Tiger Eye
Authors: Marjorie M. Liu
Tags: #Romance, #Fantasy, #General, #Paranormal, #Fiction
TIGER
EYE
MARJORIE M. LIU
To Elfin Mudder, Genghis, and Daisy. Meow, with love.
Table of Contents
“WHAT IS YOUR DESIRE?”
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.
Dela had mysterious dreams the night before she bought the riddle box. A portent, maybe. She did not think much of it. She was used to strange dreams, only a few of which had ever come true.
Still, she was alert when she left the hotel the next morning, stepping into the dry furnace of a rare clear Beijing day. Winds had swept through the night, sloughing away the smog and scent of exhaust and decay. Blue sky everywhere. Sun glinted off the glass of skyscrapers, cars, diamonds, the aluminum spines of umbrellas shading dark-eyed women, casting sparks in Dela’s unprotected eyes. The world trickled light.
The city had changed. Ten years of capitalist influence, spinning a web of glass and advertisements; a modern infrastructure sweeping over the land as surely as the fine Gobi dust imported by the northern winds. A new cultural revolution, here in the city, across China. It mattered to Dela, the form and result. She could hear Beijing’s growing song, the soul of
the city, the collective soul of its thirteen million inhabitants, etched into the steel.
Dangerous, alluring—she did not like to listen long. There was too much hunger in that voice, overwhelming promise and hope, twisted with despair. A double-edged blade, forged from the dreams of the people living their lives around her.
Just like any other big city
, she reminded herself, pouring strength into her mental shields.
Devils and angels, the lost and found.
Cabs swarmed the hotel drive, like fire ants, fast and red, and Dela jumped into the first one that squealed to a stop. Directions, spoken in perfect Mandarin, slipped off her tongue. One week in China, and her old language lessons had returned with a fury. True, she sometimes practiced with her assistant, Adam, a former resident of Nanjing, but regular life had settled its wings on her shoulders, years without stretching herself, dredging up the studies that had once taken her around the world. Dela thought she might have forgotten all those parts that were not metal, of the forge, and was glad she had not.
The cab wrenched from one clogged lane to another, a hair-raising mish-mash of roaring engines and squealing tires, curving down a tree-lined street where colorful exercise bars lined a scrap of shaded park. Elderly men and women pushed and pulled their way through rotating stress exercises, children screaming on seesaws. Bicycles overburdened with cargo, both human and vegetable, trundled down the crowded street, cars swerving to avoid the monstrously wide loads, as well as the packs of ragged young men darting across the road.
Dela saw a familiar low wall, cracked with age, its carved flowers and barbed wire still unchanged. She tapped the plastic barrier and the driver let her out before the wide entrance, scratched blue doors flung open to admit both foreigners and locals who made their way through a treacherous maze of
parked bicycles. Dela saw faces bright with curiosity and greed.
Entering Pan Jia-Yuan. The Dirt Market. Tourist trap, hive of antique rip-offs and bald-faced lies—a treasure hunter’s paradise. And Dela was in the mood to hunt.
Dust swirled around her feet as she slipped past crooked old men and women hawking nylon shopping bags to beleaguered early birds, hands already full of purchases. Stepping onto the concrete platform shaded by a voluminous tin roof, she listened to cheap jade jingle: bracelets, statues, necklaces. Pretty enough, and quite popular, if the gathered crowds were any indication. Nothing caught her eye. Potential gifts, perhaps, for acquaintances who would appreciate the gesture. Not good enough for actual friends, few and far between, deserving of special care, something beyond trinkets.
But, later. Dela had something else to find.
She combed the shadowed interiors of the open-air stalls, searching until she heard a familiar call inside her mind.
Weapons.
She followed the whispers to their source.
Scimitars and short swords; Tibetan daggers, hilts engraved with piled grinning skulls. Mongol bows, rough with use and age, quivers flimsy with faded embroidery, metal trimmings. Everywhere, dusty tinted steel—but all of it disappointing. The metalwork was poor; these were cheap imitations for not-so-cheap prices.
Dela stared at the eager merchants, who smiled at her blond hair, pale skin, and electric eyes. Easy mark. She could see it written on their faces, and their judgment made her feel lonely; a foreign emotion, and unpleasant.
Bad enough they probably think I’m dumb
, she thought sourly. Solitude was a gift, but only when paired with anonymity. The disinterested observer.
Dela frowned to herself.
You shouldn’t have returned to China if you didn’t want to stand out. Buck up, girl.
She left the weapons stalls, ignoring protests—some of which bordered on desperate—with a polite shake of her head. Those weapons offered her nothing. She knew quality when she saw it, age and history when she felt it. A simple thing, when one worked with steel as much as she did. When it sang its secrets inside her head.
Still looking for treasures, Dela simply wandered for a time, soaking in the heat, the scents of incense and musty artifacts kept too long in shadow. She watched children sell boxed breakfasts of fried noodles and onion pancakes, crying out prices in high voices. She listened to an old man play a lilting melody on a stone flute, and bought one of his small instruments. He laughed when she tried stringing notes together, the hollow stone wheezing miserably. Dela grinned, shrugging.
After nearly an hour of browsing, Dela found something perfect for her mother. Generous rectangles of linen, dyed a vibrant navy, embroidered with delicate stylized flowers—a bouquet of colors, random and perfect. She bargained like a fiend, dredging up every scrap of charm and language she possessed, and by the end of the transaction, both she and the seller were grinning foolishly.
“Aiii yo,” sighed the older woman, smoothing glossy silver hair away from an oval face that looked at least twenty years younger than her body. Gold-flecked eyes glittered, but not unkindly. “It has been a long time since I met a foreigner who made me work for a sale.”
Dela laughed. “It’s been a long time since I met anyone I enjoyed arguing with.”
The woman quirked her lips, and for a moment her gaze changed, becoming older, darker, wiser. “I have something else you might want.”
“Ah, no. I think I have enough.”
The old woman ignored her, already digging through the
tapestries and knickknacks piled at her feet. Dela watched, helpless. She did not have the heart to simply walk away. A good haggle created a bond, a certain unspoken etiquette. The “last chance” possibility of a final transaction.
The late summer heat was growing oppressive; air moved sluggishly between the stalls thick with wares and milling bodies. The scents of dust and grease tickled Dela’s nose. Sweat ran down her back. Slightly bored and uncomfortable, she turned full circle, gazing at the throng of shoppers.
A man at the end of the aisle caught her eye. He was of an indeterminate race, darkly handsome, wearing sandals and loose black slacks, as well as a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He was crisp, clean, and somehow out of place, although Dela could not determine exactly why.
At first she thought he was staring at her—and perhaps he had been—but now he studied the old woman digging through her wares, and Dela felt inexplicably uneasy. His eyes were cold, measuring, haunted by a simmering intensity that would have been overwhelming if not matched to such an attractive face and body.
When the old woman popped up with a triumphant sigh, Dela stepped close.
“Behind me,” she whispered, not caring if the woman thought her strange, “there is a man watching you.”
Her gold-flecked gaze flickered; something hard rippled through her face. “I am used to him. He seems to think I have something he wants.”
“I don’t like him,” Dela said.
The old woman smiled. For a moment, her teeth looked sharp, predatory. “Which is why I am going to do you a favor. For one yuan, you may have this riddle box.”
Dela stared. One yuan was an incredibly low price for the Dirt Market, where everything was inflated to exorbitant
amounts, especially for foreigners. She gazed at the object in the old woman’s hands. Loosely wrapped in linen, she saw soft lines, rounded edges. Wood, perhaps, although she imagined the hint of something harder beneath the cloth. No metal. Nothing called to her.
“What is the riddle?” Dela asked.
The old woman bared her teeth. “Choice.”
Dela looked at her sharply and reached for the box. The woman pulled away, shaking her head.
“Bought and sold,” she whispered, and Dela was struck by the intensity of her stare, more powerful than the gaze of the strange man still observing them. “It must be bought and sold. One yuan, please.”
Dela could not bring herself to argue, to refuse. Despite the odd air surrounding the transaction, the vague uneasiness pricking her spine, she fished a bill from her purse and handed it to the old woman.
Another sigh, and the old woman looked deep into Dela’s eyes. “A good choice,” she said, and Dela sensed some deeper, inexplicable meaning. She carefully slid the wrapped box into Dela’s purse—a swift act, as though to conceal. Dela felt uneasy.
You know better
, she chided herself.
This “box” could be full of drugs, and you’re the stupid American courier, traipsing around until you get pulled over by the cops, and thrown into a sweaty prison.
Or not
, she thought, staring into the old woman’s mysterious face.
Dreams and portents
, she reminded herself, fighting down a shudder. The stifling air was suddenly not warm enough. Her bones felt cold.
The old woman stepped back, smiling, and suddenly was just like any other Dirt Market hawker. Eyes sharp, but somewhat glassy.
“Bye-bye,” she said, and turned her back on Dela.
The sudden reversal in attitude, from intimate to dismissive,
took Dela off guard. She almost protested, but from the corner of her eye felt the strange man’s attention weigh upon her. An odd sensation; tangible, like sticky fingers on the back of her neck. Impossible to ignore.
Go
, whispered her instincts.
Without another look at the old woman, Dela walked down the aisle, away from the strange man and his searching eyes. She did not look back; she moved gracefully through the thickening crowds, slipping between stalls and merchants, ragged men and women rising from their haunches to shove vases in front of her flushed face. Her chill vanished; the heat suddenly felt overwhelming, the press of bodies too much, the sensation of being hunted tightening her gut. Premonition haunted her.
When Dela finally broke free of her winding path, she found herself near the front gates. Heart pounding, she jogged to the street and hailed a cab. A breath of cool air brushed against her sweaty neck.
