The Girl with No Face

by M. H. Boroson

  The demon rose to his hind legs now, towering over me. The glow of fire from his throat burned ever brighter, and if a lion’s face could ever be described as wicked, then that was how Biaozu’s face looked in this moment, the light, the heat, from his mouth growing brighter, hotter, every second.

  Seeing a portion of the path where the rocks reached higher, I bolted once again, hoping to find shelter from the demon’s fires. My body moved so fast it felt like I was blurring, as desperately I strove and ran, faster than I had ever run before. I gathered qinggong, drawing up the cultivated lightness from the energy point below my navel and raised it to my skull then sent it surging down to the soles of my feet, lightening every portion of my body as I sped away from my predator. It wasn’t enough. The demon came galloping behind me, closing in. The sounds of his tread on the stones, footsteps pounding faster than my own, prophesied doom. He was as fast as I was, but I was getting tired already. My pulses were racing, my head felt hot, sweat was stiffening my robes, and behind me, the demon chuckled.

  I heard a sound, half-gargle and half-cruel laughter, then bright light threw my stark shadow to the ground in front of me. Now, I thought, now. I leaped. With the momentum, the lightness, the power of my legs and the slingshot snap of my knees, I launched myself into the air like a flung stone while a blast of fires scorched the soil where I had been only a moment earlier.

  For lurching, discombobulated moments, I swung wildly through the air, toppling and spinning, but fifteen years of training had taught me how to get hit and how to fall. I loosened limbs, covered my eyes, and began a corkscrew roll while I was still in midair.

  It would be lying to say the impact when I landed was anything but a wallop. Yet I hit ground and rolled, nearly swam, spreading the impact out, turning over and over, my body loose like a stretchy string.

  At last I rolled to stillness on my stomach, a battered heap of a person, unarmed and dizzy, struggling to catch my breath, regain my balance.

  A cold shadow fell over me, and the throaty, knifeblade voice of Biaozu began to snicker.

  “I know . . .” I said, but lacked breath to say more.

  “What is it you think you know, female? Tell me, so that I may kill you and forget whatever you thought you knew.”

  “I know how you’re going to die,” I said.

  He snickered. “I very much doubt that.”

  “You will be killed,” I said, “by a Buddhist.”

  “What are you saying, female?”

  “I am saying farewell, demon.”

  Then a mass landed on the luosha’s back. Orange and black, a beast with shredding claws and rending jaws took the demon down to the ground. The three tails of the giant tiger swung like banners of war.

  Stones, broken from boulders, hurtled hard through the air, pelting me with their debris. As much as I wanted to watch Shuai Hu destroy the demon, the violent clash of two such monsters could snap my little body like a dry leaf. My sore joints protesting, I forced myself up to my feet, and, turning, I started to stumble away.

  I glanced back to see the tiger fight the demon. Bruised and bleeding, missing half his antlers now, Biaozu backed away from the advancing tiger. The demon’s feet wobbled. Shuai Hu pawed the ground, the black and orange stripes on his fur bestial and magnificent as he advanced with predatory, feline grace upon the demon.

  I shook my head, marveling at the monk’s power, which he always needed to hold back . . . except against luosha demons. His mass and beauty were breathtaking. He prowled closer to the demon, and I found myself wishing that it was me; wishing that I was strong enough to kill Biaozu myself.

  The demon had the strength of ten men, but Shuai Hu had the strength of ten tigers. This was not an even match. Unless . . . .

  “Brother Hu!” I shouted. “The demon can breathe fire!”

  Whether he could not hear me or if his focus was too intent upon his combatant, I could not be sure. Either way, he did not seem to be aware of Biaozu’s deadliest attack; he advanced straight forward, while the demon threw his head back, cocked his jaws open wide, a brightness blazed in his throat, a beat passed, and Biaozu disgorged a blast of flame.

  White-hot fire scorched into the middle of Shuai Hu’s tigerish face. Immediately, moving into the stunned moment, Biaozu charged at the tiger, his remaining antlers goring the hide of the blinded beast.

  I didn’t know what I was going to do, how I could help my friend, but I started running back toward them. I noticed motion behind the monsters; my father was dancing, with five talismans burning in his hands. I kept speeding toward the combat. As I neared the huge fighters, I could smell the tiger’s burnt fur. My father’s dance continued, and with a sudden rush of insight I recalled what he’d said earlier. He’d threatened to reduce Biaozu to a smoking crater in the ground.

  “Oh no,” I said. “Run, Brother Hu! Run!” A moment passed, then, as one, Shuai Hu and Biaozu separated and began to flee. I sped away once more. I took three, four, five steps, desperation speeding me through the rocky terrain in search of some form of shelter, but safety was still steps away when everything—

  THIRTY

  White and bright and blind and searing. Fierce. Weightless, I floated. Present, in the aftermath. Deaf within the roar.

  No fire burns so bright as lightning. No drum beats so loud as thunder.

  Thrown by the blast, I felt my body drifting, weightless, like a dandelion seed tossed in the wind. I became a limp and liquid thing, not in control of my destiny. Ash, ash, I was plain cinders in the air, lightning-battered, thunder-swatted, passively caught up by powers beyond my comprehension.

  Thunder Magic.

  Stones shattered and rubble rained down on me, but fell no harder than rain. Vaguely, suspended half-conscious, I was aware that I had not been harmed; a power held me apart, kept me safe, protected me from the lashes of electricity.

  My father’s power was overwhelming, and it was precise.

  I landed gently as a feather floating down onto dew-soaked grass. Thunder’s echoes still throbbed in my ears; lightning’s bright moment lit blue afterimages in my vision; I felt dazed, but unhurt.

  A thought occurred to me, bringing a little anger to the surface: to annihilate the demon, my father had been willing to sacrifice my friend.

  “Are you alive, Brother Hu?” I called out. I tried to get up but found myself devoid of strength for the moment. “Brother Hu? Are you all right?”

  I heard him groan. “I have been taught that I must embrace suffering in order to transcend it,” he said. “I should thank you, Daonu; whenever you are around, there is no shortage of suffering for me to embrace.”

  “You’re still alive, and still obnoxious,” I said. The afterimages stubbornly refused to be blinked out of my eyes, and my slackened muscles ached. “But are you hurt? Please don’t joke, Brother Hu.”

  I felt a shadow fall over me. Strange how much personality a shadow can carry; this one was imbued with kindness. Shuai Hu, in human form, bald and muscular, crouched over me, cleaning dirt and rubble from my clothes and hair. I met his gaze; he had a predator’s eyes, yet I felt safe, comforted, knowing the tiger would protect me from harm.

  “Thanks to your warning, I was not struck directly,” he said. “My human body was unaffected by the lightning. The body I was born with, however . . . . I received a blast of fire in my eyes, and then I was nearly struck by lightning. That is a lot of injury. It might be a few hours before I am completely healed.”

  “I . . . see,” I said. Demonic fire in his eyes, and a few yards away when the lightning struck . . . and he would fully recover in a matter of hours? That was impressive, if a little frightening.

  Shuai Hu’s eyes turned toward a sound, and I followed his glance. Amid the rubble and the blackened earth of my father’s lightning assault, worse for the wear and yet, sadly, still among the living, Biaozu strode toward us. The pelt he wore as a vest was torn, and wounds bled on his chest, his shoulders, and his chin; but the demon’
s eyes blazed with lust for death. For my death.

  The tiger monk stepped into the demon’s path, shielding me. In his human form, the monk no longer seemed deadlier than the demon. The two of them began to square off.

  And then something, many somethings, stepped between Shuai Hu and Biaozu.

  “Get out of my way, underlings,” the demon said to the armored animals.

  “Enough,” a voice came, braying, and then the ox-headed and horse-faced Hell Guards interposed. For sheer muscular might, I wasn’t sure who among the Hell Guards, the demon, and the tiger monk appeared strongest; all were stronger than any human. But the Niutou and the Mamian wore armor, they were not recuperating from the devastation of lightning, and both had readied their incendiary weapons to blast and burn anyone who opposed them. Biaozu and Shuai Hu both wore the bruises and scrapes of their fight, though neither looked as sore as I felt.

  The ox-head stepped toward the demon.

  “Great Biaozu, are you here to execute our master’s orders?”

  “No,” the luosha demon said. “The woman must be punished for insulting me. Do not try to protect her. She is mine.”

  “She is not yours, Great Biaozu.” The ox-head raised his Nest of Bees, ready to launch dozens of little rockets at the luosha. “You must let her leave.”

  I felt relief come over me like fluffy clouds on a hot summer day. Until Biaozu spoke again and the demon’s words set me into panic.

  “Xian Li-lin,” he said, “I challenge you to a duel.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  Da Biaozu,” I said, “though I am certain that your invitation would lead to a merry sporting event, I must decline your kind offer.”

  The demon started to laugh, taunting and mean-spirited.

  “May we go?” I said to the Horse-head.

  “Do you not understand, Priestess? You have been challenged to a life-or-death battle. You cannot decline the challenge.”

  “I can accept that,” I said. “I forfeit the duel. All hail the mighty Da Biaozu. Can we leave now?”

  “Priestess, it embarrasses me to hold you to such detailed and formal scripts of behavior,” the ox-head said. “If you forfeit the challenge, then your life is forfeit.”

  A cold sensation trickled down my back, as if snow had started falling on me and no one else. The ox-head and the horse-face were not going to allow me to leave. I glanced from the Hell Guardians to the demon, who looked hungry. No, not hungry; excited, not a starving man but a gourmet sitting to dine on fine meats.

  Only his meat was me.

  “Daonu,” the tiger monk said, “can you confirm my belief that Biaozu is a luosha demon?”

  “He is,” I said.

  The monk heaved forward. “I volunteer to fight the demon as the priestess’s surrogate.”

  “Do you accept the substitution?” asked the horse guard.

  “I do not,” said the luosha.

  “Then I shall fight side-by-side with the priestess,” Shuai Hu said. “I challenge you, Da Biaozu. Choose a second to fight at your side, or forfeit.”

  The demon thought for a moment, and then, his brow raising in a suggestively wicked expression, he said, “Let us make this a suitable match. My wife will be my second.”

  “Your wife?” I said. “Who would marry you?”

  He smiled: axblades chopping through blossoms.

  Assuming Biaozu’s wife was not too formidable, the tiger and I seemed to hold the advantage. Then a pair of footsteps stirred, and my father said, “Da Biaozu, I challenge you as well. I shall fight alongside Xian Li-lin and the tiger. Choose another ally.”

  I glanced toward my father and started smiling. This was going to be fun.

  The luosha demon’s eyes scanned the assorted oddballs in their military gear. The ears of a rabbit flopped around outside a remarkable metal visor. “Who here is willing to be my third?”

  No one among the guardians of the Ghost Yamen’s gates seemed interested in fighting today, or dying; since going up against both a Daoshi of the Seventh and a three-tailed tiger was tantamount to suicide. Then a small, ridiculous figure shoved through.

  “Out of my way, out of my way,” said a certain self-important rat. “Xian Li-lin, my mortal enemy, I challenge you to a duel.”

  “You too, Gan Xuhao?”

  “Somehow, Daonu, I expected your mortal enemies to be more formidable,” the tiger said.

  “How dare you?” the red rat goblin said. Turning to face an armored duck, Gan Xuhao asked him, “Did you hear what he said about me?”

  “Quack,” the duck said.

  The rat turned back toward the tiger, his little jade eyes glinting. “Don’t I know you?” he said.

  Shuai Hu did not reply.

  “Weren’t you kept as a pet?” the rat said to the tiger monk. “If I remember correctly, you lapped milk out of a golden saucer, and wore a red collar studded with diamonds around your neck.”

  I looked at Shuai Hu. The monk’s silence was impenetrable. I stared for a moment longer; my friend had lived for centuries, traveling the world, so of course there were many things I did not know about him. I wanted to learn more, but this was not the time.

  I swerved to face Biaozu. Ohhh, this was going to be sweet. Today I was going to combat the demon who tortured my mother. Fighting at my side were the most powerful man I knew, and the most powerful monster. Fighting at the demon’s side were a cute little rat-man whose eloquence with essays far outmatched his meager martial skills, and Biaozu’s wife.

  She approached us now, semi-naked, draped in diaphanous silks. Her skin a flawless sky-blue, her hair wild as ocean waves, she swung her hips as she walked, rhythmically, rhythmically. I watched her voluptuous gait; a mesmerizing, seductive sway shook her hips from side to side, and I had never seen so much of a woman’s skin before. I smelled a hint of rose petals, rich, sweet, and fertile, yet on the edge of rot.

  The demoness was so beautiful it hurt to look at her, and her rocking hips hinted at a skill with lovemaking. In the pleated hems of her skirts, shapes were moving, like little white moths. She was unarmed, unarmored, unshielded, and she moved in no way like a martial artist. Nothing whatsoever suggested she could fight. Biaozu’s wife posed no threat; I could slay her and the rat, leaving my father and the tiger to gang up on poor Biaozu.

  “This is going to be an easy fight,” I said to my father. He did not respond, so I leaned toward Shuai Hu and said, “This duel won’t even be a challenge.”

  I waited for the wry response, the tiger’s respectful wit. He did not speak.

  I turned to look at him. His face was slack and empty, his eyes watery and shining like liquid glass. “Brother Hu?” I said. No response. I waved my hands in front of his staring eyes. He did not blink. Nothing seemed to interrupt his faraway gaze.

  I looked over at my father; he too hung slack and speechless, insensate. My gaze swung back and forth between the two most powerful men I knew, both drawn forcibly into deep trances. “Oh no,” I said.

  “Do you finally understand your situation, female?” Biaozu asked. “My wife has absolute power over the minds of men. You thought a Daoshi of the Seventh and a three-tailed tiger would protect you, but you counted wrong. This combat will be the five of us, against you.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  At the rocky edge of the sea, the demon Biaozu hooted and chortled at my dismay.

  He seemed to feel no compulsion even toward gloating, beyond the laughter. It was the red rat goblin who spoke next, smoothing his Imperial silk robe with a rodent paw. “Priestess, do not fear, for you shall be immortal, like your name; when you are gone, I shall compose elegaic poems for you. It shall be chronicled how valiantly you fought on the day you died, and anyone who reads the poems shall weep for you a flood of tears.”

  Scowling, I considered whether to speak similar words of challenge, but it felt somehow undignified to banter threats with a creature who barely came up to my thigh.

  The female luosha flaunted forward, her
body made for a man’s eyes and not for work or holding a sword. She was engorged with curves, her skin the pale color of a bluebird’s egg, and her hair flowed with such flaxen richness it fell behind her like a meteor shower. Her beauty made my mind slow down to observe and adore her. My response was nothing compared to the way she stilled the minds of my father and the tiger. Though both men had managed, somehow, to keep their tongues inside their mouths, it was all too easy to imagine them dripping rivulets of drool.

  The motions contained within the pleats of her skirts now seemed plain to me: they were human faces. Men’s countenances silently screamed from inside the weave of her sheer dress. I had seen similar captivity of souls before, but those faces had been stripped of their individualities, eroded of mind and memory until they were nothing but shrieking. These men, these faces trapped within the thin fabric of her skirt, had the full and varied array of features a man’s face can bear; they pressed outward on the fabric, eyes wide. Some faces were young and some were old, but all had a look I associated with opium addicts and compulsive gamblers: desperate to leave yet eager for the next high. These souls were addicted to the demoness.

  “I see no reason you should suffer, priestess,” she said, her voice a spool of golden thread. Everything about her seemed to coil and uncoil, drawing me in and wrapping around me. “Whose hand would it be easier for you to die by?”

  “Give your own hand a try,” I said. “Or are such things beneath you?”

  “Priestess,” her voice unraveled silk, “I am offering you a merciful death. If my husband gets you in his hands, he will take his time, and slowly enact his vengeance.”

  “Vengeance, demoness? What does he need to avenge?”

  “He is married to me,” she said, “and like any man, he must obey me. He lives a life of tormented desire, and he will take out his frustrations on you. Believe me, priestess, you would not enjoy my husband’s attentions,” she said, “and I can make either of your two human allies kill you in an instant. So I ask whose hand you would prefer to die by.”