The Red Heart of Jade

by Marjorie M. Liu

  Nothing of the murderer came to him, though. He even stood by the window, step for step where the shape-shifter had lingered, and found nothing.

  Doesn’t make sense, he thought, reaching under his shirt to holster his gun. It’s like the man is dead.

  Or self-contained. He had certainly seen energy when looking at the shape-shifter face-to-face. Twisted, fucked-up energy. But was it possible that some people did not leave traces, or that they could throw up walls around themselves, holding in everything that was part of them? What would that take? How was it possible?

  Dean shook off his questions. He was not ready for them, and most certainly did not want to contemplate any fatal flaws in his abilities. His clairvoyancy, his occasional ability to see the present and fragments of the past, all depended on the leavings of the living. Without that, he was as mind-blind as any regular person. Which was not a happy prospect.

  Some of the trails inside the apartment belonged to people other than the victim. Dean followed them briefly, and found himself in two different locations: a grassy area outside a building that looked like a concrete strainer, followed by a golden cascade of light and marble, leather chairs, and a large statue of Buddha, set inside a wall that was remarkably familiar.

  “Yo,” he said to Koni. “You said I was followed from the hotel? Think those guys could be any relation to the dead fellow here?”

  “What makes you ask?”

  “Because someone came through here a day or two ago, and now that same person is sitting all fat and pretty in the lobby of my hotel.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Unless there’s more going on here than we realize. The media said the murder victims weren’t related, right? Maybe they were wrong.” He turned off his inner sight, and the world reasserted itself; light poured through the window, outlining a sofa and television, a small table. A single chair sat in the center of the room. Dean caught the faint scent of something metallic. He walked out of the living room into the bedroom, checking out the messy covers, the tossed remote control, all the books lining the mantel behind the bed. There was a closet, and inside, Dean rummaged around. His knuckles hit a metal box. He lowered his shields and saw—

  —a figure wrapped in shadows and a hard mouth whispering, “You know what you have to do, you know the risks if you do not, because if the Book is revealed, if the Book comes to flesh and he finds it now”—

  The voice broke off, as did the connection. Dean tried to reestablish the link, but he got nothing, and found himself wishing he was a better retro-cog, a stronger psychometrist instead of just a clairvoyant. So much was lost in his visions, so much left incomplete.

  From the other room, Koni said his name. Dean picked up the metal box, carrying it under his arm. The shape-shifter stood by the chair. He held up a small notebook thick with words, the white pages splashed with blood. Very familiar. The murderer had been reading it.

  “Names of the other victims,” Koni said. “And a few extras, maybe people who haven’t died yet. It’s all there, along with some pictures.”

  Dean set down the metal box. It was locked, but he hammered the bolt with the butt of his gun. It fell off. He opened the lid. Inside lay a gun.

  “Huh,” Dean said, and took the paperwork. It was true—all the names on the list were those who had been murdered. Names, addresses, phone numbers. Written in English, not Chinese.

  Beneath it all, he felt something glossy. A photograph. He pulled it out for a look and saw a candid moment of a woman, sitting at a chair in a coffee shop.

  Dean’s knees buckled. He hit the floor hard, barely noticing Koni’s low shout, the pain radiating up his legs. All he could do was stare at the picture, stare and stare at the woman gazing somewhere distant with serious dark eyes. Lovely familiar eyes.

  Dean shook his head, tearing away his gaze, staring at the floor. It could not be. It was impossible. He thought, quite seriously, that he might be having a stroke.

  “Dean.” Koni crouched beside him. “Man, what is it?”

  He shook his head, unable to speak. Hands shaking, he turned the photograph over. There was a piece of paper attached, and on it was a name and location.

  Mirabelle Lee. Far Eastern Hotel. Room 2850. 9 p.m., lobby.

  Dean closed his eyes, shutting out the world. He felt the locket against his skin, his burning skin, and he tasted the name written on the paper, rolling it in his mouth. Mirabelle Lee. Mirabelle. Miri.

  No, he thought. No, don’t do this to yourself.

  Because it was probably just another woman with the same name. It happened. It also happened that complete strangers sometimes resembled each other; as in, were perfect twins, right down to a beauty spot on the edge of the chin, the shape of the mouth, the turn of the head. Twins in spirit, like the one shining from those eyes in the picture—eyes that Dean saw every night in his dreams.

  Right. Typical. Just coincidence.

  Dean ran. He heard Koni shout his name, heard him try to follow, but Dean did not wait. He barreled from the apartment, down the stairs, out the building into the slick night. He did not look for dragons, or the men who had been following him; he did not look for anything at all as he sprinted through moving traffic, battling crowds and heat and his own raging heart, relying only on instinct to guide him back to the hotel—my hotel— as his mind fought with the photograph in his back pocket, the name on the paper clipped to the glossy picture.

  Impossible, Dean told himself. It had to be. That girl was dead. Her heart had stopped beneath his hands. No energy, no trail, no connection—and God, he had looked. Twenty years he had spent searching for a thread, even though it was crazy, because all he wanted was a ghost, some line up to heaven. One more word, another glance, that sweet, sweet, smile.

  But nothing. Not ever. No moments of I see dead people. The only girl he had ever loved was gone from the world, gone forever. His mind never lied.

  And if you were wrong? If she has been alive all this time? You weren’t able to track one fucking murderer, and even when he was standing in front of you he didn’t leave a trail. What if she was the same?

  Dean pushed himself faster. Somewhere above he heard Koni caw, but he did not know if it was because his friend was worried, or if he was still being tailed. He did not care, either way. Let the whole damn city chase on his heels.

  He entered the hotel at a dead run, risking security, outraged guests in all their glitter and finery—but just before he hit the elevator alcove, his skin tingled and he skidded to a stop. His mind glanced out, vision shifting, and he found a thread. A familiar line, a connection.

  Dean, breathing hard, stepped close behind one of the fat marble pillars and leaned against the cool stone. He threw out his mind, pulling himself along the energy trail, and found a man sitting in the lobby behind him. The same man who had been in the victim’s apartment. Dean did not peer around the pillar to look. He shut his eyes and used a different sight, studying and searching.

  The man was not alone. There were others nearby, dressed like him, all in dark suits. They almost looked like religious types, out to save the world, one conversion at a time. Dean bet they were armed. They held open newspapers in their laps; worthless accessories, given that the men were doing a shitty job of pretending to read them. Their eyes did nothing but sweep the lobby, moving, moving, moving. Like wolves in black, jaws ready to snap.

  Holy shit. This is a setup. This is an operation.

  But for what? The woman in the picture? There was a time attached. Nine o’clock, but it was a quarter until ten and these men were still sitting here. Was she supposed to meet them, or were they planning to intercept her? And if all those other murder victims, the men who had burned, were connected to some conspiracy—if the dead individual Dean had just visited had intended to be here tonight, waiting for the lady in the photo—

  Life just got more complicated. You don’t know who the bad guys are anymore.

  Unless they were all bad. But
that still did not explain why he was being tailed, nor did it explain the woman or the name associated with her. And frankly, Dean cared way more about that. Shallow, maybe, but he could live with his shifting priorities. Forget shape-shifting murderers and flames shooting up his ass. Nothing else mattered but the woman. He had to find her, and fast, because if the men were waiting, their target had not yet been acquired. She was still out there.

  He fretted all the way up to the twenty-eighth floor—twenty-eight, my room is on twenty-seven, oh God, I can’t believe this— and his head felt funny. Light, dizzy. His chest hurt. That mark, burning and burning. Dean pulled away his collar and looked down.

  His wound was glowing. Golden light seeped from the cut.

  He stared at himself. The elevator dinged. A man stepped on, took one look at him—Dean apparently appeared just as disturbed as he actually felt—and stepped right back off, smiling weakly. It was the kind of smile that made Dean feel like he was the rich man’s version of a wild dog. Call the pound, get the gun, wear thick gloves.

  Dean didn’t mind. He felt rabid. He touched his mouth, but did not find any foam. All the crazy was in his head, then. He was glowing. He had a goddamn lightbulb beneath his skin. Jesus Christ.

  The elevator stopped again, but this time it was for him. Dean slapped his hand against the sliding door, holding it open for a moment while he leaned against the shiny metal wall. There were cameras everywhere; someone was probably watching him even now, but he did not care. He could not take his eyes off himself. He waited too long; the doors tried to close on his arm.

  The woman, whispered a voice inside his mind. Remember her.

  Dean closed his eyes and looked away. He patted his collar tight against his throat and stepped off the elevator. Took a moment for one more deep breath, trying to ignore the burning, the pain, the memory of light.

  And then he began to run again.

  The halls were quiet. Too quiet, it seemed, and the trails of energy crisscrossing the carpet were old, as though no one had been on that floor for more than a day. Odd. The higher levels in the hotel were usually more popular—more prestige, better views—but as Dean moved he found only one new trail, a path weaving away from the emergency stairwell.

  He got a bad feeling when he stepped into that energy stream—felt a shiver run through him, like he was walking through a cloud of electricity. It was the kind of sensation he had felt only a time or two before.

  Age and power, he thought, remembering his one postmortem encounter with a very dangerous man. An immortal, a magician, an old disgusting fart who had tried to screw over Dean’s best friends. The Magi’s energy, even with him dead, had felt like this, only much stronger—like it could strip the hair off Dean’s body if he lingered too long within it.

  Dean reached the room number written on the paper. The energy signature ended there and he flung his mind into the trail, letting it carry him past the door into the room, into dim light—riding like a cowboy on a bucking bronco made of nightmares—and he opened his eyes and saw movement, he saw skin, he saw—

  A naked body, pinned and fighting. And attached to that body, a face.

  Dean grabbed his chest—grabbed it because it hurt so bad—and for the first time in twenty years remembered there was a line inside his heart; a mark, a place never to cross. He had forgotten—but in that moment, filled with the image of the woman, he glimpsed and touched it, felt himself hug the edge of crazy, and it was a good place to be. The only place. Because she was there, and he finally let himself believe. He let himself speak her name—breathed it, again and again, until it was the only sound he made, the only sound in his head as he threw himself against the door, raging wild on the tail of another man’s soul, watching through his mind’s eye the fight, the bloody struggle only yards away.

  He saw it all, and got out his gun.

  Chapter Two

  On the morning of that very same day, Professor Mirabelle Lee’s Monday began, as it usually did, with death. Death, and the leavings of, everywhere like charms and omens. Had she known the evening would bring more of the same—though in a much more colorful way—she might have stayed in her hotel room, savoring her one day off from what had been a grueling week of guest lectures and tiresome dinner parties, taken her day to sleep and dream, descend once again into a world where spirits were made flesh and the past breathed, keeping alive memories that deserved to die.

  Instead she took a shower, threw down an early lunch in the hotel’s posh atrium buffet, and then took a cab to National Taiwan University, where, after a brief walk to a building that bore more resemblance to a concrete strainer than a center of deep thought and learning, she found herself welcomed by the dark brittle faces of mummified bodies. Two men and one woman, all of whom were curled in poses of ceremonial burial, foreheads touching knees, arms crossed over their chests. Beautiful people. Less than two weeks out of the ground, thanks to Miri’s mentor, Owen Wills. A rare find, deep within Taiwan’s Yushan National Park, a mountainous region at the center of the island, and one of the few preserves of its kind in a country ravaged by industry and a population unmindful of the dangers concurrent with environmental degradation.

  The air smelled like chemicals, which Miri did not mind. Labs of this kind were home, no matter where in the world she found herself. The examining tables were wide and clean and made of stainless steel. They sat on wheels, so that when the professors and assistants and technicians were done poking (very gently) and prodding (even gentler) the ancient dead, the bodies could be easily returned to the pressurized chambers connected to the lab. The men and women were old—several thousand years more ancient than Miri, at any rate—and every time they were examined in the lab it was a detriment to the continued well-being of their corpses.

  So, it was with some surprise that Miri found all three bodies exposed and unattended. Only the woman had a light over her. She was still new enough not to have been christened with an official name, which Miri thought was a shame. But the only name that would have been appropriate—and respectful—was a native name of her time, which was so far removed, so distant, that Miri could not begin to imagine what would have been considered feminine and appropriate for the woman while she had lived.

  It mattered to Miri. She knew the assistants had their own pet names for the mummies, but she could not bring herself to use them. It did not seem respectful, and it was bad enough tearing a person from her grave, from the land of her birth and death, and only for the purposes of cold, hard science.

  It’s more than that, Miri reminded herself, staring down at the shriveled face, so remarkably and impossibly preserved. She is teaching us about her world.

  And when she was done teaching, this woman and the others would rest anew—not in the earth, but in the Royal Palace Museum in Taipei, as part of a growing exhibit on Taiwan’s ancient history. The country’s native aborigines were already up in arms, but the government was good at throwing money at people when it wanted silence. It made Miri uncomfortable to be part of the controversy—by virtue of her deep ties to Owen—but that was part of the job when you studied someone else’s past. When what you found was not yours by culture to claim, you were bound to step on toes.

  Miri bent over the preserved woman and peered down at the corpse’s chest, half hidden by its spindly arms. There was a spot that bothered Miri, that was different from her memory of the last examination she had participated in; a section of delicately woven cloth that appeared to have been lifted and then replaced. A skilled job, and only one person currently at the university had the guts—and the authority—to do so much to the body. Miri’s frown deepened.

  “Owen?” she called, leaving the body and walking deeper into the lab, on loan to her mentor for the duration of his stay. He had been in Taiwan two months already as the lead excavator on the Yushan site—a position obtained, much to the chagrin of some, by personal invitation from the Taiwanese government, which had granted Owen all kinds of oversight powers. Tha
t was not the standard way of doing things, but Owen Wills was the world’s foremost expert in Chinese artifacts—with Miri close on his heels—and there were some who cared more about having the right name attached than proper procedure.

  Not that Owen was complaining; or Miri. She had spent a month in Yushan before heading back to Stanford—back to writing yet more grants, dealing with recalcitrant students and colleagues—but with these new mummies found, it was the perfect excuse for Owen to request her presence once again. And to get the Taiwanese government to pay for it.

  Miri pushed open the narrow swinging door and entered a small cavern, dark and musty with books and bones and the various relics her mentor had collected over the past eight weeks. He had more in America, all locked up in storage, a product of being a pack rat—everywhere he went, he collected and stored and accumulated. She loved Owen’s office, here and elsewhere. It might not have windows, but the warm glow of his lamps, the scent of the air, and the crinkle of his papers always instilled in her a sense of home.

  She found him hunched over his desk, gray hair tufted and wild as he gazed through a large stationary magnifying glass. A light shone down past his head, illuminating something small and red in his hands. As Miri neared she heard him humming “Rhinestone Cowboy” under his breath. A good find, then. Glen Campbell rated nothing less.

  “You’ve been busy,” she said.

  “You have no idea,” he replied, without looking up from the magnifying lens. “The results came back on the X-rays early this morning. The men were relatively normal—some badly healed bones, missing teeth—but the woman was different. She had something … strange inside her.”

  “Strange?” Miri echoed, peering over his shoulder. Owen turned his head. His blue eyes were bright, his cheeks flushed.