The sun’s glow lights up the sky. The front door opens, and Méi’zi steps out, rubbing her eyes and yawning. She’s in the pajamas I gifted her, the ones with the pink plum blossoms in my unrefined stitching. I notice Shield strapped to her hip.
She glances around; then her eyes go to the gloves at the base of the tree. Tentatively, as though not daring to believe it, she creeps over and picks up the gloves. She stares at them, studying them as she runs her fingers over the stitches, discerning the signature to the patterns and weaves.
Suddenly, she breaks into a smile and her eyes fill with tears.“Jie’jie,”she whispers and hugs the gloves to her chest.
“Méi’zi,” I gasp, but she’s turning around and going back into our house, and she can’t hear me—“Méi’zi!Chun’méi—” My voice cracks.
The magic of the feather is spent, and the memory dissolves, and I’m left looking into Yù’chén’s face. He’s watching me now, his eyes burning deep crimson.
My cheeks are wet as I whisper, “Tell me it’s real. Tell me that wasn’t a lie you made up.”
“It’s real,” he says.
The rain is a deluge, roaring down through the canopy of flowers and willow leaves. I’m completely drenched, kneeling on the muddied banks of the hot spring, just an arm’s length from him. Steam wafts between us, coiling through the red petals drifting in the bloodied water. Something has shaken loose inside me; my walls are breaking, and it’s too late to salvage.
I lift my gaze and break through the last of it. “Why did you steal the sewing kit?”
He stares at me; his lips part in a breath. I see it, that momentary slip to his expression before it locks up again.
“To gain your trust,” he replies. “To get close to you.”
I stare at him. “Why?”
He lifts a hand and crooks a finger at me. My muscles lock. He’s going to take some of my life energy.
I am afraid, but I refuse to run. The only path to him is through the water.
I slip into the spring. The water is hot, but I’m trembling, cold sluicing through my veins. With each step I take toward him, a memory grows clearer inside me: the image of that beautiful red-lipped woman, drinking my father’s life energy, lips pressed to his as though in a lover’s kiss.
I feel sick. I draw to a stop before Yù’chén, breathing hard, my crescent blades in my hands. He’s splayed against the bank in the water, watching me with narrowed eyes. Slowly, he stands, water sluicing from him as he leans over me.
“Why?” he repeats. “So you can be indebted to me. So you can willingly proffer your flesh and blood to me, wicked demon that I am.”
My heart’s pounding wildly, but I force my hands to be steady as I raise Shadow to my palm. “If you’re going to take it,” I say, “then just do it.”
Yù’chén catches my wrist just as my blade arcs toward my flesh. He brushes my hand aside. His eyes are as dark as pools of blood as he trails a finger up my neck. I feel my life energy stirring in my chest, following the stroke of his finger, welling up in my throat.
When Yù’chén’s hand comes to grip my jaw, it takes every ounce of my willpower to hold still.
He is not going to consume my life energy through my blood. He is going to drink my life energy the way the Higher One drank my mother’s soul nine years ago.
His finger trails to the soft curve of my throat. He pauses, eyes flashing as he meets mine. His thumb presses against the flutter of my pulse.
“Do you fear me?” he murmurs.
“No,” I lie. “Ihateyou.”
“Good,” he says, and then he lowers his lips to mine.
We don’t touch. Instead, I feel the soft caress of his breath against my cheek, the cold of his inhale. My life energy wells up from my throat and pours from my lips to his, faintly golden like scattered sunlight. I’m shaking, but whatever I’m waiting for—pain, helplessness, the feeling of my soul slowly being drained from me—doesn’t come. Around us, the rain continues to fall, steam billows from the hot spring, and Yù’chén merely draws in another breath.
His grip has loosened, and his eyes have fallen shut, eyelashes sweeping dark crescents against his cheekbones. His fingers cup my jaw, his thumb tracing strokes against the crook of my neck. Like this, he looks as though he might be asleep; like this, he looks exhausted. Blood from his wounds darkens the water around us.
Why did you steal the sewing kit?
He’s stopped drinking my life energy, I realize. He stands in place, swaying slightly, his thumb caressing my throat in slow, circular motions as he coaxes my life energy up. As our breaths tangle, he cracks his eyes open. His pupils are dark, dilated, and I’m transfixed by the golden glow of my life energy reflected within them. They roam up my face before trailing back down to my lips.
Yù’chén doesn’t take another sip. Instead, his other hand comes up to hold the small of my back. Slowly, he dips his head. His gaze flicks up, meeting mine. Holding it.
