The Dagda cocks his head and the buzz in the air dissipates. Taking advantage of the respite, I help Lord Aengus back to his feet.
‘Please translate for me,’ I say.
Lord Aengus glares at his father, speaking in short staccato tones. I glance over at Tony. Something is off, but I can’t figure out what. His gaze is soft, slightly unfocused. At first I think he’s forgiven me, but the more I look at him the more that feeling of wrongness grows.
Finally I put my finger on it: he smells... wrong. His usual snow and watermelon rind scent is tinged with a strange smell, like rotting garbage on a hot summer’s day.
Jing. I watch his lips form my name, but there’s no sound. His eyes roll back, and he collapses.
‘Tony!’ I launch myself forward but one of Mémère’s black-clad cavaliers catches him.
Relief turns to confusion when the cavalier shouts, ‘Le douleur!’ and disappears with Tony.
There’s a flurry of movement; the air glistens and blurs as everyone in sight simply disappears.
I turn on the spot. The entire bar is empty but for Gigi, Ah Lang, Lord Aengus, the Dagda and me. We stare incredulous at each other then around the bar.
I sniff the air. Mémère, Marianne, Max. The band. The pursuivants, the other vampires. Even the bartender. All gone. We are alone.
‘Very funny,’ I say. ‘You can all come out.’
No response. Gigi and Ah Lang exchange worried glances.
‘Ha, ha! Really, that’s enough. Bring Tony back now.’ I try to sound confident, but my voice has gone pitchy.
Not a single mortal or vampire returns.
Before, when Tony saidNot right...What if he wasn’t talking about Lord Aengus and his father, but about something else? I wasn’t paying enough attention, distracted by the Dagda. What if this isn’t a joke? Tony nearly died last time I lost him to yaojing. Panic winds its tendrils into me, choking my thoughts, mangling my senses.
‘We have to go!’ I head for the door, but Gigi grabs my arm.
‘Wait, Jing, slow down,’ she says.
I twist from her grasp and bare my teeth. A primal instinct takes over: I have to find Tony.
She stills, softens her voice. ‘Jing, we’re here to help.’
Except all I see is her blocking my way out. A vicious snarl rips from my throat as I crouch, ready to attack.
A strange melody stops me mid-motion. The music worms into my mind, whispering of sunlight on rippling water, of the earthy scent of rich, fertile soil, of rain gently washing away worries and fears.
It whispers,Be calm, be calm, be calm.
Yes, I think to myself.Calm. Of course, how reasonable. I nod and smile. Belatedly it occurs to me that music shouldn’t speak.
I shake my head and realise the music is coming from the Dagda – his fingers dance over an instrument that resembles a konghou – a curved wooden frame inset with vertical strings.
Harp, it sings.Not konghou.The song flows into my nose and mouth, drowning me in its tranquillity.Calm,it croons.
I turn a stink eye on the Dagda. The turd is manipulating me with his music. I plug my ears, but the rotted music plays in my head unimpeded.
‘Stop that,’ I say.
‘Feeling better?’ The Dagda offers me a closed-lip smile.
I almost nod again, the patter of rain soothing away my confusion. Something nags at the back of my mind, so I replay the moment. The Dagda’s lips moved, he spoke. I understood, but the words he shaped were not Mandarin.
The rhythmic swooshing of a summer rainstorm drowns out my worries, and I turn my attention to the trill of growing plants and the sigh of parched soil soaking up a long overdue shower. I’m distantly aware of Gigi calling my name, the Dagda’s stormy green gaze, the faint scent of rose and camphor. But the rain cloaks them in a gauzy veil, sweeping away their shadows.
