Eidolon Avenue: The First Feast

by Winn, Jonathan

  She swallowed her rage and tightened her grip.

  It cannot falter, Madame had said. It cannot fail.

  She thrust the knife deep, slicing in and then up and to the side.

  “Go away?” she said, her voice low.

  He grabbed her wrist as the blood ran.

  “A burden to see?” She dragged the knife down to rip his stomach wider. “And what am I now?” Pulling the knife free, the skin parted and his steaming, slippery guts slid free to dangle against his thin waist.

  He looked at her and tried to speak, but could no longer catch his breath.

  “Your family will thank me,” she said.

  She could feel her shadow grow.

  He tried to blink, to remain awake and present, but his eyes closed.

  Her body tingled as the shadow lengthened, reaching wide to cover the dock and darken the waves.

  His skin lost its blush and, the soul captured and swallowed, his body collapsed on the dock and tumbled with a splash into the water.

  She felt light and free. Powerful. Feared.

  She moved to the edge, her eyes on the churning current of Hangzhou Bay.

  A moment later, he rose to the surface. A moment after that, dead fish, dozens and dozens and dozens, all trapped in her shade, bobbed to the surface.

  Her heart pounded and her breath came in short, shallow gasps. Sweat stained her brow. She wanted to kneel, to rest. But, no, she’d never kneel again.

  I’m sorry, she silently said to the stranger caught by the current to bump against the pilings. But your kindness was cruel. It was unnecessary. I no longer have to endure the shame in silence. And now people can pay for their cruelty. They’ll have consequences. I will not.

  Except for the guilt, Lucky thought. As brief as it was.

  There was blood on her hands. Blood that soon disappeared, the shade lifting it from her palms, her wrists. Even from between her fingers and under her nails. Her skin soon so clean it was as if there’d never been a crime.

  She smiled.

  A life without consequence, the wealthy, powerful woman said from the past.

  Closing her eyes, she reached her arms wide, welcoming the dark and willing her shadow to grow and spread, the dock, the water, the boats soon under an umbrella of black.

  And the men on the docks started to argue as more fish died and those who were older stumbled and fell and those who were healthy wiped unexpected sweat from their brows and those whose hearts were ruled by superstition fell to their knees to pray as the sudden darkness fell from the blue of a cloudless sky and Lucky the cursed, Lucky the damned, Lucky the unseen and unloved and powerless closed her eyes and allowed herself a small smile of pure satisfaction.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Weeks passed.

  She kept to the alleys and dark corners of Central Shanghai. Silent and still, she’d stand, testing the shadow. Watching its limits, seeing its strength. Encouraging its growth.

  She’d watch it move as she did. Watched it stop when she stopped. She’d lift her arms and see it rise. Stretch her arms and watch it widen. She’d push her hands in front of her and grin as it stained the ground at her feet.

  It sighed when she wept. It laughed when she smiled. And fed by her frustration and a lifetime of bitter sadness, it strengthened as their shared anger grew.

  She learned that, with the move of a hand, she could make the stranger who walked like her father stumble and fall. She learned that, with a simple breath, she could make another stranger, a callous man with cruel eyes like the man from the dock, cough and reach for his throat, his face turning red as he struggled for air.

  Week after week, she and the shadow grew closer, their bond deepening, the two becoming one. It became her and she, aware her choice was wrong and could only bring an end she’d regret, still welcomed it without apology.

  Whatever price to be paid would be paid.

  Later.

  What she could not do with the move of a hand or a single breath is kill. To do that, she had to approach and commit the act herself. Trusting she would remain unseen and no consequences would follow, she’d grip the blade of the knife—the one she stole from the dock, of course—and with the smallest of motions slice once across the neck and then watch as the wound opened and wept.

  Or stab the base of the skull, quick, and step back while the nameless would stop, fall on bended knees, and then topple forward, their hand pressed to the back of their head as they died in confusion.

  Their families will thank me, she’d think, convinced these men were cruel by the lift of their chin or the way they narrowed their eyes. I’m answering prayers they’ve yet to pray.

  For weeks, Lucky did this. Slaughtered, testing her limits and feeding her revenge, safe under the anonymity of her shadow. Killed, never eating, rarely drinking, the shadow giving her what she needed to survive if she would give it what it craved: the experience of a life ending. The shadow relishing the confused panic of these strangers as they realized this was their end. Those final moments of heartbreak and regret for all they were losing. Family, friends, dreams. The sweet simplicity of the stranger’s last breath.

  She and her shadow grew closer. And she learned.

  Sometimes she was seen. When she’d stand at a store window, hoping to catch a glimpse of her reflection, a stranger would pass and, turning their head, catch sight of the odd girl in the flowered dress and nod. Or in a crowd when someone, a man, sometimes an older man, would stop and, seeing her alone and unloved, offer her a small smile.

  Those people she never killed.

  But she could be seen. Especially when she was weary and her heart was lonely. With all she knew and all she’d first believed, there were doubts. Perhaps she was not invisible. Perhaps not even invincible. Perhaps she could fail. Or falter. Perhaps she’d reach too far or wide or stab too deep too many times and upset the balance between her dark and their light and the charade would crumble into a world of consequence.

  She didn’t know. But with Communism taking over Shanghai and having grown tired of killing the nameless for sport, she, like many, fled to Hong Kong where opium ruled and secret societies destroyed their enemies with an iron fist. Where someone with Lucky’s gift would be welcomed and respected and perhaps feared.

  She soon found herself in the crime infested Mong Kok district. Fruit stands crowded the street. Shops sat behind shuttered windows. The sound of children crying rose from behind closed doors. Somewhere a window broke in a tinkling shatter of glass. A woman shouted and then was silenced with a cruel slap.

  From around the corner, as night fell, a young couple appeared. Tourists perhaps, their clothes too clean and their shoes too new for Mong Kok. Their eyes wide with fear, they all but ran down the street.

  A breath later, a group of men, all in dark suits and felt fedoras, followed, bats in hand. A moment after that, quickly circled and trapped, the screams began as the bats raised to bruise flesh and break bone.

  After a lifetime of searching, Lucky had finally come home.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  We need to talk,” Evangelical had said, sudden, premature crow’s feet creasing the smooth corners as she narrowed her eyes.

  On Eidolon below, the crowd had grown. They stood, finding their forms. Heads tilted skyward. Arms hung, the fingers flexing into angry claws. Blood inched from between snarling teeth to spill over lips and drip onto chins.

  Inside where it was dry and warm, Lucky stared at Father. “You will call me ‘Lucky.’” He sat opposite her, dressed in a suit that shone silver in the grey light of this rainy day, dark glasses resting on the bridge of his sharp nose. He ignored her, pursing his lips as he thought, his cheekbones sharpening as he briefly sucked his cheeks in.

  Far from the past in which he’d lived and ruled, the watch on his wrist was still worth the salaries of ten families in Hong Kong. And the sheen of his still black hair, the oil making it look like a helmet squatting on top of his head, spoke of an American influence
as did the American cigarette between his fingers.

  “Do you remember?” she said to his ghost.

  You believed it was ancient

  “I said ‘You will call me Lucky.’”

  and all-powerful.

  “I ordered you, of all people, to call me Lucky.”

  You could walk through life

  “And what did you do?”

  and destroy

  A cool hand pressed to her forehead.

  without doubt

  “What did I do when?” Evangelical said, her fingers now pressed to Lucky’s wrist as she quietly counted her pulse.

  or pain.

  “And you, Father,” Lucky said, ignoring Evangelical. “You sat there and sneered. Looked at me like, what, like some kind of girl. A woman who couldn’t kill you with a thought, a look, a simple command. A weak nothing because that’s what we were to you, weren’t we? Weak, useless girls.”

  Father sat still. Not speaking, not moving. Not responding.

  “But you were wrong,” she said as she sat back. “You were wrong and you died because you underestimated me, you stupid old man.”

  “Are you talking to me?” Evangelical said.

  Lucky turned and caught her eye before looking back at the empty chair.

  “No,” she said, the word slipping out before she could catch it. “To Father.”

  “Your father.”

  “Oh no, never,” she said, unable to stop herself. “The Father of Mong Kok. In Hong Kong. The Father of everything. He ran everything. In Mong Kok. But I left. Went to Canada, like everyone else. And then Paris, East Berlin, Rome. Never went back to Hong Kong. Couldn’t go back to Hong Kong. They couldn’t make me go back. I wouldn’t do it. It wasn’t allowed. And I’d never set foot in Mong Kok again, that’s for damn sure.”

  “Mong Kok? China?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, home.”

  She shook her head, suddenly aware she might have been speaking and then realized, no, she wasn’t that stupid. She’d never do that.

  Evangelical waited for an answer.

  “No, not home,” she said.

  “Then what is Mong Kok?”

  Mong Kok was a land of firsts, Lucky thought. Thought, not spoke, her lips firmly closed. My first serious kill. My first brush with respect. My first taste of the power of terror. The first time someone bowed low to press their face against the concrete in apology rather than feel my wrath. My first realization that I could step from the shadow and be seen and feared and celebrated and applauded. My first fortune. My first . . . well, my first everything.

  “Your first everything,” Evangelical said. And then she smiled, slow and careful.

  “I’m sorry?” Lucky said.

  “Your first respect, and power, and realization. Your first fortune. Your first everything, right?”

  Lucky stopped. Those had been thoughts. She was sure of it. Private thoughts. And she knew she hadn’t spoken them aloud. Had made sure to keep her lips pressed tightly together. Had kept her tongue silent.

  But did I? she thought. Had I slipped? Was I sharing secrets best left unsaid? And if I’d done this now, without knowing it, had it happened earlier? And often? And to whom?

  They grew restless on the avenue below.

  “Tell me—” She turned to Evangelical.

  A line of people faced her, tickets in hand. No longer on Eidolon, she stood in a large room. A cavernous space with a high, ornate ceiling. One of rounded stone, a colorful mural catching the eye. A room with ticket gates and people sitting patiently in rows of chairs and the clip-clop of shoes on polished stone and announcements ringing out over a PA system. The 922 to Dallas at Gate 5. The 482 to Orlando at Gate 3. People rising in response, suitcases in one hand, tickets in the other, ready to navigate their way to a new adventure.

  Outside the rain pounded the parking lot with a sudden ferocity.

  These were ghosts, Lucky thought. Ghosts I don’t know. But ghosts, yes.

  Across the room, the glass doors slid open with a whoosh, the stranger coming in seconds later. Blond haired with a round face, his eyes nervous, his knuckles white as he clutched his small suitcase, he stopped, his eyes scanning the gates.

  He didn’t see her.

  Yes, she remembered now. The slip of paper. The picture. The wordless promise that the job would be done soon and done well.

  She clutched the blade in her fist, the world falling into a quiet, familiar dark as she called her shadow and her shadow fell. This would be quick. The neck. A long cut. Two inches deep. And then no more. She’d be done.

  “Lucky.”

  The voice came from behind. And he still stood, her job, waiting. Near, so near. The end of it all so, so near.

  “Lucky.”

  She couldn’t escape that voice. That familiar voice that didn’t belong in this bus depot at this time when she was getting ready to do this last final thing.

  “Lucky,” came the voice again, this time a whisper.

  She turned.

  Evangelical stood shaking the rain from her red raincoat, suitcase in hand, the sliding door closing behind her with another whoosh. She did not look at Lucky. She did not call her name. She didn’t even see her as she strolled past to wrap her arms around the blond man, cupping his round face with her palms as she looked into his terrified eyes, her lips saying something Lucky couldn’t catch.

  “Lucky,” came the voice again, the Evangelical from the past hugging the Nameless Job while her present fought to regain control.

  She closed her eyes. Squeezed them shut. Took a breath, then another, and a third as she steadied the shaking in her hands. Opened her eyes to find herself home on Eidolon.

  Evangelical sat near. So near. Her blue eyes watched her from beneath the blonde bangs. “Thought I was losing you, there,” she said.

  “Did I speak?” Lucky said. “Out loud? About Father and Mong Kok and Hong Kong? Were those words I said? To you?”

  “Shush. You’re getting worked up over nothing. Now, sit back and close your eyes.”

  Lucky did just that, her salvation’s hand resting on hers. Breathed in and out. Steadied her heart, quieted her hands and, feeling safe, relaxed.

  Soon, the quickest of sleeps came.

  Moments later, perhaps many moments later, her eyes opened.

  Father sat opposite her, glowing silver in the grey light, his cigarette burning. Madame stood near the window, painted white with thin strokes of black above her eyes, her gaze on the souls crowding Eidolon below. Yin Ying, lopsided and stupid and breathing wet, leaned against the wall.

  The whisper in the corner rested, the familiar eyes narrow as it watched.

  And Evangelical stood at the front door in the kitchen, suitcase in hand, shaking the blood from her red raincoat.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  In a warehouse on the outskirts of Hong Kong, Lucky stood, fearless, unapologetic and ready for war.

  She’d risen too fast. One of the first women invited to officially join, she’d turned them down. “You work for me,” she’d famously said. And she was right. Her shadow made her untouchable. She could say no. She could argue with the Father and the Uncles, as the various leaders of this secret society that ruled Hong Kong and much of mainland China were called.

  She could do what she wanted. Ignore tradition and duty. Sit first, sip tea first, stand to leave first. Walk out the door when she wanted. No one, not even the most vicious, the most powerful, could even think of challenging her.

  Yet some did.

  Years ago an example was made. An example of what could happen if you dared strike Lucky or scream at Lucky or treat Lucky like any other worthless woman. An example that, in hindsight, terrified Lucky herself. One so ominous that it sent a chill down her spine that lingered for years.

  Around a table at the back of a restaurant, they sat. Business had been discussed. Apologies for minor infractions offered and accepted. Money exchanged and blessings for good health and muc
h continued success bestowed. The meeting was over and, eager for sleep, Lucky had stood to go.

  First.

  Not from Hong Kong, it’s possible the stranger didn’t know who she was. New to Mong Kok, it’s understandable he was more than likely unaware of what could and could not be done with Lucky. But, no doubt fortified by the kind of courage found at the bottom of an expensive bottle, he’d stood and screamed and lunged, grabbing her by the shoulder and forcing her to sit. To show respect.

  Then he’d slapped her, once, across the face, and laughed.

  The room had fallen silent.

  It’s said he was lifted into the air, his arms held out, his legs forced apart, his head jerked back. It’s said he wept and begged and demanded to be let down, to be let go. He was a man, didn’t she see?

  Though stories varied, it’s agreed that the stupid man who’d had too much to drink died the most horrible of deaths. An end so vicious and brutal, the restaurant could never be clean enough to be opened again. They say his skin was stripped by unseen hands and the muscle sliced to dangle like bloodied butterfly wings. Men who had slaughtered for decades stumbled for the doors before violently splashing the sidewalk with sick. Men who believed they’d seen it all found themselves weeping in shock, the brutality of this unforgettable night wounding their souls and chasing them into their dreams.

  It was said there were those who were so scarred by the savagery of this night that they never slept again.

  And all agreed that as her shadow slayed and flayed and butchered, Lucky stood calm and quiet as the blood rained down. And when it was done, when there was nothing left of the drunken fool but strands of ligament and fragments of bone, it is said she walked to the door without a word.

  After that, she’d been obeyed. Allowed to do as she pleased when she pleased, she rose through the ranks, yet stayed separate, never answering to anyone but herself. A slip of paper with a name, perhaps a photograph, and the largest of sums deposited into a secret account by Father himself, for only he’d been given that information, and the problem would be dealt with. Always with a knife. Always in public. Always fast. So fast, it’s said throats had been slashed by an unseen hand while the victim was in mid-conversation, the wounded only knowing of their approaching death when the blood spilled down their chests.