“She represents only one-half of the puzzle, but the larger half. She understands the mystery, you see. The Book and the power and all those wonderful consequences. Though she does not understand me.”
“That’s because you’re a killer,” Miri said, bits and pieces falling together inside her head. “You killed the people who work for her, you burned them alive.”
“And I ate them.” The dragon smiled, teeth spreading like knives across his face. “Never fear, Mirabelle Lee. My mate is keen. She can find more servants. But you … you are another matter. I think, perhaps, you are too much. I think that I will have to discard you. It is safer that way. If she wants you, then she cannot have you. I will find the jade some other way. Perhaps … in Hong Kong? Your friends will go there and I will be waiting.”
“Why?” Miri breathed. “Why is this so important to you? To everyone who is involved?”
“Dreams and wishes, Dr. Lee. We all have dreams and wishes of the world as it should be. Would you not remake your existence if you could? Change your parents, change that night when you lost your life? Make it so your love never left and you lived happy and happy and happy together? You would deny yourself that?”
“Yes,” Miri breathed. “Oh yes, I would.”
Doubt moved through Lysander’s eyes—another shadow, fleeting, and for a moment she felt that second presence, a second soul wrapped up tight inside the dragon. The sensation was familiar to her in ways she could not explain—almost déjà vu, but not quite. As if she remembered looking out through eyes that were not her own, eyes that had been stolen from her.
The sensation faded; Lysander said, “Tell me why.”
Tell me why, she heard inside her head. Tell me why I am possessed, tell me why I am a possessor, tell me why and why and why. Why this world, why me, why now, why this life that I invited darkness into. Why did I make that decision?
She shut her eyes, blocking out that voice that was hers or someone else’s, a voice she could not bear to listen to, and said, “Because every life is given only one chance. You cannot—you should not—go back and change your mistakes. The point is to learn from them. The point is to make the very best life you can with what you’ve got, and love the person that makes. But if you give yourself an out, if you turn back time, all that you were and are becomes meaningless, and we are not broken records. We are not puppets to be used and remade and then discarded. Every life means something, you son of a bitch, and if you don’t like the world the way it is, find another way to change it that doesn’t involve imposing yourself on the rest of us.”
Lysander said nothing. He stared at her for a long time, and then slowly, carefully, raised his hand, palm out. Heat washed over Miri, a great warmth, and she had a very bad feeling about what was going to happen next.
But then the dragon twitched, whirling, and as it moved Miri heard a voice say her name and she flattened herself against the ground. A gun went off. The dragon rolled sideways, tail lashing.
As he moved, Miri saw a lean, lithe figure, a familiar silhouette against the city skyline, and she thought, Miracles pass and I see. Great wonders speak and I listen.
She looked at Dean, and believed in magic.
Something happened to Dean when he watched the shape-shifter drag Miri away; he crossed another line inside his heart. He did not know what it meant, only that he felt something shift inside him, beneath his skin, like things were being rearranged, and if he had not been so certain that he was human, he might have imagined that he was becoming a shape-shifter himself, because he felt transformed.
Inside his head, inside his burning heart, all throughout and all within, and in his eyes the world fell down, curled loose and wild into energy and threads, and he reached out—stretched—and began to gather them in. He did not think or plan; all he thought of was Miri.
Koni ran to the closet door and opened it. All the clothes had been torn away; the room beyond was empty. The shape-shifter ran through, disappeared for a moment, and Dean heard a shout. A moment later Koni reappeared. He held the red jade in his hand. He started talking; Dean said nothing. Koni stepped close and began shaking him, which was useless because Dean’s body was not working correctly. Or maybe it was working too well. He barely heard Koni, whose voice was nothing but an echo—unlike his body: a bright vein of gold.
Dean drew some of that light inside him, milking away stolen fibers, weaving it deeper inside his heart as he molded and wove and fumbled. All he had was instinct, but as he worked he felt as though he remembered, that this was time repeating itself, and that once before he had done such things—more, even—and a great thrill battled his fear for Miri, a tremendous rush that came from remembering. Just fragments, bits and pieces cutting holes in his heart, draining and refilling him with times from another life.
And then, quite suddenly, he had something inside him, an object built, glistening and glowing, and he called it a bridge, and placed his soul upon it. He moved …
… and found himself within a dark place, suspended in the center of a roiling cloud, green with lightning.
“Hello,” said a voice. “Welcome to my home.”
Dean turned. A man stood before him, also floating in the air. He had dark skin and green eyes, as well a quiet face, which contained … nothing. No emotion. No expression at all. Dean found him very familiar—remembered him suddenly from the alley—and reached for his gun.
“Don’t bother,” said the man, his voice deep and rumbling. He held up the weapon. “I find it fascinating that a man who becomes evolved enough to rip the fabric of space with nothing but his mind should find himself relying on a gun in times of need.” The man tossed the weapon back to Dean. “It’s a tiny little thing. Frankly, I’m surprised. Given your reputation, I expected you to have rocket launchers tied to your arms. A bazooka strapped to your dick.”
“Too much recoil,” Dean said. “I love my nuts.”
The man’s expression never even twitched. “You committed this act, this … movement across space … because of Miri. You did this because being with her is waking you up.”
“I was never asleep.”
The stranger smiled; a chilling look. “We are all asleep, Mr. Campbell. It is what we dream that matters.”
“Then tell me how to dream of Miri,” Dean replied, desperate. “Tell me how to find her.”
“You’re already halfway there. The moment you leave this place you’ll find her. You’re crossing the bridge you built between your souls. All I did was make you stop. There’s something you need to know—more at stake here than you realize.”
“All I care about is Miri.”
“And Mirabelle is the key,” said the man. “As are you. Not the jade, though that is part of it, but you and her. You are the results. You are both the meaning and the mystery.”
“Cut the crap,” Dean said. “Who the hell are you?”
“A friend of a friend. My name is Rictor. Artur and Elena know me.”
“I remember now. Artur said you can’t be trusted.”
“And Elena?”
“I don’t talk to her as much.”
“Smart woman.” He tilted his head. “There are many players in this game, but the only one you need to be afraid of is the dragon. Not the son, but the father. He has Mirabelle even now.”
“Then why the hell are we standing here?”
“Because I won’t get another chance to speak to you, and I need you to understand certain things. This is important, Mr. Campbell. This is the most important thing you’ll ever do with your life.”
“What?” Dean asked, fed up.
“You have to kill her,” Rictor said softly, floating close. “When the time comes, you have to kill Mirabelle. Because if you don’t, the world is going to be a very terrible place.”
And then Rictor touched Dean, and everything disappeared.
* * *
The world shifted, and when next he opened his eyes Dean felt like he was on top of the city, and th
ere in front of him was a dragon. And near the dragon—
You have to kill her. When the time comes, you have to kill Mirabelle.
Dean shook off Rictor’s voice. He could not contemplate such a possibility. Unthinkable, horrible. That son of a bitch was going to get his ass kicked the next time Dean saw him.
But first, the dragon. The serial killer. Dean saw the creature raise its hand toward Miri’s face, watched her stare with the knowing in her eyes, and he fired his gun.
It was a perfect shot. Dean saw the bullet impact the shape-shifter’s neck, but instead of dropping dead, the dragon moved with about as much injury as a bee sting.
Dean cursed, and fired again and again. Blood sprayed across white stone, white flesh, and finally a roar filled the air, undulating, rumbling like thunder rich and deep, until Dean’s heart shook with that sound, pounding against his ribs in a sharp tattoo. His chest felt hot—burning—as if for a moment energy was collecting, but then it all faded away as the dragon’s eyes glowed. The beast raised his hand again to Miri.
Dean ran, shouting for her to move, and she did, scrambling away from the dragon, racing toward him. Her shirt was torn, her eyes wild, and just as she neared, Dean saw sparks touch her hair, the fine edge of a flame. Dean grabbed her wrists, hauling her around the central pillar in the center of the stone roof. There was a door, locked. Dean shot at it, kicked, pushed, but it would not budge. It was made of a thick wood and even thicker metal. Made to last.
But someone had been up here the previous day, and there was a trail Dean could follow, a lovely golden thread winding down and down the stairs beyond that door, to the lawn below.
“Dean!” Miri gasped, and he acted without thinking, without any kind of plan. He grabbed her around the waist, her skin burning to the touch, a blistering heat. He felt the energies gather around him, the golden threads winding and winding through his burning chest, and he found another bridge and placed Miri upon it.
She disappeared, and for one moment Dean thought he must be the stupidest son of a bitch on the planet—and oh, shit, what did I just do?— but then he heard her scream—only, at the bottom of the Memorial Hall, and Dean ran to the edge and looked down. She stood in the grass with working legs and working arms, and she shouted his name.
Dean felt something behind him and turned. He barely managed to keep his mouth shut because the man was there—the dragon—and he was a giant, a monster, more animal than human.
He had no legs, just one long tail he balanced upon, a tail keen and shiny, rippling long with muscle and gleaming white as perfect snow, marred only by the blood pouring down his iridescent chest. Whiskers made of flesh curled from his bottom lip, thick and twisting like vines, while sleek feathers pushed out of his white hair. The fringes looked sharp.
But Miri was safe. It was just Dean now. And he could handle this. He was ready.
Ready like hell, you fucking liar. Your pickle just trickled.
Which no one ever needed to know but Dean.
“And me,” whispered the dragon. Light streamed from the corners of his eyes, smoke curling out of his wide white nostrils. He snorted once, like a bull, and a roar filled the air, a rush of hot air that made Dean choke and hold his throat, fall to the ground and slam his other hand into the ground to steady himself. He tried to reach for his gun, but the dragon caught his hand and held him tight. Easy, effortless. A toying motion. Dean felt like a chicken waiting to have its wings torn off. Good eating, maybe. Finger-lickin’ good. Oh God.
“I am never the hunted,” whispered the shape-shifter; and up close, Dean saw bits of meat between the sharp teeth, the purple of the dragon’s long split tongue. For just a moment, Dean’s vision split—but this time not along vibration, but something else, something inexplicably like memory: bones, darkness, a rough voice whispering in shadow; and a light—a light as pure as snow and star and moon …
The shape-shifter stilled. His nostrils flared. He gave Dean a scrutinizing look, as though he was trying to remember something. Dean was too proud to glance away. He wondered if Miri would miss him, how she would feel about losing him so soon, whether his friends would be next in line, all of them, his family, dying while trying to take this shit-head down. The possibility, so clear in his head, choked him.
“Your whole life is a lie,” murmured the shape-shifter, and there was something in his eyes that could have been surprise, wonder—only tainted, twisted into a darkness rich and strange.
“What the hell do you know about my life?” Dean asked, finally finding his voice. He tried to move his arms, but it was like drowning in concrete: sinking, sinking, gone.
The shape-shifter never answered. Instead, he let go of Dean’s wrist and reached out quick, raking claws through his shirt, popping buttons and tearing cloth as he bared Dean’s slick chest to the hot humid air.
For the briefest instant, Dean sensed disappointment roll off the shape-shifter—just a flash, in his eyes—and then the dragon’s jutting jaw tightened and he touched Dean with one long silver claw. Scraped his chest, the glowing scar over his heart. Fingered the golden charm, the little locket, resting so warm on Dean’s chest.
The dragon made a sound, low in his throat. Smoke puffed from his nostrils: bittersweet, rich, like smoked meat. His eyes glowed, gold shrouded by a floating darkness that was pitiless and cold.
And then Dean began to burn.
Chapter Twelve
He blacked out when the fire exploded around his feet—fell into sweet darkness, removed and floating, lost in a dream that swept him up like the fire. The world diminished; in his heart, in his head, his life narrowing to a series of memories, flashing, and he recalled a face, young and breathless and pale.
Miri, Dean thought. Oh God. Miri.
And suddenly he was awake again and the fire surrounding him did not burn, did not choke—like the nightmare that had started his ordeal, only this time, Dean was not afraid. He stared into the flames and thought they looked like threads, something to be followed and played with and examined, and beyond those threads, he saw a body, a body of light wrapped up in something wiggling and dark.
A worm. Dean reached out with his mind and touched it. Or at least, he tried. The moment he made that first effort, the fire boomed, puffed, went out. He felt a great lurching sensation in his body, and the sudden darkness against his eyes was as blinding as the light—another curtain, another weakness—and Dean hit the ground hard on his knees, biting his tongue so hard he tasted blood.
Hands touched him. Dean flinched, twisting sideways, hands scrabbling for a weapon he could not find. A familiar voice cut the air, and he stopped moving, panting weakly.
“Miri,” he gasped, and then she was beside him, rolling him into her lap. He felt grass beneath his back and looked up and up at the smooth white walls of the Memorial Hall towering above his head, framed by a dark cloudy sky. And next to that, Miri. Her hair hung loose past her face, shrouding her features in darkness. There was no sign of the dragon, which made Dean feel very uneasy.
“You all right?” he asked.
“Yes,” she breathed. “You?”
“I’m not hurting,” he said. “Do I still have hair?”
Miri made a choking sound. “Yeah, you have hair. You’re naked, though. What happened up there, Dean? I was too far down to see anything, but I thought there was a glow.”
“Fire,” he told her. “That asshole set me on fire.”
Her breath caught. “How did you survive?”
“Hell if I know. I’m bullet man, remember?”
She didn’t laugh. Instead, he heard that choking noise again, except deeper, throatier, and he realized it was a sob.
“Hey,” he whispered. “Hey, now. I’m fine. You’re fine. We’re all fine, okay? No crying, bao bei.”
“Sorry,” she breathed. “Sorry. I thought you were gone. Dead.”
Dean reached up and touched her face, drawing her down for a long, slow kiss that loosened parts of his body he di
dn’t even know were uptight. Miri smiled against his mouth.
“We need to get you out of here,” she murmured. “It’s going to be light soon and you don’t have any clothes. I’m also afraid that someone might have called the police. I couldn’t see the fire, but I was too close. Anyone else in the park would have had a real light show, and I don’t think we want to answer any questions about that.”
Dean propped himself up on his elbows and gazed down at his body. He really was naked. The only thing he still wore was Miri’s locket, and thank God for that.
“How did I get down here?” he wondered out loud.
“Probably the same way you sent me down, or the way you appeared at the top of the hall.” There was a note of wonder in her voice.
“I don’t know how I did that,” Dean protested. He shifted his sight, testing the waters. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary; all the power he had felt only minutes before was gone.
Miri staggered to her feet. “I want you to stay here. We’re fairly well hidden among these bushes and trees. At least until more people show up in the park. I’m going to find you some clothes.”
“You can’t go out there. It’s not safe. He might come back.”
“His name is Lysander, Dean. Lysander Drakul. Bai Shen brought me here to make a deal, but it backfired. Lysander … punished him, and he was about to kill me for being either too important, or too useless, to live.”
“Nice options. Did you learn anything else?”
Miri hesitated. “I think the real Lysander might be trying to fight back. I think he’s also the reason that thing is in there in the first place. Lysander let it in, and now he can’t get loose.”
“But you said he’s struggling.”
“Maybe. I don’t know. But he knows about Hong Kong. He picked it up from my mind. He said he would be waiting.”
“Good thing we don’t know where the second piece of the jade is, then. He’ll be in the same boat as us.”
“But just a lot more dangerous. I assume you have the other jade?”
“Bai Shen left it.”
The Red Heart of Jade Page 20
