Tiger Eye

by Marjorie M. Liu

  Hari had thought of nothing else since learning the Magi still lived. “Killing Delilah accomplishes nothing if the Magi does not already possess the box. One of you could just as easily purchase me from the other, cast a summons, and renew the cycle.”

  “Where’s the box now?”

  “In my purse,” Dela said. “But I don’t feel like getting up.”

  Blue scowled, and walked over to the kitchen counter where Dela had dumped her bag. As Eddie and Dean trailed after him, Dela pressed her lips to Hari’s ear and whispered, “You’re my best friend, too, Hari.”

  His face grew hot, and for the first time in an age, he felt shy. Awkward.

  “I did not know you heard,” he murmured.

  “I’m glad I did.” Her smile faded into something serious. Hari’s stomach tightened and he wrapped his fingers around her small pale hand.

  Blue grimaced as he searched Dela’s bag, but he finally found the linen-wrapped metal container. Dela waved him off.

  “Don’t bring that thing near me. I’ve been scared to death I’ll accidentally do something to re-imprison Hari. If you want to look at the box, do it over there.”

  The three men crowded close, bowing their heads. Hari had no desire to join them. He contented himself with holding Dela close, sharing her warmth, her quiet words.

  Blue finally rewrapped the box. “After we finish talking, I’m taking this to the bank and sticking it in a safety deposit box. Short-notice solution. Your Magi can’t get to it there, right?”

  “I am unfamiliar with this … safety deposit box … but if the location is secure, then perhaps not. Although, the Magi’s gifts were always a mystery.”

  “What exactly can he do?” Eddie asked.

  Hari saw the Magi’s hands, burning scythes of flame through the air, tracking heat across his skin. Screaming, more screaming. Suri’s broken body on the ground.

  “In my day,” he said, voice rough, “the Magi had the power to create fire, to move objects without the aid of a hand. He could see across great distances, and bind people with a word.”

  Dean, Blue, Dela, and Eddie glanced at each other.

  “I know,” Hari said. “His powers sound very much like your own, but your mental gifts alone could not have cursed me, nor kept him alive for more than two thousand years.”

  “That’s some trick,” Dean admitted. “Wish we knew some actual voodoo.”

  “The Magi’s strength has diminished. Delilah and I do not know why, but it should work to our advantage.”

  “I hope so,” Dela muttered, staring at Hari’s displayed weapons. Something in her eyes changed, grew sharp.

  “I am so stupid! Where’s Artur? I still have my knife, the stolen one my assassin used the first time he tried to kill me. Maybe Artur can read some clues.”

  Eddie got on his cell phone as Dean clucked his tongue at her. “You’re too used to living the mundane life, Dela. You forget all the magical things we can do.”

  Dela pointed at Hari. “See this guy? He’s magic. The rest of us are just science experiments.”

  “What of Dean?” Hari asked. “He shares a similar gift to Artur.”

  Dean shook his head. “I’m an amateur compared to Artur. If you want an in-depth scan, he’s your man. It’s the difference between reading the middle chapter of a book, and reading the whole damn thing.”

  “Artur’s on his way,” Eddie said. “I’m going to take his place out front.”

  “Thank you, Eddie—all of you. I really appreciate you helping me like this.”

  “Ah, gratitude.” Dean clutched his heart. “How rare it is.”

  “Shut up,” Dela said, smiling.

  When Artur arrived, he didn’t waste any time with small talk or questions. He sat down on the couch in front of Dela’s creation, the long-handled dagger emblazoned with a dragon. He stripped off his gloves and placed his palms against the blade.

  A long moment passed, and then he made a small sound: a gasp, a sigh. Sweat beaded on his forehead. A fine tremor raced through his hands.

  “No,” he breathed, shaking.

  “Artur?” Dela reached out to him.

  Artur stumbled to his feet and ran to the kitchen. When he reached the sink he began gagging, spitting. Dela rushed to his side, smoothing back his hair, pressing a wet rag to the back of his neck.

  Artur finally collected himself enough to splash water on his face. He flushed the contents of the sink down the garbage disposal. He looked at Dela, and then the others, something dark and sad in his eyes.

  “I know why someone wants you dead, Dela. That knife you made—the one stolen—it was used to kill a child.”

  Chapter Seven

  After that particular announcement, Dela did her own share of vomiting, but in the privacy of her bathroom. She could hear the men talking in the other room, but their voices were muffled. Dela did not want to hear what they were saying. The horror was too great. Her throat felt thick with grief, but she could not cry. She wanted to, desperately, but tears refused to come. She stared at herself in the bathroom mirror, and hated what she saw.

  I made that knife with my own hands. I gave it life, and it killed a child.

  Her desire to craft weapons, knives—her knowledge of their dark purpose—had finally slammed together to form an awful, incomprehensible result.

  But why was she surprised? Every time she made a weapon, it begged for blood. Not literally, but what else was a blade for, except cutting, spilling, encouraging pain and death? What else? Not just decoration. Not just art. Even she was not so naïve as to believe a knife was ever truly safe. Dela had reconciled herself to that.

  But a child?

  Dela felt reminded of scientists working in their labs to build a better bomb or high-tech weapon, concentrating on the science, forgetting the human cost, the results of such experimental tinkering. All Dela ever thought about was the steel, giving it a useful shape. Death was a part of her considerations, but distant, a shadow. Unreal.

  And yet, despite her disgust, her horror, she could still taste the need for steel at the back of her throat, the dark desire to forge and craft things other than “safe art.” No soft rounded curves, but sharp, sharp, sharp.

  Am I a monster? Dela asked herself. If not, then what am I?

  Someone knocked softly on the bathroom door.

  “Go away,” she ordered. The door opened anyway, and Hari peered in. Their eyes met, and then distance blurred and he pulled her away from the sink into his arms. He held her tight, stroking her hair, and suddenly the tears no longer hid; they ran rivers down her cheeks onto Hari’s shirt. Dela sobbed, and it was fierce, choking, and ugly.

  Hari said nothing. He stood with her, warm and comforting, and she knew instinctively that no matter how bad things were, Hari would understand. He would understand because he had lived through worse than she could imagine. He would understand because he was her friend.

  He would understand because … because he loved her?

  Dela knew he desired her—that he lusted—but lust was not the same as love, and she had never been free with her heart or her body. And yet, she knew what Hari felt had to have some spark of the genuine. Even in her despair she could feel their connection, burning like a live wire in her heart, new and frightening and wonderful. Something deeper than simple friendship.

  Love is a leap of faith. You must leap, and believe Hari will catch you as you fall. And if he does not, that is the way of things. You will not be the only girl to have ever suffered a broken heart.

  Except losing Hari might hurt worse than death.

  “Delilah,” he whispered, hugging her even tighter. “Delilah. This was not your fault. You made the weapon, yes—but never with the intent to kill that child. Nor was it your hand that committed the act. You must forgive yourself.”

  “I don’t know if I can,” she murmured, pulling away just far enough to rub at her eyes and nose. Hari’s arms hung loose around her ribs, his fingers trailing down her spi
ne, curving into the hollow of her back. Dela gazed up into his eyes, searching for someplace to fall.

  She found it.

  The sunlight in her home had never felt so bright—almost painful—and Dela wanted to shield her tender eyes as she left the bathroom to face the four men ranged across her living room. Apparently, this group discussion took precedence over surveillance.

  Dela did not want their pity, but she saw some in their faces. She looked for more than pity, some horror or disgust, but found nothing. Just quiet patience.

  “I’ll understand if you guys want to leave,” she said, thankful for Hari’s calm presence against her back. Mindful, too, of her hypocrisy. “Circumstances have changed, and none of you deserves to be in the line of fire for something so personal. I couldn’t take it if any of you got hurt for something I’ve done. This is all my fault.”

  “You are so insane,” Dean said, drinking directly from a bottle of vodka that had appeared on the coffee table. Dela didn’t know she owned anything stronger than beer or wine. Artur frowned at his chugging friend, but it was the look of a man who wanted to gulp down his own shot of hard liquor.

  “Even I can’t defend you on this one.” Blue threw up his hands. “You are nuts.”

  Dela looked to Hari for support.

  “You remember the towel, do you not?” When Dela nodded, Hari smiled. “Then I suppose you know what I will do if you insist on this.”

  “You’re evil.”

  “So it has been said, by people far more frightening than you.”

  “Dela.” Artur slowly stood, a strange pleading in his eyes and hands. Strange because Artur was a man who rarely showed emotion, and here—here he was hiding nothing, the gentle mask gone. “You must let us help you. Roland did not just send us. We asked to come because you are our friend. You are more than a friend. You are family. Do you understand?”

  Dean snorted. “Hell, Dela. We risk our lives and use our powers to help everyone else, and you’re going to tell us to back off? I don’t think so.”

  “Like white on rice,” Blue said. “You’re not getting rid of us that easily.”

  “What about you, Eddie?” Dela managed to ask, close to tears. The young man had remained noticeably silent. “You’re new here and you haven’t known me as long as the others. You don’t have to stay.”

  To his credit, Eddie did not look at the three men ranged around him for permission, or help. His answer was instantaneous and confident.

  “I’m staying, ma’am. Even if the others wanted to leave, I would still stay.”

  “Suck-up,” Dean said pleasantly.

  Eddie blushed, but his gaze remained firm. “Ever since I got here, all I’ve heard about is how no one had a place to belong until Dirk & Steele found them—and how after they were recruited they realized it wasn’t the place, it was the people that made it home. And you’re one of those people, ma’am. If not for me quite yet, then for everyone else. That’s all that matters.”

  “Well,” Blue said, after a long moment of silence. He rested his hand on Eddie’s shoulder. “I think you’re going to fit in just fine around here.”

  Dela tried to smile through the tears stinging her eyes. “I give up. I don’t deserve any of you, but I guess that’s my luck.”

  Hari held up the tray of cookies. “Here,” he said. “Sugar makes the pain go away.”

  “I think I’m beginning to like him,” Dean said, to no one in particular.

  Dela took a cookie. “You should try kissing him sometime.”

  That raised a few uncomfortable smiles. Dela sighed, sinking into the couch. Hari gazed out the window.

  “All right,” she said. “How do we find the bastard who killed this kid?”

  The men all looked at each other. Blue said, “We’re going to find the killer, but I don’t think he’s the one you have to worry about right now. It’s the parents who want you dead.”

  Dela closed her eyes. Took a deep breath. “I don’t blame them.”

  Artur made a low sound. “The murder weapon changed several hands. The first pair was your own; the next belonged to the killer. I cannot tell you much, except the murderer was a man driven by revenge. He wanted to make an example of someone. I do not know who or why, but the little girl was the chosen target. After … completion,” and Dela felt sympathy for Artur, who was sparing her details he himself had been forced to observe, “the knife was left at the scene, where it was found by the child’s family. You have a signature mark on all your blades, yes?”

  Dela nodded. Her mark was always the same stylized D engraved on the steel near the hilt.

  “That is how they found and tracked you,” Artur said. “That is why they want you dead. I am not convinced the family believes you had any personal involvement in their daughter’s death. They just want revenge on everyone whose hand touched the event, no matter how remote the connection.”

  “I made the weapon that killed their child. That isn’t remote. Not in the slightest.”

  “Jesus, Dela.” Dean hung his head. “You think gun manufacturers lose any sleep at night?”

  Dela opened her mouth to argue, but Blue beat her to it. “Shut the hell up, Dean. Dela’s got every right to feel the way she does, and she shouldn’t have to defend herself from us. I’m just glad she’s got the guts to face the issue.”

  A lie. Dela had nothing left within her heart but grief. Grief and determination.

  Hari walked up behind the couch and gently squeezed Dela’s shoulder. His touch stirred memory; she heard the words he had spoken just before guiding her from the bathroom.

  You are miserable because you made the weapon, but remember this: I was a weapon. I still am, save for the grace of your heart. Listen to me. I can recall every face, every injustice. I will never forget how much blood I have on my hands, but I have learned to live with it. You will do the same, Delilah. You will do the same because this act was done against your will, and if you had known—if you had been able—you would have fought this with your last breath. Just as I did. You are an honorable woman, Delilah.

  Dela took his words and wrapped them close to her heart, taking strength from his conviction. She did not believe she still had honor—it felt broken, bleeding—but she would find it again. Somehow.

  “Can the family be reasoned with?” Hari asked. Artur shrugged.

  “If they are anything like my old bosses, then no. They will keep coming until Dela is dead. Our only option is to find the murderer, if he still lives, and bring him to the family. But that is no guarantee.”

  “Are you saying they’re mafia?” Dela asked, incredulous.

  “That is what I sense. And they would certainly have the resources to track you, even overseas. There was another knife, yes? The one used in the second attack? Hari showed it to me. The man hired to murder you was paid a significant amount of money to see you dead, killed by a knife attack. He was a local, chosen because he would blend in more easily. His orders came from an overseas contact.”

  “This sounds like a frame-up. But why use me as the scapegoat?”

  “We don’t know,” Dean said, “and, um, that trail Roland assigned to you in China wasn’t able to provide us with any good intel, either.”

  Dela narrowed her eyes. “What about the guy at the airport?”

  “An unknown,” Blue said. “Probably working for the other side. Roland didn’t hire him.”

  “Well, this is just great.”

  “Listen,” Dean said, “it may be witness protection time. Nice little lodge in the Swiss Alps, you can blend in with the other snow bunnies—”

  Dela shook her head. “Going into hiding is my last option. Besides, if these people really want to cut me up, they’ll just go after Mom and Dad to draw me out. Better me than them.”

  “Then we must be proactive.” Artur stared thoughtfully at his gloved hands. “I have already asked Roland to call Yancy. Some of the larger mafia families are located on the east coast, and there might be word o
f recent family losses.”

  Tension filled the room at the mention of Yancy. Hari stirred, frowning.

  “This Yancy is your aunt?”

  “Correct.” Dela did not trust herself to say more.

  “The two of them don’t get along,” Dean explained. “I mean, they can’t even be together in the same room without one of them losing it. Scariest chick fights I’ve ever seen, and they don’t even land blows.”

  “Girls don’t have rules when they fight,” Blue said with a straight face. “They’re not as civilized as men.”

  “I could take her,” Dela muttered.

  “Of course,” Artur soothed, as Eddie and Hari looked on, somewhat bewildered.

  “Why are you on poor terms with your aunt? Has she hurt you?” Hari asked.

  Dela sighed. “It’s a long story. Yancy is excellent at her job and I respect her for that, but she’s also got a superiority complex a mile wide.”

  “She’s a racist,” Blue said. “She doesn’t like people who are different. In this case, folks without powers. Which is almost everyone.”

  Dela nodded. “She threw a fit when Mom married my dad, just because he doesn’t have psi-gifts, and then she made life hell for my brother and me when we were growing up. Always testing us, finding fault, blaming my dad for all our problems. I bet she’s getting a huge kick out of this.”

  “I doubt that,” Artur said. “You are still her niece.”

  “And by God, no one has a right to bully you but her!” Dean thumped his chest.

  Hari said nothing. He gently squeezed Dela’s shoulder, and she wondered if he thought her childish. After all, his entire family was gone to dust and wind, and here she was, complaining about her own.

  But in his eyes, she found only warmth. That and a quiet sympathy.

  Blue left, taking the riddle box with him. He was gone for an hour, during which time very little was decided, except that Dela had to be carefully guarded at all times. When Blue walked through the door, he nodded at them, silent. No one asked where the box was. As far as Dela was concerned, the fewer people who knew, the better.