How do they do it in the books, when the frog turns into a prince and the genie comes out of the bottle? Everyone is always so calm.
Maybe because the characters already believed magic was possible. Because, unlike Dela, they lived in a world where impossible things regularly happened.
Well, there’s impossible, and then there’s impossible.
Dela thought the man might laugh, but not from amusement. He stepped away from her, and his face was a riot of emotion: confusion, exasperation, uncertainty, that ever-present anger. She wondered if he felt the connection she had accidentally forged, and decided it would be better if he did not. He disliked her enough as it was.
“There is more proof,” he said roughly, as though the words pained him. He once again began removing his weapons and armor. Dela held up her hand. The man paused.
“I cannot hurt you,” he promised quietly. “And even if I could, I would never harm a woman.”
Odd wording, but Dela believed him. His sincerity was unquestionable, tangible and bare-boned. To doubt him in that moment would have felt like a grave insult. An uncanny thing, her temporary trust, but she had seen something bright and clean beneath the shadow wrapped around his spirit. She had tasted its light.
“What’s your name?” Dela asked again as he continued undressing, hard muscles rippling like liquid beneath his skin. It was distracting to watch him, keenly aware of her own partial nudity. To have both of them quietly undressed made her feel more vulnerable than standing up to his rage.
She thought he might not answer, might begin again with his stubborn refusals. He surprised her.
“My name is Hari,” he said, his eyes so intense she wanted to look away. She could not, and he was the one who finally broke the connection. He lowered his leather armor and weapons to the floor. His pale linen undershirt, bloodstained and torn, followed. Warmth crept up Dela’s neck. Warmth, then a chill.
Words had been burned into Hari’s chest.
Incomprehensible lines, forming a distinctly hideous pattern from the edge of one pectoral to another, dipping into his breastbone like grotesque canyons.
Dela found herself tracing the deep grooves with her fingertips, spreading her hands against his chest, touching everything, soaking in the impression of his pain. A brand had done this, or a red-hot knife. A blunt, wide tipped blade—meant to press and catch flesh, cruel and deliberate. Dela bit back words of pity, but her eyes felt far too hot. She tried not to blink, afraid she would betray herself with tears.
The words were achingly familiar, and a different kind of pressure bore down on her vision as she remembered where she had last seen such markings.
The lid of the riddle box.
Hari made a small sound. A faint flush stained his cheeks; the intensity of his eyes changed, darkened. Dela suddenly realized where her hands were—how freely she was touching him—and gasped softly, pulling away.
“I’m sorry,” she apologized, embarrassed. Her emotions were still running high. Anger, fear, confusion; she had felt all these things about the man standing before her, and now compassion could be added to the list. Indignation, that anyone could do this to another human being.
Dela waved her hand at his scarred chest. “Who did this to you?”
“Why does it matter?” Hari backed away from her. “It is done and gone. There is nothing left to speak of except the present.”
“Nothing left?” Dela stared at him, incredulous. “You call those scars on your chest ‘nothing’? I may not know you—or even like you very much—but no one deserves to be hurt like that. No one.”
“I almost believe you mean that,” he said.
“Believe what you want,” she said. “But you still haven’t answered my question.”
Some old pain moved through his face, fleeting, quickly swallowed by defiance. “My chest was branded by the same man who imprisoned me in the box.”
Dela looked at the tiny box sitting on the edge of her bed. It was too much to take in—one more revelation to add to the madness—but she pushed on, stubbornly clinging to the dying hope that something about all this would eventually make sense.
“Why—and how—would someone imprison you?”
Hari’s smile was infinitely bitter. “Because he could.”
“That’s a shitty answer.”
“Then command a better one,” he taunted.
“Screw that. What is it with you and these commands? Can’t you do anything of your own free will?”
“No,” he said, anger returning to his face. “And you know that, having read the inscription on my chest and the box.”
Dela gaped at him, wondering who, exactly, was the insane one in this room. She looked at his scars, and nothing was intelligible.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said slowly. “I can’t read those words. They look like gibberish to me.”
Hari narrowed his eyes. “That is impossible. Even illiterate simpletons can read the script. That is part of the curse.”
Dela clenched her jaw. “I am getting sick of arguing with you about things I don’t understand. I won’t deny that you’re real, or that you came out of that box, but defying the laws of physics will only get you so far. You tell me something, Hari—something I can use. Who the hell are you, and why are you here?”
The last came out as a shout, and Hari raised his eyebrows.
“You truly cannot read the inscription?” he asked cautiously.
“I truly cannot,” Dela snapped.
“But you summoned me.”
“Trust me, it was an accident.”
His confusion bordered on pathetic; Dela wondered if she looked that shell-shocked, and imagined after today it might take plastic surgery to return her face to its original expression.
Hari sat on the bed, the springs groaning perilously beneath him, and closed his eyes.
“You ask me who I am. I am a slave. Your slave, until the day you die.” He opened his eyes, and his words, combined with his defiant glare, stole Dela’s breath away. “The inscription states the terms of my enslavement, the words you must speak to command me—just as hundreds of men and women before you have so done.”
Horror crowded with comprehension, and she shook her head. She did not want to know the words. She did not—but there was a look in Hari’s eyes, a promise and a threat, and for the first time, she felt like begging.
“Don’t tell me,” Dela said, throat tight. “Please, don’t tell me.”
“‘Thou shalt,’” he spat, standing, fists curled tight against his thighs. “‘Thou shalt’ are the words you must speak to own my actions. I cannot flee from you. I cannot harm you. My body and skills are yours, and yours alone.” His voice rang like a deep bell, tolling anger, anguish.
Dela had never heard anything more hateful in her entire life.
“Why?” she cried. “Why did you tell me? You could have kept it a secret so you would be safe.”
A bitter smile tugged on Hari’s lips. “How do you know I have not lied?”
“Because you’re not a liar,” she said sadly, her mind still resonant with his spirit.
His smile died. “You wanted to know who I am and why I am here. I have told you. Use me as you will.”
The idea was appalling, but beneath Dela’s disgust, clarity filled her. She spoke before she could stop herself.
“This is why you hate me,” she said. “Because I am supposed to be your master.”
Hari tilted his head, and the old disdain crept back into his eyes. Dela gritted her teeth; she detested his scorn. She preferred clean cold rage.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she said. “You don’t know me well enough.”
“You will be like the others,” Hari said. “You will use me like a plaything until the day you die, or until you tire and send me back into the box.”
“So you can see the future now?” she asked. “Remarkable. A man of many talents.”
A low growl emerged from
Hari’s throat. “Do not mock me.”
“Why not?” Dela asked softly. “Isn’t that what you expect, the reason you’ve given me the keys to your slavery? Hard to break a man of his habits, and you seem plenty used to pain.”
Hari’s mouth twisted. “Give me something to do. Issue a command.”
“Like what?” Dela hugged her waist, partly to hold the towel more securely against her body, but also because she needed to touch something familiar and real. “You asked if I needed you to kill anyone. Is that what you do?”
“Yes,” he whispered. “I kill. I fight.”
“And the sex?”
A shadow passed over his face. “Yes. I have also been used for such purposes.”
Dela’s stomach clenched with disgust. “I don’t know what you’re trying to prove, but you’re not my slave, Hari. I’m not your master. I won’t ask you to do anything against your will.”
Hari stared, and though his face was cool, she was reminded of his aching loneliness, the bitter edge of grief that had swallowed up her mind. So much pain imprinted on that steel—millennia worth. Had he been a slave for all that time?
And you want him to trust you. What a joke.
“You don’t believe me,” Dela said, an echo of his earlier words to her.
“Why should I?” Hari’s voice was little more than a whisper, as though all the strength contained in his body was not enough to fuel his voice.
“I give you my word,” Dela said. “If that means anything to you.”
They watched each other, measuring, and Dela felt compelled to make some deeper statement. She no longer feared this man. Fear was impossible, after everything she had seen, and the profound pain she knew he was hiding made her desperate to prove her worth, the existence of compassion. That she—and the irony was not lost on her—would not hurt him.
Dela’s palm throbbed; blood oozed from the shallow cut. She held out her hand and gestured at Hari’s knives, still on the floor with the rest of his armor and clothing.
“I swear on my blood,” she said, remembering long nights around a campfire in the Rockies, talking to her brother and their agency friends about loyalty and promises. They had decided promises were as much ritual as intent—like signing a contract. It was one thing to make an oral promise, another to write it down with a signature attached. That upped the seriousness of the oath. In this case, blood would have to do.
Hari looked at Dela as though he were seeing her for the first time. She met that conflicted gaze, and waited.
She did not wait long. Hari unsheathed one of his knives and slashed open his palm. He reached for Dela and they clasped hands, mixing their blood.
Dela’s arm tingled, a sharp chill arcing through her spine into her scalp. Hari’s nostrils flared and something dark and wild roared through his golden eyes.
“Say the words,” he said, managing to make it both a threat and a plea.
“I swear I will never command you to do anything against your will. You are not my slave, and I am not your master. You are a free man, Hari.”
“No, not truly free,” he said hoarsely. “But it is a start.”
Hari slowly released her. Dela unwrapped the towel covering her wet hair and handed it to him. He tore the towel into two strips as easily as if the thick cloth was made of paper. He then bound Dela’s bleeding hand, movements swift and efficient. Dela, speechless, did the same for him.
Hari’s hand was much larger than her own, his tapered fingers rough with calluses. Muscles corded his long lean arms—a killing strength, Dela knew—and the heat of his naked torso washed over her shoulders, making her cheeks red.
“Why are you doing this?” Hari asked, and Dela jumped slightly, startled by his voice, which was both soft and hard, loud in its quiet. He looked at her like she was a puzzle, and Dela felt like one.
“Hasn’t anyone ever been nice to you for no good reason?”
Hari opened his mouth, then hesitated. “No,” he finally said. “Not for a very long time.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. Then, very quietly: “Why were you imprisoned?”
Hari pulled his hand away. “I committed no crime.”
Dela rolled her eyes. “Not everything I say is an insult, you know.”
Hari looked down at his hands. He clenched them into fists, knuckles white with bone. “It is an old story,” he said, “and I have seen it played again and again in different times, among dissimilar people. It begins with a woman. My sister. A powerful Magi wanted her to bear him a child, but she was already pregnant. When the Magi discovered this, he threatened to kill her. I arrived before he could take her life, and we made a bargain. I would be his servant if he spared her and the child. The Magi agreed, but he killed them anyway. When I tried to take revenge, he captured me—branded my chest with his curse—and cast me into the box. I have been a slave ever since.”
The sorrow in Hari’s eyes was immediate, raw; a shocking revelation of emotion. Dela could not find words to speak—his story was too horrible, too strange. Hari turned from her, his face grim as death. He put on his clothes, his weapons. He paced the length of the room, examining everything. Searching. Learning.
Hari looked completely out of place among the dark standard dressings of Dela’s hotel room. He belonged inside a myth; the tragic hero of some epic tale, exotic and poignant. He was magic, and this was not a magical world.
And the grace of his movements—stunning, lethal. Dela watched him, trying to reconcile the impossibilities of his existence, his story, with everything she knew to be true. The touch of his soul was still resonant within her.
Accept it, she told herself. You don’t have to believe. Just accept.
Because true belief required a commitment of the heart, which at the moment, was more than Dela could give. Acceptance, on the other hand, was just that. Like a huge stain on a brand-new blouse—you don’t believe it happened, but the proof is there, so you just accept it.
“Will you stop staring?” Hari suddenly snapped, whirling on her.
“I’m thinking,” she replied mildly. “This is all very strange.”
“You do not seem upset.”
“Would you prefer hysterics?”
“I would prefer a clear purpose,” he said, then faltered. “I do not frighten you?”
Dela smiled. “What do you want, Hari?”
He raised an eyebrow. “The last time I was asked that question and answered truthfully, my master peeled the skin off my back in strips.”
Dela swayed, and quickly sank to the bed. “What was your answer?”
“That I wished to bury him in sand and watch his head be eaten by wild dogs.”
It was not funny—not at all—but Dela still found herself laughing out loud. Better than being sick all over her covers. She remembered Hari’s earlier reaction to her laughter, but this time he did not look angry. Only startled. The hint of a grim smile appeared on his lips.
“It was not an intelligent answer,” he admitted. “But I did not care.” His smile disappeared. “My master died a year later. The intervening time was … unpleasant.”
Dela sighed. “Did you ever try to escape?”
“If I am separated from my master—my summoner—for any length of time, I develop an overwhelming compulsion to return to his or her side. It is instinctual, maddening.”
“So does that mean you and I …?”
“Until the day you die or return me to the box.” He reached past Dela to pick up the box, and his sudden closeness made her breath catch. She smelled moss, the musk of some forest cat, sharp and hard. Her face felt hot.
Hari did not seem to notice her sudden discomfort. He held the box out to her.
“To repudiate me, all you must do is open the box. I will begin to disappear. Close the lid and I will be gone for good.”
Dela took the box from his hands. He watched her expectantly.
“What?” she asked, incredulous. “Do you want me to lock you up again?”
Dela stood and placed the box on the night stand. “Well, when you figure it out, let me know.” Her neck hurt from staring up at him. “Is there any way to break the curse?”
A profound quiet stole over his body. “The Magi stole my skin when he killed my sister. He told me the curse would only be broken if it was returned to me.”
“Your skin? I don’t understand.”
Frankly, Dela didn’t understand anything, except that this whole situation was worse than a fairy tale. But if she had to deal with the fantastic, then she was going to be as brave as any character from a book or movie, or else die pretending.
“This is not my only body,” Hari said gravely. “I am a shape-shifter. I run as a tiger. Or I did, before the Magi stole my skin and my abilities.”
“Oh, boy,” Dela said, and sat down again.
“You have never heard of my kind.” His voice sounded hollow as death.
“I’ve heard of shape-shifters,” Dela said weakly. “But they’re only legend. They don’t really exist.” Which seemed like an absurd statement, if one accepted the idea that Hari was cursed to spend eternity as a slave—living out of a box, no less.
She suddenly remembered the story carved into the riddle box, and knew then that it was Hari’s tale. Man and tiger, from the forest to the cage, captured. She felt lightheaded thinking of it.
If you can accept everything else, then why not a shape-shifter, too?
Because I will go insane, she answered herself.
Dela shook her head. “I need to get dressed. Make yourself comfortable.”
“Your wish is my command,” he replied, without the faintest hint of a smile. He sprawled gracefully on the bed, unaffected by her scowl. He watched as she dug through her suitcase.
Dela could not stop thinking of his gaze, hard against her body. Cheeks flushed, she grabbed clean clothes and darted into the bathroom, relieved to escape his presence.
It was a startling thing, suddenly being treated like a man again. Looked at with eyes that did not see an animal or killer. Startling, and sad.
I thought I had forgotten.
Tiger Eye Page 3
