Tiger Eye

by Marjorie M. Liu

  She smiled, thinking of her brother. The last she had heard, he was in South America with the boys from Dirk & Steele—a name always good for laughs, as long as you weren’t doing the laughing in front of the actual Dirk and Steele—trying to follow leads on some tourists who had been kidnapped by guerillas. She worried about him only a little; she was well aware that stalking evildoers was his idea of fun, and those other guys … sheesh. Boys with toys, indeed.

  I should know. I made some of their “toys.”

  Someone knocked. Room service.

  Dela felt safe; she was distracted and did not think. She opened the door without looking through the peephole and caught the flash of something long and sharp, cutting her mind with fury.

  Dela cried out, slipping sideways as a long blade slashed through her shadow. Instinct took over and she grabbed the hand holding the knife. Dela glimpsed dark eyes set in a flat face, a line for a mouth, and then she was knocked backward as a sharp fist slammed into her shoulder.

  Dela never hit the ground. Strong arms caught her; Hari’s chest felt like a warm wall against her back. Her fingers brushed wet thigh as he helped her stand. She heard a growl, low and menacing, and realized it was rumbling from him.

  Dela’s assailant darted forward, knife poised for an underhand strike. His eyes were dead, cold as scales—and much to Dela’s horror, they were completely focused on her.

  Hari pushed her out of the way, rising to meet the attack. He moved incredibly fast, his hands a blur as he grabbed the wrist holding the knife, slamming it so hard against the wall that several wooden panels shook loose. Even as the knife fell to the ground, Dela caught the glint of new blades in her attacker’s free hand.

  “Hari!” she cried, as the knuckle blades shot toward his exposed chest. Hari turned in time to prevent a lethal stroke, but the blades still ran over his shoulder and arm like claws, blood welling, pouring down his skin. Hari showed no indication of pain. His face set in a deadly grimace, he grabbed the man by the throat and squeezed.

  The blades rose for another strike. Dela did not hesitate. She leapt on that lethal hand, holding it with all her might so the blades would not touch Hari. Hari shouted at her, but she paid him no mind. She dug her fingernails into pressure points, mercilessly piercing thick flesh, grunting with the effort. When the man finally dropped the blades, she kicked them away, deep into the room.

  Her assailant’s face turned purple; he was choking, struggling with all his might. Hari held him with only one hand.

  “Who sent you?” he snarled, shaking him for emphasis. There was a killing rage in his golden eyes, some beast swirling beneath the surface of his burning gaze.

  Hari never received an answer. Dela’s attacker freed his hand from her grip. Grabbing her by the back of the head, he sent her careening into Hari, who was surprised enough that his fingers loosened. The man squirmed free and took off.

  Dela scrambled into the hall, watching the man disappear through a fire exit. Hari began to follow, but Dela pushed him back into the room and closed the door.

  “Let me go,” he ordered. “I can track him.”

  “No,” she said firmly. “If he escapes, so be it. You’re hurt.” And she absolutely did not want to draw any attention to them. She hoped no one had heard the fight and called security. If the police got involved they would ask questions, want to see Hari’s passport—a vital piece of information that simply did not exist. Yet.

  Another reason for Hari not to race down the hall—he was completely naked. Oh boy, was he naked. The image of his well-endowed intimates eternally emblazoned on her mind, Dela darted into the bathroom to grab some towels. She shoved one into his hands and pressed the other against his shoulder and arm, trying to stanch the flow of blood.

  Hari stared at the towel. Dela rolled her eyes. “Wrap it around your waist,” she said.

  Something that could have been humor glinted in his eyes, quickly disappearing beneath simmering rage. “He hit you,” Hari growled. He touched the space above her heart. “He was trying to kill you.”

  His concern surprised her almost as much as the attack. Though his fingers were light, they seared her, cutting straight through her carefully wrought control, a lifetime of training to control fear. Images overwhelmed her: eyes cold as an arctic sea, a flashing knife arcing toward her bared flesh, cutting Hari …

  She began to shake. Hari watched her, a mystery in his silence. He wrapped the towel around his waist, beads of water coating his skin.

  Control, Dela. Swallow your fear. Now is not the time to lose it.

  Dela took a deep breath and pulled away to look at Hari’s shoulder and arm. Despite her efforts, there was too much blood; her heart, already pounding, deafened her ears with thunder. “We need to get you to a doctor.”

  “It is nothing,” he said. “It will heal in minutes.”

  Dela stared at him. “Minutes? But that’s … that’s …”

  “Impossible?” The barest of smiles touched his lips, and he showed her the hand he had sliced open for their blood oath. The rough bandage was gone, the blood washed away. His palm was smooth, unharmed. “I cannot die, Delilah.”

  The full import of what he said hit her, lifting the hairs on her arms. Although, when she thought about it for a moment, immortality made sense. What good was a curse if you could catch an arrow through the heart and be done with it?

  And by your calculations alone, dumbass, he’s probably two thousand years old. He hasn’t hung around that long just because he feels like it.

  “It was brave of you to fight for me,” Hari said, “but unnecessary.”

  “He hurt you, didn’t he?” she asked, suddenly finding it difficult to speak. He took a moment to answer, and only then with a slow nod. Dela tried to smile. “Well, then. I think that’s reason enough to stop someone from stabbing you.”

  Hari looked astonished. Encouraged by some brazen impulse, Dela snaked her arms around his neck and tugged down his head. He did not resist her, and she brushed her lips against his rough cheek. She turned her mouth to his ear. “Thank you for saving my life, Hari.”

  “It is nothing,” he said. But that was a lie, and they both knew it.

  Chapter Three

  While Hari was physically incapable of harming his masters, there had been times over the years when he “accidentally on purpose” allowed some of them to die. Like the sheik who commanded Hari to shield the royal body with his own during a particularly vicious volley of arrows. Hari had looked, and felt, like a pincushion. A simple step to the right, a slight movement to block certain arrows and not others, and the sheik … well, he’d ended up looking nearly the same.

  And back into the box, again and again. Taking orders, following them to the letter and doing nothing more—sometimes earning punishments so severe even practiced torturers were unable to watch. It was a miracle no one had yet broken him.

  And yet …

  Hari had heard Dela open the door, heard her cry out, and had not thought—he’d leapt from his bath, emerging just in time to see Dela struck hard in the shoulder. He’d managed to catch her, and for one moment remembered she had spoken no commands. He did not have to protect her.

  But I do, he thought, the words so strong in his head he could not be sure he hadn’t spoken them aloud. It was the first time in all his years of imprisonment he’d actually wanted to help his summoner, and the need burned through him, creating a clean, cold rage. This intruder had hurt Dela; her life was in danger. That could not be tolerated.

  The rest was a blur until Dela grabbed the attacker’s wrist, fighting like an angry cat, grunting and hissing. She’d had no reason to put herself in harm’s way, her pale flesh lethally close to the flashing knuckle blades—which Hari had tried to tell her, shouting orders to stay away, to run. His words might have been made of air. They passed through her, insubstantial, and he’d realized in one blazing moment of insight that she was trying to help. Her struggle was to keep the assassin from stabbing him
. Him.

  She does not know. And then, She is fighting for me. Defending me.

  Unexpected, stunning. Actions told stories unexpressed by mere words, and her selfless courage staggered him.

  And after the fight …

  He dared not believe she was real, that she could risk so much, could speak such damning words as those which spilled over his soul, his open bleeding wounds, his old assumptions simmering in a brew of hate and tearing him apart. An hour previous he could not have cared whether she lived or died, and now …

  Now I know why I had to protect her. She is worthy of a little spilled blood, if it means her safety.

  Dela sat on the bed, head bent over her assailant’s blade, gaze intense upon something only she could see. She had only just stopped shaking—the attack had unnerved her more than she would admit, but she had not cried or lost her senses. Grown men had shown less fortitude, men who did not care about the sacrifices made to keep them safe. Selfish, arrogant men—wrapped in veils of godhood, power—collecting enemies like silver, boasting of how many feared and hated their shadows upon the world. Inviting assassination as a dare, a challenge.

  Dela was nothing like that. Hers was a quiet strength, a fire tempered by compassion. Or so he thought. Perhaps time would reveal another story, some reason even she had enemies desiring her death.

  The attack was not random; Hari knew it in his heart. Someone had prepared the assassin, who had clearly expected Dela to be alone—strange to Hari, who had thought only shape-shifter women had the freedom to journey in solitude. Worry taunted him; an unfamiliar emotion, one long forgotten. Simple worry had no place in his life, not for two thousand years. How could an immortal, a slave, worry? The worst to come was pain, and he had experienced enough that the sensation no longer frightened him.

  Still, worry. Not for himself, he realized, but for Dela.

  Every moment spent in her presence bound her tighter and tighter to his senses—a dangerous attachment, unfathomable and confusing. He had never felt so many strong—and, if he dared admit it, passionate—emotions for a master.

  No, Hari corrected—he had never experienced such feelings for anyone.

  A low sound escaped Dela’s throat. Like by command, Hari suddenly found himself at her side, unaware of crossing the distance between them. He almost touched her, but held his hand tight against his thigh. Familiarity was dangerous; his trust was already coming too easily. The last summoner to whom he had bared himself had ruthlessly betrayed him.

  Hari did not speak. He allowed his presence to ask the question, and Dela seemed to feel the press of his silent words.

  “I know this knife,” she said, disbelief coloring her words. “I made this knife.”

  Hari gingerly sat beside her, again surprised. “You are a metalsmith?”

  “Of a kind,” she said, looking into his eyes. “I am an artist, but I also craft weapons. Do you think that’s strange?”

  Hari could not help himself; he allowed her to see his smile, and it felt good. “I am a shape-shifter, cursed to spend eternity as a slave: I exist in a box when not in flesh, and I cannot be killed. In the face of all that, I would say your ability to work metal is unbearably ordinary.”

  She laughed; a delightful sound, cut too short. Her eyes went dark as she stared at the long blade, the steel emblazoned with the intricate rendering of a coiled dragon.

  “The knife was a special order for a client. I don’t usually take personal contracts, but this fellow promised to donate a lot of money to an arts program for children if I crafted the blade. I don’t like having my arm twisted, but he was adamant. He wanted an original Dela Reese knife, and he made sure everyone knew his donation hinged on my decision.” She shook her head. “The knife was stolen three months ago, straight from its shipment to the client.”

  “The person who stole the weapon had a specific purpose in mind,” Hari said, taking the knife from her. The blade was as long as her forearm, closer to a short sword than a dagger. The hilt was elegant in its simplicity, deceptively subtle, the workmanship revealing a brilliant, breathless quality that begged an admiring hand. Hari’s burgeoning respect deepened.

  “Someone planned this,” Dela said, horror shading her voice. “Someone with enough money and connections to track me down in China.”

  “Do you have enemies?” Hari traced the engraving with his fingers.

  Dela shook her head. “I keep to myself, spend most of my time alone. I have a close circle of friends, all of whom are above reproach.”

  “A smile on the face hides a dagger on the tongue.”

  Dela began to protest and Hari inclined his head. “I am sorry, Delilah, but as you said, someone planned this. Someone who knows you well.”

  “You can call me Dela,” she grumbled.

  Dela is not the name of a queen or a warrior, he thought, but said, “I prefer Delilah. It suits you.”

  “Maybe when you say it,” she muttered, standing up. Her eyes were hard as she looked at the knife cradled in his hands. Hari returned the dagger, hilt first. Dela’s grip was firm, easy. He noticed muscles flex in her arm, lean and strong—arms of a woman accustomed to hard work. Yet there was something else in her movements when she held the blade, some graceful instinct that called to him.

  “You have some skill with the weapons you make,” he said. Dela shrugged, cheeks slightly flushed. Embarrassed, he thought, though he did not understand why.

  “I’m no expert,” she said.

  “But you know enough to respect what you make.”

  A pleased yet sad smile touched her lips. “No weapon is ever truly ornamental. It’s just sleeping, waiting for its purpose.”

  “Which is to harm others.”

  “You understand,” she said. After a moment, she added, “It’s strange, being drawn to make things that can harm or kill. Sometimes I feel guilty, but I still craft the steel, forge the blades. It’s almost a compulsion.” Dela grimaced. “I am not a violent person,” she said, almost pleading.

  “I believe you,” Hari said. “But the weapons still fulfill something inside your heart, some desire. If not to kill, then to express the darkness that is part of every great passion.”

  Dela looked at him. “And how do you express the darkness of your passion?”

  Hari felt cold. “I have no passion. And if I did, my hands are covered in two thousand years of blood. Death would be my expression.”

  “That’s … depressing.”

  Hari grunted, and pointed at the dagger. She made him talk too much about himself. He wanted to change the subject.

  “I once knew a dragon,” he said, again doing what he had planned not to do, and yet unable to stop the spill of words. “A very kind man, if you were his friend. Enemies did not last long.”

  He managed to shut his mouth, afraid he had said too much, as though even that admission would curse him, call down some act of duplicity to tear his trust. Until now, he had never talked about himself to his masters.

  Dela’s eyes opened wide with surprise, innocent disbelief. “An actual dragon?”

  “A shape-shifter, to be exact. A man who could, at will, take the body of a dragon, just as I once wore the shape of a tiger.”

  “You could really change your shape? It’s so difficult to believe.”

  He could taste her wonder, and pleasure stalked him, unbidden.

  “Look into my eyes,” Hari said. “Look into my eyes, and tell me you do not see something not entirely human. It is there, waiting. Waiting for me to find my skin.”

  She did stare into his eyes, deep and deeper, but despite his best efforts, he could not perceive her emotions. He saw himself reflected in the sweet sky-blue of her gaze, and thought he had never seen such lovely, thoughtful eyes.

  “How many of you were there?”

  “At one time, many. Now, I do not know. We can be found in the water, on land, in the air. Dragon is a little of everything, but that kind was rare even then.” Hari paused. “During my
last summons, I found a date. 1423. How long …?”

  “Six hundred years,” she said, growing pale. She pressed her fingers against her lips. “You’ve been imprisoned in that box for almost six hundred years.”

  A very long sleep, indeed.

  He would have said more, but someone knocked on the door. Amid slight protest, Hari hurriedly tucked Dela into the small corner between bed and wall, concealed from the narrow entrance. She stooped to gather the bloody towels, tossing them deep into the shadows beneath the bed.

  “Stay there,” he whispered. Dela glared at him.

  Amusement—biting, quick—flared in his gut. He struggled mightily to keep his face straight. So she did not like being left behind? Or was that worry in her eyes?

  Again, someone rapped on the door, this time harder. Troubled, Hari slipped into the bathroom for his discarded weapons, grabbing a dagger to hold tight against his thigh. Adrenaline sang through his limbs. He pressed his ear to the door, and—

  “I smell food.”

  Dela appeared. “Room service. I hope.” She carefully peered through a tiny glass hole he had not noticed, and smiled. “Hide that knife,” she said. Hari frowned, holding it behind his back as he gently shouldered Dela aside to answer the door. This could still be a trap.

  But the tiny gentleman who smiled and pushed in a large, laden cart did not threaten them in any way beyond a somewhat heavy glance at Hari’s scars. Hari had long ago rid himself of self-consciousness; everyone stared when they saw his chest. Dela, however, spoke several sharp words that made the old man jump and shuffle his feet. She passed small papers into his hand and walked him to the door.

  Her unexpected protectiveness startled him. It was another strange reversal of that to which he was accustomed, and he fought the urge to speak of it, to point out the needlessness of her consideration.

  Hari laid his dagger upon the table. Warm, rich scents assaulted his nose as Dela uncovered their meals, and he feared acting like a true animal. Thick cuts of meat filled his plate, accompanied by green vegetables. Fruit, exotic and varied, were piled high in a wide bowl. Dela poured tea.