Chapter 1: Charcoal

"You gotta be around here somewhere…"

Shiming was perplexed. Winged foreigners shouldn’t be allowed to disappear into thin air, yet that fellow had. It had been almost a year — he had lost track of time, knew only that summer was ending again and there was a chill in the air reminiscent of that night… it had been almost a year and he hadn’t been able to find a trace of the man. No one, absolutely no one, had any recollection of any light haired foreigners wearing huge funny amulets. And Aunty Chen surely knew everyone.

Not that Shiming had a lot of time to scout around these days. It had been a strange coincidence, finding that discarded ten yuan note just outside a small, roadside restaurant… and when he’d rushed in to buy the cheapest thing on the menu, the owner had hired him.

Old, frail Uncle Yang really needed an assistant, anyway, Shiming reflected, as he trotted down the street towards the market, revelling in the pre-dawn quiet. Uncle Yang was half blind, could hardly hear. It seemed like a miracle that the business kept going. Yet his customers knew him and loved him, and to his credit, Uncle Yang could still cook a mean Char Siew mien.

It wasn’t a bad job at all. Run the old man’s errands, help out at the restaurant with the dishes and the orders, in exchange for free food and a place to crash. And Uncle Yang had promised that one day, he would teach him his secret recipe… It was perfect.

Almost perfect. There was one glaring exception.

Youkai.

They had never troubled him after that day — indeed, they had disappeared off the map as thoroughly as Monster guy had. But there were nights where Shiming would feel the hairs on the back of his neck rise, and the shadows would seem just a shade deeper and darker. Those nights, he would run all the way home, sticking to the most brightly lit routes.

And yet no one had seen anything out of the ordinary. Not even where it came to feathers or bloodstains or anything. Ah Ren hadn’t picked up a trace, and he was the one who had taught Shiming everything he knew about the Street. The Cai brothers, normally the first to detect any sign of trouble or change, had looked at him funny for even asking. Sometimes, Shiming wondered if it had all been an elaborate nightmare.

Shiming paused in mid-step, conscious of a chill that had nothing to do with the night air. Furtively, he glanced around. Surely there couldn’t be anything. It was almost six, and the sun would be rising soon. The empty road beside him would be transformed into a busy motorway filled with cars and bicycles. No one would be stupid enough to try–

--he started running the moment he heard the crunch of footsteps behind him. Instincts said to flee, and he had learnt never, ever to ignore his instincts.

Don’t run in a straight line, those instincts advised him now, so he broke down the nearest alley he could find, forcing cold muscles to work. Faster. Faster. Surely he was still as fit as he had been a year back.

Not that that had helped… Lengths of laundry stretched out overhead, cutting off any view of the sky. Line after line seemed to pressed down on him. Walls to close. Air too damp and heavy.

Fear clutched at his heart, and now he could hear the thundering sounds of pursuit behind him above the rasping of his breath.

But this wasn’t that trap of yesteryear. This was the narrow back lane between Waikong Street 17 and 18, so there was a way out that pursuers couldn’t know about. Shiming spun at an intersection, cutting down the left lane, and there it was–

Grab at the sill, fling himself up, and squeeze through.

He wriggled through the window and tumbled into the dark of the room beyond. Spared a moment for a single gasp, then flung himself into the darkest corner. There was a sheet, an old sheet that he and Ah Ren would hide under when playing hide-and-seek with the Cai brothers. Once, this old abandoned house with its broken window had been the perfect hide out for them, although Shiming doubted if he would be able to fit through the window soon.

The sheet settled about him, almost as if he were still seven, and all of this was just a game. They wouldn’t find him here. That was the most important thing. No one had ever found him here. Pursuers always missed the turn, or ran past the house, because big guys always–

Peeking out through the tiny gap between the sheet and the floor, Shiming froze. Eyes had appeared at the window, their owner staring straight at him.

They can’t--! It was pitch dark. They couldn’t pick out the scuffing of the dust in this light. Even if they could, they shouldn’t have been able to see through the gloom into the corner where he was hiding. Or to make him out in his hiding place.

They weren’t looking at the marks in the dust, Shiming realized. They weren’t even scanning the room for him. They knew he was there, they could sense him…

…He broke cover and fled. Dashed through the abandoned kitchen, skidded on the dust in the living room, and flung himself out the front door.

Shiming glanced backwards, to the left, to the right, and tentatively dusted his shirt off. There was no sign of pursuit.

They had gone.

--x--

He didn’t come. Shiming dropped the marketing bags on the table as the realization struck home. He didn’t come and stop them.

He didn’t quite know why he felt vaguely betrayed. He was an idiot for even wanting someone else to help him out, because if it was one thing you learnt on the street, it was that you were always alone. If you depended on anyone, you were dead. It was that simple.

But he was disappointed. Sorely disappointed.

"Ho, ‘ming! Customers!" Uncle Yang yelled.

Shiming dumped the change beside the vegetables and headed out of the kitchen. I’m not afraid, he found himself chanting mentally. I’m not afraid of some stupid youkai. I can outrun them. Outsmart them. I did it today. I don’t need no one to rescue me. I look after myself.

"Seat yourself," he told the group standing the doorway. "Menu’s over on the wall."

"Thank you," the foremost one replied, and something in his tone made Shiming glance over to take a closer look.

He found his eye drawn to their dark suits and leather briefcases. Dark, well-pressed, expensive suits. "You’re not from around these parts, are you?" he found himself asking.

"No," the one who had spoken before said. "We’re just–"

"–passing through," another finished for him, with a low chuckle.

"Four bowls. Dry. With chilli," the third said.

Shiming forced himself not to stare. Business was business. If strange rich people were going to leave their posh restaurants to eat at this small joint, that was their problem. Rich people were strange like that.

"What’s your name, boy?" the first man asked, when he returned with the ordered noodles.

None of your business, he was tempted to reply, but Uncle Yang had always said to be polite to customers.

"Ru’er," he answered on impulse.

"Well then, Ru’er. Have you seen any strangers around these parts? Besides us, I mean."

"Strangers? We get lots of strangers," Shiming hazarded.

"Come now," the man raised a skeptical eyebrow. Then he chuckled. "I see. You need more incentive. One and the same, you street rats."

"…I don’t know what you’re talking about."

The last member of the group, the one that hadn’t spoken since they had come in, leaned forward. There was a brief rustle of paper as a hundred yuan note appeared in his hand and vanished once more. "Boy," he said, and his voice was low and smooth as silk. "Have you seen a foreigner? Silver haired. Blue-eyed. Wearing a long, black duster."

"Nope," Shiming replied. "But I can ask my pals–"

Suddenly, all four were standing, forming an imposing wall of black that towered over him.

"You lie," the man said. "But no matter. We know where you live. We know that he will seek you out soon. One way or another." Silver glinted as he lifted his briefcase, and Shiming became suddenly, painfully aware of the silver wristwatch that he wore. That all of them wore. Light glinted off second hands that did not tick.

"Have a care, Shiming," one of them said, as they swept out.

He stood there for a long while, staring at the four untouched bowls of noodles left arrayed on the table. In their midst was a single hundred yuan note.