Adam moaned, rocking forward against the blade, tears racing down his cheeks. “I thought it would be worth it … but it wasn’t. It wasn’t. When I discovered the Zhangs had set their people after you, I didn’t know what to do. I left town, like you wanted, but I couldn’t stand the guilt. I came here to confess everything. I’ve sent a letter to the Zhangs, explaining the truth, that you had no part in the murder.”
Dela began to weep, but the blade remained steady at Adam’s neck. Hari noticed the other men’s uneasiness. They seemed alarmed by her sudden increase in power—or perhaps, it was her control they feared.
Hari did not fear.
“I thought you were my friend,” Dela whispered. “A good person. No matter what was done to you, how could you murder a child? How could you?”
“They broke him,” Hari told Dela, knowing Adam would never be able to explain his actions, not to anyone’s satisfaction, not even to himself. Hari crouched, and gazed at the crying man without pity or disdain. “I will tell you something, Adam Yao. I have been a slave also, and though I was forbidden to disobey orders, there were things I would not do—that I could not do, no matter the compulsion or punishment. What these Zhangs took from you, what you forgot, is that there are some things worse than mere pain and death. Some acts that cannot be forgiven.”
Hari rose to his feet and stepped in front of Dela, blocking her view of Adam. He placed his hands on her shoulders, and looked deep into her stricken eyes.
“He is already a dead man, Delilah, and you are not a killer. Do not walk down his path. Let it go.”
Her eyes were huge, a drowning gaze full of sorrow, but his words caused ripples and he saw the answer. Hari did not look to see if the blade descended to the ground. He trusted Dela. He gathered her into his arms and she nodded blindly against his shoulder, crying.
“Dela.” Adam held the blade in his hands. “Do you forgive me?”
Dela stepped away from Hari, although she held his hand in an iron grip. “I forgive you for betraying me. But I can’t forgive you for killing that child. Never.”
Adam nodded, looking at the blade. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, and before anyone could stop him, he plunged the knife into his chest, hilt deep.
Dela screamed, racing to Adam’s side. He had done the job well; he took his last stuttering breath as Dela knelt beside him. Her face was the last thing he saw before his eyes glazed over.
Chapter Eleven
“This place is going to have some major death cooties,” Dean muttered, minutes after he and Artur returned from “stashing Adam.” They had already called New York, leaving a message with a restaurant manager who, according to Artur’s contacts, was familiar with Wen Zhang. If Zhang wanted Adam’s remains as proof of his death, they would give him the dead man’s location.
If not, fine. Adam would be cremated, his ashes scattered. None of the men were particularly concerned that anyone, including the police, would come looking for Adam. Artur had been careful to check with his sources: Adam was an undocumented alien, without a single living family member in North America. His story about relatives in Toronto was a lie. There was no one left who knew him, no one left who cared.
Hari was unfamiliar with the term “death cooties,” but he had a good idea of what it meant. He agreed with Dean, and wondered if Dela should find another home. Besides the bad memories, places where violent deaths occurred sometimes carried destructive energy. He did not want such forces imprinting themselves upon Dela’s life.
“I can’t believe how selfish Adam was,” Eddie remarked, staring into a glass of lemonade. “I mean, besides the murder, he killed himself in front of Dela! Didn’t he realize how much that would hurt her?”
“I don’t think taking care of Dela’s feelings was high on his list of priorities,” Blue said, stretched out on the couch. He had a pillow pressed to his face, muffling his voice. “All of us judged that man wrong. He was a self-centered SOB.”
“Not like it happened overnight, though,” Dean pointed out. “The man went through hell.”
Artur said nothing. He was the only one who had seen the murder, and they all knew the child’s death had affected him deeply. It was anyone’s guess what the Russian thought Adam’s punishment should be, but odds were that death was part of the equation. Suicide, however, had probably not been the imagined method of execution.
Hari stared at the bedroom door. Dela had gone into her room after the men took the body away, and she had not yet come out. He respected her need to be alone, but everything inside him was screaming to go to her.
He finally gave in; she could always tell him to stay away.
Hari rapped lightly on the door and opened it just enough to see Dela curled on the bed. Her eyes glittered with tears, but she did not ask him to leave. He quietly entered and shut the door behind him. Dela hiccupped, swallowing new sobs. Balled-up tissues were scattered everywhere like snowdrifts.
“Tell me about Adam,” he said, lying down behind her. He pulled Dela into his arms, spooning her deep against his body. “Share with me your memories.”
And she did; reluctantly at first, but with increasing enthusiasm, regaling Hari with stories of five years together: first as employer to employee, and later, as friend to friend. Dela talked for a long time, and Hari listened, silent except for the occasional prodding question.
“I miss him,” she said, when her stories were done and she had gone silent for a time. “I can’t believe he’s dead, Hari. I just … I keep seeing him lift the knife, and I feel like it’s my fault. That I drove him to it. But I just couldn’t forgive him for killing that child, not even after hearing what horrible things were done to his family. I still can’t forgive him.”
“He made his choice,” Hari said quietly. “And he could not live with it. Your forgiveness would not have changed this night’s outcome, Delilah. Adam wanted to die.”
Dela shuddered. “I can’t stop remembering the good times. We were even talking about opening a new gallery downtown. He was going to be co-owner.”
Hari’s arms tightened. “You should remember the good times. There is nothing wrong with that. He was your friend, but his past intruded and he could not control himself. I have seen it happen before, Delilah. Good men broken by their enemies, set adrift—and then a moment comes to test their spirits. Is the soul stronger than the opportunity, the anger? When a man has been truly broken, the answer is no, because nothing matters. Not life, not honor. He can pretend such things are important, maybe he even believes it. But it is an illusion, cast away with the perfect temptation.”
Dela was silent for a time, digesting his words. “What did your masters want you to do that would have broken you?”
Ah, she remembered. At first he did not know what to say; the words were painful, the memories worse. Eyes so terrified, watching his every move. He had been the embodiment of a nightmare.
“My masters commanded me to rape and kill women and children,” he said, unable to soften the horror of those words. “The enemy’s or their own. For some, it was just a vicious sport. See a child on the street, order me to take my bare hands and break its neck. Or violate the daughter of a visiting warlord, to make a point. I refused, always, but it was a tremendous struggle. The spell requires me to obey every command my master gives, but to do those things? My body would move, while my mind fought—and always, I won. I had no choice. As you say, ‘the alternative was unthinkable.’”
“Were those the only commands you could fight?”
“Yes,” he breathed. “And I believe the only reason I was able to resist was because hurting women and children was so alien to my nature. My mind could not accept such orders as real. We tigers are the protectors and caregivers of our families. Harming them is inconceivable.”
He paused. “Do you understand what that means, Delilah? That all the other violent acts I committed were somehow acceptable to me. Not abhorrent.”
Dela turned in his arms, and he saw he had made he
r forget Adam, if only temporarily. Her entire focus was on him, and to be the center of such fiercely tender compassion made his breath catch, his eyes grow hot with unshed tears. Dela stroked his cheek with her fingertips, her thumb brushing his lips with loving care.
“You didn’t want to kill those people, Hari.”
“Not consciously, but if murder had truly been against my nature, I would have been able to resist.”
Dela sighed. “There is a tiger inside you. A predator. Have you ever heard of a tiger who does not kill?”
“I am also a man, Delilah.”
“A man who would kill in self-defense, correct? If you could kill to save yourself, then the capacity is there. It isn’t shameful, but it’s there. There, to be used against you.”
Hari went very still. Could she be right? Was the logic of that horror so simple?
It does not matter. The past is past, and no logic can change the death on my hands. I have killed in battle, in cold blood—I have murdered men whose crimes were nothing more than an opinion or straying eye. There is no forgiveness for that.
And yet, to have some new understanding of why; to be allowed the possibility that inside him, there was not a monster secretly hungering for the suffering of others …
Hari closed his eyes. “How did I survive before I met you?”
Dela gently kissed his cheek. “You’re very resilient.”
He choked, a gasp of laughter and heartache. So much memory in that one quiet sound, and Dela somehow heard it.
“You were punished for disobeying.”
“Yes,” Hari whispered, “and they were very creative. The worst ever imagined has probably been tried at least once on me.”
“And you were alone. You never had a friend.”
“Never,” he said. “Until you.”
Dela tucked her head under his chin, wrapping herself around him like a warm cocoon. Hari breathed in the scent of her hair, her skin, glorying in the miracle tangled against his body. He could no longer conceive of his life without Dela, and he realized there was another way to break him: losing her.
Hari felt a little more sympathy for Adam, though he knew there were still lines he would never cross. Lines that would become homage to Dela’s integrity and compassion, her memory.
She is not dead yet, he thought, raw desperation clawing his throat. She will live to be an old woman.
But not Hari. Hari would never age.
He could not talk to her about it—not now, with her heart broken. But if not now, then when? He could easily put this conversation off forever, and it was necessary. Before they grew any closer.
“Delilah,” he said hoarsely. “Forgive me for being selfish. This is not the time, but there is something you should consider about us, something important we have not discussed. I should have, but I could not bring myself to say the words.”
Dela looked wary. “Hari—”
“You know I am immortal,” he said in a rush, hating himself for adding to her burden. “I love you and would gladly stay by your side for all time, but you will grow old, as will our children … should we have them. Everyone but me will age and die.”
“Hari,” she said, lacing her fingers through his own. “Why are you talking about this? I believe we can break the curse, although the ‘how’ of it is still a mystery. But even if we can’t, I would rather spend every minute of my life with you, than just give up because one day you’re going to look younger than me.”
“I don’t want to lose you,” he breathed, trying to make her understand.
“What do you want me to do? Order you not to love me? Return you to the box and bury you in the desert?”
“Perhaps. I sleep. I would remember you as a dream.”
Hari instantly wished he could take back his words. The hurt in her eyes, the anger—
“You selfish son of a bitch.” Dela pushed away from him and rolled off the bed. “A dream, huh? I guess you’d rather have the dream than the real thing. And what about me, Hari? I’d be living out the rest of my life alone, except I wouldn’t have the luxury of hiding in the dark, pretending. I’d have to face my pain, every day.”
“Delilah.” He got off the bed, but she backed away, shaking her head, tears running down her face.
“Your timing is lousy and you’re a coward,” she spat. “Or maybe you don’t really love me and this is just your way of letting me down easy, getting out before things get too tight.”
Hari crossed the distance between them in an instant, pinning her against the wall with a snarl. “Do not dare say such things, Delilah. I want your happiness more than anything else in this world, and if giving you a normal life with a normal man would do it, then I am prepared for the long sleep.”
Dela tried shoving him. “Bullshit. Sounds like you’re worried about your own happiness.”
“Maybe,” he confessed, “but I am more terrified of losing your love than your life.”
“My love? But why—Hari, do you think I would stop loving you because you can’t die? That I would … would resent you for your youth?”
“You might. Not just for yourself, but for any children we might have. Even they could learn to hate me.”
“Oh, Hari.” Dela stopped struggling, and pressed her forehead against his chest. “You are such an idiot.”
Hari wrapped his arms around her. “You could grow old with any other man. The two of you, aging together.”
Dela pummeled his back with her fists, but did not try to leave the circle of his arms. “I thought we already covered this, you numbskull. There will never be another man. You’re it. If you leave now, I’ll go to a convent, become a nun, and flagellate myself three times daily for the awful sin of remembering you naked.”
He laughed, though he had not thought laughter was possible at a time like this. Someone knocked on the door. Dean peered in.
“Are you guys okay? We heard fighting.” He gave Hari a suspicious look.
Dela quirked her lips. “Let me ask you something, Dean. If you were madly in love with the woman of your dreams, would you call off the relationship simply because she’s immortal?”
“Hell, no. That’s every man’s fantasy. Ninety years old with a hot chick pushing my wheelchair.”
“See?” Dela smacked Hari on the chest. “Except I’ll be ninety years old with a gorgeous stud carrying me everywhere I want to go.”
“Your feet will never touch the ground,” Hari promised, kissing her palm. “Your body will be my temple.”
Dean groaned, shaking his head. “Get a better line, man.”
“Go away, Dean.”
Dean muttered something unflattering, but quickly left. Dela smiled at Hari.
“Finally getting a toehold in the pack, huh?”
“I prefer to think of it as beginning relations with a friendly clan.”
“Clan, huh?” She rubbed her cheek against his chest. “Well, does my fellow clan mate feel like a shower?” Her voice was light, but her eyes were tired, bloodshot. Even, he thought, uncertain.
“Of course,” he murmured, as they backed into the bathroom, peeling off each other’s clothes. He thought of doing this every day for the rest of Dela’s life, and though burdened by sadness, his joy overwhelmed it. Dela was a gift to celebrate, not mourn.
And he celebrated her with his lips and his hands, until she cried out his name, again and again.
And then he held her while she cried for Adam.
Chapter Twelve
Adam’s suicide continued to weigh heavily upon Dela’s mind, and for several days afterward she wavered between melancholy and outright depression. She kept the gallery closed and received several phone calls inquiring into her health, asking if she needed help. Dela always said no, thanking her callers for their concern. “Just undergoing some renovations,” she would say. “Things will be back to normal in a couple of weeks.”
Maybe.
Dela spent a lot of time in her studio, staring at the cold forge. Her art fe
lt like a memory, distant and unreal. Everything she had created was without meaning or substance. She ignored the unfinished projects on the worktables, shutting her mind away from steel. All she could do was look; she did not touch the sculptures or weapons. She did not listen to their whispers.
When she was not in her studio, she wandered around her home, unable to rest easy. She had trouble sitting in her living room, or eating at the dining table, which overlooked the great expanse of floor where so much blood had poured. No amount of sunshine could wipe away the gloom hanging over that room.
“I want to move,” she announced over breakfast, three days after Adam’s death. Her friends were still bunking with her, and would continue to do so until they heard some word from the Zhangs. While no one disputed Hari’s abilities in a fight, even he agreed there was safety in numbers.
“Thank God,” moaned Dean.
Dela glared at him. “Don’t hold back, Dean. Tell me what you really think.”
“I think you should get the hell out of this place,” he said with a straight face. “So many people have died here, I’m afraid heads are going to start spinning.”
“I know a good exorcist,” Blue remarked, buttering his toast. “But he charges by the hour.”
“Oh, stop it.” Dela tried not to smile. “I just want a change of scene, that’s all.”
Someone knocked on the door. Six pairs of eyes swiveled uncertainly at each other.
“Are you expecting anyone?” Hari asked, rising to his feet. His sword lay beside his chair on the floor; he had taken to keeping the blade close at all times. He picked it up when Dela shook her head, and the rest of the men clicked the safeties off their guns. They swiftly took up positions around the living room while Eddie guided Dela into the bedroom. The young man cracked open the door, standing with his shoulder against the wall.
Dela heard the front door open, and then:
“Hey, good morn—holy shit, are those guns?”
Dela raced out of the bedroom and found Kit standing in the entryway, staring openmouthed at the sheepish men trying in vain to cover their shoulder harnesses and weapons. Hari was the only one who did not try to hide; he held his sword braced against his forearm, the nicked steel glinting silver.
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