Tiger Eye

by Marjorie M. Liu

  It was a beautiful night—balmy, the sky full of stars—and all six friends were rested, clean, and coiffed. They stood in line outside the club, joking among themselves while watching the streets for trouble. The only reason Artur believed it was safe to come out was that he thought it would take several days for the Zhang family to regroup from their failed attack.

  Still, everyone was careful. Though none of the men had said a word, Dela could taste the hot tang of weapons discreetly arranged beneath their jackets. Hari had a knife sheathed between his shoulders, rigged in a harness; he was a skilled craftsman in his own right, Dela had found, watching him work a leather scrap from her studio into something usable.

  The men still wore jeans, but Dela had opted for a tight red tank top and a playful white skirt that flared above her knees, the hem embroidered with roses and green vines.

  “At least you’ll look good when the goon squad comes after you,” Dean drawled when she came out of the bedroom. Dela smiled, raising her skirt until everyone could see the slender throwing knives strapped to her upper thighs.

  “That’s a kick-ass piece of lingerie,” Blue said, as Eddie’s eyes widened.

  “My cod-piece is full of love,” Dean added.

  Artur simply sighed, while Hari’s eyes flashed gold.

  They waited for almost fifteen minutes outside the club before Dela saw Rose hobbling down the sidewalk, examining her choices of “fine fresh meat.” Her face lit up when she saw Dela, and she waved a dark mocha, fine-boned hand in her direction.

  And then Rose looked past Dela.

  For one moment, it was anyone’s guess whether an ambulance would have to be called. Rose clutched her glittering silver-sequined chest, eyes rolling white in her head.

  “Oh, Lordy. Dela, girl, I have fallen into the throes of a mighty fleshly lust. Carnal desire is giving me a hot flash.” And she fanned her face with both hands.

  “Rose.” Dela grinned, glancing from the stunned expressions of her companions to the bar’s owner, who was finally beginning to recover from her initial shock, a look of sultry determination filling her eyes. “I would like to introduce you to my very good friends.”

  Artur set the tone by politely bending over Rose’s hand and placing a gentle kiss upon her knuckles. Rose pretended to swoon, and after that, it was kisses and fluttered eyelashes and enough choice words to make even a porn star blush.

  Dela saved Hari for last.

  “My lady,” he said, and Dela’s heart swelled with pride at the gentle respect in his voice. “It is my deepest honor to meet a woman who radiates such obvious passion for others.”

  Rose sighed, looking at his hair, his eyes, her gaze slowly inching over the rest of his fine long lines. “If I were only two hips younger,” she mused, laughing when she saw Hari’s confusion. She slapped his arm, still chortling, and gestured for them all to follow her. Artur and Dean held out their arms, and Rose, still beaming, slipped her hands into the back pockets of their jeans, squeezing. The men jumped, biting back gasps.

  “Off we go!” she giggled, fondling their backsides. Artur and Dean, flushed red as beets, simply swallowed and allowed Rose to guide them down the sidewalk—two dangerous individuals, man-handled by a little old woman in front of an entire street of grinning observers. Eddie, buzzed with painkillers, laughed so hard Dela was afraid he would burst his stitches. Blue doubled over, and even Hari began chuckling.

  “I like her,” he said. Dela grinned, sticking her own hand into his back pocket.

  They found Rose and her captured prey waiting for them at the main entrance of the bar, and as a group, they sidled into the smoky interior. Slow jazz filled the air, a soothing background to the clink of glasses and laughter. The walls were paneled in dark wood, covered with old photographs of famous musicians, including Rose herself—a jazz singer in her youth, standing on a stage with her eyes closed, arms outstretched to the audience.

  “Kit told me you folks were coming. Saved you a table,” Rose said, still holding Artur and Dean in her curious grip. The two men glanced at each other over her head, and suddenly, inexplicably, grinned. When they finally reached their table, set near the edge of the stage, Rose reluctantly released them. Dean instantly gathered the elderly woman into his arms, and pressed his lips to her cheek.

  “You have excellent technique,” he told her. “My ass is still tingling.”

  Artur was next, except he hugged her from behind, his lips hovering beside her ear. Rose’s hands fluttered over his muscular arms. “Rose,” he whispered, in a seductive voice that had everyone staring in astonishment. “Rose,” he said again. That was it. Just her name. But it was enough.

  “Oh my,” she tittered, as his arms slowly slid away from her body. She pressed her palms to her flushed cheeks. “All of you, devils. Dela, honey, you can come ‘round often as you like, but bring these boys with you. Drinks will always be on me.” And she ambled away, still fanning herself.

  The waitress came to take their orders. Just as she left, Dela heard a familiar voice call her name. It was Kit, looking like a million dollars in a long silky skirt dyed in variegated shades of gold and umber, and a matching wrap-around blouse trailing long silken ties. Her caramel skin gleamed, her hair loose and wild, bound away from her face by a brown velvet ribbon.

  Kit whistled. “Holy Toledo. What is this, Dela? Studs-R-Us?”

  Dela stood and hugged her friend. “Careful. Rose already stroked their egos.”

  “I bet that’s not all she stroked.”

  Again, Dela went through introductions, and Kit was thoroughly charmed. She even went so far as to ruffle Blue’s hair, which made him grin. To Hari, though, she gave a speculative once-over that was pure Kit.

  “So you’re Dela’s new man, huh?”

  “I am,” he said gravely.

  Kit leaned close. “You look tough, but break her heart and I’ll turn you into a permanent bed wetter.”

  “I’m in love,” Blue said.

  Hari kept his solemn eyes trained on Kit’s face. “I agree to your terms.”

  Kit stared, but whatever she saw in Hari’s gaze seemed to satisfy her. She backed away and winked at Dela.

  “I’ll see you guys after the show,” she promised. “I’ve got to go set up.”

  Blue watched her walk away. “She is single, right?”

  Dean puckered his lips and made kissing sounds. Good-natured bickering followed, along with hot buffalo wings, cheesy nachos, and some very excellent beer. Dela contentedly munched on her chips, Hari’s arm draped over her shoulders, and listened to the sounds of their voices mingling. It was a wonderful feeling to be surrounded by so many friends.

  Dela could almost forget her other problems. Almost.

  She felt the knives strapped to her thighs, heard them singing against her skin. Dela was an excellent marksman—uncanny, Roland had once said, back before he took over the agency and had time to train her in self-defense. After her escapade with the bullet, Dela was beginning to wonder how much of her skill was dependent on some unconscious use of telekinetic ability with steel.

  Kit began her set promptly at eight, striding out on stage with her head high, a challenging glint in her eyes. She was dazzling to look at, energy pouring from her lithe body. Kit did not introduce herself. She simply grinned at the audience, lifted her fiddle, and began to play.

  No one accompanied her, but additional musicians would have been superfluous. Kit’s fiddling had its own body, mind, filling the room with a wild breathless heat, invading muscles, sparking colors in eyes already enchanted by her writhing body, coiled around her instrument. Fibers snapped in her bow.

  Dela watched, unable to stop smiling, feeling a great upswell of pride for her genius friend. Cries and shouts of approval began to emerge from the crowd, and by the end of Kit’s first song, Dela could barely hear the music through the applause. The men of Dirk & Steele whistled and cheered, and Hari put his hands together in naked appreciation.

  Kit lau
ghed. “Thanks, folks. This next song is a special request from Dame Rose, and it’s dedicated to her ‘Prisoners of Lust,’ Artur and Dean.”

  The two men groaned as the audience roared. Eddie held up his glass in silent salute, the entire table laughing over their drinks. Hari’s smile was free and relaxed, his chest rumbling with amusement. He pulled Dela close against his shoulder.

  And froze.

  Hari’s sudden stillness was preternatural, his muscles coiled, tense. Dela felt some primal instinct rise within her, skin prickling as she looked up into the face of a predator. Hari turned, and his slow movement attracted the attention of the others at the table, who felt the change in him, the inherent threat within his aura.

  Hari stared at the entrance of the club. At first Dela didn’t see anyone out of the ordinary; men and women, single and in pairs, mingling near the door, the bar.

  Then she sensed something odd and stared harder, found someone watching them. Long wild hair framed a lean masculine face, dark with stubble. A whip-thin body, bare forearms riddled by tattoos. The man leaned against the doorway with casual grace, cigarette in hand, and when he finally walked toward them, Dela imagined she heard the heels of his cowboy boots striking the floor.

  Hari stood as the man approached, unfolding from his chair with lethal grace. He towered a good foot over the stranger, who did not seem in the least bit impressed. Dela stared hard at his face, sensing something familiar, and almost gasped. His eyes were golden.

  She remembered China, Hari’s similar reaction.

  I thought I sensed another like me. A shape-shifter.

  “Hello,” said the man, his gaze firmly on Hari. It was as though the rest of them did not exist. Hari said nothing. He slowly extended his hand.

  Some smile quirked the man’s lips, but when he clasped Hari’s much larger hand, something odd rippled through his face, which lost its cocky charm. His reaction lasted only a moment. Hari released him, and the man stepped away, his mask slipping back into place. Yet, when he raised his cigarette, Dela thought his hand trembled.

  “Would you like to sit?” Hari indicated the free chair beside him.

  It seemed to Dela that the man suddenly realized all the people at the table were staring at him. She could not imagine anyone—especially this lean, sharp individual—being so completely oblivious, but there was a puzzled look on his face that made her think he had been lost in some private moment, where the only two people who mattered were Hari and himself.

  He looked like he would bolt; there was something wild in his eyes, as though sitting at the table might be the same as entering a cage. He rolled the cigarette around his fingers, considering, and they all waited, curious but uncaring. If he sat, fine—if he did not, Hari would explain the mystery. Perhaps he sensed their indifference; he perched on the edge of his chair. Hari turned toward the others.

  “He is like me,” Hari said, as though that explained everything. The stranger swore, and began to stand.

  “Whoa there,” Dean said. “You stay right where you are. What kind of explanation is that, Hari? You know this guy?”

  “I assure you,” said the man, still poised to leave, his voice smooth as old whiskey. “We are complete strangers.”

  “You do not act like strangers,” Artur said.

  “Hari,” Dela whispered. “Is he a shape-shifter?”

  The man heard her, and looked sharply at Hari. “She knows?”

  “They all know,” Hari said. “And they can all be trusted. I would not be here with them otherwise.” And then, almost eagerly: “What do you call yourself? What do you run as?”

  The man hesitated, clearly unnerved by Hari’s blunt questions in the presence of so many strangers. And yet, he did not leave. He slowly, carefully, sat down, eyeing them, measuring.

  “My name is Koni,” he said, watching their reactions. “I fly as raven. And you?”

  “I am Hari. I run as tiger.”

  “Tiger.” Koni seemed taken aback, and for a moment, appeared once again to forget his observers. “Tigers are legend. You must be the last of your kind.”

  “And you?” Dela asked sharply, sensing Koni’s words somehow hurt Hari. “How many of your kind?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Too few.”

  Behind him, Kit still played her heart out, music dazzling the air. For an instant, though, she caught Dela’s eye, and the message was clear: Questions would be asked, and by God, questions would be answered. No one ignored Kit when she played, especially when the song was dedicated to the two men with their backs turned to her. Kit missed nothing when she was on stage. Absolutely nothing.

  “Ooookay,” said Dean, laying his hands flat on the table. “It’s obvious I’m once again caught in the middle of the Twilight Zone. But let me get this straight, because hearing it from Hari is one thing—from you, entirely different.” He took a deep breath. “You can shift your shape from human to animal, and when you don’t look like a man, it’s because you’re going all Tweety on someone’s ass.”

  “I’m not sure I appreciate the imagery associated with that statement, but yes, that’s about it.”

  Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. Eddie patted his back.

  “Look,” said Koni. “It’s great that you all are okay with what I am, but this isn’t comfortable for me, so if you don’t mind, I’m out of here. Hari, pleasure to meet you. Hope you don’t go extinct.”

  “Wait.” Blue waved a waitress over. “Have a drink. I’m curious to know why you approached us in the first place. This is a very public setting, and Hari is at a table full of humans. You must have known how strange it would seem, a complete stranger hopping over, shaking hands with our man and then running off. Why didn’t you just stay away, curb your curiosity?”

  Koni stared at him. It was a good question, a fair question, and even the shape-shifter seemed to realize it. “Whiskey,” he said, glancing up as the waitress finally arrived. “Bring the bottle.”

  “Bring two,” said Dean.

  Koni glanced at Hari. “Are you sure they can be trusted?”

  “Hey,” Eddie protested.

  “Absolutely,” Hari assured him. “They are like clan.”

  Koni grunted. “They’re not my clan, but I’ll take your word for it, one shifter to another.” He looked each of them in the eye, a stare that was dispassionate and cold. A don’t screw me you motherfuckers look. “As I said, there aren’t many of us. Hari is the first shifter outside my family I’ve seen in over three years, and I get around.”

  “Rarity doesn’t explain obsession,” Blue pointed out.

  Koni grimaced. “I am—was—not obsessed. What you don’t and can’t understand is that when our kind catches each other’s scents, we get tunnel vision, start running on instinct. It’s worse, now there are so few of us. We have to find the other shifter, look ‘em in the eye. Comes out of the old days, when territory was more important, when the animal was free to emerge.”

  He glanced at Hari, his eyes troubled. “You have issues, man. Your beast—”

  “Is not the topic of this conversation,” Hari warned. “I already know the problem.”

  “If you say so.” Koni inclined his head. The waitress brought the whiskey and glasses. When she was gone, and Kit’s music could once again cover their voices, he leaned forward. “Now I have a question. Who are all of you, and why the calm acceptance? And don’t tell me it’s just Hari. You people smell strange.”

  Five sets of eyes stared at him, and then Hari.

  “Do I smell different from other people?” Dela asked. Hari hesitated.

  “It is not so much your scent, but the energy I feel inside you. I can sense your power rubbing against my skin. I would have mentioned it earlier, but could not think of the right words.”

  “Yeah,” Dean said. “It’s never easy telling a girl about all the ways she ‘rubs’ you.”

  Koni snorted. “I’m still waiting.”

  “You’re a real barrel of laughs, you kno
w?”

  Artur poured himself a drink. “We are like you, Koni, in that we are blessed with certain … gifts. Telepathy, clairvoyance … take your pick.”

  “Spoon bending?”

  “That would be me,” Dela quipped, raising her hand.

  Someone’s cell phone rang. Artur answered quickly, rising from the table. He wandered away from the stage, toward the bar. Uncomfortable silence descended, with everyone trying desperately to listen to Kit, and not hearing a note.

  Artur returned less than five minutes later, his jaw clenched, eyes dark with profound determination and something … else. Something painful.

  “We have a hit,” he said, voice pitched so only their table would hear. “We have to go now if we want to intercept our target.”

  The child’s murderer.

  “That was fast,” Eddie commented, puzzled, as he rose from his seat.

  “I had quite a few details to pass on to Roland and Yancy’s contacts,” Artur said. “More than I really wanted to discuss, considering the nature of the crime.”

  “What’s going on?” Koni asked, bewildered, as everyone stood.

  “It’s work-related,” Blue said, handing him a business card. “If you ever want a job where you don’t have to hide, call this number. Ask for Roland.”

  “Shit. You’re not the mob, are you?”

  Dean grinned. “My man, we are the good guys. Just put that name in the Internet and do some research. You’ll find out all you need to know, except”—and here he leaned close, his eyes suddenly dangerous—”that we got secrets like you. Tell anyone what you heard at this table, and you’re fair game. And I ain’t no little Red Riding Hood.”

  “Yes, good woodsman with the ax. I get the hint. Although for future reference, your threat would work better if I were a wolf.”

  Dela waved at Kit, mouthing “call me” when the musician turned in her direction. Kit rolled her eyes, but Dela knew she wasn’t angry. They liked each other too much to ever walk out on any personal event without a good reason. And Dela had a good reason—just not one she would ever be able to share with Kit.