Shadow Pavilion (4 page)

8

T
o Go's relief, he had managed to talk Beni into some sort of agreement.

Sending Lara back was not the best thing to do, but the only thing. Having secured Beni's concurrence, however, Go found himself faced with two further problems: Lara's kindred did not want her back, and Lara herself did not want to go.

Delicate negotiations were therefore called for. And probably a large bribe. It was not an issue that Go had anticipated when they first met Lara: kidnapping, yes, okay. That could be dealt with. He'd foreseen tears, threats, maybe even some kind of Stockholm Syndrome, but not quite the degree of enthusiasm that Lara had actually displayed. The idea of a ransom, which hadn't even been in Go's mind in the first place, was summarily dismissed when Go had had a visit from Lara's sister.

* * *

At first, he'd thought it was Lara herself, standing in the window of his hotel room at midnight, and his heart had leaped and stuttered in his chest.

“Lara! I—”

“I'm not Lara.” A long tail twitched, rustling the curtains. Yellow eyes glittered in candlelight. And he could see now that she was shorter, her long hair a slightly different shade to Lara's jet black, a little russet.

“Then who—”

“I'm her sister. Askenjuri.” At least, that is what he thought she said. The name was a hiss and a sigh. She moved toward him and his knees buckled. The light of the candle illuminated her body against the transparent folds of her loose sari and that was wrong, he thought, the candle was in the wrong place, as though she had stolen the light, but he did not care. She opened her mouth and he saw the points of tiger teeth. The sari fell to the floor and she was striped, night-and-firelight-colored, all along her thighs and then that was gone and her skin was the shade of dark honey. She smiled. Her eyes were brown and gold.

“Am I like her, then? Do you think we look alike? People always think she takes after Mother.” Now, the voice was a purr. She was right in front of him and he had not noticed that she had moved. She smelled of musk and jasmine and blood.

“No,” he'd said in an instinctive croak. “You're
much
prettier.”

Askenjuri's smile widened. The lie must smell, Go thought, rank as a day-old dead goat. But she didn't seem to mind, though the smile was mocking. “Ah, ah, ah
…
I'm sure you're just being kind.” Definitely mocking. But it wasn't just mockery. There was something behind it and he did not know what it was. That made him nervous.

“How did you get
in?”
Think, man. You have to
think
. But the blood was beating in his head like the sea, in out, in out, and his body was heavy and hot, gravity pulling him down and down
…

The carpet was surprisingly comfortable. She was standing over him and there was the distant engine of a purr. “Why, through your little fire.” She gestured toward the candle. “Did you light it for her? Are you expecting my sister?”

“I think she's screwing her agent tonight,” Go managed to say out of a dry mouth, and Askenjuri threw back her head and laughed. Her throat was golden, the stripes only faint.

“Ah, but, my sister screws
everyone,
you see. Has she screwed you, I wonder? She will. We were all so pleased when you took her away, my mother, our sisters, the princesses—everyone.”

“Princesses?” He and Beni had aimed at someone—well,
humble
. They thought it might lead to fewer complications.

“We're all royal, you know.” Again, the twitch of a tiger tail. “But some of us think we're more royal than most. Like little Lara.”

“What are you telling me?” Go said thickly. There didn't seem to be much love lost between them; this didn't seem to be some kind of revenge trip. Thank God. If that was the right thing to think anymore
…

“We don't want her back, little man. You can keep her. If she grows tired and wants to go, let her go. But don't send her back where she came from. We've all had
quite
enough.”

“Oh,” Go said, and that, and variations upon it, were all that he said for the next five minutes or so, because Askenjuri was flicking open the zip of his jeans and licking her lips with a tongue that really wasn't anything like a human being's, and then she sank down on top of him.

In the morning, she was gone. Go woke, feeling as though he'd been beaten with hammers. There was a long lacerated bruise down his chest and stomach—it looked as if an elephant had sat on him—and his head pounded. It was like the flu, but worse.

He did not, naturally, mention Askenjuri's visit either to Lara or Beni. Lara simply did not need to know—it might upset her, like he really cared—and any information that he possessed and Beni didn't was useful information, to Go's scheming mind. Even later, once Lara had told him how much she'd hated her home—its stifling protocol, the endless formality—he still did not tell her that her sister had come to see him. At first, he'd been afraid that Askenjuri might have marked him in some way—magically, as with a psychic bruise—but if she had, Lara did not appear to notice. Just as well.

9

S
eijin moves like water, like wind. Old teachings come back to mind as they glide over the plateau, things learned in the monasteries and palaces of an earlier China. But this is not China, whatever the claims made by Beijing, and not any calendrical time: this is
between
. Seijin, looking up, sees Himalayan heights in the far distance, barely distinguishable from cloud, and the stones shift underfoot, now golden, now gray. Seijin smiles and casts a handful of coins on bare earth.

Resolution. But with changing lines.

Oh. You don't say
.

The coins turn to leaves as Seijin watches and a sudden gust of wind carries them away, spinning them out across the plateau to cloud-mountain. Seijin sighs. To think that this had been intended as a rest.

“What do
you
think?” Seijin says out loud. “Stay, or return?”

Female self steps out, long black hair whipping in the wind of
between
. “What does it matter? We can choose our time of return.”

“Within limits,” male self says, emerging beside her. Seen in a dark place at night, perhaps there wouldn't be all that great a difference between them: the hair, the slanted, opaque gaze, the scaled armor. Female self is of slighter build, and looks young, but in fact female self was always dominant, until the Riders came and she went into hiding for a while, no more than a hundred years or so, but enough to give male self the upper hand. Seijin's smile widens. Interesting times.

“Within limits, true.” Female self is earnest, brow furrowing. “But there is still a great deal of time. The Emperor of Heaven has only just been crowned. We could not have acted before that.”

“Still, the contract is running now,” male self says.

“You are
so
impatient.”

“We have wasted time before. You have to make a choice. Stay in
between
forever or act. Which is it to be?”

“I could wish for
between,”
female self says, a little wistful. “I get tired of all this running around.”

Seijin, hollow on the plateau, laughs. “All right. I've listened. You both have your way. Another night here and then we return to Earth.”

Female self is reabsorbed. Male self hesitates, only for a second, but it's enough to make Seijin frown. Obedient as a hound, male self slides back into place and Seijin is once more liminal, but complete.

This time, the palace does not take so long to reach.
Between
shifts and rearranges: it can take days to cross the plateau, or only a few hours, and there's no predicting it. But shortly after the conversation, Seijin comes around an outcrop of granite and there it is: the Shadow Pavilion, towering and gray as the rocks on which it stands. Seijin bows, once, then climbs the long flight of stone steps and knocks, once, at the doors.

“Who comes?”

“Lord Lady Seijin.” And bows again.

The doors—ancient, the color of twilight, made of wood so weathered that they more closely resemble stone—creak open. The Gatekeeper stands within, barely visible even to Seijin, but a glance over the shoulder shows that night is not far away and that tends to leech the Gatekeeper of whatever shades it might possess.

“Do you seek entrance, to this your own abode?”

“I do, if it is the Pavilion's wish.” A ritual exchange, but one that a person must take care to perform correctly. Not everyone gains access to Shadow Pavilion and with night on the way, that's not a good thing. Even if you are Seijin.

The Gatekeeper says, “Then enter,” and stands well back as Seijin glides in. Seijin follows the Gatekeeper upstairs to a room, one of the best suites, although this has not been requested. As the Gatekeeper moves hastily away, Seijin wanders across to the window and looks out across
between.

Night is coming fast, visible as a shadow gliding over the land. But the mountain peaks are still touched with the fire of the sun, glowing rose-gold, and there is a crescent moon hanging over Himalaya, sharp as a silver tooth in the oceanic sky. Female self pulls hard, wanting to stay.

Time to retire?
Seijin muses. It's become a familiar argument in recent years but this latest contract, this is too magnificent to refuse. After this—if one survives it—would be the perfect time to retire, the crowning glory of a long, long life.

How often, after all, is one contracted to kill a god?

10

I
nari was wrestling with her own conscience—something that, as a demon, she is not even supposed to possess, but which may have come from that human ancestor, the ancestor who had brought such shame on their family, tainting it as she had with mortal blood. Inari had often wondered about that woman, since learning of her existence. She would be long dead, but what had happened to her soul? In Hell, presumably, since she had abandoned the Imperial Court of China and fled the shores of Earth for those of Hell. But if in Hell, then where? Not in Inari's own family home, that was for certain, unless—horrible thought—they had imprisoned her somewhere.

You could keep a soul in a jar, after all. Inari remembered the high ebony jars that had stood on the landing of the mansion, and despite the stuffy, intrusive heat of Men Ling Street, she shivered. Her thoughts returned to the present. She was sorely tempted to get out of the car and go after Chen, but reason prevailed. She would be more help than hindrance if he encountered a problem, and besides, he had asked her to keep a sense out for badger.

There had been no trace of the family familiar, however, and she was growing increasingly anxious and frustrated. It must be like this on most stake-outs, she thought. Long hours of tedium and worry, waiting for something to happen.

And then something did. There was a sudden sharp rattle at the back of the car. Inari turned in her seat, crouching so that her head was below the line of sight, and squinted out the rear window. Nothing was visible. But then the rattle came again—a curious sound, like an instrument, a gourd full of beads. And it was peculiarly compelling.

Inari felt all the worry drain out of her mind, as gently as water trickling through a crack. A moment later, and it was all gone: she felt blank and clear. With detached interest, she watched her hand reach out and flick the lock of the door open. She got out, to stand in the fetid atmosphere of Men Ling Street, which she could now study with no concern at all.
That
was interesting, that small section of dark, shadowed wall behind the trash cans. She thought she ought to go and have a closer look at that.

The rattle came again, playing on her senses and seeming to shake the air around her until it quivered into heat haze. It was hard to see clearly now, but this didn't matter.
Off you go, into the darkness by the wall. See what you can find.
Coaxed, encouraged, Inari walked slowly forward until she was level with the trash cans. Somewhere, there was a terrible smell of rotting fruit.
Ignore that, it's irrelevant. Come along now.

And so she did, and it was summer: not the humid, stifling heat that descended on the city like a lid, nor the torrential downpours that signaled the beginning of the season, nor yet the firestorms of Hell that scoured the great plains bare of life, but a sweet, calm, mildness of day. There were small green flowers springing up beneath her feet and the stench of rot changed to a balmy perfume. Inari stood entranced. This was not even like Heaven—so pretty and yet just a little sickly with it. This was redolent of growth, of life rather than stagnation, and she breathed it in. The rattle sounded again, a stealthy little clatter right at the edges of her awareness and she did not even turn her head.

Someone was smiling at her. A girl, dressed in ivory.

“Hello,” the girl said, and her voice was warm. One of her hands was behind her back. “I've got a present for you.”

“Hello,” said Inari. The girl reached out her hand and then her head burst like a melon, blood and gray matter erupting in a gushing fountain of blood that covered Inari. It reminded her forcibly of her brother's establishment: he had owned a blood emporium, back in Hell. She was too startled to scream. She simply stood, looking numbly down at the crumpled corpse of the girl, except that it was not a girl, but an armored man—no, a demon. There were claws. She did not recognize the breed but that meant nothing; Hell was filled with all manner of persons. One hand clutched a rattle. Inari bent down and picked it up. It was a hollow sphere, made of stretched skin and from it depended many tiny bones. Someone reached over her shoulder and took it from her hand.

“Better let me have that, miss. Are you all right?”

The voice was sharp with concern. It added, into a handheld radio, “Hostile is down. One victim, probably in shock. I need a medical team.”

Inari turned. “It's all right,” she said. “My husband—he's not far away. Detective Inspector Chen.”

The man—tall, with iron-gray hair and a long, harsh face—said, amazed, “You're
Chen's
wife?” And then, more sharply yet,
“And you're a demon!”

Oh, thought Inari, Oh
dear
. She'd seen this man before, and moments after that first appraisal, the badger had pitched him off the deck of the houseboat and into the harbor. His name was No Ro Shi, principal demon-hunter of the Beijing government.