Free The Red Heart of Jade by Marjorie M. Liu Page A

the hell she wasn’t already calling the front desk and screaming for a doctor.
    She flung out her hand toward the phone—got as far as dragging the receiver to her ear—when all that discomfort, the fire skimming her skin, cut away. Severed so sharply, at such contrast, that the air against her skin felt like pure ice, cold as the frigid water she had been standing under only minutes before. Miri
sucked in her breath, holding it, holding everything inside so tight. She did not try to stand. She did not try to move. She did not take anything for granted. Her body felt too tender; the heat, the illness, might return. Miri lay very still with her eyes closed, sinking deep into the quiet. Exhausted, frightened. Breathless.
    Her mind floated. She fell asleep. She dreamed of fire, and from the fire a shadow crawling from mind to heart, sucking on shades of red: pink for love, pink for death.
    She dreamed she ate death.
    The next time she opened her eyes, the room was dark. She thought that was strange; she remembered the lights being on. There was also a cover draped over her body, which was a little less odd, but also not something she recalled.
    Miri rolled on her side. The clock blinked. It was almost nine thirty.
    Nine thirty. Oh God. Owen is going to kill me.
    The air was colder than she remembered; Miri dragged the cover with her as she scrambled off the bed, all twisted up, staggering. Her head felt fine—no pain, no dizziness, no unnatural fever, no words on her lips—but just as she regained her balance, still moving, still trying to run to her luggage for clothes, she heard an odd click. Sharp, loud, with a faintly metallic edge.
    Miri froze, her body reacting before her mind, which was slow to catch up. But when it did, she knew that sound—an impossible, wrong, hallucinatory sound. There was no way...
    She turned. At first she could not see—too many shadows, a subtle glare from the bright city lights beyond the large window—but then her vision sharpened on the darkest corner, on the chair by the table.
    And in that chair, a body. Legs, torso, arms. A man. A big man.
    There was a gun in his hand.
    The world stopped. Everything in her life was gone except for this moment, that figure sitting so still. And then...
    “Dr. Lee,” said the man. “What a pleasure to meet you again.”

Chapter Three
    It was only the second time Miri had ever found herself on the pointy end of a gun. The first was also unpleasant: sixteen, partially naked, and taken completely off guard. Twenty years later the pattern was repeating itself. Except Miri was not ready to die again.
    She ran for the door, giving up the blanket when it slowed her down. Not that it helped. In seconds the man had her and the darkness of the room closed in thick until all that existed was the steel pressed to her throat, the body against her naked back, the heart hammering with fury in her chest.
    He did not talk. He nudged her with his leg—a silent command to walk—and Miri did not refuse. But the moment the gun wavered she went completely limp, sliding like an eel through his arm. The man caught her halfway down, grabbed an armpit, a fistful of hair, but Miri thrashed and screamed, lashing out with her fists to punch his groin, break his kneecaps, bite his ankles—anything and everything to force him to let go.
    He did not. He bent down and in the middle of a scream, blocked a blow to his face and stuck the gun in her mouth. Miri’s voice broke. She went very still.
    “Thank you,” said the man. “Now let’s try this again.”
    He made her stand. The gun did not leave her mouth. The metal had an unpleasant taste, like something recently oiled. Miri’s gaze did not waver; it was difficult to see his eyes, but not his mouth, which was a hard flat line.
    He guided her backward. He did not touch her body, merely pushed with the gun. Miri did not bother trying to hide her nudity. Clothes would not make her less vulnerable. Not from this. Not from