Dim Sum Asylum(89)

“Then my grandfather is right.” I loosened my grip on the blades, rolling my wrists. “You’re nothing but a tool now. Something they’ve tucked into the junk drawer by the back door. Something no one remembers where they left it, so they go out and buy a new one instead.”

“You think you can take me, you piece of shit?” he screeched at me, spittle flying from his swelling lip. I didn’t know if I caught him in the face with my elbow when I shoved him away or if he hit something on the ground, but either way, his garbled words made me feel a Hell of a lot better. “I am the nightmare the Takahashi—”

I lashed out before he finished, striking his face with my fists. The weight of my daggers’ hilts helped weight my clenched hands when I bashed his jaw. He was old. I didn’t take pride in striking an old man, but the gleaming star field dotting his wings was more than enough incentive for me. Twisting about, he lunged at me, knife pointed forward, but the wet ground proved to be his undoing instead of mine. A slip of his foot in the mud and the fae went flying, skidding past me on his chin, tearing up a bit of the lawn with his hands as he tried to stop his fall.

The knife I drove into the thick spine of his left wing stuck firm into the ground, pinning him there. Turning around, the blade tore at the membrane surrounding it, but it held, wedged deep into the rich black soil. Panting, he pulled up, trying to break free, but the pain must have been too great, because he immediately collapsed, his lips going blue around the edges. His labored breathing grew thicker, wetter, and the old fae began to cough, his hands shaking when he tried to toss one of the knives at me.

It missed, clattering against Trent’s gun where it lay, half-hidden in a thick bristle of ornamental grass.

Bending over hurt, but I grabbed the weapon, keeping an eye on the old man I’d stabbed. My grandfather was awake, barely so, but his leg had stopped bleeding. Lifting the gun, I pointed it straight at the Kodama’s assassin and said, “Now, húdié shuāngdāo, drop your knives and put your hands up in the air or you can join the dead you carry on your wings.”





Epilogue


UNSURPRISINGLY, I was put on desk duty the next day for a simple review of the situation since I discharged a firearm and injured a civilian, namely Takahashi. The way I was going, I might as well have made up a bed for the Internal Affairs rep in my loft, because I saw her more than I saw Trent. Still, I was on the fast track to get my badge back, and this time without a tainted smear left behind. Shooting a cop, even a crooked one, made IA take a harder look than shooting an alleged yakuza boss, and for what it was worth, I’d expressed my deepest apologies for putting a bullet into my own grandfather, so riding a desk was the best outcome I could have hoped for. Gaines promised it would only be for a few days, but the gleam in the IA rep’s eye told me otherwise.

I hadn’t heard from Takahashi since I watched the medics load him into an ambulance and told his security detail they were idiots for letting him roam the property alone. Nobu arrived moments after the cops, and he’d spent a good few hours trying to manage the chaos. I got to speak to Jie for all of ten minutes, and then she disappeared as well, whisked off to the hospital to be checked out, and my grandmother… she’d been a pale, shaken mess when I’d finally gotten the heavy wooden doors to the shed open. Her ageless, beautiful face was pale from shock, but she’d refused treatment, insisting Takahashi’s security take her to my grandfather’s side.

And that was the last I’d seen of any of them.

Three days later, the desk and I were fast on our way to becoming best friends, and Trent was sent off to shadow Yamada, a budding friendship deepened by their unspoken agreement to not discuss Yamada’s pitched battle with the inert dragonfly on the fountain before Trent could convince him it wasn’t coming to life after they’d dispatched the other.

I was pouring a bowl of cereal after coming home, hungry for the sixth or seventh time that day, when a knock reverberated on my front door.

“You expecting anyone, Bob?” The cat refused to look at me, choosing instead to contemplate the traffic patterns or possibly plot a bloody demise for pigeons roosting on a gōngyù on the building below. Either way, her stubby tail twitched with excitement—or murderous intent—and she chattered at the window, ignoring me and the milk carton I’d set out on the counter. Another knock followed, and I frowned, looking at the clock. “Too early to be Trent. He doesn’t get off shift for another hour. This building’s really got to get an intercom system.”

I could only see the top of a head from the peephole, a fish-eye view of sleek black hair pulled back from someone’s forehead into a queue, and I cursed whoever installed the damned door for forgetting I was living in a district with a massive number of short people. She stepped back, and I sighed, resting my head against the peephole, then twisted the knob to let her in.

Stepping back, I gave the older woman a slight bow and motioned for her to come in, then checked the hallway for any stragglers she might have brought with her. Nobu gave me a slight head bobble from his perch on a bench near the elevator, and standing nearby, the Maori glared at my cousin until he stood up and formally greeted me with a bow. I closed the door without saying anything, unsure about the protocol of how to greet a man whose boss I was related to and was now lying in the hospital waiting for a knitting-flesh spell to pull his knee back together.