Xin

past?

1

The shortcut through Bi Sha Gang Park beckoned to Kai Lu.

His eyes darting from side to side, he paused at the edge of the landscaped city park. Grass glistened with morning dew, and the fog draped like a shroud over dense copses of trees.

The artist in him acknowledged the prettiness of the scene, much like one his daughter might have painted.

The corporate drone in him, anxious not to miss a 6 a.m. international conference call, peered at the distant skyscrapers of Zhengzhou, gleaming white against the still dark sky.

The superstitious Buddhist that he was shrank from traveling through shadowy places during the seventh lunar month when the suffering spirits of hell roamed the Earth in search of food and entertainment.

Ghost month.

Kai stiffened against the whisper of fear—no, anxiety—surely fear was too strong a word for what he felt. He scowled. He had to stop wasting time on social media sites bristling with gory rumors of the newly dead roaming through Zhengzhou. It was Ghost month; he should have expected no less from anonymous online pranksters with too much time on their hands.

He sucked in a deep breath as he glanced at his watch. His shoulders straightened, and he stepped onto the pathway curving through the park. His patent leather shoes tapped a steady rhythm on the brick path paved in geometric patterns. As the sky brightened, the chirping of birds filled the silence, and the fog peeled back to unveil a normal day in Zhengzhou, the bustling capital of Henan province and one of China’s designated Economic and Technological Development Zones.

The onset of light released a surge of activity. Trailing beads of sweat, a jogger raced past Kai. Several meters away, five people flowed their aged limbs through the motions of t’ai chi ch’uan. Kai chuckled at his nerves. Of course, there had been nothing to worry about—

A flash of white caught his eye.

He stared at the pale hand beneath a bush. It was small, like a child’s, the fingers curled slightly, as if beckoning him.

Kai glanced over his shoulder. The sun was no less bright. The jogger had stopped to tie his shoelace, and the elderly people continued the ancient martial art. Normal.

Except it was not.

Not anymore.

He swallowed through the lump in his throat and slowly approached the unmoving hand. After a few false starts, his voice emerged, trembling. Hey, you, he asked in Mandarin. Are you okay?

The hand did not move.

His hand shook as he parted the bushes. The dead eyes of a child stared up at him. Terror gripped his spine. He froze, unable to tear his gaze from the dark eyes in a face so blanched it appeared almost white.

Kai stumbled back. The leaves flicked over to conceal their ghastly secret. Help! There’s a child here! I think she’s dead! He fumbled with his cell phone. Kai blurted out his find over the shocked whispers of the elderly people and the jogger gathering around the child’s body. They had reached the same conclusion he had. The child had been drained of blood.

"Jiangshi," someone murmured.

Vampire.

2

Danyael Sabre arrived at the National Institutes of Health reception in much the same way he arrived at any party—as quietly as possible through a side door. Even so, the lively staccato of conversation in the large room paused for a beat before resuming at a more measured pace.

He tried not to sigh. Nothing like the presence of an alpha empath to put everyone on guard. Attending the reception was obviously a mistake; he would only spoil the occasion for everyone else. He had been crazy to imagine that he could undo a lifetime of self-imposed social isolation in the span of a few months.

He turned to leave but a familiar voice stopped him. Danyael, I’m glad you came. He glanced over his shoulder as Dr. Colin Francis, the director of the National Institutes of Health, approached him with two glasses of wine.

Ten minutes. I can do this.

Danyael accepted the drink from his boss; it was easier than explaining that he did not consume alcohol, and the glass in his hand would forestall any further offers to get him a drink.

Colin grinned at him. I hear you’re already making waves.

I thought it was my job.

Absolutely. Colin nodded. The challenge with scientific review has always been sheer volume of material to process, but you seem to have a knack for finding the hot spots. His grin creased the corners of his eyes. Let me guess; the secret sauce is your face-to-face meetings with the heads of research institutes.

Danyael shrugged. Emotions don’t lie, at least not to me. He glanced around the room, and his empathic powers eased out, as subtle as the fragrance of cherry blossoms on a spring breeze. Like a lover’s caress, it smoothed the tense edge and tugged away the prickly layers of self-defense. Stiff shoulders relaxed and smiles grew warmer, the laughter genuine. Conversation bubbled once more, like the patter of water over a stony riverbed.

Colin chuckled. I’ve seen you do that so many times, and each time, it still amazes me. It’s more potent than oxygen pumped into a casino. A crease folded into his brow. How are you coping?

I’ll be all right.

Not in the future. Right now.

Danyael laughed, but his smile faded as his gaze traveled across the room. The breath he released was a soft sigh.

I expect it’s tough switching from years of clinical practice to research administration, Colin continued.

It was, but probably not in the way Colin imagined. The toughest part had been exchanging thousands of brief patient interactions for a handful of deeper relationships with colleagues and clients. As an alpha empath whose emotional defenses rivaled the Great Wall of China, the latter was far more difficult than the former.

The social niceties—parties and receptions—were especially challenging. Danyael fought the compulsion to glance at his watch. Five more minutes.

Colin’s gaze flicked to the entrance of the room. Ah, here are two people I’d like you to meet. With a smile, he welcomed the Caucasian man and Chinese woman who strolled up him. Sir Richards, Dr. Shen, I’d like you to meet Dr. Sabre. He’s the director of the Center for Scientific Review. Danyael, I’m sure you recognize Sir Richard, entrepreneur extraordinaire and owner of Excelsior Enterprises. Dr. Shen heads up Excelsior’s research division in China.

Danyael extended his hand, as courtesy demanded, first to the lady and then to the gentleman. Dr. Shen. Sir Richards. It’s a pleasure.

Sir Richards’s handshake was brisk and firm. Call me Brandon, please. Brandon Richards was in his seventies, yet his voice and athletic frame bore the vigor of a man two decades younger. His goatee, only lightly touched with gray, accentuated the flash of teeth as he smiled. And the pleasure is mine. Your reputation precedes you, Dr. Sabre.

Danyael, please.

I’ve been following your— Brandon’s eyebrows arched. —exploits, for lack of a better word, and I’ll confess, I’m surprised to see you turn your attention to scientific research instead of something that would place you in the front lines of changing history.

Too many near-death experiences in the front lines can change a man’s mind. Not that Danyael had ever craved the spotlight or tried to change history, but trouble had a way of zeroing in on alpha empaths. He had not helped things either by marrying Zara Itani, an assassin who appeared to live solely for the pleasure of turning minor disasters into major calamities. Trapped between his empathic powers and his love for Zara, Danyael had never had a chance of evading trouble. The previous three and a half years, pockmarked by encounters with abominations, mutant terrorists, super soldiers, and psychotic clones, had been especially hazardous.

His new position at the National Institutes of Health, however, represented a solid step back on the path to normality—just as soon as I figure out a way to get through all these parties and receptions. He smiled at Brandon. I’m hoping for a life expectancy of at least thirty-five.

Brandon laughed and planted an effusive slap on Danyael’s back. I think my team may be able to help you out with that.

Danyael recognized Brandon’s smooth transition from personal to professional topics. I’ve finished reading the research papers Dr. Shen’s team released last week. The results from Excelsior’s work on Alzheimer’s, Huntington’s, and Parkinson’s diseases have been extraordinary.

Brandon nodded. Degenerative diseases are our specialty. Think of the amount of experience, and dare I say it, wisdom— He winked at Danyael. —locked in the minds of our elders. The value we preserve by halting or even reversing the aging process is tremendous. Of course, we need the support of the NIH to help us fast-track the serums through the FDA. I hope we can count on you.

My team is reviewing Excelsior’s research protocols. I don’t expect they’ll find any problems.

Spectacular. Of course, if you have any questions, you should feel free to reach out directly to us. Brandon glanced sideways at his companion. If that’s okay with you, Yi?

Of course. Dr. Yi Shen’s words were subtly touched with the accents of a non-native English speaker. I shall be most happy to answer any of Dr. Sabre’s questions on our research. She smoothed the lapels of her beige-colored business suit as she smiled at Danyael. Her hair, pulled back into an elegant chignon, emphasized her narrow nose, thin lips, and her wire-framed glasses. Her profile on the Excelsior website was studded with the names of the most prestigious universities in the world; the scope of her academic and professional experience placed her in her early sixties, but like Brandon Richards, she appeared younger than Danyael knew her to be.

Yet unlike Brandon’s transparent emotions, which bubbled with effervescence, Dr. Shen’s emotions were as smooth and featureless as polished marble.

In fact, Brandon continued. We’d love to give you a tour of our research and manufacturing facility in Zhengzhou. Your support would carry a lot of weight with the FDA.

Dr. Shen’s emotions twitched, crinkling like silk, before ironing back into its flawless façade.

Danyael kept his gaze on Brandon. Thank you for the generous offer. I’ll consider it.

Colin smiled as Brandon Richards and Yi Shen walked away. Their breakthrough on degenerative diseases is exactly what we need. The work they’re doing at Excelsior is brilliant.

Danyael’s empathic powers recoiled, tendrils invisibly returning to the vine. Yes, he murmured. Brilliant.

Danyael left the reception as early as he could manage without seeming rude, and returned to his home in an upper-middle class Georgetown neighborhood. After his marriage to Zara seven months earlier, he had moved into her home, a red-bricked townhouse flanked by homes belonging to lawyers, doctors, and business professionals—not quite where one would expect to find a master assassin, but then again, Zara made it a point not to be predictable.

Daddy! Laura Itani squealed the moment he pushed open the front door. The toddler, not quite three years old, launched herself out of her nanny’s arms and into his. Her nose nuzzled against his cheek. Story time?

In just a minute. Everything all right, Brianna? he asked the nanny.

Yes. Brianna’s voice lilted with a musical Irish accent. She’s had her dinner and a bath. She’s missed her afternoon nap, and she’s about ready to drop, but she wanted to wait for you to come home.

I’ve got her now. Thank you, and good night, Brianna.

A dimple danced in Brianna’s cheek as she bid him good night before heading to her suite on the other side of the house.

Danyael carried Laura upstairs to her bedroom. Her breath tickled his neck, and he turned to kiss her pale blond curls. Her room, the walls painted a soft green and decorated with eleven framed watercolors painted by Zara’s mother, was bathed in gentle white light. He settled Laura in the middle of her queen-sized bed, next to a giant Winnie the Pooh.

Cuddle! she ordered, her arms outstretched to him.

He settled down on the bed next to her. What story would you like? he asked, reaching for the pile of books on the bedside table.

Mommy’s story.

You miss her too, don’t you?

Laura nodded, her expression solemn and her violet eyes wide. When’s she coming back?

As soon as she’s done with her work.

Shooting bad guys?

Shooting guys, Danyael clarified. The bad part is sometimes debatable.

Laura’s eyes opened even wider. Mommy shoots good guys?

To Danyael’s dismay, she sounded awed, not shocked. Deciding if someone is good or bad isn’t always simple. He released his breath in a quiet sigh. Perhaps three was too young for a discussion on the shades of gray in morality. You wanted Mommy’s story? He reached for a gun catalog tucked between the Dr. Seuss books—Zara’s way of shopping for her tools of the trade while indulging Laura’s demands for bedtime stories. He flicked through its well-worn pages as Laura pointed out her favorite picture on each page.

G is for Glock! his daughter announced proudly.

No, not precisely his daughter, he reminded himself, even though Laura’s five pre-natal genetic screenings had identified him as her father. The beautiful girl who looked exactly like a child he and Zara might have produced together was not his, but Galahad’s.

It didn’t matter, he supposed. Love didn’t track bloodlines, and Laura’s unconditional love had kept him going months earlier when life had seemed impossibly bleak.

In the only way that mattered, she was his daughter.

She fell asleep within minutes, her head cradled against his shoulder. He lingered because he enjoyed being with her. Eventually, he eased her out of his arms. Still fast asleep, Laura huffed a complaint and curled into the warmth he left behind as he drew the covers over her.

His thoughts flashed to Zara. She had been deliberately vague when she left the country three days earlier. He knew only that she was somewhere in Iran at the behest of the U.S. government, and that she was likely up to something of questionable legality and morality. The former she told him; the latter he concluded from the absence of details. He knew his wife was equipped to do whatever it was she intended to do in Iran, but it didn’t stop him from worrying about her.

Too restless to sleep, Danyael had just settled down in his study with his tablet computer and a mug of hot chocolate when a knock sounded on the front door. He glanced out through the peephole before swinging the door open. Tension dug claws into his shoulders, but he kept it from seeping into his voice. Xin. Isn’t it a bit late for a visit?

The young Chinese woman smiled. You didn’t answer your phone.

Sorry. He stepped aside to let her in. Somehow the press got my number again, so I set my phone to ring only when Zara calls.

You could change your number.

I’ve changed it twice in four weeks now. I don’t even know what my number is anymore. He gestured toward his study. Can I get you a drink?

Whatever you’re having.

Hot chocolate.

That’s perfect.

Within minutes, the cappuccino machine had brewed up another frothing mug of hot chocolate. Danyael topped it with whipped cream, the way Xin liked it, and brought it into the study.

Xin was browsing the bookshelves and turned when he entered. Thank you. Her smile widened as she inhaled deeply.

So, what brings you here? he asked. As far as he knew, Mu Xin—the National Security Agency analyst who stirred the heart of every international conspiracy like a witch over a cauldron—did not make social visits. Nothing about her appearance shrieked of her influential status in the shadowy back corridors of the federal government. With her long hair gathered into a ponytail at the nape of her neck and a well-worn backpack full of the newest technology gadgets, Xin could have passed as a graduate student at Georgetown University.

She raised her mug to her lips. Zara asked me to keep an eye on things while she’s away. How’s single parenthood working for you?

I can’t wait for her to get back. She’s the only one who can answer Laura’s tough questions—like the differences between an AK and an AR.

Xin laughed. The faint curve of her lips transformed her face, highlighting the shrewd intelligence in her dark eyes. One’s Russian, the other’s American, and they’re both assault rifles, but you already knew that. You must have known that Zara would never be a conventional parent.

Conventional is too much to hope for, but we’re nowhere near the vicinity of normal. Laura’s learning her alphabet from gun catalogs.

I didn’t even know they had guns for each letter of the alphabet.

They do, at least as far as M. That’s when she fell asleep.

A brief silence settled upon their conversation until Xin broke it with, I’m keeping you from work, aren’t I? She shrugged when Danyael flicked her a questioning glance. Your gaze keeps returning to your tablet.

Just some research papers from Excelsior. They’ve developed some serums that look promising in curing Alzheimer’s and other degenerative diseases.

Xin sipped from her mug. It bothers you.

The study was conducted in accordance with established international guidelines. Everything seems aboveboard.

Except?

Except that I met Brandon Richards and his head of research, Dr. Shen, today. Richards was…fine. If there’s a problem, he’s not aware of it. But Dr. Shen…her emotions screamed with guilt. He tapped the screen of his tablet. Something’s wrong, but I can’t seem to find it, at least not in the research papers.

Most people wouldn’t confess their misdemeanors in a peer-reviewed journal.

Danyael chuckled. I looked further afield; I checked out their website as well as news coming out of Zhengzhou, where their research and manufacturing facility is located.

What did you find?

Nothing. Just the typical societal ills and social media garbage that plague any large city. Apparently, a new designer drug is taking hold among the younger generations; from the effects, it sounds like a more potent variant of Ecstasy.

I’m surprised it made the news at all. The Chinese government is spectacularly good at shutting down news that makes them lose face.

Lose face?

A colloquial Chinese term for looking bad, Xin clarified. Anything else?

Blogs are buzzing with rumors of vampires. Is the Chinese Halloween approaching?

Xin tilted her head, and her gaze grew unfocused. It’s the seventh lunar month. It’s Hungry Ghost month.

An entire month of Halloween? Was there even enough candy in the world for that?

Her brown eyes flashed back to Danyael’s face. Not quite Halloween, but it’s believed to be the month when the starving spirits—those who never received a proper burial—are released from hell. The Chinese lay out food offerings to appease the spirits, and the rituals peak on the fifteenth day, the Hungry Ghost Festival. At the end of the month, the Chinese release lanterns into the sky to escort the spirits back to hell.

And the Chinese still observe this festival?

Traditions are hard to shake even when people stop believing in ghosts.

Danyael shrugged. It looks like someone decided to take advantage of it. Bodies have been found, supposedly drained of blood. There’s nothing official, though; nothing’s confirmed by the government.

So Zhengzhou has a serial killer using Hungry Ghost month to make a run on his enemies or the general public. I can’t imagine how it might have anything to do with Excelsior.

I don’t either, he confessed. Perhaps nothing’s wrong. The guilt I sensed from Dr. Shen could have been personal—an affair or embezzlement—things that have nothing to do with research protocols. Emotions offer clues, not answers.

Xin set aside her empty mug and leaned forward. What does your gut feeling tell you?

Danyael’s answer was immediate. That something’s seriously wrong, and it matters.

Then you’re probably right. The gut feeling of an alpha empath is a great deal more than a gut feeling.

But there’s nothing to go on, at least not here. Danyael gestured at the tablet.

Maybe you have to look elsewhere. Xin pushed to her feet. I should go. I’ve left you more confused than when you started.

Danyael walked Xin to the door, but before he tugged it open, he asked, Why did you alter Laura’s genetic records? It was a shot in the dark, but no one else would have had the knowledge and