It is not easy to poison my kind. Our blood runs sluggish in our veins and is resistant to a great many things; a poison would at most swell my joints or induce a mild headache. Nothing a nip of fresh sangue wouldn’t fix.
I raised my cup. ‘I am Romain de Durand. Mr Du if you find that too much of a mouthful. Your noble name?’ I poured the would-be murderer some of her own poison. She regarded her cup, then held it aloft.
‘Romain de Durand.’ She clinked her cup to mine. Her French accent was very good. ‘I am Lady Rey of Turquoise Hills.’ To my surprise she downed hers in one. I did the same. She smiled. I smiled.
I filled our cups once again. She watched me expectantly, so I tipped my glass to hers. She knocked hers back again, her gaze never leaving mine. I slowly drained my own cup. Again I refilled them. Lady Rey tilted her head, and scrutinised me for some time. Finally she said, ‘What are you?’
‘Are you always this forward?’
‘Are you always this impervious to poison?’
Devious, but honest. The evening was turning out to be quite unexpected.
‘Are you always this murderous? Here I am, an innocent traveller, merely wishing to appreciate your music.’ I swirled the cup under my nose, sniffing delicately. ‘Black aconite, if I’m not mistaken.’
A twig snapped in the forest. The woman stilled, listening intently. After a moment, she turned her focus back on me. ‘Are you alone?’ she asked.
‘I am.’
‘I have no quarrel with you,’ she said, an edge to her words. ‘Leave me in peace.’
In my memories, my mother was a gentle dreamy creature. I never saw her as a yang qi sucking seductress. Silly, really. She was hulijing after all. My father’s depictions of her make me laugh. She reminds me of Gigi – strong and confident and fearless. So different from the mother I knew. Quite brazen, too, in her attempt to murder my father. A thrilling start to their love story.
His journal got me thinking. What if I really get to meet him? Will he look at me with kind eyes, stroke my hair, and say he missed me? Or will he turn from me, indifferent? The uncertainty makes me antsy, stretching my insides so tight I might snap in two. Maybe it’s safer not to think of it.
Twenty-Eight
Folktales
Big Wang’s response to Gigi’s update is swift, arriving a mere three hours later. It is short and to the point:
‘Zhong Kui, the Minister of Rites, was a renowned demon hunter from nearby Likiang, Romain de Durand’s last-known whereabouts. Many of Minister Zhong’s descendants also became celebrated demon hunters. An interesting story was passed down by his descendants about a shrine which sparkled with gold mist. A small white fox was often seen in the cave. Minister Zhong always assumed the tale was poetic fancy, however, the consistent mention of the fox paired with a description that matches the misting ability of vampires leads him to suspect that the shrine may be where Lady Jing’s father was, or perhaps still is, held. Unfortunately the location has been lost. Those descendants with knowledge have long crossed the Naihe Bridge.
We checked with Willy, who was based further south in Kunming during that time. He confirms that demon hunters were unusually active during the months Romain de Durand was in residence, but has no first-hand knowledge of their activities. Lady Longnu likewise was not present during those months. She suggests speaking to Lady Jing’s venerable grandmother, Niang Niang, who will have first-hand knowledge of any demon hunters in the area.
Passes have been issued for Lady Jing’s grandmother, half-sister and one more of Lady Jing’s choosing, including if Lady Jing so wishes, her good-for-nothing half-brother. It’s time to come home.’
We have only just arrived, but now we’re being called home. I suppose since we delivered Lord Aengus safely into Lady Brigid’s hands, I’ve fulfilled my duties to the Tuatha Dé pantheon and my role as Liaison to the Hulijing Court. It’s time to focus on family and finding my father.
Twenty-Nine
Bar 228
Gigi seems to be in a better mood. She twirls around my room in her new slinky sequined dress, cut low in the back, glittering like a human sparkler, ready for tonight’s party.
‘Your turn, Jing. I won’t let you show up looking like some disreputable newspaper reporter.’
‘I don’t look like a newspaper reporter,’ I mutter, looking down at my outfit. Gigi’s right, but I don’t care. An old shirt of Tony’s, nice and soft from repeated washing, paired with Western-style trousers is my favourite combo. Even so, I give in to keep the peace and follow obediently to her room.
She rummages in one of her trunks and pulls out half a dozen dresses. ‘Try these.’
None of the dresses are cut low. In fact, they cover so much I know Gigi would never wear them. She tries to stop me from looking in the trunk, but I’m faster than she is. I pull out dress after dress. There are at least thirty in there with matching shoes. The shoes are my size and the dresses... every one of them is for me.
‘Gigi,’ I say, overcome.
‘Don’t you dare!’ She dabs my eyes with a handkerchief. ‘Your nose will get all swollen and red. You really will be ugly and I won’t have that.’
‘You didn’t have to bring all these.’
