“Whoa. His mate? Like, as in, wife? You didn’t tell me that.”
“Sorry. But yeah, that’s what he said.”
“Dude.” Dean rubbed his face. “Okay, who else? Bai Shen?”
“I don’t think he wants the jade. But think about it for a minute. If his dad is Lysander, and Lysander’s wife is running the opposition …”
“Then that would explain how Bai Shen knew so much, and why he might be desperate to get Daddy-o under control. But why do they know so much about us?”
“Last night when you were questioning Robert, you asked him if he worked for something called the Consortium. I assume, given the circumstances in which you asked, that they aren’t very nice. But could there be a connection there?”
“I hope not,” Dean said. “They’re worse than not nice. In fact, they’re the reason why I wasn’t so surprised to hear about this whole possession deal. The Consortium’s former leader had the same thing in her head, but she was further gone than our dragon. And she could infect other people with it. Though that may have just been a personal talent, since Lysander doesn’t seem to be going around spreading the love.”
“You could still walk away,” she said, fairly certain of Dean’s response, but unable to hold in the words, the message, the sentiment—unable, as well, to control the sudden thread of fear in her gut, the fear that maybe she was wrong, that she would see in his eyes regret; or worse yet, resentment for getting him into this mess.
But Dean grabbed her hand, twined his fingers tight in her own, and in a deep voice, with iron resolve in his eyes, resolve and something more, something even stronger, said, “The only way I’m walking is with you, Miri, and the only place I’m walking is at your side. Nowhere else I’d rather be, no way else I’d rather be. And that’s the truth.”
There was permanence attached to his words—a determination that was startling and thrilling. Like the old days, the days when common sense had been a myth, fantasy—where the only reality was miracles and coincidence, guts and glory. The streets had been their playground once upon a time, their deep dark forest, their kingdom. Both of them swashbucklers, both of them knights, both of them royalty. Running, always running.
He’s back, a voice whispered inside her heart. Don’t let go.
Don’t let go. Not ever again.
They landed without trouble, and customs in Hong Kong—as in Taiwan—was also private, quick, and extremely efficient. Miri felt like a head of state as she disembarked from the plane, greeted by a portly and greasy official who managed to fawn while maintaining an utterly professional air. A small bus waited for them, and after a quick ride, deposited Koni, Dean, and Miri in the main terminal.
Shops and restaurants filled the wide corridors. Miri gazed out the massive windows, staring at the ocean. Green mountains rose from the water, peaks covered in morning mist. Tall columns held up glass walkways and colorful billboards, several of which required double takes because the three of them recognized the pale visage plastered in all its gargantuan glory.
“He’s never going to be a model again,” Miri said, staring into that mysterious face. “Lysander ripped off his ear and ate it.”
“God,” Koni said. “You didn’t need to tell me that.”
“Just be glad you didn’t have to see it,” she muttered, which was enough to end the conversation.
They had no luggage, nothing but themselves. Down in the lower terminal they found the main platform into the city. As they waited for the train, Koni and Miri stood watch while Dean closed his eyes. He got some curious looks, but nothing menacing; just some old Chinese women who studied him, and then transferred their scrutiny on Miri. Their expressions darkened. Miri ignored them. She had a fairly good idea of what they were thinking, and it was nothing new. Lone Chinese woman traveling through Asia with two foreign men? She was automatic trash, an er-nai, little better than a whore.
The world is full of expectations and assumptions, she thought, and few are rarely right.
Dean rubbed his chest, the spot above his heart. “We need to get out of here.”
“You sense something?” Miri asked.
“Don’t know,” he said. “But I don’t want to hang around long enough to find out.”
The train arrived: a modern rail, sleek and white. They climbed on fast. No one tried to follow them, and after a moment the doors swished shut. The train accelerated. Miri sat down hard. She did not move as they traveled into cloudy sunlight, skimming away from the airport past ocean and rock, with green mountains on one side, rising into mist.
They were the only ones in their car. Dean no longer rubbed his chest, but his hand lingered over his heart like it pained him. Koni watched, wary. “This train makes a couple stops. You want to ride all the way to the city center before you play hot and cold with the jade?”
“Better than nothing,” Dean said, and sat back with his eyes closed. His hand curled in his lap, bouncing against his thigh. Miri could not help but think that he wanted it pressed against his chest.
The train deposited them in the business district, near the harbor. She smelled the sea, felt salt in the hot breeze. Humidity wrapped tight around her lungs, making her feel even more sluggish. She wanted to rest.
At first she thought she would be able to. They got in a red cab and drove to a sky-rise hotel on the edge of Victoria Harbor, with its ramshackle chaos of colorful houseboats covered in barking dogs, naked children, satellites, and metal chimney stacks. On their right, in contrast, clean modern lines of glass and steel. The sidewalks were packed with young people, most of whom had spiked dyed blond hair, perfectly lean bodies clad in the latest fashions, and enough attitude to set a nun on fire with speeches of penitence and humility. Miri felt like an old fogy compared to them.
“No safe house?” she asked, as they exited the cab. Large seabirds circled high overhead, floating effortlessly in a sky pearly with clouds that were luminously silver and sunlit from within.
“We don’t have one in Hong Kong anymore,” Dean said. “Too risky. The P.R.C. is unpredictable in ways that even grease money can’t compensate for. At least in Taiwan we can own property.”
“China’s left Hong Kong alone since the handover from the British,” Miri said. “For the most part anyway. And there are plenty of foreigners going into Mainland to buy up buildings and apartments and tracts of land. The upcoming Olympics make it good business sense.”
“Maybe,” Dean replied, peering up and down the street. “But like you said, Dirk & Steele runs an operation, which means different standards. You can’t smuggle guns or build secret high-tech vaults in just any old place.”
Miri expected to walk into the hotel beside them, but instead Dean grabbed her hand and cut across the street toward the waterfront. Koni followed close behind, mouth curved in what could have been a grimace or a smile.
There was a walkway that led off the street to the trash-strewn beach; another that led to a pier surrounded by a nicer set of houseboats. Miri guessed they had money to pay for the privilege. She felt very conspicuous; some women washing clothes on the decks of the boats stopped to stare, as did children and men and even dogs. Miri heard a rustle of conversation from the water, a couple of shouts in poor English that sounded like “boat ride” and “tour” and “very cheap.” Some other words were said in Cantonese, a language she did not understand. Koni apparently did, and he shouted back one long and slightly nasal sentence that made the men grin and the women blush.
Miri and Dean looked at him. Koni shrugged, un-convincingly innocent.
Dean led them to the end of the pier and stopped in front of a boat that squatted in the water like a greasy off-white Styrofoam box. A very lean and handsome man sat on the deck with his legs propped up on a crate. He wore no shirt, which was fine because he had a very nice body, golden from the sun. His black hair was short, his cheekbones high and round, and when he smiled a row of white teeth lit up his face with twinkling charm.
“Dean,�
�� said the man. “Long time, no trouble, man.”
“Ren,” Dean said. “It’s good to see you. I’d like you to meet Koni, who I guess you’ve heard of, and Mirabelle Lee, an old friend of mine. She’s part of a case we’re working on. Guys, this is Ren Li. Agent extraordinaire.”
“Too kind,” Ren said, standing up and stretching. He was a tall man, definitely a northerner, though his accent was all American. He threw out a narrow plank and held it steady on his boat while Koni, Miri, and Dean crossed over.
“Did Roland call you?” Dean asked.
“Sure did. He filled me in on the basics.” Ren gave Miri a curious look that was surprising in its sweetness. “I understand you’ve got quite a few problems.”
“A few,” Miri said dryly.
Ren grinned. “Well, my home is your home. This tub doesn’t look like much but it’s solid. And it floats.”
Koni glanced at Dean. “You and Miri planning on doing your walkabout soon?”
“I thought so,” he said, throwing Miri a questioning glance.
She sighed. “Sure. Fine. Let’s walk and rumble.”
“In an hour,” Ren said. “Or at least ten minutes. You guys should rest a little. You look worse than some of the dead things I pulled out of the water this morning.”
Miri said nothing. It was not just her ass on the line, and Dean knew his business better than she did. If he said they did not have time to waste, then she would find some way of keeping up. She knew he would do the same for her if their positions were reversed, though the archaeological equivalent probably had fewer potentially lethal consequences.
“I guess we can sit back for half an hour or so,” Dean said, pointedly not looking in Miri’s direction.
Ren wasted no time. He led Miri down a set of stairs that opened into a surprisingly cool and long corridor lined with doors. He pushed open the last one on the right, revealing a small whitewashed room with a narrow bed, a side table with a sprig of dried flowers on it, and a bottle of water.
“There are towels in the bathroom,” he said.
“Thanks,” Miri replied. “Are you running a hotel?”
Ren laughed. “Nah. But I do get a lot of visitors, and most of them are sick of traveling.”
And then he left her, whistling as he closed the door.
Miri sat on the bed. The room was very quiet, blissfully so. She laid her head down and closed her eyes.
Not much time passed—or maybe a lot—but when she opened her eyes Dean crouched beside her, whispering her name.
“Wha?” she asked, bleary-eyed.
“I’m going out. I wanted to tell you, just in case.”
“In case what?” Miri sat up too fast; her head reeled and she clutched at it, trying to keep her brain steady. Dean’s hand wrapped gently around her wrist.
“Lie down again. I shouldn’t have gotten you up. I’m sorry, Miri.”
“I want to go with you. Really, I’m fine.”
“No,” he said, but she touched his face, which was so very near, and then pressed her lips on his cheek, the corner of his mouth, warmth tumbling low in her stomach as he moved closer, tilting her head, ending the kiss she had started with something deep and hot and wet.
Miri had trouble breathing. “Is it just me or are the kisses better now?”
“They’re pretty damn good,” Dean said, and he kissed her again and she felt his hands creep up her waist, sidling beneath her shirt, and his fingers felt so good on her stomach, on her ribs, on her—
She gasped. Dean, breathless, said, “Wow. You grew up.”
“My breasts got bigger, that’s all.”
“Yes,” he said. “Can I touch them again?”
“Go to hell,” she said, but her voice choked with laughter. Dean grinned and then went back to work, gentle and thorough, still leaving her shirt on as he kissed her with his hands, his lips busy on her mouth. It was the most perfect torture of the last twenty years, and Miri whispered, “You’re picking up right where you left off. We never did get much further than this.”
“A fact that stuns me to this day,” Dean muttered. “What were we thinking?”
“No condoms, too young. Which, I would guess, is one-half of the problem we’ve got now.”
Dean buried his face in her neck.
“There, there.” Miri patted his back. “If you like, I can touch your throbbing manhood and make it all better.”
“Maybe I should handle your weeping flower. Water it with my hot man-juice. Caress your love grotto with my swinging showerhead.”
Miri giggled and lay down. Dean moved with her, laughing hard as he curled around her body. His mouth touched her neck, trailing kisses to her ear. She shivered.
“You’re not wearing underwear,” Dean said, his fingers dancing on the waistband of her khakis.
“I didn’t have time for them, if you remember.”
“I do,” he said. “And we should really be going. This is very irresponsible.”
“Very,” she said, and then gasped as he sidled his hand down her stomach, inside her pants, pressing his fingers as far as they would go. His palm was hot on her skin. The tip of his index finger danced against a very sensitive spot. Miri clenched her jaw so tight her teeth ached.
“Undo that button,” Dean murmured, and she did as he asked, because really, if the entire world was crazy, she deserved a little insanity of her own.
And Dean, very promptly, gave her some.
The rest of Miri’s afternoon was quite pleasant, despite the varied discomforts of Hong Kong’s unrelenting heat, unrelenting crowds, and her own unrelenting fear of a sudden and violent death or kidnapping.
She and Dean scoured the city by cab and on foot, walking through neighborhoods that were collections of gray-stained concrete complexes, dripping with humidity and creeping vines. The sidewalks were narrow and, much like Taiwan, filled with businesses that spilled out of the confines of buildings and onto the streets. People pushed, shoved—but in Hong Kong foreigners were not such a novelty that anyone stared at Miri and Dean as they made their way through the ramshackle array of stalls and lanes.
Occasionally, she saw a crow with golden eyes. She tried to imagine it as Koni, and failed.
Late in the afternoon, after a brief stop at a dim sum restaurant where they ordered shrimp dumplings, fried turnip cake, and sticky rice, Dean finally said, “You know, I think I’m getting close.”
“Really?” Miri said. “You said that an hour ago. What makes this time different?”
“Just a feeling,” he said. “Like when you’re nauseated, and then all that bad mojo jacks up a notch and it’s time to start looking for a private corner, and then even that gets worse and you just start running and exploding.”
“Yeah?” Miri asked, suddenly not enjoying the last taste of sticky rice in her mouth. “I’m guessing you’re not at the first stage.”
“Right. You could say I’m ripe for a bucket.”
Miri settled back in her chair. “You do realize, of course, that the jade could be buried directly beneath us under a ton of concrete and steel.”
“Sure.”
“And that this has been a wild-goose chase and the jade is totally irretrievable.”
“Of course.”
Miri sighed. “Where do you want to go?”
It was not until they paid the bill that Miri realized that their restaurant’s location had been chosen in the spirit of calculation, and that Dean had a glint in his eye that meant trouble. Which, really, was the same glint he always had, but this time it was more … intense.
She followed Dean back out to the street, leaving air-conditioning and relative quiet for sweat and damp and shouts and honks. Dean, holding her hand, led her around the restaurant and down a narrow lane that was intimately residential, so that Miri felt like a trespasser as she and Dean stepped around women doing their wash in buckets on their stoops, yelling gossip from doorway to doorway; rough tables set out with checkers, surrounded by old men,
half naked and withered in the heat, pumping their fists and arguing over the game; running children, running dogs, running carts filled with boxed lunches, and at the end of it all, the small red columns of a tiny temple, its sloped and ridged roof covered in pigeons and metal dragons. Dean smiled.
“You knew this was here.”
“I had a feeling,” he said. “Following the bread crumbs.”
“What if you try that disappearing act you did in Taipei? Follow the bread crumbs straight to the jade?”
Dean hesitated. “I don’t know if I can do that again, Miri, and if I can? What if I end up in the middle of a mountain? I don’t know how this thing works.”
A crow cawed; Miri glanced up and saw Koni perched on an electric wire. At least, she thought it was him. From this distance, it was hard to see the color of his eyes.
Dean did not appear to notice or care. The excitement on his face faded; she saw a different kind of intensity replace it, sharp and careful. It was an interesting transformation; Dean was a harder, more eloquent man than she remembered, a hardness offset by his goofy charm, but still with an edge he had never possessed before he left her. Before that night he killed the man who had shot them.
Of course, twenty years also meant a lot of living. A long time for other things to go wrong. Nor she did think this job, this … Dirk & Steele, despite all its obvious perks, was any walk in the park. Though at least he was using his gifts, and was surrounded by others who, apparently, were just as—or even more—unusual.
But the setup still rubbed her the wrong way, and it was not just the fact that such an organization actually existed. Miri had a bad feeling about Dirk & Steele. Not the people she had met, but something more, something deeper, an emotion she struggled to name—only that it ran deep, made her uneasy. Not with fear, and not anger.
Distrust.
Miri tasted that word, rolling it around her tongue as she followed Dean to the temple steps, past the threshold into a small courtyard framed by ginko trees. Distrust was an ugly word, but she was in an ugly situation, and while she trusted Dean—and maybe his friends—she took nothing else for granted. Dirk & Steele might be home to all those men, but as an outsider—and as a relatively normal human being with no bias or interest—she had to question it. Recruiting people just to use their powers to do good? Great. But having bunkers in the middle of major metropolitan areas stockpiled with weapons, cash, and fake IDs?
The Red Heart of Jade Page 22