But this woman, who by scent is the same kind of yaoguai as Marianne, has no such hang-ups. I try not to stare but at the same time I can’t help myself. Other than the thick golden chain gleaming at her neck, and her scarlet red lips, she is an expanse of creamy soft skin, pale as silken tofu. Even her nipples are barely pinker than the rest of her. I’ve never seen hair like hers before – her curls aren’t pale gold like Lord Aengus, but are a luminous gold-orange hue, like the flesh of a ripe persimmon. Ringlets skim her jawline while a narrow triangle of paler curls adorns her pubis.
Marianne is neither surprised nor unsettled by the naked woman. They greet each other warmly with a kiss on each cheek. Hand on hip, the woman scans me from head to toe as she takes a long drag of an even longer cigarette.
The drawn-out scrutiny takes me back to my childhood in the Hulijing Court; I’m itching to spit at her, or tweak her nipple to make her stop. But I rein in my impulses for Tony’s sake and only give her my stink eye.
Her eyes widen, and she claps her hands like I’m a circus animal who’s performed a cute trick. It makes me hate her self-assurance even more.
Cigarette smoke swirls around her words as she says, ‘Qui est ta petite amie? Comme elle est drôle.’
Marianne and the woman exchange a few more words. The woman winks at me then walks away, head high.
It’s only then I notice we are surrounded by yaoguai like Marianne. They fill every sofa and chaise longue in the sumptuously appointed room. Almost all of them are as naked as the woman. I can’t help but be impressed. We should all have fewer hang-ups about our bodies.
Marianne moves off, heading towards the centre of the room. I start to follow, but when a trio of men breaks off from one of the groups I can’t help but stare. Down there. The first man’s is bent in the middle, almost as if it’s been folded. The other two men’s are different as well – one is wide and squat, the other longer but thinner. I scan the room again, noting the variety in shape and length, in girth and colour. They remind me of the braised marine worms popular during winter with the older yaojing in Yin Shanghai. I’ll never look at them the same way again.
It does make me pause though – what does Tony’s look like? We’ve kissed and even slept (accidentally on Tony’s part) in the same bed, but he holds that line of decorum like a seasoned general, fending off any attempts at incursion on my part.
As I move into the centre of the room, closer to the yaojing, I get my first glimpse of the change in shape and texture of an aroused penis. My face heats. Vigorous movement across the room catches my eye: a pair of legs wrapped around a man’s waist, his buttocks clenching and unclenching with every thrust.
‘Lady Hu Xian Jing!’ Marianne’s sharp tone breaks the trance. ‘Stop gawking and come with me.’
I follow meekly. So many questions dance on the tip of my tongue – what was that fizzing sensation? What kind of yaojing are they? How do they disappear and reappear like that? All important and relevant.
But the one I blurt is, ‘Why is everyone naked?’
Marianne shrugs one shoulder. ‘Why not?’
It’s not truly an answer and yet, it is exactly the question I’ve asked myself many a time about things I’m told I shouldn’t do. Such freedom.
‘But you aren’t,’ I say.
She glances down at her own clothes and smooths her skirt. ‘An absence of clothes indicates we are open to invitation. As a member of House Durand, I do not have such liberties.’
‘Invitation? What does that mean?’
‘It means one is able to indulge in sensorial pleasure.’
The silver-haired woman from the train sits in the centre of the room, perched on a pale rose armchair, an eggshell-thin teacup held halfway to her lips. In contrast to the sea of writhing naked bodies surrounding her, nearly every inch of her is cloaked in a black wool dress and black leather boots.
Marianne says something to the old woman, who frowns, then glances sharply my way. I’m heartily sick of being stared at. The old lady puts down her cup then claps her hands, twice. Everyone in the room disappears with a shimmer, just as Maximilien arrives in the newly emptied room.
I can smell Tony on him, but I am still clueless as to where the others are being held. I’m trapped and powerless until I can figure out what they want. I breathe and count, willing myself to stay calm so I can think clearly.
Their voices trill as they speak. The way the old woman gazes at Maximilien, full of approval, trust, affection, relief, confirms he’s the favourite. The way she looks at Marianne, the way she speaks to her – or rather, the way she doesn’t speak to her, or even acknowledge her words – says plainly Marianne is not. I know how that feels all too well.
The old woman nods at something Maximilien says then sips from her teacup. My nostrils flare. I hadn’t noticed before, since the yaoguai scent was so overwhelming, but now it’s thinned Ican scent blood in the cup. I inhale deeply. The blood is fresh – fragrant and full of yang. My fangs snick out, and suddenly my throat is dry as the Gobi. All three of them turn and stare.
Marianne’s smile is smug. The old woman murmurs and Maximilien strides towards me. He stops a few paces away and turns to Marianne.
‘Be good so we don’t have to hurt your friend.’ Marianne nods at her brother.
Keeping as far away as he can, Maximilien reaches out and pushes up my lip to reveal my fangs. His eyes go wide.
‘Sangue sacré, elle est vampire,’he says.
There’s another flurry of discussion. The woman stands. Maximilien releases me and immediately returns to the woman’s side, accompanying her like an attentive son. Her walking stick punctuates their steps,click, click, click, across the parquet floor.
She stops before me. ‘Montre-moi tes crocs.’
