Tiger Eye

by Marjorie M. Liu

  “Round one goes to the Evil Minion of Satan,” she muttered, holding shut the front of her blouse. A nearby businessman gave her a strange look, and Dela laughed weakly—which didn’t seem to comfort him at all.

  Once inside her room, Dela turned all the locks on the door and threw her purse on the bed. The linen-wrapped box spilled out onto the burgundy cover, and she stared at it for one long minute. Stared, then retreated into the bathroom for a shower. Dela couldn’t take any more bad news—not just then. She desperately wanted to scrub away the morning, the lingering miasma of the stranger’s presence.

  Dela remained under the hot water for an indecent amount of time, until at last she stopped shivering. Infinitely calmer, she wrapped thick towels around her body and hair, and returned to the main room. She flopped on the bed with a sigh and picked up the wrapped box. Such a small, innocuous object.

  Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. The box may have nothing to do with that guy crawling all over you. He could have just pegged you as a victim.

  True, but what had the old woman said?

  He seems to think I have something he wants.

  Frowning, Dela carefully unwrapped the layers of fine linen—surprising, to find such quality on an object from the Dirt Market—and caught her breath as the riddle box was finally revealed.

  It was exquisite, with the breathless quality of some exotic myth. Round, no larger than the palm of her hand. Rosewood, polished to a deep red that was almost black, inlaid with silver and gold, onyx and lapis. The lid was etched with some foreign, incomprehensible script that looked more like musical notations than words, and the curved sides displayed an elaborate series of images, a story: a magnificent tiger inside a thick forest; the beast suddenly a man, fighting, raging—and then the tiger once again, prone, locked inside a cage.

  The detail was incredible, impossibly precise and subtle. Dela had never seen such clarity of pinpoint and line—not even in her own art, and her methods were unorthodox, to say the least. Dela ran her fingers over the carvings, the bright inlays. She felt the tiger’s gold-lined fur beneath her fingers, sensing his capture. The sensation of imprisonment made Dela inexplicably unhappy.

  She pressed the riddle box against her cheek and closed her eyes. She could finally taste the trace of metal inside her head, but it was faint, faint, an ancient whisper like the brush of a brittle leaf.

  Its age startled her, sent a rush of pressure into her gut. Dela rolled the metal inside her mind, listening to its sleepy secrets. Millennia old. Two millennia, maybe more. She felt breathless with awe.

  What was that old woman thinking when she sold this to me? It’s priceless.

  But Dela thought of the strange man, the old woman’s cryptic remarks, and his behavior suddenly made sense. She cradled the small treasure in her palms, turning it over in her fingers as surely as her thoughts were turning, twisting. Yes, someone might very well kill for this—or kidnap, assault. But why had the man waited until he thought Dela possessed the box? Why not go after the old woman if he suspected she had it? Surely she would be an easier target.

  Dela sighed. She could understand the old woman wanting to rid herself of the box if she thought it would cost her life, but the black market would have offered her more money than one yuan! It didn’t make sense.

  Dela tried opening the lid, but it was stuck fast. She studied the box, and smiled. A true riddle. It took her fifteen minutes of careful fiddling, using her instincts more than her eyes, but she finally found the two releases, set in an onyx claw and a silver leaf. Pressing them simultaneously with one hand, she unscrewed the box lid—

  —and the earth moved.

  Violent vertigo sent Dela reeling into the pillows, clutching her head. Scents overwhelmed her: rich loam, sap, wood smoke. Some essence of a verdant forest, come alive inside her room. Darkness, everywhere, but her eyes were clenched shut—Dela was afraid to open them, scared she would no longer be in the hotel. Dorothy, transported to Oz. Her displacement felt that complete.

  Dela slowly became aware of the bedspread beneath her bare legs. The pillows, soft against her face. Silly imagination, she chided herself, and turned to look at the box.

  It was no longer on the bed beside her.

  Something in her stomach lurched, another premonition. She felt a ghost of movement, behind her, and she twisted—

  —only to watch, dumbfounded, as sheer golden light spiraled through her room, shimmering in steep waves, a sunset palette of colors stroking air.

  The light slowly took form, a gathering pressure of intense pinpricks. Dela blinked and, in that moment, the light coalesced. She felt thunder without sound, an impact to the air that lifted everything in the room, including herself.

  The light disappeared, and in its place: a man.

  Chapter Two

  Shocking, worthy of multiple aneurysms, explosions in her shrieking brain. Dela skittered off the bed so quickly she almost lost her towel, but her own near-nudity felt less outrageous than the impossible figure towering over her, the top of his head a mere hand’s length from brushing the ceiling.

  The man was lean, long of muscle and bone, his skin tawny from the sun. Thick hair brushed broad shoulders, an astonishing mixture of colors—red, gold, sable—framing a chiseled face almost alien in its golden-eyed beauty. His presence engulfed the room with a power that raised goose pimples over Dela’s entire body. A shiver raced down her spine.

  Predator, she named him, meeting his eyes, unable to look away. It was the second time that day she found herself in the presence of the arcane, but this was infinitely stranger. Unexpected, bizarre, extraordinary; she had seen the gathering of flesh from light, and still she could not believe. Her mind was screaming no, again and again. Impossible. Unreal. She was so shocked, she did not think of escape. She did not even think of rape, murder—his appearance was that unbelievable.

  But it was his eyes that finally stunned Dela into sensibility. They were filled with such disdain and revulsion, so profound a dislike, she felt slapped in the face by his ill will. The last time Dela had seen such an expression on a man’s face had been in college, caught making out in a secluded library alcove with her then-boyfriend John. Their observer had looked at Dela like she was dirty, trash—and not because she was kissing in a public place.

  John was black. Dela was not.

  That same unreasoning disregard and disgust—an awful superficial judgment—closed like a fist inside the man’s eyes, and Dela’s splash of fear dissipated into anger, which snapped through her brain like a whip.

  “Who are you?” she demanded. The fact that she was half-naked and vulnerable barely registered; she rode the edge of a terrible righteous fury. Her temper was in complete control of her body. If this man wanted to hurt her, he was going to get a fight.

  In the part of Dela’s brain that was still dispassionate and rational, it occurred to her she had not felt this brave earlier in the day outside the Dirt Market when she had been fully dressed and surrounded by a crowd.

  Holy shit. The irony is going to kill me.

  Not literally, she hoped.

  The man blinked. He rested his large hand on the golden hilt of a sword strapped to his side. Numerous weapons were belted to the battered leather armor covering his chest.

  Dela ignored the whispering steel, the taste of old blood and death. She wanted answers to his impossible arrival; she wanted to wipe that hateful expression off his face. In her head she calculated distances to the lamp, the chair—anything that could be used as a weapon. Although, from the look of him, she might need an Uzi.

  “If you want my name, you will have to command it from me,” said the man, and Dela shivered at the sound of his voice: deep, rough, and unbearably cold. Not the voice of an illusion.

  He clamped his mouth shut, and it seemed to Dela that despite his challenge, he was actually waiting for her to command his name. There was a breathless quality to his posture; his size and strength would have hidden the slight
tremor if Dela had not been standing so close. His barely perceptible shiver made her feel strange. The edge of her anger dulled slightly.

  Very slightly.

  “Don’t be an asshole,” she snapped, craning her neck to maintain eye contact. “I don’t know how you got here, or who you are, but you’re looking at me like I’m rat shit and I know I don’t deserve that. Give me some courtesy. You know what that is, don’t you?” She was testing him with her insults; if he was going to hurt her, now would be the time. Dela was a firm believer in getting things over with.

  Something that might have been bewilderment passed through the man’s face, quickly concealed behind a cool mask. Disgust slowly drained from his eyes, and in its place appeared something darker but far cleaner. A cousin to curiosity, dressed in anger.

  Dela lifted her chin, demanding an answer with only her eyes and body. A part of her still shrieked, but she tuned out her fear. Weakness would only invite intimidation.

  Honey, you are intimidated. Do you really think this guy’s holding back just because you’re acting tough? Gimme a break. He could kill you with his pinky.

  “You will not command my name?” His voice rumbled, an echo of thunder. “What then will you command?”

  Dela stared, caught between laughter and a scream. This was all too surreal. “Nothing. I won’t command you to do anything.” She took in his size, his weapons. “How could I?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Are you saying there is no battle to fight, not one person you wish me to kill?”

  His words were too matter-of-fact, completely chilling. Dela threw up her right hand, while the other clutched her towel. She stepped away. “Hey, now. I don’t want anyone to die.”

  His mouth tightened into a hard white line. “I see.” He gave her a slow once-over that, oddly, managed not to feel degrading. “If you did not bring me here to kill or fight, then I was summoned to pleasure your body.” He looked like he would rather impale himself face-first on a bed of nails.

  For a moment, Dela forgot how to speak, and he seemed to take her silence as a resounding “yes.” He began unbuckling his armor, his movements sharp, efficient. Getting the job done. No more talk of commands.

  He walked toward her, rolling on the balls of his feet with an unearthly grace that distracted Dela long enough for him to step within reaching distance. She slipped away from his outstretched hand, furiously shaking her head, and backed up until she hit the wall.

  “No, no, no. Stop that. Stop that! I don’t want you to … to … pleasure my body. Just stay away from me. Stay. Away.”

  The man instantly stilled, his expression unreadable. For a moment, Dela felt something trapped between them—fragile, delicate—a breath of time in which they were just two confused people, marveling at the absurdity of the world.

  The moment passed. He took one long step away from her, and then another, until the entire room separated their bodies. Dela let out a shaky breath; she wanted to rewind the day and start over, except this time she would stay in bed and watch government-edited airings of CNN.

  Calm down. He didn’t hurt you. He stopped when you said no.

  A small comfort, but Dela kept her back pressed against the wall.

  “Tell me why you’re here,” she said, desperate to know how a seven-foot-tall man, armed to the teeth, could appear out of thin air like magic.

  Because it is magic, you idiot.

  Impossible, right? Dela’s own psychic gifts were strange, but at least they had some basis in science. This … this man … was completely inexplicable.

  He just stared, and Dela sensed his confusion. It was odd, that crack of vulnerability in the stranger’s golden eyes. It made him more human, more man than magic. No less threatening, though.

  “Well?” she prompted, unwilling to be cowed into silence.

  The man stooped and picked up the riddle box, so tiny in the wide planes of his hands. He carefully replaced the lid.

  “You summoned me,” he said very slowly, as though speaking to an idiot. He held up the box, and set it on the edge of the bed. “You removed the lid, did you not?”

  Dela laughed, but not for long. Her amusement seemed to ignite the man. Three long strides and he loomed over her, golden eyes ablaze. He did not touch her, but she felt the heat of his body lap over her exposed skin; powerful, shattering.

  “You are lucky I am imprisoned by the terms of the box,” he growled. “There was a time when I did not tolerate amusement at the suffering of others.”

  For just one moment Dela did feel afraid, but anger was the stronger emotion and she fed her indignation. She pressed her palms against his chest, and pushed hard. He did not budge. She made a low sound, gritting her teeth.

  “I would never laugh at the suffering of others,” she said, with the very same scorn she had hated seeing in his face. “I laughed because this is all completely, impossibly, insane. I saw the light and I saw you appear, but men don’t come out of boxes like genies from a bottle. It’s ridiculous, and I want to know what the hell is going on. I can believe a lot of things, but this is too much even for me.”

  The man grabbed her hand, pressed it to his chest. His grip was warm, firm, but he seemed conscious of his strength. He did not hurt her.

  “I am real,” he hissed. “I am not an illusion.”

  Stubborn, so stubborn—she was going to protest, but she looked closer, deep into his eyes, and what she saw gave her pause. Anger, shifting to confusion, bedding down with desperation. It was like watching the seasons pass in fast motion, winter blurring to spring—summer dying against the fire of autumn. A full circle, playing in his fierce face.

  It was too much; she felt trapped in the center of that circle, and she tore her gaze away, down, down to their joined hands, lower to the brace of knives strapped to his waist. Sharp hooks, the short blades snared her vision, the steel whispering her name.

  “You do not believe me,” he said, releasing her. A strange melancholy coated his words. Dela’s gaze flickered back to his face. She had trouble finding her voice, her mind ringing with the call of the blades, secrets softly singing.

  “These are real,” she murmured, returning her attention to his weapons.

  He snorted. “Of course they are real. All my weapons are real.”

  “No,” Dela said. She plucked one of the knives from its sheath, so intent on studying the blade she missed the look of utter astonishment that filled the stranger’s face. Her fingers caressed the perfect imperfections of the steel, drawing in the hum of its age. Stories slept inside the weapon, a collection of deaths, wrought again and again.

  Dela opened herself to sensation, sinking into a quiet made heavy only by the most ancient and beloved of objects. Energies, accumulated over years through contact with flesh, gave an ambient life to the steel.

  “This blade is over two thousand years old,” she whispered. Just like the mysterious riddle box.

  “How do you know its age?” There was caution in his voice.

  Dela barely heard him. She could feel his presence in the steel, the taste of his rage, bitter discontent. Guilt, regret, longing. Loneliness.

  She drowned in emotions not her own, lost to the story of the blade, the man. Rolling deep, deeper, into a forest of sharp teeth and steel, cutting her mind on desperation, an echo plunging through the flashing images and sensations of endless battle, violence. Every death had meant something to the man who held this weapon. Every drop of blood was a dark testimony to some terrible heartbreak.

  Dela pushed, and she caught a glimpse of warmth, a pure clean flame. She tried to touch the light, but it was snatched away, swallowed down a rose-colored throat striped with growling shadows.

  No! Dela screamed, struggling. She ran from the beast, the nightmares and dreams, and as though drugged, slowly rose through the gloom of imprinted memory, escaping from the tomb of the past to open her eyes into the present.

  Her knees buckled, and the man caught her arms. He steadied her against the
wall, leaning close, his hands strong and firm against her bare skin. Dela felt surrounded by his quiet, still heat. Her hand hurt; she found herself clenching his knife in a tight fist. Blood seeped from her palm.

  “You cried out,” he said, and his voice curled fingers inside her gut, thrumming the metaphysical fibers still linking her to the weapon in her hand. Dela took a deep breath. She had measured the soul of the blade, and had almost lost herself, engulfed by the soul of the man who wielded it.

  That same man now watched her with eyes that were dark with curiosity, distrust. His gaze flickered down to the weapon she held, to the blood dripping down her wrist. Dela cleaned the knife on her towel, leaving bright red streaks. She returned it to its sheath, fingers lingering on the hilt. The voices were quiet, but she remembered. She remembered—and despite the violence, was no longer afraid.

  Dela pressed her throbbing palm against her stomach; the wound felt shallow, but it hurt worse than a burn.

  “I was taken by surprise,” she said, unsure how much to tell him, wondering if it mattered anymore. Surely her secrets were less bewildering than this man.

  His lips tightened. “I have seen reactions like yours. Though only one has ever worked his magic on me.”

  “It’s not magic,” Dela said, wishing she could lie down, pretend this was all a dream. She did not want to talk about her visions—not to this stranger, who was suddenly not so strange. She had danced through the echo of his soul and been drawn too deep into his heart. Now when she looked into his eyes, she saw more than she should. Some link remained; she could feel it humming inside her body, as though they were both made of steel, and the metal of their flesh was being bound close by fire.

  Dela shook her head, rubbing her uninjured hand over her eyes.

  “You really came out of that box,” she said, more in statement than question. She knew the truth. His weapon merely confirmed what her eyes refused to believe. Steel never lied, not even about men with burning eyes who took flesh from light.