Tiger Eye (21 page)

“She kissed you,” Dean said again, somewhat plaintively. Blue rolled his eyes, throwing Hari a surprisingly apologetic look.

“Dean has always lived under the illusion that Dela might one day fall head over heels in love with one of us. Doesn’t matter we treat her like some kid sister, or that we act like a bunch of morons in front of her.”

Hari noticed a strange look pass over Artur’s face, quickly swallowed.

“You think she loves me?” Hari could not help but ask.

Dean grunted. “She kissed you. In front of us. Dela doesn’t kiss anyone in front of us. She loves you. Or at least, likes you
a lot.”
The strained look on his face seemed to say quite plainly that Dean did not understand the attraction.

Eddie returned with a tray of chocolate chip cookies. “Eat,” he said, shoving them toward Dean. “Sugar will make the pain go away.”

“Who raised you? Martha Stewart?” Dean grabbed several cookies, shoving them into his mouth. He gestured for Hari to
join them, and the shape-shifter did, slowly lowering himself onto the soft green cushions of the couch. He tried a cookie, and thought his masters might have raised armies for food such as this.

Artur seized several, juggling them in his gloved hands as he moved to the door. “I have seen this story. I will go keep watch outside. The enemy must know Dela is back by now.” He hesitated. “Eddie told me of your strange observer at the airport. Roland has not mentioned any new tails, but I will call him and see what he says.”

“All right,” said Dean, as the door closed softly behind Artur. “What’s your story?”

Hari was not quite sure where to start—these men reminded him of past acquaintances—men of war with too much memory in their eyes and not a shred of innocence left in their bones. Without having seen him emerge from the box, Hari was unsure they would believe anything he had to say. Indeed, their disbelief might be bound so tightly with their obvious protectiveness toward Dela that no man—even a saint—would be readily accepted.

He could live with that. He had faced worse than mere skepticism.

“I have been cursed,” Hari said, and then proceeded to tell his story, slowly and sparingly, leaving out some of the more intimate details he had shared with Dela.

There was a long moment of silence at the end, until Dean turned to look at Eddie. “Sure you just put sugar in those cookies?”

“Uh-huh.” Eddie stared wide-eyed at Hari.

Blue rubbed his face. “You still have your armor and weapons?”

Hari rose and found the suitcase. Moments later he revealed his sword, knives, and leather armor. Eddie removed the cookie
tray to make room for Hari’s belongings, and the men crowded around the table, silently examining the weapons. Eddie seemed quite taken with the well-worn steel, ready to believe; the other two were more difficult to read.

Blue glanced at Dean. “You up for it?”

“Like a horny bunny,” Dean said, resting his hand on the sword. A moment—and then something strange passed through his blue eyes, like the afterglow of lightning; the skin on Dean’s face suddenly seemed too tight, his cheeks hollow. A low sound, almost a groan, emerged from deep within his throat.

“Dean?” Eddie said hesitantly.

“You say you’ve been a warrior all this time?” Dean croaked, still touching the sword. His voice sounded like it was being cut with a fine wire.

“Yes,” Hari said, noting the odd look on Blue’s face as he watched his friend.

“Got anything?” Blue asked, though there was something in his voice that suggested he already knew the answer.

Dean broke contact with the sword. He huddled in on himself, hugging his arms and shivering. He quickly recovered, but when he met Hari’s gaze, the naked horror in his eyes was startling.

“The guy’s legit,” he told the others, still staring.

“You are like Artur,” Hari said.

Dean shook his head. “No. I’m clairvoyant. I see events or objects that aren’t here, that can be miles away. But I’m also a retro-cog. Sometimes I view past events.”

“And what did you see?” Hari asked softly.

Dean took a long swallow of water. His hand shook. “I saw a battle. Horsemen, blood, screams. You in the middle of it all. I saw you … tortured.” He shivered again. “God, man. I don’t know what you’re made of to survive what I saw.”

Hari said nothing. What
could
he say? That he had danced on the edge of sanity for years at a time, enduring moment by
moment the most patient of agonies? Or that sometimes the humiliations had not involved pain at all, but pleasure?

Blue stirred. “Can he be trusted?”

Hari thought it was a very brave—and very stupid—question, considering that he was sitting there with all his weapons, and clearly had at least a foot or more of height on anyone else present. Not to mention, many more years experience killing people.

Dean took a deep breath and slowly nodded. “The man is a walking death trap, but he won’t hurt Dela. Doesn’t have it in him.”

“You sure of that?” Blue asked.

“Delilah is my only priority,” Hari protested, feeling the first stirrings of anger.

“You need her or else you go back into the box,” Blue said, and Hari heard his fear as clearly as if it had been spoken out loud. Blue was afraid Hari was using Dela, that he cared nothing for her. An intolerable offense.

The beast rolled through Hari’s chest and he leaned forward, capturing Blue’s gaze with his own. He had to make this man understand—had to make them
all
understand.

“It is true my life depends on Delilah, but I tell you now, my life means nothing without her. My desire to keep her safe has nothing to do with the box, and everything to do with taking care of the only friend I’ve had in two thousand years. I would never betray Delilah. Never.”

Long silence greeted his words, broken with a sigh. Dean, shaking his head. “That’s good enough for me,” he said. “Especially after what I’ve seen.”

Eddie, his face slightly red, nodded in agreement. “Me, too.”

Everyone looked at Blue.

“All right then.” He stared hard at Hari. “You understand, Dela’s like family. In some cases, closer than the family we’ve already got.”

“I respect your desire to protect her,” Hari said. “I would not trust you otherwise.”

Blue held out his hand and Hari clasped it. In that grip, a welcome—and a promise. If Hari ever hurt Dela, these men would make his life miserable. They would try to kill him, without remorse.

Good. I think I will like these men—as long as Delilah does not begin sharing her kisses with them.

They heard the squeak of hinges. Dela’s soft hum echoed from the back bedroom.

“Is everyone still alive in there?” she called.

“Yes,” they chorused, staring at each other.

“I know everyone’s gifts, save yours,” Hari said to Blue. “What is it you do?”

A brief smile. “I’m an electrokinetic. You know about electricity, right?”

The question was not patronizing. Hari nodded. “Delilah is teaching me.”

“Well then, I can control electricity. Disrupt it, quicken it, make it more powerful. It’s a handy talent, especially when I’m going places I don’t want to be seen.”

“Which is almost everywhere,” Dela said, entering the room. Her hair was still wet, her face scrubbed clean and glowing. Dark loose pants and a form-fitting long-sleeved shirt accented all her curves. She collapsed in a boneless heap beside Hari, snuggling deep into his side. She smelled like jasmine, a cool breeze, some sliver of icy moon. Ethereal.

Hari handed her a cookie.

“Have they been treating you all right?” Dela asked, some subtle shading to her voice that made him wonder how much she had heard. Crumbs dotted her lips. He wanted to kiss her.

“I think we have an understanding.” He glanced at the others.

Dela smiled, and Dean coughed uneasily. “Okay, so according
to you, this Magi will be coming after Dela. What the hell do we do to keep her safe?”

Hari had thought of nothing else since learning the Magi still lived. “Killing Delilah accomplishes nothing if the Magi does not already possess the box. One of you could just as easily purchase me from the other, cast a summons, and renew the cycle.”

“Where’s the box now?”

“In my purse,” Dela said. “But I don’t feel like getting up.”

Blue scowled, and walked over to the kitchen counter where Dela had dumped her bag. As Eddie and Dean trailed after him, Dela pressed her lips to Hari’s ear and whispered, “You’re my best friend, too, Hari.”

His face grew hot, and for the first time in an age, he felt shy. Awkward.

“I did not know you heard,” he murmured.

“I’m glad I did.” Her smile faded into something serious. Hari’s stomach tightened and he wrapped his fingers around her small pale hand.

Blue grimaced as he searched Dela’s bag, but he finally found the linen-wrapped metal container. Dela waved him off.

“Don’t bring that thing near me. I’ve been scared to death I’ll accidentally do something to re-imprison Hari. If you want to look at the box, do it over there.”

The three men crowded close, bowing their heads. Hari had no desire to join them. He contented himself with holding Dela close, sharing her warmth, her quiet words.

Blue finally rewrapped the box. “After we finish talking, I’m taking this to the bank and sticking it in a safety deposit box. Short-notice solution. Your Magi can’t get to it there, right?”

“I am unfamiliar with this … safety deposit box … but if the location is secure, then perhaps not. Although, the Magi’s gifts were always a mystery.”

“What exactly can he do?” Eddie asked.

Hari saw the Magi’s hands, burning scythes of flame through the air, tracking heat across his skin. Screaming, more screaming. Suri’s broken body on the ground.

“In my day,” he said, voice rough, “the Magi had the power to create fire, to move objects without the aid of a hand. He could see across great distances, and bind people with a word.”

Dean, Blue, Dela, and Eddie glanced at each other.

“I know,” Hari said. “His powers sound very much like your own, but your mental gifts alone could not have cursed me, nor kept him alive for more than two thousand years.”

“That’s some trick,” Dean admitted. “Wish we knew some actual voodoo.”

“The Magi’s strength has diminished. Delilah and I do not know why, but it should work to our advantage.”

“I hope so,” Dela muttered, staring at Hari’s displayed weapons. Something in her eyes changed, grew sharp.

“I am so stupid! Where’s Artur? I still have my knife, the stolen one my assassin used the first time he tried to kill me. Maybe Artur can read some clues.”

Eddie got on his cell phone as Dean clucked his tongue at her. “You’re too used to living the mundane life, Dela. You forget all the magical things we can do.”

Dela pointed at Hari. “See this guy?
He’s
magic. The rest of us are just science experiments.”

“What of Dean?” Hari asked. “He shares a similar gift to Artur.”

Dean shook his head. “I’m an amateur compared to Artur. If you want an in-depth scan, he’s your man. It’s the difference between reading the middle chapter of a book, and reading the whole damn thing.”

“Artur’s on his way,” Eddie said. “I’m going to take his place out front.”

“Thank you, Eddie—all of you. I really appreciate you helping me like this.”

“Ah, gratitude.” Dean clutched his heart. “How rare it is.”

“Shut up,” Dela said, smiling.

When Artur arrived, he didn’t waste any time with small talk or questions. He sat down on the couch in front of Dela’s creation, the long-handled dagger emblazoned with a dragon. He stripped off his gloves and placed his palms against the blade.

A long moment passed, and then he made a small sound: a gasp, a sigh. Sweat beaded on his forehead. A fine tremor raced through his hands.

“No,” he breathed, shaking.

“Artur?” Dela reached out to him.

Artur stumbled to his feet and ran to the kitchen. When he reached the sink he began gagging, spitting. Dela rushed to his side, smoothing back his hair, pressing a wet rag to the back of his neck.

Artur finally collected himself enough to splash water on his face. He flushed the contents of the sink down the garbage disposal. He looked at Dela, and then the others, something dark and sad in his eyes.

“I know why someone wants you dead, Dela. That knife you made—the one stolen—it was used to kill a child.”

Chapter Seven

After that particular announcement, Dela did her own share of vomiting, but in the privacy of her bathroom. She could hear the men talking in the other room, but their voices were muffled. Dela did not want to hear what they were saying. The horror was too great. Her throat felt thick with grief, but she could not cry. She wanted to, desperately, but tears refused to come. She stared at herself in the bathroom mirror, and hated what she saw.

I made that knife with my own hands. I gave it life, and it killed a child.

Her desire to craft weapons, knives—her knowledge of their dark purpose—had finally slammed together to form an awful, incomprehensible result.

But why was she surprised? Every time she made a weapon, it begged for blood. Not literally, but what else was a blade for, except cutting, spilling, encouraging pain and death? What else? Not just decoration. Not just art. Even she was not so
naïve as to believe a knife was ever truly safe. Dela had reconciled herself to that.

But a child?

Dela felt reminded of scientists working in their labs to build a better bomb or high-tech weapon, concentrating on the science, forgetting the human cost, the results of such experimental tinkering. All Dela ever thought about was the steel, giving it a useful shape. Death was a part of her considerations, but distant, a shadow. Unreal.

And yet, despite her disgust, her horror, she could still taste the need for steel at the back of her throat, the dark desire to forge and craft things other than “safe art.” No soft rounded curves, but sharp, sharp, sharp.

Am I a monster?
Dela asked herself.
If not, then what am I?