“A little gift from the Heavenly Master himself,” the guard says. “If you try to hurt anyone in this room, the bangle will shrink… and keep shrinking until it has cut off your hand.”
One of the other guards mutters, “Should’ve made it a necklace.”
“If she steps out of place,” another says, “next time, it will be.”
“And before you decide to get self-sacrificial,” the gazelle demon continues over their rumbling laughter, “this bangle has a pair. Right this minute, someone you know—someone we know is important to you—is wearing it. So unless you want them to suffer, too, be a good little keeda and keep out of trouble.”
Then, smirking at the shock on my face, he pushes me toward the archway.
I’m reeling from his revelation. It could be a bluff, but there are people within these walls I care about, and it wouldn’t be too hard for the court to find out who. As much as I hate to admit it, they know me well. The first opportunity I saw to kill the King, I’d have taken it—if I only had myself to endanger. But now, with the knowledge I might be hurting someone I love…
I swallow my rage. I’m about to see the King for the first time in months. I will not let him see how much this move has shaken me. So, fixing a determined smile on my face, I step into the hall, back tall, chin tipped high.
All talk ceases. Laughter sputters to nothing. Somewhere, a glass splinters. The joyful song musicians had been playing stutters as every head in the room swings my way.
My smile trembles, but I hold it in place. It’s been a long time since so many demon eyes were upon me at one time. The gazelle demon leads me between tables and groups of guests, drinks held halfway to open mouths.
“Is that—”
“It can’t be—”
“Why is she still alive…?”
“Dirty little keeda—”
My hand twitches involuntarily toward my hip—but of course, I don’t have my dagger. The knife Wren’s father gifted me was taken by Naja when I was captured.
By now, the musicians have started up again, a singer accompanied by erhu strings and a bamboo drum. Beautiful Moon girls glide through the crowd, balancing carafes of sake and platters of crystallized figs. The hall has been decorated to the full. Reams of crimson, mustard, and royal blue adorn the walls. Lanterns hang from the ceiling, suspended on long ropes twined with blooming flowers, petals cascading down only to dissolve magically over the heads of the guests. At the center of each table sit spun-glass cases as delicate as spider silk, trapped fireflies glittering within.
Is it in demon nature to capture pretty things only to watch them shine through the bars of a cage? Then I think of Ketai Hanno and his hold on Wren.
No. This is something all castes have in common.
My heart drums a frantic rhythm, knowing I’ll be coming face-to-face with the King any moment. At first, the hall is far too busy to see him. Then, as we reach the far side, the last of the guests move out of the way—
And there he is.
Risen from the dead.
The demon that will always haunt me, no matter how many times I kill him.
The King stands with his back to me, talking with a group of councilors. They’re looking past him, aghast to see me, but the King doesn’t turn. I take in those familiar sloping shoulders, the slim line of his waist and hips, surprisingly slender for a bull demon. Lantern light glints off his gilded horns as he takes a sip of his drink and murmurs something to the demon next to him. He would be the picture of composure, were it not for the fact we all know he’s been waiting for me.
He can’t have missed the reaction when I entered, the whispers of the crowd. The King of before would have wanted to watch me approach. The King of before would have taken pleasure in seeing me squirm.
A thrill runs down my spine. Because it seems that King is gone, and this one—the King of after I stuck a knife in his throat, after his world was shattered with the promise of war…
This King is scared.
My pulse spirals. He’s not the only one. Still, my fear is diluted by revulsion and fury and grim satisfaction, all of which shine so vibrantly I’m suddenly giddy with a mad kind of confidence as, finally, the King turns.
This time, the smile that spreads across my lips is real. I take in the extent of the damage I dealt him months ago in one long, satisfied look.
“Hello, my King,” I say.
He watches me with his one eye, and replies in a scraping, ruined voice, “Hello, Lei-zhi.”
For a beat, we face each other in silence, almost as if each of us is daring the other to draw a blade or raise an arm, grab a neck and squeeze.
But we both know that’s not how this can go.
Instead, the King offers a fake, lazy smile, gesturing to the table closest to us. “Please,” he says. He angles his head, hiding the damaged side of his face. “Sit. You must be hungry, and we have so much to catch up on.”
One of the councilors, a bison demon in rich fuchsia robes, splutters. “Heavenly Master, with all due respect, this—this girl—”
“Lei-zhi is our guest, Councilor Haru,” the King cuts him off swiftly. “I expect you all to treat her as such.”
The demon’s cheeks color.
I keep my hands planted firmly in my lap as we take our places around the circular table to mask their trembling—and to stop myself from reaching for something to bash his skull in with. I regard a chopstick wryly. I could stab his second eye and be done with it. Yet while I’d willingly lose a hand to maim the King, I won’t dare hurt one of my friends.
The gold band weighs on my wrist. Who did they force its twin upon? Aoki? Lill? Chenna? Mistress Eira? Kenzo? I’m almost hopeful it is one of them, because at least it would mean they’re still alive.
As long as I’m well-behaved.
The King kneels to my left. His ink and gold hanfu, which mine has been designed to match, pools on the floor around him, overlapping my own.
I train my eyes on the table, heart hammering at his closeness. Under a glass covering, scenes from the Mae Scripts have been carved into the wood. Yet the King’s face is what my mind is focused on. That single, piercing, ice-blue iris. Its pair a wreck of scar tissue, rough in shape but oddly smoothened from shaman work. Without the golden-brown of his bull’s coat, it looks stark and raw, and I’m surprised he didn’t cover it with something. Then again, I suppose that would show weakness. An acknowledgment he’s ashamed of what one human girl did to him.
I sneak a glance at his neck. The King’s robes have been placed in such a way they conceal the site of my attack without drawing attention to the fact, the gold trim high around his neck, almost like a collar, or the enchanted band circling my wrist.
I picture that collar constricting.
I want to jump up, shout loud enough for the whole hall, the whole palace, the whole kingdom to hear: I did that! That was me! They all know, of course. They must, given the way they reacted to my arrival. But to claim it publicly would be different. To look the King in the eye, bare my teeth, and remind him that for a few minutes at least, I ruled him. For the rest of his life he has to wear the marks of my hatred. My wrath.