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Eight

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 myriad 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.

 

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Framed