Free Year of the Tiger by Heather Heffner Page A

look a vampyre in the eye and laugh. My kidnappers might have killed my hope, but by the time I was done with them, they would desperately be trying to give it back to me.
    “I’d like to sit there,” I said softly to the girl sitting in front of the other mirror. She scampered. I took over her abandoned make-up and painted my face. Red cheeks, to attract hungry vampyre glances. Black liquid eyeliner and mascara, to draw attention away from my bitter eyes. My silky-thin, raven hair, undone in waves over my bare shoulders. The magenta shade of apple gloss on my lips, to make them plump and inviting. Finally, a strapless golden dress that hugged my hips and not much lower. I stood up, feeling the cold air slide down the bare skin of my back like fingers, and panicked. I couldn’t wear something like this! Not without a cardigan! A light dress jacket, at least!
    I took a gulp of Amrit’s wine and detached myself from the fretting child in my head. Then I strode from the sleeping chambers.
    The view of the Grand Hall was enough to give me pause. Oak-thick red pillars thrust up to a ceiling glowing with large lanterns, which spun ponderously like far-off planets. They provided the only light in the vast hall. Smaller candles lit the faces of huge murals depicting moon spirits and setting suns. Twin curtains plunged like waterfalls on either side of an ornate gingko wood chair. Queen Maya sat upon the blood-stained throne, her cascade of black hair hiding her face. I could just make out those dusk-gray wings lying old and withered against her back.
    I watched the steady stream of ghosts glide to and fro below, carrying huge platters on their heads, bearing fruit, wine, and the head of an enormous white boar. The drums began to pound, and then the namsadang troupe—singers, dancers, and acrobats of traditional Korean performance—danced out from the side door. Their shadowed faces formed a circle around the pungmul nori dancers who would commence the first performance of the night: the spinning hat dance. They hopped, skipped, and then ran around in a gradually faster revolving circle, moving their heads to flick around the white streamers flowing from their hats. The streamers spun shapes through the air like wisps of smoke: spirals, looping circles, zigzags. Then the dancers began to flip through the air and catch themselves on the ridges of their heels. The audience gasped and began to applaud.
    With their attention on the ongoing performance, I felt safe enough to slip into the crowd.
    I saw the familiar crow-black wings immediately, and I knew their owner saw me. Khyber’s eyes roved slowly from my plunging neckline down to the silk-thin hem of my golden bodice, and then back up to my face—which was now a shade darker than my blush. Without even a nod of acknowledgement, Khyber turned back to his conversation with an opera singer.
    You look nice, too , I thought sarcastically. And he did. While his back was turned, I admired the lean shoulder muscles rippling beneath the white suit, which stood in sharp contrast to his jet-black hair.
    Ghosts ogled me, several approaching to pinch my arms and give me a once-over, like they were all qualified physicians.
    “Only twenty make it to Midwinter,” one told me, “and only a handful make it to New Year. You must be very honored.”
    I smiled grimly. “I’m honored.” That I’ll be the one to end you all.
    The spinning hat dancers bowed to appreciative applause. A clown pushed his way through the crowd.
    “You’re applauding that?” he cried in mock surprise. “All you need is a flexible neck!”
    The lead dancer whisked out a long tobacco pipe and a china dish. The clown protested, “Where did you find that?”
    “Your mother’s kitchen.”
    “ Aigo! Umma ’s priceless heirloom!” The clown’s eyes bulged in horror as the leader spun the dish around on his pipe, and then tossed it to a fellow dancer. He, too, caught it, and then tossed it so high that it was