The Red Heart of Jade (5 page)

But nothing. Not ever. No moments
of I see dead people
. The only girl he had ever loved was gone from the world, gone forever. His mind never lied.

And if you were wrong? If she has been alive all this time? You weren’t able to track one fucking murderer, and even
when he was standing in front of you he didn’t leave a trail. What if she was the same?

Dean pushed himself faster. Somewhere above he heard Koni caw, but he did not know if it was because his friend was worried, or if he was still being tailed. He did not care, either way. Let the whole damn city chase on his heels.

He entered the hotel at a dead run, risking security, outraged guests in all their glitter and finery—but just before he hit the elevator alcove, his skin tingled and he skidded to a stop. His mind glanced out, vision shifting, and he found a thread. A familiar line, a connection.

Dean, breathing hard, stepped close behind one of the fat marble pillars and leaned against the cool stone. He threw out his mind, pulling himself along the energy trail, and found a man sitting in the lobby behind him. The same man who had been in the victim’s apartment. Dean did not peer around the pillar to look. He shut his eyes and used a different sight, studying and searching.

The man was not alone. There were others nearby, dressed like him, all in dark suits. They almost looked like religious types, out to save the world, one conversion at a time. Dean bet they were armed. They held open newspapers in their laps; worthless accessories, given that the men were doing a shitty job of pretending to read them. Their eyes did nothing but sweep the lobby, moving, moving, moving. Like wolves in black, jaws ready to snap.

Holy shit. This is a setup. This is an operation.

But for what? The woman in the picture? There was a time attached. Nine o’clock, but it was a quarter until ten and these men were still sitting here. Was she supposed to meet them, or were they planning to intercept her? And if all those other murder victims, the men who had burned, were connected to some conspiracy—if the dead individual Dean had just visited had intended to be here tonight, waiting for the lady in the photo—

Life just got more complicated. You don’t know who the bad guys are anymore.

Unless they were all bad. But that still did not explain why he was being tailed, nor did it explain the woman or the name associated with her. And frankly, Dean cared way more about that. Shallow, maybe, but he could live with his shifting priorities. Forget shape-shifting murderers and flames shooting up his ass. Nothing else mattered but the woman. He had to find her, and fast, because if the men were waiting, their target had not yet been acquired. She was still out there.

He fretted all the way up to the twenty-eighth floor—
twenty-eight, my room is on twenty-seven, oh God, I can’t believe this
—and his head felt funny. Light, dizzy. His chest hurt. That mark, burning and burning. Dean pulled away his collar and looked down.

His wound was glowing. Golden light seeped from the cut.

He stared at himself. The elevator dinged. A man stepped on, took one look at him—Dean apparently appeared just as disturbed as he actually felt—and stepped right back off, smiling weakly. It was the kind of smile that made Dean feel like he was the rich man’s version of a wild dog. Call the pound, get the gun, wear thick gloves.

Dean didn’t mind. He felt rabid. He touched his mouth, but did not find any foam. All the crazy was in his head, then. He was glowing. He had a goddamn lightbulb beneath his skin. Jesus Christ.

The elevator stopped again, but this time it was for him. Dean slapped his hand against the sliding door, holding it open for a moment while he leaned against the shiny metal wall. There were cameras everywhere; someone was probably watching him even now, but he did not care. He could not take his eyes off himself. He waited too long; the doors tried to close on his arm.

The woman
, whispered a voice inside his mind.
Remember her
.

Dean closed his eyes and looked away. He patted his collar tight against his throat and stepped off the elevator. Took a moment for one more deep breath, trying to ignore the burning, the pain, the memory of light.

And then he began to run again.

The halls were quiet. Too quiet, it seemed, and the trails of energy crisscrossing the carpet were old, as though no one had been on that floor for more than a day. Odd. The higher levels in the hotel were usually more popular—more prestige, better views—but as Dean moved he found only one new trail, a path weaving away from the emergency stairwell.

He got a bad feeling when he stepped into that energy stream—felt a shiver run through him, like he was walking through a cloud of electricity. It was the kind of sensation he had felt only a time or two before.

Age and power
, he thought, remembering his one postmortem encounter with a very dangerous man. An immortal, a magician, an old disgusting fart who had tried to screw over Dean’s best friends. The Magi’s energy, even with him dead, had felt like this, only much stronger—like it could strip the hair off Dean’s body if he lingered too long within it.

Dean reached the room number written on the paper. The energy signature ended there and he flung his mind into the trail, letting it carry him past the door into the room, into dim light—riding like a cowboy on a bucking bronco made of nightmares—and he opened his eyes and saw movement, he saw skin, he saw—

A naked body, pinned and fighting. And attached to that body, a face.

Dean grabbed his chest—grabbed it because it hurt so bad—and for the first time in twenty years remembered there was a line inside his heart; a mark, a place never to cross. He had forgotten—but in that moment, filled with the image of the woman, he glimpsed and touched it, felt himself hug the edge of crazy, and it was a good place to be. The only place. Because
she
was there, and he finally let himself believe. He let himself speak her name—breathed it, again and again, until it was the only sound he made, the only sound in his head as he threw himself against the door, raging wild on the tail of another man’s soul, watching through his mind’s eye the fight, the bloody struggle only yards away.

He saw it all, and got out his gun.

The air smelled like chemicals, which Miri did not mind. Labs of this kind were home, no matter where in the world she found herself. The examining tables were wide and clean and made of stainless steel. They sat on wheels, so that when the professors and assistants and technicians were done poking (very gently) and prodding (even gentler) the ancient dead, the bodies could be easily returned to the pressurized chambers connected to the lab. The men and women were old—several thousand years more ancient than Miri, at any rate—and every time they were examined in the lab it was a detriment to the continued well-being of their corpses.

So, it was with some surprise that Miri found all three bodies exposed and unattended. Only the woman had a light over her. She was still new enough not to have been christened with an official name, which Miri thought was a shame. But the only name that would have been appropriate—and respectful—was a native name of her time, which was so far removed, so distant, that Miri could not begin to imagine what would have been considered feminine and appropriate for the woman while she had lived.

It mattered to Miri. She knew the assistants had their own pet names for the mummies, but she could not bring herself to use them. It did not seem respectful, and it was bad enough tearing a person from her grave, from the land of her birth and death, and only for the purposes of cold, hard science.

It’s more than that
, Miri reminded herself, staring down at the shriveled face, so remarkably and impossibly preserved.
She is teaching us about her world
.

And when she was done teaching, this woman and the others would rest anew—not in the earth, but in the Royal Palace Museum in Taipei, as part of a growing exhibit on Taiwan’s ancient history. The country’s native aborigines were already up in arms, but the government was good at throwing money at people when it wanted silence. It made Miri uncomfortable to be part of the controversy—by virtue of her deep ties to Owen— but that was part of the job when you studied someone else’s past. When what you found was not yours by culture to claim, you were bound to step on toes.

Miri bent over the preserved woman and peered down at the corpse’s chest, half hidden by its spindly arms. There was a spot that bothered Miri, that was different from her memory of the last examination she had participated in; a section of delicately woven cloth that appeared to have been lifted and then replaced. A skilled job, and only one person currently at the university had the guts—and the authority—to do so much to the body. Miri’s frown deepened.

“Owen?” she called, leaving the body and walking deeper into the lab, on loan to her mentor for the duration of his stay. He had been in Taiwan two months already as the lead excavator on the Yushan site—a position obtained, much to the chagrin of some, by personal invitation from the Taiwanese government, which had granted Owen all kinds of oversight powers. That was not the standard way of doing things, but Owen Wills was the world’s foremost expert in Chinese artifacts— with Miri close on his heels—and there were some who cared more about having the right name attached than proper procedure.

Not that Owen was complaining; or Miri. She had spent a month in Yushan before heading back to Stanford—back to writing yet more grants, dealing with recalcitrant students and colleagues—but with these new mummies found, it was the perfect excuse for Owen to request her presence once again. And to get the Taiwanese government to pay for it.

Miri pushed open the narrow swinging door and entered a small cavern, dark and musty with books and bones and the various relics her mentor had collected over the past eight weeks. He had more in America, all locked up in storage, a product of being a pack rat— everywhere he went, he collected and stored and accumulated. She loved Owen’s office, here and elsewhere. It might not have windows, but the warm glow of his lamps, the scent of the air, and the crinkle of his papers always instilled in her a sense of home.

She found him hunched over his desk, gray hair tufted and wild as he gazed through a large stationary magnifying glass. A light shone down past his head, illuminating something small and red in his hands. As Miri neared she heard him humming “Rhinestone Cowboy” under his breath. A good find, then. Glen Campbell rated nothing less, “You’ve been busy,” she said.

“You have no idea,” he replied, without looking up from the magnifying lens. “The results came back on the X-rays early this morning. The men were relatively normal—some badly healed bones, missing teeth— but the woman was different. She had something... strange inside her.”

“Strange?” Miri echoed, peering over his shoulder. Owen turned his head. His blue eyes were bright, his cheeks flushed.

“Strange,” he said again. “She had something embedded in her chest. Really, truly, embedded. Her flesh had grown over the edges of the thing. It was the devil to pry out.”

“Is that it?” Miri asked, gesturing at the object cradled in his hands. It had a waxy sheen; nephrite, by the looks of it. Red jade. From this vantage point it appeared to be a beautiful specimen; high quality, most definitely chosen with care.

“Remarkable,” Miri murmured. “Almost as remarkable as your terrible manners.”

Owen flinched. “Miri—”

“Did you bother telling
anyone
that you were going to perform an invasive procedure on that body? Did you, Owen? Or did you just go gung ho?”

Owen said nothing. Miri had another terrible thought, a horrible premonition, and she said, “Oh. Oh, Owen. Tell me you contacted Kevin first.
Please
. If you didn’t get permission—”

“Kevin Liao is a nincompoop. Of course I didn’t contact him. He would have ripped into that woman like a lumberjack with a chain saw. Destroyed her body just like he ruined that child we found in Alishan. I could not let that happen. Besides “—and Owen looked away, voice dropping to a mutter—”he’s out of town.”

“Out of town looking for more grave sites.”

“Of course. He can’t stand that I found those mummies.”

“His ego is mighty,” Miri agreed, “but he’s also the head of this department, and like it or not, you are a guest. Back home you might rule the roost, but the rules are different here. I don’t care how much of a celebrity you are.”

“You used to be such a rebel,” Owen said. “You never played it safe. What happened?”

“You became an even bigger rebel than me. Which means you’re totally out of control.”

“Ah. My golden years. Well, regardless, you needn’t fret, my dear. I
did
find those mummies, and that gives me some claim to first examination, regardless of the gnashing of teeth that might cause.”

“Oh, there’s going to be gnashing, all right,” Miri muttered.

Owen patted her hand. “It’s been hours since I extracted the artifact. The man has probably already found out what I did. His little spies, as you can guess, have been in and out of the lab all morning. I haven’t yet heard a single complaint.”

The assistants. Kevin’s eyes and ears. The man wanted to make sure Owen did not try and steal his research during his brief forays away from the excavation site. Like Owen needed to. Although, this latest action would most definitely fall under the category of stealing Kevin’s thunder.

Actually, Miri was okay with that. What the hell.

“You should have called me. “ She plopped down on the stool beside Owen and peered at the artifact, its red surface almost glowing beneath the light. She wanted to touch it.

Owen leaned back in his chair. “You’re upset.”

“Yes. If you wanted to be the one to do the procedure, that’s fine, but I thought—”

“No,” he interrupted gently. “No, my dear. Only, I did not want you involved when I removed the stone. I may act flip about the consequences of today’s action, but truth is, not much can be done to me at this point in my career. You, on the other hand, are still young. I had to protect you.”

“Owen.”

“I know. Chivalry and paternalism stopped being fashionable long ago. But allow an old man his eccentricities. I only meant you well, Miri. You are like a daughter to me. My
only
daughter, and I know that Emily... Emily felt the same. She would never forgive me if I got you into trouble. In fact, she’s probably already quite vexed. “

“Emily was an angel,” Miri muttered, staring at her hands, trying very hard not to think of Owen’s wife, now two years in the grave. “She never got angry with you.”

Owen smiled ruefully. “My dear girl, you did not live with her for thirty years. She was pure fire, in both temperament and passion. “ He held the red jade fragment out to her. “Truce?”

“Oh, stop that,” Miri said, but she took the artifact and shouldered Owen aside as she stole his seat and placed the jade beneath the lens. The stone was larger than her palm, sharp on three ends and shaped like a rough triangle. One edge was softer than the others; she noted odd scratches, quite deep.

“There’s been a cut or break,” she said, running her fingers down the opposing sides, sheer and smooth. “This is part of something bigger.”

“Yes,” Owen said. “Tell me more.”

Miri turned the artifact over in her hands. It felt warm. She blamed it on the light, on her own body heat, but holding it felt good, sweet on her palm. She made a closer examination of its waxy red surface, the scratches she had noted earlier.

Only, the marks no longer looked so random. Lines, yes—but curving, delicate. Ordered.

Miri sat back, blinking hard. Owen chuckled. She stared at him, then looked back at the jade “That’s writing. Those are words.”

“I’m glad you think so. I wasn’t sure at first, but after three hours of staring at the thing, I have become more than a little convinced.”

Miri traced the lines with her fingers, trying to stay calm. As she considered the possibilities, though, a chill stole through her, a weight that settled hard in her chest.

“Owen,” she said quietly, “those men and women are almost four thousand years old. The earliest examples we have of Chinese pictograms don’t show up until twelve hundred BC, and those are only on oracle bones.”

“Go on,” he said. Miri narrowed her eyes.

“The Chinese written language is based on a logo-graphic system. Symbols, with each one representing an idea. The inscriptions discovered on the oracle bones show that more than two thousand years ago there was already a highly developed writing system in China, one that is similar to modern day classical Chinese. It takes time to develop those kinds of systems, Owen. Even if the writing on this stone is almost a thousand years older than those other inscriptions, there should be some resemblance between the two. Some kind of kinship. “ She turned the jade in her hands and pressed her fingernail against the swirling ordered lines. “Look at this. Nothing of these inscriptions resembles a logo-graphic system. In fact, it looks almost like modern day Arabic.”

“That would certainly be impossible,” he said. “Nor is this a derivative of cuneiform. But yes, there is a certain... melody... in them, isn’t there?”

“Are you
sure
it’s writing? It could be art. “ Which in itself was a kind of language.

“Miri, you know as well as I do that without more evidence, it is impossible to say for certain. But”—and here he placed a fist against his heart—”I feel it. All my instincts say it is so. And so do yours, if I’m not mistaken.”

“You’re not. But what, then? The ancient people who migrated from China to Taiwan had their own writing system? If that’s the case, wouldn’t it show at least
some
relation to the system that later developed on the mainland?”

“Yes. One
would
expect certain similarities. Which is why I believe this is something completely different. Different enough that I am not convinced that its origins are Asian.”

Miri stared. “What are you saying? These people migrated from somewhere out of the region and died on the island?”

“The preliminary genetic tests haven’t yet come back, but perhaps the stone was inscribed somewhere distant and brought there—either by these individuals, or by others.”

“Nephrite is typically found in the southwest part of Xinjiang, part of the Silk Road.”

“And we already know, based on the Urumchi mummies, that humans traveled far greater distances than was ever previously imagined.”

Miri chewed her bottom lip. Just outside Urumchi, the capital of Xinjiang, exceptionally well preserved mummies with European features had been found. They dated back as far as four thousand years, and still had archaeologists and anthropologists scratching their heads. The timing was perfect. No less inexplicable, but every theory had to start somewhere.

“Miri,” Owen said.

“This is big,” she said. “This is... really big.”

“Oh yes. “ He leaned against the table, folding his arms over his round belly. “This is the kind of thing that rewrites history.”

“The kind of thing traditionalists will hate.”

“Making us the harbingers of the best bad news of the last decade.”

Miri shook her head. “We need more evidence before we can publish anything. Before we can even apply for a grant. Right now this is less than speculation.”