The Red Heart of Jade

by Marjorie M. Liu

  “Miri,” Dean hissed, but she was done—no more, no more—and if it ended now, fine. She had already been burned alive and survived. Anything else would be nothing.

  “Nothing,” echoed Lysander softly. “There is no such thing. But now I understand, now the pieces have come together and you will not … You will not prevent me from making the Book—” He stopped, swaying. “The Book … The Book is—” again his voice broke. His tail lashed, cutting the air with a whistle, and his spine curved and curved until he bent over himself. Pain, Miri thought. Weakness.

  Or maybe a fight. A struggle for control.

  The flapping noise was louder now; a drum in the sky. Dean grabbed Miri by the shoulders and pushed her away from Lysander. She looked up, stumbling, and saw something large block out the stars, moving fast, diving—

  Dean shouted, turning Miri and shielding her with his body as the world behind them boomed with the sound of a terrible impact. Screams cut the air—wet snarls, roars, snapping teeth—and Miri turned in Dean’s arms, watching in terrified awe as two sinuous bodies writhed from the lakeshore into the water.

  Bai Shen, she thought, and remembered the jade. Pulling Dean behind her, she scrambled down to the water’s edge, scouring the ground, gambling on the hope that Lysander had dropped it, that the jade was still here to be found. She could barely breathe as she searched; her heart hammered, bursting with each painful beat like it was its last, as though at any moment, boom, and she would be gone, gone, gone.

  The dragons fought only yards away; water splashed over Miri’s body. She smelled blood.

  “Got it!” Dean cried, and the relief that swept through Miri made her knees weak. Dean grabbed her hand, and she let herself be hauled away from the fight. A high keening wail split the air; she turned in time to see both dragons rear from the water, but only one of them—the smaller of the pair—was still struggling, and weakly at that. Miri blamed the fist lodged wrist-deep in his stomach—a fist that turned and wrenched and pulled out something soft and tangled and long.

  “God,” Miri breathed, as Bai Shen screamed.

  “Go,” Dean muttered. “Go, Miri!”

  She started to, and then stopped, racing back for the pile of feathers still lying limp on the rocks. Koni. She bundled the bird to her chest, her palm cutting open on the edge of the jade in her hand, and ran. Dean was already two steps ahead of her, shouting and waving his arms. She did not understand why at first, but then she caught movement on the ridge above them, and realized that people had come. The villagers, watching silent and slack-jawed.

  “Run!” Miri cried at them. “Go, please!”

  But they did not, and as Miri neared she saw that some of them carried masks. The air trembled with bells. A few of the women began to dance. Tradition. Welcoming dragons. Chasing devils.

  A scream split the air; Miri heard a great splash.

  “Don’t look,” Dean said. “Give me the jade.”

  Miri handed over her half of the artifact and set Koni down in a patch of grass and rock. Dean sucked in a deep breath, holding the pieces in front of him. He looked at her. She nodded once. Behind them, wings beat against the air. She saw a throbbing glow push against the thin material of Dean’s wet T-shirt—

  —and he slammed the edges of the jade together.

  For a moment the world stopped, everything around Miri gone except for Dean and the jade. But it was fleeting, transparent, and the world returned with a rush and a roar that was as violent as the breath Miri dragged into her lungs, and as tragic as the realization that nothing at all was different.

  “Did anything happen?” Dean asked. “Miri?”

  “No,” she said, shaking.

  “Oh, God,” Dean said. He bounced the pieces of jade together. “Oh, God.”

  “This is wrong,” Miri protested. “We’re missing something.”

  “No,” Dean said. “We’re just screwed.”

  No, Miri thought, as the skin between her breasts began to burn. No, there’s more. There’s so much more than just that jade.

  “Miri,” Dean whispered. “Miri, you’re glowing.”

  She looked down and gasped. Rising up beneath her skin was light, soft light, gold edged in red. She touched herself and for a moment imagined something more than flesh, more than bone, rising to the surface.

  But she had no time for anything more. Dean shouted, reaching beneath his shirt for his gun. Too late, too late—a clawed fist struck his face, knocking him flat on the ground. Miri darted after him, but tripped as a tail knocked out her feet, slamming her face into the rocks. Pain twisted her body; something heavy pushed down on her back and then she was flipped over like a meat pancake. Lysander crouched above her, his breath hot, eyes wild and bright.

  “You killed your son,” Miri gasped, trying to reach whatever spirit still remained of Bai Shen’s father. “You tore a hole in his stomach, you son of a bitch, and you killed him. You killed your baby.”

  The light in the eyes flickered, but only for a moment; darkness swallowed the dragon’s gaze, and he raised his fist. Miri braced herself to be struck, but instead watched as he opened his hand and revealed both pieces of jade.

  “Dreams and illusions,” he whispered, staring at Miri’s glowing body. “I realize now my mistake. Oh, my clever mate. Oh, my love.”

  And he rammed his claws into Miri’s chest.

  She screamed. She screamed until her voice broke, until all she could do was endure the terrible pain raking through the front of her body as Lysander used his hand to tear a hole through her flesh. She felt his claws scrape bone, make a dance across her breasts, and then listened as he whispered, “Yes.”

  Miri struggled to look. At first all she could see was blood—so much blood it was a fight not to pass out. She held on, though, still staring, and beneath the wet mangle of flesh and fluids, she saw the glow, she saw red, she saw … stone.

  “No,” she gasped.

  “I should have known you,” Lysander whispered. “I should have recognized you the first time we met. I should have seen that spirit sleeping under your skin.”

  “What is this?” Miri breathed. “What am I?”

  “Treasure, sweet Mirabelle.” The dragon leaned close, lips peeling back over his sharp teeth. “Do not be afraid. I will make this quick. All you have to do is tell me yes. Tell me yes, Mirabelle. Tell me yes and we can be together and I will give you power, and together, oh, the things we will do.”

  “What will we do?” Miri whispered.

  “Ah,” he said, still smiling. “Ah, Mirabelle. We will open the gate. We will find my brothers. We will remake the world.”

  We will remake the world, she heard again, though it was not Lysander’s voice, but another, older, the woman she had been in another life, and she realized that this was yet another circle, that this promise of power had been made before, and all that had happened from its acceptance was death, and yet more death.

  “I don’t need you,” Miri told Lysander. “I don’t need you to give me anything.”

  “No!” Lysander said, eyes black, teeth sharp. “Take me, Mirabelle. Accept me.”

  Like hell, she thought.

  The dragon leaned close. Darkness seeped down his pale cheeks, curving and floating in the air, light as butterflies in smoke, dancing, dancing toward her face. Bad dreams, bad memories. Miri tried to scramble backward, but the pain was too much and she collapsed. A strong hand caught her shoulder, pinning her down. Claws bit. Miri thought, I will not be chained, I will not be taken, but the darkness poured from him and she felt it cover her like a terrible mask, an oily hood.

  And then, behind Lysander, she saw movement. Dean. Rising from the ground with blood pouring down his face, stepping right up to the shape-shifter with his hands outstretched. Even as the dragon turned, Dean made an odd gesture with his hands, a pulling motion, and for a moment her vision flickered and she glimpsed energy pouring from the dragon into Dean.

  You’re too late, she wanted to tell
him. The shadow is gone, inside me. But all she could do was listen as Lysander groaned. Her vision blurred; she tore her gaze away from Dean, focusing instead on the darkness surrounding her, and she felt it gather, she felt it enter, and she fought for her life.

  But she was not strong enough, and it was an odd and terrifying thing, feeling her body succumb to another—a kind of rape, a violation, a horrible certainty that she was going to become nothing but a puppet, a thing, an it, some robot to another mind. She could see the strings and they were made of black smoke; she could feel the hands and they were black oil; she could see the face and gaze upon eyes of night.

  She fell backward into the oubliette, and she knew what Lysander must have felt, what so many others had suffered with this creature—falling and falling inside an eternal dark that was effortless and overwhelming and cruel.

  Yes, said the shadow. Yes, you remember.

  Miri did not respond. She did not play the game. Because the alternative was no mystery. She knew what would happen. She had already seen it; been used, in another life, as a tool for death, stealing lives and being stolen, turned into nothing but a receptacle for awful things. Only this time, she felt quite certain that the power this thing wanted was going to be harnessed for something larger and more terrible than murder. She knew it in her heart, she knew it like it was already a part of her, as though the memories and desires of the creature overpowering her mind were leaking into her consciousness.

  We will remake the world, she heard. We will remake the world, and then we will break and bury it.

  No, Miri thought. No.

  But it was too late, and Miri remembered the woman dying, the woman being killed by the one she loved, and she remembered, too, that Dean had been told to do the same. She understood now. She was ready.

  She only hoped that Dean was, too.

  Chapter Twenty

  Dean realized his mistake a moment too late, but the damage was done. Even as he released Lysander and ran to Miri, he felt her slip away from him. He shifted sight, watched the darkness wrap around her light, and he could not pry it away. No matter how hard he pulled, he could not free her.

  Nor could he follow. Dean cradled Miri in his lap, stifling a scream as he gazed down at her torn and bleeding body. Her chest still rose and fell, her pulse was strong; but the area between her breasts was raw, broken.

  And … covered in words. Dean leaned close and saw a faint glow beneath the thin layer of blood pooling inside the cavity. A glow emanated from words, words that were inscribed upon …

  At first he thought it was bone, but he looked closer and realized that not all that red was from blood. There was a stone there, too. Another stone, much like the pieces of jade discarded at her side.

  Holy crap.

  “No,” groaned a familiar voice. “No, you’re waiting too long. You need to end it now.”

  Dean glanced over his shoulder. Lysander stared, blood trickling from his mouth. He looked more human now than dragon. His eyes were simple, golden—no light, no shadow, nothing sharp. Even his voice sounded different: deeper, softer.

  “End it how?” Dean asked.

  “With death,” said Lysander. “You must kill her before the darkness consumes her body.”

  “You’re out of your mind,” Dean said. “I won’t kill her.”

  “You don’t know what that thing has planned,” Lysander whispered. “You can’t begin to imagine what it will do once the Book is made whole.”

  “Made whole in Miri?”

  “Made whole with you. The both of you. The book has two halves. Two stones, two pieces. And once both are awakened …”

  “I don’t understand,” Dean said. “How can I help Miri?”

  “You can’t. Don’t you see? You must kill her, Mr. Campbell. You must kill her before she awakens. You are the only one who can. If you don’t, if she binds her side of the book to yours, all the power that is released will be raw, uncontrolled—and he will be there to harness it. He will be the first to claim it, and that is all that matters.”

  Right. Dean had no idea what Lysander was trying to tell him, nor did he care. What mattered was Miri. Getting her free of the thing wrapped around her spirit.

  She stirred in his arms and Lysander made a choking sound, a low weak cry. Dean ignored him, leaning close.

  “Miri,” he whispered urgently. “Miri, are you there? Can you hear me?”

  “I hear you,” she said, and opened her eyes. Dean bit back a gasp. Her eyes were black—entirely black, as though all the white had been torn away into shadow and he could find nothing of Miri in that gaze. It terrified him.

  “Mr. Campbell!” Lysander shouted, struggling to rise. “Mr. Campbell, do not wait!”

  “Oh, wait,” Miri said, and even her voice was different—slicker, with a cruel edge. “Wait, my love. Wait a little longer.”

  Pain slammed into Dean’s chest. He cried out, and realized that Miri’s hand had crept up under his shirt while he listened to her. Her nails dug into his flesh, ripping at him like he was nothing more than tissue paper.

  “Miri!” he gasped, trying to fight her off. “Miri, stop!”

  But she only bared her teeth and kept clawing. Dean rolled, trying to dislodge her, but she held on tight and simply moved with him until she was on top. Her blood splashed his face, dripping off the glowing stone hanging between her breasts as she pushed up his shirt and ripped into him. Dean howled.

  You know what you need to do. You know what the answer is.

  “No,” he gasped aloud. No, no, no. Not that, ever. Let the world go to Hell, let her claw out his heart if she had to—he was not going to hurt her. He was not going to lift one hand against her body. He remembered—those dreams, those memories and visions—and once was enough. He was not that man.

  And Miri was still in there. He knew it. Buried beneath that darkness was her spirit, and his girl was a fighter.

  “Bao bei,”he said, voice breaking. “Bao bei, listen to me. Remember your grandmother. Remember Ni-Ni. Remember me. I’m not gonna end this, sweetheart. I’m not gonna end this unless you help me. Please, Miri. Please, baby. Help me.”

  For a moment nothing happened and he was tragically disappointed, but then he reached out for the energies still humming around him, for the golden light of the world, and wrapped himself in it and willed the same for Miri, pouring all his love and all that radiance across the bridge between their sould—that mysterious link, that line that had never existed for all those lost years—until now.

  And he crossed the line again, slipping past the darkness, slipping deep into another struggling light. One step. He heard a howl rise around him, felt the immense and suffocating pressure of the spirit cutting into Miri’s soul, but he gave it up, ignored it all, and whispered, Miri. Miri, please.

  You should have killed me, she said, but there was no despair in her voice; only a hard cold practicality that he knew was born entirely from love. Dean, he’s going to use us both.

  Then he can use us, Dean told her fiercely. He can wipe his ass with the world for all I care.

  Dean—

  No, he said. Help me fight, or don’t, but I didn’t come here to listen to all the reasons I should hurt you. That’s not me, and that’s not you. You don’t give up, Miri. Ever.

  Ever, she echoed, and he felt her strength gather close and tight. Dean wrapped himself around her soul, pouring light, pouring energy, dragging threads from his body into hers as he pushed and pushed against the darkness. For a moment he thought it would work; he felt the creature loosen its grip, peel back—but then he felt something else, too, and Miri said, Go. Go back to your body. Hurry, Dean!

  He hurried. Just a thought, and boom—crippling pain, blood, distant screams. Good old body. On his right, Lysander’s great white hulk lay still, silent, but that was only a glimpse, a distant dazzled recognition, because the night sky whirled around his head, circling and circling, spinning him around the face of a looming woman both unfamilia
r and dear. Her chest glowed. He saw black, the edge of a sneer.

  “She’s mine,” said the creature, Miri’s mouth twisting around the words. “And so are you.”

  Dean glanced down at his chest, which was a shocking mirror of the one above him. He could feel its weight and burn. And yet, he could not muster the energy to be surprised or care. So what if there was rock inside his body? So what if he glowed? That was easy compared to the possibility of losing Miri.

  Her body lowered itself against him, sliding close. Dean’s chest throbbed, his heart pounding as the two stones in their chests hovered only a breath apart. The expression on Miri’s face was hungry and sharp—not hers, not her—and Dean sucked in a mighty breath.

  If she binds her side of the book to yours, he remembered Lysander saying, all the power that is released will be raw, uncontrolled, and he will be there to harness it. He will be the first to claim it, and that is all that matters.

  First to claim, Dean thought, hearing those words rattle around his skull. First to claim the power.

  Power that was energy, energy that was lines, lines that he could feel all around him, and that he had only just begun to learn how to use.

  And he was still thinking about that when Miri—the creature possessing her—pushed their bodies together and touched the stones inside their chests. The pieces interlocked; he felt them slip into place like pieces in a puzzle and heard a click, a sound that entered his body like a key in a lock, tumblers turning and turning. Opening a door.

  Their chests began to glow. From collarbone to solar plexus, their bodies shone with a soft light. Dean felt no pain, nothing at all, but there, right before his eyes, he watched as the flesh around the stones rippled, peeling away, smoothing out under the light soaking through the tops of Miri’s breasts, Dean’s chest, lapped up by bone and blood, until at the last, all that remained were words—the words that floated on their skin, skin that was stone, floating like butterflies burned red.

  And then the power came. Dean felt the swell, a tidal wave from the world—and the darkness reached and reached. But Dean was ready and he took it first, grabbed it up like the thread it was, and he did not hesitate, did not think about the possibilities as he poured it into Miri, a pure clean fire, burning her spirit free of the shadow wrapped around her soul. He heard a scream, and then music, and he felt inside his mouth the flutter of wings. He let them out. He let them sing.