Tiger Eye

by Marjorie M. Liu

  “Kit! What are you doing here?”

  Kit blinked, tearing her gaze from Hari. “What am I doing here? You haven’t called me since you bailed at the concert. I would have tried getting a hold of you, but I had to leave town right away for another gig. I just got back, and what do I find? Not a single message on my answering machine! So I think, I’ll just march over and make sure my girl’s still alive. And these guys go Hawaii 5-0 all over my ass.”

  “We apologize, Ms. Bell,” Blue said, nervously smoothing back his hair. “We thought you might be someone else.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “Who? Satan?” When weak laughter was her only response, she turned to Dela. “At the risk of becoming a demanding bitch, I’d really like to know what’s going on. And don’t tell me it’s a family emergency. I haven’t seen this much weird shit since the last time I watched a Tarantino movie.”

  “Um,” Dela said, glancing helplessly at the others. They all shrugged, warily noncommittal, but she caught a flicker of amusement in Hari’s eyes. For some reason, that made her smile—a quick tight grin—which immediately had everyone but the shape-shifter staring at her like she was a hairsbreadth from hitting a pothole.

  “Okay,” Dela said. “Let’s go to the studio. It’s quiet down there.”

  “I hope so,” Kit said, frowning. “If I spend any more time surrounded by all this testosterone, I may just sprout chest hair.”

  “I’m sure it would look lovely on you,” Dean quipped, returning to his breakfast.

  “Bite me,” she shot back, before following Dela out the door.

  Down in the studio they made themselves comfortable on the old green couch stuck in the corner farthest from the forge. Kit put her feet up on the threadbare cushions and wrapped her arms around her knees. Cocking an eyebrow, she stared at Dela and waited. Patient, unmoving.

  And utterly terrifying to Dela. Her confidence shattered; Dela opened her mouth to spin lies and half-truths, and found she could not. She had a duty to the agency and her friends—their secrets were not hers to reveal—but she also had a duty to herself, and it was becoming too easy for her to shade the truth. Dela had always understood the necessity and accepted it, but Kit was her friend …

  You misjudged Adam, and you did not trust him with your most precious secret. How can you be sure Kit will be any different?

  “You’ve never been this nervous around me,” Kit remarked quietly. “Come on, Dela. Spill. What is up with you and those guys? No one pulls a gun like that unless they have a good reason. Hell, I’ve never even seen that many guns in one place. And the way you all left the other night … the looks on your faces …” She pressed her lips together, grim. “I don’t know what you’re involved in, but it’s serious.”

  “Yes,” Dela said. “Adam’s dead. He committed suicide.”

  Suicide. Such an easy escape. Kit gasped, and Dela grimaced. Her grief tasted bitter, sorrow and hate dancing shadows around her heart. She despised Adam, loathed him with a ferocity matched only by her continuing love. He had been her friend, and she could not forget that—could not set aside those years of camaraderie and kindness. It broke her heart, remembering.

  The horror of his betrayal, the blood on his hands, would never leave her. Adam had made her a part of his pain, dirtied the art she loved. If she ever forged another blade, he would be there in the steel, his memory etched in murder, suicide.

  Kit leaned close, dark eyes intense, shadowed with sympathy, questions. Dela sighed, thinking of the men waiting for her upstairs, putting their faith in her discretion. She thought of Hari.

  Kit is not Adam, she reminded herself. But then, maybe that’s not the point.

  “I don’t know why Adam did it,” she lied, making her choice. Kit was her friend, deserved the truth, but that was life; nothing was ever entirely fair, and in this situation, duty had to come before honor.

  Kit sucked in her breath, shaking her head. “That’s terrible, Dela. I’m so sorry.”

  “He was a coward,” Dela ground out, eliciting a brief look of surprise from her friend. Kit began to speak, stopped, and then sighed.

  “Maybe,” she said. “I didn’t know Adam well. Could be he felt like his life was so far past redemption, the only way back was to wipe the slate clean.”

  It was a remarkably insightful statement, considering Kit had no idea what Adam had done. But that was Kit; wise beyond her years.

  And in her words was an echo. There are some things worse than mere pain and death. Some acts, which cannot be forgiven.

  But death was still no answer. It was too easy.

  “Dela,” Kit ventured softly. “What else is going on? Adam’s death doesn’t explain a room full of armed men.”

  “There have been some threats on my life,” Dela said. Kit recoiled, and Dela hurriedly pushed on. “It’s nothing to worry about. The guys upstairs are old friends. They work for the detective agency my family runs. I told you about that, right? They’re taking care of the problem for me.”

  Kit held up her hands. “Nothing to worry about? What kind of shit is that? Have you told the police?”

  “The police can’t do anything.” Dela stirred uneasily; lies were best when simple, and this was venturing into something more complex. “Look, Kit—I’m sorry they scared you, but they didn’t know you have a key to the building. I forgot to tell them, so when you knocked …”

  “It was unexpected,” Kit finished. “Yeah, I understand that. Me and … me and Adam were—are—the only ones with access to your place. Ah, hell … at least I understand now why you didn’t call. This isn’t something you can just explain over the phone. But Dela, this is ugly. Who’s threatening you?”

  “Someone crazy.”

  Kit choked back a snort of laughter. “Yeah. I figured that.” She scrunched up her eyes and leaned back against the couch. “Thing is, I don’t think you’re telling me everything.” She shook her head before Dela could speak. “Don’t. It’s okay. I trust you enough to know you’re saying what you can.”

  Which made Dela feel like crap. Biting the inside of her cheek, she slowly nodded. Kit sighed.

  They both needed air, and walked through the studio to the side exit. The garden pressed up against the warehouse; morning glories climbed the trellis, hummingbirds darting between the blooms. Pampas grass swayed to a light breeze, casting shade on the thick herbs sprouting among the bulky decorative stones and antique metal-trimmed benches. Rose petals dotted the ground.

  Dela turned her face to the sun. Kit hummed.

  “So … that guy upstairs. Blue. He single?”

  Count on Kit to rope things back to basics. “He is, and he asked the same thing about you.”

  “Cool. How are you and Hari? I noticed he was carrying a mighty big sword.”

  “He’s a mighty big man.”

  Kit laughed. “Seriously, Dela.”

  “Seriously? He’s the one, Kit. You remember how we used to talk about whether it was possible to just … know? Like, no doubts whatsoever?”

  “You didn’t think it could happen.”

  “Yeah, and look at me now.”

  “I am,” Kit said. She touched Dela’s arm. “You be careful. Don’t make me cry.”

  “You’re too tough for tears.”

  “Yeah, whatever. I guess I don’t have to worry. You’ve got enough hurly-burlys up there to take down a small army.”

  “And then some,” she agreed, feeling like a fraud. She had never felt so bad about lying.

  Dela walked Kit to her car. When she returned to the studio, she found Hari waiting by the forge. His hands traced the stone frame, her resting tools.

  “I listened in the stairwell,” he confessed. “She seems like a good friend.”

  “She is. I still deceived her, though.”

  “You know better than us whether she can come to grips with your secrets.”

  “Not really. Kit might handle it fine. I just don’t know if I can take the risk, especially when it’s not
only my secret to tell.”

  “It is a hard decision, but not one I have had much experience with. My only friends have ever been family, and family always comes first.”

  “Family?” Dela said hesitantly. “Is that … is that how you see me?”

  Hari blushed. Remarkable, seeing his tawny skin deepen to rose. That such a man could look shy took her breath away.

  “I see you in many ways,” he finally said. “Family is … one of them.”

  “Oh, Hari.” Dela went to him and wrapped her arms around his waist. He touched her hair, her back, enfolding her in his warmth.

  After a time, he said, “You still have not shown me your art.”

  It was true, she realized. The first night home had been awful, the next night worse, and she had spent the past several days absorbed with Adam’s suicide. During that time Hari had remained a silent presence, sensitive to her moods. When she needed solitude, he found some reason to leave her; when she needed to talk, to simply be, he was there, bearing the weight of her heart. Unselfish, patient, kind.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, beginning to realize the enormity of his gift.

  “You have suffered great losses,” he said. “But I would like to see more of your life than just this building.”

  It was the closest thing to an admonishment Dela had ever heard from Hari, and she felt appropriately chastised.

  Dela took him on a tour of the studio, pointing out her tools, her works in progress. He had already seen the weapons, and while those caught his eye, he was equally fascinated by her art, her technique. He asked many questions, and as they talked, a curious itching sensation arose in her fingers, in her heart. A vague desire for the hammer, heat.

  In the gallery, Hari pored over her finished work: sculptures, whimsical and fantastic, intricate renderings of famous myths, creatures from legend and fairy tale. Dancing centaurs bore the weight of an engraved tabletop, upon which Puss n’ Boots, his namesake gilded gold with platinum tassels, confronted a tarnished, copper-wrinkled ogre. Nymphs, sly and clever, hid in various poses around the gallery, while mermaids lounged on turquoise seashores, silver scales shining seductively.

  As Dela watched Hari prowl her gallery, something tight unfurled from her chest; she could suddenly breathe easier, and it occurred to her that she had spent the past three days suffocating.

  Maybe things will get easier, she thought, and then turned away from such musings. Hari had finally stopped in front of the tree.

  “Oh, Delilah,” he murmured, gazing up the ten-foot trunk to peer at the intricately detailed branches, flung wide as though to embrace the world—or at the very least, a good portion of the gallery. Birds, snakes, and other small animals nested in the heavy limbs, hidden by veined leaves, many of which had been hammered from copper and silver. Human eyes stared out from beneath the raised foliage; the hint of a mouth, a hand.

  No one leaf or branch was alike; like snowflakes, Dela had taken painstaking care to forge individuality, the lifelike essence of something unique and wild. The creatures peering down through the vegetation wore dissimilar expressions of curiosity and merriment, seemingly changing with the light. An eerie effect, some said.

  “It took me a year to complete.” Dela ran loving fingers over the variegated trunk, the steel rough and raw, cracked like actual bark. The wide thick roots curled around her feet, hiding a fox—and there, a little woman with wings. “It’s not for sale, but I couldn’t keep it locked up. I have visitors who sit here for hours, just looking.”

  “A year of staring would not be enough time,” Hari said, bending close. He glanced at her for permission, and then stroked the leaves with his fingers. They flexed on their delicate stems, shining.

  “The detail is incredible. So delicate. It reminds me of home.”

  She flushed. “It would have been impossible without my telekinesis. Take the leaves, for example. A molding of an actual plant is what some artists use, especially for mass-produced objects like jewelry. But the detail is superficial. A real leaf is imperfect in its perfection. It has character. I use my mind to picture all those nicks and veins, the rub of the surface, and then just … impress the image into the metal. ABANA, the artisan blacksmiths association, has been trying for years to get me to fess up my ‘secret technique.’ They still think I use molds.”

  “It is magic,” Hari said warmly. “You must not give up your craft, Delilah. You must keep creating.”

  “I will,” she found herself promising. And much to her amazement, she meant it.

  They talked more about her work, and then Dela ran upstairs to tell the guys that she and Hari were going for a walk.

  “You should take additional protection,” Artur said. Dean snickered.

  “It’s all right,” Dela reassured him, with a hard glare at Dean. “Hari is protection enough, and we won’t go far.”

  Artur grunted, barely mollified, but Dela did not give him time to insist. She scampered down the stairs, grabbed Hari’s hand, and led him out into sunshine and a sweet breeze.

  They ambled up Main Street, looking at window displays, mingling with the late summer tourists. It felt strange to Dela—strange, but good. She rarely wandered just for the fun of it. Usually alone, she always had a destination in mind, a place to go, someone to see.

  But now, the only person she wanted to see was Hari. Nothing mattered but him; not time or destination, not even grief. She watched the world through his eyes, and found it exotic and lovely. They talked without stopping, renewing themselves through words, finally resting at a small outdoor café where they ordered tea and warm slices of blueberry pie.

  Hari savored each bite, treating every morsel as a luxury. But despite his apparent absorption, the relaxed set of his shoulders, his smile, Dela knew he was on guard. His eyes occasionally flickered to the street, to the people around them, his instincts hunting.

  It did not bother her. She suspected Hari would always be like this, the predator waiting. Rather than set her on edge, it made her feel safe. Dela was tired of being alone, of taking care of herself. Until Hari came into her life, she had not realized how ready she was to shrug off solitude, which had always seemed so comfortable.

  But then, it takes a good boyfriend to be better than none.

  She paid the bill, Hari watching the transaction with a slight frown. When the waitress left, he leaned close and said, “I still do not feel comfortable living off your goodwill, no matter how wealthy you are. I should be able to take care of you. Add to your life in all ways.”

  “You do that.” Dela covered his hand with her own. Hari shook his head.

  “In my day, shape-shifters had no use for the material. Our needs were few. A rarity, I have learned. The past two thousand years have taught me much about human society, and what is required to be comfortable.” Hari looked at his hands, large and elegant, tight with muscle. “All I know is fighting, Delilah, but that is no longer enough. Not if I wish to provide for you.”

  “But you don’t need to provide for me. Not like that, anyway.”

  “Yes, I do. It is a matter of honor, Delilah.”

  His mouth set in a stubborn line. Dela knew this was a fight she would not win. Hari might not mind if she had money, but he wasn’t going to use it as an excuse for laziness. She admired him for that, but also found it exasperating.

  “Hari,” she began, and stopped, tracing a pattern on the tabletop with her fingernail. How could she explain to him?

  “You think I am foolish,” he said.

  “No.” Dela vehemently shook her head. “I think you are admirable. It’s just … I have a lot of money, Hari. I have no doubt you could find work, but there are very few jobs that would pay you a salary equal to what I already have … and what I have is yours as well.”

  “I do not want your money.”

  “As long as we’re together you’re going to have it,” Dela said firmly. “But that’s not the point. I need you to take care of me, Hari—but I don’t need you
to take care of me with money. I need more than that.”

  “Name it,” he said. Just like that. A promise, with no questions asked.

  “I need you to be my friend,” she said, feeling her courage falter. “I need you to take care of my heart. I need … I need your love.”

  “My love,” he echoed, his eyes soft, so soft. “But you have that, Delilah.”

  “And that is all I need,” she breathed, leaning close. She touched his hands and brushed her lips against his mouth. He kissed her, gentle.

  “And the rest?” he murmured against her mouth.

  “Will work itself out,” she promised.

  They walked home. Blue was on the phone when they opened the door.

  “She’s back,” he said into the receiver, and glanced at her. “It’s Roland. He wants to talk to you.”

  Dela wordlessly took the phone.

  “Not so smart taking a walk without more bodyguards, Del.”

  “I needed some privacy,” she said.

  Roland grunted. “I’ve been hearing stories about your new boyfriend. Sounds like a useful guy to have around.”

  “Don’t even think about it.”

  “Think about what?” he asked, and she heard the sly smile in his voice. “Ah, don’t get your thong in a twist, babe. I’m not calling to recruit. I’ve got an update on that woman, Long Nü.”

  “Finally.”

  “Don’t give me that. It’s only taken this long because the intel I first received didn’t make much sense. There was someone registered for that particular stall, but under a different name: Lu Xia. Thing is, when my contacts did a full search on this Lu Xia, using her registered government number and address, they were told she’d been dead for the past ten years. Well, they went back to the Dirt Market, found out who the old timers were, and passed off her name. Get this—they all remembered her, and insisted she was the one selling those Tibetan tapestries you mentioned.”

  “Except she’s not.”