"But Mother, why can't we fight?"

They hurried through the tunnel in a quiet line. Her mother first, Shan second, her father last, carrying their things. The torches tossed shadows against the uneven stone walls, and even the familiar dirt floor offered small comfort tonight. The rat-tat-tat of machine guns and the determined crack of pistols filled the distance above them and behind them. Wood and glass shattered. Men shouted guttural commands in Cantonese and Mandarin.

But even if this were the storm, her mother was at its eye, calm and focused. Lin-Yao stopped and crouched by Shan. Shan saw the dust in her mother's long black braid and thought, for the first time, that her mother had become wise like the ancients while Shan had been busy playing with her dolls and studying her numbers.

"Mother, we are strong. There are almost thirty of us now. We can defend ourselves from these intruders." Her voice rose in a whine, so close to tears, but held.

"They are too many, my little tigress," her mother said, smoothing the hair away from Shan's face. "The man who leads them hates us very much. He'll sacrifice anything to destroy what we have built."

"But Mother--"

"No, Shan." Her mother placed one thin finger on Shan's lips. "Did you know you have your father's eyes? Yes, green. The very same color as his. They will bring you great fortune in America."

Behind them, much too close, wood smashed into rock.

"They found the trap door," her father said. He shifted the bags to his left hand and pulled a gun from his waistband with his right. Her mother stood.

"No, let me take care of this, John. There's little enough time as it is."

They both looked down at Shan. Her father towered above them, his head almost touching the ceiling, a giant with skin the color of steamed rice and hair the color of sand. In every memory Shan had of him, he was sitting with a book, or teaching one of the women to speak English. The gun was not at home in his hand, and it hurt Shan to look at it.

But even with the gun, Shan knew her mother was the more dangerous of the two. It was her mother who practiced the old ways every day of her life. Her mother who called all five of the ancient animals to her when she fought.

Her parents switched places in the narrow hallway as Shan stood still, her feet like lead. Her mother's shoulder brushed against her father's chest, but they said nothing, made no move to prolong the contact. Then they were past.

"Do you have it?" her mother said.

"Yes." Her father hefted the bags. "It's safe." Her father, so often smiling, remained grim tonight. The straight line of his mouth brought tears to Shan's eyes for the first time since the sanctuary had been invaded.

Without a sound, in a blink of an eye, her mother crouched by Shan's side again.

"Teeth are strong and fall out," she said. "Gums are soft and remain."

Shan let her mother pull her into a hug. Shan closed her eyes and felt the embroidered silk of her mother's shirt rub against her arms. She inhaled the fullness of her mother's sweat, the scent of green tea still clinging to her mother's clothes.

A man shouted behind them. A gun cracked, and stone sparked near her mother's head.

"Now, go!" her mother said.

Her mother stood and turned around, her back to the family. Shan felt her father tugging at her arm. Her legs started to move in his direction, but slowly. Shan couldn't stop looking at her mother. The green silks, dusty and old, shimmered like scales in firelight. She pictured her mother's eyes, thin slits of black swimming in gold.

The eyes of a dragon.

The first man around the corner fell screaming, hands covering one of his eyes. Her mother's move had been too quick for Shan to see. The dragon strikes fast, without warning. Shan almost envied the man. His life would probably end quickly, without much suffering. But Shan's misery would continue ... without her mother and on some distant, unforgiving shore, far away from her ancestors.

Her father pulled Shan along the passageway and, finally, her mother passed out of view. Shan watched the flickering shadows on the wall. A spinning braid became the whip of a huge tail. The curved hands struck, shimmering into a gaping maw around her next victim's head, then shrinking instantly back down to hands.

"Shan!" Her father's voice stung sharper than a slap. Shan turned from the shadows, from her mother's fate, and embarked on her own.

CHAPTER 1

"You've got to be kidding me."

Professor Ian Dashell rubbed his eyes and stared at the offending paper again, willing the words to be different the second time around. "The Vikings' primary weapon in battle was their famed horned helmets. Helmets which they wielded by bending over and charging their enemies."

Ian let the red felt-tip pen slip from his fingertips and onto the mountain of final exams covering his desk. His forehead followed shortly afterward with a satisfying thunk.

"Mmm. Comfy."

He closed his eyes. It was well past midnight but still long before dawn. All self-respecting archaeologists were snuggled deep in their beds, or their tents, or their hammocks at this hour. He would have settled for his own disastrously messy--but surprisingly warm--bed just off campus. On most nights, he elaborated on the fantasy with an attractive female colleague who just adored his doctoral thesis on the ritual significance of jade in Shang Dynasty China. But tonight he wanted the imaginary bed all to himself.

"Mmm," Ian groaned again, amazed at how comfortable a pillow a D-worthy exam paper could be. Would a C paper be better, or worse? How about an A or a B? Oh, the possibilities.

Ian rolled his head to the left, bringing his cheek in contact with the cool pages. Just a little nap. Drool dried invisibly. No one would ever have to know.

The painful sound of shattering glass echoed through the empty hallway.

Ian wrenched his head up.

The artifacts.

His chair screeched across the slick floor as he pushed back from the desk. He darted out the door and ran, the fog of sleep still thick in his head.

"If this is some stupid, frat boy prank..." Ian couldn't even finish the sentence in his thoughts. No one, but no one, touched those artifacts. Not without permission. And supervision. And a god-damned note from their mother.

The hallowed halls of Risley University projected sound like a three-story megaphone. Even Ian's scuffed shoes thudded appallingly on the faux marble floor. Another smash from the room ahead swallowed the sound of his running feet, but Ian's relief was fleeting. More priceless remnants from the past possibly destroyed.

Ian slowed at the door. The solid brown wood, plastered with department fliers, stood stalwart as ever ... except for the ragged hole where the doorknob used to be. Someone was definitely inside. Touching. Moving. Breaking. Where the hell was that security guard? Sure, he was sixty or something, but at least the man had a billy club and some experience with this sort of thing. Maybe Ian should head downstairs and get him.

Ian took one step toward the stairwell at the end of the hall and stopped.

He saw a boot in the distance. Black and dull in the darkness, toes pointed toward the ceiling. The white rim of a sock, the listless folds of a pant leg. Whatever this macabre image was attached to lay just out of sight in the stairwell. Ian struggled to swallow. The security guard wouldn't be helping him anytime soon.

But decades of work cowered helplessly in the artifact room. Countless hours of research and back-breaking labor in the field. The promise of exhibits and careers and the overall idea that the past could be saved and cherished and...

Ian kicked open the door with his foot and yelled, "Stop!"

He'd been expecting a surprised curse, or maybe the snick of a bullet cutting into the wall by his head. He certainly hadn't anticipated getting hit in the face with what felt like a speeding train.

The man's fist took Ian squarely across the jaw, and his kick slammed into Ian's chest. Ian sprawled on his ass and slid across the floor into the heavy metal shelves against the left wall. Behind him, the door slammed shut.

"Stay down," the man said, his voice thick with a Mandarin accent. "I don't like to kill teachers."

Ian shook his head, trying to recover his vision and pushed himself onto his knees. He took two deep, rasping breaths, but neither brought enough oxygen to relieve the pain in his chest. He coughed, surprised at how cold and dirty the floor felt against his palms, and annoyed his mind chose such inopportune moments to notice such things.

He looked up. The man, clearly Asian, stood against the far wall and pulled another bin off the shelf. The man placed the bin on one of the desks in the center of the room and began pulling out the bagged and labeled artifacts. He ignored the labels and stared directly at the contents. Bag after bag dropped to the floor or exploded against the wall near Ian.

Ian's lungs finally filled with air, and he drank it in deep gulps. Bins were everywhere--overturned on desks, spilled onto the floor. His throat clenched. Venetian glass. Incan pottery. Cuneiform tablets. Artifacts that hadn't yet made it into museums, and now never would.

Ian huddled against the shelf behind him. He'd been thrown against the European wall, near the locked weapons bin. Slowly, he reached into his left pocket for his key ring. The man across the room seemed completely occupied with his search and destroy mission, but Ian couldn't count on it. The man had obviously anticipated Ian's flamboyant entrance into the room. There was no guessing at the extent of his awareness.

More baggies dropped to the floor. Red cinnabar. Ivory. Blown glass. The man's feet crushed them absently as he hefted another bin to the table.

Ian's hand remained surprisingly steady as he pulled the keys from his pocket and slipped them behind his back. His fingers searched for a small round key amidst a dozen others of various shapes and sizes.

The thief had another bin on the table. Ian's teeth ground together. That simple container represented his last five summers of work in China.

"Please," Ian said. "Stop." His voice pleased him. It divulged no sign of his faltering pulse. Ian found the small key on his key ring and started feeling the bin for the lock.

"I'm looking for something," the man said. "I'll stop when I find it." As if to make his point, the thief dropped a shard of pottery to the floor and ground it beneath his shiny black boot.

"I know," Ian said quickly. He had to get the man to stop. "I'll help you find what you're looking for. I know where everything is."

The man dropped the new bag in his hands back into the bin and started to crunch his way toward Ian. "Now I know why I like teachers," he said.

The man's dark crop of hair was cut flat like a lawn on top of his head. A pale scar radiated from the man's right eye in a painful sunburst. The eye itself seemed glazed over, as if a sheet of thin vellum had been glued to its surface. Judging from the man's excellent depth perception at the door, Ian doubted that he was blind. But he also doubted the man got laid very often, despite the expensive black leather outfit hugging the man's steroid-sized muscles. Just too creepy.

Twenty more steps, now fifteen.

Behind his back, Ian found the small indent of the lock and maneuvered the key into place.

Ten more steps and it'd be too late.

Ian twisted the key. He yanked the lock open and pried it off the box.

Five more steps, and the man smiled without showing his teeth.

Ian flipped open the lid to the bin and thrust his hand inside. His fingers wrapped around the worn leather. He used his right hand to push himself to his feet just as the thief came within range. Ian whipped his left hand out of the weapon bin and thrust the broken blade of a seventeenth century Italian rapier at the man's chest.

The blade, dull from centuries' neglect, snagged in the man's clothes above his heart and dragged a bloody gash across his torso as the man jumped away.

Before Ian could pull back and strike again, before he could even think about parrying, the blade flew out of his hands. He was dimly aware of it clattering in the distance as the man's foot connected with Ian's temple. This time Ian hit the floor hard.

His head throbbed. His vision spun. Those papers would never get graded. Maybe the kid with the horned Viking helmets deserved a C instead of a D. Maybe he should have pursued that relationship with Rachel Sexton after the Tenochtitlán dig in college. Maybe he should have gone yachting with his dad once in awhile.

"You surprised me, teacher," said the man. His voice seemed to echo between Ian's ears. "And I really don't like surprises." Another kick slammed into Ian's ribs. The force of the blow sent him upward and spinning onto his back. He landed hard again, and his skull threatened to explode.

"Well, then, you're gonna hate this," said a new voice. A woman's voice. A nice woman's voice. Did she have a yacht?

No. Ian groaned and rolled his head to the side. Strange new noises filled the air: the snap of clothing and the muffled thud of bone pounding flesh.

"No," Ian tried again. "Run." But he knew his words were too weak. Ian felt something thick and warm and metallic fill his mouth and dribble down his cheek. Drool? How fitting. No, wait. Blood.

His vision cleared enough to show him a new figure in the room, but none of the details. Her body blazed across the drab room like a flame. So bright! Her arms and legs moved in time with the thief's black-clad limbs, like two lovers in some evil, acrobatic bastard-stepchild of the tango. She stood taller than the thief. Her long black hair spun with her, but just a heartbeat behind. It swished into her face until the next dance step had her spinning again, or flying through the air.

It was clear to Ian, even in his current state, that this woman--this bright angel of vengeance--was going to give the thief quite a run for his money. It was also clear to Ian, even in his current state, that he was already falling in love with her.

Or at least in worship.

As usual, his timing was terrible. Ian tried to laugh, but ended up choking on his own blood instead.

Shan ducked under an uppercut and snapped a backfist at the man's temple. He blocked and tried to grab her wrist at a pressure point. Twisting, Shan snaked her other hand around and reversed the hold.

Stalemate.

This man was good. Probably the best she'd fought in years. And there was something about his face that tugged a memory she couldn't place.

She spun. Kicked to the chest. Blocked. Jumped over a speeding foot. Raked his face. Twisted out of his grip again.

Shan leaped up and back, did a somersault in the air, and landed in a low snake stance on one of the desks in the middle of the room, her hands open and waiting.

The wounded man, probably a professor at the university, judging from the button-down and khakis, hadn't made a noise in far too long. How had he managed to score that bloody gash across her opponent's chest? Amazing for someone untrained in martial arts. Especially considering that she hadn't even scratched the bastard yet, let alone drawn blood. With any luck, the professor would live. Shan wanted to ask him about his fight, and find out what he knew about the crane.

No, she just needed the information about the crane. That's all she had time to worry about, wounded man or not.

Her one-eyed opponent, breathing hard, thrust his heel into the table leg of Shan's desk. The desk rocked forward, suddenly unstable. Shan used the momentum and angle to launch herself at the man. She flipped over him and landed with her back to his. Her right arm whipped back, and she hooked two of her fingers in the man's mouth. She yanked hard and crouched low, throwing the man over her shoulder.

One-eye yelped. He slammed into another desk covered in boxes. The whole thing collapsed in an implosion of wood and small plastic bags.

Behind her, the wounded man moaned and said something. Shan turned to look. "Just the facts"? What the hell did that mean?

A chunk of wood collided with Shan's face, and she stopped wondering. She fell onto her back and kept rolling until she was on her feet again, ready.

Her enemy swung the table leg at her again. She ducked low as it whooshed overhead, then focused her mind on the leopard. Its thick muscles. The power it drew from the earth. Years of meditation helped her find the leopard's strength in her own body and harness it. Shan spun and kicked backward, releasing a scream of focused energy. The man's weapon smashed in two, and he stumbled backward, surprised.

"You..." he said in Mandarin, his eyes wide. Up close, Shan pegged him as late thirties, early forties ... and so familiar. There was something about that fiery scar around his eye that made her suddenly think of green tea.

No time for that. She needed to stay focused, keep her mind empty, and feed the leopard energy she had built. Shan curled her fingers into leopard's paws and struck.

One, two, three--solar plexus, throat, and nose. The man only blocked the first two. A spray of warm red caught Shan across the face.

She pressed her advantage.

They whirred and tumbled, kicked and sprang into the air. Shan slammed hard into one of the heavy metal shelves lining the wall, and another cry went up from the crumpled form at the other end of the room.

"Artifacts!"

Well, now that made a lot more sense than her first guess.

The man's fist found her stomach. Shan doubled over with a gasp. His booted foot followed, faster than she could even see, and connected with her skull. Shan was knocked sideways onto the floor and the multitude of smashed objects littering it. Something sharp slid into the skin of her thigh.

"Your mother was better," the man said. She smelled his arrogance more thickly than his sweat or her own blood. Shan's mushin, her empty mind, flooded with heat. This pig had fought her mother? Had he been there that night, the night Shan had fled her home? Or had he fought her years later, in a different place, or even recently?

"Is she--"

He dropped his heel onto her chest in a flash of motion. Pain detonated across her torso. Shan felt frozen in time, unable to move or even tell her body to keep breathing. The pain held her like a straightjacket, wrapped tight around every muscle. The man swung his foot off her chest and smiled.

"It is so much better if you die without knowing," the man said.

Finally, Shan's arms agreed to listen to her brain. She pushed herself backward, her wounded thigh leaving a slug-trail of blood across the floor. Above her, a three-foot-wide window was sandwiched between two towering shelves. And, unfortunately, barred from the outside. Shan backed into the space, keeping her eyes on the bastard in front of her. A lever. There was always a lever to release security bars. Her left hand slapped the wall behind her until she found a dented, hollow rectangle of metal wedged almost behind the left shelf. And in it, a solid rubber pedal.

Shan wailed from the pain as she shifted her position and snapped the pedal down. He bought the distraction. A faint click from outside the glass told her the bars had been released from their lock.

The man grinned wildly now. Most people stopped to gloat during a fight, given half a chance. It made them vulnerable. Shan preferred to wrap things up before stopping to chat. Far more practical.

"Where are your animals now?" the man said. "You Jade Circle bitches are nothing without your little statues."

He grabbed the front of Shan's crimson blouse and hauled her to her feet. Shan whimpered again, her body limp, her eyes wide with feigned fear. Blood continued to dribble down her leg. He wasn't tall enough to keep her off the ground, but she stayed light on her feet, letting him do most of the work to keep her upright.

"I think I'll take your eye first," the man said, "to replace the one your mother stole from me." His breath smelled of greasy fish. Her mother had taken his eye. Her mother would always be a better fighter.

This was not the time.

Shan let the thoughts flow away from her, like a river into the ocean, until her mind was empty--a vessel waiting to be filled. Only then did her mind and body act as one.

She planted her left foot on the floor and thrust at his knee with her right heel. He screamed. Shan grabbed his right bicep with one hand and the cloth covering his left shoulder with the other. Dropping her weight, she rolled onto her back and thrust upward with both arms and a leg, throwing him behind her.

The man soared through the window, smashing glass and wood, and slammed into the bars outside. They swung open with the deafening scrape of rusted metal on metal and crashed into the stone façade of the building. Shan protected her face from the shower of sharp rain. When she opened her eyes again, the man was gone.

Shan shook off the shards and splinters without using her hands. It was so easy to drop one's guard at the first respite from fighting, and so easy to get dangerously hurt because of it. She stood up slowly, keeping her weight off her wounded leg, and looked out the window.

Some mangled bushes two stories down stared back up at her. She scanned the quad, looking for limping martial arts bad-asses. No luck. Too bad she hadn't broken his kneecap. That would have slowed him down enough for her to finish the job.

But he'd definitely be back. Shan needed to find the statue and get herself, and the professor, out of the building before the thief did.

As if on cue, the professor groaned. Shan glared into the trees a few more seconds, then turned and shuffled over to the man. Her leg hurt, but it wasn't serious. The rest of the bruises she'd discover tomorrow or the day after.

The man was sitting up against a shelf, his face hidden in his hand. At first glance, nothing looked broken. His limbs looked straight, and he seemed to be breathing fine. Internal injuries weren't out of the question, though, given the professor's blood-stained chin.

Shan eased into a crouch in front of him, ignoring the complaint from her leg, and gently pried his arm from his face.

"Here, let me look."

The man was a lot younger than she'd expected. "Professor" always summoned images of pipe-smoking, white-bearded old men. Probably since she'd never gone to college and had a chance to debunk the stereotype. But no, her professor looked mid-thirties, with short, unkempt brown hair matted with blood in odd places. At first she thought he'd gotten a gash along his face, but it was just his almost painfully sharp cheekbones poking out from a layer of drying blood. Shan pressed two fingers to his brow, cheek, nose, and chin, feeling for fractures. He shivered, probably from shock, and let her search.

His whole face was covered in angles and ridges. She turned it from side to side slowly, trying to get a better look. It always remained hidden at least half in shadow. Shan blamed his nose. It rose long and thin and proud, demanding her attention from every angle. Especially with the blood, the man looked like some doomed fairytale prince, European-style.

"Can you see me?" Shan asked. "Try to focus on my eyes."

He looked up at her, the full moons of his pupils ringed ever so slightly in warm brown. Eye dilation and shivers, Shan thought. Definitely shock. Definitely not good.

A police siren wailed in the distance, and then another. No doubt they were headed this way. But Shan couldn't afford to chat with the cops. Not when some poor security guard with a broken neck lay waiting down the hall.

"You're doing well," Shan lied. "Just keep trying to focus. What color are my eyes?"

His pupils retracted slightly.

"Greeb," he said.

"Good--"

"Green," the man corrected. "'N' flecks of yellow."

The man smiled and, miraculously, almost every severe angle on his face dissolved into a boyish roundness. Only the nose stubbornly kept its shape.

"Ian," he said. "And yes, I think I can walk."

"Good. I'm Shan." She stood up and held out her arm. "We can't afford to wait for the police."

Ian grabbed her hand, and Shan pulled him to his feet. His fingers were long, his palms huge compared to hers. Standing, he was at least half a foot higher. Ian grinned and looked down at their hands. Shan smiled back patiently, even as the heat rushed to her face. Good ol' half-Asian blood probably kept Ian from knowing that, though.

"Look, Ian," she began, "we need to go now. Fast. Before that man comes back. But I can't leave without the statue he was looking for. A small, jade crane. Do you know where it is?"

Ian's grin faded, replaced by a new wariness that creased his brow and turned down the edges of his mouth. "So you're a thief, too? I thought you were one of the good guys. My mistake." He took a step past Shan, but wobbled.

Shan snaked an arm under his to steady him. "I am one of the good guys. Get me that statue, and I'll explain everything."

"Everything?" He arched an eyebrow. "I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt because you saved my life, but I'll definitely need answers."

"Fine," Shan said. "You'll get answers." She felt the weight of him on her shoulder. His warmth soaked into her neck and arm, down her ribs and across her belly.

"Good enough for me," Ian said. "Now let's get the hell out of here."

"The statue--"

"Isn't here," he said. "It never was."

Shan looked at him. The shadows were back, hiding his eyes and the whole far side of his face. Was he just protecting the statue, or was it really someplace else? Her mother, when she'd been near the Jade Circle, had been able to discern truth from lie, to see through any ruse. Now the Circle was broken, and Shan had only her own instincts to rely on. Instincts which had proved more adept at fighting than diplomacy.

And absolutely pitiful at reading attractive men.

But regardless of Ian's intent, she'd never be able to search the room before the police arrived. Maybe this was just the break she needed. After all these years of searching, she still had only the tiger statue that she'd started with. And now she knew that someone else was looking for the Jade Circle animals, too. If Ian knew about the crane, maybe he had other information as well.

"Lead on," she said finally. "It looks like I'm going to trust you, at least for now."

"Excellent," said Ian, "because I think I'm going to pass out."

CHAPTER 2

"Oh, no you don't!" Shan altered her stance to take more of his weight. "I can help you walk, but there's no way on earth I can carry you. Stay with me. Talk. Tell me about your research. Or your love life. Whichever is more interesting."

They started to hobble toward the door. Shan's wounded leg buckled once, and she silently rebuked it.

Ian laughed. The sound was low and warm, and made Shan smile. "That would be the research, I'm afraid," he said.

Shan became suddenly and intensely aware of his smell. A dusty, dark scent that reminded her of her father's study. Suddenly his head lolled forward, and Shan braced herself against the increase in weight.

"Wake up! Dammit, Ian."

His head circled around and up. "Stop screaming. I'm right here." And then, "Maybe we should sing."

Stunned, Shan could only help him walk as he started warbling something about a Scotsman and a kilt. Good voice, too. A baritone.

They made it into the hallway and stumbled the hundred or so steps to the elevator. Shan punched the button and shifted her weight again. "Okay, Sinatra," she said, "let's quiet down for a while, okay?"

"Mmm," said Ian. "Did I really say greeb?"

"Yes. I hope you're not an English teacher. It'll be hard to live that one down."

"I should get points for the wounding. And the blood. Greeb is almost eloquent considering the circumstances."

The elevator arrived, and they collapsed against the far wall. Shan hit the button for the garage and took another look at Ian. Yup, the shadows were still there, even in the omnipresent fluorescent lighting of the elevator. He tilted his head and looked down at her. A little smile appeared across his thin, almost aristocratic lips, and the shadows softened once again.

"Thanks again for that whole life-saving bit," he said. "I feel like hell, but I'm not actually in hell. I'm going to call that an upside."

"You're welcome," Shan said, "especially if you can get me that crane."

She regretted saying it almost immediately, and then chided herself for the regret. It was the truth. She wanted, needed that crane, and it was probably a good idea to remind Ian of that every chance she got.

Since he passed out as soon as she got him into her rental car, the other opportunities would have to wait.

Shan managed to wake him up long enough to get his address, and then for some directions when she got lost on the dark, curvy, snow-lined streets near the campus. Eventually, Shan shut off the headlights and coasted into the driveway of a cute two-story Tudor. She didn't want the neighbors remembering any late-night arrivals in case the cops started asking questions.

Shan maneuvered Ian down the lane carved out of the snow and to the front door. Ian was falling in and out of consciousness, sometimes in mid-sentence. She asked him for the keys, and he answered something about a pot shard. Shan propped him up in the alcove by the door and searched his pockets. The frayed seams of his ancient khakis tickled her hand and she wriggled in deeper. Shan was amazed at the warmth emanating from his leg. He seemed too skinny to be such a furnace.

No keys. He must have left them in some other room of the building they'd been in. She should have thought to grab them before they left. If the police found them, their time at Ian's would be short lived.

Shan checked his pockets again, just to be sure.

In the end, she had to climb a tree and hop onto the roof near an open window on the second floor. Shan felt the tear in her leg reopen, and the warmth of fresh blood soak into her jeans. Irritating, but not dangerous.

The first window she checked was locked. Just as well, as it looked like Ian's bedroom. True to his earlier statement about his relationships, the bed was empty and mussed. A bachelor's bed. Shan shimmied on to the next window.

Bingo. The window sat halfway open, and not even a screen barred her entrance. Shan wiggled her way in, afraid to risk the noise of opening it further, and tumbled to the floor. She tucked her head in and rolled into a low crouch.

A big desk squatted in the middle of the room atop a thread-bare rug. Dark shelves lined the walls, covered in books and knickknacks of every shape and size. Her father would have been in heaven. His study in China had looked just like this, but with only a handful of books. It had been hard for him to find the editions he wanted under the Communist regime. And, after they moved to the United States, all their money had gone back to China, to the search for Shan's mother. The three of them had lived together for all those years: Shan, her father, and her mother's ghost.

A pair of cool orange eyes regarded Shan from the desk. The eyes were attached to a remarkably fluffy cat, gray in the darkness of the room. Shan smiled. So Ian was a cat person? Interesting. She walked toward the desk, her palm extended.

"Hello, little prince." Shan stopped in her tracks and looked around the room again. Familiar. Everything was suddenly familiar.

She pulled out the Archaeology Today magazine clipping from her back pocket and unfolded it carefully. A man she didn't recognize sat behind a desk, but the caption named him as Dr. Daniel Buckley of Risley University. The article itself talked about the man's recent field study in Thailand. It didn't matter. All that mattered was the small jade crane nestled between two stacks of books on the shelf in the background.

The desk was Ian's. The shelves were Ian's.

Shan raised her eyes from the photo slowly, almost too terrified to look at the shelves beyond.

And there it was.

Shan squeezed her eyes shut. Her pulse thudded in her throat. Every ache, every shred of fatigue, fled from her body. She stepped around the desk and walked to the crane.

It stood there in the shadow of the shelf, dull green and perfectly still. Just five inches high, it had simply-carved wings that stretched out and up on both sides. Shan ran a finger over the tip of its left wing, along the slender groove where her tiger would slide into place. The missing leopard statue would slip onto the right wing, and the circular dragon would sit in the center, attached to the crane's head and the cats' tails. The sinuous snake would slide along the top of the circle. Together, the five animals would form the Jade Circle.

Shan lifted the crane from its dusty home and cleaned it with her shirtsleeve. In her hands, the crane radiated power. Unlike her tiger, stashed safely back in Los Angeles, the crane's power granted grace and balance, something sorely lacking in Shan's life. How different would she be if her mother had entrusted her with this statue instead of the tiger for all these years? Perhaps she'd be someone's lover, able to balance a man and a career and even college. Instead, she'd gone from dojo to dojang to kwoon since high school--studying with the best masters during the day and scouring the news and the Internet at night in search of the missing animals. The disparity made her want to laugh.

Ian!

He was downstairs on the porch, waiting for Shan to let him in. She stared at the statue in her hands, so heavy and warm, so full of energy. She could just leave now, back out the window and to her car. Ian didn't know her last name and would have no way of finding her. He'd tell the police about her, yes, and they'd find her blood at the university building. But it wasn't enough to track her. Even if she had to lay low for a while, the crane would be hers.

But Ian had a concussion. Ian had stabbed her enemy. Ian had sung and made jokes and trusted her to take care of him. He could have stayed at the school, waited for an ambulance, and kept his life simple. Instead, he'd taken a chance.

Shan took a deep breath and carefully placed the statue back on the shelf. She knew where it was now. She could always come back up here and get it, regardless of what happened with Ian. No way, no how, was she leaving this house without it.

Something thunked against her calf. Shan looked down, and the fluffy cat looked back up at her, eyes bright and whiskers wide.

"Come on, mao, let's go rescue your master."

She held the office door open, and the cat trotted out. Shan looked at the statue one last time, then closed the door behind her.

Ian had fallen asleep on the front stoop. Angles still dominated his face, but much of the boyishness was there, too. He looked ... cute. Shan couldn't help but smile.

"Come on, sleepyhead," she said, and touched his shoulder.

"Mmm. Rachel?"

"Nope. Care to try again?"

Ian opened his eyes. "Shan. Sorry." He shifted his weight and started to stand. "Did I mention I have a head wound?"

"I believe it's come up a few times, yes." Shan helped him to his feet. "Doesn't sound like your love life is that boring, after all."

"What?"

"Rachel." They stumbled inside. Shan kicked the door closed with her foot.

"Ancient history," Ian said. "Almost literally. We met on a dig."

"Please don't say, 'And you really dug each other.' I'll have to kill myself." Shan deposited Ian on the couch and pulled out the magazine article again. "Not that I don't want to hear about your past loves, which I don't," she grinned, "but I need you to look at this." She handed him the article. All she really wanted was the crane, but if this man was sitting in Ian's office, he was probably a friend. A friend who was in for a world of pain if they didn't find him before her enemies did.

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 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 students, their books and papers and cups of coffee or beer arrayed before them like objects on an altar. Shan was momentarily glad 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 college town 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.