Heroines and Hellions: a Limited Edition Urban Fantasy Collection

by Margo Bond Collins

  Danyael would never have left Laura without a parent overnight, at least not willingly. “Did he say where?” Xin asked.

  “No. I’m afraid he doesn’t tell me much.”

  Damn it. Xin hung up and stared at her phone for several minutes before calling a secure line. The call bounced across several satellites, rendering it untraceable, before ringing a cell phone halfway around the world.

  Zara picked up even before the first ring completed. “What is it?” she snapped. “I’m busy here.”

  “Have you spoken to Danyael lately?”

  “No. What’s wrong?”

  “He told Brianna he would be out of town for a few days.”

  “He didn’t call me.”

  Xin frowned. Whatever Danyael had planned, he had clearly hoped to take care of it quickly.

  “I can be home in twenty hours.” Zara’s voice softened to a seductive purr.

  Ouch. When Zara sounded like an irate businesswoman, she was at her most reasonable. When her voice transformed into the husky purr of a porn star, it meant the guns and daggers were coming out to play. Nothing could raise Zara’s hackles as quickly as the thought of Danyael in danger, but circumstances had a way of spiraling out of control when the assassin was introduced as a variable. “No, I need you to finish up in Tehran,” Xin said. “I’ve got Danyael.”

  “Xin, if anything happens to him—”

  “Nothing will happen to him.”

  “Call me when you find him.”

  “Of course.” Xin hung up before Zara could issue an ultimatum. Damn it, Danyael. You better not be where I think you are. She tapped into the Federal Aviation Administration database and searched its records. Sir Brandon Richards’s private jet had departed from Dulles International Airport four hours earlier. Danyael Sabre’s name was third on the passenger manifest.

  Xin’s jaw tensed. Danyael was on his way to the only place where she could not follow him—China.

  4

  “China?” General Rick Lysander, the director of the National Security Agency, frowned. “But the NIH confirmed Danyael was visiting China as a private citizen. Why would we upset the two-and-a-half decade old understanding we have with China over one man checking out the Great Wall of China and buying cheap knockoffs?”

  “Because he’s not going there as a tourist. Danyael’s on his way to China as a guest of the man whose laboratory does research on Danyael’s blood.”

  “We’re not talking about live blood transfusions here, obviously, and it’s not illegal to conduct research on human blood.”

  “Before he died, Seth Copper spent years on the most daring studies ever to break every international law on blood research. He conducted live blood transfusions on Danyael for decades and proved that genetic material can travel through blood infusions. Danyael’s strong psychic shields are the result of receiving live blood transfusions from Seth, who was a defense-class telepath. Seth acknowledged that he had become addicted to Danyael’s blood.”

  “What exactly did Seth say?”

  “That Danyael’s blood heightened all his senses.”

  “Like a drug.”

  “Exactly.”

  Rick sighed. “Look, I’m not saying this isn’t important, but things with China have been quiet for twenty-five years. It’s going to take a lot more than Danyael’s gut feelings—”

  “And evidence of his stolen blood?” Xin cut in caustically.

  “And evidence of his stolen blood. Even taken together, they’re not enough for the NSA to open that can of worms.” Rick shook his head. “Authorizing your visit to China isn’t just going to affect the NSA. The Chinese government is probably still sore over losing two historic clones. Your mother’s escape from China with you nearly led to a full-scale military deployment. Let’s not go down that path again.”

  “It’s been more than two decades. I don’t loom large enough in the world for the Chinese government to still be in a persnickety fit over two refugees who left with only the clothes on their backs.”

  Rick pushed to his feet. “Your mother is the clone of the Chinese pirate queen, Zheng Yi Sao. You are the clone of Fu Hao, the Shang dynasty queen, military general, and high priestess. Do you know what that means?”

  “That my genes are older than dirt?” Or at least older than 3,200-year-old dirt, since Fu Hao, one of King Wu Ding’s sixty wives, was believed to have died around 1,200 BCE.

  “It means that China regards you and your mother as national treasures—treasures stolen by America.”

  “And the fact that Ching Shih kidnapped me and escaped to America means nothing to them?”

  “Rationality’s not high on the list when national pride is at stake.” Rick shook his head as he stepped around his desk. “The fact is, there’s no easy or polite way for us to ask if you can visit China, especially not as a representative of the American government.”

  “What about a private visit, then?”

  “What?” Rick paused in the act of refilling his coffee mug.

  “Why not?” Xin shrugged. “Danyael’s visiting China as a private citizen. Why can’t I express interest in the land of my birth and petition the Chinese embassy to grant permission for a visit?”

  “And what makes you think we will let you visit China? You know more government secrets than are stored in our supercomputers.”

  Xin’s eyebrows drew together. “An exaggeration,” she murmured. But not by much.

  “Once they have you in China, why would the Chinese government let you leave?”

  “Because I’m immensely troublesome and can wreak more havoc in the country than from outside of it. Imagine all that open access to their highest-security networks.”

  Rick let out a bark of laughter, but the humor melted away quickly. “It’s a lot of effort you’re going through for Danyael. It’s not because of Zara, is it?”

  “Zara will be furious if anything happens to Danyael. Considering her tendency to resort to bloodshed to resolve issues, it won’t be pretty, but no, it’s not about Zara. It’s Danyael. He doesn’t overreact. In fact, he’s far more likely to underplay the seriousness of the situation, but last night, when we spoke, he was…deeply troubled, and that worries me. He’s obviously taken it upon himself to chase it down. That’s not Danyael’s style; he’s spent his entire life trying to stay out of the spotlight and out of trouble. How bad does a gut feeling have to be to compel Danyael to set aside his reclusive lifestyle and chase down what may turn out to be nothing, or everything?”

  Rick sighed. “Let’s assume it’s something. Why shouldn’t I just send Delta Force after Danyael? Why send you?”

  “Because you don’t know if Danyael needs Delta Force or just a trustworthy translator. What you need is someone on the ground—someone you trust to make the right calls and access the right resources. Me.”

  Rick lowered himself into his seat and spun the coffee mug around in his hands, leaving wet circles on the oak table. His shoulders slumped. “We can’t afford to lose you.”

  “You won’t. I promise. The Chinese won’t want to keep me.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t stop you, can I?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t want you to go alone.”

  Xin pushed to her feet. “I won’t be alone.” A faint smile curved her lips. “I’ll be visiting China with a pirate queen.”

  Xin drove along Arlington Ridge Road, past an eclectic blend of new and old houses. The neighborhood was considered one of northern Virginia’s most desirable, although the seven-figure price tag placed it out of the reach of most people. She pulled into the driveway of a two-story red-bricked Colonial house. The fragrance of fresh roses from the red and white blooms around the house welcomed her and completed the look of elegance created by the white marble columns.

  The door opened before Xin could raise her finger to the buzzer. She met the gaze of the middle-aged Chinese woman who stood in the doorway before inclining her head in greeting. “Ching Shih.
”

  Xin did not call Ching Shih “mother”; the term was ludicrous for someone only fourteen years older than she was. Furthermore, Ching Shih was neither Xin’s genetic mother nor her biological host. At best, they were sisters of circumstance, brought together by Ching Shih’s decision to defect to the United States—a circumstance that Xin, not quite two years old at that time, had not had any say in.

  The American government, however, had seen fit to tie Ching Shih and Xin together legally as mother and daughter. Over the years, the implications had whittled down to income tax paperwork and social security forms. To Xin, they were annual reminders of the woman who had not wanted a daughter but who had been saddled with one anyway.

  “You have not been eating well.” Ching Shih turned her back on Xin. “Dinner is ready. Come.”

  The house where Xin had grown up welcomed her as if she had never left. Ching Shih’s timeless sense of style allowed her to refresh the look of a room simply by changing its accessories. The spread of bold colors on the Picasso-like painting over the fireplace was new, as were the trio of rectangular vases, each containing a long-stemmed calla lily.

  The rosewood dining table, large enough for eight people, was set for two. Ching Shih waved Xin over. “You called so unexpectedly; I did not have enough time to prepare a proper meal, but sit. Eat.”

  Xin took her seat as Ching Shih scooped the sea cucumber and fish maw soup into large porcelain bowls before unwrapping layers of parchment paper and lotus leaves from around the beggar’s chicken. The intense aroma of herbs and rice wine from the chicken overtook the delicate fragrance of perfectly seasoned soup, but not the rich garlic scent wafting from the stir-fried Chinese broccoli.

  “When did you find the time to prepare all this food?” Xin asked as she picked up her chopsticks.

  “Meals are important. You should make time for the important things.” Ching Shih’s voice was faintly critical, but her tone could not detract from Xin’s anticipation of enjoying all her favorite home-cooked foods at the same time, a rare pleasure for someone who ate most of her microwavable meals at her desk.

  For several minutes, the only sound was the nearly silent click of chopsticks against the rim of porcelain bowls filled with steamed rice. The reason for Xin’s visit was not broached until dinner was over and both women had set down their empty rice bowls.

  Ching Shih studied Xin through hooded eyes. “There is more rice in the cooker.”

  Xin stared at the leftover food on the table with real regret. “No, I think I’m done, but it was amazing. Thank you for dinner.”

  “You will take the food home. It is too much for me to eat.” Ching Shih arranged her chopsticks in a neat line next to her bowl before meeting Xin’s eyes. “Why are you here?”

  “I’m leaving for China tomorrow.” Xin’s mind tripped over the words. It was her last chance to back out of the ridiculous proposition of traveling with Ching Shih. Surely, she could come up with a better cover story. Instead, she drew a deep breath and plunged ahead. “Would you like to come with me?”

  “China? Why would you return to China?”

  Xin contemplated offering Ching Shih an abbreviated version of the truth, but a single glance into Ching Shih’s eyes drew the truth out instead. Ching Shih listened in silence, her arms folded across her chest. When Xin finished speaking, Ching Shih’s eyes narrowed. “This man, Danyael…is he your lover?”

  “What?” Xin spluttered. “No!”

  “Then why do you do so much for him? What is he to you?”

  What is he to me? “A friend.”

  “That is not all.”

  Wasn’t it? Xin leaned back in her chair. Danyael’s face flashed through her mind. Most people who looked at him saw only his stunning good looks—sculptured features so perfect they could have driven angels to tears of envy. Xin, however, carried around another image of Danyael—his body emaciated, his neck scabbed and bleeding beneath a silver collar that sent an electric shock through his body every sixty seconds, his melodic tenor reduced to a harsh croak. His dark eyes, dilated from the drugs pumped into his body to suppress his mind, were fathomless pools of pain. Despite the torture, despite the drugs, some part of his consciousness remained aware, and his eyes begged for the mercy of death.

  Xin would never allow herself to forget that she had reduced Danyael to that state. For the sake of national security and international peace, she had used Danyael as a pawn in a political game. In the end, she had won, but Danyael had paid the price, suffering for fourteen months at ADX Florence, the super-maximum security prison known as the Alcatraz of the Rockies.

  His emotional isolation had lasted even longer.

  His torment had changed him; how could it not? He had survived an abusive and traumatic childhood to find some measure of serenity and normality as an adult. He had learned to control his empathic powers and find pleasure in life.

  She had taken all of that from him and shattered his control over his own destiny.

  In the two and a half years that had passed since his release from prison, Danyael had regained some of what he had lost. In some ways, he had gained more than he had previously, including the love of his wife and child. His brutal stint in prison, however, had broken his health; he would never fully recover physically, emotionally, or mentally. Danyael’s quarterly psychological evaluation, required of all alpha mutants, confirmed as much.

  He never spoke of his time at ADX Florence, but the wariness in his eyes whenever he looked at Xin made her wonder how much he knew about her role in his unjust imprisonment. Causes were larger than people, but it didn’t mean she felt nothing over what she had done to Danyael. “I owe him,” she murmured.

  Ching Shih’s chin lifted in a regal gesture that had always had Xin wondering if Ching Shih’s genetic ancestor might not have been royalty after all, instead of just a particularly beautiful prostitute with the wits, courage, and ruthless streak needed to command a fleet of 1,800 ships and 80,000 crew. Ching Shih asked, “And you are determined to follow this man to China?”

  Xin nodded.

  “Then I will go with you. Will China let us return?”

  “I spent half the afternoon with the Chinese ambassador, and he spent the other half of his afternoon talking to Beijing. Yes, they will let us return.”

  Ching Shih smirked, but if she had doubts about the implausibility of later leaving China, she made no mention of it. “What time do we depart?”

  The heaviness in Xin’s chest lightened—odd how she had not noticed its weight until it disappeared. “The flight’s at 11 a.m. I’ll come by and pick you up at 8:30.”

  Ching Shih rose. “How long will we be in China, or do you not know?”

  Xin shrugged. “As long as it takes.”

  Ching Shih clucked a disapproving sound. “You will have lots of packing to do.” Her gaze fell on the table. “The food will be wasted.”

  “No, it won’t.” Xin flashed a grin. “I’m having it for supper tonight, and breakfast tomorrow.”

  Ching Shih’s eyes widened, and for a moment, Xin thought she glimpsed surprised pleasure in Ching Shih’s eyes.

  She frowned; no, she had to have been mistaken. Something so small would not have elicited a reaction from her mother.

  Mother.

  Xin grimaced at the mental slip. She had spent years coaching herself out of thinking of or referring to Ching Shih as her mother, but apparently the relationship was too ingrained. To cover the sudden awkwardness, she stood. “I’ll help you clean up.”

  “No.” Ching Shih flipped her wrist. “You do not know where things go. I will do it. I will pack the food for you, and then you can leave.”

  Leave. It was the only thing Ching Shih had ever asked of Xin. Perhaps Ching Shih had not always spoken the words, but her mother had always kept her at arm’s length. Xin had never understood it; neither had she ever asked why.

  Apparently, some things don’t change.

  5

  “Welcome
to Zhengzhou,” the stewardess of the American Airlines flight said over the intercom. “Please remain in your seats while the ground crew prepares for our arrival. It will just take a few moments, and we will let you know when it is safe to move about the cabin and collect your belongings.”

  The “few moments” became “several minutes.” The passengers were more irritated than concerned, but flight attendants’ hushed exchanges hinted at trouble.

  Trouble of the official sort.

  “I wonder who they’ve assigned to greet us,” Xin murmured to Ching Shih, who sat next to her in the first class cabin. Her suspicions that the excuse was merely a stalling tactic was confirmed when a Chinese man in an immaculately pressed business suit walked up the aisle and stopped in front of them. “Miss Mu Xin. Miss Ching Shih. Welcome back to China.”

  His distinctly Bostonian accent was the last thing Xin had expected. She tilted her head and offered him a smile. “Thank you. And you are?”

  “Lee Yu Long. I’m honored to be your guide here in China.”

  He did not seem much older than she was, but the Chinese government would not have given a lowly official the responsibility of overseeing the arrival of China’s human treasures. Xin would have bet every dollar in her bank account that he was an alpha telepath. Fortunately, her psychic shields and Ching Shih’s would keep out all but the most talented and capable alpha telepaths.

  Yu Long continued, “If you would please come with me, I’ll expedite your way through immigration and customs.”

  Ching Shih ignored the hand he held out to assist her to her feet. Her gaze drifted over him as if he were not even there before she slid out of her seat and strolled down the aisle as if she owned the plane.

  Xin and the young man exchanged a quick glance. To his credit, he did not wink or smile. “How long were you in America?” Xin asked him as he ushered her and Ching Shih off the plane ahead of everyone else.

  “Most of my life. My father was an attaché at the U.S. embassy for forty years. He sent me to prep school and college in Boston.”