Chapter 5: Shame

Jean slowly approached the tunnel, hidden away in the construction site. The dust of the shattered clay man twinkled in the asphalt, sparkling with lights of oncoming traffic. What were these clay men doing? She squinted. They weren’t building anything.

They were guarding.

Hidden in the shadows, she could see more clay men scurrying into the tunnel, with greater intensity. Her eyes narrowed, focusing on their faces. Dry as a rock. No sweat in the New York heat. Stone faced, every quiver of muscle grinding to a halt, their skin having lost its supple. There was something very slapstick-esque about their fluorocolour vests, contrasted against their dull, red skin.

The old Dragon had warned her about the WuTong. Men corrupted by their lust. Exchanging their soul for orgasms and more orgasms, until they were addicted to the mind-blowing rush of easy access to dopamine turbocharged with magic. You could tell how far their demonic transformation had progressed by the stiffness of their movements and the intensity of the dull red that covered their skin.

It was one thing to hear stories about the WuTong. It was another thing to see them in the flesh – or in the clay, formally speaking. Whilst Shen occasionally tempted a man from the catacombs of Xi’an – a government official, grieving family member, or more recently, an over-excited tourist, Jean had never seen one in her time as the Scarlet Phoenix. Not in the last 50 years. She sighed wistfully and looked to the stars, tracing the outline of the dragon soaring through the night sky.

She checked her compass. It wasn’t pointing towards the tunnel. But it was moving. Swinging from the north. Slowly, but surely, moving west. She saw a group of men moving towards the tunnel. Their leader was dressed like a businessman down on his luck – suit astray, shirt untucked, hair unkempt. He looked forlorn. The one beside him on the other hand was animated with a frenzy, all smiles with the charm of a shark.

In the businessman’s arms, a man – no, a boy, lay still. The compass pointed directly towards him, following his movement.

She scowled in annoyance. She was too slow. The WuTong had found him first. And who knows what they had already done to him. That tunnel could be a death trap. One way in. One way out.

One clay man. Easy. Ten? Break a leg. One hundred? That was a suicide mission. Jean had no way of knowing how many rats were swarming that decrepit hole. And if Shen was down there. She shivered.

The ground groaned with the creaking of a subway train reaching its destination. Eureka. Jean spotted a nearby subway station. They had to be using the underground network. She smiled and pulled out her phone, checking the map. As long as she had her compass, she could track them through the subway tunnels. She might have to break a few walls, but who said discretion was the fun part of valour?

Arthur carried the boy through the tunnel, flanked on either side by his fellow clay soldiers. The boy was still breathing, but awkwardly, like he’d forgotten how to. The boy’s pretty face was fouled with blood and red dust, contorted into fear; his short, black hair no longer neatly tousled. Jamie’s dagger was still in his chest, leaking its poison through the boy’s body. It smelled something awful.

Jamie was happy though. Clearly. This man couldn’t hide his bulging pants. Smirking, his sharp fangs showed clearly in the flickering torchlight. The way he was carrying about, he’d just won the World Cup. Asshole.

There was no dagger in Arthur’s chest, yet ... but a poison of another kind. Arthur was an educated professional – a lawyer, banker, and king of commercial real estate. Why was he slumming it with these brutes? And ... this boy.

‘You know what Arty, you’re a fucking limp dick pansy. I’ll bet you joined because you couldn’t fuck a woman if you tried. Shen is going to eat you alive. You think you’re better than us because you spend your days in a fucking office fucking the secretary? Let me know when you want to do a real man’s work.’

Arthur ignored the taunts. And yet ... he was worried. He had failed his first real mission.

The men arrived at their destination. Shen was standing there, in his golden robe. He twisted around at the sound of footsteps, and Arthur could see a woman on her knees. Michelle, his wife. He had not seen her since that fateful day when he came home to that terrible scene – burned into his memory, the humiliating scars still haunting him after the lust faded. Scars he tried to forget whilst thrusting into Maria’s face under his desk. But still.