The Broken Lands by Kate Milford Page B

“Darlin’, I haven’t the foggiest.”
    Jin nodded. Then, unable to hold it back any longer, she burst into tears.
    â€œ
Lai he yi he.
Little sips,” Liao said again, much more gently.
    Obediently, Jin took another sip and tried not to cough. Fiery liquid slid down her throat, burned away some of the desperate aching sobs.
    â€œGood girl, firefly.” Liao patted her shoulder. His knotty old hand was shaking, too. “Now again.”
    Jin sniffled and wiped her eyes. “Can’t imagine you really want me drunk and setting off rockets, Uncle Liao,” she mumbled. Panic hit, quick and sharp. “My bag—what time is it?”
    â€œDon’t be absurd. It’s for recovery, not for boozing you up.”
    â€œMy bag,” Jin said again, shoving the ice pack into Mr. Burns’s hand and the glass into Sam’s. The second she was on her feet, a wave of nausea hit and she nearly fell back into the chair. “Mr. Mapp! I had a bag with me. Did it—”
    â€œSit right back down, young lady,” Mapp ordered. “Your gear’s safe and sound. It’s right there, on the bar.”
    â€œOh, thank goodness.” She allowed herself to be guided back into the chair while Sam rushed to retrieve the bag.
    Liao plucked it from his hands. “Yes, and what, precisely, is this errand that takes you into some kind of shantytown hellpit? And why did you not at least take the
laowai
with you? It isn’t as if he has anything better to do than keep you company.”
    â€œHey,” Mr. Burns protested weakly.
    â€œYou disagree?” Liao snapped. “You would have told our Jin no, you have no time to make sure she doesn’t get herself killed?” Burns opened his mouth, but then thought better of answering. Liao took one of his long breaths, then turned back to Jin, holding up the bag like an indictment. “What kind of cat are you keeping in this bag?”
    â€œAtlantis. But different than we usually do it.” Despite everything, Jin smiled and settled back in her chair. “If we get back in time for me to build it before tonight.”
    Liao looked like he was trying hard to maintain his expression of disapproval, but at this his face cracked into a reluctant smile. “Spoken like a true
daoyao ren.
” He glanced at Mr. Burns. “Our Jin has a cinnabar heart,” he said. “It is too brave for her own good.” He gently took Jin’s bag from her. “Little sips, now. Then we will go to work so that you may build your Atlantis.”
    Â 
    The creek that bordered Coney Island to the north and separated it from the rest of Gravesend had huge stretches of empty banks on both sides, overhung with stunted trees and lined with weeds. Less than a quarter of a mile from civilization, yet certain spots along that creek felt like wilderness. In one of those isolated little pockets of marshy ground, Bones stood a few yards up the bank while Walker, stripped to the waist, rinsed blood from his arms.
    The freckles there were black as ink, and angry red lines connected them, raised marks like scratches or welts. His back, too, was a network, an elaborate tracery of those same welts. If they hadn’t been so geometrically precise, they would’ve resembled whip marks.
    Walker’s face, reflected in the scarlet-scummed water, looked utterly disfigured. The freckles there stood out black now, as well, forming a swirling and jagged pattern around his eyes and across his nose, scored by more of the lines. His red-rimmed eyes burned, but he was smiling.
    â€œThat,” he said cheerfully, scrubbing gore out from under his fingernails, “was fun.”
    â€œThat,” Bones corrected, “was possibly excessive.”
    â€œNot if the point is to get people talking,” Walker retorted. He dunked his head under and yanked it out again, shaking the water off and finger-combing his hair back. “Do you know