Eye of Heaven

by Marjorie M. Liu

  “Wonderful,” he said, eyes shining. “Beautiful.”

  But she barely heard him. It had been a long time since Iris had committed to a full shift; she was unused to the sensation, the raw quality of her senses streaming the world into her head. And this body was so different—liquid and strong, long with the leanness of an arrow bolt. She wondered how she had gone so many years without this, how she could have forgotten what it felt like.

  Santoso rolled up his sleeves and knelt before her. Her tail lashed the air; she wanted to pounce, to fasten her teeth and kill. She almost did, too, except for the guns—those awful guns. Santoso might not want her dead, but no one else would care. They’d skin her and hang the fur on the wall, whispering, “This was a human once. A fairy tale. And we killed her.”

  Santoso stared into her eyes, still smiling, still smelling like happiness on legs, and it struck Iris as highly ironic that the one man on earth who could look at her and not run screaming was also a raging lunatic. Just her luck.

  He placed his arm under her nose. His skin smelled bitter. Iris growled.

  “Sir,” said one of his men, but Santoso shook his head, his gaze never leaving Iris.

  “Your eyes,” he whispered. “Your eyes give you away, you know. They are the gold of heaven and you are its magic, everything a man dreams of as a child, but can never attain because the sky is too high, too fanciful, too much a dream. But I have you. I have you, Iris, and I will have my dream. I will take my magic. I will take it all.”

  Santos pressed his arm even closer, right up against her mouth.

  “Bite me,” he said. Totally serious, extremely earnest.

  Bite me. Right. Good one. Thank you, God.

  And Iris almost did—because really, he was asking for it. Literally.

  But at the last moment she held back, kept herself in check. Something was wrong—a lot of things were wrong—but Santoso’s asking her to bite his arm was wrong in a very specific way that she did not understand, and as there were several guns trained on her head, she wanted to know exactly what that was before she got a taste of his blood—and maybe a bullet.

  Iris reverted shape, but only enough so that she could talk. She remained on the floor, tail lashing, and her voice was rough and raw as she said, “The hell you mean, you want me to bite you?”

  “I want to be like you. I want you to give me your gift.”

  “Give you …” Iris stopped, choking down a laugh. Santoso had been watching too many movies. He thought that if she bit him, he would gain her abilities. What a joke.

  So what? You tell him the truth? How smart would that be?

  Because he would either think she was lying—resulting in some bad consequences for her—or that she was honest, therefore making her very, very useless. Either way she was screwed.

  Santoso still held out his arm, but his gaze was changing, turning cold and dark, ready to dish out the hurt. Aw, hell. “I can bite you, but there’s no guarantee that you’ll become like me. None at all. It doesn’t work for everyone. And not always right away. This is a change that occurs on a genetic level. It takes time.”

  Yes, time. And she was the biggest bullshitter of her generation.

  Santoso’s eyes narrowed. “If you’re lying to me …”

  “My paw to God. Why would I lie?”

  “I can think of numerous reasons,” he said dryly. “Fortunately, I already have a contingency plan in place.”

  Really. Iris could not possibly imagine the kind of contingency plan that would be sufficient to turn a human man into a shape-shifter, but if it bought her time and kept Santoso happy …

  He thrust his arm into her face. “Do it.”

  Iris shifted shape, sliding back into the full leopard. She sniffed Santoso’s arm—hoped her gag reflex did not kick in—and bit down slowly. She could have done it fast, hard, but she knew how powerful her jaws were, and though it would not pain her greatly, she did not want to take Santoso’s arm off. Her teeth pressed and pressed—Santoso paled, jaw flexing—and Iris suddenly felt the break in his skin like a popped bubble. Blood filled her mouth—hot, metallic, a rush that ran down her throat like a drug.

  Human blood. She had never tasted human blood. It had been almost a decade since she had swallowed any blood at all, but human—human was not elk, it was not sheep, it was not anything of the wood or mountain. It was sexy. It made the leopard hungry.

  Her jaw tightened; Santoso squirmed and cried out. She felt a blow across her shoulders and growled, tightening her grip. Another blow, another, and Santoso shouted, pulling back. Iris let go. She did not want to, but she remembered—Human, I am human—and the leopard gave way to the woman.

  She heard shouts, smelled pain; she shifted shape, fur receding into pink skin, spine shrinking as her tail burrowed into her back. Slide human, slide fast, Iris told herself, but halfway there the metallic taste in her mouth changed with her body. The blood no longer tasted so good. Iris leaned forward and vomited. A foot landed hard in her ribs.

  “You tried to hurt me,” Santoso said. His voice shook; from anger or pain, Iris could not be sure. One of the men had dragged out a first-aid kit and was wrapping up his arm with careful, almost tender movements.

  Money or fear. Iris still did not know what inspired that kind of loyalty.

  “You asked me to bite you,” Iris said weakly. Her ribs hurt and her mouth tasted like a rotting carcass. She could almost see the flies buzzing around her teeth. “What did you expect? A joyride?”

  Santoso sucked in his breath. “You are enjoying this.”

  Iris smiled. “Don’t you get off on pain? Isn’t that why you do this? Don’t tell me it’s just the money. That’s never enough. Not for what I’ve seen.”

  She heard a knock and turned. Broker stood in the doorway. He looked down at her, and then Santoso. He appeared amused, though Iris did not know why; surely it was something his boss would not appreciate.

  Iris rose to her feet as Broker entered. Songbird was still mostly unconscious. She groaned, fingers twitching.

  “The Russians are here,” Broker said. “Nikolai Petrovona is waiting in your office.”

  Santoso’s face hardened. “He is early.”

  “And he says you are late with the merchandise. And that this facility is a waste of money.”

  The man finished wrapping his arm, Santoso pulled down his sleeve and glanced at Iris. “I want her placed in the hold. Do not give her clothes, no food or water. And tell the doctors to prepare the medical bay.”

  “Medical bay,” Iris said. “What does that—”

  “I was going to fuck you,” Santoso interrupted coldly. “Before I knew what you were, I was going to keep you naked and on a leash, never allowed to stand higher than your knees. But I have many women for sex, and you can offer me more. You are more. And I will make you part of me, forever.”

  “Nice speech,” Iris said. “You son of a—”

  Santoso backhanded her. Iris almost went down to her knees, but she caught her footing and felt a fierce smile rise up her throat, let loose with a low laugh that made all the men stare.

  “I am not impressed with your attempts at foreplay,” Iris said, touching her stinging cheek. “Not at all, Santoso.”

  The man raised his fist. Broker said, “Sir, you really don’t have time for this.”

  Maybe not, but he hit her anyway. Or tried to. Iris blocked his blow, grabbing his wrist and twisting it back until she drove him into the ground. Santoso cried out. The cold muzzle of a gun touched Iris’s temple. She did not let go. Her gaze slid sideways to Broker. A fast draw; she never even saw him move.

  “I hate your guts,” she told him. “All of you people are too sick to live.”

  “But you aren’t,” Broker said, gun hand steady, unwavering. “So why don’t you prolong your life just a little longer, and let go of my employer?”

  Iris glanced down at Santoso, at the base of his neck, his greasy black hair, and felt something suck on her ey
eballs as she examined the man—knew with a cold, hard certainty that she was watching a transformation occur. Not to cat, not to something more than human, but rather, a devolution into a creature small and ineffectual. A tiny man with a tinier heart. And there was part of her that could taste that weakness—taste, in contrast, her own power—and she knew that if she turned Santoso around she would be able to peel through the mask of his face and see the ghost beneath; an expensive shell that was fragile, screaming.

  Fear left her; uncertainty died. Iris spit on the back of his head and turned him loose, throwing him away with a hard shove. Santoso snarled. Broker stepped between them both.

  “The Russians,” he said in a firm voice, and much to Iris’s shock, Santoso listened. Shaking with anger—shuddering, almost—he walked past Iris, trying to stare her down. Iris matched his gaze and, at the very last moment, just before he entered the hall, he raised a shaky hand and pointed at her.

  “You and I,” he said, and touched the corner of his eye. “Together.”

  Which was appropriately enigmatic, given everything else he had said to her. Santoso disappeared. Two of his men followed, but the last hesitated, looking between Broker and Iris.

  “Go,” Broker said, gun still drawn. “I can handle her.”

  The look on the man’s face clearly begged to differ, but he followed orders and left, dragging Songbird away with him.

  Alone at last. Iris took a step back and studied Broker. He returned her stare, examining her body with a clinical detachment that might have frightened her thirty minutes ago, but was now just par for the course.

  Yes, look at my breasts, asshole. They’re the same breasts half the people in this world have, and if you try to touch them, so help me God I will take off your hand and shove it up your ass.

  “You would do well here,” Broker said, finally looking at her face. “Ah, well.” He glanced down at the discarded chains, but made no move to pick them up or restrain her. He pointed at the door and held up his gun. “Walk with me.”

  Anything that let Iris see more of this place was fine by her, though his equanimity made her suspicious. Broker led Iris down a wide, elegantly decorated hall that continued to smell of blood and antiseptic. She saw no other people, but on several occasions heard low voices, one of which was discussing white-blood-cell counts.

  “So,” she said to Broker. “Where are you taking me?”

  “I’m not sure it matters. Where do you think you are?”

  Iris thought about wrestling him for the gun. “I think I am in a place where anything can be bought, and where very bad people can pretend to act civilized while doing terrible things.” She looked him in the eye. “You know what I am.”

  “That you can change your shape?” Broker smiled. “Yes.”

  “You don’t act surprised.”

  “Act surprised and do what I do? Act surprised, and yet still fulfill the requests of the men and women who do business here? Oh, no. A shape-shifter is nothing compared to that. Almost, I would say, mundane.”

  “But you work here anyway.”

  Broker’s smile widened. “I like making people happy.”

  Iris dropped low, kicking out the back of his knee. Broker went down, but instead of staying there, he rolled, grabbing her ankle and twisting. Iris didn’t fall, only staggered—but all her plans of sending him flat and taking away that gun went to hell. He shot up, body a blur, and pressed cold steel against her forehead. Iris froze.

  “Bang,” Broker whispered.

  “Bang,” Iris echoed softly, watching his eyes: cold gray, storm gray, bone gray.

  Broker moved slowly away, gun held steady. “You tried. I admire that. Would you have killed me?”

  “Maybe,” Iris said.

  “Maybe.” Broker tilted his head, amused. “You have never taken a life. I can see it in your eyes. Don’t start now, Iris.”

  “Dirty times, dirty measures. I want to live, Broker.”

  “Then live,” he said, and gestured for her to stand. “Hurry.”

  Frowning, Iris followed the man as he pushed open a set of doors that led into a room filled with medical equipment—a surgical table, tools, lights, monitors, and a counter filled with odd metallic canisters.

  “Santoso thinks he can be more than human,” Broker said, his voice echoing gently. “He thinks he can stop being the prey if he is the hunter.”

  “Prey to what? As far as I can see, he answers to no one.” Iris shook her head. “Fine. So he sees I’m a shape-shifter and thinks that will give him an advantage. He has no idea of the price.”

  “No one ever does.” Broker leaned close, eyes intense. “He wants your body, Iris. He wants your blood. You see this room? This is where it will happen. Everything is prepared—the finest doctors available. What he does for others, he will do for himself, even though he is healthy. He will strip you, Iris. He will take you apart and put you back together inside himself.” His mouth curved into a grim smile. “And I think he will start with your eyes.”

  Iris hesitated. “You can’t be serious.”

  “We both know the bite will do nothing for him.”

  “Neither will giving him my body parts.” Iris looked for a weapon, for anything. Enough of this shit; a bullet would be better than what that operating table promised.

  But Broker aimed the gun at her head, walked slowly around her, and pointed at another set of doors right off the medical bay. “Open those. Now.”

  “Another surprise?”

  “Yes,” Broker said. “Do it.”

  The doors were heavy; rubber seals coated the edges, making them airtight. She pulled hard and, as the seal parted, Iris smelled dirt, fresh clean air. Her hair stirred away from her face, and she threw back her head as she pushed open the doors and found the desert before her.

  Broker stepped close. “As I’m sure you’ve surmised, this facility is not just a brothel. We also provide services of a medical nature, and this is the direct entrance for our more critical patients. The ambulance drives right up to the door.”

  Iris wanted to scream. “Why are you doing this? Are you going to shoot me when I run?”

  “No.” Broker put away the gun. “But I won’t promise not to chase you, either.”

  Iris edged through the doorway; her bare feet touched dirt and it felt like silk. She glanced back over her shoulder. “Was I brought here alone, Broker? Was there another woman?”

  A smile played over his lips. “There was no one but you, Iris.”

  “And I should trust you about that? About anything you’ve told me? I thought you said Santoso’s plans were your plans.”

  “I said that. But I received some curious news … and I am allowed to be flexible.”

  “I doubt your boss would feel that way.”

  “Ah,” he said, smiling. “But which boss are you referring to?” He pointed at the desert. “You have five minutes. Use them well.”

  The night called; the wind was sweet, the moon bright and cold as a diamond.

  Iris ran.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Much later, when asked to recall the events that took place in the hours following Iris’s kidnapping, Blue found his memory selective, without details, so that all his recollections of the past consisted only of the strong and vibrant: snatches of conversation, a stream of neon reflected in his brother’s glasses, the heat and scent of the woman bleeding from the gunshot wound beside him. Hard memories, sharp—like his heart, aching like a scream inside his chest.

  “You’re Iris’s mother,” Daniel said during that taxi ride. “Serena McGillis.”

  “Serena,” Blue said softly. “Oh, Serena.”

  “Do not speak of it,” she rasped at him. “Do not use that name.”

  “And what name should we use?” Blue asked, but Serena did not answer him, and all he could do was listen to her harsh breathing, each swallow of her pain.

  True to her word, she had a car at the airport—a black Humvee that took up two parking
spaces and that looked spacious enough for Iris and a whole troop of cats to live inside.

  “Here.” Serena pushed keys into Blue’s hand. They were sticky with blood.

  “You need a doctor,” he said to her, but she had already turned and was crawling into the backseat of the car. Daniel closed the door behind her and looked at Blue with an expression that was pure What the fuck?

  Blue shrugged. No way was he going to explain how he knew Serena, not unless she began talking first. Daniel might not give a shit about his secrets, but Blue was more of a professional than that. For the most part.

  The two men got into the car. Serena gave Blue directions on which freeway to take, and with the city still buzzing on the edge of his mind, he steered them into the desert, where the moon was just beginning to rise over the mountains, casting a cold light that looked good enough to drink.

  Blue heard cloth tear, grunts and whistles, all kinds of sounds indicating discomfort, pain. He and Daniel shared a brief glance, Blue looked into the rearview mirror, saw nothing but shadow, and said, “Are you sure you don’t need help?”

  The barrel of a gun pressed against his head. “I am certain. Do not look in that mirror again.”

  Blue cleared his throat. “Sorry.”

  A low grunt. The gun tapped his head. “Take this. Daniel, here’s another.”

  Blue reached back and took the gun. His brother did the same. Daniel held the weapon easily, as though he knew how to use it.

  “Where’s Iris?” Blue asked Serena. “Will we catch up to them on this road?”

  “No,” Serena said, and her voice was rough, weary. “Santoso would have gone immediately to the airport and taken his helicopter to the facility. There is a good chance Iris has already been secured.”

  “What does that mean?” Daniel asked. “Who the hell are these people, and what do they want with Iris?”

  “Santoso Rahardjo wants Iris for the same reason he ever wants anything beautiful,” Serena said in a hard voice. “To use it.”

  “He’s a flesh peddler,” Blue told his brother. “The supposed head of a global operation that specializes in black-market human organs: hearts, livers, corneas, bones. Anything and everything. His people take what they want by force, and if they do pay, it’s only in pennies or livestock.”