Tiger Eye (12 page)

“My knives,” Hari said thoughtfully. “They told you a story.”

“Yes.” Her palm still ached.

“What did you see?”

“Blood,” she whispered. “Death. But that was the blade itself. I also felt you, and your echo was so angry, so lonely and sad. You carried such regret for all the lives you had taken.”

“I have done terrible things in my life, Delilah. It is true I committed them against my will, but the stain is still there. I have killed and killed, for days without end. I have lived the nightmare.”

“I know,” she said softly.

“And still, after all you have seen, you do not turn away from me. Why?” There was such pain in his voice—pain, and a desperate longing. For what, she did not know. Forgiveness? Acceptance?

Dela rolled over in Hari’s arms so she could see his eyes. She pressed her palm against his rough cheek. “At the core of you burns a pure bright flame, and it is made of kindness. That’s why I can’t turn away, why I’m not afraid.”

“I do not feel kind,” he said.

“But you are,” she responded.

Hari kissed her palm. “I do not understand you, Delilah.”

Dela smiled. “I’m not entirely sure I understand you, either, and I’ve been inside the shadow of your soul. Kooky, huh? Guess we’re just stuck with mystery.”

Hari did not look as though he minded. He traced her lips with the pad of his thumb, and Dela closed her eyes.

“I need your permission,” he whispered.

“Tell me something first,” she said, and it was difficult to speak. “Why your change of heart? Why don’t you hate me anymore?”

He looked embarrassed. “I tried not to trust you. I did not want to like you. Hate has always been safe, Delilah. I have been hurt so much it is easier to assume the worst.”

“But?”

He sighed. “But I am not a broken man, and everything you have done—your actions and words—has reminded me of that. I have not believed in anything for a very long time, Delilah, but I think I am beginning to believe in you.”

It was the most profound compliment anyone had ever paid her, but there was something else in his voice that made her go very still.

“You’re still waiting for me to slip up, aren’t you?”

“Part of me expects it,” he said. “An old habit, born of experience.”

Hari’s words hurt, but she was not surprised. His persistent doubts only made her more stubborn, more determined to prove him wrong and end the betrayal.

“It’s a good thing you’re used to disappointment,” she said.

Hari smiled. “My lady. Your permission?”

“You have it,” she said.

He kissed her. Gentle, tentative—a feather-soft brushing of lips. His tenderness was excruciating. Dela reached for him, pulling herself close until she lay flush against his hard body. Touching him felt so good.

“Delilah,” he murmured, his breathing ragged. She was pleased he looked as dazed as she felt. “We cannot become distracted … there is too much danger now. The Magi will attempt to gain control of the box and kill you … and there are your other assassins….”

“You sure know how to destroy the mood.” Dela glowered, but his eyes were gentle, and she burrowed her face against his chest. Hari wrapped his arms around her, burying his fingers in her hair. He felt large and warm, safe. But the world itself was not safe, and she thought about the Magi, the man who had tortured Hari—who had tried to kidnap her, and then sunk his mental fingers into her flesh.

“How did the Magi stay alive all these years?” Dela wondered out loud. “If his powers have diminished, do you think he somehow drained himself in return for longevity?”

Strange, hearing such odd talk come out of her mouth, though in some ways, it didn’t seem much worse than discussing telepathy and clairvoyance with her friends at the agency. She supposed it all depended on what a person was used to—and she was becoming used to quite a lot.

“I wish I knew, Delilah. I am embarrassed by my ignorance. All these years I should have tried to learn something, but I was so focused on the present, on each command, resisting my masters to keep from being broken …”

He stopped. Dela wanted to ask him more about his past, but held her tongue. There was too much emotion in Hari’s voice. She felt uncomfortable pressing him.

“Hari,” she asked instead, “why didn’t the Magi summon you after he placed you in the box?”

The question seemed to take him off guard, and he thought carefully before answering.

“I do not know. He inscribed the curse on my chest, and then—darkness. Darkness, followed by light. My first summons, by a king who wanted nothing more than the deaths of his stepsons. I did not know why I was there, what had happened—only, I was compelled to follow the king’s orders. I could not escape him, and I tried, Delilah. I tried so hard. Later, I found someone to read the words inscribed upon my body. Like you, I found them incomprehensible. It was a bewildering time, frightening because I had no control, and every summons was to a new place, new customs, living under the whim of unpredictable, often cruel individuals. I was never safe. No one around me was safe.”

What would it be like, forced to murder, unable to control your actions, ever? Torture.

Dela chewed on her lip. “It doesn’t make sense. You’d think
the Magi would have retained control from the start, kept you as a trophy or his own personal whipping boy. On the other hand, I’ve also been wondering why you weren’t just passed down from one master to another, constantly summoned within a particular family.”

“That
I can answer,” Hari said, with a wry twist to his lips. “I am a slave, Delilah, and so I must be purchased by anyone who wishes to summon me. I, too, used to wonder why I was not simply summoned again and again. That part of the curse was not written down. Perhaps it was even unintended. It took me some time to understand. My masters, fortunately, never did. They must have believed my ability to serve was for one person ever, and the box was either given away, stolen, or sold—upon which time the cycle began again. Assuming the new owner even bothered to open the box.”

“Bought and sold,” Dela murmured. Hari frowned, and she said, “That’s what the old woman told me. She wouldn’t even let me touch the box until I paid her money.”

Hari made a soft sound. “She knew what she was selling.”

“And the Magi was aware she had it. I wonder how long he waited there, trying to convince her to sell you to him.”

“I am surprised she did not claim me for herself.”

Dela snorted. “And here you thought
everyone
wanted your body.”

“Most do,” he said, and Dela laughed, lightly smacking him on the chest. Hari held her close and kissed her cheek.

Something tight unwound in Dela’s stomach, a warm flush of comfort, but she still had one last question.

“Will you ever trust me?” she asked. Hari’s smile faded.

“I trust you,” he said gravely. “My heart has been broken one too many times, but I am willing to try again, to trust.”

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Because we’re in this together.”

“That is good,” he said. “I am tired of being alone.”

The phone rang, startling Dela. Hari, too, jerked with surprise. Dela rubbed his arm. “It’s okay,” she assured him, though really, it wasn’t. She did not want to answer the phone. She wanted to pretend the world beyond did not exist—that no one could harm them, and they could press against each other and talk, talk and kiss, and express their newfound trust.

Dela answered the phone. It was her brother, Max.

“I hear someone’s trying to kill you.” Machine gunfire punctuated his words.

“Back at you,” she said, wincing as somewhere near, a man screamed. “Is this the best time to call?”

“Only time. After this, things get really hairy. I just wanted to let you know I’ll be home in a week or so. Try to stay alive until then.”

“Worry about yourself. I still can’t believe you got talked into a team project.”

“I’ll be fine. Oh, uh, gotta go. Love—”

Click.

Dela stared at the phone. What a nice, normal family. She reset the receiver, and rolled back into Hari’s arms. And what a day.

“My brother,” Dela explained to Hari.

“Is he a soldier of some kind?” Hari asked. “I heard fighting.”

“You’ve got good hearing. And no, he’s not much of a soldier, though he is good in a fight.”

The only light came from the bathroom, leaving Hari’s angular face half-bathed in shadow. He closed his eyes, and Dela was reminded of a large cat, meditating on catlike things. She watched him for a time, lost to awe and strange twists of fate, and managed—for a moment, just a moment—to forget things like danger and deception and magic.

Her stomach growled, and Hari opened one eye.

“Sorry,” Dela said sheepishly. “I guess I’m hungry.”

“We should eat. Do you feel well enough to sit up?”

“To be honest, I forgot I was hurt.” Dela grinned, and Hari shared her smile with a heat that made her scalp shiver.

He helped her sit up, slinging one strong arm around her shoulders. She barely had to use her own strength; he carefully watched her face for any signs of discomfort. Dela breathed long and deep; her ribs and stomach did not ache. Still, memory: sharp fingers inside her body, digging against bone, clutching flesh. Her breath caught.

“Delilah.”

“It’s nothing,” she said. “Just a bad memory.”

Hari remained silent, but his eyes were dark and knowing. With one long arm, he reached around her for the room service menu on the bed stand. Dela stared at it for a moment, caught between fear and longing.

“I still haven’t taken you on that walk I promised,” she said, deciding to jump into the void. “There’s a lot of world outside this hotel you should see.”

“It is too dangerous,” Hari said, glancing across the room out the window. Night had fallen; the lights of the city twinkled silver, dashed with a rainbow of neon.

“Even this room is dangerous,” Dela said, desperate for fresh air, for something more than four walls, caught like a mouse in a trap. “No place is safe. Not now.”

“You are reckless,” Hari told her, but without malice. He brushed the back of his hand against her cheek. Dela’s smile felt tremulous, and he sighed. “All right. We will go for a walk, and our meal.”

They stood from the bed, and while Hari used the bathroom, Dela turned on some lamps, and the television.

“I must apologize,” he said, when he returned. “When I carried you back to the room, I left behind all the clothing you bought me.”

“I figured that. I’m not sure how I would have felt if you’d had the presence of mind to remember your shopping bags at a time of crisis.”

He began to reply, but noticed the images on the television. Dela explained the concept, and began flipping stations.
Gladiator
was playing on the hotel’s movie channel, and Hari leaned close as Maximus appeared in the coliseum.

“Rome?” he asked, eyes intense upon the scene playing out before him.

Dela blinked, reminded once again of Hari’s strange life. “A re-enactment of Rome; a play, a story.”

“Except, very lifelike.” Hari watched, troubled, as the gladiatorial games began. “I see some differences, but it is much the same. I was there, Delilah, early on in my captivity. I was quite popular in the arena, but my master made too many enemies with his gambling, and was gutted in his home.”

He hesitated, still staring at the screen. “I do not know how much time passed, but by my next summons, the Goths and other barbarian tribes had begun to invade Rome. My master was the emperor himself, Valens. He was desperate for some good fortune. When he summoned me, I acted as his bodyguard, but most often fought with his army. We were finally defeated at Adrianople by the Goths, who attacked our flank while we were concentrating on some Visigoths. It was a terrible battle. So much blood. The ground was slippery with it. My master died. I returned to the box.” He finally looked at Dela, the skin pulled tight around his mouth. “The irony is that my next master was a Goth. He did not live long, either.”

Hari did not want to watch any more television. They went to dinner.

Night cast a cool breeze over the city. They ambled from the hotel down the wide sidewalk running parallel to Jianguomenwai, the main road leading to Tianamen Square and the Forbidden
City. Under the giant towers of their hotel and the trade center, the neon glittering signs of Haägen-Dahz and KFC lit their faces in shades of imported red, white, and gold. Cars raced illegally down the wide bicycle lane beside them, honking and veering. The air smelled like grease and exhaust. Hari scrunched up his nose, clearly unimpressed by certain aspects of the modern age.

Bad smells, however, could not prevent Hari from observing his new surroundings with acute, awe-stricken interest, and he asked careful questions about everything he saw. Skyscrapers, vehicles, roads, politics, culture—nothing was off limits. He was hungry for knowledge, and Dela felt an exhilarating rush as she talked to him, explaining her world.

But there were some things that remained unforgettable.

“I still do not feel comfortable with this walk,” Hari said, for what felt to Dela like the hundredth time. He watched, through narrowed eyes, everyone near them. “It is not safe, Delilah. There are two different groups of people who want to hurt you.”

“Thanks for reminding me,” Dela groused, although since leaving the hotel room she had been scanning everyone near them for suspicious amounts of metal—anything that sang of gun or blade. It was tiring work, opening herself to so many. She felt a headache coming on as rings and watches gossiped in her mind, a golden wedding band revealing a particularly sordid story involving cucumbers and whipped cream.

Less than a mile from the hotel, Dela led Hari down a well-lit alley to a little restaurant she had found earlier in the week. The kitchen itself, a tiny space the size of a closet with glass for walls, sat beside the front entrance. Every diner had a perfect view of the frantic cook, a slender man surrounded by steaming pots and greasy pans, his delicate hands flashing like pale knives.

Almost every seat was occupied, but Dela and Hari found a table in the far corner under a rasping air conditioner. The
shape-shifter managed to fold his body into a chair that was much too small, even by Dela’s standards. He reminded her of an elephant—or rather, a tiger—perched on a bar stool.