Chapter Text
MARRIAGE LICENSE processed, Lan Zhan and Wei Ying stand before the clerk of court. They’ve drawn a crowd. Their witnesses and other couples with their own guests, have availed themselves of Nie HuaiSang’s thoughtfulness: red rose boutonnieres and wrist corsages in baskets at the head of the short aisle. Most sign the guest book, too.
Their Nie brother had ordered them as soon as he awoke to Wei Wuxian’s text about the ceremony. It’s fortunate he acted so quickly, because within the next hour Lan XiChen enters their room to share the news of Jin Global’s schemes and Meng Yao’s betrayal. After the shock, Ai-Sang’s first response is to call his brother. Nie Mingjue looks good; he looks fierce, already on the road to recovery, but he is in no way sympathetic to Ai-Sang’s demand to return home.
“I can take care of myself!” Ai-Sang yells at Mingjue just as his brother closes their connection. “I’m coming home. You can’t stop me!”
“Nie-xiong,” Wei Wuxian pleads. “You heard him. He’ll cut off every credit card you have if you order flight tickets.”
“I don’t care!”
“Please calm yourself,” Lan XiChen urges. “Your brother is safe now. He’s only concerned for your well-being.”
“He was supposed to be safe before.” Surrounded by his friends, Nie HuaiSang allows himself to vent, turning on the First Jade. “You are the Three Zuns – you, Da-ge and Meng-Yao. You pledged to stand by each other. Did you even ask what kind of poison he used?”
“I did, and I called A-Jue as soon as Meng Yao confessed to me,” Lan XiChen says quietly. “I apologize for believing in him for so long. I was warned – by those I trusted – but I didn’t listen. I just couldn’t believe it.”
Tears of anger and frustration roll down Ai-Sang’s face. “You let him walk away.”
The quarters he shares with Jiang Cheng and Wen Ning is a duplicate of the one Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji have, except in browns and rust instead of blues and greens. All at once, the hotel décor is more loathsome than he can stomach, and Ai-Sang imagines what might be accomplished with the perfect placement and detonation of a little Nie Sect manufactured C-4. He forces himself to sit down, his complexion pale with high spots of color.
“You’ll have to blame us for that, too,” Wei Wuxian tells him gently. “Jin Global isn’t done with us, and Meng Yao says he’ll be our inside man. It might be another scam, but for now it’s what we’ve got.”
“We won’t take any communication at face value,” Lan Wangji says. It’s not a promise; it’s a fact.
Ai-Sang shakes his head. “We welcomed Meng-yao when Jin GuangShan hurt him and turned him away. He was part of our family for years until Da-ge made him leave. Even if they argued, how could he try to kill him?”
“Who can say? He’s driven and he’s dangerous, more than anyone guessed.” Wei Wuxian longs to embrace his friend, but A-Sang is rigid with anger and grief. Touch will not be welcome now. “He’s fooled a lot of people for a long time. And for what – a father who hates him?”
“Jin sect’s always been so full of itself, a whole network of crazy,” Jiang Cheng scoffs.
“Jin GuangShan makes Madame Yu look like a saint.” Wei Wuxian’s mouth lifts in a smirk. Jiang Cheng shoots his brother a dark look, but makes no protest. Wei Wuxian wanders, pacing. “GuangShan’s so busy chasing down anyone with breasts, you’ve got to wonder how this plan became so big and worked so well.”
“Someone smarter controls it,” Lan Wangji says.
“Jin Global’s ‘secret’ board of directors … a cabal, right? They’re the brains and some of them are in this country.” Wei Wuxian pauses, locked in thought.
“Jin Guangshan has the capital and the ambition,” Lan Wangji adds, hand fisted at the small of his back. “He is skilled in choosing subordinates and allies.”
“But he doesn’t like to share,” Wei Wuxian says. “Thinks he’s smarter than anyone else. Look how long it took him to get together with Meng Yao.”
“Meng Yao was unproven when they first met. Until he became Nie Mingjue’s assistant.”
“Then, for whatever reason, Mingjue threw him out. All this time, Jin GuangYao’s had nothing really, not even a real name. It’s been nothing but a fantasy, and he hasn’t given up.”
“Meng Yao has turned on the cabal.” Lan Wangji echoes what his husband has concluded.
“He has.” Gray eyes sparkle.
“Well, what do you know, Second Jade?” Jiang Cheng drawls. “You’re smarter than you look.”
Lan Wangji regards him coolly. “I am more than muscle,” he says.
Jiang Cheng flushes to the roots of his hair, a step away from meltdown. Wei Wuxian laughs, coming to lean into his husband’s side. Lan Wangji wraps his arm around his waist, hand coming to rest at his hip; he allows himself a smirk.
Lan XiChen regards them somberly as a rush of warmth and sorrow fills his heart. He considers what he had regarded his relationship with Meng Yao to be … what he thought he had ... and what he’s lost. He can’t offer an opinion; he’s been so wrong about everything. He walks into the kitchenette to make a fresh pot of tea, going through the motions automatically.
Ai-Sang releases a watery little laugh, wiping his sleeve across his face. “I want to go home,” he says, mournfully. “I want to see Da-ge for myself in person even if he yells. Even if he beats me and burns everything I have!”
Wei Wuxian opens his mouth to speak, but Jiang Cheng beats him to it. “He won’t beat you. I won’t allow it.” He thrusts a handkerchief at Ai-Sang. “Stop crying – just stop it! Clean yourself up, I’ll take you to Qinghe.”
Cat eyes widen as Ai-Sang accepts Jiang Cheng’s gift. His perfect, bow shaped lips open with a little gasp, and he finds himself inexplicably wondering how many silken squares J.C. keeps on his person, and are they all for him? He nods gratefully. “Thank you, Cheng-Cheng.”
“Don’t thank me! I don’t do ‘thank yous.’”
“I have noticed.”
Jiang Cheng towers over Ai-Sang. His meltdown, a time-honored reaction, seems imminent. Then he deflates. “I’ll make the flight arrangements,” he growls, stomping a bee-line for the bedroom. “Take a shower. Get ready for this ceremony thing. Let’s get it over with.”
Wei Wuxian shakes his head. “Ah, my shidi … always gracious.”
“Like a kick to the shins,” Lan Wangji murmurs, expressionless.
Wei Wuxian laughs, turning his face into his husband’s shoulder. “Or the teeth,” he returns, and crosses the room to place his arm around his friend. His head swims with the implications; Jiang Cheng standing up to Nie Mingjue? And for Nie-xiong? He would pay good money to see that.
Actually, Lan Wangji would pay. They would watch it together.
[] [] []
A FEW HOURS LATER, Nie Huaisang finds his smile again as he films the marriage ceremony. Jiang Cheng stands nearby looking as neutral as it’s possible for him to be. Ai-Sang finds it oddly comforting. Jiang Cheng is so much like Da-ge, as touchy and deadly as old dynamite sweating nitroglycerin, but far better looking.
Wen Ning, Detective Harrison and his team also stand with them as witnesses and it is quite a sight. Lan Wangji’s sense of fashion does not disappoint. The elegant Second Jade always turns heads with his unique approach to white and blue. Now he’s opted for color in traditional wedding scarlet. Lan Wangji’s fitted, high-neck suit jacket is worn with a wrapped silk shirt in soft gold beneath, while gold earrings sparkle against his ebony black hair. Wei Wuxian wears red brocade with an Elizabethan flair. A deep gold shirt fits him like a caress, lace spilling from his throat and cuffs where gold cuff links surround cab-cut rubies to match the star ruby at his throat. Ai-Sang hides a smile behind his camera; Waynesboro has surely never seen the like.
“Well,” the officiant begins. “It appears we have a couple of standouts for today’s ceremonies. Very handsome and obviously not from around here. Maybe a galaxy far, far away?”
“Only as far as China.” Wei Ying responds with a small laugh, clasping Lan Zhan’s hand in his. He’s sure his heart is beating five times its normal rate; it feels as if it will burst from his chest. “Ah-yi – I can’t believe we’re doing this again,” he murmurs in Mandarin.
“I will marry Wei Ying every day if he wants,” Lan Zhan returns softly.
“Hanguang-Jun … you can’t say that!” Wei Ying brings Lan Zhan’s hand up with his to cover his face. “You are too much, zhiyan! I will faint!”
“I will throw up,” Jiang Cheng promises from a few feet away.
“So we’re ready?” the officiant continues, clearing his throat, suddenly eager to move on before family drama becomes too frisky. These participants might be joking, but they might not, “All right then – Welcome to the wedding of Wangji Lan and Wuxian Wei. Everyone turn the volume of your cell phones up as high as possible, so we’ll know who to blame. Alternately, please silence your phones. The ceremony starts now.”
[] [] []
THE WEDDING takes longer than anyone imagined since other couples request the newly-married pair and their party to witness their own ceremonies. Photos are taken; lots of photos. Then the day continues its breakneck speed with an early dinner, a change of clothes, and a trip to the airport. Harry Harrison and Jesse Charon continue to accompany them, keeping a respectful distance as family and friends say goodbye.
Lan Wangji and Lan XiChen stand apart from the others near the boarding gate holding a somewhat intense conversation, with few words and longer silences. Wei Wuxian watches them trying not to feel too anxious. He hasn’t left his husband’s side since the day began and it’s somewhat unnerving to be even a few yards away. He’s never seen Zewu-Jun so overwhelmed. Beaten. It hurts his heart. No one suspected they would find themselves in this state when the Holloway House exorcism began. It should have been simple, no murders, no injuries, no police and no Jinlantai schemes or adventures in American prison.
Wei Wuxian turns to Wen Ning. “Thanks for going with Zewu-Jun. He shouldn’t be alone.”
The pale giant nods and frowns at the same time. “What about you? You’ll be alone.”
“I’ll be with Lan Zhan. And the Waynesboro detectives until we leave the area.”
“With Jin spies on your trail,” Jiang Cheng breaks in. “I don’t understand why you won’t come back with us.”
“Because the Jin presence is so active here,” Wei Wuxian explains for what must be the one-hundredth time. “We might be of use here.”
“You could be dead, investigating on your own. Don’t be a bigger fool than you already are, Wei Wuxian. I am not coming back to drag your ass out of trouble again!”
Which means his shidi will come for him even if he has to swim the Pacific. Wei Wuxian grins. “I love you, too, little brother.”
“Get yourself hurt and I’ll break your legs.”
“Ah … promises, promises.”
Nervous, Nie HuaiSang taps his fan against his hand. “Maybe we shouldn’t go.”
Jiang Cheng’s scowl deepens as he takes Ai-Sang’s arm. “Too late,” he snaps. “We are boarding.”
“Da-ge will be angry.”
Jiang Cheng rolls his eyes. “Angry? He’ll probably kill us both.”
The flight number is called again; they will be the last to board and Wei Wuxian watches them leave – his brother and Nie HuaiSang, Lan XiChen and Wen Ning. He leans against his husband, welcoming comfort as Lan Zhan slides his arm around him and presses a kiss to his temple. Soon he is gazing up at his Hanguang-Jun, his soulmate. Wei Ying never looks at this fierce, beautiful man without a rush of affection. It’s a thrill mixed with pride that Lan Zhan has chosen him; gratitude that he allows Wei Ying to choose him in return, and arrogance of how good they are together in every way. Awareness settles in his chest like the warm glow of the sun.
They turn towards the exit after the plane takes off, walking purposely through the airport corridors, Senior Detective Harrison and his partner, Charon, beside them. Throngs of people move around them – families, business types and individuals each focused on their own journey. It already feels odd to be alone in a country so different from home. Jiang Cheng is right; there are enemies here, enemies who know them and have been following them since they arrived. Jin GuangYao’s list has revealed some, but others remain hidden. Do they even have a chance of helping their families?
Wei Wuxian’s fingers tighten around Lan Wangji’s, and they share a look, losing themselves in wordless conversation. He has to believe they do. The fearful create walls around them; those who love turn barriers into paths to protect their own and be worth loving in return.
“So you’re on your own now,” Harry Harrison says as they exit into the parking garage. “Just how bad is it at home? Not that it’s any of my business.”
Wei Wuxian won’t dodge the question. “Bad,” he says. “Turns out we were sent here to be safe.”
“And you weren’t.”
“No. At least for a while.”
“So what now?”
“We stay and look at things from this end.” Wei Wuxian delivers one of his most reassuring smiles. “Don’t worry, Harry. We’ll move on and take this trouble with us. You can retire in peace.”
Lines of worry deepen at the detective’s eyes and mouth. He can’t help but feel he’s turning children loose in a world of wolves. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“You’ve already helped,” Lan Zhan replies. “And we are grateful for it.”
“This business that put you in prison, that’s part of it.”
“Yep,” Wei Wuxian says.
“All the way from China?” Jesse Charon asks.
“All the way.”
“That’s a hell of a reach. You expecting more trouble?”
“Mn.” Lan Zhan is as succinct as always.
“We’ve canceled our plans to film until Ai-Sang and the others return,” Wei Wuxian continues. “Our equipment and the van are in storage. Bear and Toad will keep an eye on it, and my husband and I will honeymoon.”
“But first we’ll visit Brendan Thatcher as you requested,” Lan Wangji says.
Wei Wuxian’s eyes become dark and somber. “He still won’t speak?”
“Won’t speak, won’t eat, barely moves,” Charon says. “They say he looks more dead than alive.”
“The hope is you two might snap him out of it. You work in the same field, he seems to know you,” Harrison says. “But it’s getting late. We could wait till tomorrow.”
“Let’s finish this,” Wei Wuxian says. “No disrespect intended, Harry, but we’re ready to move on.”
“Waynesboro’s lost its charm?” Charon says as they reach the car.
Lan Zhan inclines his head, opening the car door for Wei Ying. “Mn,” he says again, more emphatically.
“Don’t blame you,” Charon agrees.
[] [] []
THE VALLEY BEHAVIORAL Rehab Center is the last stop in a long day that has now become night. Located in a less affluent part of town, it’s the local treatment center for those too poor to pay for psychiatric care, and a holding pen for others considered too dangerous to themselves or society. Brendan Thatcher, former host of “Midnight Ghosts,” falls into the last group. Charon responds to Wei Wuxian’s query regarding the grounds. The location of Valley Behavioral and the lands surrounding it were the site of a 500 year old Indian massacre as well as a Civil War battlefield. That explains the ghosts that had begun to appear on the drive up. Their presence multiplies once they reach their destination. Most are residual, images of those who have passed; others are more intelligent, carrying generations of anger, fear and pain. All are unusually restless. Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji share another silent conversation. How could anyone build on property like this?
As they exit Harry’s warm car, Charon echoes what they’re all thinking. “The sooner done, the sooner it’s over.”
No one disagrees. Even Wei Wuxian is quiet, taking in the atmosphere, and the heavy scent of malignancy that increases the closer they get to the building. Harry hesitates, reaching towards him and placing a light hand on his shoulder. “Look, this is more a formality than anything else,” he says. “No one’s expecting miracles from you two.”
“There are more than old ghosts here, Harry,” Wei Wuxian says. “Don’t tell me you can’t feel it?”
“Oh, I feel it all right. The place has a reputation for tragedy, just like Jesse said.” Harry regards Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji seriously. “You don’t have to be afraid – I won’t let anything happen to either of you. Jesse won’t either.”
Charon nods. “Right.”
Lan Wangji releases a huff of breath like a bull in a ring. “You misunderstand,” he says. “We fear for you.”
“Don’t.” Harry’s sudden laugh is more strained than reassuring, off-balance. He has no family and few friends outside his work. It’s been a long time since anyone worried about him and it touches him. “We’re the old guys,” he says. “These ‘bad feelings’ are second nature to us, and we don’t take it lightly. Let’s just get it over with. Then you can start your honeymoon and I can retire.”
Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji allow themselves to be led forward. The power of demon magic strengthens as they step inside, taking in the familiar stench that permeates the interior, a combination of rot and excrement. Nasty. Harrison and Charon smell it and choke, though they don’t know what it is. The silk of his husband’s aura flares and swirls around Wei Ying like a cloak as he, in turn, wraps Lan Zhan in his own velvet shadow. Inside, they spot a reception area with a long, intimidating counter. It’s old with a new-ish addition of bullet proof glass stretching toward the ceiling. There’s only one window and Harry Harrison hails the woman behind it. “What’s going on, Dixie?” he says, waving a hand before his face. “Something die in the plumbing or what?”
“Or what,” the stocky matron returns. “It’s been like this for days and keeps getting worse. Welcome to civil service.”
A buzzer sounds as she beckons a security guard from the office behind her. Harrison and Charon sign in, surrendering their firearms to the officer’s lockbox. “Has anyone been out to fix it?” Harry asks, concerned.
Daisy shrugs. “Maintenance checked everything, but nothing. Admin’s promised outside help, but so far…”
“Nothing again, right?”
“Just once I’d like to see those political paper-pushers down here. Maybe they’d tear the place down like it deserves.” Daisy scowls. “So you’re here to see the ghost man.”
It’s not a question, but Harrison nods anyway. “Any change?”
“None.” She shakes her head. “Mr. Thatcher is holding on by a thread, no one expects him to make it to trial. You’ve probably just in time, not that you’ll get much from him.”
The guard secures the lockbox. Daisy hits the buzzer again, allowing him to leave the reception enclosure. “Brendan Thatcher, room 517. You know the drill, Harry,” she says. “Follow Andy and take the elevator to the fifth. Don’t wander. Good luck, boys.”
“Thanks,” Harry says with a jaunty wave as they walk away.
Visits are usually conducted in a less formal area, although not for residents of the fifth floor and definitely not for Brendan Thatcher. As they ascend in the elevator, Wei Wuxian catches Harrison’s attention once again. “Let us talk to Mr. Thatcher,” he says. “You and Jesse don’t have to go in.”
Surprised, Harrison shakes his head. “That’s not possible. You know that.”
“Yeah, yeah. But no one has to know, do they?” Wei Wuxian insists in a low voice. “It’s going to be a nightmare in there, Harry. Trust me.”
“Taking all the glory for yourself?” Charon jokes, then sobers as he watches Wei Wuxian turn pale. Lan Wangji glowers as if someone has just attacked his husband, and Jesse Charon backtracks fast. “Hey, hey – didn’t mean anything. Sorry.”
Wei Wuxian bites his lip. For a moment the specter of Jiang Cheng stands before him, lashing out. Old arguments and night hunts gone wrong, those who have been injured or worse race through his mind. He pushes it away the best he can, halting at yet another locked gate. So many locked inside; trapped inside if anything goes wrong. Still, Harry and his partner have spent their lives walking into dangerous situations smarter people would avoid. They’re simply in a new element, a new menace. But so far, so good; so far, the two Americans have handled everything that’s been thrown at them. Wei Wuxian flinches; he can’t help it. The odor of Sulphur rises to blend with the scent of human sweat and offal, becoming stronger the farther they walk. A continual, low murmur of distress from inmates also fills the hallway when the gate opens. The guards within appear pale and jumpy.
“Don’t worry, Wuxian,” Harry says, trying again to reassure. “Thatcher’s under constant camera watch and monitored by guards. He has no weapons, he can barely move. It’s like they said, there’s no chance he’ll leave the premises again unless it’s in a pine box.”
“That means dead.” Charon delivers the smallest of smirks. This is graveyard humor, cop humor, but it falls flat. He shivers, motioning at Andy, who continues to shepherd them along. “Hey, what happened to the heat up here?”
“This old building leaks like a sieve, cold in winter, hot in summer,” Andy responds. “We’ve tried space heaters, but they keep shorting out. So do the lights, worse than usual lately. Like Daisy says, this old lady is showing her age. I won’t cry when they tear it down.”
“There’s an actual chance of that?” Charon demands. “Thank God.”
They come to a halt outside Room 517, where the guard unlocks the door using a bar code. Electronics, Wei Wuxian notes, an upgrade over the old cells in Broadchurch. They file quietly inside io find a stark, nearly empty room. There’s a small bed, a chair and table, a sink and toilet, all bolted to the floor or wall. There are no free-standing lamps or decorations, only an overhead light behind a screen. A barred window is set high in the wall revealing nothing but darkness, no moon or stars. Brendan Thatcher himself sits crosslegged on his bed, meditating and facing the window as if reading the secrets of the universe. The former ghost hunter looks bad; it’s the kindest word anyone can think of. It’s as if he’s dead but his body doesn’t know it yet. Even so, his washed-out eyes brighten at their arrival. Thatcher almost smiles, turning from his window to look them over. “You’re here,” he says placing his hands on his thighs.
Words and movement; the first voluntary efforts Thatcher has made since he was brought to Valley Behavioral if one can believe the reports. Andy startles, taking an involuntary step back as black, soulless eyes scan over them. The penny is finally dropping and instincts more primal than civilized man admits to soar from caution to alert. Harry releases a ragged breath. There’s something here more chilling and deadly than he found in those solitary cells in Broadchurch. He doesn’t know or care what it is; he just doesn’t want to stay in this room a minute longer.
Harrison is ready to go, too; he wants to gather and rush everyone out as fast as possible, except Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji have edged forward. They’re beyond grab-range for frozen cops. The overhead light flickers as traces of smoke begin churning in the corners of the room. A different power flows over the pair, the scarlet of the Yiling-Laozu, and the frost-blue of Hanguang-Jun. Their colors transform to deep, spiritual purple where they merge.
Eyes gone crimson, Wei Ying retrieves Chenqing from inside his coat. “Wow,” he begins capturing Thatcher's gaze. “Aren’t you a little patch of sunshine?”
“You have no manners, young man.” The voice is soft but full of spite. A flicker of distaste settles between Thatcher’s brows. “Do your parents know how rude you are?”
“It’s no reflection on them. Everyone knows I’m shameless.” Wei Ying grins, twirling the flute between his fingers. He and Lan Zhan separate, flanking the creature on the bed. “But what have you been up to, Cornelia? I've got a feeling you've been a bad, bad girl.”
The name causes a flutter of confusion in the men behind them. In the next heartbeat, they’re watching a demon’s caul shape itself over Thatcher’s face and body – a old woman, with a deeply lined face and hollow pits for eyes. She wears her dark hair in a severe bun at the back of her neck; her clothing comes from an era long ago. Cornelia Holloway regards them like a beast surveying her prey.
“Bad? You're the one who ruined everything.” Like the caul, Cornelia’s voice slides over Thatcher’s as his lips and tongue deliver her words. "If not for you, we'd be all done. All settled. Everything neat and sweet."
“We don’t see it that way.” Wei Ying’s lips quirk down. “Mary’s gone. Eliminated.”
The creature throws its head back in a silent scream. The walls vibrate with the force of it; spirals of dust spill from the ceiling as the temperature plummets further and human breath frosts the air. Bloodthirsty rage pulses from Thatcher’s body.
Harry understands now: This is the nightmare. “What’s going on?” he demands in a low voice, forcing himself to take a step forward.
“The end of a mystery that began over a hundred years ago.” Wei Ying’s fingers tighten on the flute. “That’s not Brendan Thatcher. That’s Holy Holloway, matron of the Cornelia Holloway Home when it was a poor house and orphanage, the woman who spent years looking for a baby that got away.”
Charon frowns. “Why?”
“To kill it.” Scarlet eyes snap in fury. That anyone would harm a child is beyond evil. Cornelia and Mary embraced the worst of themselves as soon as they set their plans in motion.
“It could have worked.” Pinpricks of green appear in Thatcher’s eyes as he sways, trapped in Cornelia’s grief. “Joaquin and Carmel could have gone their own way. There didn’t have to be a scandal.”
“Yeah …” Harrison says slowly.
“She was radiant …” The demon continues, wrapping his arms around himself … herself. “Mary was a goddess, so beautiful, with her bright, bright hair. We planned our lives together, nights we spent talking by the fireplace in her room. We intended to conquer life. We would have, too, if not for the rules. Society and their stupid, stupid rules. Rules that she marry, be the wife – have children.”
Holloway’s expression grows sly. Thatcher’s body rises from the bed, floating on air until he unfolds and steps onto the floor. “You’ve been searching into the past … No one was ever supposed to find out. Joaquin Meredith should have been perfect, an artist obsessed with travel and women. Not the kind of man to burden himself with a family, with children, until he met that gypsy Carmel. He brought her into our home, pregnant with his bastard! It still could have worked – it could have! Mary would have passed the baby off as her own, but Carmel refused. The slut convinced Joaquin to take the baby and leave with her!”
“So you killed him,” Wei Ying says flatly. “And Mary tried to kill the baby in her rage, except Carmel got to her first. She killed Mary in the forest outside and saved her child. Then you killed Carmel.”
“She was sick, couldn’t get far. I brought her back, the baby, too. Killed the slut during the heart of winter, froze her inside her room while the snows fell outside. While Mary watched, while she waited for me out there. They couldn’t prove I killed Carmel, but they took the baby away.” Holloway’s sigh echoes through the room, shivering into the hallway, the walls. “I would have done it, too, if I could have found her. For Mary’s sake … for Mary. They would never have found out, my darling.”
“But they did,” Wei Ying protests. “You were about as subtle as a rock. Those society rules you hated kept you out of prison. No one was going to charge a woman of your standing. Mary left you her house and her money. You spent the rest of your life trying to find and kill the child that would’ve completed the spell, and let the two of you be together again.”
Charon shakes his head. “Could someone explain …?”
“Thatcher’s a puppet,” Lan Zhan responds darkly.
“‘Possessed’ you’d call it.” Wei Ying clarifies. “Thatcher opened himself up when he investigated the asylum in an episode of his show. Something no tâng-ki* should ever do without help. Cornelia Holloway took his qi and has controlled him ever since.”
Charon isn’t ready to accept this, even as he watches the changes shift within Thatcher’s body. “You’re saying a ghost made him kill people?”
“Exactly,” Wei Ying says. “Nothing in his background suggests he’s a killer. Mary and Cornelia were trapped when they died, one outside and one inside. They cursed themselves without knowing. Cornelia’s spell would’ve opened the house and allowed them be together.”
“Another love story gone wrong,” Charon snaps. “Bullshit! This is the kind of stuff you tell around campfires.”
Guqin in hand, Lan Wangji fixes him with blazing eyes. “It is true.” He might wonder if all Americans were so stubbornly dense in the presence of evidence if he hadn’t encountered the same in his own country. Some will never believe their eyes or their souls.
Fists clenched, Thatcher-Holloway shivers as if caught in a fever. The voice becomes a forlorn whisper. “It’s done ... all over.”
S/he raises bone-thin arms, calling on the resentment that has built around them all. The window bursts open, glass flying everywhere as freezing wind blasts through the room. Lan Zhan strikes a chord, slowing time. Wei Ying whirls about, biting his finger. Blood flows as he attempts a talisman of protection, but Harry hurls himself forward, throwing them both to the ground. Clouds of resentful energy roll forth in a storm-driven wind, escaping into the hallway. Inmates begin to chatter and howl; an alarm roars to life.
Hanguang-Jun strikes out again, and another wave of lightning-blue surges forward, driving the demon’s body to the floor. The Yiling-Laozu rolls to his feet, determined, throwing out talisman after talisman. After a long moment, Thatcher wraps his arms around himself, Cornelia’s shadow sliding from his body. His face clears, becoming almost human again, weak and yes, dying.
“Don’t …” Thatcher lifts his hand toward Hanguang-Jun and the Yiling-Laozu. “Don’t let her win.”
“She’s feeding off you,” Wei Ying responds. “Fight!”
“I can’t!” Thatcher’s face twists in agony. His throat bulges as he struggles to suppress the creature controlling his body. “Get out of here – run!”
Darkness explodes again as the man is overcome, human eyes rolling to the back of his skull. The Yiling-Laozu lifts Chenqing to his lips and begins to play. He calls, demands, herds. Slowly, shadows begin to fuse around them, a midnight vortex with the three of them in its center. No longer a puppet, what’s left of Brendan Thatcher fight is fierce yet pitiable. He has no strength, only will. Cornelia heaves herself forward, what’s left of her, hands outstretched, fingers like claws. She fights her host as she battles toward Hanguang-Jun and the Yiling-Laozu.
You won’t do this, Wei Ying thinks bitterly. I forbid it! There is a soul in that body, a luckless man fading to his last shimmer and still snared in a web that wants to shroud him in it. Wei Ying’s music changes, notes altering to a sweeter melody. Remember who you are, Brendan … Forgive yourself …
Thatcher’s body jerks; he rises to his feet again, spinning once before he drops to his knees. A torrent of oily black and green pours from his mouth, his eyes and nose and ears until there’s nothing but red. Fresh blood and pure. Fissures crack into the floor where he falls. At that last moment, Cornelia’s demon streaks toward Wei Ying. Lan Zhan darts before his husband, Bichen in hand, its crystal blade gleaming. He slashes once; that’s all it takes. A final, despairing cry fills, then fades from the room.
All goes still.
Wei Ying sways on his feet, partly exhausted, partly overwhelmed by the backwash of emotion. It always happens like that; he feels everything at once, his yin energy swallowing the anguish of an angry yaoguai. It coils in his heart like a fist – until Lan Zhan wraps his arm around him bringing warmth to his chilled flesh, and support to his trembling limbs. Wei Ying fights to remain conscious, gratefully leaning into Lan Zhan’s strength.
It takes several long minutes before reality imposes itself. Everything has changed.
It’s not just the aftermath of chaos that surrounds them, the broken glass and tumbled furniture, or the shuffling sound of bodies and voices in the hallway. A strong scent of copper buries the fading odor of demon-presence that had once filled the building. Jesse Charon is on his knees, leaning over Harry Harrison who sprawls limp and unresponsive on the floor. Blood pools around them, spilling from Harry’s throat down the front of his shirt and jacket. Wei Ying sees the purple of torn flesh, a trace of white bone. Light rises before him, a foxfire of a life departing. Dissipating.
He rushes forward, dropping to his knees. This can’t be happening; their mission is to help others, to protect the weak and expel evil. They may have been too late to save Brendan Thatcher, but Harry … this is unacceptable. He is the Yiling-Laozu, but no matter how much he screams, this soul will not be restrained. Its light continues to rise until it’s gone.
Charon shoves him away, snarling, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Tremors shake Wei Ying from scalp to toes. “I told him to stay back,” he murmurs hoarsely. “It’s dangerous …”
“You got that right.” Charon’s fury won’t be quenched. “Only two dead this time, at least as far as I can see. You must be off your game, Wuxian.”
Wei Ying gapes at him uselessly. That’s who he is, right? Useless. The man who kills his friends, his family. The one who sends loved ones spiraling into grief and despair, if not in this life than in other lives long past. His past.
“Enough!” Lan Zhan’s voice cuts through Charon’s next words. He reaches down to bring Wei Ying to his feet.
Wei Ying hangs in his husband’s grip. The poisons of deviation rise in his throat and he bends over, hair coming loose. His body hitches hard – once, twice – as dark red blood spills from his mouth to the floor.
Harry Harrison is dead.
The floor bruises his knees as he falls, the world going gray and distant. The last essence of the Yiling-Laozu flees, leaving Wei Ying powerless. There’s nothing but death and destruction left behind.
Lan Zhan pulls him up again, lifting him into his arms. Wordless, he walks out into the hallway, looking for a place of shelter. He finds it in a small niche with a bench in front of another barred window, glass over steel mesh, just like the kind that exploded in Thatcher’s room. Wei Ying shivers in his grasp, and Lan Zhan leans in to press a kiss to his forehead, his eyes. This could have gone better, Lan Zhan thinks. It could have also gone much worse. The alarm stops as electric lights flicker on; orderlies and guards are escorting inmates back to their rooms, and securing the doors that had burst open as Cornelia Holloway’s demon tried to take all the lives around her, all the souls. It would have never brought her what she desired; Mary Meredith is gone forever. It would have only fed her hate, so much hate.
Lan Zhan has seen worse, and will see it again. Someone brings him a blanket which he gratefully wraps around his unconscious husband. He’s exhausted himself, but doesn’t regret Wei Ying’s forced sleep. His tender heart will ache with sorrow and guilt when he awakens; there will be nightmares and nothing Hanguang-Jun can do to stop them. Golden eyes fill with tears as Lan Zhan inhales the scent of wood smoke and rain in his lover's hair. He rests his chin atop Wei Ying’s head. He will also miss Harry Harrison.
“May Heaven and Earth bring him peace,” Lan Zhan whispers. “To my zhiyin, too.”
~ Epilogue ~
THREE LONG DAYS pass during which neither Lan Zhan nor Wei Ying find much rest. Wei Ying is plagued with the nightmares Lan Zhan predicted even as his body heals. Most are vivid memories of terrible past life events mixed with these new experience. Lan Zhan remains close, keeping him tucked by his side, or with his head in Lan Zhan’s lap. The Second Jade alternately streams water or medicinal broth down his throat, and passes healing spiritual energy through his meridians. He plays his qin and packs items for travel and a lot to send home. They won’t need much on the road.
Lan Zhan hangs up quickly after telling Jiang Cheng about Harry Harrison, Brendon Thatcher and Wei Ying’s current state. He doesn’t have patience for his brother-in-law’s unbridled rage, but listens as long as he can before cutting him off. Later, he glances over series of bold, purple texts, ignoring the threats and insults, and answering a few actual questions. He scans Wei Ying’s cell and deletes the more outrageous ramblings. Jiang Cheng and Wei Ying have an odd relationship at best, but he won’t allow his husband the stress of dealing with it now.
He speaks with his brother, who continues to be supportive through his distress, and to Ai-Sang, who alternately frets and tries to cheer him. No, Nie Mingjue didn’t kill or cut him off, though it was a near thing. Da-ge is doing very well now, spending time in council meetings regarding Jin GuangYao’s information. Wen Ning is very concerned, wishing he had stayed behind, yet pleased to have helped Lan XiChen, who definitely needed him. His sister, Wen Qing, is straightforward as always, and abrupt in her advice.
Wei Ying’s beloved sister Yanli calls the most often, and sends cheerful photos of herself and the nephew, Jin Rulan, for when he awakens. It’s the best medicine outside of Lan Zhan’s care. She brings smiles and cleansing tears as her little brother improves. She puts the toddler on the phone, who makes Wei Ying laugh despite himself. Situation normal – or what passes for normal in their cultivation family.
So much family, so many to care for and who care for them, it both warms and chills the heart. In contrast, Senior Detective Harry Harrison has no family outside of his teammates in the force yet there's a huge turnout for the funeral. Lan Zhan and Wei Ying also attend; it’s the least they can do. They stand in the rain, watching what appears to be a legion in dress blues wearing black armbands, and listening to the invocation and prayers, the wail of pipes. Harry was a popular man among his fellow officers, and among many civilians, too. Rites close with the End of Watch Call, with Harrison’s team gathered around a radio. Dispatch issues a final call to the detective, followed by silence. Heaven grieves for and blesses a soul when it rains at a funeral.
Eventually, the mourners move on, making their way home. Wei Ying and Lan Zhan remain behind as unobtrusive as possible, although their presence is not unnoticed. Jesse Charon leaves his wife and children at their car, and slogs his way toward them. He moves with the speed of erosion, but his pace picks up along the way.
Charon says, “Thanks for coming.” He nods at Wei Ying. “Harry liked you.”
Wei Ying nods back. “I liked him, too.”
“No one’s talking about it,” the detective says bitterly. Rain soaks into the black velvet band around his arm; it soaks into the snow turning the ground to mush. “There’s nothing but static on the video. Witness statements were tagged unreliable, hallucinations from whatever swamp gas came out of the pipes. Except there aren’t any broken pipes, just that damn window.” Silence grows between them until Charon says, “It was real, wasn’t it?”
Lan Zhan’s response is absolute. “Yes.”
“And this is what you do – chase ghosts and destroy demons?”
“Yes.”
“Damn.” Charon looks to the sky. The rain is ending, and the last drops leave a pattern of tears on his face. He speaks again after a long minute. “Sometimes I come on too strong. That’s why I always let Harry do the talking.”
“I get that,” Wei Ying says. “Me, too. Ask Lan Zhan. Ask anyone.”
“Yeah, but you’re not mean about it.”
“Ah, that depends. You haven’t known me long enough.”
“Right … You guys leaving now?”
“Yes,” Lan Zhan confirms.
“Where you headed?”
“South.”
“Not Maine?”
“No. Someplace warm.”
Charon’s gaze shifts back to Wei Ying. “I was out of line that night. I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right.”
“Gonna have to keep a lid on it now I’m on my own.”
Wei Ying offers a soft smile. “You’re not a bad man, Jesse.”
“Most times. Not as good as him, though.” Charon heaves a sigh. His eyes are red and heavy. “You think he can hear me?”
“Yes,” Lan Zhan answers. Then says, “It’s hard.”
“You’ve got no fucking idea.”
“Actually, I do.” Lan Zhan regards the man without malice.
“Sorry.”
“Hola, hola – stop that! No more apologies,” Wei Ying protests. “Take time off, Jesse. Mourn. Go back to work. Get a new partner, someone who can talk to people. Maybe Craig Marchan? He’s young but you can teach him. Help him get over Ai-Sang, too.”
“What?”
“Jiang Cheng followed them all through their ‘date’ that one night. I heard all about it, from both of them.” Wei Ying chuckles. “Work through it, Jesse. Talk to Harry.”
“Harry’s dead.”
“Yeah, he’ll hear you. Maybe you’ll hear him, too.”
Charon begins. Stops. Begins again, “You mean it, don’t you?”
A brow lifts over gray eyes. “You have to ask?”
“I have to ask,” the detective confirms. “You guys do this stuff all the time?”
“Not all the time,” Wei Ying says. “There’s traveling and music and drinking and sleeping and eating and – ”
“Fucking,” Lan Zhan breaks in, stone serious.
“Right,” Wei Ying agrees. “Fucking. Everyday. Though we’ve missed a few of those lately.”
“We will make up for it.”
“We will.”
“You guys, all the time – sex, sex, sex.” Charon brings his raincoat collar up, and turns, walking away. “Keep in touch. If you want.”
“Mn,” Lan Zhan says, folding the umbrella.
“Goodbye, Jesse! Stay safe!” Wei Ying waves back. He watches as the detective enters his car and drives away, then turns to the soft cloud of light gathering beside him. “Such a good ceremony. You okay with it?”
The spirit crystallizes, becoming a middle-aged man with dark hair in a dark suit. His eyes shine from among laugh lines. “I’m okay with it,” Harry Harrison says. He leans down grasping the mist at his feet. Its energy fuses into a small, gray tabby.
“Marco,” Wei Ying says, pleased. He stretches his pointer finger at a rose-colored nose. They connect with a snap and a purr. “Good boy,” the Yiling-Laozu purrs back. Waves of contentment sweep over him. “You’re not too sorry …”
Harry shakes his head; the cat’s eyes flicker and there’s no need for more. Wei Ying would have felt resentment if it were there. Lan Zhan, too. The sun is trying to push its way past the clouds as the familiar sounds of burial reach them. The circle is closing here, one of life’s greatest magics.
Wei Ying nudges the detective’s shade. The sharp pinch of guilt under his heart retreats. “See you around, Harry,” he says as the image fades, and the corners of his mouth curve up. “Be at peace.”
It’s a sound farewell to a friend. Lan Zhan moves, deliberately blocking Wei Ying’s view of the cemetery. He cups Wei Ying’s face in his large, strong hand, thumb brushing over his cheek. Suddenly, all Wei Ying wants is his husband’s arms around him and twenty-four hours of real sleep.
“We are done here,” Lan Zhan says.
“Yes.”
“We can go. If you want.”
“I want,” Wei Ying says. Eyes half-closed, he pushes his head against his husband’s chest, sliding his arms around his neck. He swallows hard against the wave of bliss that follows when Lan Zhan wraps his arms around him.
“I will carry you if I have to,” Lan Zhan mock-threatens after long minutes pass.
“So scary,” Wei Ying chuckles. “You know, you’re cute when you’re bossy.”
Lan Zhan turns them toward the SUV, leading them away with one final word.
“Mn.”