Tiger Eye (16 page)

There was a moment when Dela thought for sure she had made a mistake; the looks people gave her were closed, damning, and it occurred to her that even if someone did talk, she might hear nothing but lies. But then she heard a shifting of cloth, and a low voice sighed, “Aiii-yo.”

A titter from the other merchants, quickly hushed. Dela
faced the man who rose from his haunches, a cigarette hanging between his elegant brown fingers. He was in his forties, black hair stuffed into a faded blue cloth hat. He did not look Dela in the eyes, but took the fifty dollars she stuffed into his hand.

“Long Nü.” He ducked his head as several people hissed. “That is her name.”

Long Nü. Dragon Woman.

Dela angled close. “Long Nü is still alive, isn’t she? Why is she hiding? Why are all of you protecting her?”

The young woman Dela had spoken to spat something ugly, and the man flinched. Flinched, and then froze as he looked over Dela’s shoulder. The look on his face made her skin crawl.

“Delilah!” Hari’s voice, full of warning.

Dela turned just in time to feel something sharp caress her neck, so close to skin she felt its kiss of steel. The knife flew past the startled man in front her and thudded into a wooden post.

Dela dropped into a crouch. At the end of the aisle, surrounded by startled shoppers, stood her would-be assassin. His hands glittered with small knives. How had she not sensed the metal?

As he raised his hand for another throw, Dela glimpsed Hari vault over a merchant-constructed wares wall, his massive body flying through the air to land with perfect grace beside her. He came up hard against her body, engulfing her completely, hugging her so close she felt the ridges of his scars press against her forehead through his shirt.

She heard the impact of steel against flesh—once, twice—but Hari made no sound. He reached behind his back and Dela heard his body tear—wet sucking sounds. A bloody knife appeared in Hari’s hand and then was gone, flying through the air.

The knife thudded into the assassin’s throat, blade sunk to the hilt. The man gurgled, eyes bulging. He collapsed with his fingers still scrabbling at his neck.

People began pushing and shoving, swarming down the aisle, trying to escape the violence. Screams filled the air, loud and strident. The rough gasp of weeping. Chaos. Hari remained unaffected by the riot. He picked Dela up in his arms and ran down the aisle, carving a path through the crowd with his size and sheer bullying strength.

Dela could barely see any of it, tucked as she was into Hari’s body. She was only conscious of the blur in her vision, the thunder of his heart beneath her ear. When he finally put her down they were on the farthest fringe of the market, in a small empty lot behind a bulky group of stone lions, tacky Romanesque columns, and giant Buddhas. Nearby, a gap in the aluminum fence revealed the road and thick morning traffic.

“Are you hurt?” Hari asked roughly, the rumble from his chest sinking through her skin, into bone. He glanced behind them, and then lightly ran his hands over her body, her face, searching. He tilted her head so he could see her neck, and hissed. Dela touched the burning skin, but her fingers came away dry. It was just a welt.

“I’m not hurt,” she insisted, pressing her cheek against his callused palm. “You?”

Dela saw the answer in his eyes and she squeezed out from under his arms to check his back. Blood stained his shirt; a small knife jutted out from under his shoulder blade. She sucked in her breath.

“Pull it out,” Hari ordered. “Quickly, before anyone notices.”

Dela glanced around; the area he had brought them to was secluded, but that would not last. In the distance, beyond the farthest edge of this stone garden, she could see the bustle of the market—and hear a rising chorus of distressed shouts.

Gritting her teeth, Dela took firm hold of the dagger and yanked it from Hari’s back. He grunted, but that was all. Dela pulled off her lightweight cotton cardigan and stuffed it against
the sluggishly bleeding wound. There was another hole in his back, the flesh ragged and torn, but it had already stopped bleeding.

She glanced at the knife, feeling ill. It was not one of her weapons. The hilt was very slender, naked steel punctuated by five small holes. A commercial brand, ordinary and untraceable; something like a Lightning Bolt.

Death by blade. The steel whispered, but it was a new knife. Nothing of its owner had left an imprint.

“The trail disappeared,” Dela heard Hari whisper, and when he turned, the fear in his eyes made her sway. “So I came back to find you. But I was too late. I saw that man, and I could not move fast enough. I thought you would be taken, right before my eyes.”

It was difficult to speak. She managed a tremulous smile and said, “So I guess you’d miss me, huh?”

Hari drew in a shaky breath and pressed his lips against her forehead. He held her face, his hands large and warm. “I think it would be difficult to find another friend like you, Delilah.”

Dela covered his hand, kissing his palm. “I’d miss you, too, Hari.”

She still held the bloody knife; she wrapped the blade in her ruined cardigan, and dropped them both into her shoulder bag to dispose of later. She glanced once again at Hari’s back. Both wounds had stopped bleeding, but his shirt was mangled, bloodstained.

“We need to get out of here.” She looked through the statues at the main drag of market space. Several locals glanced in their direction, and Dela could hear sirens. No one in the city ever took the police very seriously—it was the soldiers who made people jump—but where there was one, there would be the other.

“Take off your shirt,” she ordered. “And stay here. Please, Hari. I’ll be right back, I promise.”

“I already made that mistake, Delilah. We go together.”

“No. You’re covered in blood, and too many people saw you throw that knife.” She touched his shoulder, taking strength from his warmth. “Last night you said you’d take care of me, and you have. Let me do the same, Hari. Let me take care of you.”

“I will be the death of you,” he said.

“Not today,” she said, backing away, leaving him behind with his hands drawn tight against his thighs.

You’re too cocky
, Dela told herself. But what choice did she have? She knew the danger—there could still be another assassin out there, in the crowd—but if she let fear rule her, the game would be over for good.

And a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do
, she thought, forcing herself to weave a path around the statues at a pace she hoped would not draw notice. The soldiers and police had arrived, milling near the entrance to the Dirt Market: bored young men with sub-machine guns and note pads. Several of them were listening to the excited chatter of apparent witnesses to the attack.

Dela scanned the crowd before she left the cover of the stone garden. She quickly found what she was looking for: a slender middle-aged woman with numerous black t-shirts slung over one arm, standing on the fringe of gathered gawkers. Dela reached her just as a team of medics emerged from beneath the market awning, a covered stretcher between them. Dela swallowed hard and looked away.

As Dela hoped would happen, her blond hair caught the attention of the t-shirt hawker, who immediately abandoned the growing fracas for the possibility of a sale. Dela bought the largest shirt she had for the first price quoted—which seemed to both disappoint and please the woman. From a black garbage
bag at her feet, she whipped out several large baseball caps with the 2008 Olympic logo on them. Dela bought those, too.

She made her way back to Hari, sighing with relief when she found him in the same spot, his shirt already off and balled in his fist. He did not smile when he saw her, but he touched her cheek and it was enough.

The shirt barely fit and the artist’s rendition of the Great Wall was embarrassingly tacky, but the black fabric covered the drying blood on Hari’s back, and was less jaw-dropping than his half-naked body. They put on the baseball caps, Hari tucking away his distinctive hair.

Dela stuffed his ruined shirt into her bag with the knife and cardigan, and then she and Hari pushed themselves through the gap in the aluminum fence. Hari suffered some scratches on his arms as he shouldered past the metal siding. The gap opened out onto a busy sidewalk, and they caught some curious glances from passing locals. She smiled, hoping she looked more goofy than insane, and took Hari’s hand.

They walked around the block, following the outer wall of the Dirt Market, looking for the hotel van. It was still parked across the street from the market entrance, which was now filled with military and police cars. Dela hesitated, and glanced at Hari.

“We must,” he said.

They crossed the busy street, insinuating themselves among the locals who pushed themselves, inch by brave inch, into the ever-flowing river of vehicular traffic, until finally, one car stopped—and then another—and everyone made it safely across.

They reached the van without mishap; no one screamed or pointed fingers; no young men with guns began shouting orders. In fact, no one paid them any attention at all, except to stare at the very large foreign man in the awful shirt and touristy hat.

The driver looked at them curiously when they climbed into the van, but said nothing. Dela told him to head back to the hotel. Fast.

She sat in the backseat. There wasn’t nearly enough room, but Hari dragged Dela in after him, refusing to let go of her hand. She did not mind being pressed against him. Her body was finally beginning to react to the attack, her limbs quaking, heart pounding a rough tattoo against her ribs. She felt sick.

“I really,
really
didn’t think he would try anything in a crowded place, in broad daylight,” Dela mumbled. “I should have known better.”

“He was desperate. He already failed once, and could not afford to do so again.” Hari spoke so quietly Dela could barely hear him. He covered her shoulders with a strong arm, his large hand resting lightly in her hair. His touch shot warmth through Dela’s trembling body, and she closed her eyes, savoring the sensation of being comforted.

“You saved my life again,” she whispered. “Thank you, Hari.”

Dela felt him look at her, and was drawn to meet that serious, golden gaze.

“I killed a man in front of your eyes,” he said, in a voice meant for her ears only. “Does that not bother you?”

Dela thought he was really asking if he had frightened her. She shook her head.

“I’m sorry you had to be the one to do it. I know you’ve had enough of violence. But I’m not sorry that man is dead. He tried to kill me twice, and men like that don’t stop until they’re called off or paid in full.”

Bloodthirsty, cold, cynical—all those words passed through Dela’s mind to describe herself, but she could not help telling Hari her own personal truth. She held her breath, awaiting his response.

“You continue to surprise me,” he said quietly. Dela sighed as he tucked her even closer to his side. “Has this happened to you before?”

“No, but I know the rules, the way the game is played.” She had to, as a member of the agency.

“I will not ask how you know these things,” Hari said. “Not yet, anyway. But knowing these … rules, would you have killed him yourself, given the chance?”

Dela felt herself go very still. “I’m as good a mark with a knife as you are, Hari. And yes, I would have killed him in self-defense.”

“Good,” he breathed, pressing his lips to her temple.

“Good?”

“It would bother me more if you allowed conviction or a weak stomach to make you a victim.”

“But stupidity is okay, right?”

“You are not stupid, Delilah. Merely … naïve. Or perhaps simply brave.”

“I’m not sure I see the difference. And I’m not brave. I’m terrified.”

“Terrified?” Laughter escaped him, sharp. “I have seen kings and warlords react with more emotion.”

“Yeah? Well, I bet they weren’t trained from birth to control their fears. Not like I was.” Hari blinked, startled. Dela touched his hand. “You say I don’t show fear? It doesn’t mean I don’t feel it. But control—control is essential for people like me, especially control over fear. It would be so easy to fear myself, Hari. The things I do aren’t normal, not by society’s standards, and if I let fear rule me, it will block my abilities. The same is true now. If I panic I’ll be useless, and that’s something I can’t tolerate.”

“Spoken like a warrior,” he murmured. “Ah, Delilah. We are not so different. What you describe is very similar to the training
I underwent as a child. Shape-shifters are born human, but the ability to transform comes at an early age. The first time is terrifying. You are told what to expect, but the mind is still too young to comprehend what it means to become something else, something alien. We must continuously learn to manage our fear of the change, at least until we grow old enough to control when and where it happens.”

“And if you don’t learn?”

Hari’s jaw tightened. “Life becomes difficult.”

Dela almost asked, but the look on his face said volumes. This was a story for another time.

Another time.
She smiled at herself, amused she had already come to terms with the idea she and Hari would have time. Time shared, a future with stories to look forward to.

Insanity
, she thought, with more happiness than fear.

“What are you thinking?” Hari asked.

“That you must’ve been an adorable cub,” she lied, embarrassed to share the truth.

Hari’s lips quirked into a wry smile. “I had very sharp claws.”

“Some things never change.”

Hari looked at his hands: long, lean, and strong. Dela covered them with her own—slender, winter-pale—and they spent a moment in silence, taking in the differences.

“Did you find the old woman?” Hari finally asked, breaking the quiet. “I forgot about her.”

Dela grimaced. “What I found was a stone wall. According to the people who work near her, she’s dead.”

Hari froze. “Murder?”

“They’re lying. Protecting her for some reason. The only thing I found out was her name. Long Nü.”