Tiger Eye

by Marjorie M. Liu

  Roland’s boys backed up as Hari straightened to his full height. Eddie grinned.

  “Holy …” Dean coughed. “Are you some kind of mutant? I swear to God, Roland’s going to flip out when he meets you.”

  “No one is recruiting Hari,” Dela warned. “He’s much too nice for the likes of you scoundrels.”

  “I used to be nice,” Artur said to no one in particular, stripping off a leather glove. He held out his hand to Hari. Dela opened her mouth to warn them both, but it was too late: An actual spark of electricity jolted the air as Hari shook Artur’s hand. The Russian stumbled, his eyes rolling white.

  Hari bowed his head, swaying. He passed a large hand over his eyes and looked to Dela for an explanation.

  “Artur is a psychometrist,” she explained, throwing the recovering Russian a mild glare. “He has the ability to learn about the history of a person, or object, simply by touching it.”

  “Yeah,” Blue said warily, as Artur finally managed to stand on his own. “But he usually doesn’t have this strong a reaction.”

  “Where are you from again?” Dean asked, his eyes dark with suspicion. He fingered a scar on his arm—one of many, the result of knife and gunshot wounds, inflicted during his teens while he had lived on the streets.

  “Not where,” said Artur, holding a hand to his head. He looked nauseated. “When.”

  Blue, Dean, and Eddie stared at him with the same skepticism that would have met a man claiming to be the reincarnated soul of a chipmunk.

  “We’re not talking about this outside,” Dela said, as Hari took her suitcase from Eddie and slung it over his shoulder. “Someone might sneak by and stab me while you boys are wrapping your heads around Artur’s visions.”

  Everyone instantly shut their mouths, although Dela did not miss the glares they sent in Hari’s direction. Everyone but Artur, that is. He simply observed Hari with a great deal of puzzlement and a quiet wariness that reminded Dela of when she had first met him, adjusting to life outside the mob, where smiles never had been just smiles, and a bullet in the head might very well accompany every after-dinner smoke.

  Dela had spent a lot of time with Artur, helping him adjust to his new life. And oh, the crush she’d had! Artur knew—she had told him, after several weeks in his company. Dela still remembered his kind, sad smile, his gentle letdown. She had walked away, not saddened or embarrassed, but somehow warm. The two of them had been friends ever since.

  She wondered what Artur saw when he touched Hari’s hand—and thought, for a moment, she did not want to know. The Russian carefully replaced his glove and threw Dela a curious, somewhat sympathetic smile.

  The first floor of Dela’s home was devoted entirely to her studio, although the front of the building facing the street had been converted into a gallery for her art. Without Adam to run the shop, Dela thought she would keep it closed. She had better things to worry about, and there was no shortage of cash.

  Dela kept a working forge just inside the back of the building, with two giant doors that swung open to the outside world when she needed fresh air. A long worktable took up the right wall. Blowtorches, boxes of metal scrap, and half-finished works of art covered the gleaming surface; sketches were pinned to an equally long bulletin board.

  Against the opposite wall sat an identical table with a similar bulletin board. Except there, no art of a typical nature. Only weapons.

  Half-finished swords she kept near the forge, but several completed blades rested on the table, variations of the ancient and medieval, the exotic. Such as a Flamberg, with its thirty-inch kriss-style blade, steel guard, and pommel, the grip covered in fine black leather. Creatures of European legend were engraved into the blade itself. Unicorns and dragons; intricate and wild, with minute detail made possible only through Dela’s telekinetic affinity for metal. She could “impress” the art upon the blade.

  There were Kangshi-style swords, swords of ancient Greece and Mongolia, shining scimitars begging for sand and sun, Celtic double-edged blades with blood grooves and wood handles—and then the daggers, ancient styles with contemporary twists, as well as the opposite: Marine Corps knives with the blades curved and jagged to resemble flames, military Kukris bent like razor-sharp wings, engraved with delicate feathers. Everywhere the lethal was made beautiful.

  The studio looked the same as she had left it, although some of the weapons seemed out of place.

  “You guys have been playing, haven’t you.” She cast a significant glance at Dean.

  He grinned. “It’s better than porn.”

  Blue grunted. “You know Dean. He only feels manly when he’s surrounded by phallic symbols.”

  Hari was the only who didn’t laugh. He focused entirely on the weapons, running his fingers over the polished steel.

  “Your talent is staggering,” he said quietly. Dela flushed with pleasure. Compliments didn’t mean much to her anymore, but Hari was a born warrior—had lived on the battlefield for two thousand years. If he said her work was good, then it really was. He should know, after all.

  “If you see one you want, it’s yours,” she said. “Or I’ll make you a new one, custom-fit to your strength and hand.”

  The look he shot her was pure delight, almost boyish. “That would be a gift beyond imagining.”

  “Sweet-talker,” Dean muttered under his breath.

  “And what is it you say when Dela gives you a new blade?” Artur asked, with a knowing smile.

  Dean scowled.

  They left the studio, walking up the stairs set against the farthest wall. Dela had converted the second floor into a cozy living space with four bedrooms, two baths, and a giant living room doubling as a library and entertainment center. Brightly colored rag rugs covered the dark hardwood floors. A gourmet kitchen, tiled in cherry red and navy, was nestled in the corner beside the front door, the curved counter embracing a pleasant dining area.

  There was more window than wall; sunlight bathed the entire interior with a bright, cheerful glow. It was like standing outside with only the illusion of shelter.

  Someone—probably Adam, before his forced vacation—had been thoughtful enough to place vases of fresh daisies on all the tables. The air smelled like baking cookies, warm and sweet. Dela’s mail lay stacked inside a small wicker basket on the kitchen counter. She quickly flipped through the envelopes and magazines, knowing Adam would have taken care of everything important before his departure.

  “I took the liberty of appropriating your Victoria’s Secret catalogs.” Dean grabbed a bottle of water from her refrigerator. “You can have them back if you want.”

  “Yuck, no. I don’t even want to think about the awful ways those pages have been violated.”

  “Darlin’, what I do ain’t a violation.”

  “Tell that to page twenty-two and what’s left of Tyra Banks and her rhinestone bra,” Blue said, winking.

  “Hey.” Dean frowned.

  A familiar hand pressed against Dela’s shoulder, and she leaned into Hari’s body, aware of the sharp glances the other men threw in her direction.

  “Delilah,” he said, and there was something tense in his face. Sympathy, tinged with guilt, assailed her. All of this had to be so very strange to Hari, and she had done little to prepare him for her houseguests. She covered his hand with her own, and gently squeezed. Hari’s lips softened, and he said, “If these men are here to protect you, then I think it would be best if we informed them of our other … problem.”

  “What other problem?” Blue asked, sounding somewhat unfriendly.

  Dela frowned at him, but Blue’s eyes remained unapologetic. He had tied back his hair, revealing the high, stark cheekbones of his face, the strong lines of his throat. She looked from him to the other three men, and found she had their complete attention. Artur looked unhappy.

  “There’s someone else who wants me dead. Completely unrelated, but the goal seems the same.”

  Only Artur seemed unsurprised by her news, but everyone else
went pale. “I need to sit down,” said Dean, collapsing on the couch. Eddie joined him on the other end, while Artur remained standing, looking steadily into Hari’s eyes. A strange understanding seemed to pass between the two men.

  “I think the story would be better coming from you,” Artur said. Hari nodded.

  “Will someone please tell me what is going on?” Blue called out, throwing himself between Dean and Eddie with graceful abandon. “Or I swear to God I’m going to blow the fuse on every piece of equipment in this place.”

  “You do that and I’ll show you just how hot a forge can get,” Dela snapped, smoothing back her hair as all the men stared, startled. “I’m going to take a shower now. All of you, be nice to Hari. Everything he tells you is the truth. Pray to God none of you gets on his bad side.”

  Then she went to Hari, stood on her tiptoes to grab handfuls of his hair, and dragged his head down for a deeply satisfying kiss that left them both breathless and shaken.

  His expression was equal parts surprised and pleased, and having marked her man off-limits to extreme abuse, Dela cheerfully saluted all of her open-mouthed observers, and went away to wash off thirteen hours worth of dirt, sexual frustration, and confusion.

  “Well,” said Eddie, after a moment of awkward silence. “Does anyone want cookies? I’ll go get some cookies.”

  “Dela kissed you.” Dean looked confused. Hari, still feeling the burn of her lips, the press of her body against his own, could only nod and smile.

  Uncertainty had plagued him from the moment he arrived at Dela’s home to find these men waiting for her. Men she obviously knew well. It made him feel jealous and lonely, and while he was determined not to make a fool of himself, all he wanted to do was put Dela over his shoulder and drag her off to some dark place where he could wrap himself around her body and pretend they were the only two people in the world.

  And that would only be the beginning.

  But Dela had kissed him in front of these men, and now it was difficult to remember he had ever felt insecure about his place in her life. Her passion had been voice and thunder, an explosion felt in the depths of his soul. It was more than he had expected, but perfect. Perfect.

  “She kissed you,” Dean said again, somewhat plaintively. Blue rolled his eyes, throwing Hari a surprisingly apologetic look.

  “Dean has always lived under the illusion that Dela might one day fall head over heels in love with one of us. Doesn’t matter we treat her like some kid sister, or that we act like a bunch of morons in front of her.”

  Hari noticed a strange look pass over Artur’s face, quickly swallowed.

  “You think she loves me?” Hari could not help but ask.

  Dean grunted. “She kissed you. In front of us. Dela doesn’t kiss anyone in front of us. She loves you. Or at least, likes you a lot.” The strained look on his face seemed to say quite plainly that Dean did not understand the attraction.

  Eddie returned with a tray of chocolate chip cookies. “Eat,” he said, shoving them toward Dean. “Sugar will make the pain go away.”

  “Who raised you? Martha Stewart?” Dean grabbed several cookies, shoving them into his mouth. He gestured for Hari to join them, and the shape-shifter did, slowly lowering himself onto the soft green cushions of the couch. He tried a cookie, and thought his masters might have raised armies for food such as this.

  Artur seized several, juggling them in his gloved hands as he moved to the door. “I have seen this story. I will go keep watch outside. The enemy must know Dela is back by now.” He hesitated. “Eddie told me of your strange observer at the airport. Roland has not mentioned any new tails, but I will call him and see what he says.”

  “All right,” said Dean, as the door closed softly behind Artur. “What’s your story?”

  Hari was not quite sure where to start—these men reminded him of past acquaintances—men of war with too much memory in their eyes and not a shred of innocence left in their bones. Without having seen him emerge from the box, Hari was unsure they would believe anything he had to say. Indeed, their disbelief might be bound so tightly with their obvious protectiveness toward Dela that no man—even a saint—would be readily accepted.

  He could live with that. He had faced worse than mere skepticism.

  “I have been cursed,” Hari said, and then proceeded to tell his story, slowly and sparingly, leaving out some of the more intimate details he had shared with Dela.

  There was a long moment of silence at the end, until Dean turned to look at Eddie. “Sure you just put sugar in those cookies?”

  “Uh-huh.” Eddie stared wide-eyed at Hari.

  Blue rubbed his face. “You still have your armor and weapons?”

  Hari rose and found the suitcase. Moments later he revealed his sword, knives, and leather armor. Eddie removed the cookie tray to make room for Hari’s belongings, and the men crowded around the table, silently examining the weapons. Eddie seemed quite taken with the well-worn steel, ready to believe; the other two were more difficult to read.

  Blue glanced at Dean. “You up for it?”

  “Like a horny bunny,” Dean said, resting his hand on the sword. A moment—and then something strange passed through his blue eyes, like the afterglow of lightning; the skin on Dean’s face suddenly seemed too tight, his cheeks hollow. A low sound, almost a groan, emerged from deep within his throat.

  “Dean?” Eddie said hesitantly.

  “You say you’ve been a warrior all this time?” Dean croaked, still touching the sword. His voice sounded like it was being cut with a fine wire.

  “Yes,” Hari said, noting the odd look on Blue’s face as he watched his friend.

  “Got anything?” Blue asked, though there was something in his voice that suggested he already knew the answer.

  Dean broke contact with the sword. He huddled in on himself, hugging his arms and shivering. He quickly recovered, but when he met Hari’s gaze, the naked horror in his eyes was startling.

  “The guy’s legit,” he told the others, still staring.

  “You are like Artur,” Hari said.

  Dean shook his head. “No. I’m clairvoyant. I see events or objects that aren’t here, that can be miles away. But I’m also a retro-cog. Sometimes I view past events.”

  “And what did you see?” Hari asked softly.

  Dean took a long swallow of water. His hand shook. “I saw a battle. Horsemen, blood, screams. You in the middle of it all. I saw you … tortured.” He shivered again. “God, man. I don’t know what you’re made of to survive what I saw.”

  Hari said nothing. What could he say? That he had danced on the edge of sanity for years at a time, enduring moment by moment the most patient of agonies? Or that sometimes the humiliations had not involved pain at all, but pleasure?

  Blue stirred. “Can he be trusted?”

  Hari thought it was a very brave—and very stupid—question, considering that he was sitting there with all his weapons, and clearly had at least a foot or more of height on anyone else present. Not to mention, many more years experience killing people.

  Dean took a deep breath and slowly nodded. “The man is a walking death trap, but he won’t hurt Dela. Doesn’t have it in him.”

  “You sure of that?” Blue asked.

  “Delilah is my only priority,” Hari protested, feeling the first stirrings of anger.

  “You need her or else you go back into the box,” Blue said, and Hari heard his fear as clearly as if it had been spoken out loud. Blue was afraid Hari was using Dela, that he cared nothing for her. An intolerable offense.

  The beast rolled through Hari’s chest and he leaned forward, capturing Blue’s gaze with his own. He had to make this man understand—had to make them all understand.

  “It is true my life depends on Delilah, but I tell you now, my life means nothing without her. My desire to keep her safe has nothing to do with the box, and everything to do with taking care of the only friend I’ve had in two thousand years. I would never betray
Delilah. Never.”

  Long silence greeted his words, broken with a sigh. Dean, shaking his head. “That’s good enough for me,” he said. “Especially after what I’ve seen.”

  Eddie, his face slightly red, nodded in agreement. “Me, too.”

  Everyone looked at Blue.

  “All right then.” He stared hard at Hari. “You understand, Dela’s like family. In some cases, closer than the family we’ve already got.”

  “I respect your desire to protect her,” Hari said. “I would not trust you otherwise.”

  Blue held out his hand and Hari clasped it. In that grip, a welcome—and a promise. If Hari ever hurt Dela, these men would make his life miserable. They would try to kill him, without remorse.

  Good. I think I will like these men—as long as Delilah does not begin sharing her kisses with them.

  They heard the squeak of hinges. Dela’s soft hum echoed from the back bedroom.

  “Is everyone still alive in there?” she called.

  “Yes,” they chorused, staring at each other.

  “I know everyone’s gifts, save yours,” Hari said to Blue. “What is it you do?”

  A brief smile. “I’m an electrokinetic. You know about electricity, right?”

  The question was not patronizing. Hari nodded. “Delilah is teaching me.”

  “Well then, I can control electricity. Disrupt it, quicken it, make it more powerful. It’s a handy talent, especially when I’m going places I don’t want to be seen.”

  “Which is almost everywhere,” Dela said, entering the room. Her hair was still wet, her face scrubbed clean and glowing. Dark loose pants and a form-fitting long-sleeved shirt accented all her curves. She collapsed in a boneless heap beside Hari, snuggling deep into his side. She smelled like jasmine, a cool breeze, some sliver of icy moon. Ethereal.

  Hari handed her a cookie.

  “Have they been treating you all right?” Dela asked, some subtle shading to her voice that made him wonder how much she had heard. Crumbs dotted her lips. He wanted to kiss her.

  “I think we have an understanding.” He glanced at the others.

  Dela smiled, and Dean coughed uneasily. “Okay, so according to you, this Magi will be coming after Dela. What the hell do we do to keep her safe?”