Transmuted

by Karina Cooper

Before the stars had cleared, my senses went black.

  My grip upon the ledge failed.

  The last I knew, there was nothing to catch me as I fell.

  ***

  Perhaps it was due to my determination to see this through. I’d favor that explanation over the more likely one that all the jostling woke me from my daze.

  Whatever it was, I was well awake by the time I was thrown bodily onto a stone surface.

  I groaned my protest.

  Jagged fingers of ruinous agony forced their way through my brain. The whole of my head throbbed in time with my heartbeat. Though it hurt to do so, I forced my hands beneath me—and promptly bit back a shattered sound of pain as the fingers of my left hand tore furrows of agony up my arm.

  I managed halfway before the world turned upside down around me, my stomach flipped with it, and I bent over, retching out whatever last remained in my belly.

  No relief there. It hurt like the very Devil rode roughshod over me.

  “Hey, don’t do that,” called Meriwether. That bastard. I’d known he meant to cosh me, but he didn’t have to hit me that hard.

  “Leave her,” came an order.

  “But the markings—”

  “All fluids of life are useful,” interjected the other voice, both familiar and abhorrent. I lifted my head, the skin of my lips burning from the acid of my retching, and struggled to peer through the lights that popped through my vision.

  The pain of my head, of my broken fingers, made it difficult.

  I had been taken to a warehouse whose walls were blackened and roof was damaged. Fires occasionally happened in the docks, and this was no doubt one of them what hadn’t been mended after such an accident. The sky rose endless and black above us, but the moon filtered gloomy light into the dark.

  It was near half, already well on the way to setting but more than enough to see by.

  And there was much to see.

  The interior had been swept clean, but dug into the floor were deep furrows as I had never seen. Though I could only see the details of those lines carved around me with any degree of clarity, the overall pattern seemed alchemical in design—mystical in imagery. A large circle covered the floor, with four more intersecting the outer border at intervals I assumed sat at each direction.

  By state of the moon’s placement, I figured that I occupied the southern ring. Across the way, seated with spine rigid and nightclothes stained filthy, Zylphia occupied the northernmost ring.

  A gag in her mouth forced her silence, and her hands were bound tightly behind her, yet her eyes bore a faint red sheen that put in my mind of those things I thought I’d dreamt in my opium haze those long months ago.

  Between us, caught in another circle but neither bound nor restrained in any way, Ma Zhànzhàn sat in that uniquely Oriental way. I suspected it was meant to suggest serenity of some kind.

  Her eyes were closed, her demeanor lacking any signs of wounding.

  How, then, had they taken her? If she had betrayed them, why was she in the circle?

  The fourth circle, the western ring, remained empty.

  I forced myself to my knees. The world tipped in warning, but setting my jaw against the bile locked in my throat, I steadfastly ignored the nausea that came from the powerful blow to my head.

  The loss of mobility in my left hand was slightly more problematic.

  The edges of the circle around me looked unfinished, as though dug out with haste. New, then, or new enough that the elements had not softened the cut.

  I reached for the furrow.

  Fire bloomed. Blisters erupted across my fingertips, and I snatched my hand back with a startled, painful cry.

  “It is best,” said that voice once more, “that you refrain from poking at matters you do not understand.”

  I dared not tuck my fingers into my mouth, for the remains of grime and worse still clung to them. Instead, holding both injured hands against my chest, I lurched to my feet. Three paces was all the circle allowed.

  My breath forced a ripple of incredible heat across the circle’s border. The wave marred the view allotted me.

  Even so, it did not take much to pinpoint the location of the speaker.

  He was, after all, the only one among us resplendent in robes of yellow and crimson, as out of place in the moonlit gloom as a ruby in coal.

  “Ma Lài,” I spat. Blood flecked my hand as I dragged it across my mouth. “So you finally show your face.”

  Like his sister, he could be considered plain, with a startling lack of eyebrows that made of his features something like a mask. A thin black line of beard framed each side of his mouth, left to hang past his chin. No lines marred his youth, and of the two, he appeared slightly younger; a fact I suspected he detested.

  He was not overly impressive of build, but I had watched his sister move. I had fought his servants.

  I had no doubts that Lài was just as accomplished in matters of martial prowess as they were.

  His dark eyes met mine without any shred of concern.

  He was, in his own mind, utterly in control.

  True enough, I had little room to maneuver at the moment.

  “I must allow you my gratitude,” he said, sketching for me a rather polite bow, “for your arrival. You do me a great kindness.”

  “Save your courtesy,” I snapped. Because I had no other recourse, I folded my hands at my back. My fingers throbbed as badly as my head, but I could not allow either to stop me. “I know you plan some great ritual to achieve immortality.”

  “You have never struck me as overly unintelligent,” Lài replied, surprising me with the courtesy. A surprise that quickly faded as he added, “Only somewhat obtuse in matters of pride.”

  His elaborate robes rustled as he made his way to the center of the overall circle. At his feet, a fifth had been carved. The tall plume of his crimson hat hid his hair, and it bobbed as he stepped into the ring.

  “Don’t you know that such matters end in death?” I demanded.

  His thin lips did not curve, though I thought I detected a note of humor to him as he replied, “Your sacrifice shall not be in vain.”

  Sacrifice?

  He snapped his fingers sharply, the sound echoing across the empty floor. From around the edges of the circle, two men and a girl—the mean-spirited girl I recalled from my earlier visit with Uriah—brought out items of various sort and measure.

  A large bowl that bore the distinctive patterns of jade but was colored a deep black. A jar, stoppered with wax, with a seal imprinted upon it that I could not decipher.

  They split on either side of the circle, and it was Meriwether who approached me. A sneer at his lips said he feared nothing from me. In his hands, he cradled an odd brazier the size of a large plate, embers piled upon it. The brazier was brilliant red, carved with elaborate scenes I recognized from my time in the Veil’s company.

  Tigers, dragons, fiery birds.

  What had Zhànzhàn said?

  Five Phases, five directions.

  Five heavenly creatures.

  South was the Vermillion Bird.

  A phoenix.

  Ashmore and Hawke had both called me such. Metaphorically speaking, I had died in one life, and risen again from the ashes a new woman of sorts.

  Metaphor given flesh.

  Which made of that empty ring the prison of the White Tiger.

  Hawke.

  Meriwether’s leer did not ease as I pinned the whole of my fury upon him. He set the brazier down at the edge of my circle and blew the embers into glowing life.

  How I wanted to reach through this fiery prison and blacken his conceit.

  Instead, I gave him my back.

  At Zylphia’s circle, the black jade bowl was placed. Carved upon it was a tortoise, its heavy shell patterned in beautiful scrollwork and providing the bowl-like concave. A snake wrapped around it, its jade head lifted above the contents.

  Within, mercury rippled in quicksilver undulations.

&
nbsp; The serpent carrying the tortoise’s child, wasn’t that what Zhànzhàn had named her?

  Bollocks.

  Outside the empty circle, a plain pedestal. It needed no ornamentation, for the diamond upon it sucked up all the light, glittering madly in the merged fire and moonlit illumination. The Koh-i-Noor.

  Zhànzhàn opened her eyes as the mean-faced girl placed the jar down with a thump. Whatever was inside sloshed.

  We sat in alchemical circles, a variation of the symbolic items I recalled from Zhànzhàn’s efforts to mend Ashmore.

  The sacrifice of the four who were meant to act as the heavenly creatures.

  And the alchemist in golden robes, fabric stiff with the glittering thread of the noblest of metals in the center.

  The Yellow Dragon.

  “You intend to destroy the balance,” I said. “You hope to become not just immortal, but a god.”

  Lài pressed his hands together. “And from this moment, a new dynasty. Yí rì qiān qiū.”

  I had about enough of that mystical Chinese gibberish.

  I squared my shoulders, fists clenched tight, and was only just wondering if I could force my way through the circle that imprisoned me when a long, high-pitched howl shredded through the night.

  All that were mortal in the warehouse, those who were not acclimated to things of a fantastical nature, jumped.

  Even I, who had known of such monsters in the dark, felt the prickle of unease creep across my skin.

  Lài tipped his head.

  On the heels of the fading howl, another thundered. Lower in registry. Fluid and sublime, for all it spoke of death for any prey run to ground.

  The man’s mouth finally bent. A thin smile that did not care a whit for the suddenly pale faces of the men he employed. “Ah,” he said, as though listening to some other wisdom. “And so my tiger comes.”

  Damn it all. I wouldn’t allow it.

  I took in a breath, intent to scream, to warn Hawke away, but the Chinese man simply pressed a hand splayed wide in my direction, and the air abruptly whooshed out of the circle. My skin warmed, and then broke out in a saturated sweat. The air I attempted to take in burned.

  Robbed of the oxygen I needed, I had just enough presence of mind to crouch where I was, folding my arms over my face lest my eyeballs sizzle from their sockets, and pray that Hawke had more sense than to stroll in as though he owned us all.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The man had less intelligence than aether gave a rock.

  As the pressure in my circle faded, as oxygen crept back into my starving lungs, I raised my streaming eyes just in time to see Micajah Hawke step into the warehouse. Blood soaked his shirt, cavernous furrows flayed the flesh of his cheek, and his eyes blazed with that devil’s blue that so marked his blood.

  His stride was not that of a man’s, but the prowl of a long-legged beast. His shoulders dipped in unnatural sway, each step placed upon the balls of his feet as though he would ease into a loping sprint at any moment.

  Across the circle, despair filled Zylphia’s wild stare.

  Hanging from Hawke’s hand, dragged across the ground without care, Ikenna Osoba lay twitching. He lived, I could tell that much by the rise and fall of his chest, but his head lolled from the collar Hawke held, and blood smeared the floor in his wake.

  With one arm, frightfully easy strength, he threw Osoba into the circle. Thump.

  The twisted black body rolled gracelessly to Lài’s feet.

  The man’s brow moved, but I did not think it to be concern.

  Hawke’s gaze fixed on Lài. “It ends,” he growled, and in it, I heard the throttled roar of a beast.

  “What will you do, tiger?” asked the man so marked, as calm as though his own lion prince did not choke on his own blood in front of him.

  A twisted thing Osoba might have become, all ruined flesh and unnatural limbs, but I recalled easily what he had been before. Frightful, yes, determined to see his world put back to rights at any cost, but he had counted Hawke as friend.

  Zylphia, who had made of him a mortal enemy, had carried a deep-seated respect for the whip.

  His clawed fingers flexed against the carved stone. His eyes, sheened by that animal predisposition, seemed fixed on me.

  Blood dribbled from his torturously warped mouth.

  Help me.

  I like as not only imagined the plea. Perhaps it was my own guilt, for the Trump that had forced such a thing upon him.

  What terrible things man committed in the name of dreams best left untouched. Love and immortality.

  Would there ever be anything more deadly than either?

  My burned fingers twitched.

  What Trump could I call to solve this? What power did I possess? The tattoos etched into my feet throbbed as though in shared fury, but no Latin demand came to my lips. No current rode me, as I had once been able to pluck.

  I had mastered two Trumps. Apis and Bacatus-Typhon. Neither suited the situation. My head ached.

  My eyes burned.

  Hawke took one step forward, and his quarry raised his hand.

  His fingers splayed wide.

  The seam of my prison turned crimson.

  This time, there were no favors done me. The air boiled. The fine hairs on my skin evaporated in a flash, and I clamped my hands over my eyes, a scream torn from my throat as my flesh began to singe.

  Just as quickly as it came, it faded.

  Sobbing for breath, I labored to gain my seared senses back under my own control. The stench of burnt hair filled the warehouse.

  “You will,” Ma Lài said, “step into the circle.”

  Damn Hawke. Damn him for looking at me with such desperation, such display of nerves peeled back and raw, that my protest strangled in my throat.

  “Come back to my side, wūshì,” Lài said quietly. An order, for all it did not crack. “And I shall let her go.”

  He wouldn’t. Of course he wouldn’t.

  But then, Hawke could no more risk my life of his own choice than I would sacrifice his. And the stories claimed that love was not a curse. What did they know? With jaw clenched, fists whitened at his sides, Hawke turned away from me. His shoulders strained, spine rigid as he stalked across the carved circles.

  He entered his own and like Zhànzhàn across from him, he knelt.

  “Bind him,” Meriwether ordered, and one of the men approached with rope in hand. The look Hawke levied upon him halted the man in his tracks.

  “Do not bother,” Lài replied, utterly unconcerned. “Like my unworthy sister, he will behave. What bondage you force upon yourself.” That the latter came as a sneer infuriated me beyond measure.

  But what else could I do?

  Zhànzhàn watched me steadily, her features set in a serene mask. Her dark eyes remained hooded.

  And yet, I wondered what it was she hoped to say to me? What was I to glean from her stare?

  “Now come,” Lài ordered, a glitter of gold accompanying him as he raised his arms in the circle. “The new season dawns, and it is time to claim your rewards.”

  Meriwether glanced at me. Then at his mates, who watched him with uncertainty.

  “We’re, uh…” He cleared his throat. “We’re supposed to be in that circle, too?”

  “How else,” asked the Chinese man with great tranquility, “will you hope to take part?”

  “Immortality, right?”

  The man smiled; a caricature of friendliness, and well I knew it. “Immortality shall be gained, this I vow.”

  It seemed reason enough for Meriwether. Though he surely felt out of place, he beckoned his mates forward. They all stepped over the line.

  Zylphia grunted around her gag, her eyes filled with accusation. So furious was her regard that I had little trouble imagining her head filled with uncivilities spat at the fools who trusted the Veil.

  Zhànzhàn looked away.

  As the last member of Meriwether’s team crossed into the alchemical divide, a hollow dr
umbeat echoed through the warehouse.

  Ma Lài withdrew a single blade from the cavernous interior of his heavy robes. As each motion caused the red embroidery on the material to leap and flicker, he seized Osoba by the long plaits of his hair and wrenched his head up.

  The beast snarled in fractured fury. “I…” A thick sound. Guttural and wet, as though the creature he had become could no longer force diction through its muzzle. Osoba tried again. “I… defy…you.” A hack, and blood speckled Lài’s golden attire.

  The man did not appear bothered by this. “Yes,” he said, with a gentility I found frighteningly inhumane. “You do try.”

  The blade winked in the fractured moonlight, and bit deep. Blood sprayed. The Veil dropped Osoba’s body to the circle once more. It convulsed, writhed, and all the while, blood pumped from the severed artery.

  Dripped into the furrows.

  Filled an inner reservoir I had not noticed until the river of red spilled inside it. From the seam of the outer ring, a faint light gathered.

  Another echoed beat.

  There was aether in blood, more powerful than the ambient source bound into the air. I sucked in a ragged breath, tangling my ruined hands into my hair as I struggled to wrench from my fearful mind any plan, any trick, anything at all.

  Was this all I was good for? To be bait, to be a sacrifice?

  Was this what Fanny had died for?

  I closed my eyes, bowing my head, fingers tight at my temples. Think, Cherry St. Croix. I was not helpless.

  The uneven ends of my hair, unwoven from the plait burned loose, fell over my face. Think.

  What would my mother do?

  What would Mad St. Croix do?

  Remember your lessons.

  My eyes flew wide as the first of Meriwether’s screams filled the circle. His mates joined him, shrill and ragged, eyes so round as to force the whites to gleam.

  And then burst.

  Light streamed up from the circle we occupied, wrapped tight around the bodies of Ma Lài’s allies and filled each of their skins with what I could only imagine to be searing, brutal agony.

  Light spilled from their empty sockets. Their mouths and noses. Forced its way through cracks in their flesh and erupted outward.

  Their screams echoed even after they vanished.