“Those aren’t names!”
“Those are absolutely things hypothetical grandchildren would call them.”
The orderly gesticulates at my ensemble of pensioners, reduced to sputtering. Around us, a crowd kindles. I grin at him. Poor kid. He looks about nineteen, or a baby-faced twenty-two, gangly and unused to the length of his limbs. No one that should have to navigate such a bizarre encounter. But I have a flight to catch.
“Sir. Sir.” He clears his throat. “I understand your desire to be a good Samaritan. But you can’t just check in twelve old women who you clearly are not related to.”
“Can’t I? You could just pretend they were anonymously donated. Call the newspapers or something. Everyone loves a weird story.”
“Sir, please.”
I push myself away from the counter and wedge a hand in a pocket. The other, I flutter above my head in a grandiose gesture of farewell. “Enjoy the publicity, kid. And be careful of the Russian one. She’s scary.”
AN EPILOGUE
THE MAN STUMBLING through the labyrinth of plastic tables looks like he hasn’t bathed in weeks. His trenchcoat is sodden, armpits discolored by black stains. Not that anyone could blame him. That attire is hardly appropriate for tropical weather. His backpack, large enough to store a whole life, is a menace. Every time he turns, he crashes into another plate, spills another mug of ice-cold Milo. Fried noodles erupt through the air, even as shouting chases him onward.
He gets closer. There is a frightening purpose communicated in his motions, and a clarity in his gaze that unnerves me, despite its drug-soaked intensity. We make eye contact. Instantly, he barrels in my direction, shouldering aside half-hearted endeavors to impede his approach.
I’m on my feet before he hits my table.
“You’re Rupert.” That glow in his eyes; it isn’t meth or madness. If anything, it’s mythological, divine power throbbing through the conduit of his mind. “Right?”
“Depends on who is asking.”
My fingers clench around the hilt of a switchblade. It’s been a good few weeks. The ghouls, abruptly embroiled in a sticky legal case that they had definitely not been expecting to face, are now the subject of criminal investigations. An anonymous source, rumor insists, apparently revealed critical information pertinent to their involvement in certain political debacles. None of this, of course, affected me—except that they’re now too busy to interrogate me about my activities in London.
To make matters sweeter, Fariz, somehow removed from the commotion, actually took the effort to secure me accommodations and plane tickets back home. I wouldn’t call the hostel I’m holed up in ‘luxurious.’ ‘Adequate’ at best, and even that’s a stretch. But there is air-conditioning and an absence of cockroaches, and I do have a room for the foreseeable future. Plus, there’s a Mamak right outside.
Everything has been great, honestly. Except for one thing.
I haven’t seen Ao Qin yet.
But I suspect that’s about to change.
High above, lightning scrawls an ominous agreement between the clouds. I shade my eyes and look for scales in the sky. All said and done, I suppose I just wouldn’t feel right without at least one life-threatening complication hovering in the firmament.
“My name is Fitz. I think you have to help me save the world.”
The storm furls itself into coils, clouds thunder-lit from within. Customers rouse themselves from their plastic chairs and plunge towards shelter, unwilling to endure the encroaching deluge. I sigh and straighten, rolling the kinks out of my neck, even as I call up a well of power from the base of my belly.
“Only if you can help me kill a dragon first.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Cassandra Khaw writes a lot. Sometimes, she writes press releases and excited emails for Singaporean micropublisher Ysbryd Games. Sometimes, she writes for technology and video games outlets like Eurogamer, Ars Technica, The Verge, and Engadget. Mostly, though, she writes about the intersection between nightmares and truth, drawing inspiration from Southeast Asian mythology and stories from people she has met. She occasionally spends time in a Muay Thai gym punching people and pads.
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Rupert Wong and the Ends of the Earth Page 19
