Horsey splutters.
With my butt freed, my silk tap pants flutter in the breeze. I push my bare leg into position, extend my left arm straight out, and aim the sword so knee, fingers, and sword all point in the same direction.
My bare skin is pale as the moon, my entire leg exposed; a good portion of my ass too. My grin stretches wide. I move through the rest of the thirty-two forms, many of which end up baring one leg or the other. My robin’s egg blue tap pants make many appearances. When I’m done, I rearrange my qipao, and bow demurely with an equally modest smile. Horsey’s mouth opens and closes like the koi in the pond. Bullhead very wisely has not watched the spectacle at all; he knows of my many complaints regarding the necessity of a lady needing to wear lady’s clothing. He simply stares forward across the river. Big Wang’s wearing his mahjong face, giving nothing away, while Mr Lee is red as a cockerel’s comb, his gaze glued firmly to his plate.
We listen to the water lapping in the koi pond.
‘Perfect form. Lord Nioh is an excellent tutor,’ Big Wang says. ‘You will have no trouble escorting Mr Lee wherever he wishes to go.’ He makes that noise in his throat. ‘I will consider getting trousers for you, Little Jing.’
Triumph curves my lips. Big Wang is oddly old fashioned. He didn’t outright say no, which is progress. I quickly bow my head to hide my smirk.
‘While you carry the sword, you carry my authority. This is an extra layer of protection.’ Big Wang holds his hand out and one of his calling cards appears in his palm. He makes a small motion, a subtle flick.
The mortal jerks as the card smacks his forehead. It sinks into his skin with a faint sizzle, until all that remains are the red characters of Big Wang’s name, stamped across his skin.
‘Hmm,’ I say. ‘That’s definitely a way to mark Mr Lee as your guest.’
The mortal winces, touches his smooth forehead, but otherwise remains silent. An apprentice places a small glass of espresso on the table, whisking away the empty teacups.
‘You may leave now,’ Big Wang says.
Mr Lee stands, but instead of joining me, he goes to kneel before Big Wang. He fists one hand, and wraps the other over it, holding his hands in front of his bowed head. ‘This lowly one labours your procession to borrow your exalted light. By your fortune may the Central Bank of Hell be a success. Many thanks are offered beneath the ceremonial ramp to the most glorious King of Hell.’
I make a gagging sound. All that forthank you, let’s toast to our project’s success? What a waste of qi. Big Wang clears his throat and pointedly looks at the bag of roosters at his feet.
The rotted roosters remind me of my real goal. Putting that bitch in her place. I imagine my foot on her head asshekowtows tome. I sheath my sword and keep that image in my mind as I wait for the mortal to finish his courtly vomit.
Eight
Same but Different
I step from the Cathay Hotel’s revolving doors onto the wide pavement of the Bund. The sword sheath catches my qipao’s side slit and I nearly topple into Mr Lee, who doesn’t notice since he’s nose-deep in a small leather-bound notebook.
‘Could Lady Jing show this humble—’
I suck my teeth, fighting the heavy silver pommel and my temper. ‘Speak plain or don’t speak at all.’ Already my mahjong face is cracking; I’m not sure I can manage an entire day of playing nice with the idiot mortal.
Mr Lee clears his throat. ‘Could Lady Jing show me where joss money arrives into Hell?’
I turn without speaking and begin walking down the Bund, planning where I need to go and how to do it without raising Mr Lee’s suspicions. He looks like the type who would tattle. As if he can sense me thinking about him, he hustles to my side, gazing around him in awe.
‘I am astounded at how similar Hell looks to Shanghai.’
‘ThisisShanghai.’ My voice is flat. My Shanghai has been in existence for longer than his Shanghai.
‘I mean, how similar immortal Shanghai looks to mortal Shanghai.’ He gestures to the imposing stone buildings that line the Bund, oblivious to my pique. ‘These, for example, are all the same as what we have on the Bund. That one – he points at the one with the clock tower – was only built in 1927. Eight years ago. The King of Hell has kept up with the changes sweeping mortal Shanghai.’ He cranes his neck to see further down the road. ‘They’re all here. Half of them are banks.’ He pauses. ‘Why, if you already have so many banks, does the King of Hell wish to build another one?’
‘They’re not banks, they’re mahjong halls.’
‘All of them?’
‘Not all.’ I point to the building we’re passing, right next to Cathay Hotel, forgetting about the rotted sword. It swings down and catches my heel. I lose my balance, but strong hands grip my waist, holding me tight.
Mr Lee’s face hovers over mine, his gaze soft, concerned. His scent – an unnerving melange of Big Wang’s hair pomade, snowflakes, and the velvet sweetness pulsing in his veins – overwhelms everything. The world constricts until there is only him and me. His breath tickles my skin, his arms solid yet warm. It occurs to me I have not been held like this, ever.
I am confused by how I feel about that. His lips part slightly and his yang halos around him, bright as sunshine. A responding burn, urgent and sharp, unsheathes inside me. My fangs extend and a deep snarl erupts from my throat. Mr Lee’s eyes widen. He drops me at the same time I jerk from his grasp. Judging by his expression, he’s as shocked as I am by my reaction. His gaze unsettles me. I fidget with my hair, tuck it behind my ears. My face burns.
Grasping for something to redirect his attention, I prattle about the buildings, walking quickly. ‘That one is Big Wang’s amusement hall,’ I say. ‘There are acrobats and opera, mostly shenqu, though they perform jing and yue operas too. The next two are theatre halls, also owned by Big Wang. One is for yaojing, the other for ghosts. Those three’ – I keep hold of the sword pommel with one hand while I point at the three short buildings, careful to keep two arms’ lengths between us – ‘are a dance hall, a massage hall, and a singing hall. Others are restaurants and bars, catering to the different denizens of Hell. That one’ – I point to the one with the clock tower – ‘is where we’re going now.’
