Ow . . . what the heck was that?
She examined her wrist. It was unmarked, but an echo of that cold touch remained. She rubbed her arm, trying to melt the ice away, and studied her work with narrowed eyes.
On the wall, her bright crimson mark had gone black, darker than the shadows of the alley.
She continued to massage her wrist, bending it one way, then the other, struggling to figure out what had happened. The symbolic glyphâher “tag” for the past three yearsâwas exactly like the hundreds she had plastered throughout the greater Los Angeles area.
Did I do something wrong? Did I draw it too fast, too sloppily, make some dreadful mistake?
Worry grew to an ache in her chest. She considered redrawing it, but she had no more time. The curtain for the ballet would be rising in less than five minutes. Auntie Loo would already be in the family's private box. With little patience for frivolity, her aunt would be furious if Soo-ling was late again.
As the pain subsided in her arm, the shadows seemed to drain out of the paint. The crimson richness of the
fu
symbol returned, as if nothing had happened.
Whatever the problem had been, it seemed to be gone now. She shoved the spray can into her messenger bag and hurried down the alley toward the waiting limousine.
She shot one last glance over her shoulder as she reached for the door handle. The symbolic character still shone on the wall like a splash of blood. To most Chinese, it was merely a blessing of good fortune associated with celebrations of the New Year. It represented two hands placing a jar of rice wine on an altar as an offering.
But for Soo-ling, the painted character of
fu
was power, a ward of protection wherever she painted it. There would be no robbery at this location tonight; the proprietor of this 7-Eleven would be safe.
Or so she allowed herself to imagine. It was a small way she honored her dead mother and her ancient superstitions. A way to stay connected to her, to a past that both mother and daughter shared that went back centuries, to villages nestled amid rice paddies, to mornings fragrant with cherry blossoms.
She cast up a silent prayer to her mother and climbed into the back of the limo. A gust of sea breeze from nearby Huntington Beach wafted inside, tinged with just a hint of saltâand an underlying trace of rot. A shiver shook through her.
Just fish and algae,
she assured herself.
Behind the wheel, Charles nodded to her. They didn't need words. He had been with her family for as long as she could remember.
Wanting a moment of privacy, she raised the glass partition between them and tried to compose herself. Her reflection hovered in the window before her. Her long black hair had been coiled into a precarious pile atop her head, the cascade held at bay by a pair of emerald-capped hairpins. Her eyes matched the pins in color and shine.
Like a ghost of Mother.
Over the past few years, Soo-ling could not help but notice that she was slowly growing into her mother's image, one generation becoming another. An ache of loneliness and loss hollowed her out.
She went back to that final bedside visit with her mother before the malignant lymphoma stole her away. The hospital room had smelled of bleach and rubbing alcohol, no place for her fragile mother, who believed in herbal tea remedies, the healing power of statues and symbols, and ancient superstitions.
“This is passed to you,
si low chai
, my child,” her mother had whispered, sliding a sheet of hospital stationery toward her. “It is our family's heritage, passed from mothers to daughters for thirteen generations. You are of the thirteenth generation, and this is the thirteenth year of your birth. This number has power.”
“Mother, rest please. The chemotherapy is very taxing. You need your sleep.”
Soo-ling had taken the sheet of paper from her mother and turned it over. In a beautiful cursive script, her mother had drawn the Chinese character for good fortune.
Fu.
“My little rose, you are now the guardian of the City of Angels,” she said with a mix of pride and sorrow, struggling to breathe each word. “I wish I could have explained earlier. These mysteries can only be revealed after the first blood of womanhood.”
“Mother, please . . . rest . . .”
Her mother continued, her eyes glazed by both memory and drugs. She told stories of prophetic dreams and the power to block curses with the proper stroke of paint on a wall or door. Soo-ling had obediently listened, but she also noted the bleat of the heart monitor, the drip of the IV line, the whisper of a television down the hall.
What place did all these ancient stories full of ghosts and gods have in the modern world of electrocardiograms, needle biopsies, and insurance forms?
Finally, a nurse whisked into the room on rubber-soled shoes. “Visiting hours are over, Ms. Choi.”
Her mother began to protest, but a quick kiss from Soo-ling calmed her. “I'll be back tomorrow . . . after school.”
Glad for the excuse, Soo-ling fled the room, relieved to escape not just the stories but the demon named cancer. Still, her mother had called after her. “You must beware theâ” But the closing door cut off those last words, silencing her forever.
That night, her mother had slipped into a coma and died.
Soo-ling remembered staring down at the hospital stationery clutched in her hands.
Blessing and luck,
she thought. A lot of good it did her mother.
“We've arrived, Ms. Choi,” Charles said, drawing her out of the past as he pulled the limo to the curb in front of the theater in Santa Monica.
Soo-ling shook herself out of her reverie and slid across the seat. The driver already had the door open. “Thank you, Charles.”
As she climbed out, an anxious teenager in a rented tuxedo tripped down the steps toward her. “Soo! About time you got here!”
A smile filled her at the sight of him, but she did not let it reach her face. It was not proper for a Chinese girl to show strong emotions. Like casting her symbol, it was another way to honor her mother, to adhere to tradition in this small way.
The young man rushed up to her. He stood a head taller than her, gangly in the overlarge tuxedo. His long hair had been pulled back into a ponytail.
Bobby Tomlinson was her age. He'd been her friend since kindergarten. One of her few. Both misfits growing up, they had banded together. He was a computer geek and film buff, and she was the shy student who never spoke above a whisper. Over time they had grown to share a secret love of tagging. He had introduced her to it when she was eleven, and she was instantly hooked. It became an outlet for rebellion against the world as her mother became sick, a sliver of freedom and joy that helped Soo-ling cope with her overwhelming grief and anger. Over the next years, they ran the streets together, dodging police, struggling to leave their mark on the city in multicolored splashes of paint.
The smile trapped inside her grew larger with the memory. Bobby led her up the steps and inside. He babbled on in a rush about his new intern position at Titan Pictures.
“We start shooting tomorrow on that vampire musical I was telling you about. I'll be helping with the gaffing crew!”
She glanced over to him and lifted a questioning eyebrow.
He shrugged. “I know. I don't know what gaffers do either. But that's where I'll be working.”
They reached her family's private box as the orchestra was winding through its first movement. Bobby glanced back to her, his blue eyes sparkling with amusement. The private box was empty.
“Where's Auntie Loo?” she asked, expecting to find her aunt already here.
“She called and said she had a merger to oversee at the bank. It's just us tonight.”
Soo-ling was shocked to find herself alone with Bobbyânot that the two hadn't spent many long nights running the streets with each other. But this felt somehow different, both of them all dressed up and sharing this dark private space. She was grateful the lights were dimmed. It hid the warmth that bloomed in her cheeks.
Still, she hesitated outside the box seats, sensing something out of place. This was Auntie Loo's passion. Neither she nor Bobby were fans of the ballet. Plus a small part of her wanted to escape, to keep moving, troubled by an inexplicable sense of being trapped.
She rubbed her wrist and turned to Bobby. “You know, with Auntie Loo missing in action, we don't have to stay here. Over at the Grauman's, there's a movie retrospective ofâ”
“George Pal!” he finished. “I know!
War of the Worlds.
Those Sinbad movies
.”
She knew how much he loved special-effects filmmakingâfrom the old-fashioned miniature models and stop-motion photography of yesteryear to the newest computer-generated gadgetry. In many ways, he was just as trapped between the past and the present as she was, stuck between the traditional and the modern.
“Then let's go!” she said, catching his enthusiasm.
Laughing, they fled the ballet and escaped in the limo over to Hollywood Boulevard. They were the only patrons of the Grauman's Chinese Theatre that night decked out in a tuxedo and a formal silk gown. As they passed under the massive marquee, Bobby took her arm under his as if they were waltzing down the red carpet of a movie premiere.
Still, as much fun as it was, Soo-ling was all too conscious of the old theater's ancient Chinese symbolism and architecture. It stirred again the ghost of her mother.
But once they were seated, Bobby's enthusiasm sparked through her and pushed back any painful memories. He went on and on about why the director George Pal was the true father of the modern special effect, how stop-motion photography was a lost art. Then the houselights dimmed and the first movie started. A comfortable silence fell between them as they basked in the flickering glow that separated this world from the land of illusion.
At some point, her hand ended up in Bobby's. She could not say who took whose hand. It happened as naturally as the brush of a stroke of paint.
Still, neither dared look at the other, their gazes fixed toward the screen.
As the lights finally rose during the retrospective's intermission, she turned to Bobby, ready to fill the silence with empty words. She wasn't ready yet to discuss where their relationship would go from here. Her hand slipped from his.
“Bobbyâ”
Pain erupted in her chest, a whirling blast of ice and fire that burned away any words. Gasping, she fell toward the floor. The theater faded to black as she slipped into pure shadow.
As darkness drowned her, laughter accompanied her on the journey. The black amusement coalesced into a voice, hoary with frost. “Next time, my dear. Next time you are mine.”
An image briefly flashed in her mind of the proprietor of the 7-Eleven. He lay faceup in a widening spiral of blood, a raw-edged wound gaping in his chest.
Then nothing, darkness again.
Reality snapped back into focus. Bobby's face filled her vision. She watched his lips move, but it took a moment for his words to make sense. “âhurt. Soo-ling, are you all right?”
She struggled to sit up. “Y-y-yes. I think so.”
“Should I call a doctor? It looked like you fainted.”
“No, Bobby. I just need to go home.” The air in the theater seemed thinner, colder.
“I'll go with you.”
She didn't have the energy to argue. Leaning on his shoulder, she allowed herself to be half-carried out of the theater and down to the limousine.
“We need to get her home,” Bobby told Charles.
“Please,” she whispered, collapsing into the leathered interior. “Can we pass by that 7-Eleven on the way?”
She had to know for sure.
Bobby climbed in next to her and shared a worried glance with Charles.
Soon they were speeding down the highway, the traffic mercifully thin. She stared out the window, her breathing shallow. She clenched the edge of her seat with white knuckles. As they exited onto Santa Monica Boulevard, the traffic snarled because of a mass of sirens and flashing lights. They were gathered in front of the 7-Eleven store. A traffic cop, illuminated by a flaming red flare, waved them forward. The limousine glided past the store as a paramedic pushed a draped gurney into a waiting ambulance.
“Do you wish to stop, miss?”
“No.”
She'd seen what she needed to see.
“You tagged this store, didn't you?” Bobby asked, touching her hand, sensing her distress.
She nodded.
“But you couldn't finish your tag? Like back in Laguna?”
She remembered. It was early in her new role as protector of the city. She hadn't really fully believed it herself. She'd allowed the police to chase them off before she'd completed her mark. Afterward a fire burned down that store.
Even after that, she hadn't been truly convinced. Still wasn't. She had taken up the
fu
tag in memory of her mother, to honor her, a duty to tradition born out of guilt and loss.
But now this . . .
“No,” she answered softly. “I finished it. It's something else.” She remembered the icy claw and the black laughter. Words came tumbling out. She felt stupid even saying them, but she knew they were true. “I think something knows about meâand is hunting me.”
Bobby remained silent. She knew he couldn't fully comprehend and probably didn't really believe in her powers, even though he had been the one to get her started. Bobby knew how deeply her mother's death had wounded her. One night, she had shared her mother's stories with him, her claims of a mystical maternal blood-line. Intrigued, Bobby had suggested using the symbol as her new tag, to add weight and purpose to their nightly runs together. And so it began.