Jade Tiger Page 3

  Ian took the wrinkled paper, damp from her sweat, and a huge smile erupted on his face.

  "Buckley's interview! The ol' boy looks good; I have to admit it."

  Shan pulled the edge of the paper down and pointed to the faint image of the jade crane.

  "This is how we found the university. Me and the goon from the fight. We got the name of the school, and of your friend. Your pal Buckley is in a lot of danger."

  Ian's eyes darted upstairs, an unconscious look toward the crane, she was sure. He brought them back to the article right away, but his face had paled, his smile gone hiding in the shadows. "Bring me the phone," Ian said quietly. "Please."

  She did, and he dialed a number. "No answer at his house. That's good, right?"

  "Or very bad."

  Ian frowned. "Right. I'll try his mobile." He dialed another number, and they both waited in silence as it rang. And rang. And rang.

  "Bucks?...Yeah, Ian...Where are you?...Nadine? I thought you two ended it...Oh, right. I see." Ian looked at Shan, his left eyebrow raised. She mouthed "not here," and Ian nodded. "Look, Bucks, there's a problem. Can you meet us--meet me--at the Marmoset?...Ten minutes...Yeah, sorry about that. And Daniel," Ian paused, pursed his lips. "It's important."

  Ian hung up. "He'll meet us."

  "Good," Shan said. "Now all we need is the crane..." A little test. She'd been more than accommodating so far. She could have just taken it.

  Ian stared at her, his deep-set eyes glowing like a cat's in the darkness. "Give me a minute," he said finally. He pushed himself to his feet and stumbled up the stairs.

  Shan watched him go, irritated at the pang of concern in her gut and her almost irrepressible urge to help him. She forced herself to pull her eyes away. The magazine article. It lay on the table by the phone. Shan smoothed out the page against the dark, waxed-wood surface, folded it, and slid it back into her pocket.

  This whole thing was getting too complicated. It was supposed to be a quick trip to grab the artifact and fly back to Los Angeles. Now she had the police to deal with, a rogue martial arts master, and not one but two professors to worry about. Her mother would never have gotten herself into this situation. And if she had, she'd know the best way out of it. Shan could only ride the wind for now, and look for the right opportunities.

  Ian hobbled back down the stairs looking more determined than wounded. Adrenaline, probably. Or maybe loyalty to his friend. Whatever it was, Shan appreciated the effect it had on his features--the angles seemed more majestic. Ian seemed to have as many facets in his personality as he carried on his face.

  Shan, on the other hand, considered herself a one-note personality. Driven. The tiger spirit and her parent's legacy made sure of that.

  Ian met her by the sofa. "I've got it," he said quietly, patting the worn leather messenger bag draped around his neck to hang at his side. "We can go."

  Shan raised an eyebrow, but nodded. "I'll need directions. You up for that?"

  "What, you think you're driving?" Ian grinned.

  "Hm," said Shan. "Concussion. History of passing out and hallucinating about past loves. Car and keys several miles away." She nodded. "You should definitely drive."

  "I knew you'd see it my way."

  They walked out to Shan's rental car in silence. Shan unlocked the passenger door and held it open for Ian. He grinned and folded his tall frame into her sub-compact. She took another look at his messenger bag, another look at his head wound, then closed the door firmly behind him.

  She drove five miles above the speed limit, just like a normal person. Ian stayed awake this time, gave her coherent directions. Shan turned onto a street lined with bars and markets and coffee shops, many of which were still open at two thirty in the morning.

  "Nice cat," Shan said.

  "Hm? Oh, you mean Tybalt. He's not mine," Ian said. "I can't have a cat with my schedule. I'm gone too many months out of the year. But Tybalt keeps me company when I'm here. I leave one of the windows cracked for him, and he comes and goes as he pleases."

  "No commitment."

  "None."

  "Sounds perfect," Shan said, and she meant it. "I could use a cat like that back at my place."

  "Well, don't get any ideas about stealing Tybalt," Ian said. "I'll be watching you."

  Shan drove in silence, her stomach knotting and unknotting. Finally, she said, "I'm not a thief."

  Ian looked at her. She saw his head turn out of the corner of her eye. But she didn't want to turn and stare back at him. She needed to keep her eyes on the road, and on the Jade Circle. Most definitely not on Ian.

  "I want to believe you," he said. "Please help me."

  "Let me ask you this," Shan said. "When did you get the crane?"

  "Fair enough," Ian said. Thankfully, he also turned his head and faced forward again, removing that powerful gaze from the side of her face. "My parents gave me the statue ten years ago, as a graduation present when I got my Ph.D. They bought it at a private auction the autumn before. It had no papers, no recorded archaeological context, so I didn't donate it to a museum, as I do with most of their other gifts."

  "Ten years," said Shan. "That's a long time." She turned left down a small side road when Ian pointed at it. "My family has owned that particular statue for almost fifteen hundred years."

  She heard Ian's breath falter. "That's a long time, too," he said.

  "That statue and its four siblings have been guarded by my ancestors for more generations than I can count. It's the cornerstone of our past and our future, of our power and our pride." Ian pointed again, and Shan turned right, fast. The tires squealed. "So you tell me, Professor. Which one of us is the thief?"

  Before he could answer, Shan saw the bright neon sign advertising the Mighty Marmoset Sports Bar. What kind of stupid mascot was a marmoset? She whipped the car into an open spot just past the door, yanked on the parking brake, and looked at Ian. The car continued to rumble beneath them. Shan shifted into park and twisted the ignition to off. The engine died, and silence filled the vehicle.

  "I'm--"

  "No. Save it," Shan said. "This isn't the time. Let's just shelve the name calling and get out of this alive. Okay?"

  She turned to Ian, forcing herself to look him in the eyes, even though she really wanted to just stare at his shoulder, or look past him out the window. She was afraid to see the effect of her words, and angry that she had let herself lash out. Most people didn't understand. They didn't have the kind of past she had, the kind of responsibility. But Ian was an archaeologist dedicated to finding the truth about ancient cultures. Something told her that he would understand, or at least try to. He didn't deserve the guilt trip she was trying to foist on him. She looked into his eyes, silently begging him to say something.

  "Okay," he said quietly. Shan's gut twisted. That wasn't the something she'd been hoping for. An arrogant backlash would have made it easier for her to maintain her anger and resolve. Hell, everything would be easier if she didn't like Ian. She could take the statue and leave him to run to the police for safety. It wasn't her fault that Ian had the crane, or that his friend Buckley was clueless enough to have it photographed. It wasn't her fault, and they weren't her responsibility.

  But her mother would disagree. The women of the Jade Circle devoted themselves to the protection of the helpless, the underdogs. The Circle was broken, but Shan couldn't knowingly dishonor its mission.

  "Let's go meet Buckley."

  Ian said nothing as they got out of the car and walked into the bar. If his head was bothering him, he hid it well behind a mask of determination. Already, she missed his quirky smile. She couldn't help but feel like she had banished it.

  The Mighty Marmoset was a small, dark room filled with the raucous noise of a hockey game blaring on the multitude of TV sets embedded in the walls. Taped, no doubt, since few people played hockey in the middle of the night. The place smelled of cheap beer and greasy pizza. About half of the tables and ripped-vinyl booths were occupied by s
tudents, their books and papers and cups of coffee or beer arrayed before them like objects on an altar. Shan was momentarily glad that she had skipped the whole college thing. They looked like zombies.

  Except for one.

  The man from the magazine article, Dr. Daniel Buckley, sat in a booth with an almost-empty plastic cup of beer in one hand and a fistful of pretzels in another. He had a round face, a crop of short blond hair, and a stocky build. More like an ex-football player gone soft than a man using his brain for a living.

  "Bucks," Ian said. Shan nodded and motioned for Ian to go first. He squeezed into the booth opposite Buckley, and Shan followed, the messenger bag nestled safely between them. Shan looked up to find Buckley unapologetically scanning her features and breasts.

  "I thought you were grading exams tonight, Dash," said Buckley, keeping his eyes on Shan.

  Shan raised an eyebrow and smirked. Oh, joy. Buckley possessed a frat boy attitude to match his looks.

  "I was grading exams," Ian said quickly. Too quickly. Shan kept her eyes on Buckley, just in case Ian was blushing. For a second, though, she felt her smile become just a bit more genuine than she'd intended.

  "Oh?" said Buckley. "Then I should borrow your syllabus." He extended one meaty paw--thankfully not the one full of pretzels--toward Shan. "Daniel Buckley. Professor Daniel Buckley."

  How, exactly, was the man making every sentence feel lewd? It was a true talent. Shan shook his hand, irritated that she hadn't washed the blood off her knuckles back at Ian's house.

  "Shan."

  Buckley stared deep into her eyes as he changed his grip and pulled her hand toward his mouth for a kiss. Shan smiled sweetly and let him. Was it her fault he was such a stereotypical schmuck? Too bad Buckley looked down at the last second, even as his big, football-player lips were ready to brush her flesh. Apparently, Buckley wasn't a big fan of blood. He dropped her hand instantly and scanned Ian's battered face.

  "What the hell is going on here?"

  "If you're done looking like an idiot, I'll tell you," Ian said. Shan pulled her hand back but left it on the table. She enjoyed the idea that it might make Buckley squirm.

  Ian told Buckley about the crane. He had Shan produce the magazine article. He left out the details of their fight, saying only that the thief had killed the security guard, and that they'd barely escaped with their lives. The account was efficient and accurate, up to a point. She admired Ian's apparent understanding of what Buckley needed to know, and what he didn't need to know. Shrewd, that's what Ian was. Maybe he and Buckley would be able to evade the bad guys after all.

  "Okay," said Buckley. He tossed a pretzel into his mouth and proceeded to talk while eating it. "Assuming I believe you, which I probably do, what's next?" He threw two more pretzels in. "I bet there's some great reason why we can't go to the police, right?"

  Shan and Ian looked at each other. Her turn.

  "Yes, there is," she said. "The people who want the crane have a lot of money. The police, no matter where we are, can't be trusted."

  "Now wait a minute--"

  "The crane belongs to me and my family," Shan continued, "but I doubt the Chinese government would see it that way. I can't afford to have the authorities involved."

  "Come on, Bucks, you know how governments get with their trinkets," Ian said. Shan disliked the word trinket, but she suspected Ian had chosen it on purpose.

  "Yeah, I know how it is," Buckley said, "but this means you're picking up the tab, Dash. And I'm about to get very, very drunk."

  "No, you're not," Shan said. "You and Ian need to get out of town, tonight. As soon as we're done talking."

  "Wait a minute--" Ian tried.

  "Look, you either go on vacation before that goon comes back, or you'll be lucky to live out the week." Shan looked at Buckley. "Do you understand?"

  "It can't be as bad as that," Buckley said.

  "Oh, yes it can," Shan snapped. "That security guard, the one with the billy club he never got to pull out of its holder, was dead in seconds." The security guard's distorted face filled Shan's mind. She thought of Ian's head twisted unnaturally, his neck purple and ugly. No. She couldn't let that happen. Ian had a brain. Ian would understand.

  "I don't understand," Ian said. "It's okay for you to risk your life, but not for me? Or Bucks?" he added.

  "Exactly right," said Shan. She took a quick look around the room, but no one seemed to be paying attention to them. Good. "I have no doubt that you guys mean well, but you're professors. You need to stick to your books and let me handle this."

  Buckley snorted. "It's not like we're historians," he said. "We're archaeologists!"

  Shan raised an eyebrow.

  "Archaeologists are made of sterner stuff," Ian said, his tone and expression deadly serious.

  Shan couldn't help it. She laughed.

  Buckley turned to Ian. "She obviously hasn't seen you in a pit. The man wields a mean trowel."

  "Okay, not even I can keep my dignity with praise like that," Ian said.

  Shan laughed again. Damn. She liked Ian, and now even Buckley was starting to grown on her.

  Which, of course, was all the more reason to send them off someplace far away. Someplace safe.

  "I could try to blackmail you," Ian said. "I've got an almost photographic memory, and there's a dead man back at the university. You didn't do it, but it would take you a long time to untangle yourself from the mess if I gave them a good description of you."

  "You wouldn't--"

  "No, I wouldn't," said Ian. "I'm merely trying to illustrate some of my options."

  "And now that's my option, too," said Buckley.

  Ian frowned at Buckley. "Bucks, the point was that I'm not going to use blackmail. You're undermining my argument."

  "Right. Sorry," said Buckley. "Please continue." He tossed three more pretzels into his mouth and chomped down.

  Shan looked back at Ian, her irritation growing. It was late. Her leg ached from the cut, and every time she moved, the dried blood cracked and reopened the wound. Worse, she was sitting on a vinyl seat in a collegetown bar at almost three o'clock in the morning. She should have just taken the crane and disappeared.

  Ian cleared his throat. "As I was saying, I have no intention of turning you in to the police, or of reporting the crane missing, or anything like that--"

  "What a relief," Shan said wryly.

  "--but I do think we can help each other out." Ian leaned in. Shan and Buckley followed suit. This close, Shan could smell the beer on Buckley's breath and hear the crunching of his jaw as he ate his pretzels.

  "We're in danger," continued Ian. "Bucks and me. Big danger." He spared a glance at Buckley, who simply shrugged his agreement. "And you need the other jade animals," he said to Shan. She hadn't told him about the other animals, but yet he knew. How? She nodded slowly. Ian took a big breath. "And I think I know where the next piece is. The dragon. I know where the dragon is."

  Shan stilled the muscles of her face, forcing herself to remain calm. "Tell me," Shan said, her voice quiet and dark. Then she remembered what Ian had been through this night, and added, "Please."

  Ian opened his mouth to speak, but it was Buckley's voice she heard.

  "Oh, shit."

  Shan turned toward the front door in time to see her one-eyed opponent from the university send three well-toned men and one dangerous-looking woman in their direction.

  "Why do bars always lead to bar fights?" Shan muttered as she squeezed out of the booth.

  CHAPTER 3

  Shan stood up next to their booth and reached back to grab the crane. Ian snatched the messenger bag just before her fingers got hold of it and slipped the strap over his head.

  "Go. Fight," he said. "I'll take care of this."

  Shan frowned, but only for a second. Then she had to turn and throw the first man over her shoulder and into a table full of books and empty plastic cups. People flew pretty far when you used their own momentum against them, but Shan was still su
rprised at the loud crack of the table breaking and the ensuing chaos.

  The other bar patrons scrambled to gather their things and headed for the back door. Actually, there weren't as many screams as she had expected. Perhaps the late hour or general inebriation of the crowd was to blame. Or maybe bar fights had become passé from overuse. The bartender, a burly fellow in a tight black T-shirt, remained stoic behind the bar, watching. He must have tripped the silent police alarm. That gave them less than ten minutes to get the hell out of Dodge.

  Shan tried to keep herself between the bad guys and the booth. She told herself she was protecting the crane, but she really didn't want to see Ian take another blow to the head, or worse. If he knew where the dragon was, she needed him alive and thinking clearly.

  Yeah, that was the reason. It had nothing to do with Ian's boyish smile, lanky frame, or sense of humor.

  Shan dodged and kicked, blocked and rolled. Behind her, she heard Buckley trading punches with one of the goons. Luckily, One-eye stayed by the door. He must have been severely injured in their previous tussle. The woman came at Shan. Probably in her late thirties, she wore an army-green tank top and a pair of tight, black jeans. Her blonde hair was pulled out of her face in a long ponytail.

  The woman drove her heeled boot into Shan's chest with astounding speed. Shan stumbled backward, gasping for breath. She grabbed the offending boot and twisted it sharply. Ponytail had no choice but to spin horizontally through the air in order to keep her knee from breaking.

  "We have to get out of here!" Shan yelled.

  "Tell me about it," Ian growled. Shan caught a glimpse of him throwing a handful of something white--salt?--in his opponent's eyes. Smart lad.