Tempted Tigress (15 page)

The man was an easy mark. He was much too occupied in restraining Marie. One hand held her wrists, the other rooted around between her belly and his legs. With a leap, Zhi-Gang straddled the man. He didn't even slow as he converted his forward momentum into a reach and grab. Even holding the deer-horn daggers, he had enough finger strength to haul back on the bastard's queue, easily lifting the man's head and exposing his neck. His other blade closed the distance and, with a quick pull, he sliced straight through to the spine.

Blood gushed out—hot, sticky, and with a brutality that would become nightmares later; he knew that from experience. But for now, he was tossing the body aside—kicking it with his foot when it was too heavy to lift—before dropping down beside Sister Marie. She was gasping in horror, her eyes wide with shock and fear, her face a bloody mess, but not from her own injuries.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, Zhi-Gang caught a shadow of movement. He instinctively raised his daggers to block an attack, but none came. It was his own men—Jing-Li and the other two—taking up positions around him. To the side, the uninjured guard was gaping at his master's body.

"Leave and never come back," Zhi-Gang hissed. Then, as an added threat, he shifted his grip on his daggers. "I can throw these very well, too," he lied.

The man didn't wait. He took off without a backward glance. The second did too, although he moved with a staggering half stumble, holding his hand against the bloody gash on his side. Zhi-Gang dismissed them from his thoughts and returned to the woman on the ground.

"Did he hurt you? Can you breathe?"

She was wiping away the thick, sticky blood with muddy hands. He caught her wrists, startled by how much she trembled. She still hadn't spoken, and he doubted she had breath. He could hear the air move through her throat in shallow, choking pants. He glanced up at Jing-Li.

"Give me your sash," he ordered. His own clothing was already bloodstained.

Jing-Li's face paled as he looked down at his finely embroidered clothing. "But..." His words trailed off at Zhi-Gang's glare. Then with a heavy sigh, he began to untie the fabric that helped hold up his pants.

Zhi-Gang returned his attention to Sister Marie, slipping his fingers beneath her as he pulled her upright. It was easy work, she weighed little, but he was worried by her lax state. She had no more strength than a doll. He opened his mouth to say something to her—what, he hadn't a clue—but at that moment, Madame Sui found her voice.

Actually, the woman had been screaming for a while, but not words. At least, not since Zhi-Gang killed. Now she abruptly stepped forward and slapped him across the face as one would a naughty child. She began to berate him.

"Are you crazy? Why do you kill him? He was restraining the demon! And my best customer, too! Why you do this to me? Aie, aie!"

Zhi-Gang felt his features tighten in fury. Rage still simmered in his blood, so it was fortunate that he had Sister Marie in his arms. As it was, Jing-Li stepped forward, both handing over his sash and pushing Madame Sui backward. "Do not interfere with the mandarin," he growled.

The woman was not to be put off so easily, but Jing-Li had a great deal of experience with subduing servants. "You deserve to be beaten, woman!" he snapped. "Get water for the concubine. And sweet tea! Lead the way back! Now!"

Zhi-Gang worked both hands beneath Sister Marie. He made it to his feet, lifting her easily in his arms. Looking down, he could see her pale face clearly, even beneath the gore. Her eyes were open, her breath steady, but she showed no urge to fight him and he doubted her legs would support her. As he watched, she lifted Jing-Li's sash with shaking hands and managed to wipe her face. It didn't help much as gore smeared everywhere, but she obviously felt better for the task. Meanwhile, he adjusted her in his arms and began the long trek back to the teahouse. He didn't even look at the dead body he left behind except to step carefully around it.

"We will clean ourselves at the teahouse," he instructed Jing-Li, his thoughts churning. There was something important that he had forgotten, but the knowledge eluded him. "Then you will bring the slaver to me. I still have questions for him."

Just ahead, Madame Sui spun around, her eyes narrowing even further. "Slaver?"

"Gan. He called himself Mr. Gan." She grimaced then released a short blast of noise he guessed to be laughter. "You will get no answers from Mr. Gan," she snapped.

Jing-Li stepped forward, his hand raised to strike. "Do not mock the mandarin!" he bellowed.

"Why?" Zhi-Gang interrupted. "Has he left the area? Does he ply his trade elsewhere? I tell you he can hide in any corner of China and still I will find him. He will tell me what I want to know." He spoke with all the strength of his vow, made not far from here so many years ago. He spoke with power and fury, but inside his anxiety grew. Madame Sui would not be so bold without a reason.

"Then go, mandarin," she sneered as she pointed behind him at the dead body. "He is there. See if you can get answers from him now."

He spun around, his anxiety blossoming into dread. It was a hard thing to stare at the face of the man he had just executed. Harder still to peer through the blood and gore to match it with a two-decade-old memory. But he did, and the realization made his knees weaken. He had just killed the only lead he had to his sister.

From
Anna Marie Thompson's journal

December 21, 1881

I couldn't find Samuel. I haunted the docks, asked every bawd or drunk I could find. They all knew who he was. Apparently, he's an important man on the docks. But no one knew where to find him. I left messages. Said Frank's daughter wanted to see him.

It won't work. He won't care, but I had to try.

I am glad to say that our Chief Superintendent seems completely weaned off his hostility to the drug traffic.

—Opium trader William Jardine on Britain's highest-ranking official in China.

Chapter 7

A warm gush of fluid, sticky and thick across her face. The stench of bile. The taste of copper. Anna squeezed her eyes shut and tried to focus on the present sensations, not her memories. The warm fluid was not blood, but tepid water washing the filth away. She smelled cooking oil and greasy dumplings. And no one was screaming in horror, least of all herself. It was kitchen chatter on the other side of the wall. She sat on a rough bench behind a teahouse, cleaning herself with cheap fabric rinsed in a bucket of dirty water.

She swished the cloth around in the dark red water, wondering if her hand would be stained red as well. She knew it would not, and yet she could not help but wonder. Besides, what else did she have to look at? One of the mandarin's guards standing nearby? His eyes were dark and hostile. At the mud-encrusted huts of this tiny village where children ran from her in terror and women shut their doors? No, there was no help from them. More likely another stoning.

So she focused on the bloody water and the feel of wetness that was not sticky, of tepid water that was not body temperature. In truth, she had washed away gore many times behind the mission hospital, so the sensations were familiar, the process done almost by rote. Many times she had felt bathed in blood or human filth. Many times...

Never. Never had a man been murdered while lying on top of her. And yet, she was not sorry. What he'd been doing... What he'd been about to do...

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block out all thoughts.
Opium.
That's what she wanted: the hot curl of smoke, the sensation of floating; the quiet, blissful rest of mind and body: She hungered for it with mind-eating obsession. It consumed her entire focus until her body shook with need. At that moment, she would have sold anything, done anything, been anyone if only it meant a pipe at the end of the day.

"Are you clean, honored lady?" Mrs. Sui's voice was harsh, but Anna latched onto it like a lifeline. She turned quickly, her fevered imagination already seeing a pipe in the woman's hand.

But the woman carried sour, greasy dumplings, not powdered bliss. It was probably the best the woman had to offer, and Anna tried to be gracious. She forced herself to take the tray while in her mind she calculated how best to ingratiate herself. She would find the opium supplier in this dirty little village, and then she would...

"I have brought clothing, honored lady. My daughter's. Not fine silk, but it is clean. Just washed last week."

Last month, more likely, and worn often since then. Though nicely folded, the rough cotton tunic had dark oil stains and smelled of sour soy sauce. Still, Anna set aside the food tray to give overflowing compliments as to the style of dress, that it wouldn't look nearly so pretty on herself as on the lovely Miss Sui, wherever the girl was.

The woman understood the compliments as lies, especially given the large size of the tunic and skirt. Young Miss Sui appeared to be a good ten inches larger around the waist than Anna. And yet, the mama warmed nonetheless.

"But you are not eating!" Mrs. Sui admonished. "Quick! Take some before they grow cold!"

The dumplings were not what she wanted, yet Anna pushed herself to pick up a single greasy crescent. They looked like fat larva to her, but she blocked the thought. She also tried to erase the idea that dumplings like these had probably been the murdered man's last meal. All the village appeared to gather in this sad little teahouse. She could hear them clearly jabbering behind her.