Girls of Paper and Fire (Girls of Paper and Fire #1)(4)

“Lei.”

My father has moved to the bottom of the ladder. His voice is low, a rough whisper. He holds out his hand. Despite the hard set of his jaw, his face has drained.

I step down from the ladder and weave my fingers through his, the quick trip of his pulse at his wrist a mirror to mine. Because the last time we heard the call of this horn was the night my mother was taken. And if that’s what the Demon King’s men stole from us then, what might they possibly take from us this time?





TWO


THE THUD OF HOOF-FALL OUTSIDE IS loud in the silence. Every detail carries: the crunch of dirt, the creak of leather armor as the riders dismount. The horses snort and stamp, but it’s easy to tell the sound of their hooves apart from that of their owners. Though lighter, their riders’ steps are deliberate. Measured. They prowl slowly up and down the street, clearly searching for something.

Not us, I think, cupping the thought like a prayer.

After just a few minutes, the figures come to a stop right outside the shop. Voices sound—deep, male.

Demon.

Even without the warning of the horn, I’d be certain of it. There is strength, a power in their voices.

These are voices that bite.

“This is it?”

“Yes, General.”

“It doesn’t look like much. The sign is broken.”

“The usual Paper negligence. I assure you, General, it’s the right place.”

A pause, fierce as a growl. “It had better be.”

There’s movement, and then our front door slams open, the entrance bells crying.

The effect is instant. As the soldiers shoulder their way inside, panic floods the shop, customers dropping to the floor in deep bows, knocking things over in their rush, the air filled with whimpers and whispered prayers. Something ceramic shatters nearby. I flinch at the sound, then again as my father throws an arm out to push me behind him.

“Bow!” he urges.

The demons advance. Yet despite the weight in my chest, despite the whoosh of blood in my ears, I don’t budge. The fear might be strong.

But my hatred is stronger.

Soldiers took my mother. Moon caste soldiers like these.

It’s only when my father says my name under his breath, more plea than command, that I finally lower. Most of my hair has loosened from its ponytail after the day’s work, and it falls forward past my ears as I fold stiffly at the waist, exposing the pale arch of the back of my neck, almost like an arrowmark. I dig my fingernails into my hands to stop from covering it.

When I straighten, my father is still blocking me from view. I shift carefully to peer past his shoulder, my heart clamoring as I get a proper look at the soldiers.

There are three of them, so big they seem to take up the whole shop. All three are Moon caste, alien to me with their beastlike forms—still recognizably human in shape and proportion, but more bizarre for it, the melding of human and animal creating something that seems even more foreign. Because of our shop’s popularity, I’ve had some exposure to demons, but it’s mostly been Steel castes, their bodies for the most part human, touches here and there of demon details woven into the fabric of their skin like adornments. A spark of jackal eyes; rounded bear ears; the smooth curve of wolf incisors. Tien’s familiar lynx features. Any Moon castes I did meet were simply not like… this.

These demons have stepped right out of my worst memories, nightmares made solid.

The bull-form in the middle is largest and evidently the highest ranking—the General. The bulk of him, the sheer weight in those boulderlike muscles, sends a pulse of something chilled down my veins. He wears a plum-colored tunic and wide trousers, a leather belt slung round his hips. His short bull horns are roped with charms and talismans. Snaking all the way from his left ear to the opposite jaw, a scar twists the leathery skin of his face out of shape, pulling his smile into a sneer.

I get a sudden surge of gratitude toward whoever made that mark.

Flanking him are an emerald-eyed tiger-form demon and an ugly reptilian soldier. Moss-colored scales wrap the lizard-man’s long humanoid limbs like armor. His head cocks from side to side, eyes darting all around. A serpent tongue flicks out in a flash of pink.

Slowly, the General raises his hands, and as one the room braces. “Please, please,” he says in a lazy drawl. “There’s no need to be fearful, friends.”

Friends. He speaks the word with a smile, but it tastes like poison.

“We know what happened here some years ago,” he continues, “But I assure you, friends, we do not come with violent intent. I am General Yu of the Seventh Royal Battalion, the Demon King’s finest and most honorable soldiers. Perhaps you’ve heard of us?” Silence stretches out, and his smile tightens. He settles one hand on the ivory hilt of the sword at his belt. “No matter. You will remember our name after today.”

He steps closer, moving in a heavy bovine sway. I resist the urge to shrink back. Only the wooden counter separates him from Baba and me, and it barely reaches the General’s waist. Slanting light catches on the charms dangling from his horns as he turns his head, sweeping his gaze over the shop. Then it lands on me.

General Yu freezes. Somehow this is scarier than if he’d shouted or made some move toward me; beneath his stillness, I sense something coiling in him. I jut my chin, staring back as defiantly as I can. But my cheeks are burning, my heart stuttering like hummingbird wings, and when he turns back to the room, his smile is satisfied. Gloating.