Immortal

8

The next day, I woke early, taking my meal in the hall. As I sat by the round marble table, Ningxi served me enough food for four: Silken congee simmered with prawns, small plates of preserved vegetables, tea eggs, pickled ginger, and fried dough sticks. The food was good, yet the silence was unnerving.

“Has Lord Zhangwei left?”

I asked Ningxi, careful not to appear too eager.

“Yes. At dawn,”

she replied.

My fingers tightened around my cup. To mask my excitement, I took a long drink of tea, warm and fragrant. “Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“In time for the evening meal. Lord Zhangwei instructed us to make the preparations, and to aid you with anything you might need in his absence. Shall I help you select a suitable dress? Maybe one Lord Zhangwei would like?”

As her lips formed a knowing smile, I swallowed a sharp retort. “I have a dress in mind,”

I lied, hoping to divert the slant of her mind.

“He likes red,”

she suggested helpfully.

I sighed in false regret. “Unfortunately, I don’t wear bright colors.”

“The cook is planning a special meal,”

she told me with great satisfaction. “All of Lord Zhangwei’s favorites: roasted quail, braised pork—”

“I can’t eat quail.”

Another lie. It rankled that to them, only Lord Zhangwei’s preferences mattered.

Ningxi continued, oblivious to my worsening mood, “I will tell the cook to avoid the quail. For the wine, I have a rare one in mind that will stimulate—”

“Ah, there’s no need for the wine,”

I interjected. “It makes me break out in rashes.”

Her mouth pursed. “There’s no need to be nervous about tonight. Though Lord Zhangwei is much admired, you’re the one he invited into his home.”

I stifled a protest. It was safer to lean into their suspicions, to better conceal my intent. The immortals were so arrogant, they’d readily believe us fools for love of them. “It was only because he was commanded to do so by Queen Caihong,”

I said, as though uncertain. “Even in Tianxia, we’ve heard of his devotion to Her Majesty.”

Ningxi shook her head. “No one can make Lord Zhangwei do anything he doesn’t want to—not even Her Majesty. Lord Zhangwei could have found rooms for you in the palace or sent you to live with one of his many subordinates. For some reason, he wanted you here.”

My curiosity was sparked, though not for what she implied. Was the queen’s hold on him weaker than I’d assumed? If so, I might be able to persuade him to aid us. Our kingdom must be a burden on the God of War, who had to protect us, unless he thrived on the worship of the mortals.

Ningxi was looking at me expectantly. “How do you know Lord Zhangwei is much admired?”

I asked quickly.

“Do you have eyes?”

She grinned, continuing what seemed to be a favorite subject. “Everyday gifts and tributes arrive for Lord Zhangwei, hoping to win his favor—”

“Or his mercy?”

I couldn’t help adding.

“Some, to be sure. But many are from those who hold him in high regard, the families hoping to secure a union.”

As a choked sound slipped from my throat, Ningxi glanced at me. “You seem surprised.”

“No, Lord Zhangwei is . . . attractive,”

I managed to say. Beneath her scrutiny, I found myself thinking of the God of War—not just the weapons he bore, though he never seemed to be without them—but the black of his eyes, the sculpted planes of his face, his thin lips that yielded an air of gravity even when he smiled. A flush crept up my neck; suddenly this claim didn’t feel like the lie I’d thought it was. He was handsome—just as this place was beautiful. But that didn’t mean I wanted to stay here, nor did it mean I wanted him.

Ningxi scowled, disdaining my lukewarm praise. “His Lordship has been courted by almost every eligible person of marriageable age—”

“You are right, Lord Zhangwei is handsome and intelligent and . . . powerful.”

I took a gulp of tea to wash down the bitterness, eager to end this discussion. “And let’s have the wine tonight.”

I wouldn’t drink it, but it was a useful distraction for Ningxi as she headed toward the kitchens.

At once, I made my way from the hall. I’d already explored most of the grounds but found nothing of use. All that remained were the South Courtyard and the God of War’s private rooms. Maybe he’d left the red jade ornament there. And if he was away, there was no better time to search his quarters—as long as I could find a way in.

High walls cleaved the East Courtyard from the rest of the manor, the red lacquered doors closed. The threat of discovery flashed across my mind, but I ignored it, pushing at the heavy wooden panels. I was growing impatient, afraid that despite my grand ambitions I’d leave this place with nothing. As the door creaked open, I slipped into the courtyard. Bamboo shaded the stone pathway, sunlight filtering in watery shafts. To the side lay a large pond circled by willows, their slender leaves gleaming silver as they trailed through the glistening waters. Smooth, flat stones formed a path that led to a black-roofed building flanked by mahogany pillars.

My heart raced. If I could find something of use here, it might change the course of our future. As I drew closer to the building, a melody sprang to life—achingly poignant, the strings reverberating with emotion. The qin was my favorite instrument, its sound solitary yet rich in depth. While I’d taken lessons as a child, my playing made my tutors wince. Fortunately, there were always musicians at court.

Caution reared as I spun around, seeking this talented musician. The music drifted from a pavilion nestled in a corner, behind a grove of trees. A man sat there with his back to me, his unbound hair flowing down his back, his plain gray robe pooling on the floor.

The song soared, a sweeping melody of yearning, of loss. The musician could not be the god. An immortal might master technical perfection over the years, but not the passion that flowed through these notes. They whispered of a reverence for life, a sensitivity that a brutal killer could not possess, a tenderness that made me ache for some unknown reason. I slipped back among the stalks of bamboo, their shadows falling in slivers upon my face. Was this stranger why the god chose to keep to his rooms? Was he a friend, or the god’s lover? The thought pricked, but I forced myself to think how to shift this to my advantage. Could I make an ally here? Or should I flee, to avoid discovery? The latter seemed safest—as I took a step back, treading over a twig that crackled faintly.

The music stopped. A loud twang erupted as a gold cord snapped free from the qin and sprang toward me, swifter than a striking snake. I gasped, darting out of the way as its end sliced my cheek, blood oozing from the cut. The cord curved back, flying toward me again, but I dropped down—just as another cord tore free, wrapping around my ankles. As I staggered, trying to catch my balance, a third qin string shot forth, coiling around my wrists.

I fell, crashing against the stone path, pain flaring along my body. As I struggled where I lay, the thin cords bit deeper into my flesh. So stupid—so careless, to end up bound and helpless! Footsteps neared, ominously quiet. Fear slithered down my spine as I turned onto my back, a shadow falling over me. I squinted, trying to make out the face against the glare of the sun—

“You!”

I seethed.

The God of War crouched down, the loose strands of his hair sliding down to graze my cheek. Silken soft, even as his gaze speared me, all trace of the courteous host gone. “You dare much, coming here uninvited.”

I shoved my wrists at him, glaring though I had no right. Safer to attack, than to admit wrong. “How dare you tie me up?”

His eyes narrowed. “How should I treat a trespasser?”

“I did not trespass,”

I said boldly, widening my eyes. “You said I could go where I wished. You only forbade me from the South Courtyard, not your quarters.”

“Isn’t it common courtesy to not invade a host’s rooms?”

As his tone lightened, a little of my tension eased. “Had I known you desired a private encounter—”

I laughed aloud, even as my face burned. “Do you think everyone desires you? I don’t—not now, not ever,”

I declared rashly, something about him stirring the reckless devil within.

As his eyes blazed, I cursed myself for baiting him. He bent closer then, the coolness from his body flaring across mine. My limbs froze, snared by the predatory gleam in his gaze, the harsh slant of his lips. As his fingers brushed my cheek, something sparked at his touch—something that frightened me. His hand slid lower to clasp my neck, his hold light yet intent . . . as though wanting to disprove my claim, as though knowing he could make me want him. He was wrong, I told myself fiercely, fighting a wave of doubt.

As he lowered his face to mine, sweat broke out across my skin. “I’m here upon your queen’s command.”

I hated the quiver in my voice. “You promised I’d be safe.”

“Don’t be so stupid to trust fully in another’s word, especially a stranger’s. Learn more caution if you want to survive here. Safe just means I keep you alive. I could imprison you in your chamber. I could bend your mind to my will, to obey my every command with utter delight. I could keep you in a state of endless slumber, safe—yet some might argue, better off dead.”

He remained as still as a statue, the dangerous glitter in his eyes holding me fast. “Be more careful in your demands, be more discerning in whom you trust.”

“Are you so deceitful? Can a god’s promise be broken?”

I demanded hoarsely, refusing to cower.

“Anything can be broken. The question is whether it can be remade.”

He released me, tracing the cut on my cheek, tingling with the now-familiar sensation of his healing.

I twisted away from his touch, refusing to show my fear; someone like him probably thrived on it. “Are you done trying to terrify me?”

As I struggled to my feet, he grasped my arm, pulling me up with ease—then propped me against a flowering tree. Petals drifted down, one gliding across my face. Unlike those in my world, these were not edged with brown but veined with gold. There were no reminders of death here, and I didn’t know if that enhanced or diminished its beauty.

I held out my bound hands. “Release me. Now.”

“The Lady of Tianxia is meant to be gracious.”

There was a lilt in his tone, akin to a laugh.

“Oh, I am, to those who deserve it.”

The god scowled as he reached for the cords around my wrists, unwinding them until they slithered to the ground. I rubbed the grooves embedded in my flesh, trying not to wince.

He made an impatient sound at the back of his throat. “Give me your hands.”

“I would rather—”

He did not wait for me to finish. With a deep sigh, he caught my wrists. A current pulsed from his touch, light streaking across the marks, which subsided along with the discomfort. “I’m not your enemy,”

he said as he let me go.

“Of course not,”

I replied cautiously. “It’s an honor for Tianxia to serve the Golden Desert.”

His eyes flicked toward me. “Save the flattery for Her Majesty. You don’t need to say such things to me; I’d rather you say what you mean.”

A terrifying thought. Thankfully, his attention slid to the welts that ringed my ankles. His eyebrows drew together as his fingers grazed my leg, his touch like a breath of winter. The pain vanished, along with the swelling.

“Your skin is cold,”

I blurted without thinking. “Are you ill?”

How foolish I sounded. Immortals were untouched by such suffering and vulnerabilities—those that plagued us. Maybe their ignorance made them seem cruel, though it was no excuse.

“No,”

he said. “But there are times when I’m tired and just want to rest like today, without anyone knowing I’m here.”

“I understand.”

I wanted him to continue, to pry apart this rare window into his heart. “Everyone needs time to themselves. Even the strong are weak sometimes, even the powerful need someone to care for them.”

Silence fell over us, his gaze deepening. “There aren’t many who would say this to me. Most expect me to protect them.”

I didn’t draw away, making myself shift closer. “You must look after yourself, too. It must be hard to bear the responsibility for so many.”

“As do you, Lady of Tianxia.”

The gravity of his tone mirrored mine. “Especially when there is no one to share it with.”

And though I’d hoped to snare him with my words, his drew a string around my heart. I tried to cast it away, to snap it—reminding myself why I was here. These dreams could not be allowed to form; they had no right to exist. I couldn’t get caught up in this farce, pretending he was someone other than what he was: The God of War. Immortal. Cruel.

“I hope you find that person.”

My words rang hollow, the intimate spell broken.

He sensed it, as he folded his arms across his chest. “Why did you come to my courtyard?”

“Can’t a guest seek out her host?”

I asked evasively. “I was curious about you.”

It was wiser to follow the train of his suspicion rather than attempt a clumsy deflection.

As he straightened, the red jade ornament by his waist caught the light—the key to the South Courtyard. How could I steal it? I was a terrible thief; unable to even slip into his garden without being discovered. If the god caught me groping at his waist, what would he think? What might he do?

But I couldn’t afford to be cautious. The South Courtyard held something precious, the only reason it was protected so well. Taking a step toward him, I feigned a stumble—falling against him with my full weight. A low breath rushed from his throat as we went sprawling to the ground, his arms encircling me as a shield. His embrace seared, my mind clouded by his touch. As I lay on him, my eyes flew to his—as wide as mine. I struggled in his arms to distract him, my fingers closing around the tablet, unfastening it swiftly and tossing it into the grass. I dared not take it yet, trembling all over—was it from what I’d done, or the intimacy of our bodies pressed together? Was this fear, revulsion, or something else entirely?

He was breathing as heavily as me, his hands clasped around my waist. “First you force your way into my quarters. And now, this?”

My mind went blank, my guard springing up. I pushed myself upright, anger crowding out the rest of these unsettling emotions. “You’re an arrogant beast to imagine I’d ever want this.”

He sat up, resting an elbow on his knee, his jaw clenched. “I’ve been called many things before, but never a beast.”

“How surprising.”

I would have gladly called him more names, many of which I was certain he’d never heard, those that would make a bandit blush. “Maybe most are afraid to tell you what they think to your face.”

Something flickered in his gaze. “Yet you aren’t afraid of me.”

“Should I be?”

I didn’t think he’d hurt me, but I was afraid of what he might do to my people if angered. I didn’t know him yet or understand his mercurial moods. He wore a mask that I was curious to look beneath, yet equally afraid of what I’d find.

“It depends. What have you heard of me?”

he countered.

“All mortals know the God of War possesses a heart of ice, a desert of a soul.”

As soon as I spoke, I wished I could take it back. But once uttered, words take on a life of their own, sometimes detached from their meaning. I’d told him exactly what he’d asked, yet I’d not been kind—wanting to strike at him because I was afraid. Because I didn’t like how he made me feel: vulnerable and uncertain.

His face darkened. “If you think that of me, you should leave.”

A dismissal. My heart twinged at his expression but I hardened myself, stalking purposefully toward the jade tablet lying in the grass—the one I’d torn from him earlier. Sensing his watchful gaze upon me, I bent to adjust my shoe, then surreptitiously slid the ornament into my palm. As I rose, I tucked it into my sleeve. My breath caught as I braced for accusations, but there were none. Triumph reared, yet it was tempered by a lingering heaviness from our encounter, an unfamiliar weight.

The God of War might not be the monster he was rumored to be, but that did not mean he wasn’t dangerous. Part of me wanted to retreat from this perilous game—yet the stakes were too high. He held many things in his palm, including the safety of Tianxia. If I wanted to gain anything of worth, I needed to push the door between us wider to win his trust, to hide my resentment and loathing, to make him think I cared.

And above all . . . I must never forget that I was pretending.