For No Mortal Creature

A teen girl with the power of resurrection must venture into the afterlife, but to survive the death realm, she''ll need the help of her two mortal enemies--both of whom she is inexplicably drawn to--in this romantic, gothic fantasy inspired by When Jia Yi suddenly finds herself alive again after being stabbed through the heart by an enemy’s sword, she realizes she possesses a rare power: the ability to move between the living realm and the shrouded world of ghosts. Ghosts including Lin, her ex-best friend and former love, whose betrayal she still hasn''t recovered from. At first, Jia wants nothing to do with Lin, or any ghosts--metaphorical or otherwise. But when her beloved grandmother abruptly passes away, Jia is forced to travel into the afterlife to save her.; To survive the treacherous death realm, Jia will need to rely on both Lin and her longtime enemy, the cold and enigmatic Prince Essien Lancaster. Only, she isn''t sure whether she can trust either of them. With tensions high and new and old connections blooming, Jia must confront the ghosts of her past...or risk becoming one herself.

Autorentext

Keshe Chow

Leseprobe
One

Present day

In the low light of the falling dusk, I found myself thus: half bent over, hands full of Shadowside, the point of a longsword against my neck.

A voice spoke from behind me. “Rise, trespasser,” it said, “and drop your loot.”
For a frozen, empty moment, I stayed still, weighing my chance of escape. Everything around me—­every sensation—­distilled into sharp focus. The forest, silent with the promise of unfallen snow. Dewdrops that sparkled on dried leaves beneath my feet. My heartbeat pounding in my ears.

Could I make a run for it? I was alone, and a good way off the open road, meaning I could potentially lose a pursuer in the dark, dense forest. But making even a single movement might prompt my attacker to drive in their blade. And foolishly, I was unarmed, having stowed my dagger in my boot.

No. There was no way to escape this mess.

Inwardly, I cursed my poor decision-­making and begrudgingly dropped the herbs.

As soon as they hit the forest floor, the delicate purple flowers began to wilt, disintegrating into the smattering of frost atop the soil. It was shuāngjiàng, late October, season of the Frost’s Descent, and even this far south the ground was laced with ice.

I clenched both fists, nails digging into palms, and willed myself not to scream.

Seeing the flowers dying was like a knife twist to the gut. I’d spent days traveling here on foot, with nothing more than a dagger and my wits, making camps up trees to keep safe overnight. And just before I was accosted, I’d spent upward of half an hour sawing through the woody stems with an increasingly blunt blade, cursing as my hands stung, cramped, and blistered. There was a narrow time window to gather Shadowside, and that was now—­at the confluence of day and night. At this precise moment, its effects were most potent. Any delays in harvesting it meant the power would wane, rendering it useless, and damnit I needed those herbs.

Without them, my grandmother would die.

My heart hammering, I rose slowly, raising my hands to show I was weaponless. Well, my hands were, at least. I didn’t volunteer any information about what was in my boot.

“Turn around,” the voice said, gruff.

“Remove your blade, then, so I may do so without slicing my neck.” I managed to keep my voice even. Internally, though, I wanted to scream. While I wasn’t technically doing anything wrong by hunting—­or gathering plants—­this interruption was wasting valuable time.

The sword’s pressure relented, just slightly, and I spun to face my attacker.

Typical, I thought, suppressing the urge to roll my eyes. A Lancaster soldier. They were always crawling around the forest like cockroaches: ugly, armored, and almost impossible to kill.

Like most of them, this one was pale, his shadowed eyes gray in the crepuscular light. If it was daytime, they would probably be blue. His helmet obscured the color of his hair, but not the thin rivulets of sweat coursing down his face. Clad in iron, he bore the Lancaster sigil—­a blue-­and-white shield with the silhouette of a tree—­upon his chest. Compared to the thin cotton of the hànfú I was wearing, and my feigned indifference, he looked positively overdressed.

“To what do I owe this honor, My Lord?” I said, masking the subtle sneer in my voice. I’d used the Trader’s Tongue, the mashed-­up dialect that had evolved along the towns and ports that lined the Stone Road, the primary route for trade. With its innumerable clashing cultures, the road’s dialect obscured some of the more expository accents of each region, though my black hair, brown eyes, high cheekbones, and pearlescent skin would no doubt mark me as being from west of the border.

“Declare yourself, woman,” he demanded, his voice cracking on the last word.

“Liu Jia Yi.” I gave my name promptly. No point lying.

The Lancaster soldier pushed on his sword again, the tip indenting the flesh of my neck. “Tell me,” he said, and I felt the tremor in his hands. “What are you doing hunting in the Forest of Seld?” His eyes flicked to the dead hare tied to my belt. Earlier that day I’d found it caught in one of my trusty snares.

The last vestiges of daylight slanted through the trees, their skeletal shadows gradually being swallowed by the slowly creeping dark. The boy’s breaths had grown uneven; his shoulders had gone rigid; the black of his pupils had flared wide. And it struck me, what he must be feeling, facing me:

Fear.

Great, I thought. A new one.

The Lancaster family, who ruled the neighboring country of Yske, had a habit of rotating their roving guard on a reasonably regular basis. The official explanation was that they wanted to ensure their ranks were trained evenly. In truth, I suspected the royal family just had little regard for human lives, even those who were born, lived, and died to serve them. Even those sent out here to patrol the trader routes. Especially those sent out here to patrol the trader routes.

The royals, safely ensconced in the Yskian capital, cared little for the fortunes of people stationed at such a far-­flung outpost. To them it didn’t matter if they sent unblooded youths into such a violent area. If the soldiers survived, they’d be subsequently drafted elsewhere. If they didn’t, well . . . There were always more.

“It is only named the Forest of Seld to you,” I bit back. My courage was bolstered by the knowledge my attacker was more afraid of me than I of him. “To us, it is Qian Xin Lin.”

The Forest of a Thousand Hearts. In the greater scheme of things, it was nothing but a sliver of woodland between the two territories. On one side, the kingdom of Yske. And on our side, its oldest enemy, the Jinghu Dao Empire.

Battles between the two were constant, but the last war between Jinghu Dao and Yske, around three hundred years ago, had been particularly bloody. It had raged for years, neither side gaining dominance over the other. That is, until my empire had revealed its secret weapon: magic.

My ancestors, a clandestine group of sorcerers and sorceresses, had been approached by the army general of the time. He’d recruited them, unleashing their powers at the last moment in order to defeat the rival army. The Yskian’s front line, taken by surprise, had been flattened. The remainder were forced to retreat.

Now the forest was all that separated our two territor…