“Thanks. This job pays better than my last one.”
Dela peered at Eddie. “And what, exactly, did you do for a living before you began working for Roland?”
“I worked for myself. In the car business. Acquisitions, you might say.”
“And what kinds of cars did you … acquire?”
“The good kind, ma’am.” He was grinning now, and there was a dark mischief in his eyes that fit his face, but made him seem far older. Dela laughed, low in her throat. Leave it to Roland to recruit a former car thief into the agency.
Hari climbed into the back of the Land Cruiser, stretching out across the entire seat. He lounged like some exotic king in a fairy tale, his golden eyes missing nothing—inside and outside the car. Dela heard a low rumble that might have been a plane, but which emanated squarely from Hari’s chest.
“There is a man watching us,” he said, as Eddie started the engine. Dela turned. Hari stared out the back window toward the airport exit area, and indeed, there stood a man in a navy windbreaker, t-shirt, and jeans, looking in their direction. More than just looking; Dela could feel the intensity of his scrutiny like a pinprick against her eye.
Amateur, she thought.
He appeared Asian—black hair, high cheekbones. His body looked fit, but unremarkable. Dela couldn’t tell if he was armed; there was too much steel surrounding her to pick out the whisper of something small, like a knife or gun. He talked into a cell phone, seemingly unaware he had been spotted.
“You have good eyes,” Eddie commented, staring hard at the man.
Dela frowned. “He could be completely innocent.”
“No,” Hari said. “There is too much intent in his posture.”
“Roland hasn’t mentioned anything about hiring extra help, stateside,” Eddie said. His gaze flickered sideways to Dela. A strange suspicion began percolating in her gut.
“Eddie,” she said slowly. “Has someone been tailing me?”
His cheeks reddened, and Dela closed her eyes. Counted to ten.
“Eddie … did Roland hire the man watching us?”
“I don’t know,” he said, cringing. “I really don’t, but we’ll find out. I do know Roland had someone in China—a local—watching your back. Though it sounds like he failed miserably.”
“Well, he was certainly discreet,” Dela said dryly. “And if he’s smart, he’s already started running.”
“Roland does have a bad temper,” Eddie said, so mildly Dela had to grin. She leaned back against her seat; the car windows were tinted, but she still wanted to sit out of the strange man’s line of sight. “So he could be friend or foe. Too bad there are so many people around. We could have ourselves a nice little chat.”
“The crowds could work in our favor,” Eddie said. “It means he can’t hurt us without witnesses.”
“Witnesses did not stop the other assassin,” Hari pointed out. “Besides, this man will not talk without persuasion. His kind never do.”
Eddie blinked. “You sound as though you have experience with that sort of thing.”
Hari just stared at him.
“Well, darn,” Dela said, snapping her fingers. Eddie jumped. “I guess we’ll just have to forget public torture and kidnapping. So where does that leave us?”
Eddie frowned, and Dela felt a burst of heat radiate from his body. Their observer jumped into the air, dropping his cell phone. Smoke curled from its plastic casing.
Eddie immediately pulled out of the parking space, his foot heavy on the gas. He took the sharp turns like a professional roadster, dodging cars and people with cool aplomb. They were out of the airport and on the freeway in a matter of minutes.
Hari raised his eyebrows in a silent question. Dela looked at Eddie.
“So,” she said, a little too casually, “how long have you been with the agency?”
Eddie hesitated, still watching the road. “Three months as a full member, but my internship lasted more than a year.”
A little longer than average, but Eddie was young and probably had a criminal record. Roland was extremely careful about the people he approached for the agency; no doubt Eddie had been run through the full gauntlet.
“What is this … agency?” Hari leaned forward. His scent filled Dela’s nose, sweet as springtime in a deep wood, with the hint of new growth. She twisted under her seatbelt so she could look at him more easily.
“You remember how I said mental gifts run in my family? Well, a long time ago my ancestors founded an organization dedicated to finding people like themselves. People who aren’t … normal.”
A smile touched Hari’s lips. “What is normal?” he asked, and Dela had to laugh.
“You tell me,” she said. “But let’s just say my ancestors were lucky. They weren’t alone. They found others. None of them did much together, except pat each other on the back and occasionally get married, but when my grandparents took over, all that changed. The organization became an agency. A detective agency of sorts, going by the name of Dirk & Steele.”
No one was quite sure what had come over Dela’s grandparents—or how they managed to convince most of the standing members to change the focus of the organization and their lives. Nancy Dirk and William Steele still refused to speak of it, saying only “it had to be done.” And so it had. No one argued with them, ever. It was the one reason Dela stayed as far away as she could. She loved them fiercely, but it was hard to live in the shadow of legend. Especially when that legend wasn’t shy with an opinion.
“The agency is dedicated to using psi-talent to help others, to do the jobs the police and military can’t, or won’t, handle. For example, my brother is currently in South America trying to rescue some kidnapped tourists. The family can’t pay the ransom, the local police are useless, and there just isn’t a single organization willing or able to help them. Except us.”
“The detective stuff is really just a cover for the public.” Eddie jumped in, blushing slightly when Dela nodded at him to continue. “It allows us to operate on as many levels as we want, from solving murders and kidnappings, to bigger jobs like what Max is doing. Our success rate is almost perfect. Although, that’s a hard thing to say when you find a kid who’s been put through hell. Or worse,” he finished soberly.
Dela thought of Amy, and how even the adult gifts at that time had not been enough to prevent her terrible abuse.
She saved herself, in the end. That’s the thing about psi-powers—you can’t really rely on them in a crisis, even if you want to. Sometimes courage is the only thing you’ve got.
Hari looked at Dela, thoughtful and serious. “And you? Where do you fit in?”
She shrugged, her smile lopsided. “I don’t, not really. I’m a full member, but only because I’m family. If I’m occasionally brought in on missions, it’s only because the agency is running short on hands and eyes. I’m not very important in the scheme of things.”
Hari frowned, and Dela quickly pushed on. “Remember, Dirk & Steele recruits men and women who express psi-talent. Mental gifts. But it’s not easy to do because there aren’t many of us around, and those who are keep quiet.”
“It’s all very secret,” Eddie said. “It has to be.”
Dela quirked her lips. “We’re always making fun of our cover. A detective agency? Dirk & Steele? It’s way tacky, but it does serve a purpose.”
“It diverts attention,” Hari said, nodding. “It keeps you safe from other humans, from those who would fear your gifts, and covet them.”
“Yes.” Dela knew Hari would understand. “We don’t approach anyone unless we’ve got a good idea of character and personality, and even then a recruit has a trial period before free access is permitted. We have to be sure they won’t betray the agency or anyone connected with it. So far, we’ve never had a problem.”
“How many of you are there?”
“Twenty-five, with several in retirement. Half of us are based with the San Francisco office, which is run by Roland, while the others are
in New York with Yancy.”
“It might sound like a small number,” Eddie said, “but it’s not. There are lots of people with natural ability—maybe they have the occasional dream that comes true, or can tell when a relative will call—but lifting things with their minds, or reading thoughts? In all the world, Roland and Yancy have only been able to find a handful … and just some of those people were right for the agency, or even willing to join.”
“Are Roland and Yancy your parents?”
“No.” Dela smiled. “My dad’s not psi-gifted, and Mom didn’t want to handle the business. Roland really is a family friend, distantly related through my grandmother, although Yancy is my aunt. She and I aren’t very close.”
Hari turned his gaze on Eddie. The young man seemed to feel the heat of those eyes, and turned his head slightly, watching the road, but focused on the man behind him.
“And what is your mental gift?” Hari asked, when he had Eddie’s attention.
“I can start fires,” he answered tentatively, glancing over his shoulder to gauge Hari’s response. Hari raised an eyebrow. Eddie looked at Dela as though for support. “Nothing big, just small focused blazes. It’s really an offshoot of telekinesis. All I do is move the molecules around, shake them up so fast they start generating heat.”
Fire-starter. She had never met one of those before, and trying to imagine polite sweet-faced Eddie at the center of a fiery maelstrom was difficult. It explained the cell phone, though.
“When did you manifest?”
“Thirteen,” he said, but there was a sudden tightness in his jaw that warned Dela not to ask any more questions.
A thought occurred to her. “Hari, you think that’s what the Magi was doing all those years ago? Maybe he was such a strong telekinetic, the excess energy turned into fire.”
“That still would not explain my situation,” Hari said, although she could tell the idea interested him.
“You found another one of us?” Eddie stared at her with undisguised curiosity.
“Kind of,” she hedged. “Although this guy is definitely using the dark side of the Force, if you get my drift.”
“Easy enough to happen,” Eddie said, something gloomy filling his eyes. “Some people can’t handle power.”
“Then human nature is the one thing that hasn’t changed in two thousand years,” Hari said, rolling down his window. His multi-hued hair glinted in the sun, his eyes half-lidded as he watched the city skyline and passing traffic. Like a lazy, languid, dangerous cat.
Eddie glanced at Hari, then Dela. She shrugged. “Hari’s been around,” she explained, rather lamely.
It hit her, then—a burst of startling emotion that stole the breath from her lungs. She had brought Hari home with her. A near stranger, who was going to live in her home. With her. Until they broke the curse or she died.
Intellectually, she had already known this—accepted it—but the emotion of her decision had not yet wormed its way into her heart. And now, now she felt a little scared. Not of Hari, but of how his presence was going to change her life.
Dela was a born loner, set in her ways. Was she going to become a grouchy curmudgeon when her routine was upset? Was she going to be waspish, disagreeable, and downright ugly when she did not have her home to herself after weeks and months of enforced co-habitation? Did Hari have bad habits? Did she have bad habits? Were they going to drive each other crazy?
Maybe Hari would beg Dela to return him to the box, if only to get away from her. Maybe she would be happy to oblige.
What an awful thought.
Dela studied Hari, the broad planes of his body, the clean lines of his face. He was gorgeous, exotic—but that was the surface, and she didn’t like him only because he was handsome. The Magi was handsome, too. Good looks could hide hideous hearts.
But Hari’s heart was not hideous. The echo of his soul still smoldered inside her mind, as did the memory of golden light burning beyond dark horror. Hari’s light, warm and strong, unbroken by shadow. It was the reason she had fallen so easily into their friendship, why he had her absolute trust.
Hari noticed her watching him, and again, he stole Dela’s breath away. Except this time there was no fear. Just simple determination. A promise.
I will help you. I will make this work. I will not run from difficulty.
When Dela reached out her hand, he grasped it gently and brushed his lips against her palm.
“I am glad to be with you,” he said softly.
“I’m glad you’re here, too,” she said, equally soft.
Eddie blushed.
They left the freeway and drove down a pleasant tree-lined road that contained forest and upscale suburbia—tame “country” escapes for the men and women who worked in the city but wanted to raise their families someplace quieter.
The air smelled good and cool, like leaf and cut grass, sunlight sparkling golden through the towering boughs covering the road. After five minutes the trees thinned out, until by the time they reached the town of Rose Apple, the only ones left stood like fine weathered soldiers in the sidewalk.
Rose Apple was by no means rural, but it was not entirely touristy, either. Restaurants, large and small, elegant and comfortable, lined the street; interspersed among them were small cafes and bookstores, a mom-and-pop pharmacy, several art galleries, and the required slew of novelty shops, dispensing knickknacks and antiques.
At the very end of Main Street stood a two-story brick building that took up half the block. A common response was to call it a warehouse; there was a cavernous quality about its rectangular shape, aided by the stream of large windows running the entire length of the second floor, on all four sides.
A warehouse, however, it was not.
A garden surrounded the building, thick and untamed, ranging far into a section of land that had once been a parking lot, and now sported small stone paths, comfortable wooden benches, and a simple fountain. An elderly couple was enjoying the flowers as Eddie drove past, and Dela caught the scent of roses and lavender—the summer fragrance of home.
Dela owned the building and the garden, which she had planted herself, with some minor input from the neighboring business owners. If anyone ever wondered how she, a young woman still in her twenties, managed to afford the former warehouse and all the renovations that had gone into making it habitable, they never voiced their questions to her face. Dela thought it likely they assumed she was wealthy from her art sales. Which was partly true. At this point in her career, she could have lived quite comfortably off the profits she made on her sculptures. But not this comfortably.
Oh, being a member of a family full of psychics had its advantages, especially when all the pre-cogs played the stock market. Sort of took insider trading to a whole new level when you could foresee the importance of certain medical or technological advances. Both Dela and Max had trust funds that would make Donald Trump’s eyes roll up inside his head.
Not that anyone in the family abused the money they accrued. Much of it was given away—anonymously, always—while some was kept in reserve for … special projects.
Dela’s heart warmed when she saw the familiar brick façade and gleaming windows. She opened herself to the imprint of girders, frameworks, and wiring, feeling the echo of her spirit, and something else, welcome her home.
“You’ve all been staying here?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am. We’ve been taking turns using your guest rooms. There’s someone inside and outside your home at all times.”
“How many did Roland send?”
“There’s four of us. Artur, Blue, Dean, and myself.”
She grinned. “All the bad boys.”
“They’ve been looking forward to seeing you,” Eddie said, still blushing.
“I bet.” Dela stifled a laugh. Let the games begin.
“More family friends?” Hari asked mildly. His hand snaked around the seat to caress her shoulder. Dela beamed, reaching back to touch him.
When th
ey pulled into the small private lot behind the building, three of Roland’s best were waiting: Artur Loginov, Dean Campbell, and Blue—who had yet to share his last name with anyone but Roland. The three men wore identical grins as Dela got out of the car, and Dean opened his arms for a hug that would make a bear squirm. His short hair was the color of honey shot with sun, and while he was not a tall man, he was lean and well-built.
“Hey, now,” he said, blue eyes twinkling. “We heard you had some trouble and came a-runnin.” Dean was from Philadelphia, but had lived in the South for a time. The accent had rubbed off. Dela thought it suited his personality.
“Oh.” She grinned. “So it wasn’t just Roland chewing out your asses that suddenly made my home so appealing.”
“That, too,” Blue said, running fingers through his long black hair, for once unbound. He looked slightly rumpled, as though he had just gotten up from a nap. His deeply tanned skin glowed in the afternoon light. The skin around his hazel eyes crinkled. “You should have heard the things he said to us. If anything happens to you, we might as well arrange for Artur’s old buddies to come pack us under concrete.”
“We never used concrete,” Artur told him, his words thick with a Russian accent. “Who was doing any building? We just dumped bodies in the river.”
Chances were good that Artur wasn’t kidding; for years he had worked as muscle for the Russian mafia. Tall, broad, and lean, his brown hair framed spare, handsome features, pale skin that refused to tan. His eyes were dark, almost black, and keen with intelligence. There was something about Artur that always drew the eye: partly his face, but more often the air of reserved mystery that many women—including, once upon a time, Dela—found attractive. He had an aura of quiet danger, which Dela knew for a fact was no act.
“Sheesh.” She shook her head and held out her hand to Hari, who was finally able to untangle himself from the backseat of the Land Cruiser. “I want you guys to meet a close friend of mine. This is Hari. Hari, this is Dean, Blue, and Artur.”
Tiger Eye Page 15
