Reckoning
Tony lies limp in my arms, his heart still struggling against the new reality. Against his imminent death.
I cradle his face, his brow smooth for now, and wait for the final beat of his heart. Mémère was very clear: the benesangue must be gifted in the moment when he leaves mortality but has not yet been claimed by death. If I miss the window, he will be lost. Every advantage that is mine, I put towards sensing this last gasp of life.
I sit for what feels like hours, Tony’s body cooling in my arms, Marianne and Mémère waiting somewhere beyond this stone tomb for me to call when the gift has been received.
My legs cramp. Pins and needles creep up my arms. I ignore it all.
Little by little his pulse slows. The seconds between each heartbeat lengthen like shadows until they encompass full breaths. Two breaths. Then three. His pulse continues to fade, fighting against the inevitable. Three breaths becomes eight, then nine, then ten. Each beat fainter than the last.
Mémère assured me I would know. But I don’t. I count thirteen breaths but still no heartbeat. The silence in the chamber fills my ears like so much cotton wool. What if I end up sending Tony to the ghost ferries despite everything? Despair paces the edges of my rapidly growing hysteria while panic chokes my mind. I focus on Mémère’s words.Remember to breathe, Jing. Trust your heart. You will know.
I will my mind to calm. I have one chance to get this right. One chance to save him.And force him into an existence he doesn’t want.
Memories of Tony swarm me. The last time he was at Madame Meng’s teahouse.I don’t want to die,he’d said. I had laughed.Guilt and shame at my cruelty threaten my already tenuous control.
Twenty breaths.No.I’ve lost him. I’ve made a fucking mess of everything.
I don’t dare sob, but my body hitches anyways. I missed it. He’s gone. I won’t even make it back in time to meet his ferry. I’ll have to bring Tony’s body back to Shanghai so he can be buried properly. I’ll have to tell his father, his sister.Tian...
How long I sit there I don’t know. Mémère and Marianne are waiting for me. I need to tell them I’ve failed, but I can’t bring myself to call them.
Suddenly, a soft yet deeply resonantda-dumbreaks the silence. My whole body shivers in response.
His last heartbeat.
I’m so grateful I almost laugh, but I focus on the task at hand. I open my wrist with a fang and let the drops trickle into Tony’s mouth.
When the gash closes, I switch wrists. This time, when my blood drips into his mouth, he swallows, then laps weakly at my wrist until my skin knits together again. I slice my other wrist; the blood wells. Like a newborn rooting for milk, he nuzzles my arm, smearing blood over his face before latching with increasing strength onto my open wound.
He drinks, his grey pallor warming until the faintest flush speckles his cheeks.
The room sways; I feel strangely heavy, as if submerged in a bog. Only then does Marianne’s warning come back to me:Drink while he drinks.
I was so grateful I hadn’t missed his last heartbeat I forgot about the blood. I gulp down bottle after bottle. After the third, the oppressive feeling lifts. With my head clear, the pain in my wrist registers. Tony’s frowning, biting at my wrist. The cut must have healed. I swap sides, make another gash. Before I can offer it, Tony’s already yanked my arm to his mouth, clamping his teeth over my wrist with surprising force. I see now why Marianne insisted on bringing me blood.
I empty two more bottles. The punctures in his neck have turned red and shiny. They’re healing. Once the punctures disappear, I have to break the latch.
Tony’s complexion is almost rosy. I empty the last bottle and prepare for the next step. Tony will be strong, but I must be stronger. It has something to do with dominance and order of hierarchy, which sounds like a lot of mumbo jumbo. The upshot being they can’t join me until I break the latch myself.
The puncture wounds fade from red to pink. Tony’s brow furrows as he bites down, drawing from my veins. Gold limns his body as my blood, myqi, and all the yang qi from the donated blood pass to Tony.
His puncture wounds have faded to match the rest of his neck then disappear altogether.
‘Tony,’ I say, softly at first, shame keeping my voice hostage. ‘Tony, wake up!’
He continues to drink from my wrist, his grip tight. The heavy feeling returns. I need to stop him before I pass out. I pinch his ear. He shakes his head as if dislodging a fly. I pinch harder; he frowns but doesn’t let go. Finally I twist, hard.
He bares his teeth in annoyance. The slight distraction is all I need to yank my arm free and scramble away.
Tony pushes himself to his knees. He looks around as if seeing the chamber for the first time.
‘Tony . . .’ My voice is full of hope.
He turns. I almost gasp; his brown eyes are Cosmos-black; he scans my body, his gaze lingering on my wrists, before moving to the empty bottles littering the floor. He licks his lips, then brings his fingers to his mouth.
Tony stares at his hands. They’re dripping with my blood. He staggers, and looks at me with such betrayal my heart shatters all over again.
