Tiger Eye

by Marjorie M. Liu

  “Good-bye, Koni.” Hari smiled. “Perhaps we will meet again.”

  “Sure,” he said, with a marked lack of sincerity.

  They met Rose on the way out, and everyone thanked her for a wonderful time, rattling off some excuse about a family emergency. She abandoned the young man she was escorting into the club and grabbed Artur’s hand, which she pressed to her breast.

  “Come again, my darling Artuuur.”

  “Rose,” he said, managing to smile. “Sweet Rose.”

  “How come she didn’t ask me back?” Dean grumbled, as they jogged down the street to the parked Land Cruiser. Everyone stared at him, and he raised his eyebrows. “What? I’ve got an ego, too.”

  “You said we can intercept this guy,” Blue reminded Artur. “But I thought the murder took place in New York. What’s he doing here, on the other side of the country?”

  “Seems like too much of a coincidence,” Dela said. “Me here, the murderer who used my knife in the same town.” They piled into the car, Hari sitting up front for the extra leg room. Dela perched on the seat behind him, holding on to his shoulders and leaning forward to get a better look at Artur. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say this guy is out to get me, too.”

  She was the only who laughed. The men glanced at each other.

  “No,” she said. “No. I am not the Anti-Christ. Not that many people could possibly want me dead.”

  “It makes sense,” Hari said. “The weapon was not chosen at random. Someone knew you were making a blade, knew when you would send it, and intercepted the shipment.”

  “The killer was setting you up, Dela.” Dean frowned, staring out the window. “But why you, specifically?”

  “Who did you tell about the knife?” This from Blue, who removed his gun from a hidden compartment beneath the car seat.

  “The customer, Adam, my suppliers—people I deal with all the time. They wouldn’t have had any reason to betray me.”

  “The man who commissioned the knife is dead,” Artur announced. “He was found on his yacht several hours ago.”

  Silence greeted his announcement. Dela felt like she was going to be sick.

  “He was a businessman,” she finally said, voice breaking. “Didn’t they even stop to think? How could they—”

  “He was not just a businessman,” Artur interrupted gently. “He worked for the rival crime syndicate in Chinatown. Zhang may have peddled flesh, but this man handled drugs, racketeering.”

  More stunned silence, and then: “How the hell do you know all this?” Dean asked. “If you already had this information …”

  Artur shook his head. “I knew the murder was in retaliation for something Zhang had done against the killer, but I did not know for what. I had our contacts pore over everything, everyone, including the customer who ordered the knife. All I just told you, I learned during the call I took at the bar.”

  “Does this killer have a name?” Hari asked.

  His silence made Dela’s toes curl, her stomach hurt. “Artur?” she asked, some horrible dread spilling into her throat.

  “Adam,” Artur said softly. “The murderer’s name is Adam Yao.”

  Chapter Ten

  Inconceivable—he had to be wrong. Adam would never betray her. Never.

  “Artur,” she breathed, pleading. There was no space in her heart to be angry at Artur for making such an accusation; not when there was so much sorrow in his eyes, a quiet appeal for forgiveness. Artur was her friend; he could be trusted—just as Adam … Adam …

  “It can’t be true,” she murmured. “Adam—he and I are friends. I’ve known him for years. I gave him his first job in America.”

  “Not his first, Dela. He was in America for two years before he ever found you. There is no record of him entering the country, but he did open a bank account in New York, and that was seven years ago.”

  “How did you discover his name?” Hari asked.

  “It was part of the same background investigation I performed on Dela’s customer. Inconsistencies arose, and when my contacts dug deeper, they found that Adam registered with a New York hotel around the same time I sensed the child’s murder had occurred.”

  “Do you remember him going to New York?” Blue asked.

  Dela shook her head. “He took a vacation about two months ago, but that was to Toronto to see a family member who had recently immigrated.” She stopped, looked at them frantically. “No, no, no. Even if … even if he lied about how long he was in America, about his trip, he would never murder a child. Adam wouldn’t do that! You know I have instincts about people. He doesn’t have it in him! Artur, when you touched the weapon, did you feel anything like Adam on it?”

  “Punishment and retribution, Dela. That is all I picked up. The only way to be sure is to find Adam—tap into him—and right now, our sources say he used a credit card to check into the Four Seasons, right here in downtown.”

  “He’s supposed to be in Hawaii for another week,” said Eddie solemnly. “I drove him to the airport myself, made all the reservations.”

  His words hung in the air like broken crystal, sharp and biting.

  “Delilah.” Hari twisted in his seat, reaching back to cup her chin in his hand. They stared at each other, and Dela saw a story in his eyes: compassion, understanding, memory. “You must accept the possibility.”

  “I don’t make mistakes like this, Hari. Ever. If I accept that Adam might betray me, where does that leave all of you?” Her voice was rough, her tongue full of burrs.

  “It leaves us praying for your faith,” Hari said, caressing her cheek. “Faith that if you fall, I will catch you.”

  “We’ll all catch you,” Dean added, gruff. “But don’t go jumping off any buildings—metaphorical or otherwise—until we get this guy’s story and Artur lays his hands on him. We may be leaping to conclusions, getting worked up over nothing.”

  It was a dream to hope for, but the worm of doubt had found a crack in her heart, and it was wiggling deep, straight to the core. So few people knew about the knife and her client, and if Adam had lied, if he had been in New York …

  Oh, God.

  When they arrived at the Four Seasons, Artur parked down the street, away from the main entrance. Only three of them were going in: Dela, Artur, and Hari. Hari, because he refused to entertain the possibility of Dela going into a potentially dangerous situation without him. She worried he would attract too much attention, but did not argue when he insisted. Hari made her feel safe, and she needed that now, more than ever.

  They strode into the hotel, blinking as bright lights blinded their night-sensitive eyes. Marble gleamed, trimmed in gold; the air hummed with refined voices, veiled by the classical strains of a violin and piano, played softly over invisible speakers.

  It was not the kind of place one might think to find a murderer.

  Forgive me, Dela silently begged Adam. If you are innocent, forgive me for doubting, for approaching you with this.

  And if he was guilty …

  Artur already had Adam’s room number. They waited by the elevators, uncomfortable and quiet. Just as the doors slid open, Dela glanced across the lobby.

  “Delilah?”

  She couldn’t talk, and the two men followed her stricken gaze as Adam walked from the shadowed depths of the hotel lounge. His face looked pale, his mouth set in a firm line. Silver stained his hair. He wore dark slacks and a crewneck, a black knapsack slung over his shoulder. His face was devoid of emotion, his pace unhurried. Instead of walking toward the elevators, he headed for the front doors.

  “Shit,” she whispered painfully. “Oh, shit. Adam, you better have a good explanation.”

  They inched closer until they glimpsed Adam jump into a cab, then ran for the exit, heedless of all the people staring at them. The Land Cruiser was already there, waiting with the doors open, Blue at the wheel. He began chasing the cab before all their legs and arms were in the car, and Hari leaned over the blurred road to swing shut the doors.r />
  They barely managed to follow the cab, and eventually lost it—but Adam’s destination was clear as they drove down familiar streets and neighborhoods. Dread gathered in the pit of Dela’s stomach.

  “He’s heading for my place,” she said, and all of them shared identical grimaces. Hari’s hands were clenched tightly in his lap. He stared blindly out the window and Dela wanted to touch him—to be alone with him so he could shut out the world and hold her, to tell her friends never wore two faces, never went to homes in the night to do harm.

  But Dela knew Hari would never tell her such things; he was too honest, had seen too much darkness. She wondered what he made of all this—her life. He said he loved her, and she believed him, but he was not from her world, and she had promised him something better, safer. Yet from the moment they had met, violence had surrounded them, dogging her steps.

  The good and the bad. It always happens together, and all you can do is press on. Press on.

  But if Hari was ever disappointed, if he wished—

  He turned, as though sensing her thoughts, and held out his hand for her to take. She did, marveling at how the simple press of his palm against hers could be so intimate, as though their souls were in their fingertips, rubbing against each other through skin, flesh, and bone, down to some essential essence of spirit.

  As she held his hand and looked into his eyes, she felt his strength, his love, pour through her, and it dulled the ache, made her feel safe again.

  Safe, until they reached the warehouse, and saw a light burning through the upstairs window.

  A difficult night—a lifetime—and while Hari wished he could say he’d had worse, such a declaration would have been impossible. Yes, in his former life there had been agony, excruciating pain—days and nights of torture so horrific he had almost lost his sanity. Battles, too—blood and bone and unending screams. But he was immortal, a slave; and pain, death, never broke his heart.

  With Dela, everything was different.

  Her pain, her fear and suffering took knives to his spirit, sharp incisions into the very fabric of his being. When she hurt, he hurt. Her misery made him feel small and helpless, and for the first time in over two thousand years, his strength meant nothing; his skill with a sword worth less than spit. Dela was suffering from heartbreak, and that was something no one—not even he—could protect her from.

  But if Hari could not protect her with his body, then he would shelter her with his heart and spirit. It was all he had to give—and more than anyone ever had been offered.

  When they arrived home and saw the light in her window, Hari shook his head.

  “Let me go first. It could be an ambush, and he cannot kill me.”

  “Hari,” Dela protested.

  “No, Delilah. I insist. Stay here with the others. Give me time.”

  He left before she could begin arguing with him, trusting the others to keep her safe. In truth, he did not trust anyone but himself to that task, but these men were Dela’s friends—almost, he thought, like brothers-in-arms—and he did not want to do anything to alienate her from them. He planned on staying in her life a long time, and a good man allowed his mate her freedom in all things.

  Mate. It was impossible not to think of her as such, even though he had known her so short a time. From the first, Dela had seen the man—not the warrior, slave, or plaything. The man. And because of that, he had fallen into friendship—a rare, beautiful thing that still hurt his heart with pleasure. Pleasure and love.

  She loves me, he thought, still marveling at the enormity of that blessing. But to be her mate; for them to be joined as one, when he still lived within a curse …

  I will outlive Delilah, even if that life is measured in sleep. I will outlive our children.

  The idea almost paralyzed him. He could not imagine a more horrific fate, and it was one he had already suffered by living while all his people lost their shadows to the earth. Could he once again do such a thing to himself—and to her?

  Do not think of this now. You have a murderer to catch.

  The tiger shifted within him, closer now to the surface than it had been in over two thousand years. He could almost feel his claws, the spread of fur upon flesh, and his muscles rippled loose and smooth as water. His eyesight sharpened as he crept up the warehouse stairs, a wraith in the gloom, pursuing the unfamiliar scent filling his nose. He tasted man—nervous, hesitant—the tang of sweat and spice.

  Dela’s door, which Blue had fixed earlier that day, now stood ajar. Lamplight curled into the hall, and Hari crept close until he could peer through the crack in the entranceway. He saw nothing of value, but heard the rise and fall of unsteady breath, felt the presence of the man beyond the door.

  Hari placed his finger on the door, and pushed.

  His instincts had told him what to expect, and he was not far wrong. Adam Yao sat cross-legged in the middle of the floor, facing the entry. He held a very long knife in his hands.

  Adam’s eyes widened when he saw Hari crouched on the other side of the slowly opening door, but before he could speak or move, Hari held up his hand. A hypnotic gesture, full of power.

  “You do not know me,” Hari said quietly, “but I have reason to hate you. I desire your death, but I am a man of control. Tell me why you are here. Is it to kill Delilah?”

  “No,” said Adam, blinking rapidly. Sweat broke out on his forehead, and still he did not move. “I have come to make amends.”

  “Ah,” Hari sighed, terrible fury sweeping through him. “So you did betray her.”

  Adam shook his head. “No! Where is Dela? I must say this to her face.”

  “I’m here, Adam.” Dela stepped from the shadows with Artur and the others close on her heels. Hari had heard her coming; he did not want her here, not now. It was too soon. He predicted there would be blood, and it was a memory he did not want her to carry, not with all the other violence still running in shadows through her eyes. And yet, he knew Dela too well. Her sense of honor compelled her to face this traitor. For him to convince her to do otherwise would be committing another act of betrayal.

  She has a gentle heart, and yet she is a warrior.

  Still, Hari would not let her stand too close. He made her stop just beyond the doorway, keeping a shoulder interposed between her body and Adam. The man did not smell like murder, but Hari was taking no chances.

  “Did you kill that child in New York?” Dela wasted no time voicing the question she dreaded most. Her face was pale but determined. Hari felt pride for her.

  Adam nearly choked on his breath. Clearly it was a question he had not been expecting, and right then, Hari knew the answer. To Adam’s credit, he did not pretend ignorance.

  “Dela, that family … they are murderers. They commit unimaginable crimes against the men and women they transport to this country. They used us as slaves, made us work in their businesses and homes for nothing.” He stopped, breathing hard. “They killed my family.”

  Hari closed his eyes.

  “Oh, Adam.” Dela whispered. “Why didn’t you tell me? I …” She stopped, shaking her head. “I’m so sorry for your loss, but I have to know. Did you kill that child with my knife?”

  “Yes,” he breathed, and with that admission, Hari felt death sigh through the room. “Yes, I did. I wanted the Zhangs to live the same nightmare I went through when they gutted my daughter. I wanted them to pay.”

  “And so you took the life of a child.” Artur’s voice was cold, flat. Adam shook his head, a convulsive motion, desperate.

  “You don’t understand,” he whispered brokenly. “I wanted something better for my family. I knew English. I began looking for opportunities outside Chinatown. Opened a bank account so they couldn’t touch our money. But someone told, and the Zhangs sent their men. They raped my wife, beat my children, and when I resisted, they killed them all. They would have killed me, but I escaped. I don’t know how. I kept running, and didn’t stop until I found this town, and Dela.”

 
He bowed his head. “I thought I had moved on, but when I learned you were making a knife for Lo Dai, their rival, I knew it was time. I could take care of two problems at once. I could make them suffer.”

  Hari felt Dela’s rage and disappointment curl around her body like smoke, acrid and bitter in his nose. A thundercloud, hovering in her head, and he felt the power coil like a snake.

  The blade in Adam’s lap darted into the air, the razor tip coming to rest against the hollow of his throat.

  “Dela,” Blue warned, but she ignored him.

  “You could have told me, Adam. We would have found another way.” Her voice was gentler than her eyes, than the furious ticking in her cheek. It was frightening to see, and even Hari felt thankful he was not the target of her anger.

  It took Adam a moment to piece together his voice. Hari was not sure what most unnerved the cringing man: the levitating blade, or Dela’s eyes.

  “What way?” he finally gasped. “The law? The government knows about the abuses. The police know. Everyone knows. Nothing is done. Ever. The criminals are too powerful, the community too afraid. No one will talk.”

  “You could have talked. Instead, you gave up on everyone you left behind. You gave up on me.”

  Adam shook his head, shiny with sweat. “I didn’t think you would ever find out, Dela. I never imagined they would trace the knife, or hold you responsible. I thought the killing would remain in New York, within the two families. I didn’t want you hurt.”

  “That doesn’t make it right! You used me to kill a child. Was it worth it? Was revenge so sweet, Adam? I can’t imagine how you suffered, but now what do you remember? When you think of your family, what do you see? Them, or that child you murdered? How do her screams sound in your head?”

  Her screams sounded horrible, if the expression on Adam’s face meant anything. Hari had seen such a look in men’s eyes before—men who had given in to demands Hari himself had fought with every fiber of his being. It was the face of empty despair, loathing.