He did not talk. He nudged her with his leg—a silent command to walk—and Miri did not refuse. But the moment the gun wavered she went completely limp, sliding like an eel through his arm. The man caught her halfway down, grabbed an armpit, a fistful of hair, but Miri thrashed and screamed, lashing out with her fists to punch his groin, break his kneecaps, bite his ankles—anything and everything to force him to let go.
He did not. He bent down and in the middle of a scream, blocked a blow to his face and stuck the gun in her mouth. Miri’s voice broke. She went very still.
“Thank you,” said the man. “Now let’s try this again.”
He made her stand. The gun did not leave her mouth. The metal had an unpleasant taste, like something recently oiled. Miri’s gaze did not waver; it was difficult to see his eyes, but not his mouth, which was a hard flat line.
He guided her backward. He did not touch her body, merely pushed with the gun. Miri did not bother trying to hide her nudity. Clothes would not make her less vulnerable. Not from this. Not from anything else. All she could do was fight her heart—stay calm, focused, clear and hard and ready to fight.
Just like old times, she told herself, breathing around the gun. The backs of her knees bumped up against the bed. Miri sat down hard and the gun left her mouth, but only just. Metal touched her cheek.
“You can scream if you like,” said the man, in a voice that was suddenly familiar, “but there will be no one to hear you. This entire floor has been rented out by my employer, and the soundproofing beneath us, state-of-the-art. You may also fight me, if that is your wish, but I think you know what will happen if you do.” And he ran the barrel of the gun across her lips. Miri briefly closed her eyes.
He stopped touching her and moved away, pausing over the cover on the floor. He picked it up and tossed it to her, waiting until she covered herself before turning on the lamp beside the bed. The sudden light made her blink, but she did not shield her face. She fought the glare and stared.
Pale eyes. That was the first thing she noticed. The palest she had ever seen, a green that was almost white. Eyes that were just as familiar as the voice, the red hair, the silver around his neck.
Robert. The man from the bakery.
You knew, she told herself, but it was too little, too late. Miri kept her mouth shut, and the man mirrored her silence, unblinking and calculating, judging and measuring like he was holding her up to some terrible light. And the silence lasted; it grew, until each passing second felt like another kind of weapon, a bullet in her head and heart. She needed sound. She needed engagement. She needed to be something more than just an object, and if she could not fight a gun, then at least she could talk.
Talk with the taste of metal still in her mouth.
Robert finally sighed—a long sound, almost a word, a statement—the corner of his mouth curving into something wry and bitter, and when he spoke it was a murmur, a slow, crisp extension of every syllable, giving it a color, a taste, as it rolled off his tongue.
“Dr. Lee,” he said. “Dear and lovely Mirabelle Lee. Professor of archaeology, with numerous accolades attached to the title. One of the world’s foremost experts on ancient China, second only to Dr. Owen Wills. Rumored to be having an affair with said colleague, though after meeting you, I believe that can be safely ruled out.”
Miri’s fingers dug into the cover, holding on, holding on so tight, and she bit her tongue until she tasted blood.
“You’ve done your research,” she managed, stifling a very strong desire to scream. “You know who I am. I can’t imagine why.”
“Because I must,” he said. “Because that is my job.”
“Which is?”
“Whatever is necessary,” he said. “And I am a great believer in the motivational power of necessity.”
“How nice for you,” Miri said, thinking wildly of escape, of any weapons close at hand. There was a lamp behind her, some heavy glasses above the minibar, perfume in the bathroom that she could spray in his eyes …
Robert smiled. “I appreciate your level head, despite how sudden this must be for you. I do apologize for the way we are being introduced. But circumstances, unfortunately, have taken a turn for the worse, and I find that a proactive stance usually serves everyone better in the long run.”
“I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about,” Miri said, “but you’ve got a gun on me, I’m naked, and that’s very uncomfortable. So if you have something actually important that you need to do or say, let’s get it over with now, so you can get the fuck out of here before I take that gun and shove it up your ass.”
“I am here for the jade,” Robert said. “Or rather, I was. I was also sent to collect you. Is that clear enough?”
Of all the things she had expected him to say, that was not it. Robert tilted his head, the corner of his mouth curving, and like a switch, she felt a flush creep up her neck into her face. She could not pretend.
“That artifact was discovered only this morning.” Miri tried to keep her voice steady, calm. “Nor do archaeologists form package deals with their findings.”
“I don’t ask why,” he said. “I just ask how much.”
Miri narrowed her eyes. “You’re no grave robber.”
“I am what I need to be. I am a professional.”
“And the time frame? Who told you about the jade? Who hired you?”
“Those are incredibly naïve questions, Dr. Lee, and I know you are not a naïve woman. That is the fear talking. The confusion.” Robert sidled sideways toward her suitcase, gun still trained on her head. He crouched, and began rummaging through her clothing.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking for underwear, of course.” He pulled out a lacy number and flung it toward her. Miri let the panties hit her chest and fall to the floor. Robert did not seem to notice, merely continued to remove more clothing from her bag. And then, in a voice so soft she could barely hear him, said, “I am here because Dr. Wills is already gone. He has been taken. While you slept, he was stolen away.”
So easy—the words came out so easy—and it took her a moment to understand him. But when she did—when the words finally translated into something her mind would accept—her breath froze in her lungs, her heart crunched down and down, and she thought, You should have anticipated this as soon as he mentioned the jade. The logic was there, you idiot, you selfish frightened—
“Owen,” she said. “Tell me.”
“If only,” he replied. “But I can tell you nothing. I have not even seen him. Dr. Wills is not in my possession, nor do I know where he is.”
“Liar.”
“Occasionally.” He smiled thinly. “If you take a moment, however, you might conclude that the leverage I hold presupposes any need to lie. So, up. If you want to save yourself, you must stand and dress. It is time to leave this place.”
Miri shook her head, steeling herself. “I don’t know what’s going on, but whatever you want, you had your chance when I was asleep. I don’t know why you didn’t take me then, why you’re doing it like this, but you’re too late. I’m not leaving with you.”
“Really?” he said, in a voice that made Miri feel like a baby bird dangled on the edge of a snapping mouth. Crocodile size. Bounce, bounce, bite—and with a gun to boot. But his eyes made it worse. Not crazy, not angry. Simply detached; the color of seawater, cold and luminescent. Much older than his face. “I am afraid, Dr. Lee, that you do not entirely appreciate the situation you are in. Someone is coming here for you. The same someone who took Dr. Wills.”
“Because of the jade?”
“Because of money. Or rather, that is my reason. I really cannot speak for those I do not know.” Robert stood and stepped around the suitcase. He picked up a pile of clothes and tossed them at her feet. “The world, Dr. Lee, is full of very wealthy people who will do almost anything to keep their hands free of filthy things. This, I can assure you, is one of them.”
He sat down on the edge of the
table, his posture loose, easy. He tilted his head, analyzing and calculating like a tick-tock machine made of flesh and bone.
“They have Dr. Wills,” Robert said, almost to himself. “And one must assume they have the artifact. Very unexpected. Oh well. Up, Dr. Lee. Dress.”
“No,” she said. “You know too much about me just to have been called in last minute. You could not have been hired just this morning to kidnap the both of us and steal the jade.”
He smiled. “That is a conundrum, isn’t it? It would imply someone knew when and where the artifact would be found.”
“Impossible.”
“Really.” His smile faded. “Very little is actually impossible in this world, Dr. Lee. Now please, enough talking. We must be going.”
“You’re crazy to think I’ll leave with you, even with your gun.”
“A little crazy, perhaps, but you should hope not too crazy, especially now with competition knocking on your door, another player in the game. I can vouch for my own rules of honor, Dr. Lee, but that is all I can do. Consider, for a moment, that you might just be safer with me.” He pulled something from his pocket and held it up for her to see. It was a very tiny syringe, no longer than her finger. The cap was still on, but he pulled it off with his teeth and spat it out onto the carpet. His gun hand never wavered.
“Please,” he said, very quietly. “Hold still.”
“Like hell.” Miri backed away. “You’ll have to shoot me first.”
He sighed. “I had a plan, Dr. Lee. It was a very good plan, and not the circus this is turning out to be. But I am, if anything, adaptable. The serum won’t kill you, but it will make you pliant, and very, very sleepy. Exactly what I need.”
Miri edged back from him. “I thought you needed me to dress myself and walk out of here.”
“You will still be able to do that,” he said, and then lunged.
Miri managed a nice loud holler, but it was hard to put much force into it while scrambling backward, legs tangled in the cover wrapped around her body. She launched herself backward, rolling, bouncing over the mattress, grabbing for the table lamp on the other side of the bed. It was bolted to the nightstand, which lost her precious seconds, and she rolled sideways again, losing the blanket, trying to evade Robert as he leaped onto the bed. Too late, too late—he came down hard on her body, straddling her waist, pinning her sideways to the bed. She could not push him off and the awkward angle stole her leverage; she tried to pummel him, which amounted to little more than hitting his thigh and chest with all her strength.
Robert did not seem to mind. He holstered his gun, then used his free hand to wrestle her down. Miri swore at him, snapping her teeth, kicking and pushing with her feet against the mattress, trying to roll them both. No good. He did not budge or make a sound.
“It can’t just be the money,” she gasped, when he paused for a moment to study her face. He was always studying her, she realized. Those eyes, those pale wheels turning in his head. “Why is the jade so important? And why me?”
“I don’t know,” Robert said, lifting up the syringe. Liquid seeped from the needle tip. “But I am beginning to wish I did.”
He leaned in close and Miri thought, Now, this is it, you have to fight, and just as he was about to press the needle into her skin, she twisted one last time, lunged up, and fastened her teeth around his nose.
She felt a crunch, tasted blood. Robert did not cry out, but reared backward, the syringe slipping from between his fingers to land in the bedcovers. Miri let go the moment he was off her, rolling naked and uncaring, almost doing a cartwheel in her mad dash to get away to the door.
And then, quite suddenly, Miri was no longer alone. Outside the room she heard another man shout, a wordless cry that was every bit as desperate as the scream in her heart, choking her throat. She felt Robert close behind, his harsh breath, and she let out a strangled shout, high and breathless, as she reached the door.
She managed to throw back the dead bolt before he wrapped his hand in her hair, yanking her down to the floor. Blood covered his face, the front of his clothes. There was a terrible fury in his pale eyes. He did not seem the slightest bit bothered by pain.
“You are such trouble,” Robert whispered. “Such trouble, Dr. Lee.”
“Yes,” Miri whispered, giving it up, going for it all. “I guess that payday isn’t looking so good, is it?”
He did not respond. On the other side of the door, Miri thought she heard her name. The voice was familiar, though she could not immediately place it. Only, it was breathless, a cut against her raging heart, and as the door shook on its hinges—great thundering booms that Miri felt in her chest—she heard her name again and this time she shouted back, not caring who was there, only that it was another human being sharing her suffering.
Robert kicked her. Miri rolled with it, still yelling. Again she heard her name. Again and again, and her would-be kidnapper gazed uneasily at the door.
And then, quite suddenly, the voice clicked. It was deeper, older, swimming up from dreamtime—and the tone was the same, the intonation, the edge. The sound rode high into her head, darkness flickering at the corners of her eyes.
No, Miri thought. No.
Impossible—so much impossible this night—but that voice—that voice— it could not be. That voice was twenty years dead. Twenty years dead, resurrected only in dreams. It was her imagination, delusion, a desire born of desperation and fear and—
“Get up,” hissed Robert.
“Fuck you,” Miri said, and over another slam, another shout, added, “That guy out there is not going away, you know. You’re going to have to open that door.”
“Yes,” he said. “Which is why I want you out of the way when I do.”
Miri moved. She wanted that door open. She wanted to see who was on the other side. Scrambling backward, pushing herself up against the wall, she watched Robert move into position beside the door. He held a gun in his left hand, tight against his thigh.
Do it, she thought, and he turned the handle, jumping back as the door slammed open with enough force to put a crack in the wall behind it. Another man stepped swiftly into the room. There was too much light behind him; Miri could not clearly see his face, but she saw a giant robot on his shirt and a gun in his hand—a gun aimed at Robert, who held his ground, weapon also raised.
“Put it down,” ordered the new arrival, though he looked at Miri when he said it. She stopped listening after the first word. Her soul, walking out of normal into a world where women died with stones in their chests, stones meant for the eyes of gods, a world where strangers pointed guns and kidnapped friends, and where friends who were dead, friends who stole hearts and then gave them, suddenly walked through open doors, alive and whole and warm after decades of death.
You’re crazy, she told herself. Don’t do this to yourself. Please, don’t.
But her eyes adjusted to the shift in light, and she could not look away. Could not stop staring at the person whose face was almost as familiar as her own. Older now, with more lines, but those blue eyes, those cheeks, that mouth—just like in her dreams …
Too much. All in my head. All in my head and all in my heart and all twisted up like—
“Dean,” she breathed.
His heart was burning again. The skin above it, the cut, reaching hot into his flesh, pumping fire like his heart pumped blood. No complaints, though. Dean welcomed the pain. He needed it to stay focused, conscious, because the sight in front of him, the sight in his head only moments before, was enough to lay him out, for him to see lights, to spin the world around his head—all because there was a woman looking into his eyes, a woman who should have been dead.
He was ready when the door opened. Ready for anything, to kill or be killed, but when he looked into that room, past the man with his gun raised—danger, that guy is dangerous— all he could see was the naked woman standing in shadow, staring at him with eyes like black diamonds, glittering and bright with some astonishingly
hurt light. Dean forgot to breathe, looking into those eyes. The photograph, the visions in his head … all lies.
This was better. This was real. This was good enough to die for.
And then she said his name—his name, murmured like an old song—and everything fell together inside his mind. He stopped questioning. His heart gave up the fight. His heart gave up everything but love.
“Miri,” he whispered. “Bao bei.”
She closed her eyes, but that was all the reaction he saw; the man stepped in front of her, the man who Dean had all but forgotten in that one moment of shock. Stupid, so stupid—the kind of carelessness that deserved a bullet.
Dean raised his gun and sighted down the barrel, aiming at a pale eye that was the coldest he had ever seen. The man’s face was a mess, covered in blood. Teeth marks scarred his nose. Dean glanced at Miri again; red stained her mouth, the memory still fresh witness to the nightmare, watching her play Hannibal Lector like a born fighter. Perfect and lovely. His sweet girl.
The man shifted again, blocking Dean’s sight. Behind, Miri moved; a subtle dance, trying to slip around him. It did not work. He threw out his arm, blocking the narrow hall. Miri stopped, but only just; her posture was breathless, quick. Dean tried not to look anywhere but her face; her nudity scared the hell out of him, made him think all sorts of ugly things. Made him want to kill.
You can’t. Miri’s standing too close.
And there was also the uncomfortable sensation of not knowing what the fuck was going on. Though frankly, all he had to do was look at Miri, at her naked body, and remember that vision of her on the bed, on the floor with a hand in her hair and a foot in her gut, to remind himself that he was a man who needed to take care of some nasty business, and that bullets might just be fine.
Maybe more than fine. He glanced at Miri—back from the dead, real and miraculously alive—and remembered another night, years past, another gun in his face, and then—bang, bang— her body, broken and bloody in the rain.
The Red Heart of Jade Page 7
