The Demon and the City

not a demon."
    She stared at him: at the long claws, the sharp canines. "You're not human."
    "No. But nor am I Hellkind, Robin. My home is Heaven."
    "What?"
    "I am a—member of the Celestial Court. My mother is Zasharou Selay, Lady of Mists, a maid of the goddess Kuan Yin."
    He glanced at her, and when she looked into the calm blue eyes, it made perfect sense. "But—what are you doing here? And—those." Lightly, she touched his clawed fingers.
    "I was captured. And changed."
    "Oh gods," Robin said, in sudden frozen horror. "The drugs I gave you."
    "Yes. The drugs. All unwittingly, Robin, you have been the instrument of my transformation."
    She stared at him, aghast. Before them, the vaults of the temple stretched on, arching into night, and they could hear the river now, a limitless rush of water, its currents reaching out to snare the boat and pull it forward.
    "Listen," Mhara said. The sound of the river was growing louder, and the air was filled with dampness, a fresh blowing wind that bore rain. The little boat was sucked along the eddying current, spinning from end to end. Robin and Mhara clung on, and then the boat was spun through an open sluice and out into the wider stream. Robin caught a glimpse of the sluice gate, shattered on its hinges and hanging limply above the torrent. She could not see far around her. The mist that had hung over the water had thickened steadily, and now lay in a fog around them, despite the freshness of the air.
    "Robin," Mhara said, and his eyes were like lanterns in the dim light, "We are entering the space between the worlds. We are coming closer to the Night Harbor. And I will tell you frankly—I am afraid." His mouth was tightly set. Suddenly the Paugeng troops, presumably still in pursuit, seemed the least of their worries. Robin reached out and rested her hand on his arm.
    "Don't worry," she told him. "Don't worry"—as if by repeating it she would reassure herself. Slowly the mist began to pull away, carried into the upper air by the river wind, and as it did so Robin realized that she could see the stars. They were the same fiery spiraling constellations that she had seen above the cemetery, and as she watched, one of them plunged toward the water, hissing as it fell. She leaned over the side of the boat and trailed her hand in the river. It was icy, no longer the tepid, chemical broth of the city, but something clear and dark and cold. It stung her fingers, and she pulled her hand away. The current was taking them quickly, but she couldn't see the banks of the river, only a clouded darkness. Something wheeled above the prow of the boat, crying out in an empty voice, and Robin ducked in alarm. She felt Mhara's arm around her, holding her convulsively close.
    "It's only a gull," she whispered, and the white shape whirled up on the wind and away. "Mhara? Don't be so scared."
    "I can't help it . . . When they brought me here, it was like this then, between my world and yours. There was nothing there. It was not real, not a real place, and neither is this one."
    "Then where are we?"
    "The Night Harbor," Mhara said, so low she could hardly hear him. "Where everything changes."
    Light was growing around them, bursting from the cool moist air above the river. It was so dazzling that Robin cried out and shielded her eyes with her arm. Mhara's grip tightened around her waist.
    "They're shooting at us!" she shouted, flinching against the expected pain, but although the sound grew louder, she felt nothing. She opened her eyes. The boat had stopped, coming to rest against the side of a weed-slick wharf, and above them the sky was ablaze with fireworks. Not gunfire, but firecrackers, and Robin remembered being a little girl and making the same mistake.
    "Come on," she said. They were three or four feet below the wharf, and without stopping to think Robin got a foothold on the wet stone and hauled herself upward. She caught a glimpse of Mhara's tense face beneath her. She reached a hand down and helped him up.
    "Where are we?"
    The wharf was narrow, surrounded by a rickety nest of warehouses. It looked like somewhere in the city, perhaps Ghenret or Orichay. Fireworks spilled out into the night, chrysanthemum flowers sailing through the darkness, with the smell of gunpowder strong. From not far away, there was a shriek as a rocket soared upward, a moment of silence and then a ricocheting explosion, which rebounded from the walls of the buildings and was echoed a moment later by a