The Demon and the City

just yet. It would show initiative if he were to go and see Tserai. He paused, still smiling. It didn't hurt that Jhai Tserai was also remarkably beautiful, and—according to persistent rumor—unattached. But perhaps she wasn't interested in the opposite sex. Fair enough, Zhu Irzh thought, but then again, he enjoyed a challenge.

Seven
    High in the Paugeng tower, on the terrace of the penthouse, Jhai sat and gazed out over the twilight city. The penthouse was silent; her mother was visiting one of her innumerable charities and the servants had been dismissed for the evening. Jhai wanted to make sure that she wouldn't be disturbed. After the difficulties they'd had with Deveth Sardai, it seemed reasonable to downsize a bit, proceed on her own rather than using hired help. She'd been a fool to rely on Deveth, though. She should have realized that the woman was unstable. Deveth had not possessed limits, that had been the trouble. Jhai's own limits might lie far beyond the edge of human morals, but nonetheless, they were carefully and precisely defined.
    She looked down at the little, black capsule in her hand, weighing it in her palm. It was as light as air, yet for Jhai it was a burden as heavy as a world. If anyone ever found out . . . She and her mother, and her grandmothers as far back as the seventeenth century, had taken such care, such pains. They had bred selectively, never marrying, always choosing the most auspicious elements of the gene pool, revealed through reliable oracles; treading a fine line between power and discovery. Technology made things a lot easier. If Paugeng's genetics division got its research right, then the next generation would be simply cloned and the knife-edge dangers of breeding would lie safely in the past. But that, Jhai thought with a thin smile, was the fallback position. If her plans worked out, then her heritage wouldn't matter any longer anyway. It would not be necessary to merely pass.
    Jhai weighed the capsule again and left the terrace, closing the door softly behind her. She headed for the penthouse's lavish bathroom, ignoring, for once, the invitations of the gilded jacuzzi or the sauna, and put her hands on the porcelain basin. She stared hard at her own reflection in the mirror, willing it not to move. It remained fixed, the perfect mimic, and Jhai breathed a sigh of relief. She did not like taking the drug. She played a game of cat and mouse, leaving it as late as possible before the next dose, but this time she had almost overstepped the line. She could feel the change starting within her, itching to be freed from the remains of its neurochemical shackles. She let the silk robe rustle to the floor and turned to examine herself in the mirror.
    Naked, she thought without vanity, she was close to perfect, as long as the drug kept the changes at bay. But as she scrutinized her own reflection, she could see the faint tiger stripes along her ribcage, a golden light behind her eyes. Sliding a hand behind her, she felt the tug of growing bone at the base of her spine and for the thousandth time she was tempted to just let it happen, go all the way, see what the result would be . . . But she already knew. The collection of Keralan miniatures that her mother kept locked in the safe had shown her that. Warmth crept between her legs and Jhai crossed her hands over her aching breasts and arched her back. That was another reason to stop taking the drug: to exchange frigid humanity for unnatural desire. What an irony, Jhai reflected bitterly. The very source of her charisma and her legendary sexual appeal had to be kept in check, otherwise it would get her banished down to Hell. She was human enough not to want that, and if she kept taking the drug, she could have it both ways, even if she was unable to enjoy the results of the attraction she generated. She could retain enough of her ancestress' glamorous powers to keep the corporation and her fortune together, and still pass as wholly human. You can have it both ways, Jhai told herself grimly, swallowing the black capsule at last and watching the stripes fade from her flanks and the fire from her eyes. But you can never have it all.

Eight
    Normally, Robin would never have gone anywhere near Bharcharia Anh. Her little beat was confined to Shaopeng and Battery Road, with occasional trips out to the countryside along the delta to visit her grandparents, who were proud of their made-good granddaughter. Robin had never been this