I quickly navigated the narrow hall, picked my way through the grease-and-soot-covered kitchen, and stopped just before pushing open the ancient screen door. I expected Feng to be in her workshop shaving some kind of metal or killing baby bunnies or something, but she was in the alleyway, slouched against the brick wall, head thrown back. Her eyes were closed and a single shard of sunlight made its way through the surrounding buildings and washed over Feng’s throat.
I laid my hand on the screen door’s latch. The sound was miniscule, the latch scratching under the weight of my palm, but Feng’s eyes flew open, her whole body going into a rigid fighting stance. She narrowed her eyes, practically snarling when she saw me through the matted screen.
“What are you doing here?”
Fear, like a lead weight, sunk low in my belly. It pressed against my bladder, made my knees feel weak and made every other limb feel loose. Feng was a trained assassin. I was an idiot with a bass knife. What was I thinking?
I held both of my hands up surrender-style. “It’s me, Sophie Lawson. We met before. I was here with my friend Will, and then we—I saw you—at Sutro Point?”
Feng’s hard face registered no emotion, no indication that she remembered me or had even heard me speak. Finally, she said, “I know who you are. What do you want?”
I gently pushed open the screen door and stepped into the alley. The heat here was moist and oppressive, the stench of rotted vegetables, leftover food, and deep fat fryers making it feel heavy and slick.
I knew that Feng and Xian were twins and though their faces—the almond-shaped eyes, the high sleek jawbones, and hard mouths—were identical physically, that was where the similarities ended. Where Xian’s eyes were rounded out with coal eyeliner and big, waggly lashes, Feng’s were tight, narrow slits, always on the verge of shifting, glaring. Her mouth was set hard, her lips pressed blade thin. She was as tall and willowy as her sister, but Feng kept her shoulders rounded. Her belly was concave and her hips were straight and angular, two inches of smooth olive skin visible in the spot where her baggy camouflage pants came up to meet her fraying black baby tee.
“I need to talk to you.”
“About what?”
I looked over my shoulder, my eyes sweeping the dank kitchen behind me. Assured no one was lurking or listening, I dug the silver bullet out of my pocket and held it up to her. “Business.”
Feng’s eyes zeroed in on the bullet. No one else in the city—in the world, likely—made silver bullets like these, but I spun it around anyway so Feng could inspect the tiny Chinese symbol carved on the shaft. The Du family was known not only for their werewolf hunting prowess but for their “artistry.” Each bullet was carved with a symbol that indicated the season in which it was forged. A nice sentiment for an instrument of death, I guessed, but disconcerting nonetheless.
“It’s one of yours,” I assured.
“Fine.”
Feng shrugged and I followed her into her “office.” It was a big, empty room that looked as though it were carved out of concrete, with a uniformly bland gray paint job. Bare bulbs screwed into dented aluminum sockets hung from the ceiling, the yellow light casting weird shadows in corners and against walls. There were no windows, no phone lines, no computers. Floors blended into walls blended into ceiling, giving the whole place the unpleasant feeling of a solid steel block, while flimsy tables that looked like they were discarded from the restaurant hinted at more of an inescapable sweatshop. The Du family emblem was painted on the wall behind Feng—the surname Du intertwined with the American spelling, a stylized painting of a wounded werewolf dying behind the heavy black print. Nausea roiled in my stomach.
I hugged my arms around me, then slyly dipped one hand into my purse, letting my fingertips rest on the sheathed blade of my bass knife. Feng may not be a fish, but I was ready to gut her just the same if it came to it.
At least I hoped I would.
I looked around, trying to quell the nervous heat that prickled around my hairline. If Feng was going to kill me, I whispered in my head, she would have done it by now.
Feng settled herself behind an enormous hunk of mahogany wood—part desk, part work station—and pushed aside a mammoth toolbox that I knew housed bullet samples, spent shells, and tools.
My palms went damp when Feng stared up at me, her eyes like flat stones, but her lips quirked up at one end in a kind of wry, challenging smile.
“So what kind of business do you want to talk about?” Feng wanted to know.
I licked my lips and perched on the end of the folding metal chair set up across from Feng. My throat was closing, but I did my best to control angst in my voice, forcing my words to come out smooth and natural. “Can I ask you a question first?”