‘Go away,’ I mutter, but the voice is still there, nagging me. So I resort to my tried-and-true method to make him leave me alone. ‘Turd-egg claptrap, horsey horsey neeigggh,’I sing, making the last neigh as sonorous and realistic as I can. Someone tries to hush me, but I just sing louder.
We cross the Bund – filled with trams and cars and rickshaws and mortals. So many mortals. Cackling, I realise there is one thing mortal Bund does not have. Gangs of turd-egg roosters. Ha!
‘Wansui!’ I shout, hands in the air, triumphant.
Mr Lee almost drops me. ‘Lady Jing, hush.’ His breath is warm against my cheek.
I lean into the warmth, but the rotted turd-egg leans away from me. I wrap my arms tighter around him and press my face to the shimmer at his throat. He smells nice. Something about the particular mix of his yang and blood reminds me of a winter breeze and the flutter of first snow. Beneath it, the crisp scent of watermelon rind. My fangs hurt; I want to pierce his skin so badly and yet I know I mustn’t feed from him. The image of the desiccated mortals scattered around the Hulijing Court makes me shudder and more determined not to ingest any yang qi and certainly not to drink his blood.
Bad Jing. No eating Big Wang’s guests. I lick him again and settle for pressing the smooth surface of my fangs against his neck, trying to quell the ache.
As soon as we enter the revolving door, the roaring quiets to a dull throb. The manic energy releases me as suddenly as it gripped me, and I realise how close I am to Mr Lee. My arms are wrapped around his shoulders, my open mouth pressed against his neck. I’m drooling on him. I should be embarrassed but I’m too dozy to care. I lean back a little to gaze at him; his whole face is the delicate pink of a peony and he studiously avoids looking my way.
In the doppelganger lobby of Big Wang’s Cathay Hotel, the air slips over my skin, cool and discreet. There are women in qipao, women in trousers, women in long, loose dresses too. The men wear Western-style suits and changpao and something that looks like shortened thigh-high changpao with trousers. I hear dialects I’m familiar with, as well as languages I can’t even begin to guess at.
‘So many foreigners,’ I say, voice dreamy. I trace their red-gold shimmer. Mr Lee catches my hand again and presses it to his chest.
‘Can you stand, Lady Jing?’ he asks.
I nod. He sets me carefully on my feet. I sway, still dizzy and strangely drained. Mr Lee wraps an arm around my waist, holding me secure.
‘You’re half—’ He catches himself, then says, ‘Transylvanian. Surely you’ve seen foreigners before?’
‘Français,’ I sing, rolling the rrrrs like the French-trained patisserie chef Big Wang hired for the hotel. A rare scrap of information about my father, when my mother was in one of her more attentive moods. ‘Never. They don’t come to Hell. Not our Hell at least. They go to the deities they believe in.’ I lean out, stick my face in the nearest mortal’s path. ‘Right?’
The woman startles. Her eyes are a luminous jade green. Her skin is as white as the most expensive rice, and her hair falls in voluptuous waves down her back. It’s the colour of kumquat jam and shimmers like silk. I reach out to touch – to see if it’s as smooth as it looks, but she jerks back from my hand, her jade eyes wide. Mr Lee says something to the woman, who frowns at me slightly, before swaying away on click-clacking shoes.
‘Wah,’ I say, staring avidly after her. ‘Did you see her eyes?’
Mr Lee’s face is all pinched up, like he’s trying not to laugh.
‘I had no idea mortal hair could come in so many shades. Or skin. Or eyes. Look at their noses!’ I lift my hand to point, but he encloses my hand in his once more, and lays it back on his chest. ‘A lady over there had amethysts for eyes!’ I sigh, marvelling at the novelty.
‘Hush,’ he says gently, lowering his voice. ‘Here is not the same as your Shanghai. Mortal Shanghai is run by many foreign powers. America, Britain, Japan, France, they all have jurisdiction here. And many more are escaping war and persecution from inland and abroad. You must take care not to offend others. Especially the foreigners.’
Before I can say anything, a short man with a moon face approaches us. ‘You must be Miss Wang. And you, Mr Lee.’
He lifts his rounded black hat in greeting. The mandarin collar of his black tangzhuang is stiff and tidy like that of Mr Lee’s changpao. Silk cord buttons run down the centre and keep the jacket closed over a well-fed belly; the folded cuffs are pristine white. His smiling face reminds me of a steamed mantou bun. Soft and doughy.
‘I am Willie Leung. Big Wang asked me to facilitate things for you here in Shanghai. Anything you need, just let me know.’ He waggles thick black eyebrows at me, holding his hand out for mine.
I stare at his pudgy fingers. He must mean to shake my hand. Three pumps, like how Mr Lee did.
But when I reach out, the lobby lurches and everything spins. Mr Lee’s grip around my waist keeps me from falling on my butt onto the cold marble floor.
‘I think I need to eat,’ I whisper into his chest. And then, to my horror, the edges of my vision creep inwards. With the delicate timing of a poetry-spouting, lute-playing, fragrant plum blossom of a lady, I faint.
Thirteen
Sunshine
I wake to the smell of xiao long bao. For a moment I think I’m back in my room at the Lake Heart Pavilion and Old Zao is steaming me a basket of blood bao. But the smell is different. Less rich. I remember where I am. Mortal Shanghai.
Recalling the smell of yang and blood together, I shudder with pleasure and then shame when I remember my antics.Tian, IlickedMr Lee. I groan, and my stomach echoes the complaint. It’s one thing to lose control when I know Bullhead and Horsey have my back, but here in mortal Shanghai... I don’t have that luxury. I’ll need to find a way to temper the mad rapture if I’m to function at all. Though something here – yang or sunlight, I’m not exactly sure what – seems to dampen my fear of water; that at least is one less thing I need worry about.
I open my eyes and startle at the five pairs of watchful eyes staring down at me. I blink a few times, dispersing the fog of sleep, and realise I’m looking at apainting. On the ceiling, five fat baby angels cavort nude in silk floss clouds on a pale blue sky; their skin the steamed pink of piglets, their smiling lips a lurid red, some with their tiny penises dangling in the breeze, others with their chubby butts hanging out for all to see. A chandelier in their centre drips with crystals and paints rainbows across their overly cheerful faces. I blow out a long breath. I miss my umbrellas.
Pushing up on my elbows, I have to squeeze my eyes shut for a moment while I wait for the room to stop wobbling. The back of my head pulses with a dull ache, and my mouth feels like I’ve rinsed it with sand. I look around for a glass of water.
