A Magic Steeped in Poison (The Book of Tea #1) (4)
The flash of a crow’s wing I saw in the steam above the teacup … it was an omen, after all.
Something flies past my head and falls at my feet with a thud. A curse rings above me and the footsteps quicken, scurrying away. It’s the curse that piques my interest: If it is the famed Shadow, then they sound terribly human. Curiosity strikes against the suspicion within me, so quick—spark to flame.
I pick up the fallen object and my nail pierces the thin paper covering. Underneath, I feel something familiar—slender strands compacted into a solid block, emitting an earthy smell. A tea brick. I flip over the package, and the red seal leaps up at me in warning. The governor promised us that all the poisoned bricks have been seized, marked to be destroyed.
I follow the sound of the footsteps on the roof, the dread in my stomach growing tighter with each step, turning from fear to anger. Anger at my mother’s death, at Shu’s constant pain.
Rolling my shoulders back, a growl rises in my throat as the power of the courage tea moves through my body, encouraging my boldness. I shrug off my belongings and set them against the side of the warehouse. The tea brick, I crush in my hands. The pieces crumble to powder and scatter in a trail behind me as I push myself into a run. The anger feels good. It feels real, a welcome reprieve from my usual helplessness. My mind narrows down to a single point of focus: I cannot let them escape with the poison. Not when it means another girl might have to bury her mother.
I fly around the corner, discarding all pretense at stealth. Only speed matters now.
My eyes catch the dark blur moving through the air, landing in front of me not twenty steps away. Their back is to me and I don’t think; I close the distance in the span of two breaths and throw myself at them with all my fury.
We fall to the ground, their balance thrown off by my weight. My hands grab for anything I can find, tightening around fabric, even as the impact of landing sends a wave of pain through my shoulder. They’re already moving, twisting under my grasp. I jab the thief under the ribs with my elbow, forcing a breath out in a whoosh. Knowledge gained from assisting my father in holding down grown men as he resets their bones.
Too bad the thief is not one of Father’s patients, usually weak from illness or delirious from pain.
They react swiftly, grabbing my right wrist and thrusting it in a direction it’s not meant to go. I howl and loosen my grasp. In one fluid motion, they’re up on two feet before I can even brush the hair from my eyes.
I scramble less gracefully to my feet, too, and we assess one another. The moon shines bright above our heads, illuminating us both. Their body is lean, a head taller than me. Darkness obscures their features, a figure from a nightmare—a piece of wood covers the upper half of their face. Horns curve out from slashed, angry brows. They appear as the God of Demons, able to slice off the head of troublesome ghosts with one swipe of a broadsword.
A mask, hiding the face of the terror stalking Dàxī.
They pick up a sack that was dropped in our tussle and secure it over their shoulder with a knot. Their gaze burns from behind the mask, mouth settling into a hard line.
Behind me is freedom, down to the docks where the warehouse workers receive their deliveries. They can steal one of the boats or disappear down the alleyway. The other way leads to the center of the village, with a greater likelihood of being caught by the patrols.
They run at me and try to use brute force to knock me aside. But I duck down and barrel toward their legs, trying to throw them off-balance. They sidestep and push me out of the way, but I grab onto the sack as they pass, causing them to stumble.
They whirl around and kick my knee. My leg crumples and I fall onto my arm, sending a searing pain down my left side. Another kick thrusts me down to the dirt. This thief knows exactly where to strike. I am no match.
They try to leave again, but I flop onto my stomach and claw at their legs, forcing them to drag me behind. I can’t let them get away with the poison. I suck in a deep breath to scream, but before any sound comes out, a swift punch lands at my temple. I fall back, the pain exploding in my head like firecrackers.
I try to stagger after them, but I can’t seem to catch my breath. My vision wavers in front of me, the buildings undulating like trees. Catching myself against the wall, I look up just in time to see a dark figure leap off a few stacked barrels and land on the rooftop.
The thief disappears into the night, with no proof anyone was even here at all. Except for the blood seeping through my hair and the ringing, still echoing through my ears.
CHAPTER THREE
I walk—limping, my ankle and face throbbing in pain—until the barest hint of dawn peeks over the horizon, and a farmer passes me in his wagon. He gives me the once-over and offers me a spot in the back. I doze between bags of millet and rice, with a squawking duck for company. The duck remains outraged at the rough ride until we get to the town of Nánjiāng, which sits on the southern bank of the Jade River, several hours from Sù by horse. It would have taken most of the day if I’d had to walk.
I sell my necklace at a pawnshop in order to afford the ferry ride to the capital. Another memory of my mother, gone. But it isn’t until I step on the boat that afternoon, jostled by the crowd, that a sudden pang of loneliness strikes me. In my corner of Sù province, I know all the villagers by face and most by name, and they know me. Here, I am no longer Dr. Zhang’s willful daughter. It’s like I’ve put on someone else’s face.