The Red Heart of Jade (32 page)

Dean disappeared—displaced air rushing cool over her skin—and the jade artifact hit the ground. Miri stared. And stared. She waved her hand through the spot and felt a chill.

Out on the lake, she heard water splash. A harsh cough. She almost called out to Dean, but kept her mouth shut. Too much noise was dangerous. She picked up the jade and cradled it to her chest. The stone felt hot. She felt hot. Not feverish, exactly, but like there was a fire burning, pulsing, lapping at the insides of her ribs. Her heart picked up speed. She tried to calm it, but all she could think of was that woman chained to the altar, and how she knew that face because it was the same one she had seen in the mirror last night. A stranger with Miri’s eyes.

Because I am her. That was me on the stone. That was me eating darkness. That was me, killing with nothing more than a mark upon my body.

Miri closed her eyes, sinking to her knees. She clutched the jade so tight it cut her palms, but the pain felt good, something she could control—and it was nothing compared to what others had suffered, all because of this mystery, because of something wholly inexplicable that had taken place in the distant past.

In
her
past.

Wind rushed her body; the chill bit down, but the heat did not disappear. She smelled ash and smoke, and thought of blood. She heard the slow rub of scales. Lysander. Dragon. Here.

Miri did not run. She did not see the point in trying to hide. If this was going to be the end of it, she did not want to the leave the world as a coward. And besides, even if she did try to hightail it in the dark, she would probably fall down and break her neck. Or at the very least, end up in the same bad situation as the one approaching her. Only disoriented, exhausted, and probably ready to puke.

Great options. Die terrified, or die terrified and sweaty.

But the choice was taken from her. She saw a large white figure detach from the darkness of the woods, and though her stomach twisted, heat spiking rough in her gut, she kept her cool, she stayed calm, and she pretended to have control. Pretended, when for a moment, she thought there was a mistake. The ghostly figure was no dragon, but instead a man. Two legs, two arms, a very large... naked... torso. All of him, naked.

And then the man’s eyes began to glow—golden, twin points of light within the night—and that was almost as unmistakable a mark as his voice, which said her name, deep, and weighed her down—her entire body, heavy, anchored by the presence of her imminent death.

A screech filled the night air; Miri shouted as a small black body rammed into Lysander’s face, twisting and clawing and pecking. Miri stumbled forward, intent on helping, but at the last moment one large white hand wrapped around the crow’s head and Lysander flung away the bird, throwing him down hard. Roni’s small body hit the rocky ground with a wet crack. Miri tried to go to him, but Lysander caught the back of her neck and lifted her off the ground. His thumb dug into her throat; she choked, legs kicking. The jade slipped from her fingers.

Lysander caught it with his other hand. He tossed Miri away and she fell hard on her knees, coughing and gagging. Koni lay very still beside her. She wanted to touch him, drag him close, but Lysander suddenly crouched, body looming like a white boulder made of flesh, and she peered through watery eyes into his wide face, which stretched and stretched, losing all humanity as he shifted into something scaled and feathered and sharp. He held the jade, which looked ridiculously tiny in his claws, and Miri felt her mind reach out to it, felt her thoughts fill with light and words.

“You know where the other half is hidden,” Lysander said, and Miri could not stop herself from thinking,
Dean
.

“Dean,” whispered the dragon. “Ah, the water.”

He stood and Miri scooted back, cutting her hands on rocks. She imagined she heard some distant cry on the wind, some shout in the air, and Lysander smiled. Golden light spilled from his eyes, gold cut with darkness, and he said, “Yes. I think we have played enough.”

And Miri burst into flames.

The fire started at her feet, which gave her just enough time—seconds—to think,
This is totally unfair
— and then the heat poured up her body, drenching her, incinerating clothing, scattering all to dust. She opened her mouth to scream, but the only sound was in her own head, and through the roar she heard a voice say,
Do not be afraid, the fire is quick
, and that was just what she was afraid of, because even though she felt no pain, she could feel her skin sloughing away, her body losing definition, and soon she would be a girl without a face, a girl with no mask, a girl made of ash—

And then, quite suddenly, the fire changed. It became something else, something without heat, but bright nonetheless. Energy, maybe. Quivering, pulsing, like the heartbeat of the world was touching her face, and she felt an even greater heat between her breasts, something more terrible than fire.

Miri could breathe again; she could think.

And she could move. Only her arms, but that was difficult enough—like crawling through burning tar. She managed to raise her hands as far as her chest, but that was good enough and all that she wanted. She pressed her fingertips against her skin and imagined lines, words, symbols cut into her flesh, and she threw back her head and screamed.

Only this time there was sound, and as the cry left her throat, another set of hands reached into the fire and she heard her name called—
Dean
—and in her mind she reached for him, pushing outward—

—and the fire disappeared—everything gone—

From light to dark, heat to cold; Miri thrashed, choking. Strong arms pulled her tight against a soaking wet body that was deliciously cool, and Dean said, “Miri, are you hurt? Miri, talk to me. “

“Lysander,” she said. “Where—”

“I am here,” said the dragon. Miri tried to see, but the switch from shadows to fire had cut away her night vision, and she was almost blind. She shut her eyes and listened instead. She heard water lap the shore, the crunch of rocks, the rough rasp of harsh breathing. Human voices distant and shouting—and somewhere close, an odd rhythmic flapping sound, like wings beating the air.

Dean began to stand; Miri moved with him, staggering. The air was cool on her skin, the rocks sharp beneath her feet. She was completely naked, her clothes burned away into ash.

Miri opened her eyes. Her vision was better; she could see Lysander again, standing near the lake’s edge. All vestiges of his humanity were gone; the only skin he wore was dragon, and though she knew the threat, the sight of him towering in shadow and starlight, feathers cutting the night sky against his folded wings, was breathtaking.

This is what legends are made of. Dragons and golden light, magic rocks and fires burning bright. Masks and demons and dances in the night.

And more to come; she could feel it in her chest. Power. Power sleeping, power stirring, power waiting for its moment to rise. Butterflies bursting in her mouth, ready to fly.

“Give me the other half of the jade,” Lysander said, and there was something in his voice that seemed off, wrong; a quiver, almost like weakness.

“No,” Dean said, and Miri felt him push something smooth and flat into her hands. Its edges were rough. Ready to be made whole.

Dean tapped her wrist.
Run
, he told her.
Run fast
.

But Miri kept her feet planted firmly on the ground, stared past him at the dragon, at the tiny piece of stone cradled in his massive claws, and said, “Tell us why. Tell us what will happen when the jade is put together.”

“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 snouted, 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.”