“I will be the death of you,” he said.
“Not today,” she said, backing away, leaving him behind with his hands drawn tight against his thighs.
You’re too cocky, Dela told herself. But what choice did she have? She knew the danger—there could still be another assassin out there, in the crowd—but if she let fear rule her, the game would be over for good.
And a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do, she thought, forcing herself to weave a path around the statues at a pace she hoped would not draw notice. The soldiers and police had arrived, milling near the entrance to the Dirt Market: bored young men with sub-machine guns and note pads. Several of them were listening to the excited chatter of apparent witnesses to the attack.
Dela scanned the crowd before she left the cover of the stone garden. She quickly found what she was looking for: a slender middle-aged woman with numerous black t-shirts slung over one arm, standing on the fringe of gathered gawkers. Dela reached her just as a team of medics emerged from beneath the market awning, a covered stretcher between them. Dela swallowed hard and looked away.
As Dela hoped would happen, her blond hair caught the attention of the t-shirt hawker, who immediately abandoned the growing fracas for the possibility of a sale. Dela bought the largest shirt she had for the first price quoted—which seemed to both disappoint and please the woman. From a black garbage bag at her feet, she whipped out several large baseball caps with the 2008 Olympic logo on them. Dela bought those, too.
She made her way back to Hari, sighing with relief when she found him in the same spot, his shirt already off and balled in his fist. He did not smile when he saw her, but he touched her cheek and it was enough.
The shirt barely fit and the artist’s rendition of the Great Wall was embarrassingly tacky, but the black fabric covered the drying blood on Hari’s back, and was less jaw-dropping than his half-naked body. They put on the baseball caps, Hari tucking away his distinctive hair.
Dela stuffed his ruined shirt into her bag with the knife and cardigan, and then she and Hari pushed themselves through the gap in the aluminum fence. Hari suffered some scratches on his arms as he shouldered past the metal siding. The gap opened out onto a busy sidewalk, and they caught some curious glances from passing locals. She smiled, hoping she looked more goofy than insane, and took Hari’s hand.
They walked around the block, following the outer wall of the Dirt Market, looking for the hotel van. It was still parked across the street from the market entrance, which was now filled with military and police cars. Dela hesitated, and glanced at Hari.
“We must,” he said.
They crossed the busy street, insinuating themselves among the locals who pushed themselves, inch by brave inch, into the ever-flowing river of vehicular traffic, until finally, one car stopped—and then another—and everyone made it safely across.
They reached the van without mishap; no one screamed or pointed fingers; no young men with guns began shouting orders. In fact, no one paid them any attention at all, except to stare at the very large foreign man in the awful shirt and touristy hat.
The driver looked at them curiously when they climbed into the van, but said nothing. Dela told him to head back to the hotel. Fast.
She sat in the backseat. There wasn’t nearly enough room, but Hari dragged Dela in after him, refusing to let go of her hand. She did not mind being pressed against him. Her body was finally beginning to react to the attack, her limbs quaking, heart pounding a rough tattoo against her ribs. She felt sick.
“I really, really didn’t think he would try anything in a crowded place, in broad daylight,” Dela mumbled. “I should have known better.”
“He was desperate. He already failed once, and could not afford to do so again.” Hari spoke so quietly Dela could barely hear him. He covered her shoulders with a strong arm, his large hand resting lightly in her hair. His touch shot warmth through Dela’s trembling body, and she closed her eyes, savoring the sensation of being comforted.
“You saved my life again,” she whispered. “Thank you, Hari.”
Dela felt him look at her, and was drawn to meet that serious, golden gaze.
“I killed a man in front of your eyes,” he said, in a voice meant for her ears only. “Does that not bother you?”
Dela thought he was really asking if he had frightened her. She shook her head.
“I’m sorry you had to be the one to do it. I know you’ve had enough of violence. But I’m not sorry that man is dead. He tried to kill me twice, and men like that don’t stop until they’re called off or paid in full.”
Bloodthirsty, cold, cynical—all those words passed through Dela’s mind to describe herself, but she could not help telling Hari her own personal truth. She held her breath, awaiting his response.
“You continue to surprise me,” he said quietly. Dela sighed as he tucked her even closer to his side. “Has this happened to you before?”
“No, but I know the rules, the way the game is played.” She had to, as a member of the agency.
“I will not ask how you know these things,” Hari said. “Not yet, anyway. But knowing these … rules, would you have killed him yourself, given the chance?”
Dela felt herself go very still. “I’m as good a mark with a knife as you are, Hari. And yes, I would have killed him in self-defense.”
“Good,” he breathed, pressing his lips to her temple.
“Good?”
“It would bother me more if you allowed conviction or a weak stomach to make you a victim.”
“But stupidity is okay, right?”
“You are not stupid, Delilah. Merely … naïve. Or perhaps simply brave.”
“I’m not sure I see the difference. And I’m not brave. I’m terrified.”
“Terrified?” Laughter escaped him, sharp. “I have seen kings and warlords react with more emotion.”
“Yeah? Well, I bet they weren’t trained from birth to control their fears. Not like I was.” Hari blinked, startled. Dela touched his hand. “You say I don’t show fear? It doesn’t mean I don’t feel it. But control—control is essential for people like me, especially control over fear. It would be so easy to fear myself, Hari. The things I do aren’t normal, not by society’s standards, and if I let fear rule me, it will block my abilities. The same is true now. If I panic I’ll be useless, and that’s something I can’t tolerate.”
“Spoken like a warrior,” he murmured. “Ah, Delilah. We are not so different. What you describe is very similar to the training I underwent as a child. Shape-shifters are born human, but the ability to transform comes at an early age. The first time is terrifying. You are told what to expect, but the mind is still too young to comprehend what it means to become something else, something alien. We must continuously learn to manage our fear of the change, at least until we grow old enough to control when and where it happens.”
“And if you don’t learn?”
Hari’s jaw tightened. “Life becomes difficult.”
Dela almost asked, but the look on his face said volumes. This was a story for another time.
Another time. She smiled at herself, amused she had already come to terms with the idea she and Hari would have time. Time shared, a future with stories to look forward to.
Insanity, she thought, with more happiness than fear.
“What are you thinking?” Hari asked.
“That you must’ve been an adorable cub,” she lied, embarrassed to share the truth.
Hari’s lips quirked into a wry smile. “I had very sharp claws.”
“Some things never change.”
Hari looked at his hands: long, lean, and strong. Dela covered them with her own—slender, winter-pale—and they spent a moment in silence, taking in the differences.
“Did you find the old woman?” Hari finally asked, breaking the quiet. “I forgot about her.”
Dela grimaced. “What I found was a stone wall. According to the people who work near her, she’s dead.�
��
Hari froze. “Murder?”
“They’re lying. Protecting her for some reason. The only thing I found out was her name. Long Nü.”
“Dragon Woman,” he mused quietly.
“Does that mean anything to you?”
Hari shook his head. “I do not know.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t believe in coincidence. She sells me your box, and the next day she’s dead? Too weird for my tastes.”
“The Magi could have killed Long Nü in retaliation for selling you the box.”
“Or she’s gone into hiding because of him. I prefer that possibility. I kind of liked her.”
When they arrived at the hotel, Dela stopped at the front desk to check for messages. Several businessmen who thought they were the height of cool cast surreptitious glances at Hari. The extremely young women dangling from their arms did the same, except they were far less discreet.
“They want you bad,” Dela teased, gesturing at the girls smiling coyly in Hari’s direction.
Hari barely glanced at them. “They are shallow imitations of what women should be. You, however, are the real thing.”
Whoa.
The desk clerk coughed, and Dela struggled to focus on his amused face.
“You have a package,” he said, handing her a nondescript brown box with her name printed neatly on the label. No return address or postage stamps. Hand-delivered.
Dela smiled as she turned the box over. Scrawled on the bottom was a crude drawing of a skull and crossbones, nestled in the middle of a giant heart. Roland’s signature method of expressing affection. Dela wouldn’t have been surprised to learn he had the same image tattooed on his ass, with the word ‘mutha’ inscribed at the bottom.
“What is it?” Hari asked, as they made their way back to the room. His gaze did not rest long on Dela. He scanned the lobby, scrutinizing everyone, his body coiled tight. He seemed determined not to let her move more than a pinky’s length away from his side. Which suited Dela just fine.
When they reached the elevators, Hari’s jaw clenched so tight Dela imagined it might snap off his face. She squeezed his hand as they waited. He stared at the closed doors, looking ill.
“Your papers.” Dela watched him worriedly. “Everything you need to function in society. Social security number, birth certificate, that sort of thing.”
“I will take your word on it,” he said a minute later when he ran off the elevator with her in tow, his ability to speak in coherent sentences restored. “This … family friend of yours was able to acquire all that for me?”
“Yes, but don’t ever tell anyone. For all intents and purposes, you were born and bred in America, and got your papers the good old-fashioned way.”
“Ah,” he said, as they arrived at the room. “You deal with criminals.”
“Nooo,” she said, sliding the card key into the lock. “They’re just extremely good at getting difficult things done.”
“So am I, but my methods usually involve killing people.”
Dela had a pithy reply on the tip of her tongue, but Hari pushed her aside as she opened the door, stalking into the room with an I-am-Going-to-Hurt-Someone attitude.
A moment later, Dela understood why.
The room had been torn apart, rock-star style. She was surprised the curtains weren’t on fire. All their clothes lay scattered and cut to shreds, the bed covers were torn, the pillows cruelly de-stuffed. Every piece of furniture not nailed to the floor now pointed at the ceiling in weird angles, modern art at its worst.
Dela checked the closet. Hari’s sword and knives were still there, although it was clear they had been the instruments of destruction. Bits of cloth clung raggedly to the blades. Guilt by association. Dela touched the weapons, but whoever had used them had not left an imprint. She was getting a lot of that lately. Very frustrating.
“Well, I’m officially irritated,” Dela said. “Magi or mystery man?”
Hari’s nostrils flared. “Magi. I am sure he was looking for the box.”
Dela patted her purse, comforted by its slight bulge. “Bully for him.”
Dela called the front desk and explained that someone had broken into her room. By the time the hotel manager arrived—the same gentleman who had so nicely provided the van and driver—Dela and Hari had packed his weapons and armor into her suitcase. Which, thankfully, still remained unscathed.
The bright side of the situation was that they were promptly given a luxurious three-room suite with two featherbeds, a whirlpool the size of a swimming pool, and views of the city that almost made Dela weep—but only because she didn’t think they were going to be staying long enough to enjoy any of it.
At least she wasn’t paying for the room—or any other expense accrued during her stay at the hotel.
You just saved me more than a thousand dollars, you son of a bitch. And Hari and I get to buy new clothes, all on the hotel tab.
Yes, the silver lining was all hers.
“How did the Magi find us?” Dela asked, when they were finally alone.
“Perhaps he is tracking me,” Hari said moodily, arms folded over his chest. He leaned against the window, staring at the city. “The Magi invested much of his own magic in creating my prison. It could have produced a link, of sorts. A scent he can follow.”
“Hmph. But why look for you now, and not before?” There seemed no good answer.
Dela used one of Hari’s daggers to cut open Roland’s box. Inside, she found a thick envelope and a typed letter.
Yo, babe—
My sources finished this faster than I thought (money really can buy anything), and since the work was done on your side of the world, the package should get to you before the afternoon. Hope the proxy got my signature all purty.
I’ve got you and “Hari” seats together on an evening flight back home. First class, of course. Try not to abuse the privilege by dropkicking any bitchy flight attendants or drunk CEOs.
Call if you need anything.
Ro
That guy looks scary. Are you sure I can’t have him?
Dela grinned, setting aside the letter. She tore open the envelope and gestured for Hari to join her. She showed him his passport, but scowled when she saw the last name Roland has chosen.
“Why am I called Hari Dasypygal?”
Dela growled. “That’s the last name Roland gave you. It’s an obscure Greek word that means … having hairy buttocks.”
There was a long moment of silence. “Well,” Hari said, very carefully. “When I am in tiger form, I actually do have—”
She swatted him, laughing.
Chapter Six
Four hours later they checked out of the hotel. It was not the way Dela had envisioned the end of her vacation—though nothing about this trip had turned out the way she expected—but she was taking home a new best friend, and perhaps more, which almost made up for the last two days of murder and mayhem.
Plus, Dela had new clothes. Always a good thing.
Dela currently wore designer jeans, a trippy little blue t-shirt with daisies scattered on the bodice, and soft leather boots that added a sexy inch to her height. Hari was back in jeans and white shirt, this time dressed up with a simple navy jacket. He also wore a new hat. Dela did not like covering Hari’s beautiful hair, but she was afraid to advertise its rather unique hues in case the police had posted a description of the morning fiasco at the Dirt Market.
Not that he wouldn’t attract attention anyway. He looked devastating.
No one tried to kill them on the way to the airport, nor were any knives thrown in their direction during check in. Hari’s armor and weapons were packed snugly in Dela’s suitcase. His displeasure at the arrangement was eloquent and severe, but Dela didn’t care. One bing from the metal detector, and airport security would be on them like fleas to fresh meat.
Thankfully weaponless (Dela mentally “searched” Hari, just to be sure), they crept through security and customs without mishap, Hari’s passport holdin
g up to strict scrutiny. Dela felt something hard in her stomach dissolve the moment they passed the last of the security personnel; if any of them had pulled Hari or herself aside for questioning about the morning’s events at the Dirt Market, she had no good plan to save them. It seemed to her, though, that Chinese bureaucracy had won out—that, or the witnesses to the attack had lousy memories.
With time to kill before their flight, they relaxed in the first-class lounge, sipping tea and snacking on dim sum. Dela watched Hari fuss with his teacup and chopsticks, his large hands engulfing both with graceful aplomb.
Hari had perfect manners; Dela could not remember a moment when he had demonstrated anything but class and elegance, even when eating with just his hands. She wondered where he had learned such things, or whether it was just innate.
“How much time did you usually spend out of the box after you were summoned?” The lounge was not crowded; she and Hari were sitting in the furthest corner. Still, she whispered.
Hari’s gaze turned inward. “The longest I ever remained free of the box was a period of ten years. That particular master was a minor warlord of the steppe who used me against enemy clans. He eventually managed to unite enough of them to create an army against China. He did not live long after the initial invasion.”
He spoke casually, but Dela tried to imagine all that Hari had experienced, the events he had witnessed with his own eyes—places and people modern historians could only dream about—and she felt the lure of the unknown, of mysteries solved. It was difficult not to pepper Hari with questions. His memories were unpleasant—she knew this, could see it in his unhappy face—but still, that hunger.
“Ten years is a long time,” Dela finally said. “Was it always awful?”
“Not always, but I spent much of that time in battle. My master was no different from others in that he believed I did not need food or rest. I was a spirit to him, the essence of power. If I ate or slept, that would indicate vulnerability, weakness. So I learned to do without for as long as possible, eating when I could, sleeping when I was unneeded. For ten years I did that, and it hardened my body and mind. A good thing, I suppose. After him, life became more difficult.”
Tiger Eye Page 13
