Li Rong crept up behind the monster. He slashed a trunklike leg with his sword. The beast roared again and turned toward him.
Chen Yong sprang, leapt off one decomposed heel, and stabbed the back of a thigh. He let the blade sink in, and he dangled like an acrobat from the hilt. The monster thrashed and lurched toward Ai Ling. She managed a small step backward, her entire body trembling. Chen Yong landed light on his feet, like a feline.
The beast blinked its black eye once, and in the next moment, she was behind the monster, where Li Rong had stood. They had switched places. She saw Li Rong where she had been. His eyebrows climbed so high from shock they nearly met his hairline.
“Its eye, it blinked . . . ,” Ai Ling said, knowing she made little sense.
“Curses on the Devil’s daughter,” Chen Yong said.
Li Rong stood in a fighting stance before the beast, legs wide, both hands gripping his raised sword.
The beast thrust its claws at Li Rong. His blade met one with a resonating clang. He rushed forward and between the sweeping arms. He plunged his blade into its pale shin, then sprinted back to the side of the tower opposite Chen Yong and Ai Ling.
“Ai Ling, touch the wall!” Chen Yong shouted, his voice sounding too far away.
She laid both hands on the stone, and her fingers tingled with cold—but that was all. They were trapped.
The beast had turned its eye back to Chen Yong and her. Chen Yong jumped away from Ai Ling, making himself the target by brandishing his sword. The monster stomped after him. Cornered, Chen Yong attempted to dodge the creature’s claws as he slashed.
“Watch out!” Li Rong shouted. He ran toward the back of the monster, his sword extended.
Chen Yong crouched low against the wall as the creature lifted its arm high, ready to strike. It blinked its sunken eye once. The hunkered figure of Chen Yong vanished, to be replaced by Li Rong, upright, exposed, with his sword raised. Frantic, he lunged forward.
The monster’s sharp claws crushed down, puncturing Li Rong through his chest. Li Rong’s dark eyes widened with shock, and his mouth slackened. Then his head lolled forward, and his sword clattered to the scarred stone floor.
Ai Ling screamed.
“Little brother!” Chen Yong roared.
Chen Yong attacked the back of the beast in a fury. Over and over he raised his powerful arms and hacked at its dead flesh. Ai Ling watched, helpless, as the monster turned toward Chen Yong. Li Rong slumped over, almost as if he were resting in the monster’s palm.
Ai Ling threw a searching cord out to Li Rong but could grasp hold of nothing to anchor herself. Utter rage erupted within her as she ran after the beast. It lunged toward Chen Yong, not bothering to shake Li Rong from one hand as it thrust with the other.
Ai Ling stabbed her dagger at a rotting ankle, an elbow sprouted from the wound. The hilt glowed bright blue beneath her fingers, shockingly cold to the touch. She withdrew the blade and plunged again as deep as she could in its thick calf, but the monster continued to lumber forward. Desperate, she placed one hand on the creature and leaped inside. There was no spirit, merely a deep pit of furor.
She saw Chen Yong through its eyes. His features hazed, his body was outlined in a blurred red. The need to seek and kill overwhelmed her. Then to absorb. The beast flicked one hand in impatience, flinging Li Rong’s body across the tower. Kill. Absorb. Grow. They were not spoken words, but amorphous images forming ideas. The thoughts thudded with each beat of its booming heart. That was how she found it. A large lump composed of dead hearts, drumming an inhuman rhythm.
Her spirit surged. She concentrated on the immense cadaverous heart, focused her grief and ire. What she could heal, she could also destroy. Her spirit whirled around it in a frenzy.
The heart erupted and splattered.
The beast howled once before it fell to its knees. It toppled, nearly pinning Chen Yong beneath its rotten bulk. She snapped back into her own body, woozy, her head bent over the cold floor, her trembling hands barely able to hold herself up.
Strong arms pulled Ai Ling to her feet. “Are you all right?” Chen Yong asked. He took her dagger, still clutched in one hand, and sheathed it for her.
She shook her head. “Li Rong . . .”
She crumpled against him, and he held her. Frustrated by her own weakness, she shoved herself from him and staggered toward Li Rong. He lay like a broken puppet, arms flung out, legs askew. Blood had pooled around him. His eyes were closed, his face ashen and taut.
She laid her hands on him, above where the claw had gored his sternum. The wound was ragged, wider than her palm. She tried to enter his body but could find nothing to grasp. Tears blinded her, spilled hot against her cheeks. But then she felt it—something was still there—barely clinging, just about to let go. She lunged for it with her own spirit, seized it, and began to move across his wounds. There was nothing to see or feel. Just this wisp she clung to, refused to release.
From a distance, as if watching from above, she saw her own limbs start to shake. Sweat beaded at her temples, but she felt ice cold within, frozen and empty.
Li Rong’s eyelids fluttered, revealing unseeing orbs beneath. An unnatural grunt escaped from between his pale lips, and then the jaws clenched. Even as she held on to the thin thread of his spirit, she could not truly enter his being.
She felt a touch on her wrist and saw Chen Yong crouched beside her. “Ai Ling. Don’t.”
She snatched her hand away as if scalded, and lost the grip she had on Li Rong. The wisp flitted off, slipped into the ether.
Li Rong was dead.
Black circles burst across her blurred vision. She stumbled away and slumped to the floor, not caring that the corpse of the monster was but a few arms’ lengths away. Sobs shook her. She lifted her head, and through the haze, saw Chen Yong crouched over his brother, holding one slack hand in both of his.
The Immortals didn’t care, she thought, the bitterness rising like bile in her throat. They sent us here. They knew this would happen. They let this happen.
She felt a light touch on her shoulder and jumped. A warmth zinged through her, easing her. The scent of honeysuckle filled her nose. She turned to find that the corpse of the decaying monster had vanished. A woman stood in its place.
“You have freed me,” the woman said.
The Lady in White.
Ai Ling scrambled to her feet. “My friend died. He—he was gored.” The tears came again, and she put her face in her hands. She felt the Lady stroke her hair. Something her mother used to do. The Lady lifted her chin with soothing fingers and touched the wetness on her cheeks. The tears dropped like glass into her palm.
“The Goddess of Records gave you a vial,” the woman said.
How did she know? Distrust mingled with the anger and grief, making her stomach clench. Ai Ling pulled the small vial from the hidden pocket within her tunic. The Lady in White carefully put the tears in the vial; they clinked like diamonds as they dropped.
“Consume them when you need strength. You will know when.”
Ai Ling nodded, not understanding and not caring. She turned and saw Chen Yong still with his brother, but looking toward her and the Lady.
“Can you bring Li Rong back?” Ai Ling asked.
She inclined her head. “The dead should stay dead,” she said.
The Lady gazed down at her. She was as tall as the Goddess of Records. Her smooth porcelain skin made the jet black brows that much more dramatic. She wore her raven hair in two braids, looped on either side, with clear crystal jewels woven through the locks. A gossamer gown floated about her like a cloud, pale and white, revealing shimmers of blue with each graceful movement.