When he was 9, Li had been all soft baby fat, curious black eyes and delicate skin the color of cashews. Yet the younger maids feared him. If he turned to face them too quickly- they startled. He had been shy of it. Once when he had stood behind a maid without announcing himself, she had shrieked. In his own surprise fat tears had risen to his eyes. 

But he was quickly bribed with free reign over a jar of imported jelly, topped with the soothing burbling of her endless apologies. He had hummed in agreement to her pleas of ‘don’t tell your father I made you cry’. And he assured her “no, I would never disturb the Duke with any news like that.” But still that particular maid hovering over him from then on, bringing anything he needed at any time he asked. And he had smiled at her encouragingly at first, trying to put her at ease. Then becoming a little annoyed after she kept hovering for the following weeks. He used to order her to leave, to help someone else, to take a nap. He recalled not being himself when he hadn't taken his nap, perhaps she was the same. But eventually he became used to her desperation to please him. Almost as if that near panic in her eyes was part of her inherent personality and not something that arose from her when he drew near. Perhaps that was when he had started turning? When he had first began to use people’s fear and not think it unusual?

When he was 18, Li had seen his oldest brother get shot in the head. 

He’d been reading in the back courtyard of the family’s summer manor. Butterflies flew in waltzing pairs. Birds sang in the distance. And Li was all long legs and slouching spine at that time. He lounged, legs crossed on one of many scattered mosaic benches, enjoying his place in the sun. He sank deeper into his flimsy paperback book.

The crisp song of porcelain chattering against the stone tile floor- Li looked toward the glass paneled doors.

And saw nothing.

His instincts screamed and he dived off the bench. He scrambled among the rose bushes, digging with his bare hands. Few in his own family knew where to find the heavy iron ring that would pull open an ancient secret hatch.  He found the hatch and was fighting the weight of the wood and layers of rooted soil, when two people ran out into the courtyard.

One was his 2nd oldest brother, Tai. Just turned 26, fully-grown and in his athletic prime, but he was staggering. Blood smeared the back of his head. Right on his heels was their uncle, charging forward like a bull, beer belly rolling. Tai began to get a lead, gaining distance, fast as a gazelle. He broke away from the low hedges, nothing left between him and the far gate. But their uncle had stopped running, unlocked a pistol and fired. 5 shots. Tai was far enough that one could only make out the silhouette of his body. But Li saw the silhouette too of a ribbon of erupting blood and his skull fragmenting into the tall grass.

Li wasn’t thinking anything in particular. He couldn't. But he felt himself rise. He felt both his hands clench around the ancient grip of the revolver. He felt his arms raise the gun toward his Uncle. He felt himself speak. No, yell. Roar. “UNCLE!” And his uncle had turned, surprised.

His uncle was just close enough that Li could see the dismay on his sagging face. The youngest son was not supposed to be here. A young man with a gun rising from the garden soil was not a part of the plan. Li noticed these thoughts flash across the old man’s face- just before he felt himself pull the trigger. The bullet ripped through his Uncle’s chest. And when the older man swayed, falling backward, Li was a little surprised. He didn’t remember deciding to kill his Uncle. He had just done it. Was that the beginning? Was that when he began to turn?