Julia Vee and Ken Bebelle’s Ebony Gate is a female John Wick story with dragon magic set in contemporary San Francisco’s Chinatown.
Emiko Soong belongs to one of the eight premier magical families of the world. But Emiko never needed any magic. Because she is the Blade of the Soong Clan. Or was. Until she’s drenched in blood in the middle of a market in China, surrounded by bodies and the scent of blood and human waste as a lethal perfume.
The Butcher of Beijing now lives a quiet life in San Francisco, importing antiques. But when a shinigami, a god of death itself, calls in a family blood debt, Emiko must recover the Ebony Gate that holds back the hungry ghosts of the Yomi underworld. Or forfeit her soul as the anchor.
What’s a retired assassin to do but save the City By The Bay from an army of the dead?
Please enjoy this free excerpt of Ebony Gate by Julia Vee & Ken Bebelle, on sale 7/11/23
Hunting Grounds
Midnight in Golden Gate Park was mostly quiet, just the distant sounds of city traffic and my grunts of exertion as I dragged the yeti corpse to my Jeep. The damp nighttime fog had driven out both locals and tourists hours ago, leaving me enough privacy to deal with the beast before it decimated the local bison herd.
I paused at the end of the bison paddock to take a break, my breaths pluming in the cold night air. When Ito-san had called, I had answered, unable to shake off generations of respect for one’s elders. It didn’t matter to Ito-san that I was retired. Ito-san was one of the older generation of Lóng Jiārén here in San Francisco, and still considered me the Blade of Soong. For two years I had tried to forge a new life without bloodshed, but Ito-san still called on me for monster cleanup.
The hibagon poaching the bison herd was monster disposal, the perfect job for a Blade—even a supposedly retired one. Ito-san managed to play on my love for this town and my desire to stay in the good graces of his clan. Most Jiārén clans here didn’t want to associate with me. So for Ito-san, I always said yes. Which is how I found myself lugging this beast across Golden Gate Park in the dead of night.
Getting a two-hundred-pound headless yeti corpse into the Jeep was giving me a leg workout. I grunted and heaved, and with a final shove, it smacked onto the plastic liner I’d set out earlier. The slap of the body against the plastic splashed sticky hibagon blood against my face.
Drip, drip, drip.
Hot blood sprays across my face, stinging my eyes and painting my vision scarlet. A handful of pearls hit the ground, the gems brushed with crimson, the clicking sound like dead bones rattling in a cup. My blood-sticky hands raise my sword over my head and her steel sings a ringing song of misery.
A girl’s high-pitched scream echoes in my ears. “Butcher!”
My breath rushed out of my chest and I dry-heaved, my hand on the back of my Jeep, the cool San Francisco night once again surrounding me. It seemed that whether my eyes were open or closed, the bloody landscape of my past could still fill my sight. Bad enough that my nightmares ran with blood, but now even my waking hours weren’t safe.
With a final shove the beast’s shoulders cleared the back bumper and I slammed down the hatch. The door clicked shut over the hibagon with barely an inch to spare. Good thing I’d already cut its head off.
Coiling my long hair into tight braids had done nothing to shield it from the spraying blood when I beheaded the beast earlier. Swaths of drying blood flaked off the front of my black haori jacket and stained the embroidered silver phoenix on my chest a rusty red. I opened the driver’s door to my Jeep and despaired at the pristine upholstery.
Between tonight’s bloody mess and the fiasco at the museum earlier tonight, my qì was tied up in knots. The new donor, some big-shot venture capitalist from Seattle with more good looks than sense, had chewed up hours of my time fussing over his collection of swords. And then we’d finally gotten to the last sword.
I unhooked the black trash bag holding the yeti’s head from my waistband and tossed it in the passenger-side footwell with entirely too much force. The bag made a wet squelch as it landed.
How in all the heavens had Crimson Cloud Splitter landed in this Jùwaīrén’s hands? The fool thought it was a lost work of Kunimitsu. I knew better, but I couldn’t reveal why. I’d let my business partner placate the wealthy donor while I bit my tongue. Unfortunately, my silence had cost me a future evening as my partner, Tessa, had agreed to table the issue until a later time. Once I finished monster corpse disposal, I would have to turn my attention to the ancient sword. It was too notorious to leave in the wrong hands. Which meant it would have to end up in my hands, at least temporarily.
I untied my own swords and carefully laid them both along the center console. I would clean them as soon as I got home. Shaking off my frustration, I climbed in and tried not to notice how the wet fabric of my pants squished against the driver’s seat.
Now I needed to get rid of the body.
When you needed to purify a magical corpse, no questions asked, the Herbalist was your best bet. Others called her the Herbalist, or Grandma Chen, if they were regulars. I called her Popo. I’d known her since I was a toddler and my side gig hunting monsters had brought me to the back entrance of her shop in the Inner Sunset district on more than one occasion. My other option was Oliver Nakamoto, head of the temple near Japantown. Between the two, it was no contest. The snooty Head of the Nakamoto Clan and I couldn’t stand each other.
Popo had eschewed the magical environs of Lotus Lane adjacent to Chinatown for the sprawling Inner Sunset, which was also thankfully closer to Golden Gate Park.
This short drive to Popo’s was just long enough for the yeti blood on my hands to dry into flaky specks that fluttered down the dashboard and forced me to question my decision-making for the past two years. Why did I keep saying yes when the old-timers called? I sighed. I needed the goodwill. It hadn’t been easy starting a new life here after my actions at Beijing’s Pearl Market. The Jiārén here did not welcome the Butcher living among them. Magical monster cleanup had garnered me some modest amount of goodwill with the locals.
I tried not to gag at the smell of the corpse in my Jeep as I drove to the Herbalist’s back entrance. I needed to learn to say no to these gigs the same way I’d been saying no to my father’s endless litany of requests for the last two years. San Francisco was my home now. This tiny city with all its light and shadow spoke to me in a way that Tokyo never had. I wanted to stay here and I wanted to live a life that didn’t require me to remember that I’d been the Butcher of Beijing. To that end I had slowly carved out a niche in my artifacts business. I just needed to stay out of the death-dealing business.
The next time Ito-san or one of the old-timers called to ask to me to take care of some rampaging beast from the Realm, I had to say no.
The front of the Herbalist’s homeopathic remedy spa was half lit. Even with only security lights I picked out white leather–upholstered spa recliners lined up like New Age sentries against a long mirrored wall. The interior was spotless, trendy spa meets sci-fi movie set, the decor peppered with water features and greenery. I hadn’t visited in some time, but I hoped Popo was working late, prepping her elixirs and potions for the next day. I drove the Jeep to the back of the building.
I parked in the rear, killed the engine, and leaned back, closing my eyes for a moment. As my thoughts drifted, the music of San Francisco’s burgeoning magic called out to me, lulling me into a stupor. It almost caught me this time but I bit down on my tongue, jolting myself awake. The coppery taste of blood filled my mouth. San Francisco was getting harder to ignore. Like a needy toddler, the awakening magical consciousness of the city clamored for my attention. I was trying hard to convince it to go look elsewhere. So far, no luck.
I got out of my Jeep and gauged the distance to the door against the biting fatigue in my legs. Start dragging now, or later? Once again, perhaps my decisions for the past two years hadn’t been the greatest. On the other hand, if I hadn’t made my choices, the blood soaking my clothes right now would be human blood.
I’d given up everything—my place in the Soong Clan, the proud lineage of the Blades before me, and my love, Kamon Apichai. All of that so that I could live without bloodshed and death.
Here I was free. Free to say no to killing.
Despite the cost, I knew I’d made the right choice. The right choice didn’t make it less painful.
Movement in the shadows around the back door of the spa tickled at my senses and pulled me out of my navel-gazing. Instinct kicked in and brought my body to complete stillness, my eyes and ears scanning for threats.
Dark shapes moved around the door, four young men, whispering to each other, laughing, and reeking of cheap cologne and machismo. I grabbed my swords and crept toward the door, my softsoled boots quiet on the asphalt. I tied on my swords as I moved forward, my hands going through the motions with the ease of years of practice. Sword of Truth, the sword of every Soong Blade before me, I tied to my back, respect for the sword I would never draw again. Hachi, my wakizashi, I tied to my hip.
As I got closer my eyes adjusted to the darkness of the shadows and the shapes resolved into four guys in black nylon tracksuits, huddled around Popo’s back door. The jackets had an embroidered golden dragon clawing its way around the right bicep. The guys wore their hair long and gelled back, with no part. I knew exactly who they were. In better light, on the backs of their jackets I would find the stylized character for thunder, with a large number nine wrapped around it. It felt wrong, and my annoyance with these low-level thugs rose to the fore.
These thugs were Clan Louie Claws. Street-level enforcers, usually kids with píng-level powers at best, used to run protection rackets and as cannon fodder.
And definitely outside of their usual hunting grounds. Were they hassling Popo? My annoyance ratcheted up to anger. Popo didn’t have a lot of muscle around to deal with thugs like this. She ran a spa. Not exactly a place that needed a bouncer. Also, I was just trying to get a corpse processed and these thugs were making extra trouble for me on an already long night.
I came to a stop just inside the shadows and growled, the sound low and deep in my chest. The whispered conversation died and the boys whirled toward the sound of my voice. If nothing else, they’d learn a valuable lesson in situational awareness tonight.
“Siu pangyou, even dragons respect territory boundaries.”
With that one word, dragons, I signaled to these kids that we were all Lóng Jiārén, descendants of the Eight Sons of the Dragon and heirs to their power. As Jiārén, we came from a world of violence and Dragon talent that was best kept in the dark of night and in quiet alleys like this one.
Jiārén had infiltrated nearly every major city on the Pacific Rim. When they reached San Francisco they had settled into Lotus Lane, a hidden nook on the outskirts of Chinatown as well as the surrounds of Japantown. These baby Claws belonged on Lotus Lane. Not sure what these thugs were doing way out here. Anticipation at schooling them sent gooseflesh down my neck and burned off my fatigue. The night was young, I could fit in some entertainment.
Of course, there were four of them to only one of me. Those odds hardly seemed fair—but I was feeling generous and wanted to give them a bit of a chance.
After a moment of hesitation, the boys spread out, facing me in a ragged semicircle. The smallest one looked barely old enough to drive, his round face already shiny with sweat. Round Face pulled a leaf-shaped knife and held it at chest level in a trembling hand. Cute.
The husky boy on my left, the senior Claw by the sash tied around his arm, backed the smallest one down with a stern look and turned to me, his thin mustache drooping as his lip curled into a cocky sneer. “Siu ze, it’s dangerous to be out alone this late at night. Maybe we should walk you home. You never know what kind of monsters might be around.”
Okay, now he was pissing me off. I understood what was happening. A young woman of average height taking on four men in a dark alley. I’d been underestimated nearly my entire life, but it irritated me when people referred to me as little missy. Like I was some ignorant upstart.
My palm itched, my hand drifting to my sword. I’d teach this kid a lesson. One I’d taught many times in my years as the Blade of Soong. Mustache Boy might be taller and wider than me but he was about to learn what my deceptively lean build could do. He took a few steps forward, lazily draping his hand over the curved grip of a short sword held inside his belt.
Auras flickered to life from the other two boys and the scent of ozone and cinnamon washed down the alley. The boy with the knife licked his lips, his eyes darting back and forth between me and his friends.
The boys had dim auras, but the scents told me everything I needed to know. Few could smell Jiārén talent like I could. In fact I knew exactly zero people with my peculiar talent. It wasn’t something I advertised, and it was handy in situations like this. As I suspected, their talents were only píng class, nothing to write home about. No kinetics, no combat-grade talents like my father or my brother. Maybe some low-level influence. Typical foot soldiers. “You boys are pretty far from Lotus Lane. Do your parents know you’re out so late?”
Mustache Boy rippled his fingers on his sword hilt as if debating whether to draw it. “Claws go where they want.”
His eyes drifted back to Popo’s back door. “Lotus Lane is getting cramped, y’know? A dragon needs to stretch its wings.”
He smiled, showing his very white teeth, canines filed down to sharp points. “If the old lady wanted to stay safe, she should have stayed in Tran territory. There’s no one to watch over her out here.”
The Trans had arrived in San Francisco in the seventies. The Louies had established themselves here before the Great Quake, and were understandably upset at the arrival of the upstart clan. It had only taken a few years for tensions to come to a boil, breaking out into open clan warfare that had nearly consumed all of Chinatown.
By the eighties, the Bā Tóu had had enough and sent my mother to the city to forge a truce or start rolling heads. Bā Tóu got what they wanted and a truce had been hammered out. You’d understand if you met my mother.
The Trans took the piers and ports, controlling the shipping for all magical transport in and out of the San Francisco Bay area. The Louies retained Lotus Lane and the lion’s share of banking for Jiārén families. The truce had kept the peace for four decades. But the Jiārén community continued to grow. Mustache Boy was right, Lotus Lane had gotten crowded. Popo was just the latest of many to venture away from familiar neighborhoods to make their fortunes.
Unlike my mother, I had no reason to broker a peace. I was just trying to dispose of a body.
I walked toward the boys, my steps measured, my hand on the wakizashi at my hip. Threatening me was one thing, threatening Popo was another. My blood heated as I considered these punks shaking down a little old lady who ran a spa for protection money. “Suo zai. You should have done your homework. You’re in another predator’s territory now.”
Mustache Boy pulled his sword from its sheath, the metal dull and nicked in the dim lighting. “This is no one’s territory! The old lady made her choice when she opened up here!”
I smiled, baring my teeth now. “The Herbalist is family to me. She is Jiārén. My Jiārén. This is my territory!”
I sidestepped out of the shadows, into the dull light of the streetlamps. I stretched out my arms, cracked my wrists, and rolled my shoulders. All showmanship I would never do had I expected this to be a real fight. But tonight I wasn’t in the mood to be spilling blood and so I had to rely on something else to put this matter to bed—my reputation as the Butcher. Unlike my father with his combat-grade animator skills, and my mother with her Void-walking talent, I had no talent or gift to speak of. Instead, I’d earned my reputation the old-fashioned way—with training, practice, and the shrieks of my victims ringing in my ears.
I turned my body into hanmi, the half stance, and let my hand rest on Hachi, a short and brutally efficient weapon, good for cutting in close quarters like this alley. Hachi’s tsuba was carved by a master, the round guard adorned with a red phoenix inlaid with blood jade. The blood jade was for show since I had about as much talent as a paper towel, but the value was extraordinary and an opulent display of the Soong Clan’s status as a Hoard Custodian family.
If these fools didn’t recognize the blood jade phoenix on the tsuba, they’d been living under a rock. The blood jade wasn’t as flashy at night so I fed it the trace amount of qì I could muster and the feathers of the phoenix lit up, an eerie splash of crimson and gold light sparking in the dark alley.
Mustache Boy’s breath caught at the display and I stared at him coolly. The look of fear in his eyes was familiar and gratifying. This one knew who I was. He’d badly underestimated his prey and been caught flat-footed. If I had to kill him, his gravestone would say, He underestimated The Butcher.
“Are you still sure you want to do this?” I tapped my fingers lightly on Hachi’s grip.
The ozone and cinnamon vanished and the three older boys began backing away from me. Good to see I hadn’t lost my touch.
Round Face stared at his friends, the shock plain on his face. “What gives? Come on, we can take her!”
“Johnny, shut up, just—”
Johnny Round Face took a step toward me, small knife held high, his eyes wild. “No! This is some trick, some test! I can do this!”
He lunged at me, knife swinging. I sidestepped and drew Hachi from my belt in one motion. The blade sang its high note in the evening calm. I whipped my sword across my body and struck the boy’s wrist with the flat of the blade. He cried out and his knife dropped to the ground. I pivoted and followed the boy’s motion past me, planting my boot in the small of his back and riding him down to the concrete. He slammed facedown into the asphalt, his breath exploding out of him. The other boys hadn’t moved a muscle.
I rested the flat of my blade against the young boy’s cheek as he lay beneath me, gasping for breath. I leaned in close, putting my weight behind the sword. The one eye I could see bulged, the whites huge and stark.
I ran my finger across his throat, my meaning clear. “Tonight’s your lucky night, Johnny.”
I yanked the collar of his shirt down, exposing his pale, sweaty neck. The broad Louie tattoo, with its distinctive number nine curled across his shoulders, was still shiny and speckled with blood. This must have been his first night out. Hell of an initiation.
Suddenly the boy I was kneeling on looked very young, and very afraid. The adrenaline waned, and a wave of fatigue washed over me. I just wanted a hot shower and a good night’s sleep, but I couldn’t have these punks coming back later. I wouldn’t be around every time some punk Claw decided Popo looked like an easy target. They’d started it, but I had to finish it. One more time I’d call on my bloody reputation and try to give Popo a little coverage from these punks.
The persona was easy to slip back into. Too easy. The formal words tumbled out with no effort at all and tasted like ashes and regret. “Despite your transgression, it would be most unlucky to spill your guts on the Herbalist’s doorstep. You and your friends will remember that the Butcher is watching over her. Run along, Johnny, and tell everyone about this night—the night the Butcher let you keep all your limbs.”
Johnny whimpered, the sound loud in the now quiet alley. I let him up and he scrabbled against the asphalt like a crab before getting upright. Mustache Boy and his cohorts started running and Johnny turned to follow. He gave me one last look, his eyes wild with fear, his panting breaths leaving puffs of air in the cool night.
Satisfaction at rousting these thugs had my lips curving upward before reason and shame flooded me. It was always like this. Fighting felt good. Their fear equaled respect and respect felt good. Right. Not one minute after I’d vowed in the car ride over to stop living up to the moniker of the Butcher of Beijing and I was tapping my sword and threatening pimply faced kids. The ones who called me the Butcher were right about me. I was still a monster.
Breaking my blade and hiding out halfway across the world for the last two years hadn’t changed me at all.
Copyright © 2023 from Julia Vee & Ken Bebelle
