Fox and Phoenix (Lóng City 1)

Royal guards had special surgery that gave them artificial eyes with all kinds of wiring and special connections into the palace’s magic currents. Gan shook his head and gave me a slow amused smile. “Not yet. Check again in seven years.”

Jing-mei flipped her cards into a new pattern. She wore a filmy blue tunic that glittered with sparks of magic flux pulled in from the surrounding air.

“Nice threads,” I told her.

She rolled her eyes. “That slang is so old, it died before my ancestors did.”

“It was a joke.”

“An awful one. Hey, Deming.”

She beckoned to a passing waiter, a sleek young man with a shaved head and spectacles that glittered with magic and electricity. “More ginger tea,” she said. “Oh, and some of those pepper pastries you told me about.”

The waiter blinked. Bright specks flowed over his lenses. I’d heard of the new micro-receptor-transmitter technology, but I’d never seen it before outside the royal palace, and even there it was new stuff. With a smile both polite and condescending at the same time, Deming glided away to fill our order. Jing-mei shuffled her cards anew. “He’s their best waiter,” she said. “We’re lucky to get his service.”

Gan snorted. Jing-mei shot him a sharp look. “It’s true.”

“I never said it wasn’t.”

Jing-mei’s mouth stretched into a thin, unhappy smile, but all she said was, “You said you liked those pastries.”

Deming returned with a tray stacked with cups, teapots, and a platter bearing small white pastries. They were fancy ones, dusted with red and black powder, and arranged to look like Lóng City’s highest bell tower. I snagged one from the top, ignoring Deming’s pained expression at my lack of appreciation for art.

“So, where’s Danzu?” I asked.

“He’s coming, but he might be late,” Gan said. “He’s checking over a special shipment.”

“What kind of shipment?”

Gan shrugged. Jing-mei glanced away. All those stories about Danzu and his new gang being smugglers were true, then. Embarrassed, I stuffed the pastry in my mouth. Deming had continued to hover around our table. When I scowled at him, he just sniffed.

That’s when I realized why they were called pepper pastries.

Fire exploded inside my mouth. I choked, spraying pastry bits all over the table. Jing-mei poured a cup of ginger tea and emptied it down my throat. I swallowed and wiped the tears from my eyes. Oh, joy. Everyone in the shop was staring at us. How nice.

Jing-mei poured a second cup. I waved it away. “No more,” I croaked. “I’m fine. Thanks.”

She frowned, but then glanced up. I followed her gaze to see Danzu, grinning at all of us. How much had he seen? Too much, I guessed.

“You haven’t changed at all,” he said. He dropped into the seat opposite me, still grinning.

I grinned back, though it made my teeth hurt. “Hi, Goat Boy.” Danzu’s companion spirit was a scrawny goat with mismatched horns.

Danzu made fake grunting noises at me.

Gan grabbed my arm before I could smack Danzu. “Shut up. No fighting.” Under his breath he added, “I wish Yún were here. She could make you both behave. Why didn’t you invite her?”

“She was busy, okay?” My gut cramped from guilt and the pepper pastries. I drank another cup of ginger tea, slowly. “When she’s not studying, my mother gives her extra work in the shop.”

“Really? I heard your ma mi closed the shop.”

I hesitated. “Not completely. We’re doing some astrology readings for old customers. Some special conjuration orders. Things like that.”

“Hü.” Danzu studied me with a speculative look. “Does that mean you’re doing magic?”

Remembering the ink disaster, I shook my head. No use talking about working magic myself, all alone on the city walls. That was just an accident. “Ma mi does the real magic. Yún and I do inventory and accounting books. And lessons. I think I might die doing lessons.”

Jing-mei snickered. “I still don’t know why you signed on as an apprentice. You hate that stuff.”