“How the hell do you expect me to do that?”
“You should just know!”
“I know how to block punches and snap a man’s neck with my legs. I don’t know anything about demons or portals!”
Donte clenched his fists as if he was struggling mightily not to strangle me. “You have access to all the demons in hell. You can make them do anything you want. Call them back.”
I cupped my hands around my mouth and yelled, “Hey, assholes! Come back!” I put my hands on my hips and glared at Donte.
He was not amused. “Funny. Try again. Look inside them. You can reach their essence without a name.”
I wanted to bitch and scream and punch this guy’s lights out. I still couldn’t believe what he was telling me, much less believe I was standing in the demon realm. Demons came to our world all the time, but humans were much less inclined to come here. I half-expected to incinerate on contact.
But if what he told me was true, then I wasn’t human at all.
“Kahrionoclept!” he growled.
I snapped out of my thoughts, the threads weaving us closer together. I wasn’t sure at this point where my control ended and his began.
“Do it!” Donte hissed.
I figured what the hell. I could humor him. Give it the ol’ heave ho.
“I really wish you’d stop calling me that,” I griped. But I turned to face the portal and looked out on the crowd.
I could see their essence, he told me. I squinted into the night beyond the vortex, but the only thing I could see were the demon soccer moms milling around.
The air seemed hazy and overexposed on my side of the veil. I squinted, thinking maybe it was just a side effect of standing in hell.
Suddenly, I realized I could see tiny red lines trailing behind many of the figures milling around on the lawn. Sheer red energy that almost looked like rocket fire that lengthened and straightened with their movements.
I reached for the closest line.
The moment I touched it, I connected. The demons were everywhere inside me, and I was with them. I stood in the cereal aisle of a Wal-Mart in hell, but I also shivered on the grass, fretting over what my kinfolk were doing. I also broke the window of a nearby house, intent on looting it for things I couldn’t find in hell. When I flashed onto a demon leaping onto a man's fleeing back, fury filled me.
I tightened my grip on the rocket fire network and yanked.
Color me surprised when it actually worked.
Demons skittered back to the portal like puppies with their tails between their legs. I remained connected to the network, counting down every missing body that returned, until no demons remained in the vicinity.
“That’s it,” I told Donte breathlessly.
He looked suitably impressed. “Good. Now close the portal.”
“How?”
“Just visualize it closing. Like mending a tear.”
I thought of my mom's sewing needle swaying in and out of her cross-stitch pattern. Feeling like a complete idiot, I reached out and mimicked her movements, as if I were using an invisible needle.
“It’s not working.”
“Concentrate. Don’t think about it so hard.”
I dropped my hands. “Are you serious right now? Thinking hard is the definition of concentrating! Could you be a little less helpful?”
Donte bared his teeth at me. Goddess help me, the show of dominance set my nerve endings on fire.
There were no more trails of rocket fire outside the portal for me to grab, but if I squinted hard, I could see small amounts of it in the rotating matter of the vortex.
So I dipped in and took hold.
My sewing worked this time. Little by little, the seam began to close. The power or magick or whatever was inherent in the portal took over. I stepped back, watching as my handiwork continued unabetted.
Then the portal closed with a sonic boom that made my ears ring.
Sealing me in to the demon realm, surrounded by the demons I’d just yanked back to hell.
Due to publisher errors and the holiday rush, this book couldn’t be finished in time. If you want to continue Kahri's tale, I’ll send you the full book, free of charge, upon release.
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Simply fill out the form at the link below.
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About the Author
www.HeatherMarieAdkins.com
Heather Marie Adkins writes too much but still too little. She also has too many cats, not enough tequila, and a torrid love affair with procrastination.
Heather resides in north-central Kentucky with a sarcastic cop who is entirely too dependent on puns. When she’s not plotting her next story or herding felines, she works at the library.
Xin
A Double Helix Novel
Jade Kerrion
Copyright
Copyright © 2015 by Jade Kerrion
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.
* * *
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
* * *
Xin / Jade Kerrion. — 1st ed.
ISBN 978-1517692582
Xin
3rd Place, Science Fiction, Royal Palm Literary Award 2016
* * *
When the trail of Danyael Sabre’s stolen blood exposes illegal scientific research at a Chinese laboratory, it unleashes a designer drug with terrifying side effects and imperils the decades-long peace between China and America.
NSA analyst Mu Xin, the clone of a Shang-dynasty queen, steps into the fray to stem the chaos, but in a land where ancestral worship and beliefs in incarnation exist alongside cutting-edge genetic engineering, will Xin find herself trapped or liberated by her past?
* * *
This is a standalone futuristic thriller set in the award-winning world of the Double Helix.
1
The shortcut through Bi Sha Gang Park beckoned to Kai Lu.
His eyes darting from side to side, he paused at the edge of the landscaped city park. Grass glistened with morning dew, and the fog draped like a shroud over dense copses of trees.
The artist in him acknowledged the prettiness of the scene, much like one his daughter might have painted.
The corporate drone in him, anxious not to miss a 6 a.m. international conference call, peered at the distant skyscrapers of Zhengzhou, gleaming white against the still dark sky.
The superstitious Buddhist that he was shrank from traveling through shadowy places during the seventh lunar month when the suffering spirits of hell roamed the Earth in search of food and entertainment.
Ghost month.
Kai stiffened against the whisper of fear—no, anxiety—surely “fear” was too strong a word for what he felt. He scowled. He had to stop wasting time on social media sites bristling with gory rumors of the newly dead roaming through Zhengzhou. It was Ghost month; he should have expected no less from anonymous online pranksters with too much time on their hands.
He sucked in a deep breath as he glanced at his watch. His shoulders straightened, and he stepped onto the pathway curving through the park. His patent leather shoes tapped a steady rhythm on the brick path paved in geometric patterns. As the sky brightened, the chirping of birds filled the silence, and the fog peeled back to unveil a normal day in Zhengzhou, the bustling capital of Henan province an
d one of China’s designated Economic and Technological Development Zones.
The onset of light released a surge of activity. Trailing beads of sweat, a jogger raced past Kai. Several meters away, five people flowed their aged limbs through the motions of t’ai chi ch’uan. Kai chuckled at his nerves. Of course, there had been nothing to worry about—
A flash of white caught his eye.
He stared at the pale hand beneath a bush. It was small, like a child’s, the fingers curled slightly, as if beckoning him.
Kai glanced over his shoulder. The sun was no less bright. The jogger had stopped to tie his shoelace, and the elderly people continued the ancient martial art. Normal.
Except it was not.
Not anymore.
He swallowed through the lump in his throat and slowly approached the unmoving hand. After a few false starts, his voice emerged, trembling. “Hey, you,” he asked in Mandarin. “Are you okay?”
The hand did not move.
His hand shook as he parted the bushes. The dead eyes of a child stared up at him. Terror gripped his spine. He froze, unable to tear his gaze from the dark eyes in a face so blanched it appeared almost white.
Kai stumbled back. The leaves flicked over to conceal their ghastly secret. “Help! There’s a child here! I think she’s dead!” He fumbled with his cell phone. Kai blurted out his find over the shocked whispers of the elderly people and the jogger gathering around the child’s body. They had reached the same conclusion he had. The child had been drained of blood.
“Jiangshi,” someone murmured.
Vampire.
2
Danyael Sabre arrived at the National Institutes of Health reception in much the same way he arrived at any party—as quietly as possible through a side door. Even so, the lively staccato of conversation in the large room paused for a beat before resuming at a more measured pace.
He tried not to sigh. Nothing like the presence of an alpha empath to put everyone on guard. Attending the reception was obviously a mistake; he would only spoil the occasion for everyone else. He had been crazy to imagine that he could undo a lifetime of self-imposed social isolation in the span of a few months.
He turned to leave but a familiar voice stopped him. “Danyael, I’m glad you came.” He glanced over his shoulder as Dr. Colin Francis, the director of the National Institutes of Health, approached him with two glasses of wine.
Ten minutes. I can do this.
Danyael accepted the drink from his boss; it was easier than explaining that he did not consume alcohol, and the glass in his hand would forestall any further offers to get him a drink.
Colin grinned at him. “I hear you’re already making waves.”
“I thought it was my job.”
“Absolutely.” Colin nodded. “The challenge with scientific review has always been sheer volume of material to process, but you seem to have a knack for finding the hot spots.” His grin creased the corners of his eyes. “Let me guess; the secret sauce is your face-to-face meetings with the heads of research institutes.”
Danyael shrugged. “Emotions don’t lie, at least not to me.” He glanced around the room, and his empathic powers eased out, as subtle as the fragrance of cherry blossoms on a spring breeze. Like a lover’s caress, it smoothed the tense edge and tugged away the prickly layers of self-defense. Stiff shoulders relaxed and smiles grew warmer, the laughter genuine. Conversation bubbled once more, like the patter of water over a stony riverbed.
Colin chuckled. “I’ve seen you do that so many times, and each time, it still amazes me. It’s more potent than oxygen pumped into a casino.” A crease folded into his brow. “How are you coping?”
“I’ll be all right.”
“Not in the future. Right now.”
Danyael laughed, but his smile faded as his gaze traveled across the room. The breath he released was a soft sigh.
“I expect it’s tough switching from years of clinical practice to research administration,” Colin continued.
It was, but probably not in the way Colin imagined. The toughest part had been exchanging thousands of brief patient interactions for a handful of deeper relationships with colleagues and clients. As an alpha empath whose emotional defenses rivaled the Great Wall of China, the latter was far more difficult than the former.
The social niceties—parties and receptions—were especially challenging. Danyael fought the compulsion to glance at his watch. Five more minutes.
Colin’s gaze flicked to the entrance of the room. “Ah, here are two people I’d like you to meet.” With a smile, he welcomed the Caucasian man and Chinese woman who strolled up him. “Sir Richards, Dr. Shen, I’d like you to meet Dr. Sabre. He’s the director of the Center for Scientific Review. Danyael, I’m sure you recognize Sir Richard, entrepreneur extraordinaire and owner of Excelsior Enterprises. Dr. Shen heads up Excelsior’s research division in China.”
Danyael extended his hand, as courtesy demanded, first to the lady and then to the gentleman. “Dr. Shen. Sir Richards. It’s a pleasure.”
Sir Richards’s handshake was brisk and firm. “Call me Brandon, please.” Brandon Richards was in his seventies, yet his voice and athletic frame bore the vigor of a man two decades younger. His goatee, only lightly touched with gray, accentuated the flash of teeth as he smiled. “And the pleasure is mine. Your reputation precedes you, Dr. Sabre.”
“Danyael, please.”
“I’ve been following your—” Brandon’s eyebrows arched. “—exploits, for lack of a better word, and I’ll confess, I’m surprised to see you turn your attention to scientific research instead of something that would place you in the front lines of changing history.”
“Too many near-death experiences in the front lines can change a man’s mind.” Not that Danyael had ever craved the spotlight or tried to change history, but trouble had a way of zeroing in on alpha empaths. He had not helped things either by marrying Zara Itani, an assassin who appeared to live solely for the pleasure of turning minor disasters into major calamities. Trapped between his empathic powers and his love for Zara, Danyael had never had a chance of evading trouble. The previous three and a half years, pockmarked by encounters with abominations, mutant terrorists, super soldiers, and psychotic clones, had been especially hazardous.
His new position at the National Institutes of Health, however, represented a solid step back on the path to normality—just as soon as I figure out a way to get through all these parties and receptions. He smiled at Brandon. “I’m hoping for a life expectancy of at least thirty-five.”
Brandon laughed and planted an effusive slap on Danyael’s back. “I think my team may be able to help you out with that.”
Danyael recognized Brandon’s smooth transition from personal to professional topics. “I’ve finished reading the research papers Dr. Shen’s team released last week. The results from Excelsior’s work on Alzheimer’s, Huntington’s, and Parkinson’s diseases have been extraordinary.”
Brandon nodded. “Degenerative diseases are our specialty. Think of the amount of experience, and dare I say it, wisdom—” He winked at Danyael. “—locked in the minds of our elders. The value we preserve by halting or even reversing the aging process is tremendous. Of course, we need the support of the NIH to help us fast-track the serums through the FDA. I hope we can count on you.”
“My team is reviewing Excelsior’s research protocols. I don’t expect they’ll find any problems.”
“Spectacular. Of course, if you have any questions, you should feel free to reach out directly to us.” Brandon glanced sideways at his companion. “If that’s okay with you, Yi?”
“Of course.” Dr. Yi Shen’s words were subtly touched with the accents of a non-native English speaker. “I shall be most happy to answer any of Dr. Sabre’s questions on our research.” She smoothed the lapels of her beige-colored business suit as she smiled at Danyael. Her hair, pulled back into an elegant chignon, emphasized her narrow nose, thin lips, and her wire-framed glasses
. Her profile on the Excelsior website was studded with the names of the most prestigious universities in the world; the scope of her academic and professional experience placed her in her early sixties, but like Brandon Richards, she appeared younger than Danyael knew her to be.
Yet unlike Brandon’s transparent emotions, which bubbled with effervescence, Dr. Shen’s emotions were as smooth and featureless as polished marble.
“In fact,” Brandon continued. “We’d love to give you a tour of our research and manufacturing facility in Zhengzhou. Your support would carry a lot of weight with the FDA.”
Dr. Shen’s emotions twitched, crinkling like silk, before ironing back into its flawless façade.
Danyael kept his gaze on Brandon. “Thank you for the generous offer. I’ll consider it.”
Colin smiled as Brandon Richards and Yi Shen walked away. “Their breakthrough on degenerative diseases is exactly what we need. The work they’re doing at Excelsior is brilliant.”
Danyael’s empathic powers recoiled, tendrils invisibly returning to the vine. “Yes,” he murmured. “Brilliant.”
Danyael left the reception as early as he could manage without seeming rude, and returned to his home in an upper-middle class Georgetown neighborhood. After his marriage to Zara seven months earlier, he had moved into her home, a red-bricked townhouse flanked by homes belonging to lawyers, doctors, and business professionals—not quite where one would expect to find a master assassin, but then again, Zara made it a point not to be predictable.
Heroines and Hellions: a Limited Edition Urban Fantasy Collection Page 38
