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  “Trouble? From humans? Or Hell-kind?”

  “From both.”

  “It is not good news,” the squat woman said, “when humans and Hell-kind begin working together. It betokens a lack of harmony in the universe. Now. Where is the young gentleman who showed such interest in fresh ghosts?”

  “Upstairs,” the receptionist said. “Room three—I’ll show you.” Hoisting the heavy skirts of her robe, the squat woman turned to the stairs, accompanied by the receptionist. Zhu Irzh melted back among the draperies until he was no more than a shadow against black velvet. He listened to the wheezing breath and heavy tread of the squat woman; peering out, he saw that she had a wide, flat face, as though something large had sat on it, and eyes like small black seeds. Someone from a lower level of Hell than himself, Zhu Irzh thought. That was not encouraging. He waited until they had passed his hiding place. He could hear them knocking on the metal door of the ghost’s room, a harsh, tinny sound, and then the soft click as the door opened. Zhu Irzh slipped from behind the draperies and slunk down the stairs. He recalled the little ghost upstairs, with her missing p’o, and bit his lip, wondering what it might mean. If he had not exactly found the missing spirit of Pearl Tang, at least he knew where she might be. Her father had taken her back to Earth, it seemed, and it would be a simple enough matter to locate the father’s house. He hoped the First Lord of Banking would be sufficiently pleased to grant him authorization for an exit visa. He had taken rather a fancy to the world above. And it would be most interesting to see what it looked like at night.

  8

  Chen was just in time. As he reached Tang’s mansion, the Mercedes turned the corner of the street. Concealing himself in the neighboring bushes, Chen waited until the car swung into the driveway. The house defenses hummed down and Chen hopped across the now-deactivated tripwire running into the flowerbeds. Through a gap in the oleander, he could see Tang reaching into the back seat of the car. From it, Tang removed a large jar. Under the house lights, Chen could see that it was filled with some cloudy substance, which seemed to swirl like smoke within the glass walls of the jar. Tang carried it carefully inside and shut the door behind him. Chen crept around the corner of the house, keeping to the shadows. The mansion was dark and silent. Even if he was fortunate enough to find an open window, the defenses would be up and the house might be armed: he would have to resort to other methods. He reached in his pocket for the scalpel.

  The action that had so appalled Sergeant Ma had long been a routine matter to Chen, but it still hurt. Gritting his teeth, he rolled up his sleeve and swiftly carved the spell sign on his palm. These days, the palms of his hands were so callused by scar tissue that it was difficult to find sufficiently thin skin to cut; he reminded himself of a junkie, probing for a vein. It was not a reassuring comparison. There was only a faint smear of blood, but it would be enough to satisfy the goddess. He could hear Kuan Yin’s voice in his mind, saying the words that she had used so many years before. Every time you use magic, Chen, there is a price to pay. Her gentleness and her implacability had impressed him deeply then, and perhaps still did, but he found himself growing increasingly weary of this razor line between the worlds. Still, he reflected, it had brought him Inari, and that was worth a little pain now and again. Holding his bleeding palm before him, he watched as part of the wall vanished into smoke. There was no one on the other side. Chen stepped through. The wall returned to opacity behind him.

  He was standing in a study. A roll-top desk was lined with an expensive battery of computer equipment; Chen could see the fluid gleam of a biolife flatscreen spread out across the desk. It gleamed gold: a later and more expensive model than his own. Books lined the walls, but when Chen, unable to resist the habit of a lifetime, went over to investigate he realized that all but a few were fakes: welded together into a single indigestible mass of artificial leather and plastic. He wondered fleetingly what possible satisfaction could be gleaned from such fraudulent erudition. Voices were coming from the hall and Chen stepped quickly back behind the door. He could hear the slurred, roller-coaster speech of Beijing. Chen put an eye to the crack of the door and glimpsed two retreating backs clad in short, black uniforms: servants. He waited until they had turned the corner, then slipped from the study and into the hall. There was no way of getting a fix on Tang; he would just have to search the mansion until he found him. Uttering a heartfelt, but not particularly hopeful, prayer to the goddess, Chen began a methodical, surreptitious investigation.

  Apart from the maids, and a young man in a waistcoat who was reading a pornographic comic in the kitchen, the mansion seemed to be deserted. Chen made his way through the dark and silent upper floor, then went back down to ground level, expecting discovery at any moment. When he got to the main hallway, he saw that there was a second small door beyond the one that led to the parlor. This one was ajar. Chen slipped down the hall and peered through the door. It was black as pitch. Chen thought for a moment, then stepped around the door. He found himself standing on a small landing. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw that a staircase led down towards a dim source of light. Feeling his way forwards, Chen made his way downstairs. He held the scalpel in front of him; the goddess had forbidden him to carry weapons, but the scalpel was an essential piece of spell-casting­ equipment (Chen held the thought firmly in the front of his mind, just in case). Someone was muttering. Remaining perfectly still, Chen traced the sound to the dimness ahead. He thought he recognized the voice of H’suen Tang, but he wasn’t sure. He had come to the bottom of the staircase. He took a single step forwards, just as a smooth hand clamped itself around his mouth. Chen was lifted, with apparent ease, by means of an arm around his waist. Talons grazed his cheek. Chen kicked swiftly backwards and encountered only air. He was carried, rapidly and in silence, to what appeared to be an alcove in the cellar wall, where he was deposited unceremoniously upon the floor. The hand remained across his mouth, clasped as tightly as an iron band. His arms were pinned to his body. Chen rolled a frantic eye and encountered a slanted, golden gaze, lit by amusement.

  “Detective Inspector Chen,” the demon’s voice murmured like silk in his ear. “What an unanticipated delight it is to see you again.”

  Chen was abruptly released. He could feel Zhu Irzh’s hard, cool body behind him, so reminiscent of that of Inari, and in con­sequence disturbingly and suddenly erotic.

  “What—” he sighed, and to his extreme distaste a reproving tongue flickered over his cheek.

  “Sshh,” Zhu Irzh said. “Wait here.” Inhuman limbs uncoiled and the demon stepped over Chen and disappeared in the direction of the dim light. Chen, in a rare moment of ruffled pride, decided that he preferred not to lose face by complying with the instructions of a denizen of Hell. He clambered to his feet and followed Zhu Irzh.

  The demon was standing at the entrance to a small chamber, peering through the curtains. He held out a warning hand as Chen approached. Chen stood on tiptoe to look over Zhu Irzh’s angular shoulder and saw Tang. The industrialist was crouching in the middle of a circle, outlined by a harsh and constant light. Before him rested the jar, and as Chen and the demon stared, Tang opened the lid. A smoky substance, lit with sparks, began to pour forth and Tang smiled. Picking up the jar, he stepped out of the circle. The dazzling light began to contract, sending spirals into the circle. The smoke was beginning to congeal, taking rudimentary human form. Chen could see stumpy limbs, and a round, vague patch that might have been a head. As he watched, the limbs lengthened and the head put forth a face. As it sharpened into focus, Chen recognized it from the photograph that he had been given only yesterday. The thing before him was the ghost of Pearl Tang.

  The ghost’s mouth opened into a gaping hole. The back of her head was missing, like a scooped melon rind. Her hands fluttered, the fingers contracting and extending as they sought to settle into their natural length. The spiral of light was climbing about her limbs like some parasitic creeper, tightening as it grew. Chen saw myria
d tiny legs, groping for purchase. A tendril, ending in a puckered fleshy hole, curled about the ghost’s throat and lay there like a noose. The ghost lost her balance and fell soundlessly to the floor. Her mouth still gaped; her eyes were white, and wide with horror.

  “Let’s see you continue to betray me now,” her father hissed. “It seems that not even Hell can control such a child as you. Go behind my back to my enemies, would you? Seek trouble for your own father? Well, then, I’ll see to you myself.”

  Zhu Irzh stepped swiftly back, pinning Chen behind him so that the policeman could feel the bony vertebrae of the demon’s spine pressing uncomfortably into his rib cage. A moment later, H’suen Tang strode past in a rustle of silk Armani. The door at the top of the stairs clicked shut and Chen heard the familiar whine of a security lock being activated. He was shut in Tang’s cellar, with a demon and a missing ghost.

  9

  Inari knew, perhaps better than anyone else, how closely her husband worked with Hell, but usually she could maintain the pretence that it did not impinge too closely upon their lives. Much of Chen’s work was essentially bureaucratic, after all, with the occasional murder thrown in, and though Inari knew that he conversed with spirits and demons on a daily basis, this was generally done by e-mail or over the phone. This latest case, however, was preoccupying her. Chen had told her of the demon, the Seneschal, and Inari did not like the sound of that at all. Hell had a long memory, and no forgiveness. Suppose this demon’s visit was nothing more than a pretext to get close to Chen, and therefore to Inari? Chen had given the houseboat some defenses, it was true—wards and guardian spells—but nothing was foolproof.

  Inari sat cross-legged on the deck, watching the storm clouds build out over the dark line of the horizon, and her thoughts grew black and bleak. She would not return to Hell. She would sooner die, not the brief flicker of passage between one world and the next, or the many and different levels of Hell, but true death, the death that can only come to someone who has never truly been alive: the extinction of the soul. Better that, than return to what had once been home.

  The first drops of rain hit the deck and Inari raised her face to the storm. Her spirits lifted with the taste of salt on the wind, a wild, fresh smell that drove the incense stench of Hell from her mind. Thunder cracked high overhead and Inari blinked beneath a wave of rain and spray. Her hair streamed down her back in rats’ tails and the skin of her hands glistened as if lit from within. Inari reached out a palm and snapped lightning down from the storm: seizing a handful of energy. She tossed it up in a shower of sparks and it cascaded over her, pricking her skin like a thousand needles and sizzling in the rain on the deck. Along the harbor wall, the lamps were blurred by the rain. The houseboat tossed, churning in the squall, but Inari rose like a dancer and stepped to the far end of the prow, where she stood with her hair whipping in the wind and lightning playing around her.

  The storm was soon gone, taking the heat with it. The sky cleared to a twilit green in the west and the harbor lamps shone out with undiminished clarity, reflected in the settling water. Inari sighed. Her skin tingled. She turned to go back into the boat, but then she froze. Someone was standing on the dock, watching her across the jumble of ropes and nets. Inari could see the figure clearly: a tall man in a leather coat. She could see the hilt of a sword slung over his shoulder. His hands rested in his pockets. His eyes met hers and though he did not seem to see her, she felt the shock of sudden challenge.

  “Who are you?” she called, but her voice was snatched away by the wind. The man turned to walk swiftly back along the harbor wall. Inari shivered. The energy lent by the lightning was ebbing away; she heard her own hot footsteps hiss on the wet deck as she went slowly back inside.

  10

  “Well,” Zhu Irzh said, his sharp features creased with smugness. “It seems Fate is kind, if not the gods.” He bent his head and flame flared briefly from a talon as he lit a cigarette.

  “How so?” Chen said, more to hear what the demon might say than anything else. He had his own ideas as to the nature of the opportunity presented to them.

  “My prisoner has been delivered to me. Little Pearl Tang, trussed like a sacrificial chicken and ready for her plucking in Hell.”

  “Forgive me,” Chen said with utmost politeness. “But I consider that to be a touch optimistic.”

  The demon turned to face him, frowning.

  “I thought we were in accord, Detective Inspector. Two hearts beating as one? At least, if I had a heart …” he added as an afterthought. “What’s the problem? I’ll return the young lady to her rightful domain, and you can arrest your human suspect on the usual charges. Unlicensed trafficking with the netherworld, or whatever the offense may be. I’ll even give you a hand.”

  “Hell is not that ghost’s rightful domain, as you know very well. If it hadn’t been for the machinations of her own parent, she’d be strolling through the orchards of Heaven at this very moment. In fact, she’d probably be alive. I’m sorry, Seneschal. I don’t know what you want with that ghost, but you’re certainly not entitled to her.”

  “You’re questioning my authority?” Zhu Irzh said. There was a dangerous glint in the long, golden eyes.

  “I’m afraid that I most certainly am,” Chen said, equally mild. He met the demon’s gaze. He could feel compulsion growing: a weakness spreading throughout his stomach. The smell of the demon’s opium cigarette was suddenly overpowering. His heart fluttered. Chen took a deep breath, marshaled ch’i, and silently uttered a warding mantra. The weakness dispelled. The demon’s eyes widened with honest respect.

  “Look,” Zhu Irzh said, placatingly. “I’ve no wish to argue. Let’s rescue our distressed damsel first, shall we? And then we can talk about what we’re going to do with her.” He stepped through the door.

  Chen, following, knelt by the ghost’s side. “I know this is frightening,” he whispered, “but please try to keep calm. Nod if you can hear me.” The ghost managed a tight little gesture. The bond tightened around her throat. “Can you speak?”

  The ghost whispered something, but her voice was as dry and faint as a breath of air. The noose slid tighter. Zhu Irzh reached out and touched the bonds: there was a sizzling sound, like meat placed on a griddle, and the demon snatched his hand back.

  “That hurt,” Zhu Irzh said, surprised.

  “We’re going to have a problem moving her, in any case,” Chen said. “If we could release the bonds, she could go back in the jar.”

  The demon’s eyes narrowed in thought.

  “I don’t know what this is,” he said, indicating the fleshy thing that was tightly wound around the ghost’s form. “It looks like something from one of the lower levels, but I’ve never seen anything like it before.”

  “Neither have I.” Chen stood and looked around him. The chamber was dusty and smelled of mould. There was nothing to suggest that magic was practiced there regularly: the place was devoid of the usual accoutrements. Perhaps Tang pursued his dark arts elsewhere, or maybe he did not practice much at all but simply engaged the services of other people’s skills. At the far side of the chamber, one of the floorboards had come loose. Chen went across to investigate. He could see a shadowy hole underneath the loose board. Something glinted. Curious, Chen tugged at the board, snagging his hand in the process. Rusty nails gave way and the board broke in a shower of rotten wood. The source of the gleam was revealed: nothing more than a Shenzen dollar. Chen plucked it out from its resting place and noted the date of minting: 2017. In irritation, he tossed the coin to Zhu Irzh. The demon caught it so swiftly that Chen did not even see him move.

  “You’re bleeding,” the demon said softly. The tip of his black tongue flicked across his lower lip.

  “Don’t get any ideas,” Chen said, dabbing at his hand with a tissue.

  “Sorry,” Zhu Irzh murmured. He appeared momentarily, but genuinely, embarrassed. “Bit of a delicacy, you know, where I come from, and—”

  “I know,�
�� Chen said sourly. “My—that is, an acquaintance of mine used to work in an emporium in your neck of the woods. Rhu Shu Street. He sold human blood.”

  “Tso’s?” the demon said, clearly delighted. “But I know that place! It’s been going for years. And you know the proprietor?”

  “Certainly. Although rumor has it he’s not in charge anymore.”

  “Small worlds,” Zhu Irzh said, then hissed in surprise.

  The end of the bond that secured the ghost had begun to move. It quested out across the air, like a vine seeking light. A bolt of energy shot along its length, causing the ghost to wince. Chen could see the row of spiny feet on the underside of the tendril. He was reminded of lampreys, of centipedes. A round mouth opened with a sound like a suck.

  “I think it’s alive,” the demon said. “It seems to like you.”

  Chen forced himself to stay still as the probing mouth wove in front of his face. But to reach him, it would have to uncoil further; realizing this, Chen moved warily back. The tendril followed, until only its tail remained, hooked in the noose around the ghost’s throat. Its legs waved gently, like a rag worm in the tide. The ghost watched, wide-eyed.

  “It’s after the blood,” said Zhu Irzh. Chen flicked an experimental drop onto the floorboards, and the blind, narrow head moved after it. The mouth opened wider and the blood was gone. “Never seen anything like that,” the demon echoed. “Must be something from the lower levels.”

  Chen’s uninjured hand crept towards the pocket in which he kept the scalpel. Moving backwards, he held out his bloodstained thumb to the creature, which pulsed and flashed with energy. The tail slithered free of the ghost’s throat and the creature slid forwards in a rush. Chen struck down with the scalpel, cutting the creature neatly in half. A bolt of energy shot up the metal blade, numbing Chen’s arm and throwing him backwards. He felt as though he had plugged his hand into the mains; his hair stood fleetingly on end. Zhu Irzh gave a quick, astonished hiss of laughter.