Wugan

Wugan led Ruihwa back to the inn, drawing the collective stares of the gamblers as he passed them by. The crone, in the process of divorcing a new trio from their underwear at the mahjong table, winked at him.

“Master Jin,” she crowed. “Care for a game? I sense your luck is about to turn.”

“Apologies, Auntie Ma. But I fear a man so down on his luck should not be gambling.”

“Why let a bad day—or a week—discourage you?”

Wugan spotted a glimmer in Ruihwa’s eyes. It was the look that telegraphed her groin kicks during their sparring sessions. He winced, opened his mouth to warn the proprietress, but then remembered how many silver ingots had passed from his hand into hers, and ordered a cup of tea.

“Why, Auntie,” sang Ruihwa, each word dripping with nectar. “Let me. He needs a change of clothes.”

He sensed Auntie Ma’s eyes on him, or rather, his shoulder blades protruding from the two gashes Ruihwa had inflicted. Already, he suspected she was calculating whether stripping him of his bloody rags was worth her effort. This proprietress was the sort of demon he couldn’t vanquish with his eight forms.

“He certainly does,” agreed the old woman. “Come then, dearie. Join us.”

After one very quick round, Auntie Ma’s pipe fell out of her mouth, specking the table with tobacco. With a winsome smile, Ruihwa started shuffling the tiles when the other players flew from their chairs. Wugan didn’t blame them.

“That was fun, Auntie,” said Ruihwa, beaming. “Be sure to invite me next time.”

Leaving the crone stunned, Ruihwa bounded after Wugan up the creaky stairs.

“You always fought dirty.”

“One of my better qualities.”

Entering his room, Wugan offered Ruihwa a chair with peeling lacquer. Even with his back turned, he sensed her eyes darting about, searching for cockroaches. From his bag, Wugan dug up a yellow journal and tossed it to Ruihwa.

“I was careless,” he began. “We came back from the markets when some westerner bit her.”

“Westerner?”

“White skin, golden hair. Barely comprehensible accent.”

“And?”

Wugan made a clawing motion. Heart Ripper. Ruihwa winced at the gesture.

“Nothing else?”

“Tepes… I think. Kept saying it.”

Wugan paused, peering out the lattice window.

“At first, I thought Tulang caught a cold. Then she started vomiting everything she ate. She died lighter than a bamboo staff.”

“And what happened at the funeral?”

He massaged his nose. “She broke out of her coffin and threw it into the crowd.”

“And Grandpa Jin caught it?”

He nodded.

“You didn’t think to kill her then?”

Flaring his nostrils, Wugan glared at her.

“We’re both from demon-slaying families,” said Ruihwa. “Were you expecting sympathy?”

With nothing left to say, Wugan glanced up at the hairline crack in one of the ceiling beams while Ruihwa flipped through his journal. The sound alone was enough to tell him which page she was on. He closed his eyes, as if retracing the brushstrokes of each entry.

Year 950 Month 7 Day 21: found an abandoned shack. Chopsticks crossed on top of bowls. Tulang was here.

Year 950 Month 7 Day 23: visited frightened locals. Found unfinished knitting. Appears to be baby clothes.

Year 950 Month 7 Day 24: peasant’s daughter said a pale lady tried to feed her raw meat. Found slaughtered buffalo, blood sucked dry.

He heard the rustling of paper. She had skipped a fortnight.

Year 950 Month 8 Day 8: returned a stolen flag to a merchant. Flag had a Taiji circle on it.

Year 950 Month 8 Day 9: Daoist apprentice from a local temple fended off a pale woman.

Year 950 Month 8 Day 10: found a baby girl in a henhouse. All the chickens are dead. Baby smeared in chicken blood but was otherwise unharmed.

When the flipping finally ceased, she tossed the journal at him as if it was one of her fans.

“How have you kept track of her?” she asked, her voice quivering.

“Followed the trail of missing children.”

“So… you’ve watched an undead monster play house for all this time?”

Wugan fell silent.

“She’s gone from setting the table to abducting with babies. Are you waiting for her to—”

Frantic footsteps up the stairs were followed by knocks that rattled the wall. Opening the door, Wugan found himself staring at concerned fishermen armed with large knives. Somehow, he didn’t think this was about mahjong.

“Master Jin,” said one man. “That monster came back.”

“Feng Zhu is dead.”

Face blank, Wugan blinked a few times. A couple of hours ago, he had given the unhappy couple something worth celebrating. Even now, he could still hear their laughs and sobs.

“Are you sure?” he asked at last.

“Poor bastard. Gutted like a fish.”

Wugan bolted from the inn before his face could conspire against him and confess his guilt. Trailing him were rapid, light footsteps, almost like a drizzle. It was Ruihwa. He imagined she was judging him.

With one wall knocked down, the house teetered on the brink of collapse. Feng lay among the rubble. His severed hand still clung to a meat cleaver. The villagers did not exaggerate. Turning away, Wugan shut his eyes. This kill reeked of vindictiveness.

“Apologies,” whispered Ruihwa as she stooped down to close Feng’s eyes. “You are the man of the house.”

They found his wife, mad with grief and fear, quaking under a dining table. When her large, crazed eyes fell upon Wugan, she seized his hands.

“My baby, my baby…” pleaded the mother. “My baby!”

A promise to rescue her baby almost rolled off his tongue but Wugan swallowed it. Instead, he squeezed her hands, hurried to the edge of the forest, and puked. When he finally cleared his throat, he produced a red satchel and poured its contents into the gourd. He might need this blissful oblivion tonight.

Breathing slow, Wugan let out a low hum. The air shook. He repeated this a few times, plunging into oblivion. The rumbling sea, Ruihwa’s questions, and the rustling leaves faded from earshot. His perception of self, beginning with bodily sensations, dissolved like sand meeting water. Thoughts blended until they ceased to be distinct voices. He sank deeper until existence became a distant memory.

One. Two. Three.

Wugan brought himself back with three taps to the forehead.

“Let’s go,” he said.

“Do you even know where she went?”

“She probably went home.”

“And if she’s not there?”

“Then you can think of something else.”

After scattering a cauldron of bats and a wolf pack, they were outside the lakeside shack again. The lake, imprinted with the moon and upside-down gum trees, reminded Wugan of the ornate plate that Tulang delivered to Grandfather—he shook his head. He never had trouble focusing before. Why now?

“They’re in there,” he whispered. “I’m going to make sure the baby is… let me go first.”

He had expected Ruihwa to argue. Instead, she shrugged. Wugan smoothed his sleeves. He had feared what she might say. Now, he feared what she was not saying. Melting into the void once more, he crossed the waterfront like the Neijia masters of old: weightless, upright, and swift.

As he neared the doorway, he heard a hoarse humming. An alien voice, but a familiar melody. The Peonies of Spring. Accompanying the folksong was the squelching of raw flesh. Wugan found his hands shaking.

Screwing up his face like a man walking on burning coal, Wugan stepped into the darkness. The door Ruihwa had torn off creaked beneath his boots. He froze. Fingers of moonlight reached through the ceiling, stroking the contours of a hunched woman. Jet-black hair, spilling onto the ground, shimmered under the moonlight. Though smudged with mud and blood, the nose was still the one that fitted snugly into the groove above his collarbone. Her blue brocade jacket and trousers, painstakingly selected by the embalmer, had since become tattered rags.

Hissing, she clutched the baby, turned her back on him, and gave him a guarded look. Next to her knee sat a bowl of fish, crushed into a gory pulp. Wugan’s face twitched.

“Mine,” she rasped. “Mine!”

Wugan choked. “T-Tulang?”

Her blood-red lips curved upwards. A hint of recognition shimmered in her crimson eyes. Slowly, she extended her arms, as if offering him the baby. “Ours,” she rasped. “Ours.”

He looked down at her and dug his fingers into his face. She was happy to see him. Yet, the fangs among her pearlescent teeth cut him deeper than Ruihwa’s fans. Her hands that made mooncakes, sew clothes, served him tea, and teased his stubble had become claws, the very same that disembowelled an innocent man.

“Ours,” she said, seemingly confused.

With shaking hands, he took the baby from Tulang.

“Yinhua,” she said, giggling. “Yinhua.”

For the first time since her passing, his eyes grew moist. He had made her many promises upon their wedding day. He was to take her to their ancestral home above the sacred mountains, treat her to the jade dumplings in the capital, buy her something risqué to remind her that he was not carved from ice, and give her a daughter, or maybe two.

But those were wedding vows he made to Tulang.

“Tulang,” he whispered, savouring the name. It tasted of honey. “Tulang!”

A flash of silver whistled past Wugan’s ear. Accompanying that projectile was the aroma of incense. It was Ruihwa’s blessed stake. Tulang tottered back and sagged against the wall, clutching at her chest. She screamed as her flesh sizzled. Blood bubbled up and trickled down, darkening her blue shirt. Wugan froze.

Ruihwa stepped inside, twirling more silver stakes with adroit fingers.

“That should’ve killed her,” snapped Ruihwa. “This is what happens when you let demons feed. If you can’t stand it, get out.”

Wugan remained motionless.

“It’s okay…” croaked Tulang. “Wugan.”

Surprised, Wugan turned to his wife. The red in her eyes had faded. Was it the stake?

“I want to… talk to her, alone.”

“There’s nothing to talk about, demon.”

“Please. I… don’t have time.”

Ruihwa lowered her hands. “Fine,” she growled. “Let’s hear it.”

Wugan stumbled out of the cabin. He gazed into the water, seeking calm in its reflection. It didn’t work. Now, it was time to wait.