Bound (Chinatown Demons #1) - Rhys Ford

One

THE SOFT WINDS sweeping through Chinatown whispered Xian’s name as he strolled through the district’s night-drenched streets. Rain tickled the sky, a damp promise of a wet morning to come. For the moment, the clouds were blustering, an empty threat billowing above the city, soaking up the lights into their water-swollen bellies. Xian kept an eye on them as he walked, catching glimpses of the moon through the trailing rivers of dirty gray clouds.

He was avoiding the main streets, cluttered with the occasional pack of tourists at two in the morning. The back alleys were where Xian felt more comfortable, more like the warrens of Hong Kong that he’d grown up in. The tight, compact walkways behind the main streets often held much more interesting things than what ran out in the open. Turning the corner, he nearly ran into four nearly identical elderly Chinese women gathered around an open bucket, their arthritis-twisted fingers digging through bloody, dirty water to pull up finger-length fish. Flashing snicks of knives dispatched the heads and guts, the discarded bits flung to the side with a quick flick of their wrists. Three calico cats of dubious origin sat waiting for the offerings to come their way, their fangs as sharp as the blades working through the fishes’ bodies. The cat’s eyes followed him as he passed, but the old women paid him no mind, intent on filling the baskets sitting on the ground at their feet.

Xian worked his way carefully past the old women, but they never looked up from their task. The cats, however, were a different story. Their golden gazes followed his every move, the fur on the backs of their necks ruffling up when he drew near. One gave a slight hiss when he got too close, but a flying fish caught its interest, and it turned its head to snatch the bony offering out of the air. He was nearly clear of the alleyway when one of the old women shook the bracelet of bells at him, chasing Xian’s steps.

“I want no quarrel with you, grandmother,” he murmured in his native Cantonese, frozen where he stood, caught on the edge of the alleyway by the old womens’ stares. “I’m just passing through.”

“Let the demon pass,” one of the women scolded the other, but Xian couldn’t tell which one was speaking. “If you stop it, it will come looking for us later. Best let it be.”

In his over a century and a half of living, Xian was sure of a few truths. The first was a cat could always see what he truly was and that they were very protective of the humans who fed them. The second was elderly Asian grandmothers often had better second sight than cats and were very protective of the felines they fed. Either they were remarking on his Chinese-British features and hair, or the one with the bells knew of ways to kill him that he’d never imagined.

Whichever it was, Xian wasn’t intending on sticking around to find out.

There’d been a festival a few days before, and the sulfurous stink of firecrackers lingered in the air despite the on-and-off drizzle. It was odd to walk the streets after the popping cacophony of a celebratory purging and not be ankle-deep in red paper bits. He’d always loved shuffling through the streets following the display of fireworks, the burnt remains of ten thousand long strings of firecrackers catching on his feet. There’d often been food left in places a hungry child could find if one was industrious enough. In many ways, Xian had more in common with the cats than the old women. He’d been as much of a stray, begging for food, looking for any handout he could find.

He did well enough until he found himself in the clutches of someone with a lot more power behind them than a bracelet of demon-vanishing bells. And now, many years later, he walked through a city with the sights and sounds of his childhood following behind him like ghosts.

Much like the heavy-footed thief trailing him. Or at least Xian assumed it was a thief. He hadn’t run afoul of anyone lately. Not that he could remember. The gambling den he was headed to was discreet and glad for his business. He owed no one any money, but there was always the off chance he was being hunted. It had been a long time since someone had come after him for more than his wallet, but despite years of careful