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is a crescent moon hanging over Himalaya, sharp as a silver tooth in the oceanic sky. Female self pulls hard, wanting to stay.
    Time to retire? Seijin muses. It’s become a familiar argument in recent years but this latest contract, this is too magnificent to refuse. After this—if one survives it—would be the perfect time to retire, the crowning glory of a long, long life.
    How often, after all, is one contracted to kill a god?

10
    I nari was wrestling with her own conscience—something that, as a demon, she is not even supposed to possess, but which may have come from that human ancestor, the ancestor who had brought such shame on their family, tainting it as she had with mortal blood. Inari had often wondered about that woman, since learning of her existence. She would be long dead, but what had happened to her soul? In Hell, presumably, since she had abandoned the Imperial Court of China and fled the shores of Earth for those of Hell. But if in Hell, then where? Not in Inari’s own family home, that was for certain, unless—horrible thought—they had imprisoned her somewhere.
    You could keep a soul in a jar, after all. Inari remembered the high ebony jars that had stood on the landing of the mansion, and despite the stuffy, intrusive heat of Men Ling Street, she shivered. Her thoughts returned to the present. She was sorely tempted to get out of the car and go after Chen, but reason prevailed. She would be more help than hindrance if he encountered a problem, and besides, he had asked her to keep a sense out for badger.
    There had been no trace of the family familiar, however, and she was growing increasingly anxious and frustrated. It must be like this on most stake-outs, she thought. Long hours of tedium and worry, waiting for something to happen.
    And then something did. There was a sudden sharp rattle at the back of the car. Inari turned in her seat, crouching so that her head was below the line of sight, and squinted out the rear window. Nothing was visible. But then the rattle came again—a curious sound, like an instrument, a gourd full of beads. And it was peculiarly compelling.
    Inari felt all the worry drain out of her mind, as gently as water trickling through a crack. A moment later, and it was all gone: she felt blank and clear. With detached interest, she watched her hand reach out and flick the lock of the door open. She got out, to stand in the fetid atmosphere of Men Ling Street, which she could now study with no concern at all. That was interesting, that small section of dark, shadowed wall behind the trash cans. She thought she ought to go and have a closer look at that.
    The rattle came again, playing on her senses and seeming to shake the air around her until it quivered into heat haze. It was hard to see clearly now, but this didn’t matter. Off you go, into the darkness by the wall. See what you can find. Coaxed, encouraged, Inari walked slowly forward until she was level with the trash cans. Somewhere, there was a terrible smell of rotting fruit. Ignore that, it’s irrelevant. Come along now.
    And so she did, and it was summer: not the humid, stifling heat that descended on the city like a lid, nor the torrential downpours that signaled the beginning of the season, nor yet the firestorms of Hell that scoured the great plains bare of life, but a sweet, calm, mildness of day. There were small green flowers springing up beneath her feet and the stench of rot changed to a balmy perfume. Inari stood entranced. This was not even like Heaven—so pretty and yet just a little sickly with it. This was redolent of growth, of life rather than stagnation, and she breathed it in. The rattle sounded again, a stealthy little clatter right at the edges of her awareness and she did not even turn her head.
    Someone was smiling at her. A girl, dressed in ivory.
    â€œHello,” the girl said, and her voice was warm. One of her hands was behind her back. “I’ve