turns his gaze away from me.
“Why?” I press. I’m barely holding myself together, and I need him to say that he’s doing all this for some sort of reason, a trade, a game…anything to tell me that the kindness he is showing me isn’t real.
Yù’chén’s lips part—then his eyes catch on something behind me, something that drains the color from his face. His hands tighten on my waist and he goes still.
I glance back.
At first, I see nothing. But then, through the trees, I make out a pale smudge: a prone, lifeless body, bare legs and pale silks just visible from here.
I’m about to turn for a closer look when Yù’chén’s hand comes to my cheek, turning me sharply back to him. He is pale, and there is a wild, frenetic look to his gaze.
“Another huà’pí,” he says, and his other hand grips my waist so tightly, it hurts. “Go, before it targets you.”
If it isn’t targeting me, that means…“Is it targeting you?” I ask.
He doesn’t reply, only lets me go and stands. His sword flashes silver as he unsheathes it. “Go,” Yù’chén repeats.
