asked, following at her side.
“Um, wh-why?” Mulan stuttered. “Beats me.”
“It’s strange your ancestors are treating you so badly, Ping. Those two, Liwei and Mei”—he gestured at the ghosts, who were clearly whispering about Mulan together—“they don’t seem to want to help you.”
How could she tell him her ancestors had a good reason not to want to help? Because they were right—she wasn’t who she said she was. They didn’t know Ping.
But she couldn’t tell Shang that.
“I don’t mean to offend your ancestors,” Shang added, misreading her silence. “If you trust them, I will, too.”
“You should trust them,” Mulan said, hoping he wouldn’t catch how her voice faltered at the end. More than you trust me.
Because, if she was honest with herself, how could Shang trust her if he didn’t even know her real name?
Mulan’s ancestors halted before the last hill. It was lower than the others, and freckled with white and yellow dandelions across the grass. Ren poked at the hill with his cane, and Mulan saw multiple demon-head medallions appear, speckling the dry grass with red, glowing eyes.
Underneath the teeth of two of the bronze medallions were rings—door handles. With one tug, Ren parted them, revealing a door under the grass. He walked straight into the hill. Mei was next.
ShiShi balked. “This could be a trap. I wouldn’t—”
“Relax, guardian,” said Liwei. “It’s a portal that’ll take you to the ninety-seventh level. That’s as high as we’re allowed to go anyway.”
“I’ll go first,” Mulan said to ShiShi.
Before he could protest, she slipped into the hill, her foot landing on a narrow brick path.
Inside the hill was another hive much like the one she’d seen from the bridge when she’d first entered the gates. It was like looking up an endless well, except each stone was a different chamber. Most were bleak, rocky, cavernous rooms, but others held forests and stone deserts and tempestuous thunderstorms. Mulan saw demons laboring over a stone furnace in one, and a village of ghosts in another. She tried searching for any sign of the vermilion gates at the very top of the hive, but her eyes couldn’t see so far.
Taking her place behind Ren, Mulan followed the thin brick path as it wound up and up the cave. Often, the path forked into a maze of winding, serpentine lanes, so Mulan reminded herself to be grateful Ren knew the way.
Shang followed, then ShiShi—who landed so wide he almost fell off the brick path. It was then Mulan noticed the pathway beneath her was floating. Beneath them was an infinite tunnel of darkness.
“This isn’t very promising,” the lion muttered, throwing a glance about the cave’s interior.
“It isn’t the most scenic route,” said Ren, “but it’s fast. And the demons won’t think to look for you here—only veterans of Diyu know all the shortcuts.”
“Would you care to explain why you are a veteran of Diyu?” ShiShi grumbled. “I’d think a monk shouldn’t be here at all.”
“I had a few…shortcomings,” Ren admitted. “But I’m bound for Heaven soon, as you can see by my aura.”
What kind of shortcomings? Mulan wondered. She would have asked, but Ren was the only one of her ancestors who hadn’t questioned her identity. She thought it fair not to do the same of him.
Still, for a monk, his pockets jangled rather noisily.
Maybe it’s full of pebbles. Or stones. Who knows what ghosts in Diyu collect?
Mulan pushed aside her doubts and focused on her surroundings.
The smells changed rapidly. Wafts of wood fire and cinnamon, and sometimes dead fish; Mulan also heard shouts and screams from far away. When there were stairs, they were narrow and rough. ShiShi climbed them five at a time, keeping pace with Mulan’s ancestors, who had no trouble floating up and up.
“The stairs are for the demons,” Ren explained.
Mei snorted. “It helps keep them in shape. Most of them get lazy after a thousand years.”
“Can all ghosts fly?” Mulan asked.
“The longer you’ve been here, the better you are at it.” Ren tilted his head at Shang. “I’m guessing you haven’t mastered your unearthly talents yet.”
“Err, no.”
“You won’t have to,” Ren said matter-of-factly. “You’re not staying here long.”
“How can you tell?” Shang asked. “I don’t look any different from you.”
“Our colors.” Ren compared his ghostly aura to Shang’s. They were nearly the same shade of blue, Mulan noted. Most of the ghosts she’d seen had been either yellow or red. His aura was green, almost blue—like the eye of a peacock feather.
“Once you turn blue, it means you’re either going to