The woman didn’t respond. That was encouraging, as it suggested Lily had given her something to chew on. Lily tried to feel encouraged as they reached the top of the hill . . . and looked out on medieval China.
A high wall snaked out from the left side, partly encircling a large expanse of meadow turned garden that must have been groomed over generations. A tall gate in the wall was open, admitting traffic—foot traffic, mostly. There were carts, but they were pulled by people, not horses or donkeys. The wall continued to the right of the gate until it was interrupted by a small lake, its surface a placid mirror dotted by a few boats, none of them far from shore.
Centered in the meadow was an enormous courtyard, perfectly square. Three sides of the courtyard boasted ornate buildings wearing the peaked hats of Chinese architecture. One of those roofs must have been gilded, for it was a blaze of gold in the sunlight. The others were the dull red of clay tiles. The fourth side of the courtyard, the one nearest the gate, contained a structure, too, but it seemed to be an oversized gazebo, being composed of pillars and a roof. From her vantage she couldn’t tell if there were walls set farther back, hidden from her view by the roof. There were people everywhere, but especially moving to and from the gazebo-like structure. A market, maybe?
In the center of the courtyard, a tower rose like a fat chimney that had lost its building, crowned by what, to her eyes, looked exactly like a giant Frisbee. The Frisbee was bright red. The buildings and the oversized gazebo were linked by tree-shaded walks. Several smaller buildings were scattered along those walks. The whole scene reminded her vaguely of pictures she’d seen of Beijing’s Forbidden City—the wall, the wedding-cake architecture—but these buildings were stone, not wood.
On the other side of the wall lay a river that emptied into the lake. On the other side of the river was a town. The buildings closest to the river were stone—not as large and ornate as the buildings in the courtyard, but still with fancy roofs. None was more than two stories high. Away from the river they dwindled into what she thought were wooden buildings, though from this distance it was hard to be sure—substantial at first, then becoming what were likely shacks. There were a lot of shacks.
A couple spots within the town—city? Was it large enough to be called that?—were oddly blank, holding neither buildings nor vegetation. Beyond the buildings were fields of growing things, a dirt road, and hills. A couple of the hillsides had been terraced into rice paddies.
At least that’s what she thought those stair-step fields might be. The hills were a long ways off, and she’d never actually seen a rice paddy. “What in the world is this place?”
“It’s not in your world at all,” Not-Helen said, amused.
“But the realm must have a name.”
“It has had several names. The Zhuren call it Wǒmen De.”
Lily lifted her brows. “‘Our Earth’?”
“They would translate it simply as Ours. Ah, there’s the rickshaw. They were slow—on purpose, I’m sure. Li Po’s men know how he feels about me.”
Now that she’d pointed it out, Lily saw a small, two-wheeled cart halfway up the winding path, being drawn toward them by a single man between the poles. It was made from a mix of bamboo and wood and looked uncomfortable. “Thank you for obtaining it, ah . . . the man who stole my gun called you Alice, I think?”
The woman who could not be Helen didn’t respond, though her pale lips turned up as if she were savoring some private joke.
Lily’s heart pounded as if she were about to say something dangerous. How absurd. If she was right, the danger existed whether or not she stated her guess out loud. If she was wrong, no harm done. That didn’t change the dread in the pit of her stomach. “Alice Whitehead, by any chance?”
“I am Báitóu Alice Li, though your manner of naming would make me Alice Báitóu. Báitóu, of course, means ‘white head.’” That pale smile didn’t change. “Helen Whitehead, whom you killed, was my twin sister.”
TWO
WHEN Rule awoke again, pain was not the entire universe. More like a tidal sea that waned and waxed with each breath. He floated on that terrible sea and reached again for Lily through the mate bond.
Alive. She was alive, but how could she be so far away? Where was she?
Where was he?
Not Dis. He knew that instantly, for he felt the moon’s song, distant but immeasurably soothing. He let that song ease him for a time, then gathered his thoughts to consider his situation. Lily might be inexplicably distant, but according to his nose, her grandmother was very close. And Madame Yu wasn’t a tiger anymore. He remembered that. She’d been a tiger the last time he woke. If she’d returned to her weaker form, she must not be expecting attack. Not immediate attack, at least.
He also smelled smoke and cooking meat . . . a campfire? Yes. He did not smell Gan except for a faint, lingering scent that seemed to come from his own body, as if the former demon had handled him while he was unconscious. But Gan did not seem to be close now.
The ocean was. That mélange of scents soothed him, too, with its familiarity and timeless indifference. He hadn’t noticed it the first time he woke, but only the wolf had roused then. Good thing Madame Yu had been with him. He might have killed himself trying to kill Gan or to escape. Lupi had been known to wake up in the operating room with unfortunate results for their would-be surgeon. To an injured wolf, almost everyone was an enemy.
That, of course, assumed he could have moved, which might be laughably optimistic. He was badly hurt this time. It wasn’t just the pain that told him this, though that spoke convincingly, but the weakness, the woozy, out-of-control feeling . . . from blood loss? Probably, though his aching head suggested a concussion might be contributing. The pain in his head didn’t worry him, though. Neither did that in his leg—a deep wound, he thought, but he hadn’t bled out, so it would heal if he lived to heal it.
He might not. The worst pain came from his gut.
Rule had taken a bullet in the stomach not long ago. He’d needed surgery, an IV, a few units of blood, even antibiotics. Lupi normally didn’t bother with antibiotics, given how easily their healing shrugged off unfriendly microbes, but gut wounds dump a nasty stew of bacteria into the system. His healing had been stretched enough, Nettie had told him, without having to fight off peritonitis, too.
This wounding was worse. The level of pain told him that. The location—below his stomach—suggested the reason, or part of it. And antibiotics, surgery, replacement blood, and IVs did not seem to be available here. Wherever “here” was.
Earth? The sky he’d seen earlier had been bright, sunny blue. Had he somehow been returned to Earth? What had happened to him?
With the question, a jumble of memory poured in. Fire. His brother’s body, bloody and motionless. Lily on the other side of the cavern, nearly hidden in the smoke. No sign of Toby or the other children, and Cullen either unconscious or dead. Cynna trying to rescue Cullen. A mountain of pink flesh looming over Rule, giggling. Rule gripping his knife firmly as he faced Xitil, who had turned out to be insufficiently dead. She’d been about to kill him when . . . what? He couldn’t think, couldn’t remember anything beyond that moment when he’d faced off against the demon prince. But he remembered enough of what had happened before then to know that the only medical supplies he’d had were a roll of gauze and a tube of superglue.