Tiger Eye (7 page)

Hari did not speak. He allowed his presence to ask the question, and Dela seemed to feel the press of his silent words.

“I know this knife,” she said, disbelief coloring her words. “I
made
this knife.”

Hari gingerly sat beside her, again surprised. “You are a metalsmith?”

“Of a kind,” she said, looking into his eyes. “I am an artist, but I also craft weapons. Do you think that’s strange?”

Hari could not help himself; he allowed her to see his smile, and it felt good. “I am a shape-shifter, cursed to spend eternity as a slave: I exist in a box when not in flesh, and I cannot be killed. In the face of all that, I would say your ability to work metal is unbearably ordinary.”

She laughed; a delightful sound, cut too short. Her eyes went dark as she stared at the long blade, the steel emblazoned with the intricate rendering of a coiled dragon.

“The knife was a special order for a client. I don’t usually take personal contracts, but this fellow promised to donate a lot of money to an arts program for children if I crafted the blade. I don’t like having my arm twisted, but he was adamant. He wanted an original Dela Reese knife, and he made sure everyone knew his donation hinged on my decision.” She shook her head. “The knife was stolen three months ago, straight from its shipment to the client.”

“The person who stole the weapon had a specific purpose in mind,” Hari said, taking the knife from her. The blade was as long as her forearm, closer to a short sword than a dagger. The hilt was elegant in its simplicity, deceptively subtle, the workmanship revealing a brilliant, breathless quality that begged an admiring hand. Hari’s burgeoning respect deepened.

“Someone planned this,” Dela said, horror shading her voice. “Someone with enough money and connections to track me down in
China.”

“Do you have enemies?” Hari traced the engraving with his fingers.

Dela shook her head. “I keep to myself, spend most of my time alone. I have a close circle of friends, all of whom are above reproach.”

“A smile on the face hides a dagger on the tongue.”

Dela began to protest and Hari inclined his head. “I am sorry, Delilah, but as you said, someone planned this. Someone who knows you well.”

“You can call me Dela,” she grumbled.

Dela is not the name of a queen or a warrior
, he thought, but said, “I prefer Delilah. It suits you.”

“Maybe when you say it,” she muttered, standing up. Her eyes were hard as she looked at the knife cradled in his hands. Hari returned the dagger, hilt first. Dela’s grip was firm, easy. He noticed muscles flex in her arm, lean and strong—arms of a woman accustomed to hard work. Yet there was something else in her movements when she held the blade, some graceful instinct that called to him.

“You have some skill with the weapons you make,” he said. Dela shrugged, cheeks slightly flushed. Embarrassed, he thought, though he did not understand why.

“I’m no expert,” she said.

“But you know enough to respect what you make.”

A pleased yet sad smile touched her lips. “No weapon is ever truly ornamental. It’s just sleeping, waiting for its purpose.”

“Which is to harm others.”

“You understand,” she said. After a moment, she added, “It’s strange, being drawn to make things that can harm or kill. Sometimes I feel guilty, but I still craft the steel, forge the blades. It’s almost a compulsion.” Dela grimaced. “I am not a violent person,” she said, almost pleading.

“I believe you,” Hari said. “But the weapons still fulfill something
inside your heart, some desire. If not to kill, then to express the darkness that is part of every great passion.”

Dela looked at him. “And how do you express the darkness of
your
passion?”

Hari felt cold. “I have no passion. And if I did, my hands are covered in two thousand years of blood. Death would be my expression.”

“That’s … depressing.”

Hari grunted, and pointed at the dagger. She made him talk too much about himself. He wanted to change the subject.

“I once knew a dragon,” he said, again doing what he had planned not to do, and yet unable to stop the spill of words. “A very kind man, if you were his friend. Enemies did not last long.”

He managed to shut his mouth, afraid he had said too much, as though even that admission would curse him, call down some act of duplicity to tear his trust. Until now, he had never talked about himself to his masters.

Dela’s eyes opened wide with surprise, innocent disbelief. “An actual dragon?”

“A shape-shifter, to be exact. A man who could, at will, take the body of a dragon, just as I once wore the shape of a tiger.”

“You could really change your shape? It’s so difficult to believe.”

He could taste her wonder, and pleasure stalked him, unbidden.

“Look into my eyes,” Hari said. “Look into my eyes, and tell me you do not see something not entirely human. It is there, waiting. Waiting for me to find my skin.”

She did stare into his eyes, deep and deeper, but despite his best efforts, he could not perceive her emotions. He saw himself reflected in the sweet sky-blue of her gaze, and thought he had never seen such lovely, thoughtful eyes.

“How many of you were there?”

“At one time, many. Now, I do not know. We can be found in the water, on land, in the air. Dragon is a little of everything, but that kind was rare even then.” Hari paused. “During my last summons, I found a date. 1423. How long …?”

“Six hundred years,” she said, growing pale. She pressed her fingers against her lips. “You’ve been imprisoned in that box for almost six hundred years.”

A very long sleep, indeed.

He would have said more, but someone knocked on the door. Amid slight protest, Hari hurriedly tucked Dela into the small corner between bed and wall, concealed from the narrow entrance. She stooped to gather the bloody towels, tossing them deep into the shadows beneath the bed.

“Stay there,” he whispered. Dela glared at him.

Amusement—biting, quick—flared in his gut. He struggled mightily to keep his face straight. So she did not like being left behind? Or was that worry in her eyes?

Again, someone rapped on the door, this time harder. Troubled, Hari slipped into the bathroom for his discarded weapons, grabbing a dagger to hold tight against his thigh. Adrenaline sang through his limbs. He pressed his ear to the door, and—

“I smell food.”

Dela appeared. “Room service. I hope.” She carefully peered through a tiny glass hole he had not noticed, and smiled. “Hide that knife,” she said. Hari frowned, holding it behind his back as he gently shouldered Dela aside to answer the door. This could still be a trap.

But the tiny gentleman who smiled and pushed in a large, laden cart did not threaten them in any way beyond a somewhat heavy glance at Hari’s scars. Hari had long ago rid himself of self-consciousness; everyone stared when they saw his chest. Dela, however, spoke several sharp words that made the old
man jump and shuffle his feet. She passed small papers into his hand and walked him to the door.

Her unexpected protectiveness startled him. It was another strange reversal of that to which he was accustomed, and he fought the urge to speak of it, to point out the needlessness of her consideration.

Hari laid his dagger upon the table. Warm, rich scents assaulted his nose as Dela uncovered their meals, and he feared acting like a true animal. Thick cuts of meat filled his plate, accompanied by green vegetables. Fruit, exotic and varied, were piled high in a wide bowl. Dela poured tea.

“Come on,” she said, when he hesitated. “You haven’t eaten in six hundred years. Pig out.”

Hari was not sure what the last two words meant, but her intent was clear. He used his hands to pick up a slab of steaming meat, and had his mouth set to tear when he noticed Dela, eating delicately with fine silver utensils.

Dela saw him watching, and something passed through her eyes. She set down her utensils, plucked a vegetable from her plate, and popped it into her mouth. She licked her fingers. Her invitation was clear.

“Eat, Hari. Nothing you do will offend me.”

Warmth rushed down his spine, pooling in his stomach. So much time alone, suppressing dreams of simple kindness, and here—finally—a woman who showed him effortless compassion over something so small as a meal. It was almost too much to bear.

He did not mean to, but hunger of an entirely different sort suddenly flowed through his veins. He imagined Dela stretched amid the food, splayed upon the table, creamy skin exposed to his hands and mouth—a consumption of the senses, filling, being filled, her legs wrapped around his waist….

A flush stained Dela’s cheeks, and Hari wondered what she
saw in his eyes, whether his desire was so transparent. He found he did not care if she knew how much he wanted her. Shame had left him long ago. Though he had lost his skin, the beast still lived—and both the tiger and the man suddenly wanted this woman with shocking, aching intensity.

She might betray you.

Hari pushed aside fear. He had to taste her—thought he might die if he did not. In one step he was by her side, dropping to his knees. She stared, wide-eyed.

“I am going to kiss you,” he said, more for his benefit than hers. Before she could protest, he wrapped one large hand around the back of her neck and pressed his lips to hers. He tried to be gentle, to give her that much courtesy, but she surprised him by leaning into his body, opening her mouth for an even deeper kiss that sent ribbons of lightning through his flesh.

Her tongue darted past his lips and he took her invitation, stealing the breath from her lungs as he sank himself into her body, tugging her close, exploring the sweet, hot curves of her mouth. He had never tasted anything so wondrous, and the beast responded, turning circles in his chest as it, too, drank in the scent and flavor of the woman. Sunlight, piercing the dark heart of the forest: that was how she felt to him—and he wondered if he would ever let go, if he would be able to stop.

But he did stop, with great difficulty, and it was Dela who pulled away. Her eyes were glazed, lips swollen with his kisses, her breathing ragged as a spring storm. His heart pounded, blood rushing down, down, though there was enough left to heat his face.

“I don’t even know you,” she whispered, brushing her fingertips against her lips.

Those were not the words Hari had been expecting to hear, not with the musk of her desire scenting the air, the heat in her
eyes. Truthfully, he had not been expecting anything, especially the still-vibrant rush of her presence sinking sweetly beneath his skin. His bones felt cushioned by velvet, his body much too warm.

All from a kiss.

He saw uncertainty seep into Dela’s eyes, and the sharp edge of panic made him slide backward. He dropped his gaze, and suddenly his chest was tight for a reason other than arousal.

“My apologies,” he said. “I was too forward with you.”

“Yes,” she said, but softly, without anger. “Why did you kiss me?”

It was the first time he had ever been asked such a question, and he blinked, wishing he was better with words. Loneliness roared deep inside his chest, striking him hollow, stripping away his new warmth with the force of a blunt mace. How could he share the terrible need that had arisen in him? There were no words to describe his desire that would not sound obscene against the air they breathed, and his compulsion was nothing so base or dark. It felt full of light, stunning and sweet.

“To do otherwise would have been difficult,” he finally said.

“Oh,” she breathed.

“I will not touch you again without your permission,” he promised, regretting his words even though he knew they were necessary. The urge to touch her still threatened to overwhelm him, but his instincts urged caution. This was not a woman he could press too soon, nor did he want to. His own heart was still too fragile. He did not understand what Dela was doing to him.

I am vulnerable. Starved for kindness, and when I receive it, I lose my mind.

“Thank you.” Dela rested her hands in her lap, quivering, some strange energy humming against her skin, flowing out to touch him. Hari quickly stood, trying to hide his conspicuous
arousal. He suspected Dela noticed. He did not look at her, afraid of what he would see in her eyes.

“So,” she said, after he took his seat, “I hope you’re still hungry.”

Relief, and some strange wistfulness, coursed through him.

“Yes,” he said, although his low voice, the heat in his face, most likely revealed his hunger had little to do with the food set before him.

Dela, sipping water, coughed. Her cheeks grew even redder. Hari took pity on her and lowered his gaze to his meal.

I have said and done too much. I will make her afraid.

His food had grown cold, but he did not care. He attacked it with single-minded intensity, trying to concentrate on something other than the woman seated across from him. He ate and ate, and after a time began to taste his food, the rich juices, flavors vibrant on his tongue. Only when he was done scouring meat to bone, and fruit to hard pit, did he stop to look at Dela.

She had barely touched her meal, and was watching him thoughtfully. No one had ever studied him so openly, without fear. It was a curious sensation—her eyes searching his face—and he felt himself laid open as if before a pure flame.

Even at their cruelest, his masters could never stare long into Hari’s face. He frightened them, even when on his knees, guts strung out under the sun. He made them uneasy. The razor edge of captivity—a slave in name only, never in spirit. They could feel his power, and it was threatening. No one ever forgot that.

But Dela was not intimidated. She looked deep into his eyes, as though she could summon the secrets of his heart. Hari could not fathom what lay revealed. He did not want to know.

When she spoke, he thought she might address their kiss, but she surprised him.

“I should have told you earlier,” she said slowly. “This morning, before I opened the box, someone else attacked me.”