Page 78

Hanchen flinches.

I feel something flinch in my chest as well, like a hand retracting from a white-hot blade. I had almost forgotten the depth of the other gods’ fear toward Keran. How, when they look at him, they only see Death.

“We passed the fleeing mortals on our way here,” Yuemo says, speaking across the room to me, even though it was Keran who asked the question. “But whatever is causing the chaos is spreading fast. They hadn’t even made it out of the city gates when a number of them began to kill each other. One second, they were still talking, and then the next, they were clawing at each other’s throats like they’d been possessed. When they tired, they killed themselves—just like that little girl.”

Bile rises to my mouth at the memory, so fresh I can still smell the stench of blood on it. Even the fragrance of jasmine and chrysanthemums in the air around me cannot wash it away, cannot untangle the knotted ache in my gut.

“We haven’t identified the source yet, though we can be sure it’s not natural. The mortals don’t know what’s going on either,” Yuemo says. “But they’ve already come up with a name for it. The Killing Plague. It’s fitting, in a way, as it seems to be passing through them like a disease.”

“The mortals love naming things,” Hanchen remarks. “Animals, wars, rocks, wines, ambiguous phases of relationships, a plague that makes them kill anyone they stumble across . . .”

Yuemo glares at him. “Is that really what you’re choosing to focus on? Of all the details I’ve just raised?”

“If we’re arguing about what to focus on,” Hanchen says, with a pointed look my way, “then perhaps we should all acknowledge the fact that Death himself is currently in the room with us? Am I the only one bothered by it? Why are you even sitting next to him?” he asks me, his tone rising with incredulity. “I mean, are the rumors true? Has he bewitched you?”

“No. He hasn’t,” I say firmly. “And he’s not going to hurt me. He’s not going to hurt anyone here.” I reach out across the table, letting my fingers brush along Keran’s, my thumb grazing the slope of his palm, hoping he can feel the truth in those words. I believe you. I know you.

Hanchen’s eyes bulge. Even Yuemo stiffens and snaps his head up.

“You can’t—” Hanchen splutters. “You can’t touch him—he’ll kill you—”

“That’s a lie,” I tell him, calm, not moving away. I catch Keran’s eye, and the raw, tender look on his face makes every thought go quiet, if only for a few precious seconds. If everything is wrong and the world is ending, I think to myself, at least I have someone I want to protect. At least I have this.

“I appreciate it,” Keran murmurs to me, as if hearing my thoughts. “But you needn’t go so far just to help me.”

“I want to,” I tell him.

A choking sound snatches my attention back to the other side of the room, where Hanchen appears to be going through some kind of severe internal crisis. “I’m sorry, but what is going on?” he demands, distressed color splotching his neck. “Why is the Death God looking at you like that? Why isn’t he killing you?”

“Rest assured I would rather die myself than kill her,” Keran says. His touch is soft, but his tone is lethal.

Hanchen laughs, a wild, sharp sound of pure disbelief. “Is this a joke? You cannot honestly expect me to believe that you care about her well-being. Rujia, look, he’s tricking you. He has to be. I know his face is extremely pretty, but you cannot let that distract you from what he is—”

“He speaks the truth,” Yuemo says grimly.

We all turn to him.

“What?” Hanchen blinks. “How—”

“I’ve seen his dreams,” Yuemo says. “I wouldn’t have believed it until I witnessed it myself but . . . there are things beyond our control. Dreams are one of them. How we feel is another.”

His dreams. He’s dreamed about me?

Suddenly, Keran won’t meet my gaze.

“Even if he cares for her,” Hanchen gets out after what seems the duration of a dynasty, “he doesn’t care for us.”

“I truly don’t,” Keran confirms. “But I will only collect your soul when it is time, and unfortunately, it is not time yet.”

“Did you hear that, Hanchen?” I ask.

Hanchen’s eyes swivel around the store. “Did nobody else hear him use the world unfortunately? Does that not sound like a cause for con—” He cuts off with a startled yell.

A face has appeared in the window.

Even through the rice paper stretched over the latticework, I can see the crimson sheen in his eyes. The mortal slams his hands repeatedly against the window, leaving bloodied fingerprints smeared all over it. When the delicate panels break, he crawls through the opening like a hunted animal, not slowing when the splintered wood digs into his ribs and cuts into his skin.

Then he falls the rest of the way in, headfirst, knocking over the wide woven baskets of tea leaves.